Good Friday: There's a Cross to Bridge the Great Divide

I love bridges. What I like most about them is their purpose—to connect things, to help bring things together that would stay separate without them.

Perhaps the greatest need in our world has always been for more bridges. I don't mean the ones made of concrete, steel or wood. It's just that even with all the bridges we have we are still isolated, separated, alienated from one another. We human beings spent far too much time and energy building barriers between us instead of bridges—digging new and wider trenches instead of filling up the old ones already here.

If we could see human society from God's perspective, I think we would see individuals, groups, and nations separated by wide canyons of mistrust, misunderstanding and hostility. We would feel God’s pain and sorrow.

But every now and then we see an amazing thing: two persons, two peoples, two nations, tired of separation, so they begin to build a bridge toward each other—a slow, fragile effort to cross the gulf that separates them. Sometimes they make it. Sometimes they don't, for the bridge burners are always with us, the saboteurs of peace and brotherhood.

You don’t need to be a sociologist or psychologist to realize that something's very wrong with our world, and within us. There is brokenness, disjointedness throughout human society. Ours is more a world of walls, chasms, barriers than bridges. But deep down we long for more bridges.

Why?

According to the Bible, all this brokenness comes because of the great divide between Creator and creation, between God and humanity. Human beings aren’t in right relationships with each other because they are not in a right relationship with their Creator. Sin has created this great divide. Sin is rebellion against God, disobedience to God's will, refusal to worship and serve the One who created us. It continues in every generation. Each of us in our own way has carved it deeper.

The great divide between humanity and God could not be crossed by a mere man—only by a very special man, a man both human and divine. Only God, taking the initiative through this man, could span the great divide. Not with steel or concrete, but with wood and flesh. What a strange, usual, bridge it was—a bridge made of wood in the shape of a cross, with a man hanging on it. God used such a cross to bridge the great divide, to open the way once again to the loving relationship with God for which were created.

Consider Matthew 27:50:

Jesus again gave a loud cry and breathed his last.

Then notice the very first thing that happened as a result of his death...

Vs. 51: Then the curtain of the Temple was torn in two from the top to the bottom...

This was the sixty foot tall curtain that separated the Holy of Holies in the Temple (which was the most sacred place of all). God's very presence was thought to dwell there. And only the high priest once a year could enter it to make a sacrifice for the sins of the people.

But now the curtain was destroyed—ripped from top to bottom by God's own hands through the death of his Son. You see, the way was open now back to God's presence for anyone, everyone. We could now see into the very heart of God; and what we saw there was…love!

There’s a song, done by a contemporary Christian group entitled, "The Great Divide." I borrowed from its lyrics the title for my post today. Here's a verse and the chorus:

Silence...

Trying to fathom the distance...

Looking out 'cross the canyon carved

by my hands...

God is gracious...

Sin would still separate us...

Were it not for the bridge His grace

has made us...

His love will carry me...

There's a bridge to cross the great divide...

A way was made to reach the other side...

The mercy of the Father, cost His Son

His life...

His love is deep, His love is wide...

There's a cross to bridge the great divide.

Maundy Thursday

Tradition tells us Jesus and his disciples gathered in a home—whose it was we aren’t sure—but there must have been a second floor. Otherwise, why the “upper” room?

They came together to take part in a Seder, one of the highlights of Passover week. The meal was a symbolic one, reminding Jews of the sufferings of their ancestors and the power of God's deliverance. The foods that were eaten were symbols to remind the Jews of their captivity in Egypt. A form of applesauce was eaten to remind them of brick mortar and the fact that they were forced to make bricks with no straw. A bitter herb like horseradish is eaten to remind them of the bitterness of their captivity.

It was toward the end of that Seder that Jesus added two more symbols. He took a loaf of bread and broke it and gave it to his disciples saying: “Take eat, this is my body, which is broken for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” Then he took a cup filled with wine. He drank from it and gave it to his disciples saying, “Drink from this cup, all of you, for this is my blood which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sin.” Thus was born our sacrament of the Lord's Supper, out of the experience of an ancient Jewish custom.

As we think of those disciples around the table, I wonder: can we see ourselves? To me, the disciples represent all that is good and bad about our humanity.

Maybe we can see ourselves in Matthew. Here was a man who was good with figures, but who initially used his talent for himself rather than God. He became a tax collector. It was his responsibility to collect tax money for the Romans—money that went to support the oppression of his own people. In a way, you could think of him as the Bernie Madoff of his day. He reminds us of just how far many people are willing to go to advance their personal ambition. But when Matthew came to Jesus he came all the way. Now he was using his mind to keep an account of the Master's teachings. Matthew reminds us that our talents are God-given, but we must chose to use our talents toward the right end, that is, to make this world a better place than when it was before we came into it.

Maybe we see ourselves in James and John. They remind us of the pride and the ego that is in us all. It was their mother who went to Jesus to do their bidding for them. She admonished the Master: “When you come into your Realm place my sons, one on your right hand, and one on your left hand.” Even on this, the occasion of their last night together, the disciples are arguing amongst themselves which one is the greatest and who deserved the seat of honor at the table. James and John remind us that if we’re to follow Jesus we must first surrender ego. We must decrease so that he might increase. We must remember the words of Jesus: whoever would be greatest among you, must be a servant.

Certainly we can see a part of ourselves in Thomas. Like Thomas, we long for something tangible we can cling to when our experience of God begins to fail. We live in a prove-it-to-me age. But Thomas would remind us that resurrection faith isn’t something that can be neatly wrapped in a package. We can never possess faith as one would possess a thing. To follow the Master we must be able to echo the words: Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.

There was Simon the Zealot. It embarrasses me to say that I see some of myself in this man, for he was one who hated with a passion. He reminds me that hate is an emotion that I also feel sometimes. The zealots were a political faction who wanted the Romans out and the Jews in, and they were more than willing to commit acts of violence and murder to accomplish their goal. They were terrorists. “The end justifies the means,” they said. Simon would remind us that if we’re to follow the Master we must look at his total message, even the parts that say: “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”

Then, there’s Mary Magdalene. I don’t buy into the whole Da Vinci Code thing, but I think she was there. I believe she was one of Jesus’ most important followers. Some scholars think she may even have been “the beloved disciple.” However, she was edited out of the tradition because a male-dominated church couldn’t stand a woman with that much influence among our Lord’s followers. She represents all of those we’d like to “edit out” of the church. In the past it was African-Americans, divorced persons, and women. Many women still feel “edited out,” to a large extent. These days it’s lesbian and gay people. Some people in the church would like to edit them out. But Mary Magdalene reminds us that Jesus included all sorts of people among his companions—people who were “edited out” in his day too. Mary Magdalene reminds us that if we’re followers of our Lord, we can’t edit anyone out of the communion of God’s love without being edited out ourselves.

There was Judas. If we don’t see Judas in ourselves, maybe it’s because we aren’t looking closely enough. Judas was impatient with Jesus. Judas believed that Jesus really did have the power to bring about the reign of God, but he didn’t understand why Jesus kept waiting. Judas, therefore, contrived a situation in which Jesus would be forced to show his power. He would turn him over to the Jews and Romans. Judas would remind us that if we’re to follow Jesus we must remember that our schedule isn’t always God's schedule and that our means aren’t always God’s means. We see with the vision of the immediate. God sees with the vision of eternity. God knows; we only think we know.

Then there’s Simon Peter. How impetuous he was! Always willing to leap before he looked. When Jesus told the disciples they would all fall away, it was Simon Peter who roared, “Lord, though they all fall away, I will never leave your side!” But Simon Peter did fall away. He denied Jesus—not once but three times. He would remind us that to follow the master we must count the cost of discipleship.

Let’s confess before God that we’re all of the disciples, with all of their frailties and sinfulness. We’re also like them in our sincere desire to follow Christ. My prayer is that the power of God will remind us who we are—children of God, all of us.

On the Right Side of History

I'm on the right side of history, the side of love. I hope you are, too.

Still Seeking Donkeys

Bass Mitchell, a United Methodist pastor (I like many of his ideas and sometimes, with his permission, I borrow them), talks about an adult Sunday school class he was teaching. They happened to be studying the story of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. He read the story and then asked the class, "What really stood out to you?" 

The first person to respond was a young woman sitting in the back row, who hardly ever said anything.  "What spoke to me," she said, "is that Jesus needed that little donkey.  I know you guys aren't aware of it, but I have not always felt all that good about myself...kind-of like I don't have much to offer...kind-of donkey-like... what could I possibly offer this King...but when I heard just now that he had need of a little donkey, then the thought came to mind that he just might have need of me, too...if a small beast of burden could be of use to him, could help bear him, then surely I can too..." My friend Bass commented, “We could have had prayer and dismissed that class right then!!!”

When I read that story, I knew I had the main idea for my Palm Sunday sermon!

Luke 19:28–40 tells us that on the first Palm Sunday long ago, Jesus was looking for a donkey. He sent some of his disciples to get just the one he needed. He seemed to know right where that particular donkey would be. He chose a donkey, a lowly beast of burden on which to ride into Jerusalem that day.

Guess what? Jesus is still looking for donkeys! Jesus is still looking for people who will carry him into places where he is needed today. If Jesus knew where that donkey was so long ago, I am encouraged to believe that God also knows where to find me, indeed knows me by name, and you, and may even have something useful for me to do and for you, too.

This is what Paul is saying in Philippians 2:

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death - even death on a cross... (vv. 5-8).

To have the same mind as Christ is to have the mind and heart of a servant. It's to seek out ways that we might be donkeys for Christ. It means humbling ourselves, engaging in deeds and words of kindness and service whenever and wherever we can in his name. Being a servant wasn’t beneath Jesus. How can it be beneath us? Because he humbled himself, God exalted him. Jesus is Lord! Now he's looking for donkeys—persons like you and me to bear him, to bring him and his message of love, the only hope for the world, into the world.

He's still looking for donkeys.

One of my personal heroes—and one of the remarkable "donkeys" of our time—was former Iowa Governor and U.S. Senator Harold E. Hughes, from Ida Grove, Iowa (located close to Storm Lake, the northwest Iowa town where I grew up). Even though Governor Hughes was sober for mere than forty years, he always described himself as a "college dropout and a drunk with a jail record." He was a highly visible and much-loved and -respected force in the alcoholism and drug abuse field for close to half a century.

 Born into a poor farming family, Harold Hughes returned from combat service in World War II "a drinking but functioning alcoholic." A truck driver at the time, he continued to drink, trying to quit but succumbing to relapse time and time again. His wife tried to have him committed. While trying to kill himself in 1952, he experienced, in his own words, a "deep spiritual experience" that led to his eventual recovery from alcoholism. Harold Hughes went on to be a much beloved politician. As a recovering alcoholic Hughes went on to win three terms as Governor of Iowa. His prominent position didn’t stop him from openly talking about his alcoholism or working with others. In a 1964 debate Hughes stated "I am an alcoholic and will be until the day I die... But with God’s help I’ll never touch a drop of alcohol again." In 1969 Hughes became a U.S. Senator from Iowa and became known as "Mr. Addiction," pushing through the 1970 Hughes Act creating the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (NIAAA).

Harold Hughes might not have been the first alcoholic Senator but he was the first one that openly acknowledged that he was a recovering alcoholic. Hughes is known as "The Father of the NIAAA" and is memorialized with the NIAAA annual Harold Hughes Award. After retiring from the Senate, Governor Hughes continued to work on behalf of alcoholics and other addicted persons, founding four centers for alcoholism treatment, among his many other accomplishments.

As a result of his own recovery, Governor Hughes understood that many alcoholics were hidden within society, and he knew that they could be helped. More important, Governor Hughes strongly believed that alcoholics and drug addicts should be helped. Thus began his quest in 1969 to focus national attention on alcohol abuse and alcoholism. His associations with researchers, clinicians, and recovering alcoholics in prominent national positions helped him to convene an extraordinary coalition of individuals to request that the Congress take action. His political acumen and his personal tenacity in achieving and maintaining recovery helped him to convince a reluctant public, who largely viewed alcoholism as a sin or sign of moral weakness, that Congress had done the right thing. Four years later, Governor Hughes' efforts resulted in the creation of what is now known as the National Institute on Drug Abuse.

Today’s alcohol research programs, which provide hope for people at risk for and affected by alcohol-related problems, were born of Governor Hughes' vision for the future. According to an article written about him in the May 1990 issue of Sober Times, Governor Hughes' motto was "All things are possible." Many alcoholics have recovered and many more have a chance for recovery because one man, Harold Hughes, believed that "all things are possible."

 Perhaps we can’t all be like Harold Hughes, but we can be ready when Christ needs a donkey—when some need arises, some ministry that we can take up in his name. We can be ready on a second's notice to bear him and his love into our homes, churches, communities, and places of work.

He's still looking for donkeys.

Once upon a time a small donkey woke early in the morning. He was still thinking about the events of the day before. It had been the most exciting day of his life. Never before had he felt such pleasure and pride.

He walked into town and found a group of people by a well. "I'll show myself to them," he thought. "They'll recognize me." But they didn't notice him. They went on drawing water and paid him no attention.

"Throw your garments down," he said crossly. "Don't you know who I am?" They just looked at him in amazement. Someone slapped him across the tail and ordered him to move.

"Miserable human beings!" he muttered to himself. "I'll go to the marketplace. The people there will surely remember me." But the same thing happened. No one paid any attention to the donkey as he strutted down the main street in front of the marketplace.

"The palm branches! Where are the palm branches!" he shouted. "Yesterday, you threw palm branches!" Confused and his feelings hurt, the small donkey returned home to his mother.

 "Foolish child," she said gently. "Don't you realize that without him, you are just an ordinary donkey?"

Joseph Bayly wrote a verse—a contemporary psalm, if you will—for Palm Sunday:

King Jesus

why did you choose

a lowly donkey

to carry you

to ride in your parade?

Had you no friend

who owned a horse

-- a royal mount with spirit

fit for a king to ride?

Why choose a donkey

small unassuming

beast of burden

trained to plow

not carry kings

King Jesus

why did you choose

me

a lowly unimportant person

to bear you

in my world today?

I'm poor and unimportant

trained to work

not carry kings

--let alone the King of kings

and yet you've chosen me

to carry you in triumph

in this world's parade.

King Jesus

keep me small

so all may see

how great you are

keep me humble

so all may say

Blessed is he who cometh in the name

of the Lord

not what a great donkey he  rides.

The Lord’s Prayer: The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory

For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and forever.

   
     This majestic ending of the Lord's Prayer, so familiar to all of us, is not part of the prayer as Jesus taught it. Luke shows no acquaintance with it, and the best manuscripts of Matthew omit it. It is an addition made by the early church. It was made very early: by the end of the first century Christians were praying the prayer in a form that is quite similar to the one that is traditional among us today.

     Roman Catholic piety bears appropriate testimony to the distinction between this ending and the rest of the prayer. The form prescribed for individual prayer ends with "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." But the form prescribed for the assembled church in its liturgy ends with “For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and forever. Amen."

     The early church did not invent this closing praise out of thin air. They found it in scripture. It is clearly based on the prayer that the chronicler places in David's mouth as David finishes assembling all the materials for the great temple that his son Solomon will build:

Blessed are you, O LORD, the God of our ancestor Israel, forever and ever. Yours, O LORD, are the greatness, the power, the glory, the victory, and the majesty; for all that is in the heavens and on the earth is yours; yours is the kingdom, O LORD, and you are exalted as head above all (1 Chron. 29:10-11).

     Jesus taught this prayer before the triumph of the resurrection. According to Luke, he was on the way to Jerusalem, with the shadow of the cross falling across his face. Appropriately, he ended the prayer on a somber note: "Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil." But the early church, which had experienced the cross and the resurrection and the spread of the gospel under persecution and the glory of martyrdoms, felt compelled to add a note of triumph. "Save us from the time of trial" is a cry of anguish and "Deliver us from evil" is a final outburst. The early church was unwilling to leave it there.

     Should we, on the basis of the best manuscripts, knowing that Jesus did not teach this part of the prayer, leave it out when we pray it in worship? Or should we continue to accept the liturgical practice of the church all the way back to the first century? I would choose to leave it in. Only sheer ingratitude and historical ignorance would impel anyone to ban these words from the contemporary liturgies of the church.

     This part of the prayer is not a request. It’s an affirmation. The affirmation corresponds in an interesting way to the first three petitions. We pray "Hallowed be your name"; and we affirm "The glory…[is] yours." We pray "Your kingdom come"; and we affirm "The kingdom…[is] yours." We pray "Your will be done"; and we affirm "The power…[is] yours." We are saying that what we have asked for is present fact, already done. What we pray for is the ultimate truth about the universe. Our prayer has its answer as we make it. This goes along with the teaching of Jesus: “So I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours" (Mark 11:24).

     At the heart of biblical faith we do not find an airtight argument sealed with a therefore--all's right with the world, therefore let us have faith, therefore let us praise God. At the heart of biblical faith we find something that does not logically follow at all, sealed with a nevertheless. Much is wrong with the world; the mystery of evil is great, nevertheless let us have faith, nevertheless let us praise God.

     Herod is king and has slain the innocent children of Bethlehem. Nero is king and has burned Christians as torches for his garden party. In our century the rulers of the nations have ordered the death of more children than Herod ever dreamed of, of more Christians than existed in Nero's day. Today's rulers—including our own—still possess weapons capable of the destruction of the entire human race. Nevertheless, the kingdom is God’s! Herod has the power to make refugees of the poor. Pilate has the power of capital punishment. In our century there are refugees by the millions. Hundreds wait on death row. The powerful grow more powerful and get their will done ruthlessly. The powerless grow weaker and less able to get anything they want. When the church tries to play the power game, it loses its authority. God sides with the powerless and seems weak and foolish. Nevertheless, the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength (1 Cor. 1:25). Nevertheless, the power is God’s!

     Augustus reigns in glory; so do the rulers of this present age. Crowds still cheer the gladiators; in our day the glory belongs to the athletes and the entertainers and the TV comics. God's name is despised and dishonored. Nevertheless, the glory is God’s!

     Does the prayer end with a great self-deception? Are we saying that what is obviously not true is true after all? Not exactly. The Hebrew prophets used some unusual grammar. They spoke of the certain future in the present tense. What God says will be, already is! The end of our prayer declares that in spite of those who presently exercise the rule and the power and the glory, in spite of climate change and the weapons buildup and all else that threatens us, this is the world's future: God's name will be hallowed, God's kingdom will come, The will of God will be done! We cannot say how or when, but the promises of God stand sure. So we end our prayer by shouting in the grammar of the prophets, “Tomorrow is here!“ When we add this word of praise to the Lord's Prayer, along with the early church, we are leaping ahead, so to speak, to claim our places in the “Hallelujah Chorus” of the end-time.

     It’s the custom to stand for the "Hallelujah Chorus" when Handel's Messiah is performed? Why? Not just because a king of England stood long ago. Because that magnificent text from Revelation declares our wildest hopes to be present truth, and Handel found music that says, "Yes, it is true after all!"

     Quiet, now. Can you hear it above the wails of the ambulances, fire engines, and police cars? Above the whine of jets carrying death on their wings, the throbbing of submarines carrying death into the depths of the sea, the crash of falling bombs, the roar of helicopters, the rattle of small arms? Above the partisan debates in Congress? Above the relaxing sounds that numb our eardrums to the uglier noises of life? Do you hear it?

    The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord
    and of his Messiah,
    and he will reign forever and ever (Rev. 11:15).

To which we say, "Amen!" It is so. May it be so. And may we live now as though it were already so. Amen and amen.

Fellow Protestants: He's Not Your Pope!

To my fellow Protestants I say, along with Tony Jones, take a deep breath. He’s not your pope. To which I add: and you should thank God for it! Tony Jones writes: "If you or I, non-communicants in the Roman Catholic Church, were to approach the altar when Pope Francis was presiding at mass, he would not serve us the Eucharist. He wouldn’t recognize your non-Catholic marriage as sacramental in the eyes of God. And, if he agrees with his immediate predecessor, he does not think you attend a church. You attend an 'ecclesial community.'”

 

Read the whole article...

The Lord’s Prayer: Deliver Us from Evil

In W. H. Auden's "For the Time Being," evil King Herod declares that the world is admirably arranged: he likes to sin and God likes to forgive. Our faith is a faith of forgiveness: “Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us." But we don’t receive forgiveness as a sinning license.  Our faith is also a faith of "Lead us not into the time of trial, but deliver us from evil." Our faith is a faith of having been forgiven, to struggle against sin. The final petition of the Lord's Prayer is an encouragement to avoid evil, to resist its attractions, to break with it, to seek deliverance from its hold on us.

 

The key to understanding this request is the word “evil." The last phrase reads literally "but deliver us from the evil." We can’t tell whether Jesus meant "the evil one" (masculine), the devil; or "the evil thing" (neuter), the power of evil. But it’s clear that he meant something quite definite: not just the absence of good, the sort of necessary defect in the best of all possible worlds, but a definite, cunning force arrayed against the will of God.

The problem of evil is much greater than just the problem of your sins and mine. This world, which God created fair and good, has somehow departed from its Maker, and there is a great separation, a great falling away. God's name isn’t hallowed as it should be. God doesn’t rule on earth as God does in heaven. God's will isn’t done promptly, perfectly and willingly. There is at work in the world another will, an evil will, a will that resists and struggles against the will of God. This will wears a thousand disguises. It seems purposive and intelligent. It’s a master organizer, combining our sinful wills into a vast network of evil that seems far greater than the sum of its parts.

The evil makes the world a dangerous place for God's children. It was a dangerous place for Jesus, and he encountered the evil-which he called Satan—again and again: at the beginning of his ministry, at the hour of his death, and in between. He was "in every respect ... tempted as we are, yet without sin" (Heb. 4:15).

You know, it’s too bad that in the Middle Ages fantasy went to extremes in picturing Satan in human form, with his red union suit, horns, and tail. In the old days, demons sat on every rooftop. Ghosts haunted castles. Witches rode broomsticks. In the old days superstition gripped the world. Many innocent people—mostly strong and assertive women—were burned. Life moved under a pall of fear and spells and magic.

It was a good thing when the forces of enlightenment put down superstition, the demons ran away, the pall of fear lifted, and scientific investigations and experiments replaced magic. I'm glad I don't throw inkwells at the devil like Martin Luther did when he studied!

But behind all the superstition was a reality that the modern world forgot—the reality of organized, powerful, and pervasive evil. It operates in the world, no matter what name you give to it.

Isn't it strange that toward the end of the scientific, enlightened twentieth century the whole medieval pack of demons has erupted again as if from underground? We have astrology, witchcraft, Satan worship, and who knows what else? There seems to be a principle that whenever something isn’t openly faced and grappled with, but is suppressed and ignored, it will burst out in extreme and distorted forms. After decades of pretending that there is no reality or potency to evil, that it’s merely lack of education or the evolutionary lag, we’re now witnessing such a regrettable and distorted outburst.

If we had but paid attention to this familiar prayer, which we repeat so often, we wouldn’t have forgotten that there are indeed forces outside ourselves that tempt us and entice us to do evil even when we know better. We wouldn’t have forgotten that evil can get us so firmly in its grip that only some other force outside ourselves, the love and power of God, can deliver us.

The world is a dangerous place for God's children. It’s perhaps more dangerous now, more in the grip of evil, than ever before. Sure, we’ve made progress on many fronts and the world has in some respects become a better place, but evil has progressed. Its symbol is no longer a grotesque figure in a red union suit but so-called “weapons of mass destruction” that kill indiscriminately and poison earth and air and water for the long-term future.

In such a world we’re taught to pray, "Deliver us from evil" or, as the traditional prayer says, “Lead us not into temptation.” Does it imply that God would entice us to do evil, would lead us into temptation? That isn’t God's role. The Letter of James makes this clear by saying in effect: "Let no one say when tempted, 'I am tempted by God'; for God can’t be tempted with evil, and neither does God tempt anyone; but everyone is tempted when he is drawn away of his own lust and enticed" (James 1:13-14).

The confusion deepens when we realize that in the original language the same word may mean either "temptation," where the desired outcome is enticement to evil, or "trial," where the desired outcome is proof of faithfulness and strengthening of character. God does not tempt, but God does test. God put Abraham to the terrible trial of giving up his own son. God put God's own son to the test in the garden of Gethsemane.

Why should we be taught to pray, "Save us from the time of trial"? Well, this dangerous world is full of trials. Is this a way of praying "Stop the world, I want to get off”? Jesus refused to pray such a prayer for his disciples. “I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one" (John 17:15). As all parents know, as they watch their children leave home, you can’t grow to maturity—physical, mental, or spiritual—except as you are exposed to this dangerous world. It’s the only school of character. Every follower of Christ knows that God does put us to the test and that test, properly endured, strengthens our faith and aligns our wills to God's will.

Why should we pray, "Save us from the time of trial"? Because we will go through times of trial. We ask God for deliverance in order to keep us from being too confident in our own strength. There is something in us that wants to say to God, "Put me to the test. I can pass it. Bring on the tempter; I can defeat him in fair combat." Or, as Peter put it, "Even though they all fall away, I will not"; "I am ready to go with you to prison and to death" (Mark 14:29; Luke 22:33). Peter went as far as the garden, and there he went to sleep. And Jesus warned him: "Pray that you may not enter into temptation" (Luke 22:40, 46). Far better he should have prayed that prayer than have made his boast. For later that night he denied that he ever knew Jesus.

At the Last Supper Jesus said, "Truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me." Everybody there said, "Lord, is it I?" (Mark 14:18-19). My goodness, didn't they know? No, they didn’t, and you and I don’t know. No one listening to me is automatically and completely and forever incapable of denying Jesus Christ, or of the foulest crimes for which we now despise those whom we label criminals.

“Deliver us from the time of trial.” Don’t leave us without your help in such a dangerous world! Don’t abandon us in our weakness to the tempter's power!

What if we do fall? The prayer goes on, "Deliver us from the evil." Evil is so insidious, cunning, and powerful that we can’t deliver ourselves. But there is a power outside ourselves that can deliver us, a power more powerful than the evil, the power of God. God can snatch us from the grasp of the evil.

To repeat: the world is a dangerous place. And if we trust ourselves to be strong enough to resist all temptations, to go through all our trials in our own strength, we’re fools. But our God is able to deliver us. There is no pit of depression so deep that God can’t draw us out of it. There is no addiction to alcohol or other drugs so enslaving that God can’t give us victory over it. There is no distortion of our highest and best into our lowest and worst so clever that God can’t reveal it to us and deliver us from it. God will deliver us. This prayer will be answered. But if beyond our understanding we’re burned to a crisp in the flames of life, we can still trust God, we can still hang on in the face of death. That is all the deliverance he granted to his own Son. But in that death all the powers of the evil one were trumped and defeated. Death itself was overthrown. And there was deliverance not only for him but for us all.

The Lord’s Prayer: Forgive Us Our Sins...

Here we pass from the bread problem to the sin problem. The Lord's Prayer has a way of getting down to bedrock. We can’t live without bread. But if we are burdened with guilt toward God and toward our fellow human beings, we may not want to survive. Our bread turns to ashes in our mouths. Just as our physical existence depends on food, so our essential humanity depends on relationships with others and ultimately with God. Those relationships are forever being breached, and forgiveness is needed for their healing and restoration.

The phrasing of this petition presents some intriguing variations. Matthew's preoccupation seems to be with the impending final judgment: "Forgive us our debts [in the final judgment] as we forgave [in our lifetime] our debtors." Luke, on the other hand, seems more adapted to the ongoing life of the church in this world: "Forgive us our sins, for we ourselves keep on forgiving every debtor." 

The first question we need to ask is: What is it that stands between us and God? What stands between us and our fellow human beings, and threatens to turn our bread to ashes in our mouths? The obvious answer is sin.

The Bible is rich in its vocabulary for sin. Sin means owing a debt, trespassing on forbidden ground, missing the mark, overstepping limits, straying from the way, setting up a stumbling block, disobeying, rebelling, acting unjustly, acting treacherously, acting profanely, or being twisted, perverse, evil, wicked, worthless, or foolish.

One cause of confusion is that Christians today don’t use the same vocabulary for sin when they say the Lord's Prayer. Traditionally, most say "trespasses" while a few others say "debts." Why? "Trespasses" is the translation in the Book of Common Prayer, a translation made earlier than the King James Version. The influence of the prayer book has been enormous on the worship practice of all English-speaking churches, even those without written forms of worship; the widespread use of "trespasses" comes from here.

On the other hand, some denominations are influenced by the Westminster Assembly, convened in the seventeenth century, thirty-two years after the King James Version of the Bible was published. In its catechisms, the Westminster Assembly cited the Lord's Prayer precisely as the King James Version has translated Matthew 6:9-13:

…forgive us our debts, as we forgive

our debtors.

Those denominations—mostly English-speaking Presbyterians—have used “debts” and “debtors” ever since.

Many recent versions of the prayer read, "Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us." (That’s the one I’d like us to use from now on.) This makes it clear that we’re not asking forgiveness merely for trespassing on someone else's property or poor financial management. We’re talking about sin in all its breadth and depth.

So then, if sin stands between us and God, what shall we ask God to do? The answer, of course, is to forgive us.

To forgive isn’t to condone. To forgive isn’t to say sin is unimportant, minor, and nonexistent. To forgive isn’t some indulgent grandparent patting us on the head saying, "There, there, what you did wasn't really all that bad; it's all right; forget it; don't worry about it." To condone sin would be to confuse justice and injustice, right and wrong, to destroy the moral fabric of the universe. To forgive sin, on the other hand, is to establish justice and then to transcend justice with mercy.

What happens when someone is forgiven can be simply stated. The debtor doesn't pay the debt because he or she can't. The creditor bears the cost because the creditor, out of love for the debtor, is willing to bear it. The past isn’t denied or ignored, but the future is opened in spite of the past. God absorbs the cost of our sins and says to us, "This is real, but it won’t stand between us. Let’s go on together as before."

Real forgiveness costs something! If you want to get some idea how much, come with me to a skull-shaped hill just outside Jerusalem where three crosses are reared against the black sky. Jesus hangs on the middle cross. You all know the scene. It was pictured in a particularly bloody way in Mel Gibson’s controversial film “The Passion of the Christ.”

What happened on the cross is a mystery the Bible describes in various ways: sacrificing a lamb, a shepherd giving his life to save his sheep, paying whatever it costs to free a slave or pay somebody else’s debt, and a victory over the powers of evil. These images picture a truth which remains beyond the reach of all theory in the depths of God’s love for humankind. They reveal the gravity, cost, and sure achievement of God’s reconciling work. That’s forgiveness.

Now we come to the connection between the divine forgiveness and our forgiveness of one another:

"Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those

who sin against us."

The problem is that this sounds like a quid pro quo. Does Jesus really mean that for every five dollars' worth of injury for which we forgive our neighbor, God will forgive us of five dollars' worth of sin?

   Part of the meaning may be this: The very fact that human forgiveness exists gives us hope for God’s forgiveness. Sinful people find it in their hearts on occasion to forgive others. The petition may then mean something like this: "O God, since even we can at times forgive those who sin against us, we dare to hope that you will forgive us our own sins."

Another part of the meaning may be this: For us to be unforgiving after being forgiven is inhuman.  Jesus knew how to use hyperbole--exaggeration--in order to shock his hearers into attention. The parable of the unforgiving servant (Matt. 18:23-35) is a case in point. Forgiven an enormous, impossible-to-pay debt, he imprisons his fellow servant for owing a comparatively paltry sum. It’s incomprehensible, unbelievable. Just so incomprehensible, unbelievable, and shocking it is for us to accept God's forgiveness and refuse to forgive others.

I’ve come to believe that the most important meaning of what we’re asking is this: The failure to forgive others blocks and short-circuits the forgiveness of God. In the familiar parable of the prodigal son, the elder brother remains outside the party in the father's house as long as he is unforgiving toward his brother. It’s a self-imposed exclusion. The unforgiving heart puts out antibodies that reject the transplant of God's mercy. While we were still sinners, God showed his love for us; while we were God’s enemies, God made us his friends (Rom. 5:6-10). So the author of Ephesians encourages us: "Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. Therefore be imitators of God (4:32-5:1).

So we need to ask how forgiving are we? We talk about grace and we sing about grace, but do you live out of grace? Are you gracious toward other people, or do you spend a lot of energy thinking of what they "ought" to do? Do you find it hard to forgive people who don't do what they "ought" to do? Is there a connection between that and your own inability to live in freedom and joy and celebration of the forgiveness and grace of God to you? When we pray our Lord’s Prayer, we stand before God and cry over and over, "Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us”!

This Says It for Me...

I wish I'd had this quote when I preached the sermon on "Our Daily Bread"!