“And no one pours new wine into old wine-skins. If he does, the new wine will burst the skins, the wine will run out and the wine-skins will be ruined. No, new wine must be poured into new wine-skins. And no one after drinking old wine wants the new, for he says, ‘The old is better.’ ” ~Luke 5:37-39
I was listening to a sermon on this passage Sunday when that last verse caught my attention. After drinking old wine, no one wants the new, for he says ‘The old is better.’ That’s interesting. This verse doesn’t seem to make sense in the context of Jesus’ parable. He’s saying in this passage that the old wine-skins of the world can’t hold the wine he is pouring out on it. His new wine of freedom and redemption can’t be poured into the old wineskin of slavery to the law. The fermentation process would cause the old, brittle wine-skins to crack and eventually break apart. Instead, he needs new wine-skins that are still soft and pliable, that will stretch without cracking, in which to ferment this new wine. I’ve heard teaching on this passage many times—Jesus brings new wine, which we are to desire and pursue. We are to be the new wine-skins he speaks of. But what about that last verse? As if contradicting all that he just explained, Jesus points out that no one, after drinking the old wine, wants the new. They say instead that the old is better. Why?
I think Jesus is commenting on humanity, on the fallen human nature, on the power of sin and the hold that the law has on our lives. He’s pointing out the danger, saying that this is what we tend to do. We have developed a taste for the old wine. In a thousand different ways that don’t necessarily even bring to mind the Levitical code of the Old Testament, we have spent our lives drinking in the nature of the law. We have filled ourselves with the rules of righteous living, with the mindset that we must earn our salvation. We have lived by the principle of comparison that separates us into levels of righteousness or holiness based on our pasts, our sin, our actions. In our striving to be holy or in believing God will reject us, we have believed that we have to earn the right to God’s Presence and grace. We have accepted the condemnation of failure over the redeeming grace of God and bought into the lie that if we show God how disciplined we are in our quiet times, in prayer and fasting, in serving, maybe, somehow, we’ll eventually be good enough. We don’t do it purposefully or even consciously. But we do it very easily. We drink the old wine of the law in the way we emphasize doctrine and fight over denominational divisions, in the way we are suspicious of our differences rather than grateful for our common bond of peace. We have been prideful and self-sufficient, evaluating and trying to control each other rather than trusting our great big sovereign God to work in his own way in each heart and life. Yes, we have—I have—drunk the old wine, drunk in the law, and developed quite a taste for it in the process.
It’s not surprising, then, that when we taste the new wine of God’s abundant, illogical mercy, grace, and freedom—when we see him go against the laws of nature and of the church—our gut reaction is to say, that’s a great story, but I think I’ll stick with my old wine. I’m familiar with it and it tastes good to me. It’s aged, tested, tried and true—and besides, it’s been around longer, so it must be better, right? So much of my life and worldview are based on it that it can’t be wrong. That’s impossible.
Hebrews 10:1 says that the law, that old wine that we so naturally and pointedly prefer, “is only a shadow of the good things that are coming—not the realities themselves.” Jesus, in bringing the new wine, brought those realities. His light exposes the shadows of the old wine, rips the veil in two, and makes accessible to us the reality of the incarnate God. His new wine brings freedom and makes new creations. It is the reality of freedom from the law, of grace and forgiveness, of love, joy, hope and deepest peace. It is greater freedom than we have ever known. But freedom is scary. It’s unfamiliar, unpredictable, unstructured, unknown. It’s not safe or orderly or explainable. It is in our fallen human nature to crave safety and structure over freedom, even when that means oppression. Ask the citizens of a nation that has just lost a harsh dictator or that was formerly communist (or better yet, watch the way they live). Look at the history of the church, where each new denomination starts out by somehow breaking the oppressive patterns of established Christendom in search of the simplicity and freedom of the gospel but inevitably, gradually, adds controls, rules, and oppressive traditions of its own. Freedom is scary.
Thankfully, we aren’t bound by that fear or by that penchant for what’s most familiar. As we rely on his transforming power, we’re able to embrace this new wine, to let go of the shadows of our habits and rule-ridden lives, and to take hold of the wild, untamed freedom and love we find in Christ. He will create in us the new wineskin that will stretch with the creation of new wine in our lives. But we are also dependent on him to transform our desires, to make our palates new, to give us a taste for that new wine. Because our natural desire is to return to the old wine of sin, of pride, of the lordship of the law over Christ in our lives. Though we so easily choose the shadow of the law in the ways we live and think, with complete surrender to him and by his grace, he lovingly transforms our tastes, until we desire instead the incredible reality and freedom of Jesus, of Christ in me, the hope of glory.
