Oak Chapel United Methodist Church

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When I, especially in this his three-hundredth birthday year, muse over the astonishing accomplishments of John Wesley (how he founded the Methodist movement, reformed England and the Anglican church, rode all those miles, preached all those sermons), I tend to forget that before any of that Wesley was a respected Bible scholar, a teacher at Oxford. Like Luther and Calvin before him, Wesley studied and taught scripture before he undertook any of his reforms. I was reminded of it again this week, when reading his comments on this wonderful (but difficult) passage from Hebrews, which I just read. He comes to the part where the writer of Hebrews says that, in the face of God’s Word, “no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare,” and Wesley writes, “Plainly alluding to the sacrifices under the law which were first flayed and then (as the Greek word literally means) cleft asunder through the neck and backbone; so that everything both within and without was exposed to open view.” Wow! The Word of God lays us open as a butcher lays open a chicken with his cleaver. Ouch!

In the same sentence the writer of Hebrews tells us that the Word of God is like a two-edged sword. A such a sword, of course, cuts both ways – does a lot of damage in battle. That’s not a very comfortable thought about God’s word. And then Hebrews tells us (and this is the really scary part – as we’re coming up on Halloween) – the letter says that God’s Word judges “the thoughts and intentions of the heart.” In other words, we can’t fully satisfy God’s Word outwardly. We can give a lot of money, say a lot of prayers, read the Bible every day, but God demands “truth in the inward parts.” Our most private thoughts, and even our intentions (our “motives”) are laid bare before the Word of God. There is something very fundamental in us that does not like that kind of scrutiny.

At the moment of our birth we are honest. We cry unashamedly when we want something. We kick our feet and wave our arms and scream when we’re angry. We demand to be the center of everyone else’s universe. But those first days of life may be our last days of honesty. We soon learn to stifle, to hide, and hide from, the truth. We’re not supposed to cry when we want. In fact, we’re not even supposed to want. We’re not supposed to be angry…ever. Or afraid…ever. We’re told that it’s fun to share, when we know it’s not. Say it anyway! Make yourself believe it. Don’t let on. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be sad. Be ashamed. Say daddy’s a good daddy even though he mistreats you. Don’t be this way; be that way. Don’t show people your vulnerabilities or they’ll take advantage of you. Instead of being ourselves, we shape ourselves. “It is a dark day,” writes, “when the need comes for hiding anything. Then there are eyes to be avoided, subjects not to be touched, questions that must not be asked. In that day the flower of life is withered and the joy of life is turned to a heavy grief.” But now listen to the message of hope: “We never escape this grief until the word of God exposes us.”

So far (the first half of our scripture) is rather painful. It says the Word of God comes after us like the hound of heaven. It will find us. “From him no creature is hidden.” And when it finds us it slices us up as with a two-edged sword (Peterson says, “a surgeon’s scalpel”) and lays us open exposing our most inward parts. And we are like furtive little night animals, scurrying about trying to avoid such a cutting and such an exposure. Like Adam after the fall, hiding from God in the Garden of Eden. Or like Adam and Eve covering their nakedness feeling, somehow, dirty. And God asks, “Who told you you were naked?) The passage, so far, doesn’t reflect well on us – to say the least.

But the second half of our scripture contains the good news. It says, “Let it happen. Be convicted by the Word of God. It won’t hurt.” That is how we begin with Christ, not with boasting, not with self-serving lies, but with baptism, a washing. The word of God is not a dreadful word, but a word of healing and comfort. The image in this second half is that of Jesus as a great High Priest. Peterson catches the sense of it so well: “Now that we know what we have – Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God – let’s not let it slip through our fingers. We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all – all but the sin. So lets walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy. Accept the help.” That’s the way we begin with Christ.

Over the years when I’ve had the privilege of counseling those who come to be married, if one has been married before, I always ask, “What went wrong in your first marriage?” Nine times out of ten the person begins a well-rehearsed litany of blame: she did this, she said that, she didn’t understand, she didn’t try. But then, when the finger-pointing stops, I ask a second question: “If your first wife were here, what would she tell me went wrong?” And I usually get a much better answer. I don’t ask that question to embarrass people, or to put them on the spot. I ask it hoping that it might spark a pilgrimage to honesty. That they might ask, “What part did I play?” “How could I have helped?” If we understand the Gospel right we know, as the writer of Hebrews knows, that we can’t be hurt by telling the truth – even if the truth is not what we wish it were. “All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” We have this great High Priest, you see, who carries, not the blood of the altar sacrifices into the holy of holies, but who passes through the veil carrying his own blood right up to the throne of God, and offering it there for us. We cannot sin so grievously that our relationship with God cannot be made right. Therefore we need not hide in the darkness. Therefore we are free. Therefore we can love unburdened by guilt. God has provided this salvation for us. Take the mercy. Accept the help. “…though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.”