Changed
Commentary
Having outgrown its old and limiting facilities, a large church finally managed to build a magnificent and sprawling ministry complex. In preparation for the dedication, the elders commissioned a noteworthy local artist to create signs at the entrance points to each ministry area using appropriate texts of scripture. He did an outstanding job.
In the foyer that gathered people as they moved into the worship space hung a large, illustrated calligraphy of Psalm 100:4 -- “Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name.” Above the triple doors leading to the two-story classroom wing flew this message: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Proverbs 1:7). Emblazoned on one wall of the fellowship hall was a beautifully flowing rendition of Jesus’ testimony to his disciples: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:35). The whole new facility was blanketed with scripture and bathed in prayer.
Some were a bit taken aback, however, by the text the artist had used to define the youngest children’s nursery. It came from 1 Corinthians 15:51 -- “We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed!”
Change is a big part of our spiritual journeys, isn’t it? When God works on us and in us, we are transformed. Our texts today express that in both negative and positive ways. Genesis reminds us that Jacob was a deceitful conniver who would hardly be changed by God until a night of wrestling mutated him into “Israel.” Paul writes of the tremendous transformation that comes to those who find Jesus their true source of identity. And Jesus calls out change from those who listen to his tale of the different soils upon whom the seed of the gospel falls.
Genesis 25:19-34
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 (chapter 24). To Isaac and Rebecca are born twins who are opposites in character, and always in competition with one another (chapter 25). Rather than emerging with an identity of his own, Isaac seems doomed to repeat his father’s mistakes (chapter 26).
After those few notes, Jacob takes center stage. He is a conniver from birth (Genesis 25:21-34), 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), 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 are two significant themes that emerge as dominant. First, 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.
Second, the meaning of the name “Israel” and the circumstances surrounding it became a defining moment in Israel’s theology. Rarely does the text of Genesis crack open to reveal an origin outside of its narrative timeline, but as the tale of Jacob’s night-long wrestling match concludes, there is indeed a note that identifies the organized nation of Israel as the audience reviewing these matters (Genesis 32:32). The story itself is more sordid than it appears at first glance. Jacob and his amassed company are heading back home to Canaan. Jacob hopes that his brother Esau has miraculously had a bout of amnesia and is excited to welcome him with no dark thoughts about Jacob’s nasty subterfuge a few decades earlier. But Esau has a good memory, and the report quickly arrives that the maligned brother is racing toward Jacob’s retinue at the center of an aggressive army seeking revenge.
Always the manipulator, Jacob strategizes ways to save his skin. First he splits the caravan in two, hoping Esau will target the wrong camp. Then large gifts are sent ahead, in the expectation that Esau will be slowed by the herds offered and his men distracted by the feasts of fresh roasted meat they take. Perhaps a little drunkenness might accompany the barbecue rituals, and because of these subterfuges Jacob’s groups will be able to slip past in the night.
But Jacob knows the depth of his guilt, and his manic attempts at self-preservation continue. He sends his wives and children and remaining possessions across the Jabok River while he remains behind. This is a sinister and cowardly move, for it exposes Jacob’s family to the possible onslaught of Esau’s army without the moderate natural moat of the river to make their position more defensible. Meantime, Jacob himself would be sitting in the protection of the rearward hills, and would have the advantage of hearing the screams of his children and wives while they are slaughtered as a warning order to escape, even if they do not. Jacob is always the conniver, and a master of self-preservation.
Yet it is here, in the quarters where he had taken such pains to make himself safe, that he becomes most vulnerable. “A man wrestled with him till daybreak” (Genesis 32:24). We know even less about this figure than the little that Jacob seems to know. Nevertheless, both he and we are to infer that this was a divine engagement, and that God would not allow Jacob’s hiding to keep him aloof from the court of heaven or a confrontation with himself and the tests of righteousness. At the same time, there is a graciousness in the story which reminds us that the divine messenger does not overpower or overwhelm Jacob, but continues to grapple with him, and even provides a blessing he does not deserve. This, then, is the meaning of “Israel” -- one who wrestles with God.
Looking back at Jacob, Israel at Mt. Sinai would see herself. She carried the conniving DNA of her forebear in her social makeup. But here at Mt. 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 8:1-11
In Romans 1:18--3:20, Paul describes the crippling effect of sin. We are all alienated from God (1:18-25). But we are also alienated from each other (1:26-32), so that we begin to treat one another with contempt and painful arrogance, and destroy those around us in the malice which blinds us. We are even, says Paul, alienated from our own selves (2:1-11), not realizing how tarnished our sense and perspectives have become.
We make excuses about our condition (2:12-3:20), claiming that we are actually pretty good people (2:12-16), or accusing society and religion of raising moral standards to levels that are simply unrealistic (2:17--3:4), or even blaming God for all the nastiness around us and within us (3:5-20). Yet the result is merely self-deception, and continued rottenness in a world that seems to have no outs.
Once the stage has been set for Paul’s readers to realize again the pervasive grip of evil in this world, Paul marches Abraham out onto the stage as a model of divine religious reconstruction. God does not wish to be distant from the world, judgmental and vengeful. Rather, Jesus comes, and the fullness of God’s healing righteousness is revealed.
The story of God’s righteousness as grace and goodness begins with Abraham. God has always desired an ever-renewing relationship with the people of this world, creatures made in God’s own image. Paul describes God’s heart of love in 3:21-31, using illustrations from the courtroom (we are “justified” -- 3:24), the marketplace (we receive “redemption” -- 3:24), and the temple (“a sacrifice of atonement” -- 3:25). Moreover, while this ongoing expression of God’s gracious goodness finds its initial point of contact through the Jews (Abraham and “the law” and Jesus), it is clearly intended for all of humankind (3:27-31).
This is nothing new, according to Paul. In fact, if we return to the story of Abraham, we find some very interesting notes that we may have glossed over. “Blessedness” was “credited” to Abraham before he had a chance to be “justified by works” (4:1-11). In other words, whenever the “righteousness of God” shows up it is a good thing, a healing hope, an enriching experience that no one is able to buy or manipulate. God alone initiates a relationship of favor and grace with us (4:1-23). In fact, according to Paul, this purpose of God is no less spectacular than the divine quest to re-create the world, undoing the effects that the cancer of sin has blighted upon us (Romans 5). It feels like being reborn (5:1-11). It plays out like the world itself is being remade (5:12-21). This is the great righteousness of God at work!
Now Paul gets very practical. Although we might think that we would jump at the opportunity to find such grace and divine favor, Paul reminds us that our inner conflicts tear at us until we are paralyzed with frustration and failure (Romans 6-7). Sometimes we deny these struggles (6:1-14). Sometimes we ignore these tensions (6:15--7:6). Sometimes we grow bitter in the quagmire of it all (7:7-12). And sometimes we even throw up our hands in despair (7:13-24).
Precisely then, says Paul, the power of the righteousness of God as our bodyguard is most clearly revealed. Thankfully God’s righteousness grabs us and holds us, so that through Jesus and the Holy Spirit we are never separated from divine love (Romans 7:25--8:39). Hope floods through us because we know Jesus and what he has done for us (8:1-11). Hope whispers inside of us as the Holy Spirit reminds us who we truly are and whose we will always be (8:12-27). Hope thunders around us as God’s faithfulness is shouted from the heavens right through the pages of history (8:28-39): “...we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
Following the pattern set by Mark’s gospel, Matthew’s large outline for unfolding the life and teachings of Jesus has the same three significant parts:
1--16: Jesus teaches the crowds about the kingdom
17: Transitional Event -- the Transfiguration
17--20: Jesus teaches the disciples about discipleship
21: Transitional Event -- entry into Jerusalem
21--28: Jesus moves through the Passion to his coronation
But superimposed on this basic development is a second and more subtle arrangement of materials. Since Matthew wants us to know that Jesus is the new Moses who delivers the covenant documents for a new age, he presents the narratives and teachings of Jesus in what is sometimes called a “Five Books of the Law” structure:
Prologue: Jesus identified with Israel and the world (1-3)
* Book #1: Narrative: Preaching and healing in Galilee (4) -- Look! Messiah has come!
Discourse: Sermon on the Mount (5--7) -- Listen! Messiah speaks a new world order!
* Book #2: Narrative: Mighty works, especially healings (8?-9:34) -- Look! This is the one to follow!
Discourse: Mission of the Disciples (9:35--10:42) -- Listen! This is the message of hope for all!
* Book #3: Narrative: Rejection of Jesus (11--12) -- Look! People are becoming divided about Jesus!
Discourse: Parables about the Kingdom (13) -- Listen! The Kingdom brings division!
* Book #4: Narrative: Founding of the Church (14--17) -- Look! Here is what the Church is about!
Discourse: Teachings about the Church (18) -- Listen! This is how the Church functions!
* Book #5: Narrative: Travels from Galilee to Jerusalem (19--22) -- Look! We are on the way to the end!
Discourse: Eschatological Teachings (23--25) -- Listen! This is how we prepare for the end!
Epilogue: Jesus identified as global Messiah King (26--28)
Each of these “books” concludes with a similar declaration (7:28; 11:1; 13:53; 19:1; 26:1), noting that Jesus has finished teaching in a particular place or about a certain topic. The implication is simple and direct -- Jesus has come to carry out the mission of Yahweh, first initiated with Israel, in a new way for a new, messianic age.
After the powerful “Sermon on the Mount” found in Matthew 5-7, Jesus’ next extended teaching is the parable of the sower and seeds. Its placing and expansive size, in comparison to the snippets of teaching that came earlier, highlight it as distinctive and important. As one reads these pages in continuous narrative the pace suddenly slows, and Jesus demands that we reflect on what has happened so far. We have been watching the Jesus of power and action. Now we must respond to the person of Jesus. How will the sower’s seed find perch in our own lives? What kind of soil are we? Both for Jesus’ initial audience and for those who encounter Jesus through this gospel, the multiple-layered metaphor serves as a call to self-assessment and belief. Reaching behind the literary origins of the gospel, it is clear to see that Jesus was not preaching merely to communicate information, nor was Matthew recording Jesus’ sermons as a nice collection of spiritual writings. This was a document intended for volitional reaction. One must respond to Jesus, and the outcome of that engagement would be seen in direct changes of lifestyle and behavior.
Application
God changes us. When we grow in our pilgrimage with God, we change within ourselves. We learn to live like God. We learn to talk like God. We learn to like the things that God likes and do the things that God does.
Someone has written about that in a wonderful little tale called “The Happy Hypocrite.” A rather crass and godless fellow spends his years using women and tossing them aside. One day he meets another young lady who catches his attention. She’ll be his next conquest. Would she go out with him? Yes, if he would care to come to church with her.
Go to church? Well, if that’s what it takes he’ll do it this one time. So he puts on some Sunday clothes and he covers the evil lines of his face with a pious mask, and he begins again with his usual flirtation.
This time, however, something happens to him. He can’t seem to take advantage of this young woman. He begins to respect her too much. They become friends, and lovers, and he even finds himself thinking of marriage.
Yet would she marry him if she knew what he was really like under this pious mask that he’s worked so hard to keep in place? He’s sure that she would despise him if she found him out, so he keeps his mask in place. He hides the evil within and he pretends to live in her good world, with all of its love and its joy and its religion.
Eventually they marry. They buy a house. They have children. And somehow he manages to keep his mask in place. He’s a hypocrite, and he knows it, an evil man living in a world where he doesn’t belong.
Still, over the years he finds that he likes this world of hers, and his mask begins to sit more comfortably on his face. He is ready to play this game until his dying day and live out his years as a happy hypocrite in this new world.
Then tragedy strikes. A woman from his early years finds him, someone he once used and scorned. Now she’s ready for revenge. She’ll expose him. She’ll rip off his mask and show the world what he’s really like. She’ll uncover his hypocrisy, and his wife and children will be shattered.
They struggle together. She grabs for his mask and pulls it off his face, but then drops it, startled. The evil lines are gone. The hardness in his cheeks has softened. His face looks like the pious mask.
He has lived in his wife’s world so long that he’s become part of it. For years his face was hidden by a mask of hypocrisy, but now he’s become what she was for him: a friend, a lover, a kind and committed person. In fact, the happy hypocrite is a hypocrite no more.
That’s what happens when we journey with grace. We start out trying to impress God with our big words, trying to twist God’s arm with our magic formulas, trying to get God to notice us with our pious recitations. But along the way, we suddenly find that we have become friends with God. We have grown together. We start resembling God. In the end, prayer becomes less of a form than a conversation; less of a magical power than the dialogue of friends, or the silence of lovers.
Alternative Application
Romans 8:1-11. Several decades ago a young woman found these concepts becoming real in her life. One night she wrote a prayer, putting her feelings into poetry. Later she composed a lilting melody that soared with beauty. During her last year of college, her choir director asked if she would sing the song on a recording he was producing.
I can still hear her voice lifting this moving prayer in the quiet innocence of love:
God, who touches earth with beauty, make me lovely too.
With your Spirit re-create me, make my heart anew.
Like the streams of living water, make me crystal pure.
Like the rocks of towering grandeur, make me strong and sure.
Like the dancing waves in sunlight, make me glad and free.
Like the straightness of the pine tree, let me upright be.
Like the arches of the heaven, lift my thoughts above.
God, who touches earth with beauty, fill my life with love.
In the foyer that gathered people as they moved into the worship space hung a large, illustrated calligraphy of Psalm 100:4 -- “Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name.” Above the triple doors leading to the two-story classroom wing flew this message: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Proverbs 1:7). Emblazoned on one wall of the fellowship hall was a beautifully flowing rendition of Jesus’ testimony to his disciples: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:35). The whole new facility was blanketed with scripture and bathed in prayer.
Some were a bit taken aback, however, by the text the artist had used to define the youngest children’s nursery. It came from 1 Corinthians 15:51 -- “We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed!”
Change is a big part of our spiritual journeys, isn’t it? When God works on us and in us, we are transformed. Our texts today express that in both negative and positive ways. Genesis reminds us that Jacob was a deceitful conniver who would hardly be changed by God until a night of wrestling mutated him into “Israel.” Paul writes of the tremendous transformation that comes to those who find Jesus their true source of identity. And Jesus calls out change from those who listen to his tale of the different soils upon whom the seed of the gospel falls.
Genesis 25:19-34
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 (chapter 24). To Isaac and Rebecca are born twins who are opposites in character, and always in competition with one another (chapter 25). Rather than emerging with an identity of his own, Isaac seems doomed to repeat his father’s mistakes (chapter 26).
After those few notes, Jacob takes center stage. He is a conniver from birth (Genesis 25:21-34), 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), 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 are two significant themes that emerge as dominant. First, 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.
Second, the meaning of the name “Israel” and the circumstances surrounding it became a defining moment in Israel’s theology. Rarely does the text of Genesis crack open to reveal an origin outside of its narrative timeline, but as the tale of Jacob’s night-long wrestling match concludes, there is indeed a note that identifies the organized nation of Israel as the audience reviewing these matters (Genesis 32:32). The story itself is more sordid than it appears at first glance. Jacob and his amassed company are heading back home to Canaan. Jacob hopes that his brother Esau has miraculously had a bout of amnesia and is excited to welcome him with no dark thoughts about Jacob’s nasty subterfuge a few decades earlier. But Esau has a good memory, and the report quickly arrives that the maligned brother is racing toward Jacob’s retinue at the center of an aggressive army seeking revenge.
Always the manipulator, Jacob strategizes ways to save his skin. First he splits the caravan in two, hoping Esau will target the wrong camp. Then large gifts are sent ahead, in the expectation that Esau will be slowed by the herds offered and his men distracted by the feasts of fresh roasted meat they take. Perhaps a little drunkenness might accompany the barbecue rituals, and because of these subterfuges Jacob’s groups will be able to slip past in the night.
But Jacob knows the depth of his guilt, and his manic attempts at self-preservation continue. He sends his wives and children and remaining possessions across the Jabok River while he remains behind. This is a sinister and cowardly move, for it exposes Jacob’s family to the possible onslaught of Esau’s army without the moderate natural moat of the river to make their position more defensible. Meantime, Jacob himself would be sitting in the protection of the rearward hills, and would have the advantage of hearing the screams of his children and wives while they are slaughtered as a warning order to escape, even if they do not. Jacob is always the conniver, and a master of self-preservation.
Yet it is here, in the quarters where he had taken such pains to make himself safe, that he becomes most vulnerable. “A man wrestled with him till daybreak” (Genesis 32:24). We know even less about this figure than the little that Jacob seems to know. Nevertheless, both he and we are to infer that this was a divine engagement, and that God would not allow Jacob’s hiding to keep him aloof from the court of heaven or a confrontation with himself and the tests of righteousness. At the same time, there is a graciousness in the story which reminds us that the divine messenger does not overpower or overwhelm Jacob, but continues to grapple with him, and even provides a blessing he does not deserve. This, then, is the meaning of “Israel” -- one who wrestles with God.
Looking back at Jacob, Israel at Mt. Sinai would see herself. She carried the conniving DNA of her forebear in her social makeup. But here at Mt. 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 8:1-11
In Romans 1:18--3:20, Paul describes the crippling effect of sin. We are all alienated from God (1:18-25). But we are also alienated from each other (1:26-32), so that we begin to treat one another with contempt and painful arrogance, and destroy those around us in the malice which blinds us. We are even, says Paul, alienated from our own selves (2:1-11), not realizing how tarnished our sense and perspectives have become.
We make excuses about our condition (2:12-3:20), claiming that we are actually pretty good people (2:12-16), or accusing society and religion of raising moral standards to levels that are simply unrealistic (2:17--3:4), or even blaming God for all the nastiness around us and within us (3:5-20). Yet the result is merely self-deception, and continued rottenness in a world that seems to have no outs.
Once the stage has been set for Paul’s readers to realize again the pervasive grip of evil in this world, Paul marches Abraham out onto the stage as a model of divine religious reconstruction. God does not wish to be distant from the world, judgmental and vengeful. Rather, Jesus comes, and the fullness of God’s healing righteousness is revealed.
The story of God’s righteousness as grace and goodness begins with Abraham. God has always desired an ever-renewing relationship with the people of this world, creatures made in God’s own image. Paul describes God’s heart of love in 3:21-31, using illustrations from the courtroom (we are “justified” -- 3:24), the marketplace (we receive “redemption” -- 3:24), and the temple (“a sacrifice of atonement” -- 3:25). Moreover, while this ongoing expression of God’s gracious goodness finds its initial point of contact through the Jews (Abraham and “the law” and Jesus), it is clearly intended for all of humankind (3:27-31).
This is nothing new, according to Paul. In fact, if we return to the story of Abraham, we find some very interesting notes that we may have glossed over. “Blessedness” was “credited” to Abraham before he had a chance to be “justified by works” (4:1-11). In other words, whenever the “righteousness of God” shows up it is a good thing, a healing hope, an enriching experience that no one is able to buy or manipulate. God alone initiates a relationship of favor and grace with us (4:1-23). In fact, according to Paul, this purpose of God is no less spectacular than the divine quest to re-create the world, undoing the effects that the cancer of sin has blighted upon us (Romans 5). It feels like being reborn (5:1-11). It plays out like the world itself is being remade (5:12-21). This is the great righteousness of God at work!
Now Paul gets very practical. Although we might think that we would jump at the opportunity to find such grace and divine favor, Paul reminds us that our inner conflicts tear at us until we are paralyzed with frustration and failure (Romans 6-7). Sometimes we deny these struggles (6:1-14). Sometimes we ignore these tensions (6:15--7:6). Sometimes we grow bitter in the quagmire of it all (7:7-12). And sometimes we even throw up our hands in despair (7:13-24).
Precisely then, says Paul, the power of the righteousness of God as our bodyguard is most clearly revealed. Thankfully God’s righteousness grabs us and holds us, so that through Jesus and the Holy Spirit we are never separated from divine love (Romans 7:25--8:39). Hope floods through us because we know Jesus and what he has done for us (8:1-11). Hope whispers inside of us as the Holy Spirit reminds us who we truly are and whose we will always be (8:12-27). Hope thunders around us as God’s faithfulness is shouted from the heavens right through the pages of history (8:28-39): “...we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
Following the pattern set by Mark’s gospel, Matthew’s large outline for unfolding the life and teachings of Jesus has the same three significant parts:
1--16: Jesus teaches the crowds about the kingdom
17: Transitional Event -- the Transfiguration
17--20: Jesus teaches the disciples about discipleship
21: Transitional Event -- entry into Jerusalem
21--28: Jesus moves through the Passion to his coronation
But superimposed on this basic development is a second and more subtle arrangement of materials. Since Matthew wants us to know that Jesus is the new Moses who delivers the covenant documents for a new age, he presents the narratives and teachings of Jesus in what is sometimes called a “Five Books of the Law” structure:
Prologue: Jesus identified with Israel and the world (1-3)
* Book #1: Narrative: Preaching and healing in Galilee (4) -- Look! Messiah has come!
Discourse: Sermon on the Mount (5--7) -- Listen! Messiah speaks a new world order!
* Book #2: Narrative: Mighty works, especially healings (8?-9:34) -- Look! This is the one to follow!
Discourse: Mission of the Disciples (9:35--10:42) -- Listen! This is the message of hope for all!
* Book #3: Narrative: Rejection of Jesus (11--12) -- Look! People are becoming divided about Jesus!
Discourse: Parables about the Kingdom (13) -- Listen! The Kingdom brings division!
* Book #4: Narrative: Founding of the Church (14--17) -- Look! Here is what the Church is about!
Discourse: Teachings about the Church (18) -- Listen! This is how the Church functions!
* Book #5: Narrative: Travels from Galilee to Jerusalem (19--22) -- Look! We are on the way to the end!
Discourse: Eschatological Teachings (23--25) -- Listen! This is how we prepare for the end!
Epilogue: Jesus identified as global Messiah King (26--28)
Each of these “books” concludes with a similar declaration (7:28; 11:1; 13:53; 19:1; 26:1), noting that Jesus has finished teaching in a particular place or about a certain topic. The implication is simple and direct -- Jesus has come to carry out the mission of Yahweh, first initiated with Israel, in a new way for a new, messianic age.
After the powerful “Sermon on the Mount” found in Matthew 5-7, Jesus’ next extended teaching is the parable of the sower and seeds. Its placing and expansive size, in comparison to the snippets of teaching that came earlier, highlight it as distinctive and important. As one reads these pages in continuous narrative the pace suddenly slows, and Jesus demands that we reflect on what has happened so far. We have been watching the Jesus of power and action. Now we must respond to the person of Jesus. How will the sower’s seed find perch in our own lives? What kind of soil are we? Both for Jesus’ initial audience and for those who encounter Jesus through this gospel, the multiple-layered metaphor serves as a call to self-assessment and belief. Reaching behind the literary origins of the gospel, it is clear to see that Jesus was not preaching merely to communicate information, nor was Matthew recording Jesus’ sermons as a nice collection of spiritual writings. This was a document intended for volitional reaction. One must respond to Jesus, and the outcome of that engagement would be seen in direct changes of lifestyle and behavior.
Application
God changes us. When we grow in our pilgrimage with God, we change within ourselves. We learn to live like God. We learn to talk like God. We learn to like the things that God likes and do the things that God does.
Someone has written about that in a wonderful little tale called “The Happy Hypocrite.” A rather crass and godless fellow spends his years using women and tossing them aside. One day he meets another young lady who catches his attention. She’ll be his next conquest. Would she go out with him? Yes, if he would care to come to church with her.
Go to church? Well, if that’s what it takes he’ll do it this one time. So he puts on some Sunday clothes and he covers the evil lines of his face with a pious mask, and he begins again with his usual flirtation.
This time, however, something happens to him. He can’t seem to take advantage of this young woman. He begins to respect her too much. They become friends, and lovers, and he even finds himself thinking of marriage.
Yet would she marry him if she knew what he was really like under this pious mask that he’s worked so hard to keep in place? He’s sure that she would despise him if she found him out, so he keeps his mask in place. He hides the evil within and he pretends to live in her good world, with all of its love and its joy and its religion.
Eventually they marry. They buy a house. They have children. And somehow he manages to keep his mask in place. He’s a hypocrite, and he knows it, an evil man living in a world where he doesn’t belong.
Still, over the years he finds that he likes this world of hers, and his mask begins to sit more comfortably on his face. He is ready to play this game until his dying day and live out his years as a happy hypocrite in this new world.
Then tragedy strikes. A woman from his early years finds him, someone he once used and scorned. Now she’s ready for revenge. She’ll expose him. She’ll rip off his mask and show the world what he’s really like. She’ll uncover his hypocrisy, and his wife and children will be shattered.
They struggle together. She grabs for his mask and pulls it off his face, but then drops it, startled. The evil lines are gone. The hardness in his cheeks has softened. His face looks like the pious mask.
He has lived in his wife’s world so long that he’s become part of it. For years his face was hidden by a mask of hypocrisy, but now he’s become what she was for him: a friend, a lover, a kind and committed person. In fact, the happy hypocrite is a hypocrite no more.
That’s what happens when we journey with grace. We start out trying to impress God with our big words, trying to twist God’s arm with our magic formulas, trying to get God to notice us with our pious recitations. But along the way, we suddenly find that we have become friends with God. We have grown together. We start resembling God. In the end, prayer becomes less of a form than a conversation; less of a magical power than the dialogue of friends, or the silence of lovers.
Alternative Application
Romans 8:1-11. Several decades ago a young woman found these concepts becoming real in her life. One night she wrote a prayer, putting her feelings into poetry. Later she composed a lilting melody that soared with beauty. During her last year of college, her choir director asked if she would sing the song on a recording he was producing.
I can still hear her voice lifting this moving prayer in the quiet innocence of love:
God, who touches earth with beauty, make me lovely too.
With your Spirit re-create me, make my heart anew.
Like the streams of living water, make me crystal pure.
Like the rocks of towering grandeur, make me strong and sure.
Like the dancing waves in sunlight, make me glad and free.
Like the straightness of the pine tree, let me upright be.
Like the arches of the heaven, lift my thoughts above.
God, who touches earth with beauty, fill my life with love.
