"You Can't Handle the Truth!"

Colonel Jessup:  "You want answers?"

Kaffee:  "I think I'm entitled to them."

Colonel Jessup:  "You want answers?!"

Kaffee:  "I want the truth!"

Colonel Jessup:  "You can't handle the truth!"

(from the film, "A Few Good Men," 1992)

Talk about riveting.  This scene from "A Few Good Men" is one of the most powerful exchanges of dialogue ever filmed.  David meets Goliath.  A young, inexperienced Lieutenant against a seasoned Colonel.  Two compelling characters, both absolutely convinced that they are right, yet having to comply within the courtroom rules -- until now.  The tension and emotion build until it can no longer be contained.  The gloves finally come off.  The anger comes out.  And so does the truth:

"I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know, that Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives! You don't want the truth, because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall. We use words like "honor", "code", "loyalty". We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it! I would rather you just said 'thank you', and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to!"  (Colonel Jessup)

The truth.  In the case of "A Few Good Men," it was the truth about what happens "behind the scenes" in some military settings,  presumably for our good, for our protection.  And, presumably, we're better off not knowing about it.  We have the "luxury" of not knowing.

Contrast this scene with one that occurred over 2,000 years ago, recorded in John's Gospel.  Jesus is explaining to the disciples what is about to take place.  His earthly life is rapidly coming to an end.  He knows the future.  He knows the cross is literally hours away.  He knows what will happen to Him, and he also knows what will happen to His disciples.  He begins to give them a "behind the scenes" look into their future.  But then He stops.  He stops and says this:

"There is so much more I want to tell you, but you can't bear it now." (Jn 16:12)

In other words, "you can't handle the truth."  But Jesus doesn't speak these words in anger, He speaks them with great compassion.  He doesn't want to overwhelm them.  But He does want to prepare them, and encourage them with the promise of the Holy Spirit's coming. 

When I was younger I thought there would be great benefits in knowing the future.  But that was a long time ago.  Now, when I look back on the most painful, most difficult, most crushing and discouraging times in my life, I realize that it would not have been helpful to know they were coming.  Indeed, my heart could not have born the weight of knowing. 


As parents, we don't tell our children everything that we know will happen to them in their young lives.  When they have their first case of "puppy love," we don't tell them that their hearts will likely be broken several times over the years as they move in and out of relationships.  When they experience the first death of someone close to them, a grandparent or other older adult, we don't tell them that they will experience the death and loss of dozens of people close to them throughout their lives -- and that WE will eventually be on that list.  No, we tell them what we know they can bear.  We tell them what we believe they need to know the most.  We tell them that we love them, and that God loves them, and nothing can ever separate them from God's love for them.

In much the same way, I know I can't handle the truth -- at least not the whole truth.  My heart cannot bear it now, not all at once.  I can hear Jesus saying to me, "There is so much more I want to tell you, but you can't bear it now," and I want to hear these as words of comfort and hope.  There IS more to come, because that's how life works.

But as life comes, so does grace.  As life comes, so does the power and presence of Jesus Christ, bearing it with me.  Life is not about dodging bullets, avoiding pain, ignoring suffering.  Life is about living in and through it all, one day at a time, trusting in God's grace for the day -- for the hour -- for the moment.

Great is Thy faithfulness!

Great is Thy faithfulness!

 Morning by morning new mercies I see.

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided.     Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me!

"At least it's not cancer," (the well-meaning misuse of words)

"At least it's not cancer."

Disappointment and discouragement, set-backs and trials, suffering, illness and death.

If you are a human being, you will experience these things -- probably all of these things --  eventually.  Whether you are a follower of Christ or not, they are part of the human experience.

Our family is going through a pretty difficult time right now.  I will save the details, but suffice it to say that this is a particularly challenging chapter in our lives. 

And, we live in a small community.  I grew up in the Chicago area, where I could go to the mall, the grocery store and the hardware store and never run into a single person I knew. But in our small community I can't drive through McDonald's without someone mentioning that they saw me -- and at what time -- and who I was with -- and maybe even what I ordered.

It's just the nature of small towns.  I get it.  And most of the time, I truly appreciate it.  My children have always known that if they got into any trouble, I'd probably find out about it within an hour or less.  But they also know that if they were ever in an emergency, help is available right next door -- or across the street -- or down the block.  Within this small town are people who know them and care about them deeply.  And that is priceless.

However, forget about anonymity.  There is no hiding.  But that means there are also lots of people who care.  And the people who care have a sincere desire to be encouraging and helpful when others are struggling.  Those who love us want to offer something -- usually some words of encouragement -- to let us know they care.

But here's where it gets interesting.  Words.  Put the right ones together and you have a novel, a poem, a song.  Words can be very powerful.  Words can change the course of someone's life.


As important as they are, you'd think we would be required to take multiple classes on how to use them.  Not just classes on how to write sentences and paragraphs and thesis papers.  But classes on how to REALLY use words, and use them WELL.

For instance, what classes teach us what to say to someone who is struggling?  What classes teach us what to say to someone when their son, or daughter, has just died?  Where do we learn what to say to someone who has lost a job, or to someone who is going through a bitter divorce, or to a family that just lost all their possessions in a tornado? 



In the difficult times of life, I have discovered an important truth.  When it comes to words, quality is much more important than quantity.   In fact, sometimes no words are necessary.

It is the MINISTRY OF PRESENCE.  It's not a new concept at all.  As followers of Jesus Christ, it is one of the most powerful ministries we can perform.  It means we show up.  We come alongside our brothers and sisters in Christ and "bear one another's burdens."  It means that THEIR burdens become OUR burdens as well. 

We don't offer words like, "Be positive!" or "At least it's not cancer," or "When God closes a door He opens a window," or "God must have wanted another little girl in heaven," (Lord, forgive us!) -- but instead we offer Jesus.  We simply love by being Christ to others.

Don't get me wrong.  I think words are very important.  And while some of them should NEVER be spoken, there are other words that we need to hear, at the right time.

When Mary's brother, Lazarus, died, the first thing Jesus did when he saw Mary weeping was He wept Himself.   Jesus did not deny the pain.  He did not ignore the sorrow.  He was present to it all.

And then He said, "Lazarus, come out!"

The ministry of presence means that we will BE THERE.  We will experience it with the other person.  We will stand with them, sit with them, walk with them, cry with them, fight with them, work with them -- we will BE WITH THEM.  We will remind them that they are never, ever alone.