Christian condescension.

John 1:14…  “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.”

John 3:18…  “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son that whosever believes on Him may not perish but have everlasting life.”

“The email you sent was incredibly lame and proof how narcissistic you are…  I got a good chuckle…”

“She has a real man now, should you want to be this, feel free to ask questions.”

I was a prime example of condescending.  I treated my ex-wife like no woman should ever be treated by a man.  I lied for so long that they became my truths.  I was so arrogant.  I was so puffed up.  I was so full of myself.  And my actions and my words were condescending to her.

But over the last two years I have been humbled greatly.  I have been shown that “where sin abounds, grace abounds more.”  I have been shown a love that I could not understand before this.  God used my greatest failure to teach me.  He used my greatest weaknesses to make me stronger.  And I am.  I am far from where I need to be, but I’m definitely not where I was.

And so I understand her never wanting me back.  I understand her hatred for me.  So many things could have played out differently if she had let herself trust me one more time.  If she looked into my eyes and saw the change.  So many things could have turned out differently if we both tried harder; me a lot and her a little.  But I understand.  I get why she would never.  She was right not to.  She was right to protect herself.  And he was right to protect her too.

But in situations like this…  In situations where there is wrong done, but where there is also repentance, shouldn’t grace abound?  Shouldn’t mercy grow?  Shouldn’t Christians act like it?  He condescended.  He left His place on high…  WHILE WE WERE STILL SINNERS…  Isn’t that the message of Christ?  That love conquers the worst of what the world offers.  That satan has no real grip on humanity.  That sin has no place.  Only grace.

He came down.  He was born of a virgin in a meager manger.  He was a young boy in the temple teaching truths to the holiest of men.  He was the son of a carpenter.  He was the friend of fishermen.  He trusted the tax collector.  He was a pal to prostitutes.  And maybe it’s because I want it to be the case, but I think Jesus would look into my eyes, and see my heart, and I think He’d give me a hug and hold me for a moment.  And I think after that hug the weight of my sin would be lifted.

I know I have salvation through the blood of Christ.  But if you’ve ever walked with weights on, or you’ve ever ridden a bike for more than an hour, you know that after you take those weights off you still feel like they are there until your body acclimates.  I have sinned so much and so hard I feel it every day.  I feel those weights.  I feel the burden of a wife that I wasted.  I feel the burden of wounds I inflicted.  I feel those burdens daily.

“Climbers can have a range of symptoms, from extreme fatigue and shallow breathing to dizziness and coughing up blood.  The lack of oxygen to the brain, called hypoxia, can cause people to make poor, rash, and sometimes deadly decisions in the confusing landscape…  Climbers also risk high-altitude pulmonary edema and high-altitude cerebral edema, known as HAPE and HACE, Freer said.  They’re more likely higher up the mountain, in low-oxygen situations, when the body also reacts by creating pressure and excess fluid — in this case on the lungs and brain.” (, 2016)

Though my plight, the emotional and physical strain I experienced is nothing compared to what these amazing climbers experience for months at a time on the most dangerous mountain in the world, I definitely feel a burden and I believe it can be likened in some ways to the way they feel.  Disoriented.  Exhausted.  Wading through a frozen river of pain. Each new day is a little harder to cope with than the last.

And I believe His condescension is one that speaks to those who are burdened with life.  He brought her out of the lowliest and loneliest place of her life, a place I put her.  But the same God who saved a beautiful and wonderful and sweet and loving woman like her and brought her out of the valley, is the same God who saved a sin soaked jerk like me, right?  We may have walked through different valleys but His mountain is still the same.  He tells us both that He is with us (Matt 28:20), that we are more than conquerers (Romans 8:37), that nothing is impossible (Matt 19:26), that no word from him will fail (Luke 1:37).  He tells us all these things because He is a God that not only dwells in dilapidated hearts, but He’s also a God that intervenes for His children.

An excerpt from Max Lucado’s “Just Like Jesus” follows…

“For five years no one touched me. No one. Not one person. Not my wife. Not my child. Not my friends. No one touched me. They saw me. They spoke to me. I sensed love in their voices. I saw concern in their eyes. But I didn’t feel their touch. There was no touch. Not once. No one touched me.

What is common to you, I coveted. Handshakes. Warm embraces. A tap on the shoulder to get my attention. A kiss on the lips to steal a heart. Such moments were taken from my world. No one touched me. No one bumped into me. What I would have given to be bumped into, to be caught in a crowd, for my shoulder to brush against another’s. But for five years it has not happened. How could it? I was not allowed on the streets. Even the rabbis kept their distance from me. I was not permitted in my synagogue. Not even welcome in my own house.

I was untouchable. I was a leper. And no one touched me. Until today.

One year during harvest my grip on the scythe seemed weak. The tips of my fingers numbed. First one finger then another. Within a short time I could grip the tool but scarcely feel it. By the end of the season, I felt nothing at all. The hand grasping the handle might as well have belonged to someone else – the feeling was gone. I said nothing to my wife, but I know she suspected something. How could she not? I carried my hand against my body like a wounded bird.

One afternoon I plunged my hands into a basin of water intending to wash my face. The water reddened. My finger was bleeding, bleeding freely. I didn’t even know I was wounded. How did I cut myself? On a knife? Did my hand slide across the sharp edge of metal? I must have, but I didn’t feel anything.

“It’s on your clothes, too,” my wife said softly. She was behind me. Before looking at her, I looked down at the crimson spots on my robe. For the longest time I stood over the basin, staring at my hand. Somehow I knew my life was being forever altered.

“Shall I go with you to tell the priest?” she asked. “No,” I sighed, “I’ll go alone.”

I turned and looked into her moist eyes. Standing next to her was our three year-old daughter. Squatting, I gazed into her face and stroked her cheek, saying nothing. What could I say? I stood and looked again at my wife. She touched my shoulder, and with my good hand, I touched hers. It would be our final touch.

Five years have passed, and no one has touched me since, until today. The priest didn’t touch me. He looked at my hand, now wrapped in a rag. He looked at my face, now shadowed in sorrow. I’ve never faulted him for what he said. He was only doing as he was instructed. He covered his mouth and extended his hand, palm forward, “you are unclean,” he told me. With one pronouncement I lost my family, my farm, my future, my friends.

My wife met me at the city gates with a sack of clothing and bread and coins. She didn’t speak. By now friends had gathered. What I saw in their eyes was a precursor to what I’ve seen in every eye since: fearful pity. As I stepped out, they stepped back.

Their horror of my disease was greater than their concern for my heart – so they, and everyone else I have seen since, stepped back. Oh, how I repulsed those who saw me. Five years of leprosy had left my hands gnarled. Tips of my fingers were missing as were portions of an ear and my nose. At the sight of me, fathers grabbed their children. Mothers covered their faces. Children pointed and stared.

The rags on my body couldn’t hide my sores. Nor could the wrap on my face hide the rage in my eyes. I didn’t even try to hide it. How many nights did I shake my crippled fist at the silent sky? “What did I do to deserve this?” But never a reply.

Some think I sinned. Some think my parents sinned. I don’t know. All I know is that I grew so tired of it all: sleeping in the colony, smelling the stench. I grew so tired of the damnable bell I was required to wear around my neck to warn people of my presence. As if I needed it. One glance and the announcements began, “Unclean! Unclean! Unclean!”

Several weeks ago I dared walk the road to my village. I had no intent of entering. Heaven knows I only wanted to look again upon my fields. Gaze again upon my home. And see, perchance, the face of my wife. I did not see her. But I saw some children playing in a pasture. I hid behind a tree and watched them scamper and run. Their faces were so joyful and their laughter so contagious that for a moment, for just a moment, I was no longer a leper. I was a farmer. I was a father. I was a man.

Infused with their happiness, I stepped out from behind the tree, straightened my back, breathed deeply . . . and they saw me. Before I could retreat, they saw me. And they screamed. And they scattered. One lingered, though, behind the others. One paused and looked in my direction. I don’t know, and I can’t say for sure, but I think, I really think, she was my daughter. And I don’t know, I really can’t say for sure. But I think she was looking for her father.

That look is what made me take the step I took today. Of course it was reckless. Of course it was risky. But what did I have to lose? He calls himself God’s Son. Either he will hear my complaint and kill me or accept my demands and heal me. Those were my thoughts. I came to him as a defiant man. Moved not by faith but by a desperate anger. God had wrought this calamity on my body, and he would either fix it or end it.

But then I saw him, and when I saw him, I was changed. You must remember, I’m a farmer, not a poet, so I cannot find the words to describe what I saw. All I can say is that the Judean mornings are sometimes so fresh and the sunrises so glorious that to look at them is to forget the heat of the day before and the hurt of times past. When I looked at his face, I saw a Judean morning.

Before he spoke, I knew he cared. Somehow I knew he hated this disease as much as, no – more – than I hate it. My rage became trust, and my anger became hope. From behind a rock, I watched him descend a hill. Throngs of people followed him. I waited until he was only paces from me, then I stepped out.


He stopped and looked in my direction as did dozens of others. A flood of fear swept across the crowd. Arms flew in front of faces. Children ducked behind parents. “Unclean!” someone shouted. Again, I don’t blame them. I was a huddled mass of death. But I scarcely heard them. I scarcely saw them. Their panic I’d seen a thousand times. His compassion, however, I’d never beheld. Everyone stepped back except him. He stepped toward me. Toward me.

Five years ago my wife had stepped toward me. She was the last to do so. Now he did. I did not move. I just spoke. “Lord, you can heal me if you will.” Had he healed me with a word, I would have been thrilled. Had he cured me with a prayer, I would have rejoiced. but he wasn’t satisfied with speaking to me. He drew near me. He touched me. Five years ago my wife had touched me. No one had touched me since. Until today.

“I will.” His words were as tender as his touch. “Be healed!”

Energy flooded my body like water through a furrowed field. In an instant, in a moment, I felt warmth where there had been numbness. I felt strength where there had been atrophy. My back straightened, and my head lifted. Where I had been eye level with his belt, I now stood eye level with his face. His smiling face.

He cupped his hands on my cheeks and drew me so near I could feel the warmth of his breath and see the wetness in his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone about this. But go and show yourself to the priest and offer the gift Moses commanded for people who are made well. This will show the people what I have done.”

And so that is where I am going. I will show myself to my priest and embrace him. I will show myself to my wife, and I will embrace her. I will pick up my daughter, and I will embrace her. And I will never forget the one who dared to touch me. He could have healed me with a word. But he wanted to do more than heal me. He wanted to honor me, to validate me, to christen me. Imagine that . . . unworthy of the touch of a man, yet worthy of the touch of God.” (Lucado, 1998).

He touched the lepers, the unclean.  He healed the blind with his spit and his hands.  He let the lowest of the low faithfully touch Him and be renewed.  And He never spoke ill of anyone.  He spoke poignantly, yes.  He spoke sternly, absolutely.  But He never used His position as the most high to belittle anyone.  He never condescended like that.  He spoke words of love, sometimes tough love, but still overflowing with love.

Yet there is this struggle in the Christian world.  There is this belief within ourselves that somehow, we are allowed to make exceptions.  Our bitterness builds and our resentment retaliates.  It’s a belief that we are allowed to be nasty and not hold the feelings of others as dear to us.  I did this with her.  I DID consider her feelings, which is why I felt so conflicted.  But I didn’t REALLY care enough so that it made a difference.  I didn’t show her that she was the most important person other than Christ.  I told her in a letter a long time ago that I was her knight in shining armor, but I lost sight of her and after being injured by the dragon she was rescued by another knight.

I am worthy of blame, but I do not deserve hatred.  I deserve the words she has for me.  I’d listen to her speak the most slanderous and despicable things she could muster just to have her speak to me again, but if we have Christ and we claim we do, shouldn’t we be different?  I claimed Christ for so long.  I claimed so much.  I was so much like a Pharisee I should have purchased a purple robe and a podium, but I clearly was not acting Christ-like and I know it.  I was the bad condescending, and I deserve bad condescending FROM HER.  But if we are followers of Him, shouldn’t we give Him our best?  And shouldn’t we give others that too?

“I encourage you to open your bible and find your identity in Christ.”  I lost sight of my identity a long time ago, but I am rediscovering what it means to identify with and in Him. Perhaps those practicing the condescension might consider looking to the only Christ-like condescension.  It’s the difference between being a condescending Christian and practicing Christ’s condescension.


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