When the Bible describes the heart, it is a veritable enigma. We harden it. God hardens it. It can be full of faith. It can be full of folly. It can be sad. It can be glad. It's the point of origin of all our words and actions. When you search it, who knows what you'll find?
My heart is a lot like a house. Sometimes I hide stuff under the bed. Sometimes I let dishes pile up. Sometimes I go on a cleaning rampage and my hands smell like Comet for a week afterward. Sometimes I let people in. Sometimes I shut them out. It's a complicated place, which is why I often don't go there. That's why I ignore the piles of garbage, keep people out, close the doors of the rooms I don't like and look anywhere and everywhere for escape. The heart can be a desperately wicked place—so in a way, the fear is understandable.
This house of mine is a fixer-upper, to be sure, but there's hope for it. A few months ago, as I was reading one of the best books I've ever read, I gained some new insight into this heart.
Do you remember the story of the Exodus? Think back—way back—to those felt boards from Sunday School (try to ignore the sudden impulse to eat graham crackers as you do). Or, if your Sunday School was in the church of pop culture like it was for me, think back to the The Ten Commandments (barring the grievous historical inaccuracies and Charlton Heston's terrible excuse of a fake beard, of course). And if you were born in the '90's, think back to Prince of Egypt (I guess). What each of these avenues was trying to tell you—to varying degrees of success and with varied intentions—was the story of God's redemption, the story of how God has chosen to respond to the human heart and the hot mess that it is.
Quick recap. God's chosen people (the Israelites) are in bondage, slaves in Egypt. God promises to rescue them from slavery and bring them freedom. In the process, God sends plagues and afflictions to the Egyptians to expose the futility of specific Egyptian gods and convince—well, everyone—that the God of Israel is the One True God and that Pharaoh should probably let God's people go free. The final plague, however, is a little different. The final plague did not only bear consequences for the Egyptians; it applied to Israel, too.
God told Moses that he would take the lives of all the firstborn in the land—the very hope of life and legacy—unless the blood of a spotless, perfect lamb was applied to the doorposts of their homes, which signified trust, belief and ascent to what God had said. At midnight, God made good on his promise; houses without the blood received the forewarned consequence and he 'passed over' the homes with blood applied. This was the first Passover.
What Mike Wilkerson (author of one of the best books I've ever read) points out about our interpretation of this event is that we are quick to assume, even without knowing it, that God's judgment is indicative of the fact that the Egyptians were the 'bad' guys and the Israelites were the 'good' guys. Of course God would spare his people, right? Yes, he would spare his people, but not because they were so great. At all.
If you were to compare the homes of the Egyptians to the homes of the Israelites at that time in history, you'd find more similarities than differences. You'd find families sleeping, waking up grumpy, working, relaxing, eating, making messes, cleaning up messes, fighting, having similar conversations. You'd find keepsakes, valuables, parts of their homes that were an embarrassment, parts that were a source of pride. You would also find idols, both physical and figurative. You would find hearts actively putting more trust in things that are created rather than in the Creator. If there is something that is clear in the whole of scripture, it's that God alone is worthy of worship and he does not share his glory with anything or anyone else.
The point is, the only thing that compelled God to have mercy on the Israelites on the night of the Passover was the blood on their doorposts. That was it. God knew what was in their homes. He knew what was in their hearts. He knew it all and—because they were covered in the redemption he offered them—he spared them. They were his people. He was their God. And he dwelled with them.
So it is with us, with me. God knows what is in my heart. He sees the idols I keep safe. He sees the messes I don't want to clean up. He knows my every avoidance tactic. Yet, he still sets his affection on me. He still sent Jesus to be my pure, spotless lamb—the eternal and only sufficient sacrifice for my great sin—to do more than cover my doorposts. He covers and invades every corner of me with his forgiveness and redemption. Jesus—who he is and what he does—is the ultimate Passover. He knew what was in my house, but he still chose to commit to me, move in and dwell with me. He deals tenderly with me, but he also makes war against the trophies of pride on my walls and the cobwebby, dusty corners of unbelief and the dark closets of shame.
Your house is a fixer-upper, too. And there's hope for your redemption and renovation. Stop running, avoiding and hiding. Pull up a chair to the dining room table, sit across from your savior Jesus and talk. It's a start.
"Lord, you know that this house is filled with sin and yet you still choose to live there. You know the gluttony in the kitchen. You know the self-numbing and avoidance in the living room. You walk by the trophies of self-reliance and pride adorning the walls every day. You have to look at the pictures of my other lovers on the walls. You know what kind of stuff is still in darkness—compartmentalized, boxed and buried—in the basement. And yet you choose to live there. Here. With me. In me." —Journal Entry, January 31, 2012
