hesed: a sermon about a powerful hebrew word

Last weekend, I was so excited to preach at our home church in Salt Lake because we opened a sermon series called “Seven Hebrew Words Christians Must Know.”  (“Must” may seem like a strong word, I know—but stick with me and you’ll see why I was so jazzed about this!)  To watch the live version, please check out the FB video located HERE.
 

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Some of you may know this already, but the Bible was primarily written in two ancient languages—the Old Testament is originally in Hebrew, and the New Testament is in Greek—and scholars of these two languages have worked for years to translate them into English and other languages so that they can be read by you and me and the church around the world.  But if any of you are bilingual or have ever tried to learn another language, you also know that the problem when you translate from one language to another is that some words don’t have direct correlates between languages—meaning there isn’t any one word or phrase in the new language that means the exact same thing as a word in the original language.  This is the case with many of the Hebrew words in the Old Testament.  It takes a bit more digging to accurately or fully describe their meaning.
 
One of these is the Hebrew wordחסד  (hesed).
 
[Note: it’s not “hesed” with a soft “h.”  It has a guttural “cha-” at the beginning.  It’s not a very pretty sound to pronounce, actually.  We have to reach all the way to the back of our throat for it.  And not only does the Hebrew sound different, but:

·       The letters are different (as you can see below),

·       It’s written “backwards,” as we might say, from right to left across the page,

·       The sentence structure is different, and

·       The original Old Testament Hebrew didn’t have vowels or vowel markings. 

So just in the speaking and the grammar, much less the meaning, we can see how difficult this language is for us to translate.  But we should try because understanding the true meanings of these Hebrew terms has the potential to unlock so much depth to our faith and the way we understand these Old Testament stories—the way we see God in them, and his relationship to the people of Israel and with us.]

So, hesed.  What does it mean?
There are literally dozens of words that we have tried to use in our English Bibles to capture the meaning this one Hebrew term.  Take Psalm 145 for example.  Verse 8 says,
              “The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in hesed.”
 
If you read this in the NIV, it will say, “abounding in love.” 
The NRSV and the ESV translations both say, “steadfast love.” 
The New Living Translation says, “unfailing love.”
The Common English Bible says, “faithful love.”
And the New American Standard Bible and the King James Version both say, “mercy.” 
All of these different attempts to describe the same word… and this doesn’t even exhaust half the list.
 
According to the other nearly 250 times we find this word in the Old Testament, hesed can also be translated as:

·       Kindness

·       Lovingkindness

·       Goodness

·       Faithfulness

·       Loyalty

·       Closeness

·       Solidarity

·       Covenant love

·       Graciousness

·       Devotion

·       And the list goes on…

We can see that so much more is meant by this one Hebrew word than any single word in English can describe.  How do we begin to understand a word with this much depth? 
 
Well, the Jewish people had a practice of conveying meaning through stories, so given that we’re trying to understand their language, I’m going to tell you a story about hesed.  The story begins with a woman named Naomi…
 

Naomi was a Jewish woman married to a man named Elimelech.  The two of them lived in Bethlehem in Judah during the time of the judges (many years before Israel had a king), and they had two sons.  All of a sudden, there began a long season of drought in the land. The ground dried up and there was a famine in Bethlehem.  [Naomi may have thought that that was a bit ironic, given that in Hebrew, beth means “house” and leḥem means “bread,” so her town was literally called the “House of Bread” and suddenly there was no bread to be found.]

 

Elimelech and Naomi were forced to leave their home to feed their family, so they traveled to the neighboring country of Moab.  But not long after they resettled, Elimelech died and Naomi was left alone to raise their two sons.  She was a single mom—this wasn’t going to be easy.  But she somehow managed, and eventually her sons grew up and took each took Moabite wives.  One was named Orpah and the other was a young woman named Ruth.

 

Having lived so long with only men, it’s no surprise that Naomi would have connected quickly with her new daughters-in-law.  They would have helped her around the house, and she would have told them all about the history of Israel—the great stories of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Moses… and Yahweh, the God who made covenants with his people to care for them.

 

Ten years passed this way before both of Naomi’s sons, Mahlon and Chilion, died.  She was now a woman completely alone in a patriarchal society—with no sons and no husband—and in a foreign country no less.  This was devastating.  Then one small piece of good news came.  Naomi heard that Yahweh, the God of Israel, had considered his people and had given them food.  The famine had ended and there was bread in Bethlehem again, so she decided to go back home. 

 

Orpah and Ruth helped her pack everything up, and the three of them started the journey back to Judah.  But not long into their walk, Naomi realized something: she loved these two girls, but there was nothing for them in Israel.  They would be the foreigners with no husbands, and she knew how hard that was.  On top of that, they didn’t have sons that they could raise who would eventually take care of them.  So, she said to the two of them,

“Go back, each of you, to your mother’s house.  May the Lord show kindness toward you, as you have shown to my sons and to me.  May He grant that each of you find security with new husbands.” 

 

Naomi asked for God to show her daughters-in-law kindness and mercy with their own families, even though it meant she would be alone.  This is hesed.

 

At first, both of the girls refused.  They cried and told Naomi they would stay with her, but she knew what waited for them if they did, so again, she said,

“Turn back, my daughters.  Why would you go with me?  I’m too old to have a husband, and I have no other sons for you to marry; and even if I had more sons tomorrow, would you remain unmarried until they grew up?  No, my daughters, it has been far more bitter for me than for you, because the hand of the Lord has turned against me.”

 

Finally, Orpah gave in.  She kissed Naomi and grabbed her things and started to make her way back to her family in Moab.  But Ruth… Ruth was stubborn.  She clung to Naomi.  Naomi tried to reason with her.  She said, “See, your sister-in-law is going back to her family and her gods.  Go with her.”  But Ruth said to Naomi,

“Do no press me to leave you or turn back from following you!

Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge;

Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.

Where you die, I will die—there I will be buried.

May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!”

 

Ruth stuck by Naomi’s side even though it meant giving up her home and her hope for a stable future.  This is hesed.

 

When Naomi saw that Ruth was so determined, so she stopped pressing.  She took this foreign, unmarried, recklessly faithful young woman back to Bethlehem with her.  And in their state of grief, these two women settled into Bethlehem just as the time of the barley harvest began.

 

Now, God had given a law in Israel that when the workers harvested the fields, they were not supposed to go back and gather the crops that had been left or had fallen on the ground.  They were supposed to leave them for the widow, the orphan, and the alien who were in need.  So, Ruth, having heard these stories from Naomi, came to Naomi and suggested that she be the one to go out and gather food for them from the leftovers of some of these fields, and Naomi agreed.

 

Ruth left and she came back that night with a huge bag of sheaves of barley, and even some leftovers that had been roasted for her lunch, and Naomi was shocked.  “Where on earth did you gather this much grain?”

 

Ruth told her that, by chance, she ended up in a field that belonged to a man named Boaz; and that he had told her she could glean alongside the women who worked for him.  She also told Naomi that at lunchtime, he invited her to come eat with them and had given her roasted grain and bread and more than she could even finish, so she brought back the leftovers.  Naomi was thrilled.  She knew Boaz, and she said to Ruth,

“Blessed be he by the Lord, whose kindness has not forsaken the living or the dead! This man is a relative of ours, one of our next-of-kin.  And you should stay in his fields because other people might bother you elsewhere.”

[Remember: Ruth was a Moabite.  Not all Israelites would take kindly to her.]

 

So, Ruth gathered from Boaz’s fields through the rest of the barley and the wheat harvests, and the two women were taken care of.  But Naomi hadn’t forgotten the initial problem: Ruth wasn’t married.  She had no one to provide for her going forward… so Naomi hatched a plan.  One night she took Ruth aside and said,

“I need to find some security for you, so here’s what you need to do.  Boaz, our kinsman, will be winnowing barley at the threshing floor tonight.  Go get washed and put on your best clothes and go there, but don’t let him see you.  Then, when he falls asleep [which owners of the fields would do at their threshing floors so that no one would come steal the barley], see where he lies, go uncover his feet, and lie down.  He’ll tell you what to do from there.” 

 

So again, Ruth did just as Naomi asked.  In the middle of the night, Boaz woke up (presumably, because his feet were cold), and he found Ruth.  Ruth told him what Naomi had told her—that he was one of their next-of-kin, and she asked him to “spread his cloak over her,” which was a way of asking Boaz to marry her and be their kinsman-redeemer.  [Marriage at this time wasn’t an expression of romantic love, but a way of passing on one’s land and legacy; and for a woman it meant having security and being taken care of, since women couldn’t hold land themselves.  The kinsman-redeemer was the one who would marry into the family in order to acquire the land and carry on their family name.]

 

When Ruth asked Boaz to be their kinsman-redeemer, he praised her for her loyalty to Naomi—for not going after a younger, more eligible bachelor for herself, but for trying to carry on Naomi’s family name—and he told her,

“there is another man who is closer to your family than I am… I will offer him his right to be your kinsman-redeemer; but if he refuses, I will marry you myself.”

 

When Ruth went back to her mother-in-law the next morning and told her this story, it was incredible news for Naomi.  She and Ruth waited, and (long story short) the other next-of-kin refused the offer when he found out that gaining Elimelech’s land meant having to marry Ruth, so Boaz was able to marry her instead. 

 

Boaz took care of Ruth and honored her, even though she was both a stranger and a foreigner.  This is hesed.

 

After they were married, the Lord gave Ruth and Boaz a son, and they named him Obed.  Tears came to Naomi’s eyes when she saw that baby boy.  He was the restoration of her family.  Naomi took care of Obed, and many years later, Obed became the grandfather of a man named David, who would soon grow up to be the greatest King that the nation of Israel ever had.

 
This whole story is recorded in the Old Testament book of Ruth.  It is a story of hesed.
 
Each of the three main characters in this story—Naomi, Ruth, and Boaz—demonstrate the meaning of hesed.  Each one of them made difficult choices that showed loyalty, kindness, and faithful love for one another.
 
In the midst of that, God’s hesed is demonstrated as well.  His love, mercy, and devotion toward his people is shown in the way this story plays out… Naomi meeting Ruth in Moab, the famine ending so that they could return to Israel, Ruth happening to glean in Boaz’s field, Boaz happening to be related to them, Ruth and Boaz having a son… God is not often mentioned explicitly in this story, but he is present in every step. 
 
Naomi, Ruth, and Boaz weren’t “special” in any way.  They were ordinary people trying to live ordinary lives in a small village in Judah.  But they acted with hesed, and God rewarded their faithfulness by establishing, through them, the lineage of King David and Jesus Christ.  That is hesed.  That is steadfast, unfailing, faithful-to-the-end, covenant love.
 
My hope is that each one of us, as we reflect on this hesed of God and this story of Naomi and Ruth, that we are also encouraged to practice hesed in our own ordinary lives.
What are acts of kindness, love, and loyalty that we can show to the people around us, even when we’re struggling, and even if it costs us?  How does God want to enact or demonstrate his hesed in the world through us?
 
May God help us to discover those things and offer them to Him, knowing that He will use them to bring about His great plans of redemption and mercy in the world and in our lives.

where is the light? a sermon for advent

I was invited to guest preach again at a Presbyterian church in central Utah for the fourth Sunday in Advent.  The two texts for this Sunday’s message were:

• The prophet Isaiah’s declaration that the “people who walked in darkness have seen a great light… [because] a child has been born for us” (Isaiah 9:2-7), and
• The prologue of the gospel of John that speaks of the “light [that] shines in the darkness” (John 1:1-18).

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I found myself grateful that these were the two texts for this final Sunday in Advent—not only because they talk about light and life and the “child to be born,” and all the things we celebrate at Christmas, but also because they both name why those things are necessary in the first place:  the people of God needed light because they were walking in darkness.
 
Sound familiar?
 
Advent is a season of peace and hope, but this year—particularly because of COVID—it has felt (at least for me) like walking under a dark shadow.  I imagine each of us could name a way we’ve been affected by it in these last few months.  I know I’ve been sad not to go back to Washington to see my family for the holidays… FaceTime and Zoom are helpful, but certainly not the same.  And I would guess I’m not the only one missing family and friends this year.    
 
So much has been different… darker. 
We’ve had to adjust to wearing masks and not seeing one another’s smiles, not being able to hug one another or sit around a dining room table together like we’re used to.  Families have had to quarantine, kids are missing school, people have lost jobs, and too many are grieving loved ones who have been hospitalized or have passed away.  I can only imagine that these times feel for many of us like the text in Isaiah—like a land of deep darkness. 
 
And it’s not even just COVID (as if that weren’t enough!).  This year we had a brutal presidential election, and there has been so much division over politics, race, healthcare, the environment.  There were several months I couldn’t stand to get on social media because of the hateful things people were saying to each other. 
 
We have known darkness… and I find myself asking God, “Where is the light?”
We desperately need it.

Isaiah must have thought it had come… or was coming.  He says, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.”  

So where was the light?
 
Isaiah was a prophet who lived in Judah, and in that time, the nation was ruled by a king named Ahaz, who was a terrible king.  There are some who thought that this child that Isaiah spoke of who would bring peace was Ahaz’s son, Hezekiah.  And Hezekiah did grow up to a good king, for the most part.  But by the time John wrote his gospel hundreds of years later, he had another perspective on the child Isaiah was referring to—the light that was to come—because even after King Hezekiah died, the people of God still walked in darkness.
 
In Isaiah’s time, the entire nation of Israel was conquered, and had since been ruled over by Assyria, and then Babylon, and then Persia, and then Rome.  They went for seventy years without a Temple, and even longer without a King.  They still waited for a child to be born… a Messiah… someone who would break into the darkness and bring peace.  They waited for a light.  And that light was Jesus... a child born in a stable.  Jesus himself confirmed this in John chapter 8 when he said, “I am the light of the world.”
 
But John does a curious thing at the start of his gospel.  He doesn’t just tell a birth story like Matthew and Luke.  He says, “In the beginning.”  In the very beginning.  These first words of John’s gospel are the first words of Genesis: “In the beginning.”  He writes about the good news of Jesus’ coming, but he doesn’t just link Jesus back to when Israel had a king.  He starts Jesus’ story all the way back when God created the heavens and the earth, when darkness hovered over the waters and the first words of God were “Let there be light.”

John refers to Jesus as the Word, and says,

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

This means Jesus was with God in the very beginning.  And where was the light?
It was spoken into existence by God through Christ. 

“What came into being through the Word was life, and the life was the light for all people.  The light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not extinguish it.”

 
John knew that Jesus was Israel’s new King.  But he wasn’t just a child born in that time and that place, he was the Word of God Himself.  He was the light from the very beginning… the light that brought all life into existence… the light that would not be overcome by the darkness of the world.  And then he came into that world himself.  John wrote this gospel almost seventy years after Jesus was born, and this was a bold claim to make, because Christ was, in a way, overcome by the darkness.  His life was extinguished.    
 
The world crucified the light. 

And the world still tries to crucify the light.
 
Darkness still bears down around the people of God.  Pain and anxiety and loneliness and grief still exist.  The Kingdom of God has not come to completion.  So where is the light? 
 
I think there’s no point in pretending that this is a typical Advent.  It would be unfair to approach the coming of Christ this year without acknowledging that the darkness still exists… many of us are facing it every day.  But it’s precisely in that moment of darkness that Christ shows up.  He didn’t banish the darkness or make it go away… he came into it with us. He became human and endured the worst of the darkness, which was death, and he still could not be overcome. 
 
This is good news.  This is why the shepherds and the angels celebrated on Christmas:  because Christ, who brought life and light into the world, had come to be with the people he loved.  He had come to bring peace in the darkness.
 
So where is the light now?  John says that the Word, this light, is life and grace and truth.  Isaiah said that this light brings joy and peace.  That means that wherever we see these things—life and grace and truth and joy and peace—there is the light.  It shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not extinguish it.
 
Sometimes it shows up in unexpected ways.  Just this week my husband brought home a Christmas card from one of his coworkers.  I’ve never met or talked with this person before, but she wrote part of it directly to me, thanking me for the ways I’ve indirectly (i.e., through Matt) influenced their workplace and her life.  I was so surprised and so humbled by it.  It was this small, but incredible point of light in my week.
 
Have you had any moments like that this year?  Surprise gifts or words of kindness or memories that made you laugh?  Maybe you’ve seen someone go out of their way to help someone else or heard a song that made you smile.  That’s Christ… breaking in with light and grace when we least expect it.  And just like a little child in a humble manger, a small light can have a big impact.    
 
Perhaps the biggest grace of all is that through this Son that was given to us, we have been invited to become children of God, born, John says, “not from blood nor from human desire… but born of God”… not of the darkness, but of light itself.  God has adopted us so that we can witness to the light, just like John the Baptist did.  Jesus said, “Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).

 
So where is the light now?
 
It’s in all the acts of kindness and love that people show to one another… and it’s also in us.  We carry the light of Christ wherever we go.  It’s what allows us to see through this darkness, to help enlighten the world with the peace of Christ until he comes again.  It’s what we celebrate this Advent, and all the days after, and it will not be overcome.

wilderness spirituality: a sermon for advent (in a time of covid)

It’s Advent season again—though if I’m honest, it hardly feels like it.  This year has been so different with COVID, and the holidays don’t feel the same at all.  I miss hugging my family, and seeing my friends, and singing in church while we light candles.  Giving those things up is hard. 

In light of that, the lectionary text from Isaiah 40:1-11 (which you can and should read here) felt incredibly timely.  I’ve edited the sermon I was invited to give last weekend, and I hope the Word brings you comfort and strength. 

If you’d like to watch the worship service, including the full sermon, you can find it on Facebook HERE.

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Hundred years before this text in Isaiah was written, God’s people had their own kingdom: the kingdom of Israel.  It started with King Saul, and then passed to King David, who was called the “man after God’s own heart.” And God made a covenant with David that he would establish his house and his kingdom forever.  When he died, he passed the throne to his son, Solomon.  Under Solomon’s leadership, the Temple was built, the army grew, and the nation became wealthy and powerful. 

This was the height of Israel’s glory, and was a time of comfort and security.
That is the beginning of this story.
 
It has some similarities to our story, don’t you think?  Not in every way, of course.  We don’t follow the Mosaic law or have a king, but we (in the U.S.) do live in a nation that has, over time, built up great wealth and power.  Especially if you compare us with the rest of the developing world, we are very well off.  Most of us have immediate access to the things we need and want:

If we’re thirsty, we can turn on our tap and get water.

If we’re hungry, we can drive to the grocery store and get food.

If we’re cold, we can adjust our thermostats.

If we’re sick, we can see a doctor and get medicine.

If we want to worship, we can come to church.

If we’re bored, we can turn on our TVs.

If we don’t know something, we can ask Google.

And even if you don’t have these things, if nothing else you’ve found a way to access a computer or smartphone, or you wouldn’t be reading this blog right now. 
Being in a position of comfort and security and having our needs met is our “normal.”  
This is the beginning of our story.
 
Now, we know that these stories have an end, too, right?  All stories have an end.  And the end is good.

The people of Israel and Judah—God’s people in this Bible story—were promised that the rule of David’s descendants would be established forever.  And we know that centuries later, a “son of David” was born in a stable in Bethlehem to a woman named Mary and a man named Joseph.  They named him Emmanuel—which means “God with us”—and he was called the King of the Jews.  He fulfilled the covenant that God had made with King David. 
This is the end of the first Advent.  It is a good end to the story.
 
Our story has a good ending, too.  We haven’t gotten to the end yet, but we already know what it is.  The good news of Jesus’ birth wasn’t only meant to be good news just for the Jews, but for everyone.  He introduced God’s kingdom to the whole world, and we get to be part of the Church because of it.  After his death and resurrection, he promised that he will one day return—we call this the “Second Coming of Christ”—and when that happens, the Kingdom will be complete. 
That is the end of the second Advent.  It is a good end to the story. 
 
But as we all know, you can’t get to the end of a story without going through the middle.  
The middle usually kicks off with a conflict or complication—an inciting incident.  In the Star Wars story, this is when Luke Skywalker finds out his aunt and uncle have been killed and that Leia needs help.  Or in Lord of the Rings, when Frodo realizes he has the One Ring and he can’t stay in the Shire.
Something changes.  All is no longer well. 
 
Back in the days when Solomon was king, God said to him,

“If you walk before me, as David your father walked, with integrity of heart and uprightness… then I will establish your royal throne over Israel forever.”

But he also warned him,
              “If you turn aside from following me… then I will cut Israel off from the land.” (1 Kings 9)
 
Unfortunately, that is exactly what happened. 
Long story short, Solomon’s heart was turned from God… the nation split into two kingdoms—called Israel and Judah—which were both ruled by a succession of good and bad kings over many years… the prophets showed up (like Obi Wan Kenobi or Gandalf, we might say) to warn the kings to change their ways, and the kings didn’t listen… so God allowed Assyria and Babylon (neighboring kingdoms) to conquer Israel and Judah and send them into exile. 
 
They were forced into the wilderness with no more kings, no more temple where they could hope to meet God, no more wealth and security… so that what they needed to hear were the words of Isaiah many years later:

“Comfort, O comfort my people…

Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her

That she has served her term, that her penalty is paid.”

This is the middle of the story. 
 
Again, it has some faint echoes of our own story, doesn’t it? 
In this year of COVID especially, we’ve been disrupted from our “normal.”  Despite the great wealth and excess that we’re used to living in, people have lost jobs, we’ve seen family members and friends get sick or pass away, and a lot has been sacrificed. 
There has been a communal shift from comfort to discomfort, from security to anxiety.
This is a “wilderness experience” for us.  The middle of a story is always full of them. 
 
So let’s talk about the wilderness. 
When we say the word “wilderness,” what images or experiences or feelings come to mind?  
 
Some of us might have a little chill of excitement that goes up our spine when we hear it.  Maybe we’re picturing a beautiful, rugged place full of fresh air. 

 
Or some of us might be like my friend, Amanda’s, five-year-old daughter, Ava, who went out on a hike this summer in Eastern Washington—in this gorgeous landscape full of evergreen trees—and told her mom, “I don’t like nature…it has bugs!”  
 
Maybe it’s a little bit of both.  There’s part of me that longs for the wilderness, to be away from everything.  We used to go on camping trips when I was younger in the Cascade mountains in Washington (where I grew up), and I loved going hiking.  I would always take my little journal with me in my backpack next to my water bottle, and when we found a river (with the big rocks next to them like jungle gyms), I would scurry up the rocks and get out my journal and soak it all in.  Sometimes that’s where it felt like I met God, even as a kid.
I think it’s why we hear some people say, “nature is my church.”
Just this summer, my nephew, Josh, said out on a hike: “When I’m in nature I feel like I’m free.”
There is a freedom and a grounded-ness in nature… and I still get that sense of excitement in my gut every time I go into wild spaces.
 
But sometimes my head kicks in too and I know the wilderness is a dangerous place. 
What if we get lost?  
What if there are wild animals?
What if we run out of water?
Being in the wilderness can be exciting, but it also comes with risk. Our desire for comfort and security often hits a point where it starts kicking back in.  Especially when we don’t expect ourselves to be there, the wilderness can be a deeply uncomfortable and even terrifying place.      
 
But God’s people are no strangers to being in the wilderness.  There is a pattern all throughout Scripture of God calling, leading, or forcing his people into these spaces and this discomfort:

• God called Abraham out of Haran and into the desert, promising to lead him to a land that he would show him.  Talk about ambiguous! But still, Abraham went... (Genesis 12)
• Later, God called Moses through the burning bush in the wilderness to confront Pharaoh, and then used him to call the Hebrews out of Egypt and into the Promised Land—by way of forty years in the desert, which is where they received the Law that set them apart as God’s people (Exodus)
• David hid in the wilderness while he was being chased by King Saul (1 Samuel)
• The prophet Elijah fled to the wilderness to escape Queen Jezebel, and then he met God as a still, small voice in the wind on the mountain (1 Kings 19)
• The people of Israel and Judah were exiled for seventy years before they were allowed to come back to Jerusalem (Isaiah)
• John the Baptist lived in the wilderness of Judea by the Jordan river where he called people out to repent and be baptized (Matthew 3:1-6, Mark 1:4, Luke 3:2-3)
• Even Jesus was called by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness for forty days to be tempted after his baptism (Mark 1:12, Luke 4:1)
• And, Paul went out into the wilderness of Arabia for three years before starting his ministry (Galatians 1:15-17)

In the NRSV Bible translation, the term “wilderness” appears 278 times.  That’s more often than we see the word “faith” (and it doesn’t even include the times the same term is translated “desert”).  The story of the people of God is deeply embedded in the wilderness.  Why?
 
Because this is where transformation takes place.  

This is the journey that is necessary to get from the beginning of the story to the end. 
Our “wilderness experience” may not be out in nature, but it’s wilderness all the same.  The “normal” is disrupted and the hero sets out on a dangerous, but redemptive path. 
As the saying goes, “God loves you just as you are, but he doesn’t intend for you to stay that way.”  

There is a refining process that happens when we step out of our comfort zone and learn to trust God in ways that we may never have had to before. 
 
A couple years ago, my husband, Matt’s, aunt and uncle gave us a book called Rewilding the Way: Break Free to Follow an Untamed God, by Todd Wynward.  In this book, he identifies three things God’s people often find when they enter the wilderness:
 

1) An experience of limits. 
 
There’s a form of fasting involved when we go out into the wilderness because we no longer have access to the comfort and security that we’re used to.  When we get into wild spaces and away from our “normal” there are things we’re forced to do without.
  
What are you having to do without right now in this COVID wilderness season? 
What has been the hardest to sacrifice?
What have we learned that we may not really need, and what has it taught us to value?
 
2) An experience of Sabbath. 
 
Sabbath is time set aside for rest and communion with God where we take a break from all our work and anxiety and fear, and we trust that everything is in God’s control. 
Wynward writes that, “Time in the wild gives us an enforced holy rest, exposing our restlessness.”
 
When have you felt restless in this season?
How might God be allowing you or inviting you to rest or trust him?
 
3) An experience of identity formation.   
When we get pulled out of our own “kingdoms” and our sense of control, and into a wilderness experience, it becomes easy to realize how small and fragile we really are. 
We recognize the truth in what Isaiah says—that we are like grass, that we can wither and fade so easily when the breath of God blows upon us. 
We realize that life is fleeting and there is so much we are not actually in control of. 
 
But does God want us to wither and blow away?  Is that the point in all this? 
I don’t think so.  I think God invites us to realize how small we are so that we can appreciate and embrace how big he is. 
Getting out into the wilderness and away from all our distractions is where we are finally freed up to encounter and lean into a wild and powerful God.
 
This is not often a pleasant experience.  The wilderness is uncomfortable. 
The Israelites who were with Moses were so frustrated with the desert that they wanted to go back to slavery in Egypt to escape it.  The people of Judah felt abandoned in the exile because they had lost most of their identity as a nation.  We’ve likely spent most of this year echoing the psalms that David wrote in the wilderness when he said, “How long, O Lord?”  This feels painful and we don’t like it!
 
But God says, “Comfort, O comfort my people… do not fear.” 
 
If we look, we just might see the bush burning in the distance. 
If we listen, we just might hear the sound of the still, small voice that spoke to Elijah in the mountain. 

The wilderness where we experience limits and Sabbath is where God often chooses to make his presence known and to change us in the process.
 
If part of this Isaiah text sounded familiar to you at all, it’s because it shows up again later in the story.  It’s how the gospels identify John the Baptist when he preaches near the Jordan river—as the voice in the wilderness who prepares the way of the Lord. 
But notice what John does here…
He calls people out of Jerusalem, away from their place of comfort, and into the wilderness of Judea.  And that is where he says, “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”
Repent and embrace your new identity as people of a kingdom far greater than you could ever construct for yourselves. 

Photo credit here

If you’ve ever seen the movie, The Hobbit, there’s a scene where Bilbo Baggins is sitting with Gandalf the wizard trying to decide whether or not to set out on this dangerous quest with this odd group of dwarves. 

Gandalf tells him a story and then says, “You’ll have a tale or two of your own to tell when you come back.” 
Bilbo then asks him, “Can you promise that I will come back?” 
And Gandalf says, “No.  And if you do… you will not be the same.”
 

I think this is the secret John the Baptist knew when he called people out into Judea, and what God knew would happen to the Israelites when he sent them into exile—that they would not be the same.  There’s a point in the beginning of every story when something changes, when trials in the wilderness need to be experienced before we reach the story’s end.  So even when the journey seems long and vulnerable, take comfort, for there God says, “the glory of the Lord shall be revealed.”
 
Where might God be meeting and changing you in this uncharted territory?  What is God doing in this wilderness?  Look and listen for it… because His is the road we walk as we find our way home.

imitators of god: a sermon on faith & politics

I gave this sermon on November 1, 2020 – the Sunday before the presidential election.  Our home church (Mount Olympus Presbyterian in Salt Lake City) was doing a series on Faith and Politics and I had the privilege of closing it out.  The text came from the Apostle Paul in Ephesians 4:29-5:2. We are now post-election, but I hope the thoughts and ideas continue to remain meaningful as we engage in politics in the future!

The transcript has been edited a bit to make a better blog, but if you’d like to watch the video of the sermon in its entirety, the whole service was recorded live and can be accessed HERE via Facebook 😊 Enjoy!

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Some people question whether or not the church should engage in conversations about politics.  It seems a bit risky given our culture’s well-ingrained separation of church and state.  But as one wise pastor pointed out: if we can talk about something “out there” (in the world), we should talk about it “in here” (in the church)— and that includes our “secular” politics. 

Previously in this sermon series, it had been pointed out that:

(a)    Jesus was a political figure, and 

(b)    There is a difference between being “political” (engaging in societal discourse) and being “partisan” (being biased toward one group/cause or another) 

AND that no one political party or country can identify itself as the Kingdom of God.  Jesus will not be co-opted into our factions!

So the question becomes:  What does it mean as members of the Body of Christ—as citizens of the Kingdom of God—to engage faithfully in politics and political conversations today without getting sucked into the mire of it all, and how do we do that?

In Ephesians 4:29-5:2, Paul is writing to a community of believers who are struggling with division, and he offers some solid guiding principles on doing life together that I think can very much inform our discussion of Faith and Politics.  He writes:   

²⁹ Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up, as there is need, so that your words may give grace to those who hear. ³⁰ And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with which you were marked with a seal for the day of redemption. ³¹ Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, ³² and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you. 5 ¹ Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, ² and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.

Paul actually starts this section of his letter a little further ahead by saying that, as followers of Christ, we have been taught to “put away [our] former way of life” and to “clothe [ourselves] with a new self… according to the likeness of God.”

And part of that process, he says, is by learning to control how we speak.  In verse 25, he writes,

“putting away all falsehood, let all of us speak the truth to our neighbors, for we are members of one another,” 

and then in verse 29, 

“Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up.” 

The Greek word used here that we translate “evil” is the same word that in other places describes something rotten—something that is corrosive, that breaks down, that decays.  This is speech that is hurtful.  So not only, he says, are we supposed to speak what is true, we are also supposed to speak what is loving and kind.     

I think it’s safe to say that our political discourse currently is struggling with both of these things.  

In the first place, we seem to have a war going on over what is truthful and what is not.  We’ve been bombarded with the phrase “fake news,” we have presidential debates that now require constant fact-checking, and there are endless memes and articles online and on social media that are meant to inflame one side or another get disseminated without any critical research to see whether those claims are founded or not. 

I’m not going to spend time trying to tell you what is factual and what isn’t.  But I will say that this is a caution for us to be careful and critical about what we accept as truth, and what sources we use to help us make political decisions, and especially about we quote or “repost” or share with other people. 

But it’s also not just about speaking what is true.  It’s about speaking what is kind.  It’s about what builds someone up rather than breaking them down, and our words giving grace to those who hear us. 

John Calvin wrote about this in his Institutes of the Christian Religion.  He said:

“We delight in a certain poisoned sweetness experienced in ferreting out and in disclosing the evils of others.  And let us not think it an adequate excuse if in many instances we are not lying.  For [God] who does not allow a brother’s name to be sullied by falsehood also wishes it to be kept unblemished as far as truth permits.”

Just because something we might say about someone else is true, that does not make it kind.  This is difficult, right?  Because if we are trying to live out Kingdom values in the world and trying to promote the kind of kindness and love that Christ showed us in our own communities, when someone is lying or deeply betraying those values, we want to call it out.  We want to name evil when we see it.

So is Paul saying we just let that go?  Not necessarily.  Jesus called out the Pharisees for the religious hypocrisy they were practicing in his time. 

But he also never failed to see them as human beings.  He met with them, he taught them, and he died for them as much as for us.  He continued to show love even as he spoke truth to power, which means that every time we speak politically—whether it’s a post on social media or a comment to our spouse in our living room—we need to ask ourselves what kind of language we’re using. 

Is what I’m saying meant to break you down? 

Am I saying this because I’m scared, or angry, or feeling threatened?

OR do I still recognize you as a human being that Christ died for? 

Am I still able to see the beloved image of God in you?

Paul says we’re meant to put away the things that break down unity.  But in verse 31, he also says to cut out “bitterness, wrath, anger, wrangling, slander, and malice.”

Here’s what those things mean:

• Bitterness: “A character trait that nurses a grudge, nurtures resentment, and refuses reconciliation.”
• Wrath: “To be given to fits of rage when one does not get one’s own way.”
• Anger: “That vice which makes us quick to lose our temper at any little offense.”
• Wrangling: “The readiness to shout down an opponent rather than listen to the reasons given by another, and to shout louder when one’s own argument is weaker.”
• Slander: “To curse or insult one another."
• Malice (or “wickedness”):  a general term, used here almost like “so forth,” to summarize all of these and more.

It’s easy to see these things characterizing America’s political discourse.  And it’s painful to say, but the Church has often been complicit in this.  I have been complicit in this.

This is the mire that it’s difficult not to get sucked into. 

This is the divisiveness that grieves the Holy Spirit of God. 

This is what we are to “put away” in the name of Christ.  

It may (especially in election seasons) be a daily battle… but this is the clothing of the old self and not the new self.  

So what are we supposed to “put on” in their place?  Kindness, tenderheartedness, and forgiveness: 

• Kindness:  Not just brief gestures of politeness, but the posture that God himself takes in giving without expecting things in return.  It initiates love toward others and practices love for our neighbors in the same way we love ourselves. 
• Tenderheartedness:  another word for “compassion”—to suffer with others; the posture of Jesus toward the sick, or the Good Samaritan toward the Jew on the road, that sees the needs of others as much as we see our own.  It affects whose well-being we think about as we cast our votes, whose voices we listen to over others, and who we choose to give grace to even though we disagree with them.
• Forgiveness:  the posture of Christ on the cross, of letting go of others’ sins or their “trespasses against us” for the sake of right relationship.  It frees up the space in our hearts where bitterness would otherwise reside and fester, and helps us see the other person as someone Christ died for and who is beloved by God despite our differences with them.

*Important note: needing to show compassion and forgiveness assumes that there is suffering and sin.  It assumes that the world and the people in it are broken, and that failure is a part of everyday life.  This is not a set of rose-colored glasses that expects us to be morally perfect for our own sake.

Practicing kindness and compassion and forgiveness is about being able to find unity in the midst of our brokenness.

Paul sums all of this up by saying we are to be “imitators of God” and live in love, as Christ loved us… imitators of God being built up together into the “full stature of Christ.” 

We are not God. 

In fact, my husband Matt loves the joke: “What’s the difference between you and God? God never thinks he’s you.” :P 

But we imitate God.

We forgive because we’ve been forgiven in Christ. 

We love because Christ first loved us. 

That includes the people we may see as our political enemies, and those we disagree with.

Now, imagine yourself as a small child sitting at the kitchen table. 

You are fully aware that you’re little.  Your feet don’t even hit the floor yet, which means you have a long way to go before you grow up.  But you sit there watching your parent, who’s making you breakfast.  This parent is unfailingly wise and kind, and takes care of you when you’re hurt, forgives you when you’re wrong, and teaches you how to play nice with other kids. 

You don’t know how to do all those things yet.  You lose your temper.  You get mad when your brother gets a bigger bowl of cereal, or when your sister says she wants to be the boss of the game you’ll play later.  Sometimes you think it's okay to be mean to them if they’ve been mean to you first. 

But you trust your parent, and you know that they want to teach you to be like them—to be wise and kind and loving, and able to do all the things a grown-up can do.  So after breakfast, you sneak off and play dress-up in their clothes.  You imitate them. 

You take off your dirty jacket and your mud-covered shoes, and you put on your mom’s heels, or your dad’s tie and you pretend.  You may put on way too much makeup in all the wrong places, or go stand in front of the bathroom mirror and smother your chin in shaving cream, even though at this age, there’s absolutely no point.  But you go through the motions.  You pretend and you practice and you learn… and sometimes you even see them peeking in and smiling at you. 

Photo Credit:  Shutterstock

We are like little children trying to imitate God.  We are small and impetuous, and we don’t do all the right things, but we dress up and we pretend.  And the more we pretend, the more we grow.  We will never actually reach adulthood in this life, but we love our Father, so we try.  We’ve seen what it looks like to wear kindness and compassion and forgiveness like Christ did, and we have been given full access to his closet to try things on.

C.S. Lewis points out in his book, Mere Christianity, that

“very often the only way to get a quality in reality is to start behaving as if you had it already,” 

which is why he also wrote:

“Do not waste time bothering whether you ‘love’ your neighbor; act as if you did.  As soon as we do this we find one of the greatest secrets.  When you are behaving as if you loved someone, you will presently come to love them… whenever we do good to another self, just because it is a self, made (like us) by God… we shall have learned to love it a little more or, at least, to dislike it less.”