Plowed human furrows
Commentary
Early in human history, people discovered that they could stir up soil, drop seeds in the stirred up soil, and cause the earth to produce edible vegetation, instead of going out searching for wild vegetation to eat. The tool that was first used to stir up the soil was probably a simple stick. But however simple it might have been, it was the first plow. Sometime in the early Bronze Age plows began to be made of soft metal. Later, cast-iron was used. And then in the eighteenth century, a device was invented that was to change the world: the moldboard plow. Instead of simply breaking up the ground, the moldboard lifts the sod and turns it over. Yet another refinement in the nineteenth century proved revolutionary: making the plow out of steel.
The steel moldboard plow opened up the soil of the vast American steppe known as the Great Plains, turning over the sod of the so-called tall-grass prairie, exposing the rich soil and making it receptive to seed, so much so that the plowed furrows of the American Midwest and Great Plains were able to feed the world.
But there has been another result of the invention of the moldboard plow that didn't start to matter until the twentieth century. Because of over tillage the most basic resource of farming has been jeopardized: the precious midwestern topsoil has been lifted from the land and sent into the rivers and thence into the sea. So farmers have scaled back. They haven't been so zealous about ripping up the land. There are now subtler means of getting seed in the ground: the no-till options that soil conservation calls for.
But the point is inescapable: Whether you dig deep and turn over the sod to deposit the seed, or barely scratch the surface of the land, or simply broadcast seed, hoping that by chance or by heavenly design some of it will take root, receptive and open earth is crucial. Indeed, openness and receptiveness are critical whether you are talking about wheat in a midwestern field, or seed a sower scatters across rocky Palestinian terrain, or God's word in human lives.
So maybe there are tools to plow up human lives and open them to God's word.
Genesis 25:19-34
Most of us are democrats -- with a small d -- and as such, we think of a person's background as a minor matter. We really want to believe the American myth that any child can grow up to become president of the United States. It's built into us; it's a part of our culture. So perhaps more than other cultures of the world, ours is one in which family lineage is relatively unimportant.
But that is most assuredly not so in the biblical world of the patriarchs. The long genealogies of the Old Testament make it clear that lineage -- background, ancestry -- is everything. It defines inheritance and right; it defines God's current blessing and God's future promise. And that is what is at work in the story of Jacob and Esau.
Indeed, this passage begins with the promise of a genealogy, "These are the descendants of Isaac, Abraham's son," but it doesn't follow through on that promise. In fact, the passage is the beginning of the Jacob story, so its purpose is less to speak of a family than to introduce and provide a foundation for one particular person, Jacob.
The problem that the passage addresses is that Jacob was the second-born of the twins. But the first-born has precedence, according both to the Old Testament itself and to the practice of the ancient Middle East. So how can Jacob be the father of the nation and the rightful heir and bearer of God's promise to Abraham?
The answer is prenatal in origin. Even in the womb there was a struggle between the two, and when Rebekah consulted God about it, the answer came back in a poem and a prophecy. It's not just two babies fighting, says God, it was two nations fighting. And out of it would come a division between two peoples, and a reversal of the natural order of things, as the older one serves the younger one.
The identification of the two twins with nations continues, and is brought to light through the use of puns, which are rife in this reading. Esau came forth from the womb red and hairy, and so was named Esau, which the passage connects with the Hebrew word se'ar, hairy, which is also a play on the name Seir, the region of the Edomites. Jacob was the second born, and he came forth grasping the heel of Esau; "Jacob" is a play on the Hebrew word for heel. The puns continue when Esau asks Jacob for the red soup. The Hebrew word for red is 'admoni, and so there is a connection with Edom, the nation to the south and west of Israel, of which Esau was presumed to be the father.
To the Hebrew mind, similarities in words represent in retrospect a divinely ordained connection, so the puns are more than simply humor; they express an understanding of God's intention for Jacob and Esau and the respective nations.
The conflict that began in the womb when Rebekah felt the two struggling continues into adulthood, as Jacob extorts Esau's birthright from him and later steals Isaac's blessing that was rightfully Esau's. The birthright that Jacob wins entails both leadership of the family and a double portion of inheritance. In this case, however, the birthright has a deeper meaning within the patriarchal history: the promise God made to Abraham will be fulfilled not through Esau's line but through Jacob's line.
Clearly, this is a retrospective view of things, a revisionist history as it were, in order to explain how Jacob, the younger twin, could be the heir of Abraham and the founder of the nation. The die was cast, according to the story, even in the womb.
And the story points out the fact that rivalries, between people -- Jacob and Esau -- and between nations -- Israel and Edom -- go very deep and early in human history, even in the womb, and the struggle may even be ordained by God. But it is also about the reversal of the usual pattern, and God's grace to the younger twin.
Romans 8:1-11
A portion of this reading (vv. 6-11) is the epistle reading for the Fifth Sunday in Lent of Year A, so the reader might wish to consult our remarks about this passage for March 17, 2002.
The argument that Paul has been formulating, the main theme of the Letter to the Romans, is stated in 1:16: the Gospel "is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith...." That is what Paul is undertaking to speak about in his letter.
Now in chapter 8, one of the soaring monuments of Paul's writings and of the entire Bible, Paul moves on to talk of the life we live under that salvation, the life of grace. And the thing that marks that life (vv. 1-2) is that it is a life without condemnation, because it is a life in the Spirit.
How about an interesting little tidbit? The word "flesh" appears in these verses 10 times. The word "Spirit" appears 11 times. So are we saying the "Spirit" beats out "flesh" by a score of 11-10? Yes, that is precisely what Paul is saying, but not because of the word count. When we have faith in Jesus Christ, we are transformed fundamentally; we are changed by God: who we are, what we are, how we live, and in what realm we live, all become different. We are now in the Spirit, living in a different realm, a different order of creation, one in which, presumably, condemnation doesn't happen.
Unfortunately, these verses, among others, when taken out of context have led to the assertion that the Apostle Paul was hostile to the body and to the flesh, and that has extended to Christianity in general. But what Paul is giving here is essentially a legal argument about the realms of influence, spheres of activity. To enter into the Spirit, which happens through Christ, is to come a little closer to God's natural realm.
It is mystical and strange language that Paul employs in this passage, and it's not terribly satisfying to our rational minds. Let it suffice to say as a summary that the change wrought when we are in Christ, is a deep -- the deepest -- change. It is the transformation from flesh to spirit, and that is what moves us always closer to God.
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
This parable, along with its interpretation, is found in each of the three synoptic Gospels. It is unique among the parables of Jesus in that it has the interpretation provided, supposedly, by Jesus himself. Most commentaries, however, express skepticism that Jesus actually gave the interpretation, instead seeing it as the work of the early church before the Gospels were written.
One of the reasons that the authenticity of the interpretation in verses 18-23 is questioned is that it takes the parable and recasts it as an allegory. Here's the difference: a parable is simply "a story illustrating a moral or religious lesson" (American Heritage Dictionary). An allegory, on the other hand, is a literary representation in which the superficial sense parallels or symbolizes a deeper sense. In other words, in an allegory each of the pieces of the story stands for something else -- as in this parable the thorny ground stands for the person whose entanglement with the world chokes out God's word.
We probably don't need to be overly concerned with the allegorizing of the parable. Both are forms of figurative, non-literal language, in which one thing stands for another, be it one large thing standing for another large thing, or a number of smaller things standing for other smaller things. Further, any time you explore a parable at all, you begin the process of making it an allegory. The task of interpretation entails opening up the parable and then trying to figure out precisely what each part of the story "means," in other words, becoming allegorical in our interpretation.
So let's look at the parable. The story that Jesus tells is a plain and unremarkable story of planting seeds. Remember that we are talking about an agrarian economy and about terrain that is enormously rocky. So the setting for the parable would mean a great deal to the listeners. It is a simple story: the seed that was broadcast fell on four kinds of ground -- hard-packed ground, rocky ground, thorny ground, and good soil. Of them all, only the good soil allowed the seed to take root and grow and prosper and bear fruit.
The interpretation is so inextricably tied up with this parable, and has been so from the beginning, that it is doubtful that even if we wanted to, we could actually free ourselves from that one interpretation and come up with another.
So the parable is about the human response to the God's word. And if we actually jump on the allegory bandwagon, we can see that there are a variety of things that block our hearing of God's word and its taking root within us.
The lectionary committee has left out the verses 10-17 of this chapter, in which Jesus explains why he uses parables. Their intent was clear, to deal simply with the parable and its interpretation. Yet it is unfortunate that it was left out, because the issue of hearing and understanding is not just the topic of the interlude on parables, it is also the purpose of the parable of the sower itself.
It's all about our responsiveness to God. There are so many ways to receive the word, or not receive it, and once we receive it there are so many ways that we can understand, or not. And we can end with the words of Jesus -- let anyone with ears listen.
Application
We are all exhorted to be open-minded. In fact, openness to different ideas, different cultures, different people, has become one of the highest of virtues in American life. In part that has happened at the behest of academia. As the nation has become more educated, new ideas fill young minds and thence spread to become part of the cultural marketplace. It is also a product of demographic change. As diversity increases, as our society becomes more multi-cultural, we are exposed to new ways of doing things, to new languages heard on the street and in the workplace, to new ideas and the people who hold those new ideas.
And what it means to be open-minded is to be willing to entertain and accept what seems new and alien, foreign things and concepts that our gut, the part of us that likes things the way they are and have always been, would just as soon dismiss.
Increasingly, dwelling in and getting along in our world requires us to be open-minded. It is also true that we need to be open-minded as we dwell in God's realm, open-minded so we can hear and receive God's word.
With that we come to the parable of the sower. And even though farming metaphors and stories have less connection with increasingly urban Americans, still, the point is not lost on us. The parable of the sower is about precisely that openness. For a seed to germinate and grow, and for its plant to blossom and bring forth fruit, all depends on the seed actually getting into the soil, getting inside. Growth calls for openness, an open furrow for the seed to enter.
The problem that the parable addresses is the fact that so often human beings are closed. Unfortunately for all of us, openness to new ideas, to new people, to God's word, tends not to come naturally. We can get very content with who we are and what we have and what we believe. Despite the emphasis on openness in our world, we can still close ourselves off to other people and to God.
In his 1987 book The Closing of the American Mind, Allan Bloom argued that the American education system was not only failing to produce open-mindedness, it was working in the opposite direction, closing down young minds.
We see it in the almost xenophobic reaction to new immigration in the United States, the worry that our way of life will be jeopardized if newcomers are allowed. We see it in the epidemic of people simply not listening to each other, really listening closely and attentively to another's thoughts and needs and feelings. We are all so anxious to make sure that our words and ideas get heard that we don't take time to hear other voices, including God's.
To continue with the metaphor, what we're talking about is the compacted topsoil of our lives that doesn't admit seeds or water or light or anything else, compacted by the pressures of the world and by our busy-ness and by the mere act of living, compacted so that nothing can break through, nothing can take root. And of course, if no seed can get into us nothing new and nourishing can come forth.
But the compacted topsoil of life is not the final word. Implied in the parable of the sower is the possibility that we actually have a choice in the matter, that we can actually work to become more receptive to God's word. We can plow furrows in us so that we become good soil, fertile ground.
How do we produce receptiveness to God? What is the plow that opens furrows in us? The parable ends with Jesus' call to listen, and therein lies the answer. There is a great deal more to listening than simply perking up our ears to catch sound waves. Listening for God's word means quieting ourselves, finding the calm within, giving ourselves to another human being as we actually concentrate on what they are saying.
Listening, hard listening, active listening, giving listening. That's the plow that can open us, whatever the seed is that needs to be planted. And from that seed will grow the fruit of life, and love, and hope.
Alternative Applications
1) Genesis: The Grace of Reversal. By all rights, Esau was number one. And everybody knew it, especially his younger brother Jacob. And he wanted it for himself. So he got it out of his brother when Esau was famished and at his most vulnerable. Jacob was a con artist, with a concern only for himself. That's one way to read the Genesis account of Jacob and Esau, and all of it is true to the story. But you can also see in it the grace of God, that through a strange reversal Israel should prove to be the chosen people of God, and to prevail over the nation of Edom. Can God's choice of a people happen even in the machinations of a crooked sibling? Yes, as a matter of fact, it can.
2) Romans: The Thoroughness of the Spirit. Change as a hallmark of the modern world is ho-hum, so 15 minutes ago. Everybody knows how much change is a part of modernity. And everybody yawns at the phrase "new paradigm." And everybody knows that the church and business and all other human institutions need to change all the time to keep up and compete in the 21st century. So we diddle around, tinkering with things, making carefully planned adjustments. But the change wrought by the Spirit and by Christ is not mere tinkering; it's complete; it's revolution and transformation. It's ripping up the old blueprint and drawing another one. It's setting aside our very nature -- flesh -- and giving us a new nature -- Spirit.
First Lesson Focus
Genesis 25:19-34
The ancient author of these Genesis narratives (in the case of vv. 21-34, the tenth-century B.C. Yahwist) is a master storyteller. In a few brief sentences, he can convey multiple descriptions and meanings.
First of all, he can delineate persons and their character. We have in this text the description of Isaac's twin sons, Esau and Jacob. And we can almost picture what Esau looked like. He comes forth from the womb as an ugly baby, red and covered with hair -- not a pretty sight to his mother Rebekah, but not an unknown phenomenon among the newborn. Then Esau's character is swiftly sketched. He's an outdoor man, a man of the field, skilled in the use of the bow to kill wild game, probably with an athletic physique. But he is also an impulsive man, living for the moment and giving little thought to the consequences of his actions or to his prospects in the future. Consequently, when he comes in from hunting one day and is famished with hunger, he thoughtlessly sells his birthright, that is, his blessing and inheritance as the first-born son, to Jacob, in exchange for a bowl of lentils that Jacob is stewing.
Then there's Jacob. Jacob is a quiet man, content to carry on his profession as a farmer and satisfied to stay home in the tent with his parents. He's around the home place a lot, undoubtedly helping his mother Rebekah at times -- he's stirring the lentil stew when we hear of him in this story. So he's a fine son, a nice man. But Jacob is also shrewd, a schemer, a "supplanter," which is what his name means. In short, Jacob is a cheat, and he remains a cheat his whole life long. He came out of the womb, says our text, grasping his older brother's heel, and when he is grown to adulthood, he grasps after Esau's birthright. But Jacob is clever about it. He guarantees that he can have the first-born's blessing and inheritance by making the impulsive Esau swear to the exchange. Jacob leaves nothing to chance. He makes his way by his wits.
So we have a conflict story here, a tale of dissension between twin brothers from the beginning. So fierce is that competition that it apparently begins in Rebekah's womb, and Rebekah not only suffers during the birth but during her pregnancy, as her offspring struggle within her. She even wonders if it's worth living with such pain. But the twins are brought forth and the conflict continues, exaggerated by Esau's careless despising of his honor as the first-born. Certainly, too, the tension between the brothers is not ameliorated by the fact that Rebekah loves Jacob more than Esau, while Isaac loves Esau because Esau brings him meat from the hunt -- a rare delicacy among these desert tribes. (Is it any wonder that Israelis and Arabs are still fighting one another in our time?)
Were this story only about human interplay and conflict, it would not have much relevance for us today. But the major theological message of the text lies in verse 23. Because Rebekah is in such pain during her pregnancy, she goes to inquire of the Lord about the meaning of her plight. That is, Rebekah goes to a priest or a prophet, seeking an oracle or word from God. And the prophetic word from the Lord is spoken in verse 23. The forbears of two nations are in Rebekah's womb, and the will of God is that the younger, the second-born, will rule over the first-born. In short, God chooses Jacob. Jacob will receive the blessing handed down from Abraham. Jacob will be the bearer of God's promise to that first patriarch. Jacob will be the Lord's instrument in furthering his plan of salvation for all people. Behind this seemingly solely human and secular story, the Lord is at work, moving forward his plan for his world and all people.
And how strange that is, isn't it? God chooses Jacob, of all people! The supplanter, the schemer, the cheat, the Mama's boy (cf. Malachi 1:2-3). It is a clear indication once again of the fact that God does not work his purpose in the world through the great faith or fine character or moral purity of human beings. (Cf. the stories about Abraham.) Instead he chooses the most unlikely human instruments, in order that it may clearly be seen that salvation is solely the work of the Lord and not of fallible human instruments. As the Apostle Paul wrote, "God chose what is low and despised in the world ... so that no human being might boast ..." (1 Corinthians 1:28-29). Who knows? God might even choose us, with all of our sin-spotted records, to work toward the salvation of this world that he loves.
Lutheran Option -- Isaiah 55:10-13
Scholars have long recognized that there are three separate books combined in the Book of Isaiah, all of them dating from different periods in Israel's life, but all of them sharing in a common Isaianic tradition. The first book is found in Isaiah chapters 1-39, and dates from the eighth century B.C. The second book comes from the period of Israel's Babylonian exile. It dates from 550-538 B.C. and is found in Isaiah chapters 40-55. The third book is post-exilic, dating from after 538 B.C., and it is found in Isaiah chapters 56-66. So we have First Isaiah, Second Isaiah and Third Isaiah, although a redactor has joined them together in our Bible. Our text comes from the final chapter of Second Isaiah and is spoken by the prophet to the Israelite exiles in Babylonia, before their release from captivity.
It is interesting that this book of Second Isaiah begins and ends with similar thoughts. In its beginning, in chapter 40, we read, "The word of our God will stand forever" (40:8). And here, in chapter 55, we read "... my word ... shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose." In other words, the encompassing message of Second Isaiah is that God's word cannot fail or fall by the side. Rather, it will be fulfilled. Whatever God has spoken, he will do.
Note very carefully! God's word, spoken to us and now preserved for us in the pages of the Bible, does not just convey new information or some idea. God's word is not an idea. Rather, God's word is an active, effective power that works. It accomplishes that of which it speaks. It brings forth a new situation. It does whatever God wills. And here in Second Isaiah, the Lord declares through his prophet that his word will stand forever. God will never give up on it. He will never let it become an empty word or a useless promise. God will bring about what he has said.
In Second Isaiah's situation, in the sixth century B.C., God therefore assures his exiled people that all of the promises he has made to them will come to pass. He will "comfort, comfort" his people. He will lead them homeward through the desert. He will bring them once more into their land, and multiply their decimated population and give them a new life. In fact, he will even bring foreigners into their covenant and make aliens members of his people too. He will gather up all of his past promises to Israel and bring them to realization in a new act of salvation (cf. Isaiah 43:19), so that, indeed, they will be his instrument for shedding his blessing on all peoples (cf. Genesis 12:3). Through Israel, God will save all people (cf. Isaiah 52:13--53:12).
Is it any wonder, then, that through a descendant of those exiled Israelites that God did indeed bring salvation to his world by a cross and a resurrection? Is it any puzzle that into Israel's covenant he drew the peoples of the world until there is scarcely a spot on earth where the cross of Jesus Christ is not raised above a mud hut or a cathedral? God keeps his word, you see. It does not return to him void, but accomplishes that which he purposes and prospers in the thing for which he sent it.
And now, God has given us further words through his Son. "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me ... and lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age" (Matthew 20:18, 20). "I am the resurrection and the life ... whoever lives and believes in me shall never die" (John 11:25, 26). God has given us many similar new words through our Lord Jesus Christ. And so, remember. God's word will not return to him empty, but will accomplish his purpose and be fulfilled.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 119:105-112
Psalm 119 is an acrostic poem in praise of the Torah, consisting of 22 eight-verse sections, each section beginning successively with the next letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Each verse in a section begins with the same letter. To the people of Israel, the Torah -- meaning the entire body of religious law and learning including both sacred literature and oral tradition -- embodied God's revelation of himself to them. Thus, it deserved the extended dissertation contained in this longest of all psalms.
Verse 105, "Your word is a lamp to my feet and light to my path," is the most familiar of all from this psalm and conveys two ideas. First, faith is a journey, not a resting place. Thus the imagery of a path. Second, the way ahead is not clear, but God's word shows the next step. The lamps of that day were pots with flickering wicks, unable to shine far into the distance. But the lamp helped the person holding it to not to misstep as long as one preceded within the area illuminated.
"I hold my life in my hand continually" (v. 109) acknowledges that despite the light from the lamp, darkness remains a reality, and within that darkness, the "wicked have laid a snare for me" (v. 110), but trusting the word provides a way through without being snagged in the snare.
Preacher Ellsworth Kalas tells of being in Ghana, West Africa, during the dictatorial reign of Kwame Nkrumah, who was purging the government. Kalas visited a local religious leader. Speaking in hushed tones for fear of who might be listening, Kalas asked the man about the future of Ghana and of faith and human freedom. The African responded, "Don't worry about us, dear brother. Everyone in Ghana who knows how to read learned his letters in a Christian mission school. The first book any of these people ever read was the New Testament. Don't worry about us. We'll make it."
The steel moldboard plow opened up the soil of the vast American steppe known as the Great Plains, turning over the sod of the so-called tall-grass prairie, exposing the rich soil and making it receptive to seed, so much so that the plowed furrows of the American Midwest and Great Plains were able to feed the world.
But there has been another result of the invention of the moldboard plow that didn't start to matter until the twentieth century. Because of over tillage the most basic resource of farming has been jeopardized: the precious midwestern topsoil has been lifted from the land and sent into the rivers and thence into the sea. So farmers have scaled back. They haven't been so zealous about ripping up the land. There are now subtler means of getting seed in the ground: the no-till options that soil conservation calls for.
But the point is inescapable: Whether you dig deep and turn over the sod to deposit the seed, or barely scratch the surface of the land, or simply broadcast seed, hoping that by chance or by heavenly design some of it will take root, receptive and open earth is crucial. Indeed, openness and receptiveness are critical whether you are talking about wheat in a midwestern field, or seed a sower scatters across rocky Palestinian terrain, or God's word in human lives.
So maybe there are tools to plow up human lives and open them to God's word.
Genesis 25:19-34
Most of us are democrats -- with a small d -- and as such, we think of a person's background as a minor matter. We really want to believe the American myth that any child can grow up to become president of the United States. It's built into us; it's a part of our culture. So perhaps more than other cultures of the world, ours is one in which family lineage is relatively unimportant.
But that is most assuredly not so in the biblical world of the patriarchs. The long genealogies of the Old Testament make it clear that lineage -- background, ancestry -- is everything. It defines inheritance and right; it defines God's current blessing and God's future promise. And that is what is at work in the story of Jacob and Esau.
Indeed, this passage begins with the promise of a genealogy, "These are the descendants of Isaac, Abraham's son," but it doesn't follow through on that promise. In fact, the passage is the beginning of the Jacob story, so its purpose is less to speak of a family than to introduce and provide a foundation for one particular person, Jacob.
The problem that the passage addresses is that Jacob was the second-born of the twins. But the first-born has precedence, according both to the Old Testament itself and to the practice of the ancient Middle East. So how can Jacob be the father of the nation and the rightful heir and bearer of God's promise to Abraham?
The answer is prenatal in origin. Even in the womb there was a struggle between the two, and when Rebekah consulted God about it, the answer came back in a poem and a prophecy. It's not just two babies fighting, says God, it was two nations fighting. And out of it would come a division between two peoples, and a reversal of the natural order of things, as the older one serves the younger one.
The identification of the two twins with nations continues, and is brought to light through the use of puns, which are rife in this reading. Esau came forth from the womb red and hairy, and so was named Esau, which the passage connects with the Hebrew word se'ar, hairy, which is also a play on the name Seir, the region of the Edomites. Jacob was the second born, and he came forth grasping the heel of Esau; "Jacob" is a play on the Hebrew word for heel. The puns continue when Esau asks Jacob for the red soup. The Hebrew word for red is 'admoni, and so there is a connection with Edom, the nation to the south and west of Israel, of which Esau was presumed to be the father.
To the Hebrew mind, similarities in words represent in retrospect a divinely ordained connection, so the puns are more than simply humor; they express an understanding of God's intention for Jacob and Esau and the respective nations.
The conflict that began in the womb when Rebekah felt the two struggling continues into adulthood, as Jacob extorts Esau's birthright from him and later steals Isaac's blessing that was rightfully Esau's. The birthright that Jacob wins entails both leadership of the family and a double portion of inheritance. In this case, however, the birthright has a deeper meaning within the patriarchal history: the promise God made to Abraham will be fulfilled not through Esau's line but through Jacob's line.
Clearly, this is a retrospective view of things, a revisionist history as it were, in order to explain how Jacob, the younger twin, could be the heir of Abraham and the founder of the nation. The die was cast, according to the story, even in the womb.
And the story points out the fact that rivalries, between people -- Jacob and Esau -- and between nations -- Israel and Edom -- go very deep and early in human history, even in the womb, and the struggle may even be ordained by God. But it is also about the reversal of the usual pattern, and God's grace to the younger twin.
Romans 8:1-11
A portion of this reading (vv. 6-11) is the epistle reading for the Fifth Sunday in Lent of Year A, so the reader might wish to consult our remarks about this passage for March 17, 2002.
The argument that Paul has been formulating, the main theme of the Letter to the Romans, is stated in 1:16: the Gospel "is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith...." That is what Paul is undertaking to speak about in his letter.
Now in chapter 8, one of the soaring monuments of Paul's writings and of the entire Bible, Paul moves on to talk of the life we live under that salvation, the life of grace. And the thing that marks that life (vv. 1-2) is that it is a life without condemnation, because it is a life in the Spirit.
How about an interesting little tidbit? The word "flesh" appears in these verses 10 times. The word "Spirit" appears 11 times. So are we saying the "Spirit" beats out "flesh" by a score of 11-10? Yes, that is precisely what Paul is saying, but not because of the word count. When we have faith in Jesus Christ, we are transformed fundamentally; we are changed by God: who we are, what we are, how we live, and in what realm we live, all become different. We are now in the Spirit, living in a different realm, a different order of creation, one in which, presumably, condemnation doesn't happen.
Unfortunately, these verses, among others, when taken out of context have led to the assertion that the Apostle Paul was hostile to the body and to the flesh, and that has extended to Christianity in general. But what Paul is giving here is essentially a legal argument about the realms of influence, spheres of activity. To enter into the Spirit, which happens through Christ, is to come a little closer to God's natural realm.
It is mystical and strange language that Paul employs in this passage, and it's not terribly satisfying to our rational minds. Let it suffice to say as a summary that the change wrought when we are in Christ, is a deep -- the deepest -- change. It is the transformation from flesh to spirit, and that is what moves us always closer to God.
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
This parable, along with its interpretation, is found in each of the three synoptic Gospels. It is unique among the parables of Jesus in that it has the interpretation provided, supposedly, by Jesus himself. Most commentaries, however, express skepticism that Jesus actually gave the interpretation, instead seeing it as the work of the early church before the Gospels were written.
One of the reasons that the authenticity of the interpretation in verses 18-23 is questioned is that it takes the parable and recasts it as an allegory. Here's the difference: a parable is simply "a story illustrating a moral or religious lesson" (American Heritage Dictionary). An allegory, on the other hand, is a literary representation in which the superficial sense parallels or symbolizes a deeper sense. In other words, in an allegory each of the pieces of the story stands for something else -- as in this parable the thorny ground stands for the person whose entanglement with the world chokes out God's word.
We probably don't need to be overly concerned with the allegorizing of the parable. Both are forms of figurative, non-literal language, in which one thing stands for another, be it one large thing standing for another large thing, or a number of smaller things standing for other smaller things. Further, any time you explore a parable at all, you begin the process of making it an allegory. The task of interpretation entails opening up the parable and then trying to figure out precisely what each part of the story "means," in other words, becoming allegorical in our interpretation.
So let's look at the parable. The story that Jesus tells is a plain and unremarkable story of planting seeds. Remember that we are talking about an agrarian economy and about terrain that is enormously rocky. So the setting for the parable would mean a great deal to the listeners. It is a simple story: the seed that was broadcast fell on four kinds of ground -- hard-packed ground, rocky ground, thorny ground, and good soil. Of them all, only the good soil allowed the seed to take root and grow and prosper and bear fruit.
The interpretation is so inextricably tied up with this parable, and has been so from the beginning, that it is doubtful that even if we wanted to, we could actually free ourselves from that one interpretation and come up with another.
So the parable is about the human response to the God's word. And if we actually jump on the allegory bandwagon, we can see that there are a variety of things that block our hearing of God's word and its taking root within us.
The lectionary committee has left out the verses 10-17 of this chapter, in which Jesus explains why he uses parables. Their intent was clear, to deal simply with the parable and its interpretation. Yet it is unfortunate that it was left out, because the issue of hearing and understanding is not just the topic of the interlude on parables, it is also the purpose of the parable of the sower itself.
It's all about our responsiveness to God. There are so many ways to receive the word, or not receive it, and once we receive it there are so many ways that we can understand, or not. And we can end with the words of Jesus -- let anyone with ears listen.
Application
We are all exhorted to be open-minded. In fact, openness to different ideas, different cultures, different people, has become one of the highest of virtues in American life. In part that has happened at the behest of academia. As the nation has become more educated, new ideas fill young minds and thence spread to become part of the cultural marketplace. It is also a product of demographic change. As diversity increases, as our society becomes more multi-cultural, we are exposed to new ways of doing things, to new languages heard on the street and in the workplace, to new ideas and the people who hold those new ideas.
And what it means to be open-minded is to be willing to entertain and accept what seems new and alien, foreign things and concepts that our gut, the part of us that likes things the way they are and have always been, would just as soon dismiss.
Increasingly, dwelling in and getting along in our world requires us to be open-minded. It is also true that we need to be open-minded as we dwell in God's realm, open-minded so we can hear and receive God's word.
With that we come to the parable of the sower. And even though farming metaphors and stories have less connection with increasingly urban Americans, still, the point is not lost on us. The parable of the sower is about precisely that openness. For a seed to germinate and grow, and for its plant to blossom and bring forth fruit, all depends on the seed actually getting into the soil, getting inside. Growth calls for openness, an open furrow for the seed to enter.
The problem that the parable addresses is the fact that so often human beings are closed. Unfortunately for all of us, openness to new ideas, to new people, to God's word, tends not to come naturally. We can get very content with who we are and what we have and what we believe. Despite the emphasis on openness in our world, we can still close ourselves off to other people and to God.
In his 1987 book The Closing of the American Mind, Allan Bloom argued that the American education system was not only failing to produce open-mindedness, it was working in the opposite direction, closing down young minds.
We see it in the almost xenophobic reaction to new immigration in the United States, the worry that our way of life will be jeopardized if newcomers are allowed. We see it in the epidemic of people simply not listening to each other, really listening closely and attentively to another's thoughts and needs and feelings. We are all so anxious to make sure that our words and ideas get heard that we don't take time to hear other voices, including God's.
To continue with the metaphor, what we're talking about is the compacted topsoil of our lives that doesn't admit seeds or water or light or anything else, compacted by the pressures of the world and by our busy-ness and by the mere act of living, compacted so that nothing can break through, nothing can take root. And of course, if no seed can get into us nothing new and nourishing can come forth.
But the compacted topsoil of life is not the final word. Implied in the parable of the sower is the possibility that we actually have a choice in the matter, that we can actually work to become more receptive to God's word. We can plow furrows in us so that we become good soil, fertile ground.
How do we produce receptiveness to God? What is the plow that opens furrows in us? The parable ends with Jesus' call to listen, and therein lies the answer. There is a great deal more to listening than simply perking up our ears to catch sound waves. Listening for God's word means quieting ourselves, finding the calm within, giving ourselves to another human being as we actually concentrate on what they are saying.
Listening, hard listening, active listening, giving listening. That's the plow that can open us, whatever the seed is that needs to be planted. And from that seed will grow the fruit of life, and love, and hope.
Alternative Applications
1) Genesis: The Grace of Reversal. By all rights, Esau was number one. And everybody knew it, especially his younger brother Jacob. And he wanted it for himself. So he got it out of his brother when Esau was famished and at his most vulnerable. Jacob was a con artist, with a concern only for himself. That's one way to read the Genesis account of Jacob and Esau, and all of it is true to the story. But you can also see in it the grace of God, that through a strange reversal Israel should prove to be the chosen people of God, and to prevail over the nation of Edom. Can God's choice of a people happen even in the machinations of a crooked sibling? Yes, as a matter of fact, it can.
2) Romans: The Thoroughness of the Spirit. Change as a hallmark of the modern world is ho-hum, so 15 minutes ago. Everybody knows how much change is a part of modernity. And everybody yawns at the phrase "new paradigm." And everybody knows that the church and business and all other human institutions need to change all the time to keep up and compete in the 21st century. So we diddle around, tinkering with things, making carefully planned adjustments. But the change wrought by the Spirit and by Christ is not mere tinkering; it's complete; it's revolution and transformation. It's ripping up the old blueprint and drawing another one. It's setting aside our very nature -- flesh -- and giving us a new nature -- Spirit.
First Lesson Focus
Genesis 25:19-34
The ancient author of these Genesis narratives (in the case of vv. 21-34, the tenth-century B.C. Yahwist) is a master storyteller. In a few brief sentences, he can convey multiple descriptions and meanings.
First of all, he can delineate persons and their character. We have in this text the description of Isaac's twin sons, Esau and Jacob. And we can almost picture what Esau looked like. He comes forth from the womb as an ugly baby, red and covered with hair -- not a pretty sight to his mother Rebekah, but not an unknown phenomenon among the newborn. Then Esau's character is swiftly sketched. He's an outdoor man, a man of the field, skilled in the use of the bow to kill wild game, probably with an athletic physique. But he is also an impulsive man, living for the moment and giving little thought to the consequences of his actions or to his prospects in the future. Consequently, when he comes in from hunting one day and is famished with hunger, he thoughtlessly sells his birthright, that is, his blessing and inheritance as the first-born son, to Jacob, in exchange for a bowl of lentils that Jacob is stewing.
Then there's Jacob. Jacob is a quiet man, content to carry on his profession as a farmer and satisfied to stay home in the tent with his parents. He's around the home place a lot, undoubtedly helping his mother Rebekah at times -- he's stirring the lentil stew when we hear of him in this story. So he's a fine son, a nice man. But Jacob is also shrewd, a schemer, a "supplanter," which is what his name means. In short, Jacob is a cheat, and he remains a cheat his whole life long. He came out of the womb, says our text, grasping his older brother's heel, and when he is grown to adulthood, he grasps after Esau's birthright. But Jacob is clever about it. He guarantees that he can have the first-born's blessing and inheritance by making the impulsive Esau swear to the exchange. Jacob leaves nothing to chance. He makes his way by his wits.
So we have a conflict story here, a tale of dissension between twin brothers from the beginning. So fierce is that competition that it apparently begins in Rebekah's womb, and Rebekah not only suffers during the birth but during her pregnancy, as her offspring struggle within her. She even wonders if it's worth living with such pain. But the twins are brought forth and the conflict continues, exaggerated by Esau's careless despising of his honor as the first-born. Certainly, too, the tension between the brothers is not ameliorated by the fact that Rebekah loves Jacob more than Esau, while Isaac loves Esau because Esau brings him meat from the hunt -- a rare delicacy among these desert tribes. (Is it any wonder that Israelis and Arabs are still fighting one another in our time?)
Were this story only about human interplay and conflict, it would not have much relevance for us today. But the major theological message of the text lies in verse 23. Because Rebekah is in such pain during her pregnancy, she goes to inquire of the Lord about the meaning of her plight. That is, Rebekah goes to a priest or a prophet, seeking an oracle or word from God. And the prophetic word from the Lord is spoken in verse 23. The forbears of two nations are in Rebekah's womb, and the will of God is that the younger, the second-born, will rule over the first-born. In short, God chooses Jacob. Jacob will receive the blessing handed down from Abraham. Jacob will be the bearer of God's promise to that first patriarch. Jacob will be the Lord's instrument in furthering his plan of salvation for all people. Behind this seemingly solely human and secular story, the Lord is at work, moving forward his plan for his world and all people.
And how strange that is, isn't it? God chooses Jacob, of all people! The supplanter, the schemer, the cheat, the Mama's boy (cf. Malachi 1:2-3). It is a clear indication once again of the fact that God does not work his purpose in the world through the great faith or fine character or moral purity of human beings. (Cf. the stories about Abraham.) Instead he chooses the most unlikely human instruments, in order that it may clearly be seen that salvation is solely the work of the Lord and not of fallible human instruments. As the Apostle Paul wrote, "God chose what is low and despised in the world ... so that no human being might boast ..." (1 Corinthians 1:28-29). Who knows? God might even choose us, with all of our sin-spotted records, to work toward the salvation of this world that he loves.
Lutheran Option -- Isaiah 55:10-13
Scholars have long recognized that there are three separate books combined in the Book of Isaiah, all of them dating from different periods in Israel's life, but all of them sharing in a common Isaianic tradition. The first book is found in Isaiah chapters 1-39, and dates from the eighth century B.C. The second book comes from the period of Israel's Babylonian exile. It dates from 550-538 B.C. and is found in Isaiah chapters 40-55. The third book is post-exilic, dating from after 538 B.C., and it is found in Isaiah chapters 56-66. So we have First Isaiah, Second Isaiah and Third Isaiah, although a redactor has joined them together in our Bible. Our text comes from the final chapter of Second Isaiah and is spoken by the prophet to the Israelite exiles in Babylonia, before their release from captivity.
It is interesting that this book of Second Isaiah begins and ends with similar thoughts. In its beginning, in chapter 40, we read, "The word of our God will stand forever" (40:8). And here, in chapter 55, we read "... my word ... shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose." In other words, the encompassing message of Second Isaiah is that God's word cannot fail or fall by the side. Rather, it will be fulfilled. Whatever God has spoken, he will do.
Note very carefully! God's word, spoken to us and now preserved for us in the pages of the Bible, does not just convey new information or some idea. God's word is not an idea. Rather, God's word is an active, effective power that works. It accomplishes that of which it speaks. It brings forth a new situation. It does whatever God wills. And here in Second Isaiah, the Lord declares through his prophet that his word will stand forever. God will never give up on it. He will never let it become an empty word or a useless promise. God will bring about what he has said.
In Second Isaiah's situation, in the sixth century B.C., God therefore assures his exiled people that all of the promises he has made to them will come to pass. He will "comfort, comfort" his people. He will lead them homeward through the desert. He will bring them once more into their land, and multiply their decimated population and give them a new life. In fact, he will even bring foreigners into their covenant and make aliens members of his people too. He will gather up all of his past promises to Israel and bring them to realization in a new act of salvation (cf. Isaiah 43:19), so that, indeed, they will be his instrument for shedding his blessing on all peoples (cf. Genesis 12:3). Through Israel, God will save all people (cf. Isaiah 52:13--53:12).
Is it any wonder, then, that through a descendant of those exiled Israelites that God did indeed bring salvation to his world by a cross and a resurrection? Is it any puzzle that into Israel's covenant he drew the peoples of the world until there is scarcely a spot on earth where the cross of Jesus Christ is not raised above a mud hut or a cathedral? God keeps his word, you see. It does not return to him void, but accomplishes that which he purposes and prospers in the thing for which he sent it.
And now, God has given us further words through his Son. "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me ... and lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age" (Matthew 20:18, 20). "I am the resurrection and the life ... whoever lives and believes in me shall never die" (John 11:25, 26). God has given us many similar new words through our Lord Jesus Christ. And so, remember. God's word will not return to him empty, but will accomplish his purpose and be fulfilled.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 119:105-112
Psalm 119 is an acrostic poem in praise of the Torah, consisting of 22 eight-verse sections, each section beginning successively with the next letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Each verse in a section begins with the same letter. To the people of Israel, the Torah -- meaning the entire body of religious law and learning including both sacred literature and oral tradition -- embodied God's revelation of himself to them. Thus, it deserved the extended dissertation contained in this longest of all psalms.
Verse 105, "Your word is a lamp to my feet and light to my path," is the most familiar of all from this psalm and conveys two ideas. First, faith is a journey, not a resting place. Thus the imagery of a path. Second, the way ahead is not clear, but God's word shows the next step. The lamps of that day were pots with flickering wicks, unable to shine far into the distance. But the lamp helped the person holding it to not to misstep as long as one preceded within the area illuminated.
"I hold my life in my hand continually" (v. 109) acknowledges that despite the light from the lamp, darkness remains a reality, and within that darkness, the "wicked have laid a snare for me" (v. 110), but trusting the word provides a way through without being snagged in the snare.
Preacher Ellsworth Kalas tells of being in Ghana, West Africa, during the dictatorial reign of Kwame Nkrumah, who was purging the government. Kalas visited a local religious leader. Speaking in hushed tones for fear of who might be listening, Kalas asked the man about the future of Ghana and of faith and human freedom. The African responded, "Don't worry about us, dear brother. Everyone in Ghana who knows how to read learned his letters in a Christian mission school. The first book any of these people ever read was the New Testament. Don't worry about us. We'll make it."
