Everlasting Father

Isaiah 9:6; John 10:11-18

December 11, 2016 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Cathy and I have lived in a lot of different settings in our twenty-seven years of marriage. Our first home after our wedding was a small house her parents owned in Muncie, where we lived for three months before heading to Wilmore, Kentucky. That house had five rooms, and the married student apartment we moved into in Wilmore had two rooms. The kitchen was a hallway between the bedroom and the living room. And did I mention cinder block walls? You get to know your neighbors in that setting, whether you want to or not. I learned from the two single guys above us that it’s impossible to carry a basketball across the living room floor. At the end of our first year there, we got a notice that they were converting those apartments into townhouses, so we would have to move. We took that opportunity to upgrade…to a three-room apartment with cinder block walls. I learned this week that those buildings we lived in have since been donated to the fire department for training use. They were originally built to last ten years and when we lived there, they were thirty years old; now they are a pile of rubble. One of my professors reminded us that seminary housing was designed to make any parsonage you got look good. But we’ve actually been blessed with the homes we’ve lived in since leaving seminary. Muncie, Rensselaer and Portage all provided comfortable homes with more space than we probably needed.

Then, in January of 2015, we got a call that we were moving to Terre Haute, and that for the first time in our lives we would get to pick our living arrangements. Suddenly, we had to determine what we wanted in a home, where we would want to live, how much we could spend—well, you know how it goes. Many of you have been through that, probably more times than we have! It involved a lot of discussions, looking on the internet, and coming to Terre Haute to walk through several houses. It’s been fun, and eye-opening, to live in our own home for the last year and a half, to have a place to welcome friends and family to visit, to personalize and make our own. Homes say a lot about who we are and what’s important to us.

Now, you may be wondering what in the world our house history has to do with Advent, or with this series we’re in the middle of this morning. Trust me, homes have everything to do with the Biblical idea of “Everlasting Father,” but before we get into that let me remind you where we’ve been so far this Advent season. We’ve been looking at the four titles the Old Testament prophet Isaiah gave to a child who was going to, the people hoped, bring Israel back into a place of prominence. As we’ve talked about the last couple of weeks, those titles seem to have initially referred to King Hezekiah, whose reign was, in reality, a mixed bag and fulfilled hopes and dashed dreams. But at the beginning of his reign, the people had great hope, and thus these titles. Centuries later, the early church read in this passage from Isaiah an ultimate fulfillment of these titles in Jesus, the baby of Bethlehem. Two weeks ago, we looked at the title of “Wonderful Counselor,” the one who has good plans for us, and then last week we considered the title, “Mighty God,” the one who came to bring hope and healing to our broken world.

But the next title in the list can be a bit confusing, especially in light of what we talked about last week. God is one God, known in three persons: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. We call that the “Trinity,” a word that’s not used in the Bible itself, though the idea is clear enough. Jesus, we know, is the “son” part of the Trinity; as it says in the Apostle’s Creed, he is “God’s only begotten son.” The book of Hebrews, among other places, refers to Jesus as the “son” (cf. Hebrews 5:8). Jesus himself refers to his “father” in several places in the Gospels. Just in the Sermon on the Mount alone, he says the Father is the one we pray to, the Father knows what we need, and that the disciples are to be perfect “as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). In the prayer he teaches his disciples to pray, they are to begin with the words, “Our Father.” Jesus even taught that God could be called “Abba,” which is basically the Aramaic equivalent of our English “Daddy;” that is, in fact the way Jesus himself prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane on his last night before the cross (cf. Mark 14:36) and twice from the cross, he calls God “Father” (cf. Brueggemann, Names for the Messiah, pg. 44-45). So, it’s understandable that some may be confused when we come to the third title in Isaiah 9:6, “Everlasting Father”? How can the title “father” apply to Jesus when he is clearly the son? And this is where we come back to living arrangements, because if we’re going to understand this title, we have to know something about the way Hebrew homes were arranged, managed, and lived in.

Every home we have lived in has been a single-family home, or at least an apartment that just had the two of us living in it. But that was not the case in Hebrew living arrangements—certainly in the ancient world, and extending even into Jesus’ day. I’m going to teach you some Hebrew this morning (aren’t you glad you came now?) and it’s about the only Hebrew I know. The word is beit ab—say that with me. Beit ab. Boy, you’re trusting. Most of you have no idea what you just said! The word beit means “house of;” you’ll find it in a lot of Hebrew names. Bethel—house of God. Bethsaida—house of hunting or fishing. Bethlehem—house of bread. So beit ab means house of something…what? Ab is a shortened form of abba—so it means “house of the father.” That’s an important idea, because ancient Hebrew homes weren’t single-family dwellings; they were a compound. There would be three or four “nuclear” families that shared a four-room pillared house called the beit ab. Individual dwelling places were centered around a common courtyard where meals and conversation were shared. In the front of the house, right inside the walls, would be a stable where animals would be fed, watered and allowed to sleep; their presence inside the courtyard not only protected the family’s livelihood, it also provided a cheap source of heat (even though the smell might have been less than ideal). When a couple was married, the woman was expected to leave her family behind and join her husband’s beit ab—she would learn a new way of living, new traditions, and leave her old ways behind (Richter, The Epic of Eden, pgs. 34-38).

Life in the family compound was centered around the oldest living male in the family; whatever his relationship to everyone else in the compound, if he was the oldest, he would become the “father” to the household. And, as father, he had specific responsibilities to everyone else in the beit ab. The father was to always act in the best interests of the family, to protect the family, to provide for the family’s economic, spiritual and physical needs. Especially, it was the father’s task to care for the most vulnerable in the family, to protect the weak and the needy, to do for the family what God would do. In some ways, the father was the surrogate for God in the household (Brueggemann 33-43). Now, it’s easy, in some ways, to see how this title would apply to a king like Hezekiah. The king was the surrogate for God in the nation. His job was to be a father to his people, to protect, care for and give oversight to the larger beit ab that was known as Israel. This hope was placed on Hezekiah the king, that he would be a father to the nation.

But how did the early church understand this notion to apply to Jesus, the son? Well, we know Jesus certainly used this imagery in his storytelling and in his teaching about God and the kingdom way of life. One of his most famous stories, what we call the parable of the prodigal son (cf. Luke 15:11-32), is rooted in this imagery, where the father and his two sons are sharing living space. The one son leaves, which brings dishonor to the family, to the beit ab, but the father waits eagerly to welcome his son back into the family space. There’s always a room still waiting, even for a prodigal. Or remember the way Jesus talks about his return, that he is going away “to prepare a place for us.” He’s going to add a room to the beit ab so that we, his bride, can come and live in the father’s house. We’ll leave behind our old ways and join his family. Some of you may have learned John 14:2 from an older translation that says, “In my father’s house are many mansions” (KJV). That’s actually a terrible translation, because what Jesus really says there is many rooms, not many mansions. There is a room for you in God’s beit ab, in God the Father’s house. He is going there to make room for us in his beit ab, and when he comes back, we will go to live with him, not in separate mansions over the hillside, but in his house, in his compound, in his beit ab. He will dwell with us, Revelation says (21:3) because his dwelling place, his beit ab, is among his people.

Then there’s one other place in Jesus’ story where this has important implications, and it’s critical to this season of the year. We’ve grown up with the idea that when Joseph and Mary went to Bethlehem, they tried to check in to the local Hampton Inn, but all the individual rooms were taken. Again, that comes from an old mistranslation of Luke 2. I grew up and so did many of you hearing it read every year that there was no room in the inn (2:7) for the holy family. What Luke actually says is that the guest room was full. Joseph was from Bethlehem, and when he went there for the census, he didn’t try to check into Motel 6. He took Mary to his ancestral home, to the beit ab, where he hoped there would be a room for his pregnant betrothed. But because of the census, every room at his father’s house was already full, so they were given the only space available: the stable at the front of the house, the place where the animals slept. This would allow Mary to give birth in relative privacy as well as allow relatives to be close by in case there were problems. Most of our nativity sets and movies are wrong. Joseph didn’t take Mary to the Holiday Inn. He took her to his father’s house, to the beit ab (Richter 37; Hamilton, The Journey, pgs. 97-98).

Now, when Jesus grew up, he wants to convey this same image to his disciples, but to directly use the word “father” to refer to himself would have been misunderstood, so he chose a different yet similar image to convey who he was. He is the Good Shepherd; we read about that image in our lesson for today. The shepherd was another popular image in the Old Testament of the Father heart of God, because the same sort of care that a father was to have for his household was seen in the care a shepherd extended to his flock, his sheep. When Jesus describes himself as the “good” shepherd, that’s not meant in contrast to a “bad” shepherd, like a shepherd who doesn’t know how to do his or her job. Jesus is the “good” shepherd because he cares for the sheep as if they were his own children. He’s not just doing the work as if it were a job; this is a way of life for him. He’s not just in it for the money; this is who he is. Maybe a better way to say it is that Jesus is the faithful shepherd. He is not a hireling. Jesus himself describes the difference in verses 12-13: “The hired hand is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep. So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep.” But the faithful shepherd, the good shepherd, when a predator comes, will fight off the predator and even give his own life, if need be, in order to protect the sheep (cf. Wright, John for Everyone, Part One, pgs. 151-152). The true shepherd, the faithful shepherd, is prepared to give his life for the sheep, just as a good father would do for his household.

The faithful shepherd would also extend that care one more step. Not just for an eight-hour shift. Not just for forty hours a week. The faithful shepherd rarely thought of anything else other than the sheep, and at night, as the shepherd gathered all the sheep into the protective walls that were called the “sheepfold,” he would tend each one, take care of any hurts they experienced during the day, and then he himself would lay down in the open doorway. He slept in the doorway to keep the sheep in and the predators out (cf. Card, John: The Gospel of Wisdom, pgs. 125-126). That’s why Jesus says, in the verses just before what we read this morning, that he is the gate for the sheep. That’s really just another way of him saying he is the good shepherd, the one who cares for and protects the flock. Jesus is the good shepherd, and because he is God in flesh, he shares in the nature of the good, good father.

“Good” is sort of an ambivalent word, though, in our vocabulary. In Greek, there are two words for “good.” One word indicates moral goodness, which basically means someone is behaving themselves. When we tell our children to “be good,” that’s what we mean. When we tell them to do a “good job,” that’s what we mean. But the other word, and the one Jesus uses here in John, goes beyond the way we act or behave to the way we are. More than behaving a certain way and even more than just doing what we said we would do, this kind of “good” is a quality of beauty, of graciousness, of kindness as well as strength and power. Everything that the people of Isaiah’s time would have expected from a king who functioned as father of the nation, Jesus promises to be as the “good” shepherd. “I know my sheep,” he says, “and I lay down my life for the sheep” (10:14-15).

So Jesus is the good shepherd. He is the father who welcomes us into his beit ab, who promises to protect and provide for us. Now, I realize that, for some of you, this language of “father” may be difficult to deal with. I know people for whom calling God “father” is hard because your earthly father wasn’t around, or was abusive, or was otherwise not a good example in your life. I am thankful to have had a good example in my earthly father, one who pointed me toward Jesus and has supported me in whatever I wanted to try, but I know that's not true for everyone. There are likely some here this morning for whom even praying the Lord’s Prayer is hard because you were abused by your earthly father, or you were neglected or abandoned by your earthly father. First of all, if that is you, let me say how sorry I am that you had to go through that. I don’t know where you are on your journey of healing and forgiveness, but I hope you have someone who is walking that road with you, who is praying for you, and whom you can talk to. I am sorry; that’s not the way God ever intended things to be for you. Second of all, let me encourage you as a part of that journey to reclaim the name “Father” for God; perhaps some of the things I've shared this morning can help in that journey. We’re often too quick to throw out words that we think might hurt or upset someone, but “Father” is too good a word to just drop it. As earthly fathers, we are supposed to be judged by the standard of who God is as Father, and not the other way around. Let me assure you, with the authority of the Word of God, that God is a Father whose heart is to protect, defend, and provide for you, not to harm you. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God said it this way: “I know the plans I have for you…plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future” (Jeremiah 29:11). He is the good, good Father, the good and beautiful shepherd. Hold onto that truth; trust his heart.

Because the Bible is clear: our ultimate destination is the Father’s house. Jesus said it in that verse I mentioned a few moments ago. The goal of redemption, according to the Scripture, is not a marbled mansion somewhere floating on a cloud. The goal of redemption is being welcomed into the beit ab of our heavenly Father. Our ultimate goal is to be adopted children of the Father in the family compound, and it’s a destination Jesus secured for us as the good shepherd (or everlasting father) who gave his very life so that we could come home. He gave everything he had so that our eternity could be provided for; he says so in this morning’s passage. Jesus put it this way: “The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life—only to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord” (10:17-18; cf. Richter 39). Jesus willingly gave his life to protect the beit ab, the household, so that the family could live in peace for eternity.

Oh, yes, there is that word Isaiah uses to describe the father he speaks of: “everlasting.” When applied to the king, it certainly doesn’t mean they expected him to live forever here on earth. Even when applied to God, the language of an “everlasting” Father doesn’t just mean that he lives forever (though he does). It means that this care, the loving and providing care of a father, extends through all generations. When the father of the beit ab died, the next generation would take over and continue that same care, that same provision and protection. And that same calling, that same commission comes down to you and me as well. The church’s call is to be a beit ab, a place where those who are on the outside can be welcomed in, a place where the vulnerable and the needy can find shelter, a place where the lost can find salvation. I’ve heard it said that the church is not meant to be a rest home for saints but a hospital for the broken. The church is the only institution that does not exist primarily for those who are already there. The church as the beit ab is meant to be a safe place, where those inside care for one another and reach out to the prodigals. And, usually, any individual church thinks they are the absolute best at doing that. We equate “care” with visiting the shut-ins and providing at least a little financial support to the various ministries in the community. We do that and count ourselves good and done. But the care that comes down from the everlasting father, the care we are called to extend, has to do with the way we talk about and to each other. Are our words kind, life-providing, holy? Do we encourage or constantly criticize? Do we treat each other as brothers and sisters or is that just language we use because it sounds “churchy”? Do we really care for everyone inside the beit ab, or is that person who sits down the pew from you just too different for you to really care about? If we don't know the people who sit around us week after week, if we don’t notice when they’ve been missing for several weeks, we're not living into being the “family” we claim to be. We’re not the beit ab we should be.

But it’s not just about who’s here. The beit ab was also commissioned to care for widows, orphans, strangers—anyone who is outside the family compound and who has no one else. Over and over again in the Old Testament, the commission for the king and for the people was to care for the weak, the vulnerable, the needy. As a culture, we don’t always do a good job of seeing those folks. I’m as guilty as the next person of driving by the person who is standing outside Walmart, holding a sign, and I try to avoid eye contact. In my twenty-four years of ministry, I’ve become pretty cynical about those who use and abuse “the system.” And I don’t believe it’s a good idea to just hand out cash to random people on the street, though I’ve had people tell me I should just give to anyone and leave the results up to God. I tend to believe God calls me to be a good steward with what I have, but here’s the point: it may not be a good idea to give to that person, but what God asks me is this: what are you doing to help, to welcome, to meet the needs of the vulnerable, the weak, and the needy in your community, Dennis? Are you making an effort this Advent to invite them and include them in the beit ab of your heavenly Father, the everlasting Father? We are the carrier of the “family promises.” How will we live that out during this season when the everlasting Father became a tiny baby, born in poverty and raised in anonymity? If Advent means anything, it means that all must be cared for, invited and welcomed into God’s beit ab. Who will you welcome, and who will I welcome, this Christmas season? Maybe it starts with the person sitting on the other end of the pew from you this morning, whose name you don’t know though you see them every week, but don’t let it stop there. We have a world that needs to know the safety, provision and protection of God’s beit ab.

I read a story this week of Egerton Young, who was the first missionary to the Native Americans in Saskatchewan. He went and he shared about the love of God, and when he was done, the chief wanted to talk to him. “When you spoke of the Great Spirit just now,” the chief said, “did I hear you say, ‘Our Father’?” Young said, yes, that was what he had said. The chief went on. “That is very new and sweet to me. We never thought of the Great Spirit as Father. We heard him in the thunder; we saw him in the lightning, the tempest and the blizzard, and we were afraid. So when you tell us that the Great Spirit is our Father, that is beautiful to us.” The old man paused, thought a moment, and then continued, “Missionary, did you say that the Great Spirit is your Father?” Young said yes, and the chief went on, “And did you say that he is the Indians’ Father?” Young again agreed, and suddenly a light bulb went on in the chief’s eyes. “Then,” he said, “you and I are brothers!” (Barclay, The Gospel of John, Volume 2, pgs. 64-65).

If we really grasp the truth of the everlasting Father, it will not only change Advent, but everything we do and every way we live. It will change the way we treat each other as well as the way we treat the ones we come in contact with every day. His name shall be everlasting father…and that changes everything. Let’s pray.