Proper 12, Year B

Text: John 6:1-21

When he looked up and saw a large crowd coming towards him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he was going to do. Philip answered him, “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” (John 6:5-7)

Knox United Church was a typical urban church of our time.

Situated in a downtown district fled by the business community and now patronized mainly by the homeless and the drug pushers, it struggled to survive with an aging membership.

The congregation had faced and triumphed over many challenges in its long history. It had already come to the brink twice, surviving both times by merging with other congregations in the area. But now viable options were running out. After more than 100 years of mission, the Knox congregation was having to consider the possibility of ceasing to exist.

One day the minister proposed what may have seemed like the perfect solution to help keep Knox Church open.

What if the church refocused its energy toward a ministry among the poor and the homeless? In light of the economic decay of the neighbourhood, the proposal made sense. God seemed to be calling Knox to a new kind of mission, one that would make the gospel present in a concrete way among the destitute persons right outside its doors.

The proposal received some discussion in the congregation, but very few people were ready to embrace it. One hundred years of mission to be reduced to caring for the poor and the homeless—it didn’t sound right.

Besides, where was the energy to embark on this new direction? Where was the will and the money to make it all possible? It seemed more appropriate to let Knox die peacefully. Most people in the community felt a responsibility to protect the dignity of this historic institution.

Thus—after serious consideration—the church board rejected the proposal, citing the absence of the necessary resources to make it work.

This is what we might call a “faith blind spot,” a situation in which, after weighing all the options to a given problem, we conclude that it is impossible to find a satisfactory solution. So we abandon the effort.

In other words, we do not allow for the possibility that a solution may lie outside the range of our expectations or values: a blind spot that can only be illuminated by faith.

In the familiar story of “the feeding of the 5,000”—which is told in all four gospels*—the disciples are caught in a similar situation. Jesus had spent a full day of ministry among a crowd of people along the shores of Lake Galilee. As the sun began to set, the disciples became increasingly anxious. The crowd showed no signs of dissipating. In fact, it seemed to be growing larger every minute.

Anyone who has dealt with large crowds will appreciate the disciples’ anxiety. There are issues of security and people’s health to consider. What if a stampede broke out and some people got trampled on the ground?  What about food and toilet facilities?

The response to Jesus’ ministry—as exciting and dramatic as it may have been—was now posing a serious practical problem. It was a problem the disciples were neither expecting nor equipped to manage.

In Matthew’s version of this story, the disciples approach Jesus and say, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves” (Matthew 14:15).

Of course. Encouraging the people to disperse seems like the responsible thing to do. “Teacher, we have to let the people go now. Enough is enough. We cannot feed this multitude. We cannot ensure their safety. The longer we allow them to be here like this, the greater the danger that something will go wrong. Send the crowds away, so that they may go and buy food for themselves.”

They were simply being realistic and practical. No doubt, seeing so many people responding to Jesus’ ministry was very exciting indeed. But a reality check was essential at this point. A serious problem was looming, and the disciples were unable to see a solution within the range of normal expectations, apart from encouraging the crowd to disperse.

Jesus disagreed. According to him, there was a spot within the range of possibilities that could not be seen by rational means alone—a spot that could only be embraced by faith. That, according to him, was where the disciples needed to focus their attention. Do not abandon these people, he told them. With a little faith, you yourselves can provide what they need.

We have all been there at one time or another, both in our individual and corporate lives. The obstacles facing us seem so large and impenetrable—and the range of possible solutions in our view so impoverished—we are ready to give up. Against all reason, we take one step forward anyway. Then we realize that the answer was there all along, hidden from our view, a solution we could only access by faith.

One of the fastest sprinters of our time once confessed to a degree of nervousness—sometimes bordering on panic—before every major race.

“You have to understand,” he said, “that each one of the competitors stands a good chance of winning. There are no guarantees.”

“Then how do you take control of your nerves and go on to win the race?” he was asked.

He said, “I quit thinking, and simply go in there and do it.”

In other words, at some point he must stop analyzing the challenge before him and simply get on with the race, as a matter of faith. In doing so, he finds his way to victory.

We are not called to plunge into situations without thinking. Neither should we respond to the challenges facing us without a careful analysis of the relevant dynamics. Reason is an integral part of living by faith. On that basis, it is right and proper for us to seek trusted counsel as a means of intelligent decision making.

It is also important to remember, however, that in seeking to decide which action we should be taking in a given situation, reason alone cannot give us the full range of potential courses of action.

There are possibilities hidden from our normal, rational view, and accessible only by faith. Sometimes we need to simply take that step of faith, trusting that God will provide a way.

Jesus said not to abandon these people. With a little faith, you yourselves can supply what they need.

With a little faith, we shall become people who are accustomed to seeing mountains move! With a little faith, you and I can become human channels of grace for others. We will see the dead raised and the hungry fed.

For the kingdom of heaven to come, for God’s will to be done, sometimes we must work very hard. But sometimes, we just need to get out of the way and let God be God.

However big the problem is, it is never too big for our Creator to solve. May God grant us courage to change the things we can, and trust enough to let go of the things we can’t.

Let us never forget that, when our best efforts have been inadequate, we can place our burdens and our problems in the Lord’s hands. Thanks be to God for that. Amen.

_______________

* See Matt. 14:13-21, Mark 6:32-44, and Luke 9:10-17

Proper 11, Year B

TEXT: Ephesians 2:11-22

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling-place for God. (Ephesians 2:19-22)

There is a story that comes out of Poland from many years back. From the Second World War, in fact—at a time when the nation was, by and large, still devoutly religious.

In a particular village there was a man who was well known for his compassion toward others, and who was deeply loved because of it. He was not a particularly wealthy man, nor was he a native of the village, nor did he attend the local church. He was not even baptized. Yet, within this place that he had adopted as his home, he was known for his friendliness and good works. If a stranger came to the village and needed a place to stay, this man would offer a cot in his small house. If a family ran out of food, he was among the first to offer a loaf of bread or some flour from his own meagre supplies. If someone was in trouble with the authorities, or if the Germans (or, later, the Russians), were performing a sweep of the village to collect up the young men for imprisonment, or to conscript them into the army (or worse), he would help conceal the prospective victims. He was loved very much by the villagers on account of all these things and many more.

Eventually, the man died. The grieving villagers prepared his body for burial and proceeded to the church where they asked the priest to conduct a funeral service and to bury the man in the church cemetery.

The priest, who knew and loved the man as much as they did, told them that he would gladly conduct the funeral service, but that he could not bury an unbaptized person inside the church cemetery.

“I cannot bury him in our cemetery,” the priest explained. “It is hallowed ground. He must go where those who are not baptized are buried. Those are the rules of the church and I cannot change them.”

The villagers appealed even more earnestly to the priest, saying that the man was a good person and surely loved by God as much as any of the baptized, perhaps even more on account of all the good that he had done. The priest agreed with them regarding the virtues of the man, but sadly insisted that the rules of the faith were clear and could not be broken. Then he came up with a compromise.

“In recognition of your love for him, and of his love for all of God’s people in this village,” he said, “I will bury him on church land, near to those who have gone before him—those whom he has loved. But it will have to be beyond the fence that surrounds the consecrated ground of our cemetery.”

And so, on the appointed day a grave was prepared just outside the fence that surrounded the church cemetery, and the body of the man was processed by all the villagers to the site where the priest conducted the ceremony. Then the grave was filled in and a headstone was set in place.

Sometime during the night, a remarkable thing happened—something that became apparent when the priest arrived at the church the next morning. The fence that surrounded the cemetery had been moved so that it now took in the grave in which the man had been buried. Even in death, his friends had found a way to embrace him.

For me, this story captures something of what Jesus was all about; something of what the good news is all about … namely, inclusivity.

As the villagers expanded the fence to include the grave of the one whom they so dearly loved, so God—through Christ Jesus—expands the boundaries of the sacred to include both those whom the ordinances of religion would exclude and those whom the ways of this world would exclude.

Robert Frost once wrote, “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” That’s good news for us, isn’t it? Because we live in a world of walls. Dividing walls are everywhere we look. Barricades. Checkpoints. Border walls. Prison walls. Cultures. Religions. Ideologies.

Consider our everyday language. How often we call others “those people”, or use the term “they”, and “their kind” in our conversations.

“Those people come over to our country and …”

“They just don’t appreciate hard work …”

“Their kind always have their hand out …”

Who are “they”?

Often, they are the newcomers in our midst. People from another place. People with accents, or who don’t speak our language. People with a different shade of skin, different customs of religion and food, and different ways of being family.

But often, too, “they” don’t come from another country. Perhaps they are indigenous persons. Or descendants of settlers.

Perhaps they live in a different part of town. Perhaps they have no home to live in at all. Perhaps they are the addicted ones. Or have a mental illness. Perhaps they are minimum-wage earners who must choose between groceries or rent.

Whoever “they” are, they are different than us. Perhaps they are members of the 2SLGBTQI+ community. Perhaps they are conservatives or liberals. Catholics or fundamentalists. Oilfield workers or environmentalists. Animal rights activists or rodeo cowboys. Boomers. Millennials. Generation Z.

Perhaps they are naturists. Or perhaps they think “casual” means loosening one’s tie when the weather is hot.

The walls that we erect take many forms. Some pertain to our culture. Some to our way of life and of earning a living. Some are related to what we believe to be true about God or about Jesus.

We persist in building walls to keep away those who don’t share our understanding, who refuse to do things “our way.”

I think that’s why the Christian religion has so many denominations. I believe that’s the reason Jesus cried out when he looked upon Jerusalem, saying, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! See, your house is left to you, desolate” (Matt 23:37-38).

Consider today’s epistle reading. We are all in need of the reconciliation spoken of by the apostle Paul. We are all in need of a fresh look at just who we are in the eyes of God, and where we fit into the family of God. The key message in the entire letter to the Ephesians—the very heart of the epistle—comes from a section that speaks of the benefits offered to both Gentiles and Jews through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ:

For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us. He has abolished the law with its commandments and ordinances, so that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace, and might reconcile both groups to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it. So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father. (Eph. 2:14-18)

Here, Paul alludes to a prophecy from Isaiah (57:18-19). The prophet says that God notices that his faithless people are suffering from their infidelities, that they are exhausted from their rebelliousness against him. God saw their ways (Is. 57:18) and withdrew from them, but now has mercy on them.

“Peace, peace to the far off and to the near,” the prophet declares.

God, through the prophet, was addressing the Jews in exile (the “far off”). But Paul applies the image to gentiles who have accepted the gospel message. Just as blood sacrifice reconciled the Jewish community in covenant to God, so the blood of Christ has reconciled us to each other and to God, building us into one spiritual house wherein God may dwell.

The rituals and regulations of the Law that were given as a covenant with the people of Israel are by no means cancelled for them. But they no longer separate “the chosen” from the unchosen.

In Christ Jesus, all are made one—Jews and Gentiles alike. For, through Christ, all have access to the Father by one Spirit. The barriers of hostility, the walls of division, are broken down. God has seen our human condition and come to our aid in Christ, in whom God has made “one new humanity in place of the two.” A new creation has occurred. A new people of God has been made from those who formerly were enemies.

Race, gender, culture, biblical knowledge, political stance, heritage … these have no part in our salvation, for all are chosen by God and all are loved by him. God longs to gather all people together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and in Christ God has acted to do so.

That, my friends, is why the good news is good news.

Eighth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 10, Year B

TEXT: Mark 6:14-29

The word was getting around about Jesus, and soon even King Herod had heard what was being said … “It’s John for sure,” he said. “I had his head cut off, but he’s come back anyway, and more trouble than ever.”

—Mark 6:14a, 16 (Laughingbird paraphrase)

I write this week’s blog from Calgary, Alberta, where the “Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth” is in full swing. Thankfully, so far, the Calgary Stampede has only killed three of its rodeo animals (fingers crossed there won’t be more).

I desperately need to escape from the cowboy atmosphere which pervades everything here. So, today, I’d like to focus our attention upon a man who was anything but a gun-slinging hero from a Hollywood Western. As far as I know, he never packed a six-gun or wore a tin star upon his chest. He didn’t have to. He was in touch with something far more powerful.

You all know his name (or at least, you should). I’m talking about Mohandas Karamchand Ghandi (1869-1948), the father of modern India, who most of us probably know by the title “Mahatma” (which means “great soul”).

In the early 1920s, Gandhi and India’s National Congress Party began moving more and more towards civil disobedience as a chief political strategy in order to achieve independence from British colonial rule. In spite of numerous setbacks to his cause and violent confrontations with the authorities, Ghandi never gave up his vision that independence could be achieved without spilling one drop of British blood. He continued to walk his way back and forth across the country preaching his message of non-violent resistance.

As he did so, his reputation began to spread throughout the Indian subcontinent. Both Hindus and Muslims would come from long distances—on foot, with their bedding on their heads and shoulders, on bullock carts, and on horseback—just to catch a glimpse of him. Never before, it seemed, had any political or religious leader so profoundly inspired and mobilized the masses of ordinary people.

Even the civil authorities had to sit up and take notice. Although they resented deeply what Gandhi was attempting to do, they could also not help but admire what he had come to represent. Gandhi’s hold on the public imagination was tremendous—and that is the kind of threat that the rulers of this world fear most.

In today’s gospel reading, Mark plunks us down squarely in the real world of politics. This is the only significant story in Mark’s Gospel that is not about Jesus; and it is no accident that Mark places it where he does.

Jesus has just finished giving instructions to his disciples about how they are to embody God’s love in the world (Mark 6:7-13). Expect opposition and trouble, he tells them, but the only thing you need to take with you is the gospel and a confident faith. And then, Mark—as if to “slam dunk” his point—reminds us of the story of John the Baptist; and he does it in a very deliberate way.

He does it by reminding us that Herod was tormented by fear. Now, I should point out that this is not Herod the Great, who ruled Israel around the time of Jesus’ birth. No. This is Herod the Great’s son by his Samaritan wife Malthace. He was called Herod Antipas to keep them straight, but he was a chip off the old block.

Mark calls him “King Herod”—but in reality, he had only pretensions to be a king. True, he was the ruler of Galilee for about 43 years, and—aside from the Romans—he was the chief political authority during Jesus’ lifetime. Still, his official title was “tetrarch of Galilee and Perea,” a position made available to him as a result of his father’s accommodation with the Romans.

Herod Antipas never did get to be king of anything, but he was an ambitious man who enjoyed great power and wealth. He was also thoroughly despised by his Roman masters and by his Jewish subjects. Herod was the kind of ruler who thumbed his nose at Israel’s religious laws, both by marrying his brother’s wife Herodias and by building his capital city—Tiberias—on top of a pagan cemetery.

The story told by the gospels (and also by the Roman historian Josephus) is that he got into deep political controversy with John the Baptist. John condemned Herod for several reasons—but the one that really stuck in John’s craw was Herod’s marriage to Herodias.

John publicly accused this famous couple of “living in sin.”  That was enough to turn Herodias purple with rage, and she convinced her husband to throw the troublesome prophet in jail.

Apparently, Herod feared the Baptist almost as much as he feared his wife. He knew how popular John was with the people—and he knew that he might provoke an uprising if he mishandled the situation with John. Herod may have thought that if John was in prison, then at least he could keep an eye on him—as well as keep peace in his own bedroom.

But it wasn’t just fear that motivated Herod. He was fascinated by John and frequently visited the prison just so that he could hear him ranting in his cold, dark cell. The portrait Mark paints is of a man who is obsessed by the very thing he fears and despises.

“Herod took a perverse pleasure in listening to John speak,” Mark tells us. “Everything John said aggravated him, and yet he kept coming back for more.” (Mark 6:20b)

Unfortunately, this fascination was not enough to convince him to change his behaviour. And the day Herod decided to throw a birthday party for himself, he unwittingly set himself up for a profound embarrassment. It was a grand and decadent celebration which was bound to impress all of Herod’s political cronies.

However, the evening included an unexpected turning point (unexpected by Herod, at least). Herodias’ daughter Salome (who was actually Herod’s niece) performed a provocative dance that was intended to arouse Herod—and make him vulnerable to suggestion. Now, whether Salome herself meant anything by it, her mother saw this as the chance she had been waiting for.

Caught up in the moment, Herod gave in to both his lust and his pride by following through on an oath to Salome to give her anything she wanted. Herodias made sure that what her daughter asked for was John’s head on a platter! And that, as they say, was the end of John the Baptist. Or so everyone thought.

By the time Mark tells us this story, John has been dead for some time and Jesus has been actively preaching his own message throughout Galilee. Although Herod apparently hadn’t met Jesus, he knew that something equally as powerful as John was stirring out there among the people.

“It’s John for sure,” he said. “I had his head cut off, but he’s come back anyway.”

This is what Mark wants to tell us. This is not just a story to remind us of the dangers of preaching the truth. It is a story to remind us of the delusions of the powerful. Herod’s own actions have engendered in him a deep-seated fear about the results of his deed. He interprets what he hears about Jesus “and his gang” by imagining that John has come back to get him.

Neither is this merely a story to tip us off about what lies ahead for Jesus as the plot develops. Of course, a similar fate is going to befall Jesus, as it befalls anybody with the courage to speak truth to the powerful. But that is not something Mark’s church would ever have questioned. What they would have had doubts about was the effectiveness of such truth-telling. Would following Jesus and speaking truth to the powerful ever make any difference, in the end?

Mark says that defenceless, unarmed, decapitated, dead prophets like John the Baptist do come back to haunt the powerful of this world. And you know, that is the truth. It is a truth that has been embodied in heroes like Martin Luther King, Jr., Oscar Romero, Cesar Chavez, Anne Frank—and of course, Mohandas Ghandi, who said that what kept him going in the face of apparently unbeatable opposition was the deep conviction, not just that love would eventually conquer, but that evil would inevitably defeat itself.

“When I despair,” he said, “I remember that throughout history tyrants and dictators have always failed in the end. Think of it. Always.”

Those words can offer us hope even in these frightening times when tyrants and dictators—and terrorists—still exert their malevolent power over the hearts and minds of many. Hatred is a powerful force; but it is also a heavy burden, and those who embrace it will, eventually, themselves be crushed by its enormous weight.

The power of love is different; it does not oppress, but rather lifts up—even in the worst of circumstances, the power of love is a buoyant force. I think that just may be what Jesus meant when he said:

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” —Matt. 11:28-30 (NRSV)

Amen.

____________________________

 

MARK’S GOSPEL quotations from Laughingbird paraphrase ©2000 Nathan Nettleton (access at www.laughingbird.net)

MATTHEW 11:28-30. The New Revised Standard Version (Anglicized Edition), ©1989, 1995 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Halfway through 2024 …

• A deadly stalemate continues in Ukraine, with no end in sight.
• In Palestine, we see a bleak future for Gaza and the West Bank as the spectre of a wider Middle East War looms ever larger.
• In Yemen and the Red Sea, rising tensions threaten peace and international security.
• Civilian casualties mount as government forces battle Fano militia in Ethiopia’s Amhara region.
• In Sudan, thousands starve as a long war drags on.
• In the Democratic Republic of Congo, fighting in North Kivu province has sent over 1.7 million people fleeing their homes, driving up the number displaced in Congo by multiple conflicts to a record 7.2 million.
• In Myanmar, the Rohingya genocide intensifies as war ages in Rakhine state.
• In Haiti, Kenyan police struggle to impose order as criminal gangs and vigilantes battle in the streets.
• In Mexico, deadly political and criminal power struggles continue.

Holy God, we who are surrounded by voices raised in protest and in anguish bring before you the wrongs from which humanity still suffers. Remembering that you are the Creator of the whole human family, we pray for those upon whom are inflicted the cruelties of war: those who are killed, maimed, and made homeless by armed conflict; those who are mistreated by members of occupying forces; those who are brutalized by what they are ordered to do; those who are forced to fight against their conscience.

We pray for those who are denied their liberty: those who are persecuted for their religious views; those compelled to live and work as slaves; those denied access to education and health care. Make us more open to new ideas—and more able to see the face of Christ in the face of every neighbour.

We pray for those who stand against injustice and oppression: those who protest publicly; those who rouse opinion by their speech and writing; those who bring just concerns to the attention of politicians and others in authority. By the power of your Holy Spirit, make them willing first of all to appeal to the judgment and the conscience; guide them as they ponder whether to use violent means to right extreme wrongs; preserve them from corrupting those whose cause they take up—from destroying some while liberating others.

Great, mysterious, Triune God, we thank you for standing with us as we work for justice and peace—for it is difficult work. In many cases it seems that we can only have one without the other: peace, at the cost of perpetuating injustice; or justice, at the cost of a broken peace. O God, show all people how they can strive for justice without recourse to the violence of war; and—if a nation must go to war—may it not cause more evil than it seeks to remove.

O God, speak strong words of courage to those who must live out their lives facing challenge as it comes. Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy name.

PRAYER FOR DELIVERANCE:

From a spirit of contention which would destroy our unity;

Good Lord, deliver us.

From a spirit of rage which would destroy our love;

Good Lord, deliver us.

From a spirit of despair which would destroy our hope;

Good Lord, deliver us.

From pride of self which leaves no room for your Spirit;

Good Lord, deliver us—for Jesus’ sake.

Amen.

 

טְלִיחָא קוּמִי (“Little girl, I say to you, get up!”)

Sixth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 8, Year B

TEXT: Mark 5:21-43

When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered round him; and he was by the lake. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet … (Mark 5:21-22)

Jesus had sailed over from the eastern shore of Lake Galilee, where he had been very busy. Now, stepping ashore on the more familiar north-western bank, Jesus was immediately met by one of the leaders of the local synagogue—a man named Jairus, whose 12-year-old daughter was gravely ill. Jairus begged Jesus to come immediately and lay his healing hands upon her. Right away, Jesus agreed to help, and they set off together.

The journey, however, was slow because of the pressure from the crowd. As Jesus worked his way ahead, a diseased woman, with astounding faith and courage, reached out her hand to touch the hem of his garment, trusting that this would heal her—and it did! Jesus publicly commended her faith, and sent her on her way in peace.

But then—just as Jesus finished dealing with the woman—a message arrived for Jairus, telling him it was too late. His young daughter was dead.

Even so, Jesus was undeterred. He simply told Jairus not to panic but to have faith. Having said this, he continued on his way to the house. Upon arriving there, Jesus found a scene of pitiful despair. Relatives and neighbours were gathered around weeping and wailing for the dead girl.

Then Jesus made a shocking statement: “Why are you making so much fuss? The girl is not dead, but sleeping.” Hearing this, they mocked him. And that’s not hard to understand.

So Jesus ordered the mourners to go outside. Then, taking with him just the father and mother, and some of his disciples, Jesus went into the girl’s room. Taking her by the hand, Jesus said: “Talitha cum!”

In the Aramaic language, that means “Little girl, I tell you, rise up!”

The girl stood up and walked. Those present were stunned. Of course! Who wouldn’t be? But Jesus, sensitive as always to the situation, said to them: “The child is hungry. Give her some food.”

Mark plainly tells this tale as a part of his unmasking of the profound mystery that was Jesus of Nazareth. Something as deep as Creation empowers this fellow.

Previous to this incident, Jesus had stilled a storm on Lake Galilee. After that, he calmed the raging voices in a disturbed man’s head. Then he healed and blessed the woman who dared to touch the hem of his robe. And now he raises up a child who was presumed dead!

What on earth is going on here? That’s what Mark wants us to sincerely ask. Who is this Jesus? From where does he derive his unique authority? What is the source of his power?

Mark knows that, if only we will pursue these questions to the end, we will come up with a divine answer—one that will forever change our lives. That is the dynamic of his gospel. But the thing I find most intriguing in this story is Mark’s quotation of the Aramaic words, “Talitha cum!”

The actual Aramaic—the common language of the people in Jesus’ day—is what Mark uses. He wrote the rest of his gospel in Greek, but he preserved this phrase in Aramaic: “Talitha cum!”

Scholars generally agree that wherever the Greek New Testament reverts to the Aramaic, it is because a particular word or phrase was especially important to the early church. They loved to repeat such words, and recall Jesus actually saying them. It put them in close touch with their roots as a community of faith.

Why and in what circumstances were these words—“Talitha cum”—so treasured and repeated? I can only speculate, but my hunch is this: often in those first years of Christianity, when a loved one died, the bereaved must have been tempted to despair, with much weeping and wailing.

But because of Christ, such despair was inappropriate. Grief was appropriate, but not despair. Jesus had banished despair. So the actual words of Jesus were often lovingly repeated: “They are not dead but sleeping. Little soul, rise up. Talitha cum!”  That is the very Word of the Lord!

I wonder how many times in that first century these words of Jesus were lovingly repeated—when disease broke out, or when bloody persecution devastated the young churches. Hundreds of times? Thousands?

Blessed were those—and blessed are those today—who whisper, or sing, or even inscribe upon a grave stone, the words: “Talitha cum.”

I do not know that the male form of the words of Jesus would be in the Aramaic language. But whatever they are, I would be honoured to have such an epitaph: “Little soul, I tell you, rise up!”

This is the very essence of our Christian faith. The Gospel of Christ is Good News—not only for this life, but for eternity. As Jesus himself said in another context:

“Very truly, I tell you, the hour is coming, and is now here, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live!” (John 5:25)

Talitha cum! Thanks be to God for such words of hope. Amen.

Fifth Sunday After Pentecost ~ Proper 7B

TEXTS: Job 38:1-11 and Mark 4:35-41

Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind: “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me.” —Job 38:1-3

If any of you are familiar with the Revised Common Lectionary—which prescribes the Scripture readings for any given Sunday—you will know that occasionally several choices of readings are given. Proper seven, year B is like that. The passage from Job was listed as the alternate reading. The other choice was from the First Book of Samuel—and it was a doozie! It was the story of David and Goliath, for goodness sake—a veritable gold mine of sermon ideas.

So why did I choose the reading from Job? Why did I pick out this passage from what well may be the most disturbing, and obscure (and depressing) book in the Bible?

David and Goliath—now there’s a story chock full of all the stuff that makes for a great movie. It is impressive. It is an epic tale of good versus evil, wherein the underdog triumphs. The big, powerful, arrogant Philistine is brought down by this apparently insignificant young shepherd boy. And when David socks it to Goliath, we all jump up and cheer.

The story of Job, however, is not like that at all. Here, there doesn’t seem to be a clear victory by the forces of good. In fact, if you persist in reading through all 42 chapters, you may be left wondering just where the forces of good are in this story. I’ve always found Job to be a troubling book. Reading it almost invariably upsets me. Honestly, I’m not quite sure what to make of the story of Job.

Remember, Job was not only a righteous man, but also a genuinely good one—“blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil.” (Job 1:1b)

Job had been blessed by God. The Bible tells us:

There were born to him seven sons and three daughters. He had seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, five hundred donkeys, and very many servants; so that this man was the greatest of all the people of the east. (Job 1:2-3)

And Job was grateful. He never ceased to praise God for his good fortune, and he sought always to do God’s will as he understood it. But as the story unfolds, things fall apart for this good man. Satan challenges God, who has held up Job as a shining example of faithfulness. “Of course he’s faithful,” says the devil. “You’ve given him everything a man could want! But if you take it all away, I tell you: Job will curse you to your face.”

So—to prove a point—God takes everything away from Job: not just his possessions and his livestock, but also his children, and finally his health. However, God does leave him a wife (who tells him to kill himself) and three friends (who tell him his misfortune is somehow his own fault).

Finally, Job snaps. He curses the day he was born. He declares himself forsaken by God. He complains—at length—about the unfairness of it all, and finally Job puts his own challenge before God:

“I cry to you and you do not answer me; I stand, and you merely look at me. You have turned cruel to me; with the might of your hand you persecute me. You lift me up on the wind, you make me ride on it, and you toss me about in the roar of the storm.” (Job 30:20-22)

Finally, in the passage we read today, God answers Job directly. And what are God’s words?

“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me. Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding.” (Job 38:2-4)

Then the LORD proceeds to tear a strip off poor old Job, basically telling him that he’s just an ignorant human being, and he’s got no right to complain or to question.

I told you this was a troubling book! I cannot imagine a less flattering portrayal of God, or a more daunting passage on which to preach. And yet this passage is the one which, many years ago now, led my best friend into Christian faith. This very passage which I find so repulsive is the one which spoke to him—and spoke persuasively—at the end of the darkest night of his soul.

I vividly remember my conversation with him—and my own amazement—as he told me that God used this passage to end his struggle with doubt and despair. He became a Christian, he said, because of the way God spoke to him through it. God set him free from the “impossible need” to understand—and gifted him with the sacred ability to trust.

To this very day—even in times of severest trial—my friend displays a solid, serene confidence which transcends and surpasses all understanding.

Every time I read or hear the words, “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?” I think of my friend, and I re-visit my own astonishment. And I suppose the reason I am still astonished is that I cannot imagine myself finding in those words anything resembling comfort, or resolution, or peace.

But my friend did. And as I consider that fact today—and as I consider also our gospel reading for today—I see that there is in all of this something of a revelation for me (and maybe for you, also).

The revelation, I think, is just this: the Bible was written not for one kind of person, but for all kinds—“all sorts and conditions of men” as the old, politically-incorrect language states it. Because you see, for all the many things which my friend and I have in common, we are in certain ways very different.

He has always been brighter, and braver, and more analytical than me. His struggle with doubt had to do with understanding. He thought he had to sort out the problem of evil before he could believe. He was one who asked the question, “How can a good God allow bad things to happen?”

I, however, have always been more like the disciples who were in the boat with Jesus in our reading from Mark. When cast upon turbulent waters, I’m always way too scared to analyze the situation. In the moment, why it’s happening never seems important to me. The fairness of it never seems to matter. Making sense of it isn’t something I even try to do.

If my friend is like Job, who called God to account because he felt God had abandoned him, I am like the frantic disciple who rushed to the stern of the boat to grab Jesus and shake him and wake him up—all the time babbling and ranting, “Help! We’re all going to drown! How can you sleep through a thing like this?”

Probably also like that frantic disciple, I’m never really sure what Jesus can do to help, but I wake him up anyway—and then, invariably, I am dumbstruck when I see what he does.

If my friend was one who needed to be set free from the notion that he had to understand God before he could trust God, I remain one whose continuing need seems to be a need for rescue.

And whatever level of trust I have in God … well, I guess that’s shown by the fact that Jesus is the One I rush to; the One I turn to, the One I rouse and cling to whenever the sea of life gets rough. He probably wishes I didn’t panic so easily … but even so, Jesus always calms the storm, somehow.

And maybe, if there’s a moral in common between the two stories—between the story of God speaking to Job from the whirlwind and the story of Jesus saying, “Peace! Be still!”—maybe it’s just this: God gives us what we need. When it comes to faith, God gives us what we need, whatever that is for each of us: words of comfort, or words of challenge; a tornado that picks us up and spins us around, or a place of refuge from the storm.

It strikes me that, whatever it is that each one of needs in order to build faith, it’s really all about learning to trust. Or, to put it another way, it’s about learning what to cling to, and what to let go of. Before my friend could embrace faith, he had to let go of the idea that faith had to make sense. And as for me: well, I think I’ve learned how to cling to Jesus, even though I haven’t quite figured out how to let go of my fear.

But that’s okay. Just as God did not smash Job with the whirlwind, he’s never let me fall overboard, either. He’ll keep you safe, too, if you let him. And he’ll give you what you need—even when what you need surprises you. I think that’s good news. Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

Proper 6, Year B

TEXTS: 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13 and Mark 4:26-34

“… the kingdom of God … is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.” (Mark 4:30-32)

Today, both of our scripture lessons speak about the value—and the power—of small things. Jesus offers us two parables—and in both of them, the Kingdom of God is represented by a small seed. And in our first reading, we hear about how the prophet Samuel was sent to Bethlehem, to anoint from amongst the sons of Jesse the one man chosen by God to be Israel’s king. And which of Jesse’s eight sons did the Lord choose? Was it tall and impressive Eliab? No. Neither was it Abinadab, or Shammah—or any of the older brothers, in fact. After seven of Jesse’s sons have passed before Samuel, he asks, “Are all your sons here?”

And Jesse replies that, “Well … there is one more, but …”

“But what?”

“But he’s the youngest. He doesn’t count for anything. He’s just a kid, for crying out loud! I didn’t think it was worth calling him in from tending the sheep.”

“Send and bring him,” the prophet says. And so they go and fetch David from the pasture, and the LORD says, “Rise and anoint him; for this is the one.”

Small seeds. A small boy. Hidden potential—huge possibilities in tiny packages.

Human society, unfortunately, has not always valued the worth of its children. In the culture of ancient Israel—as in all of the ancient world—children were valued (if they were valued at all) for their future potential, but were not seen as all that important in the present tense. That’s why Jesse left his youngest son tending the sheep. That’s why the disciples of Jesus tried to shoo the children away—so they wouldn’t waste the Master’s time with silly games or childish questions. But we all remember Christ’s response: “Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.” (Matt. 19:14)

Small things count, Jesus said. The small, the powerless, the seemingly insignificant—these can astound us, sometimes. Like that mustard seed. The thing about that story, you understand, is that mustard seeds never do what that seed in Jesus’ story did. Mustard simply does not grow into a gigantic tree, so big that birds can make nests in its branches. No. At best, mustard becomes a small shrub. Jesus would have known that, and the people listening to him certainly would have known that. So the seed in the parable must have been some kind of bizarre mutant mustard seed!

Either that, or Jesus was using his characteristic humour and hyperbole to bring home his point about the Kingdom of God; that God’s realm—once it takes root in the human heart—can accomplish far more than we can hope for, or imagine, or understand. Children, it seems, have a better grasp of that than adults do. Or maybe it’s just that they’re more open to the beckoning of the Spirit.

If we’re willing to look around for examples of the power of the small, I think we will find them abundant.

One example I can think of concerns a young girl, whose name was Hayley. When I knew her, she was a child in my congregation in Kamloops.

The worship committee and the church board—with my encouragement—had made the decision to stop using the colourful, pre-printed bulletin covers produced by the United Church of Canada. Instead, we used plain, “recyclable” bulletins.

There was no “cover,” per se—the Order of Worship was printed on what would have been the cover, and prayers were printed inside, numbered so that a different one could be used each week. That way, we were able to get six or seven or eight weeks’ use out of one set of bulletins, before we had to print more.

The idea was to save on paper and printing costs—and also to be more environmentally responsible. And the plan did meet those objectives quite well. However, there was a drawback, and Hayley—who was eleven years old at the time—noticed it immediately. After the second or third service with the re-usable bulletins, she approached me with a concern—and a proposal.

Hayley explained that, if we weren’t going to be using the United Church bulletin covers anymore, then people would no longer get to see the Mission and Service Fund information that was usually printed on the back cover. And that worried her. Hayley felt that, if people weren’t told about the mission work of our church, they might stop contributing toward it. I had to admit, I hadn’t really thought about that. And—although I didn’t say this to Hayley—I was kind of skeptical that anyone paid much attention to those Mission and Service blurbs, anyway. Even so, I was touched—and moved—by her concern.

Hayley, though, came to me with not only a concern, but also with a solution. She had in her possession a copy of the then-current “Minutes for Mission” booklet from the national church. It was a collection of brief reports about the work of the Mission and Service Fund, designed to be read aloud during worship services. There was a two-minute piece for each Sunday in the year, and Hayley asked me if it would be all right if she read one of these each week, to remind people to give to missions.

Of course, I said yes. I didn’t know whether it would make any difference, but I was impressed by her passion.

Anyway, Hayley stood up in church the following Sunday, read the “Mission Minute,” and explained to everybody why she thought it was important that we do more than just take care of ourselves. She did the same thing the next Sunday, and the next, and the next … and in fact, she kept at it just about every Sunday for several years thereafter. Well, if I had been skeptical that people ever read what was on the bulletin covers, I soon realized—with no doubt whatsoever—that people were listening to Hayley. Mission and Service givings tripled within the first month, and—far more significantly—people sustained that level of giving, year after year.

Part of it, I’m sure, was that the grownups—witnessing the passion and deep conviction of this eleven-year-old girl—could not help but respond positively. However, there had to more to it than that. They wouldn’t have kept giving—week after week, year after year—unless, somehow, they had caught Hayley’s vision, and began to care about it as much as she did.

That, my friends, is like watching a gigantic tree grow from a tiny mustard seed. That is evidence of the Holy Spirit at work, taking the small effort of a lowly and apparently inconsequential person, and making out of it something immense—something truly great.

Let’s consider our own paths of faith, and look around to see where the mustard seeds might be planted. And where they could be planted. And where they are already sprouting.

Sacrament of Holy Communion

Proper 5A

TEXT: Mark 3:20-35

Jesus came home and, as usual, a crowd gathered—so many making demands on him that there wasn’t even time to eat. His friends [and family] heard what was going on and went to rescue him, by force if necessary. They suspected he was getting carried away with himself. (Mark 3:20-21, The Message)*

Family is as foundational a concept in the Bible as anything else. The Bible begins in Genesis, not with talk of nations and tribes, but families. Big families. Real families. With moments of dysfunction so great it makes your head spin—and gives one pause, hearing about “biblical family values.”

And, sure, there are other great metaphors to describe the relationship between God and humankind. King and subjects. Master and slaves. However, it always comes back around to family. Sometimes God’s faithful people are likened to the bride of the Bridegroom. And our infidelities are then compared to adultery.

But, most of the time we’re called God’s children. God’s daughters and sons who bring great joy, as well as profound heartbreak. And so, coming to God and God’s Kingdom is really like going home—to family.

In Mark, chapter three, Jesus’ family is either frustrated with him, or just plain worried about him. They hear that Jesus is drawing crowds again, and they go to restrain him, because people are talking. The professors of religion—the well-educated scholars from Jerusalem—say he’s “working black magic, using devil tricks to impress them with spiritual power.”

Other people say that he’s crazy. And his family is … well, likely, they’re embarrassed! Certainly, they’re also worried about what might become of him. Jesus, however, doesn’t seem to be all that concerned. After all, he knows how badly things are going to turn out.

Anyway, as Mark tells us, Jesus’ mother and brothers come to get him. They show up at the place where he’s teaching. But there are so many people there that they can’t get near him. So, standing outside, they relay a message that they want to speak with him. And the message comes to him: “Your mother and brothers and sisters are outside looking for you.”

And what does Jesus do? He responds with a question: “Who do you think are my mother and brothers?”

Then, looking around, taking in everyone seated around him, he answers the question.

“Who is my mother? Who is my brother? Right here, right in front of you—my mother and my brothers. Obedience is thicker than blood. The person who obeys God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.”

In other words, he opens up the tent and invites everybody in. Anybody who wants to come in—anybody who wants to join the family—is given the chance.

Who is his family? Those who do the will of God. When you do the will of God, you get the chance to be Jesus’ brother, his sister … even his mother!

Jesus’ family is a welcoming family. The front door is wide open. And while we may bring dysfunction in the door with us (and at times we can look like a group of misfits), the things we gain are amazing. And the greatest of those things is love.

Sometimes I am asked why it is that, in most places in my denomination, the Communion table is an “open” table—why it is that, every time we gather to break bread, we make a point of saying that everyone is welcome. Everyone. Member or non-member. Baptized or unbaptized. Mostly believing or mostly doubting. Everyone is welcome. Anyone who wants to may eat the bread and taste the grapes.

How come? Why do we do that?

In most denominations, before you can take part in a Communion service, you have to be an official member. You have to be baptized. You have to be confirmed. And there are good reasons for that, which have to do with different traditions and theologies—and different understandings of what is taking place when the bread is broken and the wine is poured. In fact, for some Christians, it’s extremely important that real wine is used—instead of the alcohol-free grape juice we commonly use.

Now, I’m not going to criticize what other believers do in other places. But I also will not apologize for our practice. Like most Protestant churches, we do not see the Sacrament of Communion as involving some kind of miraculous transformation where the bread and wine become—literally—the flesh and blood of Jesus. That’s not what we believe. For us, the bread remains bread, and the grape juice … well, it doesn’t even turn into wine!

However, I do think there is a kind of transformation that takes place here, when we gather round this table. Exactly what it is … that’s not so easy to define. Maybe it’s more metaphorical than literal. Or maybe it just has more to do with the heart than with the head. Or more to do with feelings than with rules. And I know some of us get uncomfortable, hearing that. We want clear guidelines, parameters, definitions. We want to understand exactly what’s going on.

I used to want to understand things, too. And at one point, I guess I thought I did understand, rather well, just what was happening at the Communion table. But then …

I have a story to tell about this. It has to do with a Confirmation Class I was leading some years ago. Most of the people in the class were junior-high-aged kids who had asked for some instruction in the basics of Christian belief, before they made their own formal professions of faith.

So these young people were all around 13, 14, 15 years of age. Now, for some reason, I thought it was important to lay out for them some of the different ways that Christians looked at the Sacrament we call Communion, or the Eucharist, or the Lord’s Supper.

I wonder how many of you know this stuff. It all has to do with how we think Christ is “really present” at the table.

First of all, there’s the doctrine of transubstantiation, which holds that, in the Eucharist, the substance of wheat bread and grape wine changes into the substance of the Body and the Blood of Jesus, while all that is accessible to the senses remains as before. This is what many Christians believe.

Then there’s the doctrine of consubstantiation, which attempts to describe the nature of the Christian Eucharist in metaphysical terms. It holds that during the sacrament, the fundamental “substance” of the body and blood of Christ are present alongside the substance of the bread and wine, which remain present. Many—though not all—Lutherans believe this.

Then there’s the belief called memorialism, which says that the elements of bread and wine in the Lord’s Supper are purely symbolic representations of the body and blood of Jesus, the point of the feast being simply commemorative. Memorialists feel that the chief purpose of the sacrament is to help us remember Jesus and his sacrifice on the Cross.

Other Christians agree with John Calvin that the reality of Christ’s body and blood do not come physically to the elements, but that “the Spirit truly unites things separated in space.”

Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?

Anyway, this group of young teenagers was pretty tolerant. They listened to me going on and on about the fine points of sacramental theology, and some of them even asked some polite questions about it all.

Then, this young girl spoke up. I’ll never forget her. She had an uncanny ability to see what was important.

She said, “It doesn’t matter how Christ is present in the elements on the table. What’s important is that God’s people are there. That’s where the ‘real presence’ of Christ is—it’s in the people who come to the table.”

And I thought: “Wow! She understands it better than I do.” Some people spend five years in a theological college, and don’t grasp the concept as profoundly as did that young teenager.

When you come to the family table of Jesus, rest assured that the entrance to his dining hall has swung open wide. He bids you come, and share a meal. If you feel no hunger, you are not compelled. But you are welcome, in any case.

Look around you. Here is Jesus’ mother. Here are his sisters, his brothers, his friends. To be part of this company, all you need is an appetite for God’s will.

Perhaps you are really, really, hungry for the things of God.

Maybe you’re starving.

Or maybe you’re simply curious, just wondering what faith might taste like.

To all of you, in Jesus’ name, we say: Come on in, if you want to. Join the family.

____________________

*  The Message Copyright © 1993, 2002, 2018 by Eugene H. Peterson

 

Second Sunday After Pentecost (Proper 4B)

TEXTS: 1 Samuel 3:1-20 and John 1:43-51

Now the LORD came and stood there, calling as before, “Samuel! Samuel!” And Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” (1 Sam. 3:10)

What is it like to hear a call from God?

After a quarter-century in pastoral ministry, I’ve become very conscious of how so many people fail to hear the call of God. And this is true despite all the talking that the church does about how each one of us is called to be a follower of Jesus. Despite all the sermons that tell us we are each called to be like the prophets, hearing and speaking God’s Word to one another, it seems that few of us actually believe it.

Why is that? Why is it that so many people—who already believe in the living God—find it impossible to believe that God is speaking to them personally, trying to guide them in a particular way?

Here’s what I think: we fail to hear the call of God either because we are ignorant about how God calls to us, or because we allow ourselves to pass over that call—to “set it aside,” as it were.

Consider, for a moment, the boy Samuel. If you remember his story, you know that he was a special gift from God to his mother Hannah. She dedicated him to the LORD upon his birth, and—when he was still very young—she sent him to live with the old priest Eli at Shiloh.

The Bible says that Samuel lived in a time in which the Word of the LORD was rare—a time in which visions were not widespread.

Nevertheless, Samuel lived in a blessed place and in the holy presence. He witnessed the sacrifices made on the altar at Shiloh, and he ministered in the house of God.

Like his teacher Eli, Samuel prayed to the LORD. Like Eli, he served God faithfully. Day after day, he heard the sacred teachings proclaimed—the stories of God’s love. And Scripture tells us that “the boy Samuel grew up in the presence of the LORD” (1 Sam. 2:21).

Samuel, then—of all people—should have been able to recognize the call of God. But, as today’s reading shows us, he did not! That is, not until Eli recognized that call for him.

We are told that three times the LORD called to Samuel as he lay in bed, and three times the boy answered by saying, “Here I am!” and running to the next room to see Eli.

On the third occasion that this occurs, Eli perceives that Samuel is hearing God’s voice and instructs him: “Go, lie down, and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.’”

And so it was that Samuel finally heard what it was that God wanted to say to him. So it was that Samuel learned the fate that was to befall Eli. So it was that Samuel learned that he was to speak the Word of God to others.

I wonder: how much are we like Samuel? We live in a blessed place. We have heard the stories of God’s love, and we serve him in his house and in his world.

How are we like Samuel—dedicated to the Lord, yet believing that the voices we hear in the night come from another room? That our dreams are simply the result of eating too much pickled horseradish late at night? Or that the inner nudges we feel come only from our subconscious mind?

God calls to us in many ways. God speaks to us in many forms. And almost all of them are gentle. Almost all of them are subtle. Almost all of them can be mistaken for something else. That is, until we heed those calls. Then we discover that the power of God is in them, and behind them.

That’s what happens in today’s gospel lesson. The power behind the call of God is discovered by one who decides to listen to it. John tells us that shortly after his baptism Jesus decided to go up to Galilee. By this time, he had already received Andrew and Simon Peter as his disciples.

As he prepares to leave Bethany for Galilee, Jesus goes out and finds Philip. Jesus seeks him out—just as the LORD sought out Samuel—and he says to him, “Follow me.”

Philip responds to this call immediately. But, before he leaves with Jesus, he goes and locates a man called Nathaniel, telling him: “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus, son of Joseph from Nazareth.”

It is obvious that both Philip and Nathaniel are “seekers”—people who are looking for the Promised One of God. Nathaniel, however, is not prepared to accept that the call of God he has heard through Philip is in fact from God. And so, he replies: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

Still, Nathaniel goes along with Philip. He goes to check things out for himself, and in so doing, he discovers that Philip knows what he’s talking about.

I wonder: do we listen to our fellow seekers? Do we check out the calls they issue us, to meet the Lord in a particular place and time? Do we answer the call to discover what we have been looking for?

Make no mistake about it: God is calling all of us. He is calling to each one of us. He is calling us not just to follow him, but also to do and say particular things at particular times. He is calling us to walk a particular path with him.

God has a plan for you. And God’s call to you is personal. He seeks you out, as Jesus sought out Philip. God is calling you by name, just as he called Samuel by name.

God calls in our dreams. He calls in the voices of people who are trying to help us find our way. He calls through our spouses and our workmates, and even through our loudest critics. He calls to us when we take time to read the Bible, or to meditate. He calls when we are trying to decide what to do next. He calls when we gaze upon the heavens. He even calls out to us when we pray.

You know, a lot of people pray without ever really considering just how God might answer them. They speak to God without seriously considering how they are meant to listen to him. It’s like they pick up a telephone to speak into it, but they’re holding the receiver upside-down!

I remember a “Family Circus” cartoon I saw once. Bil Keane drew a yard filled with children playing. They were yelling and screaming, blowing horns, and crying. The dog was barking, a jet was flying overhead, and two boys were beating on a drum. Yet, inside the house, the mother said to her husband, “Listen. That’s P.J. crying!”

The mother’s ears were conditioned to hear the sound of one child’s voice, even above the din.

If we want to hear God, it sure helps to hold the telephone right. It sure helps if we have learned how and where he speaks. It sure helps if—by continual practice—we have conditioned ourselves to hear him.

So I urge you: listen for God’s voice wherever you are. Seek God’s call in whatever you see or hear—be it in a dream you have just had, in a sermon you’ve just heard, in the quiet voice you have heard inside yourself, or in the words of a friend.

Yes, by all means, listen for God’s voice in the words of his messengers: people who want to tell you how God has dealt with them—and even, perhaps, what they think God is trying to say to you!

Because that happens, you know, when you belong to a church. That happens when you gather with fellow believers. Sometimes they speak to you about God. Sometimes they have a message from God that is meant especially for you.

Listen, as well, to “the book.” Read your Bible, and judge the things you hear by what you find there, as the Spirit of God reveals it to you.

Examine the events around you and pray about them. In other words: look and listen! If you do that, you will hear the voice of God; you will hear his call.

Look and listen—and then do what you believe God has called you to do. If it is a true word, you will experience the power that is behind that word, behind that call.

You will see things happen as promised. You will see changes happening for the better. You will see God glorified. You will see mercy and grace, judgment and vindication. You will see new life arise out of ashes and new hope come out of despair.

Look and listen—and, as Jesus promised to Nathaniel, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.

Look and listen—and you will find what you have been looking for. Amen.

 

TRINITY SUNDAY

TEXTS: John 3:1-17 and John 16:12-18

Nicodemus said to him, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit.” (John 3:4-5)

“When the Spirit of truth comes,” Jesus said, “he will guide you into all the truth” … They said, “What does he mean by this …? We do not know what he is talking about.” (John 16:13, 18)

The Canadian theologian Douglas Hall—whom I had the privilege of hearing speak, many years ago—tells the story of being at the beach one day with his three little children. An argument broke out between his older daughter and his son, and it escalated until she shouted at her brother, “God knows! God knows you are not nice!”

Her little brother was not about to be outdone. “Well,” he said, “Jesus is annoyed with you!”  Whereupon Dr. Hall imagined that if his third child had been old enough to enter the fray, the Holy Spirit would no doubt have weighed in on one side or the other.

And so it is that the Trinity has for centuries been misused and misunderstood by children and adults alike. In fact, the Trinity may well be the least understood basic teaching of our Christian faith. We mouth the creedal words and sing the hymns, but few of us would be able to take the Trinity much further than that.

A traditional but less than satisfying response to questions about the Trinity has been simply to describe it as an enigma we cannot ever fully grasp. I remember the story of another preacher who got into the pulpit on Trinity Sunday and delivered his message in such incomprehensible language that, afterward, one desperate soul complained that no one had been able to understand the sermon. To which the preacher replied, “You aren’t supposed to understand—it’s a mystery!”

Well, the Trinity is a mystery—just as the fullness of God is now concealed from us. Our very language itself, inadequate as it is, often gets in the way.

But if we are to embrace and worship and follow this God of ours, we have no choice other than to attempt to name and describe God. That’s how the Trinity came into being: as a way for people to describe their own experience of God.

Can you imagine what it must have been like to be among the first Christians to worship God? There were no established Christian liturgical practices, not even an agreed-upon sacred text. No service bulletins, no hymnbooks or worship slides—only songs and stories, poems and prayers, all of which people had come to know by heart.

Most perplexing of all to those early Christians surely must have been the question of how to address the God whom they had gathered to worship.

After the death and resurrection of Jesus, in the first days of the church, when people gathered to praise God and to pray to God, they needed to name God. They continued to address God as the ancient Hebrews had, as “Father” and as “Spirit.” But they also found themselves praying to Jesus! Those earliest Christians must have asked themselves: “Exactly who are we worshiping?”

So the Trinity—one God, yet known or experienced in three personae—became, over time, one way for Christians to express their understanding of God. Initially, the concept emerged in their worship and prayer life; and eventually, it became central to their way of conceiving of and naming God.

Now, the Trinity as a theological doctrine does not appear explicitly or systematically anywhere in Scripture. In fact, the word Trinity is not used even once in the Bible! Rather, it lurks there like so many pieces of a puzzle waiting to be discovered and assembled.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus offers us some of those puzzle pieces—referring as he does to both the “Spirit of truth” and the “Father.” And then he concludes by saying, “All that the Father has is mine.”

Earlier in the Gospel of John—in the third chapter—we find a passage that is actually the lectionary choice for Trinity Sunday, Year B. Recorded here is a conversation between Jesus and a leading Pharisee named Nicodemus.

The Pharisees believed in eternal life, and Jesus and Nicodemus find themselves in a discussion of this topic. They are talking about the nature of the kingdom of God, and Jesus insists that to be part of God’s kingdom one must be born again—in and by the Spirit. Then he says that whoever believes in God’s Son will not perish but have eternal life.

In the space of just a few verses, Jesus makes plain his own conception of God. It includes a traditional Hebrew perspective that God is like a Father who rules over the world—and that God is also a Spirit offering us new life. He then goes on to add the rather startling assertion that belief in the Son of God is the gateway to eternal life.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It does not seem to be the intention of John, the gospel writer, to teach us in this text about the Trinity per se, but, from our point of view, what we have here in this exchange between Nicodemus and Jesus is a rudimentary introduction to the notion of a “three-in-one God.”

Elsewhere in Scripture we find references to God as the Sovereign who creates, the Son who redeems, and the Holy Spirit who sustains. But it took the early church several centuries to work out the Trinitarian language that we have come to see as a basic teaching of the Christian faith—the language used at baptisms and benedictions: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Ever since Christians first began using Trinitarian language we have been tinkering with it, unsatisfied with the traditional male-infused formula to describe the being of God and our experience of God.

As early as the fifth century after Christ, Augustine suggested this as an alternative way to name God: “God the Lover, God the Beloved, and God the Love.”

In the 14th century, Julian of Norwich wrote: “As truly as God is our Father, so just as truly is God our Mother.”

More recently, Letty Russell has proposed: “God the Source of life, God the Word of truth, and God the Spirit of love.”

Clearly, part of our tradition has called for innovation in the way we speak of God. We tend to think of the search for new imagery about God as a phenomenon of our time—but really, it’s not a new thing. Since the earliest days of the church, Christians have struggled to find new and better ways of naming the God we worship.

The problem the Trinity was designed to address is with us still: what language can adequately express the fullness of God? Or perhaps it cannot be expressed in words!

The great Russian icon painter Rublev, in his famous 15th-century portrayal of the Trinity, has three persons seated in an open circle at a table, with their hands outstretched, as if to welcome the viewer into the circle. It suggests a Trinity that invites us to join and participate in the life and community of God.

A Trinity for today offers us not some monolithic, imposing, doctrinal Supreme Being, but rather an accessible, interactive, approachable, hospitable God. The Trinity is a conception of God that suggests that God is—within God’s own self—a community.

God does not exist apart from relationship or outside community. And neither do we! When we read in First John 4:8 that “God is love,” we are getting to the heart of what the Trinity means.

As Jurgen Moltmann said, “It is only from the Trinitarian perspective that we can claim that ‘God is Love,’ because love is never alone.” ¹

The Trinity is like a household—the household of God. It is a loving household, and we are included in it. A Trinity for today focuses on the threeness of God as a window onto the one loving community that is God. And that divine community is the model for all genuine human community.

We need the Trinity now more than ever to begin to grasp, or at least get a glimpse of, the depth and breadth and height of who God is and what God does. Peter Gomes asserted that the Trinity “works to explain the unexplainable and helps to draw for us the big picture, satisfying our need to engage and stretch and stimulate our imagination” about God. ²

A few years ago, I ran into a woman who was a former member of the church I served at the time. She was still living nearby, but no longer part of our congregation. I’m sure she dreaded running into me, fearing that I would ask her about her current church involvement, which—of course—I did!

In response she said, “I have found other ways to feed my spirituality now.”

You know, there are lots of people who would say the same thing. The church’s way of proclaiming its faith no longer feeds their spirits, no longer offers them the nourishment they desire for their souls. I wonder how much of that has to do with our lack of imagination when we speak about God.

Far from being an outmoded, obsolete image for us to use as we speak of God, the Trinity invites us to a new understanding of God—and to a re-energized relationship with God.

Part of our challenge as Christians today is to find a way of using “Trinity” language that is not bound exclusively to the traditional words—language that can have life and meaning not only for us, but also for a world full of people hungry for spiritual experience.

The Trinity pushes us to discover a God who is much bigger than any single image or word—a “three-in-one” God who is above us, beside us, and within us. One God in three persons, blessed Trinity.

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¹ Moltmann, Jurgen. “The Triune God: Rich in Relationships,” in The Living Pulpit, April-June, 1999, p. 4.

² Gomes, Peter. Sermons, [New York: Wm. Morrow and Company, Inc., 1998], p. 108.