Okay, but how do the fiery become meek? 

Being meek, I’m guessing, is a learned trait.  Moses, later known as the meekest man on earth, once, impulsively, killed an Egyptian he saw bullying a Hebrew.

The murder resulted in decades of “slow time,” hanging out in the wilderness in solitude, until he slowed down enough to notice the bush burning in holy ground. And, at the risk of his life, he learnt to obey, becoming someone to whom God spoke “face to face, as a man speaks to his friend.” (Ex 33:11).

We become meek the same way we develop any of the traits Jesus prizes, like agape love.

Firstly, we ask Jesus to change our hearts and create in us a gentle spirit like his.

And secondly, when he sends us “practice papers,” we try to pass them. People may provoke and annoy us. Will we answer with patience and wisdom and leave the issue in the hands of him who judges justly? Or flare up, answer harshness with harshness, defend ourselves and attack?

Jesus, the Meek, Gentle Man who Changed History

Jesus went to his death with the gentleness and dignity which were foretold of him.

He will not storm or rage,

Nor will his voice be heard in the streets. (Matt.12 19-21)

As a sheep before its shearers is dumb,

So he opened not his mouth. (Isaiah 42:2)

The die was cast against him by the time he faced Annas, Caiaphas and Pilate. He was a man caught in a machine. Had he protested, stormed, raged, cried, cursed, denounced, or created a scene, he would have still died.

But had he not behaved with self-possessed meekness and quiet dignity-(so unusual for a tortured, brutalized man standing trial for his life that Pilate awed, and a little afraid, asked him, “Who are you?  Are you a king?”) the death of this innocent Lamb of God who atoned for the sins of the entire world would not have reverberated down the centuries.

The hardened Roman centurion, observing him die, would not have said, “Truly this man was the son of God,” as we say 20 centuries later, as we watch “The Passion of the Christ,” for instance.

And sometimes the meek die with the most toys too.

Here’s a common one from the Book of Untrue Proverbs: He who dies with the most toys wins.

He who dies with the most holiday homes, swimming pools, tennis courts, fancy cars, private planes, boats, jewellery and companies wins.

But read between the lines of their obituaries, and you’ll often find isolation, joyless self-indulgence, depression, paranoia, bizarre eccentricities, addiction, infidelity, divorce, familial breakdown, and lawsuits.

Conversely, however, the blessing of the Lord brings wealth, and he adds no sorrow to it (Proverbs 10:12). Jesus says that it can be our father’s good pleasure to give us the things the pagans run after—(which may take the form of giving us the good sense and opportunity to enjoy things without owning them) and, besides, the beautiful Kingdom.

* * *

I was mentored by a deep Christian woman, Lolly Dunlap, when I lived in America in my thirties.

Now, I didn’t think I was materialistic then, would have hotly refuted the suggestion, and, in fact, looked down on those whom I judged to be materialistic with a touch of disdain.

But oddly, when I chattered to Roy or close friends, you’d hear me say, “Well, when we make some money we will buy a house on the water; or a vacation home in the mountains or by the sea; a boat, a camper van…”

* * *

Well, Lolly was an absolutely unworldly woman, gentle, generous and trusting. She was constantly giving me gifts, her beloved books, poems she had written, beautifully transcribed, or hand-painted capodimonte porcelain roses!

And, to my amusement, I slowly discovered that this God-immersed unworldly women, married to a church-planter passionate about building Christ’s Kingdom, owned all the things I then planned to buy “when I had money!”

She owned a mountain cabin near Shenandoah National Park with 100 acres around it, from which she could see three states. She had a house on the water in Norfolk. She had a boat. She had a camper van, in which she used to go on long holidays in the lake-filled Voyageurs National Park, Canada.

How did she get all this? Her husband, John Dunlap, was a church planter–one of the post war breed of entrepreneurial, visionary American evangelicals–who founded the famous Tab church in Norfolk (which spawned several daughter churches, including the Williamsburg Community Chapel, which I attended), Triple R Ranch, Norfolk Christian Schools, Norfolk Institute of Learning Disabilities, and a long-running very popular radio programme.

They had three children, and were generous givers who lived simply. However, John Dunlap was an insomniac with a gift—repairing clocks. And so he bought antique broken clocks for a song, repaired them, and then traded them. One weekend, he went to a fair in North Carolina, with an antique clock he’d repaired, and traded up, and traded up, and returned with a used camper van. He similarly traded up from a clock to a boat.

Dunlap inherited $10,000 dollars, and used part of it to buy a cabin and a hundred acres near Shenandoah National Park, as well as Triple R Ranch, a Christian camp that has blessed thousands.

Fear not, little flock, for it is your father’s pleasure to give you the kingdom. So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ ³² For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. ³³ But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well, Matthew 6: 31-33.

And so you can die with the Kingdom of God, its righteousness, its shalom and peace (and if it is your father’s pleasure, with the toys which enhance your joy.)

Why is it so hard to believe that the meek inherit the earth?

Because, in the short run, the pushy, the ruthless, the scheming, the manipulative, the deceitful, and those without conscience do seem to win the prize. They apparently get their own way, get away with it.

And this is where practical faith comes in. Christian faith is not mere assent that Christ Jesus was the Son of God, who came to redeem us. That’s just the starting point. Faith is also believing what he taught: that one can walk in gentleness and integrity, and still be given the things the pagans run after (Mt 6:32-33).

Have you—or your children—ever lost something they wanted while they watched more pushy, aggressive or manipulative people get it? I have. But I have not suffered permanent harm because of these out-manoeuvrings, and neither have my children.

* * *

“Manipulate,” literally means taking things into one’s own hands. And then, all you get is what your hands can grab. “God helps those who help themselves” is not in the Bible, contrary to popular opinion; trusting and relying on God, depending on God, however, is a consistent exhortation.

But, in fact, when tempted to take matters into your own hands, to work harder, network harder, hustle harder, it is good sometimes to just stop, and pray for blessing. To re-align yourself with God.

To remember that, ultimately, wealth, power and success are in the hands of God and he gives them to whom he pleases, (I Chron 29:12).  To remember that the earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.

To remember that all things are God’s, and that it is our Father’s good pleasure to give us the things the pagans run after. When the time is right, and as much as is good for us.

The discipline of trusting God rather than taking matters into our own hands, using the weapons of this world is a hard one to learn.

But worth it! The meek might lose battles, but win the war. Lose in the short run, but in the long run, develop some of the gentleness of Jesus. Become the kind of people whom both God and man want to help.

By being meek, we often set the stage for another power to rescue us. It has been so in my experience.  And we experience some of the mysterious blessings of God. “You shall inherit what others have toiled for.” (Psalm 105:44). “To the one who pleases him, God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and heaping only to give to the one who pleases the Lord.” (Ecc 2:26).

* * *

How can we know that the meek really do inherit the earth? That it is safe to be meek?

We can only know it experimentally and experientially. We just have to try it and see.

And here, I take a deep breath, for meekness does not come easily to me.

But I want to learn of Jesus who was meek and humble of heart. I know his ways are best, and so I am going to set my face to follow him, and so find rest for my soul.

An excerpt from my ebook and paperback, The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth available on kindle and PB on

Amazon UK

Amazon.com

I am so honoured to host Holly Grantham here, whom I first encountered through her gorgeous post, My Broken Hallelujah.

(Photo credit: Mandala by Luis Argerich on Flickr)

So, I have this son who, from the moment he was born, pulled my heart out into the open and now I walk around hoping and praying that the strings that hold it together, now threadbare and fuzzy, don’t come completely unraveled before each day is done. Mothering will do that to your heart, you know—wear it out and in and all around.

We’ve walked a path, he and I … one rife with curves and twists, shadows and light, knowing and unknowing.

And so, it was no small thing, in recent days, to walk with him to the edge of the forest and uncurl our finger locked hands for the first time. I kissed his dewy head, damp with apprehension and fear and excitement, and I hugged his squishy body, the one that always gives into my embrace like lungs do to air, and I said goodbye.

In that moment, I felt the lifeblood flow right out of me, pooling on the ground, while the sun caught its crimson blush and the light danced like a joy dare.

The days that followed would be more than tests of space and time—they would be like a great awakening … an opening to and an awareness of something deep and long and wide.

In his absence, I continued to walk paths, whether out of habit or compulsion or need, I’m not sure. My walking and my pacing and my fretting wore grooves in the casts of sunlight and pulled taught on strings laced with moonlight. My side of the week became this great carving out, wherein my prayers and fears fashioned a mandala, of sorts, and all of my hopes and worries for my son were drawn in the dust of each day.

In this lengthy separation I couldn’t help but marvel at the way life can surprise us so. That, even as we take clay in our hands and warm it with our touch, as we shape and mold it and dream of the shapes it will take and the forms it will embody, there is something else very much at work.

There is not one artist at work when sculpting a life.

As I wholeheartedly pour myself into my child and as much as that informs many of the lines and perimeters of his person, there is also this great expanse of heart space that is being wrought deep within. There are hidden places that have my fingerprints upon them, yes, but they are still being worked and kneaded and forged.

There are other hands at work.

In the days that came between me and my son, those hands were busy.

They arrived the first night in the middle of a thunderstorm. As the sky burst open in a shower of sparks and the clouds answered with booming shouts, words of peace and comfort found their way to my son’s heart. A hundred miles away, I cowered in the shadows, imagining the fear that might be stomping across the tender ground of his heart, all the while, in a canvas tent supported only by poles and wires, my son nestled down in the comfort of his sleeping bag, his arms encircling his beloved stuffed monkey, valiantly riding out the storm.

Those hands would take other forms throughout the whole of that week.

In a test of strength and endurance, my son would swim with new skill and budding power and his sweet reward would be to score higher than even some of the adults.

His legs would lengthen and his middle slim as he walked, mile upon mile, day after day, into lessons and discoveries and friendships.

But, perhaps, the greatest shaping would be revealed on the night I visited him. Apprehension curled around the edges of my resolve as I anticipated our parting at the end of the evening and the drive between hither and yon was riddled with script writing and the practice of separation, once again.

No one was more surprised than me when, upon seeing the more chiseled features of his face and the inches he had grown, my joy leaked liquid down my cheeks. And that boy of mine? His face simply cracked open and love burst through like glory come down.

For in the days that passed between us, those spaces that I had always taken up in his heart? Well, they had found some breathing room. Time and distance had managed to open windows deep within that had too long been fastened. And now there were fresh breezes where once the air had been stuffy and stale. Evidently, there was enough space for more than one Sun to shine in my sweet boy’s heart.

Our parting that night was bridged by tangled arms and warm embraces, soft kisses and whispered blessings. No, I didn’t want to leave him but I released him to the warm summer night and the twinkling of fireflies and to the faith that just as the moon rose and swelled on that eve of the summer solstice, my son was being rocked in the bosom of One bigger and greater than I.

This motherhood journey has a way of expanding heart space in more than just our children. A mother’s heart breaks open when her children are born and then she spends the rest of eternity trying to stay the love hemorrhage that ensues.

This exercise in letting go of my son has revealed much. I can see more clearly now that this raising of children is very much like a dance. There are steps to be taught and rhythms to learn and many times, there are bruised toes to accompany wounded pride. But there is value in the practice and joy in the twirling and there are few places where I have been more open to the choreography of God.

So, my son and I, we will clasp hands and swing arms, always. I can’t imagine a day when such will not be the case. But perhaps it is now time to let someone else take the lead. There is music playing and the floor is wide open. And we can’t help but step into the light and spin.

Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of two boys (soon to be three), snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.

Other places you can find her words are at her blog, A Lifetime of Days, and at SheLoves Magazine, where she is a weekly editor and monthly contributor.

Follow her on Facebook or Twitter.