Jesus versus family values
Commentary
Note: This installment was originally published in 2007.
"But he's for family values!"
My parishioner could not believe that I didn't like the radio talk show. So what if the host's politics were reprehensible, his theology simplistic, and his biblical interpretation uncritical? The only thing that counted was family values!
I don't know exactly when Christian faith was shifted away from God and toward the family, but it was a smooth public relations move. It offered an easy answer to the question: "What is faith good for?" Obviously, it keeps the family together, despite the modern ills of two-income families, day care, teenage promiscuity, Attention Deficit Disorder, and frozen dinners. Such theology buttresses a certain view of the family and gives it divine imprimatur. If only we would follow the divine plan for families, our ills would disappear!
What they don't tell you is that family-values theology has to pull a few fast ones in order to work. It relies on a selective reading of scripture (Ephesians gets big play, while the gospels, short shrift). It makes the false assumption that what the Bible means by "family" is what we mean by "family" (the Bible actually presents a diverse view of family life, and the Roman household referred to in Ephesians was quite different from the apple-pie American family with 2.5 children). Worst of all, it places the burden of faith on an institution that cannot possibly support it. If the test of true faith is how well our families work, we are all in big trouble.
The Bible, read as a whole, repeatedly warns against making the presumption that our relationship with our kin buttresses our relationship with God. Often, the contrary is the case. We cannot presume that being a member of a religious family makes us a member of the family of God. We forget that God can make children of Israel out of stones, and that many will say, "Lord, Lord," to a blank stare. The kingdom of God is not passed on by inheritance. Each of us must buy into it for ourselves.
Isaiah 5:1-7
Israel could not presume a family relation to God. This was true, said the prophet Isaiah, even when God was singing Israel a silly little love song.
"Let me sing for my beloved my love-song concerning his vineyard" (Isaiah 5:1). The love song of the vineyard was to prove quite influential in Isaiah, the rest of the Hebrew Bible, and the New Testament (cf. Isaiah 3:14; 27:1ff; 42:10; Psalm 96:1; 98:1; 144:9; 149:1; Matthew 21:33-46). The singer of the song is God, and it turns out to be a song of unrequited love. In it, the power of story and song are mixed, since the song turns out also to be a parable (Jesus, it would seem, picked up the habit from God).
The "vineyard" was a standard metaphor for a lover (cf. Song of Solomon 1:6, 14; 2:3, 15; 4:12-16; 7:6-13; 8:12). It was also a symbol for Israel itself (v. 7; cf. Isaiah 27:2-6; Psalm 80:8-16; Jeremiah 2:21; Ezekiel 19:10-14; Hosea 10:1). God's care for the beloved Israel is expressed in careful tending: "He dug it and cleared it of stones, and planted it with choice vines; he built a watchtower in the midst of it, and hewed out a wine vat in it" (v. 2).
But the silly little love song becomes an allegory of atrophy. God develops a scorched earth policy, as the parable turns judicial. "He expected it to yield grapes, but it yielded wild grapes," i.e., bad fruit, a harvest of botulism. The fruit having turned God's stomach, God resolves to turn the vineyard into a brown vacant lot: "I will remove its hedge, and it shall be devoured; I will break down its wall, and it shall be trampled down. I will make it a waste; it shall not be pruned or hoed, and it shall be overgrown with briers and thorns; I will also command the clouds that they rain no rain upon it" (vv. 5-6). Don't use the green crayon to color God's vineyard -- use charcoal.
No responsible gardener would let the vineyard go to seed, unless it was hopeless. "What more was there to do for my vineyard that I have not done in it? When I expected it to yield grapes, why did it yield wild grapes?" (v. 4). The seriousness of the situation is indicated by the lack of justice and righteousness in Israel and Judah (v. 7). Rather than living as God's tended plot, the people have turned to violence as a solution, and injustice as a habit. In a clever play on words, Isaiah pictures the people transforming justice (misphat) into bloodshed (mispah), and righteousness (zedeqah) into a cry (ze'aqah).
Thus the allegory of atrophy becomes an indictment of indecency, or a judgment oracle. God pulls out the iron fist and slams it down. However, even as the allegory is spelled out in verse 7, the indictment stops short of passing sentence. Perhaps the sentence is left for the reader to fill in, on the basis of the rest of the parable (vv. 5-6). Perhaps room is left for God's favorite response ... mercy.
Hebrews 11:29--12:2
Sometimes preachers make use of traditional rhetoric without even knowing it. Just reading the Bible will teach certain useful features of ancient style, even if we don't know the specific rhetorical names. However, the author of Hebrews probably knew that he was using a traditional form called an "encomium," and employing a rhetorical device known as "anaphora." Rhetoric was the basis for all education in literacy, since everything was geared to public speaking. Hebrews is in fact a sermon in letter form, taking as its text Psalm 110. It goes to show that one can learn from the Bible not only what to preach, but how.
An encomium is a short piece that praises a virtue and those who practice it. Originally it was a short choral song performed at the end of the Olympian Game, in honor of the victor (as we shall see, Hebrews perpetuates the athletic imagery). The encomium on faith in Hebrews 11 uses the device of anaphora, the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of each section in a series. Obviously here the subject is repeated, "by faith," introducing example after example of that virtue.
The encomium begins with a definition of faith, "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (11:1). Throughout the passage, faith is seen not merely as intellectual belief, but fidelity to God, or "faithfulness." The list of the faithful includes Abel, Enoch, Noah, and Abraham. Our lection picks up at the end of the section on Moses (v. 29). Rhetorically, the action picks up, as the repetitions of "by faith" come faster and faster, until (in a clever new rhetorical move) the anaphora is dropped for a quick series of unconnected allusions to the history of the faithful, one after another, rat-a-tat-tat (see how many of the allusions you can recognize, without looking them up!). Great deeds prove to be examples of great faith (vv. 33-34), as do triumphs over tragedy (vv. 35-38). Either way, it's about the power of faith.
The examples come to a screeching halt with a "Yet" in verse 39. Despite their faith, none of these heroes saw "the promise." Yes, in the short term, some promises were fulfilled (cf. 6:15; 11:33). But ultimately the promise in Hebrews is that which is to come (cf. 6:17; 8:6; 9:15; 10:36), the heavenly city that made them all strangers in an alien land (11:10, 13, 16). The ultimate fulfillment of the promise waited on Jesus, who promised something "better" (11:40; cf. 1:4; 7:19, 22; 8:6; 9:23; 10:34), and something more "perfect" (11:40; 12:2).
Jesus himself becomes the last example and the climax of the encomium on faith, the model of maturity in faith (11:40--12:2). He is the leader and perfecter of faith (12:2). His leadership is proven by the move from shame to a place of honor (a telling move in a culture where shame and honor were so significant) -- from the cross to the right hand of God. The previous list of examples prove to be no more than the cloud of witnesses set about to watch us as we run in Jesus' steps (12:1).
Again, the example is presented for us to follow, not as something on which to presume. This is the thrust of the athletic metaphor that closes the encomium. The route of faith is a racetrack, the scene of a struggle that requires the hard work of training and conditioning (12:1). Following the example of Jesus, who "learned obedience from what he suffered" (5:8), we too learn the obedience of faith by laying aside sin as an encumbrance to our progress, and by running the race with the same kind of perseverance that Jesus and all the heroes of the faith have given us as an example. Each of us must run our own race, by God's grace (12:3-13).
Luke 12:49-56
There is an Italian proverb that one starts out life as an arsonist, and ends up as a fireman. Today, in Luke, we meet Jesus in his arsonist stage. Perhaps the lure of the "family values" crowd is that most people today don't go to church until they are in their fireman stage. Such people will find Jesus a stranger in this text, about as comfortable as an arsonist in a fire station.
Jesus' rhetoric is indeed fiery, that of a prophet: "I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!" (v. 49). The word "fire" is emphatic; Jesus' language is meant to shock, as throughout chapter 12, where he has issued various warnings and rebukes to the disciples, the crowds, and his enemies. Here he is speaking privately to his disciples (vv. 22, 41; he will address the crowds in v. 54). He doesn't spell out exactly what he means, but "fire" in Luke variously stands for judgment, purification, and the Holy Spirit (3:16; 9:54; 17:29; Acts 2:3). While he leaves the disciples (and us) to sort it out, clearly the prophet proclaims a passionate, urgent message: "Bring it on!"
Jesus does an about face when he switches to the opposite image: water. "I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed!" (v. 50). Jesus has been doused with the stress of his mission. Clearly the "baptism" is to be equated with his impending death (cf. Mark 10:38). Throughout the biblical tradition, water is pictured as a destructive and deadly force; a flood can do as much damage as a fire, and the sea can kill you as surely as the inferno. Jesus uses the language of extreme mortal danger.
Jesus shifts his metaphor for the third time, saving the true shock treatment for last. "Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!" (v. 51). The prince of peace proves to be the instigator of division. Division is a major theme in Luke: Jesus' very presence divides the people, as they must take sides (note that Luke changes Matthew's "sword" to "division" here; cf. 2:34-35; 10:1-12; 19:41-44). Is Jesus the promised prophet and messiah? The choice is crucial, because only those who choose to follow him will know his peace. The rest will experience him as the disruption of the social order. The choice will divide even the closest of families (vv. 52-53).
Jesus goes against the grain here, in a society where kinship ties were considered crucial (even more so than today!). The sharpness of his words betrays the seriousness of the subject. Jesus is against family values, because anything less would be idolatry. Not even blood can take precedence over the necessity of choosing God. The great divide is not between families, but between faith commitments.
Jesus moves from arsonist, not to fireman, but to weatherman (vv. 54-56). The predictability of the weather in Palestine was proverbial; west winds brought rain from the Mediterranean, while south winds brought heat from the Negev desert. So obvious was the forecast that refusal to make it could only stem from hypocrisy. A lesser-to-greater argument moves the analogy to the spiritual plane: those who can so easily tell the weather should be able to spot the signs of God's kingdom. It is not that they are unable to see God's hand at work, but that they are unwilling. Again, the presumption of God's favor is the problem; the prophet required a decision, not just a birth certificate. It was not enough merely to be one of the people of Israel, seeing how Israel was divided by the presence of God's prophet. Each must make the choice.
Application
In Ray Bradbury's novel Fahrenheit 451, a character asks, "Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?" In Bradbury's dystopic future, the fire department is needed only to torch books; nothing else is flammable. A radical act, eliciting the most serious punishment, would be to read a book, rather than ignite it. The fireman performs a noble function in society, preserving it by destroying that which subverts it. "It's fine work," says the firefighter. "Burn 'em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That's our official slogan." (Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 [New York: Del Ray, 1953)], p. 8.)
Luke presents Jesus as a countercultural firefighter, one who uses fire as a tool of construction. His function is to go start fires, rather than put them out. Ashes to ashes, that's his slogan. He offers a new kind of family values, which are God-values. His fire subverts the status quo rather than supports it. It seemed odd in his day, and it can seem just as odd today, as odd as a firefighter who is an arsonist, the premise of a fiction.
But it is no fiction. Biblical faith is a radical alternative, a countercultural act. It is not dependent on lineage or family. To grow up in God's vineyard is not enough. There is no refuge from it in "traditional values." Why, even a harlot like Rahab can participate! (Hebrews 11:31).
The issue is whether the Lord is God. Any substitute, however worthy, is merely an idol. That includes "sacred" substitutes as well as secular. Religion, whether it includes family values or not, provides ample fodder for our idolatrous impulses. The moment we start taking the trimmings of our faith as seriously as the God who calls us to faith, we have placed a lesser being on our altars. The history of religion is riddled with the corpses of those who thought they knew better than God, who failed to read the signs in the skies, who missed out on the new creation that God is always re-creating.
Fortunately, God has given us plenty of good examples, along with the warnings. Foremost in the pantheon of faith is Jesus himself, who provides both the example and the ability to follow the example, through the gift of the Holy Spirit. Jesus gives us the model of one who makes the crucial decision to follow God, no matter where society would prefer to lead us. Sometimes that means torching what everyone else sees as a traditional value, pumping kerosene rather than water on the embers of faith.
May we pick up our fire hoses and join him on the line.
Alternative Applications
1) Isaiah 5:1-7; Hebrews 11:29--12:2; Luke 12:49-56. Let those who think they stand take heed lest they fall. It would be a mistake to read the parable of the vineyard (or the encomium on faith, or the sayings of Jesus) as if we (good) Christians had replaced that (bad) Israel. The supercessionist reading of the scripture falls into the trap it seeks to avoid: It presumes kinship to establish a relationship with God. The lesson is not why Israel fell, but why human beings fail. Just in case we miss the point, there are plenty of examples from "outsiders" like Rahab to clue us in. God thinks outside the box, when it comes to faith. We might assume that we have it wrapped up, but the moment we do, we have lost it -- because we have substituted our own resources for God's faithful and continual provision. The only way to find true faith on the model of Jesus is to throw ourselves on God's mercy, forgetting all possibility of comparison to others. The issue of faith is not where others stand, but where we ourselves meet God.
2) Luke 12:49-56; Hebrews 11:29--12:2. Jesus calls for a division of the people. This decision is communal as well as individual; Jesus made that clear by choosing twelve, then seventy, and finally 120 (Luke 9:1; 10:1; Acts 1:15). The choice of Jesus is a choice between the community of the baptized and the community of the hypocritical. The baptismal certificate is not enough; lip service will not do. Baptism is simply the beginning of the race. To follow Jesus is to choose to live out the baptismal covenant on a day-to-day basis, and this means being different from those around us. The division of the people means the transformation of the people. Since Jesus gives us the power to transform, failure cannot be the result of inability, only of hypocrisy. And failure will come only when we give up, because God's power is always with us, to keep us from stumbling, and help us when we fall. This is not to say that God's people will be perfect, never tangled in sin (quite the opposite -- it is the community of the hypocritical that claims to have no sin). The test of the dividing line is not who falls and who does not, but whether we are mature enough to recognize that only God's power can keep us running.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 80:1-2, 8-19
The focus of this psalm is a recurring refrain found in three different verses. The refrain is a petition in which the worshiping community calls upon God to "let your face shine" (vv. 3, 7, 19). The phrase is a Hebrew idiom that means something like, "to be present with someone with good results." Offering the expression in the form of a blessing, "may God's face shine upon you," has the force of a wish or a hope for someone's well being and prosperity. But that is not the force of the prayer in this psalm. Psalm 80 is a community lament. We encounter in this prayer, people in pain. Their call for God's face to shine upon them carries a poignant and slightly understated "again -- let your face shine, again." This part of the plea is found in the recurring call for God to "restore."
This is a difficult tone of worship for modern Americans to incorporate into our services. It is rare, if ever, that a service of worship would include recognition, even a tacit recognition that the community is in the throes of the absence of God.
We might want to take issue with the tendency in the psalm to equate suffering with God's absence and prosperity with God's presence. But we cannot deny in our own experience the feelings of abandonment and alienation that are often the result of tragedy or displacement in our world. It matters little whether or not God is "truly" absent if we cannot, because of our pain, experience "God's face shining upon us."
The psalmist here is not interested in entering into a discussion about theodicy. As the worship leader he is only interested in connecting the worshiping community with the source of their hope and life. To do that, he leads them in a fervent prayer that God might again bless the people with God's presence.
We might be tempted to see the use of repetition of words and phrases as examples of a cultural literary device, and certainly there is something to that. But at a deeper level, as we ponder the anguish of a community desperate to know again the presence of God through the recurring phrase, "let your face shine" and the word "restore," we also see an illustration of persistence.
The psalmist uses the image of a vine -- transported out of Egypt and transplanted in a new land. But the vine has come under siege. And either by pain or neglect or personal failure, the vine is languishing. We are na Øve to expect that our way back to health and vitality (back to God's presence) will be an easy task. Only through persistent and disciplined care can we once again experience God's attention. The psalmist would have us pursue and plead with God relentlessly for restoration of hope. Every worship hour, every moment in prayer must be directed toward urging God to "turn again" and have regard for the community (v. 14). To do any less might suggest a lack of adequate desire.
"But he's for family values!"
My parishioner could not believe that I didn't like the radio talk show. So what if the host's politics were reprehensible, his theology simplistic, and his biblical interpretation uncritical? The only thing that counted was family values!
I don't know exactly when Christian faith was shifted away from God and toward the family, but it was a smooth public relations move. It offered an easy answer to the question: "What is faith good for?" Obviously, it keeps the family together, despite the modern ills of two-income families, day care, teenage promiscuity, Attention Deficit Disorder, and frozen dinners. Such theology buttresses a certain view of the family and gives it divine imprimatur. If only we would follow the divine plan for families, our ills would disappear!
What they don't tell you is that family-values theology has to pull a few fast ones in order to work. It relies on a selective reading of scripture (Ephesians gets big play, while the gospels, short shrift). It makes the false assumption that what the Bible means by "family" is what we mean by "family" (the Bible actually presents a diverse view of family life, and the Roman household referred to in Ephesians was quite different from the apple-pie American family with 2.5 children). Worst of all, it places the burden of faith on an institution that cannot possibly support it. If the test of true faith is how well our families work, we are all in big trouble.
The Bible, read as a whole, repeatedly warns against making the presumption that our relationship with our kin buttresses our relationship with God. Often, the contrary is the case. We cannot presume that being a member of a religious family makes us a member of the family of God. We forget that God can make children of Israel out of stones, and that many will say, "Lord, Lord," to a blank stare. The kingdom of God is not passed on by inheritance. Each of us must buy into it for ourselves.
Isaiah 5:1-7
Israel could not presume a family relation to God. This was true, said the prophet Isaiah, even when God was singing Israel a silly little love song.
"Let me sing for my beloved my love-song concerning his vineyard" (Isaiah 5:1). The love song of the vineyard was to prove quite influential in Isaiah, the rest of the Hebrew Bible, and the New Testament (cf. Isaiah 3:14; 27:1ff; 42:10; Psalm 96:1; 98:1; 144:9; 149:1; Matthew 21:33-46). The singer of the song is God, and it turns out to be a song of unrequited love. In it, the power of story and song are mixed, since the song turns out also to be a parable (Jesus, it would seem, picked up the habit from God).
The "vineyard" was a standard metaphor for a lover (cf. Song of Solomon 1:6, 14; 2:3, 15; 4:12-16; 7:6-13; 8:12). It was also a symbol for Israel itself (v. 7; cf. Isaiah 27:2-6; Psalm 80:8-16; Jeremiah 2:21; Ezekiel 19:10-14; Hosea 10:1). God's care for the beloved Israel is expressed in careful tending: "He dug it and cleared it of stones, and planted it with choice vines; he built a watchtower in the midst of it, and hewed out a wine vat in it" (v. 2).
But the silly little love song becomes an allegory of atrophy. God develops a scorched earth policy, as the parable turns judicial. "He expected it to yield grapes, but it yielded wild grapes," i.e., bad fruit, a harvest of botulism. The fruit having turned God's stomach, God resolves to turn the vineyard into a brown vacant lot: "I will remove its hedge, and it shall be devoured; I will break down its wall, and it shall be trampled down. I will make it a waste; it shall not be pruned or hoed, and it shall be overgrown with briers and thorns; I will also command the clouds that they rain no rain upon it" (vv. 5-6). Don't use the green crayon to color God's vineyard -- use charcoal.
No responsible gardener would let the vineyard go to seed, unless it was hopeless. "What more was there to do for my vineyard that I have not done in it? When I expected it to yield grapes, why did it yield wild grapes?" (v. 4). The seriousness of the situation is indicated by the lack of justice and righteousness in Israel and Judah (v. 7). Rather than living as God's tended plot, the people have turned to violence as a solution, and injustice as a habit. In a clever play on words, Isaiah pictures the people transforming justice (misphat) into bloodshed (mispah), and righteousness (zedeqah) into a cry (ze'aqah).
Thus the allegory of atrophy becomes an indictment of indecency, or a judgment oracle. God pulls out the iron fist and slams it down. However, even as the allegory is spelled out in verse 7, the indictment stops short of passing sentence. Perhaps the sentence is left for the reader to fill in, on the basis of the rest of the parable (vv. 5-6). Perhaps room is left for God's favorite response ... mercy.
Hebrews 11:29--12:2
Sometimes preachers make use of traditional rhetoric without even knowing it. Just reading the Bible will teach certain useful features of ancient style, even if we don't know the specific rhetorical names. However, the author of Hebrews probably knew that he was using a traditional form called an "encomium," and employing a rhetorical device known as "anaphora." Rhetoric was the basis for all education in literacy, since everything was geared to public speaking. Hebrews is in fact a sermon in letter form, taking as its text Psalm 110. It goes to show that one can learn from the Bible not only what to preach, but how.
An encomium is a short piece that praises a virtue and those who practice it. Originally it was a short choral song performed at the end of the Olympian Game, in honor of the victor (as we shall see, Hebrews perpetuates the athletic imagery). The encomium on faith in Hebrews 11 uses the device of anaphora, the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of each section in a series. Obviously here the subject is repeated, "by faith," introducing example after example of that virtue.
The encomium begins with a definition of faith, "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" (11:1). Throughout the passage, faith is seen not merely as intellectual belief, but fidelity to God, or "faithfulness." The list of the faithful includes Abel, Enoch, Noah, and Abraham. Our lection picks up at the end of the section on Moses (v. 29). Rhetorically, the action picks up, as the repetitions of "by faith" come faster and faster, until (in a clever new rhetorical move) the anaphora is dropped for a quick series of unconnected allusions to the history of the faithful, one after another, rat-a-tat-tat (see how many of the allusions you can recognize, without looking them up!). Great deeds prove to be examples of great faith (vv. 33-34), as do triumphs over tragedy (vv. 35-38). Either way, it's about the power of faith.
The examples come to a screeching halt with a "Yet" in verse 39. Despite their faith, none of these heroes saw "the promise." Yes, in the short term, some promises were fulfilled (cf. 6:15; 11:33). But ultimately the promise in Hebrews is that which is to come (cf. 6:17; 8:6; 9:15; 10:36), the heavenly city that made them all strangers in an alien land (11:10, 13, 16). The ultimate fulfillment of the promise waited on Jesus, who promised something "better" (11:40; cf. 1:4; 7:19, 22; 8:6; 9:23; 10:34), and something more "perfect" (11:40; 12:2).
Jesus himself becomes the last example and the climax of the encomium on faith, the model of maturity in faith (11:40--12:2). He is the leader and perfecter of faith (12:2). His leadership is proven by the move from shame to a place of honor (a telling move in a culture where shame and honor were so significant) -- from the cross to the right hand of God. The previous list of examples prove to be no more than the cloud of witnesses set about to watch us as we run in Jesus' steps (12:1).
Again, the example is presented for us to follow, not as something on which to presume. This is the thrust of the athletic metaphor that closes the encomium. The route of faith is a racetrack, the scene of a struggle that requires the hard work of training and conditioning (12:1). Following the example of Jesus, who "learned obedience from what he suffered" (5:8), we too learn the obedience of faith by laying aside sin as an encumbrance to our progress, and by running the race with the same kind of perseverance that Jesus and all the heroes of the faith have given us as an example. Each of us must run our own race, by God's grace (12:3-13).
Luke 12:49-56
There is an Italian proverb that one starts out life as an arsonist, and ends up as a fireman. Today, in Luke, we meet Jesus in his arsonist stage. Perhaps the lure of the "family values" crowd is that most people today don't go to church until they are in their fireman stage. Such people will find Jesus a stranger in this text, about as comfortable as an arsonist in a fire station.
Jesus' rhetoric is indeed fiery, that of a prophet: "I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!" (v. 49). The word "fire" is emphatic; Jesus' language is meant to shock, as throughout chapter 12, where he has issued various warnings and rebukes to the disciples, the crowds, and his enemies. Here he is speaking privately to his disciples (vv. 22, 41; he will address the crowds in v. 54). He doesn't spell out exactly what he means, but "fire" in Luke variously stands for judgment, purification, and the Holy Spirit (3:16; 9:54; 17:29; Acts 2:3). While he leaves the disciples (and us) to sort it out, clearly the prophet proclaims a passionate, urgent message: "Bring it on!"
Jesus does an about face when he switches to the opposite image: water. "I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed!" (v. 50). Jesus has been doused with the stress of his mission. Clearly the "baptism" is to be equated with his impending death (cf. Mark 10:38). Throughout the biblical tradition, water is pictured as a destructive and deadly force; a flood can do as much damage as a fire, and the sea can kill you as surely as the inferno. Jesus uses the language of extreme mortal danger.
Jesus shifts his metaphor for the third time, saving the true shock treatment for last. "Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!" (v. 51). The prince of peace proves to be the instigator of division. Division is a major theme in Luke: Jesus' very presence divides the people, as they must take sides (note that Luke changes Matthew's "sword" to "division" here; cf. 2:34-35; 10:1-12; 19:41-44). Is Jesus the promised prophet and messiah? The choice is crucial, because only those who choose to follow him will know his peace. The rest will experience him as the disruption of the social order. The choice will divide even the closest of families (vv. 52-53).
Jesus goes against the grain here, in a society where kinship ties were considered crucial (even more so than today!). The sharpness of his words betrays the seriousness of the subject. Jesus is against family values, because anything less would be idolatry. Not even blood can take precedence over the necessity of choosing God. The great divide is not between families, but between faith commitments.
Jesus moves from arsonist, not to fireman, but to weatherman (vv. 54-56). The predictability of the weather in Palestine was proverbial; west winds brought rain from the Mediterranean, while south winds brought heat from the Negev desert. So obvious was the forecast that refusal to make it could only stem from hypocrisy. A lesser-to-greater argument moves the analogy to the spiritual plane: those who can so easily tell the weather should be able to spot the signs of God's kingdom. It is not that they are unable to see God's hand at work, but that they are unwilling. Again, the presumption of God's favor is the problem; the prophet required a decision, not just a birth certificate. It was not enough merely to be one of the people of Israel, seeing how Israel was divided by the presence of God's prophet. Each must make the choice.
Application
In Ray Bradbury's novel Fahrenheit 451, a character asks, "Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?" In Bradbury's dystopic future, the fire department is needed only to torch books; nothing else is flammable. A radical act, eliciting the most serious punishment, would be to read a book, rather than ignite it. The fireman performs a noble function in society, preserving it by destroying that which subverts it. "It's fine work," says the firefighter. "Burn 'em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That's our official slogan." (Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 [New York: Del Ray, 1953)], p. 8.)
Luke presents Jesus as a countercultural firefighter, one who uses fire as a tool of construction. His function is to go start fires, rather than put them out. Ashes to ashes, that's his slogan. He offers a new kind of family values, which are God-values. His fire subverts the status quo rather than supports it. It seemed odd in his day, and it can seem just as odd today, as odd as a firefighter who is an arsonist, the premise of a fiction.
But it is no fiction. Biblical faith is a radical alternative, a countercultural act. It is not dependent on lineage or family. To grow up in God's vineyard is not enough. There is no refuge from it in "traditional values." Why, even a harlot like Rahab can participate! (Hebrews 11:31).
The issue is whether the Lord is God. Any substitute, however worthy, is merely an idol. That includes "sacred" substitutes as well as secular. Religion, whether it includes family values or not, provides ample fodder for our idolatrous impulses. The moment we start taking the trimmings of our faith as seriously as the God who calls us to faith, we have placed a lesser being on our altars. The history of religion is riddled with the corpses of those who thought they knew better than God, who failed to read the signs in the skies, who missed out on the new creation that God is always re-creating.
Fortunately, God has given us plenty of good examples, along with the warnings. Foremost in the pantheon of faith is Jesus himself, who provides both the example and the ability to follow the example, through the gift of the Holy Spirit. Jesus gives us the model of one who makes the crucial decision to follow God, no matter where society would prefer to lead us. Sometimes that means torching what everyone else sees as a traditional value, pumping kerosene rather than water on the embers of faith.
May we pick up our fire hoses and join him on the line.
Alternative Applications
1) Isaiah 5:1-7; Hebrews 11:29--12:2; Luke 12:49-56. Let those who think they stand take heed lest they fall. It would be a mistake to read the parable of the vineyard (or the encomium on faith, or the sayings of Jesus) as if we (good) Christians had replaced that (bad) Israel. The supercessionist reading of the scripture falls into the trap it seeks to avoid: It presumes kinship to establish a relationship with God. The lesson is not why Israel fell, but why human beings fail. Just in case we miss the point, there are plenty of examples from "outsiders" like Rahab to clue us in. God thinks outside the box, when it comes to faith. We might assume that we have it wrapped up, but the moment we do, we have lost it -- because we have substituted our own resources for God's faithful and continual provision. The only way to find true faith on the model of Jesus is to throw ourselves on God's mercy, forgetting all possibility of comparison to others. The issue of faith is not where others stand, but where we ourselves meet God.
2) Luke 12:49-56; Hebrews 11:29--12:2. Jesus calls for a division of the people. This decision is communal as well as individual; Jesus made that clear by choosing twelve, then seventy, and finally 120 (Luke 9:1; 10:1; Acts 1:15). The choice of Jesus is a choice between the community of the baptized and the community of the hypocritical. The baptismal certificate is not enough; lip service will not do. Baptism is simply the beginning of the race. To follow Jesus is to choose to live out the baptismal covenant on a day-to-day basis, and this means being different from those around us. The division of the people means the transformation of the people. Since Jesus gives us the power to transform, failure cannot be the result of inability, only of hypocrisy. And failure will come only when we give up, because God's power is always with us, to keep us from stumbling, and help us when we fall. This is not to say that God's people will be perfect, never tangled in sin (quite the opposite -- it is the community of the hypocritical that claims to have no sin). The test of the dividing line is not who falls and who does not, but whether we are mature enough to recognize that only God's power can keep us running.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 80:1-2, 8-19
The focus of this psalm is a recurring refrain found in three different verses. The refrain is a petition in which the worshiping community calls upon God to "let your face shine" (vv. 3, 7, 19). The phrase is a Hebrew idiom that means something like, "to be present with someone with good results." Offering the expression in the form of a blessing, "may God's face shine upon you," has the force of a wish or a hope for someone's well being and prosperity. But that is not the force of the prayer in this psalm. Psalm 80 is a community lament. We encounter in this prayer, people in pain. Their call for God's face to shine upon them carries a poignant and slightly understated "again -- let your face shine, again." This part of the plea is found in the recurring call for God to "restore."
This is a difficult tone of worship for modern Americans to incorporate into our services. It is rare, if ever, that a service of worship would include recognition, even a tacit recognition that the community is in the throes of the absence of God.
We might want to take issue with the tendency in the psalm to equate suffering with God's absence and prosperity with God's presence. But we cannot deny in our own experience the feelings of abandonment and alienation that are often the result of tragedy or displacement in our world. It matters little whether or not God is "truly" absent if we cannot, because of our pain, experience "God's face shining upon us."
The psalmist here is not interested in entering into a discussion about theodicy. As the worship leader he is only interested in connecting the worshiping community with the source of their hope and life. To do that, he leads them in a fervent prayer that God might again bless the people with God's presence.
We might be tempted to see the use of repetition of words and phrases as examples of a cultural literary device, and certainly there is something to that. But at a deeper level, as we ponder the anguish of a community desperate to know again the presence of God through the recurring phrase, "let your face shine" and the word "restore," we also see an illustration of persistence.
The psalmist uses the image of a vine -- transported out of Egypt and transplanted in a new land. But the vine has come under siege. And either by pain or neglect or personal failure, the vine is languishing. We are na Øve to expect that our way back to health and vitality (back to God's presence) will be an easy task. Only through persistent and disciplined care can we once again experience God's attention. The psalmist would have us pursue and plead with God relentlessly for restoration of hope. Every worship hour, every moment in prayer must be directed toward urging God to "turn again" and have regard for the community (v. 14). To do any less might suggest a lack of adequate desire.
