He bursts onto the scene, literally out of nowhere.  Then he vanishes – poof – into thin air.  Donald Miller says, “You cannot be a Christian without being a mystic.”  Miller tells a story to illustrate his point.  “I have a friend,” he writes, “who criticizes certain Christian writers for embracing what he calls ‘mysticism’… I asked him if he believed in the Trinity.  He said he did.  I asked him if he believed that the Trinity represented three separate persons who are also one.  He said he did.  I asked him if that would be considered a mystical idea.  He just stood there thinking.” 

When I think about Melchizedek, I just stand here thinking.  Who is this guy? 

Right after Abram defeated the kings who had taken his nephew, Lot, captive in Genesis 14, Melchizedek prepares a meal, gives a blessing, praises God, collects a tithe, and then disappears.  He’s a king, but he also happens to be a priest.  He must have been quite a chef, too.  Don’t think Lord’s Supper when you read about the bread and wine.  Instead think royal feast, think bigger helpings than you pile on at Thanksgiving.

Then Abram, whom the Lord called great, gives this enigmatic figure a tenth of everything, suggesting, of course, that this mysterious someone – whoever he is – is someone greater. 

Finally, the author of Hebrews says he’s like Jesus.  Melchizedek is the only character I know of in Old Testament who gets more attention in the New.

I think what’s going on here – at least in part – is that when you behold someone’s greatness logic goes out the window and mystery enters the room.  Abram beholds someone mysterious, someone greater, and his response is a little crazy, but it’s also correct, sort of like a child’s.

When I was four years old, my dad opened the front door, and to my mom’s horror, I exclaimed “dad, dad, dad – we got you the biggest, bluest, bestest Nike basketball shoes today.”  My mom had given me a stern, but gracious warning earlier, “Honey, this gift is a surprise for your daddy; we can’t tell him about it until Christmas morning.”  “Okay,” I said, like three times, maybe four.  But I completely forgot about my promise the moment he walked through the door.  I couldn’t help myself.  He just had to know.  A Melchizedek moment – I stood there in wonder, he was so much greater than me.  He wore a size twelve, and he was clearly the best basketball player ever.  Lost in my dad, not caring what anyone else thought – even my dear mother – I exploded with joy, with worship just like Abram.

Jesus said, “Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”  If you see a rainbow and tell a child there’s a pot of gold at the end of it, chances are they’ll want to go look.  Tell an adult the same thing, and they’ll brush you off and probably refer you to a shrink.  Like a little child who’s found a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, Abram can’t help himself.  He runs to this greater king, this mysterious priest, treasure in hand – well, a tenth of it at least – and lays it at his feet.

And think about the moment itself, because believe it or not, we all have them.  I like to call them “Melchizedek moments”, mysterious moments when something happens or someone happens.  All you can do is stand there in wonder.  Moments when the honor belongs to someone else, but you are more excited than if the honor belonged to you.  Moments when you find yourself spilling over with emotion, saying inside and maybe even out loud, “this is what life is all about.”   

The moment I see my children’s faces pressed against the window as I pull into the driveway, or when you finally reconcile things with your closest friend, the moment you serve someone other than yourself, or hopefully the moment you receive the bread and the wine.  All of a sudden, you realize there is so much more going on here – it’s something mysterious, something greater.

You long for moments like these, moments that define everything.  Mysterious moments when you come into God’s presence, or rather, when his presence comes into you, and you are given grace to give up everything you have for something greater, something mysterious, again more of a someone than a something, Jesus, to be his disciple.  He is what life’s all about.  You’ll be scared to death when you finally give in, but just like Abram, he is with you, mysteriously he’s there, and regardless of whether you believe it or not, he really is all you need, or could ever want.