Remember when you first said to someone that you loved her? Remember how those words changed everything? You didn’t know if you should say it. You wanted to, but then again, you didn’t want to.
But suddenly the words blustered out and smashed into the open space between you. They took over. They stopped the conversation. There was nothing more to be said. You just sat there and looked at one another. It was like time stood still. This is the moment! Make this moment last!
Rabbi Harold Kushner remembered a scene from a television program that he saw years ago. He said it showed a young man and a young woman leaning together against the railing of a ship at sea. The winds tussled at their hair. The sprays showered them now and again. But they didn’t notice any of it, because their eyes were glued on each other. The world disappeared around them as they murmured their love.
“If I should die tomorrow,” he said softly to her, “I’d have lived an eternity in your love.” She nodded her head in bashful intimacy and leaned over to kiss him. Their lips lingered and they became one as the bustle around them faded. Finally they slipped away, arm in arm in the waltz of passionate lovers.
Behind them, in the void left as they shuffled the slow two-step to the left, the camera caught a life preserver hanging on the galley wall. It carried the name of the ship: Titanic.
Maybe, in our soap-operaish television viewing, that is enough for them: one night of romantic passion. That is the stuff of legends and fairy tales, where everything is compressed to the great hour of heroism or the night of intense love. Prince Charming kisses Sleeping Beauty and everything else gets summarized in a single line: “...and they lived happily ever after.” Or the heir to the kingdom finds Cinderella and the rest of the story is just one sentence: “...and they lived happily ever after.”
That is often the way we want it, in our books and movies and television programs. We want to linger in the critical moment. We want to feel the emotional high of the kiss in slow motion. We want to sit in the experience of the warm fuzzies, and then go get a burger.
But in our gospel reading for today, Jesus says no. Jesus says that life isn’t found in the moment, not even if it is a moment of insight or love or passion. Life is a journey, not a destination. Abraham knew this. So did Paul, when he wrote about Abraham’s journey. And it is what we need to hear again today.
Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16
Abram is an Aramean from the heart of Mesopotamia, whose father Terah begins a journey westward which Abram continues upon his father’s death. Whatever Terah’s reasons might have been for moving from the old family village -- restlessness, treasure-seeking, displacement, wanderlust -- Genesis 12 informs us that Abram’s continuation of the trek was motivated by a divine call to seek a land which would become his by providential appointment. This is the first of four similar divine declarations that occur in quick succession in chapters 12, 13, 15 and 17. Such repetition cues us to the importance of these theophanies, but it ought also cause us to look more closely at the forms in which the promises to Abram are made.
In ancient Israel’s world there were three dominant covenantal structures that shaped relationships locally and internationally:
- Parity Agreements were made between equal parties for mutual benefit (cf. Jacob and Laban in Genesis 31:36-54).
- Royal Grants were the gifts of kings to those on whom they wished to show favor, and did not, by themselves, require a long-term reciprocal behavior (cf. God’s gifts and promises in Genesis 9:8-17).
- Suzerain-Vassal Covenants were social constructs shaping a reciprocal relationship between a ruler and people (cf. Exodus 20-24).
The Babylonian royal grant was a formula by which kings could record their acts of beneficence. Unlike the suzerain-vassal covenant, it did not bind the receiver of the gift into some form of specific responsive obedience. Instead, it assured the one who had received the gift that this was intended by the king, and could not be revoked by others. Sometimes, in fact, a maledictory oath accompanied the donation, assuring the recipient that the burden of following through on the gift remained the responsibility of the giver. The maledictory oath was a promise, made at the expense of personal well-being, that the king would guarantee the gift.
In brief, Abram’s first three encounters with God are shaped literarily as royal grants. Only in Genesis 17 does the language of the dialogue change, and elements are added to give it the flavor of a suzerain-vassal covenant. This is very significant. When Abram receives royal grant promises of land or a son, he seems to treat these divine offerings with a mixture of indifference and skepticism. He immediately leaves the land of promise in Genesis 12, and connives with his wife Sarai and her handmaid Hagar to obtain an heir in Genesis 16. Even in the stories of Genesis 13-14, where Abram sticks with the land and fights others to regain his nephew Lot from them after local skirmishes and kidnappings, Abram turns his thankfulness toward a local expression of religious devotion through the mystical figure of Melchizedek (Genesis 14:18-20). Only when God changes the language of covenant discourse, bringing Abram into the partnership of a suzerain-vassal bond, does Abraham enter fidelity and commitment to this new world and new purpose and new journey.
For Israel, standing at Mt. Sinai in the context of a suzerain-vassal covenant-making ceremony, the implications would be striking. First of all, the nation would see itself as the unique and miraculously-born child fulfilling a divine promise. Israel could not exist were it not for God’s unusual efforts at getting Abram and Sarai pregnant in a way that was humanly impossible. Second, the people were the descendants of a man on a divine pilgrimage. Not only was Abram en route to a land of promise, but he was also the instrument of God for the blessing of all the nations of the earth. In other words, Israel was born with a mandate, and it was globally encompassing. Third, while these tribes had recently emerged from Egypt as a despised social underclass of disenfranchised slaves, they were actually landowners. Canaan was theirs for the taking because they already owned it! They would not enter the land by stealth but through the front door; they would claim the land, not by surreptitious means or mere battlefield bloodshed but as rightful owners going home. This would greatly affect their common psyche: they were the long-lost heirs of a kingdom, returning to claim their royal privilege and possessions. Fourth, there was a selection in the process of creating their identity. They were children of Abraham, but so were a number of area tribes and nations descending from Ishmael. What made them special was the uniqueness of their lineage through Isaac, the miraculously born child of Abram and Sarai’s old age. Israel had international kinship relations, but she also retained a unique identity fostered by the divine distinctions between branches of the family. Fifth, in the progression of the dialogue between Yahweh and Abram there was a call to participation in the mission of God. As the story of Abram unfolded, it was clear that his commitment to God’s plans was minimal at best until the change from royal grants (Genesis 12, 13, 15) to the suzerain-vassal covenant of chapter 17. Each time Abram was given a gift he seemingly threw it away, tried to take it by force, or manipulated his circumstances so that he controlled his destiny; only when God took formal ownership of both Abram and the situation through the suzerain-vassal covenant of Genesis 17 was there a marked change in Abram’s participation in the divine initiative. The renaming of Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah were only partly significant for the meaning of the names; mostly they were a deliberate and public declaration that God owned them. To name meant to have power over, just as was the case when a divine word created the elements of the universe in Genesis 1, and when Adam named the animals in Genesis 2. Furthermore, in the call to circumcise all the males of the family, God transformed a widely used social rite of passage symbol into a visible mark of belonging now no longer tied to personal achievements like battlefield wins or hunting success, but merely to the gracious goodness of God, and participation in the divine mission.
Romans 4:13-25
The story of God’s righteousness as grace and goodness begins with Abraham. God has always desired an ever-renewing relationship with the people of this world, creatures made in God’s own image. Paul describes God’s heart of love in 3:21-31, using illustrations from the courtroom (we are “justified” -- 3:24), the marketplace (we receive “redemption” -- 3:24), and the Temple (“a sacrifice of atonement” -- 3:25). Moreover, while this ongoing expression of God’s gracious goodness finds its initial point of contact through the Jews (Abraham and “the law” and Jesus), it is clearly intended for all of humankind (3:27-31).
This is nothing new, according to Paul. In fact, if we return to the story of Abraham, we find some very interesting notes that we may have glossed over. “Blessedness” was “credited” to Abraham before he had a chance to be “justified by works” (4:1-11). In other words, whenever the “righteousness of God” shows up it is a good thing, a healing hope, an enriching experience that no one is able to buy or manipulate. God alone initiates a relationship of favor and grace with us (4:1-23). In fact, according to Paul, this purpose of God is no less spectacular than the divine quest to re-create the world, undoing the effects that the cancer of sin has blighted upon us (Romans 5). It feels like being reborn (5:1-11). It plays out like the world itself is being remade (5:12-21). This is the great righteousness of God at work!
Now Paul gets very practical. Although we might think that we would jump at the opportunity to find such grace and divine favor, Paul reminds us that our inner conflicts tear at us until we are paralyzed with frustration and failure (Romans 6-7). Sometimes we deny these struggles (6:1-14). Sometimes we ignore these tensions (6:15--7:6). Sometimes we grow bitter in the quagmire of it all (7:7-12). And sometimes we even throw up our hands in despair (7:13-24).
Precisely then, says Paul, the power of the righteousness of God as our bodyguard is most clearly revealed. Thankfully, God’s righteousness grabs us and holds us, so that through Jesus and the Holy Spirit we are never separated from divine love (Romans 7:25--8:39). Hope floods through us because we know Jesus and what he has done for us (8:1-11). Hope whispers inside of us as the Holy Spirit reminds us who we truly are and whose we will always be (8:12-27). Hope thunders around us as God’s faithfulness is shouted from the heavens right through the pages of history (8:28-39): “...we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height or depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Mark 8:31-38
Just before these verses Jesus had asked his disciples what people were saying about him. Did they get it right? Did they know who he was?
The disciples gave back a variety of answers, and Jesus didn’t seem too surprised. But to his disciples’ chagrin, neither did he drop the matter there. Instead he pressed the query home in a very personal challenge. “Who do you say I am?” he demanded.
There was no room for fudging on this exam. Jesus had made it intense and immediate. No time to go back to the books for a night of cramming.
Fortunately for the others, Peter blurted out an answer: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Fortunately for Peter, he got it right. Jesus praised him on the spot.
And that only made this next scene, our gospel reading for today, so weird. First, Jesus changed the mood of the conversation too quickly. One moment they were grinning and enjoying that moment when friends reach a new level of insight, commitment, and trust; the next Jesus was rambling on about death and dying. It didn’t fit. Peter certainly wanted to bask in his celebrity status for a while. After all, he had managed to give the right answer to the toughest, most embarrassing challenge Jesus could have thrown at them. It was like winning an Oscar and a Grammy all at once, and Peter wanted to spend more time at the podium receiving the accolades of both Jesus and the others.
But Jesus steps up to the microphone and starts recording his martyr’s testimony. He is going to Jerusalem, he says. He knows his enemies are waiting for him there. He is certain they will arrest him and beat him and make him suffer. And he is confident that the outcome of their actions will result in his death.
There was clearly some kind of incongruity here. Peter had just voiced the great testimony that made Jesus seem invincible. Now, in the next breath Jesus was breathing defeat and disaster. How do these match up? Where is the connection?
And if that wasn’t enough, things only took a more eerie turn. Peter knew he had deal with this. After all, Jesus had just identified him as the leader among the Twelve. Furthermore, he was still confident about knowing the right answers. So he pulled Jesus aside and started to talk him out of this morbid reflection. “Look here, man; you’re scaring us. Do you hear what you’re saying? You better get it together, Jesus. This is getting out of hand.”
At that moment Jesus roughly pushed Peter away and started shouting at him. “Get away from me, Satan!” he yelled. “You’re standing in my way! You’re blocking my path! You’re fighting against God!’
The disciples were in sudden shock, and Peter most of all. He was so taken aback that he didn’t know what to do with himself. What could have caused this sudden tirade?
Everyone stood around for a bit, looking kind of dumb. Then Jesus broke the silence, but with a different demeanor. He poured out his heart. He gave them a sense of what was ahead for him, and for them. And in those moments of conversation Jesus spoke to them about the meaning of life. It is a strange and paradoxical word, but one of the truest things they would ever come to know. And we with them.
Application
You know what a tour is, don’t you? It’s where you let someone else do all the planning. They take care of your luggage. They put you on a big, air-conditioned bus and ferry you around to all the right sights. They pay the entrance fees for your tickets so you don’t have to stand in the heat or the sun or the smell by the booth. You can stay safe and comfortable and dry, while others do the sweating for you. That’s a tour.
When I studied for a semester in Israel we watched tour groups come through in regular fifteen-minute intervals. We were studying history and archaeology and biblical geography, so we walked and hiked and followed paths that weren’t paved. But the tour busses swept by with tourists who saw Palestine from their windows and never breathed the air or felt the wind or sneezed the dust. Clean in, clean out.
A true pilgrimage, however, isn’t like that. A pilgrimage is always personal, always firsthand, always something you have to do yourself. That is what Jesus says to his disciples. With Peter they want him to watch God’s plans work themselves out from a safe distance. They wish for him to rest with them on the sidelines, to take the tour on the big love boat instead of swimming with sharks.
But Jesus says no. Life is a personal journey. He cannot avoid it. He cannot have someone else stand in for him. He has to make the pilgrimage himself.
But so too those who are with him. Religion is no spectator sport. Harry Emerson Fosdick remembered a storm off the Atlantic coast. A ship foundered on the rocks and the Coast Guard was called out. The captain ordered the lifeboat to be launched, but one of the crew members protested. “Sir,” he said in fear, “the wind is offshore and the tide is running out! We can launch the boat, but we’ll never get back!”
The captain looked at him with a father’s eyes, and then said, “Launch the boat, men. We have to go out. That is our duty. But we don’t have to come back.”
So it is, in one of the strangest things about life that Jesus tells us here. The one who wants to protect himself, the one who wants to hide herself, the one who wishes to guard himself carefully, will never find the meaning of life. “Whoever wants to save his life will lose it. But whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”
Do you know what the early church leaders said about Peter? They had a legend about him and something that happened in his later years. They said that at the time of the great persecution under Nero, the Christians of Rome told Peter to leave. “You’re too valuable,” they said. “Get out of town! Find your safety! Go to another place and preach the gospel.”
According to the legends, Peter is supposed to have gone from the city. Yet only a few days later Nero had Peter in custody. Soon afterward he was sent out to die. When the soldiers took Peter to the site of execution, Peter begged of them one last request. He asked that he might be crucified upside-down. He said he wasn’t worthy to die in the same way as his Lord. So they nailed him to his cross inverted.
Then, according to the stories, the crowds of Christians gathered round. They wanted to be with their beloved leader as he died. “Why,” they asked him as he hung there upside-down on the cross, “why did you come back, Father Peter? Why did you return to Rome? Why didn’t you flee into the hills?”
This is what Peter is supposed to have said. “When you told me to leave the city, I made my escape. But as I was going down the road I met our Lord Jesus. He was walking back toward Rome, so I asked him, ‘Master, where are you going?’ He said to me, ‘I am going to the city to be crucified.’ ‘But Lord,’ I responded, ‘were you not crucified once for all?’ And he said to me, ‘I saw you fleeing from death, and now I wish to be crucified instead of you.’ Then I knew what I must do. ‘Go, Lord!’ I told him. ‘I will finish my pilgrimage.’ And he said to me, ‘Fear not, for I am with you.’ ”
That is the end of the story for us today. Peter’s great confession; Peter’s great denial; and Jesus taking both into his great heart, turning them into great grace. Life is a journey, he tells us, not a destination. We cannot sit down at one spot, however lovely it might be, and hug ourselves into some “...happily ever after.”
Moreover, life is a pilgrimage, Jesus tells us, not a tour. It is lived in the footsteps of the Master. It is carried out in the mission of the church.
Here is the road no one wants to travel. Yet if you choose not to walk it, you will never find yourself.
Alternative Application
Mark 8:31-38. Jesus reminds us that life is journey, not a destination. That can be frightening for us because we get used to a moment of great beauty and then want to hold on to that moment. We try again and again to recapture it in some way, and relive it as if it were more real than the rest of our humdrum hours.
It is for that reason that traditions latch onto us. They can become for us reminders of a moment in the past when things seemed so right in our world: a Currier & Ives Christmas, for instance, or an illuminated Thomas Kinkade painting glowing with just the right moment of sunset perfection outside and the warmth of faith and family shining through the windows of a still-life home. G.K. Chesterton called tradition “the democracy of the dead.” He said that when we fell in love with tradition we handed the current moment over to voices and times from the past. Let them tell us what to do. Let’s try to relive the good old days. “The democracy of the dead.”
But life is a journey, says Jesus. “If anyone would come after me he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”
That means traditions alone cannot keep our faith strong. It means that life and society and the church will always be changing. It can be frightening to us. How often I have had conversations with people who wished to turn back the clock, to put the pages back on the calendar, to relive the past once again. Then everything would be right and good and true and noble.
But it cannot happen. Soren Kierkegaard put it straight when he wrote that if we are really honest we experience fear when we read these words of Jesus. “Follow me!” he calls. But where? And how? And in what way?
Why can’t we just stay in the little huddle, feeling good about ourselves? Why do we have to hit the road with him?
Kierkegaard said that we should really collect up all our New Testaments and bring them out to an open place high on some mountaintop. There we should pile them high and kneel to pray: “God, take this book back again! We can’t handle it! It frightens us! And Jesus, go to some other people! Leave us alone!”
Still, Jesus stands next to us, sandals on his feet, staff in his hand, and says to us, “Time to go, folks.” Life is a journey, not a destination. And we know he is right.
