Ruth's Salvation and Ours

Do you feel these days like you’re living in a modern day version of the book of Judges? I do. The book of Judges is a book in the Old Testament, and it tells the story of the children of Israel after they have entered into the land. The story is told as a succession of cycles: the Israelites forget the God who had delivered them from the Egyptians; they begin to worship idols. God then permits the Israelites to be punished by their enemies: the Philistines, the Midianites, whomever. The Israelites return to God. God raises up a judge through whom God will defeat the enemy. And then the cycle begins again.

But, each cycle is worse than the last, and each judge is just a little more morally suspect than the last. Such that Gideon—remember him?—is not the hero we’re taught about in Sunday School, but actually leads the Israelites in the worship of false gods after he has defeated the Midianites in battle. Jephthah is victorious, and sacrifices his daughter to thank God for the victory. Samson defeats the Philistines only after he has broken every one of his vows, has been blinded and enslaved by the Philistines, and then only by suicide.

Do you know how the book of Judges ends? It ends with a horrific story about a Levite and his concubine, who, when seeking refuge in home in a town of the tribe of Benjamin, were accosted by a mob. The mob wanted to have their way with the woman. The Levite permitted them to do so to save his own life. It is a deliberate retelling of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, only this time re-set in Israel. The point? God’s people have sunk to the depths of Sodom in their sinfulness. The problem is not far away or long ago or about those people. The problem is right here. Right now. The problem is us.

There was no king in the land, says the writer throughout, so each one did what was right in his own eyes.

So, do you ever feel like you’re living in Judges? Not in the sense that we are surrounded by enemies hemming us in and violently harming us. But in the sense of the theme: each one is doing what is right in his own eyes. Think about it in terms of our Psalm this morning. Do you ever wonder whether God’s people—not those people over there, but God’s people—us—have forgotten him? Do you ask when you see houses are being built, whether the Lord is the builder? We have police and soldiers to protect us, but deep down, but do you worry that the Lord no longer guards our cities? We rise early and go to bed late; in between it’s the bread of anxious toil; does the sleep of the Lord’s beloved elude you?

If it does, may I commend to you a short book, the book from which our Scripture lesson comes today, the book of Ruth? It tells the story of one family struggling to survive during the lawless time of the Judges. The father—Elimelech—his name means “God is King.” The other—Naomi—her name means beautiful. And they have two sons, Mahlon and Chilion.

May I suggest to you that if you are asking any of the questions that we asked just now, you’re position is not unlike Elimelech’s in the book of Ruth. There’s a famine in the land. No food. No way to provide. No safety. So, he does what he has to do. He packs up his family and moves to Moab. Now, this is not nearly the same as packing up the family and moving to Fort MacMurray, as some of our friends and family did back in the 70s. Oh, there is a desire for safety, security, a better living, to be sure. But Elimelech—God is King!—leaves the Promised Land, the land that was a gift from the Almighty to Abraham and his descendants, the land which Israel entered after being set free from the Egyptians, the land that was supposed to be flowing with milk and honey, that land.

And in so doing, he hangs a question mark over his own name. It’s no longer “God is King!” but now, “Is God King?”

But it gets worse: not only does he forsake the land of promise, but he goes to find his refuge, his safety, provision for his family in Moab, among his blood enemies.  Worse yet, his sons marry in to Moab. They take wives named Orpah and Ruth. This is not a good turn in the story, but a bad one. It means the break with the people of Israel and with the land of Promise is, as far as Elimelech’s family is concerned, permanent. They are from now own Moabites. Goodness. It can’t get worse than that. But it does! Cut off from their people, cut off from their faith, the men all die. First the father and then the sons, leaving three widows with no social safety net—Ruth and Orpah have married in to a family with no conncections, Naomi is a foreigner in a foreign land—and the only possible way to make a living being prostitution. No wonder Naomi will say a little later, “Call me no longer Naomi. Call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt bitterly with me.” Mara means bitter.

So when Naomi decides to leave Moab and return to Israel, there’s no guarantee that things will go well. It is the last desperate act of a desperate woman. Orpah and Ruth resolve to go with her, but Naomi urges them not join the trip. Go back to your families. You are young enough to marry again. This is simply good advice. And Orpah takes it. She’s not to be faulted for doing so. It’s the smart move.

Ruth, however, in words so intimate that they often are found in wedding ceremonies, promises to stay with her mother-in-law no matter what happens: “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the LORD do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.” These beautiful words are spoken, this powerful promise is made in tremendous risk. For Naomi returns to Israel not only as a widow, but as a traitor and Ruth, both a widow and a blood enemy.

There was no king in the land and each one did what was right in his own eyes. Naomi’s story is a slow descent into extreme poverty, each step a step of loss. Loss of wealth, loss of place, loss of status, loss of dignity, even loss of humanity. Where is God?

Have you ever asked that question? Where’s God? Do you, when you watch the news, read the headlines, listen to the gossip town, wonder whether the world has gone nuts, and whether God has not finally left it to the consequences of its foolishness? Have you ever taken Naomi’s words as your own: “The Almighty has dealt bitterly with me.”?

Well, back in the land, Ruth begins to glean fields. This was a practice permitted by law (you can look it up in Leviticus 19 and Deuteronomy 24). Farmers were required not to harvest the edges of the field, so that poor people could take these leftovers as they journeyed along the road. Think of it as an ancient form of social assistance. And while she’s gleaning, she catches the eye of the farmer, Boaz.

She returns to her mother in law and tells her about Boaz. And Naomi says, in effect, “Boaz! He’s from our clan. If you can marry him, our family is saved!” Again, there’s a law in place here. Boaz, if Naomi and Ruth worked things out just so, could be their kinsman-redeemer. Meaning, he could marry Ruth, thereby providing for her and for Naomi. And not only that, but any sons from the marriage would not be his, but would carry on the name of Mahlon, Ruth’s first husband, the son of Elimelech.

Well, there are two obstacles in the way. The first is this: Ruth and Boaz have to get together. And they do. Naomi tells Ruth just what she has to do to seduce this fine young farmer. And Ruth does it. The second is this: there’s another relative who also, according to law, may have a claim on Ruth. Boaz, after he has fallen head over heels—maybe we should say head over uncovered feet—for this Moabite woman, says, “I’ll look after it.” And he does. That’s the Scripture lesson we read. He and the other possible redeemer-husband go to the gate. They go to the place where big decisions affecting the community are made. Boaz takes a risk: he sits with the man in front of the elders and says, “Friend, Naomi who has returned from Moab, wants to sell some land. Do you want to buy it?” The man says, “I will redeem the land!” Then Boaz says “If you do, you also have to marry Ruth the Moabite and any children you have will carry on Mahlon’s name. Not yours.” Do you see what Boaz has done there? He led with the good news—land!—but soured the deal—a foreign wife and children you will feed, but who will not carry on your name. No surprise then when the man says, “Take my right of redemption for yourself!” A fancy way of saying, “I don’t want her. You can have her.”

And Boaz, thrilled with the result, announces to the elders: “You saw the deal! You saw my offer. You saw his rejection. So, I’m taking the land and I am taking Ruth, the Moabite, the widow of Mahlon.”

Do you see where God is now? Ruth and Naomi had some seducing to do. Boaz had some business deals to make. But who put it in Ruth’s heart to stay with her mother-in-law? Who put Ruth in that field at that time? Who closed the heart of the kinsman-redeemer to Ruth’s dilemma and opened Boaz’s?

There was no king in the land. Each one did what was right in his own eyes. People lost sight of God’s promise. People turned away from the land of promise and toward the charity of their enemies. And God was there, overseeing it all.

Listen again to the words of the witnesses: “We are witnesses. May the Lord make the woman who is coming into your house like Rachel and Leah, who together built up the house of Israel. May you produce children in Ephrathah and bestow a name in Bethlehem; and, through the children that the Lord will give you by this young woman, may your house be like the house of Perez, whom Tamar bore to Judah." Imagine! May this Moabite be like our great foremothers! May your house be great like the house of Perez, whose mother was also questionable. That, my friends, is grace. It is the unmerited favour of God. It is working things out behind the scenes for the salvation of Naomi, the salvation of Ruth.

But it gets still better.

For not only them. For how does the book end? Here’s how: “So Boaz took Ruth and she became his wife. When they came together, the Lord made her conceive, and she bore a son. Then the women said to Naomi, ‘Blessed be the Lord, who has not left you this day without next-of-kin; and may his name be renowned in Israel! He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age; for your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven sons, has borne him.’ Then Naomi took the child and laid him in her bosom, and became his nurse. The women of the neighbourhood gave him a name, saying, ‘A son has been born to Naomi.’ They named him Obed; he became the father of Jesse, the father of David.”

This Moabite, this enemy, is not only saved. She is the great-grandmother of the greatest of Israel’s kings. God in his grace included this enemy in the royal line, underscoring again the promise given to Abraham, that his descendants would bless the whole world.

But were still not done. Here the Gospel of Matthew: “And after the deportation to Babylon: Jechoniah was the father of Salathiel, and Salathiel the father of Zerubbabel, and Zerubbabel the father of Abiud, and Abiud the father of Eliakim, and Eliakim the father of Azor, and Azor the father of Zadok, and Zadok the father of Achim, and Achim the father of Eliud, and Eliud the father of Eleazar, and Eleazar the father of Matthan, and Matthan the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of 

Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah.”

Nobody liked those silly genealogies in Sunday School. The meaningless recitation of names. Except. Except grace. Except the unmerited favor of God. God included an enemy not just in David’s line, but in the line of great David’s greater Son. And that means, among other things, that the Messiah is not for Israel only, but is for all those who are afar off. He is for all those who would share the faith of Abraham even if they don’t share his genes. He is for you. And he is for me.

So, do you ever feel like you’re living in Judges? Do you fear that each one is doing what is right in his own eyes. Do you ever wonder whether God’s people—not those people over there, but God’s people—us—have forgotten him? That we have, metaphorically anyway, left the promised land to find safety among our enemies?  Do you ask when you see houses are being built, whether the Lord is the builder? We have police and soldiers to protect us, but deep down, but do you worry that the Lord no longer guards our cities? We rise early and go to bed late; in between it’s the bread of anxious toil; does the sleep of the Lord’s beloved elude you?

Our times are unsettled and unsettling. There’s no way around it. And it is tempting in such times to manufacture our own safety, our own rescue, our own security, by hitching our wagon to any pagan huckster promising protection or even greatness. In such temptations, remember the disaster of Elimelech. In such temptations, remember the grace of God that worked even through such evil to bring about an impossibly great good, not merely the restoration of Elimelech’s line, nor the good old age of Naomi, nor the fruitfulness of Ruth’s woman. Remember the grace that through such evil quietly worked until Joseph, the descendant of Ruth, looked into the brown eyes of his adopted son and said, “You shall be called Jesus. For you shall save your people from their sins.”

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