A tragic turn
Commentary
For several years of our married life, my wife and I had jobs working with very different
age groups. Monday through Friday, she was providing child care in our home for the
babies and toddlers of four different families. On the weekends, I was leading the youth
ministry for a nearby church's junior and senior high school youth.
During the weekdays, we would see young parents interacting with their precious little one- and two-year-olds. On the weekends, we would observe older parents dealing with their adolescents. We had no children of our own yet, and we found the difference between the two settings quite discouraging.
Between the parents and their toddlers, we saw beautiful affection and intimacy. Each morning when the parents dropped off their children, there were sad and reluctant good- byes. Each afternoon when the parents returned, we saw parents and kids who were so glad to see each other. They laughed and played together easily.
Between the older parents and their teenagers, however, we witnessed a quite different scene. There seemed to be a lot of emotional distance and accumulated anger. The youth rolled their eyes about their parents, and the parents were often sarcastic or manifestly frustrated in how they spoke to or about their kids.
What happens, we wondered, in those intervening years?
Some of that development is sad. A lot of it is natural. And, sometimes, it is tragic. The love, sweetness, and hope of holding their newborn is a bittersweet memory for parents whose grown children have strayed, disobeyed, and sought out all sorts of trouble.
That is something of the poignant scene we are presented with this week. We juxtapose the older lections with the gospel lections, and we find a picture of early hope followed by a portrait of parental grief. And the sad parent is God.
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18
The initial phrase of our Old Testament lection may be too quickly dismissed. It is clearly a transitional phrase, but we may read it as a kind of throwaway line. Instead, however, when we read the phrase "after these things," we ought to stop and ask, "What things?"
God had called Abraham to leave his country and his kin in order to go to a new and different land. There in that place, God had promised to bless him uniquely. God would make of Abraham a great nation, and he would give to Abraham and his descendants that new land where Abraham would settle.
That was, quite literally, a promising beginning. But all of that hope and promise was followed inconveniently by real life.
A famine had forced Abraham and Sarah to leave that promised land temporarily. They took refuge in Egypt, where Abraham operated fearfully and deceptively. The episode resulted in a misunderstanding with the Egyptian king, and Abraham was evicted from the land.
Then, back in Canaan, there had been trouble, too. Strife developed between Abraham's camp and the camp of his nephew, Lot. Circumstances forced them to separate, which may have been a source of some unhappiness for Abraham. To make matters worse, Lot had chosen for himself and his company the more fertile land, leaving Abraham with the less attractive option. Then the city where Lot had settled was attacked and conquered in a regional skirmish. Lot, his family, and all of his possessions were part of the booty for the winning side, and they were taken away. Abraham had to mobilize a large group of men for military action. They set out in pursuit of those victors, catching and defeating them, and liberating Lot and his family.
In short, things had been a mess so far for Abraham and Sarah. In the time since they obeyed God and left their homeland in Mesopotamia, they had experienced trouble on every side. Famine, conflict, misunderstandings, family strife, battle, bloodshed -- life in this new land did not seem remotely as hopeful and promising as it must have when God first called them.
And then, "after these things," God spoke to Abraham again.
God's word to Abraham was reassurance ("Do not be afraid, Abram, I am your shield"), promise ("Look toward the heaven and count the stars ... so shall your descendants be"), and a reaffirmation of his plan for Abraham ("To your descendants I give this land, from the river of Egypt to the great river, the river Euphrates").
We generally embrace Abraham as one of the great heroes of faith in scripture, and rightly so. And yet, upon closer examination of this particular episode, it is interesting to note that Abraham's contributions to this conversation with God consist of two questions and one candid observation that borders on a complaint. There is no grand doxology or magnificat from Abraham in this scene. He questions and complains, reminding us again that God is not offended by candor.
Through it all, Abraham believes God, and that is the key. Indeed, tucked within this episode, the apostle Paul finds important gospel truth. In both his letter to the Romans (4:1-12) and his letter to the Galatians (3:1-14), Paul cites this episode from Genesis to prove that we are saved by faith. For we see here that centuries before the law, and even some time before the institution of circumcision, God had reckoned Abraham as righteous. And why? Simply because Abraham believed God.
Philippians 3:17--4:1
So much of how we human beings learn -- both consciously and subconsciously -- is by imitation. The toddler learns to talk by imitating the sounds he hears from his family members around him, even without knowing at first the meaning of those sounds. The little girl learns how to be a woman and a mother from imitating what she sees her mother doing. I had a friend in junior high who walked strangely, and I later discovered that his father had arthritis in his hips. This young man had nothing wrong with his own hips, but he had grown up watching and imitating his father.
How we live as adults is also often a product of imitation.
Style and fashion -- and to a certain extent, therefore, taste -- are all about imitation. What we wore as clothing or how we decorated our kitchens fifteen years ago would be just as functional now, but somehow not as acceptable.
What we choose to drive, how we wear our hair, and what we do for entertainment and recreation may all be suspiciously similar to the friends, neighbors, and co-workers around us. Is it that we happen to have the same taste? Perhaps. Or perhaps we just imitate what we see.
I visited a friend, whom I had not seen for some years, but who was attending a professional conference in the city where I was living at the time. I went to the lobby of the hotel where he and several hundred of his colleagues were staying for this conference. And as I watched these folks checking in and mingling in the lobby, I was struck by how much they all looked alike. Not that they were genetically similar; but the hairstyles, the clothes, the "look" were all of a kind.
I have even observed that certain teenagers, who clearly want to assert their independence and individuality by what they wear and how they look end up looking conspicuously like other teenagers who are about the same endeavor.
We imitate what we see around us. In some areas of life, that contributes to our success. It helps us learn. It makes us fit in. And in some parts of life, it makes for perpetuated dysfunction.
Given all of this, we should easily recognize the wisdom of Paul's invitation: "Join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us."
If I want to learn how to be a good basketball player, let me study and imitate the best at the game. If I want to learn how to be a good executive, let me observe and learn from those who have succeeded in their fields. And if I want to live a godly life, then let me identify the people whose example is worth imitating.
There is a flipside, of course, for imitation is a two-way street. That is to say, whom we choose to study and imitate is not the only issue; there is also the likelihood of someone imitating us.
Now we may not put ourselves forward the way that Paul so boldly does. We may not point to ourselves and say, "Imitate me!" But whether we do or not, the human reality is that people imitate -- and therefore, to a certain extent, become -- what they are surrounded by. You and I are part of the surroundings for some folks such as family, neighbors, friends, and coworkers. Accordingly, the odds are favorable that someone will be imitating me. Perhaps it will be deliberate, or perhaps it will be subconscious. It may be helpful to them, or it may be detrimental. One way or the other, you and I should echo the hymn writer's resolve: "I would be true, for there are those who trust me" (Howard A. Walter, "I Would Be True").
Finally, Paul observes that "our citizenship is in heaven." It was an appropriate image to use with the Philippian Christians, for some years earlier the city of Philippi had been made a Roman colony. The residents of Philippi, therefore, enjoyed the status of Roman citizens. The people to whom Paul wrote understood the significance of having a citizenship in another place.
Meanwhile, as followers of Jesus Christ, we affirm that our real citizenship is also in another place. That is to say, our home, our destination, and our allegiance are elsewhere. We do not, therefore, merely imitate what is around us, for what is around us is not where we belong. We are called higher, and so we must live accordingly. In order to do so, we should study and imitate those whose lives reflect their true Lord and locale. And then we must "stand firm in this way."
Luke 13:31-35
Beware of the advice you get from your enemy.
In the fifth chapter of Luke's gospel, when the Pharisees heard Jesus presume to forgive a man's sins, they thought him blasphemous (5:21). Shortly after, they criticized Jesus for the company he kept, eating and drinking "with tax collectors and sinners" (5:30). A little later, they challenged him about breaking the sabbath (6:2); and while the sabbath had evolved into a breeding ground for petty legalism, the basic charge was still a very serious one (see, for example, Exodus 31:14-15). Soon after, the Pharisees took the occasion of another sabbath to scrutinize Jesus' actions "so that they might find an accusation against him" (6:7), and they walked away from the occasion "filled with fury and they discussed with one another what they might do to Jesus" (6:11). And then, some little time later, when Jesus was dining in the home of a particular Pharisee, Jesus took the opportunity to express a dramatic series of critiques against the Pharisees in general (11:37-44), which in turn prompted the Pharisees to "[lie] in wait for him, to catch him in something he might say" (11:54).
All of these things happened before the episode recorded in this week's gospel lection. A group of Pharisees came to Jesus, disingenuously warning him that he had better hit the road because Herod wanted to kill him.
The claim itself is a dubious one. Herod had shown a great tenuousness in his dealing with John the Baptist, and Herod had much more cause to take issue with John than with Jesus. Meanwhile, Luke reports earlier that Herod was confused by what things he had heard about Jesus and wanted to see him (9:7-9). And when Luke recounts the one face- to-face encounter between Jesus and Herod that we know about, Herod seems pleased and curious at first, and certainly shows no sign of serious animosity toward Jesus.
Even if it had been some trusted friend who had warned Jesus, therefore, that Herod was out to get him, it would have seemed like a questionable rumor, at best. And this was no trusted friend that was warning Jesus. The Pharisees' antagonism toward Jesus is well- established by Luke 13. The bottom line is that the Pharisees wanted to get rid of Jesus. And, short of a good and permanent way to do it, they attempted to scare him off with an improbable threat, all the while disguised as concern for his welfare.
Meanwhile, the truth is that the Pharisees have no idea about Jesus' death. Herod's father had not succeeded in killing Jesus (Matthew 2:1-21); neither did the angry residents of Nazareth (Luke 4:28-30); and neither did the offended mob in Jerusalem (John 10:22-39). The Pharisees had no idea how impotent such a threat was. After all, no one took Jesus' life from him; he himself laid it down (John 10:18).
The average person might reasonably flee when his life is threatened. But Jesus takes the subject in hand here and talks quite matter-of-factly about his death. He knows all about it, and he is not avoiding it. Indeed, he is looking beyond it, for he makes a magnificent Easter reference when he says that "on the third day" his work would be done. His opponents thought that their work was done on that Friday afternoon. They did not know that, "on the third day," he would finish his work.
The prospect of his own death does not prompt Jesus to mourn or pity himself. Rather, the subject prompts him to grieve over Jerusalem. The double vocative ("Jerusalem, Jerusalem") has a poignant quality to it, reminiscent of things Jesus says along the way to Martha (Luke 10:41) and to Peter (Luke 22:31). And the poignant tone continues with Jesus' touching image of a hen with her chicks.
The Bible is full of relational language for God. Rather than settling for detached, philosophical terms that are comparatively sterile in their efforts to describe God (like mind, force, being, numen, and such), scripture opts again and again for relational terms. The great advantage of such language, of course, is that it always implies a term for us, as well. That is to say, if he is father, then I am child. If he is a refuge, then I am a refugee. If he is lord, then I am servant. And if he is hen, then we are chicks.
The image is one of natural protectiveness. Contrary to the notion of an angry deity that is quick to judge and ready to punish, here instead is a mother hen who is eager to nurture and protect.
The hen wants to keep her chicks close: to gather them, to shelter them, to have them all under her wing. What a good and right place to be! These tragic chicks, however, will have none of it.
Jesus knows the danger that they have chosen for themselves by rejecting the protection of the one who loves them. He predicts it. And he mourns in advance of it.
Application
Our familiar image is the sad picture of a heartbroken parent. There is so much love, such closeness, and so many hopes at the beginning. What wouldn't that loving parent do for that little newborn? He wants nothing but the best -- all the best -- for his child.
But the child grows up, and perhaps grows away. He is free to make his own decisions, and perhaps he makes some very bad ones. His parents lovingly instruct and correct him, but he is not obliged to respond. They remind him about the benefits of wisdom and the consequences of imprudence, but he wants to hear none of it.
Finally, this adult child has become the poster child for reckless, self-destructive living. His parents know where his path is leading. Their hearts break at the choices he has made and the tragic end that awaits him.
This is the portrait we have in the Genesis and Luke passages set side by side.
Genesis is the snapshot from the nursery. God is establishing his covenant with his newly chosen people. Indeed, a people yet to be born, apart from Abraham himself. The divine parent has big plans and beautiful dreams for his people. The scene is full of promise.
By the time we get to the Luke passage, however, God's people are full grown, and they are rebellious. The Lord has warned them and wooed them over the years, but they have rejected him and his counsel. All the good that he had in mind and in heart for them seems bittersweet and long ago. Now, the Lord can see the end of the self-destructive path that they have chosen, and he weeps over the end that awaits them.
Alternative Application
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18. "The God Who Comes After." In our discussion of the Genesis lection above, we noted the significance of the initial phrase, "after these things." We observed that Abraham and Sarah had had a miserable beginning in their new life and new land following their response to God's call. There is tremendous mercy and providence in God coming to reassure Abraham and reaffirm his plans and promises "after these things."
And what God does for Abraham is absolutely characteristic of God.
This is the God who, in the wake of Adam and Eve's sin, makes promises (Genesis 3:15) and provisions (Genesis 3:21). This is the God who, in Joshua's day, promises to roll back the reproach and disgrace of Egypt behind them (Joshua 5:9). This is the God who, in Joel's day, promises to restore the years that the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25). This is the Lord who, after Peter had denied him three times, singles out that same Peter to receive Easter's good news (Mark 16:7).
"After these things" might well be a line that appears in every one of our testimonies. He does not promise and bless us only at the beginning, when our hopes are fresh and our records pristine. He comes back and makes promises and blesses us again, even after we've been dirtied and frustrated by the circumstances of life. There is great good news to be heard and to be proclaimed here: the truth that God still comes to us with his plans and his promises even "after these things."
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 27
Little children love to walk on the edge. They can be seen constantly balancing on fences, curbs, and tree branches as they test their sense of balance and seek the boundaries of their existence. And indeed, as this powerful psalm shows us, life is a balancing act. No naive transactional relationship here. No quick cash deal. This writer does not presume that fidelity to God will erase the presence of enemies and hardship. No. The realization that such turmoil is part of life's landscape seems clear and unequivocal.
It is not the hardship that the writer seeks to jettison. It is the fear. And in order to step into life in confidence, one needs trust. So the real balancing act here is not from the heights of an apple tree or on the edge of a busy highway. The balancing act here is between fear and trust.
The first verse asks the question not once, but twice. If God is my salvation, of whom shall I be afraid? It's a rhetorical question, isn't it? Most of us know quite well who it is that we need to be afraid of in our lives. Most of us know quite well that in the muck and mire of our daily existence, there are adversaries who are real and dangerous. It is a tenuous question that attempts to sort out the issue of trust in God. The narrative reasons cautiously, saying, "If God is who [he] says [he] is then I don't need to be afraid. There is a pause, then comes the question, 'Do I?' "
This psalm reflects our own balancing act between trust and fear in terms of our relationship with God. In the midst of our own trials and suffering, we, too, dance back and forth between the pleas that ask God to save us from our enemies and the intrinsic sense that if we really trust God we don't have to fear our enemies. We, too, beg God to help us. We, too, plead with God not to be angry with us for serial infidelities to (him). And we, too, finally realize that if we trust in God, if we "wait on the Lord," we will "see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living."
During the weekdays, we would see young parents interacting with their precious little one- and two-year-olds. On the weekends, we would observe older parents dealing with their adolescents. We had no children of our own yet, and we found the difference between the two settings quite discouraging.
Between the parents and their toddlers, we saw beautiful affection and intimacy. Each morning when the parents dropped off their children, there were sad and reluctant good- byes. Each afternoon when the parents returned, we saw parents and kids who were so glad to see each other. They laughed and played together easily.
Between the older parents and their teenagers, however, we witnessed a quite different scene. There seemed to be a lot of emotional distance and accumulated anger. The youth rolled their eyes about their parents, and the parents were often sarcastic or manifestly frustrated in how they spoke to or about their kids.
What happens, we wondered, in those intervening years?
Some of that development is sad. A lot of it is natural. And, sometimes, it is tragic. The love, sweetness, and hope of holding their newborn is a bittersweet memory for parents whose grown children have strayed, disobeyed, and sought out all sorts of trouble.
That is something of the poignant scene we are presented with this week. We juxtapose the older lections with the gospel lections, and we find a picture of early hope followed by a portrait of parental grief. And the sad parent is God.
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18
The initial phrase of our Old Testament lection may be too quickly dismissed. It is clearly a transitional phrase, but we may read it as a kind of throwaway line. Instead, however, when we read the phrase "after these things," we ought to stop and ask, "What things?"
God had called Abraham to leave his country and his kin in order to go to a new and different land. There in that place, God had promised to bless him uniquely. God would make of Abraham a great nation, and he would give to Abraham and his descendants that new land where Abraham would settle.
That was, quite literally, a promising beginning. But all of that hope and promise was followed inconveniently by real life.
A famine had forced Abraham and Sarah to leave that promised land temporarily. They took refuge in Egypt, where Abraham operated fearfully and deceptively. The episode resulted in a misunderstanding with the Egyptian king, and Abraham was evicted from the land.
Then, back in Canaan, there had been trouble, too. Strife developed between Abraham's camp and the camp of his nephew, Lot. Circumstances forced them to separate, which may have been a source of some unhappiness for Abraham. To make matters worse, Lot had chosen for himself and his company the more fertile land, leaving Abraham with the less attractive option. Then the city where Lot had settled was attacked and conquered in a regional skirmish. Lot, his family, and all of his possessions were part of the booty for the winning side, and they were taken away. Abraham had to mobilize a large group of men for military action. They set out in pursuit of those victors, catching and defeating them, and liberating Lot and his family.
In short, things had been a mess so far for Abraham and Sarah. In the time since they obeyed God and left their homeland in Mesopotamia, they had experienced trouble on every side. Famine, conflict, misunderstandings, family strife, battle, bloodshed -- life in this new land did not seem remotely as hopeful and promising as it must have when God first called them.
And then, "after these things," God spoke to Abraham again.
God's word to Abraham was reassurance ("Do not be afraid, Abram, I am your shield"), promise ("Look toward the heaven and count the stars ... so shall your descendants be"), and a reaffirmation of his plan for Abraham ("To your descendants I give this land, from the river of Egypt to the great river, the river Euphrates").
We generally embrace Abraham as one of the great heroes of faith in scripture, and rightly so. And yet, upon closer examination of this particular episode, it is interesting to note that Abraham's contributions to this conversation with God consist of two questions and one candid observation that borders on a complaint. There is no grand doxology or magnificat from Abraham in this scene. He questions and complains, reminding us again that God is not offended by candor.
Through it all, Abraham believes God, and that is the key. Indeed, tucked within this episode, the apostle Paul finds important gospel truth. In both his letter to the Romans (4:1-12) and his letter to the Galatians (3:1-14), Paul cites this episode from Genesis to prove that we are saved by faith. For we see here that centuries before the law, and even some time before the institution of circumcision, God had reckoned Abraham as righteous. And why? Simply because Abraham believed God.
Philippians 3:17--4:1
So much of how we human beings learn -- both consciously and subconsciously -- is by imitation. The toddler learns to talk by imitating the sounds he hears from his family members around him, even without knowing at first the meaning of those sounds. The little girl learns how to be a woman and a mother from imitating what she sees her mother doing. I had a friend in junior high who walked strangely, and I later discovered that his father had arthritis in his hips. This young man had nothing wrong with his own hips, but he had grown up watching and imitating his father.
How we live as adults is also often a product of imitation.
Style and fashion -- and to a certain extent, therefore, taste -- are all about imitation. What we wore as clothing or how we decorated our kitchens fifteen years ago would be just as functional now, but somehow not as acceptable.
What we choose to drive, how we wear our hair, and what we do for entertainment and recreation may all be suspiciously similar to the friends, neighbors, and co-workers around us. Is it that we happen to have the same taste? Perhaps. Or perhaps we just imitate what we see.
I visited a friend, whom I had not seen for some years, but who was attending a professional conference in the city where I was living at the time. I went to the lobby of the hotel where he and several hundred of his colleagues were staying for this conference. And as I watched these folks checking in and mingling in the lobby, I was struck by how much they all looked alike. Not that they were genetically similar; but the hairstyles, the clothes, the "look" were all of a kind.
I have even observed that certain teenagers, who clearly want to assert their independence and individuality by what they wear and how they look end up looking conspicuously like other teenagers who are about the same endeavor.
We imitate what we see around us. In some areas of life, that contributes to our success. It helps us learn. It makes us fit in. And in some parts of life, it makes for perpetuated dysfunction.
Given all of this, we should easily recognize the wisdom of Paul's invitation: "Join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us."
If I want to learn how to be a good basketball player, let me study and imitate the best at the game. If I want to learn how to be a good executive, let me observe and learn from those who have succeeded in their fields. And if I want to live a godly life, then let me identify the people whose example is worth imitating.
There is a flipside, of course, for imitation is a two-way street. That is to say, whom we choose to study and imitate is not the only issue; there is also the likelihood of someone imitating us.
Now we may not put ourselves forward the way that Paul so boldly does. We may not point to ourselves and say, "Imitate me!" But whether we do or not, the human reality is that people imitate -- and therefore, to a certain extent, become -- what they are surrounded by. You and I are part of the surroundings for some folks such as family, neighbors, friends, and coworkers. Accordingly, the odds are favorable that someone will be imitating me. Perhaps it will be deliberate, or perhaps it will be subconscious. It may be helpful to them, or it may be detrimental. One way or the other, you and I should echo the hymn writer's resolve: "I would be true, for there are those who trust me" (Howard A. Walter, "I Would Be True").
Finally, Paul observes that "our citizenship is in heaven." It was an appropriate image to use with the Philippian Christians, for some years earlier the city of Philippi had been made a Roman colony. The residents of Philippi, therefore, enjoyed the status of Roman citizens. The people to whom Paul wrote understood the significance of having a citizenship in another place.
Meanwhile, as followers of Jesus Christ, we affirm that our real citizenship is also in another place. That is to say, our home, our destination, and our allegiance are elsewhere. We do not, therefore, merely imitate what is around us, for what is around us is not where we belong. We are called higher, and so we must live accordingly. In order to do so, we should study and imitate those whose lives reflect their true Lord and locale. And then we must "stand firm in this way."
Luke 13:31-35
Beware of the advice you get from your enemy.
In the fifth chapter of Luke's gospel, when the Pharisees heard Jesus presume to forgive a man's sins, they thought him blasphemous (5:21). Shortly after, they criticized Jesus for the company he kept, eating and drinking "with tax collectors and sinners" (5:30). A little later, they challenged him about breaking the sabbath (6:2); and while the sabbath had evolved into a breeding ground for petty legalism, the basic charge was still a very serious one (see, for example, Exodus 31:14-15). Soon after, the Pharisees took the occasion of another sabbath to scrutinize Jesus' actions "so that they might find an accusation against him" (6:7), and they walked away from the occasion "filled with fury and they discussed with one another what they might do to Jesus" (6:11). And then, some little time later, when Jesus was dining in the home of a particular Pharisee, Jesus took the opportunity to express a dramatic series of critiques against the Pharisees in general (11:37-44), which in turn prompted the Pharisees to "[lie] in wait for him, to catch him in something he might say" (11:54).
All of these things happened before the episode recorded in this week's gospel lection. A group of Pharisees came to Jesus, disingenuously warning him that he had better hit the road because Herod wanted to kill him.
The claim itself is a dubious one. Herod had shown a great tenuousness in his dealing with John the Baptist, and Herod had much more cause to take issue with John than with Jesus. Meanwhile, Luke reports earlier that Herod was confused by what things he had heard about Jesus and wanted to see him (9:7-9). And when Luke recounts the one face- to-face encounter between Jesus and Herod that we know about, Herod seems pleased and curious at first, and certainly shows no sign of serious animosity toward Jesus.
Even if it had been some trusted friend who had warned Jesus, therefore, that Herod was out to get him, it would have seemed like a questionable rumor, at best. And this was no trusted friend that was warning Jesus. The Pharisees' antagonism toward Jesus is well- established by Luke 13. The bottom line is that the Pharisees wanted to get rid of Jesus. And, short of a good and permanent way to do it, they attempted to scare him off with an improbable threat, all the while disguised as concern for his welfare.
Meanwhile, the truth is that the Pharisees have no idea about Jesus' death. Herod's father had not succeeded in killing Jesus (Matthew 2:1-21); neither did the angry residents of Nazareth (Luke 4:28-30); and neither did the offended mob in Jerusalem (John 10:22-39). The Pharisees had no idea how impotent such a threat was. After all, no one took Jesus' life from him; he himself laid it down (John 10:18).
The average person might reasonably flee when his life is threatened. But Jesus takes the subject in hand here and talks quite matter-of-factly about his death. He knows all about it, and he is not avoiding it. Indeed, he is looking beyond it, for he makes a magnificent Easter reference when he says that "on the third day" his work would be done. His opponents thought that their work was done on that Friday afternoon. They did not know that, "on the third day," he would finish his work.
The prospect of his own death does not prompt Jesus to mourn or pity himself. Rather, the subject prompts him to grieve over Jerusalem. The double vocative ("Jerusalem, Jerusalem") has a poignant quality to it, reminiscent of things Jesus says along the way to Martha (Luke 10:41) and to Peter (Luke 22:31). And the poignant tone continues with Jesus' touching image of a hen with her chicks.
The Bible is full of relational language for God. Rather than settling for detached, philosophical terms that are comparatively sterile in their efforts to describe God (like mind, force, being, numen, and such), scripture opts again and again for relational terms. The great advantage of such language, of course, is that it always implies a term for us, as well. That is to say, if he is father, then I am child. If he is a refuge, then I am a refugee. If he is lord, then I am servant. And if he is hen, then we are chicks.
The image is one of natural protectiveness. Contrary to the notion of an angry deity that is quick to judge and ready to punish, here instead is a mother hen who is eager to nurture and protect.
The hen wants to keep her chicks close: to gather them, to shelter them, to have them all under her wing. What a good and right place to be! These tragic chicks, however, will have none of it.
Jesus knows the danger that they have chosen for themselves by rejecting the protection of the one who loves them. He predicts it. And he mourns in advance of it.
Application
Our familiar image is the sad picture of a heartbroken parent. There is so much love, such closeness, and so many hopes at the beginning. What wouldn't that loving parent do for that little newborn? He wants nothing but the best -- all the best -- for his child.
But the child grows up, and perhaps grows away. He is free to make his own decisions, and perhaps he makes some very bad ones. His parents lovingly instruct and correct him, but he is not obliged to respond. They remind him about the benefits of wisdom and the consequences of imprudence, but he wants to hear none of it.
Finally, this adult child has become the poster child for reckless, self-destructive living. His parents know where his path is leading. Their hearts break at the choices he has made and the tragic end that awaits him.
This is the portrait we have in the Genesis and Luke passages set side by side.
Genesis is the snapshot from the nursery. God is establishing his covenant with his newly chosen people. Indeed, a people yet to be born, apart from Abraham himself. The divine parent has big plans and beautiful dreams for his people. The scene is full of promise.
By the time we get to the Luke passage, however, God's people are full grown, and they are rebellious. The Lord has warned them and wooed them over the years, but they have rejected him and his counsel. All the good that he had in mind and in heart for them seems bittersweet and long ago. Now, the Lord can see the end of the self-destructive path that they have chosen, and he weeps over the end that awaits them.
Alternative Application
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18. "The God Who Comes After." In our discussion of the Genesis lection above, we noted the significance of the initial phrase, "after these things." We observed that Abraham and Sarah had had a miserable beginning in their new life and new land following their response to God's call. There is tremendous mercy and providence in God coming to reassure Abraham and reaffirm his plans and promises "after these things."
And what God does for Abraham is absolutely characteristic of God.
This is the God who, in the wake of Adam and Eve's sin, makes promises (Genesis 3:15) and provisions (Genesis 3:21). This is the God who, in Joshua's day, promises to roll back the reproach and disgrace of Egypt behind them (Joshua 5:9). This is the God who, in Joel's day, promises to restore the years that the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25). This is the Lord who, after Peter had denied him three times, singles out that same Peter to receive Easter's good news (Mark 16:7).
"After these things" might well be a line that appears in every one of our testimonies. He does not promise and bless us only at the beginning, when our hopes are fresh and our records pristine. He comes back and makes promises and blesses us again, even after we've been dirtied and frustrated by the circumstances of life. There is great good news to be heard and to be proclaimed here: the truth that God still comes to us with his plans and his promises even "after these things."
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 27
Little children love to walk on the edge. They can be seen constantly balancing on fences, curbs, and tree branches as they test their sense of balance and seek the boundaries of their existence. And indeed, as this powerful psalm shows us, life is a balancing act. No naive transactional relationship here. No quick cash deal. This writer does not presume that fidelity to God will erase the presence of enemies and hardship. No. The realization that such turmoil is part of life's landscape seems clear and unequivocal.
It is not the hardship that the writer seeks to jettison. It is the fear. And in order to step into life in confidence, one needs trust. So the real balancing act here is not from the heights of an apple tree or on the edge of a busy highway. The balancing act here is between fear and trust.
The first verse asks the question not once, but twice. If God is my salvation, of whom shall I be afraid? It's a rhetorical question, isn't it? Most of us know quite well who it is that we need to be afraid of in our lives. Most of us know quite well that in the muck and mire of our daily existence, there are adversaries who are real and dangerous. It is a tenuous question that attempts to sort out the issue of trust in God. The narrative reasons cautiously, saying, "If God is who [he] says [he] is then I don't need to be afraid. There is a pause, then comes the question, 'Do I?' "
This psalm reflects our own balancing act between trust and fear in terms of our relationship with God. In the midst of our own trials and suffering, we, too, dance back and forth between the pleas that ask God to save us from our enemies and the intrinsic sense that if we really trust God we don't have to fear our enemies. We, too, beg God to help us. We, too, plead with God not to be angry with us for serial infidelities to (him). And we, too, finally realize that if we trust in God, if we "wait on the Lord," we will "see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living."
