Maybe you remember the Old Testament story of Naaman the leper (2 Kings 5). Naaman was the commander of Syria’s army, but in spite of his privileged life he suffered from leprosy. Fortunately for him, his wife’s servant, a captive Israelite girl, informed the family that the prophet Elisha could heal Naaman’s leprosy. Thrilled with the prospect of being made whole, the commander traveled to Israel, found Elisha, and asked for healing. The prophet told him to go dip in the River Jordan seven times and he would be healed. Naaman balked at the thought of dipping in the dirty Jordan, but he eventually complied, was restored, and praised God all the way home to Syria. It’s an amazing tale of despair and renewal.
we have a problem
Let’s begin by rewinding the story. How was Naaman, a leper, able to preserve his career after he got the bad news about his health? Leprosy was contagious, incurable, and ultimately terminal. The afflicted were herded out of the town, adding social isolation to the punishments leprosy was already known to visit on its ill-fated victims. Naaman, of course, would be too powerful and too important to be sentenced to a miserable quarantine; his military career made him indispensable to the king.
But still, it was leprosy. Life can be a swift and cruel teacher, unexpectedly dropping surprise lessons in your lap that many people are scarcely prepared to learn. By the time we have taken our first steps toward adulthood, we quickly discover that our parents were right: life will not be easy. The more immediate challenges are easy to discern: work, bills, illness, stress, betrayal, disappointment. Over time, and with practice, we begin to master some of them. But all the while, a much bigger challenge hides quietly in the shadows, refusing to reveal itself until it must. And what is the shadowy challenge? It is our unwillingness to admit that we are infected with the leprosy of sin.
This is a problem that will not willingly step into the spotlight and make itself known to you, but if you create a little quiet time for yourself, you might just notice it whispering from the dark. Many of us recoil when we hear it, protesting that it cannot possibly be true. We fabricate cover stories to reassure ourselves that if we are indeed afflicted with this terrible disease, it cannot possibly be as bad as we’ve been told, and it certainly can’t be our fault.
denial isn’t the answer
When Elisha told Naaman to bathe in the Jordan, Naaman must have thought, What? Me bathe in that filthy little creek? Have they not seen the rivers in my home country of Syria? The king’s commander will never be seen wading where these peasant children play. I will bathe in the powerful, clear streams of my own land, where I will not have to debase myself.
In the Bible, leprosy serves as a powerful metaphor for a universal human condition: sin. God uses lepers to illustrate our problem multiple times. And in the ancient world of the Bible, your neighbors were likely to believe that your grotesque, leprous appearance must be your fault—the product of a filthy heart, because why would God allow such a thing otherwise?
Leprosy cruelly disfigured its victims, rendering them repulsive, making them seem less than human— just as sin does. Though we were originally made in the image of God, our sins have transformed us into something else—something less than intended. But when most of us first notice the symptoms, we tend to brush them off, telling ourselves that it can’t really be that bad. We distract ourselves by focusing on challenges and battles we’d rather fight: if we’re going to struggle in this life, it needs to be noble!
But then you catch a glimpse of the Man who hangs on a cross, and it occurs to you that—even if you’re not quite ready to admit it out loud—He might just be there because of your sin. Then pride suddenly steps in between you and the cross: “That can’t be!” Often, we mentally begin to rewrite the story of Golgotha, suggesting other reasons that Jesus had to die. We can blame it on the more comfortable notion that it is because of everybody’s sins, and in that context the cross almost seems nice.
But for my sins? No, that’s far too ugly, far too personal. It suggests that the biggest problem I face in this life is me. Surely, I can find a less muddy, more noble stream. And surely, someone or something else is the real problem. Yes, there is a spiritual war to be waged, but it’s not against me or my selfishness.
false battles aren’t the answer
Here in the West (especially in the United States), many professed Christians will latch on to any number of battles we can substitute for the real struggle being waged by heaven. Deep political divisions give us the opportunity to point to our ideological opponents as God’s enemy: those people must be the Christ-killers! And it’s not difficult for our pride to find evidence for that theory; after all, the political arena just happens to be populated by fallen sinners. Then, once we’ve identified God’s so-called enemies, we start to remake God in our own image. We recruit Christ to our own point of view, making Him political and reinventing Him as the Spokesman for our side.
Others succumb to the allure of conspiracy theories, which tell us that humanity’s worst problem is ignorance: if only we knew the truth about what goes on behind the scenes! It’s tempting, because it holds out the promise that you can easily become one of the chosen—one of those rare individuals who knows the real truth. The earth is flat. We never landed on the moon. There is a dark global cabal pulling the strings of government. The Illuminati is controlling the media.
These kinds of theories can be intoxicating: it is easy to convince yourself that you are defending God’s honor by enlightening ignorant “sheeples,” waking them up to the evil conspirators who really run things. Make one of these theories your primary cause in life, and the need to own who you are and what you’ve done fades into the background.
Still others turn to the internet to find a preacher who can help them create a custom religion that removes the need for humility and repentance. There is always another slick huckster who agrees: nothing is really your fault . . . plus, God really wants to make you wealthy, good-looking, famous, and successful. Just send a little faith offering to claim the promise! If you really understood who you are, you would know that the universe has no choice but to respond to your demands!
But none of these things cure the leprosy of sin. No matter how you try to avoid the truth, it ultimately will not be denied: at some point, you will have to face yourself.
seclusion isn’t the answer
When Christianity was first legalized in the fourth-century Roman Empire, bold Christian preachers suddenly saturated the streets of important urban centers. Some, believing the work of converting cities to be mostly finished, then struck out into the wilderness. Why? Because that’s where the devil must have fled—the church had obviously driven him out of town. Ascetic monks went to the wilderness to meet the devil on his own turf. Their stories are the stuff of legend—like Simeon the Stylite, who sat at the top of a pillar for 37 years.
They expect to find a deeper level of contentment if they could be rid of the little problems that plague us when we have to coexist with others. In the desert of solitude, there were no bills, no family challenges, no jerk bosses. They convinced themselves that if they could escape their fellow human beings, they would be happier—and holier.
But when they actually arrived in the wilderness, the dark whispers of conviction suddenly became piercingly clear. One famous monk declared that he was headed to the desert to conquer his problem with anger. Even without people around to annoy him, the struggle lasted 14 years. It turns out, his biggest problem wasn’t other people: it was him.
getting real with God is the answer
“My father,” said Naaman’s servant “if the prophet had told you to do some great thing, would you not have done it?” (2 Kings 5:13). Yes, he would have. He had been doing that all of his life: slaying monsters that kept him happily distracted from the real problem. We do the same thing: we keep ourselves really, really busy with holy causes, quietly knowing that we are powerless to solve the real problem. And you cannot overcome that problem until you own it.
You cannot commit yourself to God if you’re offering Him a false version of who you really are: the flimsy facades crafted by pride are unacceptable. “I’m on your side, God—let’s go fight the monsters!” Except that you are the monster, and you need Christ if you’d like to change that.
If only Western Christianity would simply go back to the Bible to see what the real issues are, instead of chasing after the cultural wars that are not the essence of the gospel. You are not called to fix everybody else; you are called to submit yourself to Christ.
This is what happened in Naaman’s heart. He finally surrendered his sinful pride to God and stepped into the Jordan. “Now I know,” he said, “that there is no God in all the world except in Israel” (2 Kings 5:15).
I have a challenge for you: try becoming a hermit for just a few days. Turn off the social media and the conspiracy theories, because those are not the gospel. Silence the slick preachers who say that you can have your own kingdom in this life. It turns out: those kinds of things only promote a self-centered life. Become quiet enough to discover what God’s been trying to tell you from the beginning: “Look, you’ve got a fatal problem, but if you’re willing, I can help you.” God will give you “the peace of God that surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7, NET*).
“If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:8, 9).
