The Lesson of Leah

You can be forgiven if you don’t know much about Leah, Jacob’s first but least-favorite wife. Even my Bible heading names the section we’re discussing “Jacob’s Children”. Yet over the past few years this brief passage has become for me a lifeline, and Leah one of my faith she-ros. Let’s look at the lesson of Leah. 

(For context, read Genesis 29.)

We all know what it feels like to play second fiddle to someone who seems to have it all. One of the lessons I’ve learned as I’ve grown older is that every one of us has that experience. If you’re thinking of someone you’ve always felt second to, you can be sure that in some area of her life she has someone she’s always felt second to. It’s part of our human condition, a result of the Fall that leaves us constantly aware that something is lacking in us. 

Leah played second to her younger sister - and everyone, even her father, affirmed Rachel’s beauty and desirability over Leah’s. Laban wasn’t exalting Leah when he snuck her under the wedding veil - he was protecting himself from having to support a daughter he had decided wouldn’t be able to find a husband on her own. 

So Leah comes into a marriage to Jacob, the deceiver, under false pretenses. She lives her honeymoon week knowing it would be the only week she would ever have as Jacob’s only wife. She watches his disappointment at her, his undisguised eagerness for another woman, his willingness to sleep with her but not love her. Scripture names Jacob’s attitude toward her: Hatred. 

But Leah’s devastating marriage was only the beginning of her story. Reread Genesis 29:31-35.

When the LORD saw that Leah was hated, he opened her womb, but Rachel was barren. And Leah conceived and bore a son, and she called his name Reuben, for she said, "Because the LORD has looked upon my affliction; for now my husband will love me." She conceived again and bore a son, and said, "Because the LORD has heard that I am hated, he has given me this son also." And she called his name Simeon. Again she conceived and bore a son, and said, "Now this time my husband will be attached to me, because I have borne him three sons." Therefore his name was called Levi. And she conceived again and bore a son, and said, "This time I will praise the LORD." Therefore she called his name Judah. Then she ceased bearing.

God saw Leah. He gave her the honor - and in that culture it was an honor - of bearing Jacob’s first four sons. For once in her life, Leah found herself in first place in at least one arena of life. Rachel was even jealous of her (see Gen. 30:1). But childbirth wasn’t Leah’s ultimate salvation from her misery. The lesson I’ve learned from Leah truly begins as reality dawns on her that nothing, not even the honor of four sons to Rachel’s none, would earn her husband’s love. 

Leah names each of her sons, and through her words around their names we can see her heart change: 

• “Now my husband will love me” 

• “God heard I'm hated” 

• “Now my husband will be attached to me” 

• “This time I will praise the Lord”. 

Stop for a minute and look at Leah’s progression. She starts off as any bride would, just wanting to earn Jacob’s love (Reuben means “See, a son” - you can even hear her plea to Jacob in the name). She realizes God hears and knows of her situation, but it’s still not enough (Simeon sounds like “heard”). With Levi, she settles for just wanting Jacob to be attached to her (the meaning of Levi is “attached”). My heart breaks for her at this moment. She’s given up on love. She just wants Jacob to come to her for more than physical satisfaction. She longs for connection. 

Before you discount this lesson as meaningless because you’re not married or because your marriage is blissful, think about that longing. All of us as image bearers are created for connection - created to connect with God and with others in genuine, deep community. It’s such a deep longing, a good longing, that solitary confinement is considered the worst punishment and is generally saved for the worst offenders in prison. It’s a longing that prompts Christians to walk for hours to a church gathering in a country where church is illegal. It’s a longing that leads many into relationship addictions and keeps people trapped in unhealthy patterns. Somewhere inside of us, married or not, we all long for connection. And because we live in a fallen world, we’ve all been disappointed by its absence. We’ve all settled for less, like Leah was willing to do. And in that pain is where Leah’s lesson really takes root in my heart.

Because the last child gets a name with a different meaning, and a different response from his mother:

“This time I will praise the Lord” (Judah sounds like “praise”). 

Her last son, born after she was willing to settle for less, doesn’t get her the attachment she had hoped for. He gets her something different - a new perspective. She finally turns her eyes from Jacob - whether he loves her, hates her, is or is not attached to her - and looks upward. She finally sees the God who saw her in her affliction years earlier, who had compassion on an unwanted bride and opened her womb first. Her marriage to a deceiver, entered into with deception, never became what she hoped it would. But in that pain, in that brokenness, she got to a place where she was still ok. Where she could say “This time I will praise the Lord.” 

And that’s the lesson of Leah I’ve had to learn in my own disappointments - in marriage, in friendship, in church hurt, in moments of devastating emotional pain. When all my best efforts to “fix it” fell far short, when my own brokenness only made things worse, when all I could think about was what the other person might think of me now that I did X, Y, or Z - God kept watching over me, seeing my hurt, giving me precious gifts of mercy along the way - drawing me with cords of kindness until I could finally say, in the midst of another disappointment, “This time I will praise the Lord.”. 

We’re not quite finished with Leah’s story, though. 

(Read Matthew 1:2-3, 16; Luke 3:23, 33-34; Revelation 5:5.)

Judah - the son whose name sounds like “praise” - became the ancestor of the Messiah. Jesus Himself, God in the flesh, was descended not from Jacob’s favorite wife Rachel, but from the one Scripture says he hated - from Leah’s son Judah. Let that sink in. 

Leah, by turning to God in trust and praise at Judah’s birth, became part of the great story of faith - part of the people of God. Leah will be praising Him in the great throng of witnesses forever - her very real, but temporal pain behind her. She will look at Him from a different angle than the rest of us, though. Because to her, He will be family - a direct descendent from her precious boy Judah, whose birth taught her to trust in Him. Jesus is, among many other things, the Bridegroom to the church. He became the perfect Bridegroom His ancestor Jacob never could manage to be. God saw Leah’s tears, gave her children, and chose one of them as the ancestor for His incarnation. 

Whatever your relational pain and disappointment looks like today, whatever brokenness you sense from feeling like you are “not enough” to someone else’s “perfect”, wherever you feel unseen and even hated - may the lesson of Leah become your lesson. At the next deep pang of your heart, the next painful memory or recurring fear, ask God for the grace to say, “This time I will praise the Lord”. 

In the words of Eric Taylor in “Friday Night Lights” - “Clear Eyes - Full Heart - Can’t Lose.” He's got you. 

The Holy Space of Dying

For the last week of my mom’s life, I sat with my husband, my Daddy, and countless friends from church and life, in person and on the phone or across a screen, as we watched my sweet Momma decline sharply. We faced difficult decisions that felt like the proverbial rock and hard place. We were frustrated, exhausted, sad. But the closer we came to what we call “the end”, the more we experienced Hospice Room 102 as a holy place. These experiences were very much been outpourings of the Spirit, things we could not have envisioned and certainly not orchestrated. These are stories worth telling, because they are as much part of her story as the often-told stories of her birth, her healing from polio and tick fever, her love for my dad and her children. They are stories of grace in Mom’s life - grace from the hands of the Jesus she loves so much.

The final Sunday

We went early to hospice house to try to get one more worship service together as a family, even remotely. Mom was less responsive than even the day before, when 15 minutes was about all she could muster. However, her primary response was clearly JOY. She was happy and smiling almost all day - everyone commented on it. Her smiling face in photos with friends that day is a treasure. We got settled and brought up church. Early in the service we have a confession of sin, and our Director of Discipleship read it and introduced the resource we are using for the Confessions during February, Black History Month. Prior to starting that reading, she paused and did an impromptu a cappella rendering of “Precious Lord, Take My Hand”. This was always one of my Mom’s favorite hymns (and my grandfather’s very favorite) so I grabbed Mom’s hand and sang along. Later in the service, her “favorite preacher” brought the message. She seemed to recognize his voice, if not the meaning of the words. At one point, she was making a drinking motion, holding both her hands together. I asked her if her coffee was good and she said, “mmm hmmm”. I really think she felt like she was “at church”. It felt like a truly holy day. 

Stripping Away and the glory self

Monday morning we arrived for the first time before my Dad and I had my alone time with Mom. As an adult, I’ve not experienced my mom just handling my emotions without getting upset or trying to fix it or being anxious about it. However, as I was bawling like a baby, unable to contain my grief, she just looked at me and said “Rosa”, then closed her eyes and said “My Baby”, and then just rested while I cried. It was such a gift, a gift of her just being with me in my grief. I read a prayer that pointed me to Christ’s presence, peace, and love in the midst of grief and dying.

I realized as I processed it later that I was seeing a glimpse of my mom unhindered by worry and anxiety - a glimpse of what Tim Keller calls the “glory self”. I reflected on how I’ve seen this before, with my late husband and mother-in-law. It seems to me that as we get closer to death, the flesh is stripped away and what remains is the beauty of the Spirit within - the Spirit that works sanctification in us, fulfilling God’s promise that we will be like Jesus. In glimpses now, and fully on the other side of the veil between this world and life eternal. As my mom passes from life to life, through the veil of death, we are gaining glimpses - and they are holy.

Church in Hospice House

Tuesday was a day full of tears as Mom was now on the third day of no food and water, and we were given “hours or days” until her death. We met with one of our church’s pastoral staff regarding funeral preparations. We really faced the fact that death is an enemy. In a beautiful surrounding, with kind nurses, and language about “transitioning” and “comfort” it’s easy to forget, or to feel someone wrong when those tensions arise - but it is absolutely, theologically true that death is an ENEMY. In fact, it is the last enemy to be defeated. And yet defeated it will be - as Jesus’ resurrection proved, and my mom’s entry into life everlasting demonstrated. The cross has the final word, not death. 

After the meeting, the floodgates opened and unexpectedly we found ourselves with 10 people from our church in the room. I even jokingly called it CCC North. Two of us had the idea to sing and it turned into a full blown worship service! We sang “Oh How I Love Jesus”, the last hymn my mom remembered enough to initiate singing, and then “There is a Fountain”. We read a liturgical reading “For the Dying and their Friends” from Every Moment Holy, volume 2, and sang “Amazing Grace”. At the end, two more church friends came in and one closed in prayer. There were a lot of tears. God’s presence was real. It was just a holy time.

The Vigil

We had many come sit with us. In her last moments, Mom’s “grandson” snuggled with her. We had such good conversations with people, and several said call them whenever she passed so they could be with us. Mom’s cousin Bill and my friend Beth called her to say goodbye. Beth was the last “visitor” she heard from. 

After I took dad home we folded out the loveseat but we could not sleep. Before we went to bed I kissed Mom and told her that we were “spending the night” like she always wanted us to do.  Mom began having the death rattle and the nurse was in hourly to suction her. It was a long and rough night. Each time I was up I kissed her. Finally at 2 am Michaela and I both fell hard asleep. At 2:45 I woke up and didn’t hear her breathing. I nudged Michael, who also didn’t hear. I stood by her and didn’t feel her breath. I got the nurse, went to the bathroom, and came out and she confirmed the death. Michael & I wept together, tried to call people (who were understandably asleep), and then prayed together a “Liturgy for the Loss of a Beloved Parent” from Every Moment Holy. We then turned on the “City of Gold” CD (all about heaven) and just sat with her for a while. It really felt holy, until the moment I kissed her for the last time, put a coffee pod and rose in her hands, and walked out of the room in tears.

The Funeral

The week leading up to the funeral was a blur. Our culture throws so many tasks and decisions at the grieving! And yet, God was faithful. His people brought us food, took as much off our plates as they could, Michael helped me as much as possible. It was a holy and beautiful time of shared suffering. My first church service without Mom was filled with tears but not only mine. Others missed her too.

The funeral itself was amazing. People came from multiple states and stages of life. The service moved seamlessly from lament to joy, opening with “Precious Lord”, and closing with “Scars in Heaven”. We laughed. We cried. We mourned. We celebrated. It was holy and beautiful.

Reflections

For a believer, part of the victory over death is not that we don’t die, or that we don’t grieve. It’s that we grieve with hope, and that we see in the midst of the process what only God can do - sanctify us, show up with His presence, His peace, and His love, through His people. The holy space of dying becomes a foretaste of the victory over death we will all see on the other side of the veil. Thank you to all who walked alongside us in this journey.

Incarnation and Discipleship

 

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“All my knotted-up life I've longed for the sanity and simplicity of knowing who's good and who's bad. I've wanted to know this about myself as much as anyone. I needed God to clean up the mess, divide the room, sort the mail so all of us can just get on with it and be who we are. Go where we're bent.” - Beth Moore, All My Knotted-Up Life

Oh how I can relate to what Beth Moore wrote in her autobiography.

I wanted my faith journey, my discipleship, to be neat and tidy. I wanted to just seamlessly become the person I feel like I am in my quiet time. Growing up in the church, discipleship was often presented as such. I don't want to minimize the importance of challenging people to move from childhood to a mature faith, to become disciplemakers and beyond. That is certainly biblical, as long as we remember we are always both being discipled and making disciples, that we are all people in process who learn from each other as we follow the Lord. 

But I have learned that in my life, discipleship rarely has functioned so neatly. I've struggled with this, not sure what to "do" with a faith experience that didn't exactly fit the mold. I grew up in church. I wandered. I wrestled with God while He pursued me daily. I discovered His Word and began to allow my life to be molded by it. I stumbled. I struggled. I grew. I served. I blew it. I was hurt deeply. I wrestled while He pursued me into something deeper. I spent plenty of nights feeling like I was hanging onto the side of a mountain. But one day I looked around, and there were still people left willing to catch me.

I began to get it. Slowly, I began to learn, through people showing up for me and by being planted in a church that values being a people in process, that my discipleship would not be the predictable linear progression I had wanted. It would be hard and messy. It would look a lot like dependence, like being deeply known, like learning to sometimes lean on people younger than me, like realizing that the newest believer can still speak into my life. It would look like putting myself in a learning posture, learning to receive, learning to drop ideas of "shoulds". 

Along the way, I learned that discipleship - both my own and that of those others who allow me in - looks messy. It's an upward climb, but not a smooth one. The process is not predictable. My Sovereign God directs what the path ahead looks like, and calls me and others to walk together toward Him. Along the way, I'm learning that its messiness looks a lot like the Incarnation. 

Every year for decades now, I have prayed and asked God to help me learn something new about the very familiar Christmas story each year. For someone who was practically born in church (my Mom went into labor on a Sunday evening but insisted on going to church before going to the hospital), I initially found this a challenge. But God has been faithful, and every year something jumps out to me that makes the Greatest Story Ever Told even greater still.

The incarnation was messy in ways that seem unnecessary. Yes, Scripture tells us that Messiah had to be human in order to die and conquer death (Hebrews 2:14) - but did He HAVE to be born the way He was? Did He HAVE to be born to a young woman who would be shamed and disgraced? Did the angel HAVE to disappear before everyone else in Mary's life heard the Good News? Did the family HAVE to be so poor that they could only afford the barest minimum sacrifice after His birth? Did He HAVE to become a refugee, going to the very country that had come to symbolize sin and captivity for His people?

The answer, of course, is yes. Not because God in His sovereignty could not have chosen to divinely save the world from a distance. The answer is yes because God in His character could not stay distant. He tells us that He is the God who is There. He is revealed in the Bread of the Presence. He is Immanuel, God with us. 

And that means He is with us in our messy discipleship - and He calls us to be with others in theirs. Not because we have "arrived at the top" and solely live to bring others up, but because we are together climbing the upward climb, pressing forward in our growth, something lifting and sometimes being lifted, sometimes sprawled on the ground, sometimes barely hanging on, sometimes celebrating. Discipleship is not a pleasant hike with a gentle climb. It's an all-out rock climb up a steep mountain, sometimes with ice and mud thrown in for good measure. We will not do it perfectly, and we simply cannot do it alone.  Like our God who came to earth in such a messy way, we come alongside each other. 

As you reflect this Christmas on the Incarnation, look around and see the people God has called to walk alongside you through the messiness of life. Ask Him to help you live incarnationally toward them in true ministry and discipleship, not detached service. And even more, ask Him to give you the grace to be vulnerable and allow them to walk incarnationally with you. Catch each other when things get slippery, and learn more about the heart of our Savior reflected in the name Immanuel, God with us.

Silence, Solitude, and Sin

 Immediately a rooster crowed a second time, and Peter remembered when Jesus had spoken the word to him, “Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny Me three times.” When he thought about it, he began to weep. (Mark 14:72, HCSB)

Most of us who have been in church any length of time know the story of Peter’s denials. Brash and bold, sure he would follow Jesus to the death, ready to fight in the Garden of Gethsemene, hours later Peter finds himself weeping inconsolably - some translations say he “threw himself down” in deep dismay and grief. What happened in between Sure Peter and Devastated Peter? Three denials of His Savior, to be sure. But this verse suggests something more. 

Why did Peter not weep after denial #1 or #2? To make it more personal, why do we - why do I - sometimes repeat sin patterns and not weep over my sin soon enough? We know from Luke 22:61 that Jesus “looked at Peter” after the third denial. This gives us a hint that Peter’s understanding of his sin was connected to that poignant moment - a look he never forgot. I would like to suggest that verse 72 contains another hint. Peter “thought about it”, as several translations put it. The idea is not that he just had a quick memory of Jesus’ prophecy of the denial. No, the sense is that he finally stopped talking (ahem) and faced exactly what he had done. 

And it wasn’t pretty. 

Commentators generally agree that Peter was Mark’s primary source material for his gospel. Reading this passage again during Holy Week, I was struck with the idea of an older, humbler, wiser Peter talking to Mark and still feeling grieved. I imagined him saying, “Every time I think about it, I still weep.” That’s what repentance does - it makes us so aware of our sin, and Christ’s tender look that we long to keep our eyes on that look of love and our backs to our sin. The forgiveness is deep and real. But when we remember the sin, the remorse is also deep and real. He throws our sin into the sea, but we remember - we always remember. 

Among the forgotten spiritual disciplines in our day are two that I think are key to truly grasping the depth of sin’s presence in our lives: silence and solitude. We must have times when we are quiet before the Lord, to hear His whispers of conviction before He is forced to make them shouts. And, we must have time alone with Him, where we can focus on the look of love and forgiveness that is always offered on his face. Just as a marriage cannot thrive without times the couple can be alone and look each other in the eye, so our relationship with the Lord requires intentional intimacy. The disciplines of silence and solitude set us apart with Him so we can hear from Him. 

Ultimately, Peter didn't let this moment of betrayal define him. After plenty of wrestling, he received the Lord's sweet forgiveness and stepped into the calling God had for him, using his unique gifts and personality, led by the Spirit this time. Our moments of sin don't define us either. We move forward into the life God gives us, the purpose He fulfills in us, the plans He makes for us. But like Peter, we may still find times that when we think about it, we weep. And that's ok. Let those moments keep turning us toward His look of love. 

When Enemies Are In Your Face

One of my favorite pictures of God is found in Deuteronomy 33:27: "The eternal God is a dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms." For some time I've prayed for Him to both cover me with His strength and carry me with His grace and mercy.

Today in my Bible read-through, I saw something new, something precious, in the latter half of this verse and its immediate context: 

“There is none like God, O Jeshurun, who rides through the heavens to your help, through the skies in his majesty. The eternal God is your dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms. And he thrust out the enemy before you and said, ‘Destroy.’" (Deuteronomy 33:26-27, ESV)

This passage is tucked into a chapter with Moses' last words to each of Jacob's sons, the twelve tribes of Israel. This immediate section focuses on the entire nation of Israel, using a term of endearment as a synonym for Jacob, representing all of Israel ("Jeshurun" means "upright one" and is translated in the Septuagint with a form of agape that means "beloved one"). The point is that He is saying this to a people He loves - His covenant people. And what does He reveal about Himself? 

• He rides through heavens in all His majesty to help His own
• He is our dwelling place
• He protects us with His arms, forever
• He thrusts out the enemy and says "destroy"

Wait - what? God helping us, I get that. He is sovereign and powerful, after all. Dwelling in Him, letting Him catch us in His strong arms - yes, please! 

Having our enemies thrust in our face (the meaning of the phrase "before you") and being told to destroy them - um, can we rethink that one? Can't You just do the destroying, Lord? 

The answer, of course, is no. Just as God called Israel to move forward through the book of Joshua and conquer the land He had already promised, leaving some enemies in the land of Israel so the younger generation could learn to fight (Judges 3), He calls us to partner with Him in fighting our enemies of the world, the flesh, and Satan. 

I'd like to say I have all the answers why, but I don't. Here is what I know for sure though, looking back over my life: If He just took care of all those enemies and I never had to wrestle, I wouldn't know as much about Him as I do. I wouldn't know how to recognize them when they try to come around a back way. I wouldn't have been sanctified by the Word through wielding it while wearing the armor of God. I haven't fought every battle perfectly (or even well) but I have learned, deeply learned, that if God puts an enemy in front of me, He's calling me to fight. And when victory comes, as exhausting as it is, I know that even the small part He asked me to play would have been impossible without His help - and that victory over that enemy would have never come had He not first subdued the enemy, thrust him in front of me, and said, "Child, destroy." 

And I certainly would not have learned that these battles are not fought alone. He reveals this truth to the people of God. My battles should be fought in community, with others helping me as needed. We're terrible about this as Americans (myself included) but I'm learning more and more how vital this is to victory.

Yes, God is our dwelling place. Yes, His arms carry us. But there is more. He is the God who sets us up for victory as we learn to fight His battles, His way. The next time your flesh rears its ugly head, or you are faced with a demonic or worldly battle - rejoice. He's simply prepared an enemy for destruction and thrust it in your face. Gather your people, and destroy.

Secret Places

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Original Image: https://www.picpedia.org/handwriting/a/authentic.html

I've been challenged lately to think about authenticity. 

We know that when we trust Christ, part of the Gospel is that we get a new heart (Ezekiel 36:26). Yet we also continue to live with our flesh still stained by sin, the world around us trying to press us into its mold, and Satan bringing direct attacks. The process of sanctification changes us to increasingly reflect the new heart, but we stumble and fall along the way. We are told clearly how to walk in the victory of faith when we recognize the battle before us: 

But if we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous, forgiving us our sins and cleansing us from all unrighteousness. (1 John 1:9 NET)

For everyone who has been born of God overcomes the world. And this is the victory that has overcome the world--our faith. (1 John 5:4 ESV)

And yet there are those battles we don't realize we are fighting. The reality of not living up to who we are in Christ is real every day. It's clearly inauthentic to deny the struggles. Those hidden faults, those mixed motives - things that would break our heart if we realized them - things that do break others' hearts at times. 

What does it mean to be genuine, authentic, pure, without guile? None of us does it perfectly; we all have hidden sins and mixed motives that make it hard at times to discern what is happening in our "secret places" - which is why David cried out: 

But who can discern their own errors? Forgive my hidden faults. Keep your servant also from willful sins; may they not rule over me. Then I will be blameless, innocent of great transgression. (Psalm 19:12-13 NIV)

I'm so grateful God hasn't left us without guidance about these sins. Recently in our evening devotional this passage jumped out at me in a new way:

I seek you with all my heart; do not let me stray from your commands. I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you. (Psalm 119:10-11 ESV)

Suddenly I realized something about the how of transformation - transformation from the inside out. As I seek Him with all my heart, HE keeps me from straying - even from things that are deep within me, things I don't realize I need to confess. Hiding His Word is not just memorizing scripture, but taking it in, making it part of me. Jesus described it as the word "abiding" in us -  making its home in our hearts. As I am increasingly filled with Him and have less space for me, filled with His Word, I find myself changed in ways I didn't realize were within me. Sometimes He allows pressing circumstances to reveal something ugly within me; other times He convicts me of something I've never considered; and there are also those times He changes me by giving me new desires, new "cravings" ... when something that had appeal, that attracted me unhealthily, no longer does, and then I realize that the root of the old desire was sinful all along. I'm convinced that there are even times He changes something without me even being aware - just making me more like Him, as He has promised. I become more authentically the way He created me to be, the way the new heart is aligned toward Him.

So I'm learning that in order to be authentic, I have to be open to being changed in ways I might not realize need to be changed. There are genuine struggles at unconscious levels. At the same time, it's also inauthentic to act as if there are only struggles. As I walk through the trials of life, God constantly reminds me of who I am in Him - Blessed, Chosen, Adopted, Accepted, Redeemed, Forgiven (Ephesians 1). Never forgotten (Isaiah 49:15-16). Seen by my Creator (Genesis 16:13). Never forsaken (Hebrews 13:5). 

The most beautiful thing to me about inviting Him into all of my secret places by seeking Him and making His Word at home in my heart is that I know I will never be cast out. He has already been cast out for me. But He does invite me to join Him there:

So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood. Therefore let us go to him outside the camp and bear the reproach he endured. (Hebrews 13:12-13)

To me, this is the heart of authenticity: Seeking Him, letting Him change me, and being honest with others in the process. I don't have to let fear of man keep me from pursuing this depth of intimacy with God. When I understand His grace, I can resist the temptation to protect myself by locking my heart down, and instead identify with Him, knowing I am already fully known, fully loved, fully accepted, and ultimately will be fully changed. 

Grasping grace, I can embrace true authenticity: The good, the bad, and the ugly.

As Jesus Walked: Christ Revealed in the Synoptic Gospels, #12: Who is Worthy?

 

 (This post is part of a series. For previous posts in the series please see #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, #6, #7, #8, #9, #10, #11)

Following the Sermon, Jesus returns to His "home base" in Capernaum. The disciples are with Him, learning about His approach to ministry. As we walk with Jesus on these encounters, we will see along with them that indeed, as Isaiah said, His ways are not our ways, and His thoughts are not our thoughts.

Who is Worthy? Matthew 8:5-13, Luke 7:1-17

In Capernaum, Jesus is approached about healing the servant of a centurion - a Roman officer. Remember, the Jewish people were under Roman occupation. They were allowed a measure of religious freedom, but they did not have ultimate autonomy over their own land. It's not surprising, then, that the centurion initially feels the need to send an "advance team" of Jewish elders to appeal on his behalf. These elders add their own commentary to the request - "He is worthy" - explaining that this particular centurion "loves our nation" and had funded the building of the synagogue in Capernaum. 

Based on the parallel passage in Matthew, the centurion must have been close by, because he makes his own request - but when Jesus agrees to go, the centurion directly contradicts the appeal of the Jewish elders. "I am not worthy," he says, "for You to come under my roof. Just say the word and my servant will be healed."  Jesus is so moved by the man's faith and acknowledgment of Jesus' authority that He calls it out as surpassing the faith He had seen among the people of Israel. 

This centurion reflects the heart of Jesus Himself in caring about his servant. He regarded this servant highly (in contrast to much of the standard attitude toward servants in that time); he observed the man's deep pain and suffering (the Greek word indicates the servant was "tortured" by his condition); and he wanted to do something about it. As we have seen, Jesus' active compassion not only felt the needs around Him, but intervened to make a difference. The centurion wanted to do the same. So he turned to the One whose reputation was starting to precede him - he asked Jesus to intervene.

We have no way to know how much he knew of Jesus' claims. We see no worship (the word translated "Lord" is also used as a general term of honor or respect). We just know two things clearly: 

• The centurion had a need, and was drawn to Jesus to meet that need. 
• The centurion realized that he was "not worthy" of Jesus' presence in his home.

"He is worthy." 

"I am not worthy." 

Let's not miss the power of these contrasting phrases. A man, wealthy for his time, and in need of help from Jesus, focuses not on his own credentials but on the power of Jesus. The Jewish leaders are only doing what we all do from time to time, making a recommendation of someone they know to someone who doesn't know the person. And yet the man, in a position of honor within his culture, humbly rejects the accolades given to him. He had faith that Jesus could heal, to be sure, but much more deeply he discerned something about who Jesus was - something that so many of the Jewish leaders missed, despite all the prophecies and preparations for the Messiah. The centurion understood on a deep level the authority that Jesus held within Himself - and Jesus recognized the faith that required. 

In this case, His word alone heals the centurion's servant, and then we see in Luke's Gospel that He continues His ministry next by raising from the dead the son of a widow - another case of touching the "unclean" and bringing about transformation. 

The truth is, none of us are worthy of a "visit" from Jesus. We are sin-stained, all of us, and He is perfectly pure and holy. Every parent who has tried to scrub a stain out of a white shirt dirtied by a child who couldn't stay clean for five minutes has experienced the idea of the pure being stained by the impure. And yet here we see Jesus walking around on the earth, encountering unworthy humans - and entering into their struggles and challenges in ways that make a difference. He is not stained by us, but His touch does make us clean - from the inside out. 

Lessons Learned

As noted in the previous posts,  I am seeking to frame my lessons learned, the "what does it mean for me" around four questions to help my theology meet my reality: 

What does this story teach me about Jesus and the life He gives? (1 John 1:1-2) 

Jesus does not place value on "worthy" in a human sense - building big sanctuaries, being on a certain political side, having certain religious practices. Instead, He looks for humble hearts drawn to Him, regardless of how much or how little they know of who He is. He reveals Himself more and more to those with eyes to see and hearts to discern. 

How does this story about Jesus reveal God to me? (Hebrews 1:1-3)

The heart of God is shown in the unexpected encounters of Jesus. A Roman centurion. The dead son of a widowed mother in an out-of-the-way location. God's heart for the vulnerable, the weak, the outcast, the poor, is shown in the way Jesus chose to spend His time. As Adrian Rodgers once said, "The cross didn't change God's heart; it revealed it." Jesus' actions show where God's priorities lie. 

What does this story teach me about walking as Jesus walked, being conformed to His image? (2 Cor 3:18; 1 John 2:6)

Jesus' example is incarnational living. He could have just saved us from a distance - spoken a word, demonstrated miraculous signs in the heavens. Yet He didn't. God's plan from the beginning was to give us Himself in flesh and blood - and through His perfect sacrifice, purify us forever. To clean us from the inside out, to transform us in such a way that we become "salt" in the lives of others, with a purifying and preserving effect and making them thirsty for Jesus. 

How does this story increase my fellowship with God and others? (1 John 1:3-4)

This story deepens my fellowship with Jesus as I identify with the "unworthy" centurion, and realize that I am now cleansed to the point that I am actually a temple of the Holy Spirit. I am in awe that His touch has had such a transformational effect in my life. 

While I must practice wisdom, and be in community with believers who can help "wash my feet" (John 13:10), I do not have to fear. I do not have to determine who is "worthy" of an encounter with Jesus. I just have to live out His commandments to love Him and others, bringing truth, grace, and love into every encounter.