The Worms Within

"Now Herod was angry with the people of Tyre and Sidon, and they came to him with one accord, and having persuaded Blastus, the king's chamberlain, they asked for peace, because their country depended on the king's country for food. On an appointed day Herod put on his royal robes, took his seat upon the throne, and delivered an oration to them. And the people were shouting, "The voice of a god, and not of a man!" Immediately an angel of the Lord struck him down, because he did not give God the glory, and he was eaten by worms and breathed his last. But the word of God increased and multiplied."
Acts 12:20–24

Luke sets two images side by side at the close of Acts 12: a king eaten by worms, and a church that kept feeding on the word of God until it increased and multiplied. One man was consumed while God's people were nourished.

The Jewish historian Josephus tells us Herod's robe was woven with silver, so that when the morning sun struck it, it blazed. The crowd saw the shine and called him a god, Herod said nothing, and that silence cost him his life.

Made to Shine

You were made to shine.

Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you. — Isaiah 60:1

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. — Matthew 5:16

Darkness cannot light up the dark. We shine so that people sitting in darkness can see the light and find their way out.

The answer to pride, then, is never false modesty. I grew up in a culture shaped by honour and shame, and I have spent years training leaders in Africa whose cultures are much the same. Everyone says, "Oh, it's not me," while secretly longing for the praise. That kind of modesty is pride wearing a disguise, and it is one of the first things I work to uproot when I train leaders.

Herod's sin was keeping the glory that belonged to God. His robe could shine all it liked; the glory was never his to keep. We are called to reflect God's glory back to Him, neither deflecting it in false modesty nor absorbing it for ourselves.

Applause or Assignment

The first mentor I ever had took my wife and me out for pancakes. He spent the first half of breakfast praising her wisdom, her gentleness, and her faith while I finished my pancakes quickly, ready for my turn. He was pastor of the largest Korean-American church in the country at the time, and I was a seminary student glistening with ambition. He asked me, "Steve, do you know why Satan fell?" Of course I knew: he wanted the glory that belonged to God. "That's right," my mentor said. "And that same spirit is in you."

I thanked him for the feedback, then went home and cried and yelled and told my wife I was never speaking to that man again. When I finally prayed, the Lord put His arm around me and said, "Steve, it doesn't matter how he said it. Search your heart. Is it true? Does your need for adulation outweigh your desire to obey Me?" It was true, and I repented.

The next day my mentor showed up at my door. He sat beside me without a word while I wept, then put his hand on my knee like a father and said, "Jesus loves you. You have a future. Let me help." He asked whether I wanted a dull knife or a sharp one. A dull knife would take a long time to cut the pride out; a sharp knife would be quick, but it would hurt. I chose the sharp knife.

So he put me on flags. For three years, while my parents sat at the back of our conferences paying for my seminary education, I waved flags. He had me steam-clean the church carpets too, and when I asked why we didn't hire someone, he said, "I want you to do something in the hiddenness, where nobody notices you, and I want you to do it for the love of the Lord." Revival had broken out, and people were spending hours on that carpet with Jesus, so I cleaned it with all my heart. That too is the work of the Kingdom.

That training was tested years later in Kampala. Our network in Kenya gathered more than a thousand pastors, and I expected similar crowds in Uganda. Five pastors came, and my heart sank as I pictured my friends preaching to multitudes in Nairobi and Mombasa. Then the Lord reminded me of a promise I had made at seventeen: even if there was only one person in Africa, I would go. So I preached my heart out to those five for two days, and they went home blessed. The next conference had 250, and then came the reporters and national television.

The city leaders came to me and said they believed I was the next Reinhard Bonnke. They wanted to fill a stadium with tens of thousands of people for me to preach to, and my flesh shouted yes. This was what I had worked for all my life. The Lord said, "That is not your assignment. I called you here to develop leaders, to mentor them, and to be in relationship with them." So I told them I did not want a stadium; I just wanted to have dinner with them and get to know them. They said they had never met a foreign minister who turned down a crusade. The flags and the carpets had done their work.

Pride asks, "Where is my applause?" and grows bitter when none comes. Humility asks, "What is my assignment?" and the answer is the same whether the room holds a thousand people, five, or one.

The Pleasing Spirit

Herod's decay had begun long before the angel struck. Earlier in the chapter, Luke shows us where it started:

When he saw that it pleased the Jews, he proceeded to arrest Peter also. — Acts 12:3

Herod governed by the crowd, doing whatever pleased the people. When your worth rests on approval, applause stops being pleasant and becomes your oxygen. You keep checking whether people liked what you said and wondering why they laughed at a line that wasn't meant to be funny. Preachers know this as the Monday blues. For years I replayed every Sunday sermon for days, and my wife would watch me wincing in the car and ask what was wrong with me. These days it takes about ten minutes. I am still human. And almost every time, someone tells me that a line I barely meant changed their life, because God uses what He wants.

The pleasing spirit shows itself in quiet ways. We soften the truth because we are afraid of losing people. Someone's criticism keeps us up at night while the thing God told us to do goes undone, when our disobedience should trouble us far more than anyone's opinion. Slowly, "Will they like this?" replaces "Will this dishonour God?" If I need people's approval in order to obey God, then people have become my lord. Our lives have to be lived for the applause of One Person, our Lord Jesus Christ.

The Seduction of Power

I teach leadership at a university, and one lesson repeats itself through history: power corrupts. It is possible to hold great power without being corrupted, but only with great humility, which is why Scripture says that Moses, who led a nation out of Egypt, was "very meek, more than all people who were on the face of the earth" (Numbers 12:3).

Herod Agrippa got his kingdom through who he knew. Raised in Rome among the imperial family, he befriended Caligula, who gave him territory when he became emperor in AD 37. When Caligula was assassinated in AD 41, Herod backed Claudius, who rewarded him with Judea and Samaria. He had the right pedigree, the right friends, and the right timing.

Luke tells us Herod arrested Peter "during the days of Unleavened Bread" (Acts 12:3). That feast remembers the night God brought Israel out of Egypt, the greatest empire of its day, with nothing but His own mighty hand, and the bread had no time to rise because they left in haste. By placing Herod's arrogance in that season, Luke casts him as the new Pharaoh, and Pharaohs fall.

Luke uses the same Greek word, patassō, twice in this chapter. The angel struck Peter on the side and woke him to freedom (Acts 12:7), and the angel struck Herod, who never rose again (Acts 12:23). The same hand of God that brings breakthrough to the humble brings down the proud.

The haughty looks of man shall be brought low, and the lofty pride of men shall be humbled, and the LORD alone will be exalted in that day. — Isaiah 2:11

He has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate. — Luke 1:52

You may be thinking that you are no king. Power, though, is measured by the posture of your heart rather than the size of your platform, and you can play Herod in your own living room, believing you are in control of your own life. That is why God allows things we cannot control. Anxiety often reveals that we believed we were in charge and now we are not, and that moment is grace, an invitation to bow again to the One who holds all authority.

The Sin of Silence

Herod never said, "I am a god." The crowd said it, and he let it stand. Josephus notes that he neither rebuked the people nor rejected their flattery, and his silence was his sin.

When someone honours you, receive it and turn it upward: "Thank you. Glory to God. I don't fully understand how He used me, but I'm grateful He did." You don't need a crowd calling you divine to fall into Herod's silence. Every time we enjoy God's blessings and say nothing, we keep a little glory for ourselves, when every good and perfect gift comes from above (James 1:17).

Think about what the Trinity is doing right now. The Father delights in the Son, crucified, risen, and worshipped by angels. The Son points to the Spirit He sent. The Spirit points back to the Father, who orchestrated it all. Each one glorifies the other, and no one keeps the glory for Himself. Jesus invites us into that circle:

The glory that you have given me I have given to them, that they may be one even as we are one. — John 17:22

The Church's part in that circle is to say, "We are weak and frail, and yet look at what God is doing through us." Theologians call this participation in the divine life theosis. I think of it as joining the love the Father, Son, and Spirit have shared forever.

When the Father looks at you, He sees you through His Son. In Eden, God covered Adam and Eve with garments of skins; today we are covered by the blood of Jesus. So stop standing before Him trying to prove you are worthy. Come through the blood, and you will be overwhelmed by His love. We become pure by knowing whose we are, and once you know that, why would you trade it for anything?

A Face, Not a Robe

Worms do not appear the moment you get sick; they are already inside. When we keep God's glory for ourselves and live in independence from Him, we begin to decay from the inside out. Moses shone another way:

When Moses came down from Mount Sinai, with the two tablets of the testimony in his hand as he came down from the mountain, Moses did not know that the skin of his face shone because he had been talking with God. — Exodus 34:29

Moses shone because of whom he saw, and Herod shone because of what he wore. We still try to catch the sunlight with robes of identity: lawyer, doctor, professor, pastor. Recently a seminary dean asked for my CV. I updated it for the first time in seven years and found myself admiring all three pages before I caught myself polishing my robe. We all still have it. So humble yourself on purpose. When you feel the worms stirring, go on a detox. Step away from social media, or do something beneath you, deliberately.

At our worship retreat I volunteered to cook so my son could lead. I suggested spaghetti, and my wife's eyes told me that would show no love; thirty-two years of marriage teaches you to read those eyes. So it was roast chicken, vegetables, and far too much rice, with four frying pans going at once and flies everywhere. I spent three hours in the kitchen, and most people just ate and said, "Thanks, Steve." My flesh rose up: I'm an international speaker, an author, a professor, a lead pastor! That is exactly the voice that has to die, and you kill it the way you swat a fly, by doing the opposite. That night, sore from head to toe, I thanked God for the chance to be small again.

Worship itself is an act of humility. When you lift your hands and sing freely without caring who is watching, you are putting pride to death and letting Jesus shine through you.

Prayer

Lord, You alone are worthy of glory. Search my heart as You searched David's, and show me where applause has become my oxygen. Forgive me for the times I let praise rest on me and stayed silent. Teach me to ask, "What is my assignment?" instead of "Where is my applause?" Thank You for every gift, every ability, every friend, and every open door. They all came from You. Let me shine, Lord, as I behold Your face. In Jesus' name, amen.

For Reflection

1. Where in your life does approval feel like oxygen? What happens inside you when the applause stops?

2. Which of the signs of the pleasing spirit do you recognize in yourself right now?

3. What "robe" of identity, title, or achievement are you most tempted to wear for others to notice?

4. When was the last time you received honour and let it rest on you instead of turning it toward God?

5. What is one hidden, humbling act of service you can do this week that no one will see?

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