Taken literally, however, that familiar figure of speech suggests a terrible prospect. The image is this: "If the devil were here, this is what I would think he would say. I want to speak in his place. I want to be an advocate for his point of view."
It's a dreadful image, and yet it is not an uncommon phenomenon. Beyond the careless use of the expression, I suspect that there are frequent occasions when a person plays the devil's part. The intent might not be so diabolical, but the effect is the same nonetheless.
John Donne perceptively prayed, "Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won / Others to sin, and made my sins their door?"1 Many of us carry such a regret: deep remorse over a sin or temptation that was not kept to ourselves but shared. Our sin became an opening for some other person to sin. And as such we truly became the devil's advocate, for we played his role in that other person's life.
In a committee meeting, a debate, or even a casual conversation, playing the devil's advocate seems harmless enough. In reality, however, anytime our words or actions serve the enemy's purpose in some circumstance or relationship, we have been his advocate. As we unpack the scripture readings for this week, I believe that we will see Jacob symbolically playing the devil's advocate in the life of his brother. Then Jacob's example, in turn, will give us insight into how the devil functions in our lives.
Genesis 25:19-34
Our selected passage begins with the statement that this is the story of Abraham's son Isaac. In reality, however, what follows reads like the story of Jacob and Esau, which makes the narrator's opening line seem a bit odd. That he is identified primarily as Abraham's son, and that "his story" is actually focused on Jacob and Esau, reflects what a middleman character Isaac is in Genesis. He barely appears in the lengthy story of his own marriage (Genesis 24), and even the narrative elements that belong exclusively to Isaac (Genesis 26) still seem to be derivatives of his father Abraham.
Meanwhile, the saga of Jacob and Esau in scripture has four major components: their relationship in utero, the birthright episode, the stolen blessing, and their reunion two decades later. The first two of those four stories are part of our Old Testament passage.
The account of the boys wrestling conspicuously within their mother's womb is a foreshadowing of the relationship that will follow. And, according to God's answer to Rebekah, their struggle would persist for generations beyond their own individual lives, continuing on between the nations that would descend from each of them.
My wife and I have three daughters, and I could not estimate the number of times we have looked at each other, smiled, and said, "They come the way they come." It is so clear to us that each of our children was simply born with her own personality, and that individual personality manifests itself uniquely every single day, even from a very young age. Indeed, my wife looks back and recognizes their differences even in how they nursed as infants!
So it was with Jacob and Esau. They come the way they come. They wrestled with each other from the beginning. And from the day he was born, Jacob was a little bit behind, but always struggling to get ahead -- even if it meant usurping someone else to do it.
Meanwhile, we see that the pre-existing condition of their sibling rivalry was fomented by the favoritism cultivated in their home. Rebekah openly favored Jacob, while Isaac clearly preferred Esau. This, of course, is a recipe for trouble. Perhaps Jesus would have cautioned these parents that "a house divided against itself... will not be able to stand" (Mark 3:25).
We see from the moment of their birth that these twins are not identical. Tellingly, the biblical author describes Esau's appearance and Jacob's behavior. And the stark contrast between them is carried out into adulthood, where we see Esau as "a man of the field" while Jacob "was a quiet man, living in tents." The idea of "living in tents," of course, sounds rather outdoorsy to us, but within their context the phrase suggests that Jacob was rather domesticated, something of a homebody.
If we were to put their story on a twenty-first-century stage, we can envision how we might cast and outfit each character. Esau would be the big, burly guy with a face full of beard. The boots and hunting gear Esau wears all combine to weigh more than Jacob himself does. Esau is a man of simple tastes and straightforward talk. There is no shrewdness, no cleverness, no guile in him; he's all gusto and strength. He walks heavily, stands firmly, and talks loudly. He's got a big body, a big voice, and a big appetite.
Jacob, on the other hand, is made of finer stuff. He is carefully groomed, and he regards neatness and quietness as virtues. He is attentive to his clothing, and so he wears an apron to protect it as he works in the kitchen. He is pensive and articulate. He thinks more than he says. He sometimes struggles to be noticed, but he never struggles to be effective.
If they didn't live in the same family, Jacob and Esau wouldn't have anything to do with one another. There is nothing about them that they should ever be friends. On the contrary, as siblings in a setting of overt favoritism, there is much about them to make them enemies. And so, indeed, they were.
As infants, Esau's strength helped him come out ahead. As adults, however, Jacob's wits prevailed. And so the guy in the apron bested the guy in the blaze-orange hunting gear. But, of course, the former had a home-field advantage in this matchup: for it took place in the kitchen; and in the less straightforward world of negotiation.
Romans 8:1-11
I heard a colleague once lament, "My church would be perfect if only it weren't for all the people in it."
That's foolishness, of course, but you and I know the truth of what he was saying. And it applies to more than just the church. So many institutions, which function with high ideals and worthy goals, find that their greatest handicap is the human element.
So it was, also, with the Old Testament law. The apostle Paul, who was himself a Pharisee (Philippians 3:5), knew all about the law and was taught to take it most seriously. Yet he had also come to recognize that, for as good as the law of God was, it was inadequate. Not in the sense that God had produced an inferior product, but rather in the same sense that the church (and every human institution) is inadequate. It is all "weakened by the flesh."
The weakness of the flesh, of course, was famously witnessed to by Jesus in Gethsemane (Matthew 26:41). And that weakness prevents us from obeying God as we ought -- indeed, even as we at our best desire! -- and therefore renders the law ineffective, except for condemnation. And so what the law could not do for us, God sent his own Son to do for us.
Then Paul moves to the dichotomy of spirit and flesh. This paradigm of our existence can arguably be traced all the way back to the Genesis account of our creation (Genesis 2:7). For there we see that God formed our bodies out of the ground, and then breathed into us the breath of life. With those two components -- flesh and spirit -- joined, then "the man became a living being." So it is, therefore, that so many of our committal litanies include some recognition of these two ingredients parting in death: "Forasmuch as the spirit of the departed has returned to God who gave it, we therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."2
Jesus, in the aforementioned scene in Gethsemane, also noted the spirit-flesh duality. He, like Paul in our lection, diagnoses the problem as being with the flesh.
It seems, however, that Paul borrows the human composition in order to illustrate the human condition. For Paul is no Gnostic, pinning all blame on the physical or material, while idealizing the spiritual. No, for this spirit-flesh dualism is not the struggle within a given human being, but rather the struggle between the sinful self and the Spirit of God. Indeed, the New International Version translates "flesh" here as "sinful nature." Likewise, the New Jerusalem Bible calls it "our natural inclinations." The real issue, then, is not my physical body, but rather my fallen nature.
That fallen nature is "hostile to God." Naturally, therefore, those who "live according to" and "set their minds on the things of" that nature will find death, rather than the "life and peace" of God. Death was the ultimate destination of the unhappy road Adam and Eve chose (Genesis 2:17). Death is the end of the road for the person who travels by his own wits and sense of what's right (Proverbs 14:12; 16:25). And death is what always comes as the result of sin (Romans 6:23).
Long ago, Moses set before the people of God the choice between life and death (Deuteronomy 30:15-20). Perhaps Paul would look back on that moment and say that, with only the law to help them, the people could not really choose life. But to Paul's later audience in Rome, who had believed and received God's Son, Paul declares, "The Spirit of God dwells in you." And given that truth, they -- and we -- are exhorted to "set their minds on the things of the Spirit," confident that "he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you."
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
This parable has been one of my favorites since I was nineteen years old and was appointed as the student pastor of two little country churches near the university where I was a student. The task of preaching to a congregation every week, combined with an insightful stained-glass window depicting this parable, made me very fond of it. Still, all of these years later, I find great comfort and inspiration in this story, which I think of as "The Preacher's Parable."
I call it that because it describes, at its core, the different ways that people respond to the message. Specifically, Jesus identifies the seed in the parable as "the word of the kingdom."
We are accustomed to hearing in Jesus' teachings -- and in Matthew's gospel particularly -- references to the kingdom. That is cited as the central subject of both John's preaching (3:2) and Jesus' (4:17, 23). It is the theme of so many parables and other teachings, including several memorable parables within this chapter alone. It is the prospect that Jesus anticipates even as he shares his Last Supper with the disciples (26:29).
The four soils, then, represent four different ways that a person might respond to "the message of the kingdom." And that too is a familiar theme. Jesus' story of the two house builders also symbolizes different ways of responding to his words (Matthew 7:24-27). In both cases, the response is an either-or proposition. In the case of the four soils, however, we get a clearer picture into the sad variety of ways that people fail to respond.
We will give more detailed attention below to the characteristics of each soil. For the moment, however, we want to give some thought to the math involved. After all, it seems on its face a most discouraging parable. Three out of every four seeds, it appears, is wasted. Seventy-five percent of the sower's effort is, literally, fruitless.
Is this the nature of our calling? Is this the sad rate of return that we can expect in the kingdom?
No, for look again at the numbers. The seed that falls in the good soil reproduces -- "in one case a hundredfold, in another sixty, and in another thirty." Just for the sake of perspective, therefore, let's run some imaginary numbers. If the sower scatters a hundred seeds, the parable prompts us to write off 75 of them as lost. But if the 25 seeds that fall on good soil reproduce an average of sixtyfold, that suggests a yield of 1,500, which is a handsome return for a hundred seeds.
Keep sowing, therefore, my friends! For while so much of the soil may discourage us, the Lord of the harvest will surely get a good yield in the end!
Application
I suggested above that Jacob played the role of "devil's advocate." That may seem like a harsh characterization, for while he was arguably dishonorable in how he took advantage of his brother's hunger -- and perhaps doltishness -- it's seems a bit overstated to associate Jacob with Satan.
Yet, see the essence of what Jacob encourages Esau to do. The birthright represented something of great and lasting value. It was the heritage of the firstborn son, and it came with many advantages. Over against that, Jacob offered a bowl of stew or soup -- "pottage," as the old King James Version renders it. Admittedly, Esau was hungry, and so the meal no doubt looked and smelled very appetizing. But see the conditions of the trade.
On the one hand, there is something of lasting value that comes from your father. On the other hand, there is something of immediate satisfaction that comes from the kitchen. Here is a status; there is a stomach. Here is something that will be with me for my whole life; there is something that will be with me for an hour. Here is something that is nearly priceless; there is something that is practically worthless.
This is always the nature of the trade that the devil urges us to make. It is mortgaging the eternal for the immediate. It is trading what God offers for what the world offers. It is living according to the flesh, Paul would say, rather than according to the Spirit.
In the context of Jesus' parable, we might say that this is the choice of the crowded soil. Those folks are entrusted with the good news of the kingdom, yet they let "the cares of the world and the lure of wealth choke the word." It's pottage for birthright, yet it is a choice not limited to poor, dumb Esau.
This is why I call Jacob "the devil's advocate." It's not so much that he led Esau into sin, per se. Rather, he enticed his brother to make the very sort of choice that the devil is always pushing us to make.
Charles Wesley must have had Esau in mind when he spoke of those who "have sold for naught (their) heritage above."3 That is the painful truth of sin's transaction.
Over against the tragedy of our choice, however, is the beauty of God's grace. In Christ, God offers to restore us to our prior state. He will adopt us as his children, reconcile us to himself, and restore our inheritance. Though we have been foolish and guilty, the drips of pottage still visible in our beard, we hear the good news that "there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." Or, as Wesley sings it, "Ye who have sold for naught your heritage above shall have it back unbought, the gift of Jesus' love."4
Alternative Application
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23. "What's your soil?" My recollection from the 1970s is that it was very fashionable for a time to ask people, "What's your sign?" The underlying assumption was that your sign in the zodiac system revealed a great deal about your personality and possibly even your future.
Perhaps in the church we ought to establish a different pattern. Set aside the twelve signs of the zodiac, and let's ask one another instead, "What's your soil?"
According to Jesus, you see, there are four types of soil, and those soils represent the four different ways that people respond to "the word of the kingdom." Those four types of responses might be labeled this way: hard soil, shallow soil, crowded soil, and good soil. The seed sown does not survive in any of the first three. In the fourth, however, it thrives!
The hard soil represents those souls who go sadly untouched by the gospel. It's not that they aren't exposed to it; it just doesn't penetrate. Every preacher has seen this soil, and it is a mystery to us. We wonder what we can do to get through. Yet the message seems only to bounce off their hardness.
The shallow soil is perhaps even more common in our churches and in our culture. Indeed, contemporary society may actually cultivate shallowness. So we watch as people start but don't finish, matriculate but don't graduate. They show an initial enthusiasm that is most encouraging, but then they break our hearts -- and God's, I imagine -- as they wither away under pressure.
The crowded soil is another common plight and familiar profile. As an aside, I would observe that I see us cultivating this kind of soil more and more in our children and teenagers. This is the life that is too busy for God's stuff to grow there. It is demonstrably good soil; it's just not available to the Lord, which is tragic.
If we get a clear sense for each of the three disappointing soils, then we have a head start for understanding the good soil. For the good soil will be characterized by the opposite of each other soil's deficiencies. It will be soft, unlike the path. It will be deep, unlike the rocky soil. And it will be available, unlike the soil full of weeds and thorns. Soft, deep, and available -- that is the profile of the soul in which God's word will prosper.
So, what's your soil?
Preaching the Psalm
Schuyler Rhodes
Psalm 119:105-112
Choosing to be guided by the word
"Your Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path." This phrase is lifted up in song and prayer so much that it sometimes falls into the category of rote recitation and ends up on the floor of our good intentions. But if anyone has ever had to find their way forward in the darkness, the idea of having a light to see the way is no small matter.
"But how," squeaks the literalist, "can a word shed light?"
In a literalist world, a word cannot shed light. In a literalist world, words evade the touch of poetry and imagination. They build walls of legalism and structure, but seldom sway to the rhythms of grace. But in a biblical world, literalism falls to power and beauty. In a biblical world, words take wing and fire the vision. In a biblical world, words can indeed give light.
God's Word, calls us to justice, giving light that shows the way to a world of equity and hope. God's Word calls us to love, shining forth and illuminating a community built on mutual affection and accountability.
And in the darkness, God's Word is a lamp that keeps us from stumbling. There are many boulders, stumps, and stones on the path, and the light provided by God's Word can reveal them. So in all this poetic rambling, what is the Word of God, really? Is it that book we call "The Bible"? Does the Word come down to a set of teachings or precepts? Is God's Word made flesh, the person of Jesus? In a word, yes.
God's Word is all this, and more.
God's Word is the Holy half of the cosmic conversation between human and divine. It's a dialogue that moves through our story from Adam to John of Patmos and beyond. It's the dance that steps up with David as he shakes his tambourine. It's the voice of Jesus laughing and singing, preaching and weeping as he accompanies us on this path, shining light ahead so we won't trip or fall.
"God's Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path..."
1. John Donne, "A Hymn to God the Father," http://www.bartleby.com/101/201.html.
2. The Book of Worship (Nashville: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1965), p. 41.
3. Charles Wesley, "Blow Ye the Trumpet, Blow" (United Methodist Hymnal #379).
4. Ibid.
