Excerpts from :"Mercy Me"
It seems a man was talking to a book collector. The collector sought rare editions out of print. The man says to the collector, "I once found an old Bible in my grandfather's attic," just making idle conversation. "Somebody named Gutenberg had printed it." "Gutenberg!" the collector said. "Ahh. where is it now?" "Oh, I tossed it out. It was really old, not much use." "Do you realize what you've done? That was one of the first Bibles ever printed! One copy auctions for $2 million!" "Ah," the man said, "not mine. Mine wouldn't have fetched more than a buck or two. I couldn't even read the thing. Some idiot named Luther had scribbled all over it." The story is a bit whimsy, but it captures a bitter truth: Sometimes we treat precious things as worthless things. We see treasures as clutter, because we're ignorant of their true value. We even do that with words. Words that were once to us as jewels, rare and costly-are now to us like stones-common and expendable. There are many words we toss about carelessly; Holiness, hope, love, salvation...and this word, mercy. Mercy is a precious thing that we've come to treat as a worthless thing. I suppose we could blame Roy Orbison. On his hit single "Pretty Women," he growls and purrs the word-mercyyyy!-making it a taunt, a joke, a seduction. But I think we lost mercy's value much earlier. I think it started the day we first saw ourselves as basically good people-in need of a pep talk every now and then, a shot in the arm, maybe. But mercy? Mercy is for criminals. Mercy is for beggars. Mercy is for bankrupts. Mercy is for those with their back up against the wall. It's for people in a ditch. For example: A man travels to Jericho. That's a bad road-full of bad people. Not wise to travel alone on this road, and not surprisingly the man gets mugged. The thieves beat him, rob him, strip him and hurl him in a ditch. Alone, crumpled, and naked, someone must have mercy or the man will die. But who? A priest? No. A temple assistant? No. A Samaritan? Yes. A Samaritan. The hated half breed Samaritans. Rumor has it, they are stingy and spiteful, not altogether there. They are prone to violence, and they worship at a foreign mountain, and have their own, different translation of the Law of Moses. These are people from whom no one expects mercy. But this one, according to Jesus, defies all expectations. He draws near, touches the man's wounds. He cleans and bandages him and carries him to safety. He pays an innkeeper to nurse him back to health, and offers to come back and pay any more that is owed. It's a story, obviously about mercy. A man-a despised outsider-shows mercy to a stranger in a ditch. "Go," Jesus says to end the tale, "and do likewise." Meaning what? That I'm to show mercy? Or that I'm to receive mercy? Are we are like this biblical lawyer convinced of his own goodness. He believes he can do things to inherit eternal life, if he just knows what they are. He desires to justify himself. If I'm to love my neighbor, just show me my neighbor, and let me at him. Here's the twist. Jesus subverts him. He defines his neighbor as the man who loves him , the one who has mercy on him . His neighbor is the one who finds him slumped and bloody in a ditch, lifts him out, and pays for it all. Yes! We're the ones IN a ditch. Jesus says, " Go and do likewise." Go discover how desperate, naked and left for dead you really are. Go discover that you are, in fact broken and lying in a ditch. Go discover that there is no way to justify yourself. Go discover that you can't do a single thing to inherit eternal life, that unless Someone has mercy on you-extravagant, sacrificial mercy-yes, unless the God of the Jericho Road happens by with a jar of oil, a flask of wine and pockets full of coin to pay the innkeeper-well, you're as good as dead. What must I do to inherit eternal life? Simple: Realize I'm in a ditch. Realize that I'm doomed unless my Neighbor loves me. Realize that I need mercy as much as I need to give it. Go and do likewise. A cartoon shows a husband and wife standing in a long, curving line before the gates of heaven. They're waiting for their turn to face judgment. The women whispers behind her hand, "Now Harold, whatever you do, please don't demand what's coming to you." I understand that a little better every year. The longer I live, the more I need mercy. I grew up in the church, cutting my teeth on the pews. Hymns were like pop songs to me. The characters in the Bible were like actors on the silver screen. If the church doors were open, I was there. I was on the fast track of becoming a religious lawyer, a purveyor of pious goods. And because of God's great mercy, one morning I woke up in a ditch, and I instinctively knew not to demand what was coming to me. I needed mercy. I still wanted to justify myself, still wanted to do something to inherit eternal life. But deep down I knew something quite different was called for. I was in the ditch, I was mortally wounded-and God had to pour oil and wine on me, or else I was as good as dead. Here I am twenty-some years later, realizing that mercy is my daily portion. I haven't outgrown my need for it. If anything, it's increased. Last Sunday, Micah asked us what God requires of us-three things, do you remember? To do justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with God. What we learned last Sunday was that-the love for mercy grows naturally from the practice of justice (doing what is right) and the discipline of walking with God. It grows naturally, because doing what is right and walking humbly with God exposes our need for mercy. The attempt to walk humbly and do right, at least in my own case, has uncovered the wiliness of my own heart at times, and my endless excuses. It's shown me how hard-how nearly impossible it is to walk humbly and do what is right. So I love mercy. God's mercy is a mark all throughout the Bible, and I think this is the place Paul came to as an old man. When he was young, God caught him up by the scruff of the neck, and he never forgot it. Because of that, early on writing to the churches in Rome and Ephesus , he said some remarkable things about the mercy of God. Yet, not until he's much older, hobbling from years of hardship, literally tattooed with scars, does his voice take on a rich personal tone when he speaks of mercy.
As a young man, Paul saw mercy as God's gift to all humanity, a rain that fell on a withering land. And it is. But late in his years, he saw something else besides: God's mercy as Christ's unlimited patience toward him , the worst of sinners, a cup of cold water held to his lips, day after day after day. And I think King David knew this in his bones as well, this deep, wide rich mercy of God. And like Paul, he knew it best later in life. After everything he had been through-God fights his battles, but David counts his fighting men. Because of pride God's judgment again visits David's household, and it's David's response that gets me: "I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the Lord, for his mercy is great ; but do not let me fall into the hands of men." David knew where to rest. Always let us fall into God's hands. I sometimes wonder if any terrorist could have hurt more people than I have as a father, husband and pastor. I had no idea when I said "I do" to Ann, or brought Heather and Andrew home from the hospital, or said yes to the churches that called me-that these things would make up my life and bring in their wake much joy, some pain-the thousand ways I could miss, could wound, could rob and leave in ditches the very people I love deeply. But I know now, midstream. And with each gain in this knowing, I grow hungrier for mercy. To love mercy . Who is my neighbor? The one who found me in a ditch and didn't pass by, who saw me without shelter and gave me his room. Now, you go and do likewise |