Archives For temptation

  As a teen, I read continously as a means of escaping what I then saw as a quotidian, banal, meaningless, dysfunctional existence. All white plastered stucco on the outside, and while not wanting for food and shelter, my upbringing was nevertheless starved of affection, notice, approval. As a latch key kid, there were really no boundaries, and thus no real sense of security. And without security, there was no feeling, no bedrock, of love to fall back upon. 

So I read to feel something, anything. To know I wasn’t alone. To know that, as bad as I perceived things to be, some folks had it worse. Oftentimes, these folks were the characters at the heart of a Stephen King story. One of my favorites was Pet Sematary. I read that book through three times (something I didn’t normally do) in rapid succession. Due, I think, in part to its sheer visceral appeal, but perhaps unconsciously also to its parallel to my own (limited) life experience up to that time. Consider:

1) The Creeds move was supposed to make their lives better, bring them closer as a family. Likewise, my dad’s promotion, transfer, and my family’s subsequent move west was supposed to do the same. In neither case did that prove to be true. Both families ended up falling apart.

2) In both life, and art, there was a father haunted by demons he couldn’t shake; both, while the specifics are of course different, succumbed to their unholy siren song.

3) While my cat was named Cornelius, and not Church, I lost him in a neighborhood accident. Whether animal, or a vehicle, got him I don’t recall.

4) Much like Judson Crandall in the story, we had a kindly older neighbor named Johnny. Like Louis in the book, my dad spent many a night drinking with him.

These are but a few of the ways in which life imitated art. Though as I said I wasn’t likely tuned into at the time, being an isolated, largely self-involved teen. I just share this as a means of explaining the book’s hold on, and power over, me. It appealed in ways I couldn’t then even begin to understand. Much in the way I couldn’t understand why my dad grew more and more distant. More and more closed off; until he just wasn’t there anymore at all. Like Louis Creed, he had his secrets, and those secrets destroyed a family.

Family is what I wish to write of today. As a husband and father myself, I’ve seen the devastating effects of my own secret sins wreak havoc on my family. Things, as they do in Pet Sematary, have a way of finding is out. And there is usually hell to pay. Oftentimes in art, as in life, warnings are given; yet we stubbornly, steadfastly choose to trudge right past them into our own (metaphorical) burying grounds. We believe somehow, as Louis Creed does, that it will be different for us–that we’ll, if not totally unscathed, escape the brunt of the consequences. That is basic human nature.

It is this power of temptation to work upon the mind, and heart, its wiles which lies at the heart of the Pet Sematary.

You see after reading it three times, I did not again revisit the Pet Sematary until just recently. Perhaps as a married man and father, knowing the general content of the tale, I was afraid to? This is likely. Perhaps it was because I knew that tales have a way of growing with us as we grow older? Yes, this, too.

So with trepidation and not a little dread, I reread the book. My worst suspicions were confirmed. Rather than diminish, the power of the book had grown. For what man among us, and despite the dire warnings, if he called himself a loving father, would not be tempted to do exactly as Louis Creed does? That is the insidious appeal and power which King has placed at the heart of Pet Sematary. Louis Creed is everyman who, when faced with a devastating loss, turns to the only way he can see out of it. It’s his fault, and by God (or other means) he’s going to fix it.

Only never works out that way, does it? Despite trying over and over again, we never can quite manage to squeeze some good out of something bad.

That, my friends, is the power of temptation, and the sway under which all of us on this side of the grave live.

God help us all, darling.

I’m not a pastor. I don’t play one on T.V., but it seems to me that the single greatest temptation we face isn’t necessarily to sin per se.

It is instead to forgetfulness.

Forgetfulness of God; forgetfulness of who he is, and consequently of who we now are in him. As in the film, The Matrix, the world is the wool that is often pulled over our eyes.

For a single purpose: forgetfulness of God.

And it from this root that all of our sins stem–for if we forget him, forget who we are in him, we open a veritable Pandora’s box of temptation.

And this is just as Satan would have it.

For he knows that we who are mature in Christ aren’t necessarily open to the big sins. At least not directly, not openly.

But the world, the flesh, and the devil wear down our resistance, and…

We forget.

And from forgetfulness stems the root of our sins (as I said above). Because at its heart is a lie (which feels so very true):

We believe life is solely up to us.

And all the devil requires is our acquiescence.

So what do we do to pull the wool from off of our eyes?

I know nothing other than taking my place in him every day–hour by hour, moment by moment–intentionally.

For the only way to crush forgetfulness is via conscious effort: we must remind ourselves just who–and whose–we are. Meaning we must intentionally choose faith.

Part of my process for doing this is taking my place in Jesus every day:

image

Take my place in the crucifixion (I crucify my flesh), take my place in his death (whereby I am dead to sin), take my place in the resurrection (I am a new creation in Christ, raised to new life), and take my place in his ascension (where I am seated in the heavenlies in him).

Even when I’m not feeling it, I take his word on it, and take it by faith that the foregoing is true. (Do I have my off days? Just ask my wife… Or don’t. Yikes!)

Take it from me–though I’m no pastor–that victory over forgetfulness is possible.

By faith.

How about you? Have you forgotten God? What do you do to take your place in him?

>Words With Friendsphoto © 2010 Rex Sorgatz | more info (via: Wylio)

If you’re at all like me, you’ve played the monstrously addicting iOS
game, Words With Friends. For the uninitiated, Words with
Friends (hereinafter WwF–not to be confused with wrasslin’) is an
electronic online Scrabble-type game, which can be played with
friends, family, and frenemies far and wide.

If you’re like me, you’ve also gotten your spouse hooked on said game
(won’t boast at all about how many times I’ve beaten her–that
wouldn’t be proper). Who in turn turned you on to some “really hard
players.”

If you’re like me, and you love words like I do, you’re holding your
own against these “really hard players.” Surging ahead, even.

Except for today, when you found yourself down by forty points. You
had the letters. You had the motive, means, and opportunity.

You were sore tempted. You even arranged the tiles on the game board,
saw the letters there forming the word. You tabulated the score…

But you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t pull the trigger on “Submit,” hit
“Cancel” instead. You recalled your tiles.

Even though it would’ve tied you up, you couldn’t play the “c-word.”
Something in you rebelled, and you played the much safer “coot.”

Congratulations, my friend! You have just–like Jesus did in the
wilderness–beaten your first Word (Temptation) with Friends (or,
WTwF). You are a model of Internet citizenship.

Years from now, children will be told the tale of your character and
valor on the field of play. In fact, God in Heaven is rejoicing over
your wise choice, and will likely honor you with a victory.

Ridiculous, right?

But isn’t it the truth? Don’t we altogether too often take our games
this seriously?

What do you think? (Please prove your gallantry by not cussing me out
in the comments, ok?).