Passage: 2 Corinthians 3:1-6
I devote some of my work time to an organization that supports and equips people in job transition. The job market being what it is, many have found that responding to public job ads is futile. There are too many applicants and it’s too difficult to distinguish yourself on paper from the rest of the crowd. The key to landing a job interview, if not a job, is networking. Getting someone with connections to give you a personal recommendation.
In one of his letters to the church in Corinth, the Apostle Paul uses the metaphor of the personal recommendation to describe his audience. Paul says, “You all are letters of recommendation.” What? Recommendations for whom, exactly?
For two parties, says Paul. Each of you – every member of the church – is a letter of recommendation for the church itself. And, by extension, every Christian is a letter of recommendation for Jesus Christ, the Lord of the Church.
We can’t get around this reality. If you are known to be a member of any church, or a believer in Jesus Christ, you’re responsible not only for your reputation, but the reputation of all Christians. In addition, and most importantly, you're responsible for the reputation of Christ himself. Each of us has to ask the question: What kind of recommendation am I giving? What am I communicating to the world on Christ’s behalf?
• When we highlight the sins of one group of people and ignore our own
• When we clamor for our rights as middle-class and affluent citizens while failing to advocate for the poor and marginalized in our world
• When we enjoy forms of entertainment that degrade the image of God in us and other people
• When we endorse “religious” politicians and pundits whose militant rhetoric engenders hate speech
• When we, in our everyday travels and activities, fail to treat those who serve us and those we meet with the respect we demand,
What are we communicating to the world on Christ’s behalf? What do people think Christ is saying to them through us?
I don’t presume to answer for you. But if you’re a follower of Jesus, ask yourself the question.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
If Only I Knew Where to Find Him
Passage: Job 23
Recently my wife and I concluded we had to do some “sleep training” with our two-year-old. We’d been on vacation, and when we returned, our very sociable toddler wasn’t that interested in staying in her bed after lights out. For two weeks after we arrived home we’d hear her door pop open at fifteen minute intervals for an hour after we tucked her in. Then she’d show up at our bedside every two hours all night long, only to wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 5:30 every morning. Something had to be done. We implemented the drastic measure of latching her door during the hour following her bedtime. The first time we did it she was incensed (to put it mildly). She tried her doorknob several times and when she couldn’t open it she started to yell. We said, calmly, that it was time for her to go to sleep and that she needed to tuck herself back in bed. She threw the tantrum to end all tantrums. She screamed and cried for my wife and me to let her out. She said she needed a drink (she had one in her room). She said she needed the potty (she’d already gone several times as a stalling technique before lights-out). She started to slow down after half an hour, simply calling out, “Daddy? Mommy?” When we didn’t answer she said, “SOMEBODY?” She was certain she’d been abandoned to an unhappy fate. She was unaware that, for that hour, I was sitting just outside her door. And that, softy that I am, I really just wanted to go open the door and tuck her in one more time and give her one more goodnight hug and kiss. For her sake and ours, our daughter had to learn to stay in her bed at night. So I curbed my instinct to comfort, steeled myself, and stayed on the other side of the door.
In chapter 23 Job laments the feeling of being abandoned by God. He cries out from a place of anger and fear and confusion. And his God is silent. Job concludes that God must be out of range. He says, “If only I knew where to find God! No matter where I go God is silent. And no matter what I do God seems intent on carrying out this conspiracy against me.”
God is often silent when we most need to hear his voice. When we most need an explanation for circumstances that have aligned against us, we get nothing. When we most need a word of reassurance and comfort we hear nothing but the echo of our own cries. Perhaps God isn’t there.
Or perhaps he’s closer than we think. Perhaps he’s just on the other side of the door - listening, waiting, and wanting more than anything to interrupt a lesson we need to endure.
Recently my wife and I concluded we had to do some “sleep training” with our two-year-old. We’d been on vacation, and when we returned, our very sociable toddler wasn’t that interested in staying in her bed after lights out. For two weeks after we arrived home we’d hear her door pop open at fifteen minute intervals for an hour after we tucked her in. Then she’d show up at our bedside every two hours all night long, only to wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 5:30 every morning. Something had to be done. We implemented the drastic measure of latching her door during the hour following her bedtime. The first time we did it she was incensed (to put it mildly). She tried her doorknob several times and when she couldn’t open it she started to yell. We said, calmly, that it was time for her to go to sleep and that she needed to tuck herself back in bed. She threw the tantrum to end all tantrums. She screamed and cried for my wife and me to let her out. She said she needed a drink (she had one in her room). She said she needed the potty (she’d already gone several times as a stalling technique before lights-out). She started to slow down after half an hour, simply calling out, “Daddy? Mommy?” When we didn’t answer she said, “SOMEBODY?” She was certain she’d been abandoned to an unhappy fate. She was unaware that, for that hour, I was sitting just outside her door. And that, softy that I am, I really just wanted to go open the door and tuck her in one more time and give her one more goodnight hug and kiss. For her sake and ours, our daughter had to learn to stay in her bed at night. So I curbed my instinct to comfort, steeled myself, and stayed on the other side of the door.
In chapter 23 Job laments the feeling of being abandoned by God. He cries out from a place of anger and fear and confusion. And his God is silent. Job concludes that God must be out of range. He says, “If only I knew where to find God! No matter where I go God is silent. And no matter what I do God seems intent on carrying out this conspiracy against me.”
God is often silent when we most need to hear his voice. When we most need an explanation for circumstances that have aligned against us, we get nothing. When we most need a word of reassurance and comfort we hear nothing but the echo of our own cries. Perhaps God isn’t there.
Or perhaps he’s closer than we think. Perhaps he’s just on the other side of the door - listening, waiting, and wanting more than anything to interrupt a lesson we need to endure.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
My Redeemer Lives
Passage: Job 16:20-21; 19:23-29
The author of a commentary I’m reading argues that although Job is an Old Testament book, its text points periodically to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Christians at times risk reading too much into certain Old Testament texts; we sometimes assume the human authors of the Old Testament books already knew Jesus. They didn't. They knew the God whose love came to perfect expression in Jesus at a much later time. That being said, there are Old Testament texts that so clearly portray certain characteristics of God that we can't help recognizing Jesus when we read them.
Job, and those belonging to his religious and cultural tradition, did not yet know the name of their promised Savior. But what they knew beyond the shadow of a doubt are the characteristics of God embodied in Jesus Christ. In chapter 16 Job says, “My intercessor is my friend…” Whereas Job has, in the midst of his trial, felt as though God is his adversary, he also clings to the conviction that God is on his side – that somehow he has an ally and intercessor in Heaven. In chapter 19 Job says, “I know my Redeemer lives…” The God who redeemed the children of Israel is the God who presides over Job’s world – even now, in Job’s darkest hour. The Book of Job explores one man’s experience of a God who feels very distant. Yet embedded in this exploration is the message that the inscrutable God who rules everything from on high is also a God who comes close enough to listen to the cries of one child’s heart; he is also a God who intervenes when his children are in trouble. Job holds out hope in a God who is at once Lord, Intercessor and Redeemer.
This is the God in whom we hope. The God to whom we cry out when we’re in trouble. He is a God who became human in order to redeem humanity and who even now stands as our human intercessor before the throne of heaven. We now know him by name: Jesus, our intercessor; our friend; our Redeemer.
The author of a commentary I’m reading argues that although Job is an Old Testament book, its text points periodically to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Christians at times risk reading too much into certain Old Testament texts; we sometimes assume the human authors of the Old Testament books already knew Jesus. They didn't. They knew the God whose love came to perfect expression in Jesus at a much later time. That being said, there are Old Testament texts that so clearly portray certain characteristics of God that we can't help recognizing Jesus when we read them.
Job, and those belonging to his religious and cultural tradition, did not yet know the name of their promised Savior. But what they knew beyond the shadow of a doubt are the characteristics of God embodied in Jesus Christ. In chapter 16 Job says, “My intercessor is my friend…” Whereas Job has, in the midst of his trial, felt as though God is his adversary, he also clings to the conviction that God is on his side – that somehow he has an ally and intercessor in Heaven. In chapter 19 Job says, “I know my Redeemer lives…” The God who redeemed the children of Israel is the God who presides over Job’s world – even now, in Job’s darkest hour. The Book of Job explores one man’s experience of a God who feels very distant. Yet embedded in this exploration is the message that the inscrutable God who rules everything from on high is also a God who comes close enough to listen to the cries of one child’s heart; he is also a God who intervenes when his children are in trouble. Job holds out hope in a God who is at once Lord, Intercessor and Redeemer.
This is the God in whom we hope. The God to whom we cry out when we’re in trouble. He is a God who became human in order to redeem humanity and who even now stands as our human intercessor before the throne of heaven. We now know him by name: Jesus, our intercessor; our friend; our Redeemer.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Justice for Job
Passage: Job 8
Job has just finished contending that he is innocent before God. One of his “friends”, Bildad, confronts him. Bildad’s basic argument is this: either you’ve sinned, and brought God’s judgment upon yourself, or you haven’t sinned, and God’s punishing you unjustly. God is incapable of acting unjustly, so you must be mistaken about having sinned. Just repent and be done with it!
Job’s friends insist that there are only these two possibilities: On the one hand God is just and brings suffering into people’s lives as punishment for sin; on the other God is unjust and causes people to suffer unfairly. To conclude the latter is blasphemy against God, therefore there’s really only one possibility: that people suffer when they have sinned, and the only way to alleviate one’s suffering is to repent.
Job demands that there is another possibility. Job both defends his innocence and defends God’s character. In all things, we’re told, Job refrains from charging God with wrongdoing. There must be some other explanation, says Job.
The Book of Job invites us to imagine that there is another possibility. Countless religious people within the Judeo-Christian tradition assume that there’s a linear relationship between sin and suffering. If I’m suffering, the logic goes, I must have done something wrong. If I can just figure out what I did wrong, I can apologize for it, make up for it, and be relieved of the suffering.
The wrench in the works is this: globally speaking we believe that people suffer because the world has been broken by human sin. We suffer because human beings and human communities and ecosystems and the world as a whole don’t work the way they’re supposed to. God doesn’t cause the events that lead to our suffering. They’re an embedded part of our reality that God allows us to experience. Theologically we accept that we deserve what we get because we’re part of the problem. What we assume is that if we have a relationship with God, and if we play by the rules, God will make sure bad things don’t happen to us. We cry foul when we think we’ve been good and bad stuff still happens. We claim that God has acted unjustly.
Job forces us to revisit God’s justice. If we follow the logic of the Creation – Fall – Redemption trajectory of the Bible, we have to come to terms with this reality: all people deserve to suffer. Why? Because suffering is the natural consequence of rebelling against God and his created order. We tend to think of hardship and suffering as God reaching out and afflicting us on a case-by-case basis. We tend to see others’ hardship and suffering that way, too. That’s not how it works. The default human experience is suffering (think Wesley’s line in The Princess Bride: “Life is pain, princess. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you something.”). The anomaly is a life relatively free of suffering. What we should be asking isn’t, “Why am I suffering?” but rather, “Why am I not suffering?” The truth is that God’s justice is tempered immeasurably by God’s mercy. To Bildad’s point, God is unjust. But God is unjust in our favor.
What’s the point, then, of being aligned with God? If God doesn’t guarantee a life of minimal suffering and optimal enjoyment, why bother? There are two basic answers, from a Biblical perspective. The first is that we were designed to live in close relationship with God. It is in our natures to long for and thrive within such a relationship. The second is that faith in God helps us weather the storm of suffering. We believe that all the things we experience serve God’s purposes; that in fact God is working all things toward a good end. When we locate ourselves in the story of Job we accept that we may never know those purposes, nor even experience them as good in our own lifetimes. But we find some peace knowing that a good – even just – God is in control, and that all things are ordered according to God’s plan.
Job has just finished contending that he is innocent before God. One of his “friends”, Bildad, confronts him. Bildad’s basic argument is this: either you’ve sinned, and brought God’s judgment upon yourself, or you haven’t sinned, and God’s punishing you unjustly. God is incapable of acting unjustly, so you must be mistaken about having sinned. Just repent and be done with it!
Job’s friends insist that there are only these two possibilities: On the one hand God is just and brings suffering into people’s lives as punishment for sin; on the other God is unjust and causes people to suffer unfairly. To conclude the latter is blasphemy against God, therefore there’s really only one possibility: that people suffer when they have sinned, and the only way to alleviate one’s suffering is to repent.
Job demands that there is another possibility. Job both defends his innocence and defends God’s character. In all things, we’re told, Job refrains from charging God with wrongdoing. There must be some other explanation, says Job.
The Book of Job invites us to imagine that there is another possibility. Countless religious people within the Judeo-Christian tradition assume that there’s a linear relationship between sin and suffering. If I’m suffering, the logic goes, I must have done something wrong. If I can just figure out what I did wrong, I can apologize for it, make up for it, and be relieved of the suffering.
The wrench in the works is this: globally speaking we believe that people suffer because the world has been broken by human sin. We suffer because human beings and human communities and ecosystems and the world as a whole don’t work the way they’re supposed to. God doesn’t cause the events that lead to our suffering. They’re an embedded part of our reality that God allows us to experience. Theologically we accept that we deserve what we get because we’re part of the problem. What we assume is that if we have a relationship with God, and if we play by the rules, God will make sure bad things don’t happen to us. We cry foul when we think we’ve been good and bad stuff still happens. We claim that God has acted unjustly.
Job forces us to revisit God’s justice. If we follow the logic of the Creation – Fall – Redemption trajectory of the Bible, we have to come to terms with this reality: all people deserve to suffer. Why? Because suffering is the natural consequence of rebelling against God and his created order. We tend to think of hardship and suffering as God reaching out and afflicting us on a case-by-case basis. We tend to see others’ hardship and suffering that way, too. That’s not how it works. The default human experience is suffering (think Wesley’s line in The Princess Bride: “Life is pain, princess. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you something.”). The anomaly is a life relatively free of suffering. What we should be asking isn’t, “Why am I suffering?” but rather, “Why am I not suffering?” The truth is that God’s justice is tempered immeasurably by God’s mercy. To Bildad’s point, God is unjust. But God is unjust in our favor.
What’s the point, then, of being aligned with God? If God doesn’t guarantee a life of minimal suffering and optimal enjoyment, why bother? There are two basic answers, from a Biblical perspective. The first is that we were designed to live in close relationship with God. It is in our natures to long for and thrive within such a relationship. The second is that faith in God helps us weather the storm of suffering. We believe that all the things we experience serve God’s purposes; that in fact God is working all things toward a good end. When we locate ourselves in the story of Job we accept that we may never know those purposes, nor even experience them as good in our own lifetimes. But we find some peace knowing that a good – even just – God is in control, and that all things are ordered according to God’s plan.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Old Habits
Passage: Nehemiah 13:1-14
The reality TV universe has expanded recently to include a few programs about “hoarders”. The plots of these shows tend to run as follows: the hosts find a person whose compulsion to collect stuff has gone so unchecked that their homes, cars, and every other available space is crammed. As the hoarders tell their stories, the hosts wade into efforts to help them clean out their living spaces and get their lives under control. At the end of the show the home has been cleaned out, and the hoarder has been given a fresh start. At least part of the premise is that if you help people get out from under the messes they’ve created, they’ll be well on the way to recovery. The big question, of course, is whether, after the camera crews have left and the dust has settled, the hoarders will go back to their old ways.
Old habits die hard. This is what we discover at the end of the Book of Nehemiah. Nehemiah tells the story of the homecoming of God’s people. After living in exile for nearly a century, the remnant of Israel have been set free. They’ve settled in and around Jerusalem. They’ve rebuilt the temple. All this is very exciting, because it is proof that God keeps his promises. Every milestone in the journey home and every phase of the rebuilding has been met with great joy and raucous celebration. Toward the end of the Book of Nehemiah, Jerusalem’s city walls have been completed and its gates, the symbol of God’s protection, have been set in place. Nehemiah takes a break from his labors and returns to his other job as a courtier of the King of Persia.
He is dismayed to find, during a later vacation to Jerusalem, that his hard work has started to come undone. The priests and Levites, commissioned the task of maintaining the worship space and life of God’s people, have gone back to working their farms. People are buying and selling on the Sabbath. One wing of the temple has been turned into a bachelor pad. It’s as though, after the dishes were washed and the confetti swept up, the people just went back to doing what they were doing before the party.
Those of us who have been following the story of God’s people from the beginning can’t help being dumbfounded. It seems incredible that after all they’ve been through – deliverance from slavery in Egypt; safe passage to the Promised Land; regular bouts of judgment for their sin and redemption by a gracious God; punishment for unremitting relapses; final deliverance from exile by a gracious God – after all this they still haven’t learned their lesson. No sooner have they celebrated God’s mercy and love than they’ve turned their backs and gone back to doing things their way.
If we’re honest with ourselves, however, we recognize we’re not much difference. Our life with God is characterized by crisis, complaint and complacency. We find ourselves in some kind of trouble we can’t see our way through. We cry out for God’s reassurance and God’s intervention. No sooner has the crisis passed than we forget God. Go back to the business of doing things our way. Old habits die hard.
The reality TV universe has expanded recently to include a few programs about “hoarders”. The plots of these shows tend to run as follows: the hosts find a person whose compulsion to collect stuff has gone so unchecked that their homes, cars, and every other available space is crammed. As the hoarders tell their stories, the hosts wade into efforts to help them clean out their living spaces and get their lives under control. At the end of the show the home has been cleaned out, and the hoarder has been given a fresh start. At least part of the premise is that if you help people get out from under the messes they’ve created, they’ll be well on the way to recovery. The big question, of course, is whether, after the camera crews have left and the dust has settled, the hoarders will go back to their old ways.
Old habits die hard. This is what we discover at the end of the Book of Nehemiah. Nehemiah tells the story of the homecoming of God’s people. After living in exile for nearly a century, the remnant of Israel have been set free. They’ve settled in and around Jerusalem. They’ve rebuilt the temple. All this is very exciting, because it is proof that God keeps his promises. Every milestone in the journey home and every phase of the rebuilding has been met with great joy and raucous celebration. Toward the end of the Book of Nehemiah, Jerusalem’s city walls have been completed and its gates, the symbol of God’s protection, have been set in place. Nehemiah takes a break from his labors and returns to his other job as a courtier of the King of Persia.
He is dismayed to find, during a later vacation to Jerusalem, that his hard work has started to come undone. The priests and Levites, commissioned the task of maintaining the worship space and life of God’s people, have gone back to working their farms. People are buying and selling on the Sabbath. One wing of the temple has been turned into a bachelor pad. It’s as though, after the dishes were washed and the confetti swept up, the people just went back to doing what they were doing before the party.
Those of us who have been following the story of God’s people from the beginning can’t help being dumbfounded. It seems incredible that after all they’ve been through – deliverance from slavery in Egypt; safe passage to the Promised Land; regular bouts of judgment for their sin and redemption by a gracious God; punishment for unremitting relapses; final deliverance from exile by a gracious God – after all this they still haven’t learned their lesson. No sooner have they celebrated God’s mercy and love than they’ve turned their backs and gone back to doing things their way.
If we’re honest with ourselves, however, we recognize we’re not much difference. Our life with God is characterized by crisis, complaint and complacency. We find ourselves in some kind of trouble we can’t see our way through. We cry out for God’s reassurance and God’s intervention. No sooner has the crisis passed than we forget God. Go back to the business of doing things our way. Old habits die hard.
Monday, August 16, 2010
For the Glory of God
Passage: 1 Corinthians 10:23-33
I had a seminary professor who told a class I was part of, “The ethic that guides much of Western Christianity is an ethic of minimums. What’s the minimum I have to do to be saved? What’s the minimum I have to give to the church? What’s the minimum moral standard to which I have to adhere, and still be able to call myself a Christian?”
This approach is nothing new. In his letter to the church in Corinth, the Apostle Paul addresses the gray areas of the Christian life – the standards that fall outside the letter of the Law of God. For Paul and the other apostles, it’s a given that Christians obey God’s Law. But in 1 Corinthians 10 Paul argues that the Law is only the beginning. Paul has pointed out that Christians are not bound by the Law as a prerequisite for salvation. Having said this, Paul now cautions the members of his church against thinking they can live however they want. In this passage Paul says, “Yes, Christ has set us free from slavery to the Law. Now we serve a standard that is less rigid, but more pervasive.” Paul goes on to say, “Instead of avoiding what the Law prohibits, you now need to avoid anything that acts as a barrier between you and Christ. Any habit, substance, thought or relationship that threatens your relationship with Jesus has to go.”
The new standard, according to Paul, is this: Do everything to the glory of God. No longer think in terms of what you can get away with. No longer think in terms of obligatory acts that pay lip service to your commitment. Evaluate everything you say; everything you do; everything you own. Ask, “How does this glorify God?” If the answer is, “I don’t know,” then do some soul searching. If the answer is, “It doesn’t,” then let it go.
I had a seminary professor who told a class I was part of, “The ethic that guides much of Western Christianity is an ethic of minimums. What’s the minimum I have to do to be saved? What’s the minimum I have to give to the church? What’s the minimum moral standard to which I have to adhere, and still be able to call myself a Christian?”
This approach is nothing new. In his letter to the church in Corinth, the Apostle Paul addresses the gray areas of the Christian life – the standards that fall outside the letter of the Law of God. For Paul and the other apostles, it’s a given that Christians obey God’s Law. But in 1 Corinthians 10 Paul argues that the Law is only the beginning. Paul has pointed out that Christians are not bound by the Law as a prerequisite for salvation. Having said this, Paul now cautions the members of his church against thinking they can live however they want. In this passage Paul says, “Yes, Christ has set us free from slavery to the Law. Now we serve a standard that is less rigid, but more pervasive.” Paul goes on to say, “Instead of avoiding what the Law prohibits, you now need to avoid anything that acts as a barrier between you and Christ. Any habit, substance, thought or relationship that threatens your relationship with Jesus has to go.”
The new standard, according to Paul, is this: Do everything to the glory of God. No longer think in terms of what you can get away with. No longer think in terms of obligatory acts that pay lip service to your commitment. Evaluate everything you say; everything you do; everything you own. Ask, “How does this glorify God?” If the answer is, “I don’t know,” then do some soul searching. If the answer is, “It doesn’t,” then let it go.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Heard Far Away
Passage: Ezra 3:7-13
The impossible has happened. After almost a century of lying vacant the city of Jerusalem has been repopulated and the temple of the LORD is being rebuilt. The inhabitants of the new city have gathered to celebrate. Together they revisit the ritual that has marked the life of God’s people from the beginning. Fires are ignited. Sacrifices are prepared. The right words are given and the right melodies are played. And everyone praises God. Maybe it’s because they can’t believe their good fortune. Maybe it’s simply because they’ve been commanded to do so. Whatever the reason, they lift up a shout of praise that can be heard for miles.
But for some gathered, the smells of the burnt offerings and the sounds of the old songs cause a jumble of complicated memories and feelings to crowd in. Seventy years ago they were kids, clinging to the hands of moms and dads, uncles, aunts and grandparents. They were herded out of their homes and out into the road leading away from Jerusalem. They watched wide-eyed as smoke billowed out of the doors and windows of the temple – the anchor of their city and their lives. The temple quickly faded behind them as they were led farther and farther from home. But that image has remained – as though burned into their eyelids – for all the years that have drained out of them in Babylon.
The image of their once-glorious temple, indelibly pressed on their memories, rises above the crude new foundation. The young ones – the builders and the new priests and their families – they don’t know any better. They don’t see what it used to be. What it could have been. All they know is the joy and excitement of a future they will have a hand in building. But the old ones – the survivors – cannot choke out the words of the praise songs through the debris of their memories.
So instead they weep – softly at first, then louder and louder until they too are shouting at the top of their lungs. Shouting at their ancestors for screwing up all the good stuff God gave them. Shouting at God for meting out the judgment he’d promised so many times. Shouting at the sheer futility of trying to live right in a world that has gone so badly wrong. The shouts of praise and the shouts of mourning are heard far away. As far away as the throne of heaven. As far away as the ears of the God of heaven and earth. As close as the ears of a God who didn’t leave, even when his people knew he should have. A God who is here, even now, with the people he promised never to forsake.
The impossible has happened. After almost a century of lying vacant the city of Jerusalem has been repopulated and the temple of the LORD is being rebuilt. The inhabitants of the new city have gathered to celebrate. Together they revisit the ritual that has marked the life of God’s people from the beginning. Fires are ignited. Sacrifices are prepared. The right words are given and the right melodies are played. And everyone praises God. Maybe it’s because they can’t believe their good fortune. Maybe it’s simply because they’ve been commanded to do so. Whatever the reason, they lift up a shout of praise that can be heard for miles.
But for some gathered, the smells of the burnt offerings and the sounds of the old songs cause a jumble of complicated memories and feelings to crowd in. Seventy years ago they were kids, clinging to the hands of moms and dads, uncles, aunts and grandparents. They were herded out of their homes and out into the road leading away from Jerusalem. They watched wide-eyed as smoke billowed out of the doors and windows of the temple – the anchor of their city and their lives. The temple quickly faded behind them as they were led farther and farther from home. But that image has remained – as though burned into their eyelids – for all the years that have drained out of them in Babylon.
The image of their once-glorious temple, indelibly pressed on their memories, rises above the crude new foundation. The young ones – the builders and the new priests and their families – they don’t know any better. They don’t see what it used to be. What it could have been. All they know is the joy and excitement of a future they will have a hand in building. But the old ones – the survivors – cannot choke out the words of the praise songs through the debris of their memories.
So instead they weep – softly at first, then louder and louder until they too are shouting at the top of their lungs. Shouting at their ancestors for screwing up all the good stuff God gave them. Shouting at God for meting out the judgment he’d promised so many times. Shouting at the sheer futility of trying to live right in a world that has gone so badly wrong. The shouts of praise and the shouts of mourning are heard far away. As far away as the throne of heaven. As far away as the ears of the God of heaven and earth. As close as the ears of a God who didn’t leave, even when his people knew he should have. A God who is here, even now, with the people he promised never to forsake.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The End of the Story?
Passage: 2 Chronicles 36:15-23
After a downward spiral of increasingly corrupt and ungodly kings, Chronicles reaches the only conclusion possible. The children of Israel are finally called to account for the abandon and idolatry to which they’ve given themselves. God, who has time and again implored his people to turn around, steps back and allows them to experience judgment. Judah is overrun by the irresistible force of the Babylonian Empire. The walls of Jerusalem are torn down; the temple is sacked; those Israelites who aren’t put to the sword are carried off into exile.
However, this is not the end of the story. The author includes two hopeful details at the conclusion of his otherwise pessimistic account. The first is that after the Israelites are removed from the Promised Land, “The land enjoyed its sabbath rests; all the time of its desolation it rested, until the seventy years were completed in fulfillment of the word of the LORD spoken by Jeremiah.” The Sabbath that God’s people refused to observe is observed in spite of them. God makes good his promise to the land – that it will experience relief from the sin of humanity.
Second, the author fast-forwards seventy years to the conclusion of the Israelites’ exile. He notes that God makes good his promise to bring his people back to the Promised Land. And he alludes to the remarkable way in which God fulfills this promise. Even as God’s people experience the lowest point in their history; even as it seems their story has come to an end, they are given a glimpse of the new thing God has yet to do.
After a downward spiral of increasingly corrupt and ungodly kings, Chronicles reaches the only conclusion possible. The children of Israel are finally called to account for the abandon and idolatry to which they’ve given themselves. God, who has time and again implored his people to turn around, steps back and allows them to experience judgment. Judah is overrun by the irresistible force of the Babylonian Empire. The walls of Jerusalem are torn down; the temple is sacked; those Israelites who aren’t put to the sword are carried off into exile.
However, this is not the end of the story. The author includes two hopeful details at the conclusion of his otherwise pessimistic account. The first is that after the Israelites are removed from the Promised Land, “The land enjoyed its sabbath rests; all the time of its desolation it rested, until the seventy years were completed in fulfillment of the word of the LORD spoken by Jeremiah.” The Sabbath that God’s people refused to observe is observed in spite of them. God makes good his promise to the land – that it will experience relief from the sin of humanity.
Second, the author fast-forwards seventy years to the conclusion of the Israelites’ exile. He notes that God makes good his promise to bring his people back to the Promised Land. And he alludes to the remarkable way in which God fulfills this promise. Even as God’s people experience the lowest point in their history; even as it seems their story has come to an end, they are given a glimpse of the new thing God has yet to do.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A Momentary Lapse
Passage: 2 Chronicles 35:20-25
In the middle of a long string of bad kings, Josiah is a shining exception. In fact, Josiah turns out to be the last God-fearing king of Judah. In the course of his thirty-year reign, Josiah rids his nation of idols, rejuvenates the temple, and reinstates the worship life of his people. Josiah does everything right, and God looks on him with favor. It therefore comes as a shock when Josiah’s life is cut short prematurely. How his death comes about is an even greater shock.
Josiah receives word that Pharaoh Neco of Egypt is going to war against an unnamed enemy at Carchemish. Perhaps because Carchemish feels a little close to home, or perhaps because he is just in the mood for a fight, Josiah decides to suit up and meet Neco in battle. When Josiah and his troops arrive at the front, Neco sends for him. “What are you doing?”, he says. “My quarrel’s not with you. Besides,” he adds, “Your God has told me to hurry up and get the job done here. Stop slowing me down, or God will destroy you.”
Now you can see why Josiah would disregard this last part of the message. After all, the last person God would use as a messenger is the Pharaoh of Egypt. Besides, Josiah’s really itching to use his new battle gear, so he disguises himself and wades into the fray.
Josiah discovers the hard way that God can speak through whomever God wants. As a stray arrow pierces Josiah’s chest, he realizes the gravity of his momentary lapse. Josiah the man of God allows himself to be distracted – not much; not for long; but just enough to drown out the sound of God’s voice. And that’s all it takes. This is his undoing.
This story reminds us of two things. First, it reminds us that the characters we encounter in the Bible are not monolithic. They’re complex human beings who change over time and whose flaws are always close to the surface. Second, it reminds us of how easily our own urges and instincts crowd out the impulse to follow God’s will. It only takes a momentarily lapse to lead us dangerously astray. We’re all vulnerable, and the only safeguard is to stay as close to God’s word and as open to God’s voice as we can.
In the middle of a long string of bad kings, Josiah is a shining exception. In fact, Josiah turns out to be the last God-fearing king of Judah. In the course of his thirty-year reign, Josiah rids his nation of idols, rejuvenates the temple, and reinstates the worship life of his people. Josiah does everything right, and God looks on him with favor. It therefore comes as a shock when Josiah’s life is cut short prematurely. How his death comes about is an even greater shock.
Josiah receives word that Pharaoh Neco of Egypt is going to war against an unnamed enemy at Carchemish. Perhaps because Carchemish feels a little close to home, or perhaps because he is just in the mood for a fight, Josiah decides to suit up and meet Neco in battle. When Josiah and his troops arrive at the front, Neco sends for him. “What are you doing?”, he says. “My quarrel’s not with you. Besides,” he adds, “Your God has told me to hurry up and get the job done here. Stop slowing me down, or God will destroy you.”
Now you can see why Josiah would disregard this last part of the message. After all, the last person God would use as a messenger is the Pharaoh of Egypt. Besides, Josiah’s really itching to use his new battle gear, so he disguises himself and wades into the fray.
Josiah discovers the hard way that God can speak through whomever God wants. As a stray arrow pierces Josiah’s chest, he realizes the gravity of his momentary lapse. Josiah the man of God allows himself to be distracted – not much; not for long; but just enough to drown out the sound of God’s voice. And that’s all it takes. This is his undoing.
This story reminds us of two things. First, it reminds us that the characters we encounter in the Bible are not monolithic. They’re complex human beings who change over time and whose flaws are always close to the surface. Second, it reminds us of how easily our own urges and instincts crowd out the impulse to follow God’s will. It only takes a momentarily lapse to lead us dangerously astray. We’re all vulnerable, and the only safeguard is to stay as close to God’s word and as open to God’s voice as we can.
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