Real Peace. Real People.

Psalm 32 Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. 2 Blessed is the one whose sin the Lord does not count against them and in whose spirit is no deceit. 3 When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. 4 For day and night your hand was heavy on me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer. 5 Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.” And you forgave the guilt of my sin. 6 Therefore let all the faithful pray to you while you may be found; surely the rising of the mighty waters will not reach them. 7 You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance. 8 I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my loving eye on you. 9 Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding but must be controlled by bit and bridle or they will not come to you.10 Many are the woes of the wicked, but the Lord’s unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in him. 11 Rejoice in the Lord and be glad, you righteous; sing, all you who are upright in heart!

It didn’t use to be this way. It didn’t used to be that a guy like Lebron James would post a shot of himself standing in front of a gorgeous ocean on Facebook featuring the word “blessed.” It didn’t used to be that celebrities would Instagram one of their physical “assets” and hashtag their posterior or pec with the word blessed. And it didn’t used to be that you could make your braggy post look humble (The internet calls that a humble-brag.) post about your perfect fiancée or your amazing job or your sweet vacation by hash tagging it #blessed. But these days? That’s just what people do. These beatitudes – that’s what a blessed statement is – have been so misused that on the internet that now it’s become a bit of a pastime to make fun of them. It was already back in 2013 when a comedian by the name of Davon tweeted out this joke: “Caught a piece of bacon falling out of my sandwich right before it hit the ground.” #blessed. What the internet has realized all too well is that beatitudes really do matter. They really do grab your attention. They really do draw people to your pec, your beauty, your success, or your vacation. It’s the perfect cover for bragging. Just hashtag your post “blessed” and you’re good to go.

They’re right in a way. Beatitudes are incredibly powerful draws. It’s just that they’re not supposed to draw us to someone’s Caribbean vacation or pectoral muscle or God-forbid a bacon-falling-out-of-sandwich joke. Beatitudes or “blessed” statements are in divine literature to draw us to their truth.  Truths that if they didn’t have #blessed attached to them wouldn’t look nearly so compelling to us. In fact, beatitudes in Scripture are used almost exclusively to draw us to the most difficult of scriptural truth. Truths that are counterintuitive. Truths that seem wrong. Truths that don’t sound right. Like when Jesus tells us, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” (Matthew 5:3) That actually doesn’t sound true. So Jesus makes it a beatitude. Or when Eliphaz says to Job in his suffering, “Blessed is the one whom God corrects.” (Job 5:17) That doesn’t sound true either especially when you’re the one being corrected. The point? The point is that beatitudes are intentionally exotic and rare in the Scriptures. If everything was blessed – if everything was happy all the time, beatitudes would lose their power to draw us in. So they’re rare.

And they’re here. They’re right here in this Psalm. And, yes, I did say, “They.” Psalm 32 isn’t just a single beatitude. It’s a double. Twice we’re told something is blessed. Twice we’re told something is happy. And, yes, in this case I do believe the psalmist, David, meant happy. Sometimes blessed doesn’t include the idea of happy. Sometimes it just means enriched. But here? This means happy. This means joyful. This means peaceful. All you have to do is keep reading the psalm to discover that. If the end of the psalm is any indication (It is!), this is the happiest condition that a person can have. It leads to rejoicing and being glad and singing. And that’s just one verse of the psalm and not surprisingly also the closing verse of the psalm. So, yeah, I’m pretty sure that this double beatitude includes the idea of being happy. But you know what’s probably most surprising and most compelling about these double beatitudes? They’re not only back-to-back, they’re also about the exact same idea. The exact same idea. The Spirit apparently wants to draw us to one single, important truth. He apparently thinks that we’re going to have an awful hard to believing it without this one-two punch of “blessed” truth right at the outset of the psalm.

What’s interesting is that at first glance these beatitudinal (Is that a word?) truths that Spirit is drawing us toward don’t seem especially counterintuitive. Or hard to believe. Or not true. I mean come on. Who doesn’t believe or understand that, “Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered” (v. 1)? Who doesn’t actually think that it’s the most beautiful thing in the world that when I’ve been in out and out rebellion saying, “Lord, I know your rules about who I should love and how, but – well – the heart wants what the heart wants,” that the Lord will forgive that and lift that up and off of me? Who isn’t compelled by the idea that my unredeemed personality that can so often miss the mark with its flaws and insecurities and little miscues is covered up by the Lord himself? Who isn’t captivated by that idea? And who doesn’t love the doctrine of justification that says, “Blessed is the one whose sin the Lord does not count against them” (v. 2)? Who doesn’t want to already know now how they stand with the Lord now and then also on into eternity? Who doesn’t actually want to know how the gavel will come down; how the Lord is going to count the beans of my life? All of this beatitudinal truth is incredibly captivating and happy and beautiful.

You know what isn’t though? That sneaky little line that comes in right at the end of the beatitudes here. That squirrely and uncomfortable bugger that undergirds the entire framework of these beatitudes – the line that says the person is happy, “in whose spirit is no deceit.” (v. 2) That’s the uncomfortable part – the part that has us seeing ourselves clearly and clarifying for ourselves why, in fact, we need this kind of promised triple cleansing that’s here promised. That part? Well – it’s uncomfortable to think about. So we often don’t. David certainly didn’t. He didn’t think of the way he lusted after and then violated another man’s wife. He didn’t think of how he purposely got that woman’s husband, Uriah, sloppy drunk. He didn’t think of his massive misuse of political power with his general, Joab, for which he definitely deserved impeachment. He didn’t think of how it all culminated in him murdering Uriah or how it all started with his lazing around his palace. Or if he did, he someone justified it or minimized it or passed the blame for it or repressed it or suppressed or generally pursued one of about 18 improper ways that humans beings use to deal with their personal rebellion, sin, and guilt.

It’s actually one of the more amazing truths about David that for somewhere around a year David hung on to all that mess. And not once – not once! – during that time did he come to the conclusion that he’d like dump it all on the Lord to be happy once again. God had to send him a prophet for that happen. Think about that. There he was his hands dripping with blood and adultery and evil politics. There he was completely self-deceived. No wiser than a mule or a horse what he was really like as a man – his words not mine. David was so committed to himself that he’d rather have his evil than the Lord’s forgiveness. And that – that right there! – that is a perfect microcosm of the human condition. I remember when I was at the Seminary the dorkiest of us seminarians would send emojis to each other on instant messenger (Remember instant messenger?) every time one of our professors would talk about that. They even had a sweet Latin term for it that got really hot in the Reformation. They called it the opinio legis or the opinion of the law. You know what it is? It’s humanity’s most durable belief system. It’s also every human soul’s factory-made, and default-setting when they come into this world. Our false self-view before the law is this: I’m good and God should like me. “Just look at me. I keep the rules. See?”

Let me make this really simple. You know what we call that? We call that pride. Pride was so important to David that he let his, “bones waste away,” (v. 3) rather than confess to his crime of murdering Uriah. Pride was so important to David that he sat there, “groaning all day long,” (v. 3) rather than admit any wrongdoing about Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba. Pride was so important to David that he wanted “strength sapped as in the heat of the summer,” (v. 4) rather than say anything sincere about any of this to God. Do you see what that means? It’s one of the Spirit’s most massive miracles when we give up our most fundamental belief where we say, “I’m ok. God will accept me the way I am.” And we come to say and believe, “No. I’m not ok. (Insert here whatever sin you know and feel in your heart.) I’m rebellious. I’m the guy who viciously told off his mom in the ninth grade. I’m a sinner. I’m the person who relies obsessively on the approval of people in my life to feel ok. I’m guilty too. God should punish me for a prayer life that looks a lot more like God’s honey-do list than thoughts of thanks and awe for the God of creation and redemption.”  

But that massive miracle called faith does happen. And the Spirit does do his incredible work. And this is what that looks like: The Spirit changes our most foundational belief from one in our own goodness into a belief in God’s goodness. You realize that’s what’s happening when you come to faith, don’t you? When we come to faith we go from believing in our own basic goodness to believing in God’s basic goodness. It’s also when we gush and we come clean and we admit and we confess and we repent, or, call it whatever you want to call it we dump our not-so-good self on an incredibly good God. That’s what’s so awesome about the Lord. It’s not like we don’t know what’s going to happen when we dump on him whatever it is that keeps us up at night. It’s not like we have to guess how he’s going to receive us when we tell him what we did last summer. It’s not like we can’t predict how he’ll treat us once we speak what’s unspeakable about us to him. We absolutely can. There’s nothing he wants you surer about. Nothing. He not only reeling you in with a double beatitude, but he’s also giving you David as the perfect case study of a person who tried it out. When David acknowledged his murder. When he spoke out loud his adultery and pulled out his laundry list of no-noes he had committed, “You forgave the guilt of my sin.” (v. 5)

But, honestly, I didn’t even tell you the best part yet. Seriously, I didn’t. It’s not just a double and back-to-back beatitude and a case study in David that is meant to move you to dump yourself on God’s goodness. It’s way, way better than that. Did I say way better? I really don’t think it’s an accident that when Luke wrote about Jesus and his first reactions on the cross Luke told us two things. #1 Jesus asked for forgiveness for us saying, “Father, forgive them.” (Luke 23:34) You know why I think he did that? So we wouldn’t panic. So we wouldn’t have to think, “Did I confess enough? Did I miss anything? Did I truly repent sincerely enough?” Stop panicking. We definitely haven’t. And we’ve definitely missed stuff. That’s why Jesus asked forgiveness for us. #2 The very next thing Luke reports is that Jesus’ clothes got passed around to his enemies. When I read that I couldn’t help but think of what a gospel note that really is. In a very real way, that’s the heart of the gospel. When we admit we’re not good, God covers us with the goodness that is Christ’s life. That’s how it works. When we come clean, God makes us clean. When we uncover ourselves before God, God covers us with Christ’s robes of righteousness. When we stop hiding from him, God becomes our, “hiding place.” (v. 7)

There’s actually no true alternative for dealing with ourselves. That’s David’s – how shall I say it? – very picturesque point as he finishes out the psalm. We could – I suppose – hold the line on our most durable belief. We could stay at the spiritual factory setting that we entered the world with, “I’m good and nobody will tell me differently.” We could keep believing that way or as David very picturesquely said (Sorry equestrians who are here! BTW dogs fare much worse in the Scriptures.), “like a horse or a mule, which have no understanding.” (v. 9) But that’s no real spirituality. It’s being a spiritual –  well –  mule. And David will tell you from experience it only results in, “Woe.” (v. 10) But the Lord? He wants you covered. He wants you hidden in him. He wants to surround you with, “songs of deliverance.” (v. 7) That’s you. That’s your life. That’s your Jesus. You’ll confess and be covered. You’ll admit your true self only to learn the Lord’s true self. That’s how it’ll always work for you. You’ll come clean only to be made perfectly clean in the blood of the Lamb. You’ll tell him what you did last summer only to be forgiven. You’ll say out loud to him what’s unspeakable about you and you’ll be covered with his Son. You’ll reveal to him what nobody else knows and the Lord will never hold it against you.

You know what the Spirit calls that? #blessed. No Caribbean vacation or physical asset or fiancée or awesome job or piece of bacon-falling-out-of-a sandwich-save can hold a candle to it. So Instagram your forgiveness #blessed. Facebook Christ’s righteousness that you now have #blessed. You know what awesome about doing that? It’s no humble-brag. No doubt, it’s bragging. It’s the biggest brag in the world. It’s just that it’s not about you. Salvation never is. It’s about promoting the one belief that is the most difficult one in the world to believe. God is good. God is merciful. God is forgiveness itself in Jesus Christ. No, seriously, he is. Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven. Blessed is the one whose sins the Lord does not count against them. Two back-to-back beatitudes preaching the exact same thing to open this psalm. Apparently, the Spirit would have you know that more than anything else in his entire book. Because, apparently, he wants to make you the happiest person in the world. That’s why he gave you these beatitudes and David as a case study in forgiveness, but even better? He gave you Jesus. Lebron James standing in front of a gorgeous ocean? Take a seat. I know where my hashtag belongs. Behind my forgiveness in Jesus. That’s happy. That’s #blessed. Amen.

Psalm 42:1–11 As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. 2 My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God? 3 My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me all day long, “Where is your God?” 4 These things I remember as I pour out my soul: how I used to go to the house of God under the protection of the Mighty One with shouts of joy and praise among the festive throng. 5 Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God. 6 My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar. 7 Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.8 By day the Lord directs his love, at night his song is with me— a prayer to the God of my life. 9 I say to God my Rock, “Why have you forgotten me? Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?” 10 My bones suffer mortal agony as my foes taunt me, saying to me all day long, “Where is your God?” 11 Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.

If you take Oprah’s Lifeclass, you’ll hear about it there. People say it will be your Aha! moment in the class. If you read that copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People you’ll read about it there too. It will be the theme of the book. If you pick up that copy of The Secret that your grandma bought you and 18 million other people bought too, you’ll better understand this supposed truth. That’s what one historian said this week in a post that went viral. You know what she was talking about? She was talking about a movement that has its roots way back in the late 1800’s called the New Thought movement. The movement said if you have positive thoughts you will have positive circumstances and if you have negative thoughts you will have negative ones. That movement was so captivating that some preachers in America even tried to Christianize the idea. A guy by the name of Pastor Kenyon was its founding preacher. He taught his congregation a mental mantra that he promised would make them all rich and perfectly healthy. He told them, “Say to yourself, “God’s health is mine. His success is mine. I am a winner. I am a conqueror.”

And in a way those ideas make an awful lot of sense to us as Christians. God is good. He wants what’s best for us and, therefore, if things aren’t going well for us, then it must be because God wants us thinking differently about our lives and about him. Because, like we said before, God is good and Jesus died so that we would live with abundant wealth and health. That’s how the thinking goes. That kind of thinking is awfully captivating. It’s nice to think that God’s world is kind of like the coke machine in the corner. That if we just put the right things into it that it’ll spit out exactly what it should. That refreshing coke called the good life. Until we find out that that’s not quite how it works. Until people with great attitudes get cancer. And the most positive Christian you know gets into a car accident. And the most faithful prayer warrior you can think of loses her daughter. And even when you go to church and you pray the right prayers and you do your utmost to think the right Christian thoughts you lose your pension. It’s nice to think God’s world is exactly like a coke machine. Until you start living life and you realize that’s not how it works.

That’s this psalm’s quandary. That no matter how faithful you are God; or how positive your thinking; or how right your faith is that there will be deep pains in your life. Psalm 42 is about the quandary that even the Christian’s life on earth is one with many struggles. Jesus himself pointed out how troublesome this was especially for new Christians. He said they often fall away when life starts hurting. They think, “I’m a Christian now and I still hurt? I’m a Christian now and this still happens? I’m a Christian now and my new faith is rewarded like this?” I’m not sure the questions ever perfectly go away either just because we’ve been Christians longer and we’re more mature in our faith. Sometimes I think it can get even tougher for mature Christians because thoughts come like, “Why is this pain still here a decade later? What is there still to learn from it?” Or, “Shouldn’t there be a time when I outgrow trials? Shouldn’t there be a time when they stop because God finally has me where he wants me spiritually?” Or, “God, can you just let me rest for a minute? I’m pretty beat up. I’m so used to things going wrong that I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop in life even when I’m feeling pretty good.”

That’s the person that shows up in this psalm – a person with a crazy amount of pain. He’s totally down. His face has the creases of devastating depression. His eyes have lost all their sparkle. His way of doing life is totally listless. This guy’s so depressed that he says he’s crying all day and all night. And he’s got this question – this aching question! – that keeps circling his mind and this psalm, “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me?” (v. 5) And there that question so thick with over-the-top pain just hangs. Not just in his soul, but also in this psalm. There the question just hangs. There’s no quick therapeutic solution in the psalm. No pat answer. No Zoloft prescription. No pastoral wizarding that makes everything immediately all ok. There the question just hangs in the air. You know why the psalmist does that? Because so much of life is like that. Our hardest questions, our deepest depressions, and our most profound sadnesses hang in our souls without perfect answers. Earlier this week a 35-year-old Christian woman with a wonderful husband and a beautiful 3-year-old wrote an article about dying from cancer. She talked about her neighbor came over and confidently announced to her husband, “There’s got to be a reason.” And her husband very sweetly, but directly said, “And what is it?” And the question just hung there.

We need to understand that. If there’s anything this psalm helps us get, it’s that. We live life as God’s children, but not as God himself. We can influence his decisions and the ways in which he guides our lives through prayer, but we don’t ever make the call. And that leaves us with questions about why he makes the calls he does. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of what he’s up to, but an awful lot of the time we can’t see the plan and we almost never do as its happening. Why that surgery? Why that abuse? Why that temptation? Why this sickness? Why that death? Why this misstep? Why that trashed ministry plan? Why this ruined vision? And why did he spare me emotionally in that moment only to drown me in this one? Or to use the language from the psalm: Why did he let his “waves and breakers” (v. 7) sweep over me like this? Why does he let me “go about mourning,” (v. 9) right now? Why does he let other people see me apparently “forgotten” (v. 9) and then let them bash my God with questions like, “Where is your God?” (v. 10) Do you see the point? In this world very real questions about our lives go unanswered. They just hang in the air.

If you’ve ever had questions like that or pains that deep, then you should know Jesus did too. He knew the truth of what this psalmist was saying about life for God and under God. He knew this psalm’s power. You know how we know that? Jesus used language from this psalm to describe his feelings. You know when he did that? When he felt his most perfect depression. When he was dealing with his most profound sadness. In the Garden of Gethsemane Jesus grabbed for the words from his Bible that are only found in Psalm 42 to say, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” (Matt. 26:38) Do you see those words I put in italics? That’s just one word in Greek that literally means “above pain.” Jesus was literally saying to his friends, “My soul pain is so fierce right now that if a nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10. I’d give it a 100.” Jesus’ sadness was off the scales. It was so deep and so powerful that it had him pinned down to the point of death. And do you know where Jesus got that word from? He got it from his very own Bible, a translation of Psalm 42.

And this wasn’t Jesus being a drama queen. This was how he really felt. He felt so much anguish that we’re told that his blood pressure freakishly spiked to that point that his pounding heart was forcing sweat tinged with blood to leak out of his pores. That’s how intense this was for Jesus; how real. And why? God was placing all the pain, all the suffering, and every sin onto the soul of his Son. And sin is that bad. It’s what has made a mess of God’s world, our souls and our bodies. It’s what has made all our relationships challenging and our work environments just plain stink sometimes. There in that moment God was laying all of that on Jesus. Think about that. God just couldn’t have us born into this brokenness and this pain with no hope of ever escaping it. God just couldn’t bear the thought of us being headed for that kind of brokenness and pain forever. God just couldn’t and he wouldn’t ever let that happen to us. But he would let it happen to Jesus. And that weighed on Jesus in Gethsemane with a pain so heavy and so intense that it had him quoting Psalm 42 to express what it felt like to him.

 Now I need you to understand something. I’m not telling you that so that you say to yourself, “Well, at least, I’m not alone in my suffering. Jesus suffered too.” Because on the same night that Jesus told his closest disciples about his greatest pain, he also told them what to make of it. You know what he said to us just before he headed into Gethsemane? He said, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) That was his last statement to us before he walked into the Garden of Gethsemane and quoted Psalm 42. That statement right there. Do you see what that means? Jesus didn’t want us to just understand that he suffers alongside of us. Jesus wanted us to understand that he suffers for us. That in doing so he was overcoming the world and its pain and its questions by giving us peace with God. That in doing so he was making us all winners. And that must mean – that must mean! – that all of our sufferings and all our pains are somehow working toward a victorious and glorious end. They have to be.

Do you see what that means? That means that the only question about your life that finally matters is already unquestionably answered. Everything must be happening because God loves us. Everything must be happening because God’s governing for us. Everything must be playing out because it fits his kingdom plan. Everything must be going this way because he’s got us headed for glory. How the jigsaw all fits together? That I don’t know. Why it all happens just the way it does? No clue. But the one big question? That one that asks: Is this God out to get me or is this God being for me? That question? That one’s been unquestionably answered. Jesus didn’t head to Gethsemane on a whim. Jesus didn’t feel soul crushing to-the-point-of-death pain for nothing. He headed there so that in the greatest pains of our lives we could still say, “God is for me in this too.” He must be. We don’t completely understand why everything happens, but we do know that in all things God must be for us.

That is what we are to remember. That is what we are to hold on to. That is what we are to trust even and especially in the moments when we hurt the most. Did you know that that’s been every Christian’s strategy for millennia dating back all the way to this psalm? Remembering. “I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of Hermon - from the Mount of Mizar. Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.” (v. 6–7) Do you see what the Psalmist saying? He’s saying, “I’d rather be anywhere except where I’m at. I want to be in Jerusalem. I want to be in God’s presence. I don’t want to be here in the backwaters of the Jordan. I don’t want to be locked away on the heights of Hermon. Anywhere in life, but here. But here God has me.” And as along as God has him there he says, “I’m going to remember God. Right from here. Right from the place in life I don’t want to me. I’m going to remember his mercy.” Because sometimes in life God has us in a place where it feels like his breakers and his waves are going to take us out. Like life is just one big tidal wave. Like my soul is going to need to be mopped up off the floor. And when we’re there – when we are in the places in life where we don’t want to be, God wants us to remember his mercy in Jesus.

No, this world isn’t a well functioning coke machine that’s constantly spitting out the refreshing coke known as the good life. No, it doesn’t always happen that God’s greatest saints experience only health and wealth while they do life. The truth is that I may very well have the right faith and the proper trust and still get painful results. And that will leave us with some questions, but not with the big question. That’s been unquestionably answered. Take one look at Jesus in Gethsemane and you can see that God is for me. So I’ll remember that. I’ll remember that from my surgical bed. I’ll remember that from my anxiety. I’ll remember that from my not-so-great-job or my difficult relationships. I’ll even remember that when life comes at me like a cyclone. In fact, I’ll remember him especially right from there. From my own personal Hermons. From my own lands of the Jordan. From the emotional and spiritual places where I don’t particularly want to be.

You know what we call that? We call that living with hope. And that’s how we do life. Not always with happiness, but always with hope. Not always grinning, but always trusting. Remembering that Jesus overcame the world for us. And that’s why I’ll have hope. And that’s why I’ll confidently preach to myself and to you the closing words of this psalm as powerfully and as vigorously and as often as I must, “Put your hope in God. I will yet praise him.” (v. 11) I may not have all the answers about my own life or answers for you about yours. But what I need to know I know. He is my Savior and he is my God. And he’s yours too. Amen.

Psalm 42:1–11 As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. 2 My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God? 3 My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me all day long, “Where is your God?” 4 These things I remember as I pour out my soul: how I used to go to the house of God under the protection of the Mighty One with shouts of joy and praise among the festive throng. 5 Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God. 6 My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar. 7 Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.8 By day the Lord directs his love, at night his song is with me— a prayer to the God of my life. 9 I say to God my Rock, “Why have you forgotten me? Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?” 10 My bones suffer mortal agony as my foes taunt me, saying to me all day long, “Where is your God?” 11 Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.

If you take Oprah’s Lifeclass, you’ll hear about it there. People say it will be your Aha! moment in the class. If you read that copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People you’ll read about it there too. It will be the theme of the book. If you pick up that copy of The Secret that your grandma bought you and 18 million other people bought too, you’ll better understand this supposed truth. That’s what one historian said this week in a post that went viral. You know what she was talking about? She was talking about a movement that has its roots way back in the late 1800’s called the New Thought movement. The movement said if you have positive thoughts you will have positive circumstances and if you have negative thoughts you will have negative ones. That movement was so captivating that some preachers in America even tried to Christianize the idea. A guy by the name of Pastor Kenyon was its founding preacher. He taught his congregation a mental mantra that he promised would make them all rich and perfectly healthy. He told them, “Say to yourself, “God’s health is mine. His success is mine. I am a winner. I am a conqueror.”

And in a way those ideas make an awful lot of sense to us as Christians. God is good. He wants what’s best for us and, therefore, if things aren’t going well for us, then it must be because God wants us thinking differently about our lives and about him. Because, like we said before, God is good and Jesus died so that we would live with abundant wealth and health. That’s how the thinking goes. That kind of thinking is awfully captivating. It’s nice to think that God’s world is kind of like the coke machine in the corner. That if we just put the right things into it that it’ll spit out exactly what it should. That refreshing coke called the good life. Until we find out that that’s not quite how it works. Until people with great attitudes get cancer. And the most positive Christian you know gets into a car accident. And the most faithful prayer warrior you can think of loses her daughter. And even when you go to church and you pray the right prayers and you do your utmost to think the right Christian thoughts you lose your pension. It’s nice to think God’s world is exactly like a coke machine. Until you start living life and you realize that’s not how it works.

That’s this psalm’s quandary. That no matter how faithful you are God; or how positive your thinking; or how right your faith is that there will be deep pains in your life. Psalm 42 is about the quandary that even the Christian’s life on earth is one with many struggles. Jesus himself pointed out how troublesome this was especially for new Christians. He said they often fall away when life starts hurting. They think, “I’m a Christian now and I still hurt? I’m a Christian now and this still happens? I’m a Christian now and my new faith is rewarded like this?” I’m not sure the questions ever perfectly go away either just because we’ve been Christians longer and we’re more mature in our faith. Sometimes I think it can get even tougher for mature Christians because thoughts come like, “Why is this pain still here a decade later? What is there still to learn from it?” Or, “Shouldn’t there be a time when I outgrow trials? Shouldn’t there be a time when they stop because God finally has me where he wants me spiritually?” Or, “God, can you just let me rest for a minute? I’m pretty beat up. I’m so used to things going wrong that I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop in life even when I’m feeling pretty good.”

That’s the person that shows up in this psalm – a person with a crazy amount of pain. He’s totally down. His face has the creases of devastating depression. His eyes have lost all their sparkle. His way of doing life is totally listless. This guy’s so depressed that he says he’s crying all day and all night. And he’s got this question – this aching question! – that keeps circling his mind and this psalm, “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me?” (v. 5) And there that question so thick with over-the-top pain just hangs. Not just in his soul, but also in this psalm. There the question just hangs. There’s no quick therapeutic solution in the psalm. No pat answer. No Zoloft prescription. No pastoral wizarding that makes everything immediately all ok. There the question just hangs in the air. You know why the psalmist does that? Because so much of life is like that. Our hardest questions, our deepest depressions, and our most profound sadnesses hang in our souls without perfect answers. Earlier this week a 35-year-old Christian woman with a wonderful husband and a beautiful 3-year-old wrote an article about dying from cancer. She talked about her neighbor came over and confidently announced to her husband, “There’s got to be a reason.” And her husband very sweetly, but directly said, “And what is it?” And the question just hung there.

We need to understand that. If there’s anything this psalm helps us get, it’s that. We live life as God’s children, but not as God himself. We can influence his decisions and the ways in which he guides our lives through prayer, but we don’t ever make the call. And that leaves us with questions about why he makes the calls he does. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of what he’s up to, but an awful lot of the time we can’t see the plan and we almost never do as its happening. Why that surgery? Why that abuse? Why that temptation? Why this sickness? Why that death? Why this misstep? Why that trashed ministry plan? Why this ruined vision? And why did he spare me emotionally in that moment only to drown me in this one? Or to use the language from the psalm: Why did he let his “waves and breakers” (v. 7) sweep over me like this? Why does he let me “go about mourning,” (v. 9) right now? Why does he let other people see me apparently “forgotten” (v. 9) and then let them bash my God with questions like, “Where is your God?” (v. 10) Do you see the point? In this world very real questions about our lives go unanswered. They just hang in the air.

If you’ve ever had questions like that or pains that deep, then you should know Jesus did too. He knew the truth of what this psalmist was saying about life for God and under God. He knew this psalm’s power. You know how we know that? Jesus used language from this psalm to describe his feelings. You know when he did that? When he felt his most perfect depression. When he was dealing with his most profound sadness. In the Garden of Gethsemane Jesus grabbed for the words from his Bible that are only found in Psalm 42 to say, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” (Matt. 26:38) Do you see those words I put in italics? That’s just one word in Greek that literally means “above pain.” Jesus was literally saying to his friends, “My soul pain is so fierce right now that if a nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10. I’d give it a 100.” Jesus’ sadness was off the scales. It was so deep and so powerful that it had him pinned down to the point of death. And do you know where Jesus got that word from? He got it from his very own Bible, a translation of Psalm 42.

And this wasn’t Jesus being a drama queen. This was how he really felt. He felt so much anguish that we’re told that his blood pressure freakishly spiked to that point that his pounding heart was forcing sweat tinged with blood to leak out of his pores. That’s how intense this was for Jesus; how real. And why? God was placing all the pain, all the suffering, and every sin onto the soul of his Son. And sin is that bad. It’s what has made a mess of God’s world, our souls and our bodies. It’s what has made all our relationships challenging and our work environments just plain stink sometimes. There in that moment God was laying all of that on Jesus. Think about that. God just couldn’t have us born into this brokenness and this pain with no hope of ever escaping it. God just couldn’t bear the thought of us being headed for that kind of brokenness and pain forever. God just couldn’t and he wouldn’t ever let that happen to us. But he would let it happen to Jesus. And that weighed on Jesus in Gethsemane with a pain so heavy and so intense that it had him quoting Psalm 42 to express what it felt like to him.

 Now I need you to understand something. I’m not telling you that so that you say to yourself, “Well, at least, I’m not alone in my suffering. Jesus suffered too.” Because on the same night that Jesus told his closest disciples about his greatest pain, he also told them what to make of it. You know what he said to us just before he headed into Gethsemane? He said, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) That was his last statement to us before he walked into the Garden of Gethsemane and quoted Psalm 42. That statement right there. Do you see what that means? Jesus didn’t want us to just understand that he suffers alongside of us. Jesus wanted us to understand that he suffers for us. That in doing so he was overcoming the world and its pain and its questions by giving us peace with God. That in doing so he was making us all winners. And that must mean – that must mean! – that all of our sufferings and all our pains are somehow working toward a victorious and glorious end. They have to be.

Do you see what that means? That means that the only question about your life that finally matters is already unquestionably answered. Everything must be happening because God loves us. Everything must be happening because God’s governing for us. Everything must be playing out because it fits his kingdom plan. Everything must be going this way because he’s got us headed for glory. How the jigsaw all fits together? That I don’t know. Why it all happens just the way it does? No clue. But the one big question? That one that asks: Is this God out to get me or is this God being for me? That question? That one’s been unquestionably answered. Jesus didn’t head to Gethsemane on a whim. Jesus didn’t feel soul crushing to-the-point-of-death pain for nothing. He headed there so that in the greatest pains of our lives we could still say, “God is for me in this too.” He must be. We don’t completely understand why everything happens, but we do know that in all things God must be for us.

That is what we are to remember. That is what we are to hold on to. That is what we are to trust even and especially in the moments when we hurt the most. Did you know that that’s been every Christian’s strategy for millennia dating back all the way to this psalm? Remembering. “I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of Hermon - from the Mount of Mizar. Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.” (v. 6–7) Do you see what the Psalmist saying? He’s saying, “I’d rather be anywhere except where I’m at. I want to be in Jerusalem. I want to be in God’s presence. I don’t want to be here in the backwaters of the Jordan. I don’t want to be locked away on the heights of Hermon. Anywhere in life, but here. But here God has me.” And as along as God has him there he says, “I’m going to remember God. Right from here. Right from the place in life I don’t want to me. I’m going to remember his mercy.” Because sometimes in life God has us in a place where it feels like his breakers and his waves are going to take us out. Like life is just one big tidal wave. Like my soul is going to need to be mopped up off the floor. And when we’re there – when we are in the places in life where we don’t want to be, God wants us to remember his mercy in Jesus.

No, this world isn’t a well functioning coke machine that’s constantly spitting out the refreshing coke known as the good life. No, it doesn’t always happen that God’s greatest saints experience only health and wealth while they do life. The truth is that I may very well have the right faith and the proper trust and still get painful results. And that will leave us with some questions, but not with the big question. That’s been unquestionably answered. Take one look at Jesus in Gethsemane and you can see that God is for me. So I’ll remember that. I’ll remember that from my surgical bed. I’ll remember that from my anxiety. I’ll remember that from my not-so-great-job or my difficult relationships. I’ll even remember that when life comes at me like a cyclone. In fact, I’ll remember him especially right from there. From my own personal Hermons. From my own lands of the Jordan. From the emotional and spiritual places where I don’t particularly want to be.

You know what we call that? We call that living with hope. And that’s how we do life. Not always with happiness, but always with hope. Not always grinning, but always trusting. Remembering that Jesus overcame the world for us. And that’s why I’ll have hope. And that’s why I’ll confidently preach to myself and to you the closing words of this psalm as powerfully and as vigorously and as often as I must, “Put your hope in God. I will yet praise him.” (v. 11) I may not have all the answers about my own life or answers for you about yours. But what I need to know I know. He is my Savior and he is my God. And he’s yours too. Amen.

Psalm 91:9–13 If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,” and you make the Most High your dwelling, 10 no harm will overtake you, no disaster will come near your tent. 11 For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; 12 they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. 13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. 14 “Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. 15 He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. 16 With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.”

There’s a strange sort of power in Psalm 91. It just does things to people. There’s a story now a century old about the 91st Infantry Brigade. 91st ring a bell with anyone? The story dates from World War I. The brigade was about to head to the war zone so the Commander gave each one of his troops a little printed card of this psalm and they decided to recite the Psalm together every day. As the story goes (And it is only a story. History says it’s not true.) the brigade was involved in three of the bloodiest battles of World War I including Chateau Thierry, Belle Wood, and Argonne and while other units suffered about 90% casualties the 91st Brigade did not suffer a single combat related casualty. Psalm 91. It has a strange power over people. It even gets them talking about and believing apocryphal war stories. Did you know that the strange power of Psalm 91 reemerged back in 2012? It may have been the oddest and even most offensive use of the Psalm in history. You know where it showed up? In Madonnarama. Yes, I did say Madonnarama. Psalm 91 actually showed up in the opening act of Madonna’s latest world tour. I’m telling you there’s a strange power in Psalm 91 that just gets into people. Even Madonna.

And apparently that’s not just true of people. It’s true of angels too. Or to be more specific, bad angels. It’s not just accidental that when history’s two great spiritual titans, Satan and Jesus, locked horns in one of the world’s watershed moments that there in that setting Psalm 91 showed up. And like I said, it wasn’t Jesus who brought it out to play. It was quite the moment. Jesus had Satan in a spiritual chokehold and down for two counts. Twice Jesus had believed the Scriptures. Twice Jesus had quoted them. So just before the three count Satan in his last gasp threw Scripture right back at Jesus. I think he thought, “Well – if he’s going to keep believing the Scriptures, then I’ll give him some Scripture to believe.” And he went into his deep well of Scripture passages he knew by heart and he pulled the perfect one out. You have to understand that. Satan’s no dummy. He wasn’t reaching blindly into a grab bag of Scripture desperately hoping maybe one he would blindly grab might do the trick. Satan grabbed for Psalm 91 because it was the Scripture that bugged him the most. Because it was one that got to the heart of the issue and was always threatening to undermine his entire reign.

And so it came to pass that Satan preached on Psalm 91 with the Temple in Jerusalem as his pulpit. He and Jesus were standing on the highest point of the temple. Some think it was the point in the temple complex that looked down some 450 feet where rocks covered the Kidron Valley below. There Satan’s slithering tongue preached, “You should jump. After all, “He will command his angels concerning you to guard you carefully; they will lift you up in their hands so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.” (Luke 4:10–11) So apparently preaching from the Bible doesn’t make you a preacher of the Bible. Or does it? Where the catch? What’s the problem? Satan quoted the Scripture. He even seemed to be asking Jesus to believe and act on one of God’s promises? What could possibly be wrong with that? Exactly. That’s what’s so genius and subtle about Satan’s attack here. It’s nearly impossible to spot it in his words. In fact, if you stare at only these words you won’t see see what Satan’s up to at all. These words are not the problem. Satan exactly quoted the Scripture here. Until he didn’t anymore. You know what he did? He dropped off the end of the promise. He very carefully macheted off this Scripture just four little words. Just four.

You know what Satan dropped? Psalm 91 actually says, “He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” (v. 11) He dropped just four little words: in all your ways. Do you see how genius that is? Those four little words could sound like the most insignificant part of the promise. They could look like words Satan innocently left off. Until you realize that’s not it at all. Until you realize that Satan was actually dropping off the word that made the promise complete, practical, and concrete. Satan dropped the words, "in all your ways," so that Jesus (and we) might forget that God is promising to perfectly protect us as we go about our daily, normal lives. He didn’t want us or Jesus to get that God will make everything go right for you in the normal course of things. He didn’t want us or Jesus to believe that God’s unseen commandos ride the bus with your kids and his spiritual Navy SEALS have your back when Satan wants to make the surgeon’s knife slip. He didn’t want Jesus thinking about the part of the promise that might help him understand that doing life for God isn’t exactly the same as cliff jumping. Nor does taking a swan dive into the Kidron Valley exactly qualify as something God means when he asks us to walk out in faith.

But then again, the swan dive wasn’t really necessary. A step toward the ledge wasn’t either. I’m not even sure it’s what Satan was even aiming at. All Satan needed was a creeping doubt in Jesus. A dash of distrust. A tiny figment of fear. That’s all he needed. He didn’t need any cliff jumping from Jesus to win this battle. All he needed was a little movement of Jesus’ heart. Just a little distrust. Just a momentary wavering. And Jesus would no longer be perfect or saving to us in any sense. He’d be just another fallen human. He’d be just one more person who’s distrustful and fearful like the rest of us. Just one more in a long line of sinners who thinks, “Maybe God doesn’t have this. Maybe he actually won’t come through.” That’s why Satan had him at that cliff edge while he preached on Psalm 91. He wasn’t necessarily hoping Jesus would jump. He was hoping Jesus wouldn’t for the wrong reasons. That he’d stay on the ledge not because it was smart and wise and normal and God-pleasing to do so, but because he wasn’t sure his Father had him perfectly protected and surrounded by his angels.

I used to think that Satan was a little too obvious with this attack until I understood that. I even used to say to himself, “Seriously, Satan, I’m definitely a sinner and even I wouldn’t jump off the cliff just ‘cause you told me to. You couldn’t even get me to go skydiving with someone trained to do it.” But that’s the genius. Satan doesn’t aim to have us to jump off the cliffs of life. He aims to introduce creeping little doubts about our normal lives. It starts out with a few nerves. Just a little fear. Just a little passing thought, “Maybe God really isn’t concerned about your baby’s health. Maybe God isn’t interested in your dad’s heart problems. Maybe God simply vacated your job premises. Maybe God shut down that idea you had because he’s not really for you.” That’s all Satan has to do. He just has to let the doubts begin to creep. He just has to introduce you to all the bad possible futures. He just has to let the scenarios through your mind. If he can do that, then he can empty Psalm 91 of all of its power for us. And if he can do that, he can have us doing life confused, doubting, and just plain scared.

But I’m guessing that I’m not telling you anything new. You already knew it. Probably from experience. What mother here hasn’t had motherly care grow into motherly worry? What person here hasn’t seen godly concern for an ailing parent turn into devilish distress? What employee here hasn’t seen confidence that problems at work will turn out for our good become a creeping kind of doubt? Satan’s got us nailed on this stuff. Which, of course, means that we deserve every one of our worst case scenarios. Every one of them. And deep down, we know that. In fact, I remember a text thread I had all about that. Here’s how the text thread went. He was having a life crisis I already knew about as it was happening I got this text: “I’m scared.” “Any suggestions on verses to read?” I replied, “Psalm 23 is pretty good. Sometimes it’s nice to be a sheep and let him be the shepherd. Don’t be afraid. He’s real. He’s good. He’s powerful :-).” Reply. “I don’t feel like a very good sheep lately.” Do you see what he’s very rightly saying? God’s promises should be contingent upon how well we believe them. They should have their foundation on how well we cling to them. They should be based on how well we deserve them.

They should be, but they aren’t. Otherwise none of them would ever come true. God’s promises are not based on how well we believe them; how strongly we cling to them; or how much we deserve them. You know what makes these promises come true for you? God’s promises in Psalm 91 are true for you because of Jesus. They come true because he believed them, and because he clung to them, and because he deserved them. He is the one who has made you deserve the promises. That’s the gospel. And it’s playing out right in front of you today. There Jesus stood on that ledge locked in a titanic struggle. And there in that watershed moment when Satan tried to introduce into Jesus’ soul a creeping doubt, a figment of fear, a dash of distrust, you know what Jesus did? He believed Psalm 91. He believed the angels would lift him up. He believed that God’s unseen Navy SEAL Team wouldn’t ever allow him to strike his foot against a stone. He believed that so powerfully that there was not a fiber of his being that thought he ever had to prove it. There was just no reason to jump. Not one. So he stayed standing on the ledge and, more importantly, he stayed perfectly able to save us.

Staring at the victory? That’s where we become confident in the Psalm’s promises. That’s where we’re revived to see they’re true for us too. Do you see that? When we stare at Jesus giving Satan the three count we begin to understand what a perfect refuge he is. That he’s the one who not only won when Satan preached at the Temple, but also won on the cross. That in that opportune time when Satan came back to tempt him again – when the moment came to have every reason to doubt and to worry – that he never, ever did. That even in that moment when Jesus screamed about his abandonment and pain he still trusted. He’s our perfect Savior. And that is why I replied to the text the way I did. He had said, “I don’t feel like a very good sheep lately.” So I texted back, “We never are. Sometimes we realize that more than others. Good thing God’s love is not dependent on that!! He dies for the ungodly and chases the lost when they don’t think they are. Be free of guilt. (You already are. He counts you righteous by faith, not by works.” That’s exactly the truth that Jesus was winning for us first on the temple ledge and then on the cross. He was forgiving the fearful. He was justifying the worrier.

And that’s why he’s the perfect refuge. His protection isn’t dependent on the size of our love or of trust. He’s our refuge for us with what little trust we’ve got sometimes. That’s why no real harm or true disaster will come near your tent. Every true disaster and every real harm fell on Jesus on the cross. There’s none left to fall on you. And that’s why he sends his angels concerning you carefully guard you in all your ways. All of them. He doesn’t check out on your kids on the bus. He doesn’t forget about your dad as his body ages. He doesn’t leave you alone at your work site. He’s so for you that he’s got you totally surrounded with his unseen Navy SEAL team of angels. I’m telling you there’s just no way they’ll ever let you strike your foot against a stone. Even if you’re wearing open toed shoes. You know how true that is? Psalm 91 promises and Jesus proves that you’re so totally protected that you can go into life as your very own conqueror. You can live as the aggressor, the protagonist, the go-getter, the one who goes out and wins the victory in your own life.

Seriously. That’s our new way of life in Christ. The powerful one. The trusting one. The conquering one. Did you catch that? “You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent.” (v. 13) Not dude over there. Not the lady over there. You will. In a lot of different ways. In fact, that’s probably the most interesting and important part of this promise. There are two different words for lethal lions here in this verse. And two different kinds of slithering snakes too. And all four different kinds of these lethal animals get tread on by you. And think about that. Treading isn’t fearfully dancing around a snake in your path or jumping over its strike. It’s aiming for the reptile with your foot. And trampling? That’s even more violent and aggressive. You trample the lions of life. You deal death to snakes. That’s our new way of life in Christ. We’re forgiven doubters. Not current ones. We’re justified worriers. Not present ones. We’re the ones who go into life with unseen Navy SEAL commandos surrounding us. We’re the ones who do life in every circumstance not jumping off cliffs to prove some spiritual point, but confident that whatever happens as we walk our way for him that it’s a win.

That’s the strange, other worldly gospel power of Psalm 91. That’s the power that a War War I brigade, Madonna, and even Satan reacted to. He can’t have us that victorious. But Jesus does. Jesus has us aiming for him with our foot and trampling him violently. In other words? He’s made the Psalm’s promises true for us. That’s what he was up to when he locked horns in a battle of the titans with Satan and won. And now it’s time to trust that. Moms here, remember angels ride with your kids. Everywhere. Kids here, be concerned about your aging dad, and at the same time believe that God won’t ever let his foot strike against a stone. And sinners here, realize that not a one of your losses will ever count against you. Not a one. The only thing that God will ever counts toward you is Jesus’ winning matches against Satan. And by the way, he’s got a perfect record. Take that Satan. We just trampled on you. But then again, we knew a long time ago that we’d trample on snakes like him. Psalm 91 promised. Amen. 

Psalm 91:9–13 If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,” and you make the Most High your dwelling, 10 no harm will overtake you, no disaster will come near your tent. 11 For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; 12 they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. 13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. 14 “Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. 15 He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. 16 With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.”

There’s a strange sort of power in Psalm 91. It just does things to people. There’s a story now a century old about the 91st Infantry Brigade. 91st ring a bell with anyone? The story dates from World War I. The brigade was about to head to the war zone so the Commander gave each one of his troops a little printed card of this psalm and they decided to recite the Psalm together every day. As the story goes (And it is only a story. History says it’s not true.) the brigade was involved in three of the bloodiest battles of World War I including Chateau Thierry, Belle Wood, and Argonne and while other units suffered about 90% casualties the 91st Brigade did not suffer a single combat related casualty. Psalm 91. It has a strange power over people. It even gets them talking about and believing apocryphal war stories. Did you know that the strange power of Psalm 91 reemerged back in 2012? It may have been the oddest and even most offensive use of the Psalm in history. You know where it showed up? In Madonnarama. Yes, I did say Madonnarama. Psalm 91 actually showed up in the opening act of Madonna’s latest world tour. I’m telling you there’s a strange power in Psalm 91 that just gets into people. Even Madonna.

And apparently that’s not just true of people. It’s true of angels too. Or to be more specific, bad angels. It’s not just accidental that when history’s two great spiritual titans, Satan and Jesus, locked horns in one of the world’s watershed moments that there in that setting Psalm 91 showed up. And like I said, it wasn’t Jesus who brought it out to play. It was quite the moment. Jesus had Satan in a spiritual chokehold and down for two counts. Twice Jesus had believed the Scriptures. Twice Jesus had quoted them. So just before the three count Satan in his last gasp threw Scripture right back at Jesus. I think he thought, “Well – if he’s going to keep believing the Scriptures, then I’ll give him some Scripture to believe.” And he went into his deep well of Scripture passages he knew by heart and he pulled the perfect one out. You have to understand that. Satan’s no dummy. He wasn’t reaching blindly into a grab bag of Scripture desperately hoping maybe one he would blindly grab might do the trick. Satan grabbed for Psalm 91 because it was the Scripture that bugged him the most. Because it was one that got to the heart of the issue and was always threatening to undermine his entire reign.

And so it came to pass that Satan preached on Psalm 91 with the Temple in Jerusalem as his pulpit. He and Jesus were standing on the highest point of the temple. Some think it was the point in the temple complex that looked down some 450 feet where rocks covered the Kidron Valley below. There Satan’s slithering tongue preached, “You should jump. After all, “He will command his angels concerning you to guard you carefully; they will lift you up in their hands so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.” (Luke 4:10–11) So apparently preaching from the Bible doesn’t make you a preacher of the Bible. Or does it? Where the catch? What’s the problem? Satan quoted the Scripture. He even seemed to be asking Jesus to believe and act on one of God’s promises? What could possibly be wrong with that? Exactly. That’s what’s so genius and subtle about Satan’s attack here. It’s nearly impossible to spot it in his words. In fact, if you stare at only these words you won’t see see what Satan’s up to at all. These words are not the problem. Satan exactly quoted the Scripture here. Until he didn’t anymore. You know what he did? He dropped off the end of the promise. He very carefully macheted off this Scripture just four little words. Just four.

You know what Satan dropped? Psalm 91 actually says, “He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” (v. 11) He dropped just four little words: in all your ways. Do you see how genius that is? Those four little words could sound like the most insignificant part of the promise. They could look like words Satan innocently left off. Until you realize that’s not it at all. Until you realize that Satan was actually dropping off the word that made the promise complete, practical, and concrete. Satan dropped the words, "in all your ways," so that Jesus (and we) might forget that God is promising to perfectly protect us as we go about our daily, normal lives. He didn’t want us or Jesus to get that God will make everything go right for you in the normal course of things. He didn’t want us or Jesus to believe that God’s unseen commandos ride the bus with your kids and his spiritual Navy SEALS have your back when Satan wants to make the surgeon’s knife slip. He didn’t want Jesus thinking about the part of the promise that might help him understand that doing life for God isn’t exactly the same as cliff jumping. Nor does taking a swan dive into the Kidron Valley exactly qualify as something God means when he asks us to walk out in faith.

But then again, the swan dive wasn’t really necessary. A step toward the ledge wasn’t either. I’m not even sure it’s what Satan was even aiming at. All Satan needed was a creeping doubt in Jesus. A dash of distrust. A tiny figment of fear. That’s all he needed. He didn’t need any cliff jumping from Jesus to win this battle. All he needed was a little movement of Jesus’ heart. Just a little distrust. Just a momentary wavering. And Jesus would no longer be perfect or saving to us in any sense. He’d be just another fallen human. He’d be just one more person who’s distrustful and fearful like the rest of us. Just one more in a long line of sinners who thinks, “Maybe God doesn’t have this. Maybe he actually won’t come through.” That’s why Satan had him at that cliff edge while he preached on Psalm 91. He wasn’t necessarily hoping Jesus would jump. He was hoping Jesus wouldn’t for the wrong reasons. That he’d stay on the ledge not because it was smart and wise and normal and God-pleasing to do so, but because he wasn’t sure his Father had him perfectly protected and surrounded by his angels.

I used to think that Satan was a little too obvious with this attack until I understood that. I even used to say to himself, “Seriously, Satan, I’m definitely a sinner and even I wouldn’t jump off the cliff just ‘cause you told me to. You couldn’t even get me to go skydiving with someone trained to do it.” But that’s the genius. Satan doesn’t aim to have us to jump off the cliffs of life. He aims to introduce creeping little doubts about our normal lives. It starts out with a few nerves. Just a little fear. Just a little passing thought, “Maybe God really isn’t concerned about your baby’s health. Maybe God isn’t interested in your dad’s heart problems. Maybe God simply vacated your job premises. Maybe God shut down that idea you had because he’s not really for you.” That’s all Satan has to do. He just has to let the doubts begin to creep. He just has to introduce you to all the bad possible futures. He just has to let the scenarios through your mind. If he can do that, then he can empty Psalm 91 of all of its power for us. And if he can do that, he can have us doing life confused, doubting, and just plain scared.

But I’m guessing that I’m not telling you anything new. You already knew it. Probably from experience. What mother here hasn’t had motherly care grow into motherly worry? What person here hasn’t seen godly concern for an ailing parent turn into devilish distress? What employee here hasn’t seen confidence that problems at work will turn out for our good become a creeping kind of doubt? Satan’s got us nailed on this stuff. Which, of course, means that we deserve every one of our worst case scenarios. Every one of them. And deep down, we know that. In fact, I remember a text thread I had all about that. Here’s how the text thread went. He was having a life crisis I already knew about as it was happening I got this text: “I’m scared.” “Any suggestions on verses to read?” I replied, “Psalm 23 is pretty good. Sometimes it’s nice to be a sheep and let him be the shepherd. Don’t be afraid. He’s real. He’s good. He’s powerful :-).” Reply. “I don’t feel like a very good sheep lately.” Do you see what he’s very rightly saying? God’s promises should be contingent upon how well we believe them. They should have their foundation on how well we cling to them. They should be based on how well we deserve them.

They should be, but they aren’t. Otherwise none of them would ever come true. God’s promises are not based on how well we believe them; how strongly we cling to them; or how much we deserve them. You know what makes these promises come true for you? God’s promises in Psalm 91 are true for you because of Jesus. They come true because he believed them, and because he clung to them, and because he deserved them. He is the one who has made you deserve the promises. That’s the gospel. And it’s playing out right in front of you today. There Jesus stood on that ledge locked in a titanic struggle. And there in that watershed moment when Satan tried to introduce into Jesus’ soul a creeping doubt, a figment of fear, a dash of distrust, you know what Jesus did? He believed Psalm 91. He believed the angels would lift him up. He believed that God’s unseen Navy SEAL Team wouldn’t ever allow him to strike his foot against a stone. He believed that so powerfully that there was not a fiber of his being that thought he ever had to prove it. There was just no reason to jump. Not one. So he stayed standing on the ledge and, more importantly, he stayed perfectly able to save us.

Staring at the victory? That’s where we become confident in the Psalm’s promises. That’s where we’re revived to see they’re true for us too. Do you see that? When we stare at Jesus giving Satan the three count we begin to understand what a perfect refuge he is. That he’s the one who not only won when Satan preached at the Temple, but also won on the cross. That in that opportune time when Satan came back to tempt him again – when the moment came to have every reason to doubt and to worry – that he never, ever did. That even in that moment when Jesus screamed about his abandonment and pain he still trusted. He’s our perfect Savior. And that is why I replied to the text the way I did. He had said, “I don’t feel like a very good sheep lately.” So I texted back, “We never are. Sometimes we realize that more than others. Good thing God’s love is not dependent on that!! He dies for the ungodly and chases the lost when they don’t think they are. Be free of guilt. (You already are. He counts you righteous by faith, not by works.” That’s exactly the truth that Jesus was winning for us first on the temple ledge and then on the cross. He was forgiving the fearful. He was justifying the worrier.

And that’s why he’s the perfect refuge. His protection isn’t dependent on the size of our love or of trust. He’s our refuge for us with what little trust we’ve got sometimes. That’s why no real harm or true disaster will come near your tent. Every true disaster and every real harm fell on Jesus on the cross. There’s none left to fall on you. And that’s why he sends his angels concerning you carefully guard you in all your ways. All of them. He doesn’t check out on your kids on the bus. He doesn’t forget about your dad as his body ages. He doesn’t leave you alone at your work site. He’s so for you that he’s got you totally surrounded with his unseen Navy SEAL team of angels. I’m telling you there’s just no way they’ll ever let you strike your foot against a stone. Even if you’re wearing open toed shoes. You know how true that is? Psalm 91 promises and Jesus proves that you’re so totally protected that you can go into life as your very own conqueror. You can live as the aggressor, the protagonist, the go-getter, the one who goes out and wins the victory in your own life.

Seriously. That’s our new way of life in Christ. The powerful one. The trusting one. The conquering one. Did you catch that? “You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent.” (v. 13) Not dude over there. Not the lady over there. You will. In a lot of different ways. In fact, that’s probably the most interesting and important part of this promise. There are two different words for lethal lions here in this verse. And two different kinds of slithering snakes too. And all four different kinds of these lethal animals get tread on by you. And think about that. Treading isn’t fearfully dancing around a snake in your path or jumping over its strike. It’s aiming for the reptile with your foot. And trampling? That’s even more violent and aggressive. You trample the lions of life. You deal death to snakes. That’s our new way of life in Christ. We’re forgiven doubters. Not current ones. We’re justified worriers. Not present ones. We’re the ones who go into life with unseen Navy SEAL commandos surrounding us. We’re the ones who do life in every circumstance not jumping off cliffs to prove some spiritual point, but confident that whatever happens as we walk our way for him that it’s a win.

That’s the strange, other worldly gospel power of Psalm 91. That’s the power that a War War I brigade, Madonna, and even Satan reacted to. He can’t have us that victorious. But Jesus does. Jesus has us aiming for him with our foot and trampling him violently. In other words? He’s made the Psalm’s promises true for us. That’s what he was up to when he locked horns in a battle of the titans with Satan and won. And now it’s time to trust that. Moms here, remember angels ride with your kids. Everywhere. Kids here, be concerned about your aging dad, and at the same time believe that God won’t ever let his foot strike against a stone. And sinners here, realize that not a one of your losses will ever count against you. Not a one. The only thing that God will ever counts toward you is Jesus’ winning matches against Satan. And by the way, he’s got a perfect record. Take that Satan. We just trampled on you. But then again, we knew a long time ago that we’d trample on snakes like him. Psalm 91 promised. Amen. 

Luke 9:28-36 About eight days after Jesus said this, he took Peter, John and James with him and went up onto a mountain to pray. 29 As he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became as bright as a flash of lightning. 30 Two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared in glorious splendor, talking with Jesus. 31 They spoke about his departure, which he was about to bring to fulfillment at Jerusalem. 32 Peter and his companions were very sleepy, but when they became fully awake, they saw his glory and the two men standing with him. 33 As the men were leaving Jesus, Peter said to him, “Master, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” (He did not know what he was saying.) 34 While he was speaking, a cloud appeared and covered them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 35 A voice came from the cloud, saying, “This is my Son, whom I have chosen; listen to him.” 36 When the voice had spoken, they found that Jesus was alone. The disciples kept this to themselves and did not tell anyone at that time what they had seen.

The chapter in the book was called Transfiguration Day, but it was all about death. I read about how a secretary ran up the stairs, “It’s Frans, a heart attack, they think. You’ll have to hurry, Pastor.” The pastor did, but when he got there it was already too late. Frans was paralyzed and entirely unconscious. So the young pastor sat down on the side of the bed. He had wanted to hear a confession of faith from the dying man, but it was too late. The man’s daughter had been on the same wave length. She explained to the pastor, “When I got here I asked, ‘You are thinking of Jesus, aren’t you, Father?” But the dying man couldn’t. Death had fogged his mind. He had said, “I’m not able to, Lena.” The chapter was called Transfiguration Day, but it was all about death.

Luke’s Transfiguration Day is too. There’s no doubt about that. Everything Luke does in this account connects death to glory. Everything. I mean it’s really stunning stuff. In fact, you can’t even get past the opening words of the account before you realize this. “About eight days after Jesus said this…” (v. 28) That’s Luke’s whole thing. For eight whole days the disciples had thought about Jesus’ very first death announcement. “I’m going to suffer. I’m going to be killed,” he had said. In fact, he had even pointed out to them that death was the whole nature of discipleship. That you die to yourself. That you just follow Jesus. And for eight whole days they had pondered that and chewed on that. For eight whole days Jesus had let them wonder and pray and question this vision of discipleship. And for a second, I wonder if they thought that maybe he would let them move on from it. That maybe Jesus had sort of exaggerated or misspoke or that maybe Jesus’ vision for himself and for his followers wasn’t nearly so morbid as he had just made it out to be.

Because they saw Jesus glowing. In fact, it was something more than that. Something spectacular. Something other. And, yes, that’s exactly the word Luke used to describe the sight of Jesus’ face in Greek. He said Jesus’ face was, “other.” (v. 29) Other worldly bright. Other worldly pure. Other worldly holy. Other worldly beautiful. It was other. Luke says even his clothes were impacted. The glory wasn’t coming from underneath the clothes or through the clothes. Jesus had impacted the clothes themselves so that they “became as bright as a flash of lightning.” (v. 29) And it’s not just the glory of light and beauty that bathed Jesus in that moment, but also the glory of history. Elijah and Moses were there. Moses – history’s great deliverer. Elijah – history’s great prophet. They were there to add weight and depth and substance to the moment. It was like all the weight of history and all the light of heaven had arrived to this moment to show that Jesus, that only Jesus, was the center of it all. There he was the one surrounded by God’s greatest people and heaven’s brightest glories. There he was the answer to their most ardent prayers and their most profound needs. There he was bathed in light and legacy in a moment so beautiful that trying to describe it in a way different than Luke just did would only impoverish it for you.

And there in that glorious, perfect moment the three of them spoke. They continued heaven’s conversation. They continued that ancient conversation that had first started as one only had inside the Godhead – only between the Trinity. They talked of The Plan that had been laid out in eternity. They talked of how now here it was happening in the moment. They talked of how now here it was going to be carried out. And the center of it? Heaven’s conversation centered entirely on Jesus’ departure. Exodus is the word Luke used in Greek. A leaving of the ultimate variety called death. Think about that. There in that glory and in that beauty they spoke of death. They didn’t revel in the smile of God or enjoy small talk of the latest heavenly golf tournament or toast the perfect joy of the Presence. “They spoke about his departure, which he was about to bring to completion at Jerusalem.” (v. 31) Which, by the way, is Luke’s very unique contribution to what we know of the Transfiguration. He’s the only one who tells us the contents of this conversation. The only one. He’s the one who connects that transfiguration glory to suffering. He’s the one who connects that transfiguration beauty to death.

You know how far he’s willing to go to make that connection? He’s even willing to throw Peter under the bus. Make no mistake. That’s what he did. After his grogginess wore off Peter started running his mouth about how great and how good this whole moment was. And when he realized the party was breaking up he offered to put up some tents. He wanted to bottle up the moment and make it stay forever. It’s just totally classic Peter running his mouth kind of stuff. And Luke could’ve just reported it and left Peter’s actions for us to interpret ourselves. Or he could’ve left the Peter stuff out of the account altogether. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. In a very rare and very telling little parenthetical Luke totally throws Peter under the bus saying, “He did not know what he was saying.” (v. 33) Luke had to let us know just how wide Peter was of the mark. He had to have us get just how bad Peter’s idea was. He had to point out just how clueless Peter was in his approach. That, in fact, Peter was being naively hostile to everything heaven wanted. Peter wanted Jesus to stay. Heaven wanted Jesus to go. Peter was glorying in that moment. Heaven was glorying in the suffering moment to come. Peter was making conversation about what it would be like to stay on the mountain top. Heaven was bubbling about what would happen once Jesus went down to suffer and to die.

Do you see what Luke’s done? He’s gone out of his way to confirm Jesus’ eight-day old teaching. He wants us to joy and thank God for the hard parts of our lives. Even to see them as his special gift to us. And we should, shouldn’t we? We should see that life’s toughest parts point toward glory. We should understand that through being convicted of the weight of our personal sin we come to understand Jesus’ forgiveness better. We should trust firmly that through emergencies in our life we become sincere and full of prayer. We should believe God that he loves us enough to send us hassles and problems and heartaches to develop in us a more perfect dependency on his Son, shouldn’t we? Because that sin that still bugs you? It shows you how much Jesus did for you in his exodus. That stroke you suffered? It made you trust him like you’ve never trusted him before. That infertility, those cruddy friends, and those not-so-nice co-workers may just finally help you see that it’s Jesus, Jesus, and only Jesus who will always there for you. But if you’re like me, trusting that plan and loving that work? Well – stress and complaining, sadness and distrust.

And that’s why I love Jesus so much. Because not only does he totally reengineer the way I view suffering, but he saves me through it. And if you think that’s sounds crazy, let me point something out. Have you ever thought about the fact that suffering is our whole faith? THE WHOLE THING. We believe in suffering. In fact, the most fundamental Christian belief is that God’s suffering saved us. We believe that God cradled that suffering for us in his heart all the way from eternity. We believe that that suffering wasn’t even Plan B to save us. We believe it was always Plan A. We believe that that was Jesus’ whole deal. This Jesus who tossed out demons, raised the dead, and healed people. That guy. That Jesus is the guy who took the weight of his power and his glory and his perfection and in one great act of suffering forgave me for my every whine, my every distrust, and my every complaint. And I’m here to tell you today that he’s that big for you too. You know what else he did? By that suffering he reengineered our view of suffering so that it’s not just something to avoid, but something to trust is a part of the plan. It certainly was for Jesus. That’s why his face glowed as he talked about it. And it’s why his Father boomed his affirmation for the whole deal saying, “This is my Son, whom I have chosen; listen to him.” (v. 35)

I’m not saying it’s now easy to deal with the burrs and tough parts of our lives spiritually. I don’t think it’s just a passing point that after this whole transfiguration experience they shut down. It’s actually Luke’s closing thought to the whole account. He says, “The disciples kept this to themselves and did not tell anyone at that time what they had seen.” (v. 36) It’s a mighty work of the Spirit to see the more hair follicles I lose the closer I get to Jesus. It naturally feels like something more sinister than that. It’s a mighty work of the Spirit to believe that infertility and marriage troubles land any kind of spiritual prize. They feel a whole lot more like a spiritual curse. It’s a mighty work of the Spirit to trust that if my church struggles or my daughter gets hurt that somehow through that Jesus will use it to further my faith and help me understand his glory. It’s much more natural to think that somehow Jesus’ sovereign oversight failed. In fact, even I as think about these things I’m realizing how naturally similar we are to those ancient disciples. These truths tend to silence us and shut us down in the worst kind of way.

And there’s only one thing. Only one thing that releases us from that. Seeing Jesus’ on this mountain. Seeing his glory. And seeing him connect that glory so powerfully to a perfect plan that happens not despite suffering, but through it. That somehow the good and the bad, the fun and the awful. It’s all aimed at him. Just him. And did you notice, that’s exactly what happened and how it all ended? After it was all said and done, “Jesus was alone.” (v. 36) It was all about him. Just him. All of history centers on him and the departure he made in Jerusalem for us. Moses, Elijah, everything. And if that does, every bit of my personal history –  even the most difficult parts – centers on Jesus too. Even the worst parts. Even the part of your childhood where your dad checked out, sent you on a search to know your Christ. Even that sin from college, taught you the darkness Jesus died for. Even that job loss that was so emotionally debilitating at the time, got you back in touch with prayer. Even that emotional abuse from a past relationship, made you look for healing from him. It’s glorious to think about. Your whole life even the most difficult parts center on Jesus. More so than you can ever know. Everything’s pointed in your life so you’ll know him in eternity. Everything’s aimed so you’ll have the goodness of his glory forever.

And in that sense, Peter was right. It is good to be in Jesus’ glory. It’s just that Jesus had to go make the glory permanent. And that’s the plan that’s in motion and that Jesus, Moses, and Elijah literally gloried in together on the mount. It’s the conversation we all got let in on when heaven briefly touched earth in the transfiguration. It’s what Jesus’ face and clothes got all bright and shiny for. For glory. For you. For eternity. So important is it to God that he chose Jesus especially for that mission and boomed from the cloud his choice. So important is it to God that he arranged your entire life trajectory just so that you’d know him. Sufferings included. All of it so that we could have far more than some passing moment on some mountain, but rather a permanent place to bask in the eternity of his rays reveling in never ending streams of joy. All of it so that we would know him the way he really is. In his Majesty. In his Beauty. In his Glory. Experiencing the full weight of who he is in ever increasing waves of bliss. To just joy in light so pure and so beautiful that it runs to the farther corners of our hearts and brightens them forever.

I kept reading that chapter called Transfiguration Day in the book. I read about Frans. I read about his time in the war. I read about the loss of his wife. And I finally realized what the author meant to say with his brilliant chapter heading. Those sufferings had pushed Frans to Christ. And there he was dying. And I read that with tears in my eyes understanding God’s grand plan for Frans’ life and came to believe more deeply in one for me too. The war, the grief, all of it had brought him to this moment. There he was dying of a heart attack. And his daughter wondering about his spiritual state asked him, “You are thinking about Jesus, aren’t you, Father?” And he answered, “I’m not able to, Lena. I can’t think any longer. But I know that Jesus is thinking of me.” God had transfigured everything in his life into a platform for his faith to flourish. Frans would know Jesus’ transfiguration glory forever. So will you. I don’t know what chapter of your life you’re on – let alone my own – but I do know this: the final chapter heading for each of us is Transfiguration Day. That’s the power and love of Jesus. He transfigures everything in our lives. He turns sin to forgiveness. He turns suffering to faith. And he turns death to life. Amen. 

Luke 9:28-36 About eight days after Jesus said this, he took Peter, John and James with him and went up onto a mountain to pray. 29 As he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became as bright as a flash of lightning. 30 Two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared in glorious splendor, talking with Jesus. 31 They spoke about his departure, which he was about to bring to fulfillment at Jerusalem. 32 Peter and his companions were very sleepy, but when they became fully awake, they saw his glory and the two men standing with him. 33 As the men were leaving Jesus, Peter said to him, “Master, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” (He did not know what he was saying.) 34 While he was speaking, a cloud appeared and covered them, and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 35 A voice came from the cloud, saying, “This is my Son, whom I have chosen; listen to him.” 36 When the voice had spoken, they found that Jesus was alone. The disciples kept this to themselves and did not tell anyone at that time what they had seen.

The chapter in the book was called Transfiguration Day, but it was all about death. I read about how a secretary ran up the stairs, “It’s Frans, a heart attack, they think. You’ll have to hurry, Pastor.” The pastor did, but when he got there it was already too late. Frans was paralyzed and entirely unconscious. So the young pastor sat down on the side of the bed. He had wanted to hear a confession of faith from the dying man, but it was too late. The man’s daughter had been on the same wave length. She explained to the pastor, “When I got here I asked, ‘You are thinking of Jesus, aren’t you, Father?” But the dying man couldn’t. Death had fogged his mind. He had said, “I’m not able to, Lena.” The chapter was called Transfiguration Day, but it was all about death.

Luke’s Transfiguration Day is too. There’s no doubt about that. Everything Luke does in this account connects death to glory. Everything. I mean it’s really stunning stuff. In fact, you can’t even get past the opening words of the account before you realize this. “About eight days after Jesus said this…” (v. 28) That’s Luke’s whole thing. For eight whole days the disciples had thought about Jesus’ very first death announcement. “I’m going to suffer. I’m going to be killed,” he had said. In fact, he had even pointed out to them that death was the whole nature of discipleship. That you die to yourself. That you just follow Jesus. And for eight whole days they had pondered that and chewed on that. For eight whole days Jesus had let them wonder and pray and question this vision of discipleship. And for a second, I wonder if they thought that maybe he would let them move on from it. That maybe Jesus had sort of exaggerated or misspoke or that maybe Jesus’ vision for himself and for his followers wasn’t nearly so morbid as he had just made it out to be.

Because they saw Jesus glowing. In fact, it was something more than that. Something spectacular. Something other. And, yes, that’s exactly the word Luke used to describe the sight of Jesus’ face in Greek. He said Jesus’ face was, “other.” (v. 29) Other worldly bright. Other worldly pure. Other worldly holy. Other worldly beautiful. It was other. Luke says even his clothes were impacted. The glory wasn’t coming from underneath the clothes or through the clothes. Jesus had impacted the clothes themselves so that they “became as bright as a flash of lightning.” (v. 29) And it’s not just the glory of light and beauty that bathed Jesus in that moment, but also the glory of history. Elijah and Moses were there. Moses – history’s great deliverer. Elijah – history’s great prophet. They were there to add weight and depth and substance to the moment. It was like all the weight of history and all the light of heaven had arrived to this moment to show that Jesus, that only Jesus, was the center of it all. There he was the one surrounded by God’s greatest people and heaven’s brightest glories. There he was the answer to their most ardent prayers and their most profound needs. There he was bathed in light and legacy in a moment so beautiful that trying to describe it in a way different than Luke just did would only impoverish it for you.

And there in that glorious, perfect moment the three of them spoke. They continued heaven’s conversation. They continued that ancient conversation that had first started as one only had inside the Godhead – only between the Trinity. They talked of The Plan that had been laid out in eternity. They talked of how now here it was happening in the moment. They talked of how now here it was going to be carried out. And the center of it? Heaven’s conversation centered entirely on Jesus’ departure. Exodus is the word Luke used in Greek. A leaving of the ultimate variety called death. Think about that. There in that glory and in that beauty they spoke of death. They didn’t revel in the smile of God or enjoy small talk of the latest heavenly golf tournament or toast the perfect joy of the Presence. “They spoke about his departure, which he was about to bring to completion at Jerusalem.” (v. 31) Which, by the way, is Luke’s very unique contribution to what we know of the Transfiguration. He’s the only one who tells us the contents of this conversation. The only one. He’s the one who connects that transfiguration glory to suffering. He’s the one who connects that transfiguration beauty to death.

You know how far he’s willing to go to make that connection? He’s even willing to throw Peter under the bus. Make no mistake. That’s what he did. After his grogginess wore off Peter started running his mouth about how great and how good this whole moment was. And when he realized the party was breaking up he offered to put up some tents. He wanted to bottle up the moment and make it stay forever. It’s just totally classic Peter running his mouth kind of stuff. And Luke could’ve just reported it and left Peter’s actions for us to interpret ourselves. Or he could’ve left the Peter stuff out of the account altogether. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. In a very rare and very telling little parenthetical Luke totally throws Peter under the bus saying, “He did not know what he was saying.” (v. 33) Luke had to let us know just how wide Peter was of the mark. He had to have us get just how bad Peter’s idea was. He had to point out just how clueless Peter was in his approach. That, in fact, Peter was being naively hostile to everything heaven wanted. Peter wanted Jesus to stay. Heaven wanted Jesus to go. Peter was glorying in that moment. Heaven was glorying in the suffering moment to come. Peter was making conversation about what it would be like to stay on the mountain top. Heaven was bubbling about what would happen once Jesus went down to suffer and to die.

Do you see what Luke’s done? He’s gone out of his way to confirm Jesus’ eight-day old teaching. He wants us to joy and thank God for the hard parts of our lives. Even to see them as his special gift to us. And we should, shouldn’t we? We should see that life’s toughest parts point toward glory. We should understand that through being convicted of the weight of our personal sin we come to understand Jesus’ forgiveness better. We should trust firmly that through emergencies in our life we become sincere and full of prayer. We should believe God that he loves us enough to send us hassles and problems and heartaches to develop in us a more perfect dependency on his Son, shouldn’t we? Because that sin that still bugs you? It shows you how much Jesus did for you in his exodus. That stroke you suffered? It made you trust him like you’ve never trusted him before. That infertility, those cruddy friends, and those not-so-nice co-workers may just finally help you see that it’s Jesus, Jesus, and only Jesus who will always there for you. But if you’re like me, trusting that plan and loving that work? Well – stress and complaining, sadness and distrust.

And that’s why I love Jesus so much. Because not only does he totally reengineer the way I view suffering, but he saves me through it. And if you think that’s sounds crazy, let me point something out. Have you ever thought about the fact that suffering is our whole faith? THE WHOLE THING. We believe in suffering. In fact, the most fundamental Christian belief is that God’s suffering saved us. We believe that God cradled that suffering for us in his heart all the way from eternity. We believe that that suffering wasn’t even Plan B to save us. We believe it was always Plan A. We believe that that was Jesus’ whole deal. This Jesus who tossed out demons, raised the dead, and healed people. That guy. That Jesus is the guy who took the weight of his power and his glory and his perfection and in one great act of suffering forgave me for my every whine, my every distrust, and my every complaint. And I’m here to tell you today that he’s that big for you too. You know what else he did? By that suffering he reengineered our view of suffering so that it’s not just something to avoid, but something to trust is a part of the plan. It certainly was for Jesus. That’s why his face glowed as he talked about it. And it’s why his Father boomed his affirmation for the whole deal saying, “This is my Son, whom I have chosen; listen to him.” (v. 35)

I’m not saying it’s now easy to deal with the burrs and tough parts of our lives spiritually. I don’t think it’s just a passing point that after this whole transfiguration experience they shut down. It’s actually Luke’s closing thought to the whole account. He says, “The disciples kept this to themselves and did not tell anyone at that time what they had seen.” (v. 36) It’s a mighty work of the Spirit to see the more hair follicles I lose the closer I get to Jesus. It naturally feels like something more sinister than that. It’s a mighty work of the Spirit to believe that infertility and marriage troubles land any kind of spiritual prize. They feel a whole lot more like a spiritual curse. It’s a mighty work of the Spirit to trust that if my church struggles or my daughter gets hurt that somehow through that Jesus will use it to further my faith and help me understand his glory. It’s much more natural to think that somehow Jesus’ sovereign oversight failed. In fact, even I as think about these things I’m realizing how naturally similar we are to those ancient disciples. These truths tend to silence us and shut us down in the worst kind of way.

And there’s only one thing. Only one thing that releases us from that. Seeing Jesus’ on this mountain. Seeing his glory. And seeing him connect that glory so powerfully to a perfect plan that happens not despite suffering, but through it. That somehow the good and the bad, the fun and the awful. It’s all aimed at him. Just him. And did you notice, that’s exactly what happened and how it all ended? After it was all said and done, “Jesus was alone.” (v. 36) It was all about him. Just him. All of history centers on him and the departure he made in Jerusalem for us. Moses, Elijah, everything. And if that does, every bit of my personal history –  even the most difficult parts – centers on Jesus too. Even the worst parts. Even the part of your childhood where your dad checked out, sent you on a search to know your Christ. Even that sin from college, taught you the darkness Jesus died for. Even that job loss that was so emotionally debilitating at the time, got you back in touch with prayer. Even that emotional abuse from a past relationship, made you look for healing from him. It’s glorious to think about. Your whole life even the most difficult parts center on Jesus. More so than you can ever know. Everything’s pointed in your life so you’ll know him in eternity. Everything’s aimed so you’ll have the goodness of his glory forever.

And in that sense, Peter was right. It is good to be in Jesus’ glory. It’s just that Jesus had to go make the glory permanent. And that’s the plan that’s in motion and that Jesus, Moses, and Elijah literally gloried in together on the mount. It’s the conversation we all got let in on when heaven briefly touched earth in the transfiguration. It’s what Jesus’ face and clothes got all bright and shiny for. For glory. For you. For eternity. So important is it to God that he chose Jesus especially for that mission and boomed from the cloud his choice. So important is it to God that he arranged your entire life trajectory just so that you’d know him. Sufferings included. All of it so that we could have far more than some passing moment on some mountain, but rather a permanent place to bask in the eternity of his rays reveling in never ending streams of joy. All of it so that we would know him the way he really is. In his Majesty. In his Beauty. In his Glory. Experiencing the full weight of who he is in ever increasing waves of bliss. To just joy in light so pure and so beautiful that it runs to the farther corners of our hearts and brightens them forever.

I kept reading that chapter called Transfiguration Day in the book. I read about Frans. I read about his time in the war. I read about the loss of his wife. And I finally realized what the author meant to say with his brilliant chapter heading. Those sufferings had pushed Frans to Christ. And there he was dying. And I read that with tears in my eyes understanding God’s grand plan for Frans’ life and came to believe more deeply in one for me too. The war, the grief, all of it had brought him to this moment. There he was dying of a heart attack. And his daughter wondering about his spiritual state asked him, “You are thinking about Jesus, aren’t you, Father?” And he answered, “I’m not able to, Lena. I can’t think any longer. But I know that Jesus is thinking of me.” God had transfigured everything in his life into a platform for his faith to flourish. Frans would know Jesus’ transfiguration glory forever. So will you. I don’t know what chapter of your life you’re on – let alone my own – but I do know this: the final chapter heading for each of us is Transfiguration Day. That’s the power and love of Jesus. He transfigures everything in our lives. He turns sin to forgiveness. He turns suffering to faith. And he turns death to life. Amen. 

Luke 8:26–39 They sailed to the region of the Gerasenes, which is across the lake from Galilee. 27 When Jesus stepped ashore, he was met by a demon-possessed man from the town. For a long time this man had not worn clothes or lived in a house, but had lived in the tombs. 28 When he saw Jesus, he cried out and fell at his feet, shouting at the top of his voice, “What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, don’t torture me!” 29 For Jesus had commanded the impure spirit to come out of the man. Many times it had seized him, and though he was chained hand and foot and kept under guard, he had broken his chains and had been driven by the demon into solitary places. 30 Jesus asked him, “What is your name?” “Legion,” he replied, because many demons had gone into him. 31 And they begged Jesus repeatedly not to order them to go into the Abyss. 32 A large herd of pigs was feeding there on the hillside. The demons begged Jesus to let them go into the pigs, and he gave them permission. 33 When the demons came out of the man, they went into the pigs, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and was drowned. 34 When those tending the pigs saw what had happened, they ran off and reported this in the town and countryside, 35 and the people went out to see what had happened. When they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone out, sitting at Jesus’ feet, dressed and in his right mind; and they were afraid. 36 Those who had seen it told the people how the demon-possessed man had been cured. 37 Then all the people of the region of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to leave them, because they were overcome with fear. So he got into the boat and left. 38 The man from whom the demons had gone out begged to go with him, but Jesus sent him away, saying, 39 “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” So the man went away and told all over town how much Jesus had done for him.

There’s a part of me that’s really disappointed with how this miracle turned out. How’s that for honest? Deep down, I really wanted a fairy tale ending. Badly. I wanted to watch Jesus and his new disciple sail off into the horizon together. I don’t care if that’s too cliché, too fairy tale-ish, or shows I’m a hopeless romantic. I’m telling you that’s what I wanted. But it’s not what I got. In fact, what we get from this miracle is the last thing you’d expect. Shouldn’t we be able to expect more from the outcome of an exorcism that is included in all three synoptic Gospels – Matthew, Mark, and Luke? And shouldn’t we be able to expect a more dramatic ending to a miracle that is arguably one of Jesus’ most dramatic of all? And shouldn’t we be able to expect that Jesus would answer more readily the begging prayer of the former demoniac over the prayer of the demons? You’d think so. But what happens instead? Here the demoniac pleads and begs to sail off into the sunset with Jesus. All he wants is to be with Jesus. And he’s told in no uncertain terms to depart and go home. Meanwhile the demons beg and plead not to be sent to the Abyss and Jesus grants their request. And the outcome is that we don’t get our fairy tale ending where Jesus sails off into the horizon with his new disciple.

And I suppose if you look at this at a very shallow level, you could even think that Jesus does it to give this guy a taste of his own alienating medicine. I mean there’s a reason why this guy was there the second Jesus made the shore. And it wasn’t to hold a tea party. The Gospels make it pretty clear why the demoniac was there. He was like a mythic troll under a bridge. He was there to make sure nobody got past or through his land. Matthew’s probably clearest on this point. Talking about the demon possessed guys who lived there he says, “They were so violent that no one could pass that way.” (Matt. 8:28) The demoniac was there to stop any happy economic growth or familial warmth from ever happening on his watch. This was understandably painful for the local community. It’s why they had tried to desperately to stop his behavior. It’s actually pretty brutal to read about. He says: “Many times it had seized him, and though he was chained hand and foot and kept under guard, he had broken his chains and had been driven by the demon into solitary places.” (v. 29) So the locals tried to stop the alienation that this guy was causing, but the menace had such supernatural and Samsonesque kind of strength that chains were silly putty to him.

It’s understandable though. The power I mean. During the exorcism it became scarily evident how much demonic power was involved. In fact, after Jesus first commands the demon to come out a conversation happens that if it’s anything, it’s scary. Jesus asks the being(s) inhabiting the guy, “What is your name?” (v. 30) And he hisses back, “Legion.” (v. 30) And everybody back then knew that a legion was made up of 3,000 - 6,000 barbaric and cruel soldiers. Not really the kind of power that you’d want running rampant inside you. And as if that weren’t enough to notice about this situation, it’s even more scary to think about the fact that angels and demons in the Scriptures hardly ever get named. I mean for good angels you have Gabriel and you have Michael. That’s it. And for bad angels you have the various names for Satan and this name here. My point is that hanging out with a group of named demons suggests an immense, immense kind of demonic power way up the satanic power structure –  the kind that turns chains into silly putty and turns a person’s mind to mush.

Oh, and just to keep this guy permanently under its power, Legion tried to ensure nobody would ever take pity on the guy. They made him the most X rated kind of person ever. They had him running around stark naked. Can you imagine the poor mothers? You see a wild looking, naked guy running at break neck speed through a cemetery and you quick cover the eyes of your kids and say, “Don’t look over there.” I mean there was no lonelier man on the face of the earth. These demons – lest the poor guy find healing in community – made sure of that. In fact, that’s Luke’s most heartbreaking, poignant, and pointed words about this man. “For a long time this man had not… lived in a home, but had lived in the tombs.” (v. 27) So he’s a societal menace, mad looking, naked guy, who is off cuddling with skeletons for company. To put it bluntly, the only community that the demons allowed the demoniac was the company of dead people and, “solitary places.” (v. 29) Which – quite obviously – is no company at all. What Luke is pointing out to us in great detail is that he no roof for his head, no wife to hug him, and no community of Jesus loving people to take care of him. Luke is showing us that the demon possessed man was made homeless in every way – he had no physical or spiritual home.

Call it strategic separation. Call it being exiled from home. Call it being separated from the herd or the community. Call it whatever you want to call it, but understand it for what it is. How many times have we all watched the Nature Channel and seen this happen? I can hear it now. The soft British sounding voice starts talking. The camera zooms and you hear the voice say, “Out on the African savannah, the lion slinks through the tall grass. She spots one of the Water Buffalo. She angles around the side to isolate the maimed cow.” And suddenly in a burst of violence you see the lion leap at the cow separating her from her herd. She runs. She tries to escape, but alone and apart from her community she quickly tires and the lion overcomes her. Do you see my point? In a fallen world, strategic separation is the easiest and quickest path to death. And so it shouldn’t surprise us to find out it’s consistent demonic strategy to separate people from home and church. That’s why Satan loves church splits so much and why Christian marriages can experience so much pressure.

And you know when he pounces the quickest? When we’re at our weakest points. Like after a long week. Or in the midst of a great sadness or tragedy. I’ve seen it in myself and others many times. We become self-destructive. We withdraw from real gospel-centered relationships and put up the flashing sign on our foreheads, “Everything’s ok,” when it’s really not. And we imagine that if I let people in on my darkness, they’ll judge me or look down on me. And so anxiety doesn’t get medicated with the gospel. It gets medicated with a bottle or pills the doctor didn’t prescribe, or maybe with some form of lust. And those with grief convince themselves they need to work through it by themselves. They say, “I wouldn’t want to bring anyone else down with my sadness.” And so they tend to stay that way – sad and lonely. I mean if there’s one way this happens, there’s at least 100. I was just reading a blog that became pretty popular recently that described how this happened to a pastor’s wife. She decided she had to stop going to church. And why? She thought people couldn’t accept her brokenness at her church. It seemed to her that people there were somehow better or had everything together. So she cordoned herself off from the people she needed the most. And that’s exactly what Satan wants. He wants us all dead and dying inside saying, “I’m totally a lost cause. Nothing will ever help.”

And I’d agree with you if I didn’t have this miracle. I mean this demonic strategy was foolproof. They had him naked. They had him being a societal menace. They had him occupied with demonic forces thousands strong. It was a foolproof. Nothing was ever gonna get this guy safely back to God’s church especially since he was a Gentile and had never been there in the first place. Nothing except Jesus. And then came the exorcism. Wow were there a lot of fireworks. A lot. You hear Legion praying to Jesus, which is fascinating all by itself. You see pigs get tossed into the lake. But the grand finale of the miracle – the most spectacular part of the exorcism – was this scene that couldn’t be more idyllic and perfect and telling. Look at how Luke lovingly paints the portrait, “When they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone out, sitting at Jesus’ feet, dressed and in his right mind.” (v. 35) He wasn’t off cuddling skeletons anymore. He was sitting calmly at Jesus’ feet. He wasn’t off making mother’s groan and scaring kids with his X rated streaking. He was dressed. He wasn’t seized anymore with thousands of demons who named themselves after a wicked, barbaric and violent group of Roman soldiers. He was in his right mind. Jesus had reversed every part of the Legion’s scheme. Almost.

Almost. There was just one part missing. And interestingly, the former demoniac wasn’t really sure he wanted it. In fact, he prayed to avoid it. Hard. Luke actually uses the term, “begged,” (v. 38) for what he was doing. But Jesus says, “No,” to him. And I think it’s worth exploring the fact that in two other cases right in this story Jesus had said, “yes,” to other prayers that had come before him. He had said, “yes,” to the prayers of demons not to give them a direct pass to the Abyss. And he had also said, “yes,” to the prayers of the townspeople who had asked him to leave. In fact, the only being in the whole account who actually seems to have a solid and God-pleasing request for Jesus is the only one who is denied. “Jesus, can I please go with you? All I want to do is be with you. Can I please?” “But Jesus sent him away, saying, “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” (v. 38–39) And why? Clearly, Jesus is totally into granting requests even for people who didn’t love him at all. So it couldn’t be that Jesus was being vindictive or unmerciful to this man. Clearly, Jesus thought the very best thing for this guy to do was to go home and do church. He was to tell people how much God has done for us in Jesus.

I’ll bet he really didn’t want to. Can you imagine trying to share the gospel with people who just a while ago had seen you streaking? Can you imagine what kind of baggage he had to deal with when he talked to the guy who had was guarded him and currently was sporting a black eye as a result? Can you imagine? It’s not the easiest thing to do to go home and do church in the place where the people know your secrets and can unpack your baggage without your help. But apparently it’s exactly where Jesus wants us. Jesus wants us doing church with the people who really know us. He wants us there and nowhere else. Not even sailing off into the horizon with him. He especially wants the pastor who knows your darkness and understands your scars – emotional and otherwise – to tell you that you’re loved and forgiven. He especially wants the lady sitting ahead of you who knows about your parenting failures, your insecurities, and your woes to show you the same grace that’s been shown her. He wants the folks who know about your divorce and your bad night of drinking to greet you with the same smile the next week in church. He wants those currently confident sharing God’s promises with the anxious, sad, or broken. And sometimes he finds it helpful for people to switch those roles. That’s what he wants. And at this point he wants us doing that even more than he wants us sailing off into the sunset with him. Jesus wants us home. Doing church.

And there’s good reason why. Then Satan can’t get us. Oh, he’ll try. He’ll try to tell you your grief won’t ever end. And then someone will put their arms around you who has hurt before too and they’ll whisper, “God’s with you.” And it’ll drive the demon away. He’ll try to tell you that you should keep your depression and anxiety to yourself. And then you’ll hear something in the sermon that the Spirit uses to give you confidence and faith for another day of living. He’ll try to tell you that you’re not good enough for the church. He’ll say you’re just too broken. And then you’ll find out that everybody else here is too. That, in fact, that’s why we’re here. Because we all need peace from Jesus. We aren’t any good by ourselves. And you’ll find yourself home. You won’t be alienated. You won’t be exiled. The wolf won’t be able to cut you off from the sheep and the shepherd. You’ll be home. In fact, I was totally wrong. This is the fairy tale ending. There’s nothing better this side of heaven than coming home to the place where you tell each other the great things God has done for you in Christ. Nothing. The truth is that for now Jesus thinks its even better for us than sailing off into the horizon with him. That’s his new purpose for us. He’s given us this church and its mission: to give grace and receive grace, to forgive and to be forgiven, to hold another up when they’re broken and to be held up when it’s you. All by telling each other the great things God has done for us in Christ. For right now, that’s our fairy tale. And I couldn’t be happier with the ending. Amen.

Luke 8:26–39 They sailed to the region of the Gerasenes, which is across the lake from Galilee. 27 When Jesus stepped ashore, he was met by a demon-possessed man from the town. For a long time this man had not worn clothes or lived in a house, but had lived in the tombs. 28 When he saw Jesus, he cried out and fell at his feet, shouting at the top of his voice, “What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, don’t torture me!” 29 For Jesus had commanded the impure spirit to come out of the man. Many times it had seized him, and though he was chained hand and foot and kept under guard, he had broken his chains and had been driven by the demon into solitary places. 30 Jesus asked him, “What is your name?” “Legion,” he replied, because many demons had gone into him. 31 And they begged Jesus repeatedly not to order them to go into the Abyss. 32 A large herd of pigs was feeding there on the hillside. The demons begged Jesus to let them go into the pigs, and he gave them permission. 33 When the demons came out of the man, they went into the pigs, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and was drowned. 34 When those tending the pigs saw what had happened, they ran off and reported this in the town and countryside, 35 and the people went out to see what had happened. When they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone out, sitting at Jesus’ feet, dressed and in his right mind; and they were afraid. 36 Those who had seen it told the people how the demon-possessed man had been cured. 37 Then all the people of the region of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to leave them, because they were overcome with fear. So he got into the boat and left. 38 The man from whom the demons had gone out begged to go with him, but Jesus sent him away, saying, 39 “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” So the man went away and told all over town how much Jesus had done for him.

There’s a part of me that’s really disappointed with how this miracle turned out. How’s that for honest? Deep down, I really wanted a fairy tale ending. Badly. I wanted to watch Jesus and his new disciple sail off into the horizon together. I don’t care if that’s too cliché, too fairy tale-ish, or shows I’m a hopeless romantic. I’m telling you that’s what I wanted. But it’s not what I got. In fact, what we get from this miracle is the last thing you’d expect. Shouldn’t we be able to expect more from the outcome of an exorcism that is included in all three synoptic Gospels – Matthew, Mark, and Luke? And shouldn’t we be able to expect a more dramatic ending to a miracle that is arguably one of Jesus’ most dramatic of all? And shouldn’t we be able to expect that Jesus would answer more readily the begging prayer of the former demoniac over the prayer of the demons? You’d think so. But what happens instead? Here the demoniac pleads and begs to sail off into the sunset with Jesus. All he wants is to be with Jesus. And he’s told in no uncertain terms to depart and go home. Meanwhile the demons beg and plead not to be sent to the Abyss and Jesus grants their request. And the outcome is that we don’t get our fairy tale ending where Jesus sails off into the horizon with his new disciple.

And I suppose if you look at this at a very shallow level, you could even think that Jesus does it to give this guy a taste of his own alienating medicine. I mean there’s a reason why this guy was there the second Jesus made the shore. And it wasn’t to hold a tea party. The Gospels make it pretty clear why the demoniac was there. He was like a mythic troll under a bridge. He was there to make sure nobody got past or through his land. Matthew’s probably clearest on this point. Talking about the demon possessed guys who lived there he says, “They were so violent that no one could pass that way.” (Matt. 8:28) The demoniac was there to stop any happy economic growth or familial warmth from ever happening on his watch. This was understandably painful for the local community. It’s why they had tried to desperately to stop his behavior. It’s actually pretty brutal to read about. He says: “Many times it had seized him, and though he was chained hand and foot and kept under guard, he had broken his chains and had been driven by the demon into solitary places.” (v. 29) So the locals tried to stop the alienation that this guy was causing, but the menace had such supernatural and Samsonesque kind of strength that chains were silly putty to him.

It’s understandable though. The power I mean. During the exorcism it became scarily evident how much demonic power was involved. In fact, after Jesus first commands the demon to come out a conversation happens that if it’s anything, it’s scary. Jesus asks the being(s) inhabiting the guy, “What is your name?” (v. 30) And he hisses back, “Legion.” (v. 30) And everybody back then knew that a legion was made up of 3,000 - 6,000 barbaric and cruel soldiers. Not really the kind of power that you’d want running rampant inside you. And as if that weren’t enough to notice about this situation, it’s even more scary to think about the fact that angels and demons in the Scriptures hardly ever get named. I mean for good angels you have Gabriel and you have Michael. That’s it. And for bad angels you have the various names for Satan and this name here. My point is that hanging out with a group of named demons suggests an immense, immense kind of demonic power way up the satanic power structure –  the kind that turns chains into silly putty and turns a person’s mind to mush.

Oh, and just to keep this guy permanently under its power, Legion tried to ensure nobody would ever take pity on the guy. They made him the most X rated kind of person ever. They had him running around stark naked. Can you imagine the poor mothers? You see a wild looking, naked guy running at break neck speed through a cemetery and you quick cover the eyes of your kids and say, “Don’t look over there.” I mean there was no lonelier man on the face of the earth. These demons – lest the poor guy find healing in community – made sure of that. In fact, that’s Luke’s most heartbreaking, poignant, and pointed words about this man. “For a long time this man had not… lived in a home, but had lived in the tombs.” (v. 27) So he’s a societal menace, mad looking, naked guy, who is off cuddling with skeletons for company. To put it bluntly, the only community that the demons allowed the demoniac was the company of dead people and, “solitary places.” (v. 29) Which – quite obviously – is no company at all. What Luke is pointing out to us in great detail is that he no roof for his head, no wife to hug him, and no community of Jesus loving people to take care of him. Luke is showing us that the demon possessed man was made homeless in every way – he had no physical or spiritual home.

Call it strategic separation. Call it being exiled from home. Call it being separated from the herd or the community. Call it whatever you want to call it, but understand it for what it is. How many times have we all watched the Nature Channel and seen this happen? I can hear it now. The soft British sounding voice starts talking. The camera zooms and you hear the voice say, “Out on the African savannah, the lion slinks through the tall grass. She spots one of the Water Buffalo. She angles around the side to isolate the maimed cow.” And suddenly in a burst of violence you see the lion leap at the cow separating her from her herd. She runs. She tries to escape, but alone and apart from her community she quickly tires and the lion overcomes her. Do you see my point? In a fallen world, strategic separation is the easiest and quickest path to death. And so it shouldn’t surprise us to find out it’s consistent demonic strategy to separate people from home and church. That’s why Satan loves church splits so much and why Christian marriages can experience so much pressure.

And you know when he pounces the quickest? When we’re at our weakest points. Like after a long week. Or in the midst of a great sadness or tragedy. I’ve seen it in myself and others many times. We become self-destructive. We withdraw from real gospel-centered relationships and put up the flashing sign on our foreheads, “Everything’s ok,” when it’s really not. And we imagine that if I let people in on my darkness, they’ll judge me or look down on me. And so anxiety doesn’t get medicated with the gospel. It gets medicated with a bottle or pills the doctor didn’t prescribe, or maybe with some form of lust. And those with grief convince themselves they need to work through it by themselves. They say, “I wouldn’t want to bring anyone else down with my sadness.” And so they tend to stay that way – sad and lonely. I mean if there’s one way this happens, there’s at least 100. I was just reading a blog that became pretty popular recently that described how this happened to a pastor’s wife. She decided she had to stop going to church. And why? She thought people couldn’t accept her brokenness at her church. It seemed to her that people there were somehow better or had everything together. So she cordoned herself off from the people she needed the most. And that’s exactly what Satan wants. He wants us all dead and dying inside saying, “I’m totally a lost cause. Nothing will ever help.”

And I’d agree with you if I didn’t have this miracle. I mean this demonic strategy was foolproof. They had him naked. They had him being a societal menace. They had him occupied with demonic forces thousands strong. It was a foolproof. Nothing was ever gonna get this guy safely back to God’s church especially since he was a Gentile and had never been there in the first place. Nothing except Jesus. And then came the exorcism. Wow were there a lot of fireworks. A lot. You hear Legion praying to Jesus, which is fascinating all by itself. You see pigs get tossed into the lake. But the grand finale of the miracle – the most spectacular part of the exorcism – was this scene that couldn’t be more idyllic and perfect and telling. Look at how Luke lovingly paints the portrait, “When they came to Jesus, they found the man from whom the demons had gone out, sitting at Jesus’ feet, dressed and in his right mind.” (v. 35) He wasn’t off cuddling skeletons anymore. He was sitting calmly at Jesus’ feet. He wasn’t off making mother’s groan and scaring kids with his X rated streaking. He was dressed. He wasn’t seized anymore with thousands of demons who named themselves after a wicked, barbaric and violent group of Roman soldiers. He was in his right mind. Jesus had reversed every part of the Legion’s scheme. Almost.

Almost. There was just one part missing. And interestingly, the former demoniac wasn’t really sure he wanted it. In fact, he prayed to avoid it. Hard. Luke actually uses the term, “begged,” (v. 38) for what he was doing. But Jesus says, “No,” to him. And I think it’s worth exploring the fact that in two other cases right in this story Jesus had said, “yes,” to other prayers that had come before him. He had said, “yes,” to the prayers of demons not to give them a direct pass to the Abyss. And he had also said, “yes,” to the prayers of the townspeople who had asked him to leave. In fact, the only being in the whole account who actually seems to have a solid and God-pleasing request for Jesus is the only one who is denied. “Jesus, can I please go with you? All I want to do is be with you. Can I please?” “But Jesus sent him away, saying, “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” (v. 38–39) And why? Clearly, Jesus is totally into granting requests even for people who didn’t love him at all. So it couldn’t be that Jesus was being vindictive or unmerciful to this man. Clearly, Jesus thought the very best thing for this guy to do was to go home and do church. He was to tell people how much God has done for us in Jesus.

I’ll bet he really didn’t want to. Can you imagine trying to share the gospel with people who just a while ago had seen you streaking? Can you imagine what kind of baggage he had to deal with when he talked to the guy who had was guarded him and currently was sporting a black eye as a result? Can you imagine? It’s not the easiest thing to do to go home and do church in the place where the people know your secrets and can unpack your baggage without your help. But apparently it’s exactly where Jesus wants us. Jesus wants us doing church with the people who really know us. He wants us there and nowhere else. Not even sailing off into the horizon with him. He especially wants the pastor who knows your darkness and understands your scars – emotional and otherwise – to tell you that you’re loved and forgiven. He especially wants the lady sitting ahead of you who knows about your parenting failures, your insecurities, and your woes to show you the same grace that’s been shown her. He wants the folks who know about your divorce and your bad night of drinking to greet you with the same smile the next week in church. He wants those currently confident sharing God’s promises with the anxious, sad, or broken. And sometimes he finds it helpful for people to switch those roles. That’s what he wants. And at this point he wants us doing that even more than he wants us sailing off into the sunset with him. Jesus wants us home. Doing church.

And there’s good reason why. Then Satan can’t get us. Oh, he’ll try. He’ll try to tell you your grief won’t ever end. And then someone will put their arms around you who has hurt before too and they’ll whisper, “God’s with you.” And it’ll drive the demon away. He’ll try to tell you that you should keep your depression and anxiety to yourself. And then you’ll hear something in the sermon that the Spirit uses to give you confidence and faith for another day of living. He’ll try to tell you that you’re not good enough for the church. He’ll say you’re just too broken. And then you’ll find out that everybody else here is too. That, in fact, that’s why we’re here. Because we all need peace from Jesus. We aren’t any good by ourselves. And you’ll find yourself home. You won’t be alienated. You won’t be exiled. The wolf won’t be able to cut you off from the sheep and the shepherd. You’ll be home. In fact, I was totally wrong. This is the fairy tale ending. There’s nothing better this side of heaven than coming home to the place where you tell each other the great things God has done for you in Christ. Nothing. The truth is that for now Jesus thinks its even better for us than sailing off into the horizon with him. That’s his new purpose for us. He’s given us this church and its mission: to give grace and receive grace, to forgive and to be forgiven, to hold another up when they’re broken and to be held up when it’s you. All by telling each other the great things God has done for us in Christ. For right now, that’s our fairy tale. And I couldn’t be happier with the ending. Amen.

Luke 7:36–50 When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. 37 A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. 38 As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them. 39 When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.” 40 Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.” “Tell me, teacher,” he said. 41 “Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. 42 Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?” 43 Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.” “You have judged correctly,” Jesus said. 44 Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. 45 You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. 46 You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. 47 Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.” 48 Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” 49 The other guests began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?” 50 Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

There’s just something about other people’s feet that makes us all a bit squeamish. Hands we’ll shake. But feet? Well – dealing with other people’s feet is really something altogether different. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one that feels this way. In fact, the most memorable nickname of 2015 in Aiken County developed because of a guy who had totally inappropriate interactions with other people’s feet. Even news outlets in the area like WRDW and the Aiken Standard adopted the nickname filling their headlines with lines like this one: Convicted Toe Sucker Shares His Story. Talk about getting the heeby jeebies from a news headline. There’s just something about other people’s feet that makes everybody a bit squeamish.

And if you think this scene here in Luke’s Gospel is meant to feel entirely different, then Luke has you in for something. There are four full and opening verses here of just plain awkward. Or, really, it’s something more than awkward. I mean it’s one thing to picture this guy with a weird foot fetish in a Walmart. It’s another to show up at what we’d probably think of as a nice sit-down meal and have some lady show up and start mauling Jesus’ feet. And this wasn’t just some normal lady either. She was categorically sinful. And I do believe that that is the right term for her. We’re not sure if it was prostitution or swindling or what, but she was categorically sinful. In fact, it seems better to think of her not as someone who was guilty of one certain and regular sin, but really someone who was more like the anti-renaissance woman. In other words, she was bad and sinful at just about everything she did. That’s how Luke deals with her. He summarizes her entire life as, “a woman… who lived a sinful life.” (v. 37).

And in a way that shows up here in what she does. Because culturally this was very bad and incredibly inappropriate. She shows up to a dinner she certainly wasn’t invited to with an alabaster jar of perfume – a nice and relatively expensive jar. It was the kind of jar where you’d have to break the neck of it to get out the contents. And then she approaches Jesus from the rear and turns into the worst kind of hot mess you’d ever see in your life. It was bad. She was weeping like nobody’s business and raining her embarrassing tears right down onto his feet. It was seemingly over done, get-a-grip-on-yourself kind of behavior – and this was at what was supposed to be a nice meal! And then as if that weren’t bad enough, she made it even more awkward because, “She wiped them (Jesus’ feet) with her hair.” (v. 38) Which, you know, is awkward to picture even for people in our culture who aren’t quite as obsessed with what women do with their hair, but back then? No joke men back then would divorce their wives for that kind of flagrant behavior. In that time, a woman letting her hair down in front of a man suggested something a bit more than flirtation. I’m not saying that that’s what this woman was at all trying to communicate. She clearly wasn’t. What I am trying to point out is how emotionally toasted she was. She wasn’t thinking clearly at all. All she could see was the mess she had made of Jesus’ feet with her tears and she realized the only available towel was her hair.

So it’s no wonder that Simon, the dinner host, was reacting in his head to this over-done and totally inappropriate scene saying to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is – that she is a sinner.” (v. 39) There was just no doubt that this categorically sinful woman was emotionally unravelling right before his eyes. There was just no doubt that it was awkward, and weird, and culturally inappropriate. There was just no doubt that if this woman had been in a more rational state that she would have said to herself, “You know? There’s probably a better time and place to express myself to Jesus.” But that’s just it. For her, this wasn’t about reason or following cultural mores or consulting with Ms. Manners to discover the best way to say thank you to Jesus. This woman rushed to Jesus and poured out everything she had to him in desperate thanksgiving. And, yes, she did pour out everything to Jesus. She poured out her tears, her best perfume, even her hair (which if she had stopped to think for a second she would’ve found to be far too suggestive). Truthfully, she would’ve poured out her very soul onto Jesus’ feet if she could’ve.

And you know what Jesus did about this? I’ll tell you what he didn’t do. He didn’t go after her. He didn’t say, “Ahem. Why don’t you real quick get a grip and come back? We can talk later.” He didn’t quietly whisper, “Thank you so much, but you’re really making a scene. It’s time for dinner.” You know what he did? He went after Simon, the dinner host. So much for being mannerly and polite to your dinner host, right? You can even tell how taken aback Simon is by this. Jesus tells this completely obvious story about two people who were both forgiven huge debts – one ten times as much as the other. And then he asks Simon to render a judgment on which one would have loved the forgiving lender more. And Simon starts out totally unpersuaded, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.” (v. 43) And then Jesus does the unthinkable. You know what he does? He takes all of the sinful woman’s behavior and turns it against Simon. “You didn’t give me any water for my feet. She used her tears to wash them and wipe them with her hair. You didn’t kiss me. This woman hasn’t stopped kissing my feet. You didn’t anoint my head (much easier and sanitary thing to do). She poured perform on my feet.”

Do you see what Jesus did? Jesus took the categorically sinful woman’s awkward and culturally inappropriate behavior and used it to say, “Simon, you’re even worse than her.” That’s what Jesus did. He used this overwhelmed, hot mess of a woman’s behavior, to say to Simon, “Do you see how much true spirituality and thankfulness and love you’re missing?” And then he even diagnosed for him exactly why those things were so profoundly missing in him, “Therefore, I tell you her many sins have been forgiven – as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.” (v. 47) In other words, there is an inverse relationship between love of Jesus and love of self: The more you like yourself, the less you like Jesus AND the less you like yourself, the more you like Jesus. And why? The more categorically sinful you think you are the more you believe Jesus has done for you. And in the case of the categorically sinful woman she came to understand that Jesus had entered all the various categories of her life and made them all clean. And the hot mess that showed up to that nice dinner was the result. She loved him a lot because he had already forgiven her a lot.

You know what I think is the most stunning part of this story? It’s who Jesus thought his real work was. It’s who Jesus thought needed his attention the most. It wasn’t the woman who was deemed by herself and everybody else as categorically sinful. It was the guy who had no idea how sinful he was. In fact, Jesus makes no bones about the fact that the greatest irony of this whole situation was that this well-known sinner of a woman here outshines Simon. Here was this woman who in perhaps many categories of her life had displayed horrible behavior, but now in this moment when it counted the most – God was there at dinner – she finally got it right. And all the while Simon sits there like an emotional bump on a log failing to comprehend anything that’s really happening in the moment. There’s nothing worse than that. No spiritually worse condition than staring at Jesus like a cow might at a new gate. Nothing worse. Nothing poorer. Nothing more lost than a person who has no idea he’s lost. And so Jesus puts in his effort where his efforts are needed. “Simon, do you see how bad off you are? Do you get it? You’re a bigger sinner than this town’s biggest sinner. She’s better than you.”

She’s better than us too. I’m not sure any of us got up this morning with her kind of desperate thankfulness. I’m not sure we each grabbed the most readily available expensive gifts to empty them out before him. I’m not sure we each drove here spiritually overwhelmed like the hot messes we all are pouring out our tears, and even our souls at his feet if only we could. And Jesus knew that. You know which line in this story was for us today? The line that wasn’t spoken to that sinful woman or was meant only for Simon? This one: "Whoever has been forgiven little loves little.” (v. 47) That’s what Jesus wants all of us thinking about. Jesus didn’t name Simon there. He said, “whoever.” He made a universal statement that’s for us all. Because we’re all afflicted with an inner Simon: we don’t clearly see how much forgiveness we need. We don’t. That’s exactly what’s happening when we get kinda smug and prideful and judgmental and we privately think, “Look at that mom. I’m better. Look at that spiritual wreck of a guy. I would never.” And make no mistake that’s what’s happening when we show up for church not exactly convinced that heaven and earth are going to have to be moved for me to be saved today. Maybe just a couple personal transitions would do the job. And that’s exactly what’s happening when we fail to realize that the worst part of our categorically sinful condition is our blindness to it.

You know what I want you to know though? Such is the grace of Jesus – such is his unfathomable grace – that here he deals with Simon. In fact, you know that whole idea that people pitch about Jesus – the one where they say that if Jesus was here today he would always be hanging out with prostitutes and sitting at bars that whole idea? – that idea can be overdone and pushed too far. Because, again, did you notice who Jesus cares about here? The sinful woman, yes. But he actually shows up for a nice dinner at Simon’s house – not hers. And Jesus aims most of his saving teaching at Simon – not her. Because that’s who Jesus always aims at: the biggest sinners. And sometimes the people who most need saving are the ones who don’t think they do. So here he works on Simon. And he teaches him. And he loves him. Just as he loves you. Notice what Jesus didn’t say to us. He didn’t say, “Whoever loves little is not forgiven at all.” And why not? Because Jesus’ forgiveness of us is not dependent one iota on our perfect and overwhelming response to it. Jesus’ forgiveness of us is purely dependent on his life, on his cross, and on his resurrection. And so even people like us who grapple with our inner Simon’s are forgiven and are loved and are taught.

In fact, I’ve said this before at Peace, but actually that’s the whole Christian journey. It’s a journey of little by little evicting our inner Simon’s. The deeper we get into a relationship with Jesus, the better we grasp how categorically sinful we are. We begin to see it’s not just our occasional potty mouth or our wrong sexual impulses that we feel, it’s worse. We find out our parenting wasn’t what we hoped it would be, our generosity not always so pure. And then there’s our spiritual pride, our seemingly daily little attempts at independence from him, and all those moments when we care way too much about what people think of us and way too little of what he thinks of us. It’s coming to see that in ourselves and as we do falling at his feet pouring out everything to him and knowing that before we ever did we were already forgiven in him. That’s what I love about the gospel. It’s always forgiving in new ways to each of us. Each new category of personal sin that opens up to us is another opportunity to see Jesus more clearly. “Oh, we say, I never knew Jesus had to forgive that about me too.”

And that’s how it works. Day by day and week by week and year by year our hearts are opened to him and we stare at his cross a little less mystified at what he carried there and ever more mystified that he carried it. And so our love for him grows and grows and grows and grows. It’s new every day. And in that process our inner Simon gets more and more evicted and a new tenant moves in – one called desperate thankfulness. That condition where you don’t mind touching another person’s feet as long as they’re Jesus’ feet. That condition where you find yourself sometimes crying those deep and strangely wonderful alligator tears of repentance and faith. That condition where your heart spontaneously pours out prayers and your voice sings songs of praise. That condition and that place where you pour out your best and your most expensive gifts to Jesus – even your soul if you could. And why? You’re just so desperately thankful to this Jesus. This Jesus who says to you and other people just like you, “Your sins are forgiven; go in peace.” Amen.