Audio Transcript

Good day, everyone, and welcome to this sermon clip Wednesday on the podcast. As most of you know, for a few weeks we have been looking at a two-part sermon series Pastor John delivered in the spring of 2010. Historically, the sermons are interesting because they come in the days leading up to his eight-month leave of absence, away from the pulpit, to work some things out in his own heart and in his own family. We talked about this leave itself, and the lessons he took from it, on the podcast, particularly in three episodes: APJs 138, 220, and 1227. It was a defining season for him.

Leading up to his leave, we get these two interesting sermons. In them, Pastor John explained what makes him tick. Why does he do ministry the way he does? Remember that? We heard the answer in APJ 1769. And then we looked at a related theme. God makes much of us. He does. He really makes much of his children. But why? Why does God make so much of us? That was APJ 1772. And then we looked at how God makes much of us. In six or seven profound ways, God makes much of his children, and Pastor John walked us through those points last time, last Wednesday, in APJ 1775.

And now we return to that theme first brought up in APJ 1772. There Pastor John said this: God “makes more of you when he makes much of you for his sake than if he were to make much of you only for your sake.” That’s a profound point worth thinking about deeply. But it also raises a question in a lot of minds, because if God makes much of me, if he saves me, because he is doing it to make much of himself, doesn’t that remove some of the luster of his love? That’s the question on the table today. It will be answered in both sermons, the one on April 18 and the other on April 25, both preached in 2010. I’m going to put two brief clips together here in this episode. To begin, here’s Pastor John, near the end of his first message.

Now, last question. The final, decisive question: Why does God, who loves us so much, who makes much of us so extremely, why does he remind us over and over and over again — when he tells us how much he loves us and how much he’s making of us — why does he keep reminding us that he’s doing it for his glory? To ruin it? No.

Why does God remind us over and over that he makes much of us in a way that is designed to make much of him? The answer is that loving you this way is a greater love. God’s love for you, which makes much of you for his glory, is a greater love for you than if he ended by making much of you. If he just made much of you as your greatest treasure rather than him as your greatest treasure, if he did everything he could do to help you feel like a treasure rather than helping you feel like he’s the greatest treasure, he would not love you so much.

Hearts Made for God

I’ll tell you why. The reason this is a greater love is that self, no matter how glorified, cannot satisfy the heart that is made for God. I’ll say it again — bottom-line answer. The reason it’s a greater love to love you for his sake, and a greater love to make much of you that he might be made much of — the reason that’s greater is that a self, no matter how gloriously it looks in the age to come, cannot satisfy a heart that is made for God.

“Self, no matter how glorified, cannot satisfy the heart that is made for God.”

If he is to satisfy the magnificence of the human heart, which is made for him, he must make much of himself for you in making much of you. He will not let your glory, which he himself creates and delights in, replace his glory as your supreme treasure. If he did, he would not love you so much.

So, Bethlehem, I’ll be away in a little over a week, and I want you to feel this. I want you to feel massively loved while I’m gone. I intend to feel massively loved while I’m away. And I would like to know that here, because the Holy Spirit is coming down, there’s a tide rising on how much we are loved as a people. That’s what I would like to know.

You, Bethlehem, are precious to God. And the greatest gift he has for you is not to let your preciousness become your god. I’ll say it again. You, Bethlehem, are precious to God. I don’t know if it would be theologically overstated to say infinitely precious, since he paid Jesus — but let’s just say, immeasurably, unspeakably, gloriously precious to God. And his great gift to you, which brings his love to its apex, is that he will not let your sense of being precious to him become your god. He will be your God forever.

Amen. So that was near the end of sermon one. But the topic carries over. So I’ll fast-forward one week later and pick up this same discussion in the beginning of his next sermon. That’s where we pick up right now.

To Know the Love of Christ

Here’s a prayer from Ephesians. You don’t need to look it up; just listen carefully. This is Paul now, praying for the Ephesians — and the way I pray for you, for myself, for my family: “[I pray that you] may have strength to comprehend . . . the love of Christ” (Ephesians 3:18–19). You can’t know it without power. Does that strike you as odd? You should give a lot of thought to that. Why can’t I know what it is to be loved without divine power?

I’ll keep reading that prayer. “[I pray that you] may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge” — surpasses the powers of the mind to comprehend and the powers of the human heart to experience. It surpasses our fallen capacities to handle with our brain and to experience with our heart. It goes beyond what you’re able to do, which is why Paul is praying — and why I pray for myself this way and for you this way.

May you have strength to comprehend the love of Christ — soul strength, heart strength, mind strength. May God give this to us now. Now, Holy Spirit, come. This is why Paul said in Romans 5:5, “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” The love of God pours into you, not by any human agency, but by the Holy Spirit. It’s a divine thing to know yourself loved by God. You’re not able to on your own.

Bottom of Our Joy

Now, the question I posed last week was, Why is it that the Bible reveals the love of God for us, including God’s making so much of us, in ways that constantly call attention to his own glory? Why does he do it that way?

And the answer is this: If God didn’t do it that way, if he didn’t love us in a way that constantly called attention back to his glory as the source, as the essence, as the goal, we would be so much more likely to turn the love of God into a subtle means of self-exaltation. We would use his love to make ourselves the deepest foundation of our joy instead of himself. God would become the servant of our slavery to self. We would take our preciousness to God and make that very preciousness to God our god.

“God himself will be the beginning, the middle, and the end in his love for me.”

But, I argued, God loves us so much, we are so precious to him, that he will not let that happen. We are so precious to God that God, in great mercy, will not let our preciousness to him become our god. Hear this carefully: we will indeed, through all eternity, enjoy being made much of by God. That will be a profound ingredient in our joy in God — that he makes so much of his sons and his daughters.

But he will work in us such a holiness, such a sanctification, such a freedom from sin, that he will protect us from making that the bottom of our joy. The bottom of our joy will always be that he’s the kind of God who delights in us. The bottom of our joy will always be that he’s the kind of God who makes much of the likes of me. This grace, this grace, will be the apex of my joy, the apex of my praise forever. It will never terminate here. It will always go back there. “For from him and through him and to him are all things” (Romans 11:36). God himself will be the beginning, the middle, and the end in his love for me.

Our tired, sinful world has never seen a surprise so momentous as the one that spread from the tomb on Easter Sunday. “The dead stayed dead in the first century with the same monotonous regularity as they do [today],” Donald Macleod writes (The Person of Christ, 111). No one, in any age, has been accustomed to resurrection.

To the disciples, it mattered little that their Lord had already given away the ending (Mark 8:31; 9:31; 10:34). The resurrection of Jesus Christ — heart beating, lungs pumping, brain firing, legs walking — could be nothing less than a surprise. The greatest surprise our world has ever seen.

Pay attention to the resurrection narratives, however, and you may find yourself surprised at how Jesus surprises his people. He does not run from the tomb shouting, “I’m risen!” (as we may have expected). In three separate stories, in fact — with Mary, with Peter, and with the two disciples on the Emmaus road — he does not reveal himself immediately. He waits. He lingers. He hides, even. And then, in profoundly personal ways, he surprises.

Some of us woke up this Easter in desperate need of this same Jesus to offer a similar surprise. We declare today that he is risen, that he is risen indeed. But for one reason or another, we may find ourselves stuck in the shadows of Saturday. Perhaps some sorrow runs deep. Or some old guilt gnaws. Or some confusion has invaded the soul. Perhaps our Lord, though risen, seems hidden.

Sit for a moment in these three stories, and consider how the Lord of the empty tomb still loves to surprise his people. As on the first Easter, he still delights to trade our sorrow for joy, our guilt for forgiveness, our confusion for clarity.

Sorrow Surprised by Joy

Maybe, this Sunday, some long sadness seems unmoved by the empty tomb. Maybe the Easter sun seems to have stopped just below the horizon of some darkened part of life — some love lost, some long and aching wait. Maybe you remember Jesus’s words, “Your sorrow will turn into joy” (John 16:20), but you still feel the sorrow, still look for the joy.

Stand at the tomb with Mary Magdalene. Others have come and gone, but she waits, weeping (John 20:11). She has seen the stone rolled away, the absent grave, and the angelic entourage of her risen Lord — and now, Jesus himself stands near her. But though she sees him, she doesn’t see him. “She did not know that it was Jesus” (John 20:14). She mourns before the Lord of holy joy, not knowing how soon her sorrow will flee. And for a few moments more, Jesus waits.

He draws her out with a question: “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” (John 20:15). She offers her reply, supposing she speaks to a gardener. And then, in a moment, with a word, the mask comes off. Shadows break, sun rises, sorrow makes its sudden happy turn. How? “Jesus said to her, ‘Mary’” (John 20:16). One word, one name, and this Gardener blooms flowers from her fallen tears. “Rabboni!” she cries — and cries no more (John 20:16).

Unlike Mary, you know your Lord is risen. Even still, for now, you may feel bent and broken. Seeing Jesus, but not seeing him. Knowing he lives, but not knowing where he is. Maybe even hearing his voice, but supposing you hear another’s. Dear saint, the risen Christ does not stand idly by while his loved ones grieve. He may linger for the moment, but he lingers near enough to see your tears and hear your cries — near enough to speak your name and surprise your sorrow with joy.

Keep waiting, and he will speak — sooner or later, here or in heaven. And until then, he is not far. Even if hidden, he is risen, and the deepest sorrow waits to hear his word.

Guilt Surprised by Forgiveness

Or maybe, for you, sorrow is only a note in a different, darker song. You have sinned — and not in a small way. The words of your mouth have shocked you; the work of your hands has undone you. You feel as if you had carried the soldiers’ nails. And now it seems that not even Easter can heal you.

Sit in the boat with Peter. He knows his Lord is risen — and indeed, he has even heard hope from Jesus himself. “Peace be with you,” the Master had told his disciples (John 20:19). But that “you” was plural. Peter needed something more, something personal, to wash away Good Friday’s stains.

“Jesus still delights to trade our sorrow for joy, our guilt for forgiveness, our confusion for clarity.”

And so Jesus stands on the shore — risen, hidden, and again with a question: “Children, do you have any fish?” (John 21:5). These are words to awaken memory (Luke 5:1–4), “yet the disciples did not know that it was Jesus” (John 21:4). No, not yet. He will allow Peter to feel the night’s empty nets a few moments longer, and then the surprise will come. And so he reveals himself, this time not with a name but with fish — many fish, actually (John 21:6). Then, after feeding his men, he leads Peter in personal repentance and, as if all is forgotten, calls him afresh: “Follow me” (John 21:19).

That Jesus should turn our sorrow into joy is one of Easter’s greatest wonders. But perhaps greater still is that he should turn our guilt into innocence — that he should address our most sinful, shameful moments so personally, that he should wash our souls as humbly and tenderly as he washed his disciples’ feet. Yet so he does.

The process can take some time, however. We may not feel his forgiveness immediately, and he does not always mean us to. He sometimes hides for some moments or some days. Yet as he does, he prepares the scene for a surprise so good we too may feel like leaping into the sea (John 21:7). Our Lord is here, bringing grace and mercy; we must go to him.

Confusion Surprised by Clarity

Or maybe you find neither sorrow nor sin afflicting you this Easter, but rather another kind of thorn, a pain that can pierce deep enough to drive you mad: confusion. Life doesn’t make sense. Logic fails. God’s ways seem not just mysterious but labyrinth-like. Who can untangle these knots or find a way through this maze?

Walk with the two disciples toward Emmaus. “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel,” you hear them say (Luke 24:21). Yes, had hoped. No more. Three nails and a spear stole the breath from that dream. Now all that’s left is confusion, a body and blood and a burial of all that seemed good and right and true. If not Jesus, then who? Then how? We had thought he was the one.

But then “the one” himself “drew near and went with them” (Luke 24:15). Again he asks a question: “What is this conversation that you are holding?” (Luke 24:17). And again he conceals himself: “Their eyes were kept from recognizing him” (Luke 24:16). So they walk; so they talk; so they spill their confusion all along the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus. Yes, they have heard his body was gone, have heard even a report of his rising (Luke 24:23–24). But still, they just can’t make sense of it all.

But oh, how Jesus can. So, with a swift and tender rebuke, a lesson in the Scriptures, and a face revealed over broken bread, he picks up their shattered thoughts and arranges them in a vision of startling, stunning clarity. Then “he vanished” (Luke 24:31), taking all their confusion with him. “Did not our hearts burn within us?” they ask each other (Luke 24:32). Christ had risen, and the clarity they could not imagine had walked with them, talked with them, and loved them into the light.

Our hearts today may brim with questions, some that seem unanswerable. But the resurrected Jesus knows no unanswerable questions. He can solve every riddle in every corner of every human heart — even if, for the moment, he walks beside us incognito.

Our Final Surprise

We live today in an in-between land. Jesus is risen, but we don’t yet see him. Jesus lives, but we haven’t yet touched the mark of the nails in his hands. If we are his, however, then one day we will. And these stories give us reason to expect on that day a final, climactic surprise.

If hearing Jesus’s word by faith can lift the heaviest heart, what sorrow can withstand his audible voice and the new name he will give to us (Revelation 2:17)? If even now we taste the relief of sins forgiven and condemnation gone, what will happen when he puts a white robe around our shoulders and renders sin impossible? And if we have moments here of bright clarity, then what will come when the mists lift altogether, when Truth himself stands before us, and when all deception disappears like a bad dream?

Then we will see what a risen Christ can do. His dealings with Mary, with Peter, with the Emmaus disciples — these are but the fringes of his power, the outskirts of his ways. So keep waiting, dear Christian. At the right time, he will speak your name. He will appear on the shoreline of your long-repeated prayers. He will walk with you on the road of confusion and loss until you reach a better table, and in the breaking of the bread you will see his face.

The book of Psalms is a collection of 150 ancient Hebrew praise songs that were composed by numerous writers over hundreds of years.

That’s a true one-sentence summary, but it’s also incomplete — woefully incomplete. It leaves out the most important dimension of what the psalms are.

So, let’s briefly explore where these songs came from, why they have been preserved for thousands of years, and how they model, sometimes in surprising ways, what the author of Hebrews calls “acceptable worship” (Hebrews 12:28). Then we will be able to add in the crucial dimension to our one-sentence summary — and perhaps challenge some of our assumptions for what makes worship “acceptable” in God’s eyes.

What Is a Psalm?

Why do we call these Hebrew poems “psalms”? The word psalm is an English transliteration of the Greek word psalmos, which means “song.” And psalmos is a Greek translation of the Hebrew word for “song.” That’s one way we know these poems were written to be sung. The word appears in many of the titles of individual psalms.

In my one-sentence summary, I referred to the whole collection of psalms as “praise songs.” Some obviously fit that description, like Psalm 135 (“Praise the Lord! Praise the name of the Lord . . .”), but some psalms don’t sound like the praise songs most of us sing in church, like Psalm 10 (“Why, O Lord, do you stand far away? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”). So, is it accurate to call them all praise songs?

The reason it’s right to call all the psalms in sacred Scripture “praise songs” is because the ancient Hebrews did. The Hebrew title for this book is tehillîm, which means “praises.” This gives us a critical insight: the original singers of these songs considered the breadth of these expressions to all be praise to God. And if our ancient forebears in the faith had a broader definitional range for what qualified as praise than we modern worshipers do, it seems to me that some reevaluation on our part would be good, especially since these praise songs were inspired by the Holy Spirit.

Songs Written to Remember

These songs were written to provide God’s people collective expressions of worship through singing. They are means by which believers in every era can teach and admonish one another through song in order to stir up the adoration and thankfulness of faith (Ephesians 5:19; Colossians 3:16). And just as important (integral, actually, to achieving this), these songs were written to help God’s people remember.

Keep in mind that during the centuries when the Psalms were written — and, really, up to just a few centuries ago — the vast majority of any population was illiterate. The most important information had to be memorized. And recent studies have since confirmed what history has demonstrated, that among the most effective human mnemonic devices ever discovered is combining words (especially poetically arranged words) with a pleasing, patterned musical melody. Songs have always helped us remember.

“Songs have always helped us remember.”

Some psalms were written to mark special occasions (Psalm 20), or to recall pivotal moments in Israel’s history (Psalm 78). Others were crucial in helping the ancient Hebrews remember who God truly was (Psalm 103), who they, as a people, truly were (Psalm 95), how intimately aware God was of each individual (Psalm 139), what happened at key moments in their history (Psalm 135), why they had good reason to thank God (Psalm 136), and why, in spite of the toil and trouble of life, they had cause to give God exuberant, loud praise (Psalm 147).

The reason this book is still beloved by millions today, though, is that so many psalms were written to help God’s children remember a crucial truth that God (the Son) later articulated this way: “In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

Sacrifices of Praise

God’s people throughout redemptive history have been called to “hope in God” (Psalm 43:5) while living as full participants in a world full of suffering. Which means we all live much of our lives “as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” (2 Corinthians 6:10).

That’s why there are so many psalms of lament in this sacred book. And it is in these darker psalms that we find what might be for us the most surprising expressions of “acceptable worship,” because they give worshipful expression to a wide range of human misery — the kinds we all experience — with its accompanying fear, grief, and confusion.

These ancient Hebrew composers wrote with sometimes startling honesty and transparency about their faith struggles. They wrote about feeling abandoned by God (Psalm 22), suffering severe illness (Psalm 41), fearing great danger (Psalm 54), almost giving up on God out of disillusionment (Psalm 73), experiencing a faith crisis (Psalm 77), enduring chronic, lifelong, severe depression (Psalm 88), feeling dismayed over God seemingly neglecting to keep his promises (Psalm 89), seething with anger over another’s treachery (Psalm 109), and more. They also wrote candidly about grievous sins they committed (Psalm 51) and being on the receiving end of God’s painful, fatherly discipline (Psalm 39). And these authors all wrote their deeply personal, even exposing, songs for the benefit of all God’s people, since some members at any given time would be experiencing something similar.

“Every psalm encourages the readers to believe God’s promises over their perceptions.”

All these psalms of lament were considered “praise songs” by the ancient Hebrews. Why? Because every psalm, whether sorrowful or rejoicing, encourages the singers (or readers) to “trust in the Lord” (Psalm 37:3), to believe God’s promises over their perceptions. And whenever a believer exercises and expresses true faith in God — that is, “the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name” — God receives it as “acceptable worship,” as a “sacrifice of praise” (Hebrews 13:15).

It’s interesting to note that in the structure of most of these darker psalms, as well as in the general structure of the whole book, there is a progression from fear to faith, from doubt and discouragement to hope in God, from sin to repentance and forgiveness, from sorrow to joy. The Psalms were written to help us shift our focus from ourselves and our circumstances to the God of hope, who fills us with joy and peace as we believe him (Romans 15:13).

Does Our Worship Sound Like Psalms?

Now we can fill out our one-sentence summary:

The book of Psalms is a collection of 150 ancient Hebrew praise songs that were composed by numerous writers over hundreds of years in order to help God’s people remember in every circumstance that God is the only source of the salvation they most need and the joy and peace they most long for, so that they will always put their full hope in him.

The more that added dimension is an experienced reality for us, the more we engage in “acceptable worship.”

I can’t help but think that we Western Christians should examine how closely our definitions of “acceptable worship” align with what we see modeled in the Psalms. In particular, does the thematic range of songs we’re willing to sing (or for leaders, allow people to sing) during corporate worship strike the same notes as the psalms?

A dangerous temptation we face, especially in America, is being too influenced by our consumer-driven culture in how we design our corporate worship events and what songs we incentivize modern praise-song composers to write. Christian worship music is a large and profitable industry. Which means our modern psalmists in many cases (though certainly not all) are being incentivized to compose songs for quick mass-consumption (to score a hit), rather than out of real, deep, complex spiritual experience. The predictable result is a fairly narrow thematic range and relatively shallow lyrical content.

What’s best for God’s people is often not the same as what sells the best and attracts the most. It’s what provides fresh worshipful expressions for the wide range of complex and sometimes deeply painful experiences God’s people go through in order to help them remember in every circumstance that God is the only source of the salvation they most need and the joy and peace they most long for, so that they will always put their full hope in him.

Thank God that he has preserved the book of Psalms for us all these years. For they continue their fruitful ministry of providing us sacred songs of praise as we seek to “offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe” (Hebrews 12:28). And they continue their fruitful ministry of modeling for us what worship looks like when we lose our bearings.