Caging Our Pet Peeves

Not long after I returned from my deployment, someone complained to a colleague about something I did, and that colleague in turn spoke with me about it.

I tried to humbly accept my colleague's gentle rebuke and learn from the experience (I have), but a part of me, deep down, began to grumble. That was my pet, Peeves.

Peeves gets very angry at certain things that others likely aren't aware of. For example, he is cuddly and affection if someone comes to me with their concerns about something, because he is thankful for their honesty and grace for letting me repent of my speech or deed. But if they remain anonymous and complain, or slander, or gossip, he is a bad, bad dog.

When I was an intern in seminary, someone complained to one of the pastors about my congregational prayers. I would often mention in my prayers that we often fail as fathers, being too harsh with our children, as children, by disrespecting our parents, etc. This anonymous congregant was upset because he didn't struggle with these things (liar). Instead of taking the matter to me and talking it out, he told on me, so that I had an uncomfortable conversation and am uncomfortable knowledge that someone out in the pews was gunning for me and I didn't know who.

But this isn't a story of my victimization by anonymous critics, but a story of my responsibility toward my pet, Peeves. Others don't make him angry; he gets angry at others. Our feelings may be valid, but they are still under our control and it is our responsibility to deal with them. My lingering anger about these incidents can never be addressed through confrontation and reconciliation, since they were anonymous--it must be addressed in my heart.

These incidents hurt me because I am defensive by (fallen) nature. I am not meek. In His first two beatitudes in Matthew 5, Jesus calls the poor in spirit and those who mourn blessed. With those first two, I (ironically) feel pretty good about myself. I know that I am a broken mess and grieve over that fact. But then He says "Blessed are the meek," and I am undone. I can tell you how much I suck, but if you tell me how much I suck, I introduce you to my dog.

When someone triggers my pet, it is my responsibility to keep him caged and discipline him into being a better dog. Part of this responsibility includes identifying what makes him snap, and part of this responsibility lies in identifying that he snaps because he gets angry at others, others don't make him angry. I must own my sin and realize that I have a serious struggle with meekness.

And my final responsibility is to take Peeves to the cross. There, I remember that my Savior endured the worst of mankind's mockery, ridicule, and scorn. But He didn't get defensive, saying "How dare you? Who do you think you are? Don't you know I am? Don't you know what I have done and what I will do?" No, like a lamb before its shearers, He remained silent (Is. 53). He endured the lonely road to the cross, scorning the shame, but not the scoffers. When He did open His mouth, it was to bless, not to curse: "Father, forgive them." "Today, you will be with me in paradise." "It is finished." He bore my mockery and yours, and blessed us with His righteousness and life's blood.

Thus, as I wage war against my flesh (Rom. 7), I find comfort and hope in the knowledge that He didn't curse me for my mockery, as I deserved, but became a curse for me (Gal. 3). Now, I am nothing if not blessed. Blessed for Christ's sake and blessed in Christ, my hiding place (Col. 3). I wrestle to comprehend such a love, such undeserved favor, and know that, hid in the Father's love, I can say "Down, boy" to Peeves and get back to work. Jesus didn't just die for me, He died for my Peeves as well.