Second Sunday in the Midst of Lent (Year C)

TEXT: Philippians 3:17-4:1

This past Tuesday, Americans turned the heat up even higher on their melting-pot of bubbling hell-broth, as their president taunted Canadians yet again with threat of annexation. Donald Trump said the only way for Canada to avoid his attempts to torpedo its economy is for the country to “become our cherished Fifty-First State.” ¹

“This would make all Tariffs, and everything else, totally disappear,” he claimed.

 

Make everything totally disappear. Yeah. That’s kind of what worries Canadians. In the 51st state, all kinds of stuff we cherish would surely disappear. Like free universal health care. Gun laws. Cultural diversity. Adult supervision. Democracy.

If you’re a Canadian today—whether you want to or not—you can’t help but pay attention to the political circus act unfolding south of the border.²

Hmm. You know, I feel like I’ve seen this movie before. And the ending was frightening enough first time round.

Do you remember this?

Way back in 2016—when Donald Trump was still but the presumptive Republican presidential candidate—The New York Daily News ran an article that said, in part:

Donald Trump has been declared “not Christian” by the world’s foremost expert on the topic — Pope Francis.

The Holy War of words erupted when the pontiff blasted the GOP presidential front-runner’s plan to construct a wall along the U.S.-Mexico border and expel 11 million undocumented immigrants.

“A person who thinks only about building walls, wherever they may be, and not building bridges, is not Christian,” Francis told reporters … after a visit to Mexico. “This is not the gospel.” ³

In response, Trump blamed the Mexican government for turning the Bishop of Rome against him, adding: “For a religious leader to question a person’s faith is disgraceful. I am proud to be a Christian.” ⁴

“For a religious leader to question a person’s faith is disgraceful.” What kind of religious leader would do a thing like that?

Well, obviously … the Pope, for one!

And then there’s the apostle Paul. Even though he never met a Republican (and I guess he never will, now), when he wrote to the Philippians, Paul had some group in his crosshairs.

“For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ,” he said. “I have often told you of them, and now I tell you even with tears. Their end is destruction; their god is the belly; and their glory is in their shame; their minds are set on earthly things” (Phil. 3:18-19).

It is uncertain which group Paul is referring to here, but it appears to be made up of people who self-identify as Christ-followers. Certainly, in the first-century church, Paul had no shortage of adversaries.

He could be referring to those who wanted to force the requirements of Jewish law upon Gentile believers.

Or he could mean those who were preaching a false gospel—and whose behaviour was most unlike the example of Jesus.

Or he could be aiming his criticism at those amongst the Philippians who practiced immorality. Perhaps some of them even paid hush-money to porn stars. Who knows?

Whoever they are, Paul is clear about their lifestyle. They “live as enemies of the cross of Christ … their god is the belly … their glory is in their shame … their minds are set on earthly things.”

Notice that Paul is describing a pattern of life. He is not referring to individual sins, as such—but to a complete way of being. A kind of systematic wickedness. He is calling out those whose mindset, actions and worldview stand opposed to the way of Jesus.

The apostle is not condemning sincere but flawed Christians who occasionally (or even frequently) mess up. Which is good news. Because that’s pretty much all of us, isn’t it?

Anyway, whatever group Paul is referencing, he clearly regards them as a serious threat to the church in Philippi.

Now, Philippi was a city in Macedonia—a stop on one of the main roads between East and West in the Roman Empire. The Christian community in Philippi was the first church Paul established on European soil, and he maintained a close and happy relationship with the Philippians through all the years that followed. These folks were dear to the apostle’s heart.

He cared about their souls, and he cared about their lives. And he worried about what he had heard was going on around—and possibly even within—their family of faith.

Again, we don’t know exactly what that was. But if you’ve been part of a church congregation—any church congregation—for any length of time, you’ll know something about the kinds of bad behaviour that can creep into its common life: practices which can erode people’s trust, and even begin to gnaw away at their faith.

Usually, this bad behaviour is not spectacular. But sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s as profoundly evil as sexual abuse by clergy which is covered up by ecclesiastical authorities, like in that “Spotlight” movie with Rachel McAdams. Sometimes it takes the form of outrageous financial wrongdoing—where sacrificial donations from the faithful are squandered on expensive automobiles and private jet airplanes (and even air-conditioned doghouses).

But usually, it’s more subtle. And all the more insidious because of that.

Know what I mean?

Gossip. Backbiting. Malicious talk. Harsh criticism. Smouldering resentments. Petty rivalries. Power-tripping. Or self-righteousness. Or a defeatist and despairing attitude. Or even the kind of apathy that sits idly by while just a handful of faithful folks do all the hard work—all the heavy lifting of church life—until they are exhausted and burnt out and feel like giving up and walking away.

All of these are examples of lovelessness.

You can probably think of a whole bunch else, and perhaps you’ve even experienced it yourself. If you’ve dealt with that kind of stuff, and been hurt by it, and you still show up for worship on a Sabbath or Sunday morning … Well, my hat is off to you. Sadly, every age and every place—and even every church—has its own “enemies of the cross.”

Make no mistake about it; these are toxic people. They may not reside at 666 Pennsylvania Avenue, but they are just as surely enemies of the cross of Christ.

At any rate, in his letter to the church at Philippi, Paul offers an antidote to this kind of spiritual poison. His advice is found in the summons which begins our epistle lesson.

He asks the Philippians to consider two versions of the Christian life. After denouncing the behaviour of some, he says: “Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us.”

Pastorally, this is an enormous claim. Paul is basically laying out two worldviews—and asking the Philippians to choose the one that  he and other faithful believers are modelling.

So what is this model based on? What is the foundation of Paul’s exhortations?

The answer is found in verses 20 and 21. Paul tells the Philippians that, ultimately, they do not belong to the environment in which they find themselves. They belong to another realm.

And so do we: “… our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Here, Paul underscores a vital truth. The Philippians—and, indeed, all Christians in every time and place—need to understand which citizens of which realm they are; because this understanding will determine their choice of behaviours. And their choice of behaviours will either encourage others, or it will drag them down. It will either point others toward Christ, or drive them away from him.

Take note: this passage from Philippians uses personal example as a source of encouragement. Just like Paul, we can offer our own behaviour to help others live as faithful disciples of Jesus. Paul issues this appeal to all people in every age who would claim heavenly citizenship.

Here, perhaps, I should reiterate the point I made before: the apostle is describing a pattern of life. A way of life. A habit of “pressing on toward the goal” (Phil. 3:14). Of “running the race” (1 Cor. 9:24).

As runners, we will stumble from time to time. And sometimes we will miss the goal. Even Paul, who dares to present himself as an example of faithfulness, confesses in chapter seven of Romans, “I can will what is right, but I cannot [always] do it” (Rom. 7:18b).

In today’s passage from Philippians, Paul urges believers not simply to “behave” 100 percent of the time—because no one of us can do that—but rather to adopt a Christ-like pattern of living. He asks us to look at the meaning of everything we do: to see our behaviour as being related to a much higher power and to an infinitely grander reality.

Part of that living-pattern involves getting back up again after we fall down. It involves a willingness to admit wrongdoing and, whenever possible, to make amends. Such humility offers others a faithful testimony that far outstrips any show of pretended righteousness.

Not that such transparency is an easy thing. It’s not. Of course it’s not. It goes against the earthly status quo. It contradicts the conventional wisdom that says we should always look out for our own interests, and seek our own advantage, and never, ever admit mistakes. Just claim it’s all “fake news.”

In this increasingly secular world, it’s difficult to even speak about our Christian convictions, much less act upon them. Christofascists may place a man in the highest realms of earthly power, but increasingly, people of faith are being pushed to the margins of society. Or deported across borders.

That’s why it’s so important for believers to gather into community and encourage one another. If that reminds you of a Bible passage, perhaps it’s this one—from chapter 10 of the Letter to the Hebrews: “… let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching” (Heb. 10:24-25).

We really need our mutual support, because we truly are sojourners in a foreign land. Many years ago, where I grew up in Manitoba, there was a particular highway leading south from Winnipeg. And there were quite a few rural churches along that road. One of them, particularly, sticks in my mind.

Even after all this time, I remember it vividly. It was actually a gigantic Quonset hut—a prefabricated structure of corrugated galvanized steel—that had been converted into a church building. It had kind of a “churchy” façade added onto the front, but you could clearly see the semi-circular body of the thing behind it.

That part of the structure had been whitewashed, and upon the side that faced the highway, five words had been painted in large green letters. They spelled out, “To God be the Glory.”

After all these years, I still remember the feeling that welled up inside me as I read those words. In those days, I often felt bitterly alone on my journey of faith. There were not a great many places (at least not amongst my peers) where matters of faith were acceptable to speak of. And, honestly, I felt out of place most of the time as I sought to live out what I believed. On that particular day, when I first saw those painted words—“To God be the Glory”—it filled my heart with joy to behold this tangible reminder that there were others who claimed the same citizenship as me.

I think it is still true that you and I are always, to some degree, out of place in this world. And it seems to me that the best way to combat this sense of “out-of-placeness” is to seek the company of our fellow aliens and foreigners. Because it is in Christian community that you and I can find encouragement and support and much-needed fellowship.

In Christian community, we can be completely ourselves. In Christian community, we can let our guard down for a while, in the presence of others who share our faith, who love our Lord, who practice Christian compassion—people who will not condemn us, but who will help us onto our feet again whenever we stumble.

At least, that’s the ideal. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.

No congregation—no family—will ever be perfectly like that. Which is why it’s so important for us to persevere; to value one another, to bear with one another, to forgive one another: to build up the body of Christ so that each one of us may live, day by day by day, for God’s own glory … just as that Quonset church building … and the apostle Paul himself … and even the great Fanny Crosby would remind us:

To God be the glory, great things he hath done … and give him the glory, great things he hath done! ⁵

^{___________________}

¹ https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/trump-canada-steel-alumimum-tariffs-1.7480309

² “South of the border.” Americans, this means you. You are south of the border to us in Canada. We are to the north of your country (up at the top of the map). That’s why we’re called “the great white north.” Please don’t confuse us with Mexico.

³ http://www.nydailynews.com/news/politics/pope-francis-declares-donald-trump-not-christian-article-1.2536156

⁴ http://www.tmz.com/2016/02/18/donald-trump-pope-christian/#ixzz40fFx7Wts

⁵ “To God Be the Glory” lyrics by Frances J. Crosby (1875)

 

First Sunday in the Midst of Lent (Year C)

Text: Luke 4:1-13

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. (Luke 4:1-2)

 

This past week, Donald Trump delivered a triumphant address to a joint session of Congress. Or at least, to those members who were not ejected for telling the truth or who did not leave the assembly in protest.

As some Democratic lawmakers wore blue and yellow scarves to show support for Ukraine—and his fellow Republicans cheered and applauded his every word—Trump gloated over his recent shameful televised bullying of embattled Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelenskyy, touted his administration’s actions on border protection, immigration, and drastic budget cuts by the newly-created Department of Government Efficiency. He also repeated his lie that the United States pays subsidies to Canada and to Mexico of “hundreds of billions of dollars,” and reiterated his intentions to take control of the Panama Canal and Greenland.

Echoing another would-be Antichrist who once promised that his “master race” would rule the world, the current occupant of 666 Pennsylvania Avenue¹ asserted his determination to forge the “most advanced, most dynamic and most dominant civilization ever to exist on the face of this Earth.”

This is the same man who has said he will make my country—Canada—into the “51st state” by softening us up for annexation by imposing unreasonable and illegal tariffs designed to cripple our economy and bring Canadians to their knees.

It is noteworthy, I think, that he delivered his message on the eve of the beginning of Lent. The season of Lent, of course, commemorates the 40 days Jesus spent fasting in the desert and enduring temptation by Satan, according to the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke.

With an estimated 9,831 words, Trump’s address was the longest of any American president in history. He spoke for nearly 100 minutes, displaying his familiar psychopathological sadism as he promised to turn stones into bread for the American people.

He can’t, of course. He thinks he can, because he sincerely believes that all the kingdoms of the world will soon be handed over to him. Perhaps he even imagines himself to be immortal as, beginning his second presidential term at 78 years of age, he openly muses about pursuing a constitutionally-prohibited third one.

Mr. Trump, you should pay heed to the words of the Ash Wednesday liturgy: “Remember, O man, that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.”

Do not put the Lord your God to the test. One way or another, every petty despot meets his end. Often in a quite terrible way. Make no mistake about it. Divine justice is a real thing.

That’s worth thinking about through the season of Lent, which lasts until the evening of Holy Saturday (April 19th, this year).

Many observant Christians practice a Lenten spiritual discipline, such as giving up a personal pleasure. To my fellow Canadians, I offer up a Lenten challenge: for the remainder of this season—insofar as it is feasible—give up purchasing American-origin products.² Even though I realize it’s largely a symbolic gesture (and likely impossible to follow completely) I believe it is a significant one.

Pour that Kentucky bourbon down the sink. Choose cranberry cocktail instead of Florida orange juice. Look for the maple leaf when you purchase groceries, and remember that, while “made in Canada” is good, “product of Canada” is even better.

Especially in my native land, we may be facing a more punishing Lenten fast than we have ever experienced—and a season of privation which will last much longer than 40 days. But remember this:

You can face down the devil. No “prince of this world” has power over our Christ.

___________

¹ Hey, if Trump can rename mountains and seas, surely I can change his address.

² Here are two helpful websites:

https://cuat.ca/posts/how-canadians-can-boycott-american-products-and-replace-them

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Cv_C7Bop687xrA1x-q0dDOypKYeSifgkhSTyAm3HALA/edit?tab=t.0#heading=h.i4s6xcu98zb3

 

 

Transfiguration Sunday (Year C)

Text: Luke 9:28-36

And while [Jesus] was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. (Luke 9:29)

 

Years ago, I was in active ministry in what was then called Kamloops-Okanagan Presbytery, which covered about 160,000 square kilometres (almost 100,000 square miles) of the British Columbia interior. We used to have regular meetings where delegates from all over the region would gather in a kind of denominational parliament. One of the things I most appreciated about presbytery meetings in that neck of the woods was that they weren’t all business. Along with the usually quite mundane dreariness of church government, we got some stuff that was just plain fun.

The people who organized these meetings ensured that those who made the long trek to serve in that court of the church had a chance to unwind and relax and get to know one another.

One time, at a wind-up meeting, the fun took the shape of a “coffee house” in the United Church hall. I guess you could say it was sort of a “Presbytery Talent Night.” There were musicians, and singers, and even a couple of stand-up comedians—and much of it was impromptu.

Anyway, I was quite surprised on that Saturday evening when a retired minister I knew—a man who was normally quiet and reserved—got on stage to sing!

I never would have expected that of him—to stand up in front of people and sing. But he did it, and he did it well. In fact, he was amazingly good. And so, I saw a side of him that I had never glimpsed before.

In a far more profound sense, this was the kind of experience the disciples had at the Transfiguration of Jesus.

Picture it. Upon a mountaintop, Peter, James, and John see an entirely different side of this teacher whom they have been following. These three have travelled with Jesus, walking with him across the Galilean countryside. Surely they know this man intimately.

Yet now, with crystal clarity, they suddenly realize that this Jesus is not just a good man, not merely a great prophet, not simply a miracle worker. No. This Jesus is the Son of the living God.

For a moment, the veil of flesh is drawn aside and the disciples witness the unmasked, brilliant glory of the Christ. They see the work of God manifest in a human being, the face of God in a human face.

To say that the disciples were shocked is an understatement. Peter is reduced to babbling. Never in their wildest dreams had these three followers suspected what lay beneath the surface of this Nazarene carpenter’s son. Certainly they loved and respected this man, but they were unprepared to find God so wonderfully and fearfully present just beneath the surface of Jesus and his ministry.

But then, we never know just when and where God is going to pop up, do we? We can never predict when the veil is going to slip, revealing a burst of glory in the midst of the everyday.

We find it comforting to draw boundary lines between the holy and the secular, but our dividing lines don’t count for much. Heaven and earth are constantly getting mixed up together. If we look at the world through eyes of expectant faith, we may discover God in all sorts of unexpected places.

Whether we see it or not, the world is full of God’s glorious presence. The story of the Transfiguration reminds us that we are never far from God. Even when we cannot see it, we are surrounded by God’s radiance. Even when we cannot discern it, the protecting grace of God is behind us and before us. Behind the flimsy veil of what we call reality is the eternal, sustaining, strengthening presence of God. And it is close—as close as our breathing. Invisible to the eyes, perhaps—but not to the heart.

It is no coincidence that Luke places the story of the Transfiguration immediately after a sermon in which Jesus proclaims his own approaching death and the suffering of his disciples.

We Christians are not exempt from suffering—but we are exempt from suffering alone. All around us, God is working incognito in the ebb and flow of ordinary life.

And once in a while, we are blessed with a clear vision of God’s glory. Sometimes we get that vision on a mountain top, and sometimes …

Here’s a story I heard once. It’s about a man called “Joe.”

Joe was a down-and-out “skid row” alcoholic who frequented a downtown-core men’s hostel and mission in a big Canadian city.

Joe had been in terrible shape. The disease of alcoholism had almost destroyed him, and most of those who knew him thought he was a hopeless case.

But something happened to Joe.

Over a period of time, he got a measure of sobriety. Somehow or other, life came to mean something to him again, and seemed worth living.

Perhaps it was because of the preaching he heard at the mission (or perhaps it was in spite of it). Maybe it had something to do with the A.A. meetings he’d been going to. At any rate, Joe started to get better.

In chapel one day, while everyone was listening to the preacher at the mission deliver the sermon they were all supposed to hear before they could get a bowl of soup, Joe walked up to the front of the room and said:

“I don’t want to drink any more. And while I’m here, not drinking, I’m going to do everything I can to help the rest of you.”

From that day, Joe set about to make good on his promise. He did everything he could to help out at the mission. He considered no task too menial, or too disgusting. If a toilet needed scrubbing, Joe would scrub it. If someone vomited on the floor, Joe would rush to clean it up.

If a man needed help to get through the horrors of withdrawal, Joe was there for him. Joe helped serve the soup, and more than once he helped feed it, too—when a man was too shaky to hold the spoon himself.

Joe became the servant of all. He stayed sober, and he helped others stay sober and clean, too—if they wanted help.

Years passed, and Joe eventually died—but he died sober. At his funeral, the minister said that Joe’s changed life demonstrated the grace of God.

Not long after that, back at the mission, while the preacher was holding forth with another before-dinner sermon, another broken-down drunk came up to the front of the room. He fell to his knees and began to pray loudly, saying, “Dear God, make me like Joe, please. Make me like Joe.”

On hearing this, the preacher leaned forward and said to him, “Friend, I think you mean to pray, ‘Make me like Jesus.’”

And the kneeling man asked him, “Who’s Jesus? Is he like Joe?”

I think that’s a story about transfiguration. About grace. About God appearing in human form. It’s a story about the intimate closeness of God—a nearness which changes lives.

All around us, every day, God is being revealed within arm’s reach. But how often do we notice?

How often do we overlook the glorious presence of God in a human encounter? In a moment of beauty—or of pain? In an act of quiet heroism or self-sacrifice? In the face of a child?

These are fitting things upon which to reflect on this last Sunday in the season of Epiphany; the last Sunday in this season of light. Soon, another season will begin: the season of Lent, which traditionally has been a season of gathering darkness. As we begin our walk through Lent—our walk toward Calvary’s torment and Good Friday’s despair—we will do well to remember this: God is always present, even in the deepest gloom. And the light of Christ is always shining, no matter how hard the darkness tries to put it out.

May God remind us to look for that light—on the highest peaks and in the deepest valleys. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.

 

Seventh Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 6:27-38

“But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again.” (Luke 6:27-30)

 

Wow, Jesus! Really?

For most Christians, this is where the rubber really hits the road. It may sound great when we read or recite it, but …

Let’s face it. No one likes the idea of loving our enemies when we actually have to put it into action.

Imagine you are a Canadian, listening to the current U.S. president trash-talk your country, saying that it isn’t “viable” and should be taken over and made into “the 51st state.” Imagine what it’s like to witness your longtime ally turning against you, threatening a trade war that will destroy your economy and erode the security of every Canadian.

It’s enough to make even a polite Canuck slap a “A³B” bumper sticker onto their SUV.* You may even feel tempted to vandalize that car with the Texas licence plates.

I would suggest, however, that if you are a Canadian Christian, you are called to respond differently.

When we are living for Christ, we will have enemies. Jesus made the statement, “Woe to you when all speak well of you.”

If those who claim to follow Jesus—but whose words and actions betray that claim—are praising you, this should be a red flag. There are many such people, but they belong to the world, and not to Christ. The world hates those who follow truth. The world hates the real Jesus Christ who died for the sins of all and calls all of us into reconciliation.

The world loves a watered-down Jesus who allows them to live in sinful self-interest and never judges or condemns their actions. Any Christian who lifts Jesus Christ high, will draw fire from the world. The Episcopal Bishop of Washington is one example (see last week’s blog http://www.garygrottenberg.com/blog/of-god-and-caesar/).

Consider an interesting passage from one of Paul’s letters:

For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing; to the one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is sufficient for these things? (2 Cor. 2:15-16)

To the true Christian, those who lift Jesus high will be a sweet fragrance. However, those who reject the ways of Christ (even if they wrap themselves in his name), who choose to pursue a life leading to destruction, will hate the one who lives for Christ. Why? Because the real follower of Jesus exudes an aroma that reminds them of death.

You are the smell of death to those who are unwilling to choose life. Each time you lift up a standard of truth, it reminds the perishing world of the choice they are making. Rather than change their direction, they would rather stamp out any remembrance of the destiny they have chosen. But, fear not. To the Lord, you smell just fine. You are “a fragrance from life to life.”

Every day you and I make one of two choices. We either choose to be large, or we choose to be small. And what we choose affects others. 

If we choose to be small, we will keep score, act with violence, seek retribution, and make our relationships conditioned on who the other is and what he or she can do for us. 

If we choose to be large, it will be in recognition that something other than security, protection, power, reciprocity, and balancing the books is seeking our attention and animating our life. It will call us to be less fearful, less suspicious, less anxious, and less needy. It changes our attitudes toward others. It creates space for others. This is what we are called to.

So how can we make sense of today’s gospel reading while we are surrounded by enemies, haters, cursers, and abusers?

Certainly, we must stand up to our enemies. We are duty-bound to protest their actions, and point out their wickedness. But we must do this without ourselves becoming haters, cursers, and abusers.

Where can we find the strength to carry out this call? I suggest we do what Jesus would do. We should turn to the witness and the promises of scripture.

“When the righteous are in authority, the people rejoice,” the Book of Proverbs reminds us. “But when a wicked man rules, the people groan” (Prov. 29:2).

There will be times—like the present one—when the wicked hold great authority. And to be sure, the godless man will always oppress. Even though people may assume authority thinking they have noble causes, when self-interests or personal ideologies are not being met, oppression is often the tool they use to accomplish their goals. They arrogantly think of themselves as powerful instead of acknowledging that they are a mere human being occupying a role that is powerful.

From our perspective, we may see those in authority as invincible and untouchable. This is especially true when a person of influence uses their power to destroy those who criticize or resist them.

But consider these hopeful words from the psalmist:

I have seen the wicked in great power, and towering like a cedar of Lebanon. Yet he passed away, and behold, he was no more; Indeed I sought him, but he could not be found. (Psalm 37:35-36)

Picture a great tree growing in fertile land. It is big and powerful and sturdy. It has roots that run deep, a trunk that reaches high and branches that dominate everything around it. Like a strong ruler, it seems immovable and even indestructible. Yet when God determines the time has come, it will suddenly fall and will be no more. All the influence and all the power in the world cannot preserve the wicked when God calls for their demise.

As Proverbs 29 also states: “One who is often reproved, yet remains stubborn, will suddenly be broken beyond healing” (v. 1).

We have no need to take matters into our own hands because we cannot bring down the authority in place any more than we can advise God on his own plan.

However, our role is not to passively sit by or become complacent. Let’s take another look at the same passage that spoke of the wicked one’s downfall, Psalm 37:

Trust in the LORD, and do good;
    so you will live in the land, and enjoy security.
Take delight in the LORD,
    and he will give you the desires of your heart.

Commit your way to the LORD;
    trust in him, and he will act.
He will make your vindication shine like the light,
    and the justice of your cause like the noonday.

Be still before the LORD, and wait patiently for him;
    do not fret over those who prosper in their way,
    over those who carry out evil devices. (vv. 3-7)

We are commanded to dwell in the land, not run for the hills. When our personal well-being is under threat from a godless enemy, our call is not to run, but stand firm and follow God. We have the promise that when we commit our way to God, He will bring to pass the good that we seek. 

Filled with the faith and conviction that God was in charge of his world, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, Jesus lived fearlessly, loved courageously, and forgave endlessly. And aren’t we thankful for that? We are certainly thankful that Jesus did what he taught us to do: 

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven” (Luke 6:37).  

Jesus did exactly that for us all. Jesus did not come to judge us, or to condemn the world, but to save this world, and to love us. In the same way, Jesus sends us out into the world not to condemn it or to judge it, but to bless it and to love it. Moreover, he calls us to do all of this while trusting in the One who is truly in charge, even when the evidence might suggest otherwise.

I’ll close today by borrowing from an ancient prayer. It was lifted up by ones who suffered greatly at the hands of Norse raiders who came to devastate and pillage, laying ruin to the innocent:

“Our supreme and holy Grace, protecting us and ours, deliver us, God, from the savage race which lays waste our realms.”

Amen.

____________

* Don’t know what the “A³B” slogan is about? It’s like the “ACAB” acronym, except it means: “All Americans Are …” Tsk. Tsk. How rude.

TEXT: Romans 13:1-7

Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgement. For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive its approval; for it is God’s servant for your good. But if you do what is wrong, you should be afraid, for the authority does not bear the sword in vain! It is the servant of God to execute wrath on the wrongdoer. Therefore one must be subject, not only because of wrath but also because of conscience. For the same reason you also pay taxes, for the authorities are God’s servants, busy with this very thing. Pay to all what is due to them—taxes to whom taxes are due, revenue to whom revenue is due, respect to whom respect is due, honour to whom honour is due.

The New Revised Standard Version (Anglicized Edition), copyright ©1989, 1995 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. 

 

On January 21, 2025, the day after Donald Trump’s second inauguration as president, he travelled to the Washington National Cathedral to attend the interfaith prayer service which is held following each presidential inauguration. It included a homily delivered by the Episcopal bishop of Washington, the Right Rev. Mariann Budde.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past month, you’ve surely heard something about the fallout from this event.

In her sermon, Budde addressed Trump, who was sitting in the first pew, urging him to show mercy and compassion to vulnerable people. She said, “Millions have put their trust in you. And as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy on the people in our country who are scared now.”*

Budde specifically cited the LGBTQ+ communities, immigrants, and refugees fleeing from war in their countries.

After the service, the president disparaged Budde as a “so-called Bishop” and “Radical Left hard-line Trump-hater” on his social media website Truth Social. Trump declared the service “very boring” and demanded an apology from Budde, calling her “nasty in tone, and not compelling or smart.”

Trump’s allies also attacked Budde. Evangelical pastor Robert Jeffress condemned the bishop for having “insulted rather than encouraged our great president” while Republican congressman Mike Collins said that Budde (who is a U.S. citizen, born in New Jersey) “should be added to the deportation list.” According to Baptist News Global, Megan Basham and other far-right religious figures used the incident to press their views against the ordination of women as pastors.

However, Budde’s remarks were welcomed by civil rights advocate (and youngest daughter of Martin Luther King, Jr.) Bernice King, Pope Francis’s biographer Austen Ivereigh and other public figures, including the Episcopal Church’s senior bishop, Sean Rowe, who said that “a plea for mercy, a recognition of the stranger in our midst, is core to the faith.”

For her part, Budde declined to apologize, and told MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow that, while she can accept people disagreeing with her perspective, she would ask that “we as Americans and fellow children of God speak to one another with respect.”

By February 2nd, D.C. Police were investigating threatening phone calls made to Budde in the aftermath of the service, and—all too predictably—numerous critical posts on social media called the bishop to task for allegedly ignoring the scriptural injunction in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans: “Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God.” (Rom. 13:1)

Alas. It is no secret that, too often, this passage has been used to legitimize atrocities and perpetuate injustice in the name of God. In the past—and in the present—it has been dragged out to validate systems and structures of oppression that dehumanize entire communities by blessing injustice and giving it a new name: “God’s will.”

Call me a heretic, but somehow I don’t believe this is what the apostle had in mind. In verse seven, he writes: “Render therefore to all their dues: tribute to whom tribute is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honour to whom honour.”

For me, that raises the question: is every earthly leader worthy of “honour”?

On March 24, 1980, Archbishop Óscar Arnulfo Romero of El Salvador was assassinated while celebrating Mass in the chapel of a church-run hospital specializing in oncology and care for the terminally ill. Romero had become the voice of the voiceless under a regime characterized by death squads, tortures, rapes, disappearances, and killings. In his sermons, he called upon soldiers, the police, and the National Guard to disobey the State’s orders to kill civilians, arguing that “No one has to obey an immoral law.”

By 1992, 75,000 civilians had been murdered by the State. Was Archbishop Romero out of the bounds of Romans 13:1-7?

I believe this passage has to be understood in light of the whole Bible. Consider, for example, the behaviour of Shiphrah and Puah after Pharaoh had decreed infanticide for male newborns of the Hebrew slaves: “But the midwives feared God; they did not do as the king of Egypt commanded them, but they let the boys live … So God dealt well with the midwives; and the people multiplied and became very strong.” (Exodus 1:17, 20)

Or consider the reaction of the apostles after they had been forbidden to preach the good news about Jesus. They stood up to the high priest himself, saying: “We must obey God rather than any human authority.” (Acts 5:29)

But look … I know Donald Trump is not a high priest. Or Pharaoh. Or Caesar. He is the president of the United States, and as such he surely qualifies as the “governing authority” of the American people. He was elected, after all.

Mind you, so was Adolf Hitler, before he decided that there didn’t need to be any more elections. As he told an audience one time, at a rally: “Get out and vote! Just this time. You won’t have to do it anymore! Four more years, you know what? It’ll be fixed, it’ll be fine, you won’t have to vote anymore.”

Oh. Wait a minute.

I’m wrong. That wasn’t Hitler, was it?

But Donald Trump is nothing like Adolf Hitler, is he? I mean, for one thing, Hitler paid no attention to treaties or international agreements, and he had no respect for the sovereignty of other nations. On March 11–13, 1938, Nazi Germany annexed the neighbouring country of Austria, in violation of the Treaty of Versailles and the Treaty of Saint-Germain, both of which expressly forbade the unification of Austria and Germany. 

Of course, Hitler asserted that the people of Austria would be better off as part of Germany, and he said that this was in fact what most of the people of Austria really wanted. To describe this annexation, he used the friendly-sounding German word Anschluss, which means “connection” or “joining.”

Certainly, Donald Trump would never propose annexing his neighbours. 

Oh. Wait a minute.

I forgot. I remember he did say something about making my country, Canada, the “51st state.” Oops. And then there’s his proposal to annex Greenland and take back the Panama Canal, even by using military force, if necessary.

But surely there aren’t any other parallels between Donald Trump and Adolf Hitler. After all, Trump said he only wanted to be a dictator for one day.

Well, there might be a few, actually. Here’s one. Donald Trump has the support of a huge chunk of the American evangelical community, whose members he has called “My beautiful Christians.” Ah, bless the “American Christians”.

On October 27, 1928, Adolf Hitler, during a speech in the German city of Passau, said: “We tolerate no one in our ranks who attacks the ideas of Christianity. Our movement is Christian.”  

Ah, bless the “German Christians”—the Deutsche Christen. They were a pressure group and a movement within the German Evangelical Church, aligned towards the racist and anti-immigrant ideological principles of Nazism. Their goal was to align German Protestantism with those same principles. And they largely succeeded. In April of 1933, they effectively seized control of the German Evangelical Church Confederation, transforming it into a brand new, unitary, “national” church, which would be called the German Evangelical Church (Deutsche Evangelische Kirche, or DEK).

Hmm. I wonder. Dare I point out that Hitler also routinely condemned Christian leaders who disagreed with his policies? (Think of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Think of Martin Niemöller. Google ‘em if you don’t know who they were.)

As Christians, we are not called to blind submission. On this earth, we are always dual-citizens: of our country, yes; but also of the Kingdom of Heaven. We honour God and those around us by submitting to authority and cultivating an environment conducive to human flourishing. However, when there is a clash of kingdoms, we are called to be faithful first and foremost to the King of kings.

As a follower of Jesus living on the north side of the 49th parallel, I pray for my sisters and brothers to the south of it. I pray they will pause for more than just a moment to reconsider the path upon which they are being led, and look more closely at just who it is that leads them.

During his Farewell Address to the Nation in 1989, President Ronald Reagan put forth his vision of the United States of America. In doing so—and building on a phrase from the Puritan pilgrim John Winthrop—Reagan defined his vision of “the shining city upon a hill.”

“In my mind,” Reagan said, “it was a tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, windswept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace; a city with free ports that hummed with commerce and creativity. And if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here.”

I love that image of America as a “shining city upon a hill.” As I said, President Reagan was echoing the Puritan minister John Winthrop. In 1630, while still aboard a ship bound for Massachusetts Bay, Winthrop delivered his sermon “A Model of Christian Charity.” Referencing Matthew 5:14-16, he said this:

“For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us. So that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a by-word through the world.”

America, today the eyes of all people are indeed upon you. Today the eyes of your God are upon you. Take care what decisions you make next. Take care of your city upon a hill, lest one day it be said of you:

“Alas, alas, the great city … the mighty city! For in one hour your judgement has come.” (Rev. 18:10)

______________

* https://www.msn.com/en-us/politics/government/what-happens-after-you-ask-trump-to-have-mercy-threats-praise-and-hope/ar-AA1yiiUl

 

Fifth Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

TEXTS: Isaiah 6:1-13 and Luke 5:1-11

 

In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple. Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.” (Isaiah 6:1-3)

Simon answered, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.” When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break. So they signalled to their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both boats, so that they began to sink. But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish that they had taken. (Luke 5:5-9)

 

Why do you think people come to church? Ever asked that question?

In trying to answer that question, I’ll wager most committed Christians would say something about wanting to get closer to God.

Isn’t that one of the aims of a worship service? To help people draw near to God? To experience the presence of God? To encounter the living Christ?

Certainly, worship should be about all of that. But sometimes I wonder whether we really know what it is we’re seeking. We want to keep things calm and undisturbed and peaceful. We want a consistently warm and comfortable environment, because we think that will nurture our awareness of God’s presence.

However, when I read the biblical stories about people encountering the presence of God, what I do not see is calmness and peace and curated joy. No. What I see is awe, and even terror; a cataclysmic sense of vulnerability. I see people throwing themselves down on their faces, thinking they’re about to die. I see people who are suddenly not so sure they want to be close to God at all.

Maybe we need to think again about what it is we’re looking for on Sunday mornings.

In today’s readings we hear two well-known examples from scripture.

Isaiah went into the temple, probably not expecting anything different from what he usually experienced there; just a quiet time of prayer or a familiar participation in the corporate liturgy. But, suddenly, he is confronted by a dazzling vision of God—“high and lifted up”—seated on his throne and surrounded by seraphs: startling, six-winged entities who call out, “Holy! Holy! Holy!” so loudly that the foundations of the temple shake and the whole house fills with smoke.

Isaiah falls to his knees saying, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!”

Then there’s Simon Peter, going about his business as a fisherman. He’s met Jesus. In fact, Jesus has already healed his mother-in-law. However, at this point, he only thinks of Jesus as a rabbi with some success in prayers for healing. But in a surprising encounter in his own workplace, Peter suddenly hears the angels singing “Holy! Holy! Holy!” once again. He falls to his knees in anguish, pleading, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”

It’s a sentiment echoed in Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, where—after referring to his own encounter with the risen Christ—he immediately declares his own unworthiness: “For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God” (1 Cor. 15:9).

What is going on in these Bible passages? And how does it relate to our own hopes for greater closeness to God?

To be sure, God is love. And, yes, love can be comforting and welcoming and even familiar. Sometimes, though, there is also something absolutely terrifying about love. And when it arrives suddenly and unexpectedly and hits you like a freight train … you might get flattened. At the very least, you might fall to your knees.

We all know this. We’ve all observed it. Most of us have experienced it, to some extent. You know it especially if you have ever betrayed one whom you loved, and then experienced that person forgiving you. Knowing that, despite the pain you’ve caused them, they love you still. Looking into their eyes, you cannot stand it. And even though you’ve just been given the most precious gift in the world—one you begged for—deep inside you, something cries out: “Get away from me. I’m not worthy. I’ve sinned against heaven and against you. Punish me as I deserve and leave me!”

There is something about that look of deep love and desperate pain that burns holes in you, that rips away all your defences and leaves you standing naked. You know that you are loved, but it is more than you can bear.

I think that is what happened to Isaiah. I think that is what happened to Simon Peter. I think that is what happened to Paul. And I think that, at some point, that is what happens to each and every one of us if we would draw closer to Jesus Christ. For some, it happens at the moment of their conversion. For others, it can happen at any point along life’s path. God knows when you need it, but for everyone there comes a point where you’ve come as far as you can go on the journey of faith and the way ahead can only be trod by those who have looked deeply into the face of Christ.

For in that face is a love so high and so deep, so long and so broad that it can encompass the entire universe, that it can rejoice at the hatching of a sparrow and make stars explode to celebrate the return of a lost son. And in that face is the agonized pain of one who feels nails tear through his flesh with every litre of pollution that flows into the oceans, with every land mine that tears the limbs off a child, and with every thought, word or act by which you or I show ourselves to be less than human, less than we know we can be, less than the images of God that we were created to be.

When you look into that face, when you are engulfed by the extent of that love and that pain, you will, like Isaiah, feel like you are going to die; like no one can come out of such an experience alive.

Many a person gets stuck at “Go away from me, Lord.” They hold Christ at arm’s length, and for the rest of their lives they tell him, “Don’t come any closer.”

What will you do when you meet Jesus? Will you hold his gaze? Or will you avert your eyes?

That is the choice you have when confronted by the love of Christ. In fact, that is the choice you face at every step of the journey, at every experience of the love and goodness of God wherever it finds you. You can choose to turn away your face, say “No further, God,” and repress the memory, or you can fall deeper into the arms of Jesus, abandon yourself to his mercy, and go with him wherever he leads you next. You can be sure that just like Isaiah, Peter and Paul, the moment you surrender to the presence of God, you will hear the words of mercy: “Your guilt is gone, your sins are forgiven, be not afraid.”

And then will come the call: “Whom shall I send? Who will be my messenger, my fisher for human souls? Who will bear the love and mercy of Christ to others?”

That’s the choice we each face. Will you receive God’s mercy and hear God’s call? Or will you say, “Go away from me, Lord”?

That’s why we sing the same words as did the seraphim: “Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord.”

Will you risk encountering the risen Christ? Will you look into his face and receive his broken body, his blood poured out?

Still today, our God is asking …

“Whom shall I send”?

 

Fourth Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 4:14-30

 

Then Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone. When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read,  and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him … (Luke 4:14-17a)

 

“Today!” That’s how Jesus began his sermon: “Today!”

“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

He was preaching in his hometown synagogue—in Nazareth, where he grew up. By this time, Jesus was about 30 years old, and he had moved to Capernaum, a much larger, more cosmopolitan town. Lots of Gentiles lived in Capernaum. And so did lots of fishermen. And some tax collectors. One of them—a fellow named Matthew—would later refer to Capernaum as “Jesus’ own city” (Matt. 9:1).

I wonder how the people of Nazareth felt about Jesus moving away. In those days, young men seldom left their hometowns. Most of the boys that Jesus had played with as a child—now grown into young men—would still have lived in Nazareth. In fact, they were probably in the congregation on that Sabbath day, as Jesus sat to teach in the synagogue where he had grown up. I wonder how they felt, seeing their childhood friend sitting in the teacher’s seat.

And, I wonder how Jesus felt. It’s difficult enough to give a speech anywhere, isn’t it? I’ve heard it said that public speaking is one of the things that people fear even more than death. You’d think it would be especially difficult to come back to your hometown to speak in your own synagogue or church. Most of us would be quaking in our boots, wouldn’t we? And all kinds of things can go wrong when we’re nervous. Like not speaking loudly enough; or speaking hesitantly; or trying to speak and having nothing come out.

But Jesus, apparently, had no problem. Someone handed him a scroll from the prophets, and he unrolled it until he found the part that he wanted. Then he read a couple of verses from the prophet Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

That would have pleased the little congregation. They would have known this passage very well. Everyone present would have recognized these words of scripture—words that held great promise for them and for their children; words that spoke of a messiah who would come to make Israel great again—who would set them free from the oppression of Rome.

Now, Jesus stopped reading before he got to the part where Isaiah talked about vengeance—but the people of Nazareth knew that part very well, too. They were all looking forward to the day when God would wreak vengeance upon the Romans. So Jesus read this familiar passage from Isaiah, and then he sat down to teach. Every eye must have been upon him. Every ear was alert to hear what he would say next.

And Jesus … well, he did not hesitate. The first word out of his mouth was “Today!”

“Today,” he said, “this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

Luke tells us that the people liked this. And they responded by speaking well of Jesus; they were amazed at his gracious words. They had heard glowing reports about his work in Capernaum. Now, Jesus seemed to be announcing that—having returned to Nazareth—he would begin his good work there.

“Today!” he said. “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Today! Here in Nazareth!

I don’t know what everyone expected at that point, but they must have been sitting on the edge of their seats. Today!

Was Jesus planning to start recruiting for a revolution right here in Nazareth? Was he preparing to rain fire from heaven on the Romans? What did “today” mean? Did it mean that Jesus would begin today to deliver them from their oppression? Did it mean that he would win the fight today? Would the Romans be gone by nightfall? Could Jesus actually deliver on this promise?

Today! The people had gotten out of bed that morning to a very ordinary Saturday. Now Jesus is telling them that they can expect something incredible today. I can imagine the smiles on their faces as they waited for him to explain.

But then Jesus reminded them of a dark page in their history: a time when Israel had been unfaithful, and God had sent a drought. People starved. Then God sent the prophet Elijah—but not to save the Israelites. No. God sent Elijah to save a Gentile woman.

Huh? What? His listeners must have felt confused.

Then Jesus reminded them of Naaman from the Second Book of Kings. Naaman was not only a Gentile, but also a Syrian army commander—a leader of the enemy camp! Besides all that, he was a leper. And what did God do? He sent Elijah’s protégé—Elisha—to heal Naaman of his leprosy. There were plenty of Jewish lepers, Jesus reminded them, but God sent the prophet to help a Gentile—a foreign soldier.

Well, that was the last straw! They had expected Jesus to help them, but instead, he reminded them of God’s help to Gentiles—that is, to the less worthy; to the enemy; to outsiders. It was as if Jesus told them to expect a big winner today, but they would not be the winners. Even worse, he told them to expect the winners to be Gentiles! Even, perhaps, enemy Gentiles.

That was more than the people could take. They had heard of Jesus working miracles in Capernaum, probably even among non-Jews. But now that he was on home turf again, they expected him to do great things for them.

Jesus said, “Don’t count on it!”

In their anger, they wanted to hurl him off a cliff, but Luke says that Jesus “passed through the midst of them and went on his way.” So God saved him, this time. His appointment with death would come soon enough. But not yet. And what did Jesus do? He left Nazareth and returned to Capernaum, and picked up where he had left off, ministering to the poor, the oppressed, and the blind. To Gentiles, and outsiders, and people of no account.

Today! The day of fulfillment came and went at Nazareth, and those folks missed it. They thought of themselves as God’s chosen people—which was true—but they had also hardened their hearts against God helping anyone else. They wanted God to be their God, and nobody else’s. But God had other ideas.

Today! Christ is here in our midst today. He is calling us to love the poor, the captive, the blind, the oppressed, outsiders, people of no account, the undeserving. Even … undocumented aliens.

The people of Nazareth could not understand that, because they thought of themselves as deserving and the rest of the world as undeserving. They expected God to reward them; but they also expected God to zap the bad guys!

They just didn’t get it. They could not see that God was calling them to reach out to the undeserving—not to knock them down, but to lift them up.

Today! Christ calls us to do the same—to love the unlovely and the fugitives; to help people who just can’t get it together; to have patience with people who seem determined to drive us crazy; to show a bit of sympathy for the person who got what he deserved.

Today! We aren’t all that different from the people who heard Jesus speak in Nazareth. We hope God will be merciful toward us—but we want him to smite our enemies.

Today! There’s a reason why we find it difficult to help down-and-outers today. The fact is that we are struggling, too.

We barely have time and money to keep ourselves afloat, much less anyone else. How can God expect us to help the poor today, when we ourselves are struggling to make ends meet?

How can God expect us to help the oppressed today, when we work for a boss who makes our lives miserable? When we serve people who do not appreciate us?

We have our own problems, God! Can’t you see? Save us, and then—maybe—we will be able to save someone else.

But the truth is that the people who reach out to the poor and needy are often those who are poor and needy themselves. Someone who has suffered understands suffering. Pain can breed compassion.

Over a quarter-century ago, Mother Teresa of Calcutta spoke at Saint Olaf’s Church in Minneapolis. She called her listeners to compassionate action—to help others in need.*

When Mother Teresa concluded her remarks, a woman in a wheelchair raised her hand to ask a question.

The woman suffered from cerebral palsy. Her body moved convulsively as she spoke, and she had a great deal of trouble forming words; it was painful just to watch her try to express herself. 
Mother Teresa waited patiently. Slowly and haltingly, the woman asked how she could help someone else.

Mother Teresa did not hesitate for a moment. She said, “You can do the most. You can do more than any of us—because your suffering is united with the suffering of Christ on the cross, and it brings strength to all of us.”

What a brave answer! If the woman had asked me that question, I would have felt sorry for her and said she didn’t need to do anything. That would have been a mistake. The woman needed an opportunity to do something important, and Mother Teresa told her how to do that. She joined a group known as “The Sick and Suffering Co-Workers of Mother Teresa.” And that woman, in her poverty of spirit, became an inspiration to everyone.

She lived only one more year after meeting Mother Teresa, but she had an inspirational ministry during that time. People quoted her as saying: “We are fortunate to have a share in Christ’s cross. Lord, let us suffer without regret, for in your will—and in our gracious acceptance of that same holy will—lives our eternal destiny.”

Today! Christ came to that woman on that day through Mother Teresa’s ministry, and she found herself ready; ready to receive Christ, ready to obey his call—ready to suffer, if need be, and to allow Christ to transform her suffering into spiritual witness. She received a blessing on that day, and she spent the last year of her life giving a bit of that blessing to everyone she could.

When Jesus came to Nazareth, he said: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

The people of Nazareth were not ready to hear Jesus. They were looking for what they could get rather than what they could give. The result was that they neither received—nor gave—anything. The big day came, and they went away empty-handed.

Today Jesus comes to us in like manner. He asks us: “Will you join my ministry to the poor and oppressed? Will you reach out to the dying and downtrodden? The broken? The refugee? The illegal immigrant? Are you willing to love the unlovely?”



Today! Christ is here today, and he is asking for a piece of your heart. So don’t be like that crowd in Nazareth; be like the woman in the wheelchair—ready to serve. If you’re willing to do that, Christ will make it possible—today!

Be ready now, for Christ is here. Amen.

_________________________________________

* http://motherterissa.blogspot.ca/2009/10/mother-teresa-1910-1997-minnesotans.html

Third Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 4:14-21

And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. Then he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (Luke 4:20-21)

This coming Sunday, many will begin worship by naming the liturgical date: “Welcome to God’s house on this third Sunday after Epiphany.”

The Epiphany of the Lord is always observed on the sixth of January. The third Sunday following that date is “Epiphany Three.”

That may not mean much of anything to you. And for a long time, it didn’t mean much to me, either! I don’t remember the liturgical calendar and the seasons of the church year having quite such a high profile in the United Church of my youth. Maybe it did, and I just wasn’t paying attention.

In recent years, though, I’ve come to appreciate the seasons of the church year.

We’ve just recently passed through the season of Advent—that span of waiting and anticipation preceding the festivities of Christmas. And soon—leading up to the sheer joy of Easter—we’ll enter the season of Lent.

Traditionally, Lent is comprised of 40 days of somber reflection—relieved, thankfully, by the Sundays in the midst of Lent.

Yeah. The Sundays are not actually part of Lent. But that’s a whole other story.

As of today, we are about halfway through the season of Epiphany. Epiphany Day—on January sixth—commemorates the moment when Jesus’ true identity was revealed to the Magi.

The word “epiphany” itself means “revealing”—and it carries the sense of a sudden illumination, like a light being switched on.

Now, in the “Revised Common Lectionary”—the schedule of Bible readings that we usually follow—the gospel lessons for the Sundays after Epiphany have been carefully chosen.

In other words, they’re part of a plan. And the plan is to focus the spotlight on Jesus and then click the brightness up a notch, week by week.

It begins with the Star of Bethlehem lighting the way for the Wise Men, and it concludes with Jesus standing atop the Mount of Transfiguration, his face and clothing so brilliantly dazzling that those with him needed sunglasses!

It’s as if, on each of the Sundays during this season, we turn the dimmer switch up just a little bit more.

On the first Sunday after Epiphany in year “C”—which is what we’re in right now—the lectionary serves up the story of Jesus’ baptism, telling us how the Holy Spirit descended on him like a dove, and the heavenly voice spoke to him.

Then, on the second Sunday after, we read the account of the Wedding at Cana, when Jesus turned water into wine—and his disciples saw that, and believed. The light shines brighter and brighter on Jesus, and more and more people begin to realize who he really is.

But have you ever asked yourself, “When did Jesus know?”

When did Jesus know who he really was?

Some would argue that he always knew—and much of the Gospel of John supports that kind of thinking.

“In the beginning was the Word,” John says. “And the Word was with God, and the Word was God … And the Word became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:1, 14).

In John’s Gospel, Jesus always seems to know exactly who he is, and who he was, and who he will be. Not only that, but he seems to know exactly where he came from, and exactly where he’s going. John doesn’t give us an account of Jesus’ birth, or mention—as Luke does (2:52)—that he “increased in wisdom and in years”—growing smarter as he grew older.

Part of the reason for that, I think, is that John was trying to answer skeptics who were insisting that Jesus was just a man.

We Christians, of course, believe that Jesus of Nazareth was much more than “just a man.”

However, we also believe that he was fully human—that his humanity was every bit as real as his divinity. Faithful readers of this blog may remember that I’ve touched on this theme before. It’s what a young friend of mine referred to as “one of those paradoxes” of faith. Jesus was “fully God” and “fully human.”

If he was “fully God”—well, that helps explain why he could perform miracles and look into people’s hearts. But if he was also “fully human” … well, then, he must have had limitations, just like the rest of us. That’s what you mean (isn’t it?) when you say, “I’m only human.”

If Jesus was fully human, isn’t it likely that he came to an understanding of himself in the same way that we do? Slowly. Over time—and not all at once.

To be sure, there is that story from the Gospel of Luke (2:41-51) about Jesus’ boyhood, where he is found in the Temple, debating with the religious scholars.

You remember it. When his mother scolds him for disappearing without telling anyone, he replies: “Why were you searching for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”

Smart-aleck kid! It’s as if Jesus knew—all along—what the rest of the world would only much later figure out. Maybe. But then again, he may only have had a vague kind of awareness that when he was in the Temple, somehow—for some reason—he felt at home. That’s probably the case for many of you: you who grew up in the church, or who’ve hung around one for many decades.

Today, I want to consider the possibility that Jesus’ first complete understanding of his identity and his mission might have come upon him in the synagogue at Nazareth, as recorded in our gospel lesson.

It happened after he had been baptized—after he had heard the voice of God saying: “You are my Son, the Beloved” (Luke 3:22).

It happened after he spent 40 days in the wilderness, trying to figure out what it meant to be the Son of God.

It happened after he had been tested by Satan—and found himself more than equal to the test.

It happened after he had left the wilderness of Jordan and come up into the familiar lush green hills of Galilee, full of the Holy Spirit.

He came to Nazareth, his hometown. And on the Sabbath, he went to the synagogue, as was his custom. He stood up to read, and the scroll was handed to him. Now, perhaps it was a prescribed reading for that day—kind of like our Revised Common Lectionary. But, for whatever reason, what presents itself is a passage from chapter 61 of Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

Then Jesus sat down to teach. All eyes were upon him, as everyone waited to hear what he would say. So he took a deep breath and announced: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

And that was it. Talk about a short sermon! Very brief. Almost as if he, himself, was taken aback. As if he had just received a sudden—and staggering—insight. As if, in that instant, everything became shockingly clear to him.

I wonder: did he sit down because it was the custom for rabbis to teach while seated? Or did he sit because, all at once, he needed to? Did this scripture reading make him weak in the knees?

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,” he read. And it was! Luke says that it descended upon him in bodily form like a dove; that he entered the wilderness by its power, and that he came to Galilee full of the Holy Spirit.

“Because he has anointed me,” he read. That was true, also. In the same way that Samuel had poured oil onto David’s head to anoint him as Israel’s king, God had poured Holy Spirit onto Jesus, identifying him as the Messiah.

“To bring good news to the poor,” Jesus had read. “To proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”

In a flash of insight, Jesus’ mission had suddenly become clear to him. He was the Lord’s anointed. He had been sent to accomplish all these things.

Maybe he had to sit down for a minute. Perhaps his voice was full of wonder as he spoke to the congregation, saying, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

When was it fulfilled? That very day.

Where was it fulfilled? In that very place.

In one dazzling epiphany, Jesus understood—completely—who he was and what he was meant to do. Right then—right there—that Scripture had found its fulfillment in him!

I think I would have had to sit down, too.

Think of all those times—30 years of Sabbath days—when Jesus had come to this very synagogue. Come there to seek God’s purpose. Waited there for a word from his Father. And now the waiting had ended, with a clear sense of call. An epiphany.

Epiphany can come anytime, anywhere. It can even come during a worship service—as you sit, surrounded by God’s people, and by God’s presence.

The light can grow suddenly brighter, and all at once you can see clearly what you could not see before: who you are … and what you are meant to do. It can make you suddenly weak in the knees. But when you are able to stand again, you may find yourself more certain than ever of what it is God has called you to do—and how it is that you will reply.

This coming Lord’s Day is the third Sunday after Epiphany. But it could also be the day you circle on the calendar and remember forever as the day of your own epiphany.

So may it be. Amen.

Second Sunday After the Epiphany (Year C)

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’ And Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.’ His mother said to the servants, ‘Do whatever he tells you.’ Now standing there were six stone water-jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, ‘Fill the jars with water.’ And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, ‘Now draw some out, and take it to the chief steward.’ So they took it. When the steward tasted the water that had become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the steward called the bridegroom and said to him, ‘Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.’  Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.

(John 2:1-11, NRSVA)

Timing is everything.

Timing can be critical to the success of a joke, or an actor’s performance. In the world of finance, timing is a serious matter. We don’t want to pay our bills late—or miss paying them altogether! When we make investments, we want to buy low and sell high. When we take out a mortgage or a car loan, we want a good interest rate with favourable terms.

Timing is vital to our health. We want to become aware of a disease early, before it gets out of hand. If we have to take medication, we need to do it as directed.

Certainly, timing is essential when dealing with people. You need to be careful when you ask your boss for a raise or a friend for a favour. Catching that other person at the wrong time—like … just after he’s gotten a speeding ticket or she’s just lost an important account to a competitor … That will probably scuttle your request.

Timing even comes into play in such ordinary activities as cooking. “Better late than never” just will not do when you’re grilling a steak on the barbecue.

Timing is everything.

In our gospel story about the wedding at Cana, the timing goes all wrong. Not because the bride or groom speaks out of turn. Not because the presider mispronounces names or fumbles the vows. No. It’s just that the wine ran out before the party was over.

Now if it were us, we might call a friend aside and ask him to make a run to the local wine shop and pick up some more. But Cana is in first-century Galilee, not 21st-century Alberta—and so there isn’t a liquor store on every block.

In this time and place, running out of wine too early is not merely embarrassing, it’s a disaster! Wine is more than a social lubricant; it’s a symbol of the harvest, of God’s abundance, of joy and gladness and hospitality. And so when they run short of wine … they run short of blessing.

Timing is everything. The wine has run out before the wedding reception is over. And this is a catastrophe.

To make matters worse, Jesus’ mother doesn’t appear to have much of a sense of timing, either. At least that’s what Jesus seems to think.

“They have no more wine,” she tells her son.

Now, we don’t know why Mary was so concerned. Perhaps she was close to the family of the bride or the family of the groom. Or maybe she just was particularly sensitive to this kind of social faux pas. In any case, she expected her son to do something about it.

Jesus, however, seems to regard this as another instance of bad timing: “Dear woman,” he responds, “why are you telling me about this? The time for me to show who I really am isn’t here yet” (John 2:4).

Or is it? Mary knows better. Rather than raise an eyebrow at his tone or make an argument, she turns to the servants and tells them simply: “Do whatever he tells you.”

Now it could be that Mary knew her son would come around. He might protest, but eventually he’ll do what his mother tells him. Or perhaps Mary knew how to tell time better than Jesus thought. She was, after all, the one who gave birth to him. She was the one who nursed him as a baby and watched him grow. She was the one who dried his tears as a child, and followed after him when he grew to be a man. Mary knew that whenever her son was present, it was no ordinary time.

We know the rest of the story. Jesus instructs the servants to fill six large stone jars with water. Then he tells them to draw some of that water—now turned into wine—and take it to the master of ceremonies.

And once again timing becomes an issue. Usually, a host would serve the best wine first, to make a good impression. The cheap wine would be served later, when the palettes of the guests had been sufficiently dulled to not notice the drop in quality. But this host has bucked the traditional timing and saved the best wine for last! At least, that’s what it looks like to the MC.

And suddenly this couple has 180 gallons of fantastic wine—more than enough for even the largest crowd. No one would leave this wedding thirsty, for blessings flowed abundantly. And they didn’t even have to worry about “check stops” on the way home!

Timing is everything—and not just in this story, but throughout John’s Gospel.

In fact, there are two kinds of time that figure into John’s narrative. One kind is the sort of time we use to mark the everyday events of our lives. It is the sort of time that is measured in minutes and seconds, hours and days. It’s the time we spend standing in line, or commuting to work, or waiting at the stoplight. It is mundane, ordinary time—and it ticks on relentlessly with a dull, predictable cadence.

But in the Fourth Gospel, there is another kind of time at play, as well: a supernatural kind of time, wherein predictability fades away—and what emerges in its place is sheer possibility. This is God’s time, and it punches through the ordinary timing of our lives to offer a glimpse of eternity.

So when Jesus speaks of “the time to show who he really is,” he doesn’t mean a time and date on his calendar. No. He means the time when God will reveal his glory through his cross, his resurrection, and his ascension. He means that time when God will be accessible to all, once and for all.

That time, that hour, Jesus says, has not yet come.

Or has it? Once again, consider Mary. She seems to know—better than anyone—what time it is. For Mary seems not only to believe that Jesus can do something about this loss of blessing; she expects him to!

She knows her son. And she knows that, whenever there is need and Jesus is on the scene, resurrection and abundance are close at hand. Knowing this makes all the difference. Through the Holy Spirit dwelling in us and amongst us, Jesus is always on the scene.

As the apostle Paul once wrote, “The Holy Spirit is given to each of us in a special way” (1 Cor. 12:7). Because of that—because Jesus lives in us and we live in him—every moment is filled with divine possibility. Food and drink upon the Lord’s Table make Jesus’ sacrifice real in our remembering. An ordinary hug conveys boundless love and blessing. The smallest donation of food or money can tip the balance between scarcity and abundance.

A simple act of kindness can make all the difference in the world. And a smile—shared at just the right time—can shine light into the darkest place.

This peculiarly timed sign, you see, revealed something about Jesus. When he is present, anything is possible. Because, as John testified in the first verses of his gospel, Jesus reveals God’s grace in his own person: “The Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).

When Jesus is on the scene, God is accessible and available to all.

Timing is everything. But do we really know how to tell time?

Maybe we think it’s nine ‘o clock on a Monday morning and all that’s in front of us is a pile of invoices. Or maybe it’s 6:30 on a Wednesday evening, and time to start the kids on homework. Or maybe it’s 7:30 on a Saturday morning and time—finally—to sleep in.

To be sure, that’s part of the story, but it’s not the whole story. The other part of the story is this: God is at work in our occupations, in our relationships, and in our family lives: working to care for and redeem the entire Creation. The question for all of us—and for each of us—is: are we aware of that? And what difference does it make?

The truth is, God is present with us in all of the ordinary, everyday experiences of our lives. Through those experiences, and through our whole lives, God is at work in the world. To us, it may seem like time is dragging on. Or it may seem like time is running out. But here’s the thing: because of Jesus, whatever time we think it is, it is also God’s time—and when God is around, all things are possible. That remains true even when the challenges ahead seem daunting.

That’s good news for us, as we embark on this new year, and contemplate the challenges and the opportunities being presented to us. It’s good news for us, because—and I hope you believe this, because it’s the truth—our Lord makes this journey with us.

What greater blessing could we possibly ask for?

Epiphany/Baptism of the Lord

TEXTS: Isaiah 60:1-6; Matthew 2:1-12; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

 

Arise, shine; for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.
For darkness shall cover the earth,
   and thick darkness the peoples;
but the LORD will arise upon you,
and his glory will appear over you.

(Isaiah 60:1-2)

As I mentioned in last week’s blog, the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6, 2025, took place this past Monday, ushering in the season of Epiphany. The first Sunday after the sixth of January is called on the church calendar, “Baptism of the Lord.”

Sure, Epiphany begins with the visit of the Magi, who frequently show up in manger scenes along with the shepherds and angels and animals (even though they really don’t belong there). But, look … Christmas and Epiphany really are different seasons. Epiphany has a different emphasis than Christmas. Epiphany, I think, is far more challenging.

Christmas is no problem for most people. The message of Christmas—the images that are part of Christmas—are imprinted forever on our minds from our earliest years. And the images and impressions we carry with us are not just Santa Claus and reindeer and Christmas presents under Christmas trees; not just Christmas cookies and gingerbread men. There is a central, deeper image we carry with us—the image of birth, the birth of a child in a stable; the image of a real baby in a real place. And we know about babies; we have held them; we were babies once, too. And we understand in our very bones that all babies are, in some sense, a miracle.

The images of the Epiphany are another matter entirely. The meaning, in Greek, of Epiphany is “a showing forth.” You might also say it is an explanation of what the birth of Jesus means. Human beings are a stubborn lot. It takes a lot to convince us of anything, even if we see the evidence right in front of us. Needless to say, recognizing the appearance of the divine and the miraculous amongst us takes a great deal of explanation: a number of ways of looking at a profound truth.

If you have ever walked into a brightly-lit room from the darkness of a winter’s night, you will remember your difficulty, for a few minutes, of identifying anything or anyone you are seeing. What you are most aware of is the glowing, transforming light—not necessarily what it “means” or, at first, what it is helping you to see.

January 6—Epiphany Day—is all about the familiar story of the journey of the Magi: the Wise Men from the East, the “Three Kings” who followed a brilliant star; followed it to a house in Bethlehem where they met a young boy. And in this very human child, they saw something Divine: the King, the Messiah, for whom they had brought their royal gifts. In the Christian Church in the West, this recognition has for centuries dominated our understanding of the Epiphany.

In Eastern Christianity, however, the emphasis at Epiphany has been placed on the next great moment of recognition or understanding: the Baptism of the adult Jesus by his cousin, John. This happened, of course, at the end of a mass baptism of new believers, when Jesus was revealed as the Christ, the Son of God.

This revelation was intended not only for the first witnesses, but also for those who would read about it later … and perhaps, even, for Jesus himself. If the carpenter’s son had been, up to this point, seeking his identity—seeking his mission—it surely became crystal clear when he heard the voice from heaven saying, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Epiphany and baptism. Bethlehem and the Jordan. The small child and the grown man. I think it is entirely appropriate to celebrate these great events together.  If we do that, we are able to see them side by side, the two traditions informing and explaining each other.

The whole idea of the Epiphany season is one of enlightenment. The wonderful birth in Bethlehem contained such a great mystery that the people of Earth could not be expected to absorb it all at once. There had to be assurances; there had to be proof beyond doubt. The three kings, the Magi—who were indeed wise—would not have worshipped just any child. They knew when they had found divinity.

Years later, when John the Baptist welcomed new believers with water and the Word, he first had to make clear to them that he was not himself the promised Messiah. Then, when he baptized Jesus, everyone saw who the Messiah really was. All who witnessed the event should have realized the endless promise—and light—they had been given.

Each one of us must open the window into the Infinite that allows us to understand the miracle of this season. Whatever Christian tradition we embrace, whatever window we choose to open, the result should be illumination; the result should be a flood of light.

The imagery of Epiphany is full of light—the light of the star which led the Magi, and the enlightenment that took place when Jesus emerged from the waters of the Jordan:

• Light in our own understanding.
• Light in our very hearts and souls.
• Light which reveals.
• Light which makes all things plain.

Only weeks ago we experienced the shortest day of the year, winter solstice; and ever since, the days have been getting longer. Each new day contains more and more light. Considering that it is much more difficult to see even the most obvious things in the dark, this season invites us to travel toward the light so that we may see what it reveals.

“Arise,” says the prophet Isaiah. “Arise, shine; for your light has come and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.”

“Arise and shine.” Light is a symbol not only of revelation, but also of hope—hope for the entire world. But it can only shine brightly through us and through our actions.

Light makes things more visible. With that revelation, however—with that understanding—comes a responsibility. Jesus told us that we shall encounter him—meet him, face-to-face—in our sisters and brothers, and especially in the poor and needy, the sick and hurting. Once we step into the light, once we see clearly, we are called to bring all our gifts—no matter how humble—to honour Jesus and all that he stands for in our lives and in the world.

The light of Christ calls us not only to acknowledge the needs of others, but to minister to them, also. It calls us to come out from the dark places that represent complacency and false peace. So, during the Epiphany season—and especially on “Baptism of Christ Sunday”—we are both illuminated and challenged. We are given a glimpse of the Divine, and we are commissioned to a ministry.

Saint Francis of Assisi summed it all up in a prayer for Epiphany. He said: “Most high, glorious God, enlighten the darkness of my heart and give me, Lord, a right faith, a certain hope, a perfect charity. Give me, Lord, wisdom and discernment, so that I may carry out your true and holy will. Amen.”

And Amen.