A Match Made In Heaven
Sermon
What If What They Say Is True?
First Lesson Sermons For Sundays After Pentecost (Middle Third) Cycle C
I have a friend who wanted me to preach on this passage at his wedding. A good friend, a minister friend, someone I love and trust, wanted me to read and preach from Hosea before some 300 people, his own parishioners, at his own wedding: "Go take for yourself a wife of whoredom and have children of whoredom, for the land commits great whoredom by forsaking the Lord" (1:2). I protested loudly, not wanting to stand up and in any way imply that my friend was marrying a woman of dubious character. It's just not the kind of things friends do.
But he was insistent. The wedding sermon had to be from Hosea. "All that talk about whoredom is just symbolic," he said. "What matters in this text is the faithfulness of God. God is faithful, even when we are not. God is faithful, even when we cannot. God is faithful, even when we will not."
"Yes," I replied, "but do we really want to highlight the human capacity for faithlessness at your wedding? Wouldn't it be better for me just to say something sweet about love?"
"This is about love," he replied. "Not sweet, sappy sentimentality. But real, heart-breaking, heart-mending love. God will not give up on those people, although it seems they have given up on God. God just refuses to let those people go."
I could see where this argument was going. I wasn't going to win. My sermon at my friend's wedding was going to be on Hosea. "Okay," I yielded, "but I'm not going to say the word 'whore' at your wedding." So we came up with a sort of compromise whereby I would share the general message of Hosea, but the passage to be read in the service would come from a different section of the book.
Almost six years later, I remember that sermon very distinctly, in part because my knees were shaking while I was preaching (something that had never happened before or since) and also because during the preparation of the sermon I finally caught on to what was so important about this passage to my friend: God's faithfulness to us overcomes our faithlessness to each other and our faithlessness to God. Because God loves us, we can love one another. Because God is committed to us, we can commit ourselves to one another, to spouses and friends and family, commit ourselves to our vocations, to our church, to God. In fact, only because God is faithful to us are we able to display faithfulness in our own lives. That struck me as something very important, very exciting at the time. I guess it still does.
Oh for a god who didn't care, a god who didn't get involved, a god who would just leave us alone. Oh for a god always above and beyond, out there, up there, a god who would just give the universe a spin and then go and do something else. Oh for a god who wouldn't seek a relationship with us, a god unconcerned by what we do and how we do it, a god to whom it didn't matter what we worshiped, whom we followed, what we gave ourselves to.
I wonder if that's what Hosea thought. I wonder if between the lines and under the surface, Hosea wished for a god who didn't care. Maybe you've wished for such a god. Or maybe you believe there is such a god. Out there. Disinterested. Unmoved.
That may be the god of our wishes, but that's not the God of the Bible, the God of the ages, the God of Hosea, the God of us all. Not only out there; but also down here, right here. Not only beyond us; but also within us, closer than our breath. Not only creator of the universe by whose wisdom life began and continues; but also our friend, our mother, our father. A God who has sought us out. A God yearning for a relationship with us. A God who believes we cannot make it on our own. A God who somehow needs us, who seems to require our company in order to be complete. A God who will not leave us alone, but who also doesn't want to be left alone. A God who is concerned by what we do and how we do it. A God to whom it does matter what we worship and whom we follow and what we give ourselves to.
That's the God who meets Hosea in this passage and commands him to marry a prostitute named Gomer. She is corrupted and immoral, soaked in sin (cf. 2:1-5). But this is the woman that God would have Hosea marry, this faithless women, this adulterer. Their relationship is presented as a sort of parable of the relationship between a loyal God and God's disloyal people
The children that result from this marriage are given symbolic names. The first child is named Jezreel. The name points back to former times, to battlefields of the past, to political shenanigans and treacherous acts, to authority exercised through violence, to rulers who put personal gain over common good and who led the people down wayward paths (2 Kings 9-10). God's memory is long and God's perspective is wide and God's justice is deep. The name Jezreel is a reminder that there is a history of disobedience to be reckoned with.
The second child of Hosea and Gomer is named "Not Pitied." It is a stark name, reflective of a stark reality: God will no longer have pity on these people. They have strayed too far, sinned too much, and prostituted themselves in pursuit of all sorts of pleasures. Their history of unfaithfulness has finally caught up with them. They are people not to be pitied for they have brought their sorrows upon themselves.
The final child is given the name "Not My People." The reason for the name is clear: "You are not my people and I am not you God" (1:9). God has had enough. The sins of the past, the sins of the present are just too much. "They are not my people. Someone else can have them, although I don't know why anyone would want them."
Oh for a god who would not get angry, a god who wouldn't take offense, a god without standards.
The words in this passage are more than 2500 years old. In some ways, many ways, even most ways, it was another time, another place, another people.
Yet we are the heirs of generations of political treachery and shenanigans. We've seen leaders fail and people hurt because of it. We've observed, maybe practiced, personal promotion at the expense of others' well-being. We have bowed before the altar of the market, endorsing whatever whenever as long as it fattens our accounts. We have broken commitments, followed wayward paths, and prostituted ourselves in any number of ways to worship gods of our own making. We have been unfaithful with our time and adulterous with our money. Optimal convenience and immediate satisfactions matter the most to us, so we assume that's what must matter most to God. We have decided God's will is whatever brings us pleasure. Getting and gaining, having and holding are what count. Giving and losing, reaching out and letting go are simply not in fashion.
We have tried to lock God in the broom closet, far away from the rooms where we live. We'll take God out when we need something, whether it's a warm feeling on Christmas Eve or a good luck charm when we go under the surgeon's knife. We want God to play on our terms and that usually means out of sight, out of mind. We want God to do what we want, when we want it.
But the locked up god, the god at our beck and call, the god formed in our image does not exist.
Ours is a time and a place very different from ancient Israel, eighth century B.C. We are a people very different from those people. Yet we are the same in that God would be entirely justified in giving up on us, faithless as we are, disloyal as we are. Who among us could stand before God's judgment (cf. Romans 3:23)? We are people of whoredom, people who have defiled ourselves and corrupted the life for which we have been created. Truly, God could say of us, "You are not my people and I am not your God."
Our only hope is in the possibility that we might be changed, transformed, forgiven, saved. Our only hope is that the God whose judgment is fierce is also abundant in mercy. Our only hope is that the God whose anger we provoke is bountiful in redeeming love, life-changing love.
That's the same God who, at the end of this passage, mysteriously contradicting the judgment that has been pronounced, almost in spite of himself and certainly in spite of the people, in spite of us, speaks of this transformation, "Where it was said to them, 'You are not my people,' it shall be said to them, 'Children of the living God' " (2:10).
In spite of us, God wipes the slate clean and starts again. In spite of us, the relationship is renewed. In spite of us, we are restored in our identity as children of God -- not as masters of God, but children of God; not as makers of God, but children of God. When we accept and trust that extraordinary truth, we will be changed. We will realize who we are and who God is. We will live as those dependent on God and enjoy our days under God's care.
And in the faithfulness of the God who will not let us go, we will find the resources to give ourselves faithfully to the people and to things that really matter.
That is why my friend wanted to hear from Hosea at his wedding.
But he was insistent. The wedding sermon had to be from Hosea. "All that talk about whoredom is just symbolic," he said. "What matters in this text is the faithfulness of God. God is faithful, even when we are not. God is faithful, even when we cannot. God is faithful, even when we will not."
"Yes," I replied, "but do we really want to highlight the human capacity for faithlessness at your wedding? Wouldn't it be better for me just to say something sweet about love?"
"This is about love," he replied. "Not sweet, sappy sentimentality. But real, heart-breaking, heart-mending love. God will not give up on those people, although it seems they have given up on God. God just refuses to let those people go."
I could see where this argument was going. I wasn't going to win. My sermon at my friend's wedding was going to be on Hosea. "Okay," I yielded, "but I'm not going to say the word 'whore' at your wedding." So we came up with a sort of compromise whereby I would share the general message of Hosea, but the passage to be read in the service would come from a different section of the book.
Almost six years later, I remember that sermon very distinctly, in part because my knees were shaking while I was preaching (something that had never happened before or since) and also because during the preparation of the sermon I finally caught on to what was so important about this passage to my friend: God's faithfulness to us overcomes our faithlessness to each other and our faithlessness to God. Because God loves us, we can love one another. Because God is committed to us, we can commit ourselves to one another, to spouses and friends and family, commit ourselves to our vocations, to our church, to God. In fact, only because God is faithful to us are we able to display faithfulness in our own lives. That struck me as something very important, very exciting at the time. I guess it still does.
Oh for a god who didn't care, a god who didn't get involved, a god who would just leave us alone. Oh for a god always above and beyond, out there, up there, a god who would just give the universe a spin and then go and do something else. Oh for a god who wouldn't seek a relationship with us, a god unconcerned by what we do and how we do it, a god to whom it didn't matter what we worshiped, whom we followed, what we gave ourselves to.
I wonder if that's what Hosea thought. I wonder if between the lines and under the surface, Hosea wished for a god who didn't care. Maybe you've wished for such a god. Or maybe you believe there is such a god. Out there. Disinterested. Unmoved.
That may be the god of our wishes, but that's not the God of the Bible, the God of the ages, the God of Hosea, the God of us all. Not only out there; but also down here, right here. Not only beyond us; but also within us, closer than our breath. Not only creator of the universe by whose wisdom life began and continues; but also our friend, our mother, our father. A God who has sought us out. A God yearning for a relationship with us. A God who believes we cannot make it on our own. A God who somehow needs us, who seems to require our company in order to be complete. A God who will not leave us alone, but who also doesn't want to be left alone. A God who is concerned by what we do and how we do it. A God to whom it does matter what we worship and whom we follow and what we give ourselves to.
That's the God who meets Hosea in this passage and commands him to marry a prostitute named Gomer. She is corrupted and immoral, soaked in sin (cf. 2:1-5). But this is the woman that God would have Hosea marry, this faithless women, this adulterer. Their relationship is presented as a sort of parable of the relationship between a loyal God and God's disloyal people
The children that result from this marriage are given symbolic names. The first child is named Jezreel. The name points back to former times, to battlefields of the past, to political shenanigans and treacherous acts, to authority exercised through violence, to rulers who put personal gain over common good and who led the people down wayward paths (2 Kings 9-10). God's memory is long and God's perspective is wide and God's justice is deep. The name Jezreel is a reminder that there is a history of disobedience to be reckoned with.
The second child of Hosea and Gomer is named "Not Pitied." It is a stark name, reflective of a stark reality: God will no longer have pity on these people. They have strayed too far, sinned too much, and prostituted themselves in pursuit of all sorts of pleasures. Their history of unfaithfulness has finally caught up with them. They are people not to be pitied for they have brought their sorrows upon themselves.
The final child is given the name "Not My People." The reason for the name is clear: "You are not my people and I am not you God" (1:9). God has had enough. The sins of the past, the sins of the present are just too much. "They are not my people. Someone else can have them, although I don't know why anyone would want them."
Oh for a god who would not get angry, a god who wouldn't take offense, a god without standards.
The words in this passage are more than 2500 years old. In some ways, many ways, even most ways, it was another time, another place, another people.
Yet we are the heirs of generations of political treachery and shenanigans. We've seen leaders fail and people hurt because of it. We've observed, maybe practiced, personal promotion at the expense of others' well-being. We have bowed before the altar of the market, endorsing whatever whenever as long as it fattens our accounts. We have broken commitments, followed wayward paths, and prostituted ourselves in any number of ways to worship gods of our own making. We have been unfaithful with our time and adulterous with our money. Optimal convenience and immediate satisfactions matter the most to us, so we assume that's what must matter most to God. We have decided God's will is whatever brings us pleasure. Getting and gaining, having and holding are what count. Giving and losing, reaching out and letting go are simply not in fashion.
We have tried to lock God in the broom closet, far away from the rooms where we live. We'll take God out when we need something, whether it's a warm feeling on Christmas Eve or a good luck charm when we go under the surgeon's knife. We want God to play on our terms and that usually means out of sight, out of mind. We want God to do what we want, when we want it.
But the locked up god, the god at our beck and call, the god formed in our image does not exist.
Ours is a time and a place very different from ancient Israel, eighth century B.C. We are a people very different from those people. Yet we are the same in that God would be entirely justified in giving up on us, faithless as we are, disloyal as we are. Who among us could stand before God's judgment (cf. Romans 3:23)? We are people of whoredom, people who have defiled ourselves and corrupted the life for which we have been created. Truly, God could say of us, "You are not my people and I am not your God."
Our only hope is in the possibility that we might be changed, transformed, forgiven, saved. Our only hope is that the God whose judgment is fierce is also abundant in mercy. Our only hope is that the God whose anger we provoke is bountiful in redeeming love, life-changing love.
That's the same God who, at the end of this passage, mysteriously contradicting the judgment that has been pronounced, almost in spite of himself and certainly in spite of the people, in spite of us, speaks of this transformation, "Where it was said to them, 'You are not my people,' it shall be said to them, 'Children of the living God' " (2:10).
In spite of us, God wipes the slate clean and starts again. In spite of us, the relationship is renewed. In spite of us, we are restored in our identity as children of God -- not as masters of God, but children of God; not as makers of God, but children of God. When we accept and trust that extraordinary truth, we will be changed. We will realize who we are and who God is. We will live as those dependent on God and enjoy our days under God's care.
And in the faithfulness of the God who will not let us go, we will find the resources to give ourselves faithfully to the people and to things that really matter.
That is why my friend wanted to hear from Hosea at his wedding.
