Gripping Fire and the Futility of Excessive Control

Few things are as potent, useful and dangerous as fire. It heats, cooks, protects, but it can also destroy and kill. Using fire for our benefit thus requires a balance--just enough for the task. As a pyromaniac myself, I have danced along this line of balance and have nearly regretted some of my stupid, juvenile decisions.

Indeed, many areas of our lives remain juvenile, but perhaps one of the most pressing of these is the desire to control. Like fire, there must be a balance in how we control our lives. This issue is so vital to Christian life that I’m shocked to hear it so seldom from the pulpit. Missed opportunities, lost marriages, bitter children, and needless guilt are often the symptoms of too much control. When we want to control our lives to the extent that others suffer, we are on the path of destruction. 

Yet we can make control sound holy. I hear things like: “we must be good stewards of our finances,” “we are trying to be prepared for marriage,” “we’re teaching our children on the way which they should go.” These are Biblical and good, but they are often taken out of proportion. These goals almost become a god themselves. When cloaked in Biblical language, excessive control can look holy. It’s sad that human nature can take something so good and make it so hellish.

What about self-control? Self-control is a fruit of the Spirit for a reason, and it is needed if we are to love one another. It gives us the maturity to live lives of proportion and intentionality. We face a problem, though, when self-control is replaced with “other-control” and “life-control.” 

We must stop seeking to control how our lives pan out. It’s as foolish as the man who builds bigger barns to store his goods while neglecting the spiritual sustainability of his own soul (Luke 12:16-20). We may die tomorrow--or today--and no amount of control can save us from God’s plans. It is futile to think one can control life. Proverbs 16:9 says, “The mind of man plans his way, But the LORD directs his steps.” No matter what we think we can do, God is the one who determines the course of life.

It is time to live life with trust. Abraham left all he knew to move across the world (it was the Middle East, but to them it was “the world”) because God told him to do so (Gen. 12:1-4; Heb. 11:8). Does trusting God mean, though, that no preparations are made? Of course not. There’s a reason “moderation” is in our vocabulary.

I think we ultimately have a problem with trusting God and letting him pull through for us. We want to play God and dictate what we do, where we go, when we go and how we go without giving God the first say because we’re afraid that he won’t bring us what we need (or want). Attempting to supplant God in his role is like gripping fire: it’s impossible and dangerous--it wasn’t meant to be done.

I know that risk can be an insurmountable wall that looms before a decision to trust God, but if risk is present in the choices we make, we can be sure that we are doing something right. Life with God requires risk because a risk-less life is a hollow life. A risk-less like is a far cry from the “abundant life” that Jesus promised (John 10:10b). Sanctification, or continual and progressive heart-change, is riddled with risk, since every move we make towards God usually requires us to forgo a sinful security blanket. In the mind of a sinner, it’s risky to give up those things that sooth our cravings, even if those things are utterly self-degrading, for the chance to draw closer to God. But it’s a risk worth taking. Everyone who has stepped away from self-satisfying security and stepped closer to God has not regretted it. C.S. Lewis said that we can be like a child who continues to play with mud-pies, refusing to go on a holiday to the sea because such a prospect is shrouded in mystery. We simply don’t trust risking anything mysterious, even if the God of the universe assures us that it’s worth it. 

We don’t know what God has to offer until we leave the dilapidated shelter of sinful control and venture willingly towards him. Control is as potent as fire, and it must be handled with careful balance. It’s good, but it can be very bad. Let’s take risks with God and let him take control.

The Childhood Cabin

Once my family arrived at Fred’s, the small meat and convenience store in Goodland, we knew the little red cabin was only minutes away. As a child, unable to read maps or even process the concept of one, the cabin was a secret--and thus sacred--destination known only to my father, the driver. The only navigation tools available was the peculiar landmarks. Fred’s was the last stop before the lake, and I always made sure to pick up a bag of Peanut Lovers’ Chex Mix. To this day, when I open a bag of it, I smell the cabin with all its childhood memories.

The cabin is long gone, but the memories preserve it like a private museum.

The anticipation built exponentially after we left Fred’s. There were a few turns in the roads that acted as subtle landmarks, solidifying our progress. The excitement reached its palatable state once we got to a small, yellow pipe structure that we would, of course, call the “Yellow Pipes,” (which had eventually been painted white, but we stubbornly continued to call them yellow to maintain our little tradition) where we would unbuckle our seat belts--for good--and ride the last mile in anticipation. We knew then that the cabin would soon be upon us. 

Creeping into the cabin driveway was akin to hunting. We crawled through the tight, sandy pathway with our conversion van, looking out the windows for deer, squirrels or other critters. My dad would never speed down the driveway either, for that would have altogether destroyed the entire journey. The entrance to our wooded getaway required deliberate gentleness and sensitivity. Our arrival would lose its potency if we raced in. 

I would always be the one to open the gate. The lock was hardly extravagant; it was a small plank of wood used to keep the gate wedged in its catch. Due to the gate’s own confusion about whether to stay open or closed after it was unlatched, it would stabilize half-way open. My job would be to hold the gate open, let the van through, then find a stick to jab into the ground and hold the gate open. This job gave me the chance to be the first one to scope out the premises, since the van was too busy parking, and I would run straight to the lake.

The lake was the most powerful welcoming presence, even though I had to run past everything else to see it. Sometimes dead fish or other aquatic debris would line the beach and occupy my interest. The wind was usually from the West, which meant it blew over the lake directly to us. The lake breeze and the sights of the blue water and the opposite shore’s green tree assured us that we had arrived.  

The work began as soon as we arrived, since we had to haul our belongings and groceries into the cabin. My Dad would mow the “lawn” (it was a little patch of weeds) and my Mom would unpack the groceries. My job was directly related to my pyromaniacal tendencies: collect the loose sticks to put in the campfire wood pile. 

My Dad would shortly try to catch a couple of northern pike for supper. If the wind and lure was right, we would surely have delectable fresh fish to eat. As a child, these predatory freshwater fish would often sober my swimming experience, as I would never let my toes go too deep and would always keep moving. Hearing stories of northerns biting toes never leave young ears, no matter what the probability or likelihood of it actually happening is. 

Still, swimming was a staple in cabin life. Although I feared the predatory northerns, I would enjoy strapping on my goggles and maneuver through the weeds. When I got deep enough, though, the dark depths below would propel me back to the surface; too much mystery and darkness laid there.

My pyromania was fueled at the cabin. Finding birch tree bark was similar to finding treasure because it allowed me the chance to wield flame like a primordial human. I found a stick long enough to keep the fire away from me but small enough to handle, and I would then put the bark on the campfire with the “handle” at the ready. The bark burned a certain way that made it naturally wrap itself around the stick. Intuition and experience taught me when it was ready to wield, and I would soon be strutting around the night-laden cabin grounds with fire lighting my path.

The rooms had their own blankets for bedding, but I preferred my sleeping bag. At night, mosquitoes would find their way into the building, which wasn’t difficult for them, since the door was constantly opening and closing with activity. Falling asleep knowing that there was a mosquito in the room was normal. We didn’t like it, but it was a part of cabin life. I often tied socks around the mosquito bites on my legs and arms just to fall asleep since the itchiness kept me awake. The few bloodsuckers in the room would leave me with more bites in the morning, but at least I had gotten sleep before I had to deal with these new ones.

Sometimes life must progress and childhood memories need to be stowed on the back shelves of our minds. These pleasant memories of the cabin will always weave themselves in with new ones I’ll make with my own children. Perhaps that is the point of memories; the ones from the past will fuel and strengthen the ones of the present and future. Indeed, only I will ever see the impact that my own memories of the cabin will have over the rest of my life, yet that doesn’t make me feel bad that others can’t see them too. Everyone has their own set of memories; they are extremely personal, and that is a good thing. They are made to be that way. 

This is why we need to make every effort to foster a living experience for our children that supports good memories. Parents ought to be the chief instruments that provide ways for children to cultivate their own memories. Without my parents, the cabin and all its memories would have remained nonexistent. I want to try my best to be memory-cultivating instrument for my own kids. Let’s craft good memories for our children and the next generation. We know they need it. 

God's Purpose for Wild Samson

Romans 8:28 and Genesis 50:20 clearly maintain that God is able to take evil occurrences and use them for a good conclusion. Although much of God’s purposes in our lives remains veiled to us, the divine perspective can be trusted. Like having a bird’s eye view of a complex maze, we can trust God to know the best route for our life. 

This principle can be seen undergirding the tumultuous life of Samson (Judges 13-16). From all outward appearances, Samson was a wild man, intent on meeting his own desires. The Scripture text indicates that he knew about his Nazirite status (Judges 16:17), which means he knew that God had called him to something special. Perhaps he even understood his role as a “judge” (see their description in Judges 2:16-18), since he performed the role for twenty years (Judges 15:20).

Samson was a peculiar judge, at least in the way that the author of the Book of Judges describes his life. The author seems to focus primarily on his personal exploits and rash behavior rather than his role as a judge (read through chapters 14-16 and see how much space is devoted to Samson’s personal life), since any mention of his militaristic judging is nominal (13:5; 15:14-15, 20; 16:31). This is contrasted with all the other judges, whose stories were told with a chiefly military focus. Additionally, the story of Samson is the longest section in the Book of Judges, which, coupled with the focus on him as a person, essentially makes his story a Biblical version of a gripping novella while simultaneously giving the other judges’ accounts the appeal of a colorless textbook.

God’s hand in Samson’s life is thus overshadowed by the personal exploits of the main character. This does mean, though, that God was not involved. There is a single verse that could describe the entire account of Samson. In Judges 13:5, the Angel of the Lord tells Samson’s mother that Samson will “begin to save Israel from the hand of the Philistines.” The Hebrew in this verse clearly says that Samson will only begin to save Israel. The text never says that Samson will eradicate the Philistines and their oppression on God’s people. He was never meant to be a savior. Samson didn’t fail, like many believe; he did exactly what God had intended him to do.

What was it that God wanted him to do, exactly? What was his “divine calling”?

Part of why people have a problem with Samson is that his divine calling is one large grey area. Was he to be a Nazirite, a judge or a mixture of the two? Even the Angel of the Lord was mysterious about Samson’s divine purpose when Samson’s father inquired about it (13:12-14). If one takes the entire account as a whole, though, and sees it as a preliminary foundation for the account of Samuel, Saul and David, then Samson’s purpose can be ascertained. 

The problem with Israel during this period was their complacency with the Philistine rulership. This complacency is implied in two respects: the first is the ease with which Samson can seep into the Philistine culture (14:1-4, 10-14) and the second is the willingness of the men of Judah to turn Samson over to their “overlords,” the Philistines (15:9-11), which directly contradicted the attitude that Israel maintained at the nascence of their Canaanite conquest (Judges 1:1-26). 

God wanted to break the spell of complacency that had been draped over Israel. What better method of doing so than dropping a boat-rocking, vengeful, tumultuous wild man with superhuman strength into the mix?

Samson’s personal exploits were far more than rash behavior. They were part of a divine plan. Samson was only meant to begin to save Israel, and he did so by acting the way he did--with whimsical outbursts of revenge, feats of valor and the womanizing of foreign women. God riled up the Philistines to fight against Israel (who should have been fighting anyway). Due to this newfound contention between them and the Philistines, the roles of Eli, Samuel, Saul and David could be actualized in God’s plan. 

It was all because to Samson. Without him, Israel would have never had Saul, David and Solomon on the throne to usher in Israel’s Golden Age. Samson may have been messy, but his role was fulfilled. With Samson’s mess, God built a kingdom.

It’s easy to hold ourselves in contempt in regards to the failures of our past. We are ashamed of our messes. Instead of focusing on our own shortcomings, I think it would be wise to look beyond ourselves. We can trust that God knows what he’s doing, no matter how much the present “life hurdle” or past stumbling blocks beg us to doubt his goodness. We would be better off trusting his eyes than our own finite ones that are so prone to misperception. 

Samson may not have known his role in Israel’s story, so why must we insist on knowing ours? Why can’t we simply be ourselves and walk with God, trusting that our roles will be fulfilled? If we make an effort to seek his will in all life decisions, he will lead. The beauty of God’s plan for us is that it’s beyond us. It’s something that invites us--not something that we muster on our own. We can have peace that our lives are not messes if God can craft a kingdom out of the messes of Samson. If God can use Samson, he can use anyone.

Wild Samson and Emulative Faith

If I could compare the story of Samson with a (relatively) contemporary film, I would compare it to Legends of the Fall. Both of these stories are undergirded by the tumultuousness of the human heart and the powers of desire. Every human on this planet has an element to their makeup that drives them to act. Whatever we may call this element, whether it’s “will,” “desire,” “motivation,” etc., it’s quite mysterious. Few things are so mysterious and critical. We can study physics, anatomy, language and philosophy, but when asked to predict a human’s actions, the collective wisdom of psychologists, clerics and social scientists would remain fruitless. Humanity is unpredictable due to this sporadic drivenness, which is why Samson and Tristan (from Legends of the Fall) strike a deep chord with us.

In the Christian community, Samson is one of those slippery figures. What do we do with him? He is not like Moses or Abraham. Nor is he antagonistic like Cain, Ahab or Judas. He is a gray character, called to live out a God-given mandate only to get diluted with an abundance of sins. For instance, he ardently desired to marry a Philistine woman (Judges 14:1-3), which most likely went against the Lord’s original intent for Israelites (14:3a; see also Deut. 7:3). He slaughtered thirty Philistines because he had to repay a gambling debt (Judges 14:12-19). He was also a womanizer (14:1-3; 16:1, 4) and appeared to be a pyro (15:4-5). 

He could be compared to David, except David showed great remorse for his sins (Psalm 51). Samson never showed obvious remorse (it may be implied in Judges 16:28), or at least the Biblical text never tells us he did. In fact, the last wish of Samson was for the Lord to grant him strength (since he lost his God-given strength with Delilah; Judges 16:18-21) for the sole purpose of revenge:

“O Lord God, please remember me and please strengthen me only this once, O God, that I may be avenged on the Philistines for my two eyes.” (Judges 17:28)

Despite his tumultuous life, Samson appears in Hebrews 11, the great “Hall of Faith.” Why? What signs of faith did Samson show? 

Perhaps it had to do with his Nazirite vow. He was called to live as a Nazirite, devoted to God (Judges 13:7; see also Numbers 6:1-21), but is this really what the author of Hebrews is referring to? Samson ignored certain aspects of the vow when he went near a dead animal (which was considered “unclean”; Judges 14:8-9) and let his hair get cut (16:17). Was Samson’s faith determined by his adherence to his vow?

I’m inclined to think not.

Perhaps the faith of Samson was far simpler than his obedience to an external code of behavior. 

Life in Canaan during this period was rough and far from the vision God desired for them. Numerous Canaanite nations still existed (Judges 1:27-36) when they were supposed to be driven out by Israel (Deut. 7:1-2). He was a product of his culture, especially when the culture was heavily influenced by Philistine proximity and rulership (Judges 15:11-12). 

Samson was a tumultuous man in a tumultuous culture. If one reads through the book of Judges, it’s clear how deviant the people of Israel became. They slowly drifted apart from the Lord’s original mandate for conquest and holiness. 

Samson’s faith stands out because it is contrasted with his unbridled drivenness. He was led to and fro by his heart of desire, yet with such a life of desire, he still recognized God as the giver of his remarkable abilities (Judges 15:18; 16:28). He remembered who he was, who God was, and the difference between the two. 

In this respect, he had more faith than the army of Israel did in 1 Sam. 4:1-11, for example, when they presumed on God’s military aid and treated the Ark of the Covenant like an evocation tool. The difference between Samson and the army of Israel in 1 Samuel was the difference between faith and presumptuousness. It’s the difference between obedience and evocation. Samson must have had a better idea of who God was than the army did. Samson trusted God to answer his prayers; he didn’t trust in his own ability to evoke God like some sorcerer.

Samson had faith in God. This is why the author of Hebrews wrote his name down in his list of faithful, emulative people (Heb. 11:32). Despite the tumultuous heart of a wild man, Samson could soberly remember God when it mattered. This is what made him emulative. 

The desires of our hearts, which often drive us to shame, can be distracting if we don’t remember God (see Romans 7:7-24). Sometimes, like Samson, we must be humbled in order to remember God (Judges 16:18-21). Still, what matters most is that we remember him and what he has done for us. We must trust him to handle our wildness and our unpredictable desires. With God, our tumultuous desires are transformed into instruments of righteousness. Like everything else, desires have been redeemed for God’s purposes. 

We can be wild and trust God at the same time. 

The Morning Visit (Part 2)

----------------------> Click Here For Part One <--------------------     

        Smith Smith Smith whipped out an assortment of tools from his suitcase. 

        “Now the work begins!”

        “Excuse me?”

        “Yes!”

        Smith made his way to the bathroom, but hesitated after peeking inside. He turned to Miles. “This needs work.” 

        “Yeah, well, this house is lived in. If you want a clean house, go buy a new one and never live in it.”

        “Don’t brush it off.” Smith’s tone was serious. “The bathroom is horrible. It’s not that it’s dirty, the walls look like they’re corroding. We must renovate this now. Get up and help me.”

        “Smith! If you keep this up, I’m going to take you up on your offer and terminate your visit.”

        Smith beckoned to Miles. “Seriously...have you seen this? There’s mold everywhere and I’m pretty sure those are mouse turds.” He gave Miles a slight grin. “Perhaps you should potty train them.”

        “You really want to do this now?”

        Miles grabbed a drywall saw, then paused, as if thinking, then threw it down and grabbed a hammer instead. 

        A hammer?!

        The hammer broke through the drywall effortlessly. Smith had started demolishing the wall between the bathroom and Miles’ bedroom, thus commencing the morning project.

        Miles watched helplessly as large, white fragments of sheetrock fell to the bathroom floor. Smith didn’t even put a sheet down or put on safety goggles for the job. His reckless destruction--or “renovation,” as Smith would say--made Miles give up trying to contend. He could call the authorities, but Miles didn’t want his house further swamped by intrusive people. Physically attacking Smith was out of question because that would only destroy more furniture and walls. It would also be impolite. He figured all he could do was let Smith have his way.

        “You’ve got some mold too.” Mumbled Smith as he shined a flashlight into the hole in the wall.

        “What!”

        “Yes.” Smith looked over at him. “Look.”

        Miles lazily got up, walked to the bathroom and stooped over to see a nasty strain of black mold growing throughout the interior of the wall. 

        “What do we do?”

        “I’ll do it.” Smith said with a small smile. “Don’t worry.”

        “No, I want to help.” 

        “That’s fine, I got it.”

        “Whatever. I’m not paying you either. Breakfast was enough.”

        “No payment needed.” Smith gave another smile.

        Smith twisted the hammer to the claw side and proceeded to rip out the drywall chunks that clung to the nails. 

        “Yeah...I saw the stained trim but I didn’t think anything needed to be done about it yet.” Miles confessed.

        Smith laughed. “Seriously? There’s water stains on the paneling under the sink, indicative of mold.” He shook his head, still chuckling, and continued removing the drywall. “Besides,” he added, “if you knew what you were doing, you would know that I was doing this wrong.”

        Miles nervously rubbed his head and left the house to get the morning paper. He welcomed the outside air; it was less intrusive than the Annoyance inside. He lingered long at the mailbox, gazing around the landscape, and slowly paced back to the house, buying time. He delayed some more by standing on the front porch to read the entire front page of the paper. Then, he heard something inside that surprised him: silence.

        He opened the door, with new curiosity, to see Smith standing at his bedroom door, staring into Miles’ bedroom. Miles thought about the excessive amount of horse pictures that overwhelmed the walls in the bedroom, and considered them to be the reason for Smith’s present hiatus. 

        “Your nightstand.” Smith said seriously.

        Nightstand? Miles mentally mapped out his nightstand, wondering what could be causing such alarm. “What about it?” He thought about the framed picture of his late wife next to his alarm clock. Besides the alarm clock, a tissue box and an empty cup, the picture was the only thing of significance.

        Smith turned to Miles. His face had lost its original luster. “Is that your wife?”

        “Yeah.” 

        I’m not talking about this.

        “Did she die?”

        “In childbirth.” 

        “She liked horses I presume?”

        Miles nodded slowly.

        “Did the child survive?”

        Miles shuffled his feet and pointed to the bathroom. “How do I get rid of the mold?”

        “Was it a boy or girl?”

        “If you need supplies I’ll head to town.” Miles turned to grab the keys from the key-hook.

        “Miles.”

        Miles grabbed the keys and paused at the doorway with his back to Smith. “He’s with another family now, adopted.”

        “Why?”

       He opened the door. “I’ll get the stuff for drywall. If you need tools, there’s some in the garage.” 

        “You couldn't look at your child without seeing her, could you?”
        Miles froze with the door half open.
        “That's why you gave him away.”

        Miles was silent and remained motionless.

        “He still loves you.”

        Miles closed the door and exhaled loudly.

        Not today. Not now.

        “OK. Time to go.” Miles turned and pointed out the door while staring at the floor, since looking at Smith would only welcome regretful behavior. 

        “Before I go,” Smith began in a soft tone, “I need to tell you that he wants a father.”

        “He’s got one. Please leave.”

        Smith hesitated.

        “Leave.”

        Smith dragged his feet over to the counter and silently began to put his tools away.

        Miles left through the door, getting from Smith. A blue Ford Escape pulled into his driveway as he did so, but he was in no mood for polite conversation, and left this new visitor for Smith to deal with. He quickly marched to the back of the house and collapsed on the patio furniture in sobs. 

        For whatever reason Smith Smith Smith decided to ruin his morning, he succeeded. He shoved his face into the weather-safe cushion and let out a loud wail. The regret of the decision five years ago to give away his newborn son was resurrected with the ill-mouthed, ill-mannered Smith, which prompted Miles to renewed guardedness. He retained his head in the cushion and was formulating ways to impede future visitors, like the current one in the Ford out front, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

        Miles nearly punched the hand’s owner, assuming it was Smith’s, if it wouldn’t have been so small. With interest, he looked up to see whose it was. A blank-faced child stood next to him. 

        The child’s eyes were undoubtedly his late wife’s, and the nose and mouth resembled his own. 
        "Aiden."
        The boy stood still. It looked like he wanted to speak but couldn't. 

        Miles stared at his son. The sight made his eyes blur with shock, but now was not the time for a family reunion. He needed to clear things up with the adoption agency and get his son home before he grew attached.
        "Uhh, I need to use the phone. Come inside with me."

        They came in through the back door to see Smith gone. Miles walked towards the counter, trying to remember what the adoption agency was called when he noticed a note on the counter where Smith’s suitcase had been. It read:

Loved the breakfast! To answer the obvious question, Aiden’s adopted parents ended up being drug addicts who got through the application process. They lost custody shortly before he turned two. My wife and I took him under our wing and have been looking for you since. For whatever reason you decided to turtle-up and become reclusive, you succeeded at making it hard for us to find you. My wife dropped me off at your house today so I could establish (i.e., fix any problems with your house--like that mold) Aiden's arrival, but I underestimated your emotions and decided to bring in Aiden before we continue the renovation. By the way, the bathroom is still usable. 

Your man, 

Smith S. Smith

P.S. Call me when (not ‘if’) you need help with that mold :) No hard feelings about how we left! Enjoy the future because it’ll be great.

Miles would forever call Smith Smith Smith his friend, and eventually, he would be able to comfortably call Aiden his son.