In Brief: Pinocchio

Our literary quest through the homeschool year ended with a massive flourish as we enjoyed Carlo Lorenzini’s (better known as Collodi, his adopted surname which doubles as the name of his hometown) classic Pinocchio. 

From a schooling perspective, our typical approach with any classic is to read the book, view the most popular version on film, and then write a reflection piece detailing the similarities, differences, and our personal preferences. In the case of Pinocchio, my children and I unanimously preferred the Collodi version.

My daughter preferred the suspense of the 1883 classic. My sons preferred the broader variety in the story and the detail with which Collodi brought the puppet and secondary characters to life. Personally, I preferred the depth of Pinocchio’s transformation which was utterly (and regrettably) absent in the mammoth Disney offering.

The Page vs. The Silver Screen

If there are complaints about the original tale of the beloved puppet, typically they revolve around his biting and nasty character, or the lethal peril which he faces after every increasingly disappointing decision. In all honesty, Pinocchio is as much the villain of the novel as any other. But it is the depth of the marionette’s depravity that makes his repentance all the more glorious.

The movie presents Pinocchio as the whimsical boy whose one bad decision leads to a series of unfortunate events. The viewer is led to sympathize with Pinocchio as a victim. His brokenness is shallow. So, then, is his eventual transformation into a real boy. What was the point of it all? I guess when you wish upon a star, your mild misadventure will end in all your dreams coming true?

Collodi’s Pinocchio makes repeated willfully disobedient decisions, each a slap in the face to those who have loved him most. He abuses the sacrificial gifts of his father who fashioned him from a talking piece of wood. He rejects the redemptive efforts of the blue fairy who repeatedly comes to his aid. At every turn, he laments his situation, pleading for help and half-heartedly feigning sadness. He loves complaining and being the recipient of the world’s pity. It’s easy to dislike Gepetto’s puppet.

Even when he turns completely into an ass (the most egregious omission from the movie), he doesn’t break. Even when he is then sold into the big top to perform tricks, he does not repent. Even when he’s lamed after failing at the tricks and sold to a trader who intends to kill him, skin him, and turn him into a drum, he’s not ready to change.

It’s only when that trader throws him into the sea with a millstone around his neck that the Pinocchio of the page changes. Critics of the book complain that Pinocchio so vividly describes the fifty-minute ordeal under the sea where fish consume his donkey flesh, leaving only the wooden skeleton behind. But it is this death that leads to Pinocchio’s true repentance.

Upon being pulled from the sea by the man (who then realized he wasn’t getting his drum!), Pinocchio repents. He changes. He seeks after his father Gepetto who had been swallowed by a great fish while searching for his son. He cares for the ailing blue fairy, sacrificing every earthly penny to restore her to health.

And it is at the end of this journey that Pinocchio becomes a real boy.

Sometimes the best part of good news is first knowing the bad news. Where Disney, sadly, offers cheap grace and a couple of catchy songs, Collodi walked his main character through the valley of the shadow of death. My children and I both appreciated the depth of Collodi’s story, which only left us wanting more of the film.

The Takeaway

More than a morality tale, Pinocchio tells the story of a living creature who was little more than dust, who was crafted into the image of his maker, destroyed his own conscience (yes, Collodi’s Pinocchio kills the cricket at the first suggestion that his actions were foolish), swallowed the most dastardly lies, and discarded the most valuable treasures, believing that his way would be more fruitful.

The real Pinocchio shows the consequence of foolishness as the main character chases fleeting pleasures and transforms fully into a donkey, just as it was promised he would.

The real Pinocchio shows that a cheap turn will not suffice. Talk is cheap if the heart remains darkened. Only the death of wicked selfishness can lead to the kind of change that would satisfy his heart’s greatest desire.

Pinocchio then shows the power of a transformed life as it radiates with true love, self-sacrifice, generosity, and joy.

Personally, I believe my children preferred Collodi’s story because it echoes the greatest story. Likewise, I think many dislike the original because it provides an all-too-familiar look into the depths of our own souls and makes clear that the road to true transformation comes through death to self.

The cost of becoming what we were created to be is quite severe. More than we would or could pay on our own. Am I allowed to say that Collodi’s Pinocchio made me praise my Savior?



Achan, Identity, and Repentance

(adapted from a recent sermon on Joshua 7)

So the guy takes a few thousand dollars in silver and gold… and a coat… he pleads guilty… and they give him the death sentence, ALONG with his family, a bunch of innocent animals, AND everything he owns. They essentially erase him.

I’ve come across different responses to a story like this:

1. Folks who think God unreasonable – and his followers a bunch of loose screws.

2. Folks who distance themselves entirely from God in the Old Testament. They say things like “MY God wouldn’t,” or “only the fundamentalists believe this stuff really happened. It’s probably an allegory. Let’s move forward a few hundred pages.”

3. Folks who celebrate the judgment of God falling upon others. They say things like “he had it coming. An example had to be made.”

I try – and it’s tough sometimes – to fit into a fourth category… folks who are heartbroken to see judgment carried out, not because we think God unjust, but because a fellow image bearer is taken – but who also trust that God has revealed himself to be good, a goodness that finds its ultimate expression in the gift of life won by Jesus Christ. The expression of the gospel reminds me that there has to be more to the story.

But how does a story like this INCREASE my affection for God through the good news of Jesus?

This story revolves around the treatment of these devoted things. What on earth are devoted things? In this story, they are things devoted to God, some for kingdom use, some for destruction. The common thread is that they are things devoted, irrevocably, irreversibly, in order that God’s will would be accomplished. If that meant rendering something to God for his service, so be it. And in this chapter, if that meant rendering something to God for removal so that his will is not impeded, so be it.

Jericho was devoted to the LORD. That meant everything that could be employed for carrying out his will was preserved and delivered to the treasury. Everything that was a stumbling block was removed, blotted out. God’s people here were instruments of his will in time and space.

Is that easy to swallow? Not necessarily. But if God revealed himself to be good? Better.

Why was Achan’s sin a big deal?

By taking and hiding silver and gold, Achan wasn’t stealing from the Canaanites. He was stealing from God. As the Creator, God ultimately owns everything. And in this case, he had reclaimed the silver and gold for his purposes.

God rolled away the reproach of Egypt when he called Joshua to circumcise the Israelites in Joshua 5. Rolling away the reproach is God’s way of saying he was renewing their lives and their identities, marking them for himself. They had once been identified with Egypt, with death, but God made them new. This applies to us when we receive new life and a new identity in Christ.

By taking the devoted things, Achan was identifying with things rather than with God. God rolled away the reproach of Egypt, Achan rolled on the reproach of Canaan. He shifted his trust and his identity away from God and placed it firmly in the things of this world. His sin had far reaching consequences. He brought reproach upon himself, upon his family who became guilty alongside, upon his nation, whom God held responsible until they purged the evil from their midst.

Achan poised himself as an enemy of God. Sadly, this is a familiar place for mankind.

According to Romans, we are all suppressors of the truth, bearing the wrath of God because we’ve exchanged the truth for a lie, worshiping created things rather than the Creator of all things. The earned and deserved sentence for sin is death.

Could it be that we are bothered by God’s judgment of Achan’s idolatry, his covetousness, his theft, his deception, because we, too, are guilty of the same sin? Sure, I never stole a pretty Babylonian coat, but sin is a matter of the heart. And if we are guilty of the same sin before the same holy God, would it not mean that we have earned the same fate?

Here’s another question. What happens when you find out you’re under the wrath of God?

I’m reminded of a hymn by Isaac Watts, a reflection on Romans 7:


Lord, how secure my conscience was, and felt no inward dread.
I was alive without the law, and thought my sins were dead.

My hopes of heaven were firm and bright, but then your standard came
With a convincing power and light, to show how vile I am.

My guilt appeared so small before, till terribly I saw
how perfect, holy, just, and pure was your eternal law

Then felt my soul the heavy load; my sins revived again;
I had provoked a dreadful God, all my hopes were slain.

My God, I cry with every breath for some kind power to save,
to break the yoke of sin and death, and thus redeem the slave.


The essence of the song is that we’re upbeat about our personal goodness, until we’re shown exactly how sinful we are. And it’s in those moments of clarity that we are most broken, most terrified of the holiness of God. And unless he gives us a reason to hope, some kind power to save, some redemption for our slavery to sin, we are lost.

Joshua calls out to the people, “There are devoted things in your midst, O Israel. You cannot stand before your enemies until you take away the devoted things from among you. In the morning therefore you shall be brought near… and he who is taken with the devoted things shall be burned with fire, he and all that he has, because he has transgressed the covenant of the LORD, and because he has done an outrageous thing in Israel.”

Achan knew. He knew he was sunk.

The knowledge that sin is sin is meant to awaken a struggle within us. Revelation of our sin reveals death. Consequence. Awareness of sin should show us the helplessness of our cause apart from God so that we cry out in desperation like the apostle Paul, “Wretched man that I am! Who will save me from this body of death!?!”

That, apparently, didn’t happen for Achan. The whole next morning ordeal wouldn’t have been necessary had he been moved to confession & repentance for his sin. Had he cried out to God for mercy.

Surely he was grieved over what was coming. But it wasn’t the godly grief of 2Corinthians 7 – the kind of grief that moves us to repent. He didn’t repent. He hid.

He decided to take his chances.

Achan didn’t see God as merciful. He couldn’t have. When you see God as a God of mercy, which he is, you plead for mercy – you don’t turn away. Though you know the penalty, you still plead because there is no other hope.

You don’t hide from the light when you know there is safety in the light. You only hide from the light when you’re afraid.

In the morning he waited. He watched. He sat back while the lots were cast… slow… agonizing… sealing his fate, round by round. He waited. And when it was clear that God had drawn his sin to light, had brought him to judgment; then he admitted his guilt. He confessed.

It was a polished confession. Neat. Eloquent. He used all those churchy words. Truly I have sinned. Coveted. But it was heartless. No repentance, just words. True confession comes from a humble heart. True confession is born of godly grief over having sinned against the Creator. True confession brings us in line with God’s truth, crying for the treasure of God’s grace.

Achan didn’t treasure the LORD. Achan was buried with his treasure. This has to be true because God has promised mercy to the humble and contrite heart.

You can wait like Achan.

You can provide a smooth answer like Achan.

But if your heart is not repentant when you face your sinfulness, then your answer isn’t worth the breath you’ve spent to deliver it.

One day you will face the risen Lord Jesus. One day your knee will bow. Your tongue will confess Jesus Christ is Lord. No one has ever entered the presence of the glory of God without confessing this to be true. The Scriptures testify. It WILL happen. But if the final judgment is the FIRST time you are brought low before him, the Word says it will be too late. Every man has been given this one life, and with it this one chance to repent. We are appointed to die once, and then to face judgment.

But the good news of the gospel is that mercy has been given! The blood of Jesus has been shed. The perfect Son of God came to earth as a man in order to live a perfect life. A perfect life in preparation to be the perfect sacrifice, so that his shed blood would pay the penalty for the sin of any who would turn to him in humble submission, in repentance and faith.

The good news of the gospel is that the penalty of death was transferred to God’s only Son so that everyone who calls upon his name would receive life. Mercy. Grace. Love.

We are called to repent and believe.

This story of Achan increases our affection for God by showing us our sin, by leading us to the foot of the cross of Jesus Christ and the fountain of life which flows. As we are brought low, he is lifted high as the only avenue of grace. The LORD turned from his anger when sin was removed from the people.

History here teaches us, not to execute the sinner, but to see that sin itself was given a death sentence in the ministry of the Lord – and so the call in the life of the Christian is to put to death the remaining sin, assuming a posture of repentance, receiving the gift of forgiveness in Christ alone.

Achan was called to grab hold of the promise of redemption given when sin entered the garden. We are called to grab hold of the promise of redemption fulfilled at Calvary.

Unholy tears

As I prepared to teach at last night’s monthly family ministry event, I came to realize that I was teaching a follow up to my message at Cru last week. (see Guard your hungers below). Here are a few thoughts from the lesson.

Jacob purchased Esau’s birthright for a bowl of stew (Genesis 25). Chew on that for a minute. Esau was so driven by earthly hunger that he forsook all the privileges of being the firstborn. He saw no value in future blessing or family inheritance. I often wonder if Esau grew up with Rebekah telling him that the promise of God belonged to Jacob. I often wonder if he knew of the Lord’s words. Regardless, he was shortsighted in seeking first to satisfy his belly, his birthright all but an afterthought. I made stew last night to help with the lesson. It was OK (I was told it needed salt…) but I wouldn’t say it was worth a family inheritance or a father’s blessing. I would have to think very, very little of my birthright to trade for a bowl of that stuff… even if it had enough salt.

Hebrews 12:16-17 sheds a bit more light on the story and the character of Esau. “[see to it that no one isunholy like Esau, who sold his birthright for a single meal. For you know that aferward, when he desired to inherit the blessing, he was rejected, for he found no chance to repent, though he sought it with tears.” I was captivated by Esau’s unholy tears. Esau sold his birthright in Genesis 25. Jacob (with a keen assist from Rebekah) stole Esau’s blessing in Genesis 27. Upon realizing that his future was indeed taken from under his feet, Esau wept. But Hebrews reminds us that his tears were not godly tears. They were not tears of repentance. There was no turning, no change of heart in these tears. 

This leads me to think that even as Esau wept before his father, it was his belly that was most upset. Esau did not have God’s glory in mind. He was not interested in humbling himself in such a way as to seek after his Creator. Instead, he was upset that his material future was destroyed. No inheritance. No blessing. Even without an inheritance, a blessing might still bring future prosperity  But to lose both is madness! He was set to live as a servant to his younger, scheming brother. And so he wept.

Absent from Esau’s character was a hunger and a thirst for the righteousness of God. Absent from Esau’s future, then, was a satisfaction that only God can provide. He lacked a humble and repentant heart. He was not on his knees crying, ‘ God be merciful to me, a sinner…’ And so the Scriptures remember Esau as an unholy man.

And so the question remains – for what do you hunger and thirst? Is there a longing in your soul to be right before your God? Is your craving for rightness such that you are humbly ready to accept a righteousness that is not your own, a righteousness bestowed only by grace through faith? Does the thought of a future apart from God bring tears because of the absence of material prosperity? Or would your tears be of humble devastation at the thought of being removed from the presence of God? Jesus, the righteous One, the Incarnate Son, is the only satisfaction for your weary soul.