Life ultimately depends upon trusting God.  Not that everyone agrees or lives that way, as we know.  God gave life; all life is subject to God’s purposes.  God is able to give us the ability to know Him.  He gives us the ability to ask.  Paul knew Scripture thoroughly.  It may be that the story of Abraham came to have new, deeper significance for Paul only after he came to faith in Christ.  Jews pointed to Abraham as their ancestor, all of them (and only them) children of Abraham, because Abraham obeyed God.  God told him to do; Abraham did.  Well, God had also made a promise to Abraham, and Abraham believed it.  We hold together quite closely belief and obedience, but they are not the same. Abraham had faith that God would fulfill His promise, that He could, that this God was wise enough, strong enough, good enough to do so.  We’re never told at what point Abraham began to trust.  Maybe it was the moment he began to obey.  It could also be the moment Abraham realized that he was sinful, and that righteousness could come only as “the gift of a gracious God.”[1]  But how does anyone ever come to the realization that he or she is sinful?  And how does coming to such a realization induce remorse, or a change of direction?

Abraham had already been obeying God, trusting Him, as Abraham journeyed to a place he had never seen; God told him to go there.  Abraham, already a nomad, already accustomed to roaming, probably thought, “Well, what have I got to lose?”  At some point, though, Abraham began to consider, instead, all he had to gain.  Abraham decided to trust God as well as obey God.  Obedience doesn’t imply trust; sometimes we obey because we are mistrustful!  Abraham considered all he had to gain by trusting.  What do we have to gain by doubting, denying, declining?  Where will that get any of us?  Atheists pride themselves on not being fools.

In trusting, the gain Abraham foresaw was not gold and silver, camels and donkeys, sheep, goats, and slaves.  Abraham already had more than enough of all those.  Loading it all up, driving it all along to the next stop on the nomadic path, required a lot of time and effort.  Kind of a hassle, really.  Have you ever felt a little weighed down and burdened by all your stuff?  Would more really feel like a blessing?

God spoke to Abraham who decided to trust God.  “It was not through the law that Abraham and his offspring received the promise that he would be heir of the world, but through the righteousness that comes by faith” (4:13).  Not the doing but the believing.  Doing is a foundation for here; believing is a foundation for there.  The guarantee that came with the law was that the one who failed to do all the law was cursed (Dt 27:26).  Some bring a list of impeccable qualifications, medals for service, conduct, and achievement, yet they are not chosen.  It isn’t because the list is unimpressive.  The list is insufficient and never tells the whole story.  I don’t know anyone by way of holding his or her resume in my hands.  A few Sundays back, I shared a poem by Stephen Crane.  He wrote another.  Maybe he was thinking about Abraham and Romans . . . “In Heaven, / Some little blades of grass / Stood before God. / ‘What did you do?’ / Then all save one of the little blades / Began eagerly to relate / The merits of their lives. / This one stayed a small way behind / Ashamed. / Presently God said: / ‘And what did you do?’ / The little blade answered: ‘Oh, my lord, / Memory is bitter to me / For if I did good deeds / I know not of them.” / Then God in all His splendor / Arose from His throne. / ‘Oh, best little blade of grass,’ He said.”

The English Baptist preacher of the nineteenth century, Charles Spurgeon, said “While others are congratulating themselves, I have to sit humbly at the foot of the cross and marvel that I’m saved at all.”  That’s a good place to position oneself, an excellent attitude in which to keep ourselves.  God initiated relationship with Abraham by telling him to go, and Abraham, trusting, went.  The first particular requirement God stipulated to Abraham, later, was circumcision—a curious, constant reminder of life consecrated to God.  If only more would heed it more carefully!

All the law so familiar to the Jews and Jewish Christians of Paul’s day came along much later, centuries later.  The law came to people accustomed to pagan, idolatrous ways, who remembered next to nothing about their God and what it meant to live by faith in Him.  This was a people quick to make itself an idol, divide their loyalty.  A vital relationship with God—righteousness—won’t come by clocking in on time, meeting your quota, and then clocking out.  That was the life the Hebrew slaves had known in Egypt, making bricks, bricks, bricks for temples, pyramids, and monuments to the god-king, pharaoh.  Vital relationship with God comes by knowing and trusting God.  Turn from the idols; maintain singleness of devotion: there’s work enough for us all!  When we know and trust someone, we don’t mind doing what they ask, even if we don’t always understand.

“For if those who depend on the law [rather than on faith] are heirs, faith means nothing and the promise is worthless” (4:14).  The law stipulated doing the right things at the right time in the right way; this is all external.  The law could not be concerned about what you happen to believe.  The law is concerned with what we do.  Motivation in following the law is opaque at best.  Have you ever found yourself suddenly tapping the brake when you saw the state trooper up ahead, waiting?  I guess if you did, it was because you were not following the law.  Know how I know?  Sometimes, we break the law out of habit and the confident conviction that it doesn’t really matter.  The law by which the Jews of Paul’s day were living, upon which they were depending, also made provision for unintentional breaking of the law.  It was understood that we break the law even when we don’t mean to, even when the last thing we wanted was to break the law.  We break the law.  We do not keep the law.  Feeling badly about it doesn’t undo it, as we know.  All the things, if only we could undo them!  Yet we wouldn’t be who we are, here, today, if we did.  The ways of sin are deep, beloved; the ways of God are deeper.

The law fenced the holiness of God, to observe and respect it, and to protect us from our stumbling.  The common lot could enter only so far into the sacred area, and then only in company of the priests.  The law was to tutor in holiness, in part by making us conscious of our sins: the ways in which our actions, choices, words, obscure the glory of God.  A people who remembered next to nothing about their God and what it meant to live by faith in Him would need to learn.

As in the classroom, so at work and in life, there always seem to be those uniquely gifted at following the rules, knowing the rules, quoting us the rules.  Sometimes we smile at them and nod, we might even say thank you, but more often we feel a strange mix of awe and resentment towards them, not unlike what Cain felt whenever he was in company with his brother.  But Abel didn’t live by a law and, like Cain, knew nothing of any law.  All Abel knew was love for and gratitude to God.  Perfect love drives out fear of punishment.  For us and for everyone, the law is about punishment rather than reward because sin screws up everything.

To depend for righteousness—acceptability to God—upon keeping any law is to depend upon oneself—that is self-sufficiency: I’ll do it myself.  I can do it.  I must.  If I don’t, I’m doomed.  To depend upon faith for righteousness is to depend upon God, who is all-sufficient: He will do it; He can.  One story we’re being told in the Bible is the story of a people who are inherently incapable, collectively and personally, of obeying the law, doing what God has specified.  We know that story.  Paul might well remember the words of Peter at that all-important council in Jerusalem, where Peter reminded his fellow apostles and Jewish believers that God “did not discriminate between [Jews and Gentiles], for he purified their hearts by faith.  Now then, why do you try to test God by putting on the necks of Gentiles a yoke that neither we nor our ancestors have been able to bear?” (Ac 15:9-10).  None can depend upon the law for salvation; none can rely upon a list, however long, of good deeds to establish their righteousness before God.  No one can rely upon the law because no one is able to do the law: it’s like that poor kid at camp who had to walk the perilous stack of dirty dishes to the kitchen, and almost made it.

Paul points us to a promise made by God.  Relying on one’s own performance, as “measured” by the law, is not relying upon God but something other than God.  To rely upon a promise requires trust in the character of the one who made the promise.  That requires a relationship.  To trust in a law requires no relationship, just a common understanding of contractual obligations and fear of punishment.  But God is not under obligation to us.  No one can storm into God’s office, shouting, “You owe me!”

Paul reminds us that “the law brings wrath” (4:15).  Was this God’s original intention?  Going on about the wrath of God doesn’t do much to draw people closer to God; no one likes being around angry people.  We’ve all experienced some wrath when we’ve screwed up and done damage to a relationship, including those that matter to us.  The wrath is a negative reminder that the relationship matters, to both.  God wants us to remember always that He takes His relationship with us seriously; he’d like us to, also.  It matters to Him.  We matter to Him.  He does not like it when we stray.  He lets us know.  He needs to because we do.  We don’t want to, and we do.  Lord, have mercy!

Earlier, Paul had told us that “through the law we become conscious of our sin” (3:20), which doesn’t sound very fun but is necessary.  Sometimes, people only become truly conscious of their sin when they come under wrath.  It’s all just words and hypotheticals, until then.  Have you never encountered God’s wrath?  Like the law, the wrath is meant, first of all, not to destroy but to correct, a strong call to correction.  Wake up!  Snap out of it!  Did your parents ever yell at you, maybe even in your face, because you continued to do something they had told you, already several times, not to do?  Or did they give you one warning and cuff you the second time?  To what lengths did you drive them, not only to get your attention, but to help you to see and acknowledge the urgent, necessary wisdom in stopping?  Do this, not that.

At this point, Paul says something that sounds quite strange: “where there is no law there is no transgression” (4:15).  No law . . . is that like a state of nature, or something?  He’ll come back to this.  He has put this thought in the negative: no law, no transgression.  If we were to render it positively, it would go like this: where there is law, there is transgression.  Law operates from a transgression mindset.  Law exists because of a need to manage transgression, to identify, condemn, and provide punishments for it.  Law did not come along prior to transgression.  Transgression makes law necessary.  Unless one is law-happy, law-crazed, no one makes a law where there is no offense.  Law follows transgression, always after, trying to restrain, to contain transgression before it breaks out of all bounds.  A bull determined to bust out of the pasture won’t let any fence stop him for long.

Where there is no transgression, there is no law—what need would there be for it?  So, where is there no transgression, now?  After the Fall, that first disobedience in the Garden, where now is there no transgression?  Well, allow me just here just to suggest that there is no transgression where Christ now lives.  I mean, there is transgression, of course, but Christ covers it.  Christ’s blood washes the transgression.  The benefits of Christ’s blood, the blessings of his resurrection, can only be received and experienced, though, through faith.  If I act, then I earn.  If I believe, I receive.  Faith does not look to law; faith does not rely upon law: faith trusts and obeys; faith loves and hopes.  That leaves us in an awful predicament, however: until and unless we invite Christ in.  Without Christ, all anyone has to rely upon is his or her record.  And God requires a complete, precise accounting.

What remedy does biblical law provide, when a transgression has occurred?  How does that law handle it?  We might point to sacrifice.  There’s a whole lot of bull’s blood flowing, in the Old Testament, per the specifications of the law. More generally, and even today, there’s some sort of compensation, damages, a settlement.  But how does one settle a dispute with God?  What payment can one make to God who gives us everything we have by which we might pay?  Under those circumstances, there is no way out: it all ends in wrath—which is justice for God, God getting the justice deprived Him by our disobedient, ungrateful living.  We owe God.  We’re all a little delinquent, all a little behind.  We have until the third notice!

Paul is pleading with people, reminding believers, that, in Christ, we now have available to us another mode of relation to God, an earlier, simpler mode, an Abraham mode: faith.  Unlike money, food, shelter, or health, faith can’t be exhausted.  We can feel exhausted, God knows!  But faith is inexhaustible because it is from God and of God.  That’s why faith is indispensable for life.  God wants us to grab hold of the one thing indispensable for life; He is ready to help us do that.  Faith opens all of God’s resources, for us.  That’s what He promises; that’s what He was promising Abraham; this is what He promises us and anyone who will take Him at His Word.

“Therefore, the promise comes by faith, so that it may be by grace and may be guaranteed to all Abraham’s offspring—not only to those who are of the law but also to those who have the faith of Abraham.  He is the father of us all [. . . .] He is our father in the sight of God, in whom he believed—the God who gives life to the dead and calls into being things that were not” (4:16-17).  The only way God gives to receive what He offers is faith: willingness to enter into a relationship of trust, willingness to walk with God, God’s way.

God knows us, knows how we walk, how we see one thing or another off to one side or another, go dashing off after it, plunging full speed into the thorn vines and poison ivy.  He knows how we pull this way, tug that way, whining and sniffling tears because we don’t get our way and why does everything have to be so difficult.  And He continues to talk with us, bless us, give us good gifts, and remind us of the promise He has made.  He continues, all patiently, to assure us that He wants the best for us, and He only knows what that truly is and how to give it to us, how to bring us to it.

He reminds us here, too, today, not only by this message but, maybe better, through the message of this table, through this bread, this juice: God’s gift, the grace of God, perfect and perfecting; His reminder—symbols and signs of what He does for us, what He promises us, and the way in which He chooses to proclaim the glory of His name.  He gives life to the dead.  Here we are.  He is here, too.

[1] Byrne, Brendan, S.J.  Romans.  Sacra Pagina.  Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical P, 1996.  153.