If we gave it any real thought, our world and quite often our lives operate according to the more traditional belief that security comes not through vulnerability and sacrifice but through power and might. For we live in a world that seeks security not only through power but also through wealth and consumption, and we are taught from a very early age to avoid true vulnerability – and the truly vulnerable – at all costs. So, sacrifice? Sure, when we can afford to. Love our enemies? Maybe if everything else is taken care of first. Vulnerability? Only if there is no other choice.
The kind of self-sacrificing love Jesus offers is frightening to such a world. No wonder some run and hide, as it requires us to trust nothing other than God. And most of us find it impossible to embrace Jesus’ example…except when we ourselves have been brought low by illness, or loss, or a broken relationship, or disappointed hopes or some other way by which the world taught us that no matter how hard we try, no matter what position we may achieve, no matter how much money we may save, yet we cannot secure our destiny or save our lives. Only God can do that. Only love can do that. And it’s frightening to be so utterly dependent on God.
In addition, notice that God doesn’t ask our permission first before sending Jesus to die for us. I know, I know, that may seem like an odd detail to point out. But think of the claim a person – any person – has on us once they’ve saved our life, let alone died doing it. In the face of such love, such sacrifice, we must surrender all of our claims.
Years ago I preached a sermon about the offensive nature of God’s grace, suggesting that we might add four words to the end of our service of baptism, saying, “Child of God, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…like it or not.” A few weeks later, a friend shared a bedtime encounter he’d had with his then six-year-old son. Upset that his father was putting him to bed earlier than he wanted to go, Benjamin said, “Daddy, I hate you.” Benjamin’s father, exercising the kind of parental wisdom I'd hope for, replied, “Ben, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I love you.” Benjamin’s response to such gracious words surprised his dad: “Don’t say that!” “I’m sorry Benjamin, but it’s true. I love you.” “Don’t,” his son protested, “Don’t say that again!” At which point Ben’s father, remembering the words of the sermon, said, “Benjamin, I love you…like it or not!”
Why was Benjamin
protesting his father’s love? Because he realized he could not control his
father’s love and twist it to his advantage. Indeed, in the face of such love
there is no bargaining and, ultimately, no control whatsoever. If his dad
had said that if he ate all his vegetables he could stay up, or agreed that Ben
could stay up later this night if he went to bed earlier the next, then
Benjamin would have been a player, he would have exercised some measure of
control over the situation and, indeed, over his dad. But in the face of
unconditional love we are powerless. Yes, perhaps we can choose to accept it or
not, perhaps we can run away from it, but we cannot influence it, manipulate
it, or control it. In the face of this kind of love, we are powerless. And only
when we’ve died to all of our delusions of actually being in control do we
realize that such loss of perceived freedom and power is actually life.
God’s love, you see, is tenacious. And so God’s love will continue to chase after us, seeking to hold onto us and redeem us all the days of our lives, whether we like it or not. So maybe this is a verse, if we took it more seriously, that might terrify us in how it renders us powerless in a world literally hell-bent on accumulating and exercising power. Then again, maybe as we remember God’s tenacious love we might also realize that, precisely because this is the one relationship in our lives over which we have no power, it is also the one relationship we cannot screw up. Because God created it, God maintains it, and God will bring it to a good end, all through the power of God’s vulnerable, sacrificial, and ever so tenacious love. (Adapted from David Lose, “Partner in Preaching,” 3/9/15.)
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