If you have ever visited Wittenberg, Germany and have taken the time to tour its famous Castle Church, you may have made the same observation I did: The best part of the building is its doors. Castle Church is, of course, the spot where Martin Luther chose to post his Ninety-Five Theses. Centuries later, King Frederick William IV chose to commemorate the event by commissioning a beautiful set of bronze doors inscribed with Luther’s words. And, though they’ve been refurbished in the years between, they hang there still as the city’s foremost landmark.

Any tour of the cathedral begins with the doors. Once the tourists have gazed at them for a time, snapped the requisite photographs, and heard how Luther inadvertently sparked what we now know as the Protestant Reformation, the tour leads inside. And the inside is rather uninteresting by comparison. There are a few sculptures high up on the columns and a number of graves embedded in the floor, including Luther’s. But in most ways it is just another of Europe’s innumerable cathedrals without much to distinguish it from all the others.
I don’t know about you, but I consider it a disappointment when the doors to a building are the best part of the building. Likewise, it’s a disappointment when the opening scene of a film goes unsurpassed by any that follow over the next two hours, and a disappointment when the opening strains of an oratorio are the composer’s best. Handel was no fool when he made the “Hallelujah” chorus Messiah’s forty-fourth movement rather than its first.
This life can be pretty good at times. By God’s grace, we experience many pleasures and many joys. This world is full of delights and we honor God when we acknowledge them, experience them, and express gratitude for them. “Light is sweet, and it is pleasant for the eyes to see the sun,” says Solomon metaphorically. “So if a person lives many years, let him rejoice in them all” (Ecclesiastes 11:7–8a). We honor God when we marvel at a sunrise, when we savor a cup of coffee, when we raise our hands in worship, when we fall into bed with the husband or wife of our youth.
But even as we acknowledge all this, we must also acknowledge that this world is not Wittenberg and the Christian gospel is not Castle Church. The doors are not the best part. Rather, the pleasures of this life are nothing more than the the foyer, the atrium, the entranceway to much greater joys beyond. After all, no joy here is untouched by at least some measure of sorrow and no pleasure here is unattended by at least some element of pain. None of our pleasures are pure and unadulterated, but all are in some way clouded, all in some way alloyed. Every pleasure that fulfills some longing simply exposes another.
There is freedom in understanding and admitting this, for it means we can enjoy our pleasures as they are instead of being disappointed that they are not all we might wish them to be. We can enjoy them even though they are incomplete, even though they inevitably leave us ultimately unsatisfied. We can enjoy them as pleasures that gesture us toward greater pleasures to come. And we can understand that, when compared to the glory that will someday be ours, they are but the plain and unadorned doors that open into a splendid palace that is far beyond all we have ever imagined.

I have long observed a fascinating but concerning tendency when I read one of the Bible’s clear commands. I have observed it in myself and I have observed it in others. It’s the tendency to turn quickly from what the Bible does command to what it does not, from the plainest sense of one of God’s directions to a list of exceptions or exclusions. It’s the tendency to hear what God says and immediately reply, “Yeah, but…”

“If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also,” Jesus says. Yeah, but you don’t really mean that in any sense but the metaphorical, right? Surely I shouldn’t actually allow myself to be harmed without mounting a strong defense. Surely I shouldn’t actually suffer unjustly without some kind of recourse or retaliation?
“Love your enemies.” Yeah, but they are your enemies too and they are doing harm to your people and your church. I’m sure you don’t mean for me to actually love them. What if I just pray for them and leave it at that? Isn’t righteous anger and imprecatory prayer a better response in this case?
“Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you.” Yeah, but I know that beggar is going to use the money to buy booze and I’m pretty sure that borrower is going to fritter it away on something ridiculous. Surely wisdom should trump generosity in this circumstance, shouldn’t it?
“Be subject for the Lord’s sake to every human institution, whether it be to the emperor as supreme, or to governors as sent by him to punish those who do evil and to praise those who do good.” Yeah, but I’m sure you don’t mean for me to be subject to this ruler, this governor, this institution. Don’t you see how he stole the election? Don’t you see how he hates and defies you? I’m certain you don’t expect me to submit to someone who is so radically unsubmitted to you.
“Pay to all what is owed to them: taxes to whom taxes are owed…” Yeah, but don’t you see what they are going to do with that tax revenue? Don’t you see how high our taxes have gotten? And don’t you think I can do better things with that money than fund their projects and programs?
“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on.” Yeah, but look at my income, look at my bank account, look at my credit card balance, and look at the cost of living. I’m sure you don’t mean I should be free from anxiety even in circumstances like these, right?
“Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands.” Yeah, but I’m sure you don’t mean everything. There must be some limits on that kind of submission. I mean, you should see my husband and you should see how radically disqualified he is to offer any legitimate spiritual leadership. How could I submit to him in anything, much less everything?
“Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.” Yeah, but there must be times when I don’t need to obey them, right? Can we talk about those? I want to discuss the circumstances in which obedience gives way to honor. I want to consider the times it is right and good for me to disobey my parents.
For these commands and so many others, my tendency—and perhaps your tendency as well—is to quickly turn the focus from what it says to what it does not say, from the plainest application to the many exceptions. And especially the exceptions that keep me from having to do what makes me uncomfortable.
That’s not to say, of course, that these are all blanket commands. There are times when it would be unwise to give to those who beg or to give a loan to those who ask. There are limits on a citizen’s obedience to government, a wife’s submission to her husband, a child’s compliance to his parents. I don’t know too many people who have actually gouged out an eye or cut off a hand in the battle against lust (though I know some who probably wished they did before they destroyed their life and testimony). Faithful interpretation of the Bible requires thinking seriously about limitations on any of God’s commands and faithful living sometimes requires doing the opposite of some of the clearest commands.
My concern, though, is how often I use the exceptions to delay or withhold obedience. Rather than doing my utmost to fully obey even very difficult commands, I turn quickly to the exclusions. I become an expert on what God does not mean rather than a demonstration of what he does. I live safely and comfortably rather than radically. And, I fear, I end up living in self-satisfied rebellion rather than free and joyful obedience.

The son of King Jeroboam had fallen deathly ill. His father was understandably worried, concerned to know whether his child would live or die. He knew just where to go for a trustworthy answer. Yet he also knew that he could not go himself.

He came up with a devious plan: he would send his wife in his place. He would send her in secret, he would send her in disguise. And she, in the guise of a disinterested commoner, would ask the prophet on her husband’s behalf. So, taking the gift of a peasant rather than the gift of a king, and wearing the clothes of a laborer rather than the clothes of a queen, she set out on her journey.
She eventually arrived at Shiloh, at the home of the prophet Ahijah. Yet she quickly learned that this prophet was not fooled by her disguise, for God had told him that she would arrive. And God had also told him what message he must deliver. “I am charged with unbearable news for you,” he said—the unbearable news that Jeroboam’s line would come to a tragic end and that, of all his household, this child alone would receive a proper, dignified burial. “When your feet enter the city, the child shall die. And all Israel shall mourn for him and bury him, for he only of Jeroboam shall come to the grave, because in him there is found something pleasing to the LORD, the God of Israel, in the house of Jeroboam.”
There is much we ought to learn from this tragic story. But today my heart is drawn to one simple lesson: There are times when royalty passes before us and we do not see it. There are times when we are in the presence of kings and queens, of princes and princesses, and we do not identify it. We do not acknowledge it.
Jeroboam’s wife passed through the land and no one knew or even suspected that she was anyone other than a commoner. Yet she was as much a queen walking to Shiloh with dust on her feet as she was sitting in the palace with diamonds around her neck. Her simple clothes and humble demeanor may have masked the reality, but they did not negate it.
A few weeks ago, I stood in the humblest of villages in the distant reaches of rural Cambodia. This is a village that has not yet been reached by electricity or running water. Yet it has been reached by the gospel and all but a scant remainder of its people have believed and become royalty—sons and daughters of the King. They wear the disguise of farmers who tend to rubber plantations and cashew groves. But even though their homes are tiny and unadorned, and even though they wear no crowns and own no robes, they are most truly princes and princesses who simply await their full inheritance.
A week later, I found myself in Fiji, making friends with men who have traveled from across the great expanses of the Pacific to be trained as pastors. Some have come from locations so remote that until they arrived at the seminary they had never even seen a car. They are humble men who have little and who may never own so much of what you and I are certain we could never live without. They pass their days in the guise of students who attend a seminary few have heard of so they can become pastors in places few will ever visit. No one greets them with honor and no one bows in their presence. Yet they, too, are royalty, made by God, known by God, loved by God, adopted by God.
And so, it strikes me that as you worship this Sunday, as you gather with your church, you should keep in mind the reality that you are surrounded by royalty. Maybe you will begin the service with a song like:

O worship the King all-glorious above,O gratefully sing his power and his love:our shield and defender, the Ancient of Days,pavilioned in splendor and girded with praise.

Give praise to your King! And perhaps as you do so, look around, look beyond the disguises—the suits and ties or the jeans and t-shirts—to see God’s family before him, God’s family joined together in worship, God’s sons and daughters rejoicing together in the Father who has made them his own, the Father who is worthy of their most heartfelt praise.