Life after death
Commentary
Object:
In the 1949 World War II movie, 12 O'Clock High, Gregory Peck plays Frank
Savage, a no-nonsense general who is brought in to straighten up a hard-luck, low-morale
American bomber group stationed in England. In his first address to the men of his unit,
General Savage tells it like it is: "We're in a war, a shooting war. We've got to fight. And
some of us have got to die. Now I'm not trying to tell you not to be afraid. Fear is normal.
But stop worrying about it. And about yourselves. Stop making plans. Forget about going
home. Consider yourselves already dead. Once you accept that idea, it won't be so
tough."
The message is an unwelcome one, and the paradigm unpopular. Within minutes, every pilot in the group is preparing to request a transfer. But unpopular doesn't make it wrong. For Savage has actually given the men in his command a liberating truth, if only they would understand and accept it.
And General Savage has also captured for us a certain insight into Christian discipleship. "Consider yourselves already dead. Once you accept that idea, it won't be so tough." Long before the classic World War II movie, Jesus and Paul had already said essentially the same thing.
In exploring this week's assigned passages, we will encounter one of Jesus' great teachings on discipleship. And, hand in hand with that, we will hear a bit of Paul's understanding of life and death for the Christian.
But first we meet Ishmael. His episode is not didactic material. It is not the exposition of doctrine. But it is, in its own way, a story of life after death. For young Ishmael was given up for dead by his own mother. The situation was hopeless, and it was, in her estimation, just a matter of time.
The brief scene is one of the most poignant and heart-rending in scripture: a mother who leaves her child beneath some wiry and unforgiving desert brush and walks away, unable to bear the sight of him dying. But then the grimness is mercifully interrupted by God, who steps in to save the mother and her child. And the boy, who was given up for dead, goes on to become a patriarch of nations in his own right. Virtually his whole life -- and certainly his whole impact -- came after death.
Genesis 21:8-21
In our elementary training with reading stories, we used to be asked, "Who is the main character?" That elementary question is actually a rather difficult one in this context. For we could make a good case for several different individuals.
On the one hand, the episode occurs within the broader set of Abraham narratives. Contextually, therefore, we might say that Abraham is the main character. At the same time, however, the author is clearly preparing to hand off the baton of attention and covenant to Isaac. We have just read of his miraculous birth in the first verses of this chapter, so this dismissal of Ishmael may be seen as part of the story of Isaac. Alternatively, this episode may be Ishmael's fifteen minutes of fame. The writer of Genesis makes a clear distinction between the two sons of Abraham, but there is at least a concern to trace Ishmael, identify his descendants, and associate those descendants with this background. Perhaps young Ishmael is the main character.
Then there is Hagar. If we read this story purely within the confines of the verses identified by the lectionary, if we gave no thought to the broader context of what comes before and what comes after, then I think we would recognize Hagar as the main character of this story.
The writer identifies here as "Hagar the Egyptian," which is not exactly an endorsement in the book of Genesis. We recall the curse of Ham earlier in the book, and we observe that Egypt is identified among the descendants of the cursed Ham (10:6-20). Indeed, we see that Egypt bookends this pericope, for just as Hagar is identified as an Egyptian at the beginning, so at the end Hagar resorts to Egypt as a source for Ishmael's wife.
That said, the fact is that this passage is remarkably unbiased. While the writer of Genesis willingly recalls the sordid origins of the Ammonites and the Moabites (19:30-38), and he also gives a rather unfavorable report about the Canaanites (9:20-27), there is nothing uncharitable about the treatment given to either the Egyptians or the descendants of Ishmael in this episode. Quite the contrary, the descendants of Ishmael are plainly included in the care, plan, and providence of God.
Hagar is very much an innocent victim, and something of a pathetic figure. She has been roped into Abraham and Sarah's ill-conceived plan for having a child, and then she is tormented for her success. The NRSV translation of verses 9 and 10 in our passage offers some insight into the resentment under which Hagar must have lived, for when "Sarah saw the son of Hagar ... playing with her son Isaac ... she said to Abraham, 'Cast out this slave woman with her son.' " Notice that Ishmael is not named: he is only identified as "the son of Hagar." That is how Sarah sees the boy. And the NRSV suggests a harmless - - perhaps even cheerful and healthy -- scene: The older boy playing with his younger half-brother. But because he is "the son of Hagar," it is clearly a noxious sight to Sarah. And so she has Hagar sent away.
The writer reports that Hagar "wandered about in the wilderness of Beer-sheba." What a poignant scene, and what an embodiment of helplessness. What hope is there for this single mother, who is the dispossessed foreign slave of a resident alien? How much more marginalized could she be? We see a picture of a woman who, literally, had no place to go. She wandered about in the wilderness, until finally she came to the point where she and her son would die.
But God intervened, mercifully meeting and providing for her and her son. We are thus reminded of the lovely promise of the prophet Isaiah: "He shall feed his flock like a shepherd ... and shall gently lead those that are with young" (40:11 KJV). Those that are with young need a bit more help and patience, and our good Lord provides it.
Romans 6:1b-11
Several years ago, a television drama about the White House, The West Wing, introduced into popular culture the Latin phrase: post hoc ergo propter hoc. The phrase -- literally, "after this, therefore because of this" -- reflects a fallacious logic. Namely, that because one thing came after another, that thing was caused by the other. That misunderstanding lies at the heart of the problem Paul addresses first.
"Should we continue in sin," he asks rhetorically, "that grace may abound?" At first blush, you see, the Christian's testimony is that he or she was in sin and then experienced the grace of God. That grace saved from sin. It seems, therefore, that sin comes first -- which, of course, is where the first error lies -- and so grace is interpreted as the effect, while sin is the cause.
If that were true, of course, then sin would indeed be desirable because of what it produced. Like manure, I suppose. But grace is not a byproduct of sin. Grace is not even God's response to human sinfulness. Rather, grace is a part of his nature, his character. Speaking metaphorically rather than theologically, we might say that grace is what his love looks like from the vantage point of sin. And so, instead of grace being God's response to sin, repentance -- that is, turning from sin -- is our response to God's grace.
Then comes the central thrust of Paul's argument in this passage: the role of death.
In verse 7, Paul writes, "Whoever has died is free from sin." We believe that, of course, but perhaps not in the same way that Paul means it. I have routinely encountered Christians who operate with these two simultaneous assumptions: 1) sin is inevitable for us in this life; 2) we will be freed from sin in heaven. Beneath those two assumptions lies a third that is implicit: that our death will mark the end of our sin.
Paul would agree that our death marks the end of our sin, but he places that death at a different point on the time line. For Paul attaches our death to Christ's death, for "all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death." And so, even though his death occurred before we were even born, still "we know that our old self was crucified with him." But how could that be? How could my old self have died 2,000 years ago? Evidently, that liberating death is accessed through baptism. In my baptism, Christ's death becomes my death. And, in the next moment, his resurrection from the dead becomes our entrance into "newness of life."
At the end of the passage, Paul offers another insight into this life-and-death mentality. "You must consider yourselves," he instructs, "dead to sin and alive to God."
The parent whose adolescent child is engrossed in a television show, preoccupied with a video game, or an exceedingly sound sleeper might lament that he or she is "dead to the world." The youngster is not actually dead, of course, but is effectively dead. Not literally lifeless, but completely unresponsive to the parent's voice or to other obligations and responsibilities.
Let that be our posture with regard to sin. Let me be completely unresponsive when temptation calls. Let me be so preoccupied, if you will, with Christ that I cannot be distracted by the things of the flesh or the world.
Then consider the opposite image. Paul counsels us to be "alive to God in Christ Jesus." Let us concede that being alive is not the same as being alive to something. The mother of a newborn is especially "alive to" her baby. She may sleep through her husband's loud snores, but she awakens to the slightest of her baby's peeps.
Let me be so alive to God. Let me be sensitive to his voice and his guidance, instantly responsive to his word and his will.
Matthew 10:24-39
In my denomination, the United Methodist church, we affirm that "the mission of the church is to make disciples of Jesus Christ" (The Book of Discipline of the United Methodist Church [Nashville: The United Methodist Publishing House, 2000], p. 120). That is certainly consistent with what we call Jesus' "Great Commission" (Matthew 28:19-20). Since that is his final instruction before his ascension, we could rightly understand it as our "standing orders" until he returns.
But what does it mean to make disciples? Indeed, what does it mean to be a disciple? Jesus provides a detailed answer here in our gospel lection for this week.
We might divide the present passage into five identifiable components of discipleship.
First, there is the disciple's goal. "It is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher," Jesus said. Ours is not a worldly ambition to get ahead, to be number one, to become king of the hills. Rather, this is a process of character. I do not strive to achieve a certain status or position, but rather a certain likeness. Just as human beings were made in the image of God at the beginning, so now I aspire to be renewed in that image. What puny goals do the disciples of other leaders pursue? We aspire to be Christlike.
Second, there is the disciple's resulting experience. This component of discipleship may be understood as a direct outgrowth of the first. For if the disciple is like his master, then he will experience what his master experienced. If the master was criticized, misunderstood, persecuted, and rejected, then the disciple can expect the same sort of treatment from the world.
Third, there is the disciple's proclamation and witness. Just as Jesus had taught them earlier not to hide their light under a bushel (Matthew 5:15-16), so here their explicit instruction is not to keep to themselves what they had heard. "Proclaim it from the housetops," Jesus said. And, even more than just what they had heard: there was the central matter of to whom they belonged. In spite of pressure and opposition, they were not to hide Jesus under a bushel, but to "acknowledge (him) before others."
Fourth, there is the disciple's allegiance. As long as I entertain multiple loyalties, they will be become competing allegiances, and I will live with uncertainty and confusion. Whom shall I follow in this instance? Whose interests shall I serve? But this teacher, mercifully, will not tolerate rivals. His disciples are asked to love him most and love him best -- more than family (vv. 35-36); more than life itself (v. 39).
Fifth, there is the disciple's reward. Even though this set of teachings can seem demanding and harsh, there are rewards woven throughout it. The first reward comes at the very beginning: the prospect of becoming like our teacher. There is also the promise of Jesus acknowledging us before the Father in heaven. And, in the end, there is the assurance that, even in the process of losing our lives, we will find life.
This is the stuff of discipleship. Inasmuch as disciples are what we are to be and what we are to make, this passage can be exceedingly helpful and instructive to us and to our congregations.
Application
"Consider yourselves already dead," General Savage told his men, "[then] it won't be so tough." For as long as those pilots were skittish and fearful; for as long as they were trying, above all, to save their own necks; they could not be or do what they had been called on to be and to do.
So, too, with the Christian. For as long as I live in a mode of self-preservation, for as long as I function primarily out of self-interest, I will not be able to follow Christ. I will not turn the other cheek, or give to anyone who asks, or love my enemies if my modus operandi is self-interest. I will not take up my cross and follow if my objective is self- preservation. So, instead, I am invited to lose my life for his sake.
Our native preoccupation with self, of course, is at the heart of our sin. That preoccupation is both the effect and the cause of sin. It stands to reason, therefore, that my self would have to die in order for me to be free from the cycle of sin. And such a death is precisely what Paul prescribes.
But this death is not the end. Rather, it is the necessary beginning. Only after this losing of my life will I find it. Only after this death will I be able to be and do what God has called me to be and to do. And only after this death will God be able fully to accomplish his will in, through, and for my life. Paul, the disciples, and you and I will discover that, like Ishmael, most of our life and our impact for God come after our death.
Alternative Application
Genesis 21:8-21. "Early to Rise." Within this passage -- which is mostly about Hagar and Ishmael -- we are offered a telling detail about Abraham. He "rose early in the morning" (v. 14).
Can we imagine the heart of this old man? After so many years of waiting for a child, he now has two sons. The conception of the first was admittedly problematic, but that was long ago. At least for him, if not for Sarah. Imagine the pleasure he felt as he watched his two sons playing with one another. Surely he must have sat back with satisfaction and said to himself, "Truly the Lord has blessed us -- just as he said he would!"
Then, suddenly, the pleasantness of the scene is shattered. The sweetness turns strident as Sarah storms in: "We have got to do something about this! Do you see? Do you see what's going on out there?"
"You mean the boys playing together?"
"I mean that, that boy -- that son of that woman -- here! With my son! Something has to change! They have to go!"
Imagine brokenhearted Abraham. There is little that pains a loving parent more than strife within the family. And here, in this situation, there appeared to be no good options.
Then the Lord reassured Abraham. He guaranteed Abraham that it would all turn out right. He would see to it himself. So Abraham could feel somewhat more at peace with the prospect of doing as Sarah had requested: sending Hagar and Ishmael off, presumably forever. And in the wake of that reassuring instruction from God, Abraham "rose early in the morning." That's significant.
Abraham does not postpone obedience. We have seen that level of responsiveness in him before (see, for example, Genesis 12:1-4a; 22:1-3a). That he rose early in the morning to send Hagar and Ishmael off is characteristic of the man.
We know how easy it is for us to postpone what we do not want to do. Even if we know that it is what God wants us to do. We rationalize and equivocate. See the would-be disciples in Luke 9:59-62. But not Abraham -- no putting off to the next day the obedience that seems unpleasant and undesirable. There was no hitting the snooze, pulling up the covers, and burying his head under the pillow. No, Abraham rose early.
John Wesley's translation of a Gerhard Tersteegen hymn, "The Hidden Love Of God," captures the profundity of total commitment:
Is there thing beneath the sun
that strives with thee my heart to share?
Ah, tear it thence and reign alone,
the Lord of every motion there;
then shall my heart from earth be free,
when it hath found repose in thee.
This is the courageous prayer of those who are willing to make any sacrifice in order to be faithful to God, and surely Abraham is in that camp. For he knew that the God who insists on being first (see Exodus 20:3; Matthew 10:37) deserves to be obeyed first thing in the morning.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17
Having someone hate you is a difficult thing to bear. Having someone hate you and then try to do something against you is even worse. The fear, the sense of powerlessness, and the insecurity one feels at a time like this is difficult to describe. The whole body fills with tension. It's difficult to focus or concentrate. Over and over again the mind wonders what was done to deserve this. In between that wondering comes the playing and replaying of scenarios about how things might have gone differently.
Being under attack like that consumes one's spirit and energy. It sucks the life right out of the soul. It's this sense of despair and sorrow that this psalm conveys. It's this feeling of being boxed in and without options that leads to the plaintive cry to God.
Those who haven't had an experience like this can count themselves among the blessed. But if it is happening, if someone is out to get you, the call rises from the belly and rockets to the ear of the holy. "Listen to me! I'm calling on you, God!"
And if help doesn't seem to be forthcoming, the desperation grows to a manic mantra of attempted persuasion and even flattery. "There's no one like you, God. All the nations will come and bow before you. Bank on it! You're the greatest!"
Reading this psalm wrenches the heart. Down the centuries one can feel the pain and the anguish in these words. More powerful than that is the truth that these words are rooted in the firm and sure belief that indeed God is listening. Indeed, God will save. These are no vaporous utterings floating off into nothingness. These are not words given to an eternal silence. This prayer, like every prayer, is heard. This prayer is embraced by a God who is engaged and active in the panoply of history.
This pronouncement should be the end of it. The prayer is offered. The prayer is heard. But the cynic within sighs deeply and rolls imaginary eyes. "The prayer may be heard, but is it answered? Didn't prayers like this go up the chimneys of Dachau? Didn't prayers like this get lifted up in countless scenes of suffering across the globe? Where," the inner cynic asks, "is the answer to the prayer?"
This inner cynic is tough, and for him there are no easy answers. Perhaps that's why he's a cynic. Cynics like easy answers.
But the persistence of faith insists on this: God is real. God created us. God loves us. Indeed, God is love itself (1 John 4:8). And it all comes to the realization that God is not an old, white man with a beard running the world as a puppet master manipulates his subject across a dusty stage.
No, it's a bit more complex than that. Between our freedom to do as we choose and God's ever-present grace, between our seemingly endless capacity to choose death over life (Deuteronomy 30:15-20), and God's truly endless capacity to love, in between all this comes the one moment we have to trust in God no matter what is happening. That moment is the one we are living right now. It is the ever-flowing present tense; the eternal now into which we give our trust. And trust, it must be said, is not a cynic's tool.
The message is an unwelcome one, and the paradigm unpopular. Within minutes, every pilot in the group is preparing to request a transfer. But unpopular doesn't make it wrong. For Savage has actually given the men in his command a liberating truth, if only they would understand and accept it.
And General Savage has also captured for us a certain insight into Christian discipleship. "Consider yourselves already dead. Once you accept that idea, it won't be so tough." Long before the classic World War II movie, Jesus and Paul had already said essentially the same thing.
In exploring this week's assigned passages, we will encounter one of Jesus' great teachings on discipleship. And, hand in hand with that, we will hear a bit of Paul's understanding of life and death for the Christian.
But first we meet Ishmael. His episode is not didactic material. It is not the exposition of doctrine. But it is, in its own way, a story of life after death. For young Ishmael was given up for dead by his own mother. The situation was hopeless, and it was, in her estimation, just a matter of time.
The brief scene is one of the most poignant and heart-rending in scripture: a mother who leaves her child beneath some wiry and unforgiving desert brush and walks away, unable to bear the sight of him dying. But then the grimness is mercifully interrupted by God, who steps in to save the mother and her child. And the boy, who was given up for dead, goes on to become a patriarch of nations in his own right. Virtually his whole life -- and certainly his whole impact -- came after death.
Genesis 21:8-21
In our elementary training with reading stories, we used to be asked, "Who is the main character?" That elementary question is actually a rather difficult one in this context. For we could make a good case for several different individuals.
On the one hand, the episode occurs within the broader set of Abraham narratives. Contextually, therefore, we might say that Abraham is the main character. At the same time, however, the author is clearly preparing to hand off the baton of attention and covenant to Isaac. We have just read of his miraculous birth in the first verses of this chapter, so this dismissal of Ishmael may be seen as part of the story of Isaac. Alternatively, this episode may be Ishmael's fifteen minutes of fame. The writer of Genesis makes a clear distinction between the two sons of Abraham, but there is at least a concern to trace Ishmael, identify his descendants, and associate those descendants with this background. Perhaps young Ishmael is the main character.
Then there is Hagar. If we read this story purely within the confines of the verses identified by the lectionary, if we gave no thought to the broader context of what comes before and what comes after, then I think we would recognize Hagar as the main character of this story.
The writer identifies here as "Hagar the Egyptian," which is not exactly an endorsement in the book of Genesis. We recall the curse of Ham earlier in the book, and we observe that Egypt is identified among the descendants of the cursed Ham (10:6-20). Indeed, we see that Egypt bookends this pericope, for just as Hagar is identified as an Egyptian at the beginning, so at the end Hagar resorts to Egypt as a source for Ishmael's wife.
That said, the fact is that this passage is remarkably unbiased. While the writer of Genesis willingly recalls the sordid origins of the Ammonites and the Moabites (19:30-38), and he also gives a rather unfavorable report about the Canaanites (9:20-27), there is nothing uncharitable about the treatment given to either the Egyptians or the descendants of Ishmael in this episode. Quite the contrary, the descendants of Ishmael are plainly included in the care, plan, and providence of God.
Hagar is very much an innocent victim, and something of a pathetic figure. She has been roped into Abraham and Sarah's ill-conceived plan for having a child, and then she is tormented for her success. The NRSV translation of verses 9 and 10 in our passage offers some insight into the resentment under which Hagar must have lived, for when "Sarah saw the son of Hagar ... playing with her son Isaac ... she said to Abraham, 'Cast out this slave woman with her son.' " Notice that Ishmael is not named: he is only identified as "the son of Hagar." That is how Sarah sees the boy. And the NRSV suggests a harmless - - perhaps even cheerful and healthy -- scene: The older boy playing with his younger half-brother. But because he is "the son of Hagar," it is clearly a noxious sight to Sarah. And so she has Hagar sent away.
The writer reports that Hagar "wandered about in the wilderness of Beer-sheba." What a poignant scene, and what an embodiment of helplessness. What hope is there for this single mother, who is the dispossessed foreign slave of a resident alien? How much more marginalized could she be? We see a picture of a woman who, literally, had no place to go. She wandered about in the wilderness, until finally she came to the point where she and her son would die.
But God intervened, mercifully meeting and providing for her and her son. We are thus reminded of the lovely promise of the prophet Isaiah: "He shall feed his flock like a shepherd ... and shall gently lead those that are with young" (40:11 KJV). Those that are with young need a bit more help and patience, and our good Lord provides it.
Romans 6:1b-11
Several years ago, a television drama about the White House, The West Wing, introduced into popular culture the Latin phrase: post hoc ergo propter hoc. The phrase -- literally, "after this, therefore because of this" -- reflects a fallacious logic. Namely, that because one thing came after another, that thing was caused by the other. That misunderstanding lies at the heart of the problem Paul addresses first.
"Should we continue in sin," he asks rhetorically, "that grace may abound?" At first blush, you see, the Christian's testimony is that he or she was in sin and then experienced the grace of God. That grace saved from sin. It seems, therefore, that sin comes first -- which, of course, is where the first error lies -- and so grace is interpreted as the effect, while sin is the cause.
If that were true, of course, then sin would indeed be desirable because of what it produced. Like manure, I suppose. But grace is not a byproduct of sin. Grace is not even God's response to human sinfulness. Rather, grace is a part of his nature, his character. Speaking metaphorically rather than theologically, we might say that grace is what his love looks like from the vantage point of sin. And so, instead of grace being God's response to sin, repentance -- that is, turning from sin -- is our response to God's grace.
Then comes the central thrust of Paul's argument in this passage: the role of death.
In verse 7, Paul writes, "Whoever has died is free from sin." We believe that, of course, but perhaps not in the same way that Paul means it. I have routinely encountered Christians who operate with these two simultaneous assumptions: 1) sin is inevitable for us in this life; 2) we will be freed from sin in heaven. Beneath those two assumptions lies a third that is implicit: that our death will mark the end of our sin.
Paul would agree that our death marks the end of our sin, but he places that death at a different point on the time line. For Paul attaches our death to Christ's death, for "all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death." And so, even though his death occurred before we were even born, still "we know that our old self was crucified with him." But how could that be? How could my old self have died 2,000 years ago? Evidently, that liberating death is accessed through baptism. In my baptism, Christ's death becomes my death. And, in the next moment, his resurrection from the dead becomes our entrance into "newness of life."
At the end of the passage, Paul offers another insight into this life-and-death mentality. "You must consider yourselves," he instructs, "dead to sin and alive to God."
The parent whose adolescent child is engrossed in a television show, preoccupied with a video game, or an exceedingly sound sleeper might lament that he or she is "dead to the world." The youngster is not actually dead, of course, but is effectively dead. Not literally lifeless, but completely unresponsive to the parent's voice or to other obligations and responsibilities.
Let that be our posture with regard to sin. Let me be completely unresponsive when temptation calls. Let me be so preoccupied, if you will, with Christ that I cannot be distracted by the things of the flesh or the world.
Then consider the opposite image. Paul counsels us to be "alive to God in Christ Jesus." Let us concede that being alive is not the same as being alive to something. The mother of a newborn is especially "alive to" her baby. She may sleep through her husband's loud snores, but she awakens to the slightest of her baby's peeps.
Let me be so alive to God. Let me be sensitive to his voice and his guidance, instantly responsive to his word and his will.
Matthew 10:24-39
In my denomination, the United Methodist church, we affirm that "the mission of the church is to make disciples of Jesus Christ" (The Book of Discipline of the United Methodist Church [Nashville: The United Methodist Publishing House, 2000], p. 120). That is certainly consistent with what we call Jesus' "Great Commission" (Matthew 28:19-20). Since that is his final instruction before his ascension, we could rightly understand it as our "standing orders" until he returns.
But what does it mean to make disciples? Indeed, what does it mean to be a disciple? Jesus provides a detailed answer here in our gospel lection for this week.
We might divide the present passage into five identifiable components of discipleship.
First, there is the disciple's goal. "It is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher," Jesus said. Ours is not a worldly ambition to get ahead, to be number one, to become king of the hills. Rather, this is a process of character. I do not strive to achieve a certain status or position, but rather a certain likeness. Just as human beings were made in the image of God at the beginning, so now I aspire to be renewed in that image. What puny goals do the disciples of other leaders pursue? We aspire to be Christlike.
Second, there is the disciple's resulting experience. This component of discipleship may be understood as a direct outgrowth of the first. For if the disciple is like his master, then he will experience what his master experienced. If the master was criticized, misunderstood, persecuted, and rejected, then the disciple can expect the same sort of treatment from the world.
Third, there is the disciple's proclamation and witness. Just as Jesus had taught them earlier not to hide their light under a bushel (Matthew 5:15-16), so here their explicit instruction is not to keep to themselves what they had heard. "Proclaim it from the housetops," Jesus said. And, even more than just what they had heard: there was the central matter of to whom they belonged. In spite of pressure and opposition, they were not to hide Jesus under a bushel, but to "acknowledge (him) before others."
Fourth, there is the disciple's allegiance. As long as I entertain multiple loyalties, they will be become competing allegiances, and I will live with uncertainty and confusion. Whom shall I follow in this instance? Whose interests shall I serve? But this teacher, mercifully, will not tolerate rivals. His disciples are asked to love him most and love him best -- more than family (vv. 35-36); more than life itself (v. 39).
Fifth, there is the disciple's reward. Even though this set of teachings can seem demanding and harsh, there are rewards woven throughout it. The first reward comes at the very beginning: the prospect of becoming like our teacher. There is also the promise of Jesus acknowledging us before the Father in heaven. And, in the end, there is the assurance that, even in the process of losing our lives, we will find life.
This is the stuff of discipleship. Inasmuch as disciples are what we are to be and what we are to make, this passage can be exceedingly helpful and instructive to us and to our congregations.
Application
"Consider yourselves already dead," General Savage told his men, "[then] it won't be so tough." For as long as those pilots were skittish and fearful; for as long as they were trying, above all, to save their own necks; they could not be or do what they had been called on to be and to do.
So, too, with the Christian. For as long as I live in a mode of self-preservation, for as long as I function primarily out of self-interest, I will not be able to follow Christ. I will not turn the other cheek, or give to anyone who asks, or love my enemies if my modus operandi is self-interest. I will not take up my cross and follow if my objective is self- preservation. So, instead, I am invited to lose my life for his sake.
Our native preoccupation with self, of course, is at the heart of our sin. That preoccupation is both the effect and the cause of sin. It stands to reason, therefore, that my self would have to die in order for me to be free from the cycle of sin. And such a death is precisely what Paul prescribes.
But this death is not the end. Rather, it is the necessary beginning. Only after this losing of my life will I find it. Only after this death will I be able to be and do what God has called me to be and to do. And only after this death will God be able fully to accomplish his will in, through, and for my life. Paul, the disciples, and you and I will discover that, like Ishmael, most of our life and our impact for God come after our death.
Alternative Application
Genesis 21:8-21. "Early to Rise." Within this passage -- which is mostly about Hagar and Ishmael -- we are offered a telling detail about Abraham. He "rose early in the morning" (v. 14).
Can we imagine the heart of this old man? After so many years of waiting for a child, he now has two sons. The conception of the first was admittedly problematic, but that was long ago. At least for him, if not for Sarah. Imagine the pleasure he felt as he watched his two sons playing with one another. Surely he must have sat back with satisfaction and said to himself, "Truly the Lord has blessed us -- just as he said he would!"
Then, suddenly, the pleasantness of the scene is shattered. The sweetness turns strident as Sarah storms in: "We have got to do something about this! Do you see? Do you see what's going on out there?"
"You mean the boys playing together?"
"I mean that, that boy -- that son of that woman -- here! With my son! Something has to change! They have to go!"
Imagine brokenhearted Abraham. There is little that pains a loving parent more than strife within the family. And here, in this situation, there appeared to be no good options.
Then the Lord reassured Abraham. He guaranteed Abraham that it would all turn out right. He would see to it himself. So Abraham could feel somewhat more at peace with the prospect of doing as Sarah had requested: sending Hagar and Ishmael off, presumably forever. And in the wake of that reassuring instruction from God, Abraham "rose early in the morning." That's significant.
Abraham does not postpone obedience. We have seen that level of responsiveness in him before (see, for example, Genesis 12:1-4a; 22:1-3a). That he rose early in the morning to send Hagar and Ishmael off is characteristic of the man.
We know how easy it is for us to postpone what we do not want to do. Even if we know that it is what God wants us to do. We rationalize and equivocate. See the would-be disciples in Luke 9:59-62. But not Abraham -- no putting off to the next day the obedience that seems unpleasant and undesirable. There was no hitting the snooze, pulling up the covers, and burying his head under the pillow. No, Abraham rose early.
John Wesley's translation of a Gerhard Tersteegen hymn, "The Hidden Love Of God," captures the profundity of total commitment:
Is there thing beneath the sun
that strives with thee my heart to share?
Ah, tear it thence and reign alone,
the Lord of every motion there;
then shall my heart from earth be free,
when it hath found repose in thee.
This is the courageous prayer of those who are willing to make any sacrifice in order to be faithful to God, and surely Abraham is in that camp. For he knew that the God who insists on being first (see Exodus 20:3; Matthew 10:37) deserves to be obeyed first thing in the morning.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17
Having someone hate you is a difficult thing to bear. Having someone hate you and then try to do something against you is even worse. The fear, the sense of powerlessness, and the insecurity one feels at a time like this is difficult to describe. The whole body fills with tension. It's difficult to focus or concentrate. Over and over again the mind wonders what was done to deserve this. In between that wondering comes the playing and replaying of scenarios about how things might have gone differently.
Being under attack like that consumes one's spirit and energy. It sucks the life right out of the soul. It's this sense of despair and sorrow that this psalm conveys. It's this feeling of being boxed in and without options that leads to the plaintive cry to God.
Those who haven't had an experience like this can count themselves among the blessed. But if it is happening, if someone is out to get you, the call rises from the belly and rockets to the ear of the holy. "Listen to me! I'm calling on you, God!"
And if help doesn't seem to be forthcoming, the desperation grows to a manic mantra of attempted persuasion and even flattery. "There's no one like you, God. All the nations will come and bow before you. Bank on it! You're the greatest!"
Reading this psalm wrenches the heart. Down the centuries one can feel the pain and the anguish in these words. More powerful than that is the truth that these words are rooted in the firm and sure belief that indeed God is listening. Indeed, God will save. These are no vaporous utterings floating off into nothingness. These are not words given to an eternal silence. This prayer, like every prayer, is heard. This prayer is embraced by a God who is engaged and active in the panoply of history.
This pronouncement should be the end of it. The prayer is offered. The prayer is heard. But the cynic within sighs deeply and rolls imaginary eyes. "The prayer may be heard, but is it answered? Didn't prayers like this go up the chimneys of Dachau? Didn't prayers like this get lifted up in countless scenes of suffering across the globe? Where," the inner cynic asks, "is the answer to the prayer?"
This inner cynic is tough, and for him there are no easy answers. Perhaps that's why he's a cynic. Cynics like easy answers.
But the persistence of faith insists on this: God is real. God created us. God loves us. Indeed, God is love itself (1 John 4:8). And it all comes to the realization that God is not an old, white man with a beard running the world as a puppet master manipulates his subject across a dusty stage.
No, it's a bit more complex than that. Between our freedom to do as we choose and God's ever-present grace, between our seemingly endless capacity to choose death over life (Deuteronomy 30:15-20), and God's truly endless capacity to love, in between all this comes the one moment we have to trust in God no matter what is happening. That moment is the one we are living right now. It is the ever-flowing present tense; the eternal now into which we give our trust. And trust, it must be said, is not a cynic's tool.
