Now departing
Commentary
Object:
I'm sure you've heard it many times, just as I have. Grieving friends and family members at the funeral, comforting themselves and one another with phrases like "the Lord took him."
I remember particularly one case fifteen years ago that genuinely troubled me. The widow and her daughter were both crying, but they found solace in the thought that the Lord had taken their husband and father.
Well, now, in that case I had seen it happen. This poor man had been diagnosed with liver cancer some months before, and I watched for those months as his body slowly wasted away. I saw him losing weight and energy. I saw him become a gaunt shadow of his formerly robust self. I saw him gradually disappearing in a hospital bed until finally, mercifully, he died.
Is that how it looks when the Lord takes someone? It seemed to me that cancer had taken him. Now, don't misunderstand my meaning. I don't doubt that the Lord received him, but I hate to attribute to God that particular method of taking.
Is that just semantics? Perhaps. But I don't want to list God in the credits of a movie that he didn't make. There is such a reliable beauty and sweetness, such a perfection and wisdom, to all of his works. As Fanny Crosby rightly put it, "Jesus doeth all things well!" So I hesitate to point to a man sapped to death by cancer and say, "The Lord took him."
In our Old Testament lection, we catch a lovely glimpse of what it really looks like when God takes someone. It is not the stuff of hospital beds and feeding tubes. Rather, it features horses and chariots of fire!
2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14
The story begins with a very matter-of-fact reference to an extraordinary event. "The Lord was about the take Elijah up to heaven by a whirlwind," the narrator reports. This end-of-life scenario makes Elijah unique in all of scripture, and it may have helped give rise to the expectations that he would return.
Elijah's imminent departure seemed to be the worst kept secret in Israel, at least among the prophetic crowd. Elijah seemed to know what was coming, and Elisha sensed it, too. And several prophets along the way also warned Elisha about what was to happen.
The text gives us no explanation as to why Elijah kept urging Elisha to stay behind. But Elisha's resolve to stay with his mentor proves to be consistent with his the feistiness and determination that characterizes the rest of his ministry. Also in keeping with other episodes from Elisha's ministry, we see that such boldness pays off in the things of God, for seeing Elijah as he was taken proved to be the key to Elisha receiving what he sought.
See what he sought! Elijah asks what he may do for his disciple and companion before he goes, and Elisha unblushingly says, "Please let me inherit a double share of your spirit."
What a magnificent example! Like the unapologetic nagging widow (Luke 18:1-5) or the knocking neighbor in the middle of the night (Luke 11:5-8), Elisha does not hesitate to ask. And he asks big, at that!
Do we think we do God a favor by asking for just a little? Do we need to protect his checkbook balance? Is he grateful that we ask for a crust when he has demonstrated again and again his desire to supply in abundance (see, for example Psalm 23:5; Matthew 14:20; Luke 5:6-7, 6:38; John 10:10; Philippians 4:19)?
"What is the best thing I have seen God do in another person's life? Fine -- double that! I'd like twice as much!" Such is the boldness of Elisha's request, and all subsequent evidence suggests that his request was generously granted.
The mantle is an important element in the story of Elijah and Elisha, and the symbolic significance that we associate with a "mantle" is traced back to their story. The role of the mantle begins many chapters earlier and without explanation. When Elijah is returning from his divine rendezvous at Sinai, he puts his own mantle across Elisha's shoulders (1 Kings 19:19). It appears to be the symbol of Elisha's call. Elisha surely perceives it as such, and he follows Elijah from that day forward.
Now, at the conclusion of their shared journey, Elijah had strangely used his mantle to strike the Jordan River, which caused it to part before the two men. So, when Elijah was taken up to heaven, his mantle fittingly fell to the ground by Elisha. He took up the mantle of his mentor, and he headed back toward the Jordan. There, in characteristic boldness, he struck the water as he had seen Elijah do, and he called out, "Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?" And, in response, the water parted, just as it had done earlier for Elijah.
The episode is reminiscent of a pattern we see earlier in Old Testament history. Moses was famously associated with the parting of the Red Sea (Exodus 14:15--15:19). Then, a generation later, when it was time for Joshua to succeed Moses as Israel's leader, it seems that God used the parting of the Jordan as a symbolism of that succession (Joshua 3:7-17).
Now, likewise, the symmetry of the parting of the Jordan by Elijah and then Elisha seems to be divine confirmation of Elisha's role. He has, indeed, taken up the mantle of Elijah.
Galatians 5:1, 13-25
Our lection begins with a statement that is either quite profound or quite redundant. "For freedom Christ has set us free," Paul proclaims. I lean toward believing that that simple declaration is quite profound, and so we will give it lengthier attention below.
Meanwhile, we discover that Paul's understanding of freedom is quite different from our own. While our culture is rather fond of using "freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence," Paul urges us to "become slaves to one another."
What fun is that?
I was dismayed to learn that a young woman in a congregation I had served used the opportunity of her 21st birthday to go out and get drunk. She is emblematic of the mentality that freedom is license for self-indulgence. Likewise is the man who uses his day off entirely for himself and his own interests, or the woman who spends unexpected money entirely on herself. Our culture does not blink at such self-serving reflexes, but Paul calls us higher. Let me employ that day off or that extra money to benefit someone else!
To become a slave to someone else, of course, strikes us as the antithesis of freedom. But I am still free, am I not, if I am making that choice? If it is voluntary, then I am free. While such a voluntary choice seems to the world nonsensical, it does not look that way to Paul -- or to any Christian. Rather, it looks familiar to us: it looks like the one who knelt down to wash his disciples' feet (John 13:1-15); it looks like the one who "emptied himself of all but love" and took on the form of a slave (Philippians 2:7). None of this demotion -- from his incarnation to his crucifixion -- was compulsory; it was all voluntary, which, of course, is precisely what makes it love.
And love is the issue. We may let ourselves get bogged down in the minutiae of rules, rituals, or theology, but an honest pursuit of the things of God will always lead us back around to love. And "the whole law," says this recovering Pharisee, "is summed up in a single commandment" to love.
Then, as Paul unpacks what it looks like to live without love, he presents the Galatians with a simple either-or paradigm. They may either "live by the Spirit" or they may "gratify the desires of the flesh." The spirit-flesh dualism is a familiar theme in Paul's epistles, and it certainly recalls Jesus' observation to his sleep disciples in Gethsemane (Matthew 26:41). It might even be argued that the spirit-flesh composition is what the writer of Genesis has in mind when he describes the creation of human beings (Genesis 2:7).
When we consider Paul's list of "the works of the flesh," however, we discover that his definition of "flesh" may be broader than ours. We might naturally associate fornication, licentiousness, drunkenness, and carousing with the appetites of the flesh. Yet other items on this list -- strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, and dissensions -- seem to us more like issues of the ego than of the body. Furthermore, idolatry and sorcery seem like spiritual issues. But Paul's understanding of "the flesh" is not limited to our physical bodies. Indeed, the New International Version replaces "flesh" with "the sinful nature." Eugene Peterson, too, eschews the word flesh, referring instead to "a root of sinful self-interest in us."
Finally, having itemized "the works of the flesh," Paul goes on to identify by contrast the works of the Spirit, which he famously calls "the fruit of the Spirit." The following nine nouns comprise the most familiar passage from the entire epistle, and perhaps one of the most cherished passage from the entire Pauline corpus.
The apostle does us a great favor with his picturesque language. To call these attributes "fruit" is to say a very great deal about them in a single word. It suggests growth and a process. Furthermore, it is a natural process within the context of a healthy organism. And it places these attributes into the larger context of a scriptural theme (Psalm 1:3; Matthew 3:8, 7:18-19; Luke 3:8-9, 6:43-44; John 15:1-16), which is most helpful.
Luke 9:51-62
The synoptic gospels have an identifiable watershed. Peter's confession of Christ (Matthew 16:16; Mark 8:29; Luke 9:20) seems to mark the turning point. It becomes the first occasion when Jesus speaks openly to his disciples about what will happen to him in Jerusalem, and from that point on everything seems to point toward Jerusalem.
In Luke's gospel, Peter's confession of Christ occurs as the second episode of chapter 9. Now, late in that very same chapter, Luke indicates that "the days drew near for him to be taken up," and so "he set his face to go to Jerusalem."
The picture of Jesus' determination is a compelling one, given his foreknowledge. If he had been under the same delusions as both some of his followers and some of his opponents -- that Jerusalem would be the site of some conventional, human victory of popular acclaim or military revolution -- his unwavering drive toward Jerusalem would be understandable. Seeing, however, that he was fully aware of the suffering that awaited him there (see Luke 9:22), we are amazed that he went full-speed ahead, resisting all tempting delays and detours. "We marvel at the purpose that held thee to thy course while ever on the hilltop before thee loomed the cross; thy steadfast face set forward where love and duty shone, while we betray so quickly and leave thee there alone."
Luke repeats the image of Jesus' face being set in verse 53, and that emphatic use of the phrase recalls the Old Testament prophecy (Isaiah 50:4-7), which reads to us like a picture of Christ and his passion.
Meanwhile, the rejection of Jesus by a Samaritan village evokes an interesting response from James and John. "Do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?" they ask Jesus, with unbecoming eagerness. It is unclear what gave these two erstwhile fishermen so great a sense of authority that they felt they could offer such a cosmic retaliation. What is clear, however, is that their reflex was contrary to the Lord's will in this matter.
We know from certain teachings of Jesus that other villages had also been disappointing in their response to him (e.g., Matthew 11:20-24), yet we don't have any record of James and John expressing similar zeal about any of those towns. It is at least suspicious, therefore, if not outright shameful, that they save their greatest indignation for a Samarian village.
The seeming prejudice of James and John is disgraceful, to be sure, but it is not unfamiliar. Even if we keep ourselves free of preferences based on race or ethnicity, it remains our instinct at some level to treat different people differently. Two people can be guilty of the same offense, yet we don't respond to the offenders the same way. When the guy we like strikes out, we say, "Nice try! Good swing!" When the player whom we regard as an overpaid jerk strikes out, however, we say, "Throw the bum out!"
Next we come to the series of people we sometimes identify as the would-be disciples. There are three of them, and we don't know any of their names. They do not rank with Peter, Andrew, James, John, and the rest. Furthermore, we don't really know what becomes of any of them (unlike, say, the rich young ruler of Mark 10:22). Therefore, they do not fully serve as object lessons for us. Yet Jesus' words to each of them help us to understand the meaning of discipleship.
The first one is a volunteer and to him Jesus offers this strange response: "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." At first blush, it sounds a bit self-pitying, but within the larger context we hear it as a cautionary word to a would-be disciple. Just as Jesus elsewhere urged the crowds to count the cost (Luke 14:25-33), so this volunteer needed to consider the implications of following Jesus.
The second one was called, much like Peter, Andrew, James, John, and Matthew. This one's response, however, is markedly different from those other men, for while they immediately dropped what they were doing in order to follow (cf. Matthew 4:20; 9:9), this would-be disciple had something else to do first. His "but first" request seems perfectly reasonable to us: except that it is never reasonable to put something else first ahead of Christ.
Finally, the third case is a mixture of the first two. He is a volunteer, like would-be number one, but he also has something he wants to do first before he begins to follow. The man or woman who has something else to do first, of course, is like the sad soul envisioned in Philip Bliss' song: "Seems now some soul to say, 'Go, Spirit, go thy way, some more convenient day on thee I'll call' … 'Almost persuaded' … 'Almost,' but lost."
Application
The departure of Elijah is surely a grand picture of what it looks like for God to take someone. At the same time, we recognize that it is a unique event. The only other person God took, according to scripture, was Enoch, and we are not privy to the details of his departure (Genesis 5:24). Since every other soul -- including so many great saints of God -- leaves this life without the benefit of horses and chariots of fire, therefore, we must suppose that some other sort of departure likely awaits you and me.
Interestingly, Elijah's departure is not the only one at issue in this week's selected lections. Jesus' departure is also anticipated in our gospel reading. Although he had so recently predicted to his disciples the suffering that awaited him in Jerusalem, Luke reports that, "the days drew near for him to be taken up." He doesn't say that "the days drew near for him to suffer," but rather "for him to be taken up." That language suggests something more victorious -- something like what happened to Elijah. It's as though Luke is bypassing the crucifixion and looking to the ascension.
Luke's language in this passage is not an anomaly. Earlier in this same chapter, he reports that, at his transfiguration, Moses and Elijah spoke with Jesus "of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem" (Luke 9:31). Is the cross a "departure"? Is being ridiculed and tortured something one "accomplishes"? Again, Luke must have something else in view.
We know well what happened to Jesus in Jerusalem. It more nearly resembled the man with liver cancer than Elijah, inasmuch as it was marked by pain, suffering, and an ignominious end. Yet we also know that that was not the end of the story, for Jesus was victoriously raised to life and glory.
So, too, I believe was that dear departed husband and father. For whether it is by chariot or by hearse that we depart this life, either way we are surely taken up to glory.
Alternative Application
Galatians 5:1, 13-25. "St. Otis vs. St. Paul." People of my generation will remember with fondness the old Andy Griffith Show and all of its stories and characters from Mayberry, North Carolina. Among the true characters was Otis, the town drunk. One of the idiosyncrasies of Otis and the informal criminal justice system there in that idyllic little town was how his drunken bouts were handled. When he had become inebriated, Otis would stumble into the courthouse, take the cell key off the wall to open up one of the cells, lock himself in, and then sleep it off there in jail. Then, when he had returned to sobriety, he would unlock his own cell, and let himself go.
It was a charming part of Mayberry's style. But Otis becomes for us the patron saint of an unhealthy pattern within a great many Christians. Otis would voluntarily lock himself into a prison cell. Rather than choosing to walk around free, he would choose confinement.
In Otis' case, that represented a certain sort of responsibility, I suppose. And his self-induced bondage was undertaken with the full knowledge that he could let himself out again. Yet he reminds me of what I have seen in myself and in others: the Christian who, having been set free by Christ, stumbles and bumbles his way back into bondage, effectively volunteering to live behind bars once again.
It is against the backdrop of this pattern that we may understand Paul's strong statement: "For freedom Christ has set us free." He does not release us from our cell simply so that, in the image of the analogy, we can go off and get drunk again. On the contrary, we are not to "submit again to a yoke of slavery."
Next, we hear Paul instruct the Galatian Christians, "Do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence." There really is nothing new under the sun, is there? Paul was combating 2,000 years ago in Asia Minor what still haunts American culture today: freedom as a license for self-indulgence. Spiritually that self-indulgence becomes a new imprisonment for us, which was not what our liberator has in mind. On the contrary, it was "for freedom (that) Christ has set us free."
Preaching the Psalm
Psalm 77:1-2, 11-20
For most of us, ongoing performance is the measure of success or failure. At work or in our relationships we look to how someone is actually performing to make our judgments. Are they doing a good job today? Did someone treat me nicely today? Our record of past deeds seldom holds sway over what's happening in the present moment. We could have a sterling past in terms of employment. But if we mess up right now the consequences can be severe.
Similarly, in our relationship we most often work on the principle of "what have you done for me lately?" If someone whacks us in the head today, their past kindnesses recede quickly into the mists. Grace and memory do not often infiltrate our process.
If we behave this way in our day-to-day lives, how can we avoid taking this with us as we strive to relate to God? When things are tough, what is our prayer? When we are struggling or even suffering, what is our first inclination? How often have we taken God to task or even blamed God for our predicament? Have the words, "Why did you do this to me, God?" ever formed in your mind?
Or like the psalmist, do we catch ourselves and recall the mighty works of God? Do we pause in the midst of our own private maelstrom and think about God's incredible act of Creation? When children are acting out or spouses are grumpy; when we lose a job or suffer from illness do we actually take the time to consider the awesomeness of God? Or do we carry on as usual and ask God what (he) has done for us lately?
In this psalm the writer pauses in mid-complaint and takes a moment to think. After thinking of God and moaning (v. 2), the writer thinks better of it and has an attitude adjustment. "I will call to mind the deeds of the Lord." And following this comes a flood of memory and with it the grace that is required of us all if we are to move through life's struggles.
Where, we are forced to ask, do we need to pause and consider the mighty acts of God? Where, in our lives, do we need to adopt a new attitude that includes grace and memory of past wonders? Could such a thing prove helpful with our work? With our families and friends? These are things worth pondering as we wade through the often muddy shallows of our daily lives.
I remember particularly one case fifteen years ago that genuinely troubled me. The widow and her daughter were both crying, but they found solace in the thought that the Lord had taken their husband and father.
Well, now, in that case I had seen it happen. This poor man had been diagnosed with liver cancer some months before, and I watched for those months as his body slowly wasted away. I saw him losing weight and energy. I saw him become a gaunt shadow of his formerly robust self. I saw him gradually disappearing in a hospital bed until finally, mercifully, he died.
Is that how it looks when the Lord takes someone? It seemed to me that cancer had taken him. Now, don't misunderstand my meaning. I don't doubt that the Lord received him, but I hate to attribute to God that particular method of taking.
Is that just semantics? Perhaps. But I don't want to list God in the credits of a movie that he didn't make. There is such a reliable beauty and sweetness, such a perfection and wisdom, to all of his works. As Fanny Crosby rightly put it, "Jesus doeth all things well!" So I hesitate to point to a man sapped to death by cancer and say, "The Lord took him."
In our Old Testament lection, we catch a lovely glimpse of what it really looks like when God takes someone. It is not the stuff of hospital beds and feeding tubes. Rather, it features horses and chariots of fire!
2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14
The story begins with a very matter-of-fact reference to an extraordinary event. "The Lord was about the take Elijah up to heaven by a whirlwind," the narrator reports. This end-of-life scenario makes Elijah unique in all of scripture, and it may have helped give rise to the expectations that he would return.
Elijah's imminent departure seemed to be the worst kept secret in Israel, at least among the prophetic crowd. Elijah seemed to know what was coming, and Elisha sensed it, too. And several prophets along the way also warned Elisha about what was to happen.
The text gives us no explanation as to why Elijah kept urging Elisha to stay behind. But Elisha's resolve to stay with his mentor proves to be consistent with his the feistiness and determination that characterizes the rest of his ministry. Also in keeping with other episodes from Elisha's ministry, we see that such boldness pays off in the things of God, for seeing Elijah as he was taken proved to be the key to Elisha receiving what he sought.
See what he sought! Elijah asks what he may do for his disciple and companion before he goes, and Elisha unblushingly says, "Please let me inherit a double share of your spirit."
What a magnificent example! Like the unapologetic nagging widow (Luke 18:1-5) or the knocking neighbor in the middle of the night (Luke 11:5-8), Elisha does not hesitate to ask. And he asks big, at that!
Do we think we do God a favor by asking for just a little? Do we need to protect his checkbook balance? Is he grateful that we ask for a crust when he has demonstrated again and again his desire to supply in abundance (see, for example Psalm 23:5; Matthew 14:20; Luke 5:6-7, 6:38; John 10:10; Philippians 4:19)?
"What is the best thing I have seen God do in another person's life? Fine -- double that! I'd like twice as much!" Such is the boldness of Elisha's request, and all subsequent evidence suggests that his request was generously granted.
The mantle is an important element in the story of Elijah and Elisha, and the symbolic significance that we associate with a "mantle" is traced back to their story. The role of the mantle begins many chapters earlier and without explanation. When Elijah is returning from his divine rendezvous at Sinai, he puts his own mantle across Elisha's shoulders (1 Kings 19:19). It appears to be the symbol of Elisha's call. Elisha surely perceives it as such, and he follows Elijah from that day forward.
Now, at the conclusion of their shared journey, Elijah had strangely used his mantle to strike the Jordan River, which caused it to part before the two men. So, when Elijah was taken up to heaven, his mantle fittingly fell to the ground by Elisha. He took up the mantle of his mentor, and he headed back toward the Jordan. There, in characteristic boldness, he struck the water as he had seen Elijah do, and he called out, "Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?" And, in response, the water parted, just as it had done earlier for Elijah.
The episode is reminiscent of a pattern we see earlier in Old Testament history. Moses was famously associated with the parting of the Red Sea (Exodus 14:15--15:19). Then, a generation later, when it was time for Joshua to succeed Moses as Israel's leader, it seems that God used the parting of the Jordan as a symbolism of that succession (Joshua 3:7-17).
Now, likewise, the symmetry of the parting of the Jordan by Elijah and then Elisha seems to be divine confirmation of Elisha's role. He has, indeed, taken up the mantle of Elijah.
Galatians 5:1, 13-25
Our lection begins with a statement that is either quite profound or quite redundant. "For freedom Christ has set us free," Paul proclaims. I lean toward believing that that simple declaration is quite profound, and so we will give it lengthier attention below.
Meanwhile, we discover that Paul's understanding of freedom is quite different from our own. While our culture is rather fond of using "freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence," Paul urges us to "become slaves to one another."
What fun is that?
I was dismayed to learn that a young woman in a congregation I had served used the opportunity of her 21st birthday to go out and get drunk. She is emblematic of the mentality that freedom is license for self-indulgence. Likewise is the man who uses his day off entirely for himself and his own interests, or the woman who spends unexpected money entirely on herself. Our culture does not blink at such self-serving reflexes, but Paul calls us higher. Let me employ that day off or that extra money to benefit someone else!
To become a slave to someone else, of course, strikes us as the antithesis of freedom. But I am still free, am I not, if I am making that choice? If it is voluntary, then I am free. While such a voluntary choice seems to the world nonsensical, it does not look that way to Paul -- or to any Christian. Rather, it looks familiar to us: it looks like the one who knelt down to wash his disciples' feet (John 13:1-15); it looks like the one who "emptied himself of all but love" and took on the form of a slave (Philippians 2:7). None of this demotion -- from his incarnation to his crucifixion -- was compulsory; it was all voluntary, which, of course, is precisely what makes it love.
And love is the issue. We may let ourselves get bogged down in the minutiae of rules, rituals, or theology, but an honest pursuit of the things of God will always lead us back around to love. And "the whole law," says this recovering Pharisee, "is summed up in a single commandment" to love.
Then, as Paul unpacks what it looks like to live without love, he presents the Galatians with a simple either-or paradigm. They may either "live by the Spirit" or they may "gratify the desires of the flesh." The spirit-flesh dualism is a familiar theme in Paul's epistles, and it certainly recalls Jesus' observation to his sleep disciples in Gethsemane (Matthew 26:41). It might even be argued that the spirit-flesh composition is what the writer of Genesis has in mind when he describes the creation of human beings (Genesis 2:7).
When we consider Paul's list of "the works of the flesh," however, we discover that his definition of "flesh" may be broader than ours. We might naturally associate fornication, licentiousness, drunkenness, and carousing with the appetites of the flesh. Yet other items on this list -- strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, and dissensions -- seem to us more like issues of the ego than of the body. Furthermore, idolatry and sorcery seem like spiritual issues. But Paul's understanding of "the flesh" is not limited to our physical bodies. Indeed, the New International Version replaces "flesh" with "the sinful nature." Eugene Peterson, too, eschews the word flesh, referring instead to "a root of sinful self-interest in us."
Finally, having itemized "the works of the flesh," Paul goes on to identify by contrast the works of the Spirit, which he famously calls "the fruit of the Spirit." The following nine nouns comprise the most familiar passage from the entire epistle, and perhaps one of the most cherished passage from the entire Pauline corpus.
The apostle does us a great favor with his picturesque language. To call these attributes "fruit" is to say a very great deal about them in a single word. It suggests growth and a process. Furthermore, it is a natural process within the context of a healthy organism. And it places these attributes into the larger context of a scriptural theme (Psalm 1:3; Matthew 3:8, 7:18-19; Luke 3:8-9, 6:43-44; John 15:1-16), which is most helpful.
Luke 9:51-62
The synoptic gospels have an identifiable watershed. Peter's confession of Christ (Matthew 16:16; Mark 8:29; Luke 9:20) seems to mark the turning point. It becomes the first occasion when Jesus speaks openly to his disciples about what will happen to him in Jerusalem, and from that point on everything seems to point toward Jerusalem.
In Luke's gospel, Peter's confession of Christ occurs as the second episode of chapter 9. Now, late in that very same chapter, Luke indicates that "the days drew near for him to be taken up," and so "he set his face to go to Jerusalem."
The picture of Jesus' determination is a compelling one, given his foreknowledge. If he had been under the same delusions as both some of his followers and some of his opponents -- that Jerusalem would be the site of some conventional, human victory of popular acclaim or military revolution -- his unwavering drive toward Jerusalem would be understandable. Seeing, however, that he was fully aware of the suffering that awaited him there (see Luke 9:22), we are amazed that he went full-speed ahead, resisting all tempting delays and detours. "We marvel at the purpose that held thee to thy course while ever on the hilltop before thee loomed the cross; thy steadfast face set forward where love and duty shone, while we betray so quickly and leave thee there alone."
Luke repeats the image of Jesus' face being set in verse 53, and that emphatic use of the phrase recalls the Old Testament prophecy (Isaiah 50:4-7), which reads to us like a picture of Christ and his passion.
Meanwhile, the rejection of Jesus by a Samaritan village evokes an interesting response from James and John. "Do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?" they ask Jesus, with unbecoming eagerness. It is unclear what gave these two erstwhile fishermen so great a sense of authority that they felt they could offer such a cosmic retaliation. What is clear, however, is that their reflex was contrary to the Lord's will in this matter.
We know from certain teachings of Jesus that other villages had also been disappointing in their response to him (e.g., Matthew 11:20-24), yet we don't have any record of James and John expressing similar zeal about any of those towns. It is at least suspicious, therefore, if not outright shameful, that they save their greatest indignation for a Samarian village.
The seeming prejudice of James and John is disgraceful, to be sure, but it is not unfamiliar. Even if we keep ourselves free of preferences based on race or ethnicity, it remains our instinct at some level to treat different people differently. Two people can be guilty of the same offense, yet we don't respond to the offenders the same way. When the guy we like strikes out, we say, "Nice try! Good swing!" When the player whom we regard as an overpaid jerk strikes out, however, we say, "Throw the bum out!"
Next we come to the series of people we sometimes identify as the would-be disciples. There are three of them, and we don't know any of their names. They do not rank with Peter, Andrew, James, John, and the rest. Furthermore, we don't really know what becomes of any of them (unlike, say, the rich young ruler of Mark 10:22). Therefore, they do not fully serve as object lessons for us. Yet Jesus' words to each of them help us to understand the meaning of discipleship.
The first one is a volunteer and to him Jesus offers this strange response: "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." At first blush, it sounds a bit self-pitying, but within the larger context we hear it as a cautionary word to a would-be disciple. Just as Jesus elsewhere urged the crowds to count the cost (Luke 14:25-33), so this volunteer needed to consider the implications of following Jesus.
The second one was called, much like Peter, Andrew, James, John, and Matthew. This one's response, however, is markedly different from those other men, for while they immediately dropped what they were doing in order to follow (cf. Matthew 4:20; 9:9), this would-be disciple had something else to do first. His "but first" request seems perfectly reasonable to us: except that it is never reasonable to put something else first ahead of Christ.
Finally, the third case is a mixture of the first two. He is a volunteer, like would-be number one, but he also has something he wants to do first before he begins to follow. The man or woman who has something else to do first, of course, is like the sad soul envisioned in Philip Bliss' song: "Seems now some soul to say, 'Go, Spirit, go thy way, some more convenient day on thee I'll call' … 'Almost persuaded' … 'Almost,' but lost."
Application
The departure of Elijah is surely a grand picture of what it looks like for God to take someone. At the same time, we recognize that it is a unique event. The only other person God took, according to scripture, was Enoch, and we are not privy to the details of his departure (Genesis 5:24). Since every other soul -- including so many great saints of God -- leaves this life without the benefit of horses and chariots of fire, therefore, we must suppose that some other sort of departure likely awaits you and me.
Interestingly, Elijah's departure is not the only one at issue in this week's selected lections. Jesus' departure is also anticipated in our gospel reading. Although he had so recently predicted to his disciples the suffering that awaited him in Jerusalem, Luke reports that, "the days drew near for him to be taken up." He doesn't say that "the days drew near for him to suffer," but rather "for him to be taken up." That language suggests something more victorious -- something like what happened to Elijah. It's as though Luke is bypassing the crucifixion and looking to the ascension.
Luke's language in this passage is not an anomaly. Earlier in this same chapter, he reports that, at his transfiguration, Moses and Elijah spoke with Jesus "of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem" (Luke 9:31). Is the cross a "departure"? Is being ridiculed and tortured something one "accomplishes"? Again, Luke must have something else in view.
We know well what happened to Jesus in Jerusalem. It more nearly resembled the man with liver cancer than Elijah, inasmuch as it was marked by pain, suffering, and an ignominious end. Yet we also know that that was not the end of the story, for Jesus was victoriously raised to life and glory.
So, too, I believe was that dear departed husband and father. For whether it is by chariot or by hearse that we depart this life, either way we are surely taken up to glory.
Alternative Application
Galatians 5:1, 13-25. "St. Otis vs. St. Paul." People of my generation will remember with fondness the old Andy Griffith Show and all of its stories and characters from Mayberry, North Carolina. Among the true characters was Otis, the town drunk. One of the idiosyncrasies of Otis and the informal criminal justice system there in that idyllic little town was how his drunken bouts were handled. When he had become inebriated, Otis would stumble into the courthouse, take the cell key off the wall to open up one of the cells, lock himself in, and then sleep it off there in jail. Then, when he had returned to sobriety, he would unlock his own cell, and let himself go.
It was a charming part of Mayberry's style. But Otis becomes for us the patron saint of an unhealthy pattern within a great many Christians. Otis would voluntarily lock himself into a prison cell. Rather than choosing to walk around free, he would choose confinement.
In Otis' case, that represented a certain sort of responsibility, I suppose. And his self-induced bondage was undertaken with the full knowledge that he could let himself out again. Yet he reminds me of what I have seen in myself and in others: the Christian who, having been set free by Christ, stumbles and bumbles his way back into bondage, effectively volunteering to live behind bars once again.
It is against the backdrop of this pattern that we may understand Paul's strong statement: "For freedom Christ has set us free." He does not release us from our cell simply so that, in the image of the analogy, we can go off and get drunk again. On the contrary, we are not to "submit again to a yoke of slavery."
Next, we hear Paul instruct the Galatian Christians, "Do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence." There really is nothing new under the sun, is there? Paul was combating 2,000 years ago in Asia Minor what still haunts American culture today: freedom as a license for self-indulgence. Spiritually that self-indulgence becomes a new imprisonment for us, which was not what our liberator has in mind. On the contrary, it was "for freedom (that) Christ has set us free."
Preaching the Psalm
Psalm 77:1-2, 11-20
For most of us, ongoing performance is the measure of success or failure. At work or in our relationships we look to how someone is actually performing to make our judgments. Are they doing a good job today? Did someone treat me nicely today? Our record of past deeds seldom holds sway over what's happening in the present moment. We could have a sterling past in terms of employment. But if we mess up right now the consequences can be severe.
Similarly, in our relationship we most often work on the principle of "what have you done for me lately?" If someone whacks us in the head today, their past kindnesses recede quickly into the mists. Grace and memory do not often infiltrate our process.
If we behave this way in our day-to-day lives, how can we avoid taking this with us as we strive to relate to God? When things are tough, what is our prayer? When we are struggling or even suffering, what is our first inclination? How often have we taken God to task or even blamed God for our predicament? Have the words, "Why did you do this to me, God?" ever formed in your mind?
Or like the psalmist, do we catch ourselves and recall the mighty works of God? Do we pause in the midst of our own private maelstrom and think about God's incredible act of Creation? When children are acting out or spouses are grumpy; when we lose a job or suffer from illness do we actually take the time to consider the awesomeness of God? Or do we carry on as usual and ask God what (he) has done for us lately?
In this psalm the writer pauses in mid-complaint and takes a moment to think. After thinking of God and moaning (v. 2), the writer thinks better of it and has an attitude adjustment. "I will call to mind the deeds of the Lord." And following this comes a flood of memory and with it the grace that is required of us all if we are to move through life's struggles.
Where, we are forced to ask, do we need to pause and consider the mighty acts of God? Where, in our lives, do we need to adopt a new attitude that includes grace and memory of past wonders? Could such a thing prove helpful with our work? With our families and friends? These are things worth pondering as we wade through the often muddy shallows of our daily lives.
