March 16: The Second Sunday of Lent

What does God want?

I remember growing up in my Methodist church with this question looming over my head. What does God want? What does God want for us? What does God want from us? What does God want us to do? Many forms of the same question. I longed to know what God wanted, but I asked the question not out of curiosity. I asked not out of a genuine yearning to know what God truly desired. I asked out of fear.

I was afraid that I was not in right relation with God, that I was somehow failing God, that I was not walking faithfully the straight and narrow. I wanted to know what God wanted because of a fear that if I didn’t know, and did not adhere to those desires, bad things would happen to me now, in this life, and in the life to come.

Because I had seen those roadside billboards, you know the ones, vacant of any messaging besides the veiled threat of… “If you die today, where will you go?” …followed a mile down the highway with the next message, “Repent and believe,” with flames of fire beneath the text, only to be followed again a mile later with, “Christians, tell your faces,” whatever that one meant.

I had been baptized. I had always gone to church. I read my bible. But the fear remained. Where would I go? Am I doing enough? Am I doing it right?

Growing up, God was like the television judge Simon Cowell on American Idol or Paul Hollywood on British Bake-Off, staring at me, lurking around me, judging, just waiting for me to mess up, to hit a wrong note, to confuse baking powder with baking soda.

I so wanted to please God, but what God wanted seemed a mystery, something allusive, even unattainable. So I feared God.

And I would read St. Paul in his letter to the Romans, who wrote so highly of Abraham and his faith, of how Abraham believed God and it was reckoned to him as righteousness. I wanted the faith of Abraham, which seemed unquestioning and unwavering.

In church we’d sing the song, “I have decided to follow Jesus, I have decided to follow Jesus, no turning back, no turning back.” That was my prayer: “…Give me the faith of Abraham, a faith that does not turn back.” If I had that, I thought, if I could just stop turning back, then maybe I could be at peace. That was, until I realized that such was not the faith of Abraham.

You’ll remember Abram, as he was still known, and his wife Sarai’s story. They tried and tried to have children but weren’t able to have any of their own. They prayed for life. They hoped and dreamed for a son, a child, an heir, and month after month for nearly nine decades, they were met with grief.

We can imagine how they felt throughout those many years, the loneliness of infertility, and the often unspoken, ambiguous grief that accompanies it. God has told Abram he will have descendants, but none have come. And this is where we find him today.

The word of the Lord comes to Abram in a vision, “Do not be afraid, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great.”

But Abram says back to God, “O Lord God, what will you give me, for I continue childless…You have given me no offspring.”

Abram is frustrated. He’s heard this promise from God before, but nothing has changed. The promise so far seems empty, and Abram pushes back. “You have not done what you’ve said you would do. How will I know that you actually will come through and make good on your promise?” This is the faith of Abram. A questioning faith, a doubting faith, a persistent faith.

God responds to Abram, saying, “I will give you a sign, look at the stars, count them, so shall your descendants be.” And then reminds Abram of God’s faithfulness in the past. And though neither of these signs necessarily points to a baby in Sarai’s womb, Abram says, “Okay, I’ll believe you.”

See, scripture would be a lot shorter if everyone who talked with God just said, “Neat, sounds good. Thanks, God,” and never questioned how things then played out.

But no, Adam and Eve, they had to go and misbehave. Abram questioned. Moses needed some extra reassurances. So did the people of Israel in the wilderness, even after they walked through a dry river. Mary and Martha scolded Jesus, asking him where he was when they needed him most. Peter questioned Jesus’s mission to his face. And Thomas famously said, “I need proof, too.”

For some, to have faith means to not question. To hear and believe God blindly. But we don’t really see that in scripture. What we see is folks wrestling with God, pushing back, and saying, “God, if you are God, if you are who you say you are, then be faithful to what you’ve said.”

That is the faith of Abraham. The prayer that says, “I don’t see things changing, but instead of walking away, I’m going to hold on to that promise.”

Such is what I think God wants from us and for us. A gritty faith that hangs on, even when the light shines dimly. A faith that remembers that God is our shield, even when the arrows keep piercing our side. A faith that says, “Okay, I’ll keep counting the stars.”

And in our Gospel lesson, we hear Jesus say what he wants. Jesus is making his way towards Jerusalem. And some Pharisees that don’t want to see him killed, come up to him and warn him not to keep going, to turn back, because Herod will kill him. But Jesus says “no.” We are so used to the nice Jesus, who sits on a hill and preaches to the masses, who teaches in wordplay and blesses the meek of heart. Today though, we find an angry Jesus, a fed-up Jesus, a determined Jesus.

“You go and tell that fox for me,” he responds to the Pharisees, “I’m going to keep healing the sick. I’m going to keep casting out demons. I’m going to continue the work of my kingdom. And tell him I’ll see him soon, because I’m going to finish my work right under his nose.”

Then to all those gathered around, and even calling back to those who had gone before, Jesus continues, “How often have I wanted to hide you under my wings, like a hen gathers and hides her brood, but you said no. How often have I wanted to shelter you under my wings, and you said no.”

What fierce, tender love. In the presence of a fox, Jesus names himself as a hen who will give anything to protect her brood. A hen, whose desires to guard her young, doing so undeterred. A hen, who will stretch out her wings, offering rest and protection from the changes and chances of this life, even death itself. And though we aren’t quite yet to Good Friday, what a way to see and understand Jesus’ arms outstretched on the cross.¹

“Come to me all you who are weary and I will give you rest.”

“This is my body, given for you, take it, and eat.”

“This is my blood, shed for you, take it, and drink.”

So, what does God want? For us to hang in there, trusting that God will be God. Trusting that he is our shield and will follow through with his promises. That blessed are the meek in heart, blessed are those who make peace, and blessed are those who mourn. And God desires for us to know rest, to find shelter under his wings, his fierce, tender love.

As we continue our Lenten journey, my prayer is that any practice, any devotion you are taking up this season, would allow yourself more fully to live into what God wants. Not fear. Not shame. But a remembering that God is the God of Abraham and Sarah and their son Isaac, who in the Exodus offered deliverance from oppression, who provided daily bread in the wilderness, who walked among us, and whose arms are stretched wide, in an ever-loving embrace.

Amen.

The Rev. Daniel Reeves