Sherrie Brittig
References: Genesis 15:1–6, Psalm 33:12–22, Hebrews 11:1–3, 8-16, Luke 12:32–40
Have you heard the old saying, “God helps those who help themselves?” Over half of Americans polled about this statement believe it comes from the Bible and might even be one of the Ten Commandments. It isn’t; it’s a proverb of sorts from ancient Greece that originally said, “The gods help those who help themselves” and the idea is included in a couple of Aesop’s Fables. The version we know, with the singular, big G “God,” was borrowed by Benjamin Franklin from a 17th century English author when Franklin included it in his “Poor Richard’s Almanac.” The saying lends itself nicely to the American Dream “bootstrapping” myth—the belief that one can pull oneself up by the bootstraps and, through hard work, self-reliance and dogged determination, create for oneself and one’s family a better way of life. But this belief that we’re blessed when we help ourselves actually warps our understanding of relationship with God.
So, no, we don’t find this popular quid pro quo saying in the Bible. God doesn’t ask us to enter into that kind of reciprocal relationship, a bargaining agreement, whereby God fulfills an obligation to care for us if, and only if, we meet certain contractual obligations to God. The desire of God’s heart is that we, His beloved children, willingly enter into a mutual relationship, where God loves us and we love God. The mutuality of this relationship can slip people’s minds. We may try to make it into a bargaining agreement because we believe God won’t love us unless we do X, Y, and Z for God, or we pray in desperation, “God, if you will only do this for me now, I promise to do that for You in return. Even if we don’t bargain with God, we get busy, we get distracted, and we form attachments to other people and things that become so important to us as to eclipse our relationship with God.
Because this is our human tendency, God’s Word consistently calls us to remember and honor, through participating intentionally and anticipating with joy, our mutual, loving relationship with God. Each of today’s lessons touch on this. We see God’s delight when we wholeheartedly engage with both participation and anticipation, and God’s grief and indignation when we participate only, usually with less and less intentionality.
The author of Hebrews writes to bolster the faith of converts from Judaism who were persecuted by fellow Jews for believing that Jesus is the Son of God. From this author we receive the beautiful explanation of faith—the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Abraham is held up as one of the greatest examples of what faith in and relationship with God looks like. Abraham heard a voice telling him to leave his home and to travel to a distant land that would be given to him and his descendants, who would be as innumerable as grains of sand. Abraham hadn’t heard of or seen that country, didn’t know about its land and people, and couldn’t be sure that he would be welcomed and safe there. He had no children; he himself was old and his wife, Sarah, was well beyond the age of giving birth. But Abraham believed that the One speaking to him was right and good and true. With intentional participation and joyful anticipation, Abraham uprooted his family and set out for their new home. He settled in the land, and God gave him two sons—Ishmael, born to him by Sarah’s handmaid, Hagar; and Isaac, miraculously born to him by his wife, Sarah. Through his sons’ descendants developed the world’s three largest Abrahamic religions, those that worship the one God revealed to Abraham: Islam, Judaism, and Christianity. Millions and millions of children for Father Abraham. He believed God’s promises and understood that, while he wouldn’t see them all fulfilled during his life, someday his descendants surely would. The assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. And we’re told that Abraham’s great faith in God, expressed through both participation and anticipation, was reckoned to him as righteousness; in other words, as Abraham being in right relationship with God.
In Psalm 50, written around thirteen generations after Abraham, God is having to remind His chosen people, Israel (descended from Abraham’s grandson Jacob), that He, the Almighty, is their God with whom they have a covenant of mutual relationship. God speaks of judging His people in the same breath as He acknowledges that their offerings are always before Him—shouldn’t that be a good thing? Why judgment? I’m struck by how God words it: “your offerings are always before me”—dead and inanimate things incapable of relationship. But what about His people? His statement is kind of damning with faint praise. Imagine that some Israelites have a daily to-do list; at or near the top would be “Deliver required sacrifice”—check, task completed, move to the next thing. But God is looking for those who come in righteousness and true worship. “Whoever offers me the sacrifice of thanksgiving honors me”—those who intentionally participate in honoring their relationship, bringing an offering in love and gratitude for God’s love, and joyfully anticipating the deepening of their relationship with God. Further, God says “to those who keep in my way will I show the salvation of God.” “In my way” could mean within mutual relationship, and “in my way” could mean before me—right in front of me. Your offerings are before me, but you are not. Participation with little intentionality and no joy of anticipation.
I have to confess that there are mornings when my bringing an offering before the Lord—my presence and engagement with God in quiet time—looks a lot like me checking a box on my to-do list if my morning is going to be busy or there’s just too many interruptions during quiet time for me to remain present before God. I tell myself that God knows my heart and His good grace covers me. While that is true, if I make a habit of bringing a meager offering and excusing it by taking grace for granted, I may well hear the Lord say to me, as He says to the Laodiceans in the book of Revelation, that my relationship with Him is neither hot nor cold, but merely lukewarm. That’s not even faint praise.
By the time God speaks through the prophet Isaiah, He has had it with Israel. God didn’t need their offerings and the festivals; these were a sign and celebration in remembrance of the right relationship Israel enjoyed with God. They are His chosen people, but they divided into two rival kingdoms, each as bad as the other. The Israelites’ relationship with God changed into a reciprocal one, and their continuing the system of sacrifices and festivals is more to manipulate God into ensuring they’re prosperous—into keeping their enemies from invading and their crops from failing, keeping plague and famine away from them and their animals. Worse, for most of their history under the kings of Israel and Judah, the people hedged their bets, putting up Asherah poles, making idols for themselves, and worshipping additional, foreign gods. The Lord says to the people through another prophet, Jeremiah, “In the time of your trouble you say, ‘Come and save us!’ But where are your gods that you made for yourself? Let them come, if they can save you, in your time of trouble; for you have as many gods as you have towns, O Judah.” It seems the Israelites believed that the gods help those who help themselves. Is it any wonder that God was so grieved that His cherished people’s relationship with Him had worn so very thin and was just one bargaining agreement among their many others? Are there ways that we, also, hedge our bets and create gods for ourselves to keep us happy and prosperous, to save us in time of trouble—perhaps gods of wealth, profession, social standing and prestige, political parties?
Finally, in Luke, Jesus, who comes to restore us to our right relationship with God, gives us an example of being intentionally participatory and joyfully anticipatory. He tells us to be like servants waiting for their master to return from a wedding banquet. What’s that—four, five hours tops? Easy! Except, there’s no invitation to “cocktails at 6, dinner and dancing from 7 to 10.” A wedding feast back then could go on for days. So, imagine with me that we’re those servants; what would our waiting look like? We have no way of knowing when our dear master might return. It could be today or tomorrow, or three days from now. He could be here at two o’clock in the afternoon or two in the morning. Good and faithful servants that we are, we’ll make things ready for him and we will keep making things ready. We will see to it that fresh, clean water is by the door to wash the dust off our master’s feet before he comes into the house. We’ll examine that water frequently to see if it needs changing. We’ll bake new bread every day so it doesn’t grow stale, and roast fresh meat each day and night the master’s away so there will be something fresh and hot for him when he does arrive. We will sweep and resweep the house clean so there’s no musty air of disuse as he enters in. We’ll do this all day, every day, in joyful anticipation of his being at the door at any moment. When the master does come from that wedding feast, he will be so overjoyed with our attention and loving care for him, that he’ll bring a feast to us. He will have us sit down and he will serve. His table will become our table, and we will eat his food. We bless the master and he blesses us. Can you picture it?
As the Lord’s table becomes our table this morning and we eat His food, let’s come before Him with intentional participation and joyful anticipation as we remember our mutual, loving relationship with the Lord, our one and only God.