All Rise
Commentary
I was summoned for jury duty recently. I was part of a jury pool of several dozen people, and so the odds were low that I would be chosen. In fact, I ended up not even being among those who were questioned. But I did get to sit in the courtroom and observe the whole process of jury selection, from beginning to end.
In addition to those of us who were part of the jury pool, the defendant was there, attorneys for the defendant and the state, a bailiff, and a court stenographer. And, presiding over the entire process, there was the judge.
The entire process was interesting and something of an education, but I was particularly taken by the judge. He was quite amazing. I believe he had been on the bench for several decades, and yet he showed neither weariness nor jadedness. He had clearly retained a sense of the importance of even the most elementary components of a court case, and he inspired within everyone there a wholesome reverence for the system and its guiding principles.
The courtroom was moderately ornate, which added to the sense of the significance and seriousness of the occasion. And almost every element of what transpired impressed upon those present the importance of the judge. He came in last; his entrance was announced, and we all stood.
The judge was the unquestioned authority in the room. There aren’t many arenas of life like that anymore in our culture. Citizens protest, criticize, and mock their elected leaders; students grade their professors; players argue with referees. But in the courtroom, the judge’s word was the final word. True, someone can appeal his decisions and rulings, but that takes place in a different room. In that room, he is the sole and final authority.
That brief foray into the world of the courtroom was good for me. It gave me a renewed appreciation for the role and, if you will, the sovereignty of a judge. It’s an important image for us to understand and embrace, for it is one of the prominent and recurring images used for God in scripture. And the Lord as judge is a helpful lens through which to see and to preach our assigned passages for this week.
Exodus 14:19-31
One of the recurring themes of the exodus event is the Lord making a distinction between Israel and Egypt. We think, for example, of how the plague of darkness affected Egypt but not the land of Goshen where the Hebrews lived. And, most dramatically, we think of the Passover.
Here, too, at the famous parting of the waters event, we see a divine distinction made between Israel and Egypt. First, the Lord supernaturally separates the two peoples while he accomplishes his purpose with the body of water. And then, when it comes to the body of water itself, Israel and Egypt meet with markedly different experiences.
Modern readers sometimes find this sort of theme off-putting. We want to put the accent on the universal or global syllable. And that instinct is quite right, of course, for “God so loved the world that whosoever...” Or, as Charles Wesley so poetically expressed it, “The arms of love that compass me would all the world embrace.”*
The distinction between peoples that we see here in this episode — or that we trace throughout the larger story — is not about exclusivity. The Lord is not rejecting anyone. On the contrary, the “distinction” theme is arguably a byproduct of people rejecting the Lord rather than the other way around. For in this episode, the Egyptians represent opposition to God’s plan and God’s people, and we see throughout Old and New Testament alike that it does not pay to try to oppose God. This was, we recall, Gamaliel’s wise caution to the Sanhedrin.
What happens with the Egyptians, then, serves as a sort of sober object lesson. Late in this episode, we hear the Egyptians panicking and saying, “Let me flee from Israel, for the Lord is fighting for them against the Egyptians.” “The Lord is fighting for them.” You think? What was your first clue?
The Lord did not begin by drowning Egyptian soldiers. He did not begin by raining down calamities on them. He began, we remember, by sending his messenger to give a verbal instruction and due warning to the Pharaoh. If he had complied, all would have been well for him and his country. But ten plagues later — after blood in the water, frogs and flies, pestilence, hail, and death; after a supernatural barrier and parted waters — finally the Egyptians come to their senses and recognize that “The Lord is fighting for them.”
This is where the Egyptians of the exodus story are a sober object lesson for us, you see. The Lord is patient, and he has always been faithful about declaring his will, announcing his purpose, and revealing his plans. If human beings see it and hear it, yet defy it, then what do they expect? Is the Lord unjust when he does what he said he would do? Yet it may only be when their wheels are stuck in the mud and the judgment of God is coming down all around them that some people come to their senses. It happened to the Egyptians. It probably happened in Noah’s day and among Lot’s neighbors. And the prophecies about the eschaton suggest it will happen again in the end.
Romans 14:1-12
One of my adult daughters and I recently made a trip together. It’s an annual trip that we make to a destination that we both enjoy. All told, we were together for four days and three nights, we drove nearly a thousand miles, and we shared a dozen meals and poked our heads into a couple of dozen stores.
Over the course of those days, as you might expect, we had to make many, many decisions together. Decisions about when to leave, when to stop, where to eat, what to watch, and where to go along the way. Fortunately, she is a pleasant and easygoing young woman, and so living and traveling with her is an easy thing to do.
In any case, I was reminded again and again of the fundamental human challenge of a group (in this case, just two people) making decisions and yet staying together. It’s so easy, after all, for a decision to divide people. If they want different things, then they are tempted either to argue about it or to each go their own ways.
And so, my trip with my daughter served as a helpful metaphor for me. We could go to the same restaurant but order different things. Having different tastes or appetites could have divided us (e.g., she wanted Chinese, but I felt like Italian), or we could eat different things yet still stay together (e.g., getting two different kinds of sub sandwiches). Likewise, we could shop in the same store yet not have to buy the same things. We could visit the same tourist destination, yet not take the same photographs. To go to different tourist destinations, on the other hand, would have divided us.
In Paul’s letter to the Romans, he was urging them to recognize that not every decision needs to be divisive. Certainly, we recognize across both the Old and the New Testament that some things are non-negotiable, and they cause necessary separations among the people of God (see, for example, Deuteronomy 13:6-11; 1 Corinthians 5:1-13; 2 John 1:7-11). But there are other parts of the Christian journey that allow us to stay together in the same restaurant, yet still order different meals, as it were.
The particular issues that Paul references concern conscientious dietary restrictions and the special observance of certain days. In the former case, the likely context is the problem presented by meat which came from sacrifices to idols. We recall that Paul explores this issue in some detail in 1 Corinthians 8. In the latter case, Paul doesn’t reveal enough detail to make the circumstance clear. It is easy to imagine, though, that at least some of the Christians in Rome who had come out of a Jewish background were still careful to observe the Jewish holy days, while other members of that congregation thought them to be unnecessary.
Perhaps it comes naturally to human beings to turn differences of taste or opinion into matters of right and wrong. If we do, it probably arises from a good impulse within us: a proper concern for doing the right thing. Yet Paul is eager to help those early Christians understand that some matters need not divide them, for not everything rises to the level of “right vs. wrong.” You and I can make different decisions along the way, and yet still make the same journey together, charitably and peaceably.
In a time when tensions are high in our culture, when people are so quick to take sides, and when we default so naturally into us-vs.-them factions, Paul’s word to the Romans is an important one to hear. The particular issues he is addressing may seem far removed from us. Yet the underlying principle is as current as today’s news — and longer lasting!
Matthew 18:21-35
At the outset of a teaching in which debt plays a major role, we should acknowledge that we are indebted to Peter for asking the question that he did. Almost certainly, each one of us knows the experience of a relationship that requires recurring forgiveness. It comes naturally to every earnest soul, therefore, to wonder what the divine expectations are. I know that this person is not supposed to keep hurting, offending, disappointing again and again and again. What I don’t know is whether I am supposed to keep forgiving again and again and again. So, Peter did us all the great favor of asking the question to which we all want to know the answer.
But is this the answer that we want to hear?
Peter suggests a reasonable number. Jesus responds, however, with an unreasonable number. At least it seems unreasonable at first. But then Jesus begins citing really big numbers.
Paralleling the juxtaposition of Peter’s and Jesus’ numbers is the juxtaposition of two other numbers: ten-thousand and one-hundred. Except that the difference is even greater than that, for the “ten-thousand” represents talents, while the “one-hundred” represents denarii. According to some estimates, a talent is worth six-thousand denarii. So that means that the real difference between the first and second servants’ debts is not just the ten-thousand to one-hundred, but sixty-million to one-hundred. It is a mind-boggling difference. Set a soda can next to Mt. Everest, and then you’ll have a sense of the startling proportions that Jesus is portraying.
That proportion, of course, serves not only to illustrate relative debt, but also relative forgiveness. What the servant had the opportunity to forgive was less than inconsequential compared to what he had been forgiven. Jesus’ characterization of the servant’s debt to his master was surely hyperbole. Peter must have smiled at the suggestion of one man owing another ten-thousand talents. It would be essentially impossible for a single individual to acquire so great a debt.
Once Jesus implies the connection at the end, however, to our relationship with God, suddenly the numbers are not so outlandish. If the price for our sin is paid by Christ’s death on the cross, then what estimated value does one put on that? Now ten-thousand talents seems a very low figure. Indeed, to put any dollar amount on the cross feels like an insult.
But the point is made. Having been freely forgiven by God the mountain of our sin-debt, by what logic can we hold against our fellow servants their sins against us?
Finally, it is worth pausing long enough to note the theology of grammar. When Peter asks how many times he should forgive his brother, the “him” of Matthew 18:21 is in the dative case in the original Greek. Why is that significant? Because it means that “him,” the brother, is the indirect object of forgiveness. It is the sin — or, in the case of the parable, the debt — that is actually the direct object of forgiveness.
The significance of this can be illustrated by inserting a different word into the parable. Instead of saying that the king forgave the servant’s debt, we might say that he canceled the debt. When speaking of a debt, those words are interchangeable. But they are not interchangeable when referring to the servant. While we are tempted to say that the king forgave the first servant, we wouldn’t say that he canceled the first servant.
But that is the point: it is the debt that is forgiven, not the servant. Human beings are always the indirect objects of forgiveness; it is sins and debts that are the real objects of forgiveness. We get hung up on whether God will forgive us and how we can forgive other people, but that is not the real issue. In each case, it is some debt that has broken the relationship, and that debt needs to be forgiven in order for the relationship to be restored. And once we understand forgiveness as canceling a debt, we will recognize the costly unfairness and absolute grace involved in forgiveness: it is the exact opposite of restitution or revenge, for it costs the forgiver instead of the debtor.
Application
In a courtroom setting, there are typically two opposing parties, and then there is the judge who presides over their dispute. And, in some instances here in the United States, and perhaps most instances in various justice systems throughout human history, the judge serves as the final arbiter. He decides right and wrong. He determines innocence and guilt. And he imposes justice into the otherwise unjust situation.
In each of the assigned lections for this week, we are presented with opposing parties. In Exodus, it is the Israelites vs. the Egyptians. In Romans, it is the potential (perhaps ever-present) conflict between the believers with weak consciences vs. those with strong consciences. And in the gospel pericope, it begins in the context of the apparently hurtful relationship between Peter and some brother, and becomes a story of a dispute between two imaginary servants.
And in every case, the Lord is the judge.
The Exodus episode, of course, is part of a much longer narrative. The Egyptians have been cruelling oppressing the Israelites. They have been notified by the authorities, if you will, that the slaves should be set free. And, bit by bit, pressure was brought to bear on the Egyptians in order to impress upon them the necessity of emancipation. Finally, the judgment of the judge came down in the most severe — but, it should be noted, avoidable — ways: the death of the firstborn and the drowning of the Egyptian troops. If Pharaoh had relented earlier, the events of the Passover would not have been necessary. And if the Egyptians had not pursued the set-free Israelites in the wilderness, the massacre at the Red Sea would not have occurred. But the verdict of the judge was final in any event.
The teaching from Paul’s letter to the Romans hits nearer to home, for it concerns disputes within the church. Those are familiar and nearly ubiquitous. Interestingly, one of the key words from the apostle to those disputing Christians was the need to remind them about the judge. They were evidently showing a reflex to take that mantle and responsibility on themselves: they were judging one another. You and I know how easily — and earnestly — that occurs. But Paul reminds them that they have no business judging one another, for the Lord will judge them. It is pointless for you and me to argue across our two tables within the courtroom when, any moment, the judge himself will step in and offer the final verdict.
It is worth noting at this point that our particular judge’s judgment may be different than what we typically expect. In a standard civil case, the judge is meant to determine which party is more correct, more in the right. For our judge, however, his verdict may be less about who was technically correct and more about who was right in how they treated the opposing party. This seems to be the implication, at least, of Paul’s advice to the Corinthians who were taking each other to court (see 1 Corinthians 6:1-8).
That brings us, then, to the gospel passage and Jesus’ resulting parable. Like the issue that was at work in Paul’s letter to the Romans, the dispute in Matthew 18 is between brethren. And, interestingly, there is no question about whether or not this servant or that servant was in the wrong: they both have undisputed debts. But the judgment falls on the servant who, while technically justified in his shakedown of his fellow servant, failed to do what was truly right in his master’s eyes. For our judge prefers mercy over judgment.
In every case, then, we see the same theme: an affirmation that God is the ultimate judge, accompanied by either an implicit or explicit encouragement to leave the judging to him. The Israelites were in no position to guarantee justice for themselves; but they didn’t need to, for the Lord God looked down on the situation and made things right. The Christians who are inclined to engage in a tug-of-war in the church can relax their grip, knowing that the final verdict comes from God. And the person who has been hurt or offended by some fellow servant need only remember his or her own experience with the judge. Having been forgiven our impossible debt, we are liberated in turn to give those around us better than they deserve, too.
Alternative Application(s)
Matthew 18:21-35 — “Jesus’ Counteroffer”
The scene is familiar to television shows and movies. Perhaps we have lived it in real life, as well. It is the back-and-forth of two parties negotiating.
Perhaps we imagine a customer in the market for a used car. The salesperson quotes a figure: the asking price. The customer, meanwhile, is not really expected to just nod and accept it. Instead, he regards the asking price as the starting position, but he thinks he might be able to drive away for less. And so, he responds with a counteroffer.
The question, then, is how far apart the two numbers are.
The used car salesman and the prospective buyer may be just a few hundred dollars apart. Meanwhile, the professional athlete and the team looking to sign him to a contract may be tens of millions of dollars apart. Yet few negotiating parties at any level are as far apart as Jesus and Peter.
Peter’s starting position, you recall, was the suggestion that he forgive the brother who sins against him seven times. But Jesus’ counteroffer said, in effect, “Why don’t you multiply that number by seventy!” Incredible. What salesman is pitching a product at seventy times the price that the customer is willing to pay? What agent is asking a team to pay his client seventy times more than they originally offered? The distance between what Peter thought was reasonable and what Jesus said is required is massive.
But that’s not just about forgiveness, is it? There are all sorts of ways of living and being that we think are reasonable. Consequently, that is what most of us are: reasonably good. But then Jesus comes along and teaches us to be, frankly, unreasonably good. He tells us to rejoice in persecution, to turn the other cheek, to carry the undeserved pack an extra mile, to supplement what is taken with something more given, and to love our enemies. And that’s just from the Sermon on the Mount only.
Jesus’ counteroffer to Peter is really just a microcosm of the larger claim that he makes on our lives. There is our natural instinct and willingness, and then there is the counteroffer of real discipleship. We want to believe in him; he wants us to follow him. We want to love him, too; he wants us to love him most. We are willing to give a little; he challenges us to give everything. We offer some convenient parts of our lives; he counters with the call to take up a cross and lay down our lives.
Forgiving others is a good place for the disciple to start, for in a sense forgiveness is where most of us begin in our relationship with him. We come to him for forgiveness, and we discover how he does it. We discover the readiness and the abundance of his forgiveness, and so we are well-positioned to forgive others in turn. Indeed, you’d think it would come naturally to someone who was a grateful recipient. In Jesus’ parabolic answer to Peter, however, we see an example of the opposite case. That does not turn out well, and we are duly warned.
* Charles Wesley, “Jesus! the Name High Over All, UMH #193
In addition to those of us who were part of the jury pool, the defendant was there, attorneys for the defendant and the state, a bailiff, and a court stenographer. And, presiding over the entire process, there was the judge.
The entire process was interesting and something of an education, but I was particularly taken by the judge. He was quite amazing. I believe he had been on the bench for several decades, and yet he showed neither weariness nor jadedness. He had clearly retained a sense of the importance of even the most elementary components of a court case, and he inspired within everyone there a wholesome reverence for the system and its guiding principles.
The courtroom was moderately ornate, which added to the sense of the significance and seriousness of the occasion. And almost every element of what transpired impressed upon those present the importance of the judge. He came in last; his entrance was announced, and we all stood.
The judge was the unquestioned authority in the room. There aren’t many arenas of life like that anymore in our culture. Citizens protest, criticize, and mock their elected leaders; students grade their professors; players argue with referees. But in the courtroom, the judge’s word was the final word. True, someone can appeal his decisions and rulings, but that takes place in a different room. In that room, he is the sole and final authority.
That brief foray into the world of the courtroom was good for me. It gave me a renewed appreciation for the role and, if you will, the sovereignty of a judge. It’s an important image for us to understand and embrace, for it is one of the prominent and recurring images used for God in scripture. And the Lord as judge is a helpful lens through which to see and to preach our assigned passages for this week.
Exodus 14:19-31
One of the recurring themes of the exodus event is the Lord making a distinction between Israel and Egypt. We think, for example, of how the plague of darkness affected Egypt but not the land of Goshen where the Hebrews lived. And, most dramatically, we think of the Passover.
Here, too, at the famous parting of the waters event, we see a divine distinction made between Israel and Egypt. First, the Lord supernaturally separates the two peoples while he accomplishes his purpose with the body of water. And then, when it comes to the body of water itself, Israel and Egypt meet with markedly different experiences.
Modern readers sometimes find this sort of theme off-putting. We want to put the accent on the universal or global syllable. And that instinct is quite right, of course, for “God so loved the world that whosoever...” Or, as Charles Wesley so poetically expressed it, “The arms of love that compass me would all the world embrace.”*
The distinction between peoples that we see here in this episode — or that we trace throughout the larger story — is not about exclusivity. The Lord is not rejecting anyone. On the contrary, the “distinction” theme is arguably a byproduct of people rejecting the Lord rather than the other way around. For in this episode, the Egyptians represent opposition to God’s plan and God’s people, and we see throughout Old and New Testament alike that it does not pay to try to oppose God. This was, we recall, Gamaliel’s wise caution to the Sanhedrin.
What happens with the Egyptians, then, serves as a sort of sober object lesson. Late in this episode, we hear the Egyptians panicking and saying, “Let me flee from Israel, for the Lord is fighting for them against the Egyptians.” “The Lord is fighting for them.” You think? What was your first clue?
The Lord did not begin by drowning Egyptian soldiers. He did not begin by raining down calamities on them. He began, we remember, by sending his messenger to give a verbal instruction and due warning to the Pharaoh. If he had complied, all would have been well for him and his country. But ten plagues later — after blood in the water, frogs and flies, pestilence, hail, and death; after a supernatural barrier and parted waters — finally the Egyptians come to their senses and recognize that “The Lord is fighting for them.”
This is where the Egyptians of the exodus story are a sober object lesson for us, you see. The Lord is patient, and he has always been faithful about declaring his will, announcing his purpose, and revealing his plans. If human beings see it and hear it, yet defy it, then what do they expect? Is the Lord unjust when he does what he said he would do? Yet it may only be when their wheels are stuck in the mud and the judgment of God is coming down all around them that some people come to their senses. It happened to the Egyptians. It probably happened in Noah’s day and among Lot’s neighbors. And the prophecies about the eschaton suggest it will happen again in the end.
Romans 14:1-12
One of my adult daughters and I recently made a trip together. It’s an annual trip that we make to a destination that we both enjoy. All told, we were together for four days and three nights, we drove nearly a thousand miles, and we shared a dozen meals and poked our heads into a couple of dozen stores.
Over the course of those days, as you might expect, we had to make many, many decisions together. Decisions about when to leave, when to stop, where to eat, what to watch, and where to go along the way. Fortunately, she is a pleasant and easygoing young woman, and so living and traveling with her is an easy thing to do.
In any case, I was reminded again and again of the fundamental human challenge of a group (in this case, just two people) making decisions and yet staying together. It’s so easy, after all, for a decision to divide people. If they want different things, then they are tempted either to argue about it or to each go their own ways.
And so, my trip with my daughter served as a helpful metaphor for me. We could go to the same restaurant but order different things. Having different tastes or appetites could have divided us (e.g., she wanted Chinese, but I felt like Italian), or we could eat different things yet still stay together (e.g., getting two different kinds of sub sandwiches). Likewise, we could shop in the same store yet not have to buy the same things. We could visit the same tourist destination, yet not take the same photographs. To go to different tourist destinations, on the other hand, would have divided us.
In Paul’s letter to the Romans, he was urging them to recognize that not every decision needs to be divisive. Certainly, we recognize across both the Old and the New Testament that some things are non-negotiable, and they cause necessary separations among the people of God (see, for example, Deuteronomy 13:6-11; 1 Corinthians 5:1-13; 2 John 1:7-11). But there are other parts of the Christian journey that allow us to stay together in the same restaurant, yet still order different meals, as it were.
The particular issues that Paul references concern conscientious dietary restrictions and the special observance of certain days. In the former case, the likely context is the problem presented by meat which came from sacrifices to idols. We recall that Paul explores this issue in some detail in 1 Corinthians 8. In the latter case, Paul doesn’t reveal enough detail to make the circumstance clear. It is easy to imagine, though, that at least some of the Christians in Rome who had come out of a Jewish background were still careful to observe the Jewish holy days, while other members of that congregation thought them to be unnecessary.
Perhaps it comes naturally to human beings to turn differences of taste or opinion into matters of right and wrong. If we do, it probably arises from a good impulse within us: a proper concern for doing the right thing. Yet Paul is eager to help those early Christians understand that some matters need not divide them, for not everything rises to the level of “right vs. wrong.” You and I can make different decisions along the way, and yet still make the same journey together, charitably and peaceably.
In a time when tensions are high in our culture, when people are so quick to take sides, and when we default so naturally into us-vs.-them factions, Paul’s word to the Romans is an important one to hear. The particular issues he is addressing may seem far removed from us. Yet the underlying principle is as current as today’s news — and longer lasting!
Matthew 18:21-35
At the outset of a teaching in which debt plays a major role, we should acknowledge that we are indebted to Peter for asking the question that he did. Almost certainly, each one of us knows the experience of a relationship that requires recurring forgiveness. It comes naturally to every earnest soul, therefore, to wonder what the divine expectations are. I know that this person is not supposed to keep hurting, offending, disappointing again and again and again. What I don’t know is whether I am supposed to keep forgiving again and again and again. So, Peter did us all the great favor of asking the question to which we all want to know the answer.
But is this the answer that we want to hear?
Peter suggests a reasonable number. Jesus responds, however, with an unreasonable number. At least it seems unreasonable at first. But then Jesus begins citing really big numbers.
Paralleling the juxtaposition of Peter’s and Jesus’ numbers is the juxtaposition of two other numbers: ten-thousand and one-hundred. Except that the difference is even greater than that, for the “ten-thousand” represents talents, while the “one-hundred” represents denarii. According to some estimates, a talent is worth six-thousand denarii. So that means that the real difference between the first and second servants’ debts is not just the ten-thousand to one-hundred, but sixty-million to one-hundred. It is a mind-boggling difference. Set a soda can next to Mt. Everest, and then you’ll have a sense of the startling proportions that Jesus is portraying.
That proportion, of course, serves not only to illustrate relative debt, but also relative forgiveness. What the servant had the opportunity to forgive was less than inconsequential compared to what he had been forgiven. Jesus’ characterization of the servant’s debt to his master was surely hyperbole. Peter must have smiled at the suggestion of one man owing another ten-thousand talents. It would be essentially impossible for a single individual to acquire so great a debt.
Once Jesus implies the connection at the end, however, to our relationship with God, suddenly the numbers are not so outlandish. If the price for our sin is paid by Christ’s death on the cross, then what estimated value does one put on that? Now ten-thousand talents seems a very low figure. Indeed, to put any dollar amount on the cross feels like an insult.
But the point is made. Having been freely forgiven by God the mountain of our sin-debt, by what logic can we hold against our fellow servants their sins against us?
Finally, it is worth pausing long enough to note the theology of grammar. When Peter asks how many times he should forgive his brother, the “him” of Matthew 18:21 is in the dative case in the original Greek. Why is that significant? Because it means that “him,” the brother, is the indirect object of forgiveness. It is the sin — or, in the case of the parable, the debt — that is actually the direct object of forgiveness.
The significance of this can be illustrated by inserting a different word into the parable. Instead of saying that the king forgave the servant’s debt, we might say that he canceled the debt. When speaking of a debt, those words are interchangeable. But they are not interchangeable when referring to the servant. While we are tempted to say that the king forgave the first servant, we wouldn’t say that he canceled the first servant.
But that is the point: it is the debt that is forgiven, not the servant. Human beings are always the indirect objects of forgiveness; it is sins and debts that are the real objects of forgiveness. We get hung up on whether God will forgive us and how we can forgive other people, but that is not the real issue. In each case, it is some debt that has broken the relationship, and that debt needs to be forgiven in order for the relationship to be restored. And once we understand forgiveness as canceling a debt, we will recognize the costly unfairness and absolute grace involved in forgiveness: it is the exact opposite of restitution or revenge, for it costs the forgiver instead of the debtor.
Application
In a courtroom setting, there are typically two opposing parties, and then there is the judge who presides over their dispute. And, in some instances here in the United States, and perhaps most instances in various justice systems throughout human history, the judge serves as the final arbiter. He decides right and wrong. He determines innocence and guilt. And he imposes justice into the otherwise unjust situation.
In each of the assigned lections for this week, we are presented with opposing parties. In Exodus, it is the Israelites vs. the Egyptians. In Romans, it is the potential (perhaps ever-present) conflict between the believers with weak consciences vs. those with strong consciences. And in the gospel pericope, it begins in the context of the apparently hurtful relationship between Peter and some brother, and becomes a story of a dispute between two imaginary servants.
And in every case, the Lord is the judge.
The Exodus episode, of course, is part of a much longer narrative. The Egyptians have been cruelling oppressing the Israelites. They have been notified by the authorities, if you will, that the slaves should be set free. And, bit by bit, pressure was brought to bear on the Egyptians in order to impress upon them the necessity of emancipation. Finally, the judgment of the judge came down in the most severe — but, it should be noted, avoidable — ways: the death of the firstborn and the drowning of the Egyptian troops. If Pharaoh had relented earlier, the events of the Passover would not have been necessary. And if the Egyptians had not pursued the set-free Israelites in the wilderness, the massacre at the Red Sea would not have occurred. But the verdict of the judge was final in any event.
The teaching from Paul’s letter to the Romans hits nearer to home, for it concerns disputes within the church. Those are familiar and nearly ubiquitous. Interestingly, one of the key words from the apostle to those disputing Christians was the need to remind them about the judge. They were evidently showing a reflex to take that mantle and responsibility on themselves: they were judging one another. You and I know how easily — and earnestly — that occurs. But Paul reminds them that they have no business judging one another, for the Lord will judge them. It is pointless for you and me to argue across our two tables within the courtroom when, any moment, the judge himself will step in and offer the final verdict.
It is worth noting at this point that our particular judge’s judgment may be different than what we typically expect. In a standard civil case, the judge is meant to determine which party is more correct, more in the right. For our judge, however, his verdict may be less about who was technically correct and more about who was right in how they treated the opposing party. This seems to be the implication, at least, of Paul’s advice to the Corinthians who were taking each other to court (see 1 Corinthians 6:1-8).
That brings us, then, to the gospel passage and Jesus’ resulting parable. Like the issue that was at work in Paul’s letter to the Romans, the dispute in Matthew 18 is between brethren. And, interestingly, there is no question about whether or not this servant or that servant was in the wrong: they both have undisputed debts. But the judgment falls on the servant who, while technically justified in his shakedown of his fellow servant, failed to do what was truly right in his master’s eyes. For our judge prefers mercy over judgment.
In every case, then, we see the same theme: an affirmation that God is the ultimate judge, accompanied by either an implicit or explicit encouragement to leave the judging to him. The Israelites were in no position to guarantee justice for themselves; but they didn’t need to, for the Lord God looked down on the situation and made things right. The Christians who are inclined to engage in a tug-of-war in the church can relax their grip, knowing that the final verdict comes from God. And the person who has been hurt or offended by some fellow servant need only remember his or her own experience with the judge. Having been forgiven our impossible debt, we are liberated in turn to give those around us better than they deserve, too.
Alternative Application(s)
Matthew 18:21-35 — “Jesus’ Counteroffer”
The scene is familiar to television shows and movies. Perhaps we have lived it in real life, as well. It is the back-and-forth of two parties negotiating.
Perhaps we imagine a customer in the market for a used car. The salesperson quotes a figure: the asking price. The customer, meanwhile, is not really expected to just nod and accept it. Instead, he regards the asking price as the starting position, but he thinks he might be able to drive away for less. And so, he responds with a counteroffer.
The question, then, is how far apart the two numbers are.
The used car salesman and the prospective buyer may be just a few hundred dollars apart. Meanwhile, the professional athlete and the team looking to sign him to a contract may be tens of millions of dollars apart. Yet few negotiating parties at any level are as far apart as Jesus and Peter.
Peter’s starting position, you recall, was the suggestion that he forgive the brother who sins against him seven times. But Jesus’ counteroffer said, in effect, “Why don’t you multiply that number by seventy!” Incredible. What salesman is pitching a product at seventy times the price that the customer is willing to pay? What agent is asking a team to pay his client seventy times more than they originally offered? The distance between what Peter thought was reasonable and what Jesus said is required is massive.
But that’s not just about forgiveness, is it? There are all sorts of ways of living and being that we think are reasonable. Consequently, that is what most of us are: reasonably good. But then Jesus comes along and teaches us to be, frankly, unreasonably good. He tells us to rejoice in persecution, to turn the other cheek, to carry the undeserved pack an extra mile, to supplement what is taken with something more given, and to love our enemies. And that’s just from the Sermon on the Mount only.
Jesus’ counteroffer to Peter is really just a microcosm of the larger claim that he makes on our lives. There is our natural instinct and willingness, and then there is the counteroffer of real discipleship. We want to believe in him; he wants us to follow him. We want to love him, too; he wants us to love him most. We are willing to give a little; he challenges us to give everything. We offer some convenient parts of our lives; he counters with the call to take up a cross and lay down our lives.
Forgiving others is a good place for the disciple to start, for in a sense forgiveness is where most of us begin in our relationship with him. We come to him for forgiveness, and we discover how he does it. We discover the readiness and the abundance of his forgiveness, and so we are well-positioned to forgive others in turn. Indeed, you’d think it would come naturally to someone who was a grateful recipient. In Jesus’ parabolic answer to Peter, however, we see an example of the opposite case. That does not turn out well, and we are duly warned.
* Charles Wesley, “Jesus! the Name High Over All, UMH #193
