The book of Hosea is a shocking depiction of the sin of Israel, and an astounding testament to the boundless love of God. Hosea is a love story, but not like Ruth. It is not a beautiful, respectable story about a heathen finding her kinsman-redeemer and devoting herself to him; it is an ugly, filthy story of a people of God who deny the reality of their identity and give themselves over to adultery. Hosea is a love story, but it is entirely one-sided. The goodness, faithfulness, and love is all God’s, and the sin, adultery, and scorn is all Israel’s. The message of the book is precisely in this contrast: the love of God for his people is so beautiful and powerful that even the filth and rejection of his people cannot destroy it. For me though, Hosea is also my own testimony. It is not the testimony of my salvation, for that at least would have some respectability; rather, it is a stunningly accurate picture of the filth and unfaithfulness in which I live my Christian life. But more than this, it is my own personal love story: an entirely one-sided love story. It is the story of God’s love for me set against the backdrop of my unfaithfulness to him. When God describes Israel, I see myself being described with gut-wrenching accuracy. When God pronounces his judgements, I see what my life could have been. And when God speaks of his love toward his wayward people, I see his love displayed in my own life.
I am a spiritual whore. I have rejected the love of God and turned the affection of my soul to every idol under heaven. My spiritual adultery has sown the seeds for future generations of believers to be scattered, cut off from mercy, and divorced from God himself. I have rejected the knowledge of God then scornfully denied it to God himself. I have committed all the sins of the heathen, and turned to every imaginable idol to meet my needs. I have forgotten God himself, contenting myself with the outward forms. I reject true repentance, and my pseudo-repentance is superficial, lasting as long as the morning mist. I am mixed with the worldlings, and my strength is devoured, yet I am so blind I can’t see my true state. I am ungrateful for all the blessings bestowed upon me, and perversely turn them into new means of sin. I blasphemously cry “my God, I know you” yet my life proves I have no real connection to him. I have become as corrupted and filthy as my idols. I blame God for the difficulties I bring upon myself. I camouflage God with lies and deceit, that I may view him in a manner more amenable to my whorishness. I am as bad as the Canaanites. And in all this, I am unspeakably and unbelievably proud. I cannot change, for I cannot even reconcile the possibility that I might actually have a problem. This is who I am.
God would have been entirely within his rights if he divorced me, removed his blessings from me, and condemned me to endless want and misery. He could have destroyed my spiritual progeny, leaving them to reap the fruits I sewed. I was joined unto idols; he could have let me alone and hid himself from me. He may have poured out his unmitigated and righteous wrath against me in imaginative and terrifying ways. I sewed the wind; He should have let me reap the whirlwind. He could well be expected to defile my church forms and habits, ending the profane mockery of worship without reality. He could have cast me away and make me a wanderer among the nations, for that is exactly what I became. By all rights, I should be utterly hopeless: separated from God, and nothing more than a poor, slavish imitation of a worldling.
He didn’t do that. Instead, he initiated a grand, loving scheme to draw me back to himself, that I may be forever his and He forever mine. He hedged my way with thorns and blocked me from attaining my ends, that I might not be able to wander as far as I wished. He kept me from finding satisfaction in my lovers, that I might find no pseudo contentment to anesthetize the longing of my soul. He allured me, drew me into the wilderness that I might be alone with him, and whispered wonderfully loving things directly to my heart. He restored my lost possessions, and made the places of my greatest sins to be opportunities of hope. He sang to me, and caused me to sing! He restored my status with him and with all creation. He betrothed me to himself in righteousness, justice, lovingkindness, mercy, and faithfulness. He restored the prospects of my spiritual progeny, gathering them, giving them mercy, and making them his people. He spoke to me repeatedly and powerfully through a variety of means, even when I didn’t want to listen. He reminded me of the need for inward reality when I was content with outward ceremony. He called me from captivity into my rightful place of ministry and victory. He gave me true repentance, and then responded to my repentance with total forgiveness and cleansing. He loved me as if I had not sinned, and healed me from my backsliding. He made me an object of his glory and delight. He taught me to hate my former lovers, and loath any connection to the idols that once enslaved my affections. What can I say to this? What can I add to such a story? What possible response could I make? I have but one response: and that is to cry from the depths of my soul “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.”
