Glimpsing Glory
Commentary
William Beebe, the naturalist, used to visit fellow nature-lover Theodore Roosevelt. Often, after an evening of good conversation at Roosevelt’s Sagamore Hill home, they would walk across the lawn in the darkness. They would look up at the stars, point out the constellations, and carry on a conversation something like this: “There’s the spiral galaxy of Andromeda! Did you know it was as large as our own Milky Way? Over a hundred billion stars. And every one of them is larger than the sun. 750,000 light-years away. And there are a hundred million more galaxies like it out there!”
The numbers would get larger, the facts and figures more spectacular. Eventually they would shuffle on in silence, lost in wonder. Finally, Teddy Roosevelt would say, “Now I think we are small enough. Let’s go to bed!”
“Creation was the greatest of all revolutions,” said Chesterton. When young Anne Frank was hidden in an Amsterdam attic during World War II, fearful of the dreaded Nazi revolution and longing for a day in the park with her friends, she wrote this note in her diary: “The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely, or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature, and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be.”
Even in the harshest of storms, the magnificent power of God is displayed. After Sir Ernest Shackleton returned from one of his Antarctic expeditions, he told of the intense suffering he and his two partners had endured: extreme pain, numbing cold, haunting starvation, consuming exhaustion. When rescued, barely alive, all they had left were two axes and a logbook.
“But in memories we were rich,” said Shackleton. “We had pierced the veneer of outside things. We have seen God in his glory!”
There are only a handful of truly great words in the English language, says one scholar. They are the words without synonyms, the words that can’t be explained, the words that sound like what they mean. And one of those words is glory.
Only the hushed whisper of that word can describe God. Only the thundering roar of that term can tell what happens when God passes by. But bright lights can dim eyesight, and the constant bombardment of God’s glory can turn our timid spirits toward the dark places. This is why Habakkuk stretched his prayerful arms toward heaven in order to make sense out of his darkening world. This is why Jesus showed up in Zacchaeus’ home, glowing with eternity in the tinseled gloom. This is why Paul wrote to the young church in Thessalonica, comparing these bright witnesses of grace to letters of love from heaven. Glimpses of glory.
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
By the time the seventh century B.C. rolled around, the prophets of Israel were rarely welcome in the royal palaces, even though all that was left of once proud and expansive Israel was the tiny mountainous territory of Judah. During the 600s, although Assyria kept threatening Jerusalem, it was increasingly occupied in defending itself against its rebellious eastern province of Babylon. During these years, while Jeremiah developed his gloomy diatribes in the heart of the capital city, several among “the Twelve” also made brief statements about coming judgment. Zephaniah (630–610 B.C.) provided a few paragraphs against Judah and the nations that surrounded it (chapters 1–2), couching the imminent intervention of Yahweh in the increasingly common term, “the Day of the Lord.” In a final, somewhat more lengthy chapter, Zephaniah turned his attention toward restoration and renewal, pointing to a future time when the fortunes of Yahweh’s people would be made full once again.
Also, for just a brief moment (probably around 615 B.C.), Nahum renewed the mission of Jonah against Nineveh and the Assyrians. This time, however, there was no outcome of repentance and restoration. Instead, the short-lived turnabout that had followed Jonah’s challenge evaporated entirely, and Nahum declared irreversible divine judgment against this fierce kingdom, which had wreaked so much havoc on its neighbors in the Fertile Crescent. Yahweh’s word through Nahum would come true a few years later when the Assyrians were trounced by the Babylonians, first in the destruction of the capital city of Nineveh (612 B.C.), then at their secondary administrative center Harran (610 B.C.), and decisively in the battle of Carchemish (605 B.C.), where even the allied armies of Egypt proved insufficient to turn the Chaldean tide.
Finally, during this era as well, came the disconcerting dialogue between Habakkuk and Yahweh. Formulated around the year 600 B.C., just as Babylon was rapidly overwhelming the whimpering remnants of the old Assyrian regime, Habakkuk asked Yahweh a series of questions that were answered in ways that almost brought more pain than the situations they were supposed to resolve. If summarized, the conversation would sound something like this:
Habakkuk: “Why do you ignore the social evils that plague our land (Judah)?” (1:1-4)
Yahweh: “I’m working on it. Very soon now I will bring punishment through my dreaded scourge, the growing Babylonian conquest machine that is rolling through the area.” (1:5-11)
Habakkuk: “O God, no! You can’t do that! They are even worse than the most evil among us! How can you talk about balancing the scales of justice with such an unfair sentence?!” (1:12--2:1)
Yahweh: “I understand your frustration. That’s why I’m giving you a message for all to hear. The sins of my people are terrible and require drastic measures. For this reason, I am bringing the Babylonians against them. But the Babylonians, too, are my people, and will come under my judgment for the wickedness they perform. In the end, all will bow to me, as is appropriate when nations come to know that I am the only true God.” (2:2-20)
At this point Habakkuk breaks into a song of confidence and trust (chapter 3) that rivals anything found in the Psalms. Habakkuk charts the terrifying movements of Yahweh on earth, bringing death and destruction as the divine judgments swirl. But in the end, Habakkuk raises a marvelous testimony of faith. But he can only do so because, in his sin-darkened world, God peaked in for a moment and revealed a larger divine plan of grace and glory.
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
Paul spent a year and a half in Corinth on his second mission journey (Acts 16-18), learning to care deeply for the congregation that would be the recipient of his most dominant letters in the New Testament. As he began his sojourn in Corinth, however, his heart remained back in Thessalonica. Already when he was traveling through Athens, on his way to Corinth, Paul worried about how the fledgling Thessalonian congregation was faring (1 Thessalonians 2:17-20). He even sent Timothy back to find out more and make a report (1 Thessalonians 3:1-5). Paul had already continued on to Corinth by the time Timothy caught up with him, and was elated at the good word his younger associate brought (1 Thessalonians 3:6-10). With emotions running high, Paul dashed off a letter of appreciation and encouragement to his new friends (1 Thessalonians).
Most of this short letter is given to expressions of praise for the great testimony already being noised about from those who observed the grace and spiritual energy of this newborn congregation. Paul rehearsed briefly (1 Thessalonians 1-3) the recent history that had deeply connected them, and told of his aching heart now that they were so quickly “torn away” from one another (1 Thessalonians 2:17). Only after these passionate confessions does Paul spill some ink on a few notes of instruction (1 Thessalonians 4-5).
The central message of Paul’s missionary preaching focused on the resurrection of Jesus. This was, for Paul, the astounding confirmation of Jesus’ divine character. It was the undeniable proof that Jesus was the messiah, and that his words and teachings had ushered in the new age of God’s final revelation and redemptive activity.
Paul understood that Jesus was the great “Day of the Lord” event foretold by the Old Testament prophets (1 Thessalonians 5:1), and that out of gracious forbearance, Jesus had split this cataclysmic occurrence in two, so that the beginning of eternal blessings could be experienced before the final judgment fell (1 Thessalonians 5:2-11). This meant that Jesus had gone back to heaven only briefly, and would be returning to earth very soon — probably next week, but maybe next month. It was the generous grace of God that had provided this brief window of opportunity, allowing Jesus’ disciples a chance quickly to tell others the good news, so that those who believed would also reap the benefits of the looming messianic age. Neither Paul nor God wanted anyone to be destroyed in the judgments that were still ahead.
While most in this world wander around in the twilight of unfocused human existence, those who had heard the preaching of Paul in Thessalonica began to stride with significance, and radiate the glory of eternity. Everyone took notice, and many began to walk in new paths because of it.
Luke 19:1-10
Luke wants us to know that Jesus came into this world with a divine mandate and under heaven’s clear planning and purpose. With great drama the stories unfold, accompanied by the marvelous songs of Mary, Zechariah, and Simeon, all of whom speak of the reversal of fortune that will be brought about by this wonderful act of God.
Luke ties the events of Jesus’ life directly to historical circumstances in the greater Roman world. He reports that Jesus’ birth occurred during the reign of Caesar Augustus and the governorship of Quirinius (Luke 2:1-2). Later he mentions that the beginnings of Jesus’ ministry took place in the fifteenth year of Tiberius Caesar’s rule (Luke 3:1). The connection with Caesar Augustus is particularly striking, since Augustus was the great ruler who brought about the Pax Romana, the peace of Rome. Luke makes evident, particularly through the song of the angels to the shepherds, that even in those times of relative international calm, the greater gift of divine peace was needed by humankind, and could be brought only through Jesus.
Also unique to Luke’s presentation is the strong emphasis on worship and song and prayer. The gospel itself begins and ends in the Temple, where people are gathered for times of public devotion. At the coming of Jesus, a number of songs are sung (by Mary, Zechariah, the angels, and Simeon). Prayer also forms a key element of Jesus’ teachings, with an even greater emphasis brought to it than noted by Mark (see especially Luke 11:1-13).
But perhaps the most striking and clearly Lukan focus in conveying the message about Jesus, is his recognition that God has special care for the poor (noted in Mary’s song, identified in the offering brought by Joseph and Mary at Jesus’ circumcision, asserted through the record of Jesus’ pronouncements of woes on the rich and blessings on the poor, and insinuated in the story of Lazarus and the Rich Man), the sick (notably the number of demon-possessed who are healed by Jesus, and also the lepers who are cleansed and the paralyzed who are restored to mobility), the marginalized (shepherds, children, tax collectors, prostitutes, Samaritans, and the blind), and women (Mary, Elizabeth, widows, the hemorrhaging woman, Mary and Martha, and the crippled woman). It is in this context that Jesus, on the way to Jerusalem and death, spends time with outcast tax collector Zacchaeus. Not only does the man everyone loved to hate find a welcome in the heart of Jesus, but his own home becomes a portal of heaven’s hospitality. Suddenly the upside-down world rotates toward eternity and bobs right-side up.
Application
King George and Queen Elizabeth went to a London theater to see a Noel Coward/Gertrude Lawrence production. As they entered the royal box, the whole audience rose to its feet to honor them. Standing in the wings, Gertrude Lawrence said, “What an entrance!”
And Noel Coward added, “What a part!”
This is true for other royalty as well. What a part God has to play in the drama of time and space! Says Joan of Arc in the first installment of Shakespeare’s King Henry VI: “Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself ” (I.ii). For human rulers, she pointed out, that was disastrous. Eventually the reach would exceed the substance.
But what a part for God! Elizabeth Barrett Browning put it this way:
Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.
C. S. Lewis thought about that. He wondered why we humans, who have so much to live for here, might ever be enticed to long for “heaven” or “eternal life.” Often religion turns worship of God into a duty that exacts a tax of begrudging acknowledgment from us. We have to go to church. We must be good. We are obligated to pray.
But such feelings arise from the pagan notion that we can somehow increase the majesty of our tribal god in the clash of worldly power plays. Rather, says Lewis, it is God’s amazing thoughts about us that make biblical religion special. It is God who creates us in his image. It is God who loves us when we are unlovely. It is God who declares us to be kings and queens. It is God who thinks wonderful thoughts about us, even when we can’t be bothered to think much of ourselves.
When the German prince, George II, became king of Great Britain, he had a special fondness for the music of his fellow countryman, George Frederic Handel. At the premiere concert of Handel’s 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 they sang of him! The whole crowd followed suit — for a different reason, of course, and a different King!
God in heaven claps his hands and shouts of our greatness. And in the expanding circles of God’s glory, we rise, singing the “Hallelujah” chorus.
Alternative Application (Hebrews 11:29-12:2)
Someone has characterized Zacchaeus’ declaration in our gospel reading as “magnificent obsession.” Lloyd Douglas used that term to write one of his greatest novels, the story of young Robert Merrick: he’s young, he’s rich, he’s drunk. Life is a game for him, a game of using people and tossing them aside. A game of playing with his toys in his self-centered world.
And then it happens: Merrick is out on his yacht; the wind catches the sail and throws the boom at him; he falls into the water, unconscious, and is rescued, barely alive.
At the same moment, a world-famous doctor, dedicated, devoted, a saver of lives, drowns in a freak accident just down the beach. Young Merrick lies in the hospital. His eyes are closed, and everybody thinks he’s unconscious. Two nurses stand over him, and one shakes her head.
“What a tragedy…,” she says. “A great man who saves lives [is] lost, and this fellow, who never did any good for anybody, [is] saved!”
Merrick knows it’s true. He’s alive, yet he has never really lived. He was pulled from the water, but for no good reason. And in that moment, in that instant of judgment, Merrick gains his “magnificent obsession.” He will go to university. He will get a degree in medicine. He will take the doctor’s place. He will save lives and begin to truly live himself.
A magnificent obsession! A purpose for which to live and a cause for which to die. That’s the atmosphere that pervades Zacchaeus’ home after Jesus stops by. And suddenly heaven does not seem so remote.
The numbers would get larger, the facts and figures more spectacular. Eventually they would shuffle on in silence, lost in wonder. Finally, Teddy Roosevelt would say, “Now I think we are small enough. Let’s go to bed!”
“Creation was the greatest of all revolutions,” said Chesterton. When young Anne Frank was hidden in an Amsterdam attic during World War II, fearful of the dreaded Nazi revolution and longing for a day in the park with her friends, she wrote this note in her diary: “The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely, or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature, and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be.”
Even in the harshest of storms, the magnificent power of God is displayed. After Sir Ernest Shackleton returned from one of his Antarctic expeditions, he told of the intense suffering he and his two partners had endured: extreme pain, numbing cold, haunting starvation, consuming exhaustion. When rescued, barely alive, all they had left were two axes and a logbook.
“But in memories we were rich,” said Shackleton. “We had pierced the veneer of outside things. We have seen God in his glory!”
There are only a handful of truly great words in the English language, says one scholar. They are the words without synonyms, the words that can’t be explained, the words that sound like what they mean. And one of those words is glory.
Only the hushed whisper of that word can describe God. Only the thundering roar of that term can tell what happens when God passes by. But bright lights can dim eyesight, and the constant bombardment of God’s glory can turn our timid spirits toward the dark places. This is why Habakkuk stretched his prayerful arms toward heaven in order to make sense out of his darkening world. This is why Jesus showed up in Zacchaeus’ home, glowing with eternity in the tinseled gloom. This is why Paul wrote to the young church in Thessalonica, comparing these bright witnesses of grace to letters of love from heaven. Glimpses of glory.
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
By the time the seventh century B.C. rolled around, the prophets of Israel were rarely welcome in the royal palaces, even though all that was left of once proud and expansive Israel was the tiny mountainous territory of Judah. During the 600s, although Assyria kept threatening Jerusalem, it was increasingly occupied in defending itself against its rebellious eastern province of Babylon. During these years, while Jeremiah developed his gloomy diatribes in the heart of the capital city, several among “the Twelve” also made brief statements about coming judgment. Zephaniah (630–610 B.C.) provided a few paragraphs against Judah and the nations that surrounded it (chapters 1–2), couching the imminent intervention of Yahweh in the increasingly common term, “the Day of the Lord.” In a final, somewhat more lengthy chapter, Zephaniah turned his attention toward restoration and renewal, pointing to a future time when the fortunes of Yahweh’s people would be made full once again.
Also, for just a brief moment (probably around 615 B.C.), Nahum renewed the mission of Jonah against Nineveh and the Assyrians. This time, however, there was no outcome of repentance and restoration. Instead, the short-lived turnabout that had followed Jonah’s challenge evaporated entirely, and Nahum declared irreversible divine judgment against this fierce kingdom, which had wreaked so much havoc on its neighbors in the Fertile Crescent. Yahweh’s word through Nahum would come true a few years later when the Assyrians were trounced by the Babylonians, first in the destruction of the capital city of Nineveh (612 B.C.), then at their secondary administrative center Harran (610 B.C.), and decisively in the battle of Carchemish (605 B.C.), where even the allied armies of Egypt proved insufficient to turn the Chaldean tide.
Finally, during this era as well, came the disconcerting dialogue between Habakkuk and Yahweh. Formulated around the year 600 B.C., just as Babylon was rapidly overwhelming the whimpering remnants of the old Assyrian regime, Habakkuk asked Yahweh a series of questions that were answered in ways that almost brought more pain than the situations they were supposed to resolve. If summarized, the conversation would sound something like this:
Habakkuk: “Why do you ignore the social evils that plague our land (Judah)?” (1:1-4)
Yahweh: “I’m working on it. Very soon now I will bring punishment through my dreaded scourge, the growing Babylonian conquest machine that is rolling through the area.” (1:5-11)
Habakkuk: “O God, no! You can’t do that! They are even worse than the most evil among us! How can you talk about balancing the scales of justice with such an unfair sentence?!” (1:12--2:1)
Yahweh: “I understand your frustration. That’s why I’m giving you a message for all to hear. The sins of my people are terrible and require drastic measures. For this reason, I am bringing the Babylonians against them. But the Babylonians, too, are my people, and will come under my judgment for the wickedness they perform. In the end, all will bow to me, as is appropriate when nations come to know that I am the only true God.” (2:2-20)
At this point Habakkuk breaks into a song of confidence and trust (chapter 3) that rivals anything found in the Psalms. Habakkuk charts the terrifying movements of Yahweh on earth, bringing death and destruction as the divine judgments swirl. But in the end, Habakkuk raises a marvelous testimony of faith. But he can only do so because, in his sin-darkened world, God peaked in for a moment and revealed a larger divine plan of grace and glory.
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
Paul spent a year and a half in Corinth on his second mission journey (Acts 16-18), learning to care deeply for the congregation that would be the recipient of his most dominant letters in the New Testament. As he began his sojourn in Corinth, however, his heart remained back in Thessalonica. Already when he was traveling through Athens, on his way to Corinth, Paul worried about how the fledgling Thessalonian congregation was faring (1 Thessalonians 2:17-20). He even sent Timothy back to find out more and make a report (1 Thessalonians 3:1-5). Paul had already continued on to Corinth by the time Timothy caught up with him, and was elated at the good word his younger associate brought (1 Thessalonians 3:6-10). With emotions running high, Paul dashed off a letter of appreciation and encouragement to his new friends (1 Thessalonians).
Most of this short letter is given to expressions of praise for the great testimony already being noised about from those who observed the grace and spiritual energy of this newborn congregation. Paul rehearsed briefly (1 Thessalonians 1-3) the recent history that had deeply connected them, and told of his aching heart now that they were so quickly “torn away” from one another (1 Thessalonians 2:17). Only after these passionate confessions does Paul spill some ink on a few notes of instruction (1 Thessalonians 4-5).
The central message of Paul’s missionary preaching focused on the resurrection of Jesus. This was, for Paul, the astounding confirmation of Jesus’ divine character. It was the undeniable proof that Jesus was the messiah, and that his words and teachings had ushered in the new age of God’s final revelation and redemptive activity.
Paul understood that Jesus was the great “Day of the Lord” event foretold by the Old Testament prophets (1 Thessalonians 5:1), and that out of gracious forbearance, Jesus had split this cataclysmic occurrence in two, so that the beginning of eternal blessings could be experienced before the final judgment fell (1 Thessalonians 5:2-11). This meant that Jesus had gone back to heaven only briefly, and would be returning to earth very soon — probably next week, but maybe next month. It was the generous grace of God that had provided this brief window of opportunity, allowing Jesus’ disciples a chance quickly to tell others the good news, so that those who believed would also reap the benefits of the looming messianic age. Neither Paul nor God wanted anyone to be destroyed in the judgments that were still ahead.
While most in this world wander around in the twilight of unfocused human existence, those who had heard the preaching of Paul in Thessalonica began to stride with significance, and radiate the glory of eternity. Everyone took notice, and many began to walk in new paths because of it.
Luke 19:1-10
Luke wants us to know that Jesus came into this world with a divine mandate and under heaven’s clear planning and purpose. With great drama the stories unfold, accompanied by the marvelous songs of Mary, Zechariah, and Simeon, all of whom speak of the reversal of fortune that will be brought about by this wonderful act of God.
Luke ties the events of Jesus’ life directly to historical circumstances in the greater Roman world. He reports that Jesus’ birth occurred during the reign of Caesar Augustus and the governorship of Quirinius (Luke 2:1-2). Later he mentions that the beginnings of Jesus’ ministry took place in the fifteenth year of Tiberius Caesar’s rule (Luke 3:1). The connection with Caesar Augustus is particularly striking, since Augustus was the great ruler who brought about the Pax Romana, the peace of Rome. Luke makes evident, particularly through the song of the angels to the shepherds, that even in those times of relative international calm, the greater gift of divine peace was needed by humankind, and could be brought only through Jesus.
Also unique to Luke’s presentation is the strong emphasis on worship and song and prayer. The gospel itself begins and ends in the Temple, where people are gathered for times of public devotion. At the coming of Jesus, a number of songs are sung (by Mary, Zechariah, the angels, and Simeon). Prayer also forms a key element of Jesus’ teachings, with an even greater emphasis brought to it than noted by Mark (see especially Luke 11:1-13).
But perhaps the most striking and clearly Lukan focus in conveying the message about Jesus, is his recognition that God has special care for the poor (noted in Mary’s song, identified in the offering brought by Joseph and Mary at Jesus’ circumcision, asserted through the record of Jesus’ pronouncements of woes on the rich and blessings on the poor, and insinuated in the story of Lazarus and the Rich Man), the sick (notably the number of demon-possessed who are healed by Jesus, and also the lepers who are cleansed and the paralyzed who are restored to mobility), the marginalized (shepherds, children, tax collectors, prostitutes, Samaritans, and the blind), and women (Mary, Elizabeth, widows, the hemorrhaging woman, Mary and Martha, and the crippled woman). It is in this context that Jesus, on the way to Jerusalem and death, spends time with outcast tax collector Zacchaeus. Not only does the man everyone loved to hate find a welcome in the heart of Jesus, but his own home becomes a portal of heaven’s hospitality. Suddenly the upside-down world rotates toward eternity and bobs right-side up.
Application
King George and Queen Elizabeth went to a London theater to see a Noel Coward/Gertrude Lawrence production. As they entered the royal box, the whole audience rose to its feet to honor them. Standing in the wings, Gertrude Lawrence said, “What an entrance!”
And Noel Coward added, “What a part!”
This is true for other royalty as well. What a part God has to play in the drama of time and space! Says Joan of Arc in the first installment of Shakespeare’s King Henry VI: “Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself ” (I.ii). For human rulers, she pointed out, that was disastrous. Eventually the reach would exceed the substance.
But what a part for God! Elizabeth Barrett Browning put it this way:
Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.
C. S. Lewis thought about that. He wondered why we humans, who have so much to live for here, might ever be enticed to long for “heaven” or “eternal life.” Often religion turns worship of God into a duty that exacts a tax of begrudging acknowledgment from us. We have to go to church. We must be good. We are obligated to pray.
But such feelings arise from the pagan notion that we can somehow increase the majesty of our tribal god in the clash of worldly power plays. Rather, says Lewis, it is God’s amazing thoughts about us that make biblical religion special. It is God who creates us in his image. It is God who loves us when we are unlovely. It is God who declares us to be kings and queens. It is God who thinks wonderful thoughts about us, even when we can’t be bothered to think much of ourselves.
When the German prince, George II, became king of Great Britain, he had a special fondness for the music of his fellow countryman, George Frederic Handel. At the premiere concert of Handel’s 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 they sang of him! The whole crowd followed suit — for a different reason, of course, and a different King!
God in heaven claps his hands and shouts of our greatness. And in the expanding circles of God’s glory, we rise, singing the “Hallelujah” chorus.
Alternative Application (Hebrews 11:29-12:2)
Someone has characterized Zacchaeus’ declaration in our gospel reading as “magnificent obsession.” Lloyd Douglas used that term to write one of his greatest novels, the story of young Robert Merrick: he’s young, he’s rich, he’s drunk. Life is a game for him, a game of using people and tossing them aside. A game of playing with his toys in his self-centered world.
And then it happens: Merrick is out on his yacht; the wind catches the sail and throws the boom at him; he falls into the water, unconscious, and is rescued, barely alive.
At the same moment, a world-famous doctor, dedicated, devoted, a saver of lives, drowns in a freak accident just down the beach. Young Merrick lies in the hospital. His eyes are closed, and everybody thinks he’s unconscious. Two nurses stand over him, and one shakes her head.
“What a tragedy…,” she says. “A great man who saves lives [is] lost, and this fellow, who never did any good for anybody, [is] saved!”
Merrick knows it’s true. He’s alive, yet he has never really lived. He was pulled from the water, but for no good reason. And in that moment, in that instant of judgment, Merrick gains his “magnificent obsession.” He will go to university. He will get a degree in medicine. He will take the doctor’s place. He will save lives and begin to truly live himself.
A magnificent obsession! A purpose for which to live and a cause for which to die. That’s the atmosphere that pervades Zacchaeus’ home after Jesus stops by. And suddenly heaven does not seem so remote.
