The object of the game
Commentary
Object:
My little girls recently received a new board game for children as a present. They asked
me how to play it, so I opened the box and got out the instructions. There were directions
for how to set up the game, how to play it, and how to determine a winner. Before all of
those details, however, there was a single sentence that came under this heading: "The
Object of the Game."
This is where we find the most basic stuff. "To reach the destination before every other player"; "to score the most points"; "to be the first player to discover the answer"; "to accumulate the most matches"; and so on -- these are the kinds of statements found under "The Object of the Game."
That comes first in the instructions because that is the first -- the most fundamental -- thing that each player needs to know and understand. "Why am I doing what I'm doing?" "What's my goal?" -- these are the principles that must be established first in order to play and to win.
If I have only ever played basketball, then I operate with an assumption that the object of a game is to score more points than my opponent. If I take that approach onto the golf course, however, then I will be doomed.
To misunderstand the object of the game is to make the most fundamental of errors. I can compete without grasping all the fine points of strategy. I can succeed without knowing the history, the records, the trivia of the sport. But if I do not understand the object of the game, my situation is hopeless.
All of this may seem obvious and rudimentary. Yet, imagine our embarrassment, our shame, if it turns out that we had misunderstood the object of the game all along. And, more than a game: What if we misunderstand the object of life?
All three of this week's lections challenge us to rethink the most basic issues of life. Namely, why do we do what we do? What is our purpose? What is the object of this life? And it's possible -- just possible -- that we've been doing it all wrong.
Jeremiah 18:1-11
Perhaps because we so affirm that he is omnipresent, we human beings tend to underestimate God's preferences for specific places. It seems counterintuitive. Why would a God who is in every place need to schedule his appointments for such specific places? Yet, that is his frequent pattern.
From Mount Sinai to the holy of holies, from Elijah's directed itinerary to the great chariot stop where he would be picked up, to the Spirit that led Jesus into the wilderness, to the risen Lord who said he would meet his disciples in Galilee -- we see his strange preference for meeting and doing his business with people in specific places. And so, here: God does not speak his message to Jeremiah where Jeremiah is; rather, the Lord sends him to the potter's house with this promise: "There I will let you hear my words."
The setting of the potter's house -- and what Jeremiah sees there -- provides an object lesson for him and for his people. The relationship of the potter to the clay captures a part of the truth of God's relationship to this world. The Israelites should have known that all along, of course, for they had long affirmed that, in the beginning, God had formed humankind out of clay (see Job 33:6).
The relationship is, first of all, about sovereignty. "Can I not do with you, O house of Israel, just as this potter has done?" the Lord asks. Of course, he can. He goes on to illustrate his sovereignty over the affairs of nations in his subsequent statements about plucking up and breaking down.
And yet his is not an unbridled sovereignty. God does not capriciously move the nations, as pawns on a board, according to his whim. Rather, he has bound himself voluntarily by his love for us, and so we are granted free will and a measure of self-determination.
Here, then, is where we cease to resemble the clay on the potter's wheel.
Having expressed his sovereignty over the nations, the Lord introduces two conditional clauses. "If that nation ... turns from its evil" and "but if it does evil in my sight." This particular brand of clay, you see, has the option to cooperate or not with its potter.
If this potter's administration were to exercise full sovereignty, then the only "if" would be found in the phrase, "If I feel like it...." But he has bequeathed an "if" to his creation. So the image is not one of a simple one-way flow of influence. Rather, there is a give- and-take. What the sovereign God chooses to do varies in response to the behavior of the people, and the people are invited to respond to the shaping hand of God.
Philemon 1-21
Once we know the story behind this brief epistle -- memo, really -- we cannot help but be impressed by how deftly Paul handles the situation. We are, perhaps, more familiar with Paul's sometimes long, sometimes difficult, and sometimes heavy-handed theological arguments. But this little piece is concise, efficient, and understated. Paul does not belabor his points or browbeat Philemon. Rather, he makes his points with the skill of an executive and the winsomeness of a friend.
The analysis of the art requires more words than the art itself. But the skill and beauty of Paul's letter to Philemon deserves to be discovered and appreciated.
First, we observe that Paul has subtly, but unmistakably, reframed the entire situation. Philemon would have been naturally inclined to think of Onesimus as property. Such is the nature of a slave. Without a frontal attack, Paul quietly dismisses that entire paradigm, replacing it with a picture of relationships. Onesimus is not mere property; he is "my child" and Philemon's new "beloved brother."
Furthermore, Paul prompts Philemon to rethink the relationships from a new perspective. The sergeant may dominate the room when it is filled with lowly privates whose approval he does not need. But the sergeant -- and the whole scene -- may look different when the colonel enters the room.
Likewise, Philemon seems the sovereign when it's just him and his wayward slave. Then the apostle Paul enters the scene, and the whole perspective shifts. Previously, the master could do as he pleased with the slave who needed to be taught a lesson. Now the apostle has a vested interest in that slave, and the apostle outranks the master.
Donald Phillips suggests that part of the genius of Abraham Lincoln as a leader was that he preferred not to give direct orders. Lincoln "realized that to get things done his way, he did not have to issue and order but could merely imply something or make a suggestion. This was his chosen way, and it proved far more effective than commanding others to obey him ... The letters and telegrams that he wrote to subordinates are filled with suggestions, views, and recommendations ... (hoping) that, through his suggestions, they would do the right thing" (Donald T. Phillips, Lincoln on Leadership: Executive Strategies for Tough Times [New York: Warner Books, 1992], pp. 42-43).
Perhaps Lincoln, who was well acquainted with the Bible, had taken a lesson in leadership from Paul. For Paul makes a point of setting aside his authority, preferring not to pull rank. "Though I am bold enough in Christ to command you," he writes, "I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love." Thus Paul masterfully sets the pace for the whole situation. Writing to the slave owner who might be inclined to exercise his authority harshly, Paul models for him an approach based on love rather than rank.
It is worth stopping to note the larger pattern and truth here. For the larger issue at hand is why we do the things we do. It is an issue that has daily application and universal relevance.
The Corinthian Christian, for example, might eat meat that has been offered to an idol because he has that right, that freedom; because he knows it is not wrong to do so. But Paul argues in 1 Corinthians 8 that simply being right may not be a sufficient guide for our actions. That argument in chapter 8 simply builds on a principle established by the apostle in chapter 6, when he expressed his dismay about their intra-church lawsuits. Again, merely being in the right or having a right -- that seems to be the prevailing rationale for so much behavior in our present culture -- is insufficient for Paul. He challenges the Corinthians: "Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be defrauded?" (1 Corinthians 6:7). Appropriate questions for followers of the one who taught us to turn the other cheek.
Elsewhere, Paul urges the Christian slaves and masters in Ephesus to rethink why they do what they do. For both are to conduct their affairs, not in a cold calculation of what they can get away with, but in response to Christ (Ephesians 6:6, 9). For that matter, all our human relationships are meant to be guided, not by ordinary human conventions, but "out of reverence for Christ" (5:21).
In the case of Philemon, Paul completely dismantles the natural assumptions about what the slave owner should do and why. Philemon is not to reckon his slave's running away by standard human reason, but by divine providence ("perhaps this is the reason he was separated from you for a while"). He is not to respond to Onesimus' fault as a runaway or to his status as a slave. Rather, he is to respond to the returning Onesimus as he would to a beloved brother or to the apostle himself.
Paul's memo to Philemon, therefore, is not just an obscure personal note enclosed with the Colossian epistle. It is a paradigm shift from business-as-usual to life-in-Christ. It is the Christian ethic of the Sermon on the Mount applied to a real-life situation and it is an example and a challenge to us and to our people.
Luke 14:25-33
In his book, Disciple, Juan Carlos Ortiz suggests that many Christians have adopted what he terms a fifth gospel. In addition to those written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Ortiz contends that "the gospel according to the Saint Evangelicals is taken from the verses here and there in the other four gospels. We take all the verses we like, all the verses that offer us something ... while we forget the other verses present the demands of Jesus Christ" (Juan Carlos Ortiz, Disciple [Lake Mary, Florida: Charisma House, 1995], p. 15).
If Ortiz is correct, then our gospel lection for this week would not make the cut for the fifth gospel. For this is -- at first blush, at least -- one of the unwelcome teachings of Jesus. It begins with an unsettling prerequisite, and it ends with an astonishing ultimatum.
Let us begin at the end: "None of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."
I remember hearing some years ago a preacher talk to his congregation about the fleetingness of riches. "They say that money talks," he observed. "Yeah, money talks. And you know what it says? 'Good-bye!' "
I am reminded of that preacher's homey wisdom when I read this passage. For the original Greek word, which we translate "give up," customarily suggested saying "good- bye." This, then, is to be our posture and attitude toward our possessions: we are cheerfully waving them good-bye.
In each call of a disciple that we see in the gospels, there is a measure of saying good-bye involved. Peter and Andrew left their boats and their nets, as did James and John, along with their father. We see Matthew getting up to leave his tax table, and we see several would-be disciples demonstrate their reluctance to say good-bye to people or to possessions.
That said, we do not want to overemphasize the matter of liquidating assets and giving away all resources. After all, discipleship should not be demoted to a mere monetary transaction. We must guard against earnest divestment becoming just an expensive form of works righteousness.
And, it may be that this startling statement at the end of this passage should be, as an economist might say, adjusted for inflation. It may represent the same kind of hyperbole for the sake of emphasis that comes before it.
We may be grateful that this passage, with its harsh opening language, does not fall on Mother's Day or Father's Day. This is hardly the stuff of a Hallmark card. Jesus' language may require some explaining to congregations that may be surprised and almost certainly troubled to hear what he taught on this occasion.
The Greek word used in verse 26 is translated almost universally as "hate." The KJV, NKJV, RSV, NRSV, NIV, NEB, and REB all opt for "hate." The TEV, however, softens the teaching, rendering it thus: "Whoever comes to me cannot be my disciple unless he loves me more than...." And, similarly, Eugene Peterson opts for a gentler phrasing: "Anyone who comes to me but refuses to let go of...."
While a strict translation of the original Greek cannot escape "hate," commentators endorse the kind of interpretative choices made by the TEV and Peterson. William Barclay, for example, insists: "When Jesus tells us to hate our nearest and dearest, he does not mean that literally. He means that no love in life can compare with the love we must bear to him" (William Barclay, The Daily Bible Study Series: The Gospel of Luke [Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1975], p. 196). And Leon Morris sensibly observes, "There is no place in Jesus' teaching for literal hatred. He commanded His followers to love even their enemies, so it is impossible to hold that he is here telling them literally to hate their earthly nearest" (Leon Morris, Tyndale New Testament Commentaries: The Gospel According to St. Luke [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1977], p. 235).
We mustn't, therefore, let the strong language, which seems inconsistent with Jesus, distract our attention from the strong message, which is certainly consistent with Jesus, as well as the rest of scripture. For the unblinking theme of this passage is one of no- nonsense discipleship. And that is altogether in harmony with the larger corpus of Jesus' teachings.
The count-the-cost portion of this passage is refreshingly pragmatic. There may well be in our pews this Sunday some individuals who are a bit skeptical of the prominent role that emotion plays in some people's religion. They may be uncomfortable with strong emotional appeals from the pulpit, but this invitation from Jesus will resonate with them. No guilt trip, no altar call, no tears -- just a straightforward business decision. Can I afford this?
In many traditions, we have -- rightly -- emphasized the free gift of God's grace. But in the process, we may have lost for our people any sense of "the cost." This Sunday may be an opportunity to rediscover that part of the gospel.
It is part of the gospel. Though it might not qualify for Ortiz' hypothesized "fifth gospel," it is, in fact, good news. For I do not want a wife who is blasé about my fidelity. I don't want teachers and coaches who do not challenge me to excel. And I do not want to be a father who is indifferent to what his children do or become. Why, then, should I desire a Savior who is unconcerned about my affections, or a Lord who is casual about my allegiance?
Application
The picture of the potter from the prophet Jeremiah lays the groundwork for us. Namely, that we have a Creator, and he has a purpose in mind for us. Now, I may prefer to redefine my purpose: to carve out my own personal raison d'etre. But in the beginning and in the end, he is the one who determines the object of the game. So I am a bit of a fool to defy or ignore it.
Next, the apostle Paul offers us a kind of in-game example of how important a proper understanding of the object is. For if Philemon is to borrow his understanding of the object of life's game from the world around him, he will respond in the present circumstance quite differently than if he is to take his understanding from God. The moves that he makes, the shot that he takes, the way that he plays his hand, will be entirely different.
Then comes the strong challenge from Jesus himself. My default setting, as a fallen and selfish human being, is to think that the object of the game is a fundamentally self- serving one. Life's choices must be in my best interest. "Looking out for number one," and all that.
Jesus requires a complete reorientation. All the things that may be most important to me - - my loved ones, my possessions, my comfort, my life itself -- all must be subordinated to him. My purpose is not to follow my appetites or ambitions -- neither cherished people nor cherished things -- my purpose is to follow him. My ambition is a cross. For Jesus Christ is my reason for being. He is the object of the game.
Alternative Application
Jeremiah 18:1-11. "Redeemer At The Wheel." The Lord sent Jeremiah to the potter's house in order that Jeremiah might better understand God. When the prophet arrived, he watched the potter working a piece of clay on his potter's wheel. Then he observed that "the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter's hand."
Imagine the scene. The clay on the wheel is spinning rapidly. It rises gradually in the strong and careful hands of the potter. Before your eyes it is transformed from an amorphous lump into a piece with recognizable form and function. The slightest touch of the artist at the wheel adds elements of shape and loveliness. Then, suddenly, it falters and collapses.
What went wrong? It looked so good and so promising! But now it's just a heap on the wheel. It looks deflated, like a flat tire or a popped balloon. What can become of it now?
Jeremiah has the answer, and it is gospel: The potter "reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him."
This God of ours does not abandon the flop. He does not turn his back on the disappointment. Rather, he reworks it into something new!
That's good news for Peter, who was cowardly when questioned in the courtyard, but the picture of boldness forty days later. That's good news for Jonah, who fled at first, but who was used powerfully by God when he returned. That's good news for Saul of Tarsus, who went on persecution errands before he went on missionary journeys.
It's good news for you and me, and for the people in our pews. We are in the hands of a potter who is willing and able to start again with clay that faltered at first.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18
One of the marvelous things about a long and happy marriage is that the partners really come to know one another. Being known is a precious gift. It is a reality that slices through all the pretense and machinations that occupy so much of our time and energy. When a husband starts to protest over something patently ridiculous, a sidelong, knowing glance creates silence because he knows that she knows. When a wife starts to overreact to something, a quiet hand on the shoulder brings calm because she knows that he knows. It's wonderful to be known. It's even more wonderful to be known, and continue to be loved.
But as close as two people might become in a committed relationship, there are still quiet, secret places. One is never completely known except by God. God knows it all. Before any pretense or cover-up is even imagined, God is already shaking a celestial head at our buffoonery. The psalm really says it all. Sleeping or waking, wherever we go, whatever we say, God knows us so thoroughly that all silly attempts at hiding or presenting some imagined sense of self are futile.
Then the psalmist really puts a finger on it. "Such knowledge is too wonderful for me...." There it is. The beauty of being known. And, just like a loving spouse, this God knows it all, every wart, misdeed, malfeasance, and reckless mistake, and loves you still. One wonders how deeply this gets factored into our spiritual practices. When we pray, God knows already what we will ask and why. When we go the church council to try to get something going, God knows our motives. Even those things we tell no one -- God knows.
Do we interact with God with this assumption in place? In prayer, do we come knowing that God knows? In our daily walk as women and men of faith, do we consider that God knows? More than that, do we approach this God, knowing that God knows, and that even in the knowing loves us still so deeply that he gave himself for us? This is a love beyond imagining. Yet here it is, lavished upon us in the form of loving grace. To be known and loved like this. "It's too wonderful for me."
This is where we find the most basic stuff. "To reach the destination before every other player"; "to score the most points"; "to be the first player to discover the answer"; "to accumulate the most matches"; and so on -- these are the kinds of statements found under "The Object of the Game."
That comes first in the instructions because that is the first -- the most fundamental -- thing that each player needs to know and understand. "Why am I doing what I'm doing?" "What's my goal?" -- these are the principles that must be established first in order to play and to win.
If I have only ever played basketball, then I operate with an assumption that the object of a game is to score more points than my opponent. If I take that approach onto the golf course, however, then I will be doomed.
To misunderstand the object of the game is to make the most fundamental of errors. I can compete without grasping all the fine points of strategy. I can succeed without knowing the history, the records, the trivia of the sport. But if I do not understand the object of the game, my situation is hopeless.
All of this may seem obvious and rudimentary. Yet, imagine our embarrassment, our shame, if it turns out that we had misunderstood the object of the game all along. And, more than a game: What if we misunderstand the object of life?
All three of this week's lections challenge us to rethink the most basic issues of life. Namely, why do we do what we do? What is our purpose? What is the object of this life? And it's possible -- just possible -- that we've been doing it all wrong.
Jeremiah 18:1-11
Perhaps because we so affirm that he is omnipresent, we human beings tend to underestimate God's preferences for specific places. It seems counterintuitive. Why would a God who is in every place need to schedule his appointments for such specific places? Yet, that is his frequent pattern.
From Mount Sinai to the holy of holies, from Elijah's directed itinerary to the great chariot stop where he would be picked up, to the Spirit that led Jesus into the wilderness, to the risen Lord who said he would meet his disciples in Galilee -- we see his strange preference for meeting and doing his business with people in specific places. And so, here: God does not speak his message to Jeremiah where Jeremiah is; rather, the Lord sends him to the potter's house with this promise: "There I will let you hear my words."
The setting of the potter's house -- and what Jeremiah sees there -- provides an object lesson for him and for his people. The relationship of the potter to the clay captures a part of the truth of God's relationship to this world. The Israelites should have known that all along, of course, for they had long affirmed that, in the beginning, God had formed humankind out of clay (see Job 33:6).
The relationship is, first of all, about sovereignty. "Can I not do with you, O house of Israel, just as this potter has done?" the Lord asks. Of course, he can. He goes on to illustrate his sovereignty over the affairs of nations in his subsequent statements about plucking up and breaking down.
And yet his is not an unbridled sovereignty. God does not capriciously move the nations, as pawns on a board, according to his whim. Rather, he has bound himself voluntarily by his love for us, and so we are granted free will and a measure of self-determination.
Here, then, is where we cease to resemble the clay on the potter's wheel.
Having expressed his sovereignty over the nations, the Lord introduces two conditional clauses. "If that nation ... turns from its evil" and "but if it does evil in my sight." This particular brand of clay, you see, has the option to cooperate or not with its potter.
If this potter's administration were to exercise full sovereignty, then the only "if" would be found in the phrase, "If I feel like it...." But he has bequeathed an "if" to his creation. So the image is not one of a simple one-way flow of influence. Rather, there is a give- and-take. What the sovereign God chooses to do varies in response to the behavior of the people, and the people are invited to respond to the shaping hand of God.
Philemon 1-21
Once we know the story behind this brief epistle -- memo, really -- we cannot help but be impressed by how deftly Paul handles the situation. We are, perhaps, more familiar with Paul's sometimes long, sometimes difficult, and sometimes heavy-handed theological arguments. But this little piece is concise, efficient, and understated. Paul does not belabor his points or browbeat Philemon. Rather, he makes his points with the skill of an executive and the winsomeness of a friend.
The analysis of the art requires more words than the art itself. But the skill and beauty of Paul's letter to Philemon deserves to be discovered and appreciated.
First, we observe that Paul has subtly, but unmistakably, reframed the entire situation. Philemon would have been naturally inclined to think of Onesimus as property. Such is the nature of a slave. Without a frontal attack, Paul quietly dismisses that entire paradigm, replacing it with a picture of relationships. Onesimus is not mere property; he is "my child" and Philemon's new "beloved brother."
Furthermore, Paul prompts Philemon to rethink the relationships from a new perspective. The sergeant may dominate the room when it is filled with lowly privates whose approval he does not need. But the sergeant -- and the whole scene -- may look different when the colonel enters the room.
Likewise, Philemon seems the sovereign when it's just him and his wayward slave. Then the apostle Paul enters the scene, and the whole perspective shifts. Previously, the master could do as he pleased with the slave who needed to be taught a lesson. Now the apostle has a vested interest in that slave, and the apostle outranks the master.
Donald Phillips suggests that part of the genius of Abraham Lincoln as a leader was that he preferred not to give direct orders. Lincoln "realized that to get things done his way, he did not have to issue and order but could merely imply something or make a suggestion. This was his chosen way, and it proved far more effective than commanding others to obey him ... The letters and telegrams that he wrote to subordinates are filled with suggestions, views, and recommendations ... (hoping) that, through his suggestions, they would do the right thing" (Donald T. Phillips, Lincoln on Leadership: Executive Strategies for Tough Times [New York: Warner Books, 1992], pp. 42-43).
Perhaps Lincoln, who was well acquainted with the Bible, had taken a lesson in leadership from Paul. For Paul makes a point of setting aside his authority, preferring not to pull rank. "Though I am bold enough in Christ to command you," he writes, "I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love." Thus Paul masterfully sets the pace for the whole situation. Writing to the slave owner who might be inclined to exercise his authority harshly, Paul models for him an approach based on love rather than rank.
It is worth stopping to note the larger pattern and truth here. For the larger issue at hand is why we do the things we do. It is an issue that has daily application and universal relevance.
The Corinthian Christian, for example, might eat meat that has been offered to an idol because he has that right, that freedom; because he knows it is not wrong to do so. But Paul argues in 1 Corinthians 8 that simply being right may not be a sufficient guide for our actions. That argument in chapter 8 simply builds on a principle established by the apostle in chapter 6, when he expressed his dismay about their intra-church lawsuits. Again, merely being in the right or having a right -- that seems to be the prevailing rationale for so much behavior in our present culture -- is insufficient for Paul. He challenges the Corinthians: "Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be defrauded?" (1 Corinthians 6:7). Appropriate questions for followers of the one who taught us to turn the other cheek.
Elsewhere, Paul urges the Christian slaves and masters in Ephesus to rethink why they do what they do. For both are to conduct their affairs, not in a cold calculation of what they can get away with, but in response to Christ (Ephesians 6:6, 9). For that matter, all our human relationships are meant to be guided, not by ordinary human conventions, but "out of reverence for Christ" (5:21).
In the case of Philemon, Paul completely dismantles the natural assumptions about what the slave owner should do and why. Philemon is not to reckon his slave's running away by standard human reason, but by divine providence ("perhaps this is the reason he was separated from you for a while"). He is not to respond to Onesimus' fault as a runaway or to his status as a slave. Rather, he is to respond to the returning Onesimus as he would to a beloved brother or to the apostle himself.
Paul's memo to Philemon, therefore, is not just an obscure personal note enclosed with the Colossian epistle. It is a paradigm shift from business-as-usual to life-in-Christ. It is the Christian ethic of the Sermon on the Mount applied to a real-life situation and it is an example and a challenge to us and to our people.
Luke 14:25-33
In his book, Disciple, Juan Carlos Ortiz suggests that many Christians have adopted what he terms a fifth gospel. In addition to those written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Ortiz contends that "the gospel according to the Saint Evangelicals is taken from the verses here and there in the other four gospels. We take all the verses we like, all the verses that offer us something ... while we forget the other verses present the demands of Jesus Christ" (Juan Carlos Ortiz, Disciple [Lake Mary, Florida: Charisma House, 1995], p. 15).
If Ortiz is correct, then our gospel lection for this week would not make the cut for the fifth gospel. For this is -- at first blush, at least -- one of the unwelcome teachings of Jesus. It begins with an unsettling prerequisite, and it ends with an astonishing ultimatum.
Let us begin at the end: "None of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."
I remember hearing some years ago a preacher talk to his congregation about the fleetingness of riches. "They say that money talks," he observed. "Yeah, money talks. And you know what it says? 'Good-bye!' "
I am reminded of that preacher's homey wisdom when I read this passage. For the original Greek word, which we translate "give up," customarily suggested saying "good- bye." This, then, is to be our posture and attitude toward our possessions: we are cheerfully waving them good-bye.
In each call of a disciple that we see in the gospels, there is a measure of saying good-bye involved. Peter and Andrew left their boats and their nets, as did James and John, along with their father. We see Matthew getting up to leave his tax table, and we see several would-be disciples demonstrate their reluctance to say good-bye to people or to possessions.
That said, we do not want to overemphasize the matter of liquidating assets and giving away all resources. After all, discipleship should not be demoted to a mere monetary transaction. We must guard against earnest divestment becoming just an expensive form of works righteousness.
And, it may be that this startling statement at the end of this passage should be, as an economist might say, adjusted for inflation. It may represent the same kind of hyperbole for the sake of emphasis that comes before it.
We may be grateful that this passage, with its harsh opening language, does not fall on Mother's Day or Father's Day. This is hardly the stuff of a Hallmark card. Jesus' language may require some explaining to congregations that may be surprised and almost certainly troubled to hear what he taught on this occasion.
The Greek word used in verse 26 is translated almost universally as "hate." The KJV, NKJV, RSV, NRSV, NIV, NEB, and REB all opt for "hate." The TEV, however, softens the teaching, rendering it thus: "Whoever comes to me cannot be my disciple unless he loves me more than...." And, similarly, Eugene Peterson opts for a gentler phrasing: "Anyone who comes to me but refuses to let go of...."
While a strict translation of the original Greek cannot escape "hate," commentators endorse the kind of interpretative choices made by the TEV and Peterson. William Barclay, for example, insists: "When Jesus tells us to hate our nearest and dearest, he does not mean that literally. He means that no love in life can compare with the love we must bear to him" (William Barclay, The Daily Bible Study Series: The Gospel of Luke [Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1975], p. 196). And Leon Morris sensibly observes, "There is no place in Jesus' teaching for literal hatred. He commanded His followers to love even their enemies, so it is impossible to hold that he is here telling them literally to hate their earthly nearest" (Leon Morris, Tyndale New Testament Commentaries: The Gospel According to St. Luke [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1977], p. 235).
We mustn't, therefore, let the strong language, which seems inconsistent with Jesus, distract our attention from the strong message, which is certainly consistent with Jesus, as well as the rest of scripture. For the unblinking theme of this passage is one of no- nonsense discipleship. And that is altogether in harmony with the larger corpus of Jesus' teachings.
The count-the-cost portion of this passage is refreshingly pragmatic. There may well be in our pews this Sunday some individuals who are a bit skeptical of the prominent role that emotion plays in some people's religion. They may be uncomfortable with strong emotional appeals from the pulpit, but this invitation from Jesus will resonate with them. No guilt trip, no altar call, no tears -- just a straightforward business decision. Can I afford this?
In many traditions, we have -- rightly -- emphasized the free gift of God's grace. But in the process, we may have lost for our people any sense of "the cost." This Sunday may be an opportunity to rediscover that part of the gospel.
It is part of the gospel. Though it might not qualify for Ortiz' hypothesized "fifth gospel," it is, in fact, good news. For I do not want a wife who is blasé about my fidelity. I don't want teachers and coaches who do not challenge me to excel. And I do not want to be a father who is indifferent to what his children do or become. Why, then, should I desire a Savior who is unconcerned about my affections, or a Lord who is casual about my allegiance?
Application
The picture of the potter from the prophet Jeremiah lays the groundwork for us. Namely, that we have a Creator, and he has a purpose in mind for us. Now, I may prefer to redefine my purpose: to carve out my own personal raison d'etre. But in the beginning and in the end, he is the one who determines the object of the game. So I am a bit of a fool to defy or ignore it.
Next, the apostle Paul offers us a kind of in-game example of how important a proper understanding of the object is. For if Philemon is to borrow his understanding of the object of life's game from the world around him, he will respond in the present circumstance quite differently than if he is to take his understanding from God. The moves that he makes, the shot that he takes, the way that he plays his hand, will be entirely different.
Then comes the strong challenge from Jesus himself. My default setting, as a fallen and selfish human being, is to think that the object of the game is a fundamentally self- serving one. Life's choices must be in my best interest. "Looking out for number one," and all that.
Jesus requires a complete reorientation. All the things that may be most important to me - - my loved ones, my possessions, my comfort, my life itself -- all must be subordinated to him. My purpose is not to follow my appetites or ambitions -- neither cherished people nor cherished things -- my purpose is to follow him. My ambition is a cross. For Jesus Christ is my reason for being. He is the object of the game.
Alternative Application
Jeremiah 18:1-11. "Redeemer At The Wheel." The Lord sent Jeremiah to the potter's house in order that Jeremiah might better understand God. When the prophet arrived, he watched the potter working a piece of clay on his potter's wheel. Then he observed that "the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter's hand."
Imagine the scene. The clay on the wheel is spinning rapidly. It rises gradually in the strong and careful hands of the potter. Before your eyes it is transformed from an amorphous lump into a piece with recognizable form and function. The slightest touch of the artist at the wheel adds elements of shape and loveliness. Then, suddenly, it falters and collapses.
What went wrong? It looked so good and so promising! But now it's just a heap on the wheel. It looks deflated, like a flat tire or a popped balloon. What can become of it now?
Jeremiah has the answer, and it is gospel: The potter "reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him."
This God of ours does not abandon the flop. He does not turn his back on the disappointment. Rather, he reworks it into something new!
That's good news for Peter, who was cowardly when questioned in the courtyard, but the picture of boldness forty days later. That's good news for Jonah, who fled at first, but who was used powerfully by God when he returned. That's good news for Saul of Tarsus, who went on persecution errands before he went on missionary journeys.
It's good news for you and me, and for the people in our pews. We are in the hands of a potter who is willing and able to start again with clay that faltered at first.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18
One of the marvelous things about a long and happy marriage is that the partners really come to know one another. Being known is a precious gift. It is a reality that slices through all the pretense and machinations that occupy so much of our time and energy. When a husband starts to protest over something patently ridiculous, a sidelong, knowing glance creates silence because he knows that she knows. When a wife starts to overreact to something, a quiet hand on the shoulder brings calm because she knows that he knows. It's wonderful to be known. It's even more wonderful to be known, and continue to be loved.
But as close as two people might become in a committed relationship, there are still quiet, secret places. One is never completely known except by God. God knows it all. Before any pretense or cover-up is even imagined, God is already shaking a celestial head at our buffoonery. The psalm really says it all. Sleeping or waking, wherever we go, whatever we say, God knows us so thoroughly that all silly attempts at hiding or presenting some imagined sense of self are futile.
Then the psalmist really puts a finger on it. "Such knowledge is too wonderful for me...." There it is. The beauty of being known. And, just like a loving spouse, this God knows it all, every wart, misdeed, malfeasance, and reckless mistake, and loves you still. One wonders how deeply this gets factored into our spiritual practices. When we pray, God knows already what we will ask and why. When we go the church council to try to get something going, God knows our motives. Even those things we tell no one -- God knows.
Do we interact with God with this assumption in place? In prayer, do we come knowing that God knows? In our daily walk as women and men of faith, do we consider that God knows? More than that, do we approach this God, knowing that God knows, and that even in the knowing loves us still so deeply that he gave himself for us? This is a love beyond imagining. Yet here it is, lavished upon us in the form of loving grace. To be known and loved like this. "It's too wonderful for me."
