Many of you know that I often ride my bike to the church on weekdays. Lately, however, I’ve got into a new habit.
When I ride my bike, I like to wear shorts—not the cycling shorts that my brother-in-law wears on his marathon bike rides, but shorts nonetheless. But I discovered that on winter mornings, when I’m riding, and the air is blowing across my legs and across my face—it’s cold!
So lately, I’ve been walking. It only takes me about fifteen minutes to walk here, and walking, I can wear my long pants; I can wear my wool hat, if it’s exceptionally cold, instead of my bike helmet that does nothing to keep my head warm.
And on my way, I pass houses with beautiful gardens. My favorites are the native plant gardens—they smell so wonderful! Maybe it’s because I’m most definitely a native southern Californian, but I’ll take a garden with poppies and sagebrush and giant succulents over nicely pruned rosebushes any day.
I’ve discovered, also, that my fifteen-minute walk provides an excellent opportunity to pray. Riding a bike, and certainly, driving a car, require too much of my attention to really pray well. But even a brisk morning walk is well-suited to prayer. Although I admit that it does have its drawbacks. Last week as I walked, deep in prayer, someone said “good morning” to me as I passed, but since I was praying I hardly noticed her, and I was so startled by her greeting that, well, I nearly tripped over my own feet.
It probably goes without saying that the prayers I pray when I’m alone are, in many ways, different from those I pray from the pulpit. They are often clumsier, that’s for sure; less poetic, less refined, less composed, if you will.
I point this out to you, just because I want to be sure that you know that your own personal prayers don’t need to sound like the prayers you hear in church. In fact, they shouldn’t. They should be your own.
Corporate prayer and personal prayer: they’re two different things…. and both are essential to a life of faith.
In recent weeks, I’ve found a lot to pray about. I guess there always is a lot for us to pray about, but it isn’t until we take the time to pray that we realize this. My prayers usually start with some wordless feelings of gratitude for the beautiful plants and flowers I see and smell as I walk. Then my thoughts turn to people. I pray for my family. I pray for my church. I remember some of the prayer concerns that were expressed in worship. I think of people I know, friends and family members, and lift them up in prayer. Often this takes place without words, but in thought.
It seems that many people are having a tough time these days. I think of—and pray for—elderly people in our church and in our community, those who are frightened by the awareness of their own physical—and, in some cases, mental—decline. I think of people who are struggling in these tough economic times, especially those who have lost their jobs or their homes. I think of the many people I know dealing with developmental or psychological or chronic health issues. I think of some of the young people I know, including the one teenager I talked about last week, who still struggle to find their way in the world. I think of families I know, quite a few actually, which are in the midst of divorce.
If I were to come up with an analogy, a metaphor, for the difficult situations people are facing, for the pain and the hurt they are experiencing, I think I just might describe it as being bitten by a snake. Certainly, from the story of the Garden of Eden, the snake is a symbol of evil, of suffering. And on some days, I can’t help but feel that more and more of us are being bitten.
Literally, of course, snakes are not any more evil than any of the rest of God’s creatures. I myself have encountered rattlesnakes in the wild on four different occasions, and although encountering them did give me a good scare, they seemed perfectly content to slither away into the chaparral, rather than attack and bite.
I wonder about the snakes that attacked the Israelites as they neared the end of their forty years’ journey through the wilderness. Did it really happen, as scripture describes? Were there really thousands of snakes, slithering out of their holes at night, into the beds of the sleeping Israelites, sliding under their blankets in the darkness, across their bodies as they slept unaware?
Kind of creepy, huh?
And were they really sent by God? If so, I must confess that that’s a god that I have a hard time believing in, let alone worshiping.
And then there is the bronze snake that was fashioned, twisted around a cross and held up for all the people to look upon. A symbol of healing that continues to this day; we see it on the sides of ambulances and in the logos for various medical associations: a snake wrapped around a pole.
In some of the other religions that were prevalent in the time of Moses, snakes were considered divine beings. Asclepius, the Greek god of healing, carried a staff on which a snake was entwined. How strange is it that the God of the Israelites would use the symbol of a Greek god to bring them healing! Doesn’t that seem a little bizarre? Many generations later, King Hezekiah would also find it strange. That bronze serpent, which had been carefully preserved since the time of Moses—Hezekiah saw it as an idol, and had it destroyed.
Certainly, one could dwell on these details, these inconsistencies and incongruities, forever, and be no closer to understanding the significance or the meaning of this story. Snakes are fascinating, there’s no doubt about it; and the discussion of their literal and symbolic role in scripture has no end. But, to move us along, let’s look at the bigger picture here, and see what was really going on.
The Israelites were being attacked by snakes. Why? Because they had become impatient and angry. I understand their impatience; they had been wandering through the wilderness for almost forty years. That’s a really long time. Life expectancies generally weren’t that long; most of the Israelites weren’t even forty years old. They’d been wandering their whole lives.
They knew that their parents weren’t wanderers. Their parents had homes, permanent homes, in Egypt. They weren’t very luxurious; in fact, they were the homes of slaves. But they were homes nonetheless.
A new land, a new home, awaited them; but would they ever get there? It seemed less and less likely. They had recently received reports about some giants that they would have to face before entering the promised land: another seemingly insurmountable obstacle on this seemingly never-ending journey. No wonder they had become angry and impatient.
I think the type of snake that bit them had a name. It was the snake of despair. It was the snake of giving up. It was the snake of lost hope and faith. It was the snake of “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
And that is the snake that is creeping into so many people’s lives today, in these troubled times.
Scripture never promises that we won’t have rough times. Scripture never says that life will be easy. There are, indeed, times in life when you will be bitten. There are times when you will walk through the dark valley.
In such times, it is tempting to look down, to look at the snake, to dwell on one’s fear and anxiety and despair. It is tempting to look to the past, to look to the way things were, to look back to Egypt and even long for it. It is tempting to give up the journey, to stop moving forward, and retreat.
But then someone comes along, with a bronze snake on a pole, and says that healing and comfort will come to you; but you have to look up. Don’t look down; look up, and be healed. Look forward, because God is with you. The valley is dark, and there are snakes all around; but God is with you. And God will journey with you into the promised land.
One day, Jesus got into a conversation with a Pharisee named Nicodemus. It was a troubled time in which Jesus lived, a time when all aspects of life were controlled by the Roman Empire. The Jewish people, which had once been a proud nation, no longer had a life of their own. Repeatedly, they were told: You are Caesar’s. Your life belongs to Caesar. Caesar defines who you are; every aspect of your life is lived in relation to Caesar.
Needless to say, faithful Jews longed for a different definition of life. They longed for a new life—life lived in the kingdom of God, rather than the kingdom of Caesar.
Pharisees like Nicodemus believed that this new life would come only when Rome was overthrown. However, Rome was so big—Caesar was so powerful—that only God was capable of such a feat. Therefore it was of utmost importance that all people adhere to even the smallest details of the religious laws and traditions. Maybe then, the Pharisees believed, God would act.
Nicodemus went to Jesus at night, after dark, to see what Jesus had to say about this. Jesus said to him, “You must be born anew to see the kingdom of God. New life comes from God.” And then, strangely enough, Jesus brought up the incident with the snakes.
“Just as Moses lifted up the bronze snake on a pole in the wilderness,” he said, “so must I, the Son of Man, be lifted up on a pole. When the Israelites stopped looking down, trying to drive off the snakes by themselves, and looked up, they were healed. When you stop trying so hard to justify yourself by covering up all your failures, and instead look to the cross, then you will receive new life—the eternal life that comes from heaven. For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who looks upon him and believes in him will not perish, but have everlasting life.”
It is so hard to live a perfect life. In fact, it is impossible, even in the best of times. These are not the best of times, and yet we still wonder why our life is not perfect, why we don’t have the job, or the income, or the mental clarity, or the perfect happy little family that we desire. We still feel the fangs of the snake; we still feel the venom of despair spreading through our bodies.
We’re impatient for something to happen. We’re angry that so much uncertainty remains, that so many things are still unresolved. Surely, there’s got to be a better life than this.
There is. You won’t find it by looking down. You won’t find it by looking back. Instead, look up. Look at the cross, which shows how much God loves you. Look ahead to the new life that awaits you. And by that I don’t just mean the life that happens after you die; I mean the life that begins as soon as you recognize yourself as a child of God.
You’re not a child of Caesar. You’re not a child of the economy. You’re not a child of your culture. You’re not a child of your failed relationships. You’re not a child of your mistakes. You are a child of God.
The journey may be long, but you are a child of God. The road may be hard, but you are a child of God. There may be shadows all around, but you are a child of the giver of light. There may be snakes all around, but you are a child of the ultimate Healer. There may be lonely days and lonely nights, but you are a child of the one who walks with you, even through the deepest, darkest valley.
You are a child of God. Look at the cross, and know that it is true. You are a child of God.
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