Hebrews 2:5-18 · Jesus Made Like His Brothers
Not What You Expected
Hebrews 2:10-18
Sermon
by John N. Brittain
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Some years ago, my wife and I took a group of students on a short-term mission trip to Belize, the only English-speaking country in Central America, where our main task was refurbishing a church-run elementary school. At the end of our time there, the congregation held a celebration dinner and program including traditional foods, costumes, songs, and stories: One of them was a traditional children's story. It told of a monster who would periodically come out of the thickets and eat bad little children, tearing them limb from limb. The storyteller was very effective in evoking terror with her vivid details, and it was clear how some of the behaviors resulting in their punishment might be avoided as a result of hearing the story. But, of course, there was a good boy in the village. Eventually, he came up with a plan: He lured the child-eating monster out of hiding, took his trusty machete (pronounced "match-it" in Belize), and quite graphically chopped the miserable creature to bits. Our college group was stunned. My early-childhood-professor wife would remind us all that the original Grimm Brothers' tales had a good bit of violence and that we have become too comfortable with the sweetened up Disney and Golden Book variety of children's stories. But I have to confess that this traditional tale was not what I would have expected in a "good child overcomes the monster" yarn. Obviously, at least part of the problem was with us.

Similarly, were I to tell you that the epistle lesson for today talks about God the Father, his gift of the Son, children, and angels, it would seem like a natural. So the somewhat-dense reading from Hebrews may have struck you as a little heavy-duty. It is not the Hallmark-card rendition of those things. As Christians, we no more have to ignore the Hallmark version than I have to give up my Disney version of the three pigs, but we are called to acknowledge that there is more and be willing to dig into it. The writer of Hebrews wants to make sure we do not overlook the significance of doctrines like the incarnation, atonement, and sanctification, nor does he want Christians to minimize the reality of suffering and difficulty in our lives. There are many important things about Jesus becoming human, and we must not lose sight of them in the fog of the beautiful baby and young mother in the stable.

The first thing that jumps out from the text is one of the poles around which our Christian lives revolve: that our end is important! God's goal in sending Jesus, the writer says, is in bringing many children to glory. The fact that this goes against so much pop-psychology (not to mention pop-Christianity) makes it urgent that we understand what is being said here: A very important part of the Father's work in sending the Son is making glorification, the perfecting of the saints, possible. The truth is that we sometimes react negatively to teachings about "glory" with good reason — because they have been abused. People have been told to suffer injustice and degradation in this world because they will be vindicated in the next. The escapist theology of the Left Behind series (or for that matter the popular Christian "rescue" novels of the late nineteenth century or the traditional teachings of Darbyism) has given focusing too much on the end and not the journey a bad name.

John Wesley had no use for "Quietists," who sat back passively waiting for God to do something, and many of us have appropriately emphasized that what we do in the here and now is of great importance. "It is not so much the destination as it is the journey.... It is not just the product but the process," we have intoned with the self-help gurus, and not without good cause. In May 2006, Bill Cosby was on a speaking tour of eighteen cities, encouraging concerned African Americans to look for answers from within their own communities. He said this in Washington DC: "I have no problem with Jesus or God. I have a problem with people sitting there saying that Jesus and God will find the way. I have a problem with Christian men who won't dress up and go down and confront the drug dealers." I assume we all would agree with him. However, there is has always been the danger of allowing our understanding of Christianity to devolve to one of mere humanitarianism or moralism. (More on the "mere" part later.) Hebrews 2:10 seems to say in boldface that the incarnation has less to do with moral improvement than it does with bringing one to the end of our journey, to being perfected, to bringing many children to glory.

If the end has been over-emphasized by some groups, perhaps the process has gotten too much spotlight in others. As much as I love Matthew 25:31 with its teachings about feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, providing the cup of water, visiting the prisoners, and providing hospitality for the neighbor, for example, I do have to remember that it is one of a set of parables about final judgment. There is the parable of the ten bridesmaids, five of whom made adequate preparation for the arrival of the bridegroom and five of whom were caught short because of a lack of such preparation. What they failed to do had ramifications at the end. There is the parable we often call the parable of the talents, which is really about how the three individuals of whom Jesus spoke made use of that which they had been entrusted. You remember how the first two made good investments while the last fellow buried the money in a hole for safekeeping.

Again, the denouement of the story is not just that two made better decisions and one a worse, but that what they did had an impact on how they were rewarded or punished by the master. Then there is the scene in Matthew 25 emphasizing how one is judged as a Christian. The judgment is based on what one has done by clothing, feeding, visiting, and providing hospitality. But some of us neglect the fact that it is a parable of judgment, about whether one enters into eternal punishment or eternal life (Matthew 25:46). Of course, preparation, prudence, and compassion are all worthwhile in their own right, but in Jesus' parables, as in the beginning of today's lesson, it is the end product that is emphasized: "bringing many children to glory."

Here is where things appear to get tricky: The text goes on to say that it was fitting that God should make this all possible through Jesus, the pioneer of the salvation of those who are saved and perfected, through sufferings. Our end, being perfected in the faith, is important but the incarnation of Jesus as a real person just like us and how he lived and suffered is important as well. If our end is one pole around which our understanding of the Christian life revolves, then the reality of the incarnation, the importance of Jesus' humanity (and ours) is the other. Jesus, the second person of the trinity, the pre-existent one through whom the worlds were created, is able to quote the psalms (since he was in the psalmist):

I will proclaim your name to my brothers and sisters, in the midst of the congregation I will praise you. I will put my trust in him. Here am I and the children whom God has given me.I will proclaim your name to my brothers and sisters,  in the midst of the congregation I will praise you. I will put my trust in him. Here am I and the children whom God has given me.

He was really one of us here in this world!

Thinking back for a moment to those three parables in Matthew 25, we could interpret them this way: The wise virgins did the right thing in prudently caring for their lamps because they properly understood the significance of the coming of the bridegroom; the servants who wisely invested their master's funds understood their responsibility toward him and did the right thing; the ones who were welcomed into the heavenly realm had treated their fellows compassionately because they were able to perceive (perhaps unconsciously) Christ in them. They did what was right because they had a vision of the end in sight. This is how their actions are different from what I earlier called mere humanitarianism or moralism. The actions might be identical — preparation, prudence, compassion — but the motivation and therefore the staying power is different.

What accounts for the failures in those stories? In the case of the five virgins who allowed their lights to falter, the text is explicit: They grew weary and dozed off. Doing what is right is tiring and discouraging. Paul exhorted the Galatians, "So let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest time, if we do not give up" (Galatians 6:9). Jesus, who shared our flesh and blood, surely knew weariness and discouragement. The fellow who buried his sum of money did so because he misunderstood the opportunity the master had afforded him. Rather than perceive being entrusted with tangible treasure as an opportunity for service, he saw it only as a test. In that memorable line he pathetically explains, "I was afraid" (Matthew 25:25). Is this not one of the gravest dangers of religious faith that deteriorates into moralism? The motivating factor becomes fear, fear of being judged, fear of going to hell, rather than seeing the opportunity for service and growth, of going on to perfection, even when it means through suffering (Hebrews 2:10). In his sojourn on earth, Jesus understood service to God as his life's calling, but nowhere does fear of failure play a role. Even in the scene in Gethsemane that so supremely demonstrates the humanity of Jesus, it is obedience rather than fear that is shown: "Not my will, but yours be done." It was dedication to his loving parent, Abba, not fear of punishment that was his motivation.

So what is going on here? Is this all double talk? No, this text is reminding us of these two important poles: the end, which effects how, we live our lives here and now and how we live our lives here and now, which affects the end. We, like Jesus, are both mortal and immortal and the two are inexplicably linked. We tend to choose, but we know that neither choice works very well. Perhaps we focus on the immortal and become quietistic, too passive, and too unaware of this world and its needs. But the reading brings us up short: "It is clear that [Jesus] did not come to help angels, but the descendants of Abraham" (Hebrews 2:16). God is really concerned with life in this world. There is a great danger of us, as believers, becoming more spiritual than God. When Irenaeus famously said, "The glory of God is a person fully alive," he meant a person in this world as well as in the next.

Or maybe we become humanists, focusing all our time and effort on the overwhelming needs at hand. We know that doesn't work. Some years ago, when the topic "burn-out" was all the rage, there were many, including many Christians, who pooh-poohed the notion of burning out. Their motto became, "I'd rather flame out than burn out." Sounds dynamic and Type-A, doesn't it? But some sage pointed out the fallacy. Whether you flame out, they wrote, or burn out, you are still out. God calls us to stay in, to not grow weary.

Because of its imagery and modeling from the Hebrew Bible, many Christians have ignored the book of Hebrews (just as we have ignored the Hebrew Bible for that matter), which emphasizes holding these two poles together not so much in tension as in synergy. "Since ... the children share flesh and blood, he himself likewise shared the same things...." And why? Why the infant and mother? "So that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death." The fact that this combination of Christmas Eve with Holy Week strikes many modern Christians as odd at best and perverse at worst shows how much we have forgotten, or never learned, about this great theme of Hebrews.

It is, in the words of Gustav Aulén, that, "The work of Christ is first and foremost a victory over the powers which hold mankind in bondage: sin, death, and the devil."1 In his 1931 book, Christus Victor, Aulén drew attention to this theme of Hebrews, which was of enormous importance to the early church: that the significance of the life and work of Jesus is not so much to be found in a set of ideas or doctrines as in a drama, a passion story of God triumphing over the powers and principalities of this age thereby liberating humanity from the bondage of debilitating sin.

We can no more separate Christ's trials and death from his life or birth than we can separate an understanding of Abe Lincoln's presidency from his youth in a log cabin. And yet, this is exactly what many of us have done. We have isolated snippets from the writings of Paul, for example, that seem to make plausible a legalistic or formalized salvation experience after which we sit back and wait for heaven. If we read the gospel at all, we should know instinctively that there is something wrong with that picture. Or we regard Jesus as a wonderful person — even more wonderful than Honest Abe — and do the best we can to follow his example, hoping that the future will somehow take care of itself. And it doesn't work. Once again we try to choose one pole over the other instead of seeing both: it is grace or works; it is this world or the next. Hebrews reminds us that it is both.

"But did not Christ pay the penalty for our sins on the cross," someone will ask, "did he not pay the ransom for us? That's what I've always been taught." And the answer is, "Yes, but don't make a legal scheme of the word ‘ransom.' " Jesus himself warned his disciples against thinking that their choseness somehow made them privileged and removed from the world of pain: "... whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many" (Mark 10:44-45). Christ entered into human misery and wickedness and thus redeemed it, and so should we. Irenaeus called this "recapitulation" (re-creation). Jesus became what we are so that we could become what he is, he (Irenaeus) taught.

Paul Tillich, over a half century ago, put it well:

... salvation is not a magic procedure by which we lose our finiteness. It is rather a judgment which declares that we do not deserve to die, because we are justified — a judgment which is not based on anything that we have done, for then certainly we would not have faith in it. But it is based on something that Eternity itself has done, something that we can hear and see, in the reality of a mortal man who by his own death has conquered him who has the power of death.2... salvation is not a magic procedure by which we lose our finiteness. It is rather a judgment which declares that we do not deserve to die, because we are justified — a judgment which is not based on anything that we have done, for then certainly we would not have faith in it. But it is based on something that Eternity itself has done, something that we can hear and see, in the reality of a mortal man who by his own death has conquered him who has the power of death.2

If all of this seems rather hard to get your head around, you are in good company. In 1526 William Tyndale was translating the New Testament into English — one of the very first to do so. And he realized that there was no good word in English to convey the work of Christ, not just on the cross but in his life and in his vindication from death. There were words like "reconciliation," to bring together what had been apart, and "propitiation," to do something that causes another to look upon us with favor. But they did not adequately convey biblical truth. So Tyndale created a new word from two existing English words: "at" and "onement" (which obviously meant "put together") to form "atonement." Christ's sacrifice is "atonement" by becoming human as we are, by pioneering a path of service to God even through suffering, by being raised from death so that we, who are "held in slavery by fear of death" (Hebrews 2:15) may be set free.

The point is not that Christians have invented words like "atonement" just to be obstinate. It is that Christian theology — the Christian story — really is so distinct from secular understandings of things that it has sometimes been forced to coin its own language. This passage reminds us that there is a lot at stake in the incarnation. A lot more than just a precious baby and a young mother.

Of course, you still have the crib up and the cards out. It's okay to look at them. The manger scene is part of Christmas. Today's lesson, however, reminds us to put it in a larger context. "Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested" (Hebrews 2:18). Amen.


1. Gustav Aulén, Christus Victor (London: S.P.C.K., 1931), p. 20.

2. Paul Tillich, The Shaking of the Foundations (New York: Peter Smith Publisher, Inc., 1988).

CSS Publishing, Inc., Sermons for Sundays in Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany: With Our Own Eyes, by John N. Brittain