TEXT: Luke 18:9-14

“The Pharisee … was praying thus, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.’… But the tax collector  … was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’” (Luke 18:11-13)

How many of you were alive in the 1960s? Do you remember this brief verse?

I’m Muhammad Ali, I’m Muhammad Ali;

I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.

Muhammad Ali, in his prime, continually proclaimed that he was “the greatest.” And he was. Ali was without doubt one of the greatest boxers of the 20th century. Even until his death at age 74 in 2016—even as he battled Parkinson’s Disease, which robbed him of his power of speech—he was still instantly recognizable, even to generations too young to have seen him in the ring.

It’s safe to say that very few of us will ever reach the zenith of recognition in our fields the way Muhammad Ali did in his.

In fact, if any of us were asked how many times we have boasted about our own greatness—or boldly made a prediction about an outcome in which we played a major role—very few of us would admit to having done so.

However, even though we may not have achieved a world-class ranking—and very few of us have ever been the head of our class—most of us at one time or another have wanted to be noticed. We have wanted to be recognized, no matter how small our achievement might be.

Spouses want assurances from their partners that somehow they have made a difference in the other person’s life through the many thankless tasks they accomplish daily. Small children live for praise from their teachers, their parents, their grandparents.

Employees look for recognition from their employers—for a pat on the back, for words of appreciation. And, truth to tell, that is often what strikes are really all about. Recognition, not money. But for some reason, it’s always the money that gets talked about. I suppose that’s because, in our society, money is the ultimate symbol of value—even of personal value, even of our feelings of self-worth.

But the money is ultimately unsatisfying, if the raise in pay is not accompanied by genuine appreciation, by sincere words of praise. Lack of recognition for a job well done cannot be made up for by a bump into a higher tax bracket.

In the same way, material prosperity cannot erase the pain of a loveless marriage. And the hurt inside a child who knows she is not really cared for cannot be bought off by an abundance of expensive gifts. Money really can’t buy you love.

Maybe the need for recognition and approval—and love—is our best-kept secret. It’s a secret that’s connected to our own feelings of inadequacy, to our own belief that we have not measured up to the expectations of others—or of ourselves.

Perhaps that is why we need to hear the words of today’s gospel text. For when all is said and done, we believe we have not lived up to God’s expectations, either. Consider the Pharisee in Jesus’ story. Surprisingly enough, living up to God’s expectations was not a problem for him. He thought he had it made. After all, wasn’t that the purpose of the Law? To help him meet God’s expectations? Rigorously—and religiously—he believed he had done that, and more.

The Pharisees, you understand, were not bad people. They were the good religious folk of their place and time, and they tried to do the best they knew. They attended worship regularly. They contributed to the upkeep of the Temple. They advocated taking care of the poor and the widowed and the fatherless. We would call them “pillars of the community.”

Well, let’s face it—when you’re a pillar of the community, it’s easy to end up with a rather large ego. It can happen to anyone.

If you’ve donated a lot of time and money to the church, maybe it’s natural to start thinking you own the place—that your opinion should carry more weight than anyone else’s. And if you really believe you’ve lived a moral and upright life, maybe you can’t help thinking—even secretly—that God likes to point you out to the angels as a good example.

Well, Jesus knew how people were. He still knows how we are. And so, for the Pharisees in his audience—then and now—he included a tax collector in his story.

A tax collector for the Romans, you see, was a Jew who made his living by ripping off his countrymen—by charging more tax than was required, and then keeping the difference. That was how it worked. But of course, the tax collectors were hated by their fellow Jews. They were considered traitors of the worst kind.

But I digress. Let’s get back to the story.

Picture the scene. The Pharisee is in the front pew, expecting to be noticed. The tax collector is hiding in the back pew, hoping he won’t be noticed.

The Pharisee contrasts his life to the life of the wretched tax collector, and thanks God for making him the wonderful, religious, successful, modest guy that he is!

Now, the tax collector might very well have accumulated as much money as the Pharisee had—or even more! But his wealth hadn’t helped his self-esteem. The tax collector knew his own shortcomings all too well—and they weighed upon his heart. And so he said this simple prayer: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” (Luke 18:13)

Jesus then finished the story by saying: “I tell you, this man (the tax collector) went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Luke 18:14)

Now, this story becomes good news for us because it allows us to examine ourselves honestly, and from the perspective of faith. It is true that we are not—nor will we ever be—the people that God would have us be. And yet, that is precisely why God gives us his Child, Jesus Christ.

God gives Jesus to us because, left to our own devices, we could never gain the recognition nor the approval from God that we so desperately desire. The gift of Jesus lifts from our shoulders the burden of our need to please God, to gain God’s favor.

The arrival of Jesus into our lives helps us admit that we are not—nor will we ever be—on the same level as God. Jesus’ presence in our lives makes us humbly aware of the great lengths God will go to in order to rescue us.

Jesus then becomes for us proof positive that God’s compassion is great, God’s mercy is wide, and that God’s covenant love for us is resolute, steadfast, and eternal.

As we hear this good news, we discover that humility is not a quality that we generate from within ourselves. Rather, humility comes about in our lives as we are confronted by the gospel and recognize the enormity of its power at work in our lives.

In fact, when we are faced with the magnitude of such grace, then we respond like the tax collector, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” For even before the prayer comes from our lips, God has demonstrated his mercy, and we rejoice because the mercy that comes from God never ends.

We should praise our Creator for so great a salvation. Thanks be to God. Amen.

TEXT: Luke 18:1-8

… In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people [and in] that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, “Grant me justice …” (Luke 18:2-3)

I want to begin today by quoting a writer named Luke Veronis. In addition to being a writer, Father Veronis  is a Greek Orthodox priest, lecturer, and writer. Here’s part of an article he wrote in a theological journal called Communion:

Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Russian author Alexander Solzhenitsyn spent many years in the prison camps of Siberia. Along with other prisoners, he worked in the fields day after day, in rain and sun, during summer and winter. His life appeared to be nothing more than backbreaking labor and slow starvation. The intense suffering reduced him to a state of despair.

On one particular day, the hopelessness of his situation became too much for him. He saw no reason to continue his struggle, no reason to keep on living. His life made no difference in the world. So he gave up.

Leaving his shovel on the ground, he slowly walked to a crude bench and sat down. He knew that at any moment a guard would order him to stand up, and when he failed to respond, the guard would beat him to death, probably with his own shovel. He had seen it happen to other prisoners.

As he waited, head down, he felt a presence. Slowly he looked up and saw a skinny old prisoner squat down beside him. The man said nothing. Instead, he used a stick to trace in the dirt the sign of the Cross. The man then got back up and returned to his work.

As Solzhenitsyn stared at the Cross drawn in the dirt his entire perspective changed. He knew he was only one man against the all-powerful Soviet empire. Yet he knew there was something greater than the evil he saw in the prison camp, something greater than the Soviet Union. He knew that hope for all people was represented by that simple Cross. Through the power of the Cross, anything was possible.

Solzhenitsyn slowly rose to his feet, picked up his shovel, and went back to work. Outwardly, nothing had changed. Inside, he had received hope. [From Luke Veronis, “The Sign of the Cross”; Communion, issue 8, Pascha 1997]

Is that powerful, or what? What that skinny old prisoner did for Solzhenitsyn, Jesus does for us today in when he tells us about the persistent widow and the unjust judge.

Just as Solzhenitsyn desperately needed a renewal of hope, so we need encouragement from time to time—especially if we are to continue in prayer and not lose heart. The skinny old prisoner made lines in the dirt. Jesus does something different: he tells us a story.

There is this judge, Jesus says, who has neither decency nor conscience. He is a corrupt official interested only in his own advantage.

A widow appears in his courtroom. She is poor and powerless, someone to whom the movers and shakers in her town pay no attention. To them, she is a person of no consequence. She has no money to bribe this crooked judge. She cannot afford a lawyer to speak up for her.

So you know what she does? She speaks up for herself. “Grant me justice against my opponent!” she shouts. When this does not bring her immediate results, she remains undaunted. She refuses to be ignored.  She keeps coming back.

She returns to that courtroom again and again and again, ceaselessly imploring the magistrate: “Grant me justice!”

“Grant me justice!”

“Go away.”

“Grant me justice!”

“Go away.”

“Grant me justice!”

“You again?”

Eventually, her persistence wears down the judge. To spare himself further annoyance—and embarrassment—the judge decides not simply to hear her case, but to find in her favour. In other words, even before he hears the evidence, he’s made up his mind to give her what she wants—just to shut her up!

Now, is this a portrait of God? I don’t think that’s what Jesus has in mind—although certainly that is how some people consider the practice of prayer. They seem to view the Almighty as an unscrupulous judge or a petty bureaucrat or an abusive parent. With such a conception of God, it’s amazing that they ever pray at all!

But you know, God is not like that. God is the author of all justice and compassion. It may be that, in prayer, we are supposed to imitate the widow’s persistence—but if so, it is not because God is hard-hearted and uncaring.

Let’s take another look at that judge. What do we know about him? We know that he is unscrupulous, without decency or conscience. He doesn’t care about people. There is no fear of God in him. This judge always has it figured out; he leaves no room for the possibility that God may have more creative answers to the questions his life forces upon him.

Do we know anyone who matches this description? Sure we do! Each of us fits that description sometimes—and some of us even make a career out of it.

There are those times, aren’t there, when each of us lives entirely unto ourselves? When we refuse to allow that God may have a better solution to things than we do? When we don’t even consider that God may be offering us greater things than we can ask for, or imagine?

At such times, our decisions about life leave no place for God—and no room for those with needs and wishes different from our own. The universe, as we understand it, becomes very small, and closed; we are its sole inhabitants. To a greater or lesser degree, I think we are all like that—which is why we say a prayer of confession in church each Sunday.

If, then, the judge represents us, who does the loud-mouthed widow represent?

Could it be that this poor and powerless woman—with her tenacious and unlimited determination—is there as a symbol of God?

I think this fits. God is forever attempting to break into our closed universe, to draw us into relationship, to make us recognize what our relationships with God and neighbour demand of us. God is not the unjust judge. God is the widow who wears him down. Where, then, is the unjust judge to be found?

Listen carefully: that judge is inside each of us, and the purpose of our prayer is to wear him down, to wear him out, to force him to do justice. Prayer is the widow’s voice—strident yet sane, insistent and relentless—demanding that things be different.

Many of us have trouble with prayer. Some even give up the practice completely, because they think that praying is an exercise in futility. They think it’s about telling God what God already knows, or persuading God to do what God wouldn’t do otherwise, or somehow changing God in one way or another. Prayer, however—any prayer worthy of the name—is quite the opposite.

The primary effect of prayer is not on God, but on us. God’s love is already unconditional. God’s justice is already perfect. God’s compassion is already boundless. God recognizes our needs even before we do. It’s not God who needs to change, it’s us! We are the ones who need to get in line with God’s program, and prayer is a large part of doing that.

Prayer is our declaration that we do not want to exist in a closed universe, dependent only on ourselves and our own solutions. Prayer represents our desire to be open to God. In our prayers, the Holy Spirit speaks in the voice of the poor widow who demands justice from our inner judge. The miracle of prayer is that the judge’s resistance breaks down! For once, he does what is right—and may even do so again, in the future!

That loud-mouthed widow would not have succeeded had she not been persistent, and confident, and unconcerned about what others thought of her.

She had what is called in Yiddish chutzpah—which is the quality of audacity. Our prayers need chutzpah—not because God is deaf, but because opening our hearts to God is not easy for us.

There are many things in each of us that can keep God out. Sin is not the only obstacle. Attitudes of mind may keep the door shut and bolted. We may doubt that God hears us. We may consider ourselves unworthy. We may think God simply cannot be bothered with our petty problems. But these are the very attitudes which can be driven out by relentless prayer—by the persistent voice of the widow who refuses to take “no” for an answer.

The story is told of a girl who watched a holy nun praying at the lakeside. Once the nun had finished her prayer, the girl approached her and asked, “Will you teach me to pray?” The nun studied the girl’s face, and agreed to her request. Taking her into the shallow water, the nun instructed the girl to kneel, so that her face was close to the surface. The girl did as she was told.

Then the nun pushed the girl’s head under the water, and held her there. Soon the girl struggled to free herself in order to breathe. Once she got her breath back, she gasped, “What did you do that for?”

The holy nun said, “That was your first lesson.”

“What do you mean?” asked the astonished girl.

And the nun answered, “When you long to pray as much as you long to breathe, then I will be able to teach you.”

May each of us long to pray, and learn to pray—and to persist in our prayers—not so that we can change God, but so that God can change us, and show us that fullness of life which he intends for each one of his children.  Amen.

On the way to Jerusalem Jesus  was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’ When he saw them, he said to them, ‘Go and show yourselves to the priests.’ And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, ‘Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?’ Then he said to him, ‘Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.’ — Luke 17:11-19 (NRSV)

Our gospel reading is an appropriate one for the occasion of Thanksgiving Sunday, which Canadians will be celebrating this week. It also just happens to be the Revised Common Lectionary reading for Proper 23, Year C—and so it’s a text about which many of our American cousins will be hearing sermons.

In it, Jesus and his disciples are on their way to Jerusalem, and they are passing between Samaria and Galilee. Peter, at this point, had already declared that Jesus was “the Messiah of God.” ¹  So the disciples knew that Jesus was the Messiah. But I doubt they fully understood what that meant. They also knew that they were going to Jerusalem, but they probably had no idea that Jesus was actually going to die there. Sure, Jesus had warned them that he would be killed and that he would rise on the third day.² But even Peter, who was the first to acknowledge him as the Messiah, could not accept it.³  So they obediently followed their Master as he made his way to the cross.

At this point in their journey the disciples were likely more worried about where they were at than where they were going. They were probably concerned about which side of the border they were on between Samaria and Galilee. I can imagine that as they entered each village they wanted to know if it was a Samaritan or a Galilean village.

You see, Samaritans and Jews just did not mix. The Jews considered the Samaritans to be the opposite of themselves. The Jews were the chosen people of God. The Samaritans, however … well, they were not just another nation of unchosen people; worse than that, they were heretics who claimed Moses as their guide but refused to worship in Jerusalem.

The disciples may have been so intent on limiting their contact with any Samaritans that they missed the significance of where they were. They knew that the Messiah had come to save the Jewish nation. But what they did not understand was that he had come to save the rest of the world, too.

So there they were, headed for Jerusalem and the cross of Christ. On the one side were the children of Israel, the people of God, who would reject their King. And on the other side were the lost nations of the world who would be offered salvation from God through what a Son of David was about to do.

As Jesus and the disciples traveled this road to the cross, they came to a village. As they approached it, a group of 10 people cried out: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.” ⁴

They called from a distance, because they were lepers. Now, lepers in the ancient world were required to stay away from towns; they were forbidden to enter lest people come into contact with their uncleanness. They were isolated from society and were required to beg for their food because they could not carry on a trade of their own.

As if the ravages of their awful disease were not bad enough, they were also separated from their family and friends and way of life. They couldn’t earn a living. They couldn’t go home for any reason—not even to attend the funeral of a loved one.

Now, this particular group of 10 lepers included not only Jews, but also at least one Samaritan. In a way, that was remarkable, for—as I said—Samaritans and Jews, as a rule, had nothing to do with one another. But you know, it’s a true statement: misery loves company. This group was excluded from both sides of the border, so they roamed around together, keeping one another company.

Somehow they knew that Jesus was in the area—and they knew that he was a healer. Maybe they had heard how he had healed lepers in the past. They hoped that Jesus could heal them, too. Then they could return to their families, and start their lives over again. So they went to see Jesus and they raised their voices together and cried out for help.

In other instances when Jesus healed lepers, he actually touched them and healed them on the spot. This group obviously didn’t want to impose on the good teacher by coming too close, but they probably did expect him to heal them right then and there. But instead, Jesus told them to go to the temple to be examined by the priests.

They were probably taken aback by that. They must have wondered what Jesus was doing. I imagine they even wondered if Jesus was playing a dirty trick on them. What if they went all the way to the temple just to be told once again that they were unclean? That would he awful. But they left for Jerusalem anyway.

It must have been a surprise to them when it happened. There they were on their way to Jerusalem, and all of a sudden they were healed! Some of the group probably pinched themselves to see if it was a dream. Then most of them started running to Jerusalem—running as fast as they could, so that they could be declared clean by the priests and could return to their families and their lives. But one of them turned around and ran back to Jesus.

The one who turned back was a Samaritan. When Jesus saw this he said, “Weren’t there ten of you who were cleansed? But only one has returned. Where are the other nine? How come none of God’s people wanted to return and give thanks?”

As I said, this makes a good text for a Thanksgiving message.

I believe the picture this story paints is true. Too often, we fail to give credit where credit is due. We are not the authors of our salvation. We are not the creators of our wealth. Yet how many of us remember to give thanks to God, who gave us all these things?

As Canadians, we enjoy freedoms that people in other parts of the world can only dream of. We can choose the people who govern us. If we are sick or injured, we can expect to receive excellent health care without having to worry about how we’ll pay for it. And of course, there is the abundance of the harvest. I’m told it’s still true that we live in a world where enough food is grown to feed the entire planet—and yet millions still go hungry!

We have been greatly blessed, which is why we have a great responsibility to spread those blessings around.

Let us—the Church, the believers in God—let us be the first to give praise to God, instead of the last. And let us be the first to remember the poor and the hungry and the outcasts—and the first to respond to them in love; for Jesus’ sake. Amen.

__________________________________

¹ Luke 9:20

² Luke 9:22

³ See Matthew 16:21-23 and Mark 8:31-33

⁴ Luke 17:13

 

World Communion Sunday

TEXTS: John 17:1-26 and 1 Corinthians 11:17-34

… the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” (1 Cor. 11:23-25)

On October 2, 2022, with our fellow Christians around the world, this is what we will be doing. On World Communion Sunday, we will remember Jesus. And we will remember that his prayer for us—as we heard in our gospel passage—was that we might be one.

“I ask … that they may all be one,” he said. “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.” (John 17:20a, 21-23)

The Service of the Table is meant to be a symbol of our unity—not only our unity as members of a particular congregation, or as members of a specific denomination—but of our unity as members of Christ’s Body, the Church … the universal church … “the church catholic” (small “c” catholic, as is often said).

On the first Sunday in October, in almost every nation, on every continent (except, perhaps, Antarctica), Christians will gather to share this holy meal. In some places it will be called “The Eucharist.” In others it will be called “Communion.” In others it will be called “The Love Feast.” In still others it will be called, “The Table of the Lord” or “The Lord’s Supper.”

And as varied as the titles are for what we will do, so also will be the ways in which our brothers and sisters come to the table, and the kinds of food and drink offered, and the understanding that people will have of what they are doing.

Some will come forward to receive unleavened bread in the form of a wafer into the palms of their hands. They may or may not then sip from the cup, which may contain wine, or unfermented grape juice—or even some other beverage, in those places where grapes are unknown.

Others will tear a piece of bread from a broken loaf—and then dip it into the common cup.

Still others will remain seated in their chairs—or in their pews—and they will serve one another from individual cups and trays of pre-sliced bread.

Some may do these things as a part of a full meal, seated at a table in a sanctuary of God’s presence … or in a church hall … or a home … or a school building. Others will sit in a circle in a hut, or in a clearing in the midst of a jungle or forest, or in the middle of a place of sand and rock.

Some will regard the bread and the wine as being literally the body and blood of Christ. Others will consider the entire exercise to be an important “memorial” and see Jesus as being spiritually present in a special way—but not physically present in the food and drink.

Yes, there will be differences—some of them quite profound—in the way Christians around the world view this sacred meal.

Some will think that their way of doing what they are doing is the only correct way to do it.

Some traditions will welcome only those adults who have made a public profession of their faith to the table, while others will welcome very young children—even babies—to the table.

Some will insist that each participant must be baptized, or belong to the denomination in which the sacrament is being observed; others will have a table which is open to all.

There will be a tremendous variety of practices and understandings as the Lord’s Supper is celebrated. However, over and above all the differences of opinion and practice, one thing will stand out; and that is … that all of us will consider that what we are doing is vitally important—so important that we might even risk argument with one another about what it means.

So what do we make of that? What is our communion with one another when we have such a wide variety of practices and understandings? What is our communion with one another—and with God?

Another way of putting this is to ask: Where, given our differences, is our “community”?

Someone—I wish I could remember who—once said that what makes a community is not shared values or common understanding so much as the fact that members of a community are engaged in the same argument.

“Members of a community are engaged in the same argument.” Think about that for a minute.

What helps to define us as a community—not only the community that we have in a local church, but also the community that we share with our fellow believers around the world—is the fact that we are all engaged in the same argument. We all see ourselves as followers of Jesus Christ. We are all engaged in working out the best way to order our lives as his people in response to his calling.

What makes us a “worldwide” community is not that we agree with one another in everything, but that we believe that the discussions we have—even the disagreements we have—are of significance.

The fact is, Christians have never been in complete agreement about everything.

In his letter to the Church at Rome, the apostle Paul tried to deal with some issues that were causing friction amongst believers in that first-century community. It had to do with holy days and dietary restrictions.

Some of the Roman Christians had scruples about eating meat, and drinking wine, and not observing the Sabbath. Paul discusses these differences of opinion in chapter 14, where he writes this:

Some judge one day to be better than another, while others judge all days to be alike. Let all be fully convinced in their own minds. Those who observe the day, observe it in honour of the Lord. Also those who eat, eat in honour of the Lord, since they give thanks to God; while those who abstain, abstain in honour of the Lord and give thanks to God.

We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ died and lived again, so that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living. (Rom. 14:5-9)

The important thing that Paul is telling us here is that each of us should be fully convinced in our own minds about what is important. We should do all that we do—or don’t do—with thanks to God and in the realization that Christ is Lord of all who serve him.

I don’t think there’s anything inherently evil about the fact that Christians disagree—not if we treat one another with respect. Yes, we continue to have our differences of opinion about what is right and what is wrong, what is good and what is not good, what is true and what is not true. But you know, our common argument helps to define us. It defines us as the people of God, as brothers and sisters of one another—as members of one family.

Think about your own families for a minute, and how they function. Is there perfect agreement among you?

Are there not members who believe—sometimes quite passionately—that the family should do this or that thing, while others in the family hold forth for something else?

And yet—while there are these kinds of disputes—if we are really a family, do we not sit down together at meal-time and share that which has been prepared for us? And as our tastes and inclinations lead us, some of us will take more from a particular dish, while others will prefer a different one. Isn’t that true? I am the only one in my family who loves turnips!

If we have any sense at all of being a family, we gather on special occasions, don’t we? We come together around the table that has been set, and we give thanks to God for providing the food that we eat—even if our diets are slightly different.

That’s what families do, isn’t it? We bless one another and love one another—without demanding that everyone else do exactly what we do, or think exactly the way we think. We don’t all have to love turnips …

The church around the world today is one family. We are the family of God—defined by our common desire to follow Christ Jesus, who is both our brother and our Lord.

We are the ones who trust in Jesus—who strive to follow him faithfully and to keep the special law he gave us: the commandment that we love one another as he has loved us (John 15:12).

Where is our community with God and one another? It is in all the things we share that are of God and are fully agreed about—and also in all those things about which we agree to disagree. It is in Christ Jesus, whom we seek to follow in varied scheme and practice; and it is in God our Father, who sent Jesus to open the way to life for us; and it is in the Holy Spirit, who joins us together in a mystic communion—one that is not limited by time or space.

This comes to us as a gift from God: the God who wills that we love him with our whole heart, mind, strength and soul, and that we love one another as we love ourselves; the God who empowers us to do exactly that when we turn to him, and trust in him, and seek to do his will.

God is with us. Christ is with us. And, by the power of the Spirit, we are made one with all our brothers and sisters who call upon his name. What a magnificent blessing! Thanks be to God for it.

TEXT: Luke 16:19-31

“The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.” (Luke 16:22b-24)

As someone once remarked, “It’s not what I don’t understand about the Bible that bothers me—it’s what I do understand!” That comment could certainly apply to this morning’s gospel lesson—to the story about the anonymous rich man and the poor beggar named Lazarus. One of them “feasts sumptuously” every day, while the other one starves. The rich man’s life is a party; the poor man’s life is a misery.

As Jesus tells the story, both men die. Then comes the moment of judgment, when the playing field is leveled. The tables are turned. The first is now last, the last is now first. The poor man sits next to father Abraham in paradise; the rich man is in Hades, the place of torment. And there is no way to get from the one place to the other.

The rich man understands; he says to himself, “I blew it.”

But then he thinks: maybe he can salvage something out of his predicament. He says to father Abraham: “Send someone to warn my brothers, so that they don’t end up like me!”

Abraham replies, “They’ve got the law and the prophets, they should listen to them.”

However, the rich man knows his five brothers only too well. He knows they won’t pay any more attention to the Scriptures than he did. So he asks Abraham to send Lazarus—the beggar whom he ignored—to his brothers, to warn them. “Maybe,” he says, “if someone rises from the dead, they’ll listen.”

Abraham’s reply is as harsh-sounding as it is true: “If they won’t listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they listen to someone who rises from the dead.”

Luke tells us (16:14-15) that Jesus aimed this parable at the Pharisees—at the good, religious people of his day. He seems to be telling them: “You don’t get it. You’re not listening.”

And perhaps we—as we hear this gospel passage—want to ask, “Why don’t they get it? Why don’t they listen?”

But maybe we should ask ourselves: are we listening?

Let’s face it: even if we consider ourselves to be near the bottom of the Canadian heap, most of us are wealthy beyond the imagination of the vast majority of this world’s people. And, as much as preachers and theologians like to muddy the waters of the fountain of life, the truth we hear from Jesus is this: how we are judged has a lot to do with how we treat the poor.

There is absolutely no ambiguity about this point in the Bible; it is clear—from Moses to Amos, from Hosea to Micah, from Jesus to Paul. And it is clear in this story: we, the rich, have received our reward.

The poor are the ones who will be blessed from now on. How we will be judged depends in large measure upon how we relate to underprivileged persons. The law and the prophets have prepared us for it, if we will but listen. And in this teaching of Jesus, we are confronted with the matter yet again. Who are “the poor” in our world? And how do we treat them?

In Canada, we are receiving a steady flow of immigrants. And you know, there is some outcry about that, some resistance to that. But is it not true that this settler nation began as a company of immigrants? There has always been wave after wave of desperate persons coming here: first from Ireland and Scotland; then from continental Europe; and now, from China and Korea, from India and Pakistan and Iran and Syria, from Central and South America, from Nigeria and Somalia and Sudan—and, of course, from Afghanistan and Ukraine.

Our Scriptures teach us not to harvest everything, but to leave something so that the destitute and the foreigners might eat and be filled. Why? “Because,” God says, “You were aliens in Egypt, and I heard your cries.”

In this parable that Jesus tells, the rich and the poor are bound up together. And the story gives us both a challenge and a choice: to connect with those who are disadvantaged, or to separate from them. For me, the most powerful image in this story is of the “great chasm”—a wide gap that separates the wealthy and the moneyless.

It surely exists in this life, and—according to Jesus—it exists in the next life, too. But here’s the good news: while the gap cannot be bridged in the next life, it can be bridged in this one. Our challenge, it seems to me, is to bridge that gap while we can.

Every time one of us makes sandwiches for a homeless shelter, that gap becomes a little smaller. Every time one of us donates items to the food bank, that gap becomes a little easier to cross. Every time one of us volunteers at an under-resourced school, that gap gets narrower. Every time we donate money to help hurricane victims in the Caribbean; every time we help build a home in Tijuana or a school in Haiti … that gap is bridged.

Again, here is the good news: in this life we can cross the chasm that separates us from the poor. In the life to come we cannot, but in this life we can bridge that gap. If we seek to make that connection, we will discover that many of the poor are our brothers and sisters in Christ, and that they have something to give to us. And, yes, we will also, sometimes, meet the Jesus of Matthew 25, just as he promised: “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me …”  (Matt. 25:35)

The fundamental lesson for us is that there are no surprises in this story. Many of the teachings of Jesus do surprise us, it’s true. I mean, think about the Good Samaritan in Luke 10, or about the prodigal son in Luke 15. Remember the dishonest steward we heard about last week? All those passages contain big surprises! But in this story about Lazarus and the rich man, there are no surprises. We have been warned.

In this parable, Jesus’ word to us is: “Listen.” I believe this is a word of God for us. Jesus wants us to listen to the poor.

The founder of Methodism, John Wesley, once commented: “Oh, that God would stir up the hearts of all those who believe themselves his children, to evidence it by showing mercy to the poor.”

The gap between rich and poor is not only economic and sociological. It is Biblical, and it is spiritual.

At its best, the Church of Jesus Christ understands this. As people, we are at our best when we genuinely care about the less fortunate. Still, it is not all about what we have to give to others—especially to the poor. Surely they have something to give to us, as well … maybe even our salvation! The poor are not only beneficiaries of grace, they are channels of God’s grace toward us.

The rich man is there, in torment, wanting to get this message to his brothers—this message that we are judged by how we relate to the poor, that God wants us to connect with them, to cross that great chasm that exists between rich and poor in this life.

“How can I get this message to them?” he wonders. And then it occurs to him: “What if someone came back from the grave to tell them?” They would listen then, wouldn’t they? If someone rose from the dead, they would listen! Surely, if someone rose from the dead, they would listen then!”

And indeed, if someone rose from the dead to tell us, we would listen … wouldn’t we?

By the grace of God, may each one of us become a builder of bridges, and a crosser of gaps. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

TEXT: Luke 16: 1-13

“And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light. And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.” (Luke 16:8-9)

You know, that parable Jesus told about the dishonest manager reminds me of a story that’s sort of akin to it. It goes like this:

A man bought a donkey from an old farmer for $100.00. The farmer agreed to deliver the donkey the next day.

The next day the farmer drove up and said, “Sorry, but I got some bad news. The donkey died.”

“Well then,” the man said, “just give me my money back.”

“Can’t do that,” said the farmer. “I went and spent it already.”

“Okay then, just unload the donkey.”

“What ya gonna do with him?”

“I’m gonna raffle him off.”

“Ya can’t raffle off a dead donkey!”

“Sure I can. Watch me. I just won’t tell anyone he’s dead.”

A month later the farmer met up with the man and asked, “What happened with the dead donkey?”

“I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at $2.00 apiece and made a profit of $898.00.”

“Didn’t no one complain?”

“Just the guy who won. So I gave him his $2.00 back.”

It has been said that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who think that there are only two kinds of people in the world, and those who don’t!

As tongue-in-cheek as that is, it contains some real truth. There are always plenty of people around who view the world as if it were a western movie in which all the good guys wear white hats and all the bad guys wear black hats. From such a perspective, everyone is either completely on the side of good or completely on the side of evil.

Many of the people who see the world in such black-and-white terms are Christians. And of course, they are eager to co-opt Jesus to their cause. They are quick to associate the values of Jesus with their side, and to claim that God is therefore on their side and is totally opposed to the other side. They would have trouble imagining that God might feel anything but judgment and anger towards those on that “other side.”

In reality, the words of Jesus are seldom helpful to the cause of those who wish to paint the world in such stark contrasts. We all know that Jesus said, “Love your enemies,” and it’s hard to imagine any way of doing that that does not involve trying to find some redeeming features in your enemies. Once you start down that path, the lines get blurry. The story we heard Jesus tell in today’s reading is another one that’s going to be hard to swallow for those who want to shun those infidels who are not on the side of goodness and light.

It is a perplexing story indeed. Jesus is trying to teach his disciples something about how they should live and act, but he’s doing it from a story in which none of the characters are examples of moral integrity.

There are two main characters: the rich boss and his shady business manager.

Now, a quick survey of all the times that Jesus identifies a character in his stories as “a rich man” would lead you to believe that you should always assume the worst of such characters. They’re the ones who could get a camel through the eye of a needle sooner than they could be deemed fit for heaven.

And then there’s the business manager. At the beginning of the story, he is described as having squandered his master’s assets. And then, after describing the way he defrauds his boss, Jesus labels him as dishonest. But then, Jesus turns around and tells his disciples that on at least one count they don’t measure up to this dishonest manager, and that they would do well to take a page or two out of his book.

Notice that Jesus makes no excuses for the man’s behaviour. Instead, he makes it quite clear that this is an example of a person from “the other side”—one of the “children of this world” as opposed to the “children of the light.” But he is still clear that he wants his disciples to learn something from this story: he wants us to be as shrewd and creative in our thinking about how to do the works of light as the shady manager was in doing works of selfishness, greed and deceit.

This is a challenging text upon which to preach or blog! It’s a troubling passage. And I’m not at all certain that my poor efforts will be entirely satisfying. Still, I want to propose something. I want to suggest the possibility that what Jesus does here just might be something that he would call us to do a lot more often. That is, to recognize that there may be things to admire and allow ourselves to be challenged by even in those whose actions we would usually deplore and condemn.

I’ve already suggested that this might be related to the call to “love our enemies.” And that’s tough to do. I know that for me—and I suspect for most of us—it is much easier to perpetuate the demonizing. Once someone’s actions have angered me or disgusted me or terrorized me, I tend to focus only on what is abhorrent about them. I don’t want to admit that these people have some qualities that are highly impressive, and which I would have trouble living up to. But if I’m really committed to the truth, and if I’m really going to see people through the eyes of Jesus, then I’m going to have to face up to such uncomfortable truths.

And immediately, an example occurs to me which illustrates just how supremely difficult it is to apply this approach. Earlier this month—just last Sunday, in fact—we observed a grim anniversary; and of course, I’m speaking of the “9-11” commemorations marking the destruction of the World Trade Center towers in New York on September 11, 2001.

Perhaps today, Jesus would have us take a look at the terrorists who destroyed so many innocent lives on that day, and ask ourselves whether—like the dishonest business manager—they exhibited any qualities that we Christians should emulate. I want to apologize right away for saying that. I realize how offensive it is. Yet, I can’t help but wonder: Do those people—those terrorists, those fanatics whom we rightly describe as “children of evil”—point out some inadequacies in the “children of the light?” And I put it to you that they most certainly do.

Without in any way seeking to downplay the horror and the evil of what they did, I nevertheless think that we would do well to ask ourselves whether we would be willing to be even half as self-sacrificing for the cause of love and peace as they were for the cause of terror and destruction.

Am I as committed—body and soul—to advancing the reign of God as they were to advancing the reign of fear? Is there anything that I believe in so much that I’d be willing to leave my family and country and spend months or years preparing for and then give my life for? And if my answer is “No,” what does that mean? Does it mean that—compared to their belief in their cause and their passionate hatred—I just appear wishy-washy? Do I end up, by comparison, looking like I’m trying to serve two masters?

These are not pleasant questions. They are confronting and painfully hard to face. But facing them may be what’s needed if our world is ever going to break out of the endless cycle of conflict—of dividing up into opposing factions, and demonizing each other, and trying to obliterate each other.

Now, I’m not suggesting that any of us should beat ourselves up over this. Christ is infinitely loving and forgiving, and he is not going to boot us out of discipleship because of our failings. But neither is he going to be happy for us to rest on our laurels instead of continuing to grow and risk and stretch beyond our comfort zones.

Week by week, as we gather to worship, Jesus addresses us—and challenges us—through stories like the one from today’s gospel passage. He also addresses us through the intersection of those stories with our real life situations, as well as through the example of his own self-sacrifice. And as much as his challenge may disturb and discomfort us, especially when it comes to us from within the lives and actions of those deeds are reprehensible, Jesus still owns us as his disciples and as the “children of the light.”

Jesus is a good rabbi—a good teacher—and he expects us to make mistakes. He expects us to learn from our mistakes, but he also understands and accepts our failings. The good news is that he will never abandon us, and that he continues to walk with us on the unknown paths that lie ahead.

May God grant us wisdom and courage and discernment as together we journey through this less-than-perfect world. Amen.

TEXT:  Luke 15:1-10

Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? (Luke 15:4)

Labour Day weekend has come and gone. September is in full swing. This is the time of year when churches wake up from a long summer nap and get moving. Vacationers return. Committees resume their work.

The church board starts meeting again. The choir starts practicing again—and singing again—after a long summer absence. Organizing is underway for the turkey supper … and some of us are even beginning to plan for Advent and Christmas!

And you know, it’s very satisfying to look around and see the church doing what the church is supposed to do. The flock is in good shape. Lots of people are helping out with this or that, taking responsibility and sharing leadership. We are grazing in the green pastures right next to the cool still waters.

Then we read our gospel lesson … and there’s a problem. This reading does not celebrate the flock which is all gathered together, grazing contentedly and doing the church thing.

Instead, it almost seems like Jesus cares more about the ones who aren’t here. That may seem unreasonable to those of us who faithfully show up every week and keep the institutional church humming … but it is the gospel.

God cares deeply for each of us. God doesn’t just love humanity in general; God loves each and every person. To make plain this truth about God, Jesus tells two parables—about a lost sheep and a lost coin, and about how their owners searched and searched until they found even just one that was missing.

Jesus tells us that God is like a woman who will turn her house upside down to find even just one coin. Jesus says God is like a shepherd who will search high and low for even just one sheep.

There are no thorn bushes, no deep ravines, no alleyways, no hidden corners, no closets into which God will not go to find those who are lost—even just one.

Jesus came to save the lost—lost sheep, lost coins, lost brothers, lost prostitutes, lost loan sharks, lost fools, lost weaklings. Jesus came all this way looking for them. And those we have given up on or forgotten about or dismissed because of their unworthiness are the very ones that Jesus has headed out to look for.

Here’s a story I heard once. It’s about a little girl who was looking at all the pretty things in her mother’s jewelry box.

One item particularly fascinated her. It was an opal that had once been set in a ring, but which had come loose from its setting. The little girl liked the opal a lot. She liked how it sparkled, how its iridescence gave it different colors depending on how she held it and in what kind of light.

She liked looking at this opal so much that she took it out of the box and carried it around for a while until … well, you guessed it: she lost the small stone.

When she told her mother what happened, her mother began the most thorough search of their house the girl had ever seen. Her mother looked under rugs and between the sofa cushions. She swept. She looked everywhere. She was so energetic in her search that the little girl knew that what was lost must be truly precious.

The little girl had no idea her mother owned such a treasure, and she asked: “Is this the most precious jewel in the world?”

Her mother said, “No, there are jewels worth far more, that cost more. But this one was given to me by my great aunt, and—since she gave it to me—it’s precious to me, and I want to find it.”

Jesus says God is like a woman who, when she loses one of her ten silver coins, does not say, “Well, I still have nine others, that will just have to do.”

No. The woman turns her house upside down until she finds the one lost coin.

In the parable, the woman is so excited at finding her one lost coin that she calls all her friends. “We have to celebrate! I found my coin that was lost!”

And just like that, says Jesus, the angels of God rejoice when even one person who is lost is found, when even one person repents, comes home, allows God to embrace them and say, “You are mine. I love you. I would search the whole world for you if I had to.” Even for just one.

Jesus told these parables because, at the time, a group of people were grumbling about what kind of people Jesus was busy finding—what kind of people Jesus was inviting to the table and eating with.

And the ones doing the grumbling were the good religious people—folks who were certain that they themselves were safely in God’s fold, safely deposited into God’s change purse.

They didn’t realize that they, too, were lost ones that God was trying hard to gather up. They didn’t realize that God was turning the world upside down to find tax collectors and sinners as well as good religious people. They didn’t realize that God wants to claim us all as his own sheep, as his own precious coins.

From the very beginning, God’s Spirit has been sweeping through the world seeking people—people who would rejoice in belonging to God, whether they deserved it or not. And in Jesus, God really did do something to turn the whole world upside down. The God of the universe came among us as a human baby, who lived and died as one of us, stretched his arms out to us from the cross to welcome the lost and the least. Every … single … one.

God still wants to gather us all up, so that not even one more person ever feels lost—as if they have to do it all on their own, as if they’re not worth a cent. Why? Because even just one is precious to God.

Did you notice that when the woman found the coin that she’d lost, she threw a party for all her friends? She found one coin, and then she spent who knows how many more to throw a party! Is that foolishness … or is it grace?

If we are the coins in the story, then we are so precious to God that even just one of us is worth everything. If we are the coins in the story, then the occasion of finding just one of us is cause for great celebration. We are God’s coins, and our lives are to be spent in the cause of seeking and finding and celebrating. God doesn’t just tuck us away in some safety-deposit box like a heavenly coin collection, waiting for our value to increase. No. God says, “Let’s have a party—right now!”

Even just one means everything to God. Even just one is cause for great celebration. Even just one who offers himself or herself to be spent for God’s purposes is a great blessing for the whole neighbourhood.

In our worship services, we practice God’s economics. We gather, acknowledging that all we are and all we have comes from God, belongs to God, is loved by God, can be given and offered and spent for God. We offer our time, our talents, our money, and the produce of our hands and our minds in God’s service—in our congregations, in our neighbourhoods, and out in the wider world.

Our ministries are varied, but each one is valuable, each one is important to God, because even just one enables us to continue God’s work of seeking and finding and celebrating.

Even just one. Even just you. Even just me. Precious to God. And precious in God’s family. Hallelujah! We should throw a party. Amen.

TEXTS: Jeremiah 18:1-11 and Luke 14:25-33

So I went down to the potter’s house, and there he was working at his wheel.  The vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him. (Jeremiah 18:3-4)

“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:26-27)

Strong words from Jesus! Tough talk. Harsh demands: hate your parents, your spouse, your children, your siblings … even hate life itself. How are we supposed to react to statements like these? Can you imagine any pastor trying to grow a church saying, “Come this Sunday and we’ll tell you how hard it is to join our church?”

“First, you’ve got to hate your family. Then, you must carry a cross like a condemned criminal. Along with that, we expect you to give up everything you have worked so hard to acquire. Do these things, and then you can call yourself a member of our fellowship.”

Can you imagine it? Yet, that is the essence of what Jesus is saying. Christian discipleship demands everything we have. The first thing that Jesus says here is, “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple.”

What does Jesus mean? Are we really supposed to “hate” the people closest to us?

Well, not exactly. We need to remember that the New Testament was not written in English. It was written in Greek. And to make things even more complicated, Jesus spoke Aramaic. So the words of Christ that are reported in the gospels have been translated at least twice by the time we get to read them in English. This creates some challenges for our understanding of the text.

Bearing that in mind, we discover that the Aramaic word for “hate” that Jesus uses here is a comparative verb. It actually means to “love much less than.” It means that the love we have for our closest family members, compared to the love Jesus demands from us, looks almost like hatred. In short, if God and his kingdom are given the proper all-consuming love Christ expects, then the highest and best of all our other loves—even our love for our own lives—will seem to be in a far-distant second place.

Remember what Jesus said when someone asked him, “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?”  He said: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” (Matt. 22:36-37)

It’s interesting to consider what we usually mean when we speak about love. We say we “love” all kinds of things: good food, fine wine, chocolate, white sand beaches, beautiful music. Some people even claim to love rhubarb!

And a lot of people around this part of the country say they love the mountains. I’m one of them. Especially, I love the view from the top of the mountains. In fact, one of my favorite things to do in Banff is to take the gondola ride to the top of Sulphur Mountain.* Have you ever taken that ride? The view on the way up is quite spectacular, as the gondola ascends almost 700 metres to the upper terminal. That’s almost 2,300 feet, or three times higher than the Bow skyscraper in downtown Calgary!

I love that view from the mountain top. It’s absolutely incredible. But I wonder: what if that easy gondola ride wasn’t there? Would I have ever seen that magnificent view?

It is possible, I know, to walk—or, rather, hike—to the summit on the Sulphur Mountain Trail. That’s five-and-a-half kilometres—mostly straight-up—from the Upper Hot Springs parking lot. It takes about three hours, one-way. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve never attempted it. As much as I claim to love the view from Sulphur Mountain, I’m not willing to expend the sweat and energy it takes to climb that high. If the gondola ever stops running, I don’t suppose I’ll ever see that summit again … not unless they put in an escalator!

I have to ask myself from time to time—and perhaps you do, too—is my love of God like my love of the view from the top of those mountains? My love of God is a real and genuine thing; but is it one in which I am willing to put in only so much effort? Is it but one love, as it were, among many? How serious is my discipleship, anyway?

Those kinds of questions might make us uncomfortable, but—if we allow ourselves to consider them, to grapple with them—they can serve a deep purpose in our lives. They are like the hands of the potter about which Jeremiah wrote, the hands that shape the clay into a pot.

When the potter sees that the clay is marred, he pounds it and molds it into a new and better form. He reshapes it until it is pleasing and useful to him. Now, this is not an easy or comfortable process for the clay. However, the results are worth it, because the potter is God—and God, as the bumper sticker says, does not make junk!

There’s a difference between loving God and doing what God requires. There’s a difference between loving Christ and being his disciple—being willing to take up your cross and follow him.

The Jewish historian Josephus, who wrote his history of the Jewish people during the time that Rome ruled Israel—in the middle of the first century—talks about the cross and what it was like in those days to walk the main road that led into Jerusalem. He records how, along that road, there would sometimes be as many as 3,000 crosses lining the way. On some, fresh victims were nailed or tied, slowly dying in the desert sun. Other crosses held decaying and rotting corpses, baking in the heat and causing a great stench.

Crucifixion was the most terrible punishment that could be inflicted by the Roman state, and it was reserved for the worst kinds of criminals—thieves, murderers, traitors—and for those who would dare to oppose the Roman emperor. Can you imagine, then, the terror—and the horror—that must have filled the hearts and minds of Jesus’ listeners when he told them that to be truly his disciples they must “pick up their crosses” and follow him? It was the worst possible image that Jesus could have used if his whole intention was to get people to love him—and to love God—more than I love the view from Sulphur Mountain.

Discipleship is not like a gondola ride to the summit. If Jesus uses graphic images in our gospel today, it’s because he wants us to understand something: God wants more from us than our eagerness to receive bread without cost and wine without price.

When he talks about “hating” all those whom we should love, it’s because he wants to shock us. He tells us to “carry the cross” because he wants to horrify us. Why? Because he wants us to wake up to what’s at stake—to make us realize that Christian discipleship is about more than simply feeling thankful. There is more to loving God than simply waiting for him to pour a handful of goodies into our laps.

God wants us to be vessels which are able to receive his love—vessels which are able to hold his love, and then to pour it out upon others. Jesus is telling us that being half-hearted is about as much good as having no heart at all. Giving up some things—but not everything—to God, he tells us, can only earn us ridicule. “Count the cost,” he says in our reading today, “and pick up your cross and follow me.”

Oh, how much I want it all to be easy. How much I want every mountain to have a gondola ascending it. I don’t want to suffer or die. I want to live forever without having to pass through the grave. I want to have my cake, and eat it, too! I want to be a beautiful vessel for the heavenly potter, but I don’t want to be shaped or formed on the wheel. And isn’t that the truth about most people? I think that’s why Jesus talks to his followers in the way he does. I think that’s why he challenges us.

How easy I want it to be! And how awful the way of the cross appears to be! But, because the gospel has touched me, I can’t help thinking that perhaps all the suffering that I fear, all the self-sacrifice that I want to avoid, all the humility, the thinking about myself less and about others more …  Perhaps it’s all more than worth it for the sake of the gospel.

You see, the cross that Jesus speaks of—the cross that he himself was raised upon—does not end the story. If it did, then the story would not be told anymore, and people would not still be offering their lives in service to God. The one who talked about the cost of discipleship not only showed us what true love is like when he died for us upon the cross—he also showed us what God’s love for us is like when he was raised from the dead on the third day.

God’s intention and purpose is to have us become beautiful pots that can hold his love and pour his love out upon others. God’s intention is to make us more like Christ in every way, to make us into people who can be a blessing to others—and who can ourselves know the blessing, the presence, the peace, that only he can give.

What do we need to give up? What do we have to give up?

I think the answers are different for everybody. Some of us are still called to literally risk our lives by going in Christ’s name to places where relief workers and medical personnel regularly face kidnapping and torture and death. But God doesn’t call many to that kind of service … or so it appears. In any case, few of us are willing to give up quite that much for the sake of the gospel.

But, you know, there are things we can give up to God right here, and right now. What kinds of things? Some time ago, someone gave me a list of “The Devil’s Beatitudes.” It identifies a whole bunch of things—things of the self that we should soberly consider. It’s a list of beatitudes for Christians who start, but do not finish … and they go like this:

• Blessed are those who are too tired, too busy, too distracted to spend an hour once a week with their fellow Christians; they are my best workers.
• Blessed are those Christians who wait to be asked and expect to be thanked; I can use them.
• Blessed are the touchy. With a bit of luck, they may stop going to church; they are my missionaries.
• Blessed are the troublemakers; they shall be called my children.
• Blessed are the complainers; I’m all ears to them, and I will spread their message.
• Blessed are the church members who expect to be invited to their own church; for they are a part of the problem instead of the solution.
• Blessed are they who gossip, for they shall cause strife and divisions; that pleases me.
• Blessed are they who are easily offended; for they will soon get angry and quit.
• Blessed are they who do not give their offering to carry on God’s work; for they are my helpers.
• Blessed are they who profess to love God but hate their brother or sister; for they shall be with me forever.
• Blessed are they who read or hear this and think it is about other people—I’ve got you!

Our gospel reading today ends with the words: “… none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.” (Luke 14:33)

Some things are well worth giving up to God because they cause us and others nothing but grief. Other things are well worth giving up to God because God can renew them and remake them—just as God can renew and remake us.

The treasures of this earth are not things we can keep, anyway. All flesh is mortal, and suffering will come to us whether we are devoted to God or devoted only to ourselves. But, if we are to suffer, how much better to suffer for the Lord, who is forgiving! If we are to die, how much better to die for the Lord, who gives life to those who call upon him.

God is the potter—we are the clay. Friends, let’s be ready to have him mould us and reshape us. May we follow Jesus, not counting the cost as people of this world count the cost, but rather counting the cost as Jesus counted it—knowing that our present troubles will prepare us for eternal glory, and knowing that in Christ we can do all things, for he loves us with a love that overcomes the world.

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* https://www.banffjaspercollection.com/attractions/banff-gondola/hours-location/

 

TEXT: Jeremiah 1:4-10

Now the word of the Lord came to me saying,
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
and before you were born I consecrated you;
I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”
Then I said, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.”

(Jeremiah 1:4-6)

Today we consider the story of Jeremiah, and his call to be a prophet. Did you notice how this plays out? The Lord comes to Jeremiah—who might have been about 14 years of age at the time—and he says to him: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”

Well, Jeremiah can see where this is going, and he immediately tries to deflect the Lord’s challenge. I like the way Eugene Peterson translates this. Jeremiah says: “Hold it, Master God! Look at me. I don’t know anything. I’m only a boy!” *

But his protest doesn’t do him any good, for the Lord replies: “Don’t say, ‘I’m only a boy.’ I’ll tell you where to go and you’ll go there. I’ll tell you what to say and you’ll say it. Don’t be afraid of a soul. I’ll be right there, looking after you.” *

In other words, there’s no room here for argument! So—in the beginning, at least—Jeremiah becomes a most reluctant prophet. And you might think that a person like that would not be a good choice for the task. Generally speaking, people who are pressured into doing things don’t make the best workers. But the Lord knew what he was about with young Jeremiah. The lad went on to become one of Israel’s greatest prophets.

And even if he remained somewhat reluctant, he eventually reached the point where he felt compelled to speak God’s Word—where he couldn’t not speak that Word, even if he had wanted to remain silent. Later in his career, Jeremiah would declare: “If I say, ‘I will not mention [the Lord], or speak any more in his name’, then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.” (Jer. 20:9)

God is good at picking his candidates! He always seems to know just exactly who is the right person for whatever job he needs to fill. Think about the “Noah’s Ark” story. Noah was just the right man to put in charge of conserving all the species in Creation. It’s not a job I would have wanted. The Book of Genesis says the flood lasted 150 days (Gen. 7:24). That’s five months! Almost half a year cooped up with all those smelly animals! Like I said, I wouldn’t have wanted to do that. And God probably wouldn’t have asked me, because he knows my temperament. If I had been Noah, today there would be no mosquitoes!

But I digress. Let’s get back to Jeremiah. When it comes to people whom God calls, Jeremiah wasn’t all that unusual. You may remember that Moses also tried to get out of the task the Lord set before him. The prophet Jonah was a most unwilling servant, as well. You know, the reason he ended up in the belly of that whale was that he didn’t want to go and preach to the Ninevites. So he got on a boat and tried to sail away … but we know where that got him! And in the end, he had to do what God had called him to do in the first place.

Some things don’t change, I guess. At least, it seems that way to me. The call of God is very seldom a call to do something we wanted to do anyway. The call of the Lord is not often a call to do what is convenient, or comfortable, or within what we perceive as our existing skill set. And sometimes—even if we think we know where the path of discipleship is leading us … well, it suddenly veers off in an unexpected direction.

How many of you, I wonder, have set out for one place, but—through something like divine intervention—have ended up at quite another destination?

How many of you, I wonder, have felt your God—or your faith, or your conscience, or your convictions—challenging you to do something that you did not want to do, or did not feel equipped to do? How did you react? Did you start spouting excuses? (I’ve done that—a lot.) Did you feel a sense of panic? Or terror? Did you want to bolt and run? (I’ve done that, too.)

More importantly: after all the excuses and panic and fear, did you do what you felt yourself called to do?

Whether your answer to that question is yes or no, if you’ve heard the call and considered the challenges—and the risks—then you have at least got an inkling of what the path of Christian discipleship is all about. Sometimes there is an element of glory or joy about it. But always—always—there is a burden to shoulder. There is a cross to carry. That is a frightening prospect, and before you dare pick it up, you have to ask yourself: “Do I trust the One who’s asking this of me?”

Do you really trust in God? Do you trust that he will give you the ability, and the power, and the courage, to do what he’s calling you to do? Scripture urges us—actually, the apostle Paul urges us, in Second Timothy, chapter one—to rely on the power of God, “who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works but according to his own purpose and grace” (2 Tim. 1:9).

Do you get that? If you’re a believer—if you consider yourself a follower of Christ—you’ve not only been saved, you can also expect to be called—called “with a holy calling.” God has something he wants you to do—something which, very possibly, only you can do.

How do you feel about that? Is it exciting? Is it unsettling? Is it both? Or does it still just fill your heart with panic?

Well, if all you’re feeling is panic … I’m afraid I still have to tell you … You will be called. Unmute your phone. The Lord will be calling you. If not today, then maybe tomorrow, or the next day …  But make no mistake about it: God will be asking you to do something for him.  Maybe he wants you to carry a heavy burden. Maybe he wants you to bring an unwelcome message. I don’t know what it is. I just know that call is part of discipleship. You can’t avoid hearing a call, if you want to be a disciple of Jesus.

But I do have some good news, and it’s contained in the latter half of that verse from Second Timothy which I quoted a moment ago. It says God calls us “not according to our works but according to his own purpose and grace.” We are not called “according to our works”—that is, our own abilities or skills or wisdom—but according to the grace and purpose of God. When the Lord asks us to do something, he promises to give us whatever we need to have in order to carry it out.

It’s like the Lord said to Jeremiah: “you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you …”

So, to each and every one of you who wants to be a serious disciple, I say again: you will be called. God will call upon you. But don’t let yourself be crippled by fear—or by a sense of inadequacy, or unworthiness, or anything else. The One who calls you will also equip you, and he will lead you to the place where, at the last, you will have Jeremiah’s fire in your bones! Believe that this is true. The call of the Lord will come to define your life, and it will give you life. You won’t be able to bottle it up inside—and you won’t want to, either!

That is the message of Scripture—and it’s a promise you can trust.

____________

*The Message Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson