Genesis 16
1 Now Sarai, Abram's wife, bore him no children. She had an Egyptian slave-girl whose name was Hagar, 2 and Sarai said to Abram, "You see that the Lord has prevented me from bearing children; go in to my slave-girl; it may be that I shall obtain children by her." And Abram listened to the voice of Sarai. 3 So, after Abram had lived ten years in the land of Canaan, Sarai, Abram's wife, took Hagar the Egyptian, her slave-girl, and gave her to her husband Abram as a wife. 4 He went in to Hagar, and she conceived; and when she saw that she had conceived, she looked with contempt on her mistress. 5 Then Sarai said to Abram, "May the wrong done to me be on you! I gave my slave-girl to your embrace, and when she saw that she had conceived, she looked on me with contempt. May the Lord judge between you and me!" 6 But Abram said to Sarai, "Your slave-girl is in your power; do to her as you please." Then Sarai dealt harshly with her, and she ran away from her. 7 The angel of the Lord found her by a spring of water in the wilderness, the spring on the way to Shur. 8 And he said, "Hagar, slave-girl of Sarai, where have you come from and where are you going?" She said, "I am running away from my mistress Sarai." 9 The angel of the Lord said to her, "Return to your mistress, and submit to her." 10 The angel of the Lord also said to her, "I will so greatly multiply your offspring that they cannot be counted for multitude." 11 And the angel of the Lord said to her, "Now you have conceived and shall bear a son; you shall call him Ishmael, for the Lord has given heed to your affliction. 12 He shall be a wild ass of a man, with his hand against everyone, and everyone's hand against him; and he shall live at odds with all his kin." 13 So she named the Lord who spoke to her, "You are El-roi"; for she said, "Have I really seen God and remained alive after seeing him?" 14 Therefore the well was called Beer-lahai-roi; it lies between Kadesh and Bered. 15 Hagar bore Abram a son; and Abram named his son, whom Hagar bore, Ishmael. 16 Abram was eighty-six years old when Hagar bore him Ishmael.
Samuel I. Newhouse IV is worth a lot. His friend Jamie Johnson (himself worth a lot) decided back in 2003 to make a movie about a group of young people born into some of the richest families in the United States and Europe. The title of his little documentary (appropriately enough) is Born Rich. In his movie, Johnson (heir to the Johnson & Johnson Company’s fortune) interviews S.I. Newhouse IV while he is attending Harverford College in Pennsylvania. Johnson asks Newhouse how much he’s worth—apparently a taboo question among the super-rich—and the twenty-one year old Newhouse eagerly responds, “Twenty billion would be a low estimate.” In case you didn’t hear me well, that’s twenty BILLION (with a “b”), and even that’s a LOW estimate!
Of course, folks like you and me probably can’t even imagine what twenty billion dollars looks like. Well, neither can Willie and Sarah Goodell . Willie and Sarah were married with three children (all from different fathers) and living in the second floor of Sarah’s grandmother’s dilapidated house in Claremont, Massachusetts. Sarah was unable to work, claiming that certain psychological conditions resulting from diverse childhood traumas had left her incapable, but Willie, on the other hand, had a roofing job—a two and a half hour drive away. In a good year, Willie would earn around $30,000, but it would all be squandered between paying for gas, cigarettes, and other habitual necessities, so they would have to scratch around trying to make ends meet (hence their living arrangements). If you were to ask them what they were worth, Sarah and Willie would look around at the peeling linoleum, warped boards and busted windows and likely tell you they weren’t worth much, if they were worth anything at all.
And perhaps they’re right. After all, we tend to measure worth with commas, decimals, and dollar signs. We tend to measure worth with the same gauge as people like S.I. Newhouse, Jaime Johnson, and companies like Goldman Sachs. One would think we have come a long way since those ancient, barbaric days when men and women would kill one another over a sliver of silver, a nugget of gold, or a barrel of oil. One would think that today, in our civilization, an individual’s worth would be found in their contribution to society or the strength of their character, not the weight of their purse or depth of their stock portfolio, but sadly we are not so far removed from our ancient ancestors who sought to put a price on everything from the field to the foreigner. Even as a people of faith, we are not so far removed from that earliest patriarch Abraham and his views of worth.
To read the story of Abraham through the lens of the New Testament is to see a man of righteousness proved by faith, a man who unflinchingly responds to the voice of God whether it calls him to go to a strange land or sacrifice his only son, a man whose worth is found in his active response to an unseen God. Yes, to see Abraham through the Apostle Paul’s eyes is to see a great hero of faith adorned with a halo of holiness. But to reflect on the man Abraham (or as he is named in our text this morning, Abram) in the earliest accounts of the Old Testament is to witness a man who is bent on self-preservation, all for the sake of a divine promise. Not once, but twice (in Genesis 12 and 20) Abram puts on like some ancient sex trafficker, pawning his wife Sarai off to kings in exchange for his own life and riches. It seems for Abram that his worth was above the worth of others, including his wife and a certain slave girl he had been given in that Egyptian exchange in chapter 12, a girl named Hagar. It is her story that interests me this Mothers’ Day.
From the moment she was born, Hagar’s worth was set; she was a slave-girl, under the service of the Pharaoh. Her worth was bound up in her service and the price with which she could be bought, sold, or traded. A day came when her name was called, and she was given to Abram as a part of the loot Pharaoh showered him with as he left Egypt. She now had a new owner Sarai, and Sarai, an older woman desperate for a child, had a plan for Hagar.
The text says in verse 2 that Sarai “said to Abram, ‘You see that the Lord has prevented me from bearing children; go in to my slave-girl; it may be that I shall obtain children by her.’" Sarai had found a new sort of worth in Hagar—she would be the vessel through which God would give Abram his long-promised son. And Sarai’s plan went off like clockwork, likely to the pleasure of Abram and the horror of Hagar, but not everything played out they way she had wanted it to, because now, for the first time in her life, Hagar was worth more than just her price as a slave—she was carrying a child. She was an expectant mother, and she didn’t mind letting Sarai know it! Perhaps she walked around rubbing her ever-growing belly, groaned loudly as her feet and back began to ache from the added weight of a growing child. She taunted Sarai with the obvious reality of her youth and fertility. Sarai didn’t like what she saw; her plan had worked, but she wasn’t ready for its reality—Hagar, the slave-girl, now seemed to be worth more than Sarai, the wife of the promised one of God.
What happens next really puts Hagar back in her place! Sarai goes to Abram and complains in verse 5: “May the wrong done to me be on you! I gave my slave-girl to your embrace, and when she saw that she had conceived, she looked on me with contempt. May the Lord judge between you and me!" Of course, Abram, as most husbands tend to do when confronted by a problem from their wives, tries to ignore the problem and puts the responsibility back on Sarai in verse six: “Your slave-girl is in your power; do to her as you please." “She’s your property; you handle it” he says to Sarai, and she does handle it indeed!
Sarai begins to treat Hagar, the flaunting expectant mother, harshly, and Hagar, perhaps in a hormone-induced reaction, flees into the wilderness. Here is where I am most struck by this story. Hagar, the woman supposedly carrying Abram’s son and therefore the fulfillment of God’s promise (at least according to Sarai’s plan) runs into the wilderness…AND NO ONE COMES AFTER HER! Despite the child she carries, despite what she may have thought she was worth, no one comes to bring her back; no one comes to protect her. Is there any clearer declaration of one’s worthlessness in the eyes of another than a complete and total indifference to his or her welfare? Is there a clearer pronunciation of one’s insignificance than when no one else seems to care at all?
How many times have you felt like no one cares? When those impossibly difficult times in your life have come around and all you can do is run but no one comes along to care, no one comes along to call you back, to bring you home, to (at the very least) hold your hand and walk beside you through the wilderness of depression and impossibility, do you get the feeling that you’re worthless? No matter how much you give, how much you try, how much you think you are worth, do you ever feel like no one cares whether you live or die?
Perhaps that’s how the angel of the Lord found Hagar by the well at Shur. She was on her way back to Egypt, back to a place where they at least thought she had some worth, even if it was as a slave. There she was, all but without hope. We don’t know how long she had been running or how far. We just know that when the messenger of Lord found her in verse 8 he said to her "Hagar, slave-girl of Sarai, where have you come from and where are you going?"
It’s the simplest of questions, “Where have you been and where are you going?” At times it can be the easiest question to answer, “I came from the store and now I’m going home.” At other times it can be the most perplexing of philosophical inquiries where the only answer seems to be “I don’t know.” For Hagar, it must have seemed like an inappropriate question. After all, this messenger of the Lord knew that she was a “slave-girl of Sarai.” Surely it knew where she was coming from at least. Regardless of this angelic being’s lack of precognition, Hagar says in verse 8, "I am running away from my mistress Sarai." This is a messenger from God, so surely if Hagar pleads her case regarding a situation in which she has been used and mistreated, God will deliver her from her difficulties, place her in a position where her worth will be appreciated…But that isn’t what happened at all! The angel commands her in verse 9 “Return to your mistress, and submit to her.” WHAT?! That’s the word from the God of liberation? That’s the command from the God who would deliver Israel from the bondage of Egypt? “Return…and submit”?!
Sometimes it seems like we are running away from our problems, away from our difficulties, hoping that when we reach the end of our rope, God will reach his divine hand down and deliver us. Sometimes we just want to hear a voice from the darkness call out to us and tell us that we are worth everything we claim to be. But sometimes, when we want God to deliver us, to carry us over from hardship to happiness, He tells us to go back. He shows us that there is something more we have yet to do, something more that will shape us through the trials of difficulty, something that will prove our worth not to the rest of the world but to ourselves.
Hagar, perhaps reluctantly, obeys the words of the angel, and after an exchange involving the naming of springs and offspring, she returns to Abram and Sarai. The Bible doesn’t say how she was welcomed back (not well if I had to guess). It simply tells us in verses 15 and 16, “Hagar bore Abram a son; and Abram named his son, whom Hagar bore, Ishmael. Abram was eighty-six years old when Hagar bore him Ishmael.” (Notice how the author goes out of the way to mention Hagar as the boy’s mother). Surely it wasn’t easy for Hagar as a mother, having her only son taken away from her, given into the arms of a woman who didn’t care whether she lived or died. It couldn’t have been easy to be reminded day after day that her worth was found only in her ability to produce children for a couple who didn’t care if she lived or died.
And it’s not easy. It’s not easy to wake up each morning already feeling defeated and deflated, knowing that you’ll be facing a world that doesn’t care whether you live or die. It isn’t easy to get moving when you feel worthless, and the people around you are all building their worth in this world with the advantages they’ve been given while you struggle to just survive. It isn’t easy when you think no one else cares, no one else can relate, when you think there isn’t anyone out there to come running after you in the wilderness after you’ve tried running away from it all. It’s never easy when you think you’re worthless.
But just when you think you’ve sunk to the bottom, just when you think the wilderness has won and no one finds you worthy enough to care, just when you think you aren’t worth anything, the God who made the heavens and spins the Earth on its axis has intervened in history for you; the God who numbers the hairs of your head finds you at the place where your hope runs out and says “My child, get up!”(Luke 8:54). That’s when you find that worth isn’t measured with commas, decimals, and dollar signs. That’s when you find that your worth isn’t measured by the standards of anyone in this world. That’s when you find that worth is measured by the depth of God’s love—and God’s love is unfathomable!
What are you worth? Where do you look for your worth today? Are you running into the wilderness, away from a world that doesn’t seem to care? The voice of the Lord asks you this morning “Where are you coming from, and where are you going?” Are you heading towards the cross and the salvation offered by God? Are you seeking your worth in a life of faith, founded in the gospel of Jesus the Christ? Or are you still trying to find your worth in a world that couldn’t care less? I ask you today, where are you coming from, and where are you going?
Let us pray…
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Greatest Way
Mark 9:33-37
33 Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, "What were you arguing about on the way?" 34 But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. 35 He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, "Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all." 36 Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, 37 "Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me."
If only they knew then what we know now. I mean, if those disciples following Jesus on the way to Capernaum only knew then what you and I know now, maybe they wouldn’t have been so preoccupied with an argument among themselves, an argument about who is the greatest. After all, you and I know who’s the greatest: he told us so himself in the countless television interviews, the newspaper and magazine articles; he told us he was not only the greatest, but “the greatest of all times!” Cassius Clay, Muhammad Ali, he told us time after time that he was the prettiest, the fastest, that he could “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” and yes, that he was the greatest. So, if only the disciples had had the foresight to know that some two thousand years later “the greatest” would clearly be an African American boxer, then maybe they wouldn’t have had such an argument, or maybe they’d find something else to argue about, or maybe they’d actually pay attention to Jesus as they were on the way.
But of course, they’re not concerned with that kind of greatness. They’re not worried about heavyweight titles, arrogant intimidation, or prize fight money. So what is the source of their argument about greatness? Why do they have such a preoccupation with it? Why do we have such a preoccupation with greatness? Perhaps it’s a matter of precedent, of wanting to be better than the last. We always want the next thing to be better than the last, don’t we? We want this quarter’s numbers to be better than last quarter’s. We want this summer’s vacation to be nicer, longer, and more relaxing than last summer’s. We want a bigger raise this time than we had last time. We want to spend more time with our family this year than we did last year. We want things to be better this time than they were last time. We want to be better, greater, than whatever it was that came before. We have something within us that drives us to want to be greater than what came before, so why should those first disciples on the way be any different?
Surely they wanted things to be greater now than they were then. They wanted to get things right today where they may have failed yesterday. Perhaps Peter wanted to prove his greatness after having failed at Bethsaida (as we saw last week). Maybe they were arguing about greatness after having just failed to exorcise a demon from the son of a concerned father (Mark 9:18), and they just wanted to get it right the next time. Perhaps as they were on the way with Jesus, they just wanted the next leg of the journey to be greater than the last, today to be greater than yesterday, the next challenge to be met with successful greatness, rather than failing weakness. Maybe their argument about greatness revolved around issues of precedent, things being greater this time.
Maybe, or perhaps their argument about greatness involved something a bit more psychological. After all, it seems we all have some sort of need to be great, a desire to be placed on a pedestal above others, a drive to be better than somebody else. And to a point, it’s easy for us, because greatness for us is tangible. We can surely measure it, can’t we? It starts when we’re still kids: when the teacher says, “You get an A because you were better than those who got a B.” They get us on the hook for a desire for greatness from the first time they hand us that piece of paper outlining our greatness in relation to the rest of the kids in our class. But it doesn’t end with grades and report cards. As we get older our greatness is proven by the titles we acquire: Valedictorian, Cum Laude, Chairmen, C.E.O., President, Director, Boss, Manager, Captain, Senior, etc. There are plaques that bear our engraved names, the certificates with carefully crafted calligraphy, all proclaiming our achievements for the rest of the world to take notice. Our greatness is proven by our names on buildings, our likenesses bronzed and hanging in important hallways, our names and titles on the doors of our offices, the heft of our paychecks at the end of the week or month, or simply having the best seat in the living room or the dining room table. We can measure our greatness, hold it in our hands and hang it on our walls; folks can tell when we’re great.
For the disciples on the way to Capernaum, however, it wasn’t so easy to testify to their greatness. After all, there were no grades given for gospel comprehension; there were no ranks or titles handed out among the disciples, forming a clear hierarchy of greatness; Jesus conducted no ceremony of commencement where his followers were bestowed with material markers of their matriculation on the way. There was nothing—nothing tangible, nothing material for the disciples to pin on their cloaks distinguishing them from the rest of the rabble that followed Jesus on the way. There was just the simple call to come and “follow me.” So maybe their argument was a bit more psychological, stemming from that human desire to be noticed, to be labeled, to be called out from among the crowd and held up for all to see.
Or maybe their argument is a bit more pragmatic; maybe they were arguing over a matter of succession. Isn’t that the prime time to take notice of greatness, when one is stepping down and the next “greatest” in line must step up? When the long-term manager announces her resignation, is it not the duty of her company to find one who is great enough to replace her? When a child’s favorite toy finally gives up and breaks from the long hours of play, does he not want to replace it with a toy of equal “greatness”? When you’ve been following the same person your whole life, chasing after the same dream for years, looking forward to that great experience in your life, and suddenly life throws a wrench in the gears and everything seems to screech to a halt, don’t you want “greatness” to come along? Don’t you want greatness to pick up where things left off and carry you to the fulfillment of your own goals and aspirations?
Why should these disciples be any different? There they are, on the way in verses 30-32, when Jesus tells them for the second time that he is going to be betrayed, killed, and that he will eventually rise again. Maybe they took this second telling a little more seriously; perhaps they heard Jesus a bit more clearly than they had in Bethsaida, and now, now they realize they’re going to have to do something. Mark doesn’t tell us who was arguing (compared to other gospel accounts that say it was John and James); he just says it was “them”—the disciples. Maybe their argument went something like this: “Hey guys, maybe Jesus is actually going to go through with this whole ‘death’ thing. Maybe we should decide who’s going to take over when he’s gone.” Of course you can imagine what might have happened next. One disciple steps up and says, “Well, I’ll do it. I’m the obvious choice.” Then all Hades breaks loose as one tries to prove his greatness over another; another rattles off his resume of apostolic performance and how he is the obvious choice to be the next one in line to lead them on the way. They just want greatness to proceed after Jesus’ departure, and of course, each is convinced he is the one worthy of such greatness.
But it could have gone a different way. Maybe they did hear Jesus’ words this time, and maybe they did take them seriously. But perhaps instead of each one making the case that he was the greatest, maybe this time they were putting the “greatness” on anyone but themselves. You know what that’s like. When a responsibility is suddenly made evident and your church, job, or family needs you to step up and do it, the first thing you think to yourself is “Can’t somebody else do it—anybody, just not me?” Maybe that’s what they were arguing about. After all, Jesus would leave some pretty big sandals to fill. Maybe their conversation could have gone like this: “You know Jesus may be serious about dying, so we’re going to need somebody to take us the rest of the way. How about it Peter, will you step up?” And then Peter may have responded in an attempt at humility to say he wasn’t worthy and that maybe John would be a greater choice. Back and forth they could have argued, passing the buck of greatness down the line of disciples…until the way came to Capernaum.
It’s here at Capernaum when Jesus mentions their argument. It is here at Capernaum, where our own struggles with greatness are laid open before the Savior. It is here, when Jesus asks us, “What were you arguing about on the way?” that all we can do is respond with embarrassing silence, because we know whatever arguments we are having, they have been exposed. It’s here at Capernaum where Jesus settles our arguments, and he settles them with a child.
Now don’t jump to the end of this story and start making conclusion about child-like faith and naïve approaches to greatness. Oh no, Jesus doesn’t intend to give us an out with his living object lesson. He says in verse 35 “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Well that doesn’t make a lot of sense does it? And then he goes and places a child in the midst of them, even takes the child in his arms…where’s he going with this? What does this have to do with our arguments about greatness? Jesus’ actions would have been nothing short of confusing, if not shocking, in his day. In our own time, to hold a child, to point to a child as an example of innocence and humility is to play right into the hands of cliché and stereotype. But not in Jesus’ day, not when those first disciples were on the way. Romans saw children as under-grown adults, unworthy of recognition until they actually attained adulthood; they were little more than living property . Rabbis saw children as law-breaking sinners, “not yet ‘people of the covenant.’” Furthermore, the word “child” can also mean “servant” in Aramaic, the language Jesus likely spoke, so there’s likely some connection Jesus is attempting to make with his disciples—us.
He says in verse 37, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” I can imagine them all standing there in that house in Capernaum, thinking to themselves, “Here we are arguing about who is the greatest, trying to figure out how to be greater ourselves, trying to determine who is great enough to lead us on the way, and Jesus is going to put a kid in front of us?! And we have to welcome him, accept him, like Jesus?! But it’s just a kid, a worthless, sinful, good-for-nothing kid!”
I wonder if that sounds familiar at all. “Here I am working hard every day at a job I hate, and this guy’s going to have the nerve to stand on the corner and ask—no beg—for my spare change? Here I am going to church every Sunday, trying to live a good life, and here’s something else they want me to do? Here I am trying to save a little money, trying to reward myself for all of my greatness, trying to live by the rules, trying to tell others where they’ve gone wrong, and now, NOW Jesus is going to try to tell me that it’s not about me and my greatness but about showing others that they are great as he is?!?! You’ve got to be kidding me!!”
But that’s just what Jesus does. Just when you think your greatness is beyond measure, just when you think that greatness is something to be gathered, to be lorded over those who lack your level of greatness, Jesus places a child in the middle of the way. He puts that person whom you see as less worthy right in the middle of the way, and says, “Welcome this one as you would welcome me.” And suddenly, greatness has a new definition, a definition grounded in welcoming acceptance and service. And suddenly, on the way, Jesus shows us how to walk, how to live, THE GREATEST WAY: THE WAY OF THE LORD.
Let us pray…
33 Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, "What were you arguing about on the way?" 34 But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. 35 He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, "Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all." 36 Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, 37 "Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me."
If only they knew then what we know now. I mean, if those disciples following Jesus on the way to Capernaum only knew then what you and I know now, maybe they wouldn’t have been so preoccupied with an argument among themselves, an argument about who is the greatest. After all, you and I know who’s the greatest: he told us so himself in the countless television interviews, the newspaper and magazine articles; he told us he was not only the greatest, but “the greatest of all times!” Cassius Clay, Muhammad Ali, he told us time after time that he was the prettiest, the fastest, that he could “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” and yes, that he was the greatest. So, if only the disciples had had the foresight to know that some two thousand years later “the greatest” would clearly be an African American boxer, then maybe they wouldn’t have had such an argument, or maybe they’d find something else to argue about, or maybe they’d actually pay attention to Jesus as they were on the way.
But of course, they’re not concerned with that kind of greatness. They’re not worried about heavyweight titles, arrogant intimidation, or prize fight money. So what is the source of their argument about greatness? Why do they have such a preoccupation with it? Why do we have such a preoccupation with greatness? Perhaps it’s a matter of precedent, of wanting to be better than the last. We always want the next thing to be better than the last, don’t we? We want this quarter’s numbers to be better than last quarter’s. We want this summer’s vacation to be nicer, longer, and more relaxing than last summer’s. We want a bigger raise this time than we had last time. We want to spend more time with our family this year than we did last year. We want things to be better this time than they were last time. We want to be better, greater, than whatever it was that came before. We have something within us that drives us to want to be greater than what came before, so why should those first disciples on the way be any different?
Surely they wanted things to be greater now than they were then. They wanted to get things right today where they may have failed yesterday. Perhaps Peter wanted to prove his greatness after having failed at Bethsaida (as we saw last week). Maybe they were arguing about greatness after having just failed to exorcise a demon from the son of a concerned father (Mark 9:18), and they just wanted to get it right the next time. Perhaps as they were on the way with Jesus, they just wanted the next leg of the journey to be greater than the last, today to be greater than yesterday, the next challenge to be met with successful greatness, rather than failing weakness. Maybe their argument about greatness revolved around issues of precedent, things being greater this time.
Maybe, or perhaps their argument about greatness involved something a bit more psychological. After all, it seems we all have some sort of need to be great, a desire to be placed on a pedestal above others, a drive to be better than somebody else. And to a point, it’s easy for us, because greatness for us is tangible. We can surely measure it, can’t we? It starts when we’re still kids: when the teacher says, “You get an A because you were better than those who got a B.” They get us on the hook for a desire for greatness from the first time they hand us that piece of paper outlining our greatness in relation to the rest of the kids in our class. But it doesn’t end with grades and report cards. As we get older our greatness is proven by the titles we acquire: Valedictorian, Cum Laude, Chairmen, C.E.O., President, Director, Boss, Manager, Captain, Senior, etc. There are plaques that bear our engraved names, the certificates with carefully crafted calligraphy, all proclaiming our achievements for the rest of the world to take notice. Our greatness is proven by our names on buildings, our likenesses bronzed and hanging in important hallways, our names and titles on the doors of our offices, the heft of our paychecks at the end of the week or month, or simply having the best seat in the living room or the dining room table. We can measure our greatness, hold it in our hands and hang it on our walls; folks can tell when we’re great.
For the disciples on the way to Capernaum, however, it wasn’t so easy to testify to their greatness. After all, there were no grades given for gospel comprehension; there were no ranks or titles handed out among the disciples, forming a clear hierarchy of greatness; Jesus conducted no ceremony of commencement where his followers were bestowed with material markers of their matriculation on the way. There was nothing—nothing tangible, nothing material for the disciples to pin on their cloaks distinguishing them from the rest of the rabble that followed Jesus on the way. There was just the simple call to come and “follow me.” So maybe their argument was a bit more psychological, stemming from that human desire to be noticed, to be labeled, to be called out from among the crowd and held up for all to see.
Or maybe their argument is a bit more pragmatic; maybe they were arguing over a matter of succession. Isn’t that the prime time to take notice of greatness, when one is stepping down and the next “greatest” in line must step up? When the long-term manager announces her resignation, is it not the duty of her company to find one who is great enough to replace her? When a child’s favorite toy finally gives up and breaks from the long hours of play, does he not want to replace it with a toy of equal “greatness”? When you’ve been following the same person your whole life, chasing after the same dream for years, looking forward to that great experience in your life, and suddenly life throws a wrench in the gears and everything seems to screech to a halt, don’t you want “greatness” to come along? Don’t you want greatness to pick up where things left off and carry you to the fulfillment of your own goals and aspirations?
Why should these disciples be any different? There they are, on the way in verses 30-32, when Jesus tells them for the second time that he is going to be betrayed, killed, and that he will eventually rise again. Maybe they took this second telling a little more seriously; perhaps they heard Jesus a bit more clearly than they had in Bethsaida, and now, now they realize they’re going to have to do something. Mark doesn’t tell us who was arguing (compared to other gospel accounts that say it was John and James); he just says it was “them”—the disciples. Maybe their argument went something like this: “Hey guys, maybe Jesus is actually going to go through with this whole ‘death’ thing. Maybe we should decide who’s going to take over when he’s gone.” Of course you can imagine what might have happened next. One disciple steps up and says, “Well, I’ll do it. I’m the obvious choice.” Then all Hades breaks loose as one tries to prove his greatness over another; another rattles off his resume of apostolic performance and how he is the obvious choice to be the next one in line to lead them on the way. They just want greatness to proceed after Jesus’ departure, and of course, each is convinced he is the one worthy of such greatness.
But it could have gone a different way. Maybe they did hear Jesus’ words this time, and maybe they did take them seriously. But perhaps instead of each one making the case that he was the greatest, maybe this time they were putting the “greatness” on anyone but themselves. You know what that’s like. When a responsibility is suddenly made evident and your church, job, or family needs you to step up and do it, the first thing you think to yourself is “Can’t somebody else do it—anybody, just not me?” Maybe that’s what they were arguing about. After all, Jesus would leave some pretty big sandals to fill. Maybe their conversation could have gone like this: “You know Jesus may be serious about dying, so we’re going to need somebody to take us the rest of the way. How about it Peter, will you step up?” And then Peter may have responded in an attempt at humility to say he wasn’t worthy and that maybe John would be a greater choice. Back and forth they could have argued, passing the buck of greatness down the line of disciples…until the way came to Capernaum.
It’s here at Capernaum when Jesus mentions their argument. It is here at Capernaum, where our own struggles with greatness are laid open before the Savior. It is here, when Jesus asks us, “What were you arguing about on the way?” that all we can do is respond with embarrassing silence, because we know whatever arguments we are having, they have been exposed. It’s here at Capernaum where Jesus settles our arguments, and he settles them with a child.
Now don’t jump to the end of this story and start making conclusion about child-like faith and naïve approaches to greatness. Oh no, Jesus doesn’t intend to give us an out with his living object lesson. He says in verse 35 “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Well that doesn’t make a lot of sense does it? And then he goes and places a child in the midst of them, even takes the child in his arms…where’s he going with this? What does this have to do with our arguments about greatness? Jesus’ actions would have been nothing short of confusing, if not shocking, in his day. In our own time, to hold a child, to point to a child as an example of innocence and humility is to play right into the hands of cliché and stereotype. But not in Jesus’ day, not when those first disciples were on the way. Romans saw children as under-grown adults, unworthy of recognition until they actually attained adulthood; they were little more than living property . Rabbis saw children as law-breaking sinners, “not yet ‘people of the covenant.’” Furthermore, the word “child” can also mean “servant” in Aramaic, the language Jesus likely spoke, so there’s likely some connection Jesus is attempting to make with his disciples—us.
He says in verse 37, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” I can imagine them all standing there in that house in Capernaum, thinking to themselves, “Here we are arguing about who is the greatest, trying to figure out how to be greater ourselves, trying to determine who is great enough to lead us on the way, and Jesus is going to put a kid in front of us?! And we have to welcome him, accept him, like Jesus?! But it’s just a kid, a worthless, sinful, good-for-nothing kid!”
I wonder if that sounds familiar at all. “Here I am working hard every day at a job I hate, and this guy’s going to have the nerve to stand on the corner and ask—no beg—for my spare change? Here I am going to church every Sunday, trying to live a good life, and here’s something else they want me to do? Here I am trying to save a little money, trying to reward myself for all of my greatness, trying to live by the rules, trying to tell others where they’ve gone wrong, and now, NOW Jesus is going to try to tell me that it’s not about me and my greatness but about showing others that they are great as he is?!?! You’ve got to be kidding me!!”
But that’s just what Jesus does. Just when you think your greatness is beyond measure, just when you think that greatness is something to be gathered, to be lorded over those who lack your level of greatness, Jesus places a child in the middle of the way. He puts that person whom you see as less worthy right in the middle of the way, and says, “Welcome this one as you would welcome me.” And suddenly, greatness has a new definition, a definition grounded in welcoming acceptance and service. And suddenly, on the way, Jesus shows us how to walk, how to live, THE GREATEST WAY: THE WAY OF THE LORD.
Let us pray…
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Expectations
Mark 11:1-11
1 When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples 2 and said to them, "Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. 3 If anyone says to you, "Why are you doing this?' just say this, "The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.' "4 They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, 5 some of the bystanders said to them, "What are you doing, untying the colt?" 6 They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it. 7 Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it. 8 Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. 9 Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! 10 Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!" 11 Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.
Expectation: for some it is the withholding of overwhelming joy in a strained attempt at patience; for others, it is the nerve-racking anxiety that gnaws at their very bones. It carries with it the potential for an all-encompassing hope, while also carrying with it the potential for an absolute disappointment.
We all have expectations of one sort or another. For some of us, we have expectations about what this week will bring: Will I still have my job? Can I afford the groceries, the electric bill, or gas to get me to Friday? I can’t wait until the weekend! I wonder if the grass can stand to grow a few more days until I get the mower fixed. Some of us have expectations that extend a bit farther into the future: How will my children turn out when they are grown? Will my parents live long enough to see them grow? How much longer will this truck hold out? I’ll be glad when this is paid for! We all have expectations about the future: its joys, hopes, promises, and yes, even its fears, difficulties, and disasters.
There is no doubt that the Jews of the first century had their own sorts of expectations. They had a history of prolonged disappointment, complete with enslavement, exile, and dispersion; yet they were still looking towards a future of hopeful anticipation. There were some who hoped for a future of restoration; a time when the Lord Himself would intercede, restoring Israel to a sovereign nation, free of Roman regulations and Gentile cooperation. There were still others who longed for a future of Jewish domination; God Himself would lead an angelic army against all the enemies of His people, conquering them in overwhelming, militaristic, fashion. There were even some who looked forward to a future of withdrawn solitude and peace, when a Teacher of Righteousness would come and reveal the deep truths of heaven and humanity. It is in this atmosphere of expectation, into which God does indeed intervene, but in such a way that almost seems to deflate any sort of expectation.
These verses of Mark’s gospel come at what should be the climax of his narrative. In the first ten chapters, Mark ramps us up for the big reveal of what scholars call “the Messianic Secret of Mark”. Jesus has cast out demons, healed many who were sick, cleansed lepers, fed multitudes from paltry provisions, spoke with captivating charisma, and in the verses prior to the present text, healed a blind beggar. This should be the point when the music crescendos and Jesus kicks down the doors of everyone’s expectations and rides in to rescue a woe-begotten people, guns-blazing, with his enemies falling at his feet. But just when Jesus seems to provoke such imagery, just when Mark leads us on with hints of messianic majesty…nothing happens!
Doesn’t that just irritate you?! I mean if this were a John Wayne movie, you’d walk out and demand your money back! No one wants to see John Wayne ride into town, jump off his horse and storm into the saloon…just to say ‘hi’! In the same way, no one wanted to see Jesus mount a donkey and ride down from the Mount of Olives to have people lay their coats out under him and praise him as the one who would bring about the kingdom of David, only to have him “go into the temple and look around and leave!” What’s the deal? Is Mark, Jesus “pulling a fast one” on us?
Mark’s story certainly seems to be leading in the direction of a triumphal entry. He starts out by telling us that Jesus and his posse were “near the Mount of Olives” in verse one. This is more than just scene-setting by Mark; it’s messianic allusion. It seems that Mark draws a great deal of imagery from the fourteenth chapter of the prophet Zechariah. In Zechariah 14, the prophet speaks of the coming of YHWH, when He will fight against the enemies of Israel, and blaze a path from the Mount of Olives to the Temple in Jerusalem to claim his victory, seated on the back of a donkey. There is no doubt that Zechariah 14 would have been on the minds of his readers; the allusions of that passage have come to reshape the very landscape of Israel, for the Mount of Olives today is a large cemetery; some believe it is still the place where YHWH will claim victory, and the dead who are buried there will be the first in the resurrection. So, Mark’s mentioning of Jesus coming into Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives is more than just a passing nod to his location—Mark intends to conjure up messianic imagery.
He builds up our expectations further with the grandeur in which Jesus comes into Jerusalem. Jesus has two of his disciples fetch a young donkey (presumably, one that has not been ridden, and therefore, available for sacred use) with instructions on what to do if they are questioned. While we could ask whether or not this is proof of Jesus’ divine foreknowledge or his power over human will in certain circumstances, it is sufficient to say that the most important point to be made involves the messianic imagery of Jesus mounted on a donkey. He rides the donkey, down the Mount of Olives, while the multitude that was with him lines the way with their clothes, shouting “Hosanna!” a term that literally means “Save us!” but had, at that time, evolved into a sort of messianic declaration. His trip takes him into Jerusalem, and presumably right up to the Temple itself. This is where Jesus is supposed to be greeted by the Temple priests, offer a sacrifice to God, and claim his place as the conqueror of the city. After all, this is the way it was done in the Greco-Roman world of militaristic conquest. When one had conquered his enemy, he rode into the city to make a sacrifice at the Temple, all the while being heralded by those whom he had conquered.
But again, Mark lets us down. Jesus simply surveys the area, and “as it was already late,” he leaves. Nothing happens: there is no showdown at the Temple, no sacrifice to declare his victory, no recognition by the people of their conqueror—Jesus simply strolls in, seemingly unnoticed, takes a look around, then leaves. Expectation gives way to disappointment. But why? Why all of this build up and no pay off? Why all of these messianic allusions, just to have Jesus brush them off in an attitude that seems to suggest indifference? Why does he not live up to our expectations? Why are we left in disappointment?
Disappointment is an all too real part of our lives. Whenever our expectations outweigh life’s realities, disappointment takes its place in our hearts. And the most difficult kind of disappointment to deal with is that disappointment that comes after we have been led to believe that our desires are within our reach, that time when we get our hopes up higher than they’ve ever been, just to have them come crashing down in disappointment. This kind of disappointment leaves us with nothing to cling to but the memory of what was once so longed for.
It seems in verse eleven that we reach another place of disappointment. Hopes are high, the messianic secret seems as if it is about to bust loose on the page…but it does not. If we stop here, our expectations are gone, and we are left in disappointment. If we read on, we find that things only seem to get worse as Jesus, not only fails to live up to our expectations, but seems to intentionally drive himself further from any sort of messianic expectations.
But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps, all along, we were never meant to have our expectations met. Perhaps this is a triumphal entry after all. The events that follow that first Palm Sunday in no way fulfill anyone’s expectations. Yet somehow, in seven days, our expectations are transformed in the cross and the empty tomb, for if you continue the journey with Mark, with Jesus, you will come to find, not disappointment, but a renewed sense of hope and expectation. No, Jesus does not meet our expectations, but perhaps our expectations are wrong in the first place. Perhaps, this Palms Sunday, we ought to relinquish our expectations and grab hold to Jesus’ expectations. For with Jesus, our lives are transformed in ways that we could never expect, and God shows His love for us in ways we could never imagine. Expectation: for some, it is the hope of unsure joy; for others, it is the potential for disappointment. But for all who call on the name of Christ, expectation is a realized hope in the love of God. What are your expectations?
1 When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples 2 and said to them, "Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. 3 If anyone says to you, "Why are you doing this?' just say this, "The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.' "4 They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, 5 some of the bystanders said to them, "What are you doing, untying the colt?" 6 They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it. 7 Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it. 8 Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. 9 Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! 10 Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!" 11 Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.
Expectation: for some it is the withholding of overwhelming joy in a strained attempt at patience; for others, it is the nerve-racking anxiety that gnaws at their very bones. It carries with it the potential for an all-encompassing hope, while also carrying with it the potential for an absolute disappointment.
We all have expectations of one sort or another. For some of us, we have expectations about what this week will bring: Will I still have my job? Can I afford the groceries, the electric bill, or gas to get me to Friday? I can’t wait until the weekend! I wonder if the grass can stand to grow a few more days until I get the mower fixed. Some of us have expectations that extend a bit farther into the future: How will my children turn out when they are grown? Will my parents live long enough to see them grow? How much longer will this truck hold out? I’ll be glad when this is paid for! We all have expectations about the future: its joys, hopes, promises, and yes, even its fears, difficulties, and disasters.
There is no doubt that the Jews of the first century had their own sorts of expectations. They had a history of prolonged disappointment, complete with enslavement, exile, and dispersion; yet they were still looking towards a future of hopeful anticipation. There were some who hoped for a future of restoration; a time when the Lord Himself would intercede, restoring Israel to a sovereign nation, free of Roman regulations and Gentile cooperation. There were still others who longed for a future of Jewish domination; God Himself would lead an angelic army against all the enemies of His people, conquering them in overwhelming, militaristic, fashion. There were even some who looked forward to a future of withdrawn solitude and peace, when a Teacher of Righteousness would come and reveal the deep truths of heaven and humanity. It is in this atmosphere of expectation, into which God does indeed intervene, but in such a way that almost seems to deflate any sort of expectation.
These verses of Mark’s gospel come at what should be the climax of his narrative. In the first ten chapters, Mark ramps us up for the big reveal of what scholars call “the Messianic Secret of Mark”. Jesus has cast out demons, healed many who were sick, cleansed lepers, fed multitudes from paltry provisions, spoke with captivating charisma, and in the verses prior to the present text, healed a blind beggar. This should be the point when the music crescendos and Jesus kicks down the doors of everyone’s expectations and rides in to rescue a woe-begotten people, guns-blazing, with his enemies falling at his feet. But just when Jesus seems to provoke such imagery, just when Mark leads us on with hints of messianic majesty…nothing happens!
Doesn’t that just irritate you?! I mean if this were a John Wayne movie, you’d walk out and demand your money back! No one wants to see John Wayne ride into town, jump off his horse and storm into the saloon…just to say ‘hi’! In the same way, no one wanted to see Jesus mount a donkey and ride down from the Mount of Olives to have people lay their coats out under him and praise him as the one who would bring about the kingdom of David, only to have him “go into the temple and look around and leave!” What’s the deal? Is Mark, Jesus “pulling a fast one” on us?
Mark’s story certainly seems to be leading in the direction of a triumphal entry. He starts out by telling us that Jesus and his posse were “near the Mount of Olives” in verse one. This is more than just scene-setting by Mark; it’s messianic allusion. It seems that Mark draws a great deal of imagery from the fourteenth chapter of the prophet Zechariah. In Zechariah 14, the prophet speaks of the coming of YHWH, when He will fight against the enemies of Israel, and blaze a path from the Mount of Olives to the Temple in Jerusalem to claim his victory, seated on the back of a donkey. There is no doubt that Zechariah 14 would have been on the minds of his readers; the allusions of that passage have come to reshape the very landscape of Israel, for the Mount of Olives today is a large cemetery; some believe it is still the place where YHWH will claim victory, and the dead who are buried there will be the first in the resurrection. So, Mark’s mentioning of Jesus coming into Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives is more than just a passing nod to his location—Mark intends to conjure up messianic imagery.
He builds up our expectations further with the grandeur in which Jesus comes into Jerusalem. Jesus has two of his disciples fetch a young donkey (presumably, one that has not been ridden, and therefore, available for sacred use) with instructions on what to do if they are questioned. While we could ask whether or not this is proof of Jesus’ divine foreknowledge or his power over human will in certain circumstances, it is sufficient to say that the most important point to be made involves the messianic imagery of Jesus mounted on a donkey. He rides the donkey, down the Mount of Olives, while the multitude that was with him lines the way with their clothes, shouting “Hosanna!” a term that literally means “Save us!” but had, at that time, evolved into a sort of messianic declaration. His trip takes him into Jerusalem, and presumably right up to the Temple itself. This is where Jesus is supposed to be greeted by the Temple priests, offer a sacrifice to God, and claim his place as the conqueror of the city. After all, this is the way it was done in the Greco-Roman world of militaristic conquest. When one had conquered his enemy, he rode into the city to make a sacrifice at the Temple, all the while being heralded by those whom he had conquered.
But again, Mark lets us down. Jesus simply surveys the area, and “as it was already late,” he leaves. Nothing happens: there is no showdown at the Temple, no sacrifice to declare his victory, no recognition by the people of their conqueror—Jesus simply strolls in, seemingly unnoticed, takes a look around, then leaves. Expectation gives way to disappointment. But why? Why all of this build up and no pay off? Why all of these messianic allusions, just to have Jesus brush them off in an attitude that seems to suggest indifference? Why does he not live up to our expectations? Why are we left in disappointment?
Disappointment is an all too real part of our lives. Whenever our expectations outweigh life’s realities, disappointment takes its place in our hearts. And the most difficult kind of disappointment to deal with is that disappointment that comes after we have been led to believe that our desires are within our reach, that time when we get our hopes up higher than they’ve ever been, just to have them come crashing down in disappointment. This kind of disappointment leaves us with nothing to cling to but the memory of what was once so longed for.
It seems in verse eleven that we reach another place of disappointment. Hopes are high, the messianic secret seems as if it is about to bust loose on the page…but it does not. If we stop here, our expectations are gone, and we are left in disappointment. If we read on, we find that things only seem to get worse as Jesus, not only fails to live up to our expectations, but seems to intentionally drive himself further from any sort of messianic expectations.
But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps, all along, we were never meant to have our expectations met. Perhaps this is a triumphal entry after all. The events that follow that first Palm Sunday in no way fulfill anyone’s expectations. Yet somehow, in seven days, our expectations are transformed in the cross and the empty tomb, for if you continue the journey with Mark, with Jesus, you will come to find, not disappointment, but a renewed sense of hope and expectation. No, Jesus does not meet our expectations, but perhaps our expectations are wrong in the first place. Perhaps, this Palms Sunday, we ought to relinquish our expectations and grab hold to Jesus’ expectations. For with Jesus, our lives are transformed in ways that we could never expect, and God shows His love for us in ways we could never imagine. Expectation: for some, it is the hope of unsure joy; for others, it is the potential for disappointment. But for all who call on the name of Christ, expectation is a realized hope in the love of God. What are your expectations?
Psalm 22 (from a series on the "Lenten Psalms")
Psalm 22
1 My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? 2 O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest. 3 Yet you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel. 4 In you our ancestors trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. 5 To you they cried, and were saved; in you they trusted, and were not put to shame. 6 But I am a worm, and not human; scorned by others, and despised by the people. 7 All who see me mock at me; they make mouths at me, they shake their heads; 8 "Commit your cause to the Lord; let him deliver— let him rescue the one in whom he delights!" 9 Yet it was you who took me from the womb; you kept me safe on my mother's breast. 10 On you I was cast from my birth, and since my mother bore me you have been my God.
11 Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.
It was Blaise Pascal who said, “One dies alone.” However, if he were alive today, I think Pascal would be more apt to say, “One lives alone.” Yes it seems that in an ever-shrinking world brought on by the ever-expanding network of connectivity, we as human beings still feel alone. The great irony of it all is that today individuals have public arenas in which to display and confess their loneliness; MySpace, YouTube, facebook, and any number of blog websites disclose to the entire world the inner loneliness of all who wish it exposed. Even in a completely connected world, there are those who still feel alone, perhaps you still feel alone.
We are listening (this morning) to the words of one who feels the brutal reality of loneliness. Psalm 22 is a desperate cry for deliverance from suffering, deliverance from the very real suffering of abandonment and loneliness. These are the words of one who is afflicted with illness, one who is afflicted with such an illness that he is brought to the threshold of death’s door, and in his greatest hour of need… he is helpless—he feels abandoned by God, by those he loves, and he is completely alone.
In that desperate loneliness, the psalmist cries out to God. In the midst of the congregation, in the midst of worship, he cries aloud that God would not be far from him in his most desperate hour. It is an hour John of the Cross calls “the Dark Night of the Soul.” It is a time when God seems most distant and the darkness of despair seems most imminent. The psalmist does not cry out for healing; he is not crying out for a full recovery and restoration to perfect health. Rather, he is crying out to God that he not be left alone in this most desperate hour.
Right away, the words of this psalm ought to sound familiar to you. The introductory plea of the psalmist in verse one, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” comes calling to us from another context, another dark hour in which the whole scope of human history held its breath. These are the words of Christ from the cross in Matthew 27:46 “Eli, Eli, lema sabachtani?” (Matthew records them in the Hebrew/Aramaic to echo this psalm). It is a most desperate hour. One who knew no sin, One who selflessly left the glory of an eternal heaven to walk, talk, eat, laugh, and love with those who were born to die, One who (John tells us) was there in the beginning with God, feels abandoned. Christ on the cross feels as if God, his Father, has left him alone in his most desperate hour, so he cries out in the words of this psalm. Is it any wonder that Psalm 22 is often referred to as “the fifth gospel account of the crucifixion?”
The psalmist cries out to God in spite of his apparent absence. He cries out of the loneliness to be rescued. Christ, hanging with the weight of humanity’s sins sending shocks of pain through his body from his pierced hands, cries out to his Father in spite of his apparent absence. And in the dark days of life, when the dark shadows of depression, doubt, and despair press upon you, you cry out to God to deliver you, even though it seems as if He is not there! Yes my brothers and sisters, there are times when the journey of faith is lonely, and there are times when God seems absent. Yet you still cry out to Him, asking “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Yet there are those times when God feels as close as the air you breathe. There are those times when God seems to vibrate in the very matter of your existence, yet you still feel the cold grip of loneliness. Yes, even when God is close, you still feel lonely because on this journey of faith, even those closest to you may abandon you; they may turn on you and use your faith to tear a relationship in two. The psalmist experiences this withdrawal as those around him turn on him and leave him to be rescued by the God who has also seemingly abandoned him. In verses six and seven, he tells of how he has been “scorned by others, and despised by the people. All who see me mock at me…” and they mockingly challenge him in verse eight to “Commit your cause to the Lord let him deliver—let him rescue the one in whom he delights.” They abandon him in his greatest hour of need, leaving him to his faith and a seemingly silent God.
There are places along the journey of faith where those that you love most, those that are closest to you, fall away from you. There are places where your faith outruns the resistance of an unchanging relationship. It is in those places where the journey of faith seems lonely. It is in those places where you feel as if you are in this entire thing called Christianity all by yourself. While others around you cling to what is familiar and what brings them assured comfort in this world, you press on, obeying the direction of God, following Him on the journey.
There should be no better example than our Lord Jesus Christ. This sort of abandonment runs throughout the gospels, and it is all summed up in Mark’s account of Jesus’ arrest in chapter fourteen. All of the disciples have been following him, great crowds have pressed in on him to hear the Good News, and it is in the garden of Gethsemane, at his arrest, when Mark writes those haunting words that ought to serve as a chilling reminder to those of us who call ourselves followers of Christ, “All of them deserted and fled (14:50).” Only the women were left to follow Jesus on his journey to the cross. In fact, the very crowds that cheered at his arrival on Palm Sunday were calling for his blood on Good Friday. Yes Jesus knew what it meant to be deserted by those who were closest to him—he still knows.
Should we not take comfort in this? Should you not find comfort in knowing that no matter how lonely your journey of faith seems to be, Christ is there with you because he has been there before you?! He was abandoned by his friends, his family, and his disciples—he was left to die! He cried out from the depths of eternal despair to question God’s presence! Yes, no matter how lonely it may feel along the journey, know the Jesus Christ has felt that very same loneliness. No matter how abandoned you feel, know that even the Son of God himself felt abandoned by his Father!
And in all of this take heart! For God is not a God who abandons you in your greatest time of need; God is not a God who disappears when all of those close to you turn away to leave you to life’s dark shadows. God is a God who is with you in all of life’s loneliness because He has felt the ultimate loneliness! It is this knowledge of God’s love that you can truly declare with the voice of the psalmist in verse eleven, “Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.”
I want you to know (this morning) that God is not far from you. In that moment of despair and overwhelming loneliness on the cross, Christ put to death the loneliness that separates you from God. In that moment, when Christ had been abandoned by all of those close to him, he secured a place for you and your journey of faith. In that moment, Christ made a way for you to overcome the controlling grip of loneliness and live in the fullness of a true relationship with a God who will never leave you nor forsake you.
1 My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? 2 O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest. 3 Yet you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel. 4 In you our ancestors trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. 5 To you they cried, and were saved; in you they trusted, and were not put to shame. 6 But I am a worm, and not human; scorned by others, and despised by the people. 7 All who see me mock at me; they make mouths at me, they shake their heads; 8 "Commit your cause to the Lord; let him deliver— let him rescue the one in whom he delights!" 9 Yet it was you who took me from the womb; you kept me safe on my mother's breast. 10 On you I was cast from my birth, and since my mother bore me you have been my God.
11 Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.
It was Blaise Pascal who said, “One dies alone.” However, if he were alive today, I think Pascal would be more apt to say, “One lives alone.” Yes it seems that in an ever-shrinking world brought on by the ever-expanding network of connectivity, we as human beings still feel alone. The great irony of it all is that today individuals have public arenas in which to display and confess their loneliness; MySpace, YouTube, facebook, and any number of blog websites disclose to the entire world the inner loneliness of all who wish it exposed. Even in a completely connected world, there are those who still feel alone, perhaps you still feel alone.
We are listening (this morning) to the words of one who feels the brutal reality of loneliness. Psalm 22 is a desperate cry for deliverance from suffering, deliverance from the very real suffering of abandonment and loneliness. These are the words of one who is afflicted with illness, one who is afflicted with such an illness that he is brought to the threshold of death’s door, and in his greatest hour of need… he is helpless—he feels abandoned by God, by those he loves, and he is completely alone.
In that desperate loneliness, the psalmist cries out to God. In the midst of the congregation, in the midst of worship, he cries aloud that God would not be far from him in his most desperate hour. It is an hour John of the Cross calls “the Dark Night of the Soul.” It is a time when God seems most distant and the darkness of despair seems most imminent. The psalmist does not cry out for healing; he is not crying out for a full recovery and restoration to perfect health. Rather, he is crying out to God that he not be left alone in this most desperate hour.
Right away, the words of this psalm ought to sound familiar to you. The introductory plea of the psalmist in verse one, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” comes calling to us from another context, another dark hour in which the whole scope of human history held its breath. These are the words of Christ from the cross in Matthew 27:46 “Eli, Eli, lema sabachtani?” (Matthew records them in the Hebrew/Aramaic to echo this psalm). It is a most desperate hour. One who knew no sin, One who selflessly left the glory of an eternal heaven to walk, talk, eat, laugh, and love with those who were born to die, One who (John tells us) was there in the beginning with God, feels abandoned. Christ on the cross feels as if God, his Father, has left him alone in his most desperate hour, so he cries out in the words of this psalm. Is it any wonder that Psalm 22 is often referred to as “the fifth gospel account of the crucifixion?”
The psalmist cries out to God in spite of his apparent absence. He cries out of the loneliness to be rescued. Christ, hanging with the weight of humanity’s sins sending shocks of pain through his body from his pierced hands, cries out to his Father in spite of his apparent absence. And in the dark days of life, when the dark shadows of depression, doubt, and despair press upon you, you cry out to God to deliver you, even though it seems as if He is not there! Yes my brothers and sisters, there are times when the journey of faith is lonely, and there are times when God seems absent. Yet you still cry out to Him, asking “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Yet there are those times when God feels as close as the air you breathe. There are those times when God seems to vibrate in the very matter of your existence, yet you still feel the cold grip of loneliness. Yes, even when God is close, you still feel lonely because on this journey of faith, even those closest to you may abandon you; they may turn on you and use your faith to tear a relationship in two. The psalmist experiences this withdrawal as those around him turn on him and leave him to be rescued by the God who has also seemingly abandoned him. In verses six and seven, he tells of how he has been “scorned by others, and despised by the people. All who see me mock at me…” and they mockingly challenge him in verse eight to “Commit your cause to the Lord let him deliver—let him rescue the one in whom he delights.” They abandon him in his greatest hour of need, leaving him to his faith and a seemingly silent God.
There are places along the journey of faith where those that you love most, those that are closest to you, fall away from you. There are places where your faith outruns the resistance of an unchanging relationship. It is in those places where the journey of faith seems lonely. It is in those places where you feel as if you are in this entire thing called Christianity all by yourself. While others around you cling to what is familiar and what brings them assured comfort in this world, you press on, obeying the direction of God, following Him on the journey.
There should be no better example than our Lord Jesus Christ. This sort of abandonment runs throughout the gospels, and it is all summed up in Mark’s account of Jesus’ arrest in chapter fourteen. All of the disciples have been following him, great crowds have pressed in on him to hear the Good News, and it is in the garden of Gethsemane, at his arrest, when Mark writes those haunting words that ought to serve as a chilling reminder to those of us who call ourselves followers of Christ, “All of them deserted and fled (14:50).” Only the women were left to follow Jesus on his journey to the cross. In fact, the very crowds that cheered at his arrival on Palm Sunday were calling for his blood on Good Friday. Yes Jesus knew what it meant to be deserted by those who were closest to him—he still knows.
Should we not take comfort in this? Should you not find comfort in knowing that no matter how lonely your journey of faith seems to be, Christ is there with you because he has been there before you?! He was abandoned by his friends, his family, and his disciples—he was left to die! He cried out from the depths of eternal despair to question God’s presence! Yes, no matter how lonely it may feel along the journey, know the Jesus Christ has felt that very same loneliness. No matter how abandoned you feel, know that even the Son of God himself felt abandoned by his Father!
And in all of this take heart! For God is not a God who abandons you in your greatest time of need; God is not a God who disappears when all of those close to you turn away to leave you to life’s dark shadows. God is a God who is with you in all of life’s loneliness because He has felt the ultimate loneliness! It is this knowledge of God’s love that you can truly declare with the voice of the psalmist in verse eleven, “Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.”
I want you to know (this morning) that God is not far from you. In that moment of despair and overwhelming loneliness on the cross, Christ put to death the loneliness that separates you from God. In that moment, when Christ had been abandoned by all of those close to him, he secured a place for you and your journey of faith. In that moment, Christ made a way for you to overcome the controlling grip of loneliness and live in the fullness of a true relationship with a God who will never leave you nor forsake you.
Here's the deal...
On the suggestion of a few friends, I've decided to start this blog simply as a place to post my sermon manuscripts. I'll simply be posting the text of the sermon, so if there is any question as to citations, sources, or whatever, please let me know, and I'll be glad to supply my sources, etc.
So here you go (feel free to critique, comment, etc.)...
So here you go (feel free to critique, comment, etc.)...
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