Midterm exams
Commentary
At the college where I teach in the religion department, we are just past midterm exams. I enjoy the excitement of my students each fall as they seem energized for another year of college life. By late September, however, absenteeism climbs, and some students drag themselves to class for a little nap. Life in this unreal campus world has taken on new dimensions: dating, parties, sporting events, roommate spats, dietary choices, and a host of other opportunities and maladies conspire to turn college commitments away from academics and toward all sorts of more wonderful and infinitely weirder dabblings.
Then it is time for midterm exams. Suddenly students wake up in class and ask questions -- often not so much out of thirst for knowledge but rather in fear of judgment. Notes and review become more important. Textbooks emerge from their forgotten places of stopping doors and holding open windows, or life at the bottom of the backpack. A rustling of purpose shakes most students back to reality ... but not all!
Some undergrads have begun to live a lie. They believe their own superiority, their own invulnerability, their own inflated sense of capacity. They have found college life a terrific alternative to whatever the world was like where they came from, and here they own their time, they own their desires, and they own their habits. In the words of Billy Joel: "This is my life! Leave me alone!"
So the test papers are passed, and the hour ticks by in maddening swiftness. The accumulated wisdom is thrust onto the page, sometimes with gleeful regurgitation, sometimes with struggling banality, and sometimes with defiant b---s--- that rivals God's creativity in bringing brand new things out of nothing.
But professors are called to be judges at some point, and we get the last word. My heart wants to make every student a valedictorian, but my mandate requires a measure of realism. Sometimes I have to weigh the words of the students in the balance and find them lacking. And, though they come to me later with wailing and gnashing of teeth, explaining some illogical implications of statements they made that really meant the opposite, judgment day has come, and there is no turning back.
The lectionary passages for today carry with them this theme. College life (or whatever substitute you might wish to choose) is wonderful. It allows students to experience many freedoms and express many passions. But, like most things we do, it has its boundaries and assessments. Some are ready for judgment day, and some are not. That doesn't make judgment day wrong; rather it reminds us that we are not gods, and must answer to limits, norms, and the true God. Those who make certain choices will find their midterm exams to be as delightful as sharing in the construction of a magnificent cathedral, and sensing that God lives in the place. Of course, those who make other choices have every reason to fear midterm exams.
Judges 4:1-7
The book of Judges has three main literary sections: chapters 1:1--3:6 explain the promise, hope, and expectation that should be carried forward from the Israelites' entrance into Canaan that was recounted in the book of Joshua; chapters 3:7--16:31 tell tales of woe interrupted by mixed-signal victories as Israel presses toward self-destruction; chapters 17-21 form an appendix that documents how far degradation can suck a nation. The overarching theme of the book seems to be the reverse of that of Joshua. There the land of promise came within reach of God's people; here in Judges it is slipping away from their grasp. And the condition that separates the two movements is covenant faithfulness.
The covenant created between God and Israel at Mount Sinai, on the way from Egypt to Canaan, was phrased in the form of a Suzerain-Vassal treaty, with historical prologue, stipulations, witnesses, and a section commonly called "curses and blessings." This rehearsal of woe and weal projected future welfare dependent upon fidelity to the character of the covenant relationship. In effect, the book of Judges explains the logical outcome of Israel's covenant unfaithfulness: curses abound.
But within each horror story there is a countervailing hero tale. While Israel forgets her marriage to God, God will not forget his marriage to Israel. Twelve times a strong (and often flawed) marriage counselor appears on the scene to do crisis management and then to moderate a time of vows renewal. The story of Othniel in chapter 3 standardizes the five-part typical "judge" (we don't really have a good English term to describe these people; "deliverer" is probably better than "judge," although the judgment dimension ought not to be neglected in our retelling and understanding of these stories) saga pattern: 1) Israelite sinful waywardness; 2) divine judgment in the form of a political threat; 3) a passionate prayer for deliverance; 4) the rising star of a divinely appointed deliverer; and 5) the conflict miraculously resolved in favor of Israel leading to a peaceful aftermath.
The tale of Deborah (and Barak) ought to be told in its entirety (Judges 4 is the prose, Judges 5 is the earlier poetic version), but today's lectionary intent is fulfilled when the preacher gets at the "exam day" feel of these stories. Israel is tested along the plumb line of the covenant; the invaders are judged as threatening God's plans; and the leaders themselves are assayed for their reluctant, ill-fitted, and corrupted response to God's challenging call. Homiletically, the point of connection ought to raise questions about such assessments in our own churches and cultures.
1 Thessalonians 5:1-11
Paul's Thessalonians correspondence was written early in his missionary career. The book of Acts does not help us much with a background to this letter, only telling us that Paul stopped briefly in the city on his second mission journey and spent at least three weeks speaking in the synagogue before the city erupted in a riot against Paul's presence and message (17:1-9). A theme that clearly emerges is Paul's perception that Jesus would return very soon to finish God's work of redemption. It seems that Paul's preaching focused so strongly on the awe-inspiring message of Jesus' resurrection and the promise of Jesus' imminent return, that two responses set in after the little missionary troupe moved on. First, some in Thessalonica became stargazers. They gave up their daily jobs and responsibilities in order to sit and wait for Jesus to come and rescue them. They lost their sense of purpose in this world and became spiritual space cadets -- too heavenly minded to be any longer of earthly good.
Second, some who experienced deaths in the family following Paul's leave began to question whether Paul's message was true. If, in fact, Jesus had conquered death, why did death still rear up its ugly head? Why should Jesus-followers have to die anymore, if Jesus was stronger than death? Moreover, did their dead friends and relatives miss out on all the promises of God, simply because they had died too soon?
To each of these challenges Paul gives a stirring response in chapter 4, and here in chapter 5 Paul outlines briefly an ethic for the waiting times. Paul uses metaphors of surprise (vv. 1-3) and darkness/light (vv. 4-10) to call for appropriate behaviors: constant preparedness and lifestyles that can pass the scrutiny of the exams that are coming.
Both metaphors can be mined effectively for sermons. Historians of the Titanic disaster, for instance, tell that when Captain Smith knew the gravity of the situation, he did not have time to teach his crew how to act. Months of training and years of British naval heritage came together, however, in his single command to his staff. "Be British," he told them. In those words they were instructed to go about their tasks with the firm confidence of seamen who had lived always on the edge of the great exam. Throughout their years of briny experiences they had prepared themselves for this possible eventuality, and now it was here. They did not have time for handholding or refresher courses or counseling sessions. "Be British," said Captain Smith, and his crew knew how to conduct themselves in the crisis of the night. In a similar vein, Paul might be overheard in this passage, saying, "Be Christian!" (meaning, "Be ready!").
The darkness/light metaphor as well is rich with homiletic "preachability." From Plato's cave-dwellers' parable in The Republic to Steven Spielberg's Star Wars movie saga, darkness and light come to represent two world orders, two vantage points, two ways of living. The darkness seems natural to those who have known only it (see, for instance, George MacDonald's powerful short story "The Day Boy and the Night Girl"). But once one is introduced to the light, life itself is transformed. It is not merely a matter of being able to "see," but a whole new way of life that emerges. This is Paul's message in these verses.
Matthew 25:14-30
Jesus is nearing the end of his ministry. He is in Jerusalem (ch. 21) for the final week before his crucifixion. In Matthew's telling of these days, Jesus' teachings are extremely pointed (21:12--22:46) and often judgmental (chs. 23 and 24). The apocalyptic vision of chapter 24 ends with a call to watch and be prepared (24:36-44) because exam time (judgment day) is approaching, and the outcome for each person will depend on preparation and awareness (24:45-51).
Chapter 25 is made up of three parables that have the same basic theme, and which together will crystallize the opposition against Jesus (see 26:1-4). The recurring motif is Jesus' question of readiness for the imminent divine exam time that is coming. The parable of the ten virgins (25:1-13) focuses on watchfulness and resources. This parable of the talents (25:14-30) explores attitude, and the following tale of the sheep and goats (25:31-46) investigates ongoing lifestyle in its connection with eternal outcomes. In effect, Jesus is constantly telling people to be ready for the exam but he is also making it clear that readiness for the divine examination is not something one can cram for, nor something that one ought to fear. Instead, the awareness of a coming assessment should help us think through why we are here and how our lives can reflect a purpose that has eternal significance.
That is certainly true in today's Gospel Reading. The parable of the talents is told in a slightly different way in Luke's Gospel (19:11-27). There it follows the story of Jesus and Zacchaeus, and includes elements that seem to echo the actual travels and commands of Herod within remembered time. Here the parable is divorced from contextual referents, and clearly calls the hearers to be prepared for the day of divine assessment. But fear is not an option. Fear causes spiritual paralysis, and this is no virtue. Only those who live expectantly (with an emphasis on both those words -- live and expectantly) will find exam day a good experience. To paraphrase Martin Luther's thoughts: As long as you are going to live anyway, you should live boldly.
Jesus calls us to a kind of active patience. We need to wait, because exam day has not yet arrived. But we need to be active in the waiting, since exam day will require of us things that only can be gained through the living of these days (cf. Harry Emerson Fosdick's great hymn, "God of Grace and God of Glory").
Application
A friend of mine was awakened suddenly on a Saturday morning by a telephone call across three time zones. His brother had been injured and was hospitalized in the critical care unit with a cracked skull and a swelling brain. My friend languored in helplessness. No airplane could get him to his brother's side before either the injury might prove fatal or the swelling would subside and the emergency pass. Enforced patience drummed him with nervous fret, a burden he did not want to bear.
Patience is a tough virtue, slipping from our grasp in the moment of demand. It always races with Road Runner while we are stymied in the dust with Wile E. Coyote, never catching up no matter what Acme technology we employ. Stephen Winward says that at his mother's knee he learned a poem that has proved perennially true:
Patience is a virtue: possess it if you can!
Seldom in a woman, and never in a man.
My own parents used to tell us, "All good things come to those who wait." While that may have been true in the past it hardly seems to apply any more. We seem systematically to have beaten the need for waiting. We buy instant foods, and "nuke" them to serving temperature in microwave ovens. Our satellite dishes and Internet search engines bring immediate access to news and information from around the world. We pop painkillers to evaporate our aches, so we don't even have to deal with the whys of our hurts. If we see something we like, instant credit grants us immediate possession.
Still, there are things that we can't control, and these keep the fires of desire burning the paper house of patience in our souls. The church in first-century Thessalonica was trying to be "patient until the Lord's coming," and Paul had to tell the people to get back to work rather than constantly scanning the horizon.
Throughout history people have tried to run ahead of patience by pretending it wasn't needed, that the world would end before they did. The Millerites and the Seventh Day Adventists announced Judgment Day watches several times over. People climbed trees and sat on rooftops in all-night vigils, but starry skies never split with angelic celebration and the dreams died with graying dawn. So, too, did the patience.
A neighboring farmer in my boyhood community was captured by one of these millennial preachers. He sold his farm, bought a motor home, and traveled with his family in caravan with a dozen others chasing the preacher on a whirlwind tour of North America, spreading the news of kingdom come. Six months later they circled the motor homes in Texas and waited. And waited. And waited.
When Jesus refused to do a command curtain call on their schedule (as in Matthew's Gospel Reading for today), the motor homes began to drift away. The prophetic band broke up, disillusioned with a nearsighted preacher, and our neighbor sneaked back to Minnesota in shame. He died a short while later, tired of patience that gave out before promise.
This is the religious dimension of patience that we find hard to manage. Our world is imperfect, with corners that bump knees and scorpions that poison hands. We get lonely, we get pained; we struggle to survive and are old in body before our youthful ideals get a chance to catch up. We try to find a little comfort and come away addicted to work or booze or drugs or sex ... always far short of heaven.
The patience of waiting is tied to our understanding of how time will get resolved into eternity (so the book of Judges). If there is no God outside the system, we are stuck with cycles of repetition, crushed beneath recurring tasks and tedium that never ends. But if there is a God who has promised to interrupt history with healing and hope and harmony, we wait with expectation.
My friend's brother died from his head injuries. Now my friend waits with the patience of Paul's instructions to the Thessalonians for the coming of Jesus. He is confident that then he will see his brother again, according to the promise of scripture. Without that promise he could not be patient. In an impatient world his is a remarkable hope. A religious hope. A patient hope.
An Alternative Application
Judges 4:1-7. The story of Deborah in Judges 4 can be preached on its own if it is told in its entirety. It is not necessary to read both Judges 4 and 5, but it might be good to bring some of the poetry of chapter 5 into a homily on the themes of chapter 4. Preaching the story of Deborah, Barak, and the time of the judges requires developing an extensive history that reviews Israel's identity from Egypt to Canaan (especially the covenant at Mount Sinai), and also gives a religious apology for Israel's right to the "promised land." This cannot be phrased merely in terms of "divine promises" or "the spoils of conquest." Rather, it should be seen in the framework of Palestine's unique geographical location in the ancient world. This tiny strip of land forms the bridge between three continents (Africa, Asia, and Europe), and was the high-traffic road for virtually all conquest routes, trading caravans, communications links, and nomadic wanderings.
If the creation no longer knew its Creator (Genesis 1-11), it is understandable how the Creator would work with a community (Genesis 12-50) to nurture a unique identity (Exodus through Deuteronomy) and place that community in the most strategic spot of territory in the world of its day (Joshua) in order to be a witness to all nations. If, however, that community began to lose its distinctiveness (as in Judges), there would be no reason for its continued existence, and the wars of Judges might well wipe it out. But that would be to deny the Creator's purposes, and so the tales of Judges begin to make sense. Israel gets divine deliverance in its battles not so much because of its special piety but in spite of its constant undermining of its special task. The judges (like Deborah and Barak) are not Israel's heroes but God's heroes. They do not stand as a witness of Israel's great strength but of God's covenant tenacity. Hence the celebrations that reverberate through the poetry of Judges 5.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 123
Clarity seems sometimes to be an elusive thing for people of faith. Often confused with arrogance, and fearful of the accusation, clarity retreats, leaving the field to confusion and worse. But here in the text of this Psalm the clouds part as the writer reaches out of suffering to seize upon clarity.
"To you I lift up my eyes!" The emphasis here cannot be attributed to the writer of the psalm. Yet, it is important to consider that then, as now, there are hosts of people and institutions competing against God for our loyalty and allegiance. Moreover, it is usually in the context of struggle that we are forced to make such choices. Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, living in a time when the state claimed the throne of God as its own, gained clarity in just such a struggle. He chose God over fascism. Though churches today seldom approach such concerns in their contemporary form, the question wants asking. What people or entities are competing today with God for our allegiance? Do our dalliances with career, relationships, or politics violate our covenant with God? If so, how? And if so, what do we intend to do about it?
This psalm pierces clean through to the heart of faith. As someone long ago put it, "there aren't any atheists in foxholes." In these few plaintive words, Israel reaches through pain and struggle to seek the mercy of a God who won't be treated lightly. We are, the words suggest, to know our place. "As the eyes of servants look to the hands of their master, as the eyes of a maid to the hand of her mistress, so our eyes look to the Lord our God ... until (he) has shown us mercy" (v. 2).
While the text strives to make the power arrangement clear, the reality of our lives of faith doesn't quite jive with it all. We are servants, that much is clear. Yet we try to cut deals with God rather more like (he) is a car salesman. "I'll do this if you'll do that." "Can you cut a little here?" "How about letting me scrape by for this?" To risk lifting up the Lutheran martyr again, the words "cheap grace" come to mind.
Yet, the psalm stands powerfully in its simple clarity. Awash in trouble and overwhelmed by "contempt" we reach, finally, for the one who will not go away. After our schemes and ideologies crumble in the dust, we must finally humble ourselves before God and ask for mercy.
Then it is time for midterm exams. Suddenly students wake up in class and ask questions -- often not so much out of thirst for knowledge but rather in fear of judgment. Notes and review become more important. Textbooks emerge from their forgotten places of stopping doors and holding open windows, or life at the bottom of the backpack. A rustling of purpose shakes most students back to reality ... but not all!
Some undergrads have begun to live a lie. They believe their own superiority, their own invulnerability, their own inflated sense of capacity. They have found college life a terrific alternative to whatever the world was like where they came from, and here they own their time, they own their desires, and they own their habits. In the words of Billy Joel: "This is my life! Leave me alone!"
So the test papers are passed, and the hour ticks by in maddening swiftness. The accumulated wisdom is thrust onto the page, sometimes with gleeful regurgitation, sometimes with struggling banality, and sometimes with defiant b---s--- that rivals God's creativity in bringing brand new things out of nothing.
But professors are called to be judges at some point, and we get the last word. My heart wants to make every student a valedictorian, but my mandate requires a measure of realism. Sometimes I have to weigh the words of the students in the balance and find them lacking. And, though they come to me later with wailing and gnashing of teeth, explaining some illogical implications of statements they made that really meant the opposite, judgment day has come, and there is no turning back.
The lectionary passages for today carry with them this theme. College life (or whatever substitute you might wish to choose) is wonderful. It allows students to experience many freedoms and express many passions. But, like most things we do, it has its boundaries and assessments. Some are ready for judgment day, and some are not. That doesn't make judgment day wrong; rather it reminds us that we are not gods, and must answer to limits, norms, and the true God. Those who make certain choices will find their midterm exams to be as delightful as sharing in the construction of a magnificent cathedral, and sensing that God lives in the place. Of course, those who make other choices have every reason to fear midterm exams.
Judges 4:1-7
The book of Judges has three main literary sections: chapters 1:1--3:6 explain the promise, hope, and expectation that should be carried forward from the Israelites' entrance into Canaan that was recounted in the book of Joshua; chapters 3:7--16:31 tell tales of woe interrupted by mixed-signal victories as Israel presses toward self-destruction; chapters 17-21 form an appendix that documents how far degradation can suck a nation. The overarching theme of the book seems to be the reverse of that of Joshua. There the land of promise came within reach of God's people; here in Judges it is slipping away from their grasp. And the condition that separates the two movements is covenant faithfulness.
The covenant created between God and Israel at Mount Sinai, on the way from Egypt to Canaan, was phrased in the form of a Suzerain-Vassal treaty, with historical prologue, stipulations, witnesses, and a section commonly called "curses and blessings." This rehearsal of woe and weal projected future welfare dependent upon fidelity to the character of the covenant relationship. In effect, the book of Judges explains the logical outcome of Israel's covenant unfaithfulness: curses abound.
But within each horror story there is a countervailing hero tale. While Israel forgets her marriage to God, God will not forget his marriage to Israel. Twelve times a strong (and often flawed) marriage counselor appears on the scene to do crisis management and then to moderate a time of vows renewal. The story of Othniel in chapter 3 standardizes the five-part typical "judge" (we don't really have a good English term to describe these people; "deliverer" is probably better than "judge," although the judgment dimension ought not to be neglected in our retelling and understanding of these stories) saga pattern: 1) Israelite sinful waywardness; 2) divine judgment in the form of a political threat; 3) a passionate prayer for deliverance; 4) the rising star of a divinely appointed deliverer; and 5) the conflict miraculously resolved in favor of Israel leading to a peaceful aftermath.
The tale of Deborah (and Barak) ought to be told in its entirety (Judges 4 is the prose, Judges 5 is the earlier poetic version), but today's lectionary intent is fulfilled when the preacher gets at the "exam day" feel of these stories. Israel is tested along the plumb line of the covenant; the invaders are judged as threatening God's plans; and the leaders themselves are assayed for their reluctant, ill-fitted, and corrupted response to God's challenging call. Homiletically, the point of connection ought to raise questions about such assessments in our own churches and cultures.
1 Thessalonians 5:1-11
Paul's Thessalonians correspondence was written early in his missionary career. The book of Acts does not help us much with a background to this letter, only telling us that Paul stopped briefly in the city on his second mission journey and spent at least three weeks speaking in the synagogue before the city erupted in a riot against Paul's presence and message (17:1-9). A theme that clearly emerges is Paul's perception that Jesus would return very soon to finish God's work of redemption. It seems that Paul's preaching focused so strongly on the awe-inspiring message of Jesus' resurrection and the promise of Jesus' imminent return, that two responses set in after the little missionary troupe moved on. First, some in Thessalonica became stargazers. They gave up their daily jobs and responsibilities in order to sit and wait for Jesus to come and rescue them. They lost their sense of purpose in this world and became spiritual space cadets -- too heavenly minded to be any longer of earthly good.
Second, some who experienced deaths in the family following Paul's leave began to question whether Paul's message was true. If, in fact, Jesus had conquered death, why did death still rear up its ugly head? Why should Jesus-followers have to die anymore, if Jesus was stronger than death? Moreover, did their dead friends and relatives miss out on all the promises of God, simply because they had died too soon?
To each of these challenges Paul gives a stirring response in chapter 4, and here in chapter 5 Paul outlines briefly an ethic for the waiting times. Paul uses metaphors of surprise (vv. 1-3) and darkness/light (vv. 4-10) to call for appropriate behaviors: constant preparedness and lifestyles that can pass the scrutiny of the exams that are coming.
Both metaphors can be mined effectively for sermons. Historians of the Titanic disaster, for instance, tell that when Captain Smith knew the gravity of the situation, he did not have time to teach his crew how to act. Months of training and years of British naval heritage came together, however, in his single command to his staff. "Be British," he told them. In those words they were instructed to go about their tasks with the firm confidence of seamen who had lived always on the edge of the great exam. Throughout their years of briny experiences they had prepared themselves for this possible eventuality, and now it was here. They did not have time for handholding or refresher courses or counseling sessions. "Be British," said Captain Smith, and his crew knew how to conduct themselves in the crisis of the night. In a similar vein, Paul might be overheard in this passage, saying, "Be Christian!" (meaning, "Be ready!").
The darkness/light metaphor as well is rich with homiletic "preachability." From Plato's cave-dwellers' parable in The Republic to Steven Spielberg's Star Wars movie saga, darkness and light come to represent two world orders, two vantage points, two ways of living. The darkness seems natural to those who have known only it (see, for instance, George MacDonald's powerful short story "The Day Boy and the Night Girl"). But once one is introduced to the light, life itself is transformed. It is not merely a matter of being able to "see," but a whole new way of life that emerges. This is Paul's message in these verses.
Matthew 25:14-30
Jesus is nearing the end of his ministry. He is in Jerusalem (ch. 21) for the final week before his crucifixion. In Matthew's telling of these days, Jesus' teachings are extremely pointed (21:12--22:46) and often judgmental (chs. 23 and 24). The apocalyptic vision of chapter 24 ends with a call to watch and be prepared (24:36-44) because exam time (judgment day) is approaching, and the outcome for each person will depend on preparation and awareness (24:45-51).
Chapter 25 is made up of three parables that have the same basic theme, and which together will crystallize the opposition against Jesus (see 26:1-4). The recurring motif is Jesus' question of readiness for the imminent divine exam time that is coming. The parable of the ten virgins (25:1-13) focuses on watchfulness and resources. This parable of the talents (25:14-30) explores attitude, and the following tale of the sheep and goats (25:31-46) investigates ongoing lifestyle in its connection with eternal outcomes. In effect, Jesus is constantly telling people to be ready for the exam but he is also making it clear that readiness for the divine examination is not something one can cram for, nor something that one ought to fear. Instead, the awareness of a coming assessment should help us think through why we are here and how our lives can reflect a purpose that has eternal significance.
That is certainly true in today's Gospel Reading. The parable of the talents is told in a slightly different way in Luke's Gospel (19:11-27). There it follows the story of Jesus and Zacchaeus, and includes elements that seem to echo the actual travels and commands of Herod within remembered time. Here the parable is divorced from contextual referents, and clearly calls the hearers to be prepared for the day of divine assessment. But fear is not an option. Fear causes spiritual paralysis, and this is no virtue. Only those who live expectantly (with an emphasis on both those words -- live and expectantly) will find exam day a good experience. To paraphrase Martin Luther's thoughts: As long as you are going to live anyway, you should live boldly.
Jesus calls us to a kind of active patience. We need to wait, because exam day has not yet arrived. But we need to be active in the waiting, since exam day will require of us things that only can be gained through the living of these days (cf. Harry Emerson Fosdick's great hymn, "God of Grace and God of Glory").
Application
A friend of mine was awakened suddenly on a Saturday morning by a telephone call across three time zones. His brother had been injured and was hospitalized in the critical care unit with a cracked skull and a swelling brain. My friend languored in helplessness. No airplane could get him to his brother's side before either the injury might prove fatal or the swelling would subside and the emergency pass. Enforced patience drummed him with nervous fret, a burden he did not want to bear.
Patience is a tough virtue, slipping from our grasp in the moment of demand. It always races with Road Runner while we are stymied in the dust with Wile E. Coyote, never catching up no matter what Acme technology we employ. Stephen Winward says that at his mother's knee he learned a poem that has proved perennially true:
Patience is a virtue: possess it if you can!
Seldom in a woman, and never in a man.
My own parents used to tell us, "All good things come to those who wait." While that may have been true in the past it hardly seems to apply any more. We seem systematically to have beaten the need for waiting. We buy instant foods, and "nuke" them to serving temperature in microwave ovens. Our satellite dishes and Internet search engines bring immediate access to news and information from around the world. We pop painkillers to evaporate our aches, so we don't even have to deal with the whys of our hurts. If we see something we like, instant credit grants us immediate possession.
Still, there are things that we can't control, and these keep the fires of desire burning the paper house of patience in our souls. The church in first-century Thessalonica was trying to be "patient until the Lord's coming," and Paul had to tell the people to get back to work rather than constantly scanning the horizon.
Throughout history people have tried to run ahead of patience by pretending it wasn't needed, that the world would end before they did. The Millerites and the Seventh Day Adventists announced Judgment Day watches several times over. People climbed trees and sat on rooftops in all-night vigils, but starry skies never split with angelic celebration and the dreams died with graying dawn. So, too, did the patience.
A neighboring farmer in my boyhood community was captured by one of these millennial preachers. He sold his farm, bought a motor home, and traveled with his family in caravan with a dozen others chasing the preacher on a whirlwind tour of North America, spreading the news of kingdom come. Six months later they circled the motor homes in Texas and waited. And waited. And waited.
When Jesus refused to do a command curtain call on their schedule (as in Matthew's Gospel Reading for today), the motor homes began to drift away. The prophetic band broke up, disillusioned with a nearsighted preacher, and our neighbor sneaked back to Minnesota in shame. He died a short while later, tired of patience that gave out before promise.
This is the religious dimension of patience that we find hard to manage. Our world is imperfect, with corners that bump knees and scorpions that poison hands. We get lonely, we get pained; we struggle to survive and are old in body before our youthful ideals get a chance to catch up. We try to find a little comfort and come away addicted to work or booze or drugs or sex ... always far short of heaven.
The patience of waiting is tied to our understanding of how time will get resolved into eternity (so the book of Judges). If there is no God outside the system, we are stuck with cycles of repetition, crushed beneath recurring tasks and tedium that never ends. But if there is a God who has promised to interrupt history with healing and hope and harmony, we wait with expectation.
My friend's brother died from his head injuries. Now my friend waits with the patience of Paul's instructions to the Thessalonians for the coming of Jesus. He is confident that then he will see his brother again, according to the promise of scripture. Without that promise he could not be patient. In an impatient world his is a remarkable hope. A religious hope. A patient hope.
An Alternative Application
Judges 4:1-7. The story of Deborah in Judges 4 can be preached on its own if it is told in its entirety. It is not necessary to read both Judges 4 and 5, but it might be good to bring some of the poetry of chapter 5 into a homily on the themes of chapter 4. Preaching the story of Deborah, Barak, and the time of the judges requires developing an extensive history that reviews Israel's identity from Egypt to Canaan (especially the covenant at Mount Sinai), and also gives a religious apology for Israel's right to the "promised land." This cannot be phrased merely in terms of "divine promises" or "the spoils of conquest." Rather, it should be seen in the framework of Palestine's unique geographical location in the ancient world. This tiny strip of land forms the bridge between three continents (Africa, Asia, and Europe), and was the high-traffic road for virtually all conquest routes, trading caravans, communications links, and nomadic wanderings.
If the creation no longer knew its Creator (Genesis 1-11), it is understandable how the Creator would work with a community (Genesis 12-50) to nurture a unique identity (Exodus through Deuteronomy) and place that community in the most strategic spot of territory in the world of its day (Joshua) in order to be a witness to all nations. If, however, that community began to lose its distinctiveness (as in Judges), there would be no reason for its continued existence, and the wars of Judges might well wipe it out. But that would be to deny the Creator's purposes, and so the tales of Judges begin to make sense. Israel gets divine deliverance in its battles not so much because of its special piety but in spite of its constant undermining of its special task. The judges (like Deborah and Barak) are not Israel's heroes but God's heroes. They do not stand as a witness of Israel's great strength but of God's covenant tenacity. Hence the celebrations that reverberate through the poetry of Judges 5.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 123
Clarity seems sometimes to be an elusive thing for people of faith. Often confused with arrogance, and fearful of the accusation, clarity retreats, leaving the field to confusion and worse. But here in the text of this Psalm the clouds part as the writer reaches out of suffering to seize upon clarity.
"To you I lift up my eyes!" The emphasis here cannot be attributed to the writer of the psalm. Yet, it is important to consider that then, as now, there are hosts of people and institutions competing against God for our loyalty and allegiance. Moreover, it is usually in the context of struggle that we are forced to make such choices. Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, living in a time when the state claimed the throne of God as its own, gained clarity in just such a struggle. He chose God over fascism. Though churches today seldom approach such concerns in their contemporary form, the question wants asking. What people or entities are competing today with God for our allegiance? Do our dalliances with career, relationships, or politics violate our covenant with God? If so, how? And if so, what do we intend to do about it?
This psalm pierces clean through to the heart of faith. As someone long ago put it, "there aren't any atheists in foxholes." In these few plaintive words, Israel reaches through pain and struggle to seek the mercy of a God who won't be treated lightly. We are, the words suggest, to know our place. "As the eyes of servants look to the hands of their master, as the eyes of a maid to the hand of her mistress, so our eyes look to the Lord our God ... until (he) has shown us mercy" (v. 2).
While the text strives to make the power arrangement clear, the reality of our lives of faith doesn't quite jive with it all. We are servants, that much is clear. Yet we try to cut deals with God rather more like (he) is a car salesman. "I'll do this if you'll do that." "Can you cut a little here?" "How about letting me scrape by for this?" To risk lifting up the Lutheran martyr again, the words "cheap grace" come to mind.
Yet, the psalm stands powerfully in its simple clarity. Awash in trouble and overwhelmed by "contempt" we reach, finally, for the one who will not go away. After our schemes and ideologies crumble in the dust, we must finally humble ourselves before God and ask for mercy.
