Disguised (Christmas Clothes #2)

The past few years have been quietly disappointing, because I keep discovering that famous quotations I have used my whole life are wrong.

Ask most people to quote the big revelation scene in The Empire Strikes Back and they will say, “Luke, I am your father.” He does not say that. He says, “No — I am your father.” Polls suggest 83% of people get it wrong. Now you know, and you can win a point at your Christmas trivia night.

Or Sherlock Holmes and “Elementary, my dear Watson.” Sir Arthur Conan Doyle never once wrote that phrase. It is believed to come from a newspaper parody published in 1901.

And it happened to me again this week. Preparing this Advent series, I had a brilliant, genuinely funny Mark Twain quotation lined up. I was going to use it last week — you will shortly see why — but decided to save it for today as my introduction, because I am not naturally funny and this was.

That week’s delay is how I discovered Twain never wrote it.

Here it is: Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.

Funny. Brilliant. Fake.

What Samuel Clemens actually wrote, under the pen name Mark Twain, was a short story called The Czar’s Soliloquy, in which a Czar stands before a mirror entirely undressed and delivers a monologue. In it he says that without his clothes a man would be nothing at all — that clothes do not merely make the man, the clothes are the man, and without them he is a cipher, a vacancy, a nobody. A paragraph or two later he adds: the power is in the clothes.

Do Clothes Make the Man?

You can see what Twain is riffing on — that old phrase, clothes make the man. And a lot of us would say no, they don’t.

Except studies suggest they do. High school and college students who dress up for exams perform better than peers in everyday clothes, and considerably better than those in comfortable clothes. So students: next time you want to do well, dress the part.

It is why so many businesses have dress codes, and some go as far as uniforms. Dress more professionally and you tend to treat customers better, and treat each other better. The culture shifts. Clothes make the man.

And yet — no. If I suddenly put on a baseball uniform, nobody would conclude I had made the major leagues. Putting on military fatigues does not put you in the Army. (Though if you would like to join, talk to Ed — he is a National Guard recruiter and would be delighted.) If your grandmother puts on a karate gi and carries throwing stars, she is not a ninja.

Clothes do not make the man. So if I stood up here in a baseball uniform, you would assume I was either getting a head start on next Halloween — or wearing a disguise.

A disguise is putting on something to look like someone else, to fool people into thinking you are something you are not.

The Disguises We Actually Wear

Plenty of people wear outward disguises. But all of us wear internal ones.

Have you ever been in a genuinely rough patch — money is tight, a relationship is failing, you are depressed, fighting a mental health battle, nothing is going well — and someone asks how you are doing, and you say “great,” or “good,” or “fine”?

Don’t raise your hand. But if you have done that, you put on an emotional disguise.

What genuinely saddens me is that I sometimes suspect church is where we wear the most emotional disguises — as though, because we have a sovereign God and because Jesus died for us, we must pretend everything is perfect. So we put one on at the door.

We also wear spiritual disguises.

As a kid I went to church and felt a real pull toward God. I wanted to know Him. I loved Jesus. And it was not cool to be religious — so around my friends I downplayed how much God mattered to me. I did not want to be seen as odd for God, so I pretended to be something I was not.

And I have met people who, the instant they learn I am a pastor, completely change their language. A moment ago the four-letter words were flowing; now they are telling me about the church they attend — sometimes without remembering its name, or their pastor’s. But they go. They know the Bible. They believe in God. A spiritual disguise.

Some of you are feeling that — I have been wearing an emotional disguise this year, this decade, my whole life. Or, I am about to be exposed, because I have been showing up and pretending.

So you are bracing for arm-twisting and guilt. Actually, I have good news for you — and then even better news. To get from one to the other we have to walk through a valley, and through a scandal. Some of you will squirm, and hear things about God you may not like. But working through it leads somewhere that I think will help you worship Him like never before this Christmas.

Two Brothers and Two Names

In Genesis 24 we meet Isaac and Rebekah. In chapter 25 God blesses them with twin boys.

The first is named Esau, which sounds like the Hebrew for hairy — he was ruddy in complexion and unusually hairy, enough that people remarked on it.

As Esau is being born, the second baby is gripping his brother’s heel. They name him Jacob — a perfectly noble Hebrew name meaning he will protect. Presumably they hoped he would protect the family, its traditions and reputation, and specifically have his older brother’s back once Esau took the lead.

But it is also a play on words, because the second half of the name sounds like the Hebrew for heel. The baby is holding on as if to say don’t leave me, everyone finds it charming, and the name sticks.

Here is the problem. In Hebrew, he who grasps the heel is a euphemism for someone who deceives — the idea of tripping someone up. So the name means “he will protect,” and underneath it means “he will be deceptive.”

I do not think his parents intended that. But read his story and it is plainly the truer meaning.

The Bowl of Stew

My mental picture of the birthright story was always this: Esau, a hairy, ruddy, grunting outdoorsman, stomps in demanding food, while a skinny, slightly wimpy Jacob stands at the stove in an apron stirring a pot.

That picture is wrong. The IVP Bible Background Commentary points out that by this stage they are adults leading within their father’s household, and the family were shepherds. You cannot leave sheep grazing in one place — they destroy the land — so you are constantly moving them.

Most likely their parents stayed at the main base with a few servants while Jacob and Esau led the operation. Esau, who loves being outdoors, spends the day going flock to flock, checking with shepherds — what do they need, where are they headed, what is the plan — quite possibly without eating all day. Jacob is running things back at their mobile headquarters, making sure food is prepared for the shepherds coming in, that things get mended and washed.

So when Esau stomps in demanding food, Jacob probably rolls his eyes. And then makes a joke: Sure — we’re serving everyone in about an hour. But if you want some now, give me your birthright.

And Esau answers: what good is a birthright if I die of starvation?

I think that is the moment Jacob realizes he can grasp his brother’s heel. So he presses: No — I’m serious. You want stew an hour or two before everyone else, sell me the birthright.

And Esau does. Perhaps thinking his parents are not there to witness it, so it hardly counts. Treating his responsibility so casually that he hands it over for a meal.

Grasping His Father’s Heel

It gets worse, because next he does it to his father.

Isaac is old and nearly blind. He calls Esau, asks him to hunt game and prepare the food he loves, so that he may eat and bless him before he dies. Rebekah overhears — and while Esau is out hunting, she instructs Jacob to fetch two young goats so she can prepare the same meal, so he can receive the blessing.

Jacob’s objection is not moral. It is practical: Esau is hairy and I am smooth. If my father touches me, I will seem to be mocking him and bring a curse on myself. His mother answers: let the curse fall on me.

So she takes Esau’s best garments and puts them on Jacob, and fastens the goatskins on his hands and the smooth part of his neck.

So Jacob went near to Isaac his father, who felt him and said, “The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau.” And he did not recognize him, because his hands were hairy like his brother Esau’s hands. So he blessed him. — Genesis 27:22–23 (ESV)

Isaac asks twice whether this is really Esau. Jacob lies twice. Isaac eats, drinks, smells the garments, and gives the blessing: may nations bow down to you, be lord over your brothers, cursed be everyone who curses you and blessed be everyone who blesses you.

Two Things Worth Understanding

First — Isaac is not actually dying. He thinks he might be. His sight is failing, he feels feeble, and he suspects the end is nearer than he would like. In fact he lives another eighty years.

I suspect he also knows Esau is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, so he is being proactive: bless him now, install him as head of the household, and spend the remaining time mentoring him. Hence the little ceremony — go and hunt, bring me food, and I will bless you.

Second — the blessing was binding. Imagine you get to meet a celebrity you genuinely admire, and you may ask one question. You are not going to waste it asking what they had for breakfast. You will ask for advice, or for the best counsel they ever received, or the hardest thing they endured. And when they answer, you will hold on to it, and nobody can take it from you.

Now multiply that by a million. That is what Isaac’s blessing meant — to Isaac, to Rebekah, to Esau, and to Jacob. These were not merely words. They were binding. Even though Isaac believed he was blessing Esau, it went to Jacob, and it could not be revoked.

The coup was complete. Jacob had the birthright for a bowl of soup and the blessing by deception. And moments later Esau walks in, successful hunt in hand, and discovers what his brother has done.

The Good News

This is not good news for Esau. But there is good news in it for you.

Here it is: Jacob is just like you.

You may wonder how that is good news, since Jacob sounds like a selfish jerk stealing what is not his. Let me show you the resemblance first.

He was wearing a disguise — and he rationalized it. So do we.

He could tell himself it was not his idea; it was his mother’s. But he cannot plead that he was a child obeying his mum. He is forty years old — we know because the end of chapter 26 tells us Esau was forty, and they are twins. He is an adult with responsibilities. He could have said: Mother, I love and respect you, but if God wants me in this position, He does not need me to do this. Let’s trust Him.

He does not. Going along with it means he agrees. Which is the second rationalization: somewhere in there he is thinking my brother will be a disastrous head of this household. He cannot manage anything. He is selfish and not especially bright. This will be a train wreck. If I am Jacob, “he will protect,” then protecting this family means removing him.

He justified it. We do exactly the same. We are not doing well, and we say “I’m fine,” and we rationalize: I don’t want to burden them. I don’t want to explain it all. They wouldn’t understand anyway. We have endless justifications for the disguises we decide are acceptable.

So where is the good news? Here: if God could use Jacob, God can use you.

If God could use him despite what he did, God can use you despite what you have done. Because later Jacob wrestles with an angel through the night, and in that struggle receives a new name. No longer Jacob, he who deceives — now Israel, he who wrestles with God. And that becomes the name of an entire people.

If God can use a man like that, He can certainly use someone like you. Your mistakes, your weaknesses, the things you have done and the things done to you — none of them have to define you. God has given you every opportunity to be defined instead by His worst moment: the cross.

The Scandal

You are probably thinking the scandal here is Jacob’s behaviour. And you would be right — it is one. Read on and you find Esau vowing to kill him, Jacob fleeing for his life, a tangled story of marriages, and eventually a return where he faces his brother again in genuine fear. It is a drama built on that scandal.

But that is not the scandal I mean. There is a far larger one here, and it is uncomfortable.

God not only allowed this — it can look as though God made it happen. It feels as though He blessed the deception. Because it is not the God of Abraham, Isaac and Esau. It is the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. As though He sanctified the lie and approved the fraud.

And that runs against everything we know of Him. The God we worship is a God of justice, of fairness, of righteousness. Nothing about Jacob’s actions is just or fair or right — and God appears to be endorsing it.

That is a scandal. And it points directly to the greatest news you will ever hear — because it points to the biggest scandal of all: that you and I, grave sinners who do not deserve the love of God, have received it.

The Great News: You Have Been Given the Disguise of Jesus

For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. — Galatians 3:27 (ESV)

I usually teach from the ESV, and that rendering is fine. But comparing translations, nearly all the others render it: you have clothed yourselves with Christ. I think that is better.

If you follow Jesus — if you have put your faith in Him and been baptized, identifying with His death, burial and resurrection, saying it all goes to Him — you have been clothed with Christ.

That is not merely good news. That is great news. And it is a scandal, because you did nothing to earn those clothes.

Instead of a mother sneaking into her older son’s wardrobe so her younger son will smell like his brother — this is your heavenly Father going into your big brother Jesus’ closet, taking His robe of righteousness, and putting it on you. So that you will smell like Jesus. Seem like Jesus. Look like Jesus. Live like Jesus. Love like Jesus.

You do not have to be identified by your deception, your failings, or your sin. You can be identified by Christ and His righteousness.

And notice: this disguise is not a temporary one designed to fool your father. It is a permanent one given by your Father. And it is not there to make you appear to be something you are not — it is there to change you from the inside out.

If you follow Jesus, I hope that leads you to thank Him. I hope it humbles you and makes you worship, and makes this one of the greatest Christmases you have known.

And if you do not, hear it as an invitation. You need not be defined by the sins you have committed or the sins committed against you. You can be defined by the one who went to the cross, died your death, and paid your penalty so you could be forgiven and freed. And the Father would love nothing more than to take the clothing of Christ and put it on you.

Some of you are stuck right now — fighting an addiction, or a mental health battle, or caught in a genuinely difficult relationship, already dreading what Christmas conversations with extended family will be like. Know that you are clothed with Christ. When you walk into those rooms, when you speak, when you engage — you are not walking in alone. He is with you, and in you, and can work through you.