Reflections
Bondage of Will
Posted on October 28, 2019 | Posted by Annie Saunders
Our story is about a choice. Or at least it seems that way. Rehoboam begins his reign as the fourth king of Israel with a choice to make, and it has to do with his predecessor and father, Solomon, who was regarded as a wise king. He made shrewd alliances with neighboring nations and expanded the kingdom. He was proud of his accomplishments. Including building a great temple. But he did so with slave labor. Solomon’s father, David had united the twelve disparate tribes into one nation, but Solomon enslaved some of those same tribes for his own gain, power, and prestige.
Needless to say, this did not go over well with those enslaved. These were a people defined by their escape from Pharaoh’s grip in Egypt, and now they are being enslaved by their own king!
Solomon grows old and dies and his son, Rehoboam, becomes king. Immediately, Rehoboam is faced with a choice: show mercy and relieve the burdens placed on the people by his father, or continue the tight grip of the monarch. Hold together this shaky unity of tribes by giving up these ego-building endeavors, or squeeze them even tighter, showing your strength and terrifying your subjects into falling in line. It’s a choice. Kindness or power. And Rehoboam chooses power.
A couple of weeks ago, in a sermon on the ten commandments, I gave an example of how we break the first commandment, which is to have no other gods. I talked about how I succumbed to the god of my own awesomeness. It was a good example, if I do say so myself. And I am aware of the irony there. The god of my own awesomeness convinces me that I can do anything, and that I should never question my own awesomeness. The god of my own awesomeness tells me to blame the test if I fail, the race course if I’m slow, the Bible if the sermon falls flat. The god of my own awesomeness demands my allegiance, and often gets it.
The thing is, I don’t just think this is a way we break the first commandment. I think it’s the main way. I think the god of our own awesomeness comes for us all. Convinces us to go it alone, ignore help, cover up our weaknesses. The god of our own awesomeness promises success and pride if we heed its calls. It certainly made that claim to Rehoboam. He was advised by some wise elders to show mercy to his enslaved brethren. But the god of his own awesomeness said that would be weak. So, faithful to his god, Rehoboam chose ruthlessness.
The result was devastating. The people rebelled. The nation, so recently born, split in two by a king who had succumbed to the temptations and demands of the god of his own awesomeness. And the king? Well, after witnessing the revolt, Rehoboam fled in fear, while that god of his disappeared. Not so awesome.
And then the king went to Jerusalem, to the temple his father had built, where he met a prophet. Only after the god of his own awesomeness failed him did he go to see God. The God who created him and all things, the God who led his people to freedom, the God who calls and forgives and is full of grace and mercy. Only then.
And I don’t say that to shame Rehoboam. It’s not to wave my finger at him, and admonish him to have more faith. Rather, I mention this to note that that just seems to be how it is. We come to God, we pray to God, we long for God when all else fails. When the gods of our own awesomeness disappear or are revealed to be the false idols they really are. Only then. We seek forgiveness when we can no longer cover up our failings. We seek strength when we’re overcome by our weakness. We seek answers when the questions become too much to bear. We seek direction when the little internal compass becomes useless. Only then.
I introduced this false god a couple weeks ago when I talked about becoming the board president for a local non-profit. And I really believed in that god of my own awesomeness. I took the helm with lofty goals and dreams of growth and transformation. When the history books were going to write about the amazing success of this organization, they’d have a whole chapter on my tenure, complete with a picture of me, or better yet a picture of the bust sculpted of me sitting in some museum. Sometimes the god of my own awesomeness gets carried away.
But of course none of that happened. My noble agendas met the harsh realities of budgets and a lack of volunteers. I made mistakes, waivered, forgot to gain the insight of the group. I wasn’t awesome. And when I started to question myself I turned around and saw the god of my own awesomeness sneaking out the side door. Hey, where are you going? Ah, you don’t need me, buddy, he replied. You got this!
I did not have this. And then, only then, I started wondering what my calling was in this role. I started praying for guidance. I started listening for God. Only then.
Because that’s how we often tend to view God. As the one we can lean on when all else fails. Like that prodigal son in Jesus’ famous parable, who came back to the father only after all other options fell through. The God of last resorts. And, like that father, God welcomes us, arms open wide.
But is that all God is?
Late in life, someone asked Martin Luther if he thought his writings should be preserved. Throw them all in the fire, he said. The only ones he saw worth keeping were his catechisms and a little thing called Bondage of the Will.
Bondage of the Will was part of an argument he was having with a humanist named Erasmus. Rehoboam, Jeroboam, Solomon, and now Erasmus – don’t worry there won’t be a spelling test at the end of this sermon. Anyway, Erasmus was writing about the importance of free will, about how humans are amazing because of the limitless nature of what we can do, the freedom of our will. And Luther was like, no! Luther felt our wills were held captive. We weren’t free. We were stuck with sin and jealousy and anxiety and self-consciousness. And Erasmus was all “nu-uh, I can do anything I want.” And Luther said, “nope, because what you want is so influenced, determined even?, by all these other forces, these other gods. Our wills themselves are bound.”
To be truthful, I’m not sure I fully buy it. I mean it can feel like Luther is saying we are incapable of anything but awfulness, which just doesn’t seem to ring true to me, or to the way God speaks in Genesis 1 and 2. But then I look at my old friend Rehoboam. Here he was king. He had all the power, all the say. No supreme court or senate could veto him. And he had a choice to make. But was he really free? Or did the history of his father, did that god of his own awesomeness have a hold on him? Or what about Jeroboam, the leader of the revolt against the king. He took 10 tribes out of the nation and formed his own kingdom. He was king. He could do whatever he wanted. But eight verses after our reading, Jeroboam starts frantically building temples to golden calves for fear of his people abandoning him. After all who was Jeroboam? So, was Jeroboam free? Or was he captive to that fear, captive to another god – the god of his own worthlessness, the just as prevalent flipside to the god of our own awesomeness. Was Jeroboam free?
One day Jesus was speaking to a bunch of Jews who had started to believe in him, their interest was piqued. And then Jesus said he could free them. Free us? they wondered. From what? We’re children of Abraham. We’re already free. Nah, Jesus said. You’re slaves. But I can set you free.
I don’t like being told I’m not free. I’m an American. What do you mean I’m not free?! I live in the land of the free! I have life insurance and sick time. I have a steady job and a ballot at home waiting for me. And I can pick whoever I want. What do you mean I’m not free?! My car is paid off. My student loans are paid off! What do you mean I’m not free?! Yeah, says the god of my own awesomeness, with his hand holding tight. Oh right, you.
I think the real insight of Luther’s, the real gem in what Jesus was saying about not being free, is about God. I mean we could have a philosophical argument about free will. And whoever got tired of it first would probably lose.
But either way, I don’t always feel free. And, I think that both Luther and Jesus are saying something interesting about God. That our God is not just the god of last resorts. Our God who came in Christ is not there to get us over some metaphorical final hump of righteousness that we can’t achieve on our own. Our God in Christ does not just take over when the god of our own awesomeness fails.
Our God is there from the beginning. Granting freedom. Because we’re all caught. We’re all captive. We’re all subjects to so many gods. And God comes in, right from the start in drips of water, and over and over again in forgiveness and grace spoken in words and tasted in wine. God comes in granting us freedom. Freedom from that god of our awesomeness even before we realize it’s failed us. Freedom from the way sin holds us tight. Freedom from all those things that bind our will. Freedom to believe without proof. Freedom to live without fear of death. Freedom to love with abandon. Freedom to try and not have to be perfect. Or even awesome.
When you come to the altar today, you are set free. If you come here on your last hope, with nowhere else to turn, God welcomes you with open arms and gives you the freedom you long for. If you come here feeling fine, maybe even awesome, God welcomes you with open arms and gives you the freedom you didn’t even know you needed. And from here, you are given true, free, life.
The grace of God is not just the last hope, it is also our first hope. It is with us from the beginning. Freeing us from everything that binds us. Life starts here, with freedom. What a gift. Amen.
