Oloyede's Blog

A Meditation on the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant: Matthew 18:23-35

During times of conflict and war one of the casualties is the ability to see clearly and discern fairly. We tend to view the world in terms of moral absolutes. "They are either with us or against us."  People are seen as either good or evil,  heroes or villains. The problem is, of course, that most of us, and indeed, most human beings do not fall into such neatly defined categories. 

Human nature is messy and complicated. People who sometimes lie or cheat on their wives can at other times act like the heroes who risked their lives trying to rescue others on 9/11. Likewise, those identified as saints or role models in history have serious character flaws that good historians or biographers can readily identify. This may well be one of the main reasons that forgiveness was such an important part of the teaching of Jesus. Still, his emphasis upon forgiveness remains one of the most difficult aspects of his teaching.

Consider the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant. In the parable Jesus compares God to a king who forgives his impoverished and indebted servant everything he owes. (In my paraphrase of the parable, I've placed it in a contemporary setting.) In this case the servant's debt amounts to something in the neighborhood of ten million dollars. Moved by the servant's impassioned pleas for mercy, the king simply wipes away that debt in a sweep of the hand.

Unfortunately the servant reacts to that act of mercy without the slightest sensitivity to the plight of another man who owes him something like a thousand dollars. The unforgiving servant seizes his debtor by the throat and bellows: "Pay me what you owe!" But when the poor man cannot come up with the money, he has him thrown in jail. Later the king confronts the unforgiving one: "You wicked servant; I forgave you all your debt, should you not also have demonstrated mercy as I had mercy on you?" In anger the king delivers him to the jailers. And Jesus concludes the parable speaking directly to each of us: "So also my heavenly father will do to everyone of you if you do not forgive your neighbor from your heart."

Now, where does that leave us? It leaves us with the possibility of being thrown into jail not because of having committed any crime or broken any law, but simply because we did not forgive someone who had committed evil against us.

How difficult it is to affirm Christ's teaching about forgiveness, let alone put it into practice. Sure it may sound reasonable that we forgive the human race in general for sins known and unknown, but how do you forgive your best friend for an act of betrayal? How do you forgive your own parents for psychological damage or even abuse inflicted upon you in the earliest years of childhood? How do your forgive your spouse for falling in love with someone else? How do your forgive your children for adopting a way of life that seems completely alien to all the values you have tried to teach? It's easy to forgive in general, but it's almost impossible to forgive a specific wrong that has brought you deep personal pain.

In some cases it seems impossible to forgive once, let alone 70 times 7 as Jesus required.

Yet forgiveness was at the very center of Christ's teaching. It was his principal concern at the very hour of his death. As he hung there bleeding on the cross, with pain as great or greater than any of us will ever experience, he said so directly of those who delighted in his own death: "Father, forgive them, they know not what they are doing."

One of the very first difficulties involved in any attempt to forgive is that forgiveness involves a judgment against the offending party and this judgment may itself be faulty. A while back, during the first Bush administration, a parent upset at the prospect that his son, a soldier who had been sent to fight in the Middle East, might die in combat, wrote to the New York Times. "If my son dies fighting to guarantee this nation a continuing supply of cheap oil, I will have to pray that God forgive you Mr. President, I cannot."

Another difficulty comes in trying to decide what form forgiveness should take. As depicted by Jesus in the New Testament forgiveness is not just a fuzzy feeling; it expresses itself in specific behavior. The canceling of a debt, the pardoning of a crime, the swinging open of the prison doors. That's why Jesus was in so much trouble with the priests and ministers, the lawyers and law enforcement officers of his day. He didn't seem to be very concerned about their problems of law enforcement; he didn't seem to be sensitive to their difficulties in the practical administration of justice. In the world of practical politics we can't let every debt be cancelled; we can't allow every criminal to go unpunished. The simple administration of justice requires enforcement of the law. But that was not Christ's principal concern.

God's love is not like a wall that separates the law-makers from the law-breakers; God's love is like the sun which shines down upon us all. God's mercy is like the rain which pours down upon law-maker and law-breaker alike. Remember Robert Frost's poem the "Mending Wall?" The poet enters into conversation with his neighbor, at the boundary between their two farms. The harsh New England weather has broken down that wall, and the neighbor is painstakingly putting the stones back in place. When the poet asks his neighbor why he thinks it necessary to rebuild the wall, the man replies: "Good fences make good neighbors." Frost doesn't agree: "Before I built a wall, I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out, and to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't like a wall, that wants it down."

For us, God may be that something or someone who wants the walls to come tumbling down. 

But somehow we keep conspiring to build them up. We're continually torn between God's mercy and our human need to punish, to reprimand, to imprison. We want to contain by force of arms the evil we find in those "terrorists;" we want to lock up the criminals, throw them in jail and throw away the key. And in this imperfect world, for the foreseeable future there may be a need to build some walls. Some forms of retributive justice may be necessary; some systems of mutual defense may be required to preserve order in the world. But we cannot heal the deep wounds within the human family by the force of law alone. We can place a hundred and fifty thousand troops in Iraq; we can place a police officer at every street corner in the land, but we cannot even begin to heal the wounds that afflict us all by force alone. Neither this nation's most powerful weapons, nor the most efficient police force in the world can begin to heal the wounds of the heart. But that is where the real work of healing must begin; and that is where forgiveness plays its part.

You see, when we refuse to forgive, when we harbor our resentment, we place our very lives in danger. In Christ's parable, the king has the unforgiving servant thrown into jail, imprisoned, cut off from life itself. Sigmund Freud tried to express the truth of this parable in the language of modern psychology. Freud compared our journey through life to a long march down an imaginary road. At birth, said Freud, each of us is supplied with a certain number of soldiers that we may deploy when we come across some opponent, some threat to our safety, some enemy real or imagined. When we have a conflict with a neighbor which we cannot resolve, when we hold close to our hearts some anger or resentment, we must station some troops at that point along the road. We must tie up some energy there; and that of course leaves us with fewer resources, fewer troops in facing the next challenge that presents itself. That's why some of us, having marshaled so many of our reserves to fight so many ancient battles have so little energy left for the challenges of the present. At bottom we are asked to forgive not because any of us has such a great supply of charity that we can rise above our differences with our neighbors, but rather because we must let go of our anger and resentment or we shall die. When we clutch our judgments and our accusations close to our hearts, our hearts themselves are poisoned. For our own sakes and for our very salvation we need to pray, pray that we find the grace to forgive in our neighbors what God has already forgiven in us. Thanks be to God for a mercy strong enough and bold enough to set us free

A Meditation on the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant: Matthew 18:23-35

During times of conflict and war one of the casualties is the ability to see clearly and discern fairly. We tend to view the world in terms of moral absolutes. "They are either with us or against us."  People are seen as either good or evil,  heroes or villains. The problem is, of course, that most of us, and indeed, most human beings do not fall into such neatly defined categories. 

Human nature is messy and complicated. People who sometimes lie or cheat on their wives can at other times act like the heroes who risked their lives trying to rescue others on 9/11. Likewise, those identified as saints or role models in history have serious character flaws that good historians or biographers can readily identify. This may well be one of the main reasons that forgiveness was such an important part of the teaching of Jesus. Still, his emphasis upon forgiveness remains one of the most difficult aspects of his teaching.

Consider the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant. In the parable Jesus compares God to a king who forgives his impoverished and indebted servant everything he owes. (In my paraphrase of the parable, I've placed it in a contemporary setting.) In this case the servant's debt amounts to something in the neighborhood of ten million dollars. Moved by the servant's impassioned pleas for mercy, the king simply wipes away that debt in a sweep of the hand.

A Contemporary Paraphrase of the Parable found in Matthew  18:23-35

Unfortunately the servant reacts to that act of mercy without the slightest sensitivity to the plight of another man who owes him something like a thousand dollars. The unforgiving servant seizes his debtor by the throat and bellows: "Pay me what you owe!" But when the poor man cannot come up with the money, he has him thrown in jail. Later the king confronts the unforgiving one: "You wicked servant; I forgave you all your debt, should you not also have demonstrated mercy as I had mercy on you?" In anger the king delivers him to the jailers. And Jesus concludes the parable speaking directly to each of us: "So also my heavenly father will do to everyone of you if you do not forgive your neighbor from your heart."

Now, where does that leave us? It leaves us with the possibility of being thrown into jail not because of having committed any crime or broken any law, but simply because we did not forgive someone who had committed evil against us.

How difficult it is to affirm Christ's teaching about forgiveness, let alone put it into practice. Sure it may sound reasonable that we forgive the human race in general for sins known and unknown, but how do you forgive your best friend for an act of betrayal? How do you forgive your own parents for psychological damage or even abuse inflicted upon you in the earliest years of childhood? How do your forgive your spouse for falling in love with someone else? How do your forgive your children for adopting a way of life that seems completely alien to all the values you have tried to teach? It's easy to forgive in general, but it's almost impossible to forgive a specific wrong that has brought you deep personal pain.

In some cases it seems impossible to forgive once, let alone 70 times 7 as Jesus required.

Yet forgiveness was at the very center of Christ's teaching. It was his principal concern at the very hour of his death. As he hung there bleeding on the cross, with pain as great or greater than any of us will ever experience, he said so directly of those who delighted in his own death: "Father, forgive them, they know not what they are doing."

Now if Christ's teaching on forgiveness is difficult for us to apply in our personal lives, how much more difficult for a group of people, for a whole nation to forgive. Should we forgive the thousands upon thousands of people who cheat on their taxes, resulting in a heavier burden upon those of us who pay our fair share? Should we forgive those who aided and abetted the terrorists who struck the World Trade Center on 9/11?

One of the very first difficulties involved in any attempt to forgive is that forgiveness involves a judgment against the offending party and this judgment may itself be faulty. A while back, during the first Bush administration, a parent upset at the prospect that his son, a soldier who had been sent to fight in the Middle East, might die in combat, wrote to the New York Times. "If my son dies fighting to guarantee this nation a continuing supply of cheap oil, I will have to pray that God forgive you Mr. President, I cannot."

Another difficulty comes in trying to decide what form forgiveness should take. As depicted by Jesus in the New Testament forgiveness is not just a fuzzy feeling; it expresses itself in specific behavior. The canceling of a debt, the pardoning of a crime, the swinging open of the prison doors. That's why Jesus was in so much trouble with the priests and ministers, the lawyers and law enforcement officers of his day. He didn't seem to be very concerned about their problems of law enforcement; he didn't seem to be sensitive to their difficulties in the practical administration of justice. In the world of practical politics we can't let every debt be cancelled; we can't allow every criminal to go unpunished. The simple administration of justice requires enforcement of the law. But that was not Christ's principal concern.

Where the world sees the human family divided between the good and the bad, between the righteous and the sinners, between my team and your team, Jesus saw one family. He saw all of us equally in need of God's mercy, and equally called to the work of mercy.

God's love is not like a wall that separates the law-makers from the law-breakers; God's love is like the sun which shines down upon us all. God's mercy is like the rain which pours down upon law-maker and law-breaker alike. Remember Robert Frost's poem the "Mending Wall?" The poet enters into conversation with his neighbor, at the boundary between their two farms. The harsh New England weather has broken down that wall, and the neighbor is painstakingly putting the stones back in place. When the poet asks his neighbor why he thinks it necessary to rebuild the wall, the man replies: "Good fences make good neighbors." Frost doesn't agree: "Before I built a wall, I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out, and to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't like a wall, that wants it down."

For us, God may be that something or someone who wants the walls to come tumbling down. 

But somehow we keep conspiring to build them up. We're continually torn between God's mercy and our human need to punish, to reprimand, to imprison. We want to contain by force of arms the evil we find in those "terrorists;" we want to lock up the criminals, throw them in jail and throw away the key. And in this imperfect world, for the foreseeable future there may be a need to build some walls. Some forms of retributive justice may be necessary; some systems of mutual defense may be required to preserve order in the world. But we cannot heal the deep wounds within the human family by the force of law alone. We can place a hundred and fifty thousand troops in Iraq; we can place a police officer at every street corner in the land, but we cannot even begin to heal the wounds that afflict us all by force alone. Neither this nation's most powerful weapons, nor the most efficient police force in the world can begin to heal the wounds of the heart. But that is where the real work of healing must begin; and that is where forgiveness plays its part.

You see, when we refuse to forgive, when we harbor our resentment, we place our very lives in danger. In Christ's parable, the king has the unforgiving servant thrown into jail, imprisoned, cut off from life itself. Sigmund Freud tried to express the truth of this parable in the language of modern psychology. Freud compared our journey through life to a long march down an imaginary road. At birth, said Freud, each of us is supplied with a certain number of soldiers that we may deploy when we come across some opponent, some threat to our safety, some enemy real or imagined. When we have a conflict with a neighbor which we cannot resolve, when we hold close to our hearts some anger or resentment, we must station some troops at that point along the road. We must tie up some energy there; and that of course leaves us with fewer resources, fewer troops in facing the next challenge that presents itself. That's why some of us, having marshaled so many of our reserves to fight so many ancient battles have so little energy left for the challenges of the present. At bottom we are asked to forgive not because any of us has such a great supply of charity that we can rise above our differences with our neighbors, but rather because we must let go of our anger and resentment or we shall die. When we clutch our judgments and our accusations close to our hearts, our hearts themselves are poisoned. For our own sakes and for our very salvation we need to pray, pray that we find the grace to forgive in our neighbors what God has already forgiven in us. Thanks be to God for a mercy strong enough and bold enough to set us free

Source Material

We live a a time between the times. Between war and peace, between faith and doubt, between birth and death, between the people we actually are the ones we'd like to become.  In such a time, we need a map by which to chart our way forward.  And I can think of no better map for navigating the difficult passages of life than the 23rd Psalm.  It marks a passage through time, not just for each of us personally, but for entire communities and nations.          

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." Instantly the image of the shepherd god springs to mind. It is easy to imagine the green meadows, the grass caressed by the gentle breeze of an afternoon in the spring. We can almost see the sheep lying in the golden light of the sun, have been filled to satisfaction grazing in the lush pastures all the day long.

Nearby we hear the dancing waters of a mountain brook; we see the shepherd rousing his sheep, guiding them, leading them, around those steep places where the water rushes down the mountainside in a torrent. The shepherd leads them to a place of safety beneath the shadow of an overhanging tree, where the water stands still and clear.

Typically, our very first conception of God is very much like that shepherd. We think of God as a person who watches over us with the warm, protecting love of father or mother. As we contemplate these opening verses, we are filled with the same confidence and security which we have known as children.

And so these verses draw us back in time to that point when we were at one with God. To a moment in our lives like that of the very first Christmas when God was present in a moment of mystical illumination before our days of doubt and anxiety. Amid the tensions of adult life, it is refreshing to remember this mood of childlike trust and to let the shepherd God lead us beside still water.

Yet in the very next verse the mood changes, the scene shifts from the beauty and quiet of the mountain stream to the terrifying danger of the mountains themselves.

Here we find ourselves in the very depths of a great canyon, surrounded on all sides by the sheer rock; those walls rising up so high and so sharply on all sides that the light of the sun scarcely penetrates to this place deep in the crevices of the earth. In the shadows it is dark and cold ...

We have walked into the very heart of darkness, "the valley of deep darkness" it is called in the Hebrew. In fact, the word death does not appear in the original, for the experience here described is actually more terrifying than death.

The deep darkness of the valley is the despair we feel when the faith of our childhood seems to have failed. When mother or father can no longer comfort us; when God seems remote and abstract from our daily experience. Or worse, when one confronts the damaging influences of ones early childhood, realizing that mother or father may have contributed to the problems one faces now. Or worse, when the dilemmas one faces in adult life seem to be brought upon us by God's own hand. This is the darkness that penetrates to the very center of the soul; this is the darkness of our present age, when the benefits of our scientific and technical age still leave us feeling bereft. This is our time, when neither the innocence of childhood, not the peace of death itself can protect us from the dangers of a world that is all too real.

And yet it is precisely here, in the valley of the shadow of death, that one reaches out to discover a presence and a power greater than we have known before. For it is in the midst of life, in the time of doubt, that a God appears who leads us in "paths of righteousness."

This rather quaint phrase held over from the King James version carries with it an unfortunate connotation today. For we imagine righteousness to be a state of superior virtue; we  imaginesomeone rather stodgy and straightlaced; someone full of heavy judgment and pious cliché. But that's not the sort of thing the psalmist had in mind.

The Hebrew word for righteousness connotes action which is taken to uphold the physical and mental health of a community. In Hebrew,  righteousness connotes a sense of responsibility and a hunger for justice. That is the path which God would have us take in this adult world.

We must not merely speak platitudes about peace, for example, we must actually inform ourselves about the questions of war and peace, about the causes of conflict in our own lives and in the world around us, so that we can address them. If we are to follow God into paths of righteousness, we must be prepared to take realistic, practical actions to promote justice in our own homes, in own communities, and in the wider world. We must be prepared to take our principles into the marketplace and into the polling place so that we the people might actually walk in "paths of righteousness." In other words, we must move from the child's simplicity and trust into the adult world, where we face all the conflict and competing interests which arise wherever people organize themselves into a society.      

Yet, however deeply we may be embroiled in the complexities of this world, as we walk in paths of righteousness, we may draw upon a strength greater than our own. The psalmist writes: "Even though I walk through the valley of deep darkness, I fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and they staff, they comfort me."

The shepherd's rod is a large club often with a steel tip used as a weapon against the wild animals and bandits  that one might encounter in the wilderness. Armed with such a weapon, the shepherd could move with confidence even through the wilderness landscape. The shepherd's staff is a long pole used to keep balance while negotiating the difficult terrain of the mountain trails. So the shepherd could scale the dangerous heights with a sense of confidence that he would not fall.

So it is with those who seek the justice of God in this time between the times. One emerges from the darkness filled with a confidence that comes from God.

Apparently the palmist now imagines a pilgrim who has been involved in a dangerous struggle with an unnamed opponent. He takes flight into the vast reaches of the wilderness, but the enemy follows. As the hours pass, the situation becomes more critical. Running short of food and water, the end appears near. With each passing mile, the foe gains more ground. But then, just as the situation seems hopeless, he climbs over the ridge of a gentle hill, and there, in the quiet of a peaceful valley, are the bright colors of the tents, an encampment of Bedouin nomads.           

According to desert custom, he need only approach those tents and he will be safe. He need only reach out and touch the outer walls of the tent, and the Bedouin will welcome the stranger. They provide the protection of their arms, the warmth of their hospitality, while the pursuing enemy is stymied outside the camp.

This seems to be the exact situation described by the psalmist: "Thou preparest a table before me even in the presence of my enemies." Read as a parable from a Christian perspective, this feast represents communion. Here is the table of Christian fellowship, where the pilgrim is strengthened, not only by the hospitality of his companions, but also by the spirit of Christ, who is the lord of the camp and host at our common meal.

And so it is that the church is a place of sanctuary and protection from the world, where one can sense the warmth and hospitality and even the love of those who welcome any passing stranger. But the psalm contains promise of strength greater still than that which other people can provide.

Goodness and mercy shall follow. Follow is a rather weak verb. A more accurate translation of the Hebrew would be "pursue." Surely goodness and mercy shall pursue me.

As soldiers pursue an enemy in full retreat, as the hunter tracks his prey; as the wind of winter chases the falling snow, so goodness and mercy shall hunt us down. In this world we are pursued by many different people and causes. We are chased by bill collectors and tax collectors, hunted by salesmen and credit card companies, followed by old age and always by the shadow of sickness and eventually by death. But as the Psalmist declares, we are also pursued by the goodness and mercy of God. Behind the ephemeral events of our daily lives, the spirit of God is at work, watching over us, supporting us, speeding us on our way.   

And so we reach the final step in our journey through time. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Suddenly the walls of the Bedouin tent open up and we are ushered into the very presence of God:

No one really knows what awaits us beyond the barriers of time and space, yet somehow this image beckons to us like a bright morning star. If it is beautiful and pleasant to come in off the crowded streets and highways to a home filled with warmth and light, how much more beautiful to enter into the very presence of God. This is the same promise and the same image that Jesus used:  "In my fathers house there are many rooms."

At the very close of  life we are as close to God as the new born baby held in its mothers arms. In death we return to the source, so we come full circle. And this map charts out a pilgrimage which takes us all the way from the beginning to the end.

In moments of inspiration we seem to stand like the child in green pastures. Like the characters in the stable at Bethlehem we feel the presence of God pouring down upon us more comforting than the light of the summer's sun. And yet again when that moment of inspiration fades, when the clouds gather, and we find ourselves in the valley of deep darkness, there the foundations of our faith seem to shake. We are put to the test, yet being tested, we find a presence and a power greater than we can either ask or imagine.

We leave the darkness, armed once again with God's sure staff. So that in this wilderness, in the wild places of our daily lives, we can find our way with a sense of courage and a confidence that comes even in the eye of the storm.

And it is here, in the time between the times, that we learn the value of the support that comes from our fellow pilgrims. In moments of intimate conversation, over a meal with our closest friends, breaking the communion bread together, we can say: "Thou preparest a table before me, even in the presence of my enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil, my cup is overflowing."

Finally, as we look ahead, even beyond the limits of this day and age, we are filled with deep conviction: "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow, all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

So in this time between the times, between birth and death, between creation and consummation, between peace and war, as God is our guide the way shall be made plain and the passage sure through the pilgrimage we call our lives. Thanks be to God.

In A Time Between The Times: The Twenty Third Psalm for Today                          

We live a a time between the times. Between war and peace, between faith and doubt, between birth and death, between the people we actually are the ones we'd like to become.  In such a time, we need a map by which to chart our way forward.  And I can think of no better map for navigating the difficult passages of life than the 23rd Psalm.  It marks a passage through time, not just for each of us personally, but for entire communities and nations.          

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." Instantly the image of the shepherd god springs to mind. It is easy to imagine the green meadows, the grass caressed by the gentle breeze of an afternoon in the spring. We can almost see the sheep lying in the golden light of the sun, have been filled to satisfaction grazing in the lush pastures all the day long.

Nearby we hear the dancing waters of a mountain brook; we see the shepherd rousing his sheep, guiding them, leading them, around those steep places where the water rushes down the mountainside in a torrent. The shepherd leads them to a place of safety beneath the shadow of an overhanging tree, where the water stands still and clear.

"He leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul."

Typically, our very first conception of God is very much like that shepherd. We think of God as a person who watches over us with the warm, protecting love of father or mother. As we contemplate these opening verses, we are filled with the same confidence and security which we have known as children.

And so these verses draw us back in time to that point when we were at one with God. To a moment in our lives like that of the very first Christmas when God was present in a moment of mystical illumination before our days of doubt and anxiety. Amid the tensions of adult life, it is refreshing to remember this mood of childlike trust and to let the shepherd God lead us beside still water.

Yet in the very next verse the mood changes, the scene shifts from the beauty and quiet of the mountain stream to the terrifying danger of the mountains themselves.

"Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death."

Here we find ourselves in the very depths of a great canyon, surrounded on all sides by the sheer rock; those walls rising up so high and so sharply on all sides that the light of the sun scarcely penetrates to this place deep in the crevices of the earth. In the shadows it is dark and cold ...

We have walked into the very heart of darkness, "the valley of deep darkness" it is called in the Hebrew. In fact, the word death does not appear in the original, for the experience here described is actually more terrifying than death.

The deep darkness of the valley is the despair we feel when the faith of our childhood seems to have failed. When mother or father can no longer comfort us; when God seems remote and abstract from our daily experience. Or worse, when one confronts the damaging influences of ones early childhood, realizing that mother or father may have contributed to the problems one faces now. Or worse, when the dilemmas one faces in adult life seem to be brought upon us by God's own hand. This is the darkness that penetrates to the very center of the soul; this is the darkness of our present age, when the benefits of our scientific and technical age still leave us feeling bereft. This is our time, when neither the innocence of childhood, not the peace of death itself can protect us from the dangers of a world that is all too real.

And yet it is precisely here, in the valley of the shadow of death, that one reaches out to discover a presence and a power greater than we have known before. For it is in the midst of life, in the time of doubt, that a God appears who leads us in "paths of righteousness."

Paths of righteousness.

This rather quaint phrase held over from the King James version carries with it an unfortunate connotation today. For we imagine righteousness to be a state of superior virtue; we  imaginesomeone rather stodgy and straightlaced; someone full of heavy judgment and pious cliché. But that's not the sort of thing the psalmist had in mind.

The Hebrew word for righteousness connotes action which is taken to uphold the physical and mental health of a community. In Hebrew,  righteousness connotes a sense of responsibility and a hunger for justice. That is the path which God would have us take in this adult world.

We must not merely speak platitudes about peace, for example, we must actually inform ourselves about the questions of war and peace, about the causes of conflict in our own lives and in the world around us, so that we can address them. If we are to follow God into paths of righteousness, we must be prepared to take realistic, practical actions to promote justice in our own homes, in own communities, and in the wider world. We must be prepared to take our principles into the marketplace and into the polling place so that we the people might actually walk in "paths of righteousness." In other words, we must move from the child's simplicity and trust into the adult world, where we face all the conflict and competing interests which arise wherever people organize themselves into a society.      

Yet, however deeply we may be embroiled in the complexities of this world, as we walk in paths of righteousness, we may draw upon a strength greater than our own. The psalmist writes: "Even though I walk through the valley of deep darkness, I fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and they staff, they comfort me."

The shepherd's rod is a large club often with a steel tip used as a weapon against the wild animals and bandits  that one might encounter in the wilderness. Armed with such a weapon, the shepherd could move with confidence even through the wilderness landscape. The shepherd's staff is a long pole used to keep balance while negotiating the difficult terrain of the mountain trails. So the shepherd could scale the dangerous heights with a sense of confidence that he would not fall.

So it is with those who seek the justice of God in this time between the times. One emerges from the darkness filled with a confidence that comes from God.

And so it is that we move through these times of terror.

Apparently the palmist now imagines a pilgrim who has been involved in a dangerous struggle with an unnamed opponent. He takes flight into the vast reaches of the wilderness, but the enemy follows. As the hours pass, the situation becomes more critical. Running short of food and water, the end appears near. With each passing mile, the foe gains more ground. But then, just as the situation seems hopeless, he climbs over the ridge of a gentle hill, and there, in the quiet of a peaceful valley, are the bright colors of the tents, an encampment of Bedouin nomads.           

According to desert custom, he need only approach those tents and he will be safe. He need only reach out and touch the outer walls of the tent, and the Bedouin will welcome the stranger. They provide the protection of their arms, the warmth of their hospitality, while the pursuing enemy is stymied outside the camp.

This seems to be the exact situation described by the psalmist: "Thou preparest a table before me even in the presence of my enemies." Read as a parable from a Christian perspective, this feast represents communion. Here is the table of Christian fellowship, where the pilgrim is strengthened, not only by the hospitality of his companions, but also by the spirit of Christ, who is the lord of the camp and host at our common meal.

And so it is that the church is a place of sanctuary and protection from the world, where one can sense the warmth and hospitality and even the love of those who welcome any passing stranger. But the psalm contains promise of strength greater still than that which other people can provide.

"Thou annointest my head with oil, my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life."

Goodness and mercy shall follow. Follow is a rather weak verb. A more accurate translation of the Hebrew would be "pursue." Surely goodness and mercy shall pursue me.

As soldiers pursue an enemy in full retreat, as the hunter tracks his prey; as the wind of winter chases the falling snow, so goodness and mercy shall hunt us down. In this world we are pursued by many different people and causes. We are chased by bill collectors and tax collectors, hunted by salesmen and credit card companies, followed by old age and always by the shadow of sickness and eventually by death. But as the Psalmist declares, we are also pursued by the goodness and mercy of God. Behind the ephemeral events of our daily lives, the spirit of God is at work, watching over us, supporting us, speeding us on our way.   

And so we reach the final step in our journey through time. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Suddenly the walls of the Bedouin tent open up and we are ushered into the very presence of God:

"I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

No one really knows what awaits us beyond the barriers of time and space, yet somehow this image beckons to us like a bright morning star. If it is beautiful and pleasant to come in off the crowded streets and highways to a home filled with warmth and light, how much more beautiful to enter into the very presence of God. This is the same promise and the same image that Jesus used:  "In my fathers house there are many rooms."

At the very close of  life we are as close to God as the new born baby held in its mothers arms. In death we return to the source, so we come full circle. And this map charts out a pilgrimage which takes us all the way from the beginning to the end.

In moments of inspiration we seem to stand like the child in green pastures. Like the characters in the stable at Bethlehem we feel the presence of God pouring down upon us more comforting than the light of the summer's sun. And yet again when that moment of inspiration fades, when the clouds gather, and we find ourselves in the valley of deep darkness, there the foundations of our faith seem to shake. We are put to the test, yet being tested, we find a presence and a power greater than we can either ask or imagine.

We leave the darkness, armed once again with God's sure staff. So that in this wilderness, in the wild places of our daily lives, we can find our way with a sense of courage and a confidence that comes even in the eye of the storm.

And it is here, in the time between the times, that we learn the value of the support that comes from our fellow pilgrims. In moments of intimate conversation, over a meal with our closest friends, breaking the communion bread together, we can say: "Thou preparest a table before me, even in the presence of my enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil, my cup is overflowing."

Finally, as we look ahead, even beyond the limits of this day and age, we are filled with deep conviction: "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow, all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

So in this time between the times, between birth and death, between creation and consummation, between peace and war, as God is our guide the way shall be made plain and the passage sure through the pilgrimage we call our lives. Thanks be to God.

Coined From Here

The author of that anonymous New Testament “Letter to the Hebrews,” apparently writing at a time, like ours, when there was great disagreement, both within the church and the wider culture, about the character and identity of the man called Jesus, attempted to clear things up when he wrote: "Jesus Christ, the same, yesterday, today and forever." 

There has never been universal agreement about Jesus 

Despite the best effort and intentions of that writer and many others, however, there never has been lasting agreement about who Jesus really was. As you look out across the span of history, you quickly realize that there are now, and always have been, countless differing conceptions of Jesus. Even in the first century, when those who had seen and known him personally were still alive, there was heated debate.

The apostle Paul poured out his life to present the Christian message. He traveled from country to country, braving storm and death, trying the keep divided churches together, but no sooner had he squelched one controversy than another sprang up in its place. New teachers and prophets appeared everywhere. There were factions and splinter groups everywhere. From the outset, church leaders saw the need for organization, for this new religion was literally bursting at the seams. 

As a result there gradually developed an amazing system of doctrines and creeds, councils and committees, an ecclesiastical hierarchy, bishops, cardinals and popes. Yet no effort to organize could ever contain the dynamic force that had been unleashed in the person of Jesus Christ.

The history of the church is one of contradiction and conflict: from crusades and holy wars in which tens of thousands are murdered in the name of Jesus, to works of healing and compassion in Christian schools, hospitals and universities. From the inquisitor who tortured heretics with rack and chain, to gentle St. Francis who preached to the sparrows and walked among the lilies; Christians have come to the most contradictory conclusions all in the name of this one man.

Still his gospel touches off the most diverse reactions. There are business executives who believe their success can be attributed to a deep personal faith, while others believe Christ counsels a life of poverty and self-sacrifice. There are Christian tax collectors, and those who refuse to pay taxes in his name. There are Generals of the Army who follow Christ into battle, and there are pacifists who believe that the Christian can only be a soldier of peace. There are Christian Scientists who refuse medical treatment in his name and there are medical doctors who identify Christ as the great physician. There are ministers who preach on network television, so their words can be heard around the world; and there are Quakers who believe that the best worship is in silence.

One explanation for the diversity of opinion in the church is that our differences reflect our limited powers of perception. Remember the old fable about the blind men who were led to the circus to encounter an elephant for the very first time. They reach out to touch different parts of the elephant's body and come to radically difference conclusions about its shape and appearance. On touches its leg and compares the elephant to a tree; another touches its tail and concludes that an elephant is very much like a broom, but the man who reaches out toward the elephant's trunk suddenly finds himself being lifted high in the air. As he is poised there wondering whether he will ever get back down to earth, he shouts down to his companions, "I don't know what elephants look like, but it sure feels like this elephant can fly!"

As it was for the blind men so it is for us. Many of our differences reflect our limited powers of perception. But there is another and I believe more important reason for our diversity. When we examine the variety of Christian experience, when we trace back the various threads of our Christian faith, we are led back inevitably to the root and source of all our diversity, back to Christ himself. 

When you realize that this one man is the source of so many contrasting views, it is tempting to conclude that he was intentionally confusing. Perhaps he did not want a clear understanding of himself to be fixed in the minds of the people. Certainly Jesus did not pour out his soul or preen before the press like present day personalities. In fact, there were moments when he avoided public attention altogether. On several occasions he ordered his disciples to keep what he had said and done secret. 

He refused to stage spectacular miracles that would have guaranteed instant popularity. He did not stay in one place long enough to allow people to know him well. As you read the pages of the New Testament you realize how quickly he moved from place to place. One imagines him striding through a village, stopping to converse with a few individuals for a moment, but then moving on. As he walked through the streets most witnesses would have seen at most a glimpse of him; they would have heard, at most, a few words. They may have witnessed a single act of mercy. But as quickly as he had come, he would go, out across the lake, over the rise of the next hill, up to the high mountains to be alone.

Because he chose this approach, we know all too little about him. The gospels themselves give surprisingly little information. They are short, incredibly short. They give us a rough outline of his last three years, but the rest of his life is largely ignored. We learn more about a contemporary personality in the twenty minutes of a television talk show then we know about Jesus from the entire New Testament. 

Seen in this light it would seem that Christ chose to be a man of mystery. Even those few direct quotations we do have are difficult to understand. He nearly always spoke in parables, parables or sayings which are open to a wide variety of interpretation. 

We can appreciate how ambiguous he was when we consider that his closest disciples often could not agree on what he said. The thirteen men who knew him best constantly misinterpreted his teachings. At the time of his death, not one of them really understood what he had been saying all along. 

When we consider all this: the conflict within the contemporary church, the confusion and contradictions of church history, the controversy even among his closest disciples, we must conclude that he was intentionally bewildering. He came not to solve life's problems, but to stir up even more difficult questions. He takes all of our comfortable clichés and he explodes them before our very eyes. 

Christ came to reveal a God who defies human understanding. He spoke about a God who is greater than any definition, beyond any doctrine, more profound than any philosophy, more beautiful than all nature, more loving than any saint. His purpose was to expose the limits of human knowledge, to prick our human pride and to point beyond himself to the height and breadth and depth of God. 

The prayer of St. Paul in his letter to the Ephesians shows the direction he would have us take. "Out of his infinite glory, wrote Paul, "may he give you power to grasp the breadth and the length, the height and the depth, until knowing the love of Christ which is beyond all knowledge, you are filled with the utter fullness of God.” 

The tragedy is that when we talk about Jesus Christ, we pull him back down into our conventional frame of reference. We try to define him by using the very clichés he came to explode. We make him into a man so pure, so loving, so strong that even the most hard of heart must admire him. 

I once heard a famous preacher describe Christ's physical appearance, his impressive physique, his handsome face. "Jesus," said the preacher, "was the strongest man in the world." I don't know what your view of Jesus is, but you'll find none of this in the New Testament. After all, the size of his biceps is of very little consequence to the salvation of the world.

Nevertheless it is a powerful temptation to project our favorite virtues on him. We cast him in the image of the super hero, and so miss the point entirely. He did not want to be admired as a superman. This is precisely why he was so brief and even blunt. He wanted to direct the attention away from himself, to turn your attention inward, to reveal the thoughts and intentions of your heart, to open your mind to the final religious experience, that state beyond all knowledge, when you are filled with the utter fullness of God.

“Jesus Christ the same yesterday, today and forever.” Yes, Jesus, the same fascinating, yet bewildering presence, the same mystery, the same enigma. Because Christ is really divine, he will always be beyond any human definition. 

Many Christians believe, of course, that one day we will have all our questions about Jesus answered, for he will return to this world in an event referred to as the Second Coming. But did you ever wonder what it would be like if Christ did re-enter our world and stood before you in person? The images from the Bible that describe this event are ones of hope, to be sure, and involve the fulfillment of the deepest human desires, but they also are images of a terrible power set loose upon the world, overturning everything we hold familiar.

In fact, no one knows what awesome events, what momentous turnings await us in the months and years to come. The events that are now taking place in our world, portend great possibilities for good, but also for evil. Who knows what the final consequences will be of the changes that we now see sweeping across so many nations. Have these events something to do with the end of history as some believe? 

Still, whatever the consequences of world events may be, each and every one of us must ask what difference it would make if Christ did return and present himself before us? What difference would it make in your plans for this day, tomorrow or next week if you knew that this were the hour when you would personally confront the living Christ? 

What would be your response if you knew that this were, in fact, the hour that people have been waiting for since the beginning of time? Could it be that the words of that anonymous writer would, in fact, prove to be precisely true, "Jesus, the same, yesterday, today and forever." And that the Jesus we encounter at the end of time, might be the same one who asks not that we bow before him in worship and devotion, but rather that we open our eyes to see the God who is beyond all human knowing?

Who is this man called Jesus?

The author of that anonymous New Testament “Letter to the Hebrews,” apparently writing at a time, like ours, when there was great disagreement, both within the church and the wider culture, about the character and identity of the man called Jesus, attempted to clear things up when he wrote: "Jesus Christ, the same, yesterday, today and forever." 

There has never been universal agreement about Jesus 

Despite the best effort and intentions of that writer and many others, however, there never has been lasting agreement about who Jesus really was. As you look out across the span of history, you quickly realize that there are now, and always have been, countless differing conceptions of Jesus. Even in the first century, when those who had seen and known him personally were still alive, there was heated debate.

The apostle Paul poured out his life to present the Christian message. He traveled from country to country, braving storm and death, trying the keep divided churches together, but no sooner had he squelched one controversy than another sprang up in its place. New teachers and prophets appeared everywhere. There were factions and splinter groups everywhere. From the outset, church leaders saw the need for organization, for this new religion was literally bursting at the seams. 

The church was created, largely, as an attempt to organize the Jesus movement into a coherent whole. It didn't work.

As a result there gradually developed an amazing system of doctrines and creeds, councils and committees, an ecclesiastical hierarchy, bishops, cardinals and popes. Yet no effort to organize could ever contain the dynamic force that had been unleashed in the person of Jesus Christ.

The history of the church is one of contradiction and conflict: from crusades and holy wars in which tens of thousands are murdered in the name of Jesus, to works of healing and compassion in Christian schools, hospitals and universities. From the inquisitor who tortured heretics with rack and chain, to gentle St. Francis who preached to the sparrows and walked among the lilies; Christians have come to the most contradictory conclusions all in the name of this one man.

“Jesus the same, yesterday, today and forever.” Yes, the same riddle the same enigma, the same unsettling power and presence.

Still his gospel touches off the most diverse reactions. There are business executives who believe their success can be attributed to a deep personal faith, while others believe Christ counsels a life of poverty and self-sacrifice. There are Christian tax collectors, and those who refuse to pay taxes in his name. There are Generals of the Army who follow Christ into battle, and there are pacifists who believe that the Christian can only be a soldier of peace. There are Christian Scientists who refuse medical treatment in his name and there are medical doctors who identify Christ as the great physician. There are ministers who preach on network television, so their words can be heard around the world; and there are Quakers who believe that the best worship is in silence.

So, how do we explain all this diversity?

One explanation for the diversity of opinion in the church is that our differences reflect our limited powers of perception. Remember the old fable about the blind men who were led to the circus to encounter an elephant for the very first time. They reach out to touch different parts of the elephant's body and come to radically difference conclusions about its shape and appearance. On touches its leg and compares the elephant to a tree; another touches its tail and concludes that an elephant is very much like a broom, but the man who reaches out toward the elephant's trunk suddenly finds himself being lifted high in the air. As he is poised there wondering whether he will ever get back down to earth, he shouts down to his companions, "I don't know what elephants look like, but it sure feels like this elephant can fly!"

There may be a deeper reason for the diversity of views about Jesus. 

As it was for the blind men so it is for us. Many of our differences reflect our limited powers of perception. But there is another and I believe more important reason for our diversity. When we examine the variety of Christian experience, when we trace back the various threads of our Christian faith, we are led back inevitably to the root and source of all our diversity, back to Christ himself. 

When you realize that this one man is the source of so many contrasting views, it is tempting to conclude that he was intentionally confusing. Perhaps he did not want a clear understanding of himself to be fixed in the minds of the people. Certainly Jesus did not pour out his soul or preen before the press like present day personalities. In fact, there were moments when he avoided public attention altogether. On several occasions he ordered his disciples to keep what he had said and done secret. 

The secrecy of Jesus 

He refused to stage spectacular miracles that would have guaranteed instant popularity. He did not stay in one place long enough to allow people to know him well. As you read the pages of the New Testament you realize how quickly he moved from place to place. One imagines him striding through a village, stopping to converse with a few individuals for a moment, but then moving on. As he walked through the streets most witnesses would have seen at most a glimpse of him; they would have heard, at most, a few words. They may have witnessed a single act of mercy. But as quickly as he had come, he would go, out across the lake, over the rise of the next hill, up to the high mountains to be alone.

A strategy of evasion 

Because he chose this approach, we know all too little about him. The gospels themselves give surprisingly little information. They are short, incredibly short. They give us a rough outline of his last three years, but the rest of his life is largely ignored. We learn more about a contemporary personality in the twenty minutes of a television talk show then we know about Jesus from the entire New Testament. 

Seen in this light it would seem that Christ chose to be a man of mystery. Even those few direct quotations we do have are difficult to understand. He nearly always spoke in parables, parables or sayings which are open to a wide variety of interpretation. 

We can appreciate how ambiguous he was when we consider that his closest disciples often could not agree on what he said. The thirteen men who knew him best constantly misinterpreted his teachings. At the time of his death, not one of them really understood what he had been saying all along. 

He came not to answer questions, but to frame them. 

When we consider all this: the conflict within the contemporary church, the confusion and contradictions of church history, the controversy even among his closest disciples, we must conclude that he was intentionally bewildering. He came not to solve life's problems, but to stir up even more difficult questions. He takes all of our comfortable clichés and he explodes them before our very eyes. 

Bottom line: he came to reveal a God who defies human understanding.

Christ came to reveal a God who defies human understanding. He spoke about a God who is greater than any definition, beyond any doctrine, more profound than any philosophy, more beautiful than all nature, more loving than any saint. His purpose was to expose the limits of human knowledge, to prick our human pride and to point beyond himself to the height and breadth and depth of God. 

The prayer of St. Paul in his letter to the Ephesians shows the direction he would have us take. "Out of his infinite glory, wrote Paul, "may he give you power to grasp the breadth and the length, the height and the depth, until knowing the love of Christ which is beyond all knowledge, you are filled with the utter fullness of God.” 

The tragedy is that when we talk about Jesus Christ, we pull him back down into our conventional frame of reference. We try to define him by using the very clichés he came to explode. We make him into a man so pure, so loving, so strong that even the most hard of heart must admire him. 

I once heard a famous preacher describe Christ's physical appearance, his impressive physique, his handsome face. "Jesus," said the preacher, "was the strongest man in the world." I don't know what your view of Jesus is, but you'll find none of this in the New Testament. After all, the size of his biceps is of very little consequence to the salvation of the world.

He did not want to be an icon, a statue, a clear image fixed in the human imagination and transformed into an idol. 

Nevertheless it is a powerful temptation to project our favorite virtues on him. We cast him in the image of the super hero, and so miss the point entirely. He did not want to be admired as a superman. This is precisely why he was so brief and even blunt. He wanted to direct the attention away from himself, to turn your attention inward, to reveal the thoughts and intentions of your heart, to open your mind to the final religious experience, that state beyond all knowledge, when you are filled with the utter fullness of God.

“Jesus Christ the same yesterday, today and forever.” Yes, Jesus, the same fascinating, yet bewildering presence, the same mystery, the same enigma. Because Christ is really divine, he will always be beyond any human definition. 

What would it be like were Jesus to return, as many believe he will?

Many Christians believe, of course, that one day we will have all our questions about Jesus answered, for he will return to this world in an event referred to as the Second Coming. But did you ever wonder what it would be like if Christ did re-enter our world and stood before you in person? The images from the Bible that describe this event are ones of hope, to be sure, and involve the fulfillment of the deepest human desires, but they also are images of a terrible power set loose upon the world, overturning everything we hold familiar.

In fact, no one knows what awesome events, what momentous turnings await us in the months and years to come. The events that are now taking place in our world, portend great possibilities for good, but also for evil. Who knows what the final consequences will be of the changes that we now see sweeping across so many nations. Have these events something to do with the end of history as some believe? 

Clearly, no one knows the answer to such questions.

Still, whatever the consequences of world events may be, each and every one of us must ask what difference it would make if Christ did return and present himself before us? What difference would it make in your plans for this day, tomorrow or next week if you knew that this were the hour when you would personally confront the living Christ? 

What would be your response if you knew that this were, in fact, the hour that people have been waiting for since the beginning of time? Could it be that the words of that anonymous writer would, in fact, prove to be precisely true, "Jesus, the same, yesterday, today and forever." And that the Jesus we encounter at the end of time, might be the same one who asks not that we bow before him in worship and devotion, but rather that we open our eyes to see the God who is beyond all human knowing?

Reference Material