One of my favorite nursery stories was The Three Little Pigs. I have read kinder, gentler versions, but the one I recall from childhood begins with a mother pig too poor to take care of all her piglets. She sent the oldest three out to build lives for themselves. As the story goes, the first pig was too impulsive and lazy --the Party Pig --to take the time and effort to build something that would last: he built out of straw. The second was a little less reckless but also unwilling to build with eternity in mind. The third, of course, was the oldest child --He must have been! --he was detail oriented, probably controlling, and a little neurotic: he built out of brick to keep the wolf at bay. To his credit, however, when the abodes of his siblings failed miserably against the gale force winds of the Big Bad Wolf's heave, he took them in and sheltered them against their mutual enemy, despite what might have been a very valuable life (or death) lesson.
For a long time, I saw myself in the third pig. Wise, responsible, dutiful, industrious. (I didn't side with him in his decision to show mercy to his lazy siblings, but all-in-all, I thought he was the better of the three. Not like I was full of myself or anything, in those days.) The other day, I realized I was more like him than I thought, but this time, in a different way. You see, he and his siblings built their homes uniquely because, whether you believe it had anything to do with character or not, they were individuals. Maybe Pig #1 was happy with just enough. I'll build my house of straw --enough to keep me warm and dry without investing too much money or taking time from my relationships. Maybe Pig #2 was simply that middle-of-the-road guy, the guy that buys a reasonably comfortable, reliable car but has no need to spend extra on luxury. And maybe the third pig, the pig like me, was such an over-achiever, was so impersonal with regard to his relationships, was so terrified of danger or threat of danger, he built to ensure nothing would get in or out.
I was a stronghold builder. I built according to the lessons taught me in childhood. What was not my fault --injury sustained --became clearly my fault when I began building monuments to it. Another brick here, another brick there. So high you can't get over it; so low you can't get under it; so wide you can't get around it! The problem with strongholds is they keep everything out --the evil and the love of God, the lie and the Truth. I relied on my own understanding to determine who could and could not gain access to my refuge. I allowed squealing, desperate pigs into my stronghold. The problem was there was nothing desperate in those squeals, only deceit, the deceit of the Adversary. The Big Bad Wolf played cruel tricks on me, and because my strongholds were built well enough to keep out the wisdom and discernment granted by the Holy Spirit, I was ignorant. The walls I built for protection were my greatest undoing.
But as with our fairytale, my story doesn't end there. My story begins and ends with the iron-willed, mountain-moving grace of God. Praise God, for He is merciful! He is my loving Creator and sovereign over all things! He knew the way in. In His kindness and His savage grace, He protected me until such a time, made His way in, brick by brick, moving with expert precision, only as quickly as my condition would allow, and He dismantled those strongholds (He is dismantling still), so that I might bring Him glory, serve Him more effectively, and know the joy of fellowship with others.
I'd like to just leave you with a few verses today. If you are living behind, on top of, or under a stronghold today, I pray God in His grace will escort these truths in as He begins to dismantle anger, jealousy, grief, despair, pride, fear, or any other thing raised against the knowledge of Him, brick by brick.
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