The great backdrop
Commentary
Object:
If your inclination is to preach with an eye toward the national holiday that is just a few days away, the selected passages do not offer much fodder. The Old Testament lection is born out of a national moment, to be sure, but it is a moment of death and defeat, which is hardly the nature of our celebration on Independence Day. And trying to tie the Mark or 2 Corinthians passages to the holiday would require such contortions as to be injurious to the text.
Furthermore, the three assigned texts do not have many natural points of connection with one another. Individually, each one is pregnant with possibilities. If our aim is to bring them into concert for a common theme, however, then we may be badly frustrated.
For myself, my endeavor this Sunday would be to present an extended metaphor. The guiding image would not be any single passage, but rather a larger principle. Then I would employ each of this week's passages as illustrations of that principle.
The extended metaphor would feature a director preparing to present a play on stage. He begins, of course, by holding auditions. Along the way, something called "trouble" auditions for a part in the play. The director's job is to know how best to utilize this volunteer. "Trouble" aspires to be the star of the show, albeit a villainous one. This wise director, however, chooses to make "trouble" not so much a character as a part of the scenery. Specifically, "trouble" will be the backdrop against which the real stars of the show will play their parts.
2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27
First Samuel ends with one of the truly tragic scenes from the Bible. The people of Israel have been defeated by the Philistines, their king has been killed, their prince has been killed, and those corpses have been publicly disgraced. Israel's throne is empty, and its future is unclear.
Then we turn the page to the beginning of 2 Samuel, and the focus shifts to David. He is Israel's future.
David was the exemplary hero of faith even as a boy in his legendary defeat of Goliath. Even as a young man, he was an instrument of God in the life of the tortured King Saul. He grew to become a star on the nation's stage by his military exploits as a solider in Saul's army.
Yet the jealousy and paranoia of Saul made life unjustly difficult for David. He spent years running for his life: hiding in caves, fleeing to the wilderness, and taking refuge even among the Philistines. So it was that David was initially among the Philistines even as they marched out against Israel in what would become Saul's final defeat. Before the battle commenced, however, David was sent away, and so he and his companions embarked instead on a raid against the Amalekites.
Then, a few days after he returned from his victory, the news of the other battle reached David. Israel had fled before the Philistines, and Saul and Jonathan were both dead. In response, David "intoned this lamentation" and "taught it to the people of Judah."
The song that follows is magnificent in its heart, its poetry, and its meaning.
The heart of David is pure and flawless at this moment. He seems to be entirely free of ambition, self-interest, or sense of personal vindication. He does not exult in the defeat of the man who had wrongly pursued him, nor does he rejoice at the prospect of God's royal purpose for him being fulfilled. Instead, his lament is genuine and heartfelt.
The content of his lament, meanwhile, is exquisite. He addresses himself first to the land in general, and then specifically to the mountain where Saul and Jonathan perished. He speaks in poignancy of their deaths and in grandeur of their lives. Next, David addresses himself to the "daughters of Israel," extolling the beauty and benefits of Saul's reign. Finally, David addresses himself to "my brother Jonathan," expressing his most personal sense of grief and loss.
Beyond that basic structure, we also see the broad scope of this brief song. In addition to speaking of the land of Israel, he also touches on the Philistine map (Gath and Ashkelon). In addition to the daughters of Judah, David also thinks of "the daughters of the Philistines" and "the daughters of the uncircumcised." He poignantly juxtaposes a call for one group to weep with the prospect of the other group rejoicing and exulting.
Furthermore, like all the best eulogies, David manages here to portray the beauty and the grief of the deceased. On the one hand, the memory of Saul and Jonathan conjures images of eagles and lions, victory and luxury. On the other hand, the thought of their death prompts images of desolate fields and deserted shields.
In the end, this song is a true masterpiece of literature. In a very few verses, it features a broad scope, while also escalating in its intimacy from its beginning to its end. The salutations are increasingly intimate: from the land to the daughters of Judah to Jonathan himself. And, likewise, the expressions of grief are increasingly intimate: from the land to the people to David himself.
2 Corinthians 8:7-15
I am fond of backrubs. I often try to persuade my young children to give me a backrub at the end of the day, even offering to pay them for their time. There is something most soothing and relaxing about that rubbing motion across the muscles of one's back and shoulders.
Of course, rubbing in and of itself is not automatically a pleasure. When a poorly fitted shoe rubs against, say, the back of our heel or ankle all day long, there is no pleasure in that at all. Rather, when the day is done, we find that the rubbing has produced a blister. If our job features certain sorts of manual labor, we may discover that the constant rubbing on our fingers and hands has resulted in tough calluses on our skin.
Here, then, are three kinds of rubbing: that which gives pleasure, that which makes for blisters, and that which has generated calluses. The question that this passage from 2 Corinthians invites us to consider is what sort of "rubbing" our preaching is. Specifically, I'm thinking of the preaching that we do on the subject of giving.
This is an area of life where our people have been "rubbed" plenty. In addition to the appeals that come from the church -- whether by mail, newsletter, campaign, or sermon -- they are also getting "rubbed" by their alma maters, other ministries and charitable organizations, and a great assortment of other worthy causes. They meet the ringers outside the grocery store at Christmas time, the orchestra or museum or library seeks their support, this scholarship fund needs to be endowed, this building program needs to be subsidized, and the youth group mission trip requires the purchase of a great deal of candy, fruit, Christmas greens, or some such.
In short, our people get "rubbed" a lot on the subject of money. When they see a money sermon coming, do they anticipate it like a backrub? Or is it a painful experience for them, like contact with a blister? Or, perhaps worst of all, have they lost all sensitivity, and the preacher finds himself rubbing against a callused heart?
This passage from Paul invites us to preach about money, specifically, about giving our money. For that was the context of his message to the Corinthians at this moment in time: the invitation for them to contribute money for the aid of their brothers and sisters back in Jerusalem.
There is no denying Paul's skill in this passage. It is challenging, yet not overbearing. It is pointed without becoming a guilt trip. It invites comparisons to others, yet does not provoke either pride or shame. It is also an invitation built on theology, rather than carelessly throwing sound doctrine overboard in a reckless effort to raise funds. In short, these verses are a masterpiece, and you and I can take lessons from the apostle in this part of our work. We will consider the details of this masterpiece below.
Mark 5:21-43
This passage is so rich that it deserves more than a single Sunday, more than a single sermon. Either Jairus' story or the woman's would be suitable by itself to preach, and then there is the additional element of their two stories intersecting in this compelling way. Plus, beyond those two main characters, there are members of the supporting cast (crowd, disciples, mourners) whose varied responses to Jesus are also sermon-worthy.
First, I am struck by the difference between the levels of faith of the two main characters. Jairus is understandably panicked. He endeavors to hurry Jesus along, which is in contrast to the individuals we meet elsewhere in the gospels who recognize that Jesus does not need to "come and lay your hands on her" in order to heal. Furthermore, Jairus naturally despairs when he hears, "Your daughter is dead." This woman with an issue of blood, on the other hand, shows a remarkable level of faith.
Most of us have met some doctor along the way in whom we have come to feel great confidence. Yet which one of us is so confident that we would simply walk up behind that doctor in the hospital corridor and touch his lab coat, certain that would heal us? It is an almost laughable proposition. Yet that was the level of faith that this woman had in Jesus. While Jairus thought his daughter needed Jesus to touch her, this woman knew that she only needed to touch Jesus.
Second, I am struck by the various levels of urgency displayed in this fascinating passage. Jairus, as we might expect, is most marked by urgency, for his twelve-year-old daughter is about to die. In striking contrast, however, is this woman has been suffering for as long as Jairus' daughter has been alive. Where, then, does she stand in the pecking order of needs? On the one hand, she should be moved to the front of any line, for she had been waiting so long. On the other hand, couldn't she have waited a day longer so that this ambulance-style trip to Jairus' house would not be waylaid?
Then, against that larger backdrop, there is Jesus. He is, it seems, the picture of calm. He responds to Jairus' urgency, on the one hand, yet not to the neglect of the needy woman. When it appears that he is "too late" for the need at Jairus' house, he is confident and reassuring: "Do not fear, only believe."
Third, when I read the reference that the mourners "laughed at him," I am reminded of Sarah's famous laughter at the prospect of having a son in her old age (Genesis 18:9-15). In both cases, of course, the laughter is the result of, shall we say, knowing better. Sarah knew better than to think she could bear a child in her nineties. And the grief-stricken friends and neighbors at Jairus' house knew better than to think "the child is not dead but sleeping." It is always folly, however, to think we know better than God.
Finally, I like the juxtaposition of these two miracle stories precisely because of their similarities and their differences. The one need is old, while the other is urgent. The one insists on Jesus' presence and attention, while the other assumes no direct attention from him is needed. On the other hand, both situations are arguably hopeless. Yet Jesus meets both needs. Taken together, these two stories bear marvelous witness to his versatility, his compassion, and his power. When I referred to Jairus and the woman with the issue of blood as the two main characters, therefore, I was wrong: for these stories are really all about Jesus.
Application
All three of this week's passages take place within a context of some kind of trouble. In the Old Testament lection, Israel is arguably at the nadir of its United Monarchy period. The nation has been defeated in battle, the king and the prince have both been killed, and the people are left without a leader. Meanwhile, in the 2 Corinthians passage, the trouble that sets the context is the neediness of the Jerusalem church and the poverty of its members. Finally, in the episode reported by Mark, there are at least two kinds of trouble: the chronic sickness of the bleeding woman and the emergency need of Jairus' daughter.
As we noted above, trouble always aspires to be the star of the show: to hog the spotlight, steer the action, and dominate the dialogue. Trouble wants to enter the stage early, get everyone's attention, occupy the plot, and be the last one standing when the curtain closes. Yet in each of the episodes presented to us this week, trouble is relegated to mere scenery: the backdrop against which God and his servants act.
The book of 1 Samuel ends with trouble front-and-center. Our poignant passage from 2 Samuel, therefore, reflects that circumstance. But the hearty character who grieves in the midst of that trouble, David, turns out to be God's agent of change. David, who is so personally touched by the trouble, becomes the man who leads Israel out of its deep troubles. In just the tenure of his reign, Israel goes from its nadir to its zenith. Trouble, therefore, becomes just the backdrop against which God does his marvelous work through David.
The passage from Mark provides an even more dramatic illustration of the principle. While David led Israel out of its trouble over the course of decades, Jesus turns trouble into testimony in the course of just a few hours. He, more than anyone, is the person who displaces trouble from its front-and-center spot: the spotlight belongs rightly and eternally to him (see, for example, Colossians 1:15-18). Again and again throughout the gospel accounts of his life and ministry, we see Jesus turning trouble into the backdrop for his marvelous work. And that is the image that informs and encourages all of our intercessory praying.
Finally, the circumstance behind the 2 Corinthians passage brings the principle even closer to home. While it is the Lord himself who acts in Mark, and while it is an epic champion of faith who serves as the instrument of transformation in 2 Samuel, 2 Corinthians presents us with a very different hero. For the folks who will come to the rescue in that situation are the ordinary, anonymous members of the church in Corinth. They are not divine. They are not royalty. They are not even famous. They are, instead, just like you, me, and the people in our pews. So the 2 Corinthians passage challenges us: not just to pray that the Lord will intervene to overcome some trouble, but to offer ourselves as the agents of his overcoming. You and I may be the ones who turn trouble into the backdrop against which we do our work for God.
Alternative Application
2 Corinthians 8:7-15. "Art appreciation." I suggested above that the apostle Paul's plea for money in 2 Corinthians 8 is a masterpiece. Inasmuch as we need to encourage giving among our people along the way, we would do well to imitate the master. So let us give some attention to the details of how well Paul did what he did.
First, we observe that Paul was not asking for anything for himself. That, as you know, is consistent with his larger pattern (e.g., 1 Corinthians 9:1-18; 2 Thessalonians 3:6-10). We readily recognize the credibility that comes from a request that has no trace of self-interest.
Second, we see that Paul functions like an excellent coach. The good coach, after all, does not belittle his player, for he doesn't need a frightened batter heading to the plate or an insecure quarterback stepping up under center. No, the coach needs a confident player, and so the message is not just that the player should do better but that he can do better. That is the spirit of Paul's first words to the Christians in Corinth. He begins with an emphasis on all the areas in which they already excel. That sets a tone of encouragement rather than scolding.
Third, Paul infuses a wholesome dose of challenge. He is not insisting, but testing. This is not the parent who dictates and hovers over the child's chores. Rather, this is the parent who simply says, "I'm eager to see how well you do your chores. I'll be coming shortly to take a close look at the lawn, the bedroom, the garage, and so forth."
Finally, Paul creates a fascinating matrix of comparisons. On the one hand, there is the comparison of "the earnestness of (the Corinthians') love against the earnestness of others." That suggests a little wholesome competition -- that is, a people who are urged on by the example and effort of other people. In addition to that external comparison, Paul also spurs the people with an internal comparison: namely, do their deeds match their words? Is their "eagerness" properly brought to fulfillment by their actions? And is their generosity in proportion to their means? Later, there is the comparison to the people being helped -- a juxtaposition of differing kinds of abundance and differing kinds of need. In the midst of it all, there is also the comparison to Christ: that is, his example of generosity and making himself poor on behalf of us -- indeed, on behalf of the very people to whom Paul makes his appeal.
In the end, we conclude that Paul has made his appeal very appealing. For even though the situation and the message might run the risk of being negative -- that is, heavy on the neediness in Jerusalem or on the finger-wagging at Corinth -- Paul's tone is altogether positive. His message is encouraging and challenging; he affirms what the people are and what they have, and he points to what the recipients and Jesus himself have already offered to the people who now have opportunity to give. It is truly a masterpiece and every student learns by imitating the master.
Furthermore, the three assigned texts do not have many natural points of connection with one another. Individually, each one is pregnant with possibilities. If our aim is to bring them into concert for a common theme, however, then we may be badly frustrated.
For myself, my endeavor this Sunday would be to present an extended metaphor. The guiding image would not be any single passage, but rather a larger principle. Then I would employ each of this week's passages as illustrations of that principle.
The extended metaphor would feature a director preparing to present a play on stage. He begins, of course, by holding auditions. Along the way, something called "trouble" auditions for a part in the play. The director's job is to know how best to utilize this volunteer. "Trouble" aspires to be the star of the show, albeit a villainous one. This wise director, however, chooses to make "trouble" not so much a character as a part of the scenery. Specifically, "trouble" will be the backdrop against which the real stars of the show will play their parts.
2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27
First Samuel ends with one of the truly tragic scenes from the Bible. The people of Israel have been defeated by the Philistines, their king has been killed, their prince has been killed, and those corpses have been publicly disgraced. Israel's throne is empty, and its future is unclear.
Then we turn the page to the beginning of 2 Samuel, and the focus shifts to David. He is Israel's future.
David was the exemplary hero of faith even as a boy in his legendary defeat of Goliath. Even as a young man, he was an instrument of God in the life of the tortured King Saul. He grew to become a star on the nation's stage by his military exploits as a solider in Saul's army.
Yet the jealousy and paranoia of Saul made life unjustly difficult for David. He spent years running for his life: hiding in caves, fleeing to the wilderness, and taking refuge even among the Philistines. So it was that David was initially among the Philistines even as they marched out against Israel in what would become Saul's final defeat. Before the battle commenced, however, David was sent away, and so he and his companions embarked instead on a raid against the Amalekites.
Then, a few days after he returned from his victory, the news of the other battle reached David. Israel had fled before the Philistines, and Saul and Jonathan were both dead. In response, David "intoned this lamentation" and "taught it to the people of Judah."
The song that follows is magnificent in its heart, its poetry, and its meaning.
The heart of David is pure and flawless at this moment. He seems to be entirely free of ambition, self-interest, or sense of personal vindication. He does not exult in the defeat of the man who had wrongly pursued him, nor does he rejoice at the prospect of God's royal purpose for him being fulfilled. Instead, his lament is genuine and heartfelt.
The content of his lament, meanwhile, is exquisite. He addresses himself first to the land in general, and then specifically to the mountain where Saul and Jonathan perished. He speaks in poignancy of their deaths and in grandeur of their lives. Next, David addresses himself to the "daughters of Israel," extolling the beauty and benefits of Saul's reign. Finally, David addresses himself to "my brother Jonathan," expressing his most personal sense of grief and loss.
Beyond that basic structure, we also see the broad scope of this brief song. In addition to speaking of the land of Israel, he also touches on the Philistine map (Gath and Ashkelon). In addition to the daughters of Judah, David also thinks of "the daughters of the Philistines" and "the daughters of the uncircumcised." He poignantly juxtaposes a call for one group to weep with the prospect of the other group rejoicing and exulting.
Furthermore, like all the best eulogies, David manages here to portray the beauty and the grief of the deceased. On the one hand, the memory of Saul and Jonathan conjures images of eagles and lions, victory and luxury. On the other hand, the thought of their death prompts images of desolate fields and deserted shields.
In the end, this song is a true masterpiece of literature. In a very few verses, it features a broad scope, while also escalating in its intimacy from its beginning to its end. The salutations are increasingly intimate: from the land to the daughters of Judah to Jonathan himself. And, likewise, the expressions of grief are increasingly intimate: from the land to the people to David himself.
2 Corinthians 8:7-15
I am fond of backrubs. I often try to persuade my young children to give me a backrub at the end of the day, even offering to pay them for their time. There is something most soothing and relaxing about that rubbing motion across the muscles of one's back and shoulders.
Of course, rubbing in and of itself is not automatically a pleasure. When a poorly fitted shoe rubs against, say, the back of our heel or ankle all day long, there is no pleasure in that at all. Rather, when the day is done, we find that the rubbing has produced a blister. If our job features certain sorts of manual labor, we may discover that the constant rubbing on our fingers and hands has resulted in tough calluses on our skin.
Here, then, are three kinds of rubbing: that which gives pleasure, that which makes for blisters, and that which has generated calluses. The question that this passage from 2 Corinthians invites us to consider is what sort of "rubbing" our preaching is. Specifically, I'm thinking of the preaching that we do on the subject of giving.
This is an area of life where our people have been "rubbed" plenty. In addition to the appeals that come from the church -- whether by mail, newsletter, campaign, or sermon -- they are also getting "rubbed" by their alma maters, other ministries and charitable organizations, and a great assortment of other worthy causes. They meet the ringers outside the grocery store at Christmas time, the orchestra or museum or library seeks their support, this scholarship fund needs to be endowed, this building program needs to be subsidized, and the youth group mission trip requires the purchase of a great deal of candy, fruit, Christmas greens, or some such.
In short, our people get "rubbed" a lot on the subject of money. When they see a money sermon coming, do they anticipate it like a backrub? Or is it a painful experience for them, like contact with a blister? Or, perhaps worst of all, have they lost all sensitivity, and the preacher finds himself rubbing against a callused heart?
This passage from Paul invites us to preach about money, specifically, about giving our money. For that was the context of his message to the Corinthians at this moment in time: the invitation for them to contribute money for the aid of their brothers and sisters back in Jerusalem.
There is no denying Paul's skill in this passage. It is challenging, yet not overbearing. It is pointed without becoming a guilt trip. It invites comparisons to others, yet does not provoke either pride or shame. It is also an invitation built on theology, rather than carelessly throwing sound doctrine overboard in a reckless effort to raise funds. In short, these verses are a masterpiece, and you and I can take lessons from the apostle in this part of our work. We will consider the details of this masterpiece below.
Mark 5:21-43
This passage is so rich that it deserves more than a single Sunday, more than a single sermon. Either Jairus' story or the woman's would be suitable by itself to preach, and then there is the additional element of their two stories intersecting in this compelling way. Plus, beyond those two main characters, there are members of the supporting cast (crowd, disciples, mourners) whose varied responses to Jesus are also sermon-worthy.
First, I am struck by the difference between the levels of faith of the two main characters. Jairus is understandably panicked. He endeavors to hurry Jesus along, which is in contrast to the individuals we meet elsewhere in the gospels who recognize that Jesus does not need to "come and lay your hands on her" in order to heal. Furthermore, Jairus naturally despairs when he hears, "Your daughter is dead." This woman with an issue of blood, on the other hand, shows a remarkable level of faith.
Most of us have met some doctor along the way in whom we have come to feel great confidence. Yet which one of us is so confident that we would simply walk up behind that doctor in the hospital corridor and touch his lab coat, certain that would heal us? It is an almost laughable proposition. Yet that was the level of faith that this woman had in Jesus. While Jairus thought his daughter needed Jesus to touch her, this woman knew that she only needed to touch Jesus.
Second, I am struck by the various levels of urgency displayed in this fascinating passage. Jairus, as we might expect, is most marked by urgency, for his twelve-year-old daughter is about to die. In striking contrast, however, is this woman has been suffering for as long as Jairus' daughter has been alive. Where, then, does she stand in the pecking order of needs? On the one hand, she should be moved to the front of any line, for she had been waiting so long. On the other hand, couldn't she have waited a day longer so that this ambulance-style trip to Jairus' house would not be waylaid?
Then, against that larger backdrop, there is Jesus. He is, it seems, the picture of calm. He responds to Jairus' urgency, on the one hand, yet not to the neglect of the needy woman. When it appears that he is "too late" for the need at Jairus' house, he is confident and reassuring: "Do not fear, only believe."
Third, when I read the reference that the mourners "laughed at him," I am reminded of Sarah's famous laughter at the prospect of having a son in her old age (Genesis 18:9-15). In both cases, of course, the laughter is the result of, shall we say, knowing better. Sarah knew better than to think she could bear a child in her nineties. And the grief-stricken friends and neighbors at Jairus' house knew better than to think "the child is not dead but sleeping." It is always folly, however, to think we know better than God.
Finally, I like the juxtaposition of these two miracle stories precisely because of their similarities and their differences. The one need is old, while the other is urgent. The one insists on Jesus' presence and attention, while the other assumes no direct attention from him is needed. On the other hand, both situations are arguably hopeless. Yet Jesus meets both needs. Taken together, these two stories bear marvelous witness to his versatility, his compassion, and his power. When I referred to Jairus and the woman with the issue of blood as the two main characters, therefore, I was wrong: for these stories are really all about Jesus.
Application
All three of this week's passages take place within a context of some kind of trouble. In the Old Testament lection, Israel is arguably at the nadir of its United Monarchy period. The nation has been defeated in battle, the king and the prince have both been killed, and the people are left without a leader. Meanwhile, in the 2 Corinthians passage, the trouble that sets the context is the neediness of the Jerusalem church and the poverty of its members. Finally, in the episode reported by Mark, there are at least two kinds of trouble: the chronic sickness of the bleeding woman and the emergency need of Jairus' daughter.
As we noted above, trouble always aspires to be the star of the show: to hog the spotlight, steer the action, and dominate the dialogue. Trouble wants to enter the stage early, get everyone's attention, occupy the plot, and be the last one standing when the curtain closes. Yet in each of the episodes presented to us this week, trouble is relegated to mere scenery: the backdrop against which God and his servants act.
The book of 1 Samuel ends with trouble front-and-center. Our poignant passage from 2 Samuel, therefore, reflects that circumstance. But the hearty character who grieves in the midst of that trouble, David, turns out to be God's agent of change. David, who is so personally touched by the trouble, becomes the man who leads Israel out of its deep troubles. In just the tenure of his reign, Israel goes from its nadir to its zenith. Trouble, therefore, becomes just the backdrop against which God does his marvelous work through David.
The passage from Mark provides an even more dramatic illustration of the principle. While David led Israel out of its trouble over the course of decades, Jesus turns trouble into testimony in the course of just a few hours. He, more than anyone, is the person who displaces trouble from its front-and-center spot: the spotlight belongs rightly and eternally to him (see, for example, Colossians 1:15-18). Again and again throughout the gospel accounts of his life and ministry, we see Jesus turning trouble into the backdrop for his marvelous work. And that is the image that informs and encourages all of our intercessory praying.
Finally, the circumstance behind the 2 Corinthians passage brings the principle even closer to home. While it is the Lord himself who acts in Mark, and while it is an epic champion of faith who serves as the instrument of transformation in 2 Samuel, 2 Corinthians presents us with a very different hero. For the folks who will come to the rescue in that situation are the ordinary, anonymous members of the church in Corinth. They are not divine. They are not royalty. They are not even famous. They are, instead, just like you, me, and the people in our pews. So the 2 Corinthians passage challenges us: not just to pray that the Lord will intervene to overcome some trouble, but to offer ourselves as the agents of his overcoming. You and I may be the ones who turn trouble into the backdrop against which we do our work for God.
Alternative Application
2 Corinthians 8:7-15. "Art appreciation." I suggested above that the apostle Paul's plea for money in 2 Corinthians 8 is a masterpiece. Inasmuch as we need to encourage giving among our people along the way, we would do well to imitate the master. So let us give some attention to the details of how well Paul did what he did.
First, we observe that Paul was not asking for anything for himself. That, as you know, is consistent with his larger pattern (e.g., 1 Corinthians 9:1-18; 2 Thessalonians 3:6-10). We readily recognize the credibility that comes from a request that has no trace of self-interest.
Second, we see that Paul functions like an excellent coach. The good coach, after all, does not belittle his player, for he doesn't need a frightened batter heading to the plate or an insecure quarterback stepping up under center. No, the coach needs a confident player, and so the message is not just that the player should do better but that he can do better. That is the spirit of Paul's first words to the Christians in Corinth. He begins with an emphasis on all the areas in which they already excel. That sets a tone of encouragement rather than scolding.
Third, Paul infuses a wholesome dose of challenge. He is not insisting, but testing. This is not the parent who dictates and hovers over the child's chores. Rather, this is the parent who simply says, "I'm eager to see how well you do your chores. I'll be coming shortly to take a close look at the lawn, the bedroom, the garage, and so forth."
Finally, Paul creates a fascinating matrix of comparisons. On the one hand, there is the comparison of "the earnestness of (the Corinthians') love against the earnestness of others." That suggests a little wholesome competition -- that is, a people who are urged on by the example and effort of other people. In addition to that external comparison, Paul also spurs the people with an internal comparison: namely, do their deeds match their words? Is their "eagerness" properly brought to fulfillment by their actions? And is their generosity in proportion to their means? Later, there is the comparison to the people being helped -- a juxtaposition of differing kinds of abundance and differing kinds of need. In the midst of it all, there is also the comparison to Christ: that is, his example of generosity and making himself poor on behalf of us -- indeed, on behalf of the very people to whom Paul makes his appeal.
In the end, we conclude that Paul has made his appeal very appealing. For even though the situation and the message might run the risk of being negative -- that is, heavy on the neediness in Jerusalem or on the finger-wagging at Corinth -- Paul's tone is altogether positive. His message is encouraging and challenging; he affirms what the people are and what they have, and he points to what the recipients and Jesus himself have already offered to the people who now have opportunity to give. It is truly a masterpiece and every student learns by imitating the master.
