Why Fairness Matters So Much to Us

Descripción

Welcome to Through the Lens of Eternity, a space where we slow down and think biblically about the stories, tensions, and conversations shaping the world around us. This isn’t about reacting to headlines with outrage or fear. It’s about asking deeper questions. How should followers of Jesus think?How should we respond?And what changes when we keep one eye on eternity? This week I read a story that caused me to react quite strongly. The discussion was around benefit payments linked to a small number of legally recognised overseas polygamous marriages. My response was “How is that fair?” Especially in a country where polygamy is not legally recognised marriage. And if we’re honest, most of us understand that reaction instinctively. Because fairness matters deeply to human beings. We want consistency.We want equal treatment.We want things to make sense. And when they don’t, something in us reacts strongly. You see it in children almost immediately. “That’s not fair.” And strangely, we never really grow out of it. The truth is, fairness shapes far more of our emotions than we often realise. It affects: * how we see money * opportunity * relationships * politics * work * even how we see God at times And the Bible speaks into this more than we might think. One of the clearest examples is in Matthew 20, where Jesus tells the parable of the workers in the vineyard. Some work all day, others work only an hour, and at the end, they all receive the same pay. And immediately, the workers who laboured all day become angry. Not because they were treated badly. But because someone else received more generosity than they thought was fair. That story reveals something powerful about the human heart. We are constantly comparing. Constantly measuring. Constantly evaluating what others receive compared to us. And moments like this week’s headline expose that instinct very quickly. People think: Why should that happen?Why should those rules apply differently?Why should someone receive more support when the lifestyle itself sits outside the legal and cultural norm of this country? Those are real questions. And pretending they don’t exist doesn’t help anyone. At the same time, the Bible also reminds us that human beings do not always see clearly. Sometimes what we call justice is actually resentment. Sometimes what we call principle is comparison. And sometimes our reactions reveal more about our hearts than the situation itself. That’s why Proverbs says: “Fools show their annoyance at once, but the prudent overlook an insult.” That’s challenging. Because we live in a culture that rewards outrage. Immediate reactions.Instant anger.Constant offence. But Christians are called to respond differently. Not passively. Not without conviction. But thoughtfully. Wisely. Prayerfully. And this is where we also need to speak clearly about biblical conviction. Because while the Bible records polygamy in several places, it consistently points back to God’s created order for marriage. Faithful covenant.One man and one woman. And many of the stories involving polygamy in Scripture are marked by rivalry, division, jealousy, and pain. The Bible is often brutally honest about the consequences of human choices. So it’s understandable that Christians may feel tension when policies appear to sit outside those convictions. That tension is real. And Christians should not feel pressured to abandon biblical beliefs in order to sound compassionate. Truth matters. Conviction matters. But how we carry those convictions matters too. Because Christians are not called to become people constantly fuelled by outrage. We are called to become people shaped by wisdom. Ecclesiastes says: “There is a time and a way for everything.” That includes how we respond to difficult issues. Not every emotional reaction is a wise reaction. And perhaps this is where the deeper challenge lies. Because stories like this don’t just reveal debates about policy. They reveal what is happening inside us. Do I trust God when things feel unfair? Can I hold conviction without becoming bitter? Can I care about truth without losing grace? Can I engage with society without becoming consumed by anger? Those are spiritual questions. Not just political ones. And living with one eye on eternity changes how we carry them. Because eternity reminds us that perfect justice does not ultimately come through governments, systems, or public policy. It comes through God. Isaiah says: “He will judge with righteousness.” That matters. Because it reminds us that God sees perfectly. Far more clearly than we do. And that frees us from becoming overwhelmed by every headline. We can care deeply. Think seriously. Hold convictions honestly. But still remain steady. Because our hope is not in perfect systems. Our hope is in a perfect King. So this week, perhaps the real question is not simply: “Is this fair?” But: “How do I respond faithfully when something feels unfair?” Because followers of Jesus are called to something deeper than outrage. We are called to wisdom. Conviction. Grace. And perspective. Let pray. Lord God, Help us to respond wisely in a world full of strong opinions and emotional reactions. Teach us to hold truth with humility and conviction with grace. Guard our hearts from bitterness, comparison, and outrage. And help us to trust that You are perfectly just, even when the world feels confusing. As we navigate difficult conversations, help us keep one eye on the present and one eye on eternity. Amen. Scripture References Matthew 20:1–16Proverbs 12:16Ecclesiastes 8:6Isaiah 11:4 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

When One Part Suffers

Welcome to Through The Lens Of Eternity A couple of weeks ago I had surgery on my wrist, and I’ve been forced to slow right down ever since. Not fully out of action — I can still potter about and do the odd thing — but nowhere near my usual pace, and likely not for another three or four weeks yet. And I want to be honest with you about something, because I think it’s more useful than pretending I’ve sailed through it with serene, spiritual calm. The first thing that undid me wasn’t the pain. It was the small stuff. There was a morning early on when I reached for my phone the way you do without even thinking — first thing, still half asleep — and I simply couldn’t hold it. Couldn’t grip it, couldn’t scroll, couldn’t fire off the messages I’d normally have dealt with before my feet even hit the floor. And I lay there for a moment, faintly ridiculous, staring at this little slab of glass that I use to feel connected and productive and on top of everything, and I couldn’t so much as pick it up. It sounds like nothing. But if you’re the sort of person who likes to get things done — and I very much am — you’ll know that it isn’t nothing at all. Because it wasn’t really about the phone. It was about the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t do it myself. Whatever “it” happened to be. Opening a jar. Carrying the shopping. Driving somewhere I needed to be. Suddenly I was the one asking. The one waiting. The one depending on other people to do the things my own two hands had always quietly taken care of. And I found that far harder to accept than the surgery itself. Rest has always been a struggle for me. If I’m honest, I’ve worn my busyness a little like a badge — the person who’s always doing, always reachable, always the one who helps rather than the one who needs. And God, in his kindness and his sense of humour, has taken one wrist and used it to dismantle all of that in a fortnight. I’ve been forced to stop. Forced to receive. Forced to let people carry things for me. And it’s taught me something I thought I already understood, but clearly didn’t — not really, not in my bones — about what the church is actually for. You’ll know the picture. Paul reaches for it again and again, but nowhere more fully than in 1 Corinthians 12. The church, he says, is a body. Not a collection of individuals who happen to share a car park on a Sunday, but one body with many members — hands and feet and eyes and ears — each one needed, none of them able to go it alone. “The eye cannot say to the hand, I have no need of you.” We tend to hear that as a gentle reminder to value everyone’s gifts, and it is that. But read on, because Paul says something we usually skip straight past. He says the parts of the body that seem weaker are actually indispensable. That the parts we think less honourable, we clothe with greater honour. That God has arranged the body so that there’s no division in it, but that the members should have the same care for one another. And then comes the line that stopped me this week: “If one member suffers, all suffer together.” We usually talk about the body of Christ as the place where strong people bring their gifts. Where the capable turn up and serve and get things done. But that’s not actually why it was designed. A hand doesn’t need the rest of the body when it’s working perfectly well. It needs it when it’s broken. The whole point of a body — the reason God knitted us together into one — is so that when one part is weak, the others move in around it and hold it up. Which means my wrist, out of action for a few months, isn’t some malfunction in the plan. It’s the very thing the plan was made for. I’m not a problem the body has to work around at the moment. In a strange way, I’m the reason it exists. And if that still feels like a hard word for those of us who’d rather be the ones doing the lifting, let me point you to something that helped me enormously. Because the great figures of Scripture — the leaders, the deliverers, the giants of the faith — were carried too. Think of Moses. There’s that extraordinary scene in Exodus 17, where Israel is at war and the battle turns on whether Moses can keep his arms raised. And he can’t. He’s the leader, the man who stood before Pharaoh, the one who parted a sea — and his own arms give out. He hasn’t the strength to hold them up. So Aaron and Hur come alongside him, they sit him down on a stone, and they hold his hands up for him, one on each side, until the sun goes down. The victory doesn’t come because Moses is strong enough. It comes because two others held him when he wasn’t. Or think of Paul himself, the man who wrote all this about the body. This is not a weak or dependent character by nature — but read his letters and you’ll find him constantly leaning on others. He needs Luke, his physician, at his side. He writes to Timothy from prison and asks him to bring the cloak he left behind, because even an apostle gets cold and can’t fetch his own coat. He depends on churches to send him help. The great teacher of interdependence lived it because he had to. And here’s the one that undoes any pride left standing: even Jesus received. On the road to the cross, when the weight was too much, it was Simon of Cyrene who was made to carry it. Luke tells us there were women who travelled with him and supported his ministry out of their own means — that the Son of God, in his earthly life, was funded and fed and cared for by others. If the Lord himself allowed himself to be served, to be carried, to be provided for, then who exactly do I think I am, insisting I must never need anything from anyone? Dependence isn’t a fall from spiritual maturity. It turns out to be the shape that even the strongest, godliest lives have always taken. Now I want to press into the uncomfortable part, because I suspect I’m not the only one who needs it. For those of us who like to be useful, being weak isn’t merely inconvenient. It’s identity-threatening. Because so much of our sense of worth has been built on being the one who helps, the one who copes, the one who doesn’t need. Take that away, and you find out what’s underneath. Paul knew this territory intimately. He writes in 2 Corinthians 12 about a thorn in his flesh — some weakness we’re never told the details of — that he begged God three times to remove. And God’s answer was not to take it away. God’s answer was, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” And Paul, remarkably, gets to the point where he can say he will boast in his weaknesses, that he’s content with them, because when he is weak, then he is strong. Real enforced rest, holds up a mirror. It asks you a question you can’t dodge: do you actually believe you’re loved for who you are, or only for what you produce? When the doing stops, and you’re lying there unable to hold your own phone, what’s left? Are you still you? Is God still pleased with you when you’re contributing nothing, achieving nothing, ticking nothing off? Let the weakness do you a favour. Let it show you where your worth is really anchored. Looking outward for a moment, I think it says something about the country we live in. We British have made an art form of the stiff upper lip. We prize self-sufficiency. “I don’t want to be a burden” is practically a national motto — and we say it as though it were a virtue, when so often it’s a quiet refusal to let anyone close enough to help. We have built a culture where people would rather struggle alone than admit they’re struggling at all. And look what it’s given us. An epidemic of loneliness. Neighbours who don’t know one another’s names. People carrying heavy things in complete isolation, because to ask would be to admit weakness, and admitting weakness is the one thing we’ve trained ourselves never to do. The body of Christ stands as a contradiction to all of it. It says that needing one another is not a failure of character — it’s the design. That we were never meant to carry our own weight. That “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ” is not a nice sentiment for greetings cards but an instruction, and that the burden was always supposed to be shared. Two are better than one, says the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, because if one falls, the other will lift him up — but woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up. That’s not weakness talking. That’s wisdom. And it’s a wisdom our proudly independent age has very nearly forgotten. So let me end where I’ve actually been living these last two weeks. Because for all the frustration about not being able to do things, I have been on the receiving end of an extraordinary amount of qkindness. People who’ve driven me places. People who’ve carried what I couldn’t. People who’ve done the small, unglamorous, unnoticed things — the jars opened, the meals made, the lifts given — without making me feel like a burden for needing them. They’ve been Aaron and Hur to me. They’ve held my arms up when I couldn’t hold them myself. And I’ve had to learn, slowly and not always gracefully, to simply say thank you and let them. If you’re strong right now, if everything’s working and you’re the one doing the carrying, thank God for it — and then go and find the person whose arms are tired, and hold them up. And if you’re weak right now, if you’re the one who can’t manage on your own and it’s grating against everything in you, then hear this gently: you are not a malfunction in the body. You are the very reason it exists. Let yourself be carried. That’s not you failing at faith. That’s you finally understanding it. Let’s pray Father, thank you that you made us for one another. That you never intended us to carry our own weight alone, and that you built your church to be a body, where when one part is weak the others gather round to hold it up. Forgive us for the pride that dresses itself up as strength. For the ways we’ve hidden behind our usefulness, and quietly built our worth on what we can do rather than on who you say we are. Teach us that we are loved not for our productivity but for being your children. For those of us who are weak today — in body, in spirit, in circumstance — would you send us Aarons and Hurs, and give us the humility to let ourselves be helped. And for those of us who are strong, open our eyes to the tired arms around us, and make us quick to carry what others cannot. Thank you for every quiet kindness we’ve received and often failed to notice. Make us a people who need one another without shame, and who serve one another without pride, that in our weakness your strength might be made perfect, and that a watching, lonely world might see in your church a body that truly holds together. In Jesus’ name, amen. Scripture References: * 1 Corinthians 12:12–27 * Exodus 17:12 * 2 Timothy 4:11 * Colossians 4:14 * 2 Timothy 4:13 * Luke 23:26 * Luke 8:3 * 2 Corinthians 12:7–10 * Galatians 6:2 * Ecclesiastes 4:9–12 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

8 de jul de 202612 min

It’s Not Medieval. It’s Evil.

Welcome to Through the Lens of Eternity, a space where we slow down and think biblically about the stories, events, and questions shaping the world around us. This isn’t about reacting to headlines with outrage. It’s not about politics. It’s not about fear. It’s about asking deeper questions. How should followers of Jesus think about the world around them? How should we respond to difficult events? And what changes when we keep one eye on eternity? Many of us will have seen the news regarding the horrific attack in Belfast this week. In response, one politician described the attack as “medieval”. Whilst I understand what he meant, I found myself thinking something different. It’s not medieval. It’s evil. Because the word medieval almost makes it sound like this kind of thing belongs to another age. A darker age. A less civilised age. A less educated age. As though violence is a problem humanity has left behind. But the reality is very different. We haven’t left violence behind. We’ve brought it with us. The Bible tells us the first murder happened almost immediately after humanity fell into sin. Cain murdered Abel. Brother killed brother. Not because society was undeveloped. Not because technology was lacking. Not because education had failed. But because sin had entered the human heart. Thousands of years later we still read the same headlines. The methods may change. The technology may change. The world may change. But the human heart remains remarkably similar. And that’s why I think the word evil is important. Because evil reminds us that the problem is not merely social. It’s spiritual. One of the challenges of modern life is that we often assume progress can solve everything. If we become more educated, more connected, more informed, and more advanced, then surely humanity will improve. And yet every week the news reminds us that something deeper is wrong. We have smartphones, artificial intelligence, instant communication, and medical breakthroughs. Yet violence remains. Hatred remains. Racism remains. Abuse remains. War remains. Technology has advanced enormously, but the human heart still needs redemption. Perhaps that is what stories like this expose. Not simply that bad things happen, but that humanity’s deepest problem cannot be solved by human effort alone. What’s also striking is how we experience these events today. Previous generations might have read about a violent incident in a newspaper the next day. Today we often see it immediately. Videos. Images. Commentary. Reactions. All appearing on our phones within minutes. Whilst there can be value in knowing what’s happening around the world, there is also a danger. We become desensitised. What would once have shocked us barely causes a reaction now. We scroll, pause briefly, and move on to the next thing. A violent attack. A celebrity story. A funny video. A sporting result. All appearing in the same feed. Something about that should concern us. Human suffering was never meant to become entertainment. The prophet Ezekiel records God’s promise: “I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” What a beautiful image. A soft heart. A responsive heart. A heart that still grieves when people suffer. A heart that still mourns when violence occurs. A heart that refuses to become indifferent. As Christians, I think we need to guard our hearts carefully. Because it is possible to become so accustomed to evil that we stop being shocked by it. When that happens, something precious is lost. The Bible never treats evil casually. Jesus certainly didn’t. In Matthew 5, Jesus speaks about murder. Once again, He takes us deeper than the act itself. He points us towards the heart. Towards anger. Towards contempt. Towards the attitudes that eventually lead to destructive actions. Jesus understood something that modern society often forgets. The greatest problem facing humanity is not ultimately outside us. It’s inside us. That can be an uncomfortable truth because we prefer to believe evil belongs to other people. The violent people. The dangerous people. The criminals. But Jesus reminds us that every human heart needs transformation. Every human heart needs grace. Every human heart needs redemption. That doesn’t mean all sins are equal. It doesn’t mean anger and murder are identical. They are not. But it does mean that humanity’s deepest issues are spiritual. And that brings us to the hope of the gospel. Because Christianity does not simply diagnose the problem. It offers a solution. The Christian story is not that humanity will eventually fix itself. The Christian story is that Christ came to save a broken world. A world filled with violence. A world filled with hatred. A world filled with grief. A world very much like our own. And that’s why the promise of eternity matters so much. Every violent headline reminds us that this world is not yet what it should be. Every act of violence reminds us why Jesus taught us to pray, “Your Kingdom come.” Every tragedy reminds us why we long for something greater. A world where evil no longer has the final word. A world where death no longer has the final word. A world where fear no longer has the final word. The Bible describes that future beautifully. In Isaiah 65, God says: “See, I will create new heavens and a new earth.” Think about that. Not merely improved circumstances. Not merely better governments. Not merely better technology. A completely renewed creation. Then Revelation gives us one of the most beautiful promises in all of Scripture: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.” No more stabbings. No more violence. No more grieving families. No more evil. Sometimes people ask why Christians talk so much about eternity. This is why. Because the headlines remind us every day that the world is not as it should be. And every headline should deepen our longing for Christ’s return. Not because we are escaping the world, but because we believe God will one day renew it. So how should we respond to stories like this? We should pray for those affected. We should refuse to become desensitised. We should guard our hearts against indifference. We should continue to call evil what it is. And we should remember that evil does not get the final word. One day Christ will return. One day justice will be complete. One day creation will be restored. And one day every trace of evil will be removed forever. Until then, we grieve, we pray, we stay soft-hearted, and we keep one eye on eternity. Amen Scripture References * Genesis 4:1-12 * Ezekiel 36:26 * Matthew 5:21-22 * Matthew 6:10 * Isaiah 65:17 * Revelation 21:4 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

10 de jun de 20269 min

Why Fairness Matters So Much to Us

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