The Quality of Mercy

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Luke 23:26-35

February 25/26, 2012 • Portage First UMC

INTRO VIDEO WEEK 1

There are certain things I am a bit particular about, and one of those is the way my music is organized. I have a certain way of arranging my CDs so that, when I need a particular one, I can find it. When Christopher was just starting to crawl, I learned pretty quickly how fast babies can get from one place to another. I hadn’t left him alone in the room very long, and when I left he had been playing with his toys on the other side of the family room. When I came back, he was giddily pulling my CDs off the rack. He was surrounded by lots and lots of shiny plastic boxes. I looked at him, he looked at me with a big smile on his face, and I did what every parent would do: I snapped several pictures. Now, I could have yelled at him. I could have gotten upset, red in the face, and punished him. But what good would that have done? After all, he didn’t know what he was doing. As far as he was concerned, these shiny plastic boxes were just more toys that, for some reason, Dad hadn’t let him play with yet. So he was helping himself. Now, if he tried that today, I probably wouldn’t be snapping pictures. Then, he didn’t know what he was doing. He knows better now…I hope. I thought of that when I read this evening/morning’s Gospel reading, because the the first of Jesus’ last words from the cross is this: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (23:34).

Today is the first Sunday of Lent, a season of forty days set aside by the church to prepare for Easter. It’s meant to be a time when we try to better understand what happened at the cross so we can better appreciate the resurrection. In earlier days, it was a time when people who had separated from the church were welcomed back into the fellowship. Still today, it’s a somber time, celebrated in many different ways in many different traditions. This year, as we seek to better understand what Jesus did on the cross, we’re going to pay particular attention to the final words he uttered from the top of that cross. These “words” are short statements recorded across all four Gospels; no one Gospel has all seven, but taken together, they give us a picture of those last hours of Jesus’ earthly life. There are varying opinions as to the order in which Jesus spoke these, and since we don’t really know for sure, we’re going to follow the traditional order over these next six weeks (Hamilton, Final Words, pg. 11). I hope you’ll be studying along with us in the FISH groups that start this week. The seven final words will take on a greater depth as you wrestle with them in that small group setting.

Now, I mentioned that these final words were all short statements. In fact, they had to be short. The nature of crucifixion demanded they be short. Crucifixion, you might remember, was one of the worst forms of death ever dreamed up. The Roman Empire did not invent crucifixion, but they perfected it and used it as an instrument of punishment and a tool of terror. The punishment began long before the nails were driven. Usually, a man who had been convicted of a crime serious enough to deserve such a cruel and painful death was beaten—flogged, they called it—nearly to death (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 256). Tt was said forty lashes would kill a man, so often a condemned man received thirty-nine. In Jesus’ case, he was also mocked by the Roman soldiers as they put a crown of thorns on his head and a robe on his raw, beaten back. Then prisoners were given their own crossbeam to carry through the streets out to the place where they would be killed. Because they had been beaten, this was painful and difficult. The distance from the Roman fortress to the probable location of Calvary was about a third of a mile (Hamilton, 24 Hours That Changed the World, pgs. 88, 96). Not that far. Most of us could easily walk that distance, but not if we’ve been beaten nearly to death and then had a crossbeam that probably weighed around a hundred pounds put on our backs. No wonder Jesus needed assistance. Luke says a man named Simon of Cyrene carried Jesus’ cross out to the hillside (23:26).

The horror of crucifixion, and the cause of death, was not the nails put through the wrists and the feet. Crucifixion was actually death by asphyxiation. The prisoner, in order to breathe, had to push up on the nails and gasp for breath, and when the pain of that became too much, they fell back down on the nails. Eventually, they would become too weary to push up and die from lack of air. It was a brutal, disgusting dance: up and down. And when they pushed up for air, there was only a brief time in which to say anything. You’ll notice, as we go through these final words, that they tend to get shorter as we get closer to Jesus’ death (Hamilton  Final 16).

Once Jesus is on the cross, the people begin mocking him (23:35). You may remember that, contrary to the way it’s usually pictured in movies or artwork, crucified men weren’t that far off the ground. Jesus was certainly close enough to be able to hear what was said, the rude comments and the mocking conversations. “He saved others but he can’t save himself!” “If he is who he said he is, he should be able to get off that cross by himself!” “What a lousy excuse for a Savior—ha!” Loud, critical, sarcastic, mocking words. How would we respond to such attacks, such cruelty? I don’t know about you, but when I overhear something like that, there’s this darkness that rears up inside me that either wants to defend myself (on my good days) or strike back (on my bad days). If I was in the kind of pain Jesus was, I might just try to ignore them or keep silent. And yet, with some of the little strength left in him, Jesus pushes up on the nails holding his feet and says, loud enough for people around to hear, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (23:34). That’s not what they expected him to say. Most men in his situation were shouting curses at the crowd. Jesus, instead, utters a word they need to hear: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (cf. Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 284).

Jesus is really affirming a universal truth: we don’t know what we are doing. I think Jesus had something bigger in mind than just the fact that these folks in the first century didn’t realize or didn’t acknowledge that it was the son of God they were nailing to that cross. I think he was focused on something beyond the horrible injustice of that day. In many ways, Jesus’ statement is a summary of human history— we do awful things to each other and towards God because we don’t know what we are doing. The mob there at Calvary, the Jewish leadership, the soldiers—well, they were just doing their job. They were standing up for justice. They were supporting good family values by getting rid of the one who threatened to undo their way of life. Besides, it wasn't their fault. They were just doing what their government told them to do (Willimon, Thank God It's Friday, pg. 3). It's been the same since the beginning of time, hasn't it? Way back in Genesis 3, when God comes asking Adam and Eve why they did the one thing he told them not to do, Adam blames Eve, Eve blames the serpent, and the serpent blames God. The brokenness and sin that bring Jesus to the cross happen because we don't know what we are doing—or rather, maybe better said, we don't realize the full implications of what we do. We think it's just fun. We think no one will get hurt. We rationalize and we strategize and we silence the voices that tell us it's wrong. Jesus is right—we don't know what we are doing.

Into that world, into that mess, comes this shocking first final word from the cross: "Father, forgive them." It's not shocking at first because we're used to Jesus saying such things. I mean, he had talked about forgiveness on any number of occasions. Jesus strongly emphasized the need to forgive our brothers and sisters “from the heart” (cf. Matthew 18:35), from the depth of who we are, not just on a shallow level. And he said he had authority to forgive sins, a right the religious leaders believed God alone had (Mark 3:10). After the resurrection, he tells the disciples they have the power to forgive: “If you forgive anyone’s sins, their sins are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven” (John 20:23). And, at the beginning of his ministry, Jesus told his followers, “If you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins” (Matthew 6:14-15). Wow! Jesus’ “message was one of free, unmerited forgiveness to any repentant sinner, without qualification—to be followed by exceedingly exacting standards for discipleship” (Anderson, The Teaching of Jesus, pg. 75). When the woman caught in adultery is forgiven, Jesus tells her, “Go, and sin no more” (John 8:11, KJV). So we should have expected this word from the cross, and yet what is most shocking about it is what doesn’t happen.

Standing there at the foot of the cross are several groups of people. There are the soldiers. Many of those same men, just a short time before, were torturing, beating and mocking him. Now, Luke tells us, they are arguing about who gets his clothing (23:34). They begin to gamble over cloaks and undergarments and they offer him sour vinegar to drink (23:36). For them, Jesus prays, “Father, forgive them.” Not far away are the religious leaders. They are the ones who asked for Jesus’ death, who arrested him in the middle of the night and convicted him in an illegal kangaroo court. They’re mocking him, and they’ve even told the Roman governor they would take responsibility for his death (Matthew 27:25). For them, Jesus prays, “Father, forgive them.” A bit further back, perhaps, is the crowd. Maybe there are some in that group who, just a few days before, hailed Jesus as a king come to conquer Jerusalem. Almost certainly there are some there who once believed he was God’s Savior. Now they’ve turned on him and called for his death. For them, Jesus prays, “Father, forgive them” (cf. Hamilton Final 18-19). And there are the disciples. Not many. Most are in hiding. But a few are there. We know at least John was there, along with Jesus’ mother. They are weeping, partly because they have, over the last 24 hours, all betrayed Jesus in a variety of ways, both obvious and subtle. And for them, Jesus prays, “Father, forgive them.” Do you notice what is missing? Not a single one of these people asked Jesus to forgive them. And even more than that, not a single one of them, at this point, is expressing any sorrow or remorse or regret for what has happened or for their part in it. Jesus prays for their forgiveness before they even ask for it.

This is what Bishop William Willimon calls “preemptive forgiveness” (6), and he suggests that this is listed as the first final word because it is preemptive. Before anyone can ask for forgiveness, Jesus is granting it. From the cross, Jesus is showing us that there can be no new relationship with God if forgiveness doesn’t come first. “Forgiveness,” Willimon writes, “is what it costs God to be with people like us who, every time God reaches out to us in love, beat God away” (6). Preemptive forgiveness is, in reality, the only way to deal with our primary problem—our sin and rebellion against God. A lot of people think the Gospel, the story about Jesus, is all about the “don’ts”—what we don’t do. It’s about making people feel guilty for the ways we fail. It’s about dwelling on sin. And yes, sin must be dealt with, but on the cross, the first way Jesus chooses to deal with it is through preemptive forgiveness, offering us forgiveness before we even ask for it. “The central focus of the Gospel,” writes Adam Hamilton, “is grace and God’s mercy…Sin is simply the diagnosis. The Gospel’s focus is on the cure” (Final 21, 23). Jesus offers the cure even before we’re willing to admit that we’re sick. And in doing so, he sets the pace for all of us.

It’s not a pace we want to follow, though. Most of us are repelled by the idea of preemptive forgiveness. We want those who have hurt us, who have offended us, who have sinned against us to hurt themselves. “I don’t get mad, I get even,” we say, or worse, we seek to strike back bigger at the other person. And we certainly won’t forgive them until they come to us, preferably groveling, and ask us to forgive them. The problem is that, like those folks at the foot of the cross, very often those who hurt us don’t think they’ve done anything wrong. They’re just doing their duty. Or they’re doing what they think is right. And most of the time, they’ve moved on while we’re still stewing about what happened. If we always wait for the other person to ask for forgiveness, how often is that resolution going to come? Early in our marriage, Cathy and I had an issue with a family member, and when we attempted to talk it out, we got nowhere. We got the usual excuses and rationalizations. Now, I’m not saying we were perfectly innocent, but we had been hurt. And I wanted the other person to know that, and I wanted them to hurt as well. So I waited for them to come to me. And you know what? To this day, they never have. I’ve come to believe they never will, but in order for that not to poison my own soul, I have to offer forgiveness to them even if they never realize the hurt they have caused. “Father, forgive them.” When Jesus tells us that the Father won’t forgive us unless we forgive others, I don’t think he means that God somehow withholds forgiveness—certainly not if we take this picture of Jesus offering preemptive forgiveness seriously. I’ve come to believe, rather, Jesus is reminding us that those who are forgiven must become forgiving people. If we fail offer to others the great mercy and grace we ourselves want to receive, we block our ability to fully experience forgiveness. Forgiveness can never be earned or deserved anyway (Anderson 109). That’s why Jesus, in his first final word from the cross, shows us the way: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (23:34).

We have a misguided idea of what forgiveness is. We’re often told you’re supposed to “forgive and forget,” but the Bible says that’s what God does, that he remembers our sins no more (Jeremiah 31:34; Hebrews 8:12). But here’s news you may not know: you are not God. God did not wire us human beings to be able to forget easily. So forgiveness is not forgetting. Nor is forgiveness putting ourselves back in a place where we can be hurt again. Sometimes we’re led to believe that if we’ve really forgiven someone, we’ll try to put things back the way they were. But that may not be safe. Take, for example, a woman who has been abused by her husband or boyfriend. She can get to a place where she forgives him for what he has done, but aside from a miracle of transformation in his life, it would most likely not be safe for her to go back into that same situation. The same is true for someone who hurts us emotionally or spiritually. Forgiveness does not mean putting yourself back in that person’s life. The best thing for both of you may be to maintain a distance. Forgiveness is also not found in making excuses for the other person. You know how we do this. Someone wrongs us or hurts us and we shrug it off, saying, “Oh, that’s just the way they are. You know how they are.” Or we tell others (and try to tell ourselves), “It’s no big deal.” And we avoid talking about it or dealing with it. We tell ourselves that if we had really forgiven them, we wouldn’t think about it anymore. That’s not forgiveness. That’s excusing, and C. S. Lewis said forgiveness and excusing are “almost opposite.” Certainly Jesus was not making excuses or ignoring what his executioners and those standing around the cross had done.

So what is forgiveness, then? Forgiveness is choosing not to actively remember. By that I mean we get to a point where the hurt and the pain and the wound no longer defines us, no longer controls who we are. I knew a man who had a promising career, and then made a mistake large enough that not only was he let go from his current job, he was done in that business altogether. And even as he entered a new career and took a job that paid well, he found it difficult to let go his feelings of anger and hurt over being fired. His self-identity was the man who was fired. Even though the mistake was his, he struggled to forgive both himself and his former employers. Or some people, when they go through the trauma of divorce, continue to define themselves by that event. The anger and bitterness toward the former spouse or toward the courts for the decisions that were made never seem to dissipate, and forgiveness isn’t even on the radar. As long as we define ourselves by our hurt, by our wounds, forgiveness can’t be experienced. Forgiveness is choosing not to let that wound be who we are. And ultimately, forgiveness is about our own spiritual health. It’s about not being eaten up from the inside, not becoming someone we don’t want to be. That’s why Jesus models preemptive forgiveness from the cross, because that person who hurt you might never ask for forgiveness, and yet if we want to be whole, if we want to be healed, we have to find a place where we can forgive that other person in order to experience more deeply God’s grace and love. It’s important to note, though, that when Jesus, after the resurrection, tells the disciples they have the power to forgive, it’s tied to the gift of the Holy Spirit living within us. The Spirit of God gives us the power and the ability to forgive; it is not something we somehow conjure up on our own. It takes much prayer.

For me, that takes repetition. My wife can affirm that I’m a “stew-er.” When something is bothering me or I’ve been hurt by someone, I stew about it…over and over and over again. Not that stewing does any good. It doesn’t. In fact, in my own experience, it can make it more difficult for me to forgive that person. And even when I get to the place where I can forgive them, there sometimes comes a word or a situation or a spark of some sort that takes me right back to that moment of anger and bitterness and frustration and unforgiveness. And at that point, I have to choose if this is going to control me or not.

Jesus was once asked how many times we should forgive someone; you may remember the story from Matthew 18. Peter wants to know how many times he should forgive someone. “Up to seven times?” he asks. And Peter was being generous there. The rabbis taught you should forgive someone up to three times, but not a fourth (Carson, “Matthew,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 405). Jesus responded, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matthew 18:21-22). Or, as some translations have it, “seventy times seven.” The point is the amount is not important. We are to keep forgiving because it’s healthy for us and for the other person. Shakespeare recognized this in a famous scene from the play The Merchant of Venice. The character Shylock wants to pursue justice—or revenge—against Antonio but Portia pleads with him to consider mercy—forgiveness—instead.

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes

(qtd. in Hamilton Final 30).

Shakespeare knew this truth: when we offer forgiveness, when we offer mercy, as Jesus did, not only are we blessed, but so is the one who receives it. And rather than depleting our reservoir of forgiveness, we find it is enlarged. For the one who forgives finds himself or herself the recipient of an even greater forgiveness.

“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” This final word from the cross reminds us of our need to forgive and to be forgiven, because we do not know often what we do. Our sin blinds us, and so we give and receive forgiveness and we are then twice blessed. But there is one more thing that is striking about this final word. Of all the things Jesus could have said out loud, why this? I mean, I’m fairly certain that, all throughout the crucifixion there was an ongoing conversation within the Father, Son and Holy Spirit that we don’t hear. In fact, Bishop Willimon says at this moment we get to overhear a conversation that takes place deep within the Trinity (1). Why these few words out loud? I think it’s because the people gathered there at the foot of the cross needed to hear it. They needed to know they could still find forgiveness, that Jesus had already forgiven them even before they asked for it. I wonder, sometimes, if any of them thought about that moment later in their lives. We don’t know where Luke heard this; he wasn’t an eyewitness, so someone was impacted enough by this moment to tell him about it. Jesus said it out loud because they needed to hear it. And so do we.

We need to hear the words “I forgive you” on a regular basis. Our tendency is to blow it off. “Oh, it’s no big deal, don’t worry about it.” But we need to hear that we have been forgiven. Our children need to hear that they have been forgiven. Our spouses need to hear that they have been forgiven. Our co-workers and those who hurt us need to hear they have been forgiven, because it’s in that moment that the Gospel shines forth most brightly. Huston Smith, a scholar of world religions, was once asked what the most distinctive characteristic of the three great monotheistic religions is. He said that for Judaism, it’s the centrality of family. For Islam, it’s the importance of prayer. And for Christianity, it’s the power of forgiveness (Willimon 10). Through the giving and receiving of forgiveness, we proclaim that the Gospel is true and that it has made a difference in our lives.

So let me ask you: as we begin this Lenten season, who do you need to forgive? What situation is eating away at your soul? For this season, we have set up this cross in the sanctuary as we have in some past seasons, and today I’m going to ask you to consider who it is you need to forgive, and then write their name on the slip of paper that’s been included in your bulletin. In a moment, we’re going to pray over those names, and invite you, during the final song, to bring those names up and nail them to the cross as a sign of your commitment to work during this Lenten season on not letting that situation define your life anymore. You may not be ready this morning to nail that name to the cross, and that’s okay. This should not be approached without prayer, and that’s why the cross will be here until Good Friday. You can nail names to it at any time, even during the week. But on Easter, the cross will be gone, and so will all the names we’ve nailed to it. Who do you need to forgive? Let’s pray.

Father, forgive them. Father, you know their heart, and you know my pain. I pray for those who hurt me. Forgive them, and heal me. Amen. (Hamilton Final 33).

Final Words

Job 42:1-6

February 22, 2012 (Ash Wednesday) • Portage First UMC

Very often, we save the best for last. Go to a concert, and the band or the orchestra will carefully plan the song list so that the event climaxes with the best song they have to offer. Watch a fireworks display and see how everyone anticipates the grand finale, when everything seems to cut loose. Or even think about dinner around your table. You eat the good food (the stuff that’s presumably good for you), and then you have dessert—you save the best for last. Sometimes that’s even true in our lives. People often pay attention to the final words spoken by loved ones, because sometimes those words sum up the entirety of that person’s life. Sometimes humorous, sometimes profound—final words say a lot about the person who speaks them. For instance, George Bernard Shaw, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1925, ended his life with the words, “Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.” When Henry David Thoreau was asked near the end of his life if he wanted to make his peace with God, Thoreau said, “I did not know we have ever quarreled.” Leonardo da Vinci, who made the world a more beautiful place through his works of art, said on his deathbed, “I have offended God and mankind because my work did not reach the quality it should have.” Mother Teresa, who died in 1997, kept repeating the words, “Jesus, I love you” as she died. And John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, died after reminding his loved ones, “The best of all is, God is with us.” Final words can say a lot about a person’s life and what was important to them. Our true character comes out at the end. Sometimes we save the best for last.

There is a man in the Bible, in the Old Testament, whose name was Job. He lived, roughly, around the time of Abraham, in the land of Uz (a place whose location no one can identify for certain today). Job, we are told, was “blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil” (1:1). His family was large, and so was his fortune. However, in a part of the story Job never learns about and we don’t quite understand, Satan makes a bet with God. In fact, he does it twice. The first time, Satan tells God that Job only worships God because he’s blessed and has all this good stuff, so God lets Satan take it all away, only restricting Satan from actually doing harm to Job himself. And Job loses everything—his flocks and herds, his crops, his servants, and even his children. In one fell swoop, Job goes from being a wealthy man to being a pauper. And yet, he says, “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised” (1:21). So Satan goes back to God and claims Job is only still worshipping God because he lost nothing personal. If God would allow Satan to hurt Job himself, Satan says, Job would curse God. And so God permits Satan to afflict (but not kill) Job, and Job gets painful sores all over his body. We’re not sure what disease he has exactly; some think it’s boils or leprosy or even elephantiasis (like the “Elephant Man” suffered from) (McKenna, Communicator’s Commentary: Job, pg. 45). The disease isn’t really important; Job’s reaction is. His wife tells him to “curse God and die,” and yet Job tells her that’s foolish. “Shall we accept good from God and not trouble?” (2:9-10).

Often we hear Job’s name associated with patience. Even James (5:11), in the New Testament, talks about Job’s “perseverance” (the word literally means “endurance” or “steadfastness”). Job, James says, waited for what God was going to do in his life. And in the beginning, Job does seem rather patient. His response to his wife and his refusal to curse God in the face of difficulty would be a a good model for any person of faith. But when you actually read his story, when you get past the first couple of chapters, when you watch Job as he suffers longer and longer—he’s really not all that patient. He has friends who come and sit with him. For seven days, they sit in silence, and honestly, they do their best ministry when they just sit with him, without saying a word. We usually want to fill the silence with talking, and very often that leads us to saying dumb and insensitive things to people who are hurting. The best thing we can do is to just sit with people, be with people who are hurting. Be there, help if needed, but otherwise, refuse to give advice. Your “wisdom” is not what is needed in those times, and it’s the so-called “wisdom” of Job’s friends that begin to push his buttons. They tell him obviously he did something sinful to deserve this. Or someone sinned and he’s being punished. Surely, they say, Job can’t be as righteous as he thinks he is. And Job, more than a bit frustrated, begins to demand an audience with God: “Oh, that I had someone to hear me! I sign now my defense—let the Almighty answer me; let my accuser put his indictment in writing” (31:35). He complains to God: “I cry out to you, God, but you do not answer; I stand up, but you merely look at me” (30:20). He remembers better days: “Oh, for the days when I was in my prime, when God’s intimate friendship blessed my house” (29:4). Haven’t we all from time to time been where Job is? When something goes wrong, when life doesn’t seem to work out the way we want it to or the way we think it should, when we feel like we’re suffering for no good reason, we too want God to show up and make sense of it. “God, you’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do!” We understand Job’s reaction, because it’s ours, too. Job wants God to explain himself. He wants to know why this has happened to him. He wants God to show up.

And God does show up. At the beginning of chapter 38, God breaks into the conversation and says (in a voice I imagine being somewhat like James Earl Jones), “Who is this that obscures my plans with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me” (38:2-3). And for the next four chapters, God takes Job, literally, on a whirlwind tour of creation. At each stop along the way, God asks Job, “Can you do this? Can you create this? When you can explain all of this, then I will answer you.” That’s where we came into the story tonight as we read in Job 42. God stopped once before to let Job answer, at the beginning of chapter 40, but now God is done talking. It’s Job’s turn. He’s had his audience with God, and God has even given him the chance to have the final word. What will Job say? How do you respond when God shows up?

Job has been asking “why” all along the way. But there’s a change at this point. You notice he’s no longer asking why he’s suffering. He’s no longer asking why all of this happened. Job’s question has changed from “why” to “who.” Job is asking a much more important question now, because he’s realized that when a person puts their suffering, their disasters, their losses in perspective, in the light of eternity, all those things become much smaller than we think they are. That’s not to say our suffering is unimportant, or that God didn’t care Job was hurting. God cared very much, and the final chapter in the book is a story of healing and hope. God cares about our suffering, as well. But the movement Job makes is from “why” to “who,” from a focus on himself to a focus on the God who made him, who knows and cares about his suffering, and who is closer than he could ever imagine. “I know,” Job finally says, “that you can do all things…Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know” (42:2-3). This is Job’s confession—his admission that he has relied too long on his own strength, on his own righteousness, even on his own knowledge. His pride was nearly his downfall; his humility and repentance will be the seed of his restoration (cf. McKenna 309-311).

And so Job’s final words, at least in this encounter with God and in the book that bears his name, are these: “My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes” (42:5-6). I knew about you, God. I’d been to church and Sunday School and heard all the stories. I had perfect attendance at Bible School and I even went on a mission trip. I knew all about you, but I didn’t know you. Now my perspective has changed. Now I can see you for who you really are because I’ve been in your presence. I’ve opened myself to more of who you are. I’ve moved from “why” to “who.” And because of that change in perspective, Job’s response is to “despise” himself and “repent” in dust and ashes. Two very important words there. The word translated “despise” doesn’t mean to hate yourself or to beat yourself up, to think you’re worth nothing. The original Hebrew word has an overtone of “melt away” or “refuse.” I get the sense that it’s describing a person who realizes they are not more important than others, they are not the center of the universe, and they refuse to be one who demands everyone pay attention to them. It’s someone who realizes they are part of a community and will refuse to demand special treatment. With Job’s success before, he very well may have been a bit arrogant, considering himself a bit “above others.” But now, Job is a different person. He’s found the heart Jesus was talking about when he said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Matthew 16:24). Jesus, too, isn’t saying we put ourselves down; it’s that we seek to serve rather than to be served (cf. Mark 10:45), to see ourselves in the right perspective. That was how Jesus lived his life, and Paul tells us we should have the same attitude as Jesus “who, being in very nature God…made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant” (Philippians 2:5-7). Job is a different person after this encounter with God, someone who seeks the welfare of others rather than just his own.

The other response Job makes is just as critical—he repents. The word “repent” means to turn around, to go a different direction. It’s not just being sorry for what you’ve done. Repentance also isn’t necessarily a matter of listing all our sins and going through them one-by-one. Martin Luther, the great reformer, nearly drove himself crazy trying to do that. He was always afraid he would forget something and that if he didn’t name it, God wouldn’t forgive him of it, whatever “it” was. Sometimes we think the same way, but the good news of the Gospel is that Jesus has already paid the price on the cross for all our sin. All that’s required of us is to come, to say we’re sorry for what we’ve done, and to ask for his strength to be able to head a different direction in our lives. Repentance is a choice to live differently. So the two actions, the two movements (despising and repenting, to use Job’s language) are tied together. It’s a change of life, the beginning of a new life, new hope for all. “I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes” (42:6).

That’s an appropriate image of prayer for this night, for Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the season of Lent. Lent is a movement, just like Job’s, from “why” to “who,” and this Lenten season, we’re going to deal with some final words—the final words of Jesus from the cross. As Jesus faced his own time of great suffering, he shouted out seven things, seven “words” that have come down through history to you and me, seven last things that continue to make an impact in our lives. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” “Today, you will be with me in paradise.” “Behold your son…behold your mother.” “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” “I thirst.” “It is finished.” “Into your hands I commit my spirit.” It’s a movement from “why” to “who,” and my prayer is that we will, throughout these next forty days, make that same movement, to a place of faith where we depend less on our own reasoning and abilities (the “why” place) to depending more fully on Jesus’ love and grace (the “who” place). Because when we arrive at Easter, we will be confronted with a radical new beginning, something we have no control over and cannot duplicate. If we’re going to fully experience Easter, we have to move from “why” to “who.” Unless we know the “who,” the one who is above it all, we cannot begin to understand or accept the power of the resurrection.

So tonight, we begin this Lenten season in dust and ashes, in an attitude of servanthood and repentance. Ashes have long been a sign of mortality—“ashes to ashes and dust to dust” we say at the graveside. Tonight, ashes will serve as a reminder that we are mortal, and that we have a need for repentance. As you receive the ashes tonight, you’ll hear the words, “Repent and believe the Gospel.” Those aren’t just formulaic words. That’s the hope we have for each of us tonight as you receive those ashes in the sign of the cross. The ashes then become a sign of the hope we have in Jesus Christ. Tonight, as we receive these ashes, may it remind us that God is bigger than our “why”s, God is big enough to handle our questions, and God is the creator who ultimately is out for our good. As we head into this season of Lent, may these ashes remind us of our deep need of a savior who is bigger than us. And may we have the same hope that consumed Job: “I know that my redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand on the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God” (Job 19:25-26). Amen.

Dinner Time!

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Revelation 19:6-10; Matthew 25:1-13

February 11/12, 2012 • Portage First UMC

As a pastor, in my nearly nineteen years of ministry, I have officiated at forty-five weddings, an average of 2.3 per year. And while I really try to make each wedding unique, there are similarities in the way wedding works in our culture. There’s the purchase of an expensive engagement ring, and the sometimes surprise presentation of it. There’s the picking of the guest list—who gets to come and who doesn’t, and maybe even more importantly, who sits by whom at the reception. There’s the planning of the ceremony, the picking of a date, the sending out of the invitations. And then, there’s the big day. People gather from all over at the appointed day, hour and location to celebrate the love of this man and woman as they pledge themselves “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,” until they are parted by death (UMH 867). Traditions vary from place to place, but the essence of what needs to be done remains the same.

In the first century, weddings were a bit more unpredictable—not in terms of what would happen, but in terms of when they would happen. As we know from our study of Joseph and Mary during Advent, marriages were often arranged. It wasn’t necessarily a matter of a man and woman “falling in love” and deciding to get married. Often that decision was made for them, and then they learned to love each other. Instead of engagement, the couple was “betrothed;” that was a legal standing that required a divorce to bring it to an end. The act of betrothal, according to many sources, was symbolized in the sharing of a cup of wine. The man would pour the cup and offer it to the woman, saying, “By offering this cup, I vow that I am willing to give my life for you.” Once she received the cup, they were bound together. They did not live together or sleep together until the formal marriage; still, they were considered husband and wife. The man would then return home and he would prepare a place for his new bride to come and live. Usually, that meant adding on a room to his family’s home, and the bridge would do and learn things that prepared her mentally and spiritually to be a good wife. At some point, whenever the home for the couple was done, an announcement would go out: “The bridegroom is coming! The bridegroom is coming for his bride!” And, usually at twilight, just as it began to get dark, the groom would go to the place where the bridesmaids were waiting, and together, with lit torches, they would go get the bride and bring her back to their new home. That was beginning of a week-long party, a feast, a celebration of this new family (VanderLaan, Echoes of His Presence, pgs. 11-19; Keener, Bible Background Commentary: New Testament, pg. 116).

Jesus once told a parable about a wedding procession. It begins with the bridegroom approaching, and out of the ten bridesmaids, only five were ready. Only five had their torches prepared; the other five were without oil. They had been waiting for a long time and had fallen asleep, Jesus said. When they hear that the bridegroom is on the way, the five without oil ask the others to share what they have, only to be refused. Now, we think that sounds rather cruel, but Jesus’ point is this: both groups had plenty of time to get ready for the feast. The five foolish bridesmaids wasted their time and did not prepare themselves. When they, in Jesus’ story, go out to try to find oil, they discover no 24-hour Wal-mart and no open convenience store. By the time they get oil, the wedding feast has begun and the door is closed, locked from the inside. They are shut out of the wedding feast because they dishonored the groom and the host by not being prepared (25:1-12; Keener 117). “Therefore,” Jesus says, “keep watch, because you do not know the day or the hour” (25:13).

Now, all that is more than just historical information. It’s important imagery as we come near the end of our study in Revelation. In this evening/morning’s section, we encounter the end of evil and something John calls “the wedding of the Lamb” (19:7). It’s a fascinating image when you consider the parallels between the description of Jesus’ return and how first-century weddings happened. In fact, the New Testament writers often use the image of marriage to describe the relationship between Jesus and his church, just as the Old Testament often described Israel as a bride. Isaiah told the people, “Your Maker is your husband—the Lord Almighty is his name” (54:5). The whole book of Hosea is an extended metaphor describing God as Israel’s husband, and in chapter 2 of that book, God tells the people, “I will betroth you to me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in love and compassion (2:19). On into the New Testament, Jesus uses that image repeatedly, using the story of a marriage feast to describe the kingdom of God: “The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son” (Matthew 22:2). And Paul, writer of most of the New Testament, says the marriage covenant is modeled on Jesus’ relationship to the church (Ephesians 5:21-33). He tells the Corinthians, “I promised you to one husband, to Christ” (2 Corinthians 11:2). Throughout the Scriptures, marriage is seen as the ultimate covenant, because in it is represented the relationship between Christ and the church (Wright, Revelation for Everyone, pg. 170; UMH 868). And that’s why in Revelation, the final union of Jesus with his people is pictured as a wedding feast.

The way Biblical theology pictures Jesus’ return is something like this: Jesus made a promise, as the Gospel of John tells us, that he was going away to prepare a place for us. That’s wedding language. He says, “My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am” (John 14:2-3). That’s what a bridegroom did—he went away to prepare a place for his bride to live. And when the place was ready, he would come back for his bride. Paul describes it this way in his letter to the Thessalonians: “For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever” (1 Thessalonians 4:16-17). A loud command—that’s the call of the bridegroom’s friends announcing his arrival. And then Paul describes what everyone in the first century would have understood to be a bridal procession—the guests of the bridegroom come out to meet him and then go with him back to the place of the party. This is not a description of some secret rapture, or some escape plan for believers. This is a picture of a greeting party, going out to meet the one they have been waiting for and then going with him back to the place where the wedding feast will be held (Witherington, Revelation and the End Times, pgs. 20-23). The feast is here, in a renewed and remade earth—the way God intended it to be from the beginning But as I said last week, there will not be any kind of warning. Jesus will come when he’s ready to receive his bride. The invitations have already gone out, and like those first-century wedding guests, we’re to be ready at any time. To spend our days trying to predict what Jesus himself said he did not know is a failure to trust that God holds the future in his hands. That’s why, even though we don’t know when, Paul is still able to tell people, “Therefore encourage one another with these words” (1 Thessalonians 4:18).

That’s the lens, then, through which we see Revelation 19, especially when the angel says to John, “Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!” (19:9). The return of Jesus is a wedding feast. It’s when Jesus and his bride—the church—are finally together. Everything else, every other option in creation has been declined. Evil has been turned back—destroyed. Babylon is no longer a threat. The prostitute has been judged and the bride steps forward. And you know what happens at events like that—even today, at a wedding reception, it’s a time to party. It’s a time to celebrate! In today’s culture, we only have such a party for a few hours. These first-century weddings went on for seven days—for a whole week, they celebrated with the bride and groom. The wedding feast in Revelation has no end. No wonder there is a song of celebration to begin this whole wedding supper. “Hallelujah!” the party goers shout. “For our Lord God Almighty reigns. Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready. Fine linen, bright and clean, was given her to wear” (19:6-8).

Now, there are a couple of words in that song that are so familiar to us we don’t realize how surprising they are. The first is the common word, “hallelujah.” It’s a word that literally means “praise God,” even though people use it today in all sorts of contexts. And while you’ll find the word often enough in the Old Testament, especially in the Psalms, in the New Testament, this is the only chapter where you’ll find this word (Wright 169). It’s almost as if the heavens wait until evil has been dealt with finally before they erupt in this kind of praise. Every other time evil has seemed to be defeated, it has only been temporary. Now, finally, evil is done with for good, and the heavens erupt: “Praise God! Hallelujah!” It makes me think, perhaps, we use that word too freely, too easily. It’s a powerful word. Handel, of course, included this Scripture and some other verses from Revelation in a chorus that concludes the second part of his great work, The Messiah. In the context of the whole work, the “Hallelujah” chorus celebrates God’s ultimate victory over the forces of evil and death. When it was first performed in 1743, the King of England was so moved by the composition that he stood in honor of the song and in praise to God. And when the king stands up, everyone stands up. The tradition stuck. It’s still customary to stand for the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus, to give praise to God for his victory over evil and death.

But there’s a second word here I want you to notice. The crowd sings, “Hallelujah! For our Lord God Almighty reigns” (19:6). God is “Almighty,” and aside from one other reference in the New Testament (2 Corinthians 6:18, which is actually a quotation from the Old Testament), the word only appears in Revelation. It literally means “the one who controls all things.” Jesus doesn’t refer to God the Father that way, nor does Paul. But again, this is exactly what John’s churches needed to hear, that no matter how dark and difficult life would get or had gotten, there is one who is in control. God is in control. There is nothing that happens that God is unaware of. That doesn’t mean, as I’ve said often, that God causes everything. It does mean God is in the midst of it all, orchestrating everything to ultimately bring good out of it (cf. Romans 8:28). It is that God whom we worship. It is that God who is worthy of praise. It is that God who will bring an end to the evil that threatens us. That God will not allow Babylon to triumph. If even the death of Jesus could be turned into something good (which it was, because through his death we are given the hope of having our sins forgiven)—then there is nothing God can’t use, even our brokenness, our pain, our wounds. His name is redeemer, and there is nothing the Lord God Almighty won’t use for good. So even if we don’t understand it, we offer our praise because we trust in the Almighty.

One other thing to note in this song of praise, and that’s in verse 8: “Fine linen, bright and clean, was given her to wear” (19:8). What’s going on with that? Jesus once told another parable, this one in Matthew 22, about another wedding banquet where people who were invited made up excuses for not coming, so the host invited people in the streets until the banquet room was filled. And then there’s this strange thing that happens: “When the king came in to see the guests,” Jesus says, “he noticed a man who was not wearing wedding clothes. He asked, ‘How did you get in here without wedding clothes, friend?’ The man was speechless.” And so the man is thrown out of the party, “into the darkness” (Matthew 22:1-14). Now, that’s rather strange. I mean, these folks didn’t know they were going to a wedding banquet. Why would they be expected to have certain clothes to wear? This was and is an honor-based culture. You did certain things to honor your host, and one of them was showing up at a wedding with at least clean clothes. You didn’t just come in from the field with mud on your shoes and straw in your hair. Even the peasants knew this, and so the image here is that the man caught in the wrong clothes didn’t care about honoring his host. He didn’t prepare himself in any way (Keener 105). Even though the invitation was broad, it was still expected that the guests would prepare themselves appropriately (Carson, “Matthew,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 457). In this final wedding banquet, though, not only is appropriate dress expected, it’s actually given to those who come to celebrate. The garments are prepared for the bride; all she has to do—all we have to do is receive those garments, which are, according to John’s comment, “the righteous acts of God’s holy people” (19:8).

Now, this does not mean we work our way into the kingdom, or that our works, our good deeds, somehow earn us a place at God’s table. Rather, when Jesus died on the cross, he made the way for us to enter the kingdom of God. All we have to do is say “yes” to him, accept him into our lives, and repent of our sin, of the ways we have lived in Babylon. Our good works, our “righteous deeds,” are then a response of love to God for welcoming us in. What we do is an outgrowth of who we are. “Being generates doing” (Mulholland, “Revelation,” Cornerstone Biblical Commentary. Vol. 18, pgs. 567, 570). And that’s why a big part of the story of Methodism and of this church has been to reach out in acts of love and compassion, to make the world a better place, to seek to win people to Jesus (remember our mission statement—“becoming a community where all people encounter Jesus Christ”). We want to send invitations to everyone to join the wedding feast. So let’s hear a bit about what that means in the life of this church, how we seek to live out our faith and invite others to come along. That has to do with mission and outreach and hospitality. I visited the Outreach Team meeting this week and I asked them to share the sorts of things they are focusing on now to try to fulfill our mission statement. Take a listen.

Video: Outreach Team

So we’re inviting people to a wedding feast—through welcome, through invitation, through practical acts of service. Throughout our community and our world, we’re continually calling out, “It’s dinner time! Come and feast! Come be part of the bride! Come to the wedding feast!” Now, John and Paul and the rest of the New Testament writers aren’t using that metaphor by accident. What they’re telling us is that marriage is a reflection of what our relationship with Christ should be. What does that mean? Well, first of all, it means that the relationship between Jesus and the Christian should be one of intimate communion. In the very beginning, the model for marriage is that the husband and wife would become “one flesh” (Genesis 2:24). There should be nothing that comes between them, and when you take that into the spiritual life, it implies that we should also have the closest relationship we can with Jesus. How many times are we satisfied with “good enough” in our spiritual life? We come to church once a week or once a month, and that’s “good enough.” Or we read our Bible whenever we feel like it, or we talk to Jesus once a week or so—or only when we need something. How long would a marriage—or any relationship, for that matter—last if you only talked to that other person when you wanted or needed something from them? I’ll tell you how long—hardly at all. In fact, “communication breakdown” is the second leading cause of divorce today, right after adultery. So how long will our relationship with Jesus last if we never spend time praying, reading the Scriptures or worshipping?

The second element of marriage reflected in our relationship with Jesus is joy—the joy of loving and of being loved. “The joy of the Lord is your strength,” Nehemiah said (8:10), and he said that in the context of worship, at a time when the people were rediscovering what it meant to follow God’s way of life. They were weeping because they knew how badly they had failed, and Nehemiah (along with Ezra the priest) encourages them. Basically he says, “Forget about the past. Once you’ve repented, move on. Celebrate, because God loves you enough to forgive you. Find joy in that!” The kingdom of God, Tony Campolo once said, is a party—a place of joy. I don’t know what you picture when you think of heaven. Many in our culture picture people sitting on clouds strumming harps. I don’t know, maybe that is something you would look forward to, but that’s not for me. Harps? Really? For eternity? The Biblical picture is one of joy and celebration, a place where our hearts find everlasting contentment in God’s presence. I thought of that this week when I ventured over to the Chocolate Extravaganza at Miller’s Assisted Living. I commented to Susie and Deb, who went with me, that heaven must have chocolate—otherwise, how could it be a place of joy? Of course, a bit later, after I had eaten too much chocolate, my stomach didn’t exactly feel like heaven! But nevertheless—Jesus brings joy to us now and for eternity. And just one more word about that—joy is different from happiness. Happiness is circumstantial and can change as fast as your Facebook status. Joy is that deep-down confidence that God is good and will be with us through whatever comes. That’s the truth John is constantly reminding us of in this Revelation, and especially in this moment when it’s dinner time, when the wedding feast begins, when the dancing and the celebration begins. It’s a time of joy. Biblical scholar William Barclay once said, “If Christianity does not bring joy, it does not bring anything” (The Revelation of John, Volume 2, pg. 173).

Third, marriage is marked by fidelity, or faithfulness. Adultery is still the number one reason for divorce today. “No marriage can last without fidelity,” though some can make it through a time of unfaithfulness. But in the same way, we’re called to be faithful to Jesus and him alone. When we go to a wedding, we’re recognizing that the bride and groom have chosen not only to say “yes” to each other, but to say “no” to everyone and everything else. Too often, though, we say “yes” to Jesus, but only in a “sort of” kind of way. We want to worship Jesus plus…Jesus plus money, Jesus plus power, Jesus plus stuff, Jesus plus…fill in the blank. We give thanks that Jesus is so faithful to us, but do we show the same faithfulness to him? Those who come to the marriage feast of the Lamb are those who are marked by fidelity.

And, finally, they are also marked by love. It’s love that enables that kind of faithfulness, that kind of relationship with Jesus. Elsewhere, John put it this way: “We love because he first loved us” (1 John 4:19). There’s that word “agape” again—the word that means unconditional love, love with no strings attached. Not “I love you if…” but “I love you because you are.” We love Jesus that way because he first loved us that way. Those who are invited to dinner time, to the wedding feast of the Lamb, are marked by intimate communion, joy, fidelity and love (Barclay 173).

You know, in all of the forty-five weddings I have done, there is a favorite moment I have. It’s the same every time, and it’s a moment that happens at the very beginning. Oh, there are many great moments—the sharing of the vows, the exchanging of the rings, the moment at the reception where one of them smashes cake into the face of the other—but none of those are my favorite moment. When the wedding begins, and the men are all lined up in front, and the bridesmaids have found their way down the aisle despite being blinded by flashbulbs— there’s that moment when the bride enters. Everyone stands and turns and looks at her, radiantly beautiful, but I have the best seat in the house at that moment. Not only can I see the bride, but I can also see the groom. And without exception, I have watched forty-five men break into the biggest smile as they see the one they love, dressed in white, coming down the aisle to pledge her love to him for the rest of their lives. It’s a fantastic moment, and it always makes me smile. But you know, it also makes me long for that moment when I look up and see Jesus standing there, waiting for us, the church, his bride, the one he loved enough to give his life for. Can we even begin to imagine the love that will be in his eyes at that moment? Can we even begin to fathom the celebration that will take place at that moment? Don’t you want to be there? Don’t you want everyone you know and love to be there, too? It will be dinner time—it will be time for celebration. When Jesus returns and his bride, the church, is joined with him, creation will rejoice because that’s the moment history is leading toward. I can’t wait for that moment, for that wedding day.

The End Before the Beginning

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Revelation 16:17-21

February 4/5, 2012 • Portage First UMC

On my first overseas flight, I tried to sleep, knowing I would need to be rested when we arrived, but those airplane seats are not made for sleeping. So I decided to watch a movie instead, and I flipped the channels until I found Forrest Gump. The movie was about halfway through, so I jumped in and followed the story as best as I could. When it got to the end, the screen announced that in just a few minutes, they would start it over. So the first time I saw Forrest Gump, I watched the ending first and then I watched the beginning. A lot of stuff at the end made more sense once I’d seen the beginning, and I also watched the beginning differently because I knew how everything came out. When my kids were little, we’d sometimes be watching a movie at home and Rachel, in particular, would get scared when the bad guy seemed to be winning. It was nice as a parent to be able to say, “This is a Disney movie, and you remember who always wins in the end?” “The good guy?” she’d say. “Yes,” I assured her, “the good guy will win.” Now, I could say that as a parent because I’d seen the movie. I knew how it came out. I knew everything would be all right in the end, and she believed me because she trusted me.

I’ve heard from several of you for whom the book of Revelation was a frightening book, and you weren’t too sure about entering into it during this series. I kept trying to reassure people that my goal is not to scare the wits out of you, but rather to help us see the hope that is in this book. John, the author, keeps coming back to one singular theme. Over and over again, he reminds us that God knows the end from before the beginning, and the good news is that, no matter how dark it gets here, whether we’re talking about the first century world or today’s world, the end of the story is that God wins. In fact, John is talking about the downfall of the bad guy (Babylon) in this story even before he describes it, because to him, as he’s witnessing this vision all around him, the end is assured before the beginning ever happens. And that, then, ought to color how we see history. No matter how bad it seems to be, the end is assured. God wins.

That doesn’t mean we should approach the darkness of our world with rose-colored glasses, or that we should just follow the doctrine of “don’t worry, be happy.” I’m not suggesting that, because as we’ve seen, John is also very honest about how dark and difficult this world can get. So as we enter into these chapters of the Revelation that really are the endgame for evil, we can do so with honesty. Life is hard, John knows that. But he wants us to see how great God is even the face of terrible and seemingly overpowering evil. I think that’s why all throughout this book there have been songs; the whole Revelation is set in the context of worship (Peterson, Reversed Thunder, pg. 140). And even here, as the world prepares to experience the wrath of God, the people of God sing a song: “Great and marvelous are your deeds, Lord God Almighty. Just and true are your ways, King of the nations. Who will not fear you, Lord, and bring glory to your name? For you alone are holy” (15:3-4).

It’s in that context of worship that the angels come to “pour out the seven bowls of God’s wrath on the earth” (16:1). Now, we’re in territory here that often makes people anxious, upset, fearful or even doubtful. People don’t like to talk about or hear about the “wrath of God.” “We would all much rather live in a world without wrath,” writes Bishop Tom Wright. “We would all much rather imagine a God without wrath” (Revelation for Everyone, pg. 141). When it comes to talking about the wrath of God, we tend to make one of two errors—I think, at different points in my own life, I’ve made both of these. The first is to think of God as arbitrary, just punishing people because he feels like it or he’s had a bad day. This a mean, authoritarian, cruel God—and those who believe in this God tend to become judgmental, critical, vindictive (because we tend to become like the God we believe in). These are the folks who, at the extreme end, protest outside of military funerals, who blame all of America’s ills on this or that social issue, and who bomb abortion clinics. They see themselves, often, as carrying out the wrath of God (because, obviously, God’s not getting around to it fast enough for their liking). Now, we may not do those extreme things, but we do often believe we have the right to judge someone else because we know what God would say to them, right? We’re God’s instrument, God’s mouthpiece. I know I’ve been guilty of that.

The opposite error of that idea is the belief that God’s wrath as something leftover from a less enlightened age. Surely, the God we know couldn’t be like that. He doesn’t exercise wrath, so t

his results in a God who overlooks sin, who just wants everyone to be happy and no one to be disturbed by having to live in a certain way. Following this God makes us into folks who believe that tolerance means everything is permissible, every action and every lifestyle is okay. It results in people who believe God will save everyone, regardless of how they have lived their lives.

Both of those perspectives ignore God’s character as revealed in the Bible. God is steadfast and faithful. God is also holy and pure. God is love, to be sure, but it’s not a sappy, Hallmark kind of love. It’s love that should change us, make us new. It’s a love that loves enough to set boundaries for our good. In our last parsonage, we lived next door to the church, and in front of the house was a county road that was only about a quarter mile long, but for some reason, people who drove it seemed to think it was important to get to 60 miles per hour within that quarter mile. On the west side of the house was highway 231—very busy with lots of trucks and farm equipment traveling along it. Now, there were times, when Christopher was little, that his inquisitive nature took him too close to the road for our comfort, and we would go running after him, pulling him back into the yard. I would say something like, “Do you see that road? You can get hurt there. Don’t go near the road. If you do, there will be consequences.” We loved Christopher enough to set boundaries, for his own good. And we loved him enough to punish him if he crossed those boundaries, to help him learn that there is a way to live that will lead, in fact, to life. Crossing that boundary would not lead to life. Love isn’t love if it says, “Anything goes.” Love—real love—loves us enough to say, “This is the way to life, not that. This is the way.”

Let’s suppose that one of your closest relatives was murdered, and due to diligent police work, the murderer was caught and put on trial. Now, suppose at the trial, the judge says to the murderer, “I know we could punish you, but I’m having a hard time doing that because, you see, your choice to murder may not have been what I choose to do, but who am I to say it was wrong just because I wouldn’t do it?” And suppose the judge let this murderer free because he thought the idea of punishing someone was outdated. Would we consider that judge a good judge? Of course not! The murderer’s crime deserves a consequence, and that’s what a good judge will do. That’s what the Bible means by the “wrath of God.” It’s tied to his love. God’s love enfolds us, but it will not affirm our sinfulness. God’s love confronts us with our brokenness and calls us to transformation. And wrath is the way the Bible describes that response. In many if not most cases, God’s wrath is seen as human evil works itself out toward its own destruction. Think of the evil systems of government, dictators and rulers who abused their own people, and how many of them we’ve seen fall just in the last few years. God’s wrath often is seen in the way evil defeats itself. But there are times, I believe the Bible teaches, when God steps in and calls “time out, enough’s enough.” These bowls of wrath, pictured in Revelation 16, are a mixture of both of those (Wright 142; Mulholland, “Revelation,” Cornerstone Biblical Commentary, Vol. 18, pgs. 545-546).

The first four bowls picture creation itself as the agent of God’s wrath (16:1-9). Land, sea, rivers and springs, even the sun itself—all of the elements are rebelling against those who have misused creation. Genesis 2 says God told Adam (and therefore humanity) to “take care of” creation (2:15). The word there means “to guard, protect, save life.” We are stewards of God’s creation, caretakers in his world, but too often we live and act as if it’s our world to do with as we please. We abuse the world and everything in it rather than steward it, and so John sees creation itself in rebellion, creation turning on humanity because of our failure to do what God called us to do. It’s a natural consequence. Where, in our lives, have we failed to be stewards of the creation God has given us?

The last three bowls picture specific judgments on those who have led people astray—this is the time where God steps in and calls a “time out.” Judgment is poured out on the beast’s throne, on the battlefield, and on Babylon. Now, Babylon in Revelation is a code word for Rome, for the Roman Empire, but in a larger sense, it stands for everything in human history that rebels against God (Smith & Card, Unveiled Hope, pg. 177). Babylon is described as a prostitute, which stands in stark contrast to New Jerusalem, the bride of Christ, the people of God. New Jerusalem represents the faithful followers of the Lamb of God. Babylon is the unfaithful rebel—and is always described as “fallen.” Babylon’s doom is certain even before the story begins. She cannot last because, as John pictures here, she’s always looking for someone else to blame. Her brokenness is society’s fault, or government’s fault, or someone else’s fault. She cannot bring herself to repentance, because repentance begins only when we recognize we are the root of our own problem. Babylon will not admit that, and so she not only falls but she is, by her very nature, fallen (Mulholland 550). She wants nothing to do with God, and so God allows her to rebel, even though it leads to her destruction. It’s the question John has been asking all through the Revelation, only he asks it here in terms of our citizenship. Will you live in New Jerusalem or in Babylon? Will you follow the Lamb of God or rebel against him?

So, ultimately, the wrath of God is not something God pours out just because he can. It’s something we choose, something we bring on ourselves, whether it comes directly from God or as a consequence of our sin. To deny the reality of God’s wrath is to picture a God who does not take our actions seriously, or who does not take us seriously. John Wesley famously said the only requirement to be a Methodist was a “desire to flee the wrath to come.” So denying God’s wrath means we believe Jesus wasted his time on the cross. If there is nothing to forgive, if there is no wrath to avoid, Jesus died for nothing. One author put it: “A God without wrath brought [people] without sin into a kingdom without judgment through the [work] of a Christ without a cross” (qtd. in Wright 141). If there is no judgment of our sin, then there is no hope of forgiveness and God cannot be truly good.

At the beginning of chapter 15, John says these bowls are the “last plagues—last, because with them God’s wrath is completed” (15:1). I know I’ve read that before, but this week when I was studying this section, it hit really hard that there is an end to God’s wrath. It is not something that goes on forever. There will come a day when judgment is done and everything is sorted out once and for all. No matter how much it seems as if evil or Babylon might be winning today, there is coming a day when Jesus returns and evil is done for. There is an end to God’s wrath, and knowing that, knowing the end from the beginning, gives John’s churches hope and encouragement to keep going even when it gets hard—maybe especially when it gets hard. John does give us more a picture of that end in the next section, but it’s a picture that begins here, at a place called Armageddon.

For us, usually, that word is associated with a huge battle at the end of time, but I want us to notice exactly what the text says. The reference for Armageddon is 16:16: “Then they gathered the kings together to the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon.” That’s it. That’s all John says. Where’s the battle? Well, in some sense it’s fought over the next two chapters as Babylon, which is already defeated, is destroyed. The rebellion against God is ended. But that’s not the typical Armageddon battle we picture. When I was growing up, it was the Soviet Union that was going to war against everyone else. That was what the TV preacher said. Now, it’s sometimes thought to be China or perhaps an Islamic coalition. But, folks, the battle is not between various nations on earth. To picture it that way usually is a way of trying to say, “We’re on God’s side and those ‘others’ aren’t. We’re the good guys, fighting God’s battle.” But the battle doesn’t even really exist because this is actually a judgment—God judging and destroying Babylon, the parts of creation that have been in rebellion against him. The “kings of the earth,” those who are tied in to Babylon (who lament Babylon’s destruction because it’s there they’ve gotten all their wealth), are gathered together not for a battle as John sees it, but for a judgment. In fact, the image we’ll see in chapter 20 is that fire from heaven comes down and consumes them (20:9). There is no battle of Armageddon in the book of Revelation (Witherington, Revelation and the End Times, pg. 56).

Why this image, though? And where is this place? The word “Armageddon” means “hill of Megiddo” and Megiddo is a real place. In fact, it’s one place we’ll visit this summer on our Holy Land trip. It’s a place, many believe, where armies were often housed; there have been stables found there that some believe date back to Solomon’s time. Megiddo was a place where decisive battles were often fought. “From the most ancient times to the time of Napoleon, it was one of the great battle-grounds of the world” (Barclay, Revelation Volume 2, pg. 132). It’s in the north of Israel, inland from Mount Carmel a ways. It was there Deborah defeated the armies of Sihon in Judges 4-5. Two kings of Israel had been killed in battle there—the evil king Ahaziah and the good king Josiah. It continues to be a strategic and highly symbolic location in modern times as it’s a valley where many roads come through—a crossroads of sorts. John uses that image for the final gathering place because, to his Jewish-Christian readers, it would have symbolized a decisive encounter between God and his enemies (Mulholland 551). There is no turning back from a Megiddo moment. And that’s why, as the final bowl is poured out, words reminiscent of Jesus from the cross are heard from the throne: “It is done!” Evil has been dealt with, and it cannot survive. It is done.

The point of all this, as I’ve said from the beginning, is not about prediction—figuring out who’s involved in the supposed battle of Armageddon or when it will take place. Even Jesus said he didn’t know when the end would come (cf. Mark 13:32). The point isn’t prediction—the point is preparation. In the midst of these bowls being poured out, we hear the voice of Jesus saying: “Look, I come like a thief! Blessed is the one who stays awake and remains clothed, so as not to go naked and be shamefully exposed” (16:15). Now, this is not meant as literal command. It’s not telling us to never sleep or to only rest fully clothed. It’s a call to be spiritually prepared, to be ready for whenever Jesus comes again. Because, he says, there will be no warning. No matter what the books in the Christian bookstore say, there will not be signs telling you when the day is. He will come like a thief. Jesus once told his disciples: “Understand this: If the owner of the house had known at what time of night the thief was coming, he would have kept watch and would not have let his house be broken into. So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him” (Matthew 24:43-44). There is nothing we can do to change God’s timetable (Witherington 56); the only calling for us is to be ready whenever, to be people of repentance, to be people who are seeking to live the way he would want us to live, to be citizens of New Jerusalem who reject the ways of Babylon. And part of our citizenship is to help others join this kingdom along with us, to invite them to follow Jesus as well.

That was the encouragement to those churches in Asia Minor—be ready, be about the work of the kingdom. It’s still our calling, and so this evening/morning, we want to share another piece of our story, and the ways we’re seeking to look and plan and dream for the future of this church and this community, for the ways we want to grow God’s kingdom here. Last week you heard about one part of that—reaching out through PF Hope. Another piece of that vision is tied to the property we call Crossroads. Take a listen.

VIDEO: Frank Odar

Folks, I continue to believe the best days for our church and this community are still ahead. I believe God has big things in store for us, and has called us to make a difference in this community. But God won’t do it alone. He wants our cooperation in sharing the good news—not out of fear of any sort, not to avoid any supposed Armageddon or bowls of wrath, but because God, as Revelation declares, is good and we want everyone to know him through his son Jesus Christ. And we come to know him, Revelation says, through repentance, through turning around and following the Lamb rather than the dragon. We transfer our citizenship from Babylon to New Jerusalem. We live in his kingdom, and one of the signs of that kingdom is a meal he told his disciples to share often. We come to his table this evening/morning, as an act of humility, as an act of remembrance, as an act of celebration that Jesus the Lamb of God triumphs over all that the world tries to throw at us. It is in his name we take this bread and this cup—to the comfort and encouragement of our souls. It is in his name we eat and drink, for this meal reminds us that he is the hope of the future. He is the reason we exist. And he is the returning king. Amen.