Transcript

The students in class ask me once in a while if I still get nervous before preaching. The answer is, of course, yes, but it's not nearly as nerve -wracking as being introduced with a D. I'm glad, I'm glad that's over. The epistle for next Sunday is James chapter 2, which you have heard read. And in chapter 2 verse 10, the statement is this, whoever keeps the whole law, but fails in a single point is guilty of all of it. Now, I isolate that single verse without any apology ordinarily. I would not permit that in myself or in my students, because in the general fabric of scripture in its narrative in historical and epistolary parts, it is a violation of the text extracted and of that which remains if you tear it and rip it from its place. But this is not usually the case with wisdom material. Wisdom material, to the extent that it's made up of maxims and aphorisms and proverbs, really has no context. A statement is of value intrinsically. It's like a seed. It carries its own future in its bosom. And you don't ask when someone says, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. You don't say, well, give me the context for that. It's just there. And James, and to a certain extent, Matthew, represent the two major attempts reflected in the New Testament in the early church to think of the Christian life as the way of wisdom. Reminding us that not only in Israel, but also in the church, there was the prophet and the priest, but also the sage, such as James. Faith without works is dead. Whoever knows what is right to do and doesn't do it, for that person it is sin. The double-minded person is unstable in every way. These are maxims, truths. James 2, 10. Whoever keeps the whole law but fails in a single point is guilty of all of it. Now, I don't have to tell you that that contains what is, at least on the surface, an absurdity. I will not try to hide from that by running into the footnotes of the Greek text, where there is ample evidence that the early Christian scribes had trouble with this, and they tried to fix it, and the footnotes bear testimony to changing negatives to positives and plurals to singular and so on, trying to make it more palatable. Whoever keeps the whole law makes one mistake, has the whole thing come ringing down around the ears. I will not accept the comfort of Luther, who said, obviously this was written by someone who had never heard the gospel. Here it is, in its sacred scripture, and we face it, full in the face, and that's what it says. Whoever keeps the whole but fails in a single point, whoever breaks the Sabbath on a given day, stands guilty of all the other nine, you shall not commit adultery, guilty, you shall not steal, guilty, you shall not bear false witness, guilty, why? You broke the Sabbath. Is that it? Does this mean that 99 is failing? It's a failing grade. Sorry. No scholarship. What does this mean? There seems to be such a radical, gross incongruity between the fault and the indictment. Can you imagine a judge handing down a sentence of 10 to 20 years for getting jammed on the tablecloth? A man being strapped in the electric chair and before the black hood comes over the face. Do you have any final words? Well, yes, I do. I never realized double parking was so serious. There is an apparent absurdity and I think the burden is on the reader of this text to find some way to make sense of it, bring it within the orbit of reason, not so much to make it palatable, but I guess to be honest, to alleviate the absurdity. It helps me a bit to realize it is a maxim, it is an aphorism, and you know what they're like when they're used in moral discourse. They're concise and witty and cleverly stated and it sort of bedazzles the reason and fascinates and sometimes seduces us into accepting a brilliant half-truth as the whole truth. And some people are very clever at this and to know that this is an aphorism, a moral aphorism may help a bit. I have to take it that way then. It relieves me a bit to know that there is a background for this. Whoever violates a single part is guilty of the whole. In many Jewish rabbis of the period and among Greek Stoic philosophers, there was what was called the solidarity of vice, the solidarity of virtue. That is to say, a flaw in one case reveals a flaw in the total character. That there is a sense in which it is altogether this vice, it is altogether of one piece, this virtue. I almost believe that Paul thought that way, for he said in writing to the Romans that the whole law, the whole law, all of those rules and regulations are summed up in a verse Leviticus 19-18. One little verse is the whole of it, he said, the whole of it. The whole law is fulfilled in this. You shall love your neighbor as yourself. Would it not then be true that if you violate Leviticus 19-18, the whole thing comes down? It makes a kind of sense. It makes a kind of sense. But what's the alternative? I think they were building a scotch against this little habit that some must have had of weighing and evaluating sins. You know, heavyweight, lightweight, welterweight, and all of that. And then you can pick out the little bitty ones to engage in, knowing within yourself that in the major issues, you're as virtuous as the day is long. But in the little nicotine times of things, life little details, what difference does it make? When push comes to shove, I will give my life for the gospel. But in life's little details, I might not even notice that I have become as false as stairs of sand. Does it matter? I tell you the truth. I don't know what's small and what's big. I don't know. I'm defending myself here because my own life is made up of little things. I don't have any big is. I sometimes go for weeks at a time with no trips to Mars. I end no wars, get no honorary degrees, write no books, never settle in the international dispute. I read papers, talk to students, prepare lectures, and speak here and there in a church as I am asked. That's it. But are these little things? What is a little thing? So much of your life and my life is made up of what we call hints and gestures. I saw the minister going down the aisle behind the choir. And as they move to the front, he reached over and pulled the ear lobe of a boy sitting at the end of the pew. And it affected the way I listened to the sermon. Little. I don't know what's little. I know there are circumstances under which, as Shakespeare said, trifles light as air. Become proofs as strong as holy writ. What is small? Of all the insults that ever come to us, they are gathered up under one word. Slighted. If you don't want me to come, say so. Don't send me an invitation. Slam the door in my face. But slighted? Do you hear the word? Slighted. That's the unkindest cut of all to be so disregarded. Slighted? I don't know what's major, what's minor, what's small or great. I know my students weary of hearing me say, Do you really want to honor God? Do you really want to be a worthy steward of a call to ministry? Then watch the margins of your page when you type. Spell correctly. Turn in your own work. Give credit for that which is taken from another book. Preach your own sermons and turn it in on time. And the students properly say, You mean the world is going to hell. 33 million people in America below poverty line. Violence everywhere. And you're saying spell it right and watch the margin. Yes, yes, I am. Who would ever have guessed? Who would ever have guessed that cynic downtown, graduate of the seminary, coupler three years in ministry, and now not in the church at all, as hard as nails and cynical and critical about everything. Who would ever have guessed that that collapse began with postponed prayer life, skipped worship, neglect of reading scripture. Such little things. I don't know what's little anymore. I relish somewhat Thomas de Quincey's essays, 18th century essays. He has an essay on murder in which he says, Once a man indulges himself in murder, there's no telling where he will go from there. Likely he will go on to robbing, perhaps then to drinking, on to Sabbath breaking, next to incivility, and perhaps, perhaps even to procrastination. Once you start on this downward trip, you never know where you'll land. There's many a man who can date his ruin from some murder or other, which he thought little of at the time. I don't know what's large and small. I do recall that Plutarch said when he was writing The Lives of Great Greeks and Romans, he said, Find the trivial incident, and there you will have the greatest revelation of character. I almost believe that's true. I was in the depot, it was really an airport, Buffalo, New York. There was a small boy hawking papers. He left a stack of them, carried some under his arm, selling papers. A man, well-dressed man, graying at the temples, saw the boy turn his back toward the little stack that was left, and picked up one, leaving no quarter, under his arm and walked away. Not 25 cents. I don't make a big deal here. Here's $5. Don't make a big deal out of it. 25 cents. How small. I followed this fellow in the cafeteria line. He was awfully slow, just poking along, so I got to watching his tray as well as mine. We came to those little pats of butter. What are they, nickel? He took one, lifted a saucer and put it under it, and when he went by the cashier, he didn't pay. That's only a nickel. I mean, come on now, let's get with the big stuff. It's only a nickel. In the courtroom, it's a nickel. But in character, it is a felony of the grossest proportions for if a man will steal a quarter from a child, if a man, well -dressed, will sneak under the saucer, a nickel. We're dealing with a criminal. I don't know what's big, what's small. I remember hearing Jesus say one time, when the Son of Man comes, all the nations of the world will be judged, and some will go to heaven, and some will go to hell. Over what issue? What's the question? What's the point? Do we believe the Apostle's Creed? Is that it? Do we believe both Scriptures, Old and New Testament? Is that it? He said, no, no, no. I was thirsty. Did you or did you not? Give me a drink. Do you mean to say that the difference between heaven and hell is a cup of cold water? And he said, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. That's it. I still have trouble with this. If a person keeps the whole law, and is guilty in a single point, you're guilty of the whole. And so in desperation to find some more relief, I violated my own opening principle and said, perhaps this is one of those rare cases in which the context will help. I know it's a proverb, but maybe, maybe, maybe the context. So I went rushing back to the context, and it was there. It was one of those rare occasions in which the writer said, now about your worship service. A poor man comes in, he takes a seat, and then a late arrival, a wealthy man in his white linen suit, dabbing perspiration with a silk embroidered handkerchief. And the usher says, oh, well, it's good to have you here. Right. Get out. Let him have this seat. Give me your hymnal. Give me your worship bullet here. Sit here on the cushion. Sit over there on the floor. And the writer is disturbed by this in the church and says, you have violated Leviticus 1915. What's that? Leviticus 1915. Of all those hundreds of regulations, just this one, you shall show no partiality. And you, by violating that, are guilty of the whole thing. And you know what? I believe it. How can they claim to be a church? Can they ever hold Eucharist with one in the corner on the floor and the other being treated to the cushions? Can they ever have any reason to take an offering? For whom? For what? How can they have fellowship? Can they meet in fellowship hall and share where everybody's the same when they're looking around for the one in rags to say, go over there. Yes, sir. We have a place for you and the missus right here. Ah, it's not a church. And therefore the writer, so disturbed by this radical violation of the very nature of the life of the people of God, says, you may keep the whole law. You may do a lot of good things. You have a nice program there for you. But whoever breaks that is guilty of it all. I still have some problem with this. And the way I do, I don't know how you handle things that are problematic, but after a while I decide that if I'm faced with something very difficult to handle, I find something even more difficult to handle, and it takes my mind off the first one. If you find it difficult really to embrace the idea that whoever keeps the whole law and then violates one point is guilty of bad ushering, guilty of partiality in the sanctuary. If that seems too small a thing to receive the ultimatum of the final wrath, then let me give you something even more difficult to believe, an absolute and total absurdity, that God is not partial. Can you fathom that? That God is no looker on the face. God makes no distinctions. That God sends the sun and rain on the just and the unjust, the good and evil alike. Can you believe that?