Search and preserve mission
Commentary
"Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty," says the bumper sticker. If the news media is right, we're more likely to encounter red-faced road rage on the highway than kindness or beauty. But random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty only make sense in a context where they are rare. If we expected warmth, courtesy, and compassion in our dealings with strangers, we wouldn't be so surprised when we get them. Nor would we feel the need to advertise our preferences on bumper stickers.
We tend to present God as the paradigm of kindness and beauty, but that image stands in contrast to something darker. Whether it's human sin or the prospect of divine judgment, there is always a bleak side to the Bible's promise of God's love. Today's lessons all present a positive picture of God, yet each have a caveat lurking in the background. In Isaiah, God does great deeds in love, and yet human beings reject that love. In Hebrews, Jesus comes as a faithful and merciful high priest, tested as we are, but we hesitate to follow in his steps. In Matthew, God miraculously preserves the child of promise, while allowing evil to have full sway with other innocent children.
Isaiah 63:7-9
Sometimes the only sensible response to reality is the lament, "Oh, woe is me!" It is a perfectly appropriate thing to say at certain times. No one likes a constant complainer, but the reason is not the complaint per se but its lack of suitability; if every little thing is a cause for lament, the force of the lament is diluted. We feel we ought to save the lament for something truly lamentable (just as, I often say, preachers ought to save the word "wonderful" for something that is truly full of wonder, and not use it to describe a routine church outing). When something truly lamentable happens -- and we all know what those things are, no need to list them -- launching into a lament is a perfectly unlamentable thing to do. We have plenty of precedent for the proper lament. The Bible is full of them.
Isaiah 63:7--64:12 is one long lament. The prophet, on behalf of the community, appeals to God for mercy in misery. Interspersed with appeals for compassion are confessions of sin and hardening of heart. What is lamentable here is not just the sorry situation that the community has found itself in (Isaiah is not specific about the situation, but it may have to do with the Baby-lonian Exile), but also the sorry state of the community itself. "We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away. There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity" (Isaiah 64:6-7). Such rebellion has put the community in a precarious situation: "We have long been like those whom you do not rule, like those not called by your name" (63:19). In fact, God has reserved the harshest sort of language for these people: "They rebelled and grieved his holy spirit; therefore he became their enemy; he himself fought against them" (63:10). Human sin has been unmasked as what it really is, enmity with God (cf. James 4:4).
Biblical laments often begin with recitations of God's great deeds, and this lament is no exception (cf. Psalm 106 or Nehemiah 9). The recitations heighten the contrast between God's grace and human rebellion. The prophet begins the recitation in the first-person singular, but quickly moves to identify with the entire community, "the house of Israel": "I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord, the praiseworthy acts of the Lord, because of all that the Lord has done for us, and the great favor to the house of Israel that he has shown them according to his mercy, according to the abundance of his steadfast love" (63:7). The opening line is wrapped in chesed (here translated as both "gracious deeds" and "steadfast love"), which is both the emphatic first and last word in the sentence. In between, the prophet piles on the praise of God, citing "praise" or "praiseworthy acts" (tehillah), "reward" (gemal, the verb is used twice, though somewhat obscured in our translation), "compassion" or "mercy" (rachamim), and "great goodness" or "favor" (rav-tuv). The prophet puts a bit of the classic covenantal formula in God's mouth: "Surely they are my people" (cf. Leviticus 26:12; Deuteronomy 29:13), but adds ironically that they are "children who will not deal falsely" (63:8). I guess God can always hope!
The final verse in the lection presents a translation problem. The Hebrew text traditionally reads, "In all their distress he was distressed; the angel of the presence saved them" (cf. NRSV note). The NRSV text follows the Greek translation, which is based on a possible reading of the Hebrew, and takes the opening words with the previous verse, introducing a contrast between God's presence and that of a hypothetical angelic mediator. In favor of this reading is that "the angel of the presence" is not otherwise found in the Hebrew Bible (but cf. Exodus 33:12ff). However, the reading may have been changed precisely because it was so odd, and also because it may have seemed inappropriate to speak of God's "distress." Either reading is possible. At any rate, it was at God's initiative, not to mention "love" ('ahavah) and "pity" (chemla) that the Lord "lifted them up and carried them all the days of old" (63:9).
Since the lectionary includes only the recitation and not the rest of the lament, today's reading is a bit deceptive. It makes it sound like everything is hunky-dory, when it isn't. The broader context of Isaiah's lament sets off God's great deeds in contrast with the human rebellion called "sin." The job of the preacher today may well be to create for the congregation the context in which the recitation makes sense; God's past deeds become the basis for the appeal for mercy in the present.
Why not just emphasize the positive and forget all that lamentable stuff (as the lectionary tries to do)? There are at least two reasons. One is that light is always set off by darkness, and God's grace truly shines only in contrast with its human opposition. The second reason is perhaps more important: The congregation, as a group and as individuals, may well have need to compose their own laments, when something truly lamentable happens to them. Isaiah's lament, understood in its entirety, gives them a model. The formula still works.
Hebrews 2:10-18
Contrasts and comparisons are basic forms of definition. The contrast helps define something by describing what it is not like. The comparison takes the opposite tack, describing something on the basis of its similarity to something else. The two methods work well together because they pull in opposite directions toward the same goal; one tries to connect, the other to disconnect.
The book of Hebrews is not a letter but a sermon that uses the basic rhetorical device of contrast and comparison to define Jesus as God's definitive word to humankind (cf. Hebrews 1:1-3). The sermon begins with an extended contrast between Jesus and the ministers of the old covenant, the angels. This is but preparatory to the comparison, however, because Hebrews is primarily concerned to make a connection. This primary connection is between Jesus and us.
Though he was by nature superior to the angels, Hebrews pictures Jesus as descending below his proper position. "We do see Jesus, who for a little while was made lower than the angels, now crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone" (Hebrews 2:9). This statement leads the preacher to consider further the connection between Jesus and human beings. Jesus became one of "many children" being led "to glory" (v. 10). Jesus can call us "brothers and sisters" because "the one who sanctifies [Jesus] and those who are sanctified all have one Father" (v. 11). Like any good homiletician, the preacher cites scripture to prove his point; unlike modern preachers, the assumption is that Jesus as God's Word is the speaker of the ancient text: "I will proclaim your name to my brothers and sisters, in the midst of the congregation I will praise you" (v. 12, cf. Psalm 22:22); "Here am I and the children whom God has given me," (v. 13, cf. Isaiah 8:18). Hebrews also quotes Isaiah 8:17, "I will put my trust in him," to make the point that the family resemblance is found through faith (v. 13). The preacher emphasizes the complete humanity of Jesus, that he shared "blood and flesh" (the NRSV reverses the original order), and was "like his brothers and sisters in every respect" (v. 17; later the preacher will make "sin" the one exception, 4:15). The reason for his solidarity with humankind is clear: "Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested" (v. 18).
Thus Jesus' connection to humanity made him "a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God" (v. 17). Here the preacher foreshadows the sermon that is to come, which will speak of Jesus as faithful (cf. 3:1--4:14) and merciful (4:15--5:10), and as "a high priest after the order of Melchizedek" (5:5, 10; cf. 6:20; 7:26-28; 8:1-3; 9:11, 25). The preacher uses the language of priesthood because he sees Jesus as making "a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people," that is, a once-for-all blood sacrifice that would remove the stain of sin from Jesus' brothers and sisters (v. 17; cf. chs. 8-10). This action would mean liberation not only from the fear of death and judgment (v. 15), but also from the power of evil itself, personified by the devil (v. 14). Jesus' own death is the sacrifice that frees his brothers and sisters from the negative effect of sin, which is, ultimately, death itself.
Thus Jesus is "the pioneer of their salvation"; he becomes both the "leader" of this troop of like-natured people, and the "author" of the next chapter in their lives (the word archegos in v. 10 can mean both "leader" and "author"). God was at work in Jesus, "making him perfect through sufferings" (v. 10). The expression "make perfect," teleioo, is used throughout Hebrews (cf. Hebrews 2:10; 5:9; 7:19, 28; 9:9; 10:1, 14; 11:40; 12:23), and can mean "to complete an activity, bring to an end, finish, accomplish"; in the Greek Old Testament, it is used of the consecration of priests (Exodus 29:9; Leviticus 16:32; Numbers 3:3). God brings about the accomplishment of Jesus' mission "through sufferings," that is, through his priestly act, his sacrificial death.
It may seem strange to be talking about death and sacrifice as we celebrate the birth of Jesus; we are by no means straying far from our biblical charter. As we will see, the Bible is not nearly as sentimental about the baby Jesus as we are.
Matthew 2:13-23
While we think of Christmas as a joyous celebration of new life, the shadow of death always hangs over it. The dark side of Matthew's infancy stories is that they so often point to the end of his story, the crucifixion. This is particularly the case in chapter 2 of Matthew (cf. 2:2, 3, 4, 16, 20). Jesus is associated with suffering and death from the beginning; part of the miracle of God's work is that Jesus is delivered from premature submission to fate. It waits for God's good time, but the cross is always overhanging Matthew's story.
Matthew's second chapter is concerned with the question, "Where can we find Jesus?" It gives various answers, as the story moves along: Jesus is to be searched for in Jerusalem (in the words of the scribes, 2:1-6), in Bethlehem (2:7-12), in Egypt (2:13-15), in Bethlehem again (but fortunately he's not there, 2:16-17), and finally, in Nazareth (2:19-23). Ultimately, the story shows Jesus' true location, which is in the hands of God. As Herod engages in a search and destroy mission, slaughtering the innocents to ensure his status as "king," God launches a search and preserve mission, successfully keeping the true King of the Jews from harm.
Jesus is to be found in accordance with scripture. This is confirmed by the abundance of "formula quotations," one of Matthew's favorite devices. Events are said to have happened "to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet" (cf. Matthew 2:5, 15, 17, 23). More importantly, Matthew models his story of Jesus' infancy on a particular story from the Hebrew Bible -- the story of Moses. Like Moses, Jesus survives the decree of a wicked king that children must be sacrificed (Exodus 1:16-22). His salvation is miraculous (Exodus 2:1-10). There is a flight in fear (Exodus 2:15). After the death of the king, there is a return (Exodus 2:23; 4:19). Matthew sees the story of Jesus as being a working out of God's ancient story, and a literal fulfillment of the biblical text.
Matthew is also concerned with human action; in particular, the "higher righteousness" that goes beyond the usual and traditional observance of Torah (cf. 5:20). Joseph is a prime example of someone who observes this higher righteousness, because in each case, he does exactly what he is told. Matthew takes "exactly as he is told" literally, as the descriptions of Joseph's actions are simply direct repetitions of the angel's commands. By contrast, Herod cannot even observe the most basic precepts of Torah, let alone be open to the kind of direct revelation that Joseph is privy to. While there is no other record of Herod's slaughter of the innocents, such an action would have been quite in keeping with his character; the joke in Rome, in light of his ruthless disposal of his relatives for political gain, was that it was "better to be Herod's pig than his son." Such a man would hardly think twice about wiping out a town, if it threatened his rule.
Application
It's an unusual year for preachers, with Christmas coming on a Saturday. You might be tempted to say, "It was just Christmas yesterday, and here I have to preach again!' You might be further tempted to forego the sermon on the Sunday after Christmas, or give a slightly-warmed-over version of the Christmas Eve or Christmas Day sermon (after all, who's going to show up on Sunday this year?).
I hope that you will resist temptation and give some real attention to the lections for the First Sunday after Christmas. They bring quite a different perspective from the usual Christmas Eve or Christmas Day sermon. Hanging over them is a shadow -- the shadow of judgment, the shadow of Good Friday. While Christmas need not be turned into Lent, it would be nice for the preacher to make some connection between what our society observes as the most significant Christian holiday, and what is in fact the most theologically significant of events -- the death and resurrection of the Messiah.
Such words might be more welcome this Sunday than you might think. Face it, the day after Christmas is a letdown. We didn't get what we wanted, or if we did, it didn't measure up to our expectations. The children have already left the toys lying around, some never to be played with again, to judge from previous years. A few are broken, or the batteries are dead. Not to mention the strain of having all those family and relatives at home. Alternatively, this is for some people the first Christmas without a significant relative or friend. For others, Christmas is always spent alone. For many, the holidays are a time of depression, sadness, and disappointment.
The message of the gospel is that Jesus meets us where we are, no matter where we are. Jesus meets us in the depths of depression as well as in the heights of elation. Jesus meets us in disappointment as well as exhilaration. He has been where we are, and he has conquered. No longer a baby, this full-grown Messiah suffered as we do, yet was able to bring his work to a completion. God was watching over him, even when he could not watch over himself.
As God will watch over us, even at those times when we cannot bring ourselves to believe or behave. God continues to care for us with steadfast love.
Alternative Applications
1) Isaiah 63:7-9.
Praise is the prelude to confession. Isaiah's lament begins deceptively, because it does not start out lamenting. As often with psalms of lament, it begins with a recitation of the great deeds of God. This forms the basis of the appeal for mercy: If God has done great things for us in the past, how could God refuse to show pity on us now? It is a clever and sensible rhetorical move for a prayer.
Those of us who wish to learn how to pray from the Bible will take this example to heart. When we feel low, perhaps the place to start is with praise. Recount God's blessings, and the ways that God has come to our help in the past. Not only will it make us feel better, it will provide a sure foundation for the confession to follow. We can approach the throne of grace boldly, knowing that God cares enough to turn our hearts back toward heaven.
2) Matthew 2:13-23. Joseph had it easy, in a way. He had an angel appearing to him, telling him what to. It was a simple matter to follow simple instructions. He proved himself righteous, by doing exactly as he was told.
It's not so easy for us today. We hardly ever have angels telling us exactly what to do (and we'd probably want to check our medications if it happened more than once!). Moral decisions are not always clear-cut and dried. There are a myriad of decisions that we must make that are not particularly covered by the Bible and theology: "At what sort of job should I work? Who should I love? Shall I have children? Where shall I live?" The list goes on and on. Yet we expect God to give us guidance in these areas of our lives, as well as in the direct prescriptions of the biblical commandments.
If Matthew were to give us one answer for this problem, it might be: "Take and read, take and read." Matthew's approach to scripture moved beyond a simple assent to commandments (in fact, he left the commanding to extra-biblical angels). Instead, Matthew advocated an immersion approach to the Bible. He was able to piece out meaning from the biblical text that was not obvious on the surface, simply because he knew it so well. He could see in the events happening around him the working out of God's purpose, reading life in light of God's word.
Admittedly, this results in some strange interpretive moves. Modern readers are often confused by Matthew's formula citations, since they seem to indulge in more of a metaphorical than a literal interpretation. In one case, it's not even clear exactly what passage Matthew is quoting (Matthew 2:23). Matthew's midrashic use of scripture may seem beside the point to those who have learned to see the Bible in all its literary, historical, sociological, and religious complexity.
Nevertheless, Matthew has something to teach us here, even if we can't read exactly the way he read. Matthew's immersion in the Bible was an immersion in the gracious God behind that Bible. We, too, can learn to read our lives in light of the God of grace we encounter in scripture. The first step will be to immerse ourselves in that scripture, as Matthew did.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 148
In his breathtaking Hymn of the Universe, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin uses the Roman Catholic mass as a metaphor for the majesty and the complexity of creation. As both priest and scientist, de Chardin was in a unique position to see the order and beauty of creation existing, not only as a testament to God's creative power, but also as a response to that creative power. The stars and seas and plants and animals all follow their courses and play their roles. In doing so they comprise a powerful hymn that celebrates God's amazing accomplishment.
The person who wrote Psalm 148 has employed a similar pattern. Beginning with the highest heavens and working his way down through creation, the psalm writer calls upon every living creature, every created thing, to praise God.
Unlike Teilhard, however, the hymn of praise and the cause for praise is not creation itself. Creation is called to worship, called to bear witness, not to itself, but to another creative act accomplished by God. The full range of the universe is called to sing a hymn to "a horn."
In the final stanza the psalmist writes, "He has raised up a horn for his people, praise for all his faithful, for the people of Israel who are close to him" (v. 14).
A "horn" makes reference to a ruler or a king. The immediate context for the psalmist was probably a newly installed king of Israel. But for us, the context takes on genuine universal significance. The "horn" that has been raised for us, the ruler whose life and work we celebrate is none other than the King of all kings.
In other words, we are invited to give voice to a new hymn, not to the universe, but to God's universal act of redemption. The whole created order, while certainly in awe of the Creator's great power and might, has its attention drawn to another creative act. God has poured the fullness of divine power and love into a singular life. That life stands as the hope for all people, for creation itself.
So we voice a song of praise. We fill our sanctuary with our praises. We listen for praise shouts from the heavens. We expect the animals to respond. The sea life, the birds of the air -- all life is called to praise. Kings, rulers, presidents -- the powerful and the powerless alike are called on to praise. The universe is brought together to make a choral offering to the one life that makes all other life possible and meaningful.
We tend to present God as the paradigm of kindness and beauty, but that image stands in contrast to something darker. Whether it's human sin or the prospect of divine judgment, there is always a bleak side to the Bible's promise of God's love. Today's lessons all present a positive picture of God, yet each have a caveat lurking in the background. In Isaiah, God does great deeds in love, and yet human beings reject that love. In Hebrews, Jesus comes as a faithful and merciful high priest, tested as we are, but we hesitate to follow in his steps. In Matthew, God miraculously preserves the child of promise, while allowing evil to have full sway with other innocent children.
Isaiah 63:7-9
Sometimes the only sensible response to reality is the lament, "Oh, woe is me!" It is a perfectly appropriate thing to say at certain times. No one likes a constant complainer, but the reason is not the complaint per se but its lack of suitability; if every little thing is a cause for lament, the force of the lament is diluted. We feel we ought to save the lament for something truly lamentable (just as, I often say, preachers ought to save the word "wonderful" for something that is truly full of wonder, and not use it to describe a routine church outing). When something truly lamentable happens -- and we all know what those things are, no need to list them -- launching into a lament is a perfectly unlamentable thing to do. We have plenty of precedent for the proper lament. The Bible is full of them.
Isaiah 63:7--64:12 is one long lament. The prophet, on behalf of the community, appeals to God for mercy in misery. Interspersed with appeals for compassion are confessions of sin and hardening of heart. What is lamentable here is not just the sorry situation that the community has found itself in (Isaiah is not specific about the situation, but it may have to do with the Baby-lonian Exile), but also the sorry state of the community itself. "We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away. There is no one who calls on your name, or attempts to take hold of you; for you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity" (Isaiah 64:6-7). Such rebellion has put the community in a precarious situation: "We have long been like those whom you do not rule, like those not called by your name" (63:19). In fact, God has reserved the harshest sort of language for these people: "They rebelled and grieved his holy spirit; therefore he became their enemy; he himself fought against them" (63:10). Human sin has been unmasked as what it really is, enmity with God (cf. James 4:4).
Biblical laments often begin with recitations of God's great deeds, and this lament is no exception (cf. Psalm 106 or Nehemiah 9). The recitations heighten the contrast between God's grace and human rebellion. The prophet begins the recitation in the first-person singular, but quickly moves to identify with the entire community, "the house of Israel": "I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord, the praiseworthy acts of the Lord, because of all that the Lord has done for us, and the great favor to the house of Israel that he has shown them according to his mercy, according to the abundance of his steadfast love" (63:7). The opening line is wrapped in chesed (here translated as both "gracious deeds" and "steadfast love"), which is both the emphatic first and last word in the sentence. In between, the prophet piles on the praise of God, citing "praise" or "praiseworthy acts" (tehillah), "reward" (gemal, the verb is used twice, though somewhat obscured in our translation), "compassion" or "mercy" (rachamim), and "great goodness" or "favor" (rav-tuv). The prophet puts a bit of the classic covenantal formula in God's mouth: "Surely they are my people" (cf. Leviticus 26:12; Deuteronomy 29:13), but adds ironically that they are "children who will not deal falsely" (63:8). I guess God can always hope!
The final verse in the lection presents a translation problem. The Hebrew text traditionally reads, "In all their distress he was distressed; the angel of the presence saved them" (cf. NRSV note). The NRSV text follows the Greek translation, which is based on a possible reading of the Hebrew, and takes the opening words with the previous verse, introducing a contrast between God's presence and that of a hypothetical angelic mediator. In favor of this reading is that "the angel of the presence" is not otherwise found in the Hebrew Bible (but cf. Exodus 33:12ff). However, the reading may have been changed precisely because it was so odd, and also because it may have seemed inappropriate to speak of God's "distress." Either reading is possible. At any rate, it was at God's initiative, not to mention "love" ('ahavah) and "pity" (chemla) that the Lord "lifted them up and carried them all the days of old" (63:9).
Since the lectionary includes only the recitation and not the rest of the lament, today's reading is a bit deceptive. It makes it sound like everything is hunky-dory, when it isn't. The broader context of Isaiah's lament sets off God's great deeds in contrast with the human rebellion called "sin." The job of the preacher today may well be to create for the congregation the context in which the recitation makes sense; God's past deeds become the basis for the appeal for mercy in the present.
Why not just emphasize the positive and forget all that lamentable stuff (as the lectionary tries to do)? There are at least two reasons. One is that light is always set off by darkness, and God's grace truly shines only in contrast with its human opposition. The second reason is perhaps more important: The congregation, as a group and as individuals, may well have need to compose their own laments, when something truly lamentable happens to them. Isaiah's lament, understood in its entirety, gives them a model. The formula still works.
Hebrews 2:10-18
Contrasts and comparisons are basic forms of definition. The contrast helps define something by describing what it is not like. The comparison takes the opposite tack, describing something on the basis of its similarity to something else. The two methods work well together because they pull in opposite directions toward the same goal; one tries to connect, the other to disconnect.
The book of Hebrews is not a letter but a sermon that uses the basic rhetorical device of contrast and comparison to define Jesus as God's definitive word to humankind (cf. Hebrews 1:1-3). The sermon begins with an extended contrast between Jesus and the ministers of the old covenant, the angels. This is but preparatory to the comparison, however, because Hebrews is primarily concerned to make a connection. This primary connection is between Jesus and us.
Though he was by nature superior to the angels, Hebrews pictures Jesus as descending below his proper position. "We do see Jesus, who for a little while was made lower than the angels, now crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone" (Hebrews 2:9). This statement leads the preacher to consider further the connection between Jesus and human beings. Jesus became one of "many children" being led "to glory" (v. 10). Jesus can call us "brothers and sisters" because "the one who sanctifies [Jesus] and those who are sanctified all have one Father" (v. 11). Like any good homiletician, the preacher cites scripture to prove his point; unlike modern preachers, the assumption is that Jesus as God's Word is the speaker of the ancient text: "I will proclaim your name to my brothers and sisters, in the midst of the congregation I will praise you" (v. 12, cf. Psalm 22:22); "Here am I and the children whom God has given me," (v. 13, cf. Isaiah 8:18). Hebrews also quotes Isaiah 8:17, "I will put my trust in him," to make the point that the family resemblance is found through faith (v. 13). The preacher emphasizes the complete humanity of Jesus, that he shared "blood and flesh" (the NRSV reverses the original order), and was "like his brothers and sisters in every respect" (v. 17; later the preacher will make "sin" the one exception, 4:15). The reason for his solidarity with humankind is clear: "Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested" (v. 18).
Thus Jesus' connection to humanity made him "a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God" (v. 17). Here the preacher foreshadows the sermon that is to come, which will speak of Jesus as faithful (cf. 3:1--4:14) and merciful (4:15--5:10), and as "a high priest after the order of Melchizedek" (5:5, 10; cf. 6:20; 7:26-28; 8:1-3; 9:11, 25). The preacher uses the language of priesthood because he sees Jesus as making "a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people," that is, a once-for-all blood sacrifice that would remove the stain of sin from Jesus' brothers and sisters (v. 17; cf. chs. 8-10). This action would mean liberation not only from the fear of death and judgment (v. 15), but also from the power of evil itself, personified by the devil (v. 14). Jesus' own death is the sacrifice that frees his brothers and sisters from the negative effect of sin, which is, ultimately, death itself.
Thus Jesus is "the pioneer of their salvation"; he becomes both the "leader" of this troop of like-natured people, and the "author" of the next chapter in their lives (the word archegos in v. 10 can mean both "leader" and "author"). God was at work in Jesus, "making him perfect through sufferings" (v. 10). The expression "make perfect," teleioo, is used throughout Hebrews (cf. Hebrews 2:10; 5:9; 7:19, 28; 9:9; 10:1, 14; 11:40; 12:23), and can mean "to complete an activity, bring to an end, finish, accomplish"; in the Greek Old Testament, it is used of the consecration of priests (Exodus 29:9; Leviticus 16:32; Numbers 3:3). God brings about the accomplishment of Jesus' mission "through sufferings," that is, through his priestly act, his sacrificial death.
It may seem strange to be talking about death and sacrifice as we celebrate the birth of Jesus; we are by no means straying far from our biblical charter. As we will see, the Bible is not nearly as sentimental about the baby Jesus as we are.
Matthew 2:13-23
While we think of Christmas as a joyous celebration of new life, the shadow of death always hangs over it. The dark side of Matthew's infancy stories is that they so often point to the end of his story, the crucifixion. This is particularly the case in chapter 2 of Matthew (cf. 2:2, 3, 4, 16, 20). Jesus is associated with suffering and death from the beginning; part of the miracle of God's work is that Jesus is delivered from premature submission to fate. It waits for God's good time, but the cross is always overhanging Matthew's story.
Matthew's second chapter is concerned with the question, "Where can we find Jesus?" It gives various answers, as the story moves along: Jesus is to be searched for in Jerusalem (in the words of the scribes, 2:1-6), in Bethlehem (2:7-12), in Egypt (2:13-15), in Bethlehem again (but fortunately he's not there, 2:16-17), and finally, in Nazareth (2:19-23). Ultimately, the story shows Jesus' true location, which is in the hands of God. As Herod engages in a search and destroy mission, slaughtering the innocents to ensure his status as "king," God launches a search and preserve mission, successfully keeping the true King of the Jews from harm.
Jesus is to be found in accordance with scripture. This is confirmed by the abundance of "formula quotations," one of Matthew's favorite devices. Events are said to have happened "to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet" (cf. Matthew 2:5, 15, 17, 23). More importantly, Matthew models his story of Jesus' infancy on a particular story from the Hebrew Bible -- the story of Moses. Like Moses, Jesus survives the decree of a wicked king that children must be sacrificed (Exodus 1:16-22). His salvation is miraculous (Exodus 2:1-10). There is a flight in fear (Exodus 2:15). After the death of the king, there is a return (Exodus 2:23; 4:19). Matthew sees the story of Jesus as being a working out of God's ancient story, and a literal fulfillment of the biblical text.
Matthew is also concerned with human action; in particular, the "higher righteousness" that goes beyond the usual and traditional observance of Torah (cf. 5:20). Joseph is a prime example of someone who observes this higher righteousness, because in each case, he does exactly what he is told. Matthew takes "exactly as he is told" literally, as the descriptions of Joseph's actions are simply direct repetitions of the angel's commands. By contrast, Herod cannot even observe the most basic precepts of Torah, let alone be open to the kind of direct revelation that Joseph is privy to. While there is no other record of Herod's slaughter of the innocents, such an action would have been quite in keeping with his character; the joke in Rome, in light of his ruthless disposal of his relatives for political gain, was that it was "better to be Herod's pig than his son." Such a man would hardly think twice about wiping out a town, if it threatened his rule.
Application
It's an unusual year for preachers, with Christmas coming on a Saturday. You might be tempted to say, "It was just Christmas yesterday, and here I have to preach again!' You might be further tempted to forego the sermon on the Sunday after Christmas, or give a slightly-warmed-over version of the Christmas Eve or Christmas Day sermon (after all, who's going to show up on Sunday this year?).
I hope that you will resist temptation and give some real attention to the lections for the First Sunday after Christmas. They bring quite a different perspective from the usual Christmas Eve or Christmas Day sermon. Hanging over them is a shadow -- the shadow of judgment, the shadow of Good Friday. While Christmas need not be turned into Lent, it would be nice for the preacher to make some connection between what our society observes as the most significant Christian holiday, and what is in fact the most theologically significant of events -- the death and resurrection of the Messiah.
Such words might be more welcome this Sunday than you might think. Face it, the day after Christmas is a letdown. We didn't get what we wanted, or if we did, it didn't measure up to our expectations. The children have already left the toys lying around, some never to be played with again, to judge from previous years. A few are broken, or the batteries are dead. Not to mention the strain of having all those family and relatives at home. Alternatively, this is for some people the first Christmas without a significant relative or friend. For others, Christmas is always spent alone. For many, the holidays are a time of depression, sadness, and disappointment.
The message of the gospel is that Jesus meets us where we are, no matter where we are. Jesus meets us in the depths of depression as well as in the heights of elation. Jesus meets us in disappointment as well as exhilaration. He has been where we are, and he has conquered. No longer a baby, this full-grown Messiah suffered as we do, yet was able to bring his work to a completion. God was watching over him, even when he could not watch over himself.
As God will watch over us, even at those times when we cannot bring ourselves to believe or behave. God continues to care for us with steadfast love.
Alternative Applications
1) Isaiah 63:7-9.
Praise is the prelude to confession. Isaiah's lament begins deceptively, because it does not start out lamenting. As often with psalms of lament, it begins with a recitation of the great deeds of God. This forms the basis of the appeal for mercy: If God has done great things for us in the past, how could God refuse to show pity on us now? It is a clever and sensible rhetorical move for a prayer.
Those of us who wish to learn how to pray from the Bible will take this example to heart. When we feel low, perhaps the place to start is with praise. Recount God's blessings, and the ways that God has come to our help in the past. Not only will it make us feel better, it will provide a sure foundation for the confession to follow. We can approach the throne of grace boldly, knowing that God cares enough to turn our hearts back toward heaven.
2) Matthew 2:13-23. Joseph had it easy, in a way. He had an angel appearing to him, telling him what to. It was a simple matter to follow simple instructions. He proved himself righteous, by doing exactly as he was told.
It's not so easy for us today. We hardly ever have angels telling us exactly what to do (and we'd probably want to check our medications if it happened more than once!). Moral decisions are not always clear-cut and dried. There are a myriad of decisions that we must make that are not particularly covered by the Bible and theology: "At what sort of job should I work? Who should I love? Shall I have children? Where shall I live?" The list goes on and on. Yet we expect God to give us guidance in these areas of our lives, as well as in the direct prescriptions of the biblical commandments.
If Matthew were to give us one answer for this problem, it might be: "Take and read, take and read." Matthew's approach to scripture moved beyond a simple assent to commandments (in fact, he left the commanding to extra-biblical angels). Instead, Matthew advocated an immersion approach to the Bible. He was able to piece out meaning from the biblical text that was not obvious on the surface, simply because he knew it so well. He could see in the events happening around him the working out of God's purpose, reading life in light of God's word.
Admittedly, this results in some strange interpretive moves. Modern readers are often confused by Matthew's formula citations, since they seem to indulge in more of a metaphorical than a literal interpretation. In one case, it's not even clear exactly what passage Matthew is quoting (Matthew 2:23). Matthew's midrashic use of scripture may seem beside the point to those who have learned to see the Bible in all its literary, historical, sociological, and religious complexity.
Nevertheless, Matthew has something to teach us here, even if we can't read exactly the way he read. Matthew's immersion in the Bible was an immersion in the gracious God behind that Bible. We, too, can learn to read our lives in light of the God of grace we encounter in scripture. The first step will be to immerse ourselves in that scripture, as Matthew did.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 148
In his breathtaking Hymn of the Universe, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin uses the Roman Catholic mass as a metaphor for the majesty and the complexity of creation. As both priest and scientist, de Chardin was in a unique position to see the order and beauty of creation existing, not only as a testament to God's creative power, but also as a response to that creative power. The stars and seas and plants and animals all follow their courses and play their roles. In doing so they comprise a powerful hymn that celebrates God's amazing accomplishment.
The person who wrote Psalm 148 has employed a similar pattern. Beginning with the highest heavens and working his way down through creation, the psalm writer calls upon every living creature, every created thing, to praise God.
Unlike Teilhard, however, the hymn of praise and the cause for praise is not creation itself. Creation is called to worship, called to bear witness, not to itself, but to another creative act accomplished by God. The full range of the universe is called to sing a hymn to "a horn."
In the final stanza the psalmist writes, "He has raised up a horn for his people, praise for all his faithful, for the people of Israel who are close to him" (v. 14).
A "horn" makes reference to a ruler or a king. The immediate context for the psalmist was probably a newly installed king of Israel. But for us, the context takes on genuine universal significance. The "horn" that has been raised for us, the ruler whose life and work we celebrate is none other than the King of all kings.
In other words, we are invited to give voice to a new hymn, not to the universe, but to God's universal act of redemption. The whole created order, while certainly in awe of the Creator's great power and might, has its attention drawn to another creative act. God has poured the fullness of divine power and love into a singular life. That life stands as the hope for all people, for creation itself.
So we voice a song of praise. We fill our sanctuary with our praises. We listen for praise shouts from the heavens. We expect the animals to respond. The sea life, the birds of the air -- all life is called to praise. Kings, rulers, presidents -- the powerful and the powerless alike are called on to praise. The universe is brought together to make a choral offering to the one life that makes all other life possible and meaningful.
