Forbearance

It's difficult for parents who are trying to navigate how their children relate to social media. Here's one story about how NOT to do it. The following story ran in a British and then an Australian newspaper:

Taking away electronics is a common parental punishment, but this mother decided to take it one step further—and shoot up her children's iPhones with a rifle. "I hereby denounce the effects that social media have on my children," the mom shouts at the beginning of a YouTube video, a gun in her hand. "Their disobedience and their disrespect."

She then points the gun and the camera moves to reveal that she's not about to shoot a pheasant or a bottle, but is aiming straight for an iPhone perched on a tree trunk. With perfect aim she blows the smartphone to smithereens, as its pieces go flying into the grass.

"I also take back my role as parent to my children," she then yells … She then blows the remnants of the iPhone to bits, once again hitting it on her first shot. "My children's lives are more important to me," she begins, as the camera reveals she is standing over the iPhones with a sledgehammer, "than any electronic on this earth." She then hammers the remaining pieces a few times, her dog watching, before screaming: "I'm done!" And with that, she drops the hammer and walks away.

An old joke. A letter to a neighbor reads:

Dear Frank. We've been neighbors for six tumultuous years. When you borrowed my tiller, you returned it in pieces. When I was sick, you blasted rap music. And when your dog went to the bathroom all over my lawn, you laughed. I could go on, but I'm certainly not one to hold grudges. So I am writing this letter to tell you that your house is on fire. Cordially, Bob

An article on Esquire magazine begins with this quote in bold capital letters:

WE THE PEOPLE ARE PISSED. THE BODY POLITIC IS BURNING UP. AND THE ANGER THAT COURSES THROUGH OUR HEADLINES AND NEWS FEEDS—ABOUT INJUSTICE AND INEQUALITY, ABOUT MARGINALIZATION AND DISENFRANCHISEMENT, ABOUT WHAT THEY ARE DOING TO US—SHOWS NO SIGN OF ABATING. ESQUIRE TEAMED UP WITH NBC NEWS TO SURVEY 3,000 AMERICANS ABOUT WHO'S ANGRIEST, WHAT'S MAKING THEM ANGRY, AND WHO'S TO BLAME.

Here's one of the most interesting statistics: "Half of all Americans are angrier today than they were a year ago." And white Americans are the angriest of them all. Here is a summary of how they see life, "From their views on the state of the American dream (dead) and America's role in the world (not what it used to be) to how their life is working out for them (not quite what they'd had in mind), a plurality of whites tends to view life through a veil of disappointment."

The first question in the survey is "About how often do you hear or read something in the news that makes you angry?" The top three responses are: 37 percent once a day, 31 percent a few times a day, and 20 percent once a week. In total, about 88 percent of all Americans are angry at least once a week.

The actor, comedian, and author Patton Oswalt was asked the by The New York Times, "If you could require the president to read one book, what would it be?" Oswalt replied:

Garret Keizer's, The Enigma of Anger. A meditation and history on rage, both righteous and unrighteous, which seems to be infecting so much of world events these days, both the high (politics, statesmanship) and the low (pop culture, social media). We haven't seen the first truly great leader of the 21st century, but he or she is going to have to address, remedy, and control rage. It's the hidden poison of our tight-wire planet.

In 1975, suspected criminal Wendell Beard slipped out of his police handcuffs, jumped out of a police station window, and landed on the sidewalk 14 feet below. Officer Mike May followed Beard out the window, but shattered his right ankle and broke his left heel. After medical leave, May returned to work but the leg wasn't the same. He took a disability pension, went to law school, and he gave Beard no further thought.

But after 43 years May decided to track down the man who had changed his livelihood. After locating Beard at a prison near Cumberland, Maryland he wrote him a letter. "I suggested that, at his age, perhaps he might be able to exert a positive influence on the younger inmates," May says. "I spoke to him by phone shortly after that. He asked me if I knew about the Unger case."

That's a reference to a 2012 Court of Appeals ruling that found a serious flaw in the instructions that judges had been giving to Maryland juries for decades. The ruling opened the way for Beard and dozens of other inmates to ask for new trials. In August 2015 a judge in Baltimore resentenced Wendell Beard to time served. Mike May was there to support his release. While May could be said to have been a victim, having sustained a career-ending injury in that jump 40 years ago, he doesn't see it that way.

"After all," he says, "Wendell was trying to get away from me, not hurt me. I decided to jump out of the window. My leg still bothers me, but at least some of that has to do with my age." Wendell is forever grateful to Mike for letting him be a free man for the first time in 40 years.

Dr. Robert Smith, a pastor and seminary professor, writes movingly of his struggle to forgive:

I remember so very well October 30th, I will never forget this darkest day of my life. Our son was working at his restaurant when four young men got into the store, jammed the safe, and then grabbed him after jamming the register. When he could not open it, the other three fled and the one stood on top of the counter and fired one shot into his body. Thirty-four years of life ended suddenly. Brokenhearted, painful.

The Lord moved on my heart to write the young man. He's in prison now. He was 17 when he murdered Tony. I wanted to write him because the Lord had been working on my heart. I wrote him in prison and it took him over two years to respond in writing, and this is the letter I received:

"Dear Mr. Smith, let me say that I am truly sorry for your loss. I really am. Also, I hope that this is really you that I am writing because I have received a lot of threat mail from your family members and friends. So that's why I never wrote back. But today I thought that I should give it a try because I really wanted to talk to you. I've been locked up three years now and the worst three years of my life. I don't think that I'll make it much longer though. You know, I grew up in church my whole life. I just hung with the wrong crowd on that night. I'm sorry. You probably know my pastor, Rev. ______. I hope to hear from you very, very soon. Thank you for forgiving me. Can you keep praying for me too? This is getting too hard for me to bear, and sometimes I feel just like giving up on life."

Robert Smith continues:

Well, the Lord just kept working on my heart because the Lord let me see what it took for him to forgive me. He let me see what a mess I was. He let me understand that when he forgives he forgives unconditionally. He wanted me to understand that if you ever want to get beyond this you've got to forgive, that you can't do it on your own. So I wrote this young man because I want to be on his visitation list. I want to go up to tell him about Jesus. I want to let him know that I love him. I want this young man and my son hug together in heaven one day. Because forgiveness is not difficult, forgiveness is impossible without God.

A story is told of a man from Colorado who came to northern Minnesota one autumn for deer hunting. The Mid-westerners who hosted him planned to "drive the woods" the afternoon of the opening day of the season. They instructed their friend to walk down the road until he reached the ridge, and then stand on it in order to get a shot at any deer running out of the woods. After giving him a head start, they fanned out in a straight line and began walking slowly through the woods in his direction.

When they finally emerged from the woods, however, they were surprised to find no one standing on the ridge. In fact, the Colorado hunter was nowhere to be seen. They drove down the road looking for him, and eventually found him several miles away, still walking, still looking for the ridge. For a man who lived in the Rockies, the hump of earth pushed up on the far edge of the open field just beyond the woods simply didn't qualify in his mind as a "ridge." But in northern Minnesota, which is utterly flat as far as the eye can see, it is called a "ridge" to this day. And it is the only ridge around; if he had walked a mile or so further, he would have crossed the border into Canada.

Possible Preaching Angles: Marriage; Teamwork; Relationships; Parenting; Leadership; Church Boards—The problem arose because the hunter from Colorado had a different mental image or model of "ridge" than the hunters from Minnesota. The image we have of something—the way we picture it in our mind—can make a real difference in how we communicate with a spouse, a team member, a church member, and so forth.

Like most of us, John Burke (pastor of Gateway Church in Austin, Texas) assumed that he was not a judgmental person. But just in case he was wrong, he tried an experiment: for a whole week he kept track of his judgments about other people. Here's what he discovered:

Judging [others] is fun! Judging others makes you feel good, and I'm not sure I've gone a single day without this sin. In any given week, I might condemn my son numerous times for a messy room; judge my daughter for being moody—which especially bothers me when I'm being moody (but I have a good reason!) …. even my dog gets the hammer of condemnation for his bad breath ….

Some of you may be thinking, "Wait, are you saying that correcting my kids for a messy room is judging?" NO! But there's correction that values with mercy and there's correction that devalues with judgment.

I watch the news and condemn those "idiotic people" who do such things. Most reality TV shows are full of people I can judge as sinful, ignorant, stupid, arrogant, or childish. I get in my car and drive and find a host of inept drivers who should have flunked their driving test—and I throw in a little condemnation on our Department of Public Safety for good measure! At the store, I complain to myself about the lack of organization that makes it impossible to find what I'm looking for, all the while being tortured with Muzak—who picks that music anyway? I stand in the shortest line, which I judge is way too long because—"LOOK PEOPLE—it says '10 items or less,' and 1 count more than that in three of your baskets—what's wrong with you people?" And why can't that teenage checker—what IS she wearing?—focus and work so we can get out of here?

Judging is our favorite pastime, if we're honest—but we're not! We're great at judging the world around us by standards we would highly resent being held to! Judging makes us feel good because it puts us in a better light than others.

Editor's Note: Preachers, this is a powerful illustration about the beauty of committed marital love. It's longer than many of our illustrations, but it's worth sharing since our people desperately need positive examples of marriage.

My parents got married when they were 19 and recently celebrated their sixty-second wedding anniversary. But today things aren't easy for them. My mom struggles with Alzheimer's. Something about the evening makes her even more confused. Medical professionals have a term for this: Sundowners. It's a common experience for folks with Alzheimer's. For mom, when evening comes, she gets disoriented and demands to be taken "home." My mom and dad live in an apartment facility for the elderly, so we're never sure what mom means by "home."

One night I was watching TV with my mom and dad in their apartment and mom started pleading, "I'm tired. Can someone help get my coat and take me home?" At first her questions are addressed generally to the room and then to me and my husband. She gets frustrated and cries "ACK" with full German disgust. But she focuses on her husband: Why won't he take her home?

Two years ago my dad had his voice box removed so it's difficult for him to talk. He can't comfort his frightened, sick wife. But my mother can't remember the surgery so she demands, "Why won't you talk to me?" He shakes his head back and forth. This makes her angrier. "He just shakes his head and never talks to me," she shouts to the room. She calls him selfish, uncaring, and a host of hurtful words and names. My Dad's eyes are misting. He's a tough man. Strong language is not foreign to this old Norwegian painting contractor. But he understands what she is really saying: "I'm scared and confused." That's what really breaks his heart.

Finally my mom decides that she could spend the night "here" (her apartment). She turns as sweet as she had been horrid. "You poor man," she tells my Dad. "Swede, you are a good man, we can stay here can't we? We'll be fine for tonight." She goes to her room and gets ready for bed. Coming to my Dad one last time before retiring she puts her hands on each arm of his chair, gets her face about a foot from his, and with the most endearing look asks, "Do you have something to say to me?"

"I love you," he mouths.

"I love you too," she replies. And then goes to bed.

They have a love that lasts a lifetime—so ingrained that even the loss of memory and voice cannot touch it.

An article in Time.com noted that ketchup flows out of a glass bottle at a rate of .028 miles per hour. That's slower than a Galapagos tortoise, which, according to the San Diego Zoo, zips along at a blazing 0.16 miles per hour, or almost six times faster than ketchup.

But impatiently tapping your ketchup bottle soon might be a thing of the past. Dave Smith, a PhD candidate at MIT, and a team of MIT mechanical engineers and nano-technologists have offered a posible solution to this ketchup flow problem. After months of research, Smith and his team developed LiquiGlide, which they define as a "kind of structured liquid [that's] rigid like a solid, but lubricated like a liquid." The researchers say that coating the inside of a bottle with LiquiGlide will cause ketchup and other sauces to slide out faster than a Galapagos tortoise. Smith claims that the sauce industry, which rakes in $17 billion a year, would love to get their hands on the invention.

The Time.com article concluded:"Let's hope some big [ketchup] companies bite. I'm tired of waiting five minutes for ketchup to land on my cheeseburger."

Possible Preaching Angles: This illustration shows the ridiculous level of impatience that sometimes exist in our culture--the desire to have everything we want (even spiritual transformation) right now.

While preparing a sermon, a pastor posted this question to his friends on Facebook: "What makes it hard for you to serve other people?"

They gave great answers, including:

"Serving is hard when it doesn't fit in to my schedule or plan. Like when I want to go for a walk or take a long bath, but my aging parent needs me to sort their meds, run an errand, or simply be with them."

"It's hard when their need seems endless. I don't want to risk helping/serving because I may get sucked in. Being swallowed up in the serving and not getting to be the me I think I am or should be."

"There is such limited energy left after a demanding workday meeting our basic responsibilities (whether with young kids or in the corporate world). How do you balance the need for rest and self-care with serving others?"

But his favorite answer was this one: "What makes it hard to serve others? Others."

Editor's Note: Preachers, try this Facebook poll sometime with this topic or with another topic. It's a great way to get your congregation involved in the sermon process.

Former pro football star and coach Tony Dungy told the following story about his father's Christian character:

My dad was usually a quiet, thoughtful man. A scientist at heart and by training, Wilbur Dungy loved to be outside, enjoying the scenery. Fishing allowed him time to contemplate, to listen, and to marvel at God's creation. My dad used fishing to teach his children to appreciate the everyday wonders of the world God created—the sandy shoreline, the dark, pine forests, the shimmering water, and the abundant wildlife. The lessons were always memorable, whether we caught a lot of fish or not.

Although we fished countless times together throughout our lives, one particular day stands out in my mind. It was a summer day in 1965. Summers in Michigan are beautiful, with comfortable temperatures and clear, blue skies. I was nine years old, and my brother was five. My dad had taken us fishing at one of the many small lakes around Jackson. On that day, my dad was teaching my brother and me how to cast. We were both working on it, mostly in silence, until my dad's voice finally broke a period of stillness.

"Hey, Linden, don't move for a minute, please." I looked back and watched my dad move his hand toward his face. Calm and deliberate, he continued to speak.

"Now, Linden, always make sure that you know not only where your pole is when you're starting to cast"—at this point, I realized my dad was working my brother's hook out of his own ear— "but also make certain that you know where everyone else is around you."

I learned something about proper casting that day, but I also learned something about patience. Years later, when I got hooked myself, in my hand, I realized how much it hurts. Remembering my dad's patience that day when Linden's hook was caught in his ear, I finally understood the importance of staying calm and communicating clearly.

During an extended visit with Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity, Dr. Mary Poplin discovered the depths of sin in her own heart. It happened while Dr. Poplin was trying to care for a five-month-old infant who was deformed, constantly sick, and often miserable. Dr. Poplin always found ways to avoid feeding this child, but one day it was unavoidable. She writes:

When feeding time was over, the babies were falling asleep in their bassinettes, and I was getting ready to go …. I glanced at the infants on my way out [the door] and noticed that undigested formula was dripping out of this child's bassinette. He had thrown up what must have been the entire eight-ounce bottle. Looking around for someone to tell as I left [the room], I saw no one in the infant area, and the few adults in the room had their hands full with other children.

So I decided, with no little struggle, to stay and clean up the mess. I put on my apron again, lifted the baby out of his bassinette and helped him on my shoulder as I began to gather the dirty sheets together and use them to wipe up the mess. As I was cleaning, I heard a muffled sound from the infant in my arms. Tears were pouring out of his eyes, and the only sound he could make was a convulsive sob.

As I looked at him, I saw in myself what Jeremiah called "the desperate wickedness of the heart." I realized I had approached this task with a spirit of resistance and impatience. I had thought very little, if at all, about this child and his needs, other than to be clean. As I threw the sheets into the laundry pile, I began to bathe his little misshapen body and change his clothes. Afterward I held him to me tightly as I … looked at him, rocked him, and prayed …. In a short time, he was asleep ….

I must tell you that the moment I saw him weeping and realized the wretchedness in my heart, I knew it was sin. There was no doubt in my mind that this is what Christ meant when he said, "Out of the heart come evil thoughts." I asked Christ to forgive and change me. In those moments as I rocked the baby, I could feel Christ's work inside my spirit just as surely as if he were sitting next to me.

In a sermon, Stewart Ruch said:

In family life and in church life, there's always a huge gap between the ideal and the real. For example, every autumn my family likes to go apple picking.

Here's the ideal day of apple picking. The leaves are golden and rusty, the sky is beautiful, and it's 75 degrees. We all pile into the van and start singing and laughing as we merrily drive to the orchard. We arrive early in the morning with plenty of time to enjoy the orchard. Surprisingly, the folks at the apple orchard say, "Today apples are free for families." So our kids guzzle apple cider and stuff themselves with apple donuts—and they don't even get a sugar high! Finally, after a perfect day at the orchard, we drive home as our children keep saying, "Wow, thanks, Mom and Dad!"

But the real day often looks like this. It's a disaster from the start. We leave at least two hours late. The apple orchard closes at 5 P.M., we're leaving at 3 P.M., and it takes an hour-and-half to get there, but I bark at everyone, "We're going, so get in the car!" We missed lunch because we were scrambling to get everything done. With blood sugar levels plummeting, my wife and I start arguing. I think it's her fault that we're leaving late; she says it's my fault. We keep arguing until the kids interrupt because now they're arguing with each other. I turn around and snap at the kids, "Knock it off! I'm arguing with your mom."

When we pull into the apple orchard, we only have thirty minutes before closing time. So we tell the kids, "Hurry up, so you can have some fun." By this time of the day all the good apples are gone, and nothing is free. The entrance fee was outrageous because they know they can rip off suburban families who are trying to pretend they're in the country for the day. When we get the kids back in the van, it's already dark. On the way home, we finally get our apples: we stop at McDonald's for an apple turnover.

Unfortunately, family life and church life aren't always ideal. That's why we have to practice love, acceptance, and forgiveness in the midst of real community among real fellow-sinners.

When you experience conflict or pain in a church setting, don't run away to another church. It's often better to stay put and work through it. That's the advice from two early Christian sources.

An anonymous 4th century Christian leader wrote:

If a trial [with other people] comes upon you in the place where you live, do not leave that place when the trial comes. Wherever you go, you will find that what you are running from is ahead of you. So stay until the trial is over, so that if you end up leaving, no offense will be caused, and you will not bring distress to others who live in the same neighborhood.

In the 12th century, Anselm of Canterbury compared a restless believer to a tree that can't thrive because it's "frequently transplanted or often disturbed." Anselm warns: "If he often moves from place to place at his own whim, or remaining in one place is frequently agitated by hatred of it, [he] never achieves stability with roots of love."

Gary Thomas reminds Christians that if you're married, God is your "spiritual Father-in-law." He writes:

When I realized that I was married to God's daughter, everything changed in the way I viewed marriage. It was no longer about just me and one other person; it was very much a relationship with a passionately interested third partner.

Most of us fail to grasp just how fully God loves the person to whom we are married. As the father of three children, I fervently pray that each one will marry a spouse who will love them generously, respect them, and enjoy them. I realize that each of my children has certain quirks or limitations that may test a future spouse's patience, but I pray that their spouses will be kind in these areas rather than use them to belittle my children. I hope with all my heart that each will find a partner who will encourage them with a gracious spirit…. I know my kids aren't perfect—but I want them to have spouses who will love them despite their weaknesses.

In the same way, God is fully aware of our spouse's limitations—and he is just as eager for us to be kind and generous with these faults as we are for our kids' future spouses to be kind to them. By looking at my spouse through God's eyes, I invite God into my marriage.

The book Welcoming Justice was co-authored by Charles Marsh, a younger white professor, and John Perkins, an older black Christian leader. On the first day they met, Marsh sheepishly confessed that his grandmother was an ardent racist who thought that Martin Luther King. Jr. was a dangerous "troublemaker" and that most blacks were better off under slavery. Perkins' response puzzled Marsh.

"What does she grow in her garden?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"What does she grow? Cucumbers, squash, mint, tomatoes? I have the sweetest tomatoes in my garden this summer. You can eat them like apples. Your grandmother like tomato sandwiches? I bet she does. Let me ask you another question: does she like blueberries? I love blueberries," Perkins said, and in great detail he described all the ways he loved to eat blueberries: freshly picked, over ice cream, in blueberry pie. "I always keep blueberries in my refrigerator. When we get to the house, I'm gonna give you a bag of blueberries, and I want you to take them to your grandmother and tell her they're a gift from me."

After Perkins gave Marsh the bag of blueberries, Marsh called them a "gift that marks you as a new kind of person." He wrote, "I haven't been quite the same since I accepted those blueberries."

In his book Humilitas, pastor John Dickson illustrates the beauty of humility in the life of Sir Edmund Hillary. In 1953 Hillary conquered Mount Everest with his Sherpa friend and guide, Tenzin Norgay. Consequently, in that same year Hillary was knighted; in 1985 he was made New Zealand's highest commissioner to India, Nepal, and Bangladesh; and in 1995 he received the British realm's highest award, the Order of the Gater (membership of which is limited to just twenty-four individuals). But despite Hilary's achievements and rewards, he maintained a humble outlook and a readiness to serve others.

John Dickson captures one story that reveals Sir Edmund's profound humility:

On one of his many trips back to the Himalayas he was spotted by a group of tourist climbers. They begged for a photo with the great man, and Hillary obliged. They handed him an ice pick so he would look the part and set up for the photograph. Just then another climber passed the group and, not recognizing the man at the centre, strode up to Hillary saying, "Excuse me, that's not how you hold an ice pick. Let me show you."

Everyone stood around in amazed silence as Hillary thanked the man, let him adjust the pick, and happily went on with the photograph.

It doesn't matter how experienced that other climber was; his greatness was diminished by this intrusive presumption. We are repelled by pride. Edmund Hillary's greatness, however, is somehow enhanced by this humility.