The Sign of Jonah: Heroes with Defects

As we continue looking at the hero’s journey, we begin to find that that heroes come in several flavors:

● The archetypal hero is without flaws and always makes the right choice. He is Jesus; he is Superman who can handle any obstacle; he is the classic cowboy in the white hat who shoots the bad guy, kisses the girl, and rides off into the sunset.


● The antihero is not the opposite of the hero (certainly not the villain) but rather a hero who deviates significantly from the pattern of the archetypal hero and yet is still the hero. He is Jonah who refuses the initial call and despises the Ninevites even after they repent; he is Batman, a hero with a dark side; he is the vigilante cowboy (like most Clint Eastwood westerns) who is wanted by the law, even as he brings his version of justice to a lawless West.


● The tragic hero is one having the potential to be a hero who makes a critical mistake leading to his downfall; frequently, not always, the hero’s flaw is pride, or arrogance. He is Saul who is anointed king, but simply cannot wait on God’s timing; he is Anakin Skywalker (Darth Vader) who takes justice into his own hands; he is Little Bill, the sheriff in Unforgiven, who misses many chances to bring justice in the town he is supposed to protect.


What sort of “heroes” do we find in our stories today?


In ancient Greece, Orpheus, son of the muse Calliope, was called “the father of song” and was the master of the lyre. Ancient poets claimed that he could charm wild animals, coax trees and rocks to dance, and even convince rivers to change their course.


The most famous story about Orpheus is the death of his wife Eurydice. Orpheus loved his wife, and would play songs for her while she danced in the meadows. However, one day a satyr spied Eurydice dancing and chased after her, and in her haste to escape, she stepped on a poisonous snake, which bit her on the heel and she died. Orpheus was devastated, and in his grief the songs that he sang were so poignant, so mournful, that all the gods wept. They told him to go to the underworld to bring her back.


Orpheus, a mortal, journeyed to the underworld charming all the demons and monsters along the way with his songs until he stood before Hades, god of the underworld, and his wife Persephone. Their hearts were softened by his music, and they permitted him to retrieve Eurydice and take her back to the surface—on the condition that he would walk in front of her and not turn to look at her until they had both returned to the upper world. All was well—until Orpheus reached the surface, and in his passion and love for Eurydice, he forgot his charge, turned and looked, only to see her vanish and return to the underworld forever.


By one account, Orpheus was so distraught that he poured out his grief in song. During his throes of grief and song, a band of maenads (e.g. party girls; literally, “the raving ones”) came upon him. As was their custom, they tried to kill him with sticks and stones, but his music was so beautiful the sticks and stones refused to touch him. Enraged by this, the maenads shrieked loudly so as to not hear his music. Thus immune to his charms, they charged him, dismembered his body and threw it in the river, even as his head and lyre continued to play.


Read Genesis 19


Lot and his family receive a call—an urgent summons to leave town, a chance to escape the inhospitable and unrighteous world they call home and go to a better, safer, place. How will their hero’s journey turn out?


Lot is generally considered a joke. Lot tries to do the right thing, but somehow always get it wrong in the end. In the inhospitable land of Sodom, Lot offers the angels asylum; in fact, he persists after their initial rejection and finally they accept. (Did he suspect what would happen is they remained overnight in the square?) He attempts to dissuade the gang that comes to his door, but then everything goes amiss. Ironically, he offers up his two married daughters, perhaps indicating the low regard he had for his daughters and certainly foreshadowing the disastrous end of the chapter.


Lot is a joke to his son-in-law (v14). Moreover, despite the repeated warnings by the angels, in the end they must physically escort Lot, his wife, and his daughters out of the city (v16) Don’t miss the aside at the end of this verse “for the Lord was merciful to them.” Throughout this story, God brings good in spite of the weakness—and sin—of those who claim to follow him.


Lot’s weakness is a continual joke throughout the story. Even after he is escorted from the city and told to flee, he says he cannot make it to the mountains. He asks for a small town to be spared so he can flee to it. Ironically, Lot in his weakness saves more lives than Abraham in his righteousness could save in Gen 18. Abraham could not save Sodom, but Lot saved Zoar through God’s mercy.


At this point in the life of this church, what might God be able to do with us in our weakness, our smallness, that he did not do when we were larger, more prosperous, and (on the surface) more righteous?


As they flee, burning sulfur rains down on the town, and Lot’s wife forgets (or ignores?) the warning of the angels and looks back. She is looking back to her past. She is looking back at her family which stayed behind. She is looking back at her doom.


At this point in the life of this church, I counsel you not to look back. I am leaving, but nothing good will come of looking back to what was. You will not help the new pastor by looking back to how things were under Pastor Chip.


We the survivors make it to a cave, Lot’s daughters back a grave mistake. They understandably think the world is destroyed—all they can see are smoldering ruins of the valley—and they take it upon themselves to preserve the human race. Their sin is on of arrogance, thinking that the future depends on them and not on the mercy of God.


At this point in the life of this church, I counsel you not to think the future depends on you. The future of this church is on God’s hands. Wait on his timing. Wait on his mercy. Do not trust in your understanding, but on the power of God to make things happen.


The power of God to bring good from our weakness and error is incalculable. Consider this: from the incest of Lot and his daughters came Ruth, a Moabitess and the ancestor of David, and Naamah, an Ammonite, the mother of Solomon’s son Rehoboam. Therefore, it can be said that Jesus is not just a son of Abraham, but of Lot.


Point to Ponder


So what kind of heroes are Lot, his wife, and his daughters: antiheroes or tragic heroes?


Benediction


I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:3-6)

The Sign of Jonah: Life on the Rebound

When we last saw Edmond Dantès in The Count of Monte Cristo, he had escaped from prison in a body bag, taking the place on his dead friend and thrown into the ocean. For Dantès, as for us, a substitutionary death and a baptism into water marked the beginning of his new life. Dantès was about to return to the world, armed with the power to save or to destroy those who had framed him. His friend, Abbot Faria, had told him the location of a secret treasure, and Dantès teamed up with some smugglers until he could get to the treasure. Fortified with the treasure and the education Faria imparted to him in prison, Dantès began to unfold his plan to avenge himself.



Dantès surfaces later in high society in many different disguises, usually as the wealthy Count of Monte Cristo. In his different guises, he finds those involved in the conspiracy to frame him. Among others:


● To one who has fallen on hard times, he gives a diamond valuable enough to either save him or lead him to ruin. Sadly the man murders another over the diamond and turns to crime.


● For one who is bankrupt and turns out to be blameless, he anonymously pays the man’s bills and saves him from suicide.


● And as the Count of Monte Cristo, he wins the devotion of the son of the man who framed him and stole his fiancée. Only his former fiancée sees through the disguise, recognizing Dantès. Both the man’s son and his wife leave him, and the man commits suicide.


On the hero’s journey, frequently the hero has to “change his skin,” disguising himself as the enemy. Luke Skywalker in Star Wars goes undercover in the enemy’s storm trooper armor in order to find the princess. Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption dons the warden’s suit and shoes during his escape. Edmond Dantès masquerading as the count is indistinguishable from his enemies. Will he yield to the temptation to return evil for evil—becoming thoroughly like his enemies—or will he eventually “shed his skin,” revealing the true hero underneath?


Read Genesis 42:1-45:7


From the time Joseph is stripped of his fancy robe until the moment his reveals himself to his brothers in Egypt, Joseph goes through five “wardrobe changes,” outwardly becoming less the young Semite and more the Egyptian. After he comes up from the pit, interprets Pharaoh’s dream, and becomes the governor of Egypt, he is dressed and adorned as an Egyptian (Gen. 41:42). Joseph marries an Egyptian maiden, the daughter of an Egyptian priest, and the names he gives his children suggest the abandonment of his homeland (Gen. 41:50-52)—Manasseh means “God has made me forget completely my hardship and my parental home,” and Ephraim means “God has made me fertile in the land of my affliction.”


When they first arrive in Egypt, Joseph’s brothers kneel before him (Gen. 42:6) fulfilling the prophecy of Joseph’s dreams. His brothers had always assumed that the dreams presaged domination. However, Joseph has not been given power in order to dominate, but rather to bless. His brothers kneel before him in order to receive a blessing of food and (unbeknowst to them) to be healed.


I have always had trouble with Genesis 42-45. Why doesn’t Joseph simply reveal himself to his brothers, and say, “It is me, Joseph! All is forgiven! Go, get Dad and Benjamin, and come on down to Egypt?” Conceivably Joseph is exacting a measure of vengeance before he forgives them. However, consciously or unconsciously, Joseph is putting his brothers through a long series of trials designed to help them recapitulate their crimes against Joseph and choose a different path, a different future. The ruse of hiding the silver in their bags not only puts them in his debt and ensures that they return to make proper restitution, but it is ironic as well. The brothers are about to get what they gave to Joseph. As they abandoned Joseph, so they are forced to leave Simeon behind. Will they return for him, or discard him as they discarded Joseph? In returning with Benjamin, they will be forced to recognize the special love their father has for the children of Rachel (i.e. Joseph and Benjamin).


The whole account—from the first arrival of the gang of brothers in Egypt until the eventual arrival of the entire tribe of Jacob is one of the longer stories in the Bible. Why? What is so important about this story? Is it possible that one function of this long story is to explain by the descendents of Joseph and Judah (the two brothers who make good and just decisions throughout the account) become the dominant tribes of the northern and southern kingdoms and why the tribe of Reuben never amounts to anything?


Consider this: throughout the story, Reuben, the first-born son, continues to prove to be ineffectual. A Jewish teaching on Genesis 42:36-38 (Reuben’s offer to kill his own sons if he does not return with both Simeon and Benjamin) interprets Jacob’s response as, “This is a foolish first-born son! Are your sons not my sons?” Perhaps the reason Simeon, the 2nd-oldest son, is taken hostage instead of Reuben is that Jacob would not suffer the loss of Reuben as harshly. Perhaps Reuben would have been considered expendable. It falls to Judah, not Reuben, to take the proper action. Judah, not Reuben, provides the guarantee for Benjamin’s life by pledging his own life for the safe return of both sons.


When the brothers return with Benjamin, Joseph frames Benjamin for the theft of a silver cup. Through this deceit, Joseph gives his brothers a test: will they abandon Benjamin as they abandoned Joseph? They have to accept the special place that Benjamin has in his father’s heart. Judah, the author of the plot to send Joseph into captivity, the one who pledged his life for the safe return of his brothers, is now willing to become the captive.


There are so many points in this story where everything could unravel. The brothers could have made up a story about how Simeon was killed during the first trip to Egypt. The brothers could have abandoned Judah as well. At any point, if the brothers fail to do the right thing, Joseph will look like the bad guy. “Joseph, why didn’t you just reveal yourself from the beginning? Why did you have to trick us?” At any point, Joseph’s human desire for vengeance may cloud his desire for reconciliation and justice. This is the tension throughout the account—can full reconciliation be realized before human frailties throw a monkey wrench into the works?


Eventually the trickery comes to an end. Eventually the desire for reconciliation and justice is satisfied. Eventually the disguise can come off, and the brothers can live forthrightly before each other. Joseph has given his brothers a new future—food in a time of famine, and forgiveness in a family of dysfunction.


And so it is for us with our families. We come to Christ because of our need for something more. Sometimes that need has its roots in the dysfunction in our family and the guilt we carry: the sins of commission for which we are never allowed to atone; the sins of omission we are never allowed to forget. We are driven to Christ—seeking and finding relief.


But what comes next? The temptation is to remain in the land of plenty while family starves for love in a faraway place. Like Joseph in Egypt, who names his children “forgetful” and “fruitful”, we want to forget and prosper on our own. We come to find out that God will not have it so. We are called to go back to the family with a gift; we go back as ambassadors of reconciliation.


But how do we go back? Do we reveal out true colors as Christians, telling out brothers and sisters to forgive and forget? Or do we re-enter the family in disguise and work for reconciliation more subtly? The direct approach is simpler, but confrontational. We get our message out quickly; however, it is likely to be rejected. The indirect approach is harder. We may lose our way; we may be co-opted by the very dysfunction we seek to heal; however, in the midst of the dysfunction we have the chance to see and speak to those we love as they are wrestling with the very hurts we seek to heal.


We go in disguise in order to make up the distance between ourselves and those we love. However, when reconciliation comes, we are free to remove our disguise and love freely even as we are loved.


Points to Ponder


With whom do you need to be reconciled? Have you tried direct reconciliation only to see it fail? Are you willing to go to them on their terms, working with them slowly on their issues?


Benediction


I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:3-6)

The Sign of Jonah: When Life is the Pits

So the question came up, “Why did you spend so much time last week talking about Star Wars?” The answer is four-fold:

● I thought it would be fun,


● by learning the form of the hero’s journey, you will learn a common pattern of how God operates in the Bible,


● by seeing other places where the hero’s journey appears, you will learn to see it in other stories, like Star Wars (You may come to decide that the hero’s journey is one of the things that makes a great story great.), and


● as a related matter, hopefully the next time you watch Star Wars, you will think of Jonah (and that’s not such a bad thing).


Read Genesis 37


You know the story: the hero receives a message, but when he shares the message with others, he is shunned. Others fear him; ultimately, they conspire to get rid of him. The conspirators put him away. If they have their way, nobody will ever see him again; certainly the person who loves the hero the most will never see him again, and maybe that love will go to somebody else. However, while in the pit, while in the dungeon, while contemplating his own death, the hero finds unexpected companions in unexpected places. Some of the companions seem heaven-sent; others seem a bit odd; all of them (in spite of themselves sometimes) work together to bring the hero out of the pit. The hero will begin to work his way up—but that is next week’s sermon.


I’m talking about The Count of Monte Cristo, of course. The Frenchman Edmond Dantès is given a message to deliver to a stranger. The letter is part of a political conspiracy involving Napoleon Bonaparte that implicates powerful people. It is far better for one man—Dantès—to disappear, they reason, than for those in power to be brought down. An admirer of Dantès’ fiancée forges a letter implicating Dantès. Dantès is arrested and ends up in the prison Chateau d’If, while the forger ends up with Dantès’ fiancée. Likewise, Joseph’s message—the dreams of brothers bowing to him—is an offense to his brothers. Joseph is the favorite of his father, Jacob; he has the fancy robe; apparently he does not have to tend the sheep as his brothers do. Jacob sends Joseph out to check on his brothers (bad idea—do his brothers need more reasons to hate him?) and they toss him in the pit. Perhaps they reason their father will love them more if Joseph is out of the picture. Usually the oldest has a special place in a father’s heart; however, Reuben had slept with his father’s concubine (Genesis 35:22). Perhaps Reuben sees saving Joseph as a way of ingratiating himself with Jacob. However, while Reuben is absent, Judah convinces the others to sell Joseph as a slave. Ironically, they scheme for him to be a slave in Egypt.


When God speaks to us, our normal reaction is excitement; surely everyone will want to hear what we have learned, right? The pattern in the Bible—from Noah, to Moses, Samuel, David, the OT prophets, John the Baptist, Jesus, Stephen, and Paul—suggests otherwise. Evidently, the more one has to lose, the less one is likely to respond well to a call to, “Come and follow me!” Jesus even warns that it will be this way:


Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. (Matt. 5:11-12)


A bit of warning is in order: just because people insult you does not mean you are God’s prophet, and just because you are persecuted does not mean that you bear the message well! Joseph would do well not to flaunt his favored status with Dad. Joseph, put the fancy robe away; save it for special occasions. Take a turn in the fields with your brothers. Listen to them instead of making them listen to you. Be humble.


What about you? When have you ever felt that God communicated something special to you? What happened when you told others (if you told others)? Learn from the example of Joseph; learn to be humble, even if you think you are supposed to be the leader.


But back to The Count of Monte Cristo. Dantès is in solitary confinement—visited but one day a year by his tormentors. However, one day his world changes as a fellow prisoner tunnels into his cell. Abbot Faria is also a political prisoner. Over the remainder of Dantès’ 14 years in prison, the two work together to tunnel their way out. During that time, Faria takes the uneducated Dantès under his wing, teaching Dantès all that he knows: languages, mathematics, philosophy, science, and more. After Dantès escapes from prison, he is rescued by smugglers, traveling with them for a time until he reaches his destination. By comparison Joseph is “rescued” from the pit by slave traders, not smugglers, but curious traders they are. They also trade in spices, and during Joseph’s entire trip to Egypt, he is treated to the wonderful smells of exotic spices; what an odd and unexpected consolation that must have been! Although Joseph will end up in the Pharaoh’s dungeon, even there he meets unexpected companions: a warden, who gives Joseph free run of the prison; Pharaoh’s baker, who dies, fulfilling Joseph’s prophecy; Pharaoh’s cupbearer, who forgets Joseph for a time. All these companions are unwitting manifestations of a simple truth: the Lord is still with Joseph, blessing all that he does. The seeds for his eventual resurrection from the pit are present, but—like all seeds—they take time to grow.


God does not promise to deliver us from evil; rather, he promises to be with us through the evil. As much as we pray in the Lord’s prayer, “Deliver us from evil,” we would do better to remember Jesus’ promise, “I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matt 28:20). In our suffering, God is there. In our waiting, God is there. Even in our doubt, God is there. The power of the gospel is that God has the power to transform the place we are and make it the launching pad for goodness—even though outwardly our circumstances are unchanged. We may still be sick, despised, persecuted, or trapped; nevertheless God is at work preparing us for the good to come. He is Abbot Faria in the prison teaching us what we will need to know later; he is the warden, giving us a chance to practice administration on a small scale in order that later we may administer an empire.


What about you? Have you given thanks for your circumstances? James 1:2-4 reminds us:


Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.


It is hard to embrace the trials, but apparently that is the way of the hero.


Faria and Dantès never complete their tunnel. Rather, Dantès escapes when Faria dies and the guards put him in a body bag prior to throwing him into the ocean. Dantès seizes an opportunity to assume Faria’s place in the bag and be cast into the ocean by unsuspecting guards. For Dantès, as for us, the way to life is through death; as he is thrown into the ocean, he is symbolically baptized. What sort of new life will he rise up to lead—a life of vengeance, or a life of grace? Joseph never returns to Canaan. God has something rather important in store for him. When the cupbearer finally remembers Joseph, the interpreter of dreams in the jail, Pharaoh summons him to interpret the king’s vexing dreams. God is in control—Joseph and Pharaoh both agree that God has used Joseph to deliver the interpretation of Pharaoh’s dream. But now, given control of an empire and second only to Pharaoh in power, will Joseph use that power for vengeance or grace? We will find out next week.


In the meantime, be humble in your walk both with God and with all you meet; be humble throughout your trials; do not despair; look for God at work with unexpected help through unlikely people; in your humility, be ready to let go of your old self so God can raise you up to something new at just the right time. Be the hero.


Points to Ponder


You may wish to read Genesis 42-45 or watch The Count of Monte Cristo this week in preparation for next week.


How do the movies Shawshank Redemption and V for Vendetta (both of which refer to The Count of Monte Cristo, by the way) follow this same pattern?


Benediction


I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:3-6)

The Sign of Jonah: The Belly of the Beast

A quick recap from last week (for those who were snowbound, sick, shoveling, or sleepy).

For a variety of reasons (only one of which is to save money on fuel oil over the winter) we are going to meet in the church basement for the first three months of 2010. I urge you to think of it as an extra-long Lenten season—our time of preparation for Easter. During Lent, we are encouraged to meditate on the suffering and death of Jesus on our behalf. If Jesus can be three days and nights in the tomb before being resurrected, then maybe it is okay to spend three months in the basement before returning upstairs for Easter Sunday on April 4th.


One of the patterns of how God works in the Bible—the pattern that we will be looking at for the next three months—appears in the myths of other religions and in classical literature and pop culture as well. It is the pattern, on one hand, of Jonah and the whale and Elijah at Mt. Horeb; on the other, it is the pattern of the Star Wars epics and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. It is the pattern, on one hand, of Moses at the Red Sea and Peter walking on water; one the other, it is the pattern of Orpheus descending to the underworld to save his wife. It is the pattern, on one hand, of Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress; on the other, it is the pattern of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. It is the pattern of the hero.


Mythologist Joseph Campbell articulated the pattern of the hero’s journey; in brief:


● the hero is living in the ordinary world,


● he receives a call to a different place,


● in his journey to that place, he encounters supernatural help,


● he reaches the gateway of this new place, a place that will transform him,


● he encounters increasingly difficult trials and temptations leading ultimately to an abyss (or place of death),


● either the hero does not die, or he dies and is resurrected,


● he begins his return to his former world; however,


● he has been transformed, even as he returns to his former world with a gift.


Read Jonah 1-3


You know the story: the hero receives a call, a summons to rescue people in need. At first the call seems screwy and implausible—simply wrong. But the hero begins his journey. He acquires unexpected traveling companions along the way. However, nothing goes exactly according to plan, and the hero ends up in the belly of the beast. The hero is delivered from death. Afterwards, nothing is quite the same for him, and he knows he must go to an evil place bearing a powerful package. Evil is vanquished, and the people in need rejoice.


I’m talking about the original Star Wars movie, of course. Luke Skywalker, receives a call for help from Princess Leia. At first the call seems far-fetched: the harvest must be brought in; there is machinery to be fixed; and, as his uncle knows, Luke is flirting with powers beyond his understanding. Likewise, Jonah goes in the opposite direction from Nineveh precisely because God is beyond his understanding. Sure, in chapter four Jonah says, “I fled to Tarshish because I knew you would do something compassionate for the people I hate, and I wanted nothing to do with it.” Our immature faith focuses on the immediate, the small picture, and the mundane, whether it is the machinery to be tended to, the grudges we nurse, or the fears that drive us.


But back to Star Wars ... Luke Skywalker begins his journey by picking up some unexpected friends: robots (droids as they are known in the Star Wars universe); a retired knight; a couple of mercenaries. They charge off without much of a plan, leaving chaos in their wake. They run across the Death Star—a monstrous ship so big at first they think it is a moon—and the Death Star draws them in against their will. The captain of the ship tries everything in his power to no avail. Their tiny ship is swallowed by the Death Star, and shortly thereafter, Luke finds himself waist deep in the Death Star’s trash compactor, which looks not unlike the belly of a great beast. Likewise, before Jonah finds himself in the belly of the whale, he hits the dock at Joppa. He hooks up with some mercenaries—sailors who are happy to set sail for Tarshish, sailors who don’t have a clue what they are sailing into. The storm hits, and the captain tries everything in his power to no avail. Jonah has no choice but to submit to the deadly power; he is thrown overboard. The whale appears—ancient legends about with stories of whales so big they were mistaken for islands, luring sailors towards them—and Jonah’s doom seems inevitable. Long before the end comes, we have the opportunity to contemplate our own mortality. Life rarely turns out the way we expected. We start out with high hopes, and if everything always worked out as we thought it would, we would probably never have to contemplate our demise before it hit us square between the eyes. We’d retire to Joppa, or find the princess and live happily ever after, or any of a number of things. But contemplate our doom? Not today, thanks. My calendar is full tomorrow, too. I’ll get back to you later.


C.S. Lewis said, “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” The place where our self-centered life ends is the place where we are most certain to find a resurrection God. Luke listens to the Force—the mystical power of the retired Jedi knight traveling with Luke—and thereby escapes from the Death Star. Jonah prays in the belly of the whale (a prayer full of resurrection vocabulary: cries from the grave that are heard; another chance at sight; life brought up from the pit; grace; salvation) and thereby is released from the belly of the whale, safe on dry land. Where have you found yourself contemplating your own limitations, your own mortality? What has been—what is—the belly of the beast? What force sustained you and pulled you out: your own hard work, coincidence, or the resurrection God?


What right-thinking person, having escaped from the belly of the beast, willingly returns to a place of such evil and chaos? A hero does—perhaps that is exactly the trait that makes a hero a hero. We tend to think of heroes like Superman or Batman who charge into danger without regard to personal safety, but God’s model for us is something different. Jesus dies for us, yes, but nevertheless before his arrest, he says, “Abba, Father, everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will" (Mark 14:36). Jesus goes to the cross to destroy the hold of sin and death over us. Luke returns to the Death Star with a bomb to destroy it—the Death Star—utterly. Jonah now sets his face towards Nineveh, determined to preach, letting the powerful Spirit of God—a powerful package indeed—destroy the hold of the evil one over that great city. And what of you? You, if you have asked for God to save you, you have been pulled from the belly of the beast, but for what purpose? Paul says:


Therefore, brothers, we have an obligation—but it is not to the sinful nature, to live according to it. For if you live according to the sinful nature, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live, because those who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, "Abba, Father." (Romans 8:12-15)


Abba, Father, hear our prayer. We want our lives to have meaning, to not be squandered for no purpose.


Luke has to fly a maze to deliver the bomb; he has to evade evil forces along the way. Likewise, Jonah’s task seems too large for one man—archeologists say greater metropolitan Nineveh was about 20 miles wide and 60 miles in circumference, a hard-3-day trip. One must assume that Jonah stayed and preached for the entire 40 days of the warning period—a tall order for any prophet or preacher in a hostile city. The temptation for the hero is always to avoid the hard work, to let another take over, to coast to the finish line. However, the heroic epics found in both our culture and in the Bible say the path of the hero goes all the way to the belly of the beast, the shadow of death, and the brink of annihilation. However, at that point God intercedes, transforming us even as he saves us, so that by his grace we have the power to go the distance. It is what we do post-salvation, post-rescue from the beast, post-resurrection that gives meaning to our lives. Luke without returning to destroy the Death Star is just lucky to be alive for a little while longer. Jonah regurgitated on the beach without pressing on to Nineveh is just one more fishermen’s tall tale. Living our lives as Christians without engaging in the ongoing work of living in and transforming the community is just a minor footnote in the story of God’s grace.


Be the hero.


Benediction


I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:3-6)

The Sign of Jonah: Enter the Hero

For a variety of reasons (only one of which is to save money on fuel oil over the winter) we are going to meet in the church basement for the first three months of 2010. I think of it as an extra-long Lenten season—our time of preparation for Easter. During Lent, we are encouraged to meditate on the suffering and death of Jesus on our behalf. If Jesus can be three days and nights in the tomb before being resurrected, then maybe it is okay to spend three months in the basement before returning upstairs for Easter Sunday on April 4th.



Matthew 12:38-42


Commentary


The sermon series for the next three months is titled “The Sign of Jonah.” In going through my archives, I realize that I spoke about the sign of Jonah a few months ago (August 9, 2009: “From Church Growth to Kingdom Growth”). That message focused on Jonah 4, and the revival at Nineveh. At that time, I said (and I still maintain) that a prophetic sign is a visible act of God that points beyond itself to a less visible, but more important, act of God.


v39  a wicked and adulterous generation. Generally, adultery in the Bible refers to infidelity between God and humans. God is faithful, but humans are fickle—ready to give their love to any “god” that promises what they think they are lacking. How would this title apply to the Pharisees and teachers of the law?


the sign of the prophet Jonah. In Jonah, the sign is the deathly tale of a disobedient Jonah swallowed by a whale, or great fish, and vomited up three days later on dry land, ready to do God’s will. This miracle is the sign that the spiritual revival at Nineveh—a large-scale deliverance from death to life—would really happen.


v40  so the Son of Man will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth. Likewise, as profound as the resurrection is, it is only the sign of God’s mighty work and the means by which all can be saved.


If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit, who lives in you. (Romans 8:11)


v41-42  The mighty power of God is “to bring life [physical or spiritual] to the dead, and call things that are not as though they were” (Rom 4:17). Even pagans like the men of Nineveh and the Queen of Sheba could apprehend it and turn towards God—how much more should the teachers of the law, the Pharisees, and us?


Application


In Miracles, C.S. Lewis states that there are patterns apparent in how God works. Citing John 5:19 (“The Son can do nothing by himself; he can do only what he sees his Father doing, because whatever the Father does the Son also does.”) Lewis says, “There is, so to speak, a family style.” Lewis contrasts the pattern of God’s miracles with the myths of other religions:


I am trying to answer those who think that miracles are arbitrary, theatrical, unworthy of God, meaningless interruptions of universal order. They remain in my view wholly miraculous ... When I open Ovid or The Brothers Grimm, I find the sort of miracles which really would be arbitrary. Trees talk, houses turn into trees, magic rings raise tables richly spread with food in lonely places, ships become goddesses, and men are changed into snakes or birds or bears. It is fun to read about: the least suspicion that it had really happened would turn that fun into nightmare. You find no miracles of that kind in the Gospels.


Lewis summarizes:


The miracles done by God Incarnate, living as a man in Palestine, performed the very same things as [the mighty deeds of the Father], but at a different speed and on a smaller scale. One of their chief purposes is that men, having seen the thing done by personal power on a small scale, may recognize, when they see the same thing done on a large scale, that the power behind it is also personal, is indeed the very same Person who lived among us nearly two thousand years ago. The miracles, in fact, are retelling in small letters of the very same story that is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.


One of the patterns of how God works in the Bible—the pattern that we will be looking at for the next three months—appears in the myths of other religions and in classical literature and pop culture as well. It is the pattern, on one hand, of Jonah and the whale and Elijah at Mt. Horeb; on the other, it is the pattern of the Star Wars epics and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. It is the pattern, on one hand, of Moses at the Red Sea and Peter walking on water; one the other, it is the pattern of Orpheus descending to the underworld to save his wife Eurydice. It is the pattern, on one hand, of Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress; on the other, it is the pattern of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. It is the pattern of the hero.


Mythologist Joseph Campbell articulated the pattern of the hero’s journey; in brief:


● the hero is living in the ordinary world,


● he receives a call to a different place,


● in his journey to that place, he encounters supernatural help,


● he reaches the gateway of this new place, a place that will transform him,


● he encounters increasingly difficult trials and temptations leading ultimately to an abyss (or place of death),


● either the hero does not die, or he dies and is resurrected,


● he begins his return to his former world; however,


● he has been transformed, even as he returns to his former world with a gift. [1]


This is the pattern we follow—more or less—when we give our testimony. This is the pattern we follow when God calls us to follow him. This is the pattern of dying to self and being raised up to newer, fuller life.


Like the Pharisees, when we ask for a sign, we have in mind some kind of cute miracle—maybe a heart-shaped cloud, something magical, a curious coincidence at least. To parrot Jesus, I say, “Your sign usually is going to be the sign of Jonah—the sign of the hero on his/her journey—as you are called to follow me, to go to the abyss, whereupon I will bring you back … transformed.


Points to Ponder


Using the eight parts (more or less) of the hero’s journey listed above, what hero’s journey (or journeys) have you been on?


What if we as a congregation were on a hero’s journey for three months in the basement of the church? What might God be calling upon us to do? Are we willing to follow, to die to self, and to be transformed?

End Notes

1 - For Jesus, this pattern might be: his incarnation; his baptism by John; his transfiguration; his triumphal entry; his arrest, trial, crucifixion and death; his resurrection; his appearance before his disciples, his ascension and Pentecost.