Seventh Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 10A

TEXT: Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

 

“A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell on the path . . . other seeds fell on rocky ground . . . other seeds fell among thorns . . . [but] other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain . . .”

Our gospel reading focuses on the ones to whom God’s Word is addressed, and on the responsibility each of us has for hearing. While the major character is the one who sows, the focus is not on the sower, but on the soil—that which receives the Word.

How do we receive God’s Word? What kind of soil are we? Do we bear fruit? This parable tells us that the hearer has the power to thwart—or at least to divert—the productive power of the Word.

The Scriptures tell us that the Word has come to all creation, and, in some form, to every person.

In what ways has it come to us? We can identify parts of our lives that have received the Word gladly, and allowed it to flourish. But there are other parts of our lives that have been like hard paths, like rocky ground, or parts that have been choked with preoccupation.

This is true in our individual life. It is true also in our congregational life. And it is true of our society. These are the “hearers” of which each of us is a part.

We must confess that there is something in every hearer that has not heard, that does not hear, and does not want to hear. That is the sin that clings so closely to us.

There is in each hearer, whether in the individual, the congregation, or the society, a portion of life that is trampled hard by the daily traffic. It produces calluses so thick that there is no longer any sensitivity, and the Word cannot penetrate it.

There are small or great sins to which we have become accustomed. And the longer they are harboured, the less we notice them.

As individuals, perhaps we allow ourselves the thrill of malicious gossip disguised as “Christian concern.” Possibly we harbour petty resentments, prejudices and hatreds, telling ourselves they are justifiable.

In our local congregation, perhaps there is apathy towards community outreach or towards the plight of the poor and hungry.

Or maybe there is a callousness towards the financial needs of the pastoral charge or of the larger mission of the church. There may be lack of concern for global issues like peace, or economic justice. Or perhaps “church” has become a place we go to, rather than a people we are.

This deafness to the Word pervades our society as well, causing us as a people to become ingrown and insensitive to what God’s Word would have us do.

Where, in our society, has the Word fallen on hard and hostile places? Well, we seem to keep electing politicians who promise to give us more, while cutting back on health care budgets, and slashing funding for programs that help the poorest and weakest amongst us.

Are we willing to balance provincial and federal budgets by letting our neighbours’ children go hungry?

If the answer is “yes,” then our hearts have indeed become as hard as pavement! How can God’s Word find nourishment there? Where can the seed broadcast by God’s Spirit take root in us?

This past week, as I was thinking about what it means for seed to fall on the path, I remembered once, years ago, walking along an abandoned blacktop road north of Winnipeg.

It was amazing to see the power of the seed in that blacktop. The surface was full of cracks, and grass and weeds and even wildflowers were growing in the cracks. In fact, there were places where the grass was two or three feet high.

Seeds, thank God, can be powerful and persistent.

In Matthew’s gospel, a bit later in the 13^th chapter, Jesus tells the story of the mustard seed and of the leaven:

[Jesus said]  “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.” [And then he] told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.” (Matthew 13:31-33)

It may look like the advantage is held by the field, by the three measures of flour, by the blacktop. It would seem that the odds are on the side of the powers of darkness. But the Scriptures teach that the darkness has not been able to overcome the Word—for out of the Word shines brilliantly the light of divine life.

And so we must watch for the cracks in our personal lives, in our congregations and in society; cracks in which the Word may lodge and begin its transforming power.

In the church, at least, we may hope to find some who will at least pour the occasional bucket of water into our cracks—who will offer encouragement for sprouting faith.

But of course—even within the church—there are places of shallow soil, where there is too little Christian nurture, too few Christians, too little advocacy.

Sad to say, too many congregations are just like that—places where the soil is not deep enough. Places where what looks like genuine faith is in reality but a thin veneer. In such places, the sprouting of the Word may be vigorous at first, but the vine of faith soon withers away.

And in each of the hearers—whether in myself, in my congregation, or in society—there is the problem of the divided life. We say, “yes, yes, yes” to the work of God’s Word, but we have so many vested interests—so many other concerns—that (like thorns) these intruders finally overshadow and thwart the Spirit’s working.

Thus far, the parable of the sower appears to be a commentary on sin. But we must not overlook the note of grace which is also sounded here. There is hope in this parable, also. For whether it be in myself, in my congregation, or in society, there is a part of each hearer that receives the seed of the Word with gladness—that brings forth an abundant harvest: 30-, 60-, and a hundredfold.

The gospel calls us to enlarge our hearts, to expand the cultivatable areas of our lives so that they can become even more productive.

And each hearer—whether it be the individual, the congregation, or society—should be receptive to God’s Spirit that moves us forward to that fulfillment of all things in Jesus Christ, when the whole of each hearer will be fully redeemed. For in this hope we are saved. We can take hope in God’s promise that the divine Word will not return to God empty, but it shall ultimately accomplish the purpose for which Christ was sent.

Sixth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 9A

TEXTS: Romans 7:15-25a and Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

 

I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree that the law is good. But in fact it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells within me, that is, in my flesh. I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me.

So I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!

(Romans 7:15-25a)

‘For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, “He has a demon”; the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, “Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax-collectors and sinners!” Yet wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.’

(Matthew 11:18-19)

How many of you remember the comedian, Flip Wilson? Only the “boomers” amongst you, probably. Alas.

During the early 1970s, Flip Wilson had television audiences in the palm of his hand. He embodied some memorable characters. There was the money-laundering Reverend Leroy. And Freddy the Playboy. And Sonny the White House janitor. But surely his most popular character was Geraldine Jones.

Yes. Geraldine. “She” wore designer clothes along with chartreuse stockings; her hair was always perfect, and she demanded respect from her listeners.

The one-liners Flip put in her mouth became North American household sayings. As Geraldine would explain: “When you’re hot, you’re hot!” Or “What you see is what you get.” The favorite Wilson quip, however, was one used when Geraldine was rationalizing bad things she’d done. Suddenly demure, she would explain, “The devil made me do it.”

“The devil made me buy this dress!”

Consider the apostle Paul: “So then, with my mind I am a slave to the law of God, but with my flesh I am a slave to the law of sin” (Rom. 7:25b).

On the surface, one might think that the apostle Paul was the Geraldine of his day. He could blame the devil (that is, sin) for all his problems. Now, Paul was trained to obey the law. The law was not sin. The law was holy, righteous, good and spiritual. But he had to confess that he was unspiritual and sold as a slave to sin.

Paul’s own words reflect the problem: “For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?” (Rom. 7:22-24)

How often have we felt like Paul did in his letter to the Romans? No matter how hard we try to live according to the great commandments—to love God and love our neighbour—it doesn’t always turn out that way.

This is not because we are horrible, wretched creatures, but because there is sin in the world. And sin is powerful. It is so powerful that sometimes we just withdraw from action and words, and we allow whatever is happening to happen. Then, our inaction itself becomes the sin.

In today’s Epistle reading, Paul sounds like he is exhausted—and, in his desperation, is unable to do any more to free himself from sin. His words suggest that sin is lurking like a monster hiding under the bed, just waiting to take us over.

As I’m sure you well know, scripture needs to be considered in context. We must balance not only the words the apostle spoke, but also take into account the way he lived his life. Only then can we come to some conclusions that might help make sense out of what Paul said about not understanding himself.

One conclusion is that Paul was a realist. He knew, as well as you and I do, that lurking deep within us—deep within that person whom other people see—lies the hidden side of us: what psychologists call our “shadow selves.”

Even for those of us who tend to look at ourselves with rose-colored glasses there comes that day when the glasses crack or break and we come face-to-face with who we really are: sinners standing in need of God’s divine grace.

Perhaps that’s what Martin Luther meant when he advised us to “sin boldly.” He was simply acknowledging the fact that each one of us will sin. As surely as we get up in the morning, we will sin. It is good when that moment does come—that moment when we are able honestly to face the nature of our sin. And it’s better when that moment comes sooner rather than later.

Paul looked at life realistically, and seeing that we are all sinners, he was more than willing to bare his own sinful soul: “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do … Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?”

There’s that phrase again: “this body of death.” That’s rather gruesome language, isn’t it?

But the apostle likely had something quite gruesome in mind. Leslie Weatherhead, the famous British Methodist of the last century, suggests what Paul might have been thinking of:

In those days, if the Romans determined a person had committed a crime, but it was not a crime deserving the death penalty (and they were pretty quick to invoke capital punishment, let me tell you), a different form of punishment was often used. They would strap the corpse of a criminal who had been executed to the back of the other law-breaker, so that he had to carry it around with him everywhere he went. He could not remove it. He had to lie down with it at night. He got up with it in the morning. Imagine what that must have been like. The stench would be unbearable. Even when he sat down to eat he could not escape it. The burden of such a punishment surely would have been intolerable.*

 

Paul was thinking both literally and figuratively. He felt as if he was carrying his own carcass around with him, his own body of death. He carried his sinful self around with him like a criminal was forced to carry a corpse.

“What a terrible burden sin can be,” Paul is saying, “what an intolerable burden.” The apostle cannot be accused of looking at life through rose-colored glasses. He viewed human life realistically. And in doing so, he saw that we all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.

That’s true even of the best of us. In our gospel reading, Jesus reminds the crowd that some thought John was possessed with a demon, even though he lived a life of denial and simplicity.

Jesus lived to overturn injustices and expose the many ways that his society’s attitudes and laws actually promoted sinfulness rather than love for God and one’s neighbours. By pointing out these things, he also pointed the way to freedom—and salvation—for all of us.

The apostle Paul knew this, and so his cry of desperation was quickly calmed by his own acknowledgement that sin is defeated by God through life in and with Christ.

“Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

Mark that: Paul doesn’t ask what will save him, but who! The good news is not a program, but a person. What we cannot accomplish through our own best efforts and noble actions, Jesus Christ has done through his death and resurrection. The dilemma that was humanly impossible to solve by us has been solved by grace. Gone is the frustration of not being able to do the right thing. Gone is the shame of giving in to sin. God has spoken. The problem has been solved, once and for all time.

This is the gospel we preach. Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

______________________________________

* Leslie Weatherhead, The Significance of Silence (Nashville: Abingdon-Cokesbury Press, 1954), p. 119.

Fifth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 8A

TEXT: Romans 6:12-23

Therefore, do not let sin exercise dominion in your mortal bodies, to make you obey their passions. No longer present your members to sin as instruments  of wickedness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and present your members to God as instruments  of righteousness. For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace. (Romans 6:12-14)

“Faith is permitting ourselves to be seized by things we do not see.” That almost sounds like a Bible verse, doesn’t it?

Actually, it’s a quote from the great German preacher Martin Luther. I’m certain that all of us know that name. Martin Luther is famous for a host of reasons. His radical ideas sparked the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century. His German translation of the Bible—completed in 1534—remains as influential as the King James Version is in English. He composed numerous hymns, perhaps the best-known of which is “A Mighty Fortress is Our God”—which, I’m told, is set to the tune of a Bavarian drinking song!

Besides his remark about faith, Luther also said: “I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God’s hands, that I still possess.”

Luther said a lot of good things. However, it may be that the best-known words of Martin Luther come from a letter he wrote, in 1521, to his friend Philip Melanchthon. He said, “Be a sinner, and sin boldly.”

“Sin boldly!” That short phrase has lived in the popular imagination for some five centuries. People who know almost nothing else about Martin Luther are aware that he said this: “Sin boldly!” And often, they think it’s great advice!

Of course, as with so many things quoted out of context, Luther’s intent was rather unlike what we might imagine. What he actually wrote to Melanchthon was: “Be a sinner and sin boldly, but believe and rejoice in Christ even more boldly … Pray boldly—for you, too, are a mighty sinner.”

What Luther meant was that God’s grace is so powerful, it will ultimately defeat sin altogether. He believed that—rather than becoming paralyzed by fear because of our continuing vulnerability to sin—we should instead rejoice in God’s power to overcome sin.

Luther’s quote was a result of the joy and spiritual liberation that came to him through the grace of God. He had struggled with a profound sense of moral unworthiness for years, until he finally understood that we are saved by grace alone—and not by anything we do.

Today, that’s understood to be a tenet of Protestant Christianity—but in Luther’s time, it was controversial. In fact, Luther’s opponents declared that his doctrine of “salvation by grace alone” was “a license to sin.”

Luther, however, was not the first Christian to be accused of giving license to sin. Some 1500 years before Luther, the Apostle Paul wrote, “… we know that a person is justified not by the works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ” (Gal. 2:16).

Paul wrote those words to the churches of Galatia (in what is today Turkey) at a time when Jewish teachers were coming from Jerusalem to bring Christian converts under the law of Moses.

“It’s fine to be a believer in Christ,” they would say, “but your men have to be circumcised, and you have to keep the law of Moses in order to be right with God.”

This was in direct opposition to Paul’s message of good news in Christ. “It is through faith in Christ that we are made right with God,” he said. “No one can be right with God by following rules, or doing good works. We could never do enough to earn God’s favour” (paraphrase of Gal. 2:16b).

Because Paul taught that we are saved by God’s grace alone—and that God’s favour cannot be earned—he was accused of giving a “license to sin.”

And in a way, I can see where the criticism was coming from, can’t you? It does seem like a slippery slope, doesn’t it? I mean, a person could ask: “If faith is the thing that saves us, why bother with good works? Why not live it up? Why not just do whatever we feel like?”

One answer, I think, is simply this: that anyone who is truly in a faith-relationship with God will certainly not want to live like the devil!

Another answer—the apostle’s own answer—is given in today’s epistle reading, where Paul writes: “What then? Should we sin because we are not under law but under grace? By no means!” (Rom. 6:15)

I know that Paul’s letters make for difficult reading, sometimes. Often, his language and his logic appear supremely convoluted. But there is something important for our living that lies beneath the surface of Paul’s writing. And that’s especially true of this passage from Romans. It deals with the issue of what controls our lives; it deals with the issue of our free will, and it deals with the issue of consequences regarding the choices we make.

Now, I want to take a closer look at this passage, but before we dive into it, there’s something important we should take note of. Did you notice that the epistle lesson began with the word, “therefore”?

“Therefore,” the lesson begins, “do not let sin exercise dominion in your mortal bodies.” That begs the question: what comes before the “therefore?”

Whatever thoughts precede this reading lay the foundation for what comes after. And in these preceding thoughts, Paul lays out the premise of everything he goes on to say about sin. When we were baptized, Paul says, we were forever marked as belonging to Christ. We are united with Christ in his life, death and resurrection. And Paul insists that—since we are in union with Christ—we have, in principle, “died to sin.”

The first part of Romans, chapter six, has to do with the principle of Christian faith—namely, that we are “… dead to sin, and alive to God in Christ Jesus” (Rom. 6:11).

That sounds great, doesn’t it? However, we run into a problem when we try to practice Christian faith. And the problem is just this: that while we may, in principle, be dead to sin … sin is not dead to us!

Sin is all too real, all too obviously alive and well, even in the best of us. This is the area where we all need help. And it’s this kind of help the apostle Paul is trying to give us.

The first thing I want to look at is the issue of control, which Paul touches on in verses 12-14. If you haven’t a Bible handy, don’t worry. I’m going to paraphrase the apostle’s words as we go along.

In the first three verses of our passage, Paul is saying: “Do not let sin rule in your lives anymore. Yes, sin still looks attractive—but we Christians have given over control of our lives to God. We live under God’s grace now, and we do not have to be under the control of sin.”

You see, living as a Christian is not a matter of becoming perfect, or of being without sin. No. It is a matter of who we belong to. When we belong to God, and—in principle—give control of our lives to God, we gain the possibility of growing in the new life we have received.

The next thing I want to look at is the issue of free will, which Paul begins to examine in verses 15-19. In verse 16, he says: “Do you not know that if you present yourselves to anyone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one whom you obey, either of sin, which leads to death, or of obedience, which leads to righteousness?”

Paul asks this question here as if he thinks obedience is an easy thing—but elsewhere in his writings, he openly acknowledges that he struggles with it just like anybody else.

In principle, we belong to God—but, even so, God has not removed our ability to make choices. That’s why we still struggle with temptation. That’s why we still find it so challenging to make choices that honour God.

In the next chapter of his letter to the Romans, Paul admits that he, himself, is sometimes overwhelmed by his stubborn will.

“I want to do the right thing,” he says, “and I know the right thing! But I wind up disappointing God and myself. It’s like there is a war going on inside of me.” (Paraphrase of Romans 7:18-21)

Nevertheless, Paul does not give up the battle, and he urges his readers not to give up, either. He reminds them that they freely chose to give themselves to God, and he promises them that—as they renew that choice day by day—they will increasingly become servants of God, and sin will have less and less influence upon them.

This is true for us, as well. As we continually exercise our choice to make Christ the centre of our living, we grow in faith and in faithfulness to God. Instead of serving the old life and the old ways, we grow in service to God and to what is right and good.

Those of us who are parents see this happen every day, don’t we? We see it as we watch our children grow and mature into caring, responsible persons. Sure, they make lots of mistakes. They make lots of bad choices. And sometimes even the good choices they make bring difficult challenges. But—although our kids may struggle with their choices—we lovingly encourage them along the way and point them toward maturity. Our heavenly Parent does the same thing for us.

Finally, I want to look at the issue of consequences, which Paul talks about in the last four verses of today’s epistle. Here, Paul steps back and takes an overarching, long view of what he has been talking about. He says there are two ways of living—and two end results.

On the one hand, there is the life which is lived under the dominance of sin, apart from any relationship with God. Sin, however, produces nothing except death.

On the other hand, the life which is lived in relationship with Christ leads to eternal life. One great thing about the Christian life—one great thing about the grace of God—is this: what counts is the direction in which we’re headed. It’s not that we’ve reached the destination. It doesn’t matter how near we are to the kingdom of God—or how far away we still are. No. What matters is the direction of our journey.

In God’s eyes, we are all “works in progress.” That’s what Paul was getting at in another of his letters—in Philippians, chapter three—when he said:

Not that I have already … reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. (Phil. 3:12-14)

I find those words very encouraging. I haven’t reached the goal, either, but—by God’s grace—I press onward.

So now, in conclusion, let’s reconsider Luther’s advice to his friend Melancthon. “Sin boldly,” Luther said, “but believe and rejoice in Christ even more boldly.”

In light of Paul’s teachings here, we might want to translate Luther’s words differently. Or perhaps, better still, we could paraphrase them, thus: “Do not fear because sin still plagues you. Instead, rejoice in God’s grace. Be grateful for the journey you’re on—a journey toward eternal life. Rejoice and be glad, for sin and death are fading away. Christ has defeated them, and soon they will be nothing more than distant memories.”

Thanks be to God for this good news.

Fourth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 7A

Third Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 6A

TEXTS: Exodus 19:2-8; Matthew 9:35—10:10

“Now therefore … you shall be my treasured possession out of all the peoples. Indeed, the whole earth is mine, but you shall be for me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19:5-6a)

Imagine how the Israelites must have felt hearing those words. Against all odds—and even against their own expectations—God had rescued these downtrodden people from slavery in Egypt. More than that, he had saved them from Pharaoh’s powerful army, and then had kept them alive and united as a community through their perilous desert journey. Now, here they were, at the foot of Mount Sinai, hearing through Moses the unbelievable words from God himself, assuring them that they were chosen and precious in his sight.

For decades now, psychologists have been telling us that words of praise are important; that encouragement is vital to our self-esteem. Smart managers realize how true this is. They know that in the workplace it is necessary to tell people when they’re doing a good job, to give them a pat on the back, to provide reinforcement so that productivity stays at a high level. And let’s face it—we all like to hear those good words. Even if they don’t come as often as we think they should—whether at church or at work or at home or at school—we all like to hear words of affirmation. We all like to know that we are appreciated and accepted, and that we belong.

But of course, there’s a flip side to this process, because the expectation is that we will continue to do the things that caused those wonderful words to be spoken. In order to hear them again, something more is expected of us.

This was certainly true of the Israelites. In today’s passage from the Book of Exodus, we read that, even as they heard the Lord telling them how treasured they were in his sight, they also heard the other half of the story: “if you obey my voice and keep my covenant.” They were called and they were chosen. But they were also expected to walk the road of discipleship along with Moses. They were chosen to be God’s people, but they were also called to act the part—to not simply give lip service to the commandments of God, but to live according to those commandments.

Throughout Scripture, this message is repeated. Prophets—and then later the rabbis—all had bands of followers or disciples, those who would sit at their feet and learn from the master. Then, when they had earned the confidence of their teacher, they would be sent out themselves to share the knowledge they had gained—to assist the rabbi by going about the countryside and sharing in the teaching. All of them, down through the ages, began as followers. They were chosen for their eagerness to study and learn, and perhaps many of them would have been content to stay in that role of sitting and listening and learning. But at some point in their discipleship, it was required of them that they take that extra step of being sent out to share their knowledge with others.

So it was with Jesus and his disciples. Now—quite differently from any of those who had gone before—the disciples of Jesus were not scholars, nor were they particularly religious. In truth, we know them to have been a rag-tag bunch of rather rough characters—not men one would expect to find as part of a rabbi’s ministry. But Jesus of Nazareth was an unusual rabbi. His was not a ministry after the traditional rabbinic model. He did not just sit under a tree and teach—at least, not often. He took his disciples on a long march from Galilee to Jerusalem and back again, through all the villages and towns—wherever he perceived that there was a need for healing and restoration.

He taught them, to be sure—but his words were accompanied by bold actions, such as raising the dead and healing every manner of affliction. And the more he did—and the further he went, with his disciples right beside him—it became apparent that there was just too much to do! And so today we hear Jesus ask his disciples to pray for more help:

“The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest.”(Matt. 9:37b-38)

You’ve all heard the saying, “be careful what you pray for.” I’m sure the disciples—inexperienced and new to this ministry business as they were—had no illusions about their capabilities. They probably would have been perfectly content to continue as they were—just to be with Jesus, to see what he did, to talk to him and to have him talk to them, to walk with him and to pray with him.

But it didn’t work out quite that way. Because, you see, they did what Jesus said: they prayed for more labourers to go into the harvest. And their prayers were answered. They became the labourers! They became the ministers—and not assistant ministers either, but ministers just like Jesus. He gave them power to do all the things that he did. Just like him, they were to proclaim that the heavenly kingdom had come near—and then they were to back up that claim by healing the sick, raising the dead, cleansing the lepers, and casting out demons.

And just like Jesus, they were to give away these new gifts and this new power, to give it away as freely as it had been given to them. That’s why Jesus didn’t want them to take anything with them; no extra clothes or shoes or spending money—none of the world’s baggage that might distract them. They were simply to present themselves just as they were—poor in possessions and dependent on others for food and hospitality, but rich in the knowledge and love of God and eager to use the gifts that had been given to them. Asking no more of them than he did of himself, Jesus sent them forth to demonstrate the unconditional grace of kingdom love, freely received and freely given. Like the Israelites at Sinai, they had been both chosen and called—chosen to be ministers, and then called upon to act.

Presbyterian minister Bruce Larson told the story of a member of his congregation who had come from another country. “Her faith sparkled,” Larson said, “and the living water of the spirit flowed out of her soul to all around her.” *

He invited her to go with him to a seminar on evangelism. The presenters had set up tables filled with all sorts of pamphlets and strategy documents and demographic studies—all aimed at reaching the unchurched. At some point during the program, the leaders asked this woman to share some of the things that made the church so important and so vital in her home country. At first she was a bit intimidated by the crowded room, but finally she did speak.

She said, “Well, we never gave pamphlets to people because we never had any. We just showed people by our life and example what it is like to be a Christian, and when they can see for themselves, then they want to be a Christian, too.”

The people that woman was describing—like the Israelites at Sinai, and like the disciples of Jesus—were both chosen and called. Chosen by God to be a community of ministers, they were then called to bring the message to others.

It happens again and again. First God chooses, and then God calls. For many of us, God’s choice of us seems to predate our memory of any such thing. Born into the Christian community, we were brought to baptism by our parents, when we were still infants. We have grown up knowing—maybe even taking for granted—the fact that we belong to God. For others of us, God’s choice of us was something we became aware of gradually. For still others, it was a sudden realization, following a conscious decision.

But however we became aware of God’s choice of us, if we have cared about that choice—if we have cherished it, if we have been grateful for it, if we have allowed God’s gracious choice to matter to us—we have found ourselves changed by it. Changed into people who are not merely chosen, but also called.

After we hear the welcome words of affirmation, after we hear God saying that we are his treasured possessions—after that sinks in—then we hear something more. We are called to go forth to bring the Good News to others. In this place and time, we are the labourers called to go into the harvest field. Is it scary to contemplate? Of course it is. Should we, therefore, shrink from it? How can we?

We have listened to the words of the Gospel and heard of God’s mighty acts of healing and forgiveness and restoration. As we gather together in community—in large groups or small—we are clothed with power from on high. And then we  go forth in the name of Christ and in the power of the Spirit to be the Church. We need nothing else. We have been chosen and we are being called.

May God grant us ears to hear his voice, and hearts to keep his covenant. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.

______________________________

* Larson, Bruce. Ask Me to Dance: A Guide to Becoming More Than You Are [ISBN: 0849941075]

Second Sunday After Pentecost (Proper 5A)

TEXTS: Genesis 12:1-9; Romans 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

For the promise that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. For if it is the adherents of the law who are to be the heirs, faith is null and the promise is void. For the law brings wrath, but where there is no law, neither is there transgression.

For this reason the promise depends on faith, in order that it may rest on grace, so that it may be guaranteed to all his descendants, not only to the adherents of the law but also to those who share the faith of Abraham (who is the father of all of us, as it is written, “I have made you the father of many nations”), in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist. Hoping against hope, he believed that he would become “the father of many nations,” according to what was said, “So shall your descendants be.” He did not weaken in faith when he considered his own body, which was already as good as dead (for he was about a hundred years old), and the barrenness of Sarah’s womb. No distrust made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, being fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised. Therefore “it was reckoned to him as righteousness.” Now the words, “it was reckoned to him,” were written not for his sake alone but for ours also. It will be reckoned to us who believe in him who raised Jesus our Lord from the dead, who was handed over for our trespasses and was raised for our justification.

(Romans 4:13-25) *

The lectionary readings for today are filled with interesting characters. There is old Abraham, the ancestor of the promise; the tax collector Matthew; the synagogue leader and his daughter; and the woman Jesus encounters, as if by accident, on the way to raise the dead girl.

What are the common themes running through all their stories? One is trust. Another is faith. They go together. The Greek word for faith, “pistis,” is the same root contained in the word for “trust,” which really means “to dwell in pistis”—to dwell in faith. So let’s explore those themes— those themes of faith and trust.

First, let’s look at the story of Abram—or Abraham, as he would later be known. It’s a tale that begs many questions: How did God speak to Abraham? Why did God choose Abraham? How could Abraham, at a time when travel was so terribly difficult, uproot his whole family and journey to another country without knowing what he would find there?

We can only guess at the answers to these questions, but of one thing we can be sure: Abraham was absolutely convinced that God had called him, that God had made promises to him, and that God would keep those promises—even when it seemed utterly impossible that they could be fulfilled.

Centuries later, the Apostle Paul would give Abraham credit for having this utterly unshakable faith. In his letter to the Romans, Paul says it was not adherence and obedience to laws that made this possible for Abraham; rather, it was Abraham’s complete trust in the God of promises. That is what enabled him to leave his comfortable home to become the father of not just one nation, but of many nations.

A similar kind of trust propels the characters in our gospel lesson. Here is Matthew, a tax collector, who answers Jesus’ call and becomes a disciple. Now, remember that tax collectors were despised in Jesus’ day because they extorted taxes for the enemy, who in this case was Herod Antipas and his Roman bosses. The Pharisees lumped tax collectors together with the worst kind of sinners—in that same suspect category that they placed everyone who was attracted to Jesus, and who was welcomed by him.

Most probably, Matthew and Jesus had caught sight of each other as the rabbi passed through the market place of Capernaum, there by the Sea of Galilee. On this day—like every other day—Matthew sits alone in his tax booth, despised and avoided by his fellow Jews.

“Follow me,” Jesus tells him—and without any recorded question or hesitation, Matthew gets up and does just that. But he doesn’t stop there; he invites Jesus to eat with him, and Jesus accepts the invitation.

Now, the houses in Capernaum were open during the day, and anyone could look inside. So the passers-by and all the curious who heard the exchange between Jesus and Matthew—all of them gathered outside to watch them eating while reclining around a low table. Some of the Pharisees got close enough to talk to one of the disciples, and they asked a question which they would repeat on many other occasions: “Why does your teacher do this? Why does he eat with sinners and tax collectors?”

A Pharisee, conscious of his moral superiority and high position in the community, would never do this. Eating with someone meant acknowledging that the person is not inferior to you.

Of course, Jesus heard the question; he was meant to hear it. And so he gave an answer—one that comes from the prophetic Scriptures, something the Pharisees knew quite well: “Go and learn what this means,” he said. “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” It is how you treat one another that matters to God, not the rituals that you keep.

The conversation continues, but is suddenly interrupted by a man with an urgent need. He is a leader of the synagogue. He is not one of the despised. This man has authority and is respected. But he kneels before Jesus to ask him a favour—not for himself, but for his beloved daughter. The request to follow is now reversed. Jesus does not ask the man to follow him. It is he who begs Jesus to come to his home—not to cure the sick child, but to bring her back from the dead!

Jesus sees the pain and trust of this father, and immediately he responds. He starts on the way to the man’s house. But then, something else happens: Jesus is interrupted once again—this time by a woman who, in her turn, is following him. When she touches his cloak, he feels power leaving his own body to heal her. By touching his garment, she is cured of a long-term illness.

Remember the theme of faith and trust, and consider these people. The father—who has just met Jesus—has an astonishing level of trust in this teacher and healer. And the woman with the hemorrhage has an enormous amount of faith that this holy man can help her if she can only get close to him. What amazing faith these two people have! And their trust is not misplaced. Both the woman and the girl are given new life. Jesus rescues them from sickness and from death.

Abraham, Matthew, the grieving father, and the woman who touched Jesus’ cloak—each of them demonstrate profound trust in something beyond themselves, in someone higher than themselves.

Despite the taunts of his neighbours—and maybe the complaints of his relatives—Abraham abandons everything that is familiar and secure, in order to obey a God who calls him into the unknown.

Despite the derision and hatred of those who know him as the worst kind of sinner, Matthew obeys the call of the teacher he had heard from a distance—and that changes his life forever.

Despite her despair and her shame, a woman ventures into public in order to touch the man from whom love and power emanate and heal.

Despite his religious position and respectability, a distraught father approaches a man who eats with sinners—and begs for the life of his child.

Jesus responds to all of them because he knows that he has come for the sick, not for the healthy. He has come for those who recognize that he is filled with mercy—a power which is infinitely more compelling than external sacrifice or religious ritual.

Always going to the heart of every problem that is brought before him, Jesus sees people as they really are—and he responds with mercy. That’s who Jesus is—the One who sees us as we really are. If we trust in him, we will come to know his mercy. If we come to know his mercy, our lives will be changed. Our lives will be restored.

That is the gospel we preach. Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

________________________

* New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition. Copyright © 2021 National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Trinity Sunday

TEXTS: 2 Corinthians 13:11-13; Psalm 8; Matthew 28:16-20

The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of  the Holy Spirit be with all of you. (2 Corinthians 13:13)

“Space: the final frontier.” You all recognize that quote, don’t you? Where’s that quote from?

That’s right … Star Trek!

Each episode of the original TV series began with William Shatner narrating those words. The entire quote goes like this: “Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.”

Of course, Star Trek was fictional; it was fantastic entertainment—which is why, for the past six decades, it has continued to inspire spin-off TV series and feature films. It was wonderful science fiction, and I think the reason for its ongoing appeal can be found in that quote from the opening sequence.

It speaks to our imaginations, promising a voyage into “the final frontier … to explore … to seek out … to boldly go” where no one else has been. It appeals to our sense of adventure, and to our inquisitive human nature. We love mystery—or, at least, we’re intrigued by it.

Unanswered questions pique our interest—and the whole topic of outer space abounds with these. Is there life on other planets? Are there other “earths”? Are there other universes? Parallel universes? A multiverse? If our universe is expanding, what’s it expanding into?

No doubt, someday—in the near or distant future—we will have answers to at least some of those questions. Over the centuries, it has always been the goal of the human race to expand knowledge and find answers to everything that is unknown. That’s how we discovered that the earth is not flat, that our planet orbits the sun, and that microbes we can’t see with the naked eye can make us sick—even kill us. Countless mysteries have been solved by science, and countless more will be.

Even so, I think some mysteries will always be mysteries. On Trinity Sunday, we consider one of those mysteries: God.

Now, perhaps we don’t often think of God as a mystery. Especially if we are used to coming before him in prayer, or have experienced his presence in some profound way, we may feel that we know who God is. And perhaps we do have that knowledge, at least in part.

But we have to admit: there’s more about God that we don’t know than we do know. At least, that’s the way I feel.

I can’t touch God. I can’t say how big he is, because I don’t know what to measure.

I can’t see him. If I wanted to take a picture of God, I wouldn’t know where to point the camera.

Whenever I try to describe God, I always end up using earthly images, ascribing to God human qualities so that he (s/he?) makes sense in my limited understanding.

The truth is: as humans—as creatures of God—we can’t even begin to imagine what God is really like. We are restricted to describing God with corporeal terminology—and so, we can only express what God is like in the vaguest of terms. We’re left guessing about what we may have missed. This is the mystery of God.

When the early Christians started talking about the Trinity—about a Triune God—they were not trying to make God more logical and understandable and acceptable to human ways of thinking. In fact, for them—as for us—the idea of the Trinity intensified the mystery and awesomeness of God.

They observed that Jesus had a unique relationship with the Father and that the Holy Spirit had a unique relationship with the Father and the Son. That’s why—against all human logic, and in the face of mounting opposition—the Church maintained that Jesus Christ is true God, equal with the Father; and that the Holy Spirit is true God, equal with the Father and the Son.

Psalm number eight begins: “O Lord, our Sovereign,
how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens” (Psalm 8:1).

The psalmist looks at the stars and the moon—and these days we could go further and add the galaxies and planets of the universe—and he can only conclude that these must be the work of a great and awesome God. And we can relate to that, can’t we? We look at the magnificent colours of a sunset, at the intricate structure of a beautiful flower, at the Rocky Mountains, at a star-filled sky, and we declare: “That is proof that there is a God. Anyone who wants proof of God’s existence doesn’t need to look any further.”

But you know, God’s presence in the universe can only be seen with the eyes of faith. Those who already know God can see that the wonders of nature are signs of God’s greatness—but to the one without faith, or to the mind trained in science, God’s presence is not immediately obvious.

That’s why the psalmist talks about the greatness of God as a matter of faith by calling God our Sovereign: “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”

Speaking through the prophet Isaiah, God asks:

“To whom then will you compare me, or who is my equal? … The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth … his understanding is unsearchable” (Isaiah 40:25a, 28).

But we do know some things about God. He is more than the God of nature. There is another side to God. He is not only great and awesome. He has also revealed himself as a God who cares—a personal God who wants to have a relationship with his people.

The psalmist marvels at the whole idea that this awesome and majestic God should care for something as insignificant as the human race:

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established; what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?” (Psalm 8:3-4)

But, in fact, God loves us so much that he even sent his Son into the world to save us from our own wickedness.

A few weeks ago—on Good Friday—we were reminded that God, in his great love for us, sent his Son to die in our place. Then, on Easter morning, we celebrated the fact that—in the resurrection of Jesus—God’s love destroyed death’s power over us. God wants us all to come close to him, something that is only possible because our sin has been dealt with. We have been reconciled to God. God sent Jesus to restore our friendship with him through his dying and rising.

When we ask the question, “Who died on the cross?” the answer is: “God died on the cross!” He did the unthinkable: he allowed himself to fall into the hands of mortals. He allowed himself to be treated cruelly, laughed at, and finally killed.

Now, we want to say that this is impossible. God, who is majestic and awesome, cannot do this. But he did! This is part of the mystery of God.

Last Sunday, we celebrated Pentecost—the pouring out of the Holy Spirit upon Jesus’ disciples and upon the church. Jesus said that he and the Father would send the Spirit to remind us of the truth of God’s promises, to guide us, to encourage us, and to sustain us when the going gets tough.

My friends, there is nothing more personal than the Spirit of God.
 He knows us better than we know ourselves.
 He knows when we need reassuring.
 He knows when we are afraid and uncertain and in need of encouragement.
 He knows when we are guilty and depressed and need comforting.

The Holy Spirit becomes a part of our sordid existence in this world. He lives in us even though we too often allow our sinful nature to hijack our Christian lives. We might think that a holy God could not possibly do this—but he does! Once again, we are confronted with the mystery of God.

The doctrine of the Trinity is not an attempt by the church to unravel the mystery of God. No. In fact, the doctrine of the Trinity only deepens the mystery. It raises more questions than it answers. However, it does tell us some important things about God—things that are life-changing. Basically, it tells us who God is.

Who is God? He is our heavenly Father who made us, takes cares of us, and calls us his beloved children.

Who is God? He is Jesus Christ, who gave his life on the cross to re-establish our relationship with God. Jesus reveals the way to God, and to eternal life.

Who is God? God is the Spirit in you—the One who gives you faith to begin with, the One who guides you in your daily walk as a Christian.

Faith in the Triune God acknowledges the might and majesty of God; but—at the same time—it also trusts in a God who cares.

Over the years, I have met many Christians who have been confounded by the idea of a Triune God. However, I don’t think we will be quizzed about our understanding of the Trinity when we get to heaven. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be a question on the entrance exam. After all, in human terms, this is an impossible concept. God knows that. So let’s leave it as a part of the mystery.

The really important thing is that—in the rough-and-tumble struggles of daily life—we have a God who saves, a God who loves, a God who wants you to have a living relationship with him. Yes, our God is majestic and mighty; but he is also present. God is right here, right now—and he wants you to be with him for all eternity.

In spite of our unbelief, in spite of our dim understanding, God offers us new life, and a new way of living. And that is why the good news is good news. Amen.

The Day of Pentecost

TEXT: Acts 2:1-21

 

Ascension Day

TEXT: Acts 1:1-11

So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. (Acts 1:6-9)

Those of you who are of my generation—all you “baby boomers” … Do you ever wonder what became of some of the famous celebrities from the 1950s and 60s?

I do. I ask myself, “Whatever happened to so-and-so?” Like the actor Jim Nabors, for example. Remember him? From 1964-1969, he was “Gomer Pyle” on TV: “Gomer Pyle, U.S. Marine Corps.” He was also a pretty good singer.

How about former teen heartthrob—and fellow Canadian—Bobby Curtola? He had “top 10” hits like “Fortune Teller” in 1963 and “Aladdin” in 1964. He even did a cover version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

Or how about Juliette Sysak … “our pet, Juliette”? If you watched her on CBC television back in the day, you’ll surely remember this great Canadian singer, who was born in St. Vital, Manitoba (before it was part of Winnipeg).

Where are they now?

Well … predictably (but sadly, for all us baby boomers) … they’re all dead! Bobby Curtola shuffled off this mortal coil in 2016, while Jim and Juliette passed in 2017.

Gulp. As if I didn’t feel old enough already.

Okay. Let’s try some celebs from the 1980s. Like Tom Selleck—the original “Magnum P.I.”

Thankfully, Tom remains with us, going strong at age 78, and still on a hit TV series, playing  New York City Police Commissioner Frank Reagan on Blue Bloods.

How about Dana Delany, who briefly played Magnum’s love interest on the original series? She rose to international fame as Army nurse Colleen McMurphy on the Vietnam War drama China Beach (1988–1991), for which she twice received the Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Lead Actress.

Delany has been constantly busy on large and small screens ever since McMurphy hung up her stethoscope, and today—yet stunningly beautiful at 67—she can be found on Paramount Plus, playing Margaret Devereaux, the owner of the Fennario horse ranch on Tulsa King.

By now, you may be asking, “What’s with the trip down memory lane?” Why the nostalgia?

Well, this is Ascension Day. In Luke’s account from the Book of Acts, Jesus was “raptured”—lifted up into the sky as the disciples watched. They kept looking up until “a cloud took him out of their sight.” As you read that story … I wonder: did you think to ask, “Where is he now?”

Where is he, now? Where is Jesus, now? This is actually a very important question. And the way we answer it demonstrates how real Jesus is in our lives.

Where is Jesus now? How we answer this question reveals whether we believe Jesus is able to change lives … or not. After all, if Jesus is absent from this earth, then he cannot be at work in our world. But if he is present—if he is here—then he is still able to affect people’s lives. He can touch us. He can bring us hope, and heal our diseases—both physical and spiritual.

Jesus’ words to his disciples—which he spoke just before his departure—speak of his abiding power. He said: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (Acts 1:8)

We who believe in Jesus have the hope—more than that, we have the promise—that his spiritual power will be alive in us. The Holy Spirit, who was present at creation, lives in us and empowers us to bear witness for Christ in this world.

Jesus’ ascension illustrates this power. Jesus has gone on to heaven before us to prepare our way. And he is already at the right hand of the Father with all things under his feet. Jesus—who lives in us—is piloting the universe until that day when he returns in clouds of glory.

Where is Jesus now? On Ascension Day, that is a legitimate question.

After his resurrection, Jesus continued appearing to his disciples for 40 days. He taught them. He healed them. He broke bread with them. According to the Gospel of John (21:1-14), he even made breakfast for them! Then he ascended into heaven to take his place with God the Father. But before he left, he promised that the Holy Spirit would quickly come.

Where is Jesus now? Yes, he is in heaven; the Bible clearly tells us this. And yet, somehow, he is also here. He’s still here! We continue to feel his presence, do we not?

And we say that wherever two or more gather in his name, he is there with them. When we assemble for worship, we proclaim that the risen Christ is present with us. He is in heaven—and yet he is here! How can that be?

As a bright teenager once said to me: “I guess it’s one of those paradoxes.” In the same breath, we declare that Christ is with us—and also that he is on a throne in heaven.

Where is Jesus now? As you might have guessed, this is a trick question! There are actually two correct answers. Jesus is beside his Father in heaven, and he is also here with us now. Both answers are important to our understanding of Christ as Saviour and Lord.

When the Bible tells us that Christ Jesus ascended to heaven and sits at the right hand of God, that means Jesus is in a position of authority over the entire world. Jesus has taken the high ground of the universe.

It is from that position of might and strength that he will finally overcome evil. And it is from there that Jesus will rule his eternal kingdom in perfect peace and wholeness—in shalom, to use the Hebrew word.

When Jesus began his ministry, he said that he had come to bring release to captives and freedom to the oppressed. Through his death, he freed us from the bonds of our own sin; and from his position of authority, Jesus will liberate the human race from all that afflicts it: hatred, greed, prejudice, hunger, disease, death, and all the other enemies of shalom.

Because Jesus is at the right hand of the Father, he is in a position to establish his Kingdom. But Jesus has not left us alone until that day. Ten days after Jesus ascended, he sent the Holy Spirit. At Pentecost God’s presence came to the church to stay with it until Christ comes again. And through the Holy Spirit, Christ is present with us.

Where is Jesus now? I guess each of us has to answer that question for ourselves. And how you answer it, I suppose, depends both upon your personal experience and upon how confident you are in the testimony of Scripture.

If you believe that Jesus is dead, then your faith will be dead, also. If you believe that he is way off in a distant heaven—and not here—you will not look for the working of his Spirit in your life. But if you believe he is alive and well and dwelling among us, then you will discover him to be real to you, and present for you. You will be open to the life-transforming love and grace that he brings, and that each one of us needs. Then—and I suspect, only then—will you be able to go into the world like his first disciples did, testifying to his love and grace and power.

The way we answer the question, “Where is Jesus now?” makes a tremendous difference.

There’s no point in having a God who is exalted and majestic, if he does not touch our lives. There’s no point in having a Saviour who is transformative and redemptive and powerful if we do not allow his power to redeem and transform us. You see, Jesus not only ministers to us—he ministers to others through us! That’s what it means to be an apostle as well as a disciple—and we are called to be both disciples and apostles.

Where is Jesus now? He’s standing here among us, simultaneously ascended and present. And he is saying to us: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses … to the ends of the earth.”

May God grant us eyes to see and ears to hear the Risen One who beckons us—and also grant us the power of faith, that we may indeed become his witnesses … to the ends of the earth. Amen.

Sixth Sunday of Easter

“If you love me, you will keep  my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate,  to be with you for ever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in  you.

“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.”

—John 14:15-21 (NRSV)

 

Have you ever seen the musical, “Camelot”? In the last scene, King Arthur spins out a poignant song filled with memories of what had been the most idyllic place on earth. Alone on stage, the broken king begs us to remember:

Ask ev’ry person if they’ve heard the story, and tell it strong and clear if they have not,

That once there was a fleeting wisp of glory called Camelot.

Don’t let it be forgot that once there was a spot

For one brief, shining moment that was known as Camelot.

Keep the story going, Arthur begs us. Pass it on to your children and your children’s children; and in the very remembering, you will keep the dream alive. In the midst of the despair around you, recall this golden time, this special place. And, perhaps—who knows—perhaps this one brief, shining moment will come again.

As Jesus gathers with his disciples for his Last Supper, we sort of expect to hear him singing Arthur’s song. Jesus knew he would soon be betrayed by one of his closest followers, then arrested, and finally killed. Here at the Passover table, Jesus spins out his last words to his closest friends. We can well imagine Jesus calling them to remember the marvellous wisp of glory they had shared, when light had come into the darkness of the world. With such a memory, perhaps the disciples could go on, sustained by the vision of this one great life, waiting and hoping that Jesus would soon return.

The entire Gospel of John could be a melody from Camelot, for John wrote these words many years after Jesus was gone. This gospel is written backwards, in the midst of a community for whom Jesus was only a memory. In fact, most of those in John’s community had never met Jesus. Almost all of the original disciples were dead. The temple in Jerusalem had been destroyed—a sign, they had thought, that the end-time would soon come.

But the end-time did not come. Life went on. And that was, in many ways, the hardest part of all. Jesus had not returned even when all the signs seemed right. This community of believers felt pushed to the brink of despair, and despair was the thing which could defeat them. The gospel writer knew the dangers of such despair. And so it was that John pulled together many of the things Jesus said into this one section known as “The Farewell Discourse.”

It runs from the middle of chapter 13 to the end of chapter 16, and it’s a bit like “The Last Lecture Series” in some universities, where professors are asked what they would say if they knew it was their last opportunity to speak. Here at the table, Jesus says the same things over and over in different ways—but his central theme is love.

• “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” (13:34)
• “If you love me you will keep my commandments.” (14:15)
• “They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me.” (14:21)
• “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.” (15:9)
• “I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.” (15:17)

“But how can we do that?” the disciples must have wondered. Knowing they had a difficult time loving each other even while the Lord was with them, how could believers love like that in John’s community, where Jesus’ memory was fading?  “Let’s just keep singing about that time when Jesus was here,” they may have thought.

“Don’t let it be forgot that once there was a spot for one brief shining moment…”

But Jesus did not sing that song. Jesus did not call the disciples to hold up his life as memory, but as presence. “I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus said. “I am coming to you.” (14:18)

What a strange thing to say on the night of his betrayal and arrest. He should have said, “I am leaving you!”

Jesus did not deny what was going to happen. He said: “In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live.” (14:19)

Jesus was calling his disciples to live and love in ways that seemed impossible. And without the Spirit, it would have been. And there’s the other theme repeated over and over around the table—the Holy Spirit. Sometimes Jesus calls him “the Advocate,” like someone who stands beside you in a court of law. Sometimes he says “Helper,” sometimes “Spirit of Truth.”

When Jesus said, “I am coming to you,” he did not mean he would return like an old friend from a long journey. Jesus would be with believers in a different way. Or perhaps we could say that God would be with them in a different way because Jesus had been there. The eternal, cosmic Word of God became flesh in Jesus.

That’s what John wrote at the very beginning of this gospel. The Spirit, which blew like a wind over the face of the deep in creation, took on flesh in the one who now sat with them at the table. This Living Word had just bent down to wash the disciples’ dirty feet. You can’t get much more down-to-earth than that. Jesus was very clear: “The Spirit that dwells in me will abide also in you.”

Shortly before this, Jesus had said something outrageous: “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.” (14:12)

If anyone other than Jesus had made such a claim, we would call it blasphemy! Yet, that’s what Jesus said that night at the table; even as God breathed into lifeless clay to create a living person, the Spirit will breathe the presence of Jesus into you. In the power of the Spirit, Jesus will continue to be present with you. “I will not leave you orphaned. I am coming to you.” (14:18)

Love and the Spirit—these two themes are at the centre of Jesus’ farewell message: “Love one another as I have loved you” and “The Spirit of Truth will abide with you when I am gone.” A little later in this same chapter, Jesus says, “The Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you.” (14:26b)

That is, Jesus was saying: You don’t know everything yet. You have more to learn. In every generation you will be faced with new questions and perplexities. Does the sun revolve around the earth or is it the other way around? Should nuclear weapons ever be used against an enemy? Is social welfare the best way to bear one another’s burdens? Jesus knew there were some questions the sacred writings did not address. Jesus also acknowledged that there were some things he had never talked about. “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth,” he said. (16:13a)

The late Rosemary Radford Reuther (1936-2022) once said there are two things the church must do. One is to pass on the tradition from one generation to another. We might say this is like King Arthur’s song: “Ask ev’ry person if they’ve heard the story, and tell it loud and clear if they have not”—tell the story of Jesus to your children and your children’s children. But that’s not all, said Reuther. There is a second thing the church must do: remain open to the winds of the Spirit by which the tradition comes alive in each generation. That is different than Camelot; it is much deeper than memory.

At the very end of this chapter, Jesus seems to be ready to leave. He says, “Rise, let us be on our way.” (14:31b)

You can almost see him getting up from the table, then realizing that he forgot to say something. “I am the true vine,” he says, sitting down again, “and my Father is the vinegrower … Abide in me as I abide in you.” (15:1, 4a)

But how can we abide in Jesus? Well, he has told us how—over and over again, repeating himself at the table: “You will abide in me through the gift of the Spirit. The Spirit will teach you how to love one another.”

The Spirit will keep us connected, says Jesus. You to me, all of us to God—each sibling to each sibling.

You know, I once heard someone say that the reason mountain climbers are tied together is to keep the sane ones from going home! Of course, we know that mountain climbers are tied together to keep from getting lost or going over a cliff—but there is a piece of truth in that wry statement.

When things get tough up on the mountain, when fear sets in, many a climber is surely tempted to say, “This is crazy! I’m going home.” The life of faith can be like that; doubt sets in, despair overwhelms us, and the whole notion of believing in God seems crazy.

Jesus knew his disciples would have days like that. So he told them we’re tied together like branches on a vine—or like climbers tied to the rope—bound together by the Spirit, to trust in One who is always more than we can understand, to keep us moving ahead on the journey of faith, to encourage us when believing seems absurd.

“I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus said. “I am coming to you.”

This promise is far more meaningful than a song from musical theatre. And it was meant not only for Jesus’ first disciples, but also for you and for me. The Spirit binds us to Jesus, and whenever we are tempted to settle for answers that cannot give life—even if they seem to make more sense—well, that’s when we feel a tug on the rope.

May God, who breathed life into inanimate clay, breathe life and hope into us—now, and in all the days to come. May the Holy Spirit bind us to Jesus and to one another—and breathe into us not only blessed memories, but also the very presence of Jesus, that we may love one another, even as Jesus has loved us. Amen.