That's the way
Commentary
Walter Cronkite, in his long tenure as the anchor of the CBS Evening News, was known for his closing line, "And that's the way it was...." It is a reporter's refrain. By and large, it's the best that a reporter can do -- or any other human being, for that matter. We are not able to change the way it was; we can only recognize and recount the way it was.
God can do more, however. He is not limited to, or by, the way it was. So we find -- in his word, and in his very character -- that he is more a God of "that's the way it will be."
From the very beginning, we see this part of God's nature. The "let there be" pattern in his creation of the universe reveals a God who states in advance how he envisions it, how he wants it to be. That part of his nature is not thwarted or nullified by sin, for even in the very wake of Adam and Eve's disobedience, God is again making statements about how it's going to be -- statements that consist of both warnings and promises.
It is central to the ministry and message of the Old Testament prophets that the Lord God calls his shots -- that he says in advance how it's going to be. And, likewise all along the way in both Old and New Testament stories, God assures and promises his people how it's going to be (see, for example, Genesis 15:13-21; Exodus 3:19-22; 2 Samuel 7:12-16; Jeremiah 33:6-9; Mark 8:31).
Our selected passages for this week affirm a God of "the way that it's going to be." The Lord shares his plans with Jacob -- plans that are both specific to Jacob, and that extend beyond the borders of Jacob's own existence. Paul reassures the Christians in Rome that how it is in the present is not the way it's "about to be," and Jesus tells a story of a farmer whose field illustrates both how it is and how it's going to be.
Genesis 28:10-19a
Jacob is running away from home. He is somewhat more dignified than the average runaway, for he has the imprimatur of his parents. But he, his family, and we all know that the ostensible errand to find a wife is a thinly veiled conspiracy to get Jacob away from his older brother's vengeful wrath.
Jacob, with the encouragement and aid of his mother, has just duped and cheated the other half of his family -- Isaac and Esau -- and he has become persona non grata at home. One wonders, as Jacob sets out alone toward a foreign land, whether he questions the worth of his trickery. He seems to be more pragmatic than principled -- an "ends justify the means" kind of guy -- and so his barely disguised exile may have made him wonder if his father's blessing was worth enough to endure his brother's curse.
His first overnight stop embodies his isolation. He is on the road between kinfolk and kinfolk, but he has to stop and stay where he knows no one, and no one knows him. He is not staying with friends and family. He is not invited in by hospitable strangers. Instead, he is alone and exposed, sleeping outdoors with his head on a rock.
It seems to be a most undesirable place: a metaphor and a reminder of where his choices have brought him. But then, in his sleep, the place is transformed by a dream.
The dream, it appears, was an encounter with God. It may be a tacit indictment of Jacob that God was perhaps unable to communicate with him while he was awake. Still, it is a testimony to God's versatility the variety of ways that he speaks to people.
God initially identifies himself to Jacob by means of other human beings. He is "the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac." This method of introduction is not unique to this episode with Jacob. God uses the same technique with Isaac (Genesis 26:24) and with Moses (Exodus 3:6). It seems here to be God's way of introducing himself to someone who doesn't know him. It's as though God is saying, "You don't know me yet, Jacob, but we have some friends in common. Allow me to introduce myself...."
Jacob is ever the wheeler-dealer, as evidenced by his eventual response after awakening (vv. 20-22). Perhaps God spoke to him in a dream because then Jacob wouldn't talk back -- at least not right away. God begins by laying out his plan and his promise for Jacob. We find that the arrangement God proposes to Jacob is substantially the same as what he had articulated earlier to Abraham.
That may be surprising, at first blush. Abraham seems to be a man of so much more character, understanding, and faith than Jacob. One would think God's plans for Abraham and for Jacob would be as different as the men themselves were. But this is the God who pays all the workers the same wage at the end of the day (see Matthew 20:8-15). He is not less than fair with anyone, but he is more than generous with many. Certainly he was with Jacob. And with me, too.
Finally, as I read this episode from Jacob's life, I am reminded of a certain kind of guided prayer and meditation technique that I have seen used throughout the years in some churches, as well as in some curriculum resources. The individuals are invited to close their eyes and relax, while imagining themselves in a beautiful and peaceful place. Then, having set the pretty stage, they are invited to picture Jesus coming to meet and talk with them there.
I hesitate to criticize the technique, for I'm sure it has generated some meaningful experiences for numbers of people. What troubles me, however, is the fundamental biblical truth that is undermined by the process. Namely, scripture does not bear witness to a God who meets us in imaginary places. Quite the contrary, scripture reveals a God who meets us in very real -- and often not-so-lovely -- places.
This is the God who meets Hagar in the midst of her distress; who meets Gideon where he is hiding from the menacing Midianites; who meets Saul on his bloodthirsty way to Damascus. This is the God who meets a manipulative, deceitful scoundrel of a younger brother as he runs away from home, sleeping with his head on a rock in the middle of nowhere. It is a great testimony to his grace -- and a great comfort to us in both our ordinariness and our distress -- that God meets us in very real places.
Romans 8:12-25
If your preaching style is verse-by-verse exposition, then this is a lection to salivate over. It is a rich vein for miners, a mother lode. As is so often the case in Paul's epistles, and particularly with some great passages in this letter to the Romans, the preacher is invited here to put on the lighted helmet, grab the pickax, and start working.
Because the space afforded here is too small for detailed exposition, I would encourage the exploration of any one of three major themes suggested by the passage. First, consideration of to whom or to what we belong. Second, an examination of the relationship between spirit and flesh. And, third, a comparison of our present condition and our future hope.
For my congregation and me, I would want to explore this central question: to whom do we belong? Paul notes that "you did not receive a spirit of slavery" but rather "a spirit of adoption." Both images -- slavery and adoption -- are relationship images. They both speak of belonging to someone else, and that truth deserves our attention, our proclamation, and our application.
That we human beings will belong to something or someone is rather a truism in the New Testament. Our American congregations may be slow to embrace the truth, for we cut our teeth on independence and freedom, and so we reckon that we belong to no one. Still, an honest look at the underbelly of most human existence reveals that there is no such thing as human sovereignty. Voluntarily or involuntarily, human beings will always belong to something or someone else. Some poor souls belong to an addiction that becomes an oppressive tyrant in their lives. Many sell themselves to their appetites or ambitions. We choose to belong to friends and family. Universally, we belong to our mortality in the sense that we do not have ultimate say-so over our bodies and earthly existence.
If we can accept the fact that we will -- and do -- belong to someone or something, we can turn then to ask what sort of a thing it is that owns us. What is the nature of this belonging?
When it is sin that owns us, when it is the flesh to which we belong, then Paul contends that the relationship is slavery. We "belong" in the most undesirable sense. It is involuntary (though not without complicity, of course), it is exploitive, and it is destructive.
God wants to set us free from that slavery, but when we are set free, it is not some vague, vacuous emancipation. We are not set free to be on our own, but rather to return to our rightful owner. Paul reckons this new relationship as adoption, and so we "belong" now in the most desirable and lovely sense. We are chosen, embraced, and loved.
What you are depends upon to what you belong. Where once we were sin's property, we have now become God's children. If property, then used and discarded. But if children, then heirs.
A second major theme that evolves in this passage is the relationship between spirit and flesh. That relationship is first introduced in scripture when God breathes the breath (or spirit) of life into the molded clay that became a man. From that day, human beings have lived as two-part compositions: breath and clay, spirit and flesh.
In this passage, "spirit" is used in three different ways. First, it seems that there is the spirit that is within us -- "our spirit" in verse 16. Second, there is the Spirit of God, which helps us "put to death the deeds of the body" (v. 13), leads us (v. 14), and "bears witness with our spirits" (v. 16). Then there seems to be the spirits that we were and were not given -- "a spirit of slavery" or "a spirit of adoption." Except for the reference to "a spirit of slavery," the use of the word "spirit" in this passage carries a positive connotation, and it stands in contrast and opposition to "the flesh" and "the body."
Finally, the third theme that emerges in this passage is the juxtaposition of present condition with future hope. The present is characterized by sufferings, while the future hope is of glory. In the present, there is bondage and futility; in the future, there is freedom and glory. In the present, groaning and longing; in the future, redemption.
The notable difference between the present condition and the future hope, meanwhile, is that one is visible and the other is not. In our day, we say, "Seeing is believing." Paul counters, "Not seeing is hoping."
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
Here is an exercise that I have used with classes and congregations along the way. Begin by asking the folks how many parables they think Jesus told. (The average guess will probably be in the neighborhood of a dozen to twenty.) Then ask them to list the first five parables they can think of. (Individually, I have found that most church folks have to take several minutes to come up with five.) Finally, ask folks what is the central theme of nearly half of Jesus' parables. (Common guesses will be "love" and "forgiveness.")
The parables that are prominent and memorable for people, it seems, are the ones that are more stories than similes, and more relational than merely descriptive. People remember the good Samaritan, the prodigal son, and the lost sheep. It would be a rare congregation member indeed, however, for whom the parable in this week's gospel lection would spring to mind.
Scholars' conclusions vary slightly as to how many different parables Jesus told, for "parable" is a genre without precise definition. Between the three synoptic gospels, though, it's generally agreed that we have something in the neighborhood of forty parables. Of those forty, eleven are introduced explicitly as explanations of the kingdom (for example, "the kingdom of heaven is like" or "the kingdom of heaven will be like"). Two other parables, in their contexts, are implicitly explanations of the kingdom, and in the case of still three others, while the kingdom is not explicitly mentioned in the parable, it is referenced in the subsequent interpretation or application. In short, nearly half of Jesus' parables are parables about the kingdom.
The preponderance of that theme would surprise most of the people in our pews. And yet, while this particular parable is not likely to be prominent in their minds and hearts, it is typical of a large plurality of Jesus' parables: it is a description of the kingdom.
If asked to describe the kingdom of heaven, I suspect that most American Christians would speak about gates of pearl and streets of gold. The seeds-and-weeds material found in Matthew 13, therefore, offers a healthy corrective. Before the kingdom is sparkling and other-worldly, it is first of all very earthy. That is, quite deliberately, the nature of the kingdom. It is not merely a destination to which we go when we leave this world; it is a divinely planted and growing reality within this world.
This particular parable is highly allegorical, and it is one of a handful that is accompanied by an explanation from Jesus himself. We do not need to decipher the symbolism in this parable; that task has been done for us. It seems appropriate that Jesus should offer an explanation of this parable, for the parable itself is an explanation.
In the picture of a field, Jesus explains the present and future condition of the world and of the kingdom. The Son of Man is the rightful owner of the field, but not the only influence there. The image of an "enemy" personifies the evil and personalizes the attack. It is not accident or misfortune; it is deliberate, malevolent, and diabolical. An us-them paradigm is implicit in the picture, and yet there is no developed theme of active animosity between "the children of the kingdom" and "the children of the evil one." Rather, the parable illustrates the wisdom of God's delay in bringing his kingdom to final fulfillment. To make a dramatic, immediate move to eliminate the enemy's influence would be premature and destructive; instead, the farmer will let everything grow and develop until the time is ripe.
Jesus' followers, then and now, walk away from this parable with an understanding of why things are the way they are, an insight into the God who neither abandons his compromised field nor rashly purges it, and a picture of the harvest that is to come. "For the Lord our God shall come, and shall take the harvest home; from the field shall in that day all offenses purge away, giving angels charge at last in the fire the tares to cast; but the fruitful ears to store in the garner evermore" (Henry Alford, "Come, Ye Thankful People, Come," United Methodist Hymnal, No. 694).
Application
A woman was in my office the other day seeking some advice for her marriage. After seven years, it is not what either she or her husband had expected or hoped, and they were both disappointed and unhappy. As she enumerated the problems they were having, she had the sound of someone in despair. "If I just knew that it would be better someday," she said. "It wouldn't have to be tomorrow, or even this year, but if I just knew that it would be better someday, then I could go on."
Paul wrote that "the whole creation has been groaning." He was speaking, of course, about the larger matter of salvation history. But you and I know as pastors that, one person, one family, one situation at a time, creation continues to groan, longing for good reason to hope, but tending toward despair.
Central to our gospel message is the truth that our God has a plan. He has a plan for us as individuals and beyond us as individuals. He is not limited to, or by, present circumstances. His plan is ultimately good and victorious, and he is patient, deliberate, and strategic about bringing it to fruition.
For Jacob on the run, for suffering Christians in Rome, for a mixed and compromised field, and for a groaning creation: it may not be better tomorrow or even this year, but we go on with the assurance that it will be better -- all better! -- someday.
An Alternative Application
Genesis 28:10-19a. Jacob's epiphany at Bethel is expressed in two marvelous phrases: "Surely the Lord is in this place," and "I did not know it!"
The ancients had perhaps a somewhat more localized view of gods than we do today. "Omnipresent" is one of our core assumptions about the deity. We are not so likely to be startled by the thought of God being in any particular place -- or every particular place, for that matter. But while we are not surprised by the thought of God in this place or that, we may well be surprised by the experience of God in this place or that.
Our human expectations of God will always be underestimations, and he continues to defy our expectations. There are those places that we expect to find him -- places where we anticipate having a sense of his presence, having meaningful contact with him -- and then we are blessed by the surprising encounters we have with him elsewhere, in unexpected places.
Jacob's experience is not an isolated incident. Moses was surprised to discover the Lord in the burning bush (Exodus 3:1-5), and Gideon was surprised to be discovered by the Lord in his hiding place (Judges 6:11-16). Hagar (16:7-14), Joshua (Joshua 5:13-15), Balaam (Numbers 22:21-31), Samuel (1 Samuel 3:1-10), Elijah (1 Kings 19:11-13), Cleopas and his companion (Luke 24:13-35), and Saul (Acts 9:1-6) were all met by surprise, or met in surprising places.
Jacob's experience is not an isolated incident: it is characteristic of our God, who is not limited by likelihoods or expectations. Instead, he meets us where we are -- wherever that happens to be.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 86:11-17
(This is the alternative psalm for Proper 11)
Prayer can be many different things: adoration, confession of sin, invocation, intercession. Sometimes, though, it is purely and simply a cry for help. Such is the purpose of Psalm 86, traditionally attributed to David.
The psalmist is poor, needy, and fighting for his life. If this is indeed a psalm of David, then it evidently belongs to the early period of his life when he was on the run, engaged in a guerrilla war with the forces of King Saul -- or possibly from the time during his son Absalom's rebellion when it appeared that the king might lose. Verse 7 sums up its essential message: "In the day of my trouble I call on you, for you will answer me." While this may sound like an imperative, it is in reality a simple, faith-based statement of fact, an expression of the author's absolute certainty that his prayer will be answered.
Having stated his case, the psalmist ceases talking about himself, and begins giving God the glory (vv. 8-10). As today's lectionary passage opens, the psalmist has transitioned back from praise to petition once again -- although this time his petition is of a different sort: "Teach me your way, O Lord, that I may walk in your truth; give me an undivided heart to revere your name" (v. 11).
No longer is rescue uppermost in the psalmist's mind (although he will return to that theme in vv. 14-17). Now, he is asking God not simply to save him, but to improve him. The improvement he is seeking is "an undivided heart." This is reminiscent of the greatest of Israel's prayers, the famous Shema of Deuteronomy 6:5, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart...."
Danish theologian Søren Kierkegaard expresses the importance of this kind of single-mindedness: "Purity of heart is to will one thing: 'Draw near to God and he will draw near to you. Wash your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded' (James 4:8). Only the pure in heart can see God, and therefore, draw near to him. And only by God's drawing near to the pure in heart can they maintain this purity. The person who, in truth, wills only one thing can will only the good, and the person who wills only one thing when he wills the good can will only the good in truth. Let your heart, therefore, will in truth only one thing, for therein is the heart's purity.... Only the good is one thing. It alone is one in its essence and the same in each of its expressions. Take true love as an illustration. One who genuinely loves does not love but once. Nor does he offer part of his love, and then again another part. No, he loves with all of his love -- not a bit here and a bit there. It is wholly present in each expression. He continues to give it away as a whole, and yet he keeps it intact as a whole, in his heart. Wonderful riches! When the miser has gathered all the world's gold in sordidness -- then he has become poor. Yet when the lover gives away his whole love, he keeps it entire -- in the purity of the heart." (From Purity of Heart Is To Will One Thing, by Søren Kierkegaard [New York: Harper Torch, 1938].)
Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, more poetically, "One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few." Ralph Waldo Emerson places a similar stress on the importance of personal focus: "The crime which bankrupts men and nations is that of turning aside from one's main purpose to serve a job here and there."
God can do more, however. He is not limited to, or by, the way it was. So we find -- in his word, and in his very character -- that he is more a God of "that's the way it will be."
From the very beginning, we see this part of God's nature. The "let there be" pattern in his creation of the universe reveals a God who states in advance how he envisions it, how he wants it to be. That part of his nature is not thwarted or nullified by sin, for even in the very wake of Adam and Eve's disobedience, God is again making statements about how it's going to be -- statements that consist of both warnings and promises.
It is central to the ministry and message of the Old Testament prophets that the Lord God calls his shots -- that he says in advance how it's going to be. And, likewise all along the way in both Old and New Testament stories, God assures and promises his people how it's going to be (see, for example, Genesis 15:13-21; Exodus 3:19-22; 2 Samuel 7:12-16; Jeremiah 33:6-9; Mark 8:31).
Our selected passages for this week affirm a God of "the way that it's going to be." The Lord shares his plans with Jacob -- plans that are both specific to Jacob, and that extend beyond the borders of Jacob's own existence. Paul reassures the Christians in Rome that how it is in the present is not the way it's "about to be," and Jesus tells a story of a farmer whose field illustrates both how it is and how it's going to be.
Genesis 28:10-19a
Jacob is running away from home. He is somewhat more dignified than the average runaway, for he has the imprimatur of his parents. But he, his family, and we all know that the ostensible errand to find a wife is a thinly veiled conspiracy to get Jacob away from his older brother's vengeful wrath.
Jacob, with the encouragement and aid of his mother, has just duped and cheated the other half of his family -- Isaac and Esau -- and he has become persona non grata at home. One wonders, as Jacob sets out alone toward a foreign land, whether he questions the worth of his trickery. He seems to be more pragmatic than principled -- an "ends justify the means" kind of guy -- and so his barely disguised exile may have made him wonder if his father's blessing was worth enough to endure his brother's curse.
His first overnight stop embodies his isolation. He is on the road between kinfolk and kinfolk, but he has to stop and stay where he knows no one, and no one knows him. He is not staying with friends and family. He is not invited in by hospitable strangers. Instead, he is alone and exposed, sleeping outdoors with his head on a rock.
It seems to be a most undesirable place: a metaphor and a reminder of where his choices have brought him. But then, in his sleep, the place is transformed by a dream.
The dream, it appears, was an encounter with God. It may be a tacit indictment of Jacob that God was perhaps unable to communicate with him while he was awake. Still, it is a testimony to God's versatility the variety of ways that he speaks to people.
God initially identifies himself to Jacob by means of other human beings. He is "the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac." This method of introduction is not unique to this episode with Jacob. God uses the same technique with Isaac (Genesis 26:24) and with Moses (Exodus 3:6). It seems here to be God's way of introducing himself to someone who doesn't know him. It's as though God is saying, "You don't know me yet, Jacob, but we have some friends in common. Allow me to introduce myself...."
Jacob is ever the wheeler-dealer, as evidenced by his eventual response after awakening (vv. 20-22). Perhaps God spoke to him in a dream because then Jacob wouldn't talk back -- at least not right away. God begins by laying out his plan and his promise for Jacob. We find that the arrangement God proposes to Jacob is substantially the same as what he had articulated earlier to Abraham.
That may be surprising, at first blush. Abraham seems to be a man of so much more character, understanding, and faith than Jacob. One would think God's plans for Abraham and for Jacob would be as different as the men themselves were. But this is the God who pays all the workers the same wage at the end of the day (see Matthew 20:8-15). He is not less than fair with anyone, but he is more than generous with many. Certainly he was with Jacob. And with me, too.
Finally, as I read this episode from Jacob's life, I am reminded of a certain kind of guided prayer and meditation technique that I have seen used throughout the years in some churches, as well as in some curriculum resources. The individuals are invited to close their eyes and relax, while imagining themselves in a beautiful and peaceful place. Then, having set the pretty stage, they are invited to picture Jesus coming to meet and talk with them there.
I hesitate to criticize the technique, for I'm sure it has generated some meaningful experiences for numbers of people. What troubles me, however, is the fundamental biblical truth that is undermined by the process. Namely, scripture does not bear witness to a God who meets us in imaginary places. Quite the contrary, scripture reveals a God who meets us in very real -- and often not-so-lovely -- places.
This is the God who meets Hagar in the midst of her distress; who meets Gideon where he is hiding from the menacing Midianites; who meets Saul on his bloodthirsty way to Damascus. This is the God who meets a manipulative, deceitful scoundrel of a younger brother as he runs away from home, sleeping with his head on a rock in the middle of nowhere. It is a great testimony to his grace -- and a great comfort to us in both our ordinariness and our distress -- that God meets us in very real places.
Romans 8:12-25
If your preaching style is verse-by-verse exposition, then this is a lection to salivate over. It is a rich vein for miners, a mother lode. As is so often the case in Paul's epistles, and particularly with some great passages in this letter to the Romans, the preacher is invited here to put on the lighted helmet, grab the pickax, and start working.
Because the space afforded here is too small for detailed exposition, I would encourage the exploration of any one of three major themes suggested by the passage. First, consideration of to whom or to what we belong. Second, an examination of the relationship between spirit and flesh. And, third, a comparison of our present condition and our future hope.
For my congregation and me, I would want to explore this central question: to whom do we belong? Paul notes that "you did not receive a spirit of slavery" but rather "a spirit of adoption." Both images -- slavery and adoption -- are relationship images. They both speak of belonging to someone else, and that truth deserves our attention, our proclamation, and our application.
That we human beings will belong to something or someone is rather a truism in the New Testament. Our American congregations may be slow to embrace the truth, for we cut our teeth on independence and freedom, and so we reckon that we belong to no one. Still, an honest look at the underbelly of most human existence reveals that there is no such thing as human sovereignty. Voluntarily or involuntarily, human beings will always belong to something or someone else. Some poor souls belong to an addiction that becomes an oppressive tyrant in their lives. Many sell themselves to their appetites or ambitions. We choose to belong to friends and family. Universally, we belong to our mortality in the sense that we do not have ultimate say-so over our bodies and earthly existence.
If we can accept the fact that we will -- and do -- belong to someone or something, we can turn then to ask what sort of a thing it is that owns us. What is the nature of this belonging?
When it is sin that owns us, when it is the flesh to which we belong, then Paul contends that the relationship is slavery. We "belong" in the most undesirable sense. It is involuntary (though not without complicity, of course), it is exploitive, and it is destructive.
God wants to set us free from that slavery, but when we are set free, it is not some vague, vacuous emancipation. We are not set free to be on our own, but rather to return to our rightful owner. Paul reckons this new relationship as adoption, and so we "belong" now in the most desirable and lovely sense. We are chosen, embraced, and loved.
What you are depends upon to what you belong. Where once we were sin's property, we have now become God's children. If property, then used and discarded. But if children, then heirs.
A second major theme that evolves in this passage is the relationship between spirit and flesh. That relationship is first introduced in scripture when God breathes the breath (or spirit) of life into the molded clay that became a man. From that day, human beings have lived as two-part compositions: breath and clay, spirit and flesh.
In this passage, "spirit" is used in three different ways. First, it seems that there is the spirit that is within us -- "our spirit" in verse 16. Second, there is the Spirit of God, which helps us "put to death the deeds of the body" (v. 13), leads us (v. 14), and "bears witness with our spirits" (v. 16). Then there seems to be the spirits that we were and were not given -- "a spirit of slavery" or "a spirit of adoption." Except for the reference to "a spirit of slavery," the use of the word "spirit" in this passage carries a positive connotation, and it stands in contrast and opposition to "the flesh" and "the body."
Finally, the third theme that emerges in this passage is the juxtaposition of present condition with future hope. The present is characterized by sufferings, while the future hope is of glory. In the present, there is bondage and futility; in the future, there is freedom and glory. In the present, groaning and longing; in the future, redemption.
The notable difference between the present condition and the future hope, meanwhile, is that one is visible and the other is not. In our day, we say, "Seeing is believing." Paul counters, "Not seeing is hoping."
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
Here is an exercise that I have used with classes and congregations along the way. Begin by asking the folks how many parables they think Jesus told. (The average guess will probably be in the neighborhood of a dozen to twenty.) Then ask them to list the first five parables they can think of. (Individually, I have found that most church folks have to take several minutes to come up with five.) Finally, ask folks what is the central theme of nearly half of Jesus' parables. (Common guesses will be "love" and "forgiveness.")
The parables that are prominent and memorable for people, it seems, are the ones that are more stories than similes, and more relational than merely descriptive. People remember the good Samaritan, the prodigal son, and the lost sheep. It would be a rare congregation member indeed, however, for whom the parable in this week's gospel lection would spring to mind.
Scholars' conclusions vary slightly as to how many different parables Jesus told, for "parable" is a genre without precise definition. Between the three synoptic gospels, though, it's generally agreed that we have something in the neighborhood of forty parables. Of those forty, eleven are introduced explicitly as explanations of the kingdom (for example, "the kingdom of heaven is like" or "the kingdom of heaven will be like"). Two other parables, in their contexts, are implicitly explanations of the kingdom, and in the case of still three others, while the kingdom is not explicitly mentioned in the parable, it is referenced in the subsequent interpretation or application. In short, nearly half of Jesus' parables are parables about the kingdom.
The preponderance of that theme would surprise most of the people in our pews. And yet, while this particular parable is not likely to be prominent in their minds and hearts, it is typical of a large plurality of Jesus' parables: it is a description of the kingdom.
If asked to describe the kingdom of heaven, I suspect that most American Christians would speak about gates of pearl and streets of gold. The seeds-and-weeds material found in Matthew 13, therefore, offers a healthy corrective. Before the kingdom is sparkling and other-worldly, it is first of all very earthy. That is, quite deliberately, the nature of the kingdom. It is not merely a destination to which we go when we leave this world; it is a divinely planted and growing reality within this world.
This particular parable is highly allegorical, and it is one of a handful that is accompanied by an explanation from Jesus himself. We do not need to decipher the symbolism in this parable; that task has been done for us. It seems appropriate that Jesus should offer an explanation of this parable, for the parable itself is an explanation.
In the picture of a field, Jesus explains the present and future condition of the world and of the kingdom. The Son of Man is the rightful owner of the field, but not the only influence there. The image of an "enemy" personifies the evil and personalizes the attack. It is not accident or misfortune; it is deliberate, malevolent, and diabolical. An us-them paradigm is implicit in the picture, and yet there is no developed theme of active animosity between "the children of the kingdom" and "the children of the evil one." Rather, the parable illustrates the wisdom of God's delay in bringing his kingdom to final fulfillment. To make a dramatic, immediate move to eliminate the enemy's influence would be premature and destructive; instead, the farmer will let everything grow and develop until the time is ripe.
Jesus' followers, then and now, walk away from this parable with an understanding of why things are the way they are, an insight into the God who neither abandons his compromised field nor rashly purges it, and a picture of the harvest that is to come. "For the Lord our God shall come, and shall take the harvest home; from the field shall in that day all offenses purge away, giving angels charge at last in the fire the tares to cast; but the fruitful ears to store in the garner evermore" (Henry Alford, "Come, Ye Thankful People, Come," United Methodist Hymnal, No. 694).
Application
A woman was in my office the other day seeking some advice for her marriage. After seven years, it is not what either she or her husband had expected or hoped, and they were both disappointed and unhappy. As she enumerated the problems they were having, she had the sound of someone in despair. "If I just knew that it would be better someday," she said. "It wouldn't have to be tomorrow, or even this year, but if I just knew that it would be better someday, then I could go on."
Paul wrote that "the whole creation has been groaning." He was speaking, of course, about the larger matter of salvation history. But you and I know as pastors that, one person, one family, one situation at a time, creation continues to groan, longing for good reason to hope, but tending toward despair.
Central to our gospel message is the truth that our God has a plan. He has a plan for us as individuals and beyond us as individuals. He is not limited to, or by, present circumstances. His plan is ultimately good and victorious, and he is patient, deliberate, and strategic about bringing it to fruition.
For Jacob on the run, for suffering Christians in Rome, for a mixed and compromised field, and for a groaning creation: it may not be better tomorrow or even this year, but we go on with the assurance that it will be better -- all better! -- someday.
An Alternative Application
Genesis 28:10-19a. Jacob's epiphany at Bethel is expressed in two marvelous phrases: "Surely the Lord is in this place," and "I did not know it!"
The ancients had perhaps a somewhat more localized view of gods than we do today. "Omnipresent" is one of our core assumptions about the deity. We are not so likely to be startled by the thought of God being in any particular place -- or every particular place, for that matter. But while we are not surprised by the thought of God in this place or that, we may well be surprised by the experience of God in this place or that.
Our human expectations of God will always be underestimations, and he continues to defy our expectations. There are those places that we expect to find him -- places where we anticipate having a sense of his presence, having meaningful contact with him -- and then we are blessed by the surprising encounters we have with him elsewhere, in unexpected places.
Jacob's experience is not an isolated incident. Moses was surprised to discover the Lord in the burning bush (Exodus 3:1-5), and Gideon was surprised to be discovered by the Lord in his hiding place (Judges 6:11-16). Hagar (16:7-14), Joshua (Joshua 5:13-15), Balaam (Numbers 22:21-31), Samuel (1 Samuel 3:1-10), Elijah (1 Kings 19:11-13), Cleopas and his companion (Luke 24:13-35), and Saul (Acts 9:1-6) were all met by surprise, or met in surprising places.
Jacob's experience is not an isolated incident: it is characteristic of our God, who is not limited by likelihoods or expectations. Instead, he meets us where we are -- wherever that happens to be.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 86:11-17
(This is the alternative psalm for Proper 11)
Prayer can be many different things: adoration, confession of sin, invocation, intercession. Sometimes, though, it is purely and simply a cry for help. Such is the purpose of Psalm 86, traditionally attributed to David.
The psalmist is poor, needy, and fighting for his life. If this is indeed a psalm of David, then it evidently belongs to the early period of his life when he was on the run, engaged in a guerrilla war with the forces of King Saul -- or possibly from the time during his son Absalom's rebellion when it appeared that the king might lose. Verse 7 sums up its essential message: "In the day of my trouble I call on you, for you will answer me." While this may sound like an imperative, it is in reality a simple, faith-based statement of fact, an expression of the author's absolute certainty that his prayer will be answered.
Having stated his case, the psalmist ceases talking about himself, and begins giving God the glory (vv. 8-10). As today's lectionary passage opens, the psalmist has transitioned back from praise to petition once again -- although this time his petition is of a different sort: "Teach me your way, O Lord, that I may walk in your truth; give me an undivided heart to revere your name" (v. 11).
No longer is rescue uppermost in the psalmist's mind (although he will return to that theme in vv. 14-17). Now, he is asking God not simply to save him, but to improve him. The improvement he is seeking is "an undivided heart." This is reminiscent of the greatest of Israel's prayers, the famous Shema of Deuteronomy 6:5, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart...."
Danish theologian Søren Kierkegaard expresses the importance of this kind of single-mindedness: "Purity of heart is to will one thing: 'Draw near to God and he will draw near to you. Wash your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded' (James 4:8). Only the pure in heart can see God, and therefore, draw near to him. And only by God's drawing near to the pure in heart can they maintain this purity. The person who, in truth, wills only one thing can will only the good, and the person who wills only one thing when he wills the good can will only the good in truth. Let your heart, therefore, will in truth only one thing, for therein is the heart's purity.... Only the good is one thing. It alone is one in its essence and the same in each of its expressions. Take true love as an illustration. One who genuinely loves does not love but once. Nor does he offer part of his love, and then again another part. No, he loves with all of his love -- not a bit here and a bit there. It is wholly present in each expression. He continues to give it away as a whole, and yet he keeps it intact as a whole, in his heart. Wonderful riches! When the miser has gathered all the world's gold in sordidness -- then he has become poor. Yet when the lover gives away his whole love, he keeps it entire -- in the purity of the heart." (From Purity of Heart Is To Will One Thing, by Søren Kierkegaard [New York: Harper Torch, 1938].)
Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, more poetically, "One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few." Ralph Waldo Emerson places a similar stress on the importance of personal focus: "The crime which bankrupts men and nations is that of turning aside from one's main purpose to serve a job here and there."
