Belonging
Commentary
Object:
When I was in high school a new music teacher came to town. He was fresh out of college and full of ambition. But here he was, stuck in a very rural community where people didn't put up with (as they called it) "long-haired music," either from the Beatles or Beethoven.
Still, he was determined to teach us good music. We were going to sing selections from Handel's Messiah for our Christmas concert. Most of us had never heard of Georg Frederic Handel, and when we first tried to sight-read through the selections we became convinced we didn't like his music. It was too hard, too complicated. More than that, Handel wouldn't allow us to sing simple harmonies; no, he created different parts for each voice, and we in the bass section weren't able to hide all our typical mistakes when Handel and our new director demanded that we sing alone.
Our fearless leader did his best, but halfway to Christmas it was obvious that we were all losing: we in the choir had lost our places, he as director and new teacher on the block was about to lose face, and Handel had long ago lost interest in all of us. Still, we had gone too far to turn back, and with a grace we didn't feel we stumbled through the first part of our concert. Our parents smiled politely, while our little sisters and brothers squirmed restlessly. Some of our grandparents with hearing problems even managed to smile.
Finally, after too many minutes of painful lapses and a competition between ourselves and the piano which neither won, we came to our last section, the one we knew best. As we raced through the opening lines, a few people actually stood up! At first we thought they were walking out on us, but they just stood there beaming until we had shouted our last "KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS! HAL – LE – LU – JAH!"
Later, of course, we learned why these few fearless folks had risen to the occasion. When the German prince George II became king of Great Britain, he had a special fondness for Handel's music. At the premiere concert of the Messiah in 1743 the king and the crowds were deeply moved by the glory and grace of the masterpiece. When the musicians swelled the "Hallelujah Chorus" and thundered those mighty words "... and he shall reign for ever and ever!" King George, whose English wasn't all that great, jumped to his feet thinking that they sang about him.
The whole crowd, naturally, followed suit, although they were standing more out of ceremonial habit and thinking about a different king. Since that day, though, people have continued to stand for the "Hallelujah Chorus" to worship the glory of God whose kingdom shall know no end.
It is, in a sense, an act of belonging. It is a testimony that we are not our own, but that we belong to a higher power, a greater cause, a mightier kingdom than the little fiefdoms we pretend to control. It is, as Jacob had to find out in contests of wills with his uncle Laban, locating the center of our identity in something other than what people try to make of us. It is, as Paul testified to in soaring words of hope, the confidence that our very lives are held by the grace of God. It is, as Jesus taught, recognition that we all make pledges of allegiance to some kingdom, so it is important to know which kingdom really matters. Only then do we truly belong.
Genesis 29:15-28
Only a few details of Isaac's life are told on the pages of Genesis, and they occur in the transitional paragraphs from the Abraham Story cycle (Genesis 12-25) to the Jacob Story cycle (Genesis 26-37). Isaac is to have a wife from within Terah's larger family back in the old country, and this is accomplished through clear divine intervention and leading (ch. 24). To Isaac and Rebecca are born twins who are opposites in character, and always in competition with one another (ch. 25). Rather than emerging with an identity of his own, Isaac seems doomed to repeat his father's mistakes (ch. 26).
After those few notes, Jacob takes center stage. He is a conniver from birth (Genesis 25:21-34), is favored by his mother (Genesis 25:28; 27:1--28:9), cheats his family (father Isaac, 27:1-39; brother Esau, 25:29-34, 27:1-39; uncle Laban, 30:25-43; daughter Dinah, 34:1-31), works for his uncle Laban to earn wives Leah and Rachel (Genesis 29:15-30) and cattle (Genesis 30:25-43), is cheated by his uncle (Genesis 29:25-27), is afraid of his brother (Genesis 32:3-21), a cowardly wrestler with God (Genesis 32:22-32), and finally receives the covenant blessing and mandate (Genesis 35:1-15).
While all of these stories are fascinating in themselves, there is a significant theme that emerges as dominant. In the character of Jacob the nation of Israel will always find herself reflected. After all, it is Jacob who bequeaths his special covenant name "Israel" to the community formed by his descendants. Hearing about Jacob and his exploits would be like reading a secret diary mapping Israel's psychological profile. Even before leaving Egypt the people were wrangling with Moses about burdens and responsibilities, seeking ways to shift workloads and blames elsewhere. Once the wilderness trek began, a variety of conniving subterfuges showed up, including complaints about who really had a right to lead. The spirit of Jacob remained with his namesakes.
Looking back at Jacob, Israel at Mount Sinai would see herself. She carried the conniving DNA of her forebear in her social makeup. But here at Mount Sinai she also carried his divinely appointed name. In the Suzerain Vassal covenant Yahweh formulated with her, the wrestling continued. Yahweh and Israel were bound in an embrace that would change them both.
Romans 8:26-39
Few passages can stir the soul like this resounding note of God's choice for us on the battlefield of life. We argue about "election" and "predestination," but when Paul uses such terms here, they are like the arm of a friend around our shoulders on a terribly lonely night. They are the rag doll a child hugs in bed. They are Linus' security blanket when Beethoven fails to still the raging demons. They are a good report from a doctor when cancer threatens, the winning lottery tickets of the homeless, the soother for a crying baby. But these promises are big, not because they feed our consumerist urges; instead, they reposition us from self-possessors to those possessed by God.
There is a wonderful testimony found in the Heidelberg Catechism of 1563. It begins its investigation of the Christian life with this question: "What is your only comfort in life and in death?" The answer is nearly a paraphrase of today's lectionary reading: "That I am not my own, but belong -- body and soul, in life and in death -- to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil. He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven: in fact, all things must work together for my salvation. Because I belong to him, Christ, by his Holy Spirit, assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him."
I thought of this beautiful confession some time ago when I talked with a pastor of a large congregation in a major city. He was pleased with the worship and the ministries of his church. Everything seemed to operate with care and good taste and competence. He had the right staff in place, and they all were able to find dedicated, trained volunteers to shape a marvelous network of programs. Yet something didn't sit right with him. In his words, it was a very nice church. And therein was the problem. It was a church that looked after itself so well that it had forgotten that it was under orders to be about the missionary business of the kingdom of heaven.
If people wanted wonderful worship, all they had to do was join the congregation on Sundays. If they wanted terrific children's ministries and youth programs, all they had to do was drop their sons and daughters off at the right times. If anyone wanted a little diaconal assistance, just stop by the office and a secretary would arrange for a modest handout.
But the onus was on others to come and find the church. The congregation itself had little use for going out to search for the lost and the last and the least. It had given up being a net. It had lost its marching orders. It had gained the corner on "nice" but was losing the ability to call itself church because it no longer knew to whom it belonged.
C.S. Lewis knew the battlefield connection underlying Christianity. He came about that insight in a very personal way. When he was nine years old his warm and loving mother contracted cancer. Within a very short time she was confined to bed, enduring harsh treatments, in terrible pain, and stinking because of the sores and horrible wasting of her body. At night she would cry out in anguish, and young Jack (as he was known) hid in terror under his covers. He had heard the minister say that God answers prayer, so he begged God for his mother's deliverance. But to no avail. She died gasping and screaming, and his belief in God went with her.
Years later, when as an Oxford professor he began to rationally think through the possibility of Christian belief, Lewis finally understood what was going on in his mother's painful illness. He came to see that this world is a battlefield between the kingdom of God and the powers of evil, and that Christianity was true precisely because it took this conflict seriously. The religion of the Bible was not a streamlined Santa Claus story of a jolly old grandfather figure who always brings gifts whether you are naughty or nice. Rather, it is an acknowledgement of the struggles present in this world and the necessary reality of God's intervention. Lewis' mother died not because God didn't grant a child's wish but because the evil one had twisted God's good world in such a way that even the very cells of her body no longer worked as they should. But though healing did not come in that instant of boyish spiritual lisping, the prayers did not go unheard, and his mother was not lost forever or forgotten.
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52
Matthew 13 is a profound collection of parables by Jesus whose primary focus is the kingdom of heaven. Writing to a primarily Jewish-Christian community, Matthew honors the devout tradition of minimizing public use of the name of God by using the term "kingdom of heaven." Elsewhere among the gospels and throughout the New Testament the equivalent idea "kingdom of God" is dominant.
As we read Jesus' parables again, it is important to hear the undercurrent of what he is saying. First of all, the idea of "kingdom" implies citizenship, or at least allegiance to a governing authority. This is Jesus' theme in his Parable of the Treasures (vv. 44-46). Among the pieces of properties that we collect in this life, says Jesus, we may someday suddenly stumble upon a treasure that collects us. It possesses us. It demands allegiance from us.
It is the kind of thing that J.R.R. Tolkien tried to picture in his powerful trilogy The Lord of the Rings. Writing in the recovery years after World War II, Tolkien imagined what powers there are in this world that can possess peoples and nations, for good or for ill. His tale of the struggles of Middle Earth allegorically reflected the biblical idea of kingdoms in conflict.
Either, as Jesus indicates, we play games with little treasures, buying and selling them on world markets and moving among commercial districts that hold our attraction for a while, or we are sold out to a greater power. We sell all and buy it. We give up our claims in order that we might be claimed.
A second implication of Jesus' parables in this chapter is that we are under orders. Not every citizen in most realms is thereby automatically also a soldier preparing for battle. A few times in history it has been close to the truth -- when the modern state of Israel was founded, for instance, and all of its neighbors made a concerted effort to drive it into the sea. Suddenly everyone was under military orders; there was no other way to survive. While this is not a typical occurrence of our citizenship experiences, it does in fact mirror the urgency of Jesus' view of the kingdom of heaven.
Certainly, of course, we have to be careful with battlefield images as we communicate Christianity. Too often our world has experienced bellicose religion in forms that have destroyed civilizations, dehumanized societies, degraded value systems, and diminished piety. We have had enough of religious groups battling for domination at the expense of God's honor and human dignity.
Yet one cannot read both Old and New Testaments without appreciating the challenge of transformation that places citizens of the kingdom of God under orders. Jesus speaks to that in his Parable of the Net (vv. 47-52). The kingdom of heaven is like a net that catches fish. It is not like a hook thrown carelessly into the water in case a silly fish might be stupid enough to nip at it. No, the kingdom of heaven, says Jesus, is a network of citizens who together are constantly under orders to bring in others.
So the Parable of the Net reminds us of our marching orders in the kingdom of heaven. We are not saved so that we may politely pat ourselves on the back and smile at one another in the tiny corners we occupy. No, we are part of a net that seeks and engages the fish of this world who might be swimming to their own destruction.
Finally, Jesus' stories in this chapter remind us that we are on the winning side in the battles of life. When Jesus tells the Parables of the Seed and the Yeast (vv. 31-35) he presents a picture of the kingdom of heaven that grows and dominates until it is the primary factor shaping the world. The tiny mustard seed morphs into a tree that provides a home for the birds, and the bit of yeast transforms the entire loaf until it is utterly and completely changed. It is important to note, these things happen rather automatically. The change takes place from within the seed, and from within the grain of yeast.
In other words, the kingdom of heaven has the winning power within itself and invites us along on the journey. We do not create the kingdom, but the kingdom creates us. Even though it appears to be insignificant at the start, the essence of greatness and the confidence of success lie within.
Application
Our youngest daughter was born in Nigeria while I was teaching at the Reformed Theological College in Mkar. Because the Nigerian government does not automatically grant citizenship to all who are born on its soil, Kaitlyn was truly a person without a country in her earliest days. Until I could process her existence with the United States consulate in Kaduna she had no official identity, no traveling permissions, and no rights in society outside of our home. We took a picture of her at five days old, sleeping in my hands, and this became the photograph used on her passport for the first ten years of her life. The snapshot may have become outdated quickly as she grew through the stages of childhood, but the passport to which it was affixed declared that she belonged to the United States of America. She had rights. She had privileges. She had protection under the law. When the time came for us to leave Nigeria and travel through three continents to get back to North America, that little passport opened doors and prepared the way for her. She had never lived in the US, but the US knew her by name and kept watch over her.
So it is and more with the kingdom of heaven, according to Jesus. It becomes the badge of identification for us, as well as the symbol of our protection and care. When we choose other pearls, or dig around for treasures in our own backyards we get from them what we are looking for -- things that we can possess. But when the great prize of the hidden treasure comes our way, or we stumble onto the pearl of great price, we realize that our little hordes are insufficient. It is not enough to own a piece of fading substance; we need to be owned by something which transcends our time. We need God to lay hold on us.
This is why, in many of the earliest liturgical forms for baptism, those who were newly coming into the fellowship of believers were asked if they renounced the devil and all his works. Early on it was recognized that entering the kingdom of God was more than just adding another spiritual talisman to the mix of superstitious hex warders; it was a fundamental commitment of identity that could not be shared. No dual passports in this kingdom! The truly great treasure demands that one sell everything else. It is exclusive. And when it is purchased, it actually purchases you.
Alternative Application
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52. Some of us have the notion that the kingdom of God is primarily a secret and personal rule of God in individual hearts. God is no earthly ruler whose fortunes are dictated by the latest research poll. His name won't appear on the ballots when we vote in November. Time magazine is not likely to declare God as a list-topper in one of its annual collections of "most powerful leaders in the world."
Yet when we hear Jesus tell us about the kingdom of heaven, we recover our sense of values and outcomes in the quagmire of daily events. We carry the passport of heaven. We live as those who are under orders to be and do and make a difference. We know who writes the last chapter, because the kingdom of heaven is growing tenaciously around us in spite of reports to the contrary.
When we were very young we learned the "Pledge of Allegiance" to the flag of the United States of America. We were taught to understand and respect the symbol of our country and to renew our commitments to its well-being. Far more significant, as Jesus reminds us in these parables, is our need as Christians to regularly and repeatedly stand together and recite the greatest pledge of allegiance of all time, and even eternity:
I pledge allegiance to the Christian flag and to the Savior for whose kingdom it stands. One Savior, crucified, risen, and coming again, with life and liberty for all who believe.
Preaching the Psalm
Schuyler Rhodes
Psalm 105:1-11, 45b
Remembering God's works
Human beings have notoriously short memories. So we often push the unpleasant realities aside and allow history to repeat itself with mind-numbing regularity. It's like a popular cartoon character who keeps asking his friend to hold the football for him so he can kick it. Without fail, the friend pulls the football away every time and the kicker ends up flat on his back in humiliation. But it's more than cartoons. Short memories have an impact in real life as well. Just prior to the nuclear nightmare in Japan, fading memories of Three Mile Island and Chernobyl were paving the way for the nuclear industry to make a run at what we now know is an ill-advised revival. If there is a silver lining to the ongoing horror of this disaster, it is the hope that the dangerous enterprise of nuclear power will finally be over.
Short memory plagues us in so many ways. With war after war one would think that collective memory would alert us to the folly of wholesale slaughter. But no, even as this piece is written the United States alone is spending more than a million dollars a minute to prosecute wars in three different nations. Death upon death. With an alarming number of animal species marching toward extinction it occurs to us that perhaps someone might remember that extinction is not a temporary condition.
From the global to the local, from the personal to the political, short memory has consequences. The kid who forgets that the stove is hot will indeed keep burning his hand. And yes, it does extend to our relationship with God.
This psalm makes a statement that could be lost with a quick reading, but the fifth verse calls the people to "remember God's works." The Hebrew word for "remember" here is zakar, which conveys the sense of imprinting the memory in our minds.
If we forget God's works, then in a very real way we forget God, don't we? If we shove the Creation of the universe to the back of our minds and reduce God to some intellectual religious concept, we are no longer dealing with God, are we? If we take a walk on the beach and fail to comprehend the wonder of God's mighty hands as the waves pound and the sun glitters on the spray, we fail to grasp the reality of God. And if we wander through life unable to see the imprint of God in the people we see every day, then we really don't know God.
It is a similar kind of memory used in the Eucharist, when we remember Christ's sacrifice for us. If we do not remember, or to seize the core of the Hebrew word, if we do not have it imprinted in our consciousness, then we really do not know or understand Christ.
Indeed, to remember God's mighty works is to begin to grasp God. It is not a mere recollection, but rather an immersion in a specific reality. So, let us remember the mighty works of God wherever we go and whatever we do.
Still, he was determined to teach us good music. We were going to sing selections from Handel's Messiah for our Christmas concert. Most of us had never heard of Georg Frederic Handel, and when we first tried to sight-read through the selections we became convinced we didn't like his music. It was too hard, too complicated. More than that, Handel wouldn't allow us to sing simple harmonies; no, he created different parts for each voice, and we in the bass section weren't able to hide all our typical mistakes when Handel and our new director demanded that we sing alone.
Our fearless leader did his best, but halfway to Christmas it was obvious that we were all losing: we in the choir had lost our places, he as director and new teacher on the block was about to lose face, and Handel had long ago lost interest in all of us. Still, we had gone too far to turn back, and with a grace we didn't feel we stumbled through the first part of our concert. Our parents smiled politely, while our little sisters and brothers squirmed restlessly. Some of our grandparents with hearing problems even managed to smile.
Finally, after too many minutes of painful lapses and a competition between ourselves and the piano which neither won, we came to our last section, the one we knew best. As we raced through the opening lines, a few people actually stood up! At first we thought they were walking out on us, but they just stood there beaming until we had shouted our last "KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS! HAL – LE – LU – JAH!"
Later, of course, we learned why these few fearless folks had risen to the occasion. When the German prince George II became king of Great Britain, he had a special fondness for Handel's music. At the premiere concert of the Messiah in 1743 the king and the crowds were deeply moved by the glory and grace of the masterpiece. When the musicians swelled the "Hallelujah Chorus" and thundered those mighty words "... and he shall reign for ever and ever!" King George, whose English wasn't all that great, jumped to his feet thinking that they sang about him.
The whole crowd, naturally, followed suit, although they were standing more out of ceremonial habit and thinking about a different king. Since that day, though, people have continued to stand for the "Hallelujah Chorus" to worship the glory of God whose kingdom shall know no end.
It is, in a sense, an act of belonging. It is a testimony that we are not our own, but that we belong to a higher power, a greater cause, a mightier kingdom than the little fiefdoms we pretend to control. It is, as Jacob had to find out in contests of wills with his uncle Laban, locating the center of our identity in something other than what people try to make of us. It is, as Paul testified to in soaring words of hope, the confidence that our very lives are held by the grace of God. It is, as Jesus taught, recognition that we all make pledges of allegiance to some kingdom, so it is important to know which kingdom really matters. Only then do we truly belong.
Genesis 29:15-28
Only a few details of Isaac's life are told on the pages of Genesis, and they occur in the transitional paragraphs from the Abraham Story cycle (Genesis 12-25) to the Jacob Story cycle (Genesis 26-37). Isaac is to have a wife from within Terah's larger family back in the old country, and this is accomplished through clear divine intervention and leading (ch. 24). To Isaac and Rebecca are born twins who are opposites in character, and always in competition with one another (ch. 25). Rather than emerging with an identity of his own, Isaac seems doomed to repeat his father's mistakes (ch. 26).
After those few notes, Jacob takes center stage. He is a conniver from birth (Genesis 25:21-34), is favored by his mother (Genesis 25:28; 27:1--28:9), cheats his family (father Isaac, 27:1-39; brother Esau, 25:29-34, 27:1-39; uncle Laban, 30:25-43; daughter Dinah, 34:1-31), works for his uncle Laban to earn wives Leah and Rachel (Genesis 29:15-30) and cattle (Genesis 30:25-43), is cheated by his uncle (Genesis 29:25-27), is afraid of his brother (Genesis 32:3-21), a cowardly wrestler with God (Genesis 32:22-32), and finally receives the covenant blessing and mandate (Genesis 35:1-15).
While all of these stories are fascinating in themselves, there is a significant theme that emerges as dominant. In the character of Jacob the nation of Israel will always find herself reflected. After all, it is Jacob who bequeaths his special covenant name "Israel" to the community formed by his descendants. Hearing about Jacob and his exploits would be like reading a secret diary mapping Israel's psychological profile. Even before leaving Egypt the people were wrangling with Moses about burdens and responsibilities, seeking ways to shift workloads and blames elsewhere. Once the wilderness trek began, a variety of conniving subterfuges showed up, including complaints about who really had a right to lead. The spirit of Jacob remained with his namesakes.
Looking back at Jacob, Israel at Mount Sinai would see herself. She carried the conniving DNA of her forebear in her social makeup. But here at Mount Sinai she also carried his divinely appointed name. In the Suzerain Vassal covenant Yahweh formulated with her, the wrestling continued. Yahweh and Israel were bound in an embrace that would change them both.
Romans 8:26-39
Few passages can stir the soul like this resounding note of God's choice for us on the battlefield of life. We argue about "election" and "predestination," but when Paul uses such terms here, they are like the arm of a friend around our shoulders on a terribly lonely night. They are the rag doll a child hugs in bed. They are Linus' security blanket when Beethoven fails to still the raging demons. They are a good report from a doctor when cancer threatens, the winning lottery tickets of the homeless, the soother for a crying baby. But these promises are big, not because they feed our consumerist urges; instead, they reposition us from self-possessors to those possessed by God.
There is a wonderful testimony found in the Heidelberg Catechism of 1563. It begins its investigation of the Christian life with this question: "What is your only comfort in life and in death?" The answer is nearly a paraphrase of today's lectionary reading: "That I am not my own, but belong -- body and soul, in life and in death -- to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil. He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven: in fact, all things must work together for my salvation. Because I belong to him, Christ, by his Holy Spirit, assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him."
I thought of this beautiful confession some time ago when I talked with a pastor of a large congregation in a major city. He was pleased with the worship and the ministries of his church. Everything seemed to operate with care and good taste and competence. He had the right staff in place, and they all were able to find dedicated, trained volunteers to shape a marvelous network of programs. Yet something didn't sit right with him. In his words, it was a very nice church. And therein was the problem. It was a church that looked after itself so well that it had forgotten that it was under orders to be about the missionary business of the kingdom of heaven.
If people wanted wonderful worship, all they had to do was join the congregation on Sundays. If they wanted terrific children's ministries and youth programs, all they had to do was drop their sons and daughters off at the right times. If anyone wanted a little diaconal assistance, just stop by the office and a secretary would arrange for a modest handout.
But the onus was on others to come and find the church. The congregation itself had little use for going out to search for the lost and the last and the least. It had given up being a net. It had lost its marching orders. It had gained the corner on "nice" but was losing the ability to call itself church because it no longer knew to whom it belonged.
C.S. Lewis knew the battlefield connection underlying Christianity. He came about that insight in a very personal way. When he was nine years old his warm and loving mother contracted cancer. Within a very short time she was confined to bed, enduring harsh treatments, in terrible pain, and stinking because of the sores and horrible wasting of her body. At night she would cry out in anguish, and young Jack (as he was known) hid in terror under his covers. He had heard the minister say that God answers prayer, so he begged God for his mother's deliverance. But to no avail. She died gasping and screaming, and his belief in God went with her.
Years later, when as an Oxford professor he began to rationally think through the possibility of Christian belief, Lewis finally understood what was going on in his mother's painful illness. He came to see that this world is a battlefield between the kingdom of God and the powers of evil, and that Christianity was true precisely because it took this conflict seriously. The religion of the Bible was not a streamlined Santa Claus story of a jolly old grandfather figure who always brings gifts whether you are naughty or nice. Rather, it is an acknowledgement of the struggles present in this world and the necessary reality of God's intervention. Lewis' mother died not because God didn't grant a child's wish but because the evil one had twisted God's good world in such a way that even the very cells of her body no longer worked as they should. But though healing did not come in that instant of boyish spiritual lisping, the prayers did not go unheard, and his mother was not lost forever or forgotten.
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52
Matthew 13 is a profound collection of parables by Jesus whose primary focus is the kingdom of heaven. Writing to a primarily Jewish-Christian community, Matthew honors the devout tradition of minimizing public use of the name of God by using the term "kingdom of heaven." Elsewhere among the gospels and throughout the New Testament the equivalent idea "kingdom of God" is dominant.
As we read Jesus' parables again, it is important to hear the undercurrent of what he is saying. First of all, the idea of "kingdom" implies citizenship, or at least allegiance to a governing authority. This is Jesus' theme in his Parable of the Treasures (vv. 44-46). Among the pieces of properties that we collect in this life, says Jesus, we may someday suddenly stumble upon a treasure that collects us. It possesses us. It demands allegiance from us.
It is the kind of thing that J.R.R. Tolkien tried to picture in his powerful trilogy The Lord of the Rings. Writing in the recovery years after World War II, Tolkien imagined what powers there are in this world that can possess peoples and nations, for good or for ill. His tale of the struggles of Middle Earth allegorically reflected the biblical idea of kingdoms in conflict.
Either, as Jesus indicates, we play games with little treasures, buying and selling them on world markets and moving among commercial districts that hold our attraction for a while, or we are sold out to a greater power. We sell all and buy it. We give up our claims in order that we might be claimed.
A second implication of Jesus' parables in this chapter is that we are under orders. Not every citizen in most realms is thereby automatically also a soldier preparing for battle. A few times in history it has been close to the truth -- when the modern state of Israel was founded, for instance, and all of its neighbors made a concerted effort to drive it into the sea. Suddenly everyone was under military orders; there was no other way to survive. While this is not a typical occurrence of our citizenship experiences, it does in fact mirror the urgency of Jesus' view of the kingdom of heaven.
Certainly, of course, we have to be careful with battlefield images as we communicate Christianity. Too often our world has experienced bellicose religion in forms that have destroyed civilizations, dehumanized societies, degraded value systems, and diminished piety. We have had enough of religious groups battling for domination at the expense of God's honor and human dignity.
Yet one cannot read both Old and New Testaments without appreciating the challenge of transformation that places citizens of the kingdom of God under orders. Jesus speaks to that in his Parable of the Net (vv. 47-52). The kingdom of heaven is like a net that catches fish. It is not like a hook thrown carelessly into the water in case a silly fish might be stupid enough to nip at it. No, the kingdom of heaven, says Jesus, is a network of citizens who together are constantly under orders to bring in others.
So the Parable of the Net reminds us of our marching orders in the kingdom of heaven. We are not saved so that we may politely pat ourselves on the back and smile at one another in the tiny corners we occupy. No, we are part of a net that seeks and engages the fish of this world who might be swimming to their own destruction.
Finally, Jesus' stories in this chapter remind us that we are on the winning side in the battles of life. When Jesus tells the Parables of the Seed and the Yeast (vv. 31-35) he presents a picture of the kingdom of heaven that grows and dominates until it is the primary factor shaping the world. The tiny mustard seed morphs into a tree that provides a home for the birds, and the bit of yeast transforms the entire loaf until it is utterly and completely changed. It is important to note, these things happen rather automatically. The change takes place from within the seed, and from within the grain of yeast.
In other words, the kingdom of heaven has the winning power within itself and invites us along on the journey. We do not create the kingdom, but the kingdom creates us. Even though it appears to be insignificant at the start, the essence of greatness and the confidence of success lie within.
Application
Our youngest daughter was born in Nigeria while I was teaching at the Reformed Theological College in Mkar. Because the Nigerian government does not automatically grant citizenship to all who are born on its soil, Kaitlyn was truly a person without a country in her earliest days. Until I could process her existence with the United States consulate in Kaduna she had no official identity, no traveling permissions, and no rights in society outside of our home. We took a picture of her at five days old, sleeping in my hands, and this became the photograph used on her passport for the first ten years of her life. The snapshot may have become outdated quickly as she grew through the stages of childhood, but the passport to which it was affixed declared that she belonged to the United States of America. She had rights. She had privileges. She had protection under the law. When the time came for us to leave Nigeria and travel through three continents to get back to North America, that little passport opened doors and prepared the way for her. She had never lived in the US, but the US knew her by name and kept watch over her.
So it is and more with the kingdom of heaven, according to Jesus. It becomes the badge of identification for us, as well as the symbol of our protection and care. When we choose other pearls, or dig around for treasures in our own backyards we get from them what we are looking for -- things that we can possess. But when the great prize of the hidden treasure comes our way, or we stumble onto the pearl of great price, we realize that our little hordes are insufficient. It is not enough to own a piece of fading substance; we need to be owned by something which transcends our time. We need God to lay hold on us.
This is why, in many of the earliest liturgical forms for baptism, those who were newly coming into the fellowship of believers were asked if they renounced the devil and all his works. Early on it was recognized that entering the kingdom of God was more than just adding another spiritual talisman to the mix of superstitious hex warders; it was a fundamental commitment of identity that could not be shared. No dual passports in this kingdom! The truly great treasure demands that one sell everything else. It is exclusive. And when it is purchased, it actually purchases you.
Alternative Application
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52. Some of us have the notion that the kingdom of God is primarily a secret and personal rule of God in individual hearts. God is no earthly ruler whose fortunes are dictated by the latest research poll. His name won't appear on the ballots when we vote in November. Time magazine is not likely to declare God as a list-topper in one of its annual collections of "most powerful leaders in the world."
Yet when we hear Jesus tell us about the kingdom of heaven, we recover our sense of values and outcomes in the quagmire of daily events. We carry the passport of heaven. We live as those who are under orders to be and do and make a difference. We know who writes the last chapter, because the kingdom of heaven is growing tenaciously around us in spite of reports to the contrary.
When we were very young we learned the "Pledge of Allegiance" to the flag of the United States of America. We were taught to understand and respect the symbol of our country and to renew our commitments to its well-being. Far more significant, as Jesus reminds us in these parables, is our need as Christians to regularly and repeatedly stand together and recite the greatest pledge of allegiance of all time, and even eternity:
I pledge allegiance to the Christian flag and to the Savior for whose kingdom it stands. One Savior, crucified, risen, and coming again, with life and liberty for all who believe.
Preaching the Psalm
Schuyler Rhodes
Psalm 105:1-11, 45b
Remembering God's works
Human beings have notoriously short memories. So we often push the unpleasant realities aside and allow history to repeat itself with mind-numbing regularity. It's like a popular cartoon character who keeps asking his friend to hold the football for him so he can kick it. Without fail, the friend pulls the football away every time and the kicker ends up flat on his back in humiliation. But it's more than cartoons. Short memories have an impact in real life as well. Just prior to the nuclear nightmare in Japan, fading memories of Three Mile Island and Chernobyl were paving the way for the nuclear industry to make a run at what we now know is an ill-advised revival. If there is a silver lining to the ongoing horror of this disaster, it is the hope that the dangerous enterprise of nuclear power will finally be over.
Short memory plagues us in so many ways. With war after war one would think that collective memory would alert us to the folly of wholesale slaughter. But no, even as this piece is written the United States alone is spending more than a million dollars a minute to prosecute wars in three different nations. Death upon death. With an alarming number of animal species marching toward extinction it occurs to us that perhaps someone might remember that extinction is not a temporary condition.
From the global to the local, from the personal to the political, short memory has consequences. The kid who forgets that the stove is hot will indeed keep burning his hand. And yes, it does extend to our relationship with God.
This psalm makes a statement that could be lost with a quick reading, but the fifth verse calls the people to "remember God's works." The Hebrew word for "remember" here is zakar, which conveys the sense of imprinting the memory in our minds.
If we forget God's works, then in a very real way we forget God, don't we? If we shove the Creation of the universe to the back of our minds and reduce God to some intellectual religious concept, we are no longer dealing with God, are we? If we take a walk on the beach and fail to comprehend the wonder of God's mighty hands as the waves pound and the sun glitters on the spray, we fail to grasp the reality of God. And if we wander through life unable to see the imprint of God in the people we see every day, then we really don't know God.
It is a similar kind of memory used in the Eucharist, when we remember Christ's sacrifice for us. If we do not remember, or to seize the core of the Hebrew word, if we do not have it imprinted in our consciousness, then we really do not know or understand Christ.
Indeed, to remember God's mighty works is to begin to grasp God. It is not a mere recollection, but rather an immersion in a specific reality. So, let us remember the mighty works of God wherever we go and whatever we do.
