GOD’S PROMISE
Our high priest is able to understand our weaknesses.
—Hebrews 4:15 NCV
On a splendid April afternoon in 2008, two college women’s softball teams—one from Oregon, one from Washington—squared off beneath the blue sky of the Cascade Mountains. Inside a chain-link fence before a hundred fans, the two teams played a decisive game. The winner would advance to the division playoffs. The loser would hang up the gloves and go home.
The Western Oregon Wolves were a sturdy team that boasted several strong batters, but Sara Tucholsky was not one of them. She hit .153 and played in the game only because the first-string right fielder had muffed a play earlier in the day. Sara had never hit a home run, but on that Saturday, with two runners on base, she connected with a curveball and sent it sailing over the left-field fence.
In her excitement Sara missed first base. Her coach shouted for her to return and touch it. When she turned and started back, something popped in her knee, and down she went. She dragged herself back to the bag, pulled her knee to her chest in pain, and asked the first-base coach, “What do I do?”
The umpire wasn’t sure. He knew if any of Sara’s teammates assisted her, she would be out. Sara knew if she tried to stand, she would collapse. Her team couldn’t help her. Her leg couldn’t support her. How could she cross home plate? The umpires huddled to talk.1
And while they huddle and Sara groans, may I make a comparison? Blame it on the preacher in me, but I see an illustration in this moment. You and I have a lot in common with Sara Tucholsky. We, too, have stumbled. Not in baseball, but in life. In morality, honesty, integrity. We have done our best, only to trip and fall. Our finest efforts have left us flat on our backs. Like Sara, we are weakened, not with torn ligaments, but with broken hearts, weary spirits, and fading vision. The distance between where we are and where we want to be is impassable. What do we do? Where do we turn?
I suggest we turn to one of the sweetest promises:
For our high priest [Jesus] is able to understand our weaknesses. He was tempted in every way that we are, but he did not sin. Let us, then, feel very sure that we can come before God’s throne where there is grace. There we can receive mercy and grace to help us when we need it. (Heb. 4:15–16 NCV)
We have a high priest who is able to understand. Since he understands, we find mercy and grace when we need it. We are not left to languish. When we fall, we are not forgotten. When we stumble, we aren’t abandoned. Our God gets us.
Theology textbooks discuss this promise under the heading “Incarnation.” The stunning idea is simply this: God, for a time, became one of us. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).
God became flesh in the form of Jesus Christ. He was miraculously conceived, yet naturally delivered. He was born, yet born of a virgin.
Had Jesus simply descended to earth in the form of a mighty being, we would respect him but never would draw near to him. After all, how could God understand what it means to be human?
Had Jesus been biologically conceived with two earthly parents, we would draw near to him, but would we want to worship him? After all, he would be no different than you and me.
But if Jesus was both—God and man at the same time—then we have the best of both worlds. Neither his humanity nor deity compromised. He was fully human. He was fully divine. Because of the first, we draw near. Because of the latter, we worship.
Such is the message of Colossians 1:15–16.
The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him.
Not one drop of divinity was lost in the change to humanity. Though Jesus appeared human, he was actually God. The fullness of God, every bit of him, took residence in the body of Christ. “It was the Father’s good pleasure for all the fullness to dwell in Him” (Col. 1:19 NASB). The star maker, for a time, built cabinets in Nazareth.
Jesus may have looked human, but those nearest him knew he was prone to divine exclamations. Every so often Jesus let his divinity take over. The bystanders had no option but to step back and ask, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!” (Matt. 8:27).
Some years ago I served as the teacher at a weeklong Bible retreat. There is much to recall about the event. The food was phenomenal. The seaside setting was spectacular. I made several new friends. Yet, of all the memories, the one I will never forget is the Friday night basketball game.
The idea was hatched the moment David arrived. The attendees did not know he was coming, but as soon as he walked into the room, they knew who he was: David Robinson. NBA All-Star. MVP. Three-time Olympian. Two-time gold medal winner. Dream Team member. Two-time NBA champion. College All-American. Seven feet and one inch of raw talent. Body, ripped. Skills, honed. Basketball IQ, legendary.
By the end of the first day, someone asked me, “Any chance he would play basketball with us?” “Us” was a collection of pudgy, middle-aged, well-meaning but out-of-shape fellows. Bodies, plump. Skills, pathetic. Basketball IQ, slightly less than that of a squirrel.
Still, I asked David. And David, in an utter display of indulgence, said yes.
We scheduled the game, the game, for Friday night, the last night of the seminar. Attendance in the Bible classes declined. Attendance on the basketball court increased. Fellows who hadn’t dribbled a ball since middle school could be seen heaving shot after shot at the basket. The net was seldom threatened.
The night of the game, the game, David walked onto the court for the first time all week. As he warmed up, the rest of us stopped. The ball fit in his hand like a tennis ball would in mine. He carried on conversations while dribbling the ball, spinning the ball on a finger, and passing the ball behind his back. When the game began, it was David and we children. He held back. We could tell. Even so, he still took one stride for our two. He caught the ball with one hand instead of two. When he threw the ball, it was more a missile than a pass. He played basketball at a level we could only dream about.
At one point—just for the fun of it, I suppose—he let loose. The same guy who had slam-dunked basketballs over Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley let it go. I suppose he just couldn’t hold it back any longer. With three strides he roared from half court to the rim. The pudgy, middle-aged opposition cleared a path as he sailed, head level with the basket, and slammed the ball with a force that left the backboard shaking.
We gulped.
David smiled.
We got the message. That’s how the game is meant to be played. We may have shared the same court, but we didn’t share the same power.
I’m thinking the followers of Jesus might have had a similar thought. On the day Jesus commanded the demons to leave the possessed man and they did. On the day Jesus told the storm to be quiet and it was. On the days Jesus told the dead man to rise up, the dead daughter to sit up, the entombed Lazarus to come out, and he did, she did, and he did.
“God was pleased for all of himself to live in Christ” (Col. 1:19 NCV). Jesus was undiluted deity.
No wonder no one argued when he declared, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me” (Matt. 28:18).
You think the moon affects the tides? It does. But Christ runs the moon. You think the United States is a superpower? The United States has only the power Christ gives and nothing more. He has authority over everything. And he has had it forever.
Yet, in spite of this lofty position, Jesus was willing for a time to forgo the privileges of divinity and enter humanity.
He was born just as all babies are born. His childhood was a common one. “Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2:52). His body developed. His muscles strengthened. His bones matured. There is no evidence or suggestion that he was spared the inconveniences of adolescence. He may have been gangly or homely. He knew the pain of sore muscles and the sting of salt in an open wound. As an adult he was weary enough to sit down at a well (John 4:6) and sleepy enough to doze off in a rocking boat (Mark 4:35–38). He became hungry in the wilderness and thirsty on the cross. When the soldiers pounded the nails through his skin, a thousand nerve endings cried for relief. As he hung limp on the cross, two human lungs begged for oxygen.
The Word became flesh.
Does this promise matter? If you ever wonder if God understands you, it does. If you ever wonder if God listens, it does. If you ever wonder if the Uncreated Creator can, in a million years, comprehend the challenges you face, then ponder long and hard the promise of the incarnation. Jesus is “able to understand our weaknesses” (Heb. 4:15 NCV). The One who hears your prayers understands your pain. He never shrugs or scoffs or dismisses physical struggle. He had a human body.
Are you troubled in spirit? He was too. (John 12:27)
Are you so anxious you could die? He was too. (Matt. 26:38)
Are you overwhelmed with grief? He was too. (John 11:35)
Have you ever prayed with loud cries and tears? He did too. (Heb. 5:7)
He gets you.
So human he could touch his people. So mighty he could heal them. So human he spoke with an accent. So heavenly he spoke with authority. So human he could blend in unnoticed for thirty years. So mighty he could change history and be unforgotten for two thousand years. All man. Yet all God.
I once waded into the Jordan River. On a trip to Israel my family and I stopped to see the traditional spot of Jesus’ baptism. It’s a charming place. Sycamores cast their shadows. Birds chirp. The water invites. So I accepted the invitation and waded in to be baptized.
No one wanted to join me, so I immersed myself. I declared my belief in Christ and sank so low in the water I could touch the river bottom. When I did, I felt a stick and pulled it out. A baptism memento! Some people get certificates or Bibles; I like my stick. It’s about as thick as your wrist, long as your forearm, and smooth as a baby’s behind. I keep it on my office credenza so I can show it to fear-filled people.
When they chronicle their anxieties about the economy or their concerns about their kids, I hand them the stick. I tell them how God muddied his feet in our world of diapers, death, digestion, and disease. How John the Baptist told him to stay on the riverbank but Jesus wouldn’t listen. How he came to earth for this very purpose—to become one of us. “Why, he might have touched this very stick,” I like to say.
As they smile, I ask, “Since he came this far to reach us, can’t we take our fears to him?” Read the promise again, slowly, thoughtfully.
For our high priest [Jesus] is able to understand our weaknesses. He was tempted in every way that we are, but he did not sin. Let us, then, feel very sure that we can come before God’s throne where there is grace. There we can receive mercy and grace to help us when we need it. (Heb. 4:15–16 NCV)
Some have pointed to the sinlessness of Jesus as evidence that he cannot fully understand us. If he never sinned, they reason, how could he understand the full force of sin? Simple. He felt it more than we do. We give in! He never did. We surrender. He never did. He stood before the tsunami of temptation and never wavered. In that manner he understands it more than anyone who ever lived.
And then, in his grandest deed, he volunteered to feel the consequences of sin. “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21).
Jesus didn’t deserve to feel the shame, but he felt it. He didn’t deserve the humiliation, but he experienced it. He had never sinned, yet he was treated like a sinner. He became sin. All the guilt, remorse, and embarrassment—Jesus understands it.
Does this promise matter? To the hypocrite, it does. To the person with the hangover and fuzzy memory about last night’s party, it does. To the cheater, slanderer, gossip, or scoundrel who comes to God with a humble spirit, it matters. It matters because they need to know that we can “approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need” (Heb. 4:16).
Because Jesus is human, he understands you.
Because he is divine, he can help you.
He is uniquely positioned to carry us home. Jesus does for us what Mallory Holtman did for Sara Tucholsky. Sara, remember, is the girl who tore an ACL during her home-run trot. When we left her, she was lying on the ground, clutching her knee with one hand and touching first base with the other. The umpires huddled. The players stood and watched. The fans shouted for someone to take Sara off the field, but she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to cross home plate.
Mallory Holtman came up with a solution.
She played first base for the opposing team, Central Washington University. She was a senior and wanted a victory. A loss would end her season. You’d think Mallory would be happy to see the home run nullified. She wasn’t.
“Hey,” she said to the umpires. “Can I help her around the bases?”
“Why would you want to do that?” one asked. Before she could answer, the ump shrugged and said, “Do it.”
So Mallory did. She signaled for the shortstop to help her, and the two walked toward the injured player. “We’re going to pick you up and carry you around the bases.”
By this time tears streaked Sara’s cheeks. “Thank you.”
Mallory and her friend put one hand under Sara’s legs and the other hand under Sara’s arms. The mission of mercy began. They paused long enough at second and third base to lower Sara’s foot to touch the bases. By the time they headed home, the spectators had risen to their feet, Sara’s teammates had gathered at home plate, and Sara was smiling like a homecoming queen.2
Well she should. The only one who could help did help. And because she did, Sara made it home.
God offers to do the same for you and me. Mallory’s message for Sara is God’s message for us: “I’m going to pick you up and carry you home.” Let him, won’t you? You cannot make it on your own. But Jesus has the strength you do not have. He is, after all, your high priest, able and willing to help in your time of need.
Let him do what he came to do. Let him carry you home.