How To Catch A Husband

Ruth 3

by Daniel Harrell

First off a Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there, including those reading this on your computer or listening to the podcast while sitting by a lake somewhere. Or on a lake somewhere. That’s where my Dad is this morning—skipping church to fish for a largemouth bass. He’ll joke he caught his favorite largemouth 53 years ago. That’s how long my parents have been married—and happily so. They met each other in elementary school. They still possess some of the notes they passed to each other in class. Studies show that before a man even speaks a word, the way he stands counts for over 80% of woman’s first impression. Good thing my dad didn’t slouch. Psychologists at the University of Pennsylvania assert that most people make a decision regarding a person’s attractiveness within three seconds of meeting them.

A few other random facts about relationships: If a man can’t decide what to wear on a date, he might want to wear blue. Studies show that women are attracted to men in blue. One way to impress somebody is to mirror their body language. This impresses a date because it subtly conveys interest to the other person. However, one should avoid copying every move. In the online dating world, men are afraid of meeting someone “fat.” Women are afraid of meeting a serial killer. The good news for women is that only about 3% of men are psychopaths, of which only a tiny percentage are serial killers. Then there’s this from Match.com. A survey of 5000 single people revealed that what mattered most to prospective mates is fresh breath. This was followed by stylish clothes, a sexy fragrance, good skin and great hair. This is even true in the Bible.

In our passage from Ruth 3, a desperate mother-in-law instructs her widowed daughter-in-law on how she might catch a husband. She’s told to take a bath (a rarity in ancient cultures), put on sexy fragrance and stylish clothes, then go down to where her prospect was working late. Studies show that four out of ten workplace dating relationships result in marriage. The daughter-in-law is then told to take note of where her intended beds down for the night (so she wouldn’t get the wrong man). And then after he’s had dinner and a little wine and is fast asleep, sneak up on him, uncover his legs, lie down and wait for him to tell you what to do. Just reading the Bible here.

Our story began with an Israelite family escaping famine by sojourning into enemy territory. No sooner did they arrive than the father of the family inexplicably died. In an attempt to salvage the family tree, his two sons abducted two local women, but neither bore children despite ten years of trying. The two sons then died, leaving the three women on the verge of destitution. Theirs was a culture where husbands and children were the only means of social security. Bitterly convinced that God was out to get her, Naomi, the matriarch, nevertheless determined to go back to Israel and right smack into God’s hands—but not before first trying to smack some sense into her two daughters-in-law. With no future as widowed and childless Moabites in Israel (meaning they were not only aliens but enemies), Naomi released Orpah and Ruth from any obligation to her. She sent them back to their mamas to start working on getting new husbands for themselves from among their own people.

Orpah heeded Naomi’s sensible advice, but Ruth refused, irrationally choosing to cleave to Naomi in terms the Bible typically reserves for marital commitments. What inspired such loyalty and love? Certainly not Naomi’s bitterness. Studies show that happiness is contagious and that it’s hard to walk away from happy people. But so with bitter people. Misery may love company, but it’s not likely to find any. And yet Ruth inexplicably abandoned her own country, her family, her friends, her culture and her religion to follow Naomi into Israel. Judaism has always viewed Ruth’s decision as a religious conversion, a dramatic come-to-Yahweh moment. However Yahweh’s plan for her life was a degrading one. Force onto welfare, Ruth had to glean for her supper, a back-breaking practice where the poor were permitted to scavenge grain inadvertently dropped during harvest, not unlike the poor of our day scavenge for aluminum cans. 

It was humiliating, but a girl’s gotta eat. So Ruth found a field to glean. But as providence would have it, the field she found was the property of Naomi’s cousin Boaz, who unexpectedly flung wide the gates of grace, granting Ruth privileged access to his fields, his workers, his table and his provisions. By the end of her first day, Ruth had gleaned more grain than one normally collects in a month. She hauled it all home and Naomi obviously flipped, especially once she learned that cousin Boaz had been behind it all. Again by God’s providence, Boaz turned out to be a kinsman-redeemer: an ancient title within Jewish family law denoting one’s responsibilities to preserve and care for one’s tribe. Kinsman-redemption sometimes included the social redemption of childless widows through marriage. The wedding bells went off in Naomi’s head.

However Boaz—whether due to loss of interest, shyness or fear of commitment—failed to take any initiative. Studies show that nearly 40% of men do not feel confident meeting women. Therefore, being a good Jewish mother-in-law, Naomi took matters into her own hands. But why all the sneaking around? If kinsman-redeemer obligations were in effect, why not just make arrangements directly? Why cook up this conniving plan? After all, the threshing floor, the place where edible grain was separated from unwanted chaff, was a notorious party scene. Harvest time had men working late and staying the night, getting wasted and hooking up with prostitutes. Who’d knowingly send their daughter into that, even if studies do show threshing floors to be good places to meet people? Rather than the light of day, Naomi sent Ruth under cloak of darkness. The whole “uncovering his legs and lying down” was loaded with sexual innuendo. The chances of Ruth’s being misinterpreted or misused were enormous. Then again, maybe this was Naomi’s intent. She was a desperate for Ruth to get Ruth married she’d do whatever it took.

Except men only take advantage of women like this; they don’t marry them. This is why dating experts typically suggest not being too available. Play hard to get because the longer the chase, the more likely love will blossom. Nevertheless, Ruth crawled right under Boaz’ covers and pulled them onto herself, so that when the night turned cold and Boaz—in a contented mood, we read—went to grab his blanket, he ended up grabbing Ruth. Again, all sorts of reactions were possible, from umbrage to embarrassment to delight. Boaz began with the obvious. He asked, “Who are you?” Here Ruth departed from Naomi’s script. Rather than waiting for Boaz to tell her what to do, Ruth told him. “I’m Ruth. Marry me.”

OK, so she didn’t use those words exactly, but she might as well have. To ask a man to “spread his cloak” (or literally his wings) over you was tantamount to popping the question. Talk about being forward. Not only does the woman propose marriage to the man, but the younger to the older, the employee to the boss, a reviled Moabite to an Israelite. Ruth then went on to demand Boaz do his duty—all despite studies showing that men hate demanding women. “You are a kinsman-redeemer,” she insisted, “Redeem me.” All of which Boaz interprets not as some brazen act of desperation, but as a beautiful act of loyalty. Not only did Ruth degrade herself as a gleaner for Naomi’s sake, but now she risks any reputation she had left to secure the future of her mother-in-law’s family. “May you be blessed by the Lord,” Boaz replied, “This last instance of your loyalty—your devotion, your kindness—is better than the first.” And then, apparently flattered that Ruth would chase after him, he added,  “You have not gone after young men, whether poor or rich.”

No doubt this was part of Naomi’s scheme. She hoped Ruth’s advances would flatter Boaz that she’d end up in the in-law apartment. But as it turned out, all the scheming was unnecessary. Boaz, renown as a man of noble character, responded in kind: “Don’t worry about a thing, my daughter,” he says to Ruth. “I will do what is necessary, for everyone in town knows you to be a virtuous woman.” Boaz allayed any concern that Ruth might have acted presumptuously or offended him by her forwardness. He assured her that all would know there was nothing wrong in her coming to him with the request to marry. There was just one problem though. Verse 12: “There is another kinsman more closely related than I.” By law and custom, this other cousin had the right of first refusal. Naomi probably knew this too. So why did she send Ruth to Boaz instead? Because Naomi also knew that the noble Boaz, faced with responsibility, would always do the right thing.

It’s not something you see a lot of in our day. This morning’s paper reports on the ongoing sad saga that is the Jerry Sandusky trial, the Penn State assistant football coach accused of abusing at-risk young boys. It’s a story of so many people knowing the right thing but refusing to do it—other coaches, eyewitnesses, Sandusky’s wife, authorities, university presidents. James Davison Hunter, professor of religion, culture and social theory at the University of Virginia, in his book The Death of Character, writes that while most people “think of their lives in moral terms and want to live good lives,” we “are more uncertain about what the nature of the good is…. We used to experience morality as imperatives. The consequences of not doing the right thing were not only social, but deeply emotional and psychological. We couldn’t bear to live with ourselves. Now we experience morality more as a choice that we can always change as circumstances call for it. We tend to personalize our ideals. And what you end up with is a nation of ethical free agents. We’ve moved from a culture of character to a culture of personality. The etymology of the word character is that it’s deeply etched, not changeable in all sorts of circumstances. We don’t want to think of ourselves as transgressive or bad, so we tend to personalize our understanding of the good.”

Not so with Boaz. His righteous character surfaces even in the shadiest of circumstances. He’s like Sir Thomas More in “A Man for All Seasons,” also cited in this morning’s Sandusky article. Sir Thomas dismissed his daughter’s pleas to compromise his ideals and save his life. In stead he says: “When a man takes an oath, he’s holding his own self in his own hands. Like water. And if he opens his fingers then, he needn’t hope to find himself again.” Therefore Boaz swears “as the Lord lives” to do right by Ruth. If the closer cousin rejects her, Boaz will marry her. And then so that no one got the wrong idea, so to guard her reputation, Boaz had Ruth remain nearby for the night and depart early in the morning, before everyone else woke up. He then gave her more grain so as not to return to Naomi empty-handed. More than food, the bread symbolized Boaz’ good faith pledge for her guaranteed future.

What to glean from all this? There is Naomi’s outrageous trust in Boaz’ character. There was nothing in the kinsman-redeemer code that mandated Boaz marry Ruth and care for them both. Boaz could have easily told Ruth she was off her rocker, especially since Ruth was a Moabitess. Maybe Naomi figured that the only shot she had was to display Ruth’s worthiness as a wife while at the same time making Boaz an offer he couldn’t refuse (especially if he’d been drinking). But to do this, Naomi had to have faith in Boaz to get the message and do the right thing. Most importantly, Naomi had to have faith in God, despite the Lord’s recent track record on her behalf. Far from taking matters into her own hands, Naomi’s plan could only work if God was in it. She trusted both the character of Boaz and the eventual goodness of God.

Then there’s Ruth’s loyalty toward Naomi; a loyalty that carried her to Boaz’ bed in the middle of the night. She too trusted Boaz to do the right thing. How else to explain her refusing to follow through with the seduction and be honest instead? Choosing to trust is a cornerstone of any relationship. We used to speak of getting engaged (from the word meaning to pledge something) as being betrothed. Rather than just pledging something, betrothal is specifically about pledging troth. It’s choosing to trust. Trust is a move of loyalty, a determination of will and of faith. It’s why we ask in wedding ceremonies not “do you love” or trust, but “will you love, will you trust, for better or worse, no matter what, as long you both shall live?”

And finally there is Boaz’ character. Refusing to misinterpret Ruth’s advances, he attributed to her only the best intentions. He chose to think well of her even when things looked bad. This is not a consequence of any naïveté on his part, but an act of Biblical kindness that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things and endures all things.” It’s a kindness which refused to exploit Ruth’s vulnerability. Rather than looking for what he could get, Boaz concerned himself with Ruth’s reputation, her security and best interests. He did the right thing. It’s a act many interpret as typifying Christ’s own as our kinsman-redeemer. Coming among us, like us, in our direst straits, Jesus redeemed us with his own body and blood, moving us out of our impoverishment to partake of his glorious riches, betrothing himself to us as his bride, and then providing for us his own body as bread; a good faith pledge for our guaranteed future.

Ruth chapter 1 challenged you to believe in God’s goodness amidst your bitterness. Chapter 2 challenged you to expect grace you’re desperate. Here in chapter 3 you are reminded of the rewards of faith and trust, and encouraged to be people worthy of it. May the character of Christ—his characteristic love, loyalty decency and kindness—be the characteristics others can trust in us.

Gleaning on the Everlasting Arms

Ruth 2

by Daniel Harrell

Often when I return to the South to visit, folks can’t resist a playful poke at my living in the North. These days it’s all about enduring winter, bland Scandinavian cooking, loons and Garrison Keillor up in Minnesooota (you betcha). Before that the joke was about “Bahstan” where they “pahk the cah” and blow 15 billion tax-payer dollars on a Big Dig tunnel that still leaks water. Behind the mockery lies unsaid befuddlement as to why any God-fearing Southern boy would abandon the Promised Land of azaleas and sweet tea for such northern, liberal landscapes, both of which were our enemies in the War of Northern Aggression. I’ve tried to assuage my Southern cousins by telling them how both states in which I’ve live do vehemently hate Yankees (the pinstripe variety), but they’re not much impressed. Neither have been my Northern neighbors. Whenever my residual twang betrays my origins, eyebrows raise in skeptical befuddlement up here too. What’s a grits-loving, NASCAR wahoo doing so far from home?

Prejudice knows no prejudice. We’re all infected. Over and over again Ruth herself is derisively designated the Moabite, or Moabitess, which to Israel’s ears immediately ignited contempt given the bad blood between the two rival nations: think Shiite-Sunni, Hutu-Tutsi, Israeli-Palestinian, and most days Republican-Democrat. You can just hear the derision slithering off an erstwhile Israelite’s lips as he would say, “Moabitess.” Clearly aware of the racism, Ruth the Moabitess nevertheless abandoned her own country, her family, her friends, her culture and her religion to accompany her mother-in-law, Naomi, into enemy territory and a maw of bigotry. I mentioned last Sunday how Jewish rabbis have always considered Ruth’s extraordinary decision nothing short of a religious conversion. How else to explain her doing it if God was not involved? 

Especially given the evangelism methods Naomi employed. A bitter old woman bereft of husband and children, Naomi blames the Lord for all of her troubles. She tells Ruth to return to her own people. Not that Naomi had lost faith in God’s goodness, mind you, she was just angry that none of it was coming her way. Naomi’s invitation to Ruth was effectively “God loves you and has a horrible plan to ruin your life. Have faith in him.” Surprisingly, it’s a kind of invitation that ancient Jewish rabbis commended. We read in the Talmud:

If a person desires to convert to Judaism, he or she is to be addressed as follows: “What reason do you have for wanting to become a convert? Do you not know that Jews are persecuted and oppressed, despised, driven from place to place, and overcome with hardships? If he or she replies “I know and yet am unworthy of becoming a Jew,” he or she is accepted immediately.

And thus Naomi immediately embraced Ruth and escorted her to Israel, even though for Ruth being widowed and childless and an immigrant in that culture meant destitute social marginalization and financial calamity. Ruth was walking into deep trouble. Surprisingly again, however, Jewish law did provide a welfare safety net. God’s particular compassion for the alien, the orphan, the widow and the poor took shape in a Levitical practice called gleaning. Israel may have been God’s chosen people, but being chosen came with expectations of how you were to act toward the disenfranchised. God commanded that when harvesting a field, whatever produce accidentally dropped to the ground was to be left for the poor and the foreigner to gather. If your harvesting methods proved too thorough, then you were then commanded to be sloppier for the sake of the needy. We read in Leviticus, “The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.” Do unto others as God has done unto you.

So why not just give the poor the extra produce? Why make them pick it up for themselves? It was for the sake of self-respect. Gleaning allowed the unemployed to enjoy the dignity of work. It also allowed the poor and alien to be recognized as sharers in the fruit of the good land that God had given to everyone. Moreover, gleaning gave the poor access to worship. Throughout Leviticus, God provided discounts to the poor when it came to sacrifices. For those who couldn’t afford an animal to sacrifice, grain offerings could substitute. Gleaning supplied the grain. And finally, here the book of Ruth, gleaning will also turn out to be a good way to catch a husband.

Chapter 2 opens with Ruth knowing the law. She says to Naomi, “Let me go to the field and glean among the ears of grain, behind someone in whose sight I may find favor.” Her addendum “find favor” or “find grace” implied that the gleaning law, while compassionate, was not always complied with. We might assent to the idea that caring for the poor and the stranger are good things to do, but when it actually comes to doing them, prejudice rears its head. There’s a strange mixture of sympathy and scorn that accompanies an encounter with the destitute stranger. Living in the city, I was regularly awoken by those who pushed grocery carts in the early morning hours, scrounging garbage in search of recyclable cans. Few spoke English; and I usually ended up doing little more than making sure my bottles and cans were left on top. My neighbors tended to be more resentful of what these can-handlers were doing to the neighborhood. Then there was the harassment that occurred in stores where clerks didn’t want to redeem the cans, even though the law required it. This is what gleaning was like. You might admire the determination that comes with earning that kind of living; but the humiliation required to do it is repugnant. It’s why Ruth hoped to find some grace. She needed God to do something.

As it “just happened,” verse 3 reads, Ruth stumbled upon a field belonging to a prominent relative of Naomi’s named Boaz. This coincidence Ruth enjoyed is deliberately ironic, since there are no coincidences with God. Likewise the fact that Boaz “just happened” to show up and take note of Ruth. Boaz asks his foreman, “What’s her story?” I imagine the foreman getting a disdainful smirk on his face. “She’s that Moabitess. Got no kids. Rolled into town with the bitter old widow Naomi.” He’s clearly unaware that Boaz and Naomi are kin. “She’s begging to glean and has been standing around all morning waiting for a favor.” Ruth perseveres in the face of the foreman’s denigration, racism, sexism and her own humiliation.

By deliberate contrast, Boaz, who was in every position to act differently, responds with remarkable tenderness, granting her full privileges to gather grain alongside his other employees, issuing strict anti-sexual harassment orders to his men. Boaz also gives Ruth access to the company water cooler and to the lunchroom, both of which would typically have been off limits to foreigners. And then when lunchtime comes, Boaz invites Ruth to join him at the management table; a move that conveys enormous public and cultural acceptance. And then not only does Ruth the lowly laborer, a woman and an immigrant, get to eat with the boss, but with what must have caused corporate shock, the boss proceeds to serve her! And there’s more: Once Ruth returns to work, Boaz makes sure his workers understand that Ruth can gather grain beyond the gleanings, that is, from the stalks which had already been bundled. They are not under any circumstances to embarrass her. In fact, the workers are to make certain and pull out some stalks from their bundles and drop them for her to pick up so that she wouldn’t feel any shame. By the end of the work day, Ruth gathered a whole donkey load of wheat and barley, the equivalent of at least half a month’s wage, all in just one afternoon. Talk about finding grace.

It reminds me of a similar discovery from grace, from just as unlikely a source. I found it at an auto repair shop, the last place in America you’d ever go expecting grace. Dawn and I were driving from Boston to the Promised Land for one of those Southern visits in an ancient Honda Accord on its last legs, when the tachometer went nuts and the engine started to violently sputter. Enough of a mechanic to know that I wasn’t going to make it to much further with my car in this shape, I coasted into a Southern small town Honda dealership (dealerships being a huge no-no when it comes to auto repair). The good ol’ boy at the service counter greeted me hospitably enough and asked what my trouble was. I told him about the sputtering and the whacked out tachometer. He said he reckoned it was a faulty ignition coil. “Critical” he called it, which could men only outrageously expensive.

But what could we do? We were from out of town. Auto repair hostages. He then looked at my registration. “Oh, I see you’re from Baahstun, Massatoosetts.” Here we go. Looking at his docket, the service manager said that they were pretty full up today but that they could maybe get to it next week. Maybe. Great. I guess I should probably just buy a new car? Check into a hotel for week? But then the service rep told us to hang on a second. “Let me see what I can do,” he said. He shuffled his papers and told us to give him a couple of hours and he’d see if somebody couldn’t take a peek at it. “Go have some lunch and come back around 2.” So we did and when we came back we were told that the problem was indeed the ignition coil and that they didn’t have one in stock but would have to order it and that probably would take a week to get, but then he paused and said, “Let me see what I can do.”

He checked with his parts guy who said that he could have the coil over-nighted and here by noon tomorrow, which was better than next week. But then the parts guy yelled that he could have it shipped express overnight for an additional $20 meaning that they could start work first thing in the morning. OK, but before I could even consent to the work, the service manager again said, “hang on,” and made a phone call and said there was another Honda dealership an hour away that had a coil and that his mechanic agreed to stay late while another employee would drive over to fetch it. They’d go ahead and do the work today. OK, this was really going cost me, but it was better than having to spend the night, we’ll go sit in the waiting room, but then the service manager said, “Hang on” after which he returned with a set of keys to a brand new Honda and told us to go do some sightseeing and come back after supper and here’s a coupon for a local restaurant.

Our car was fixed and ready to go after supper. The service manager, the general manager and the mechanic were all there to greet us, big smiles on their faces. I’m thinking that I am now doomed. Nobody’s this nice for nothing. Farewell 401k retirement plan. I braced for my own financial calamity. I tremulously squeaked, “How much do I owe you?” And the service manager replied, “$5.18. We did some research and discovered we could cover most everything under your extended emissions warranty.” I didn’t know I had an extended emissions warranty. “Oh yeah,” he added, “and we checked and found that you can also get a free tune-up once you get back to Baahstun, courtesy of Honda. Sometimes they forget to tell you that.” And finally, get this, once we got back to Boston the phone rings and it’s this Honda dealership calling, checking to make sure we got home OK.

Now I’ve experienced plenty of Southern hospitality—sometimes I even practice it—but this was ridiculous. I’ve told this story to Southern friends and even they look at me with the same dumbfounded look that’s on some of your face and that must have been on Ruth’s face too. Her reflex was to hit the ground with gratitude, bowing to Boaz as one bows to a generous king or a gracious God. I know the feeling. Why was Boaz being so kind and magnanimous toward her, a poor and scorned Moabitess? “Why have I found favor in your sight,” she asks, “that you should take notice of me, when I am a foreigner?” “You treat me,” the Hebrew implies, “as if you know me!”

Which, of course, Boaz did. He’d been told of all Ruth had done for his cousin Naomi and about Ruth’s ridiculous decision to leave her homeland to live among total strangers who were her enemies. Boaz recognized Ruth’s actions to be as acts of kindness and courage, but he also saw them as acts of faith, the fruits of her conversion. “May the LORD reward you for your deeds, and may you have a full reward from the LORD, the God of Israel (no less), under whose wings you have come for refuge!” The grace that Boaz extends to Ruth is the grace of God Himself—a grace that extends toward all who will make the ridiculous decision to put their trust in Him. Despite Ruth’s unworthiness, her social marginalization, her destitution and the shame she feels and Boaz knows; Boaz chooses her. That’s how grace operates.

Ruth gets home to Naomi that night, her arms loaded with food; her pockets filled with leftovers from lunch—and Naomi’s eyes bug clean out of their sockets: “Where in the world did you get all that grain?!” When Ruth informs Naomi it was Boaz, Naomi fell over backwards with joy. “Cousin Boaz! God bless him! Do you realize he’s one of our nearest kin?” Though he was actually more than that. The expression Naomi used for nearest kin” was “our kinsman-redeemer, an ancient term of Jewish family law dictating responsibilities kinfolk had for one another in order to preserve and care for the tribe, including in some cases the social redemption of childless widows through marriage. You can just hear the wedding bells starting to go off in Naomi’s head. “Blessed be the Lord,” she said, “He has not withdrawn his kindness and forgotten me and my family after all. 

That’s how grace operates, whether with a small town car dealership or a distant cousin named Boaz, or a Savior who redeems by rising up from the dead. So honored is Ruth’s faith in Jewish tradition that the Talmud teaches how the Messiah will descend from Ruth’s eventual offspring. The Messiah Christians believe to be Jesus Christ, a descendent of Ruth, the one who’s rich harvest field is available for all to glean to their heart’s delight. If Ruth chapter 1 challenged you to keep faith when you’re bitter, chapter 2 invites you to expect grace when you’re desperate. Because that's how grace operates.

Whither Thou Goest

Ruth 1

by Daniel Harrell

June is also a popular wedding month, I have a couple coming up soon. In that spirit, I thought it might be nice to take a look at the book of Ruth and one of the more famous romance stories in Scripture. Perhaps we’ll find something to make our own marriages and relationships better.

Then again, maybe not. Among the things I’ve been criticized for as a preacher over the years is the paucity of “life applications” in my sermons. Many listeners would appreciate it if at the end of a sermon I’d tack on two or three practical suggestions for living. My problem is that I don’t always know something practical to suggest. Even from those unambiguous passages—such as where Jesus says “love your enemies”—the obvious application is hardly practical. I read once about another preacher struggling to apply the story from Joshua of Rahab the Harlot to everyday life. Having completed the body of his sermon, this minister was moving on to the life application part when his inspiration dried up. A hooker in Jericho conceals two Israelite spies in exchange for a promise that they’ll not harm her or her relatives when the Israelite army attacks and destroys her city. Things like that just don’t happen much in the suburbs.

The New Testament book of Hebrews commends Rahab for her faith, but—“have faith in God”—does that even count as a practical application? Stumped, this minister went trolling online for help. Providentially he located a number of applications devoted to the story of Rahab. The first one read: “Christian adults should willingly cooperate with each other.” That’s good, though we probably should keep in mind that Rahab was a prostitute. Next came, “People need that sense of fulfillment that comes with helping someone in trouble.” True, although Rahab and the spies do act more out of self-preservation than altruism. And finally, “Many adults respond positively to reasonable requests.” But again, the prostitute thing. I’m guessing the preacher’s sermon that Sunday ended like most of mine do. You know, “Have faith in God. Amen.”

Unfortunately I don’t think my standard close will fly this morning. Ruth opens with an Israelite family fleeing famine. However no sooner do they make it to green pastures, than the patriarch of the family inexplicably dies. In an attempt to salvage the family tree, his sons marry local women but then fail to sire any children. And then they die. A destitute widow is now saddled with two bereft daughters-in-law in a culture where for women, marriage and children were the difference between living in safety and socio-economic marginalization. To simply say “have faith in God” comes off as both condescending and callous.

Ruth occurs during the time of the Judges; a time the Bible describes as when, “Israel had no king and everyone did as they saw fit.” It was a dark period of social, political and religious upheaval. The chosen people choose badly, opting for disobedience and disloyalty against God. Threats from outside armies loom. Famine comes. A man named Elimelech along with his wife Naomi and their two sons left Bethlehem (which means “house of bread”) and sojourned to Moab. Makes sense. If there’s no bread in your house, go to where the bread is. Even if the bread is in Moab.

For Israel, Moab was a place they derided as “the other side of the tracks.” Descended from the offspring of Lot’s drunken incest with his daughter back in Genesis (one of those charming Bible stories you don’t hear a lot), the Moabites were a persistent thorn in Israel’s side: They’d impeded Israel’s passage from Egypt into their promised land. Moabite women had seduced Israelite men into idolatry. The Moabite King had hired a sorcerer to throw a hex on the entire Israelite nation. Theirs was not a good relationship. But Moab did have food. And Moab had women too, women who could become wives for Elimelech’s two sons. Under normal circumstances, no self-respecting Israelite would marry a Moabite; but these were not normal circumstances. By verse 3, Elimelech was dead and Naomi in trouble. She needed grandsons for her family to endure. Like it or not, sons were her only source of social security.

So Naomi’s boys took a couple of Moabite women. Literally. The Hebrew word in verse 4 means “to lift” or “carry away” as in “to abduct” (though technically in this culture to abduct a woman did still count as a marriage). Desperate times required desperate measures. Though none of it made any difference. Ten years passed and no grandsons; no children at all. Then Naomi’s two sons died. And we’re just through verse 5.

Naomi is in a bad spot: She’s lost her husband, her sons, her country and with these her future. She’s saddled with the unwelcome responsibility of two ill-reputed Moabite daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth. Have faith in God? It's God's fault that she's this mess. “Don’t call me Naomi,” she says in verse 20, (a name that means “pleasant”), call me Bitter instead because the Almighty has made my life very bitter. “I went away full, but the LORD has brought me back empty. “Why call me Naomi when the LORD has dealt harshly with me, and the Almighty has brought calamity upon me?”

A woman once told me of troubles she was enduring at her job. For spiteful reasons, two coworkers had targeted her for harassment. As a Christian, she determined to trust God and love these enemies, believing that eventually her faith and persistence amidst persecution would be rewarded. But the nastiness only increased. She tried to reason with her tormentors but they denied everything. They laughed at her. She didn’t go to the head of her department for fear of making things worse. But things got worse anyway. Soon her work was being sabotaged. At the end of her rope, all she could do was “trust God” again, this time reporting the harassment. But the boss sided with the bullies. Citing her sabotaged work as evidence, the supervisor demoted her for deficient performance. How was she to have faith in God anymore?

Then there was the man with marriage problems. He’d been married five years and had a young child, but his wife confessed she’d simply fallen out of love and didn’t know what to do about it. As Christians, they felt divorce wasn’t an option; they wanted to trust the Lord to fix their relationship. They went to counseling and over the course of many months, the husband relayed how he his faith had paid off. Yes, marriage was still difficult, but at least he had hope, and confidence that things would improve. God could work a miracle in is wife’s heart and rekindle her love for him. But then his wife admitted to an affair and decided to file for divorce anyway. Have faith in God? I never saw him in church again.

I bet you’re glad you came this morning. At this rate we should probably call it a day and go home. That’s what Naomi did. It’s what most of us do whenever the troubles of life overwhelm us and God appears nowhere to be found. We get bitter and bail, only to then have guilt for giving up on faith and on God pile on. Our fellow believers, disappointed in us, take a wide berth around us, not really wanting to be around all the negativity. Ours can be a twisted religion sometimes. Naomi’s had enough. She’s outta here. Still, whether out of duty or desperation, Orpah and Ruth beg to tag along. But Naomi’s no dummy. There’s no hope for widowed and childless Moabite women back in Israel. She tells them to go back to their mamas. She frees them from any obligation. She sends them away to find new husbands from among their own people. 

Orpah and Ruth nobly resist. But that just makes Naomi mad. “Do I still have sons in my womb that they may become your husbands?” Even if I found a husband for myself tonight (which ain’t gonna happen) and got pregnant and gave birth to two more boys (which ain’t gonna happen) you would still have to wait twenty years for them to grow up (which ain’t gonna happen!). Don’t you understand? God is out to get me! First he starves me, then he takes my husband, then my kids, my livelihood, my social standing, my security and my future. My life is over.” Talk about bitter. Who needs that? Orpah gets the message and leaves. Naomi then tries again to smack some sense into Ruth. “See, your sister-in-law is going back to her people and her gods. Get out of here. Go back with her!”

But Ruth refuses. Instead she clings onto Naomi even tighter than before, cleaving, the Bible says, using the language of marriage commitments. Not only does Ruth cleave, she seals it with a vow of marital proportions. “Entreat me not to leave you or to return from following you; for whither you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God; where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the LORD do so to me and more also if even death parts me from you.” These inspiring words have found their way into many contemporary weddings, which unfortunately demonstrates a lack of attention to context. Besides the daughter-in-law mother-in-law thing, which you can overlook, what you can’t overlook is that Naomi never reciprocates. Ruth makes a vow of allegiance and Naomi rolls her eyes. What a silly, stupid girl.

Why the undying devotion when she could have been safe and secure staying among her own people? Jewish rabbis interpret Ruth’s pledge as a conversion. She leaves her gods and her country, her family, friends and culture, to follow Yahweh, the Lord of a resentful old woman. If Ruth’s loyalty is the mark of religious conversion, it’s the fruit of some pretty unconventional evangelism. I’ve heard Christians talk about making Christianity more winsome and attractive; but never about what you might call the Naomi approach: “Hi, God loves you and has a horrible plan for your life. I’m bitter and depressed and wish I was dead. God can ruin your life too. Just have faith in Him.”

Whenever the troubles of life overwhelm and God appears nowhere to be found, we do tend to get bitter and bail. But here, the good news is that you can do it without any guilt. How’s that for life application? Naomi gets bitter but doesn’t feel bad about it for a minute. The difference, once you read the story closely, is that Naomi does not lose faith. True, she’s bitter. She bails. But where does she go? She goes home. To Bethlehem. Back to Israel. Back into the land and hands of God, the very God whom she accuses of having His hand against her. 

Amidst all of her unbearable bereavement, pending segregation and poverty, Naomi still believes. She believes enough to pray for Ruth and Orpah’s well-being, to the point of invoking that glorious Hebrew word hesed, denoting God’s unfailing love. Naomi believes that God is good. She believes He’s in control. That’s why she blames him for all of her troubles. She knows he’s up to something. Messiness and trouble and even death are the material out which God does his best work. So instead of losing faith and running away, Naomi runs back to the only one from whom she knows she can get answers.

Hers is an example we see throughout Scripture. “How long, O LORD?” King David prayed in the Psalms, “How long will you forget me? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, O LORD my God!” This language of lament from King David echoes even on the lips of Jesus, the crucified Son of David: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Followed by, “Father I commit my spirit into your hands.” “Give light to my eyes,” King David prayed, “lest I die and my enemy gloat, lest my foes rejoice because I am shaken. No, I have trusted in your  unfailing love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation. I will sing to the LORD, for he has been good to me.”

The salvation of which King David determines to sing is that same salvation which is ours in Christ our Lord. And it would be Naomi’s salvation, both in her own life and the life to come. As those who know the story of Ruth, it was a Moabite widow drawn to Naomi’s ruthlessly honest faith who against all odds emerged the great-grandmother of King David, the ancestor of Jesus, born in Bethlehem. Amidst a messy world, a distressed life and an embittered soul, Naomi’s faith never wavers. She keeps faith in a God who has caused her nothing but trouble. What kind of twisted religion do we have? Clearly one in which wisdom can look like foolishness, goodness can emerge out of suffering and life can rise from the dead. We trust in a Lord whose ways aren’t our ways, whose presence can feel like absence, whose mind we cannot know, whose decisions we cannot calculate and whose actions we cannot manipulate. Faith is called faith for a reason. And the life application is obvious.

Messiness and trouble and even death are the material out which God does his best work. The communion table is proof. The bread is the body of Christ broken. The cup the blood of Christ shed. Instead of running away, run home. Run here. Acknowledging your need and accepting the answer that is found through Christ our Lord. 

Fire Alarm

Acts 2:1-21

by Daniel Harrell

Pentecost is the birthday of the church, but it didn’t start as that. It began back in Exodus when God commanded a party to commemorate the wheat harvest. It was all about celebrating the ingathering of grain, though Jesus wold allude to a different kind of Pentecost to come, a plentiful harvesting of people for God’s kingdom. Pentecost means  fiftieth, marking the fiftieth day after Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread. If you remember the Exodus story, you remember that as God led Israel out of their Egyptian captivity, he instructed them to leave the leaven out of their bread as they packed for the trip. There was no time to wait for the dough to rise. But once safely settled in the Promised Land, there was no need to rush anymore. Now they could relax and enjoy—just like a holiday weekend.

The reason for fifty days had to do in part with the importance of Sabbath and the number seven. Sabbath happens on the seventh day, Pentecost on the seventh week after Passover. Seven hearkens back to creation and completion, Sabbath hearkens to rest, satisfaction in a job well done and enjoying the fruit of labor. Seven and Sabbath both focus on God from whom all these blessings flow. However, the fact that Pentecost itself actually occurs on the fiftieth day, that is seven Sabbaths plus one day (if you’re doing the math), meant that Pentecost fell on the all important eighth day which in Jewish reckoning was a marker for heaven itself. Pentecost previewed Kingdom Come, New Creation, Jubilee, Glory Land, Eternal Rest and the Completion of all hope.

Jews from all over the world made the Pentecost pilgrimage to Jerusalem to offer the first fruits of their wheat harvest in gratitude for God’s goodness and promises. With plenty of wheat and plenty of time, Pentecost was a feast of leavened bread. It was time to haul out the yeast. Jesus compared the kingdom of God to yeast—a little bit permeates an entire batch of dough and raises it up. Here in Acts, Pentecost provided the backdrop for the Holy Spirit to leaven a small batch of believers into a huge loaf large enough to nourish the world.

The Spirit makes a dramatic Pentecostal entrance: a hurricane force wind, fiery tongues flying around everywhere, Jews from various lands hearing the gospel spoken in their own language. Most would have picked up on the point. God had showed up with wind and fire throughout the Old Testament, though that had been a long time ago. Wind was a classic sign of the Spirit, blowing unseen with power wherever it will. Fire was a sign of holiness, destroying what is impure for the sake of refinement, redeeming the messes we make of our lives with the heat of grace, welding God's people into a unified body. Fire and wind make for the Holy Spirit whom Jesus promised would come once he had gone. The prophet Joel had seen it coming even before. The Lord would pour out his spirit on all flesh one day, such that "everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved."

Here, the now fired-up apostle Peter announces that the name of the Lord is none other than the name of Jesus. Salvation is found in the one they buried like wheat in the ground, only to have him rise up and become the bread of life. Harvest time is here. Jesus’ resurrection on the third day (which was also an eighth day, the day after Sabbath) signaled the start of new creation. Pentecost, an eighth day, marks our participation in it. “Very truly, I tell you,” said Jesus, “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” Jesus is the grain of wheat. His church is the fruit.

It's one reason we call new churches church plants. They are often so full of energy and fire, just like Pentecost itself. Research shows that if you want to grow a church, start a church. Church plants grow at a rate almost ten times stronger than older, established congregations. People participate more willingly, invite friends more eagerly, experience their faith more deeply. Unfortunately all the energy present at the beginning inevitably ebbs once the necessity of upkeep encroaches. Churches that grow add staffs and budgets, build buildings and parking lots, such that maintenance soon takes precedence over mission. You got to pay the bills. You got to fix the leaks. You have to raise money to keep the ministry going since everybody has grown to expect it but not as many volunteer to help anymore. All the new people who used to volunteer are off at the new church down the street.

While in North Carolina visiting family this month, I listened as my grandmother bemoaned the demise of her little Quaker church, fretting like many of her generation over the dearth of younger people in attendance, young people who, frankly, are unlikely to ever show up. Her concerns brought to mind an idea I heard at a local church planters conference recently. What if churches plants came with expiration dates? What if when a church started, it planned for both its ground-breaking and grave-digging? Set an expiration date just far enough in the future to accomplish a specific mission, or at most, satisfy the spiritual needs of a single generation--just long enough time to get folks baptized, married and buried. Set an expiration date and you wouldn’t bother with a building because you’d need those resources to accomplish your calling. Know the date of your funeral and churches would generate a critical bucket list of ministry. Time would be of the essence. Staff would stay lean and hungry. There would be no concern over mission creep. And you’d never fret over whether enough young people attended because young people would represent the next generation and the next church. One church would die in order for a new church to rise up, keeping the church as a whole fresh and vital and ever-resurrected and ever-creative, anticipating life to come. Just like in the New Testament, an imminent expiration date would build an eschatological urgency into a congregation's life.

Eschatological urgency is evident here in verse 20. Peter talks about the "the sun turning to darkness and the moon to blood." These were stock images of Judgment Day, the Last Day (eschatological means “having to do with last things”). But rather than doom and dread, Peter refers to the last day as "great and glorious" because that’s the day Jesus comes to make all things new. Looking forward to that last day, the last thing the first church needed was to become too established (even though that’s what eventually happened).

Nevertheless, on Pentecost, God did a new thing. The Spirit breathed new life into Israel’s established religious structures for the sake of a new start. "Everyone who called on the name of the Lord would be saved,"promised Peter, quoting Joel, but in order to call they needed to hear and in order to hear somebody needed to speak. Like with creation, God does a new thing with words. God redeems the whole world through Jesus the word made flesh. Here at Pentecost, the Spirit shows up as flaming tongues to stress the importance of the word now made flesh in the church. Up to this point, the disciples had been too scared to say anything about Jesus--they saw what happened to him. They kept quiet even after he rose from the dead--who was going to believe in a resurrection? But now, all fired up, Peter and the rest can't keep their mouth shut.

Back in college I was something of a fired up, quasi-obnoxious Christian, much to the consternation of my fraternity brothers. The last thing they wanted to hear about was Jesus. He may have been a party guy in some respects, but his ethics put a huge damper on a college kid’s social life. Still, there was this one frat guy who was curious about my Christianity. We ended up reading the Bible together. His curiosity turned to skepticism curious. Not only was the Bible a strange book to read, but I was a strange dude to read it with. How could I be trusted? How could he know the Bible was right? How could he know Jesus was real? All very fair questions he asked over and over again. Several months passed and frat boy was no closer to belief than he was when we started, despite all the hours I had devoted to him. Certainly he knew more, but he was far from being convinced.

We took a break for the Christmas holidays, and when we got back together in January, he told me he’d become a Christian. He said he ran into an old friend who'd joined a church. He asked this friend, who wasn't nearly as strange as I was, about his faith, heard him say the same things I'd told him, asked whether His friend knew me or if I'd set him up. Assured by his friend that we'd never met, frat boy figured there must be something to this Jesus since both his hometown friend and I couldn't both be crazy so he decided to be a Christian too.

Naturally I was irritated by this. Here I'd put in all this work plowing a field and sowing seeds just to have some fly by farmer reap the ripe harvest. But this is how Pentecost designed things to work. It’s not about making individuals especially spiritual by means of a extra dose of charismatic power. Pentecost is about turning individuals into spirit-filled communities, unified and whole "bodies of Christ." It was this unity of heart and mind between me and another Christian I had never met that convinced my fraternity brother, not my evangelistic cleverness. Peter, again quoting the Old Testament, will later describe the Spirit’s work as making us into "a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy."

And having received mercy we freely give mercy--by word and deed. The chief sign of the resurrected Jesus’ on earth was not isolated miracles or people speaking in tongues, but whole communities of resurrection so radically different from the way the world did community that there could be no other explanation for it. We read how “they all spoke the word of God courageously, with boldness.” They spoke in the relentless voice of conviction and concern and grace and compassion, even in the face of rejection and resistance. We read how “there was not a needy person among them.” Everybody took care of everybody else. The church grew because that's where healing and forgiveness and love and redemption and salvation happened. Mercy was their mission.

Years ago, I was frustrated with how the established congregation I served in Boston was stuck in a particular season of institutional preservation. For whatever reason, we'd lost sight of our mission. The wind had died down. Our flame had flickered. Concerned, I enrolled for some help at Harvard, of all places, where the late, great Catholic mystic Henri Nouwen was teaching a class on the spiritual life. One day in class, just before spring break, Nouwen described a relief project that was going on in Haiti that needed some extra workers and would anybody be willing to go down next week like tomorrow? A few student hesitantly raised hands, after which Nouwen pulled out this huge bucket and passed it around for the rest of us to fill up with money to pay for the travel. It was so radical.

I decided to try it back at my church. Digital photography had just emerged, email was becoming popular, and I was in touch with some Bolivian missionaries I'd met on a previous mission trip who I knew could use help. They were working to get scores of abandoned and abused children off the streets of La Paz where they were growing up sleeping in sewers, uninhabited buildings and under store-front awnings. I threw out the invitation to go down to Bolivia and help out, passed a bucket to raise the cash, sent dozens who emailed pictures once there so the rest of us could see what was going on and pray for them. Among those who went down was a young doctor named Chi who became so fired up for this cause that he stayed on. Our church got behind him, helped him build three orphanages, and saw scores of children saved from an otherwise hopeless future. The project grew further into an independent non-profit organization. More volunteers got involved, engaging in research to better understand the individual needs of the children and working toward more preventive interventions, building creative partnerships with families and communities to enable them to better raise their own children rather than abandon them to the streets.

While visiting families this month, I received an unexpected call from this organization, now fifteen years old and called Kaya International (from the Bolivian word meaning tomorrow) informing me that they wanted to honor me with an award. They heard that I was going to be in Boston and would Dawn and I and Violet be willing to come to their banquet? We agreed and soon found ourselves sitting at the MIT Faculty Club overlooking Boston listening to the remarkable testimony of a young man from Bolivia, also named Daniel, who was one of the first kids we had saved from the streets fifteen years before. The reward I received was for being the “grandfather” of this mission, for being the one who got the whole started. Once I got over being referred to as a “grandfather,” I was overwhelmed by the honor. I'd only planted a few seeds. It was so many others, fired up the the spirit, who nourished the soil and reaped the harvest.

This is how Pentecost designed things to work. It’s not about making any  individual especially spiritual by means of a extra dose of charismatic power, but rather about turning individuals into spirit-filled communities, unified and whole "bodies of Christ" whom having received mercy, share that mercy as Jesus on earth, eagerly and urgently until Jesus itself finally returns again to make everything new once more.

Disturbing the Peace

Acts 4:23-37
by Daniel Harrell

This series of post-resurrection sermons, and post-Pentecost sermons for that matter (we’ll take up Pentecost on Pentecost), began with a crippled panhandler by the Jerusalem Temple Gate begging for change. Peter and John, power-packed apostles of the now-risen Jesus, appear to walk by the way many would do—pleading poverty because we’re suspicious. But Peter and John, though all out of change, intend to change everything. In the name of Jesus they tell the disabled man to rise up and walk. The man rose up and danced, and created a wild rumpus because a] the beggar had been disabled from birth, so b] this must have been a miracle. Seizing the teachable moment, Peter gave all the credit to Jesus, then took the Jewish crowd to task for not believing their Bibles enough to realize Jesus to be the Messiah their prophets foretold. He called on them to repent of this sin and believe, and some 5000 did.

 

It was one red hot revival. So hot that the Temple police charged in, broke up the party and hauled Peter and John to the Jewish religious establishment on charges of disturbing the peace.

I did that once. Disturb the peace that is. At least religiously speaking. My former church in Boston, Park Street Church, sat right on the corner of a busy downtown intersection, right across from the Boston Common and the busiest subway station in the city. Years prior, the church had attached to its exterior on that corner, this elevated wrought iron platform we called the Mayflower Pulpit. However this Mayflower Pulpit had nothing to do with the Pilgrims. It was donated back in 1945 by the owner of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, DC. The donor’s intent was to provide a platform from which Park Street preachers could preach to the hundreds who roamed the Boston Common. In 1945, these hundreds comprised many soldiers returning from World War II. Concerned for the souls of these war-weary veterans, the church initially set up services on the Common itself. But when the city put a stop to that, the hotel owner stepped forward with his offer. Thus the Mayflower Pulpit became the means by which the church boldly circumvented city ordinances in order to share the gospel.

Over time, however, the Mayflower Pulpit lost its effectiveness due to changes in city life, traffic and noise—especially the incessant horn-honking from hecklers. By the time I arrived, nobody had been out on the Mayflower for years, except for the many occasions when the church staff would climb out on it to view all those sports championship parades downtown. However, one year, I decided that maybe it was time to dust off the old iron pulpit and use it again. Early on in the church, it was customary to conduct baptisms, that most public of Christian sacraments, outside for the whole world to witness. Picking up on that ancient practice, I invited any in our service one day, who had never been baptized and desired to do so, to march with the entire church out into the street. Once outside, all 600 of us, ten people came forward and climbed into the Mayflower Pulpit (a tight squeeze), where they proclaimed their faith to virtually the entire city, and then got doused with water.

From that elevated pulpit perch, I had the unique opportunity to observe the crowd reaction. Lots of people stopped, looked, perplexed. They scratched their heads, pointed their fingers, shrugged their shoulders. Others, in classic Boston style, simply sauntered by as if 600 people weren’t really standing in the middle of the street cheering on others suspended twenty feet in the air as they got water got water poured on their heads. Some, naturally, stepped closer to see what was going on. Since we had the thing miked, most couldn’t help but hear the baptized talk about dying to their old selves and desiring to follow Christ. No one could dismiss the boisterous ruckus erupting at the finish of each baptism. Some even followed us back inside afterwards. Plenty, however, mocked the proceedings. I was glad to see that. It made what we were doing all the more authentic, I thought. The police intervened too. Wanted to know if we had a permit to assemble. We told them that we only had a permit to baptize. Not wanting to create a situation, they sent over a few officers to direct traffic.

We did these outdoor baptisms several more years, though from then on we made sure to give the police a heads up, which I’ll admit took a some of the fun out of it. But we knew we needed to heed civic authority if we wanted to baptize without going to jail. Sort of like the Jewish religious establishment here in Acts. They had to obey Roman authority to keep their Temple running like they wanted. But more than that, they obeyed Roman authority so they could exert some of that political power themselves, and they compromised their own faith and principles to do it. It’s a lesson religious folks never learn: we think that if we can get our values implemented by secular authorities we can affect societal change. But as history teaches, whenever the church seeks legitimization from civil authority it almost always loses its salt. That’s why Jesus said render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what is God’s.

The Jewish religious establishment tried to flex their political power and press Peter and John into line. But Peter and John appealed to a higher power: “You’ll have to judge whether it’s right in God’s sight for us to listen to you instead of Him.” They said. “How can we keep quiet about what we’ve seen and heard?” Scoring them points for their courage, and wanting to avoid a popular riot, the establishment let them go back to their little band of Jesus freaks.

Welcoming Peter and John home, the fledgling Christian community broke out in a worship service, singing the second Psalm together as they would have learned it in Hebrew school. They learned that it pointed to Israel’s Messiah, especially the verse, “You are my son; today I have begotten you.” They recognized this to mean Jesus because they had heard heaven thunder that very verse at Jesus’ baptism. Here in Acts they sing, “Why did the Gentiles rage (the Gentiles in this instance being the Romans)? Why did the people imagine vain things (the people being the people of Israel)? The kings of the earth (King Herod Antipas in particular) and the rulers (Pontius Pilate) gathered together against the Lord and against his Messiah (meaning Jesus).” They thought they could thwart the Lord’s plans by nailing Jesus to the cross, but as the Psalm sings, “He who sits in the heavens laughs;            the LORD has them in derision.”

The believers knew God would do “whatever his hand and his plan had predestined.” Nothing could stop Him. God takes a vile instrument of execution and transforms it into the ultimate expression of love. Last Sunday in the second service we sang that popular song “In Christ Alone” that has the line, “on that cross as Jesus died/ the wrath of God was satisfied.” But really we should sing “the love of God was satisfied” since it was God’s love, and not his anger, that moved him to sacrifice himself in Christ.

The Jerusalem populace and the governing authorities were the ones motivated by anger. “O Lord, look upon their threats,” the community prayed. But then rather than asking God to protect them from these threats, they pray for more courage to step it up. They prayed for some more miracles too. Being able to pull off a few miracles does have a way of bolstering anybody’s courage. I wouldn’t have minded being able to do a few from that Mayflower Pulpit. Maybe call down some good old-fashioned fire and brimstone on those hecklers. But I don’t think that’s how miracles are supposed to work. As far as I can tell, whenever miracles happen, they happen mostly as holy exclamation points. And in this case here in Acts, the miracle wasn’t a furious fireball, but a healing touch that pointed straight to Jesus’ resurrected power to save. “Salvation,” you’ll remember from last Sunday, means both “restored to health” and “resurrected to life.” Again, it’s why Peter told the crippled beggar to rise up and walk.

Why did Peter and John heal only this crippled beggar? Why not wipe out every disability and cure every sickness? The reason has to do with miracles being referred to as signs instead of final destinations. Even dead Lazarus and the others whom Jesus brought back to life eventually died again. Their final destination is eternal life with God, not a healthy life here. Healing is a preview of the resurrection, a signpost for new creation, not yet heaven itself. It did wonders for the beggar, but only got Peter and John into trouble.

But trouble was also a sign—it showed them they were faithful to a gospel which constantly disrupts the peace. If the book of Acts is right, the chief sign of the resurrected Jesus’ on earth are not isolated miracles, but whole communities of resurrection so radically different from the way the world does community that there can be no other name for it. We read how after this first community prayed their prayers, the place where they gathered shook and filled up with the Spirit. This was proof of Jesus’ presence. Worship does that. How many times have you walked out of this Meetinghouse all shook up and spirit-filled, a different person from the one who walked in? Worship does that. It’s what resurrection churches feel like.

We also read how “they all spoke the word of God courageously, with boldness.” That’s what resurrection churches sound like. They speak in the relentless voice of conviction and concern and grace and compassion, even in the face of rejection and resistance. And then we read how “there was not a needy person among them.” This is what resurrection churches act like. The beggar no longer has to beg. “As many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need.” We’ve tried to replicate this on a couple of occasions with that box of cash we stationed at the back of the Meetinghouse for us to both give to and take from. A number of you welcomed financial help from that box, which is the way it should be. I would have put the box back out this Sunday except that we still have a few thousand dollars left over from last time. Surely everybody in this congregation isn’t so self-sufficient that we can’t dispense with a few thousand dollars. Somebody here is bound to need it. Take it and then we can put the box out and do it again.

OK, so what’s giving away a few thousand dollars compared to giving over lands and houses? These early believers sold their real estate and gave all the proceeds to the community? Some might say this would make for a good stewardship campaign, especially on this last Sunday of our church fiscal year. Others would say this sounds more like a cult. Or a socialist state. But none of the early believers were ever forced to part with their possessions. They chose to share them with anybody who needed. “Everything they owned was held in common.” It’s where the word “community” comes from. What was their motivation? Love, love, love. As the apostle Paul so famously reminds us, “If I give away all my possessions, and even hand over my body so I can boast, but do not have love, I got nothing.”

“Love is patient and kind; never envious or arrogant; it bears and believes and hopes and endures everything. It is the fuel of resurrection churches. But here’s the thing—love never ends. It’s never a finished product. It’s never complete, often flawed, typically demanding and scary and sometimes it can suck the life right out of you. There are so many easier ways to get meaning and significance in your spiritual life: you can polish your theology by taking a class. You can go on a retreat by yourself. You can behave impeccably at home and ethically at work and give generously and end up feeling pretty satisfied. But here’s the thing—you can do all these things and still love badly. Without love, you got nothing.

 The impediment to love is that same that it’s always been. You can call it selfishness. But the Bible calls it sin. And the church is full of it. Even resurrected churches. All sinners. Sinner, sinner, sinner. Every last one of us. We don’t like to be reminded of this. Especially not in church. Even though the Bible calls us sinners on practically every page. Better to speak of it euphemistically—as a mistake, a bad call, a screw-up, a faux pas. This makes life simpler. Minimize sin and you don’t have to deal with real people. You don’t have to deal with God either. If I’m OK and you’re OK, then we don’t really need each other. And we definitely don’t need Jesus. We can keep our feelings to ourselves, our thoughts to ourselves, and our things to ourselves. Don’t deal with sin and you don’t have to mess with relationships. Don’t mess with relationships and you don’t have to love. It is that easy. And that worthless. Because without love, you got nothing.

But if the book of Acts is right, the chief sign of the resurrected Jesus on earth is communities of resurrection so radically different from the way the world does community that there can be no other name for it but love. Resurrected churches are the only place where love gets taken seriously. That’s because resurrection churches are the only place that sin gets taken seriously. Get sin right, and you get love right. At the core of each of us is something wrong, something broken and depersonalizing, this part of us that frustrates our relationships with each other and with God. We are flawed. Incomplete. Unfinished. Demanding and sometimes scary people. Keep up appearances and you never have to deal with it. But dig a little deeper and it’s always there. I know it and you know it. This is basically what the Bible means by sin. You can’t fix it and you can’t get rid of it. The only thing you can do—is forgive it. And that’s what love does. That’s what resurrection does. That’s what God does because God is love. Get sin right and you get love right. Get love right and you get God. Get God and you got everything.