“When Israel was a child, I loved him.” There are parts of the bible that we struggle to comprehend. They seem to speak of a reality so far removed from our own, of a culture that we have left behind, of a world view that is so alien to our own that we wrestle to find meaning. We have to rely on historians and scholars, we have to open wide our imagination and stretch ourselves to find meaning for our very different lives today. And then there are other parts.
Sometimes we wonder if someone was reading our mail, sneaking into the secret journals we keep in our heads if not locked away in a book somewhere. Sometimes the questions we didn’t know how to ask are shouted out in the pages of this ancient text. Sometimes our longings of our heart are depicted so plainly in achingly beautiful prose and we feel caught, exposed, wondering. Like when we hear a song on the radio that seems to sing the song we long to sing.
The prophet Hosea has become that for me. Not that my life in any way resembles his. But the love he speaks of sounds like a love I want to know and sometimes struggle to participate in, to give or to receive. To participate in? Even that doesn’t sound right. To participate in. To be, the love I want to be.
We are wrestling with love this Epiphany here at Aldersgate. We’ve launched a year of consideration of the Fruit of the Spirit. That gives us ample time to reflect and worship in the light of each of the nine dimensions described by Paul as reflecting the life of the Christian filled and transformed by the Spirit. And it all begins with love. The fruit of the Spirit is love, writes Paul in Galatians. Some argue that all the rest, the remaining eight only serve to define this love.
This love that we want to participate in, the love that we want to represent to the world. The love that comes through us and yet shows the world what God’s love is really all about. That love. That’s what we want to know and to share, what we want to be.
So, we look for those descriptive texts that will help us understand and live into this love. You can’t talk about love, especially loving like God, and skip over Hosea. As much as we would like to, we can’t. The love Hosea lives and proclaims is almost embarrassing in its depth and breadth. Too vulnerable, too forgiving, too grace-shaped; no one can live that way, we declare. It is asking too much to love that much. Isn’t it?
To really answer that you have to read the whole book. Which we aren’t going to do this weekend. Instead we have a divine monologue. God has been through it, the people God chose to love didn’t respond with faithfulness and grace in return. God issued chance after chance, came back when coming back seemed foolish, loved when loving was painful, unrequited, used up and tossed away. God has been burned by those God wanted to love. And here we stand at that “what now?” moment. Having been burned, how will God respond? Remember this is Old Testament, this is the law and punishment record book, this is the account of the actions of God, many of which include the verb “smite.” So, hold on to your hats and let’s read God’s response to the fragile love of God’s people.
Hosea 11:1-11 When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son. 2 The more I called them, the more they went from me; they kept sacrificing to the Baals, and offering incense to idols. 3 Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk, I took them up in my arms; but they did not know that I healed them. 4 I led them with cords of human kindness, with bands of love. I was to them like those who lift infants to their cheeks. I bent down to them and fed them. 5 They shall return to the land of Egypt, and Assyria shall be their king, because they have refused to return to me. 6 The sword rages in their cities, it consumes their oracle-priests, and devours because of their schemes. 7 My people are bent on turning away from me. To the Most High they call, but he does not raise them up at all. 8 How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, O Israel? How can I make you like Admah? How can I treat you like Zeboiim? My heart recoils within me; my compassion grows warm and tender. 9 I will not execute my fierce anger; I will not again destroy Ephraim; for I am God and no mortal, the Holy One in your midst, and I will not come in wrath. 10 They shall go after the LORD, who roars like a lion; when he roars, his children shall come trembling from the west. 11 They shall come trembling like birds from Egypt, and like doves from the land of Assyria; and I will return them to their homes, says the LORD.
It used to be easier. Is that what it sounds like God is saying here? It used to be easier. There was a time when love was what defined us, when you ran into my arms when you were hurt, when I held your hand as you took your first wobbling steps, when you hungered I was the source of your satisfaction. There was a time when love was just the way we were, it bounded us, bordered us.
But now that love feels like a straight-jacked to you, and all you want to do is run away, to go after other dreams, other dangers. Now you want to put yourself at risk rather than be wrapped up in this defining love. Now you want to go your own way, find your own love.
If you love something, set it free. I don’t know who said that, but I’d like to punch them right now. That was me, by the way, not God. I should do the red letter version of the Late Night Bible Study so you wouldn’t have to wonder. The previous paragraphs were red, this one is black. Or blue. Or gray. This one is wrapped up in the struggle of knowing how to love like God wants us to love.
A year ago a series of circumstances brought my mom and dad up to Indiana, and after hospitalization and rehab, we got them settled into a community that would provide all the care they needed both for mom’s dementia and dad’s desire to minister to her and also care for his own health issues. We thought it was a perfect solution, they were now close and cared for. But dad didn’t like it. It cramped his style, he didn’t like giving up control or freedom, and he worried incessantly about the money. He complained, he grumbled, he harassed the staff, he refused to abide by his doctor’s guidelines as to how to handle his own issues let alone the instructions on how to care for mom. My brothers and sister wanted what was best for them both and began to ask if perhaps there was another solution. And to make a long painful story short, I caved. I couldn’t fight them all. So, sometime over the next couple of days they are packing up mom and dad and going back to Paris Tennessee, to another facility, or maybe even their home given how frequently he changes his mind as to what he is capable of doing or not doing.
It used to be easier. This loving thing, this family thing. It used to be easier to care and support. But when you get push back and rejection, when the one you are trying to love and protect insists on running away to greener pastures, brighter horizons, just what are you supposed to do? God seems to wrestle with that very thing. God has to hold in check the anger that rages inside at the treatment, at the rejection of divine love. Which says, getting angry is not a bad thing, a word of comfort for which I am eternally grateful. I don’t think I have ever been as angry as I have been over the past few weeks and days.
But it is also clear that God will not act on that anger. Wait, it says much more than that. It says that God’s love will not end. Not only end, but will grow. God will love more the very ones who run away, the turn away. God will love more. And will wait.
Hosea tells us that God hopes. At least that is how I read the final verse. They shall come back from Egypt. From their longings and their fears. From their empty nostalgia and false visions of freedom. They shall come back. They shall come back. Trembling? With fear? With shame? Or maybe with love requited. It used to be easier. But now it is real. We pray and we hope.
Shalom,
Derek
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