God of the nonconformists
Commentary
Object:
I should confess that I do not begin with a prejudice in favor of nonconformists. Some
people do, of course. Some people, I think, have protest hardwired into their
souls, and so they applaud almost any personal stand against whatever the prevailing
mores happen to be. But by temperament I am not of the camp.
On the contrary, I have often looked at nonconformity with suspicion. I have observed in some settings, for example, that nonconformity has become an unquestioned virtue, and so it has become the new norm within that setting. I suppose that reflects some basic human need for equilibrium. We may want to dispute the establishment's understanding of which way is up, but we still need to be able to affirm with some other folks which way it really is.
I have also been amused to observe how much alike the people who are determined to be different look. Does it really qualify as nonconformity when it becomes the norm within our little group or movement?
And yet, for all of my native reservations about nonconformity, I cannot read scripture without being struck by the virtue and heroism of it. For the biblical worldview invites us to see distinctions that challenge us to be nonconformists.
After all, if the world and the things of the world are hostile to God; if the way that leads to destruction is broad, and many are those that travel it; if it is standard fare for human beings to love those who love them and hate those who hate them; then you and I are indeed called to swim upstream. Israel was exhorted to be different from the nations around them, and Christians are likewise called to be different from the world around them.
As we consider the three texts assigned for this Sunday, we shall be reminded of the call to nonconformity. By both instruction and example, we will be challenged to count ourselves among God's holy nonconformists.
Exodus 1:8--2:10
At the far other end of Israel's exodus experience and Moses' life, he speaks plainly with the people in the trans-Jordan region. Before he dies and they cross into the promised land, Moses has a few things to put on permanent deposit with the children of Israel. That marvelous farewell address is found in the book of Deuteronomy, and one of the recurring exhortations of that book is that the people must remember.
Moses is acutely aware of the wisdom and faith that come from remembering well what has happened in the past. If the people will only remember what God has said and what God has done, they will navigate through the future faithfully. But woe to the people if they forget, for then Moses knows that they would be vulnerable to all manner of folly: doubt, ingratitude, heresy, immorality, and apostasy.
How did Moses know so well the benefits of memory and the consequences of forgetfulness? He cut his teeth on them. For "a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph." That's a statement of forgetfulness. The new king had lost touch with the significant events of just a generation before, and it resulted in a complete change in the administration's policy toward the Hebrews in their midst. Once VIP guests in the days of Joseph, they were now feared, persecuted, and enslaved. Baby Moses himself was almost a fatality of Pharaoh's forgetfulness.
This new king in Egypt is an interesting case because of the relationship between his strength and his weakness. He might have thought the strength of his leadership lay in his foresightedness: "They will increase and, in the event of war, join our enemies, and fight against us." In fact, however, his vision had a rather common impairment: namely, farsighted when looking ahead, but nearly blind in reference to history.
Also, the king tips his hand, even in his self-serving forecast. While he expresses the fear that the Hebrews might "join our enemies and fight against us," he concludes with the expressed apprehension that they would "escape from the land." That's where his logic breaks down and his real motives show through. If he honestly feared the Hebrews as an internal threat, then he would not be afraid of the prospect of them leaving. But complementing his fear was an ambition that saw the Hebrews as something more: not merely as an internal threat, but also a great national resource. And so the Egyptians "made their lives bitter with hard service."
It is interesting that the biblical author does not name Pharaoh. What historian would report such dramatic policies and human atrocities by the local sovereign without recording his name? Can we imagine a story of the Jews in Europe during the 1930s and 1940s without a reference to Adolf Hitler by name? Yet this writer has made a fascinating editorial decision. He has included the names of nobodies, while omitting the names of the real power brokers. So Shiphrah and Puah are recorded for immortality, while Pharaoh and, later, Pharaoh's daughter, are anonymous.
Interestingly, the civil disobedience of the Egyptian midwives is partly enabled by Pharaoh's own paranoia. When he queries them about their failure to carry out his grim edict, they report, "Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; for they are vigorous and give birth before the midwife comes to them." This appears to be a fabrication; but racial and ethnic prejudices always lead us to believe fantastic things about those we fear and hate, and so Pharaoh was ripe for this invented explanation.
Finally, we come to the familiar account of baby Moses. The writer of Hebrews observes that it was "by faith" that "Moses was hidden by his parents for three months after his birth" (11:23). And so it must also have been by faith that this young mother entrusted her child to the providence of God on the river. Her faith was not disappointed, for soon she had her beautiful baby boy back in her arms and at her breast. More about that lovely providence below.
Romans 12:1-8
In one of the sweet hymns we sing at Christmas time, Christina Rossetti wonders, "What can I give him, poor as I am? / If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; / If I were a wise man, I would do my part; / Yet what I can I give him: give my heart" ("In The Bleak Midwinter," words by Christina Rossetti).
It's a lovely image and thought, but the apostle Paul challenges us a step further. Beyond giving him our hearts only, the apostle urges us, "Present your bodies as a living sacrifice." If we limit our thinking and our giving to "heart" only, we run the risk of sentimentalizing our faith and commitment. Once we include our bodies, however, then our devotion becomes irresistibly practical. I take my body everywhere I go, and I use my body in everything I do: What new heights shall my faithful obedience reach when I am constantly mindful that that body belongs to him.
The specific image of the body as "a living sacrifice" is a potent one. The people in Paul's day knew about sacrifices. This was not a metaphor tied to a distant time and place, for they saw and smelled sacrifices every day. Paul's exhortation conjured a specific and powerful image: One's own body placed upon an altar as an offering.
But this offering we are called to make is not typically slain. No, this is a still more demanding sacrifice, for this sacrifice is living. An ordinary sacrifice is slaughtered and offered once; since our sacrifice is living, it must be offered to God continually. The problem with a living sacrifice, as has often been observed, is that it is capable of climbing off the altar.
That an offering needs to be "holy and acceptable to God" is a much-neglected truth in our day. Because we preachers feel it necessary to urge folks to give to the church, and because we are compelled by both manners and salesmanship to express gratitude for the donations, and because those donations have come more and more to be seen as "support" for the church, our congregations have largely lost touch with the concept of an unacceptable offering. How could any offering be unacceptable, they would wonder, since it all goes to help the cause? And yet, of the first two offerings ever rendered by human beings (Genesis 4:3-5), one was acceptable and the other not. And the distinction persists throughout scripture.
Meanwhile, just as Paul's counsel in this passage invites us to talk perhaps differently than we are accustomed about the subject of personal commitment and about the subject of offerings, so too it challenges us to talk differently about church membership. "We, who are many," Paul says, "are one body in Christ, and individually we are members of one another." Two concepts deserve exploration.
First, there is the mystery found in the biblical theme of unity. This is the unity of two becoming one in marriage and the unity of the Trinity. It is to this unity that we are also called as Christ's followers, and that unity is illustrated for us in terms of being "many" yet still "one body."
And, second, there is the notion that "we are members of one another." To have many people be many of, say, the same organization or unit or community is not at all an unfamiliar notion. But to have those individuals understand themselves as members of one another suggests something more than a shared-umbrella connection. Reminiscent of the "two become one flesh" language (Matthew 19:5), Paul's words imply a connectedness that is deeper, more intertwined, and not easily severed.
Matthew 16:13-20
This is the watershed moment in the synoptic gospels. Up until this point, Jesus' ministry had taken place mostly in the northern region of Galilee. Up until this point, there had been much speculation (but no confirmation) about who or what Jesus was. And, up until this point, there had been no mention of the pivotal upcoming events in Jerusalem. After this point, however, it all changes.
Immediately after the conclusion of our selected verses, Matthew reports, "From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised" (v. 21). And very shortly after this event, Luke says that Jesus "set his face to go to Jerusalem" (9:51).
From here forward, all things point toward Jerusalem. Jesus will speak repeatedly about his death and resurrection. There has been an open confirmation among his followers about just who Jesus is (though they clearly do not grasp the full implications at first).
The setting is Caesarea Philippi, which is quite far to the north. Perhaps Jesus deliberately sought time alone with his disciples, away from the relentless crowds. And there, in the relative solitude, he asked them two questions. Typically, they were the ones to ask the questions; he was the one with the answers. But at that point it was important for them to give some answers of their own.
The first question was a general question, and it received a general answer. "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" As the people nearest to Jesus, the disciples had no doubt heard and overheard a great deal of speculation and rumors, whispering and guessing. It was an easy question for them to answer, and the story suggests that they were not at a loss for words.
But then came a second and different sort of question. Now Jesus posed to them a personal question that required a personal answer. "But who do you say that I am?"
The question is more personal at two levels. In the first question, the query is about "people" -- what others think and say. And the reference to Jesus is that cryptic third- person allusion so common in the synoptic gospels -- "the Son of Man." In the second question, however, the references change. Now the inquiry is not about "people" but "you." He's not asking about those crowds back in Galilee; rather he's asking about the people right there in that little circle: the people he's looking in the eye. And, simultaneously, he makes no veiled, symbolic reference to himself; but, instead, he employs the personal pronoun "I."
Peter, whose high school yearbook picture was no doubt captioned, "Voted most likely to talk," was the first to speak. Indeed, perhaps he was the only one who would have spoken at all, for this question was much more difficult than the first one. To recite what others say about Jesus is no great challenge. To stand up as an individual apart from the crowd, however, and make a personal proclamation about him is an altogether different experience.
"You are the Messiah," Peter exclaims, "the Son of the living God."
When Jesus confirms Peter's statement, he says, "Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you." That is to say, in contrast to the earlier reported scuttlebutt of the crowds, this understanding of Jesus had come to Peter from God himself. In his book on the gifts of the Spirit, Kenneth Kinghorn suggests that this exclamation by Peter is an example of "the word of knowledge," which he defines as the ability "to understand or grasp the truth about a situation" and "to perceive a fact as God sees it" (Gifts of the Spirit [Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1976], pp. 63-64). So while the crowds -- and perhaps the other disciples, too -- scratched their heads in ordinary, human confusion and speculation, God gave to Peter the knowledge of the truth: that Jesus is the Messiah and the Son of God.
This revelation is quickly followed, however, by a strict instruction "not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah." Part of the larger synoptic phenomenon that W. Wrede first observed and labeled the "Messianic secret," it is clearly a short-term gag order. After Jesus' death and resurrection, it will become the standing order for the disciples to proclaim the Christ and his gospel. On this side of Jerusalem, however, it would be a premature -- or, at least, an incomplete -- news to tell. In that respect, of course, the events in Jerusalem, not this occasion in Caesarea Philippi, is the real watershed moment.
Application
We have two stories to consider together this week, in addition to the instructive material in Paul's letter. Those two stories offer us two different models for nonconformity, which Paul articulates and commends in his instructions.
First, we meet Shiphrah and Puah. They are not the headliner characters in the story, of course, for ultimately the writer is setting the stage for Moses and the deliverance of God. But that fact is itself instructive. For obedience to God is not found only in the stuff of front page news; rather, it is found in the faithfulness that is lived out in the ordinary tasks of our day-to-day life. In the day-to-day responsibilities of these two women, they were holy nonconformists. Out of reverence for God, they disobeyed Pharaoh's orders and cut across the grain of the established public policy of the day.
Peter's nonconformity in the gospel lection, meanwhile, is of a different sort, but just as important and relevant. "Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you," Jesus tells Peter. And that's commendation, indeed, for it is our natural instinct to live out of our flesh and blood. To know, to believe, to experience, and to follow only what comes from flesh and blood. But Peter was available to a higher influence, and that is a part of our calling, as well.
"Do not be conformed to this world," Paul urges the Christians in Rome. Without conscious effort to the contrary, of course, that is precisely what will happen to us. Without deliberate resistance, we will indeed conform to this world. For all of the pressures and influences around us -- and most within us -- prompt us to conform. But Shiphrah and Puah did not bend in the strong prevailing winds, and Peter was not limited to or by mortal understanding and perspective.
Time and again in scripture, we see that our God is the God of nonconformists. Indeed, it couldn't be any other way, for breaking with the world is both the cause and the effect of our salvation.
Alternative Application
Exodus 1:8--2:10. "In The Presence Of My Enemies." Our people are familiar with the psalmist's famous and cherished testimony: that the Lord was his shepherd, with all that that entailed. Along the way, the psalmist shares this detail about his shepherd's care for him: "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies" (Psalm 23:5).
It's a dramatic picture. The providence of God is not limited to favorable circumstances. He does not only provide in settings of green pastures and still waters. Rather, he is able to provide and care for his people even in the midst of an inhospitable environment. Thus it is that the psalmist can exclaim, "You serve me a six-course dinner right in front of my enemies" (Psalm 23:6 The Message).
Such is the versatile providence of God that we see in this week's Old Testament lection.
We see it first with the Hebrews themselves. They were cruelly mistreated by the Egyptians and their king, "but the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread." The Hebrews were very much "in the presence of (their) enemies," but God faithfully blessed and prospered them even there.
Next, we see it in the lives of the lovely Shiphrah and Puah. They feared and obeyed God more than Pharaoh. Their names and story are not as famous as Daniel (Daniel 6), Shadrach and company (Daniel 3), or Peter and John (Acts 4:1-22), but their courageous faithfulness is just the same. And "so God dealt well with the midwives ... and he gave them families." Thus they were blessed even in the midst of troubles, threats, and antagonism.
Finally, we see this grand providence at work again in the experience of one particular Levite family. Surrounded by unthinkable horror, this family's special baby is providentially saved from death. More than that, in a plot twist with particular sweetness, the baby finds himself back at his own mother's breast. So far from grieving the death of her baby, this mother is paid to nurse him.
This backstage hand-of-God is not so evident at any given moment as the front-and- center miracles that follow shortly: the plagues, the Passover, and the pillars, for example. But quietly and providentially, God blessed, protected, and prospered his people in the midst of unfavorable circumstances, and they enjoyed his banquet right under their enemies' noses.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 124
The words to this psalm bring to mind the phrase imprinted on a huge monument to Germany's fallen in World War I. Located outside Leipzig in the former East Germany, this towering pile of stones has inscribed on it in huge letters, "Gott mit uns!" In English, this can be translated into "God is on our side." In that same struggle, the forces allied against Germany also thought that God was on their side. It is a bit of a problem. For eons, people across the globe have tried to press God into service in their wars and struggles. One can only wonder whether God simply shook a cosmic head and wept over the slaughter.
History's list of those who counted God as ally is indeed long. However, we in the line of Judeo-Christian heritage have carved out a rather large footing in this arena. Indeed, much of our early heritage is rooted in an identity as ones who are chosen by God. There really is little sense in trying to deny this. It is our story.
We were lifted up by God and rescued from slavery in Egypt. God parted the waters for our ancestors and used those same waters to destroy Pharaoh's army. Our story takes us through the wilderness and into Canaan where God assisted in the victory to gain the land. Beyond this, there are numerous stories of God's special favor for the people of Israel.
All this really begs for the big question. What happens when both sides claim God as ally? How does God choose sides? Or to put it more succinctly: Does God choose sides -- especially in war?
There is one story attributed to Mark Twain. It is perhaps myth, but the point remains cogent. Mark Twain, in referring to the Spanish-American War, commented that it is not whether God is on our side, but whether we are on God's side. It is a question that should be asked often. God is on the side of the poor and the oppressed. Are we on our God's side? God is on the side of justice and hope. Are we on God's side? God is on the side of new life and forgiveness. Are we on God's side?
On the contrary, I have often looked at nonconformity with suspicion. I have observed in some settings, for example, that nonconformity has become an unquestioned virtue, and so it has become the new norm within that setting. I suppose that reflects some basic human need for equilibrium. We may want to dispute the establishment's understanding of which way is up, but we still need to be able to affirm with some other folks which way it really is.
I have also been amused to observe how much alike the people who are determined to be different look. Does it really qualify as nonconformity when it becomes the norm within our little group or movement?
And yet, for all of my native reservations about nonconformity, I cannot read scripture without being struck by the virtue and heroism of it. For the biblical worldview invites us to see distinctions that challenge us to be nonconformists.
After all, if the world and the things of the world are hostile to God; if the way that leads to destruction is broad, and many are those that travel it; if it is standard fare for human beings to love those who love them and hate those who hate them; then you and I are indeed called to swim upstream. Israel was exhorted to be different from the nations around them, and Christians are likewise called to be different from the world around them.
As we consider the three texts assigned for this Sunday, we shall be reminded of the call to nonconformity. By both instruction and example, we will be challenged to count ourselves among God's holy nonconformists.
Exodus 1:8--2:10
At the far other end of Israel's exodus experience and Moses' life, he speaks plainly with the people in the trans-Jordan region. Before he dies and they cross into the promised land, Moses has a few things to put on permanent deposit with the children of Israel. That marvelous farewell address is found in the book of Deuteronomy, and one of the recurring exhortations of that book is that the people must remember.
Moses is acutely aware of the wisdom and faith that come from remembering well what has happened in the past. If the people will only remember what God has said and what God has done, they will navigate through the future faithfully. But woe to the people if they forget, for then Moses knows that they would be vulnerable to all manner of folly: doubt, ingratitude, heresy, immorality, and apostasy.
How did Moses know so well the benefits of memory and the consequences of forgetfulness? He cut his teeth on them. For "a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph." That's a statement of forgetfulness. The new king had lost touch with the significant events of just a generation before, and it resulted in a complete change in the administration's policy toward the Hebrews in their midst. Once VIP guests in the days of Joseph, they were now feared, persecuted, and enslaved. Baby Moses himself was almost a fatality of Pharaoh's forgetfulness.
This new king in Egypt is an interesting case because of the relationship between his strength and his weakness. He might have thought the strength of his leadership lay in his foresightedness: "They will increase and, in the event of war, join our enemies, and fight against us." In fact, however, his vision had a rather common impairment: namely, farsighted when looking ahead, but nearly blind in reference to history.
Also, the king tips his hand, even in his self-serving forecast. While he expresses the fear that the Hebrews might "join our enemies and fight against us," he concludes with the expressed apprehension that they would "escape from the land." That's where his logic breaks down and his real motives show through. If he honestly feared the Hebrews as an internal threat, then he would not be afraid of the prospect of them leaving. But complementing his fear was an ambition that saw the Hebrews as something more: not merely as an internal threat, but also a great national resource. And so the Egyptians "made their lives bitter with hard service."
It is interesting that the biblical author does not name Pharaoh. What historian would report such dramatic policies and human atrocities by the local sovereign without recording his name? Can we imagine a story of the Jews in Europe during the 1930s and 1940s without a reference to Adolf Hitler by name? Yet this writer has made a fascinating editorial decision. He has included the names of nobodies, while omitting the names of the real power brokers. So Shiphrah and Puah are recorded for immortality, while Pharaoh and, later, Pharaoh's daughter, are anonymous.
Interestingly, the civil disobedience of the Egyptian midwives is partly enabled by Pharaoh's own paranoia. When he queries them about their failure to carry out his grim edict, they report, "Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; for they are vigorous and give birth before the midwife comes to them." This appears to be a fabrication; but racial and ethnic prejudices always lead us to believe fantastic things about those we fear and hate, and so Pharaoh was ripe for this invented explanation.
Finally, we come to the familiar account of baby Moses. The writer of Hebrews observes that it was "by faith" that "Moses was hidden by his parents for three months after his birth" (11:23). And so it must also have been by faith that this young mother entrusted her child to the providence of God on the river. Her faith was not disappointed, for soon she had her beautiful baby boy back in her arms and at her breast. More about that lovely providence below.
Romans 12:1-8
In one of the sweet hymns we sing at Christmas time, Christina Rossetti wonders, "What can I give him, poor as I am? / If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; / If I were a wise man, I would do my part; / Yet what I can I give him: give my heart" ("In The Bleak Midwinter," words by Christina Rossetti).
It's a lovely image and thought, but the apostle Paul challenges us a step further. Beyond giving him our hearts only, the apostle urges us, "Present your bodies as a living sacrifice." If we limit our thinking and our giving to "heart" only, we run the risk of sentimentalizing our faith and commitment. Once we include our bodies, however, then our devotion becomes irresistibly practical. I take my body everywhere I go, and I use my body in everything I do: What new heights shall my faithful obedience reach when I am constantly mindful that that body belongs to him.
The specific image of the body as "a living sacrifice" is a potent one. The people in Paul's day knew about sacrifices. This was not a metaphor tied to a distant time and place, for they saw and smelled sacrifices every day. Paul's exhortation conjured a specific and powerful image: One's own body placed upon an altar as an offering.
But this offering we are called to make is not typically slain. No, this is a still more demanding sacrifice, for this sacrifice is living. An ordinary sacrifice is slaughtered and offered once; since our sacrifice is living, it must be offered to God continually. The problem with a living sacrifice, as has often been observed, is that it is capable of climbing off the altar.
That an offering needs to be "holy and acceptable to God" is a much-neglected truth in our day. Because we preachers feel it necessary to urge folks to give to the church, and because we are compelled by both manners and salesmanship to express gratitude for the donations, and because those donations have come more and more to be seen as "support" for the church, our congregations have largely lost touch with the concept of an unacceptable offering. How could any offering be unacceptable, they would wonder, since it all goes to help the cause? And yet, of the first two offerings ever rendered by human beings (Genesis 4:3-5), one was acceptable and the other not. And the distinction persists throughout scripture.
Meanwhile, just as Paul's counsel in this passage invites us to talk perhaps differently than we are accustomed about the subject of personal commitment and about the subject of offerings, so too it challenges us to talk differently about church membership. "We, who are many," Paul says, "are one body in Christ, and individually we are members of one another." Two concepts deserve exploration.
First, there is the mystery found in the biblical theme of unity. This is the unity of two becoming one in marriage and the unity of the Trinity. It is to this unity that we are also called as Christ's followers, and that unity is illustrated for us in terms of being "many" yet still "one body."
And, second, there is the notion that "we are members of one another." To have many people be many of, say, the same organization or unit or community is not at all an unfamiliar notion. But to have those individuals understand themselves as members of one another suggests something more than a shared-umbrella connection. Reminiscent of the "two become one flesh" language (Matthew 19:5), Paul's words imply a connectedness that is deeper, more intertwined, and not easily severed.
Matthew 16:13-20
This is the watershed moment in the synoptic gospels. Up until this point, Jesus' ministry had taken place mostly in the northern region of Galilee. Up until this point, there had been much speculation (but no confirmation) about who or what Jesus was. And, up until this point, there had been no mention of the pivotal upcoming events in Jerusalem. After this point, however, it all changes.
Immediately after the conclusion of our selected verses, Matthew reports, "From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised" (v. 21). And very shortly after this event, Luke says that Jesus "set his face to go to Jerusalem" (9:51).
From here forward, all things point toward Jerusalem. Jesus will speak repeatedly about his death and resurrection. There has been an open confirmation among his followers about just who Jesus is (though they clearly do not grasp the full implications at first).
The setting is Caesarea Philippi, which is quite far to the north. Perhaps Jesus deliberately sought time alone with his disciples, away from the relentless crowds. And there, in the relative solitude, he asked them two questions. Typically, they were the ones to ask the questions; he was the one with the answers. But at that point it was important for them to give some answers of their own.
The first question was a general question, and it received a general answer. "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" As the people nearest to Jesus, the disciples had no doubt heard and overheard a great deal of speculation and rumors, whispering and guessing. It was an easy question for them to answer, and the story suggests that they were not at a loss for words.
But then came a second and different sort of question. Now Jesus posed to them a personal question that required a personal answer. "But who do you say that I am?"
The question is more personal at two levels. In the first question, the query is about "people" -- what others think and say. And the reference to Jesus is that cryptic third- person allusion so common in the synoptic gospels -- "the Son of Man." In the second question, however, the references change. Now the inquiry is not about "people" but "you." He's not asking about those crowds back in Galilee; rather he's asking about the people right there in that little circle: the people he's looking in the eye. And, simultaneously, he makes no veiled, symbolic reference to himself; but, instead, he employs the personal pronoun "I."
Peter, whose high school yearbook picture was no doubt captioned, "Voted most likely to talk," was the first to speak. Indeed, perhaps he was the only one who would have spoken at all, for this question was much more difficult than the first one. To recite what others say about Jesus is no great challenge. To stand up as an individual apart from the crowd, however, and make a personal proclamation about him is an altogether different experience.
"You are the Messiah," Peter exclaims, "the Son of the living God."
When Jesus confirms Peter's statement, he says, "Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you." That is to say, in contrast to the earlier reported scuttlebutt of the crowds, this understanding of Jesus had come to Peter from God himself. In his book on the gifts of the Spirit, Kenneth Kinghorn suggests that this exclamation by Peter is an example of "the word of knowledge," which he defines as the ability "to understand or grasp the truth about a situation" and "to perceive a fact as God sees it" (Gifts of the Spirit [Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1976], pp. 63-64). So while the crowds -- and perhaps the other disciples, too -- scratched their heads in ordinary, human confusion and speculation, God gave to Peter the knowledge of the truth: that Jesus is the Messiah and the Son of God.
This revelation is quickly followed, however, by a strict instruction "not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah." Part of the larger synoptic phenomenon that W. Wrede first observed and labeled the "Messianic secret," it is clearly a short-term gag order. After Jesus' death and resurrection, it will become the standing order for the disciples to proclaim the Christ and his gospel. On this side of Jerusalem, however, it would be a premature -- or, at least, an incomplete -- news to tell. In that respect, of course, the events in Jerusalem, not this occasion in Caesarea Philippi, is the real watershed moment.
Application
We have two stories to consider together this week, in addition to the instructive material in Paul's letter. Those two stories offer us two different models for nonconformity, which Paul articulates and commends in his instructions.
First, we meet Shiphrah and Puah. They are not the headliner characters in the story, of course, for ultimately the writer is setting the stage for Moses and the deliverance of God. But that fact is itself instructive. For obedience to God is not found only in the stuff of front page news; rather, it is found in the faithfulness that is lived out in the ordinary tasks of our day-to-day life. In the day-to-day responsibilities of these two women, they were holy nonconformists. Out of reverence for God, they disobeyed Pharaoh's orders and cut across the grain of the established public policy of the day.
Peter's nonconformity in the gospel lection, meanwhile, is of a different sort, but just as important and relevant. "Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you," Jesus tells Peter. And that's commendation, indeed, for it is our natural instinct to live out of our flesh and blood. To know, to believe, to experience, and to follow only what comes from flesh and blood. But Peter was available to a higher influence, and that is a part of our calling, as well.
"Do not be conformed to this world," Paul urges the Christians in Rome. Without conscious effort to the contrary, of course, that is precisely what will happen to us. Without deliberate resistance, we will indeed conform to this world. For all of the pressures and influences around us -- and most within us -- prompt us to conform. But Shiphrah and Puah did not bend in the strong prevailing winds, and Peter was not limited to or by mortal understanding and perspective.
Time and again in scripture, we see that our God is the God of nonconformists. Indeed, it couldn't be any other way, for breaking with the world is both the cause and the effect of our salvation.
Alternative Application
Exodus 1:8--2:10. "In The Presence Of My Enemies." Our people are familiar with the psalmist's famous and cherished testimony: that the Lord was his shepherd, with all that that entailed. Along the way, the psalmist shares this detail about his shepherd's care for him: "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies" (Psalm 23:5).
It's a dramatic picture. The providence of God is not limited to favorable circumstances. He does not only provide in settings of green pastures and still waters. Rather, he is able to provide and care for his people even in the midst of an inhospitable environment. Thus it is that the psalmist can exclaim, "You serve me a six-course dinner right in front of my enemies" (Psalm 23:6 The Message).
Such is the versatile providence of God that we see in this week's Old Testament lection.
We see it first with the Hebrews themselves. They were cruelly mistreated by the Egyptians and their king, "but the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread." The Hebrews were very much "in the presence of (their) enemies," but God faithfully blessed and prospered them even there.
Next, we see it in the lives of the lovely Shiphrah and Puah. They feared and obeyed God more than Pharaoh. Their names and story are not as famous as Daniel (Daniel 6), Shadrach and company (Daniel 3), or Peter and John (Acts 4:1-22), but their courageous faithfulness is just the same. And "so God dealt well with the midwives ... and he gave them families." Thus they were blessed even in the midst of troubles, threats, and antagonism.
Finally, we see this grand providence at work again in the experience of one particular Levite family. Surrounded by unthinkable horror, this family's special baby is providentially saved from death. More than that, in a plot twist with particular sweetness, the baby finds himself back at his own mother's breast. So far from grieving the death of her baby, this mother is paid to nurse him.
This backstage hand-of-God is not so evident at any given moment as the front-and- center miracles that follow shortly: the plagues, the Passover, and the pillars, for example. But quietly and providentially, God blessed, protected, and prospered his people in the midst of unfavorable circumstances, and they enjoyed his banquet right under their enemies' noses.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 124
The words to this psalm bring to mind the phrase imprinted on a huge monument to Germany's fallen in World War I. Located outside Leipzig in the former East Germany, this towering pile of stones has inscribed on it in huge letters, "Gott mit uns!" In English, this can be translated into "God is on our side." In that same struggle, the forces allied against Germany also thought that God was on their side. It is a bit of a problem. For eons, people across the globe have tried to press God into service in their wars and struggles. One can only wonder whether God simply shook a cosmic head and wept over the slaughter.
History's list of those who counted God as ally is indeed long. However, we in the line of Judeo-Christian heritage have carved out a rather large footing in this arena. Indeed, much of our early heritage is rooted in an identity as ones who are chosen by God. There really is little sense in trying to deny this. It is our story.
We were lifted up by God and rescued from slavery in Egypt. God parted the waters for our ancestors and used those same waters to destroy Pharaoh's army. Our story takes us through the wilderness and into Canaan where God assisted in the victory to gain the land. Beyond this, there are numerous stories of God's special favor for the people of Israel.
All this really begs for the big question. What happens when both sides claim God as ally? How does God choose sides? Or to put it more succinctly: Does God choose sides -- especially in war?
There is one story attributed to Mark Twain. It is perhaps myth, but the point remains cogent. Mark Twain, in referring to the Spanish-American War, commented that it is not whether God is on our side, but whether we are on God's side. It is a question that should be asked often. God is on the side of the poor and the oppressed. Are we on our God's side? God is on the side of justice and hope. Are we on God's side? God is on the side of new life and forgiveness. Are we on God's side?
