October
22, 2006
TEXT:Hebrews 4:12-13
TO BE
PAINFULLY, BLESSEDLY KNOWN
It's not for the squeamish or the
modest, this portrait of the presence of God.
I grew up in a deer hunting family whose father - my grandfather - had
been a butcher, and I remember vividly the knives that could fit this
description and the work to which they were put in the evenings after
successful hunts. Sharp and
double-edged, and cutting to where joints and marrow come together; to the very
soul that separates life from death.
Something, according to the writer of Hebrews, like the Word of
God. Cutting and dividing down to the
very spirit which separates humans from animals, and laying open the wound and
all that it reveals. Open for God's eyes
to see and examine. It's not for the
squeamish this picture painted here.
Nor for the modest in all of this
talk about nakedness. Clothes for us are
certainly expressions and statements and style; one visual tool for saying
something of who we are. But underneath
the colors and the folds and the patterns and the pleats, let us not forget
that woven quietly but firmly into the cottons and silks and polyesters are
leaves from Eden's fig trees, covering and hiding and protecting; and here is
the word of God stripping it all away and standing us naked and open before
Him, forcing us, even worse, to then look God in the eyes. Naked and vulnerable; no makeup, no
flattering clothes. Simply and starkly ourselves
- who we really are in the depths of our souls, opened wide and thoroughly
examined.
No, it's not for the squeamish or
the modest, this picture of God who knows us inside and out; this God from whom
we cannot run or hide or hide the truth.
And as the writer to the Hebrews closes this morning's passage, "it
is to this God that we must all give an account of ourselves."
It's almost a threatening sort of
text, isn't it - all this talk of cutting and stripping and giving an
account. A warning, if anything else, to
make sure that God sees in us what God wants to see. Only quietly mentioned, but unforgettably
present is the "Or Else"
lurking in the background. Hardly what
you'd call "comforting". And
coming, as it does, in the context of a conversation about God's promised rest
and the reminder of all those who failed to enter it, it is, no doubt, a
warning to anyone who will listen to be on our best behavior. If not threat, then friendly words of
advice. Words to the wise. Something to the tune of:
"He's making a list and checking it twice;
gonna find out who's naughty and nice.
He sees you when you're sleeping,
he knows when you're awake.
He knows if you've been bad or good
so be good for goodness sake."
The Word of God as alive and
active. The word of God - more
than simply printing on a page, more than simply the books of the Bible;
rather, the word as God's creative presence and power. Living and active - not a dry and
dusty vein to be mined for choice, pithy sayings and easy, gold-plated answers;
not a somber leather-bound collection of ancient stories and beliefs, but an
active and living presence within which we are called to live; a presence
equipped with the power to cut through all our pretensions and defenses and
know us through and through.
It is, to be sure, an ominous
passage; one that drips of God's judgment, God's scrutinizing eye, and nose
sensitive enough to smell out a fraud.
If our goal is to enter God's rest, it tells us, then we must stir into
the good news our own particular faith; and God will know if it's true. There's no getting around the haunting side
of being known that completely. No one
likes to live in a fishbowl, and you can't help but get a kind of
"fishbowl feeling" from all of this.
And yet to be known like that is not
all threat. I can't help but discover a
certain grace in that intimacy as well; a certain comfort in that knowing
gaze. After all, Christ did not come in
order to clean out the human closet - he did not come to discard but to gather
up. Christ did not come to threaten us or condemn us but to love us, and to demonstrate
the love of the one who made us.
And what greater security and sense
of peace is there than to be known and loved and noticed; to have a confidant that
close, that intimate - who feels my hurts and shares
my joys whether I find the words for them or not; who, in the face of
misunderstanding, understands me; who, in the face of hurt, consoles me; who, in the
face of loneliness, is with me; who, in the face of voices that tell me I'm no good
and incapable and unworthy, reminds me in whose image I was made and
whose spirit is within me. To be
seen and loved and known; to be so intimately related is not so bad after
all. And haven't we glimpsed that gift
before? Haven't we known and been known
by others in ways that gave life rather than take it away?
Joe and Brent lived across the
street from each other, and took turns driving each other to school. They had been neighbors since second grade,
and as their senior year was getting under way they felt more like brothers
than friends. The grains on Joe's
football were almost worn smooth from years of hikes and passes in the front
yard. When Brent was hospitalized in the
8th grade, Joe had been there every afternoon.
Brent had driven their first double date because he had gotten his
driver's license first; and it was Joe that had first told him that Melinda
liked him. When Joe had run for Student
Council President, Brent had been his biggest supporter. And when he didn't get
elected he became his biggest comforter.
When Brent's girlfriend broke up with him it was Joe who sat with him in
his room that night - probably the only one outside of his mom who had ever
seen him cry. Friends, but more. They knew each other's habits and moods. They knew each other's minds; were a part of
each other's lives. And it was good.
John and Ethel have been married over
sixty years. He smiles remembering the
time he pulled the wagon up to her window as a teenager and sneaked her to the
dance her father had forbidden her to attend.
He remembers the tough times they had at first and how she never seemed
to mind. She remembers the child they
lost at birth; he thinks more of the son lost in war. The hardware store they owned and ran together
is long since closed, but she still handles all the bills, and his work room is
as orderly as the stock shelves he so carefully inventoried. She wouldn't consider making scrambled eggs -
she knows he hates them, just as she knows that you don't eat spinach without
pepper sauce. He says so. Sitting on the front porch, shelling pecans,
he takes the smaller ones. He knows her
arthritic hands can only handle the larger ones. And quietly, colorfully, to the music of two
rocking chairs moving in even rhythm, the sun goes down on another day. Husband and wife. But more.
They know each other's minds and what's on each other's hearts - how to
read this look and that tap of the foot.
They are a part of the very fabric of each other's lives. And it is good.
To be known. Fully and completely. No secrets; no illusions. Dangerous?
Yes, because we are not always what we would want to be and to face up
to our dirtier side is uncomfortable and painful. Vulnerable?
Yes, because exposure puts us at our discoverer's mercy - forcing those
eyes to love our problems as well as our prides; our pimples as well as our
painted nails, and we would choose more flattering pictures.
But terrible? Dear God, no!
For what greater terror than to live one's days anonymously - unseen,
unheard, unnoticed. How, but lonely, would
we live without such intimacy - apart from such confidants; apart from the
knowledge that who you are is good enough; and how, but dead could we exist
apart from such love that makes life real?
What joy to know that even though others may leave or forsake, we do not
live our lives alone.
So pierce my heart, O God, and lay
open my spirit. Examine me and know me
and look deeply into my eyes. Count the
hairs upon my head, and in spite of my greatest efforts, do not let me hide
from you. And although I am afraid of
what you might see in me, my greater fear is to not be seen at all. So know me, O God, and be near to me. For I could not stand the pain of being on my
own, alone. Help me to know and to
celebrate the good news of your sight, your presence, and your love. Amen.