As Brazilian jail cells go this one wasn’t too bad. There was a fan on the table. The twin beds each had a thin mattress and a pillow. There was a toilet and a sink.
No, it wasn’t too bad. But, then again, I didn’t have to stay.
Anibal did. He was there to stay.
Even more striking than his name (pronounced “uh-nee-ball”) was the man himself. The tattooed anchor on his forearm symbolized his personality—cast-iron. His broad chest stretched his shirt. The slightest movement of his arm bulged his biceps. His face was as leathery in texture as it was in color. His glare could blister a foe. His smile was an explosion of white teeth.
But today the glare was gone and the smile was forced. Anibal wasn’t on the street where he was the boss; he was in a jail where he was the prisoner.
He’d killed a man—a “neighborhood punk,” as Anibal called him, a restless teenager who sold marijuana to the kids on the street and made a nuisance of himself with his mouth. One night the drug dealer had used his mouth one time too many and Anibal had decided to silence it. He’d left the crowded bar where the two of them had been arguing, gone home, taken a pistol out of a drawer, and walked back to the bar.
Anibal had entered and called the boy’s name. The drug dealer had turned around in time to take a bullet in the heart.
Anibal was guilty. Period. His only hope was that the judge would agree that he had done society a favor by getting rid of a neighborhood problem. He would be sentenced within the month.
I came to know Anibal through a Christian friend, Daniel. Anibal had lifted weights at Daniel’s gym. Daniel had given Anibal a Bible and had visited him several times. This time Daniel took me with him to tell Anibal about Jesus.
Our study centered on the cross. We talked about guilt. We talked about forgiveness. The eyes of the murderer softened at the thought that the one who knows him best loves him most. His heart was touched as we discussed heaven, a hope that no executioner could take from him.
But as we began to discuss conversion, Anibal’s face began to harden. The head that had leaned toward me in interest now straightened in caution. Anibal didn’t like my statement that the first step in coming to God is an admission of guilt. He was uneasy with words like “I’ve been wrong” and “forgive me.” Saying “I’m sorry” was out of character for him. He had never backed down before any man, and he wasn’t about to do it now—even if the man were God.
In one final effort to pierce his pride, I asked him, “Don’t you want to go to heaven?”
“Sure,” he grunted.
“Are you ready?”
Earlier he might have boasted yes, but now he’d heard too many verses from the Bible. He knew better.
He stared at the concrete floor for a long time, meditating on the question. For a moment I thought his stony heart was cracking. For a second, it appeared that burly Anibal would for the first time admit his failures.
But I was wrong. The eyes that lifted to meet mine weren’t tear-filled; they were angry. They weren’t the eyes of a repentant prodigal; they were the eyes of an angry prisoner.
“All right,” he shrugged. “I’ll become one of your Christians. But don’t expect me to change the way I live.”
The conditional answer left my mouth bitter. “You don’t draw up the rules,” I told him. “It’s not a contract that you negotiate before you sign. It’s a gift—an undeserved gift! But to receive it, you have to admit that you need it.”
“OK.” He ran his thick fingers through his hair and stood up. “But don’t expect to see me at church on Sundays.”
I sighed. How many knocks in the head does a guy need before he’ll ask for help?
As I watched Anibal pace back and forth in the tiny cell, I realized that his true prison was not made of bricks and mortar, but of pride. He was twice imprisoned. Once because of murder, and once because of stubbornness. Once by his country, and once by himself.
The prison of pride. For most of us it isn’t as blatant as it was with Anibal, but the characteristics are the same. The upper lip is just as stiff. The chin ever protrudes upward, and the heart is just as hard.
A prison of pride is filled with self-made men and women determined to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps even if they land on their rear ends. It doesn’t matter what they did or to whom they did it or where they will end up; it only matters that “I did it my way.”
You’ve seen the prisoners. You’ve seen the alcoholic who won’t admit his drinking problem. You’ve seen the woman who refuses to talk to anyone about her fears. You’ve seen the businessman who adamantly rejects help, even when his dreams are falling apart.
Perhaps to see such a prisoner all you have to do is look in the mirror.
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just .. .“ 1. The biggest word in Scripture just might be that two-letter one, if. For confessing sins— admitting failure—is exactly what prisoners of pride refuse to do.
You know the lingo:
“Well, I may not be perfect, but I’m better than Hitler and certainly kinder than Idi Amin!”
“Me a sinner? Oh, sure, I get rowdy every so often, but I’m a pretty good ol’ boy.”
“Listen, I’m just as good as the next guy. I pay my taxes. I coach the Little League team. I even make donations to Red Cross. Why, God’s probably proud to have somebody like me on his team.”
Justification. Rationalization. Comparison. These are the tools of the jailbird. They sound good. They sound familiar. They even sound American. But in the kingdom, they sound hollow.
“Blessed are those who mourn…”
To mourn for your sins is a natural outflow of poverty of spirit. The second beatitude should follow the first. But that’s not always the case. Many deny their weakness. Many know they are wrong, yet pretend they are right. As a result, they never taste the exquisite sorrow of repentance.
Of all the paths to joy, this one has to be the strangest. True blessedness, Jesus says, begins with deep sadness.
“Blessed are those who know they are in trouble and have enough sense to admit it.”2
Joy through mourning? Freedom through surrender? Liberty through confession?
The message is clear.
As long as Jesus is one of many options, he is no option. As long as you can carry your burdens alone, you don’t need a burden bearer. As long as your situation brings you no grief, you will receive no comfort. And as long as you can take him or leave him, you might as well leave him, because he won’t be taken halfheartedly.
But when you mourn, when you get to the point of sorrow for your sins, when you admit that you have no other option but to cast all your cares on him, and when there is truly no other name that you can call, then cast all your cares on him, for he is waiting for you today.
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