"The church lived within the cosmopolitan character of the city of Corinth. There was radical individualism emerging in their behavior aberrations, arrogance in regards to spirituality, and accommodation to surrounding culture." - Gordon Fee
"Strength is for service, not status." - Eugene Peterson
"In a healthy church, your strongest are serving and your weakest are prized." - Anonymous
New sermon posted at reliantchurch.org
by Megan Roegner
When I first decided to write about Biblical parents and children, there was one story, I was sure I wasn’t going to touch—it’s too hard, too horrifying. But since I committed to writing about parents and sacrifice, how can I really avoid writing about Abraham and Isaac?
Genesis 22:1 After these things God tested Abraham and said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here am I.” 2 He said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you.” 3 So Abraham rose early in the morning, saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him, and his son Isaac. And he cut the wood for the burnt offering and arose and went to the place of which God had told him. 4 On the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw the place from afar. 5 Then Abraham said to his young men, “Stay here with the donkey; I and the boy will go over there and worship and come again to you.” 6 And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on Isaac his son. And he took in his hand the fire and the knife. So they went both of them together. 7 And Isaac said to his father Abraham, “My father!” And he said, “Here am I, my son.” He said, “Behold, the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” 8 Abraham said, “God will provide for himself the lamb for a burnt offering, my son.” So they went both of them together.
9 When they came to the place of which God had told him, Abraham built the altar there and laid the wood in order and bound Isaac his son and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. 10 Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to slaughter his son.
I’m not sure it’s OK to say you don’t like a Bible story, but I don’t like this Bible story. However, I do think there are some things that are interesting. First of all, the chapter starts off with “After these things.” What things, you ask? Well, in the previous few chapters, Abraham has, among other events: claimed his wife was his sister twice and given her away to other men (apparently, Sarah was a knockout); laughed when God told him he and Sarah would have a child; and impregnated Sarah’s maid and then cast her and his son Ishmael out because of Sarah’s jealousy (however, God did tell him to do what Sarah said). I suppose “after these things,” Abraham deserved to be tested by God. But what a test!
Another thing I found interesting is that when God tells Abraham to sacrifice Isaac (reminding him that he is his only son, whom he loves), the author of Genesis does not note Abraham’s reaction—we don’t know if he was shocked, scared, sad, regretful, all we know is that immediately the next day he set out to Moriah to sacrifice his son. Similarly, I’m not sure how to interpret Abraham’s instruction to the servants, which indicates that both he and Isaac will be returning after their worship. Is Abraham saying this so the servants don’t suspect what he is about to do? Or is he confident that God will not make him go through with the sacrifice? The editors of my Lutheran Study Bible say that Abraham believed God would resurrect Isaac, and they know a lot more than me. Then, when Isaac asks where the lamb to be sacrificed is, Abraham says that God will provide the lamb. Is Abraham trying to hide the truth from his son for as long as possible, or is this more evidence to suggest that he believes God will intervene?
What does this story teach today’s parents? I think that the story of Abraham and Isaac is a very painful lesson for very well-meaning parents. Lately I’ve had a very hard time finding balance between my faith life and motherhood. Those of you who attend Reliant are without a doubt aware that Sam can be…shall we say…rambunctious. If either Jeremy or I are not chasing him around downstairs, we’re frantically pulling toys and snacks out of the diaper bag in a desperate attempt to keep him entertained. It doesn’t make for a very worshipful experience. I used to pray every night before bed. Now, I’m asleep within nanoseconds of my head hitting the pillow. I used to be a part of a community group, which I loved and was nourished by, now my evenings center around Sam’s seven o’clock bedtime. In fact, more than just my evenings center on Sam. I’m constantly tempted to make him the most important part of my life, and that’s a weak foundation—a job that’s much too big for a baby, no matter how energetic. Saying motherhood makes me too busy to put God first may sound like a noble excuse, but it’s still just an excuse. With Abraham and Isaac, God shows that even the bond between parent and child is not to come before Him.
Of course, the story doesn’t end with Abraham’s knife poised about his beloved son:
11 But the angel of the Lord called to him from heaven and said, “Abraham, Abraham!” And he said, “Here am I.” 12 He said, “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him, for now I know that you fear God, seeing you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” 13 And Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, behind him was a ram, caught in a thicket by his horns. And Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. 14 So Abraham called the name of that place, “The Lord will provide”; as it is said to this day, “On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided.”
15 And the angel of the Lord called to Abraham a second time from heaven 16 and said, “By myself I have sworn, declares the Lord, because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son, 17 I will surely bless you, and I will surely multiply your offspring as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore. And your offspring shall possess the gate of his enemies, 18 and in your offspring shall all the nations of the earth be blessed, because you have obeyed my voice.”
The thing that really interests me in the end of the story is that earlier Isaac asks where the sacrificial lamb is and Abraham responds that God will provide the lamb. But what God sends is a ram. God tells Abraham that Isaac, the young innocent lamb, is the sacrifice, but the real sacrifice is Abraham, the old ram, who must deny every human and fatherly instinct to show that He places God above everything else.
I have to admit, I’m not there with Abraham. Not yet. I am such a sinner. Thankfully, this story is another that directly points to Christ. Just like Abraham, God is willing to sacrifice his only Son, whom He loves. But, of course, no one intervened in that sacrifice. And in Abraham’s hope, we see our own—that God resurrects the Son, the happy ending that only His grace provides.
by Megan Roegner
I’ve read Ruth more than any other book of the Bible. I’m a little bit embarrassed to admit I’ve read it so much because it’s romantic. Well, at least in my imagination it is…Ruth and Boaz cast fleeting looks at each other across the barley field; her heart skips a beat when Naomi tells her to meet him on threshing floor; Boaz is gripped with anxiety at the thought of another man being Ruth’s kinsman redeemer; and they live happily ever after. Sigh…
But that’s not why I’m writing about Ruth today. Last week, I wrote about how Mary’s role as a mother teaches us about sacrifice and joy. Throughout the Bible there is a motif of sacrificial love displayed through the parent-child relationship. Jesus is sacrificial love personified, and hundreds of years before His birth, we see that God is preparing His people for His arrival. There are many different levels of parent-child sacrifice shown in Ruth.
First is the sacrifice Ruth makes as a loving daughter to Naomi. The most famous verse in Ruth is the vow she gives Naomi: “For where 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” (1:22). What an incredible promise for Ruth to make! To leave her home and everything familiar out of devotion to a woman who could provide her little to no security must have taken tremendous courage and strength of character. Ruth must have had to make many smaller sacrifices after this: She must sacrifice her pride to become a beggar, gleaning in Boaz’s fields. When she is sent by Naomi to prostrate herself at Boaz’s feet on the threshing floor, some small part of her must have been willing to sacrifice her reputation.
Another level of sacrifice is the role of Boaz as the kinsman redeemer. A kinsman redeemer was needed to provide for a childless widow and give her late husband an heir; his biological son would be considered the legal son of the woman’s dead husband. Despite the glorious romance I envision, “redeeming” Ruth and Naomi is a sacrifice for Boaz because his future son and the land he was required to buy and tend would never be fully his.
When Ruth and Boaz do have a son, this seems to contain another level of sacrifice for Ruth as well as Boaz. This young, first-time mother has her baby, and her mother-in-law takes him over! “And the women of the neighborhood gave him a name, saying, ‘A son has been born to Naomi’” (4:17). OK, I’m exaggerating, and knowing Ruth’s selflessness, I’m sure she didn’t mind anyway. But as a new mother myself, I see this as a lesson on how a child does not just belong to his parents, he is also a valuable part of a community. When my son Samuel was a newborn, this was hard for me to comprehend. There were many family members and friends who claimed Samuel in one way or another as their own. It was easy for me to feel possessive, but I found that there was so much more to be gained when I was willing to “give” Samuel to those who loved him too. At his Baptism, it was an awe-inspiring comfort and blessing to see him surrounded by people who promised to help guide him and teach him in his faith.
This child of Ruth’s is named Obed, which means “one who serves.” Obed is the father of Jesse, who is the father of King David. The return for Boaz’s and Ruth’s sacrifice is being the great-grandparents of Israel’s greatest king. And, of course, it doesn’t end there since Jesus is of the lineage of David. The Book of Ruth truly foreshadows the Messiah in many ways. At the heart of it is the love between parents and children and the big and small sacrifices we sometimes are called to make in these relationships. The happy ending is that we gain much more than we are asked to give.
by Megan Roegner
There is one part of the Christmas story that has always captured my attention more than any other: “But Mary treasured up these things, pondering them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). That sentence has always been so beautifully poetic to me, especially in the context of the rest of the reading: In Luke 2: 8-21, ten sentences start with the word “And.” I imagine a flurry of activity surrounding the birth of Jesus. The angels are singing, the shepherds are worshipping—Luke’s narration can barely keep up—“And…And…And.” Only verse 19 starts with “But.” Only Mary is still, a lull in the storm. I love the verb “treasured,” showing the priceless worth of the experience. My very favorite part is “pondering them in her heart.” Pondering is usually the in the domain of the mind, but Mary ponders in her heart, a blend of thought and emotion, of wisdom and feeling. Young, inexperienced Mary becomes a symbol of the most profound joy.
On Christmas Eve 2009, I was nine months pregnant. When the pastor read this verse, I could feel my baby move inside me, and I started to understand what this verse really means. Two weeks later, my son Samuel was born. There were so many things to treasure up—his comforting warmth on my chest, his sweet milky smell, watching my husband become a father. I remember once at the hospital, Jeremy and I were watching Samuel sleep. He wasn’t doing anything—his chest was just rising and falling gently, and yet it kept us transfixed. I loved him so much that I wanted to cry (and did). But my joyful pondering led me to an unexpected epiphany. I wondered to Jeremy in amazement at the idea that this was probably how our parents felt about us. How incredible that someone could love me this way!
God reveals different aspects of himself through our experiences, and becoming a parent has helped me understand what it means to be a child. The love I have for my son is sacrificial—if I could, I would take the burden of every pain and every sadness and bear it myself without hesitation. But to be honest, that is what I expected to feel even before I knew what it would actually feel like. This kind of sacrificial love is expected from parents. However, how often do we think about what it means to be that child a parent would die for? It is overwhelming and a little bit disconcerting to think about being the recipient of such a sacrifice. Immediately, at least for me, feelings of unworthiness creep up, the fear of being a disappointment. When I think back to Sam, though, I know that no sleepless nights now or teenage hijinks in the future will bear any weight on my love for him. My love just is; how astounding to know that this pales in comparison with God’s perfect and eternal love for me.
On the other end of the spectrum, once a child has accepted a parent’s sacrifice, it becomes too easy to take it for granted. Even though it seems as though the Christmas season has just ended, Lent will be here soon—it’s a season Lutherans love with its solemnity and minor chords and the drama of the Passion. But maybe it sometimes becomes a little too familiar. This year, when I feel like I’ve lost my grip on the enormity of the sacrifice God has made for me, I’m going to think of Mary.
I like the fact that Luke never reveals what exactly Mary ponders as she treasures up the experience of Jesus’ birth. I imagine, after giving birth in a stable and then being visited by any number of earthly and heavenly creatures, one deserves a moment of private reflection. I have to wonder, though, if she had yet begun to imagine the pain that would accompany the honor of being the mother of the Messiah. Did she ever think about Isaiah’s prophecies?
Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his stripes we are healed. (53:4-5)
If Mary is a symbol of profound joy during Christmas, she is a symbol of the deepest grief on Good Friday, kneeling powerless at the foot of the cross as her son is being killed in the most horrifying way for others’ sins, for her sins—the mother becomes the child, the recipient of the ultimate sacrifice. As a parent, I can’t imagine anything worse. No amount of suffering I bear would equate to watching my son suffer and being powerless to stop it.
Thankfully, Mary’s story doesn’t end at the foot of the cross, and neither does ours. After suffering his death, Mary witnesses her son’s resurrection—what indescribable joy that must have been! Becoming a parent has helped me understand this joy even more. I think it’s interesting that in the last reference to Mary by name in the Bible, Acts 1:14, she is praying together with the other disciples after Jesus’ ascension. Contrasting with her private moment in Luke 2, in Acts 1 she is an active part of a community of believers. Mary ultimately becomes a symbol of how the joy of the resurrection is not just to be pondered, but shared.
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