students of jesus

I’m through with Biblical commands—they’re not the boss of me. But then, when’s the last time a library of books ever commanded anyone to do anything? In my spiritual life I’ve grown weary of the phrase, “The Bible says . . .” followed by some authoritative pronouncement of whatever hot topic is trending that day. We’ve all experienced this: that moment when people quote the Bible as if the sacred word of God is somehow separate from that God.

Are you getting nervous? Do you think this post will somehow destroy the authority of God’s word, the Bible? Rest easy: if I do my job well you will come to love the Bible even more, because it is a gift from our loving Father. The Bible reveals God’s heart and mind; the Bible is Holy Spirit email; the Bible testifies of Jesus, who is God the Son. My worship—and obedience—is directed toward God, the Son-Spirit-Father. And this last word is the key: to receive God as Father is to enter into a new relationship with the gift of his word.

In the far-away world of the 1970’s someone put a Bible in my hand and explained: “You wouldn’t try to drive a new car without reading the owner’s manual, would you? Well, the Bible is your owner’s manual.” Other folks from the age of Evangelicalism explained that the Bible was “God’s rulebook,” or “Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth” (or, B.I.B.L.E.—get it?). When we receive the Bible as a rulebook or an owner’s manual we are separating ourselves from the Father in Heaven, and us from our humanity. The result is a ministry of the “word” that brings death instead of life.

The Bible commands me to “be angry, and sin not”—which is like commanding me fly. The Bible commands me to “love your neighbor”—but how does love flow from a command? The Bible commands me to “be perfect as God is perfect"—and, well, what do you do with that? (If you feel the urge to explain any of these commands to me, it may be a symptom of a Biblical neurosis.)

Who can save me from a Bible-boss that issues one command after another? Only a father.

Once we discover that God is a loving Father his book takes on a new tone. When we see the Father as a perfect parent, we are able to trust his judgment and direction. Instead of thinking, “the Bible commands me,” we can hear, “the father assures me.” The difference is life giving: the commands of scripture move from a burden laid upon us to an encouraging word from the Father. Of course, there’s no getting around it: the Bible contains commands. Ten of them are rather famous. What makes all the difference is the source of each command. What a government commands, it enforces. The rulers of this age care nothing for me, only my compliance. What God commands is something else altogether: his commands open my mind and heart to what is possible in my life.

With every command comes a promise: that we can do what is commanded. John Milton, the majestic 17^th–century saint, asked, “Doth God exact day-labor, light deny’d?” by which he meant would God command of us something impossible to give? What kind of God would command me to love without showing me how to become the kind of person capable of love?

Life with God is a living room, not a courtroom. Have a seat and watch: mothers and fathers alike encourage their babies, “Come on! You can do it—take a step!” After celebrating a single shaky step, parents urge their child, “That’s it! Walk to Mommy!” Can you imagine the absurdity a loving parent who would command a baby to walk? “Junior! You are 13 months old, the manual says you should be walking by now! I command you to walk!” No: walking starts with a promise from Mom: “You can do it!”

Every command from God is a promise. The book that used to fill me with guilt and anxiety has become a treasure of possibilities. What he commands he empowers. I need only trust the one who speaks the word.

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It’s an obscure passage, but I’ve always been drawn to this short phrase the Apostle Paul used to describe Jesus: “For as many as are the promises of God, in him they are ‘yes’.” (2 Corinthians 1:20)

Can we throw theology out of the room for a moment and just talk about the heart of God? When I think about this verse, I imagine that in some way—mysterious though it might be—God the Father weighed each word he spoke and made sure that Jesus would bring each word to its fullness. The Creator’s kind intentions are made real in Jesus. In Jesus all the goodness of God becomes real in (literally) a down-to-earth way. The Father is serious about his words. Every one is a promise, and every promise finds its yes in Jesus.

From my imagination I find two practical applications, one about the “yes” in Jesus, and second the “yes” in me.

First, from the moment God told Abraham to look into the stars or count the grains of sand, Jesus was the fulfillment of these promises. But the fulfillment didn’t look anything like what Abraham expected. Abraham tried to bring the promise to reality, and Ishmael was born. Not even Isaac was the answer. The seed of Abraham was so much more than Abraham could have ever expected. This one example demonstrates that when God makes a promise, we should not impose our expectations upon what the answer will look like—or when it will come. Our best response is to trust in the faithfulness of the Promisor, then prepare ourselves to be surprised by the majesty of the Answer.

Second, if Jesus is God’s “yes” to us, he is also the model for our “yes” back to God. Jesus built his life around the Father’s will: he determined to say, “yes” even before he knew the request. His “yes” was not to a command, but to a person, the Father. In this he is our example. If we weigh every word of God on its merits and only afterward give a yes-or-no answer, we become the judge and arbiter of God’s promise. In so doing, we preserve our status of the lord of our lives. The writers of the Psalm 40 and Hebrews saw something different in Jesus:

Then I said, “Here I am, I have come—

  it is written about in the volume of the book:

I desire to do your will, O my God;

  your law is within my heart.

Jesus was God’s predetermined yes. Should we do anything less than follow is example?  

Back in another life I was a salesman, and not a very good one at that. I was trained in techniques designed to close the sale quickly and effectively, and—if necessary—against the customer’s will. During these years I learned people don’t always reveal their true reasons for resisting your pitch. If they complained my product didn’t come in red, it meant they thought the price was too high, or they didn’t trust me. Red was simply a convenient excuse. The real issues were almost always price or trust.

Other than the benefit of nearly going bankrupt, my salesman days also taught me something about my walk with God. I discovered that I, too, deal in convenient excuses with the Master of the Universe. The convenient excuses are usually big picture things: "The church is full of hypocrites,” I protested. It allowed me to remain in isolation. When I declared, “The Bible is a flawed book,” it gave me an easy way out of navigating the tension between God’s ways and my ways. I was free to take my pick: “God hates women. Or gays. Or he’s too violent.”

And because I was educated beyond my intelligence, I loved to discuss the pressing social issues of the day in relation to Christianity. I’d take up the discussion with anyone who would listen. At the coffeehouse. On Facebook or Twitter. At some else’s blog, or at mine. They became my favorite hiding places from a daily, intimate walk with the Father. Discussing the failures of others or debating the current cause célèbre served me well. It became a game of hide-and-seek where I devoutly wished to be found by everyone except God. It’s much easier to talk about God than to walk with him. Should we be surprised we do not hear his voice when we are busy chattering away?

It turns out the Holy Spirit can play hide-and-seek pretty well, too. The Holy Spirit's favorite hiding place is inside a simple act of obedience. I can only seek him by being willing to do what he says. Understanding, insight, and revelation come from hearing his voice and doing his will. I can hold any traditional or progressive opinion and still hide from him. He does not come to talk about God’s Kingdom, but to establish it in my heart.

During my manipulative sales days, we had a method of cutting to the chase. When I prospect asked, “Does it come in red?” we would respond with, “If it comes in red, are you ready to buy it?” The crass, in-your-face approach had a way of separating the buyers from the browsers. Who knows? Perhaps the Spirit asks me the same question: “If Jesus agreed with all your social and political opinions, would you then be ready to kneel and obey?”

Then the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. (Matthew 28: 16-17)

Why doesn’t everyone include verses 16 and 17 in the “Great Commission?” I suspect because these two verses include topics rarely discussed in the life a disciple: obedience and doubt. But it’s worth taking time to meditate on doubt, especially our own.

Imagine the scene around the resurrected Jesus: his best friends giving him worship in a private setting. They saw the resurrected Lord--his physical presence, yet in some minds and hearts there was still doubt. What amazes is me is the fact their doubt did not disqualify them. Jesus still received them, and he gave the “Great Commission.”

Doubt is a solitary struggle, while most expressions of worship are outward: we sing, kneel, pray, dance, bow, read, listen, and fellowship. Others see our actions, but this passage reminds us Jesus knows our hearts and thoughts as well. What kind of doubts did some of the disciples have? Matthew doesn't say. We are left to speculate: perhaps, “I don’t belong here . . . I denied the Lord . . . Have I gone mad? . . . Is this really Jesus? . . . What will he require of me?” I believe their worship was sincere; so were their doubts.

The doubting disciples had obeyed. They had made their way to Galilee, just as Jesus instructed. Jesus did not turn away the doubters, he received their worship and included them in his mission. Disobedience would have kept them from hearing his voice; doubt did not.

What if worship is giving all of ourselves to God--even the parts that struggle to believe, to trust, to surrender? Perhaps that day the doubters discovered Isaiah’s description of Jesus was true: “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.” (Matt. 12:20)

Earlier in his ministry Jesus told his friends, “true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth.” Some people have interpreted "truth" to mean "doctrine," but what if Jesus also meant the truth about ourselves? Here’s a meditation worthy of the week: can I bring my doubts as an act of worship?