Hebrews 4:1-13 · A Sabbath-Rest for the People of God
Like a Child
Hebrews 4:1—5:10
Sermon
by Lee Ann Dunlap
Loading...

Angela was still a pre-schooler the Christmas Grandpa Harvey got her the red Radio Flyer wagon, and by summer it had become a popular item in the family's backyard. When her younger sister learned to toddle along sometime later they made a game of pulling each other, often with the help of Mom or Dad.

As is known to happen with siblings, one afternoon the cooperative play turned competitive, then became a heated argument. And so it was that Angela informed her little sister in a physical way that this was indeed her little red wagon, and hers alone. Before their parents could intervene the whole matter was succinctly solved. "Don't cry. It's okay," Angela declared to her sobbing sister with absolute confidence. "I'll just tell Grandpa, and he'll buy you a wagon, too."

Now little red wagons are not a dime a dozen, and Grandpa Harvey was not known to be a doting grandparent, nor was it his habit to lavish toys willy-nilly — even upon his grandchildren. In all her four years of living, Angela had never once asked him for anything more than to sit on his lap, but when the story made its rounds amidst the family grapevine her words of trust found their mark. And as if on cue, her prophecy was fulfilled and a second little red wagon found its way into the backyard, courtesy of Grandpa Harvey. For Grandpa, it was a matter of honor.

It would seem that a child's unqualified trust has the power of nearly supernatural proportion at times, melting the resolve of even the most rigid adults. That power is matched by some children's unlimited capacity to ask for anything from anyone, at anytime — strangers included. Ask any adult with a freezer full of Girl Scout cookies or twenty chocolate candy bars from the fourth grade class fundraiser.

Take for instance eight-year-old Travis and his cousin Lisa, who knocked on an elderly neighbor's door one afternoon with a handful of dried wildflowers and an intriguing business proposal:

"Um, you don't want to buy some weeds, do you?"

"Well, how much do you want for them?"

"Oh, a penny."

And he got it! He got a nickel in fact. Of course he got it — and more. What adult could resist?

Absolute dependence and absolute trust, combined with a penchant for shameless petitioning — that pretty much describes the spirit of early childhood. Then, somewhere along the way, things change. Sometimes we get rebuked and scolded; some of us get neglected or abused — and we stop trusting. Sometimes we are made to feel ashamed of our need, and we stop asking. We learn, "I can do that myself," and we are expected to do just that, and we stop depending.

Somewhere along the line we stop asking and we start demanding. We stop believing in others' generosity, and we start fending for ourselves. We stop trusting and we start manipulating; we stop begging and we start earning. It's called growing up and, for the most part, growing up is a good thing — but sad in a way, too.

Odd, isn't it, that our healthy physical and emotional growth toward maturity involves moving from infantile dependence to adult autonomy; but our spiritual maturation requires movement in the opposite direction? Those to whom we would point as saintly, or "perfected in faith," display as the hallmark of their lives a total trust in God's benign providence, a recognition of their own absolute dependence upon that providence, and the intimacy to "take it to the Lord in prayer." Growing up spiritually means that we live before God in the same condition that we entered the human realm — exposed, helpless, and crying out for what we need. Getting to that place is the journey of a lifetime.

But too many times, when it comes to our prayer lives, we just don't get it. Few of us hesitate to pray for the needs of others, particularly our friends and family. We are even able on occasion to petition for our own physical needs, but if we tell the truth about ourselves, most of us would admit that the journey to a place of childlike honesty and innocence, of intimacy and vulnerability before the face of God, is a journey we humans tend to avoid rather than embrace. Like the Hebrew children traveling to Canaan's promised land, we seek out the shortcuts and safe havens of false gods and false security, only to end up wandering the wastelands. Sadly enough, many of us, like them, perish in those wastelands. Dealing with a zealous God face-to-face is a frightening thing, and many choose alternate routes.

One of those all-too-perilous detours on this journey we might call "the head trip." It is a path chosen by clergy and laity alike, and can be recognized at denominational conferences, in local church Bible studies, as well as the local coffee shop. The first step on this path begins when we shift our focus toward conversing (and often arguing) with others regarding the finer theological propositions about God rather than engaging in intimate conversations with God.

The preacher who penned the Epistle to the Hebrews saw his own congregation wandering this treacherous path as they entered their popular culture's dialogue regarding the nature and activity of angels and other heavenly beings. Many converts from a pagan background practiced a kind of angel reverence as a way of hedging their bets against the chaotic forces that seemed so threatening. These heavenly creatures have their role, the preacher acknowledged, but that role is secondary to the glory of the crucified Christ. It is Christ and Christ alone who has the power to intercede on our behalf. No other intermediary is necessary or effective.

Make no mistake, theological reflection and dialogue are a necessary part of spiritual growth, but books and seminars and exegetical debates are no substitute for personal prayer and corporate worship. Separated from a healthy devotional life these "head trip" activities leave us as hungry and thirsty as those wandering Hebrews. Before we begin spouting our ideas and doctrines about God we must first engage in conversation with God. Only then will we have any proclamation worth hearing.

Another dangerous detour that tempts us on the spiritual journey could be called "the business trip" (or rather the "busy-ness trip"). We might recognize this path by its hectic pace and flurry of activity, often centering on church or community work under the banner of Christian service. Caught up in the busyness of doing for Christ we neglect being with Christ.

The congregation to which Hebrews was written was wrestling with their Jewish heritage and some persistent voices from within their group that demanded adherence to the Mosaic traditions and Law in addition to the Christian confession. Faith in Jesus is well and good, they declared, but those "good works" insured extra protection from the perils of the journey.

No one wishes to discourage Christian service. Most certainly, service projects, social justice campaigns, charitable fund-raisers, and church committee meetings all have their necessary place in Christian community. But when they become a diversion from the more rugged path of intimate prayer time our trek toward spiritual maturity takes a dangerous turn indeed. For the spiritually mature, service to others flows from our devotional life, and makes a poor substitute for it.

What is it about the steep path of prayer that scares us so? — so much so that we seek out the easier routes? Like those Hebrews gazing upon the fire and smoke of Mount Sinai we recognize that penetrating the presence of the living God is cause for awe and wonder, and more than a little fear. Placing one's self in the presence of such a God does indeed make one vulnerable and powerless. The word used in the text from Hebrews carries several nuances:

•"laid bare" and vulnerable — as in the jugular vein of an animal about to be slaughtered

•laid out like a patient on the operating table before the surgeon — that's Eugene Peterson's image

•"all are naked" before God — that's the NRSV translation

None of these images are particularly comfortable. Adults have hang-ups about nakedness and vulnerability — particularly in the presence of someone with power over us, but for little children this is not so. If you've ever chased a naked two-year-old around the room (or the front yard!) with a diaper in hand, you know it's the truth. Little children have no concern about who sees their private parts, and a few downright enjoy the exhibition!

But before long, we learn to cover up — not just our bodies, but also our emotions, and our hopes and dreams — and, more than that, our flaws and failures and misdeeds. Like Adam in the Garden of Eden, we weave garments to hide our shame. We hide our guilt beneath garments of rationalization and blame; we cover our fear and pain with the mantle of addiction. We conceal our true neediness with an attitude of indifference, and we avoid true intimacy with God and others under the disguise of self-righteousness.

But, as the scripture insists, it is a futile endeavor. The Word of God is sharper than any two-edged sword. Eugene Peterson's paraphrase reads "a surgeon's scalpel." It cuts through the surface of skin, muscle, and bone into the depths of our soul. Jesus, the Living Word, penetrates our defenses and cuts to our core. No body-armor can stop him. No head trip can deflect him, and no busyness of life can obscure his gaze.

What we tend to forget, however, is that the knife which penetrates our soul is the Word-Made-Flesh — sharing our humanity and interceding on our behalf. In the hand of the Great Physician, the scalpel becomes an instrument of healing. From the heart of God, the word of judgment we so often fear, becomes the word of forgiveness and restoration.

"For we do not have a great high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weakness, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are — yet was without sin." The beauty of a two-edged sword is that it cuts both ways. The one who is able to see into the depths of our soul is also our high priest who has penetrated the mysteries of heaven and gained access to the very heart of God.

In Old Testament tradition, the function of the high priest is to "draw near" (that's the meaning of the word in Hebrew). He functions as an intermediary, drawing the people into the presence of God, and bringing God into contact with the people. In Christian understanding, it is Jesus who embodies this work most completely. In his humanity, Jesus, the Son of God, made himself totally vulnerable and obedient and dependent — living his life in a state of complete reliance upon God. Because of that reliance, this great high priest goes before heaven's throne to petition the Almighty without shame or embarrassment of his need or desires. "Don't worry, it's okay," he assures us. "I'll just tell the Father, and he'll provide exactly what you need."

"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." Let's stop trying to manipulate God's favor and instead trust in God's generosity. Let's stop laboring to acquire for ourselves what God has promised to provide in due time. "Let us hold firmly to the faith we profess." Let us pray with the confidence of children.

CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Sermons on the Second Reading: Sermons for Sundays after Pentecost (Last Third), Travel Tips for Fellow Pilgrims: Lessons Learned along the Way, by Lee Ann Dunlap