THE PASSWORD IS LOVE

I don't know about you, but I find the Book of Judges to be a bit horrifying. It's filled with gory stories such as Ehud burying his double-edged sword ALL the way into King Eglon's big ol' belly... Jael hammering a dude's head to the floor... Samson eating honey from a rotting lion's carcass... just to name a few. Chapter after chapter details the sad story of the Israelites, a scattered bunch of knuckleheads who were stuck in a never-ending cycle of sin and redemption. 

It is no small testimony to God's patience during this period that He sent twelve different judges to help save their sorry butts. And what did His chosen people do? They went through those judges like a menopausal woman goes through a box of Thin Mints. A judge would rescue them, then he would die, the Israelites would screw up again, God would clobber them and they would beg for forgiveness until God sent them a new judge. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. Kinda like the movie “Groundhog Day”, except bloodier. 

Number 8 of those 12 judges was Jephthah of Gilead --- mighty warrior, son of a hooker. Gilead was located east of the Jordan River. Through a series of events, Jephthah's followers found themselves in a civil war against their fellow Israelites, a group of Ephraimites who lived west of the Jordan River.

After the Gileadites defeated them soundly, Jephthah's men came up with a password to keep any rogue Ephraimites from escaping back across the river to their homeland. Though both tribes spoke the same language, apparently they had developed different accents, as noted in Judges 12:5-6. 

Jephthah captured the shallow crossings of the Jordan River, and whenever a fugitive from Ephraim tried to go back across, the men of Gilead would challenge him. “Are you a member of the tribe of Ephraim?” they would ask. If the man said, “No, I’m not,” they would tell him to say “Shibboleth.” If he was from Ephraim, he would say “Sibboleth,” because people from Ephraim cannot pronounce the word correctly. Then they would take him and kill him at the shallow crossings of the Jordan. In all, 42,000 Ephraimites were killed at that time. 

Can you believe it??  FORTY-TWO-THOUSAND men were killed for not being able to pronounce 'sh' correctly. 

In high school, I had a friend who couldn't say his 'R's. He called me 'Wobin', a cute little nickname that stuck with some of my friends. But I've never wanted to kill him. Heck, I'm a Texan; I'm used to everybody else talking funny. Even though I sometimes make fun of them, I wouldn't dream of judging someone for having a different accent than me. Would I...? 

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Our trip to Israel unintentionally coincided with the holy season of Ramadan. Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians from all over Israel made their way to Jerusalem to pray at the Temple Mount. The very first day of our visit to Old Jerusalem, we happened to enter the Jewish Quarters just as hundreds of Muslims were exiting from communal prayers.

There we were, a bunch of American tourists swimming upstream in a river of Muslims. It was tense and somewhat overwhelming. Suffice it to say, I now know exactly how a salmon feels. 

As we made our way through the throng, some of them looked upon us with curiosity, a few glared at us angrily, but mostly, they just ignored us. The Jewish shopkeepers we passed along the way shook their heads at us incredulously. One of them even asked if we knew what we were doing. Jostling along, I felt a hand grab onto my shoulder. Thinking it was someone from our group, I glanced back and was surprised to see the beautiful face of a young Jewish woman who had decided to swim upstream with us. I smiled at her and said, “Hang on!”. She smiled back and asked in a heavy accent, “Did you mean to come here today or was it mistake?” I said, “Yes...? We planned to come, we just didn't plan on Ramadan. But, yes... we want to be here.” 

“You picked bad time to come... it is not always like this.” 

“Are you afraid?” I asked. 

“Me...? Oh, no. I am not afraid.” 

“Should we be afraid?” 

“No. You should not be afraid of Muslims. Most are good people. It is not a person's beliefs that make them evil. It is their heart.” 

Finally, the narrow street opened up into the plaza. My sweet Jewish friend bid me goodbye and told me to enjoy my visit. I wanted to say so much more to her than a simple 'goodbye'. Impulsively, I reached out to hug her and whispered into her ear, “God bless”.

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That scene replays over and over in my head. To me, it's symbolic of the division in God's world. Tribalism has quickly become a way of life, an accepted cultural norm. Jews vs. Muslims. Whites vs. Blacks. Liberals vs. Conservatives. We go around collecting shibboleths to distinguish our group from their group, our heroes from their villains, our facts from their opinions, our righteousness from their evil. Piling up prejudice in place of passwords just so that we can be right rather than nice. 

We need to stop. Stop embracing the things that separate us. Stop questioning who belongs to what group. 

Start focusing instead on the questions that really matter: 

Who belongs to God? 

Who does GOD say that you are? 

He never once said we should be known for our opinions. He's never encouraged us to lead others to Him through our political parties or tribes. And if there was a password for heaven, somebody would've leaked it already, so toss the shibboleths away. 

All we need, all we've ever needed, is a heart like Jesus. 

Then, and only then, will they know us by our love...