Yearning For A Loyal Friend
Sermon
Affirming The Ash Heap
Lenten Sermons Comparing Jesus And Job
Do you ever find yourself in the Bible? When you read one of the biblical stories, do you ever identify with the character or characters? Do you ever say to yourself after reading an incident, "That describes me and my situation"? Sometimes that identity can boost the ego. Sometimes it may have the opposite effect, bringing to reality some of the things about our lives that we need to correct.
Every time I read the Old Testament book of Job, I have pangs of guilt because I can identify with those three friends of his who came to give him comfort and support in his agony.
Early one afternoon I went to make a pastoral call in a home. I went because a relative had called about a crisis in the family. I also went with the determination to say very little, but just to be there to let one member of that family know of the church's care and concern, as well as my own.
I knew before I went that there was a wide gap between my concept of the gospel and the concept of this particular family member. Theologically we were miles apart. Even in the practice of the faith we did not see eye-to-eye. I knew this before I went. Therefore, I went with the determination to say very little, to listen.
I failed. I did more talking than I intended to do. I discussed the faith when I did not intend to discuss it. I could have avoided the conversation if I had made the effort. Oh, it was stimulating to both of us. But I've never been quite sure that I offered any comfort to someone who was hurting because of rejection by a mate.
The failure of that pastoral visit still haunts me, and I could see my portrait clearly painted when I read about Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar. These were the three friends of Job who came to sit with him when they heard of his terrible plight.
To look at that picture of myself in that biblical account is painful, for I have to look at it nine times. Nine times I have to see myself sitting in that home -- talking when I should have been quiet, when I should have just listened, when I should have just been there.
We have watched Job for two Sundays. We've seen him sitting on his ash heap, thrown there because of all that had happened to him in one day's time. Because of all the agony and suffering he had endured, Job screamed for a reason for all that had happened to him. He needed help. That's when his three friends came to see him. He needed them. He needed them to comfort and console him.
As we've watched Job, we've also watched Jesus. How similar the lives of those two men were. For three years Jesus had endured rejection, misinterpretation, false accusations, mounting opposition, and plots against his life. He came bringing the kingdom of God, but his method of servanthood did not draw a following. It led to a crucifixion. Jesus, like Job, sat on an ash heap and cried out for a reason why a cross would be necessary. He must have asked himself over and over, "Why can't people see salvation in my words and deeds? Why can't a daily ministry of love help people overcome their sinfulness? Why does it take a cross to awaken dull souls?"
Both Job and Jesus had friends. And they both yearned for the support of a loyal friend in these agonizing times.
Three friends came to Job. They came for one purpose: "to comfort and console him." They could hardly believe what they saw when they got to Job's house. The mere physical change in their friend made them weep. He was broken. His sores were repulsive. The weight loss was unbelievable. The dullness of his eyes indicated his despair. He looked as though he was in the last stage of some terminal disease.
The friends didn't know what to say. Really, there was nothing to say. But they came. They had come because their friend was in trouble. Job knew why they came, and their physical presence was a comfort to him. He watched the pain they felt on seeing his wretched condition. He saw them throw dirt into the air and let it fall on their heads to indicate their sorrow.
Job was assured of their love and concern because "they sat upon the ground with him silently for seven days and seven nights; not speaking a word; for they saw that his suffering was too great for words."
As long as these friends were silent, they gave Job what he needed. Perhaps he muttered to himself, "They are still my friends in spite of what has happened. Our friendship did not depend on what I could give them. They are agonizing over my condition and are sitting here with me because they love me. I am so fortunate to have that support."
Job broke the silence by admitting that his situation was ugly, that he was in pain. He never tried to cover up the ash heap with clichës. He declared that everything looked hopeless to him, that he could not eat for sighing, that trouble had struck him down, and he was wondering why he was ever born. Sitting there listening to his cries of woe was what Job needed from his three friends.
For seven days they brought Job comfort. It was only when they started talking that Job realized that they did not identify with him, that not one of the three was willing to take his place. They were sort of standing on the shore, trying to make sense out of his sinking in the ocean.
Each of them came at Job three times. So nine times he had to endure their "explanations."
Eliphaz was the first. "Job, you know you are being punished for some secret sin. Why don't you just confess it to God?" He began in that polite manner like a moralistic Sunday School teacher or a disciplining parent or a patriotic orator. "You have done something wrong and God is punishing you for it. Job, you know that if we are good, God rewards us. But when we suffer, there must be something wrong somewhere."
Eliphaz then clinches it by saying that he knows this is true because he had a private revelation from God. Whenever anyone starts a conversation with, "The Lord told me," we are in trouble, for a tongue-lashing is sure to follow. Eliphaz started politely, "Job, you are being punished for some secret sin." In this second conversation he gets a bit pointed, "Job, you are a sinner." And finally he shouts, "You sinned. Admit it!" This man from the southeast would have helped Job far more by just sitting there with him, not moralizing.
Job's second friend, Bildad, was the traditionalist. He was rough on Job the first time he spoke. "Your children got exactly what was coming to them because of their wild-and-worldly ways. If they had been upright and pure, they would have been rewarded, not killed. That's what all the lessons of bygone days teach us." His second speech was just as painful as the first. "Job, who are you trying to fool? You know you can't prosper as long as you are wicked. God is going to send darkness into a wicked life. He's zapped your children because of their waywardness, and he's zapping you because you're just as bad as they were."
Bildad's third speech might have been the reason the hymn writer, Isaac Watts, came up with the words: "Alas! and did my Savior bleed, and did my Sovereign die? Would he devote that sacred head for sinners such as I?" Bildad told Job that he was just a worm in the sight of God. This friend from the northeast did not lift Job's spirit, nor does he lift the spirit of any one of us.
Job's third friend, Zophar, minced no words. "Job, you are obviously guilty, and now you're committing a further sin by saying that you are innocent. You know God is above us and beyond us, unapproachable. And here you are, an insignificant human being, asking him to explain your predicament. It is his will that you suffer." And Zophar's final speech: "So, Job, repent and set your heart straight. If you do, I promise you that God will fill your life with good things. You claim you have nothing to repent of; then make up something, or otherwise you'll never have anything." This friend from the south had a simple explanation: God has his deck stacked against you if you don't follow the rules.
Job yearned for loyal friends, but what he got was their philosophy, their theology, and their motor-mouth explanations.
Jesus had a number of friends whom he needed and depended on. It broke his heart to see his friend Judas sell out (Mark 14:10-11). It was discouraging when James and John forgot what he had said about the kingdom coming in love, not by force (Luke 9:51-56). There was one friend who was always ready to stand by Jesus through thick and thin, but he later denied his master (Luke 22:54-60). Like Job's friends, Simon Peter came right up to Jesus when he was being tried in the court of the high priest. And like Job's friends, he would have been better off if he had kept his mouth shut.
Job and Jesus, sitting on their ash heaps, were yearning for loyal friends. We are the same when life crushes in on us. We long for someone to support us.
A little book titled Mr. Adams: A Parable is about a teenager reflecting on some of the things out of his childhood, especially the life and death of Mr. Adams. Mr. Adams was a 78-year-old man who had time to talk with children, who understood them, respected them, and was interested in their opinions. He encouraged them to read the Bible to discover what it means to have faith in God.
The teenager thought: "If Mr. Adams patterned his life after Jesus, then Jesus must really be something." He wrote Mr. Adams a Christmas poem. "Some people celebrate Christmas once a year. This seems to please them. Mr. Adams, you celebrate Christmas every day. This must please God. Thank you for being interested in what I say and showing interest in what I do. Thank you for believing in me, helping me to believe in myself. Thank you for telling me when I was wrong and praising me when I do right. Thank you for trying to understand me and helping me understand myself. Most of all, Mr. Adams, thank you for being you."
Any healing in life comes through warm, accepting concern. Whenever someone accepts us as we are, then we begin to accept ourselves. Ideally, this is what the church is for. It is supposed to be a fellowship filled with compassion and the understanding love of Jesus. How we witness and relate to one another in the church is as important as how we witness and relate to the world. If the church were such an accepting fellowship, then miracles of transformation would happen.
Let me close with a parable. My soul is broken and hurting. So I drag myself from the business of life, out of the confusions and angers and hurts, back to my own little soul room. I am shocked as I look about the room: tables overturned, dishes stacked in the sink, garbage piled in one corner. As I sit and try to be quiet, a little voice whispers: "You're no good. You never were any good. You will never be any good. Why don't you just give up, curse God, and die?" As I think about the negative things the voice whispers, I hear a soft, persistent knocking. The voice on my shoulder tells me to ignore it, and I realize the voice is afraid that I'll discover something if I answer the knock.
I go over to the other side of my soul room. There is a doorway. The knocking comes from the other side of that door. I gather up my courage and ask the knocker to come in. I hear the knocker tell me he cannot because the door is bolted and the latch string is on my side. As I open the door there stands the Lord of life, the Light of the world -- one hand with the print of the nail raised to knock, the other carrying a lamp. On his head is a crown of thorns. He has overcome those who tried to do him in.
I finally speak: "Lord, why are you here? What do you want of me? Certainly you don't want to come into my lousy soul room, inhabited by doubts and fears and destructive voices."
The Lord answers: "Child, it is because you are attacked that I come. I know you cannot handle all the darkness in your life by yourself, and you need me."
"But why me, Lord?" I ask. "Why bother to come to me?"
He replies that he loves me, and that he will come to anyone who listens to the knock and opens the door. And that he will come with courage and strength.
I welcome the Lord into my soul room. He embraces me and sets the table on its legs. He gets bread and a cup and we commune together. We laugh and talk, and he tells me that he is with me always. I look around the room and it has been transformed and renewed.
As the Lord turns to leave, he says to me: "Thank you for letting me be your friend. I am with you always. Love yourself as I love you."
I usually, after that experience in my soul room, have a new sense of peace and a new desire to go out to other people.
Will Thompson sums it up in his hymn "Jesus Is All The World To Me":
Jesus is all the world to me, I want no better friend;
I trust him now,
I'll trust him when life's fleeting days shall end.
Beautiful life with such a friend,
beautiful life that has no end;
eternal life, eternal joy, he's my friend.
Every time I read the Old Testament book of Job, I have pangs of guilt because I can identify with those three friends of his who came to give him comfort and support in his agony.
Early one afternoon I went to make a pastoral call in a home. I went because a relative had called about a crisis in the family. I also went with the determination to say very little, but just to be there to let one member of that family know of the church's care and concern, as well as my own.
I knew before I went that there was a wide gap between my concept of the gospel and the concept of this particular family member. Theologically we were miles apart. Even in the practice of the faith we did not see eye-to-eye. I knew this before I went. Therefore, I went with the determination to say very little, to listen.
I failed. I did more talking than I intended to do. I discussed the faith when I did not intend to discuss it. I could have avoided the conversation if I had made the effort. Oh, it was stimulating to both of us. But I've never been quite sure that I offered any comfort to someone who was hurting because of rejection by a mate.
The failure of that pastoral visit still haunts me, and I could see my portrait clearly painted when I read about Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar. These were the three friends of Job who came to sit with him when they heard of his terrible plight.
To look at that picture of myself in that biblical account is painful, for I have to look at it nine times. Nine times I have to see myself sitting in that home -- talking when I should have been quiet, when I should have just listened, when I should have just been there.
We have watched Job for two Sundays. We've seen him sitting on his ash heap, thrown there because of all that had happened to him in one day's time. Because of all the agony and suffering he had endured, Job screamed for a reason for all that had happened to him. He needed help. That's when his three friends came to see him. He needed them. He needed them to comfort and console him.
As we've watched Job, we've also watched Jesus. How similar the lives of those two men were. For three years Jesus had endured rejection, misinterpretation, false accusations, mounting opposition, and plots against his life. He came bringing the kingdom of God, but his method of servanthood did not draw a following. It led to a crucifixion. Jesus, like Job, sat on an ash heap and cried out for a reason why a cross would be necessary. He must have asked himself over and over, "Why can't people see salvation in my words and deeds? Why can't a daily ministry of love help people overcome their sinfulness? Why does it take a cross to awaken dull souls?"
Both Job and Jesus had friends. And they both yearned for the support of a loyal friend in these agonizing times.
Three friends came to Job. They came for one purpose: "to comfort and console him." They could hardly believe what they saw when they got to Job's house. The mere physical change in their friend made them weep. He was broken. His sores were repulsive. The weight loss was unbelievable. The dullness of his eyes indicated his despair. He looked as though he was in the last stage of some terminal disease.
The friends didn't know what to say. Really, there was nothing to say. But they came. They had come because their friend was in trouble. Job knew why they came, and their physical presence was a comfort to him. He watched the pain they felt on seeing his wretched condition. He saw them throw dirt into the air and let it fall on their heads to indicate their sorrow.
Job was assured of their love and concern because "they sat upon the ground with him silently for seven days and seven nights; not speaking a word; for they saw that his suffering was too great for words."
As long as these friends were silent, they gave Job what he needed. Perhaps he muttered to himself, "They are still my friends in spite of what has happened. Our friendship did not depend on what I could give them. They are agonizing over my condition and are sitting here with me because they love me. I am so fortunate to have that support."
Job broke the silence by admitting that his situation was ugly, that he was in pain. He never tried to cover up the ash heap with clichës. He declared that everything looked hopeless to him, that he could not eat for sighing, that trouble had struck him down, and he was wondering why he was ever born. Sitting there listening to his cries of woe was what Job needed from his three friends.
For seven days they brought Job comfort. It was only when they started talking that Job realized that they did not identify with him, that not one of the three was willing to take his place. They were sort of standing on the shore, trying to make sense out of his sinking in the ocean.
Each of them came at Job three times. So nine times he had to endure their "explanations."
Eliphaz was the first. "Job, you know you are being punished for some secret sin. Why don't you just confess it to God?" He began in that polite manner like a moralistic Sunday School teacher or a disciplining parent or a patriotic orator. "You have done something wrong and God is punishing you for it. Job, you know that if we are good, God rewards us. But when we suffer, there must be something wrong somewhere."
Eliphaz then clinches it by saying that he knows this is true because he had a private revelation from God. Whenever anyone starts a conversation with, "The Lord told me," we are in trouble, for a tongue-lashing is sure to follow. Eliphaz started politely, "Job, you are being punished for some secret sin." In this second conversation he gets a bit pointed, "Job, you are a sinner." And finally he shouts, "You sinned. Admit it!" This man from the southeast would have helped Job far more by just sitting there with him, not moralizing.
Job's second friend, Bildad, was the traditionalist. He was rough on Job the first time he spoke. "Your children got exactly what was coming to them because of their wild-and-worldly ways. If they had been upright and pure, they would have been rewarded, not killed. That's what all the lessons of bygone days teach us." His second speech was just as painful as the first. "Job, who are you trying to fool? You know you can't prosper as long as you are wicked. God is going to send darkness into a wicked life. He's zapped your children because of their waywardness, and he's zapping you because you're just as bad as they were."
Bildad's third speech might have been the reason the hymn writer, Isaac Watts, came up with the words: "Alas! and did my Savior bleed, and did my Sovereign die? Would he devote that sacred head for sinners such as I?" Bildad told Job that he was just a worm in the sight of God. This friend from the northeast did not lift Job's spirit, nor does he lift the spirit of any one of us.
Job's third friend, Zophar, minced no words. "Job, you are obviously guilty, and now you're committing a further sin by saying that you are innocent. You know God is above us and beyond us, unapproachable. And here you are, an insignificant human being, asking him to explain your predicament. It is his will that you suffer." And Zophar's final speech: "So, Job, repent and set your heart straight. If you do, I promise you that God will fill your life with good things. You claim you have nothing to repent of; then make up something, or otherwise you'll never have anything." This friend from the south had a simple explanation: God has his deck stacked against you if you don't follow the rules.
Job yearned for loyal friends, but what he got was their philosophy, their theology, and their motor-mouth explanations.
Jesus had a number of friends whom he needed and depended on. It broke his heart to see his friend Judas sell out (Mark 14:10-11). It was discouraging when James and John forgot what he had said about the kingdom coming in love, not by force (Luke 9:51-56). There was one friend who was always ready to stand by Jesus through thick and thin, but he later denied his master (Luke 22:54-60). Like Job's friends, Simon Peter came right up to Jesus when he was being tried in the court of the high priest. And like Job's friends, he would have been better off if he had kept his mouth shut.
Job and Jesus, sitting on their ash heaps, were yearning for loyal friends. We are the same when life crushes in on us. We long for someone to support us.
A little book titled Mr. Adams: A Parable is about a teenager reflecting on some of the things out of his childhood, especially the life and death of Mr. Adams. Mr. Adams was a 78-year-old man who had time to talk with children, who understood them, respected them, and was interested in their opinions. He encouraged them to read the Bible to discover what it means to have faith in God.
The teenager thought: "If Mr. Adams patterned his life after Jesus, then Jesus must really be something." He wrote Mr. Adams a Christmas poem. "Some people celebrate Christmas once a year. This seems to please them. Mr. Adams, you celebrate Christmas every day. This must please God. Thank you for being interested in what I say and showing interest in what I do. Thank you for believing in me, helping me to believe in myself. Thank you for telling me when I was wrong and praising me when I do right. Thank you for trying to understand me and helping me understand myself. Most of all, Mr. Adams, thank you for being you."
Any healing in life comes through warm, accepting concern. Whenever someone accepts us as we are, then we begin to accept ourselves. Ideally, this is what the church is for. It is supposed to be a fellowship filled with compassion and the understanding love of Jesus. How we witness and relate to one another in the church is as important as how we witness and relate to the world. If the church were such an accepting fellowship, then miracles of transformation would happen.
Let me close with a parable. My soul is broken and hurting. So I drag myself from the business of life, out of the confusions and angers and hurts, back to my own little soul room. I am shocked as I look about the room: tables overturned, dishes stacked in the sink, garbage piled in one corner. As I sit and try to be quiet, a little voice whispers: "You're no good. You never were any good. You will never be any good. Why don't you just give up, curse God, and die?" As I think about the negative things the voice whispers, I hear a soft, persistent knocking. The voice on my shoulder tells me to ignore it, and I realize the voice is afraid that I'll discover something if I answer the knock.
I go over to the other side of my soul room. There is a doorway. The knocking comes from the other side of that door. I gather up my courage and ask the knocker to come in. I hear the knocker tell me he cannot because the door is bolted and the latch string is on my side. As I open the door there stands the Lord of life, the Light of the world -- one hand with the print of the nail raised to knock, the other carrying a lamp. On his head is a crown of thorns. He has overcome those who tried to do him in.
I finally speak: "Lord, why are you here? What do you want of me? Certainly you don't want to come into my lousy soul room, inhabited by doubts and fears and destructive voices."
The Lord answers: "Child, it is because you are attacked that I come. I know you cannot handle all the darkness in your life by yourself, and you need me."
"But why me, Lord?" I ask. "Why bother to come to me?"
He replies that he loves me, and that he will come to anyone who listens to the knock and opens the door. And that he will come with courage and strength.
I welcome the Lord into my soul room. He embraces me and sets the table on its legs. He gets bread and a cup and we commune together. We laugh and talk, and he tells me that he is with me always. I look around the room and it has been transformed and renewed.
As the Lord turns to leave, he says to me: "Thank you for letting me be your friend. I am with you always. Love yourself as I love you."
I usually, after that experience in my soul room, have a new sense of peace and a new desire to go out to other people.
Will Thompson sums it up in his hymn "Jesus Is All The World To Me":
Jesus is all the world to me, I want no better friend;
I trust him now,
I'll trust him when life's fleeting days shall end.
Beautiful life with such a friend,
beautiful life that has no end;
eternal life, eternal joy, he's my friend.
