Kids' Stuff?
Commentary
I grew up in the church. I was a preacher’s kid, and so I was in church every Sunday morning of my childhood and adolescent years. And, many weeks, it was more than just Sunday morning!
Because I have been in church my whole life, there have been things that I have heard my whole life. There are songs and scriptures and stories, for example, that I don’t remember learning. I don’t remember ever not knowing them. That is a very great blessing, of course. It does come with at least one downside, however. When you learn something as a child, you run the risk of thinking that it is childish.
In particular, I’m thinking just now of that marvelous John Stammis hymn, “Trust and Obey.” I have known that hymn my whole life. I learned it as a child, but that doesn’t make it kids’ stuff. The words are simple, to be sure, but don’t let me be tricked into thinking that it is not sophisticated enough for adult life and faith. The truth is that Stammis’ rhyming wisdom is a good word for any age. And the stories we will read this week remind us of just how wise that word is.
“Trust and obey,” the poet sings, “for there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.” (John Stammis, “Trust and Obey,” UMH #467) Stammis’ pair is an insightful one, for trusting and obeying are essential companions. We are unlikely to obey if we do not trust. But if we do truly trust, then obedience is the natural byproduct.
The fascinating thesis of the hymns’ chorus, of course, is that this pair — trusting and obeying — combine to make for the only way to be happy in Jesus. It’s a provocative proposition. And we needn’t look very far in scripture to see the proof of it. Would not everything have been better if Adam and Eve had trusted and obeyed? Would not Cain have been happier if he had trusted and obeyed? Likewise, the neighbors of Noah, the citizens of Sodom, the fools dancing around the golden calf, and so many, many others across the pages of Scripture.
And so, we turn our attention now to the stories found in 2 Samuel and John’s Gospel. They will give us some insight into this crucial business of trusting and obeying. And Stammis’ familiar hymn will give us a framework for understanding the stories.
2 Samuel 11:1-15
The biblical author is a master storyteller. He deftly sets the stage for what is to follow by sharing just one narrative detail. Like the foreboding movie music that subtly shapes the audience’s expectations, the narrator lets us know from the start that something isn’t quite right.
It was the time of year, we are told, “when the kings go out to war.” It is noteworthy that “kings” are specifically cited. The storyteller could have said it was the time of year when armies or soldiers or commanders or nations went out to war; but he says “kings.” That sets up the contrast for the news that follows: “David sent Joab...but David remained in Jerusalem.” Something isn’t right. David is not where he ought to be, and he is not doing what he ought to do.
The theme continues when we read that, “late one afternoon...David rose from his couch.” Once again, we sense a disconnect between time and behavior. It was not the time of year for David to remain in Jerusalem, and it does not seem to be the time of day when David should be rising from his couch. Something isn’t right.
Next, he went out walking about on the roof of his house. Interestingly, though, the narrator does not refer to it as “his house” but specifically as “the king’s house.” Might that word choice be a subtle reminder that nothing really innately belongs to David? That whatever he has is not his but a stewardship, a trust?
Some years ago, I heard a media expert advise a group of young parents to be diligent about limiting their kids’ screen time. (He was talking just about television; it was before the day of prevalent social media.) Along the way, he said, “Don’t ever turn on the TV to see if there is something on. There is.”
He was expressing a caution against the mindless surfing of television channels, noting the likelihood of coming across something unwholesome. The same caution could be expressed in our day about surfing the web. And in David’s day, perhaps the same caution might have been applied to walking on the roof of the king’s house.
The common assumption is that the king’s house was higher than most — perhaps higher than all the other houses and buildings in town. And houses in that time and place were not marked by the sort of pitched roofs that characterize American neighborhoods. Instead, flat roofs were standard fare, and families used their roofs for a variety of daily functions. It’s altogether possible, therefore, that David knew what he was getting himself into. Like the reckless surfing or channels or websites, perhaps David knew what he might happen to see.
From David’s royal vantage point, he caught sight of a woman. Bathsheba was bathing on her roof. And at that moment, whether the sighting was calculated or accidental, David had a choice. My mom used to tell me, with respect to temptation, that you can’t keep a bird from flying through your tree, but you can keep it from building a nest there. David allowed temptation to build a nest.
The biblical author is not interested in graphic details. Instead, the episode is narrated briefly and matter-of-factly. David was taken by Bathsheba, and so he took her for himself. And he knew from the start that his actions were entirely wrong, for when he inquired about who the woman was, he was told that she was “the wife of Uriah.”
What follows has both a particular quality and a general quality. The particulars are those details that are peculiar to David’s distinctive situation. The general story, however, is mimicked again and again in every generation. It is the story of sin, shame, and cover-up. It is the story of trying to navigate one’s way out of moral failure by some means other than confession and repentance. It is the familiar human story of the deceit, denial, and manipulation that so often follows in the wake of sin.
In the pages that follow, Bathsheba — who is a tragic victim throughout the story — becomes pregnant by David, then loses her husband, and then loses her child. Uriah, too, is an innocent victim of David’s initial sin and subsequent abuse of power. Uriah is not only a capable soldier in Israel’s army, he is a paragon of dedication and loyalty. On paper, he ends up being a casualty of war. However, the biblical account makes it clear that he is actually a casualty of his own king’s concupiscence.
The writer of Proverbs often portrays life’s choices in binary terms. There is wisdom and there is foolishness. We can choose prudence or profligacy. We may be self-disciplined or self-indulgent, industrious or lazy, generous or stingy. And we see again and again in the binary choices presented by Proverbs that our choices become the causes of predictable effects. Wisdom and self-discipline, for example, lead to success and prosperity, while folly and self-indulgence lead to failure and personal disaster.
The account of 2 Samuel 11 shows us a whole series of choices that David made. In each case, he had an alternative; there was something else he could have done. And yet, time and again, he made the wrong choice, and the path he persistently chose led him and those around him to predictable pain and tragedy.
Ephesians 3:14-21
Several years ago, a certain NBA superstar caused a great stir by an on-court conversation he held with a member of the opposing team. He covered his mouth with his hand as he talked so that no one could read his lips. And this secrecy, of course, heightened the interest in what he was saying. A great deal of sports talk radio and television coverage in the succeeding days was filled with speculation about what might have been said.
The phenomenon of covering the mouth is an increasingly common phenomenon in sports. It is standard fare now for coaches on the sidelines of football games to hold some sheet in front of their faces as they call in plays to their quarterback or consult with other players or coaches on the sideline. And, in critical moments, the fan is filled with curiosity, wondering, “What do you suppose he is saying?”
If you could choose one moment in history where you could hear what was said, what historic event might you choose? If there was one significant conversation that you could be privy to, what conversation would you select? On which wall would you have liked to have been the fly?
Our selected passage from the letter to the Ephesians gives us just such an opportunity. We get a sense here for what it would have been to be a fly on a very special wall, indeed. For in these verses, we are privileged to eavesdrop, as it were, on the prayer life of the Apostle Paul.
We mustn’t take for granted this treasure just because we have always had it. Rather, consider for a moment the prospect of seeing the apostle kneeling in prayer on the other side of some room. You can see his lips are moving as he pours out his heart to God, but you can’t quite hear what he is saying. How marvelous would it be, we think in that moment, if we could hear what Paul says when he prays?
Well, here we have it! We read in this passage the content of Paul’s prayer for the Christians in Ephesus, as well as the kind of praise he offers to God in the midst of that interceding. He says, “I bow my knees before the Father,” and then he reports what it is that he asks of God.
We observe, first, the connection Paul makes between God and us: “I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name.” It is because who God is, you see — and specifically who he is in relation to us — that Paul prays as he does. Perhaps our prayers, too, ought to begin with the phrase “For this reason,” so that all of our praying would be the outgrowth of an affirmation about him.
Likewise, we observe in the next breath that even the quality and quantity of what Paul prays for is a reflection of the one to whom he prays. That is to say, even though the prayer is for the Ephesians, it is still a prayer “according to” things about God. This, too, is a vitally important principle for our praying: that our requests are not merely an expression of our need, but a response to his character and ability.
Then see the content of what Paul prays for these people. See what an altogether spiritual prayer it is. So many of our churches’ prayer lists are limited to “physical” prayer requests — that is, we pray for this person who needs to be healed, for this person who needs a job, for this person whose house was damaged by a fire, for this person who is in financial difficulty. And that is right and good, for we are to make our requests known to God (Philippians 4:6). Nevertheless, we might learn from Paul how to elevate the horizons of our praying. For he is praying for spiritual things: strength in the inner being. Christ dwelling in the heart, being rooted and ground in love, being filled with the fullness of God. Profound stuff.
And then, in a marvelous paradox, Paul prays that the people would “have the power to comprehend” and “to know” that which “surpasses knowledge.” We’ll consider in more detail below “the breadth and length and height and depth” of the Lord’s love. For the present, we simply appreciate the fact that the apostle wants his people to get a greater glimpse of what they cannot fully take in, to increase in their understanding of what they cannot fully grasp, and to know a bit more of what they will never be able to fully know in this life. It is the robust prayer of a saint who is so eager for the people to jump into the deep end of God’s pool, and to be properly overwhelmed by it all.
And we see that Paul himself is happily overwhelmed. For as he makes his prayer for the people. It leads him irresistibly to a grand expression of adoration. His prayer is for the Ephesians,but start to finish, it is a prayer focused on God. And so, in the end, he cannot contain himself, but concludes with a great doxology of praise.
John 6:1-21
All four gospels tell the story of the feeding of the five thousand. At first blush, that might not seem like much of a claim. A closer evaluation of the evidence, however, reveals just how significant it is.
The fact is that there is an exceedingly small corpus of gospel material that appears in Matthew, in Mark, in Luke, and in John. The ministry of John the Baptist is reflected in all four. And the events of Holy Week are recorded — indeed, featured — in all four. But the only, single event from Jesus’ life and ministry prior to Palm Sunday that appears in all of the gospels is this particular miracle: the feeding of the five-thousand. Christmas is not reported by all four. The Sermon on the Mount is not. Jesus walking on water is not. The parable of the prodigal son is not. The Lord’s Prayer is not.
The feeding of the five thousand, you see, has a rather distinctive claim to fame. And among the four gospel writers’ accounts of the event, John also has some distinctive elements.
On the one hand, John shares with Matthew, Mark, and Luke the basic contours of the story — the size of the crowd, the initial amount of food, and the abundant leftovers. But John includes some details that we would not have otherwise. Notably, John locates the event in the calendar — “the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near.” John specifies Philip and Andrew’s roles. And, perhaps most significantly, John also shares the source of the familiar five loaves and two fish — “There is a boy here.”
John has an eye for the individual. While the synoptic Gospels so often portray Jesus surrounded by crowds, John more often offers us a glimpse of Jesus in one-on-one contact with people. We see Jesus with Nathanael, Jesus with Nicodemus, Jesus with the Samaritan woman, Jesus with the man born blind, Jesus with the crippled man by the pool, Jesus with Mary, Jesus with Martha, Jesus with Mary Magdalene, Jesus with Peter, and so forth. It is a remarkable personal gospel. And John demonstrates his eye for the individual again in this scene, for he notices the little boy that none of the other writers bother to mention.
The anonymous — and almost completely overlooked — boy is the unsung hero of the story. The episode, after all, is referred to as the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, not the creation of the loaves and fishes. Jesus had something to start with — he did not feed the multitude ex nihilo.
Another distinctive feature of John’s account of this miracle is the crowd’s response to the miracle. “They were about to come and take him by force to make him king.” Yet Jesus knew what they did not understand: for as he explained to Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36 NASB). And so, Jesus essentially fled from the crowd’s enthusiastic allegiance and effort to promote Him.
It is a fascinating testament to the character of Christ that He tries to escape the crown, but He does not try to escape the cross. He saw both things coming. In the former case, He resisted the premature and out-of-place exaltation. But in the latter case, He did not run from His opponents, He did not permit his followers to defend them, and He did not exercise His divine capacity to be rescued.
Finally, our gospel lection ends with another miracle story. It is unclear when the disciples thought that Jesus would reconnect with them after he had sought solitude in the hills while they got into the boat to sail across the lake. Whatever their expectation was, however, it was not this: that they would see Jesus walking toward them on the water!
The sight must have been unsettling, to be sure. Since it happened at night, one wonders how they saw him coming. Was it a brightly moonlit night? Was it stormy, so that their surroundings were only occasionally and momentarily lit up? Or was he not seen by them until He was practically right next to their boat? Whatever the case, when we are already feeling afraid, we are that much more easily startled and frightened. And so, in the midst of the unfavorable weather, the sight of a personage out on the water must have been eerie, indeed.
As a result, Jesus needed to reassure them. How often does that happen? How often does the Lord come to rescue us, and we mistake his method of rescue for trouble? And so, the Lord had to reassure the nervous disciples that it was he, at which point they were greatly relieved, and the crisis resolves almost immediately.
Application
The story of David is a long one. More chapters are devoted to telling the story of David than any other character in the Old Testament. And over the course of that long story, we are able to trace a certain trajectory — a rise, to be sure; and also, something of a fall.
Put David’s story on a graph, and you can observe the steep line that trends upward. From the forgotten youngest brother to the national boy-hero after defeating Goliath; from the Bethlehem shepherd to the king’s favored musician; from effective soldier to heralded commander; from king of his own tribe to king of the whole nation; from monarch of the weakest kid on the block to the strongest king in the region. David’s rise is spectacular, and we observe the Lord blessing him all along the way, protecting him from trouble and giving him victory.
The trend line on the graph does not continue to move in that direction, however. David has trouble with his children: Amnon and Tamar; Amnon and Absalom; Solomon and Adonijah. There is trouble with Joab and Abner, and the grief that the sons of Zeruiah continually cause David. There is the poignant break with Absalom, the humiliating flight from Jerusalem, the taunting of Shemei, and the tragic death of his son. And, at the end, David appears as a shivering old man who needs those around him to help him understand what is going on in his own kingdom.
In between that trend line that was heading up and the trend line that started heading precipitously down, there is 2 Samuel 11. The episode in our Old Testament lection represents the apex on David’s graph. After that, it is mostly downhill. If only David had trusted and obeyed!
Over the years, each of my children have heard me share this principle: Everything is better when you just obey. And what is true for a child with their parent is even more profoundly true with us and the Lord. “For there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus!”
Our assigned gospel lesson, meanwhile, features two different stories — the story of Jesus feeding the multitude and the story of Jesus walking on the water. In both instances, the disciples had a difficult time trusting. They were (understandably) overwhelmed by the size of the hungry crowd, as well as bewildered by Jesus’ instruction to feed that crowd themselves. And, later, they were frightened by both the storm and by the sight of Jesus walking toward them on the water.
We are not unsympathetic with the disciples in these episodes. It is hard to say with a straight face that we certainly would have responded differently in the same situations. Yet we know that trusting looks different than what the disciples do in these moments.
We do see, however, two glimmers of what “trust and obey” looks like in these gospel stories.
In the first story, there is the boy with the five loaves and two fish. To donate that small provision in the face of such a great need is a certain sort of trust. After all, how many good things do we choose not to bother doing because we reckon that it won’t make a difference anyway? And if that calculation keeps us from doing what we sense the Lord is telling us to do, then not trusting results in not obeying. It is a remarkable act of trust on the part of this boy, you see, to believe that such a small contribution entrusted to Jesus can make a difference.
And, finally, Peter is an interesting case study in trusting and obeying. He trusted enough to volunteer for the improbable invitation to come out onto the Sea of Galilee with Jesus. Then he courageously obeyed Jesus’ invitation, climbing out of the boat and onto the surface of the water. But then, it seems, his trust waned, and he began to sink.
In the end, Peter on the water is a kind of metaphor for what we saw in the broad contours of David’s story. What Peter experienced in the course of a few minutes is a microcosm of what David lived out over many years. First came the trusting and the obeying. But when that essential combination waned, David truly began to sink.
Alternative Application(s)
Ephesians 3:14-21 — Divine Dimensions
I wonder how many times over our years of marriage my wife has called me from some store and asked me to measure something for her. She is buying a picture or a piece of furniture. She is ordering paint or carpeting. She is engaged in some home improvement process, and in order to make the right decision she needs to know dimensions. “Could you measure that wall next to the fireplace?” she asks. “What is the length and width of our daughter’s bedroom?” “How tall is that lamp behind your chair?”
And so, time and again, I have broken out the measuring tape, stretching it out, and jotting down figures. How long? How tall? How wide? How deep?
In his letter to the Christians in Ephesus, the Apostle Paul encourages the believers there to get out their measuring tape. “I pray that you may have the power to comprehend,” he writes, “what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.” He wants them to measure some dimensions — the fabulous dimensions of the love of Christ!
This deserves some consideration, does it not? We might do our people a great favor by helping them take these measurements. Let us invite them to think together about each of these dimensions.
First, let us call to mind some experiences we’ve had of standing before something very large, very tall. Nothing is more likely to make a person feel small than to stand in front of something that makes us crane our necks up, up, and up. We stand there with our mouths hanging open, awed by the immensity. Call to mind those experiences, and then imagine how high is the love of Christ.
And not just high, but deep. This is an important dimension theologically, for the sinner knows that he needs love to reach down. When we are at our lowest — in guilt, in need, in despair — we need a love that can reach down and find us where we are. Both the incarnation and the crucifixion bear witness to the depth of His love: how far down He will go.
Paul also speaks of the breadth of Christ’s love. We know how narrow human love can be. Perhaps we have felt left out by the narrowness of someone’s love. But see the breadth of the love of Christ. See Him touching lepers, eating with sinners, blessing the children, and promising paradise to the criminal on a cross. Charles Wesley sings of the breadth of Christ’s love: “The arms of love that compass me would all the world embrace!” (Charles Wesley, “Jesus! The Name High Over All” UMH #193)
And then there is the length. Long love is essential to us: love that lasts; love that doesn’t run out. David bore witness to the length of God’s love: Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever! (1 Chronicles 16:34 ESV). Likewise, the writer of Lamentations: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end” (Lamentations 3:22 ESV).
Taken all together, our measurements of these dimensions prove to us that we cannot find the boundaries of Christ’s love. No matter how far we go, we will not come to the end of it. We will never exhaust it or run out of it.
Paul wanted the Christians in Ephesus to take some measurements — to consider the height, the depth, the breadth, and the length. Yet in the next breath, he joyfully acknowledged that it was a hopeless task. You can’t measure what is immeasurable! Still, his prayer was that they might know this love that surpasses knowledge!
Because I have been in church my whole life, there have been things that I have heard my whole life. There are songs and scriptures and stories, for example, that I don’t remember learning. I don’t remember ever not knowing them. That is a very great blessing, of course. It does come with at least one downside, however. When you learn something as a child, you run the risk of thinking that it is childish.
In particular, I’m thinking just now of that marvelous John Stammis hymn, “Trust and Obey.” I have known that hymn my whole life. I learned it as a child, but that doesn’t make it kids’ stuff. The words are simple, to be sure, but don’t let me be tricked into thinking that it is not sophisticated enough for adult life and faith. The truth is that Stammis’ rhyming wisdom is a good word for any age. And the stories we will read this week remind us of just how wise that word is.
“Trust and obey,” the poet sings, “for there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.” (John Stammis, “Trust and Obey,” UMH #467) Stammis’ pair is an insightful one, for trusting and obeying are essential companions. We are unlikely to obey if we do not trust. But if we do truly trust, then obedience is the natural byproduct.
The fascinating thesis of the hymns’ chorus, of course, is that this pair — trusting and obeying — combine to make for the only way to be happy in Jesus. It’s a provocative proposition. And we needn’t look very far in scripture to see the proof of it. Would not everything have been better if Adam and Eve had trusted and obeyed? Would not Cain have been happier if he had trusted and obeyed? Likewise, the neighbors of Noah, the citizens of Sodom, the fools dancing around the golden calf, and so many, many others across the pages of Scripture.
And so, we turn our attention now to the stories found in 2 Samuel and John’s Gospel. They will give us some insight into this crucial business of trusting and obeying. And Stammis’ familiar hymn will give us a framework for understanding the stories.
2 Samuel 11:1-15
The biblical author is a master storyteller. He deftly sets the stage for what is to follow by sharing just one narrative detail. Like the foreboding movie music that subtly shapes the audience’s expectations, the narrator lets us know from the start that something isn’t quite right.
It was the time of year, we are told, “when the kings go out to war.” It is noteworthy that “kings” are specifically cited. The storyteller could have said it was the time of year when armies or soldiers or commanders or nations went out to war; but he says “kings.” That sets up the contrast for the news that follows: “David sent Joab...but David remained in Jerusalem.” Something isn’t right. David is not where he ought to be, and he is not doing what he ought to do.
The theme continues when we read that, “late one afternoon...David rose from his couch.” Once again, we sense a disconnect between time and behavior. It was not the time of year for David to remain in Jerusalem, and it does not seem to be the time of day when David should be rising from his couch. Something isn’t right.
Next, he went out walking about on the roof of his house. Interestingly, though, the narrator does not refer to it as “his house” but specifically as “the king’s house.” Might that word choice be a subtle reminder that nothing really innately belongs to David? That whatever he has is not his but a stewardship, a trust?
Some years ago, I heard a media expert advise a group of young parents to be diligent about limiting their kids’ screen time. (He was talking just about television; it was before the day of prevalent social media.) Along the way, he said, “Don’t ever turn on the TV to see if there is something on. There is.”
He was expressing a caution against the mindless surfing of television channels, noting the likelihood of coming across something unwholesome. The same caution could be expressed in our day about surfing the web. And in David’s day, perhaps the same caution might have been applied to walking on the roof of the king’s house.
The common assumption is that the king’s house was higher than most — perhaps higher than all the other houses and buildings in town. And houses in that time and place were not marked by the sort of pitched roofs that characterize American neighborhoods. Instead, flat roofs were standard fare, and families used their roofs for a variety of daily functions. It’s altogether possible, therefore, that David knew what he was getting himself into. Like the reckless surfing or channels or websites, perhaps David knew what he might happen to see.
From David’s royal vantage point, he caught sight of a woman. Bathsheba was bathing on her roof. And at that moment, whether the sighting was calculated or accidental, David had a choice. My mom used to tell me, with respect to temptation, that you can’t keep a bird from flying through your tree, but you can keep it from building a nest there. David allowed temptation to build a nest.
The biblical author is not interested in graphic details. Instead, the episode is narrated briefly and matter-of-factly. David was taken by Bathsheba, and so he took her for himself. And he knew from the start that his actions were entirely wrong, for when he inquired about who the woman was, he was told that she was “the wife of Uriah.”
What follows has both a particular quality and a general quality. The particulars are those details that are peculiar to David’s distinctive situation. The general story, however, is mimicked again and again in every generation. It is the story of sin, shame, and cover-up. It is the story of trying to navigate one’s way out of moral failure by some means other than confession and repentance. It is the familiar human story of the deceit, denial, and manipulation that so often follows in the wake of sin.
In the pages that follow, Bathsheba — who is a tragic victim throughout the story — becomes pregnant by David, then loses her husband, and then loses her child. Uriah, too, is an innocent victim of David’s initial sin and subsequent abuse of power. Uriah is not only a capable soldier in Israel’s army, he is a paragon of dedication and loyalty. On paper, he ends up being a casualty of war. However, the biblical account makes it clear that he is actually a casualty of his own king’s concupiscence.
The writer of Proverbs often portrays life’s choices in binary terms. There is wisdom and there is foolishness. We can choose prudence or profligacy. We may be self-disciplined or self-indulgent, industrious or lazy, generous or stingy. And we see again and again in the binary choices presented by Proverbs that our choices become the causes of predictable effects. Wisdom and self-discipline, for example, lead to success and prosperity, while folly and self-indulgence lead to failure and personal disaster.
The account of 2 Samuel 11 shows us a whole series of choices that David made. In each case, he had an alternative; there was something else he could have done. And yet, time and again, he made the wrong choice, and the path he persistently chose led him and those around him to predictable pain and tragedy.
Ephesians 3:14-21
Several years ago, a certain NBA superstar caused a great stir by an on-court conversation he held with a member of the opposing team. He covered his mouth with his hand as he talked so that no one could read his lips. And this secrecy, of course, heightened the interest in what he was saying. A great deal of sports talk radio and television coverage in the succeeding days was filled with speculation about what might have been said.
The phenomenon of covering the mouth is an increasingly common phenomenon in sports. It is standard fare now for coaches on the sidelines of football games to hold some sheet in front of their faces as they call in plays to their quarterback or consult with other players or coaches on the sideline. And, in critical moments, the fan is filled with curiosity, wondering, “What do you suppose he is saying?”
If you could choose one moment in history where you could hear what was said, what historic event might you choose? If there was one significant conversation that you could be privy to, what conversation would you select? On which wall would you have liked to have been the fly?
Our selected passage from the letter to the Ephesians gives us just such an opportunity. We get a sense here for what it would have been to be a fly on a very special wall, indeed. For in these verses, we are privileged to eavesdrop, as it were, on the prayer life of the Apostle Paul.
We mustn’t take for granted this treasure just because we have always had it. Rather, consider for a moment the prospect of seeing the apostle kneeling in prayer on the other side of some room. You can see his lips are moving as he pours out his heart to God, but you can’t quite hear what he is saying. How marvelous would it be, we think in that moment, if we could hear what Paul says when he prays?
Well, here we have it! We read in this passage the content of Paul’s prayer for the Christians in Ephesus, as well as the kind of praise he offers to God in the midst of that interceding. He says, “I bow my knees before the Father,” and then he reports what it is that he asks of God.
We observe, first, the connection Paul makes between God and us: “I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name.” It is because who God is, you see — and specifically who he is in relation to us — that Paul prays as he does. Perhaps our prayers, too, ought to begin with the phrase “For this reason,” so that all of our praying would be the outgrowth of an affirmation about him.
Likewise, we observe in the next breath that even the quality and quantity of what Paul prays for is a reflection of the one to whom he prays. That is to say, even though the prayer is for the Ephesians, it is still a prayer “according to” things about God. This, too, is a vitally important principle for our praying: that our requests are not merely an expression of our need, but a response to his character and ability.
Then see the content of what Paul prays for these people. See what an altogether spiritual prayer it is. So many of our churches’ prayer lists are limited to “physical” prayer requests — that is, we pray for this person who needs to be healed, for this person who needs a job, for this person whose house was damaged by a fire, for this person who is in financial difficulty. And that is right and good, for we are to make our requests known to God (Philippians 4:6). Nevertheless, we might learn from Paul how to elevate the horizons of our praying. For he is praying for spiritual things: strength in the inner being. Christ dwelling in the heart, being rooted and ground in love, being filled with the fullness of God. Profound stuff.
And then, in a marvelous paradox, Paul prays that the people would “have the power to comprehend” and “to know” that which “surpasses knowledge.” We’ll consider in more detail below “the breadth and length and height and depth” of the Lord’s love. For the present, we simply appreciate the fact that the apostle wants his people to get a greater glimpse of what they cannot fully take in, to increase in their understanding of what they cannot fully grasp, and to know a bit more of what they will never be able to fully know in this life. It is the robust prayer of a saint who is so eager for the people to jump into the deep end of God’s pool, and to be properly overwhelmed by it all.
And we see that Paul himself is happily overwhelmed. For as he makes his prayer for the people. It leads him irresistibly to a grand expression of adoration. His prayer is for the Ephesians,but start to finish, it is a prayer focused on God. And so, in the end, he cannot contain himself, but concludes with a great doxology of praise.
John 6:1-21
All four gospels tell the story of the feeding of the five thousand. At first blush, that might not seem like much of a claim. A closer evaluation of the evidence, however, reveals just how significant it is.
The fact is that there is an exceedingly small corpus of gospel material that appears in Matthew, in Mark, in Luke, and in John. The ministry of John the Baptist is reflected in all four. And the events of Holy Week are recorded — indeed, featured — in all four. But the only, single event from Jesus’ life and ministry prior to Palm Sunday that appears in all of the gospels is this particular miracle: the feeding of the five-thousand. Christmas is not reported by all four. The Sermon on the Mount is not. Jesus walking on water is not. The parable of the prodigal son is not. The Lord’s Prayer is not.
The feeding of the five thousand, you see, has a rather distinctive claim to fame. And among the four gospel writers’ accounts of the event, John also has some distinctive elements.
On the one hand, John shares with Matthew, Mark, and Luke the basic contours of the story — the size of the crowd, the initial amount of food, and the abundant leftovers. But John includes some details that we would not have otherwise. Notably, John locates the event in the calendar — “the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near.” John specifies Philip and Andrew’s roles. And, perhaps most significantly, John also shares the source of the familiar five loaves and two fish — “There is a boy here.”
John has an eye for the individual. While the synoptic Gospels so often portray Jesus surrounded by crowds, John more often offers us a glimpse of Jesus in one-on-one contact with people. We see Jesus with Nathanael, Jesus with Nicodemus, Jesus with the Samaritan woman, Jesus with the man born blind, Jesus with the crippled man by the pool, Jesus with Mary, Jesus with Martha, Jesus with Mary Magdalene, Jesus with Peter, and so forth. It is a remarkable personal gospel. And John demonstrates his eye for the individual again in this scene, for he notices the little boy that none of the other writers bother to mention.
The anonymous — and almost completely overlooked — boy is the unsung hero of the story. The episode, after all, is referred to as the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, not the creation of the loaves and fishes. Jesus had something to start with — he did not feed the multitude ex nihilo.
Another distinctive feature of John’s account of this miracle is the crowd’s response to the miracle. “They were about to come and take him by force to make him king.” Yet Jesus knew what they did not understand: for as he explained to Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36 NASB). And so, Jesus essentially fled from the crowd’s enthusiastic allegiance and effort to promote Him.
It is a fascinating testament to the character of Christ that He tries to escape the crown, but He does not try to escape the cross. He saw both things coming. In the former case, He resisted the premature and out-of-place exaltation. But in the latter case, He did not run from His opponents, He did not permit his followers to defend them, and He did not exercise His divine capacity to be rescued.
Finally, our gospel lection ends with another miracle story. It is unclear when the disciples thought that Jesus would reconnect with them after he had sought solitude in the hills while they got into the boat to sail across the lake. Whatever their expectation was, however, it was not this: that they would see Jesus walking toward them on the water!
The sight must have been unsettling, to be sure. Since it happened at night, one wonders how they saw him coming. Was it a brightly moonlit night? Was it stormy, so that their surroundings were only occasionally and momentarily lit up? Or was he not seen by them until He was practically right next to their boat? Whatever the case, when we are already feeling afraid, we are that much more easily startled and frightened. And so, in the midst of the unfavorable weather, the sight of a personage out on the water must have been eerie, indeed.
As a result, Jesus needed to reassure them. How often does that happen? How often does the Lord come to rescue us, and we mistake his method of rescue for trouble? And so, the Lord had to reassure the nervous disciples that it was he, at which point they were greatly relieved, and the crisis resolves almost immediately.
Application
The story of David is a long one. More chapters are devoted to telling the story of David than any other character in the Old Testament. And over the course of that long story, we are able to trace a certain trajectory — a rise, to be sure; and also, something of a fall.
Put David’s story on a graph, and you can observe the steep line that trends upward. From the forgotten youngest brother to the national boy-hero after defeating Goliath; from the Bethlehem shepherd to the king’s favored musician; from effective soldier to heralded commander; from king of his own tribe to king of the whole nation; from monarch of the weakest kid on the block to the strongest king in the region. David’s rise is spectacular, and we observe the Lord blessing him all along the way, protecting him from trouble and giving him victory.
The trend line on the graph does not continue to move in that direction, however. David has trouble with his children: Amnon and Tamar; Amnon and Absalom; Solomon and Adonijah. There is trouble with Joab and Abner, and the grief that the sons of Zeruiah continually cause David. There is the poignant break with Absalom, the humiliating flight from Jerusalem, the taunting of Shemei, and the tragic death of his son. And, at the end, David appears as a shivering old man who needs those around him to help him understand what is going on in his own kingdom.
In between that trend line that was heading up and the trend line that started heading precipitously down, there is 2 Samuel 11. The episode in our Old Testament lection represents the apex on David’s graph. After that, it is mostly downhill. If only David had trusted and obeyed!
Over the years, each of my children have heard me share this principle: Everything is better when you just obey. And what is true for a child with their parent is even more profoundly true with us and the Lord. “For there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus!”
Our assigned gospel lesson, meanwhile, features two different stories — the story of Jesus feeding the multitude and the story of Jesus walking on the water. In both instances, the disciples had a difficult time trusting. They were (understandably) overwhelmed by the size of the hungry crowd, as well as bewildered by Jesus’ instruction to feed that crowd themselves. And, later, they were frightened by both the storm and by the sight of Jesus walking toward them on the water.
We are not unsympathetic with the disciples in these episodes. It is hard to say with a straight face that we certainly would have responded differently in the same situations. Yet we know that trusting looks different than what the disciples do in these moments.
We do see, however, two glimmers of what “trust and obey” looks like in these gospel stories.
In the first story, there is the boy with the five loaves and two fish. To donate that small provision in the face of such a great need is a certain sort of trust. After all, how many good things do we choose not to bother doing because we reckon that it won’t make a difference anyway? And if that calculation keeps us from doing what we sense the Lord is telling us to do, then not trusting results in not obeying. It is a remarkable act of trust on the part of this boy, you see, to believe that such a small contribution entrusted to Jesus can make a difference.
And, finally, Peter is an interesting case study in trusting and obeying. He trusted enough to volunteer for the improbable invitation to come out onto the Sea of Galilee with Jesus. Then he courageously obeyed Jesus’ invitation, climbing out of the boat and onto the surface of the water. But then, it seems, his trust waned, and he began to sink.
In the end, Peter on the water is a kind of metaphor for what we saw in the broad contours of David’s story. What Peter experienced in the course of a few minutes is a microcosm of what David lived out over many years. First came the trusting and the obeying. But when that essential combination waned, David truly began to sink.
Alternative Application(s)
Ephesians 3:14-21 — Divine Dimensions
I wonder how many times over our years of marriage my wife has called me from some store and asked me to measure something for her. She is buying a picture or a piece of furniture. She is ordering paint or carpeting. She is engaged in some home improvement process, and in order to make the right decision she needs to know dimensions. “Could you measure that wall next to the fireplace?” she asks. “What is the length and width of our daughter’s bedroom?” “How tall is that lamp behind your chair?”
And so, time and again, I have broken out the measuring tape, stretching it out, and jotting down figures. How long? How tall? How wide? How deep?
In his letter to the Christians in Ephesus, the Apostle Paul encourages the believers there to get out their measuring tape. “I pray that you may have the power to comprehend,” he writes, “what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.” He wants them to measure some dimensions — the fabulous dimensions of the love of Christ!
This deserves some consideration, does it not? We might do our people a great favor by helping them take these measurements. Let us invite them to think together about each of these dimensions.
First, let us call to mind some experiences we’ve had of standing before something very large, very tall. Nothing is more likely to make a person feel small than to stand in front of something that makes us crane our necks up, up, and up. We stand there with our mouths hanging open, awed by the immensity. Call to mind those experiences, and then imagine how high is the love of Christ.
And not just high, but deep. This is an important dimension theologically, for the sinner knows that he needs love to reach down. When we are at our lowest — in guilt, in need, in despair — we need a love that can reach down and find us where we are. Both the incarnation and the crucifixion bear witness to the depth of His love: how far down He will go.
Paul also speaks of the breadth of Christ’s love. We know how narrow human love can be. Perhaps we have felt left out by the narrowness of someone’s love. But see the breadth of the love of Christ. See Him touching lepers, eating with sinners, blessing the children, and promising paradise to the criminal on a cross. Charles Wesley sings of the breadth of Christ’s love: “The arms of love that compass me would all the world embrace!” (Charles Wesley, “Jesus! The Name High Over All” UMH #193)
And then there is the length. Long love is essential to us: love that lasts; love that doesn’t run out. David bore witness to the length of God’s love: Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever! (1 Chronicles 16:34 ESV). Likewise, the writer of Lamentations: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end” (Lamentations 3:22 ESV).
Taken all together, our measurements of these dimensions prove to us that we cannot find the boundaries of Christ’s love. No matter how far we go, we will not come to the end of it. We will never exhaust it or run out of it.
Paul wanted the Christians in Ephesus to take some measurements — to consider the height, the depth, the breadth, and the length. Yet in the next breath, he joyfully acknowledged that it was a hopeless task. You can’t measure what is immeasurable! Still, his prayer was that they might know this love that surpasses knowledge!
