The Ultimate Sacrifice
Sermon
Sermons On The Second Readings
Series I, Cycle C
Back during the first week of November, when the stores were busy trying to persuade us suddenly to be in the Christmas spirit, I have to confess that I wasn't quite ready yet. After all, it's hard to think about Christmas, when you still have leftover Halloween candy in the pantry. But now that it's less than a week away, the same excitement that I remember experiencing as a kid has returned again. And I suspect that's the case for many of you as well. Christmas is just around the corner, and most of us can hardly wait! Our homes are festively decorated. We've been baking cookies with the children, and listening to Bing Crosby on the radio. Some of you may even have a few brightly wrapped packages already beneath the tree.
The last thing that any of us are in the mood for this morning is a lot of vague talk about sacrifice and sin offerings. Which is why our scripture lesson probably strikes you as a strange choice for the Sunday before Christmas. It comes from the Epistle to the Hebrews, which is actually a rather curious book in and of itself. As a matter of fact, we're not even sure who wrote it. A number of candidates have been suggested -- Apollos, Barnabas, Clement of Rome, to mention a few -- but the arguments aren't very convincing, one way or the other. Even less clear is the letter's intended recipient. Most scholars believe that it was addressed to a specific congregation. However, where they were located and what the church was like are anyone's guess.
About the only thing we're fairly certain of is that the so-called Letter to the Hebrews may not be a letter at all -- at least not in the customary sense. While it does contain some epistle-like flourishes toward the end, the main body of Hebrews bears the distinctive marks of being an early Christian sermon. It was likely written by the same pastor who helped to establish this church, and then moved on to engage in missionary activities elsewhere. Evidently, though, he has hopes of returning soon (Hebrews 13:19, 23), and that could be the reason he is sending them an advance copy of this sermon.
There's no doubt that he cares deeply about this congregation, and more importantly, that he is worried about them. At times, you can almost hear the desperate urgency in his voice. "Hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering," he pleads at one point (Hebrews 10:23). "Lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees," he proclaims at another (Hebrews 12:12). Don't give up. Don't give in. Don't shrink back.
Clearly this is a congregation which is struggling. Part of it has to do with some heretical doctrines with which they have become enchanted. But actually, it's not false teachings that are destroying this church. It's fatigue. In a word, they are exhausted. As one commentator observes, "The threat to this congregation is not that they are charging off in the wrong direction; it's that they do not have enough energy to charge off anywhere."1 Put another way, what we have here is a church that, for whatever reason, has lost its "Amen," and they are simply too worn down and worn out to bother looking for it.
They are tired -- tired of worship, tired of Bible study, tired of prayer group, tired of serving in the world, and frankly, tired of struggling to evangelize it. As a result, they are not so much turning away from the faith as they are drifting away. Attendance has fallen off, contributions are down, enthusiasm is waning, and their self-confidence is beginning to erode. When you lose interest in everything around you, it's usually not long before you start thinking that your own life probably isn't worth getting all that excited about either. Being bored to death is just a less dramatic form of suicide.
Of course, this is not an isolated problem. Most of the people who stop by my office and hand me a letter of resignation are suffering from the same thing. It's not that they're angry or disappointed with the church. In fact, when I ask them what went wrong, they can't really put their finger on anything in particular. What they end up describing is more of a dull ache than a sharp pain. The bottom line is that they're tired. Someone from the Christian Education Committee asked them to teach the sixth grade Sunday school; and they were happy to help out. But that was back in 1982 -- and they simply can't bear to walk into that classroom one more time. They've been there, done that, and if they got a T-shirt, it's going in the closet!
Even healthy churches are confronted with this, now and then. So it's hardly surprising that the Preacher of Hebrews would find himself dealing with a weary congregation. Every pastor could cite good, faithful members who have been burned out by the church. What is surprising, however, is how the Preacher decides to deal with this problem. He doesn't try to rally the troops with a lot of gimmicks and quick fixes. There is no appeal for a new mission statement or a reorganization of the committee structure. Little interest is shown in developing focus groups, or even in jazzing up the worship service with a few snappy hymns. Faced with a congregation that barely has a pulse, the Preacher of Hebrews launches into a sermon on -- of all things -- the sacrificial death of Jesus Christ. Moreover, it is an extremely complex sermon, filled with cryptic Old Testament references and steeped in theological abstractions.
For example, consider the passage we just read. What the Preacher is pointing out here is the never-ending and incomplete nature of the old sacrifices versus the once-and-for-all character of the atonement achieved through Christ. The problem, he argues, with the sacrifices offered under the law of the old cult is that they left people still feeling guilty. If the sacrifices had truly cleansed folks of their sins, they wouldn't be obligated to keep coming back. Indeed, the whole Day of Atonement ritual actually did the opposite of what it promised. Rather than healing people, it was constantly harping on them about what sinful, wretched creatures they were.
Unfortunately, this, too, is not an isolated problem. Even though Christianity doesn't officially observe a Day of Atonement, many churches seem to do a far better job of describing sin than they do of declaring grace. Week after week, congregations are told that, once again, they failed to measure up, and God expects much more from them in the future. Obviously, there are times when that should be stated, if for no other reason than a mushy, liquid diet of "Do as you please, God loves you anyway" provides so little spiritual nourishment. However, if people are given the impression that they will never meet God's approval -- no matter what they do, or how hard they work at it -- they inevitably leave the sanctuary feeling defeated. After all, we can't very well absolve ourselves. That's like trying to sit in your own lap. Our only choice is to slink back next Sunday with another basket of good intentions to place upon the altar, or to stay away altogether because we've grown weary of the effort.
But before we shrug our shoulders and conclude that there's nothing more we can do, the Preacher of Hebrews would like to remind us that, actually, there's nothing more we need to do. What the endlessly repeated sacrifices of old could not achieve, Jesus Christ already accomplished in a single sacrifice. "When Christ came into the world," the Preacher explains, "he spoke to God and said, 'Sacrifices you do not want; sin offerings give you no pleasure. What you desire is for your will to be done. Here I am, O God. I have come to do your will' " (vv. 5-7).
In other words, humankind had reached the point where we were so indebted to God that even our most costly sacrifices were always going to come up short. Any attempt to make amends with God would have been too little too late, because the gap between what the Almighty was owed and what we were able to offer was simply too large. And that's when Christ entered the picture. What he was willing to give more than bridged the gap. Indeed, by sacrificing his own body, he literally stepped into the gap and became the bridge.
Think of it this way. When we have been hurt or disappointed by someone else, often the first step toward reconciliation is to view the situation from their perspective. If we can better understand the other person, we're less likely to feel estranged from them. Similarly, when God was wrestling with how to restore a relationship with us, God decided that what was needed was a new way of relating to us. You see, experientially, God didn't really know what it was like to be tempted by sin, or to be plagued with doubts, or to grow weary of the relentless pressure that life imposes. God had never tossed and turned all night, or had one of those days where nothing goes right. God was safely ensconced away in the heavens -- immune to sickness, removed from suffering, and exempt from death.
By choosing to dwell among us, however, God surrendered all of that, in order to discover what it was like to live life on our terms. As the Preacher of Hebrews expresses it, in Jesus Christ, "We have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin" (Hebrews 4:15b). Never again would we be able to claim that God was out of touch, or even out of reach. For the first time, we finally had an advocate who understood exactly what we're going through down here -- every headache and heartbreak, every fear and frustration -- because he went through it himself.
Of course, from God's standpoint, taking on humanity wasn't particularly practical. In fact, it represented a rather significant gamble. Barbara Brown Taylor once wondered what it might have been like when God initially proposed the plan.2 The way she pictured it, the cabinet of archangels was assembled, and God carefully explained the idea of going to earth as a baby. Not surprisingly, their reaction was one of stunned silence. Finally the senior archangel stepped forward to speak on their behalf.
"That's an interesting approach, God," he said cautiously. "But to be honest, I'm a little worried about it. After all, you know how people treat one another on earth. Going there as one of them would be putting yourself at their mercy. And if things went awry, there would be no escape. If I could make a suggestion, perhaps you might consider becoming a magical baby with special powers. It wouldn't take much -- just the power to become invisible, let's say, or to transport yourself to another place if the need arose. The baby idea is a stroke of genius, God; it really is. However, I think it lacks adequate safety features."
The Almighty smiled, and thanked the archangels for their concern. "No, I think I'll just be a regular baby," God announced. "How else can I gain their trust? How will I ever persuade them that I know their lives inside and out, unless I live a life like theirs? I realize that I'm taking a chance here. But you see, that's part of what I want them to know -- that I am willing to risk everything for them. That's how much I love them. And I hope, by doing this, I'll get them to love me in return."
Now, obviously, that's just an imaginative story. However, it does underscore the fact that even Christmas involved a sacrifice on God's part. Actually, the more I think about it, maybe this isn't such a strange scripture lesson for the Fourth Sunday of Advent. What the Preacher of Hebrews is arguing is that we no longer need to offer sacrifices. And part of the reason for that is because, in the person of Jesus Christ, God decided to sanctify the world. By choosing to be born here and living among us, the entire earth suddenly became holy ground.
____________
1. Thomas Long, Hebrews (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1997), p. 3.
2. Barbara Brown Taylor, Bread of Angels (Boston: Cowley Press, 1997), p. 34.
The last thing that any of us are in the mood for this morning is a lot of vague talk about sacrifice and sin offerings. Which is why our scripture lesson probably strikes you as a strange choice for the Sunday before Christmas. It comes from the Epistle to the Hebrews, which is actually a rather curious book in and of itself. As a matter of fact, we're not even sure who wrote it. A number of candidates have been suggested -- Apollos, Barnabas, Clement of Rome, to mention a few -- but the arguments aren't very convincing, one way or the other. Even less clear is the letter's intended recipient. Most scholars believe that it was addressed to a specific congregation. However, where they were located and what the church was like are anyone's guess.
About the only thing we're fairly certain of is that the so-called Letter to the Hebrews may not be a letter at all -- at least not in the customary sense. While it does contain some epistle-like flourishes toward the end, the main body of Hebrews bears the distinctive marks of being an early Christian sermon. It was likely written by the same pastor who helped to establish this church, and then moved on to engage in missionary activities elsewhere. Evidently, though, he has hopes of returning soon (Hebrews 13:19, 23), and that could be the reason he is sending them an advance copy of this sermon.
There's no doubt that he cares deeply about this congregation, and more importantly, that he is worried about them. At times, you can almost hear the desperate urgency in his voice. "Hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering," he pleads at one point (Hebrews 10:23). "Lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees," he proclaims at another (Hebrews 12:12). Don't give up. Don't give in. Don't shrink back.
Clearly this is a congregation which is struggling. Part of it has to do with some heretical doctrines with which they have become enchanted. But actually, it's not false teachings that are destroying this church. It's fatigue. In a word, they are exhausted. As one commentator observes, "The threat to this congregation is not that they are charging off in the wrong direction; it's that they do not have enough energy to charge off anywhere."1 Put another way, what we have here is a church that, for whatever reason, has lost its "Amen," and they are simply too worn down and worn out to bother looking for it.
They are tired -- tired of worship, tired of Bible study, tired of prayer group, tired of serving in the world, and frankly, tired of struggling to evangelize it. As a result, they are not so much turning away from the faith as they are drifting away. Attendance has fallen off, contributions are down, enthusiasm is waning, and their self-confidence is beginning to erode. When you lose interest in everything around you, it's usually not long before you start thinking that your own life probably isn't worth getting all that excited about either. Being bored to death is just a less dramatic form of suicide.
Of course, this is not an isolated problem. Most of the people who stop by my office and hand me a letter of resignation are suffering from the same thing. It's not that they're angry or disappointed with the church. In fact, when I ask them what went wrong, they can't really put their finger on anything in particular. What they end up describing is more of a dull ache than a sharp pain. The bottom line is that they're tired. Someone from the Christian Education Committee asked them to teach the sixth grade Sunday school; and they were happy to help out. But that was back in 1982 -- and they simply can't bear to walk into that classroom one more time. They've been there, done that, and if they got a T-shirt, it's going in the closet!
Even healthy churches are confronted with this, now and then. So it's hardly surprising that the Preacher of Hebrews would find himself dealing with a weary congregation. Every pastor could cite good, faithful members who have been burned out by the church. What is surprising, however, is how the Preacher decides to deal with this problem. He doesn't try to rally the troops with a lot of gimmicks and quick fixes. There is no appeal for a new mission statement or a reorganization of the committee structure. Little interest is shown in developing focus groups, or even in jazzing up the worship service with a few snappy hymns. Faced with a congregation that barely has a pulse, the Preacher of Hebrews launches into a sermon on -- of all things -- the sacrificial death of Jesus Christ. Moreover, it is an extremely complex sermon, filled with cryptic Old Testament references and steeped in theological abstractions.
For example, consider the passage we just read. What the Preacher is pointing out here is the never-ending and incomplete nature of the old sacrifices versus the once-and-for-all character of the atonement achieved through Christ. The problem, he argues, with the sacrifices offered under the law of the old cult is that they left people still feeling guilty. If the sacrifices had truly cleansed folks of their sins, they wouldn't be obligated to keep coming back. Indeed, the whole Day of Atonement ritual actually did the opposite of what it promised. Rather than healing people, it was constantly harping on them about what sinful, wretched creatures they were.
Unfortunately, this, too, is not an isolated problem. Even though Christianity doesn't officially observe a Day of Atonement, many churches seem to do a far better job of describing sin than they do of declaring grace. Week after week, congregations are told that, once again, they failed to measure up, and God expects much more from them in the future. Obviously, there are times when that should be stated, if for no other reason than a mushy, liquid diet of "Do as you please, God loves you anyway" provides so little spiritual nourishment. However, if people are given the impression that they will never meet God's approval -- no matter what they do, or how hard they work at it -- they inevitably leave the sanctuary feeling defeated. After all, we can't very well absolve ourselves. That's like trying to sit in your own lap. Our only choice is to slink back next Sunday with another basket of good intentions to place upon the altar, or to stay away altogether because we've grown weary of the effort.
But before we shrug our shoulders and conclude that there's nothing more we can do, the Preacher of Hebrews would like to remind us that, actually, there's nothing more we need to do. What the endlessly repeated sacrifices of old could not achieve, Jesus Christ already accomplished in a single sacrifice. "When Christ came into the world," the Preacher explains, "he spoke to God and said, 'Sacrifices you do not want; sin offerings give you no pleasure. What you desire is for your will to be done. Here I am, O God. I have come to do your will' " (vv. 5-7).
In other words, humankind had reached the point where we were so indebted to God that even our most costly sacrifices were always going to come up short. Any attempt to make amends with God would have been too little too late, because the gap between what the Almighty was owed and what we were able to offer was simply too large. And that's when Christ entered the picture. What he was willing to give more than bridged the gap. Indeed, by sacrificing his own body, he literally stepped into the gap and became the bridge.
Think of it this way. When we have been hurt or disappointed by someone else, often the first step toward reconciliation is to view the situation from their perspective. If we can better understand the other person, we're less likely to feel estranged from them. Similarly, when God was wrestling with how to restore a relationship with us, God decided that what was needed was a new way of relating to us. You see, experientially, God didn't really know what it was like to be tempted by sin, or to be plagued with doubts, or to grow weary of the relentless pressure that life imposes. God had never tossed and turned all night, or had one of those days where nothing goes right. God was safely ensconced away in the heavens -- immune to sickness, removed from suffering, and exempt from death.
By choosing to dwell among us, however, God surrendered all of that, in order to discover what it was like to live life on our terms. As the Preacher of Hebrews expresses it, in Jesus Christ, "We have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin" (Hebrews 4:15b). Never again would we be able to claim that God was out of touch, or even out of reach. For the first time, we finally had an advocate who understood exactly what we're going through down here -- every headache and heartbreak, every fear and frustration -- because he went through it himself.
Of course, from God's standpoint, taking on humanity wasn't particularly practical. In fact, it represented a rather significant gamble. Barbara Brown Taylor once wondered what it might have been like when God initially proposed the plan.2 The way she pictured it, the cabinet of archangels was assembled, and God carefully explained the idea of going to earth as a baby. Not surprisingly, their reaction was one of stunned silence. Finally the senior archangel stepped forward to speak on their behalf.
"That's an interesting approach, God," he said cautiously. "But to be honest, I'm a little worried about it. After all, you know how people treat one another on earth. Going there as one of them would be putting yourself at their mercy. And if things went awry, there would be no escape. If I could make a suggestion, perhaps you might consider becoming a magical baby with special powers. It wouldn't take much -- just the power to become invisible, let's say, or to transport yourself to another place if the need arose. The baby idea is a stroke of genius, God; it really is. However, I think it lacks adequate safety features."
The Almighty smiled, and thanked the archangels for their concern. "No, I think I'll just be a regular baby," God announced. "How else can I gain their trust? How will I ever persuade them that I know their lives inside and out, unless I live a life like theirs? I realize that I'm taking a chance here. But you see, that's part of what I want them to know -- that I am willing to risk everything for them. That's how much I love them. And I hope, by doing this, I'll get them to love me in return."
Now, obviously, that's just an imaginative story. However, it does underscore the fact that even Christmas involved a sacrifice on God's part. Actually, the more I think about it, maybe this isn't such a strange scripture lesson for the Fourth Sunday of Advent. What the Preacher of Hebrews is arguing is that we no longer need to offer sacrifices. And part of the reason for that is because, in the person of Jesus Christ, God decided to sanctify the world. By choosing to be born here and living among us, the entire earth suddenly became holy ground.
____________
1. Thomas Long, Hebrews (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1997), p. 3.
2. Barbara Brown Taylor, Bread of Angels (Boston: Cowley Press, 1997), p. 34.
