Tears
Commentary
Object:
"As luck would have it, providence was on my side!" wrote Samuel Butler. But what does that mean? Is it a good-luck charm? Will it get you out of any scrape, even those of your own foolish doing?
Hardly. We know of too many tragedies and cruelties and unrequited injustices even in the Christian community to believe that. A young Christian girl whose sister was sick and whose family was troubled by a long list of difficulties once wrote to me: "I am angry with God right now.... Sometimes I even think our family is cursed. When something goes wrong I think 'Oh no! Another curse!' "
Nor can our trust in God be mere fatalism. The message of the Bible is not compatible with the idea that evil forces are either God's delight or his intent. No one can thank God for his providential leading when a drunk driver crushes the body of a child. No one can praise God for his providential direction when an airplane crashes or a mine collapses. These are not the things that providence is made of.
And thus it is difficult to read the times we live in or to easily identify the exact way God is moving with power or shaping destinies. The dangers are all too evident when we read the statement signed by 600 German pastors and fourteen theology professors in 1934: "We are thankful to God that He, as Lord of history, has given us Adolf Hitler, our leader and savior from our difficult lot." Such a statement seems demonic now!
In a sense, our testimony is more a confession than a theological treatise. I believe God exists. I know that God can control the destinies of peoples and nations. I am confident that God has a direction, a purpose for this world, and I want to be a part of that leading. Even when things go "wrong" (from my own point of view). Even when tragedy strikes. Even when no miracles happen. As David put it in Psalm 31, "My times are in your hand." That's the confession of faith! That's the confidence of trust!
A young schoolteacher named Ray Palmer thought about that one night in 1830. He sat at his desk in the darkness and wrote a little poem to God. It was a prayer of trust, a statement of faith.
One day he met Dr. Lowell Mason, a brilliant musician. Looking for verses to set to hymn tunes, Dr. Mason scanned Ray's poetry. It was all quite good but one poem moved him to tears. It was the nighttime prayer. And with a melody of simple majesty, Mason published the hymn that spoke with the convictions that resonate through today's passages.
It still grabs hearts. It still brings tears. And it still echoes the testimony of those who know what the tears of Abraham and Paul and Jesus are all about. Its opening line goes like this: My faith looks up to thee!
Genesis 15:1-12 (17-18)
Abram was an Aramean from the heart of Mesopotamia whose father Terah began a journey westward that Abram continued upon his father's death. Whatever Terah's reasons might have been for moving from the old family village -- restlessness, treasure-seeking, displacement, wanderlust -- Genesis 12 informs us that Abram's continuation of the trek was motivated by a divine call to seek a land that would become his by providential appointment. This is the first of four similar divine declarations that occur in quick succession in chapters 12, 13, 15, and 17. Such repetition cues us to the importance of these theophanies, but it should also cause us to look more closely at the forms in which the promises to Abram are made.
For Israel, standing at Mount Sinai in the context of a suzerain-vassal covenant-making ceremony, the implications would be striking. First of all, the nation would see itself as the unique and miraculously born child fulfilling a divine promise. Israel could not exist were it not for God's unusual efforts at getting Abram and Sarai pregnant in a way that was humanly impossible. Second, the people were the descendants of a man on a divine pilgrimage. Not only was Abram en route to a land of promise, but he was also the instrument of God for the blessing of all the nations of the earth. In other words, Israel was born with a mandate, and it was globally encompassing. Third, while these tribes had recently emerged from Egypt as a despised social underclass of disenfranchised slaves, they were actually landowners. Canaan was theirs for the taking because they already owned it! They would not enter the land by stealth, but through the front door; they would claim the land not by surreptitious means or mere battlefield bloodshed, but as rightful owners going home. This would greatly affect their common psyche: they were the long-lost heirs of a kingdom, returning to claim their royal privilege and possessions. Fourth, there was a selection in the process of creating their identity. They were children of Abraham but so were a number of area tribes and nations descending from Ishmael. What made them special was the uniqueness of their lineage through Isaac, the miraculously born child of Abram and Sarai's old age. Israel had international kinship relations, but she also retained a unique identity fostered by the divine distinctions between branches of the family. Fifth, in the progression of the dialogue between Yahweh and Abram there was a call to participation in the mission of God. As the story of Abram unfolded, it was clear that his commitment to God's plans was minimal at best until the change from royal grants (Genesis 12, 13, 15) to the suzerain-vassal covenant of chapter 17. Each time Abram was given a gift he seemingly threw it away, tried to take it by force, or manipulated his circumstances so that he controlled his destiny; only when God took formal ownership of both Abram and the situation through the suzerain-vassal covenant of Genesis 17 was there a marked change in Abram's participation in the divine initiative.
The renaming of Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah were only partly significant for the meaning of the names; mostly they were a deliberate and public declaration that God owned them. To name meant to have power over, just as was the case when a divine word created the elements of the universe in Genesis 1, and when Adam named the animals in Genesis 2. Furthermore, in the call to circumcise all the males of the family, God transformed a widely used social rite of passage symbol into a visible mark of belonging now no longer tied to personal achievements like battlefield wins or hunting success, but merely to the gracious goodness of God, and participation in the divine mission.
But what was that divine mission? Only when Israel heard the rest of the covenant prologue, and then followed Moses to the Promised Land, would it become clear. Still, in recalling the tale of father Abraham in this manner, Genesis places before Israel at Sinai a very important element of its profound identity: we came into this world miraculously as a result of a divine initiative to bless all the nations of the earth; therefore we are a unique people with the powerful backing of the Creator and participating in a mission that is still in progress.
Philippians 3:17--4:1
* Sometime in the spring of 57 AD Paul arrived in Rome. He had been arrested in Jerusalem in 54 while making an offering in the temple. Kept in several prisons because of political uncertainties, he had made an appeal to have his case heard personally sometime in 56 AD. This was his right as a Roman citizen. Since the charges against him were sectarian (related to Jewish religious practices) rather than capital crimes, Paul was able to establish his own living circumstances within the larger palace precincts, while remaining under a type of house arrest.
* Probably late in 57 AD or early in 58, Epaphroditus, who had been serving as pastor or congregational leader in Philippi, brought Paul a rather significant gift from that church (Philippians 2:25; 4:10). It may have included money and supplies; in any case, it greatly enhanced Paul's comfort in his limited circumstances.
* Epaphroditus stayed on with Paul for some time, assisting him as a servant. Unfortunately, Epaphroditus became ill and nearly died (Philippians 2:25-30) and only very recently had returned to full health.
* Paul believed that homesickness for Philippi and the congregation there might have contributed to Epaphroditus' grave malady and vowed to send him back home as soon as he was able to travel. Of course, a letter of appreciation and encouragement was a necessary part of all these things, so Paul penned Philippians, probably sometime in early 58 AD.
Paul's letter to the Philippians is the most joyful and uplifting note of the entire New Testament. Even in Paul's confinement, he is filled with delight in his relationships and amazed at what God is doing (Philippians 1). Almost without needing to do so, Paul reminds the congregation of the great example of Jesus, who gave up everything in order to express the love of God to us (Philippians 2:1-18). Another example of this selfless care is found in both Timothy and Epaphroditus, each of whom had given up much in order to serve others, especially the faith community in Philippi (Philippians 2:19-30). And these, together, lead Paul to express his passionate care for the Philippian congregation himself. He is moved to tears out of his great commitment for these dear friends.
Local high society had decided to ignore these newcomers, and no one showed up at the party. The wife was furious. She shouted curses at her neighbors and then she made a vow: "This house will rot before I open it again to anyone!"
The woman kept her word. She and her husband moved to New York City and took rooms at the Astor House hotel. The beautiful mansion was left boarded up and uncared for, an eyesore to remind the community of an invitation spurned.
Sometimes, though, people don't attend functions because they are not invited. I remember when a woman began coming to our worship services. She had never been in a Christian church before. "No one ever invited me," she told me. This woman lived in a city dotted with churches; Christians walked on every street. But she could state with simple honesty: "No one ever invited me before."
This is why Paul writes to the Philippian Christians about his tears. He wrestles with them to understand what life is all about. He wants them to know God and to experience deep spiritual joy. If they only knew, if they only understood what Paul's religion was all about, if they only felt the power and the love and the care of Paul's God, then they too would weep for joy. Until then, Paul agonizes in tears for them.
There was a new song written while I was in high school. It was one of the first that spoke to us teens about the things that Paul writes about. We used to sing it around campfires at night, and I remember the light going on in some eyes when the singers "saw" and "tasted" and "felt" the love of God for the first time. The song went like this:
It only takes a spark to get a fire going,
But soon all those around are warmed up in its glowing.
That's how it is with God's love, once you've experienced it:
You spread his love to everyone. You want to pass it on!
I remember one fellow was in tears. He looked at the friend who brought him along. "Thanks for inviting me," he said. Has anyone said that to you recently?
Luke 13:31-35
This scene from the gospel of Luke is very haunting. We are not immune to tears. But we are deeply moved by the pain of Jesus, especially when we know that it is unnecessary, and that it is caused by ourselves or our ancient kin. Why should Jesus weep?
Of course, pain and suffering are a way of life for us, and Jesus shares fully our human existence. One Spanish philosopher asked the question "What is this life that begins amidst the cries of the infant and the screams of the mother?" We come into this world with wails and tears and that's often how we leave it too. Tears are at least one kind of universal language.
There are different levels of pain, of course -- a cut or bruise annoys us, emotional abuse batters us, major surgery frightens us, the death of a family member can double us over in anguish. But one kind of pain seems worse than the rest and that is the pain of betrayal. A friend turns her back on me. A spouse walks out on me. A community disowns me. Caesar turns around in the threatening crowd and loses his will to fight when he meets the eye of Brutus: Et tu, Brute? Judas meets his friend Jesus with a kiss that means both love and death. Stalin rides to power on the blood of his countrymen. Nothing hurts us more than to be betrayed by the one we counted on, the one we cared for, the one we loved as dearly as ourselves.
That's where this brief story of Jesus crying over Jerusalem is so gut-wrenching. Those who are Jesus' own people, those who share the history of his mission, and those who ought to know and love him best, turn against him in deliberately callous rejection.
Novelist Peter DeVries grew up in a Christian home in Chicago. He spent his life trying to figure out where God was when he needed him most. His most powerful novel, The Blood of the Lamb, is also his most tragic. It's the story of Don Wanderhope (notice the name), born into a family that believes God will always be there for them.
But one tragedy follows another, until Don wishes God wouldn't pay so much attention to him. Don's wife bears a daughter before she herself commits suicide. Little Carol is the one spot of grace in her father's life. Don has struggled with his faith through the years. And when Carol gets sick and is diagnosed with leukemia, he goes back to church. He prays for Carol. He begs God to heal her. He pleads with Jesus to touch her life.
But she dies anyway. Don leaves the hospital, carrying the birthday cake they were going to share. He walks past the church of Saint Catharine. Hanging over the door is a life-size statue of Christ on the cross. In his anger, he takes the cake in his hand and throws it at Jesus. Icing drips from the face like blood.
That's the final prayer of Don Wanderhope. That's what he thinks of the God who betrayed him. He's not alone. I hear the refrain over and over again: Why did God let this happen? How could God do this to us? Why doesn't God listen to my prayers?
We feel Don's pain deeply, because we have all shared it at times. But turn it on its head and hear the heart of Jesus. Why cannot Jesus count on us? Where are we when God hurts? Why should the Savior of the world be a rejected weeper?
This haunting scene moves quickly into the next one. It's a dark night in Jerusalem, just days later. The streets are silent, the marketplace crowds dispersed. A hushed breeze plays with scents of cooking and animals. Through the shadows of an olive grove a small group of men meanders. They stop and settle to sit or sleep, while four figures step further. Then three halt and one moves on alone. In personal agony he wrestles aloud with God, weeping and praying not once, but three times: "Father, take this bitter cup from me!"
From heaven comes only a silent denial. When morning light breaks, this figure will be taunted and tormented, and finally hung on a cross of death. The darkening skies will split with his cry: "My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?"
This picture of divine betrayal is in fact the one sure testimony that for every other child of God, no matter how dark the night, the Father's ears are never deaf, his eyes are never blind, and his hands will never lose their grip.
Feelings of betrayal remain. Doubts linger. But the testimony of scripture reaches to Paul's great testimony in Romans 8: Nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Application
The great radio preacher of a former generation, W.E. Elliott, once attended a concert of piano music. Alfred Cortot was at the keyboard, brilliant as always. His final selection was Chopin's B-minor Sonata, most famous for its "Funeral March." And Cortot's performance was incredible.
After the concert, Elliott greeted the musician and told him how much he had enjoyed the music, especially the Chopin piece. And tears flooded Cortot's eyes as he said, "You see, I felt it so much. This week I lost a very dear friend."
Tears speak volumes. A young woman I know is going through a divorce. She doesn't know why her husband wants out of their marriage. And generally she's a happy-go-lucky person. She can put up with a lot. She can hide a lot inside behind a mask of smiles. But if anyone mentions her husband's name, she cries. Her soul speaks. And no one needs an interpreter. "The deeper the sorrow," says the Talmud, "the less tongue it has." But the more it tells through tears.
No one really wants to cry. Our society, in fact, observes a weeping person and says that he has "broken down," as if he's lost the essence of his personhood. "Laugh, and the world laughs with you," wrote Ella Wilcox. But "weep, and you weep alone." And the world looks on from a distance, wondering if you are odd or neurotic.
Still, the Bible talks in pretty positive ways about sorrow. "It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting," says the preacher in Ecclesiastes 7:2. "Sorrow is better than laughter," he adds (7:3). Emily Dickinson illustrates what he means in her poem:
I walked a mile with Pleasure.
She chatted all the way,
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow,
And never a word said she.
But oh, the things I learned from her
When Sorrow walked with me!
There is something cleansing about tears, more than just washing the dust out of our eyes. Researchers claim that our tears are only straight H2O when we peel an onion. They carry nothing of our souls with them. But when we cry from the heart, our tears carry with them toxins from our bodies. They actually clean us out and help us start over with life again.
In a spiritual sense that's even more true. "Tears are often the telescope by which we see far into heaven," said Henry Ward Beecher. A weary life, a burdened heart, a tormented soul, and the tears began to trickle. But crying cleanses his vision, washes away the toxins that made him sick, and waters the seeds of his faith so that they can grow again.
Abraham wept for joy. Paul wept for passion. Jesus wept in pain for us. Have you had a good cry lately?
An Alternative Application
Genesis 15:1-12 (17-18). Awards were being given for the outstanding achievements at a company during the last year. One woman received her corporation's top honor. She came to the podium, clutched the trophy in her hands, and beamed out at the crowd. There were over 3,000 people in the auditorium, but this woman had eyes for only one. She looked down at her supervisor Joan.
She told of the difficult times that she'd gone through a couple years earlier. She told of the personal problems that she'd experienced. She told of how her work had suffered and how people around her had turned away. They thought she was done for. They thought she couldn't make it. They thought she was a loser.
And she thought so too! She'd called Joan several times, a letter of resignation in hand. She'd decided to quit. She was a failure.
But Joan said, "Let's just wait a little bit longer." And Joan said, "Give it one more try!" And Joan said, "I never would have hired you if I didn't think you could handle it!"
The woman's voice broke, and the tears streamed down her cheeks as she said softly, "Joan believed in me more than I believed in myself."
This might be the picture of God and Abram in Genesis 15. As Phil Keaggy wrote about it in one of his songs, connecting this passage to Genesis 22:
Look at the stars, Abraham
And believe I Am.
Can you count stars, Abraham
Or the grains of sand?
I see why the tide keeps rolling
I see why the tide keeps rolling in
And building up the Sand Tree.
You've loved your wife, Abraham
But there is no son.
Yet from your life, Abraham,
The Seed shall come.
I see why the tide keeps rolling
I see why the tide keeps rolling in
And building up the Sand Tree.
Give Me your son, Abraham,
And believe I can.
Supply the Lamb, Abraham,
For the sin of man.
I see why the tide keeps rolling
I see why the tide keeps rolling in
And building up the Sand Tree.
Isn't that the message of the gospel? Isn't that the story of the Bible? In the middle of a tottering world, with shaky foundations, the Father of all wraps us in his strong arms and through our tears, life can begin again.
Hardly. We know of too many tragedies and cruelties and unrequited injustices even in the Christian community to believe that. A young Christian girl whose sister was sick and whose family was troubled by a long list of difficulties once wrote to me: "I am angry with God right now.... Sometimes I even think our family is cursed. When something goes wrong I think 'Oh no! Another curse!' "
Nor can our trust in God be mere fatalism. The message of the Bible is not compatible with the idea that evil forces are either God's delight or his intent. No one can thank God for his providential leading when a drunk driver crushes the body of a child. No one can praise God for his providential direction when an airplane crashes or a mine collapses. These are not the things that providence is made of.
And thus it is difficult to read the times we live in or to easily identify the exact way God is moving with power or shaping destinies. The dangers are all too evident when we read the statement signed by 600 German pastors and fourteen theology professors in 1934: "We are thankful to God that He, as Lord of history, has given us Adolf Hitler, our leader and savior from our difficult lot." Such a statement seems demonic now!
In a sense, our testimony is more a confession than a theological treatise. I believe God exists. I know that God can control the destinies of peoples and nations. I am confident that God has a direction, a purpose for this world, and I want to be a part of that leading. Even when things go "wrong" (from my own point of view). Even when tragedy strikes. Even when no miracles happen. As David put it in Psalm 31, "My times are in your hand." That's the confession of faith! That's the confidence of trust!
A young schoolteacher named Ray Palmer thought about that one night in 1830. He sat at his desk in the darkness and wrote a little poem to God. It was a prayer of trust, a statement of faith.
One day he met Dr. Lowell Mason, a brilliant musician. Looking for verses to set to hymn tunes, Dr. Mason scanned Ray's poetry. It was all quite good but one poem moved him to tears. It was the nighttime prayer. And with a melody of simple majesty, Mason published the hymn that spoke with the convictions that resonate through today's passages.
It still grabs hearts. It still brings tears. And it still echoes the testimony of those who know what the tears of Abraham and Paul and Jesus are all about. Its opening line goes like this: My faith looks up to thee!
Genesis 15:1-12 (17-18)
Abram was an Aramean from the heart of Mesopotamia whose father Terah began a journey westward that Abram continued upon his father's death. Whatever Terah's reasons might have been for moving from the old family village -- restlessness, treasure-seeking, displacement, wanderlust -- Genesis 12 informs us that Abram's continuation of the trek was motivated by a divine call to seek a land that would become his by providential appointment. This is the first of four similar divine declarations that occur in quick succession in chapters 12, 13, 15, and 17. Such repetition cues us to the importance of these theophanies, but it should also cause us to look more closely at the forms in which the promises to Abram are made.
For Israel, standing at Mount Sinai in the context of a suzerain-vassal covenant-making ceremony, the implications would be striking. First of all, the nation would see itself as the unique and miraculously born child fulfilling a divine promise. Israel could not exist were it not for God's unusual efforts at getting Abram and Sarai pregnant in a way that was humanly impossible. Second, the people were the descendants of a man on a divine pilgrimage. Not only was Abram en route to a land of promise, but he was also the instrument of God for the blessing of all the nations of the earth. In other words, Israel was born with a mandate, and it was globally encompassing. Third, while these tribes had recently emerged from Egypt as a despised social underclass of disenfranchised slaves, they were actually landowners. Canaan was theirs for the taking because they already owned it! They would not enter the land by stealth, but through the front door; they would claim the land not by surreptitious means or mere battlefield bloodshed, but as rightful owners going home. This would greatly affect their common psyche: they were the long-lost heirs of a kingdom, returning to claim their royal privilege and possessions. Fourth, there was a selection in the process of creating their identity. They were children of Abraham but so were a number of area tribes and nations descending from Ishmael. What made them special was the uniqueness of their lineage through Isaac, the miraculously born child of Abram and Sarai's old age. Israel had international kinship relations, but she also retained a unique identity fostered by the divine distinctions between branches of the family. Fifth, in the progression of the dialogue between Yahweh and Abram there was a call to participation in the mission of God. As the story of Abram unfolded, it was clear that his commitment to God's plans was minimal at best until the change from royal grants (Genesis 12, 13, 15) to the suzerain-vassal covenant of chapter 17. Each time Abram was given a gift he seemingly threw it away, tried to take it by force, or manipulated his circumstances so that he controlled his destiny; only when God took formal ownership of both Abram and the situation through the suzerain-vassal covenant of Genesis 17 was there a marked change in Abram's participation in the divine initiative.
The renaming of Abram and Sarai to Abraham and Sarah were only partly significant for the meaning of the names; mostly they were a deliberate and public declaration that God owned them. To name meant to have power over, just as was the case when a divine word created the elements of the universe in Genesis 1, and when Adam named the animals in Genesis 2. Furthermore, in the call to circumcise all the males of the family, God transformed a widely used social rite of passage symbol into a visible mark of belonging now no longer tied to personal achievements like battlefield wins or hunting success, but merely to the gracious goodness of God, and participation in the divine mission.
But what was that divine mission? Only when Israel heard the rest of the covenant prologue, and then followed Moses to the Promised Land, would it become clear. Still, in recalling the tale of father Abraham in this manner, Genesis places before Israel at Sinai a very important element of its profound identity: we came into this world miraculously as a result of a divine initiative to bless all the nations of the earth; therefore we are a unique people with the powerful backing of the Creator and participating in a mission that is still in progress.
Philippians 3:17--4:1
* Sometime in the spring of 57 AD Paul arrived in Rome. He had been arrested in Jerusalem in 54 while making an offering in the temple. Kept in several prisons because of political uncertainties, he had made an appeal to have his case heard personally sometime in 56 AD. This was his right as a Roman citizen. Since the charges against him were sectarian (related to Jewish religious practices) rather than capital crimes, Paul was able to establish his own living circumstances within the larger palace precincts, while remaining under a type of house arrest.
* Probably late in 57 AD or early in 58, Epaphroditus, who had been serving as pastor or congregational leader in Philippi, brought Paul a rather significant gift from that church (Philippians 2:25; 4:10). It may have included money and supplies; in any case, it greatly enhanced Paul's comfort in his limited circumstances.
* Epaphroditus stayed on with Paul for some time, assisting him as a servant. Unfortunately, Epaphroditus became ill and nearly died (Philippians 2:25-30) and only very recently had returned to full health.
* Paul believed that homesickness for Philippi and the congregation there might have contributed to Epaphroditus' grave malady and vowed to send him back home as soon as he was able to travel. Of course, a letter of appreciation and encouragement was a necessary part of all these things, so Paul penned Philippians, probably sometime in early 58 AD.
Paul's letter to the Philippians is the most joyful and uplifting note of the entire New Testament. Even in Paul's confinement, he is filled with delight in his relationships and amazed at what God is doing (Philippians 1). Almost without needing to do so, Paul reminds the congregation of the great example of Jesus, who gave up everything in order to express the love of God to us (Philippians 2:1-18). Another example of this selfless care is found in both Timothy and Epaphroditus, each of whom had given up much in order to serve others, especially the faith community in Philippi (Philippians 2:19-30). And these, together, lead Paul to express his passionate care for the Philippian congregation himself. He is moved to tears out of his great commitment for these dear friends.
Local high society had decided to ignore these newcomers, and no one showed up at the party. The wife was furious. She shouted curses at her neighbors and then she made a vow: "This house will rot before I open it again to anyone!"
The woman kept her word. She and her husband moved to New York City and took rooms at the Astor House hotel. The beautiful mansion was left boarded up and uncared for, an eyesore to remind the community of an invitation spurned.
Sometimes, though, people don't attend functions because they are not invited. I remember when a woman began coming to our worship services. She had never been in a Christian church before. "No one ever invited me," she told me. This woman lived in a city dotted with churches; Christians walked on every street. But she could state with simple honesty: "No one ever invited me before."
This is why Paul writes to the Philippian Christians about his tears. He wrestles with them to understand what life is all about. He wants them to know God and to experience deep spiritual joy. If they only knew, if they only understood what Paul's religion was all about, if they only felt the power and the love and the care of Paul's God, then they too would weep for joy. Until then, Paul agonizes in tears for them.
There was a new song written while I was in high school. It was one of the first that spoke to us teens about the things that Paul writes about. We used to sing it around campfires at night, and I remember the light going on in some eyes when the singers "saw" and "tasted" and "felt" the love of God for the first time. The song went like this:
It only takes a spark to get a fire going,
But soon all those around are warmed up in its glowing.
That's how it is with God's love, once you've experienced it:
You spread his love to everyone. You want to pass it on!
I remember one fellow was in tears. He looked at the friend who brought him along. "Thanks for inviting me," he said. Has anyone said that to you recently?
Luke 13:31-35
This scene from the gospel of Luke is very haunting. We are not immune to tears. But we are deeply moved by the pain of Jesus, especially when we know that it is unnecessary, and that it is caused by ourselves or our ancient kin. Why should Jesus weep?
Of course, pain and suffering are a way of life for us, and Jesus shares fully our human existence. One Spanish philosopher asked the question "What is this life that begins amidst the cries of the infant and the screams of the mother?" We come into this world with wails and tears and that's often how we leave it too. Tears are at least one kind of universal language.
There are different levels of pain, of course -- a cut or bruise annoys us, emotional abuse batters us, major surgery frightens us, the death of a family member can double us over in anguish. But one kind of pain seems worse than the rest and that is the pain of betrayal. A friend turns her back on me. A spouse walks out on me. A community disowns me. Caesar turns around in the threatening crowd and loses his will to fight when he meets the eye of Brutus: Et tu, Brute? Judas meets his friend Jesus with a kiss that means both love and death. Stalin rides to power on the blood of his countrymen. Nothing hurts us more than to be betrayed by the one we counted on, the one we cared for, the one we loved as dearly as ourselves.
That's where this brief story of Jesus crying over Jerusalem is so gut-wrenching. Those who are Jesus' own people, those who share the history of his mission, and those who ought to know and love him best, turn against him in deliberately callous rejection.
Novelist Peter DeVries grew up in a Christian home in Chicago. He spent his life trying to figure out where God was when he needed him most. His most powerful novel, The Blood of the Lamb, is also his most tragic. It's the story of Don Wanderhope (notice the name), born into a family that believes God will always be there for them.
But one tragedy follows another, until Don wishes God wouldn't pay so much attention to him. Don's wife bears a daughter before she herself commits suicide. Little Carol is the one spot of grace in her father's life. Don has struggled with his faith through the years. And when Carol gets sick and is diagnosed with leukemia, he goes back to church. He prays for Carol. He begs God to heal her. He pleads with Jesus to touch her life.
But she dies anyway. Don leaves the hospital, carrying the birthday cake they were going to share. He walks past the church of Saint Catharine. Hanging over the door is a life-size statue of Christ on the cross. In his anger, he takes the cake in his hand and throws it at Jesus. Icing drips from the face like blood.
That's the final prayer of Don Wanderhope. That's what he thinks of the God who betrayed him. He's not alone. I hear the refrain over and over again: Why did God let this happen? How could God do this to us? Why doesn't God listen to my prayers?
We feel Don's pain deeply, because we have all shared it at times. But turn it on its head and hear the heart of Jesus. Why cannot Jesus count on us? Where are we when God hurts? Why should the Savior of the world be a rejected weeper?
This haunting scene moves quickly into the next one. It's a dark night in Jerusalem, just days later. The streets are silent, the marketplace crowds dispersed. A hushed breeze plays with scents of cooking and animals. Through the shadows of an olive grove a small group of men meanders. They stop and settle to sit or sleep, while four figures step further. Then three halt and one moves on alone. In personal agony he wrestles aloud with God, weeping and praying not once, but three times: "Father, take this bitter cup from me!"
From heaven comes only a silent denial. When morning light breaks, this figure will be taunted and tormented, and finally hung on a cross of death. The darkening skies will split with his cry: "My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?"
This picture of divine betrayal is in fact the one sure testimony that for every other child of God, no matter how dark the night, the Father's ears are never deaf, his eyes are never blind, and his hands will never lose their grip.
Feelings of betrayal remain. Doubts linger. But the testimony of scripture reaches to Paul's great testimony in Romans 8: Nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Application
The great radio preacher of a former generation, W.E. Elliott, once attended a concert of piano music. Alfred Cortot was at the keyboard, brilliant as always. His final selection was Chopin's B-minor Sonata, most famous for its "Funeral March." And Cortot's performance was incredible.
After the concert, Elliott greeted the musician and told him how much he had enjoyed the music, especially the Chopin piece. And tears flooded Cortot's eyes as he said, "You see, I felt it so much. This week I lost a very dear friend."
Tears speak volumes. A young woman I know is going through a divorce. She doesn't know why her husband wants out of their marriage. And generally she's a happy-go-lucky person. She can put up with a lot. She can hide a lot inside behind a mask of smiles. But if anyone mentions her husband's name, she cries. Her soul speaks. And no one needs an interpreter. "The deeper the sorrow," says the Talmud, "the less tongue it has." But the more it tells through tears.
No one really wants to cry. Our society, in fact, observes a weeping person and says that he has "broken down," as if he's lost the essence of his personhood. "Laugh, and the world laughs with you," wrote Ella Wilcox. But "weep, and you weep alone." And the world looks on from a distance, wondering if you are odd or neurotic.
Still, the Bible talks in pretty positive ways about sorrow. "It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting," says the preacher in Ecclesiastes 7:2. "Sorrow is better than laughter," he adds (7:3). Emily Dickinson illustrates what he means in her poem:
I walked a mile with Pleasure.
She chatted all the way,
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow,
And never a word said she.
But oh, the things I learned from her
When Sorrow walked with me!
There is something cleansing about tears, more than just washing the dust out of our eyes. Researchers claim that our tears are only straight H2O when we peel an onion. They carry nothing of our souls with them. But when we cry from the heart, our tears carry with them toxins from our bodies. They actually clean us out and help us start over with life again.
In a spiritual sense that's even more true. "Tears are often the telescope by which we see far into heaven," said Henry Ward Beecher. A weary life, a burdened heart, a tormented soul, and the tears began to trickle. But crying cleanses his vision, washes away the toxins that made him sick, and waters the seeds of his faith so that they can grow again.
Abraham wept for joy. Paul wept for passion. Jesus wept in pain for us. Have you had a good cry lately?
An Alternative Application
Genesis 15:1-12 (17-18). Awards were being given for the outstanding achievements at a company during the last year. One woman received her corporation's top honor. She came to the podium, clutched the trophy in her hands, and beamed out at the crowd. There were over 3,000 people in the auditorium, but this woman had eyes for only one. She looked down at her supervisor Joan.
She told of the difficult times that she'd gone through a couple years earlier. She told of the personal problems that she'd experienced. She told of how her work had suffered and how people around her had turned away. They thought she was done for. They thought she couldn't make it. They thought she was a loser.
And she thought so too! She'd called Joan several times, a letter of resignation in hand. She'd decided to quit. She was a failure.
But Joan said, "Let's just wait a little bit longer." And Joan said, "Give it one more try!" And Joan said, "I never would have hired you if I didn't think you could handle it!"
The woman's voice broke, and the tears streamed down her cheeks as she said softly, "Joan believed in me more than I believed in myself."
This might be the picture of God and Abram in Genesis 15. As Phil Keaggy wrote about it in one of his songs, connecting this passage to Genesis 22:
Look at the stars, Abraham
And believe I Am.
Can you count stars, Abraham
Or the grains of sand?
I see why the tide keeps rolling
I see why the tide keeps rolling in
And building up the Sand Tree.
You've loved your wife, Abraham
But there is no son.
Yet from your life, Abraham,
The Seed shall come.
I see why the tide keeps rolling
I see why the tide keeps rolling in
And building up the Sand Tree.
Give Me your son, Abraham,
And believe I can.
Supply the Lamb, Abraham,
For the sin of man.
I see why the tide keeps rolling
I see why the tide keeps rolling in
And building up the Sand Tree.
Isn't that the message of the gospel? Isn't that the story of the Bible? In the middle of a tottering world, with shaky foundations, the Father of all wraps us in his strong arms and through our tears, life can begin again.
