We Are All Terrorists

Texas Monthly's most recent issue has a special report on water. Coming off the driest year in Texas' recorded history, and already getting tired of 100-degree summer days, I was interested. But what I read there got me thinking less about water and more about God and terrorists. And by terrorists, I mean all of us.

Roger D. Hodge's article retells Texas' long and familiar history with drought. For centuries, Texans before us have recorded dry times, some in newspapers, some in scratchings on cave walls. Standing in front of a cave mural on the Pecos River, one of Hodge's sources muses:

"Perhaps the paint chips were used in rituals to summon the rain, or to start new batches of paint for rituals to ensure the sunrise."

And that's where I stopped thinking about drought and started thinking about terrorism.

Rituals to ensure the sunrise? What's that about? Why would anyone ever waste time on that? Wasn't it clear, even to the most primitive mind, that the sunrise is beyond human control?

Imagine that you're a primitive person living thousands of years ago in what may have then been the swamps or forests of the Trans-Pecos. And one morning, because of an eclipse or some other weather phenomenon you don't understand, the sun doesn't come up. This frightens you not only because it reminds you of your powerlessness in the world you inhabit, but because it presents a very real threat: whether you're a hunter, gatherer or farmer, without sun, your food source is threatened.

There are already hundreds of threats to your existence beyond your control. You seem to live at the pleasure of the weather, the crops, the rival tribes, the saber-toothed cats, and the angry gods that surround you.

So how do you respond to this frightening development? Think about that for a moment. It might help you to answer that question if you think about how you respond to threats beyond your control in modern day: accidents, crime, disease, layoffs. How do you respond to those threats?

Apparently, at least some early Texans responded by trying to control the uncontrollable. They looked at the darkened sky and thought of the 1980 comedy "The Gods Must Be Crazy" and so they decided to take action.

Great god of the sun, we noticed you didn't come through this morning. It seems plainly obvious to us that sunrises are good things. We have considered the idea that an occasional break from sunrises might be part of some larger scheme you have going related to the delicate balance of nature, yadda, yadda, but then we thought, "Nah. Let's just keep the sunrises coming." We've got bills to pay.

But this is where we need your help (read: obedience). We can't make the sunrise, but we'd like to have it do so. Please continue to produce a sunrise every morning. If, at any point, we decide that we're ready for a break in sunrises, we'll let you know.

Thanks,
Ug

I'm certainly not suggesting that we never entreat God for anything beyond our control. In fact, that's exactly what we should be doing. I pray for things beyond my control every day.

But I also know that throughout our history, too much of our worship of God has amounted to attempts to control God and therefore become God.

Last week, after a week of Vacation Bible School, Christine and I were joking about the little terrorists living in our house. Children often use threats, violence, and other outrageous behavior to get attention or get what they want. You know what else we call people who do that? Terrorists.

It occurred to us that all children are tiny terrorists. That's sort-of what it means to be born into sin. It's our job as parents to teach them how to leave terrorism behind and live in peace with others. God is parenting us the same way.

This morning, I happened to read the account of Jesus' prayer at Gethsemane from Matthew 26. He prayed:

"My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will."

You've read that before but pause for a moment and consider how remarkable it is. This verse reveals conflict between two persons of the Godhead. Apparently, there was at least one time in history when the desires of the Son weren't in sync with the desires of the Father. Jesus knew what was coming, and he really would have preferred to skip it. I would have too! And so he prayed for another way.

God, is there any other, even better, way to accomplish the redemption of mankind that doesn't involve torture? I mean, You are — WE are — the God of the Universe here. Surely we can think of something!

But as much as he wanted to escape it, Jesus may have already known what the Father's answer would be:

There is no more holy, beautiful, powerful, redemptive, life-giving, world-changing, inspiring, truthful, loving story to write. Yes, we could have waved a magic wand back in that other garden and set everything right a couple of thousand years ago, but that's not the story we've decided to write because that doesn't reveal our heart to the world. This is the story we've been writing for all this time, and now we've reached the climax, and has hard as it is, we have to finish the story.

This conversation between the Father and Son strikes a remarkable balance as an example for us; the balance between, "Hey, what's going to happen is going to happen. There's nothing I can do about it. So why pray?" and "I know what I want and I know what's best for me, my family, my church, my country. It's my way or the highway. God, I need you to get on board."

We are all born terrorists; from our ancient forebears to postmodern millennials. From scratching on cave walls to building our enormous national debt, we simply want what we want. We want control and comfort. We'll take extreme measures to get it. And we're really not very concerned about what God might want for us instead.

I wonder what I can do today to leave terrorism behind. I think I'll go have a glass of water and think about it.