Matthew 12 – No sign

In Matthew 12, certain Scribes and Pharisees came to Jesus asking him to show them a “sign” (verse 38).

Perhaps they wanted to see one of his famous trademark miracles with their own eyes – a lame man walking, a blind man seeing, or if they really got lucky, and the rumours of Jairus’ daughter were anything to go by, perhaps even a bona fide raising-from-the-dead.

Perhaps they had something a little more personal in mind, and they were expecting some kind of supernatural endorsement of their own position of religious authority, right in front of the crowds of “ordinary” people who, let’s face it, need to be reminded who’s boss every now and again.

Perhaps they had much bigger fish to fry, and were looking for Jesus to “restore again the kingdom to Israel” (Acts 1:6), put the “heathen” in their place, and “command fire to come down from heaven, and consume [the lot of] them [!]” (Luke 9:54).

Jesus’ answer to all such demands for a “sign” was…

12:39 …An evil and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given to it, but the sign of the prophet Jonas:

It seems the only sign he had to offer them – the only sign he could offer an expectant world – was not liberation from oppression and persecution, an end to corruption and hypocrisy in high places, the eradication of sickness, death and disease…

It seems the only sign he had to offer was the sign of Jonah (Jonas), the sign of his own exposure to the most brutal oppression and persecution, the sign of his own run-in with corruption and hypocrisy in high places, the sign of his own suffering and death.

12:40 For as Jonas was three days and three nights in the whale's belly; so shall the Son of man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.

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In John 6, the crowds whom Jesus had miraculously fed out of a “lad’s” meagre lunchbox, tracked him down again the next day and asked him (verse 30), “What sign shewest thou then, that we may see, and believe thee?”

Jesus in effect replied (verse 26), “You don’t want a sign, you want a meal ticket!”

You have to smile at the totally shameless persistence of them: “We like you Jesus.  You’ve got real potential.  Some of us are ready to take you right now and make you king by force if need be (verse 15).  But God gave our ancestors manna to eat in the desert (verse 31), and if you’re really who you claim to be, you need to start putting your money where our mouths are!”

You also have to smile at the endlessly longsuffering love of Jesus: “If you people want a meal ticket, I’ll give you a meal ticket!  For I am indeed your meal ticket.  I am the true bread of life.  Come to me and eat this bread – my body broken for you – and you will never hunger again (verses 35 and 51), and I will be in you (verses 56-58), and by me you will live forever!”

And John tells us that “from that time many of his disciples went back, and walked no more with him” (verse 66).

Because it seems the only sign he had to offer them was the sign of Jonah, the sign of his broken body, the sign of his death.

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What sign do I come to Jesus, “seeking after”?

Do I want some kind of supernatural endorsement of the work I’ve taken on for him?  Deep down, do I secretly fear that there’s more of ambition than devotion in it?  Deep down, do I fear the only person I’ve ever really served is… myself?

Do I hanker after the “signs” of his presence, the peace he gives, the assurance, the confidence?

Do I want to see signs of his transforming power in me, making me a better, nicer person, more patient, more kind, more caring, more considerate?

Do I find myself standing at the crossroads, looking out on an uncertain and somewhat daunting future, without a road-sign in sight, or a satnav even remotely capable of pointing out the way?

Do I come to Jesus “seeking after a sign”, and find that the only sign he has to offer me is the sign of Jonah, the sign of his death?

If I’ve been “seeking after a sign” and find that “no sign is given me”, perhaps it’s just that I’ve been looking for all the wrong signs in all the wrong places.  Perhaps the only sign I really need has already been given me, was given me two thousand years ago, on a hill outside Jerusalem.  Perhaps, as I take the true bread of life, as he becomes one with me, as I become identified with his death, and yet by him live forever, perhaps then my whole life becomes a “sign” – a sign to others, but mostly a sign to myself – a sign of what life could be, of what life should be, of how God can take the most meagre of “lunchboxes”, and make it a feast to last for all eternity.

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Psalm 119 seems to say in half a verse more than I could ever hope to articulate with all my “much speaking”…

119:17 …that I may live, and keep thy word.

God’s sign to us, is a sign in us.

His sign is that I simply live my life, with all its ups and downs, its triumph and disaster, and live it keeping alongside him, keeping in step with him, keeping true to his life in me.

To live, and keep living out the life of Christ, which is in me.

To live, keeping in perfect time with his life in me, while he “improvises” something uniquely beautiful around the simple, steady “theme” of my life.

Perhaps, if I were to truly see a sign like that in my life, then I’d be forced to agree that one sign can indeed be the only sign anyone ever really needs.

Matthew 11 – When the livin’ is easy

11:30 …my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

What I wouldn’t give to be a Russian oil billionaire.

To have so much money, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.  To have more money than I could ever spend in a dozen lifetimes.

If I were a Russian oil billionaire, I’d get myself a Premiership football club, a couple of apartments in the Trump Tower, a tropical island paradise or two…  Then I’d sit back, put my feet up, and settle down to live the life I’ve always dreamed of.

To live a life of luxury.

To live a life of ease.

So why am I not surprised to find that my idea of what constitutes an “easy” life, doesn’t quite tally with God’s take on the subject?  To the “rich man” of Luke 12 who said to himself, “Thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry”, God could only say, “Thou fool”.

And in fact, now that I think of it, the times in my life when the “livin’s” been “easiest”, have had little to do with luxury, or money, or even “taking my ease”.

Like the time when the kids were kids, and we barrelled through the park, scattering squirrels like tenpins, to get our first look at the sea.  Then at a whim, though the sky was darkening and rain was in air, we all ran to catch the open-top bus, and rode like kings, the top deck all to ourselves.  And later that evening, when the kids were finally tucked-up in bed, I sat for a while at the top of the stairs, reading Psalm 103 and listening to the sounds of their untroubled sleep.

103:2 Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.

What I wouldn’t give to be riding on that drizzly, blustery top deck right now.

But those were rare and special moments, and although like Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration, it might sometimes be hard to drag me away, and I might sometimes embarrass myself by blurting out, “It is good for us to be here!” and I might even suggest getting hold of some tents and try to set up camp right there on the mountaintop…  Though I do all that and more, still there always comes a time when Jesus has to lead us back down the mountain, back down to the valley below, where day-to-day life goes on, where people are often “sore vexed” and sometimes “fall into the fire”, and no amount of prayer seems able to prevent it (Matthew 17).

But it’s not on the mountaintop, but right there in the midst of the valley, with all its demands pressing in around him, that I hear Jesus crying…

11:28 Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

11:29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.

11:30 For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

And I find myself struggling to recognise the Jesus he’s painting a picture of here.  Is this Jesus with the “light and easy yoke”, the same one who had nowhere to lay his head (Matthew 8:20), who hadn’t a penny to pay the temple tax (Matthew 17:24-27), nor one friend to stick by him when it came to the crunch (Matthew 26:56)?

If this really is the Jesus who finds living so “easy”, so uncomplicated, so simple and effortless, then all my self-help book theories about “life, love and how to be happy” are simply blown out of the water.

Here I am, glibly reeling off all the cheap-and-cheerful slogans, telling myself that “happiness is just about doing what you love, with the people that you love”… and then I find Jesus, totally un-loved, “despised and rejected”, practically homeless and penniless, not primarily concerned about happiness, about love, or even about life itself, but making it his one concern, his one raison d’être, to do the will of “the one who sent him” – even if that “will” led ultimately to the cross.

If this is the Jesus who thinks life is so “easy”, a walk in the park, then I think we’ve all got some serious re-thinking to do.

So what was Jesus’ secret?  How could he be so “untroubled”, when he was constantly surrounded by troubles?  How could be so “carefree”, when he carried a world of cares on his shoulders?

Well, perhaps part of the answer is in that aforementioned “raison d’être” of Jesus, his single-minded determination to do God’s will, and in a sense, to be God’s will.  Because only in his “oneness” with the Father, was it possible for Jesus to perfectly carry out the Father’s will.  And equally, the Father’s only “will” concerning his Son was that they always be “one”, “I in him, and he in me” (to paraphrase John 10:38).  So, in seeking to do God’s will, Jesus had only to concentrate all his energies on maintaining that constant “oneness” with the Father, and through that “oneness” to, in a sense, become the will of God, by simply living out his daily life.

And suddenly the whole of life boils down to this one profoundly simple formula, this one “needful thing” – to live in constant touch with God; to remain in constant contact with him; to maintain a vital, living “connection” to him; to live in constant “union” with God.

Perhaps this is what Jesus had in mind when he talked about “abiding” in the vine (John 15:4).  Perhaps this is what he meant when he talked about being “yoked”, the way two oxen might be yoked, as one, together (Matthew 11:29).

But be that as it may, surely the only explanation for Jesus’ claims to a “light and easy” life, in the face of all the evidence to the contrary, is that he’d found a way to turn the whole of life – every event, every incident, every act, every deed – into just another means of realising his “oneness” with the Father – a means of expressing the boundless joy and delight of that “oneness”, the overflowing love, the unshakable strength of that “oneness” – whether eating, sleeping, walking, talking, or washing the disciples’ feet, every moment was just as “rare and special” as that all-too-brief interlude on the mountaintop, because every moment was suffused with the same divine presence, and anchored by the same unbreakable bond.

But perhaps the most startling thing about the closing verses of Matthew 11 is not that Jesus seemed to think “livin’” was “easy”, but the fact that he turns to us – to you, to me – and says, “Come and take my yoke upon you, and see for yourself how easy life can be!”

Jesus invites us all to be “yoked” together with him – through him, to be anchored by that same unbreakable bond with the Father; the bond that turns every moment – every wearisome task, every onerous duty – into an experience as “rare and special”, as ripe with possibilities, as any interlude on the mountaintop, or any fondly-remembered ride on a certain open-top bus.

Matthew 10 – The universal equation

Before a big fat hairy caterpillar can fulfil its unlikely destiny, and take to the air on beautiful, reckless wings of little more than coloured tissue paper, it must first undergo a radical and terrifying metamorphosis.

Before a caterpillar can take to the air, it must first take to the grave.  It must first build its own burial chamber; it must cocoon itself within.  It must first undergo a kind of death.

And “in that sleep of death what dreams may come”? (Hamlet: Act 3, Scene 1)

What dreams of flesh melting like wax… flowing… coalescing… reforming… according to some new and unknown design?  What dreams of “identity”, of “personality” and its every possession, evaporating like water – viewpoints… priorities… motivations… concerns… and every familiar way of thinking, slowly ebbing away and being supplanted by something frighteningly new and disturbingly alien?

But when those exquisitely patterned wings finally open and catch their first summer breeze, does the butterfly even remember that it once crawled in the murky shadows far, far below?

In Matthew 10, we find the very first mention in the New Testament, of the cross.

10:38 And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.

And I guess it’s true to say that no-one “follows after” Jesus for very long without the spectre of death rearing its ugly head at some point along the way.  In fact, I guess it’s true to say that death, every bit as much as life, or birth, is at the very centre of the Christian message.

The man who said, “I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly” (John 10:10), also said…

He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it. (Matthew 10:39)

Death.

It’s the “elephant” in the room that no-one likes to talk about.

But death casts such a long shadow, and we live under it, from the moment we take our first breath, to the moment we breathe our last (Matthew 4:16).

Death is a visit to the vet’s at age seventeen.  The needle entering just above the paw.  Her body relaxing ever so slightly.  Looking in her eyes, and they looked just the same.  How could that be!?  They talk about the light going out of your eyes, don’t they?  But her eyes looked just the same.

Death is struggling to read the small print at age forty-seven.  The same eyes look back at me from the shaving mirror, but how did they get to be in my father’s face!?

Christians talk readily enough about the “new birth”, about being “born again”.  But birth is only one half of the universal equation.  Before the new life can begin, the old one has to come to an end.  Before there can be a rebirth, there must first be a “passing away” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Remember, the man who said, “Ye must be born again” (John 3:7), also said…

Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. (John 12:24)

Unless a seed falls into the ground and “dies”, it will always be nothing more than a seed.  Jesus was clearly referring to his own imminent death, but I believe he was also taking about you, and me.

A caterpillar carries deep within its genetic makeup, the potential to become a butterfly.  Deep within the caterpillar-life, there is another life-principle just waiting for the opportunity to manifest itself.  But that butterfly-life can never be realised, unless the caterpillar-life first makes way for it.  There will never be a fluttering of butterfly-wings, until that hopelessly earth-bound caterpillar “falls into the ground and dies”.

By the same token, deep within you and me is the potential to become something radically – perhaps even frighteningly – different.  That potential is not locked up in our genetic code, but entered our hopelessly earth-bound lives from the outside, at Bethlehem, and at Calvary.  Deep within this “mortal flesh”, has been planted another life-principle – Christ-life: the very essence of God himself – just waiting for the opportunity to “manifest” itself (2 Corinthians 4:11).

But that Christ-life can never be realised, unless this human-life first makes way for it.  There will never be a golden head of wheat swaying in the breeze, until that shrivelled brown seed “falls into the ground and dies”.

For a Christian, death is not a one-time deal.  Death is not a one-off, and hopefully far-distant, future event.  Death is not an end, but a process.

Referring to the way that he literally lived in constant danger of his life, Paul said, “I die daily” (1 Corinthians 15:31).  But in a sense, as Christians, we too must learn to die daily, and to daily be reborn.

To die daily.  To die hourly.  To die continually.  Moment by moment.  At this very moment.  As I write.  As you read.

To die.  And in that death, to be reborn.

To die to every viewpoint and priority, every motivation and concern.  To die to “personality” and its every possession.

And then, when all seems lost, to see that “personality” miraculously take to the air, resurrected, renewed, transformed, set free, to be what at heart it was always meant to be.

And when this human-life finally steps aside, and the resurrection-life of Christ lifts me up to “heavenly places” in him (Ephesians 2:6), does that “new creature” in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17) even remember that it once crawled in the murky shadows far, far below?

Matthew 9 – They that be whole need not

Imagine you were God.

And you’d come to earth to set up your kingdom.

And you were looking for the right people to help you run it.

I wonder… who would you pick?

Perhaps you’d draw up a list of the qualities you’d hope to find in the ideal candidate:

• Must be religious (non-churchgoers need not apply)
• Must be an acknowledged spiritual leader, pastor and teacher
• Must be devout and pious, a man/woman of prayer
• Must be a well-respected, upstanding, pillar of the community, active in local charities and voluntary organisations
• Must give at least, say, 10% of income to the church
• Must be a non-smoking, non-drinking, non-fornicating, perfect family man/woman

Imagine you lived in first century, Roman-occupied Palestine.

You could’ve probably done a whole lot worse than to select a few interviewees from a certain religious sect, mentioned thirty times in the book of Matthew (on average about once a chapter!), and right there in the thick of it as usual in Matthew chapter 9.

The Pharisees.

Devout; religious; holding to the highest moral standards; popular with the people; exemplifying everything upright and decent, respectable and godly.

The Pharisees were basically a “shoo-in” for the top job, and they knew it.  And it’s quite obvious from their remarks in Matthew 9:11 that they’d already picked-out wallpaper for their new executive offices up on the top floor.

“Here comes the big announcement, guys.  Remember, just act casual, and try to look surprised.  Wait a minute, why is he going over to those publicans and sinners!?”

Imagine their surprise then, when the Chief Executive himself started to call out the names, and amongst them were:

• A paraplegic (Matthew 9:2)
• A social and religious outcast, excommunicated from the synagogue (Matthew 9:9)
• A corpse (Matthew 9:18)
• An “unclean” woman, “polluting” everyone she came into contact with (Matthew 9:20)
• Two blind men (Matthew 9:27)
• And a demon-possessed mute (Matthew 9:32)

And much to the chagrin of the Pharisees, the only qualifications God seemed to be interested in were:

• Sickness – They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick (Matthew 9:12)
• Sin – I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners (Matthew 9:13)

And that desperate, last-ditch, reaching-out-and-clinging-onto-something that Jesus called…

• Faith – Be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole (Matthew 9:22)

Faith?  Sure.  Must be a man/woman of faith.  That would be on anyone’s tick-list.

But, sin?  You’re having a laugh!

And, sickness?  How on earth can sickness qualify anyone for anything!?

Sickness is an aberration, a malfunction, a wrong state of being.

Some people say that the presence of sickness and disease in the world proves that there is no God.  At the other end of the spectrum, some people say that sickness is of the Devil, and it’s not God’s will for anyone to be sick.

If they were still here today, maybe that’s what the Pharisees would say.  Certainly, that’s what some of Jesus’ disciples seemed to be saying, when they asked him whose sins were to blame for a man’s lifelong blindness (John 9:2).

Jesus’ terse response to all such thinking is simply, “Only the sick man has need of a doctor.”

Perhaps it’s also true to say that only the sick man is aware of the “wrongness” of his situation, of the “wrongness” at the very heart of the human condition.

When a chronic depressive turns back the sheets on a bright new day, and the morning lies before him like an unbearable weight, he doesn’t need anyone to tell him that something’s not quite right with the world.

And as paradoxical as it may seem, that sense of “wrongness”, that sense of “need”, is the only true gateway to God, and the ultimate “rightness” of perfect “oneness” with him.

Jesus said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God” (Matthew 19:24).

And for a man who possesses all of life’s riches, in health, wealth, talent and temperament, position and popularity, how difficult it is to see more than two feet beyond those dazzling, all-consuming blessings, which unfortunately, like the proverbial “all good things”, must one day come to an end.

How perverse is human nature, when the more blessed we are, the more difficult it becomes to see the wood for the trees – to see the one, true blessing, which lies at the root of all blessings – the blessing of possessing God himself, and with him, all things.

How difficult it is for the little “Pharisee” in me, with all his comfortable respectability, his cold religiosity, his all-important social standing, to reach out, as the woman of Matthew 9:20 reached out – to reach out with nothing to lose, nothing to offer, nothing more to give – to reach out with hands that were empty enough to take hold of what so many in the crowd were too “heavy laden” to carry – to reach out “having nothing, and yet possessing all things” (2 Corinthians 6:10).

In one of Aesop’s fables, the North Wind and the Sun had a competition to decide which of them was the strongest.  They agreed that whoever first succeeded in making a passing traveller take off his cloak would be declared the winner.  The more the North Wind blew, the more the traveller wrapped his cloak around him, the more tightly he clutched it to his chest.  Only in the warming rays of the Sun did the traveller finally relax his grip, and let the now-superfluous cloak fall from his shoulders.

Sickness.

It can bend you.  It can twist you.

It can crush you.

But how perverse is human nature – in the warm sunshine of blessing, God so easily becomes “superfluous”, an unnecessary burden, just an extra weight to be carried on the road; whilst in the howling gale of sickness, the stricken traveller needs no encouragement to reach out for something – anything – to shield him from the blast; he needs no encouragement to reach for that once-burdensome “cloak”, to wrap it firmly around his shoulders, to clutch it tightly to his chest, to cling onto it with all his might.

Perhaps Paul said it best.

Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me

(2 Corinthians 12:9).