No, it wasn't too bad. But, then again, I didn't have to stay.
Anibal did. He was there to stay.
Even more striking than his name (pronounced "uh-neeball") was the man himself.
The tattooed anchor on his forearm symbolized his personality-cast iron. His
broad chest stretched his shirt. The slightest movement of his arm bulged his
biceps. His face was as leathery in texture as it was in color. His glare could
blister a foe. His smile was an explosion of white teeth.
But today the glare was gone and the smile was forced. Anibal wasn't on the
street where he was the boss; he was in a all where he was the prisoner.
He'd killed a man-a "neighborhood punk," as Anibal called him, a restless
teenager who sold marijuana to the kids on the street and made a nuisance of
himself with his mouth. One night the drug dealer had used his mouth one time
too many and Anibal had decided to silence it. He'd left the crowded bar where
the two of them had been arguing, gone home, taken a pistol out of a drawer, and
walked back to the bar. Anibal had entered and called the boy's name. The drug
dealer had turned around in time to take a bullet in the heart.
Anibal was guilty. Period. His only hope was that the judge would agree that he
had done society a favor by getting rid of a neighborhood problem. He would be
sentenced within the month.
I came to know Anibal through a Christian friend, Daniel. Anibal had lifted
weights at Daniel's gym. Daniel had given Anibal a Bible and had visited him
several times. This time Daniel took me with him to tell Anibal about Jesus.
Our study centered on the cross. We talked about guilt. We talked about
forgiveness. The eyes of the murderer softened at the thought that the one who
knows him best loves him most. His heart was touched as we discussed heaven, a
hope that no executioner could take from him.
But as we began to discuss conversion, Anibal's face began to harden. The head
that had leaned toward me in interest now straightened in caution. Anibal didn't
like my statement that the first step in coming to God is an admission of guilt.
He was uneasy with words like "I've been wrong" and "forgive me." Saying "I'm
sorry" was out of character for him. He had never backed down before any man,
and he wasn't about to do it now-even if the man were God.
In one final effort to pierce his pride, I asked him, "Don't you want to go to
heaven?"
"Sure," he grunted. "Are you ready?"
Earlier he might have boasted yes, but now he'd heard too many verses from the
Bible. He knew better.
He stared at the concrete floor for a long time, meditating on the question. For
a moment I thought his stony heart was cracking. For a second, it appeared that
burly Anibal would for the first time admit his failures.
But I was wrong. The eyes that lifted to meet mine weren't tear-filled; they
were angry. They weren't the eyes of a repentant prodigal; they were the eyes of
an angry prisoner.
"All right," he shrugged. "I'll become one of your Christians. But don't expect
me to change the way I live." The conditional answer left my mouth bitter. "You
don't draw up the rules," I told him. "It's not a contract that you negotiate
before you sign. It's a gift-an undeserved gift! But to receive it, you have to
admit that you need it."
"OK." He ran his thick fingers through his hair and stood up. "But don't expect
to see me at church on Sundays."
I sighed. How many knocks in the head does a guy need before he'll ask for help?
As I watched Anibal pace back and forth in the tiny cell, I realized that his
true prison was not made of bricks and mortar, but of pride. He was twice
imprisoned. Once because of murder, and once because of stubbornness. Once by
his country, and once by himself.
The prison of pride. For most of us it isn't as blatant as it was with Anibal,
but the characteristics are the same. The upper lip is just as stiff. The chin
ever protrudes upward, and the heart is just as hard.
A prison of pride is filled with self-made men and women determined to pull
themselves up by their own bootstraps even if they land on their rear ends. It
doesn't matter what they did or to whom they did it or where they will end up;
it only matters that "I did it my way." You've seen the prisoners. You've seen
the alcoholic who won't admit his drinking problem. You've seen the woman who
refuses to talk to anyone about her fears. You've seen the businessman who
adamantly rejects help, even when his dreams are falling apart.
Perhaps to see such a prisoner all you have to do is look in the mirror.
"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just . . ."' The biggest word in
Scripture just might be that two-letter one, if. For confessing sins-admitting
failure-is exactly what prisoners of pride refuse to do.
You know the lingo:
"Well, I may not be perfect, but I'm better than Hitler and certainly kinder
than Idi Amin!"
"Me a sinner? Oh, sure, I get rowdy every so often, but I'm a pretty good ol'
boy."
"Listen, I'm just as good as the next guy. I pay my taxes. I coach the Little
League team. I even make donations to Red Cross. Why, God's probably proud to
have somebody like me on his team."
Justification. Rationalization. Comparison. These are the tools of the jailbird.
They sound good. They sound familiar. They even sound American. But in the
kingdom, they sound hollow.
The Applause of Heaven
copyright [Word Publishing, 1996] Max Lucado, p. 45-48.
Used by permission
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