Palm Sunday

TEXTS: Zechariah 9:9-12 and Matthew 21:1-11

“Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey …” (Matthew 21:5)

That, of course, is from verse five of chapter 21 of Matthew’s Gospel—quoting the prophet Zechariah, and referring to his portrayal of the coming Messianic King.

Now, if you’ve read the entire gospel passage for today, you’ll recall the preamble to this “triumphal entry.” Jesus has apparently made arrangements in advance, for he sends two of his disciples ahead, telling them, “Go into the village … and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say … ‘The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately” (Matt. 21:2-3).

And why? “To fulfil what had been spoken through the prophet.”

You see, this was a very carefully staged event—a kind of sacred drama. Every Jew in Jerusalem would certainly have been aware of Zechariah’s prophecy. The Romans probably knew about it, as well.

From ancient tradition, this is how the Messiah would announce himself. This would mark the beginning of his reign, and the coming of God’s Kingdom, and the liberation of Jerusalem.

“When you see the Messiah astride a donkey’s back, you will know that the nation’s deliverance is at hand!” That’s what everyone thought. That’s what the crowd thought. That’s what the Pharisees thought. That’s the imagery the chief priests and scribes were familiar with.

Even if they doubted that Jesus was the real deal, they would have understood the statement he was making by acting out the prophet’s words.

Jesus knew that everybody who saw him would realize he was claiming Messiahship for himself. He knew that some would believe this, and rejoice. He knew that some would see him as an imposter, or a fake, or a lunatic. And he knew that nobody would really understand what he was doing—not even his own disciples.

See … All of them understood the Messianic imagery. But, apparently, none of them had paid attention to the rest of Zechariah’s prophecy. Did you notice it?

“Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey …”

Here comes the king—the long-promised Messiah. And not a moment too soon. Jerusalem—and all Judea—has been under the heel of Rome far too long. It’s about time the Lord sent his Anointed One to save us. To raise an army and drive the Romans out.

So far, so good. But what about the other part? Where it says: “He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the warhorse from Jerusalem; and the battle-bow shall be cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations …?”

Yeah. That part. Jesus is not coming as a warrior Messiah.

He’s not going to lead a revolution, or wield a sword. And the only “driving out” he’s going to do is by turning over the tables in the Temple courtyard.

Caiaphas and Pilate have nothing to worry about … but the adoring crowds are going to be hugely disappointed in him.

Jesus knows all of that, too. The political and religious authorities misunderstand him as completely—and as utterly—as do the throngs of well-wishers lining the streets and waving their palm salutations. By week’s end, many of them will be shouting, “Crucify him!”

How has it come to this? Why did no one see this coming?

Well, actually, someone did. Jesus did. He’s always known that donkey would be carrying him to his death. How many times, already, has he tried to tell us this? Just listen to these passages from earlier in Matthew’s account.

In chapter 16, shortly after Peter makes his stunning declaration of faith—“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (v. 16)—we read: “From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised” (v. 21).

After that, as they were preparing to leave Galilee for Jerusalem, he told them, “The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and on the third day he will be raised” (Matt. 17:22-23).

And on the way to Jerusalem for what he knew would be his last Passover with them, he took his disciples aside and told them that “the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death; then they will hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified; and on the third day he will be raised” (Matt. 20:17-19).

But somehow, they don’t believe it. They think it won’t really happen.

Peter thinks all Jesus needs is a pep-talk:  “This won’t happen to you! God won’t let it happen. You’re too good a player to take out of the game. And, besides, you’ve got us! Better than that, you’ve got me! Together, we’re unbeatable.”

Peter believes his rabbi is simply experiencing a crisis of confidence. He just doesn’t get it. None of them gets it. They don’t want to hear it. Matthew tells us that Jesus’ words make them “greatly distressed” (Matt. 17:23). Mark says, “they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him” (Mark 9:32).

Afraid to ask him? Ask him what? What part of “They’re gonna kill me!” don’t you understand?

Denial. It’s not just a river in Egypt. Out of that band of 13 men, Jesus appears to be the only one who’s not in denial. He knows—perhaps he has always known—what lies ahead for him.

Why are the male disciples so dense?

I ask that question because—from the gospel record—it’s clear that at least some of Jesus’ female followers understood where things were going. Like Martha’s sister Mary, who—a whole week before his crucifixion—anointed Jesus in preparation for his burial (John 12:1-8). Maybe women really are better at listening!

But, I digress. A better question to ask on this day is:  Why did Jesus go through with it? Living in Roman-occupied Judea, he would certainly have seen men die on the cross. It was the Empire’s favoured method of execution. It was agonizingly painful, and wretchedly slow. The sweet relief of death took many hours—sometimes even days—to arrive.

Jesus knew all of this. He knew, also, that from the moment of his high-profile entry into the city, he would be a marked man. As he rode into Jerusalem that day, the spectre of the cross had to spring—vividly—before his mind’s eye.

The cross. His cross. His personal cross. His personalized cross—complete with a nameplate above his head, reading:  “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” (John 19:19).

So why did he do it? Because—as he explained later to Pilate: “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world” (John 18:37). He was, as the Book of Revelation says, “the Lamb that was slaughtered from the foundation of the world” (Rev. 13:8).

Jesus believed that he was living out his Father’s plan; a plan for the reconciliation of the world; a plan to bridge the deep abyss between God and his children—a plan to end the estrangement between creature and Creator.

It was a plan that could only take effect as humanity and divinity were reconciled in the person of Jesus the Christ—the one in whom we see God revealed as one of us.

And for it to mean something —for it to mean anything—this person … this divine and human person … had to live an authentic human existence. Otherwise, he would not truly be one of us.

Here’s the really astonishing thing: he had a choice!

Jesus could have opted out. He could have grabbed the only lifejacket. He could’ve swam for shore. He could’ve changed his mind.

We know he thought about it. His prayer in Gethsemane, after all, was this: “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me …” (Matt. 26:39).

The Son of God was also a Son of Man. This was a real human being, and he was terrified. Jesus wanted to bolt and run. But he didn’t. In the end, for him, it came down to this: “Father, if this cup cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done” (Matt. 26:42).

That is called radical obedience—absolute, uncompromising devotion to the will of God—the kind of radical obedience that Jesus demonstrated throughout his life.

In fact, Jesus’ willingness to see his mission through—for our sakes—is one thing we memorialize in the Sacrament of the Table.

Surely, Jesus was the most faithful human being who ever walked upon this earth.

But today … today, as his path leads him through the city gates … as he realizes this plan is about to come together … as he is confronted by everything that means … today, it gets real.

Today, the final leg of his journey begins.

Welcome to Holy Week.

Fifth Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: John 11:1-45

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” (John 11:1-3)

Now, here’s something strange: even though we’re told that Jesus loved Lazarus, he does not seem to be in any hurry to rush to his side when he hears that his friend is gravely ill. Quite the opposite, in fact. Jesus stays where he is for two more days—with the result, of course, that Lazarus is already dead when Jesus finally arrives in Bethany.

To quote William Shatner: “Is that weird, or what?” How can Jesus show such apparent disregard for a beloved friend?

That’s the question on Martha’s mind, too, as she comes down the road to confront Jesus: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

“Where were you, Jesus, when we needed you?”

Jesus says to Martha, “Your brother will rise again.”

Now, this is not the language of the funeral parlor or the condolence card. We are not used to it. Martha, however, recognized his meaning immediately. Like most Jewish people of her time, she had been taught that at the last and final “Day of the Lord” there would be a general resurrection of all the dead.

She is, I think, bitterly disappointed with Jesus for saying this. To her, it sounds like a platitude. Her response has this impatient tone: “Yes, yes, I know he will rise again at the resurrection at the Last Day. That’s not what I meant.”

But here is the theological core of this story. Jesus means to teach us something about his power, and about what he has come to do. Throughout John’s gospel, Jesus is continually revealing his identity to his disciples. One of the ways he does this is through what are called his “I am” sayings. You know them:

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life …” (14:6)

“I am the bread of life …” (6:35)

“I am the light of the world …” (8:12)

“I am the good shepherd …” (10:11)

There are several more of these “I am” statements in John, and each of them conveys something about who Jesus is and what he is doing. Here we have another one. Jesus tells Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

And then he asks her, “Do you believe this?”

I think that must have been a very hard question. Martha had, no doubt, been to lots of funerals. She had seen many people buried in tombs. And while she may have witnessed Jesus doing some amazing things …

Well, there is, after all, something final about death.

“Okay, Jesus. You are the resurrection and the life. But there is no hope for my brother, is there? He’s been dead four days now, so he is not coming back.”

But then he asks her, “Do you believe?”

The question is direct and straightforward: “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live … Do you believe this?”

And now we have been drawn into the story, haven’t we? The question demands a response, and we hang on Martha’s words, waiting for her reply. And her answer, when it comes, is an expression of faith. She says to Jesus, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

With these words, Martha confesses Jesus Christ as the incarnate presence of God and the Lord of all life, and the rest of the story will be a ratification of her trust. But there’s more going on here than that. John the Evangelist is a consummate story-teller, and—in his recounting of this exchange between Jesus and Martha—he is posing the question directly to us: “Do you believe this?”

The story continues. Martha runs back home to tell her sister that Jesus has arrived, and Mary runs out to meet him. She falls at Jesus’ feet, and—weeping—she echoes her sister’s bitter words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Some people from the village have followed Mary, and they also are weeping. They knew that Jesus could heal—but where had he been, when they needed him? Jesus is now moved to tears himself. John tells us “he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.”

He asks to be shown to the grave, and they lead him there. The tomb is in a cave, sealed tightly with a large stone.

Like I said, the theological core of this passage tells us who Jesus is and what he has come to do. Now we have come to the story’s dramatic climax.

Jesus says, “Take away the stone.” Despite her confession of faith, at this, Martha protests. Lazarus has been dead four days! There will be a terrible odor. As the King James Version bluntly puts it, “He stinketh.” No gentle passage into the afterlife here, no resuscitation of a body medically dead but still intact. In the old paintings of this subject, the bystanders are depicted holding handkerchiefs to their noses. We are talking about a decomposing corpse.

But Jesus says to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”

Overcome by the authority in his voice, they take away the stone, and Jesus prays aloud in a way that publicly demonstrates the unity of the Father with the Son. And then he cries with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

So instantly does new life follow upon the Word of the Lord that Lazarus is still bound hand and foot in his grave clothes when he appears at the entrance of the tomb.

Jesus did it. He turned death into life. He turned mourning into celebration.

Wow. This is quite a story. But what does it mean for us? What does this story about Jesus and Lazarus—and Martha and Mary—have to do with you and with me and with our walk with God?

This text goes right to the centre of our human lives. It touches on our own questions about death, and on our own relationships with Jesus.

We have all been to too many funerals. We have lost too many loved ones, too many friends, parents, children. We know what it is to mourn, and grieve, and weep. And it is natural that we do that. We need to do that. Jesus did it, too.

Before I say anything else, I want to tell you this: I am not one of those people who will say to you, when you are mourning a loss, that you should expect to “get over it” after a period of time. Because you won’t! And besides, who would want to?

But I do know that deep grief—if you hold on to it and don’t move through it—can turn into despair, which will destroy you. And so, to those who grieve—including myself—I offer this counsel: remember that you are a child of the living God. Remember that you are in a relationship with Jesus, the one who has power even over death. Jesus demonstrated this time and again throughout his ministry. Remember? He raised Jairus’s daughter, and also the son of the widow at Nain. He brought Lazarus back to life, and then—ultimately—he himself was raised from the dead.

This is the hope of the Christian. It’s not a fanciful, “I-hope-that-I-will-win-the-lottery” type of hope. No. Ours is a sure and certain hope of resurrection. Death is not the final word for any of us.

Today, we are able to rest in the assurance of those familiar words: “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

If we believe this—if we know this—then we can get on with living, with the priorities of life sorted out. Our Christian faith tells us that what happened at the tomb of Lazarus is a foretaste of what will be for each of us. We are Easter people. During Lent, we journey with Jesus to the cross and the grave—but we know the story does not end there.

Thanks be to God.

 

 

Third Sunday in Lent

TEXT: John 4:7-29, 39-42

Then the woman left her water-jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” (John 4:28-29)

“Nobody knows me, pastor. Nobody really knows me.”

He had come into my office to talk, and I could see that he was in torment. Then he poured out his heart and soul, recounting dark and painful episodes from his past.

A survivor of childhood sexual abuse, he had turned for solace to drugs and alcohol. For over two decades, he had struggled with addiction, turning to petty crime to support his habit. Twice, he had served time in prison.

Now, he had been in recovery for several years, holding down a full-time job and finding a place in our worshipping community. In fact, he was fitting in so well, and was so highly regarded, that he had been asked to assume a volunteer position. He had readily and enthusiastically agreed … but then, he learned that a criminal records check would be required of him.

And so, he was going to be “outed” … unless he backed out of his commitment. Deeply ashamed of his personal history, he had confided in no one … until now. He had closely guarded his dark secret, and prayed that no one would ever find out. Because, of course, he was certain that—if his past was exposed—his new friends would reject him. After all, none of them really knew him.

People like him are not rare. In fact, I think they make up most of the world. In today’s gospel reading, we hear the story of “The Woman at the Well.” It is the story of most of us. Our dark side is darker than anyone can imagine. We figure no one would understand if we told them. Nobody really “gets” us.

This condition respects no boundaries. It cuts across social class, gender, and economic status. Prominent in the community or obscure and unheard of, each one of us has a dark side.

Certainly, that was true of the woman whom Jesus met at a place called “Jacob’s Well,” located deep in the territory of Samaria. His encounter with her was so significant that when John sat down to write his gospel—to record the events which he felt demonstrated the essence of Jesus’ life—he included her story.

When the woman came to the well, Jesus was sitting beside it, weary from his morning’s travel. He had nothing with which to draw water, and so he asked her for a drink. This surprised her. She asked Jesus how he—a Jew—could ask water from her, a Samaritan. After all, Jews and Samaritans normally avoided one another.

More than that, she was a woman!

John tells us that, later—when Jesus’ disciples returned from the city—they were “astonished that he was speaking with a woman.”

Now, let’s back up a bit. This woman is one of the most broken people in the New Testament—and we discover a hint of that in our gospel passage. When John sets the scene for this story, he tells us that it is about noon. Now, customarily, women came to draw water in the early morning. But this woman comes to the well at noon, in the heat of the day—long after the other women of the village had come and gone.

This suggests that—at the very least—she is afraid, or ashamed, or both. In all likelihood she is the target of scorn and derision. For some reason, people look down on her.

So, here she is trying to avoid being seen—and instead, there is someone else at the well. And not just any someone, but a man. Not just a man, but a Jewish man. In that time and place, men and women were not supposed to be seen in public together. Moreover, Jews and Samaritans usually had nothing to do with one another. So she is startled to see him there. She is even more startled when he speaks to her.

Jesus should not have interacted with this woman at all. They shared nothing in common. And yet …

He turns the conversation from the mundane to the spiritual. “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water” (John 4:10).

This surely must have confused her, because—in the common parlance of their place and time—“living water” simply meant flowing water. As in a river or stream, not the well water she thought they were discussing.

She said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” (John 4:11-12)

But Jesus told her that his living water was different. He said the living water he would give would come “gushing up to eternal life” (v. 14). The water she was used to drinking satisfied only for a time, but Jesus spoke of water that would for all eternity satisfy her thirst.

“Sir, give me this water,” she said, “so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water” (v. 15).

In the conversation that follows, Jesus throws open the curtains on the dark side of her life. Moving boldly into the most secret places of her heart, he tells her that she has had five husbands and was now living with a man who was not her husband. And so her scandal is revealed. This is what has made her an outcast.

Somehow, Jesus knows all about her. But he does not regard her with disdain, as the others do.

When at last she leaves him, she runs into the city and tells anyone who will listen, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!” (v. 29) 

He knew! He understood! He got her!

He saw her brokenness—what others would call her “sin”—and he loved her anyway. He accepted her. He offered her hope. He gave her living water.

Here’s the simple point that I believe John wanted to make when he recorded this story: we are like this woman. We all live with brokenness. John knew something about that. Jesus had appeared in his path one day … and his life was never the same again.

Here, the gospel writer is holding up a mirror for us—for all of us who stumble along through life, wrestling with demons and burdened with guilt and unable to escape from our past.

Most of the time, we keep a lid on this information, so we don’t have to deal with it. But then … Jesus breaks into our lives. Uninvited, he peers into our souls—and he tells us everything we ever did!

Then we realize … He knows us. He “gets” us. And still, he loves us.

If we open our hearts to this sort of encounter with the living Christ, that is when he gives us his living water. The wells from which we have been drinking lose their attractiveness, as we understand that their water only satisfies for a moment. We have been chasing the whirlwind, as the writer of Ecclesiastes said.

We have been looking for salvation in a bottle or a needle or an affair or a career or the esteem of our community—or any of a thousand other things—and none of them have satisfied us.

Far from it. They have left us empty, yearning for something more … but not knowing where to find it.

Jesus, though … he sees us and he knows us—and he offers us his living water. If we choose to bathe in it, it will cleanse us completely. If we choose to drink it, it will satisfy our deepest thirst. And however often we draw from it, there is always more, because its supply is infinite.

When Jesus looks into our souls, sees our dark side, uncovers our secrets, knows our guilt, discerns our motivations, and loves us anyway … this is the living water!

It renews us and remakes us. It re-creates us. When Jesus sees that we are dying inside, and he gives us water that flows from an eternal spring, when he tells us everything we have ever done … this is living water for our dried-out souls.

One more thing about this woman: after Jesus’ vision has pierced her soul, she tells the people of her town: “Come, and see a man who told me all that I ever did. Can this be the Christ?”

“He told me everything about myself. Can he be the Messiah?”

She is asking the question around which this whole story revolves. If he can know us so completely, if he can give us living water … then … can he be the Messiah?

Jesus leaves no doubt. “I am he,” he says, “the one who is speaking to you” (v. 26).

Family therapists tell us that—despite the promises made by dating websites—strong relationships are not built on common interests or perspectives on life. No. They are built on self-revelation.

Enduring relationships grow when two people are able to trust one another with the deepest parts of themselves—with who they really are.

That is precisely what happened at Jacob’s Well. Jesus opened his heart to the woman whom he found there, and a broken Samaritan outcast was able to begin a new—and eternal—relationship.

When Jesus breaks into our lives, he opens the way for us to begin such a relationship ourselves. This relationship is the living water.

Notice that he was not offering free advice to this woman; he was offering himself.

In the end, this is not simply a story about Jesus “getting” this person he met at Jacob’s Well—in the sense of understanding her. It is a story about Jesus “getting” her as his friend—as his sister.

He wants to get all of us that way—as his friends. As his sisters. As his brothers.

Will he?

Will he get our trust?

Will he get our discipleship?

Will he get us to be his followers, to drink of his living water?

Jesus himself cannot not answer those questions. Only you can.

So, on this third Sunday in the midst of Lent, I want to ask you this: How will you answer?

Will you allow Jesus to get you? That’s what this story … your story, and my story … is really all about.

Second Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXTS:  John 3:1-17

Nicodemus said to [Jesus], “How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter a second time into his mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus answered, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not marvel that I said to you, ‘You must be born again.'” (John 3:4-7)

A friend of mine who has known me for years—decades, actually—likes to refer to me as “a Winnipeg boy.”

Usually, she’s laughing when she says this. She’s laughing because when she says that—when she calls me “a Winnipeg boy”—it’s because I’m doing something that betrays my origins: 

• Like repairing and patching an old winter coat again and again, instead of buying a new one.
• Like never turning down a free meal, and always finishing it—even if it’s awful—because it’s free!
• Or like inserting random words of Yiddish into a conversation. Oy vey!

She also says that—even after all these years—when I speak, I retain some trace of a “North-End Winnipeg accent” … whatever that is!

Of course, what she really means when she calls me “a Winnipeg boy” is that I’m a north Winnipeg boy—and my mannerisms and attitudes and speech have been to some degree shaped by the time and place where I grew up.

Yes, I am a Winnipeg boy, born and raised. And the place of my birth has, I guess, put its stamp upon me—and upon my friend, too, for she, if she is anything, is “a Winnipeg girl.”

Even so, neither one of us is exactly the same as we were 50 years ago, when we met in high school. We want different things now. We believe different things now. And neither one of us has ended up where we thought we were going, all those years ago.

Place of birth may have some significance, but that by itself does not finally determine what our lives are going to be like.

It would not be much of an exaggeration to say that half of the kids I grew up with have either been in prison, or should have been! But the other half …

Well, they didn’t do so badly. There’s a doctor, a rabbi, and even a couple of lawyers in that bunch.

We all grew up within a few blocks of one another, but we took different paths. So I have to wonder how much of an effect my birthplace has actually had on who I am today.

Jesus, I think, would get this. He was born in Bethlehem, and the Bible tells us he spent some years in Egypt as a young child—and after he grew up, he was known as “Jesus of Nazareth.”

Even so, he does not seem to have attached a whole lot of importance to any of that personal history.

If Jesus ever told stories about his own childhood, or related charming anecdotes about life as a carpenter’s son in Galilee … well, none of that ever found its way into the gospel accounts. It’s as if he never talked about that stuff.

However, he spoke often about how one’s spiritual birth is far more important than one’s physical birth.

“You must be born from above,” he said. Or, in the perhaps more familiar King James English: “Ye must be born again.”

In today’s gospel reading we see that—late one night in Jerusalem—his words caused great consternation to a man called Nicodemus.

Nicodemus, one of the respected leaders of the Pharisees, has come to Jesus with a sort of hesitant curiosity. Yet, when he meets Jesus, Nicodemus doesn’t even ask a question at first. He simply remarks that Jesus has obviously been sent by God.

Then Jesus makes this odd comment. He says, “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Well, we’ve heard that said before, haven’t we? Most often, we’ve heard the phrase translated as born again. “You must be born again.”

Apparently, the Greek phrase in the original text could mean that. Or it could mean, “You must be born anew.”

But, basically, the Greek means “born from above.” At least, that’s what the Greek scholars say. You must be born from above, which includes, of course, the necessity that you’re going to have to be born again.

Now when we hear that kind of talk, many of us imagine big evangelistic crusades and well-orchestrated, sentimental altar calls.

We may think of quick and shallow religious experiences—or even a sleazy kind of religious hucksterism. And so, we dismiss the term.

Really, that’s a shame. Because what Jesus is talking about here might just be the most important discipline of the Christian life. He’s talking about defining our identity not by earthly standards, but by spiritual standards: “The one who is in Christ is a new creation,” as the apostle Paul said (2 Cor. 5:17).

Jesus wants us to be born entirely anew—born “from above” with our identities shaped by something other than who our ancestors were or where we are from.

Why? Because Jesus has something much greater in store for us! That “something greater” is so grand that it’s hard to define, and so Jesus calls it being “born from above,” or being “born of the Spirit.”

“The wind blows where it chooses,” Jesus says, “and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

You must be born of the Spirit, born from above—born again. Now when people talk about “born again” Christians, they are usually speaking about a specific type of Christian.

However, to me, the phrase “born again Christian” sounds like two descriptions of the same thing. It’s like saying “a round wheel” or “an orange orange.”

If you are a Christian in the first place, then you are “born again,” or “born from above.”

If you are “in Christ,” then you are reborn of and into the Spirit of God.

Today, the typical meaning of “born again” has to do with “getting saved,” and “getting saved” means entrance into Heaven.

That’s what many people think, when they think about salvation.

They think of being “born again” as something that is a one-time event, a moment in time when a person accepts Christ—and then, that’s it! It is done and over with. You’ve paid your admission, you’ve got your ticket, you get into the big show.

Now, there is a sense in which that’s true—because once you’ve put your immortal soul in the hands of God, he is not going to drop you.

But let’s look a little deeper than that.

The Greek word that is used in John … Yeah. The Greek word.

I am not any kind of Greek scholar, but I do have access to folks who are. And they tell me that the Greek word John uses is anthen, which does mean “reborn” or “born from above” or “born of the Spirit.”

However, this term does not signify a once-in-a-lifetime moment, but rather a lifelong journey of renewal and discovery. The journey begins the moment that you accept Christ, but the journey goes on from there for the rest of your days.

In other words, we don’t remain spiritual babies. We grow in our faith, if it is genuine. We mature in our relationship with God.

This is what the Lord desires for us: not that we should remain infants, but that we should grow—every day—a little deeper and stronger in the Lord.

It isn’t a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I think this is what Paul was trying to get at when—in both his letters to the Corinthians—he talked about how we are being saved.*

Personally, I consider myself as having been “born again” many times in my life. And the Bible verse I most often remember speaking to me at such times is this one:  “The wind blows where it chooses.”

For me, at least, listening for that wind is one of the great disciplines of the Christian life. Awaiting the opportunity to be born again is one of the great disciplines of the Christian life. Perhaps it should be one of our disciplines during this season of Lent.

On a Sunday morning, if I were to take a poll of any Canadian congregation, I think we’d hear people say they were born in all kinds of different places: Winnipeg, Newfoundland, England … even wild, far-off places like Saskatchewan!

But, as Christians, we are citizens of another place. We call it “the kingdom of God.”

Have you been born again? Have you been born from above? I hope so. I hope you have been born again. In fact, I hope you have been born again and again and again.

Every time we allow ourselves to be caught up in the wind of God—in the Spirit of God—we let go of our earthly bonds, and we awaken to a new identity … one of grace, and one of power. A new identity in Christ.

^“In a little while,” Jesus said, “the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live” (John 14:19).

“Because I live, you also will live.”

Because Jesus lives, we can face tomorrow.

Because he lives, we can face tomorrow without fear.

Because we know he holds the future, life is worth the living!

Do you know the song?

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPW9xYEyijQ

 

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* 1 Corinthians 1:18; 15:2 and 2 Cor. 2:15

First Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: Matthew 4:1-11

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”  (Matthew 4:1-3)

So here we are, once again, at the start of the Lenten season, which began this past Wednesday. Lent has 40 days, not counting the Sundays. Forty days of fun in the sun!

Well, not exactly. As you may know, Lent is modeled after the 40 days and 40 nights Jesus spent in “the wilderness”—that is, in the barren, sun-baked desert of Judea. And by the way, this desert—which lies just east of Jerusalem and descends to the Dead Sea—wasn’t really all that far away or hard to get to. In fact, Bethlehem—the town of Jesus’ birth—lies just on the western edge of it. All the while he was out there starving and sunburned, he was probably less than a day’s journey on foot from the nearest settlement.

I think that makes Jesus’ determination even more impressive. The only desert I’ve seen with my own eyes is in Red Rock Canyon in Nevada. It is dry there—and it is barren, and it is sizzling hot! Average temperatures during the summer exceed 95 degrees on the Fahrenheit scale, which is the only one they use down south. When I was there, even “Mojave Max” the desert tortoise was hiding from the sun.

But it’s close enough to civilization that—even while you’re wandering in the sand amongst the Joshua trees and the yucca plants—you can see the Las Vegas strip off in the distance. And that, by itself, would cut short any kind of desert experience of mine!

Never mind spending 40 days there … if my feet hit the desert floor at sunrise, I’m sure I would be heading back into the city before noonday, looking for an air-conditioned convenience store and a Slushie machine.

Not many of us would willingly endure the kind of tortuous vision quest that Jesus undertook in the Judean wilderness. Perhaps that explains why the season of Lent is not embraced with more enthusiasm. We think Lent is all about … well, misery! Fasting. Sacrifice. Suffering. Meditating upon grim realities like, “you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19)

Yeah. Not exactly a festive time, Lent. And yet, there’s a flip side to the season—one we seldom think about. A flip side that’s alluded to in a Lenten Litany which calls us to:

• Fast from fear; feast on faith.
• Fast from despair; feed on hope.
• Fast from discontent; feast on gratitude.

And so on, like that. It was written by the American pastor William Arthur Ward (1921-1994). The complete text* was posted on my office door during one Lenten season a few years ago. Besides the parts quoted above, it includes advice like:

• Fast from thoughts of illness; feast on the healing power of God.
• Fast from pessimism; feast on optimism.
• Fast from complaining; feast on appreciation.
• Fast from personal anxiety; feast on eternal hope.
• Fast from thoughts of weakness; feast on promises that inspire.
• Fast from problems that overwhelm; feast on prayer that undergirds.

Ward’s litany makes the point that Lent is as much about feasting as it is about fasting. Back in that biblical desert, Jesus chose to fast from some things and feast on others. Did you notice that Jesus countered each of the devil’s temptations with Scripture?

• “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” (Deut. 8:3)
• “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” (Deut. 6:16)
• “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” (Deut. 6:13)

Those quotations are all from the Book of Deuteronomy—chapter six and chapter eight. Jesus might have been fasting from physical nourishment, but he was feasting on the Word of God.

Just as surely as Satan understood Jesus’ divine nature, he knew what sort of wonders Jesus was capable of. He could have instantly satisfied his hunger by working a miracle: “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”

Notice that the tempter does not make that particular suggestion until after Jesus’ 40 days of fasting are over. The ordeal is now officially concluded. So, why not seek immediate gratification? You see, just as the devil knows about Jesus’ divine nature, he also knows about his human nature. Here is a human being—a real one—who has been pushed to the limits of his endurance, almost to the brink of death.

“You did it, Jesus! Good for you! Now, why make that long journey back into town to find a bagel stand? Certainly you’ve earned the right to benefit from a little of your own magic. You’re the Son of God, for heaven’s sake! Why don’t you just turn this boulder into a nice, fresh baguette?”

Well, why not? What would it harm? Who would even know?

Here’s the thing … Over the past weeks, through Epiphany—and even farther back, through Advent and Christmas—you may have noticed that the theme of incarnation has kept popping up.

Jesus is God in human flesh. Our tradition tells us that he was fully divine and fully human. He came to live among us as one of us.

The concept is mysterious, but it reveals this truth: Jesus of Nazareth was one of us. His human-ness was as real as our own. He wasn’t God disguised as a man … he was God become man. “True God and true man,” as the church fathers used to say. This is part of what we mean when we say that humanity and divinity are reconciled in Christ. Two seemingly opposite things—the human and the divine—are united in him.

He was born as we are born. He grew from an infant into a toddler, into a child, and an adolescent, and finally an adult. He had to learn everything, just as we have to learn everything: how to feed himself, how to walk, how to talk, how to live in human society.

He had to learn a trade in order to make a living. He had the same physical limitations as we do. If he didn’t eat, he got hungry. After a hard day’s work in the carpentry shop, he was tired. If he cut himself, he would bleed.

And he had to deal with all that stuff the way any of us would. Make a sandwich. Take a nap. Put on a bandage. He was human, as weare human … and he would suffer and die, just as we suffer and die. As someone said, “When God became human, he didn’t just come for the fun stuff.”

No. Jesus came to enter fully and completely into our human life. That was the point. And it ruled out extraordinary measures when it came to his own well-being and comfort. It had to be that way. Otherwise, he would not actually have been one of us. And he could not really have been either our example or our Saviour—at least, not the kind of Saviour that he became.

So he refrained from using his divine power for his own benefit. He fasted from that—not just for 40 days in the desert, but for 30 years upon the earth.

But he also feasted.

In the desert, and on the hillside, and in the streets of countless Palestinian towns, and in Jerusalem itself, he feasted. He feasted upon the same sources of comfort—and power—available to all the rest of us. Scripture, to be sure. But also prayer, and contemplation.

And community. Don’t forget that. He surrounded himself with all the wrong sorts of people—tax collectors and prostitutes, rough fishermen and lepers and all manner of misfits and underdogs. Wild beasts in the desert. Not exactly the movers and shakers of his society—but that is where Jesus found his community, and from these ordinary people he drew inspiration and strength and encouragement and purpose.

Just as, in the desert, Jesus chose to fast from his power as the Son of God and feast upon his faith in God, so also—for the duration of his public ministry, from the Jordan River to Calvary’s hill—he fasted from concern for himself and feasted upon service to others.

He used his power not to raise an army and bring Rome to its knees, but instead to raise up the downtrodden, and extend compassion to the last and the lost and the least. And he did all this not by remote control from a throne up in heaven beyond the clouds, but as a humble, travelling rabbi walking the dusty roads of a defeated and occupied country.

I think that Lent ought to draw our attention to all of that—and not just to those 40 days in the desert. Jesus was not some kind of ivory-tower thinker, or reclusive philosopher. No. He was a teacher who called disciples to follow him. And the disciple, you must realize, is someone who is being trained to become just like the teacher.

Those of you who’ve seen those “NOOMA” videos that were popular a few years back may remember Rob Bell talking about this. A rabbi in Jesus’ time would only accept disciples whom he believed he could effectively train. That is, the rabbi had to believe that his disciple was capable of doing what the rabbi did.

Most would-be disciples were rejected by the rabbis they approached, because they didn’t have “the right stuff.” They were judged as “not good enough.”

Rabbi Jesus, however … he seems to have had extremely low standards! The people he called to be his disciples were among the least likely candidates you could think of. No Ph.D.’s in this crowd. In fact, from the gospel accounts, it seems like they but rarely understood what Jesus was trying to teach them. And when the chips were down, they all deserted him and fled. Well, all except the women … but that’s a whole other sermon.

In the end, though, it was this same group of unlikely characters—plus a thug named Paul and a few other raw recruits—who carried on Jesus’ mission. They changed the world. Somehow, this bunch of cowards grew lion’s hearts. Somehow, this group of “C” students came to grasp the very mind of God.

How could this happen? I think it happened because, in their walk with Jesus—for one year, or two, or three, or however long it was—they experienced things which challenged them, which discomforted them, which lifted them up and cast them down, which gave them flashes of insight and scared the living daylights out of them. It was their own kind of desert sojourn.

They had left everything to follow him—this inspiring, charismatic, unconventional, infuriating, embarrassing, frightening, wonderful Jesus. And their journey with him transformed them, in spite of themselves.

I believe this is the kind of journey Lent is supposed to be, for us. Near the end of his earthly ministry, Jesus sat his disciples down and said to them: “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 …” (John 14:12).

If we believe in Jesus, we will do even greater things than he did. As hard as it may be to believe, that’s what he said. It’s hard to believe—but it’s not impossible. It’s very possible. It is possible precisely because this Jesus was as human as we are.

Oh, maybe we can’t walk on water or raise the dead … at least, not yet. Most preachers can’t even keep people awake through a sermon! But the truly great works that Jesus did—like loving his neighbours, and extending forgiveness, and saying “no” to self-interest and abuse of power and exploitation of the weak … We can learn to do this. We can learn to respond in love, instead of fear. We can become willing to sacrifice ourselves for others; to lay down our lives out of love for our friends … and even our enemies.

It’s possible. It’s not easy—but it is quite possible—for ordinary mortals to do these “greater works.”

It’s possible because an ordinary mortal who was born in a cattle shed to an unwed mother, who became a refugee in his earliest years, and who spent a significant chunk of his life as a homeless person with “nowhere to lay his head” (Matt. 8:20) did it before us. And he wants us to believe that if he could do it, we can do it, too.

Part of getting there—of arriving at that place where we can do “greater works”—has to do with what we choose to feast on. And what we choose to fast from.

So, as you walk your Lenten path—through desert places and fruitful orchards; through city streets and hospital corridors; through times of joy and times of sorrow—consider well the menu items presented to you.

During this time before Easter—these weeks leading up to a Last Supper and a trial and a cross and finally, a triumph … See if you can develop an appetite for the delicacies of heaven, more than the fast food of our western culture.

Discipleship is an acquired taste. But once you learn to appreciate it, it will sustain you through the worst of times, and set a place for you at the banquet table of God. There is no greater work. And there is no greater blessing.

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* For the complete text of Ward’s “Lenten Litany on Fasting and Feasting” see: https://gloriadeihudson.org/documents/Fasting_and_Feasting.pdf

 

On the Imposition of Ashes

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. (Genesis 3:19)

Many years ago—before he was executed by the Nazis—the great German theologian and pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer said that when Jesus Christ calls a disciple, he bids that person, “Come and die.”

On this Ash Wednesday, I’ll wager, at least some of us feel as if we are being challenged to respond to that sort of call—not necessarily literally; not necessarily to answer a call to physical death. But there are lots of ways of dying—lots of things to die for, and lots of things to die to. Perhaps we are being called to die to self—to let go of ambitions, or dreams, or familiar ways of doing things. Comforts. Illusions. Harbored resentments. Cherished fears.

But I think that behind and beyond all of these calls to death, the real call is to trust. Trust in what? How about resurrection? How about new birth?

An acorn can’t become a tree by relaxing in a bucket of water inside your house. It needs to push its roots into the soil, hard and rocky though it may be. That’s where it gets its nourishment and its solid footing. It needs to be buffeted by the wind to become strong, yet flexible. It needs the cold winters to store up its energy, so it can burst into new life in the spring.

We all know that if we wrote our own life script using our own yardstick for success, we would be as spiritually anemic as a seedling growing in water. We don’t always know how a time of trial will help us grow. And we don’t need to. We only need to face it—and embrace it—with the radical trust that “all things work together for good for those who love God” (Romans 8:28). We only have to look back on our own lives to know that our greatest lessons have come through our times of greatest challenge; our depth and wisdom have come through our times of pain and loss.

Today we begin a Lenten journey that leads through the wilderness and to the cross before it reaches the empty tomb. And we begin that journey by wearing the ashes of mortality and repentance. The ashes and the journey toward the cross help us get our bearings—not only for Lent, but for our lives. They help us lift our sights beyond our own pleasure and pain so that we can discern God’s higher purpose—to devote our creativity, compassion, and courage to the reconciliation of the world to God’s truth and justice and love. They help free us from anxiously avoiding hardship and loss, and open us to God’s power to deepen and strengthen us through our trials. And the ashes and the journey help link us compassionately with all people, who like us must find their way through mortality and suffering, and through those trials discover that mysterious love from which nothing in life or death can separate us.

As we come forward to receive the ashes, to contemplate mortality, uncertainty, and the value of trial, let us ask God to show us the things that are worthy of the life he has given us, and the spirit he has created in us.

PRAYER:

Almighty God, from the dust of the earth you have created us. May these ashes be for us a sign of our mortality and penitence, and a reminder that only by your gracious gift are we given eternal life; through Jesus Christ our Saviour. Amen.

 

 

 

Transfiguration Sunday

TEXT: Matthew 17:1-9

… Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. (Matthew 17:1)

I want to ask you a question. It’s a historical question, and those of you who are (a) Canadian; and (b) of my vintage or older … you should know the answer. Here’s the question:

What is a “Diefenbunker”?

In 1958—at the height of the Cold War, amidst widespread fear that the Soviets were going to blow us up with nuclear weapons—Canadian Prime Minister John Diefenbaker authorized the construction of about 50 “Emergency Government Headquarters” across the country. Opposition parties called them “Diefenbunkers.”

These subterranean chambers were part of what came to be known as the “Continuity of Government” plan, which was intended to shelter important political leaders in the event of a nuclear attack.  Most of these facilities were built at rural locations outside major cities.

To name just a very few, bunkers were located in:

• Nanaimo, British Columbia;
• Shilo, Manitoba;
• Borden, Ontario;
• Valcartier, Quebec;
• Debert, Nova Scotia; and
• Penhold, Alberta.

Each facility was protected by massively-reinforced doors at the surface. They employed state-of-the-art air filtration systems to protect against radioactive aerosols, and included storage vaults for food, fuel, fresh water, and other supplies. For the most part, they were two-story underground bunkers meant to house a few dozen people.

However, the largest bunker—by far—was built for Canadian federal politicians at Carp, Ontario, near Ottawa.  That stronghold had four levels underground, and was designed to house 535 people for up to 30 days.

It was also able to withstand a near-miss from an inter-continental ballistic missile. Incidentally, that set the Carp facility apart from all the others scattered around—well, actually, underneath—the Canadian landscape.

You see, the smaller facilities—like the one at Penhold—were only designed as fallout shelters. But the Central Emergency Government Facility at Carp … Well, that was built to withstand the blast caused by a close nuclear strike—the equivalent of five million tons of TNT exploding at about a mile away.

Over 32,000 tons of concrete and 5000 tons of reinforcing steel were used in constructing the main facility at Carp—and a broadcast transmitter station 20 miles away near Perth, Ontario. At one point during construction, over 1,000 workers were employed on the site. Completed in 1962, the Carp project alone cost $20 million—or the equivalent of about $156 million today.

And of course, American federal politicians famously maintained a similar—though much larger—complex 700 feet beneath the Greenbrier resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. That bunker—which was more like an underground city for 800 people—was designed to contain the entire United States Congress in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.

Somewhat of a hardship, perhaps, to have to live under the earth like a mole … but still far better than the fate of all those left above ground! And all of this was done in the name of “continuity of government.” You gotta wonder what would have been left for them to govern! Our leaders, apparently, would spare no cost to preserve a political system—even if almost all of its citizens were obliterated.

This being Transfiguration Sunday, I perceive a very great contrast. On the one hand, there are these politicians who would happily wait out Armageddon in their blast-proof catacombs. And on the other hand, we have Christ the King.

In our gospel lesson this morning, we find Jesus not in a crypt, but on a mountaintop—having, perhaps, the original “summit conference” with Moses and Elijah. And at the conclusion of it all, Jesus speaks to his disciples not of triumph or even survival—but of his own impending death:

As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.” (Matthew 17:9)

Jesus would build neither shrines on the mountaintop nor bunkers underneath it. Rather than ensure his own safety while his followers perished, this King would willingly give himself over to death so that his people could be saved. How different are the ways of God from the ways of this world!

We don’t know what Jesus, Moses, and Elijah talked about upon that mountain. But we certainly know Moses and Elijah.

Moses stands for the Law, and for a judicial approach to enforcing righteousness. As for Elijah, you may remember that he was the one who had a contest with the prophets of Baal to see whose god was the strongest. And when his God won, Elijah slaughtered the losers! (see 1 Kings 18:22-40)

Moses stands for a religious system wherein faithfulness is grounded in strict obedience to a legal code, and in keeping the community pure by punishing or expelling transgressors. Elijah stands for a religious system that upholds the honour of God by destroying God’s rivals. And war after war has been fought by those who believed that they were serving the Lord by wiping out his enemies.

Who knows what advice Jesus might have received from these two! But, ultimately, the decision about what to do next belonged to Jesus. And what did he decide? Jesus turned his face towards Jerusalem—not to destroy the enemies of God who had taken control of the religious state, but to stand firmly for truth and love and mercy … even at the cost of his own life.

There on the mountaintop—at this moment of apparent, glorious triumph—Jesus is already pointing toward, and drawing his disciples’ attention to, his impending arrest, trial, and execution.

Later—in John’s Gospel—he would say, “… when I am lifted up from the earth, [I] will draw all people to myself.”

And the gospel writer comments: “He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die” (John 12:32-33).

Here is a very different kind of glory—starkly unlike the glory on the mountaintop, but no less brilliant. Not only at his resurrection, but also on his cross, will Jesus’ kingly glory become apparent.

Jesus is already thinking of his cross as being his throne—the seat of his royal ministry. For it is from that throne—from the cross—that he will draw all people to himself. It is as a sacrificial substitute on behalf of his people—on behalf of us—that King Jesus establishes his reign forever.

Many empires have been raised on the sacrifices of brave soldiers—and many nations have been preserved by the valour of their sons; but this cross is the one place where the King makes himself the sacrificial offering for the good of his commonwealth, so that nothing more will ever need to be offered.

On the verge of the Lenten season, we are given both a glimpse of Christ’s heavenly glory (in his Transfiguration) and a foreshadowing of the price he will pay. And at the end of the Lenten season—on Good Friday—we shall behold his glory once again … this time, revealed in suffering.

Our Saviour is not first a victim and then a victor; rather, he conquers death and sin precisely by offering himself. That is exactly how he becomes our King!

In the very event that is to all human appearances a failure and a defeat—that is, in the death of Jesus—we are introduced to a different kind of glory, a different kind of King, and a different kind of kingdom.

In Jesus, we see the glory of God, who cares neither to ensure “continuity of government” nor to preserve a religious system, but rather to save and preserve his people. And I think that this is what we ought to be reflecting upon as we make our Lenten journey, which begins this coming week on Ash Wednesday: What does it mean to live as citizens of Christ’s Kingdom?

What does it mean to follow this unexpected, unusual Messiah, who tells us that, if we would be his disciples, we must take up our crosses and follow him? If we would drink of his cup, are we prepared to taste suffering as well as ecstasy?

And what will that look like, for us? What sacrifices are we being called to make in order to preserve not a religious system, but a people? Not in order to prop up a denomination—or even to keep a building open—but to sustain the children of God? Will we venture outside the blast doors? Or will we huddle inside our bunker, hoping that the walls are strong enough? Hoping that we’re buried deep enough inside our whitewashed tomb?

If you know the gospel story, you know that—time and again—Jesus lamented the fact that the religious system of his day had forgotten its reason for being. The system had become more important than the people of God; the rules and traditions which were meant to enhance and elevate human existence had become burdens which denigrated and depreciated that life. Through his own death, Jesus sought to fulfill the requirements of that old system and usher in something new, resurrected from the ashes of what had gone before.

During Lent, we are reminded of our calling as Christians; we are called to continue the work that Jesus began. We are called “the Body of Christ”—and if we would embrace that name, we must be willing to walk the path that Jesus walked.

It is a path that demands much of us. It demands that we care as much about others as we do about ourselves. It demands that we stand up for justice—no matter the cost—and it also calls us to turn the other cheek. It calls us to love even our enemies.

It calls us out of comfort and into hardship. It leads us to the mountaintop, and back down again. It leads us by streams of quiet water, and it forces us into the tempest. It leads us into death—and then it leads us even beyond that!

To be sure, it is a difficult road, fraught with peril—but make no mistake about this: it is the path of glory, and it leads us, ultimately, to that place where all things are made new, and every tear is wiped away, and the brilliance of our God shines brighter than the sun.

There is no more favourable destination, and it offers us something far greater than mere “continuity of government.” As we walk this path, we have continuity of an infinitely better kind; for we travel with all the saints who have gone before us, and with the guidance of God’s own Spirit.

What better company could we ask for?

A Sermon for Epiphany 6

TEXT: Matthew 5:21-37

“So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift.” (Matthew 5:23-24)

Most of the time—as perhaps you’ve noticed—I try to keep my messages simple. And that’s as much for my benefit as for yours! Most of the time, I base my sermon on the gospel reading for the day; I look at what it says, and then I talk about just what that passage says, without ranging too far afield and bringing in a whole bunch of other stuff. I treat the day’s text as if it was in itself a complete meal, and I don’t order any side dishes.

Today, however, I have a problem. Today’s gospel meal calls out for a side dish or two. Today’s gospel might even give you a bad case of indigestion. So I feel like I need to offer some theological Alka-Seltzer.

Today’s sixteen verses from chapter five of Matthew are, of course, part of Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount.” It’s a long one—stretching through three chapters of Matthew’s Gospel—and in it, he says a lot! However, because it is a sermon—and because it’s a particular type of sermon—there’s also a lot he doesn’t say.

This is one of those cases where—by taking Jesus’ words out of context—you can wind up hearing quite a different message than he intended to give. And in this case, the context that’s needed is the context of Jesus’ entire body of teachings.

So, what am I on about? What is there about today’s gospel meal that might give you heartburn?

Well, some of you probably already know. Even something as apparently benign as the Beatitudes—which begin this mountain sermon—can produce in us some embarrassing rumblings. At least, that’s the way it is for me.

For instance, when I hear “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” I tend to ask myself: “Am I poor enough in spirit?” And then I’m afraid that maybe I don’t even know what that means!

Or, when I hear “blessed are the peacemakers,” I think about how weak my own commitment to peacemaking is. And then I feel guilty.

But then I remember I’m missing the point. Jesus is not setting up conditions or terms, but rather is just plain blessing people. All kinds of people. All kinds of down-and-out, extremely vulnerable, bottom-of-the-heap people.

And similarly, some of us—when we hear “if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgement”—our hearts sink, because we are angry with someone, and we don’t know how not to be. Maybe we even feel our anger is justified … yet here, Jesus is saying we’re like murderers!

Or—maybe some of you men can relate to this—we hear, “everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart,” and we think, “Oh, man! Just thinking about it’s a sin? There’s no credit for good behaviour?”

Maybe we laugh at that, a little bit. But those of you who’ve gone through the intense pain of watching a marriage break up—of watching love die and then turn into something else—you won’t be laughing when you hear Jesus say: “anyone who divorces his wife … causes her to commit adultery; and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery.”

We hear Jesus say that, and it’s like a stab in the heart. Maybe you remember other things he said, like: “what God has joined together, let no one separate” (Matt. 19:6). You hear those words and you feel condemned. You hear those words and you get angry. What kind of loving God is it that says you only get one shot at happiness, and then that’s it? What kind of just God would forbid someone to leave a marriage that’s full of misery and abuse?

You see what I mean about the Alka-Seltzer? I know people—and probably, we all know people—who’ve been turned right off of religion because of passages like these. But that’s a terrible shame.

It’s a tragedy, in fact, because—if you consider the whole message of Jesus, if you take the entire body of his teaching into account—you realize that he is not speaking words of blanket condemnation.

What do I mean? Well, let’s use this adultery thing as an example. Does the Bible say that adultery is bad? Of course it does.

Jesus himself said as much in today’s gospel reading. But that’s not the only thing he says about it. We need to look at his whole message, as presented in the entire gospel record.

There’s this story in John’s Gospel (8:3-11)—I’m sure you all know it—where the good religious people drag this poor woman in front of Jesus. She had been caught in the very act of adultery. They ask Jesus what he thinks they should do with her, and they remind him, “Moses commanded us to stone such women.”

Well, you remember his reply: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Of course, they realize that none of them qualify. One by one, they drop their stones and quietly slink away. Now alone with the woman, Jesus asks her: “Has no one condemned you?”

“No one, sir,” she replies.

And Jesus says, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”

No condemnation here. He simply urges her not to sin that way again, and—in a culture where an evening’s indiscretion could get you the death penalty—that’s pretty good advice! Jesus doesn’t excuse her sin, but notice this: he doesn’t condemn her, either. Even though there are solid grounds for condemning her, he chooses not to. Instead, he chooses to show mercy.

And throughout the gospels, we hear Jesus saying that this is what God is like. God—who has the right to judge us—would much rather forgive us. God prefers to show mercy.

Do you remember the story of the “prodigal son” in Luke (15:11-32)? A man had two sons. The youngest son demanded his inheritance early—which is kind of like saying he wished his father was dead! Then he blew it all on “dissolute living.” When he ran out of cash and really hit bottom, he decided he’d better go back home, apologize profusely, and see if his father would take him on as a hired servant.

But of course, when the father saw his son coming down the road, he ran to meet him, and he embraced him. The father did not even want to hear the boy’s apology. All he cared about was that his son—whom he had never stopped loving—had come home again. “That,” Jesus says, “is what God is like.”

So, when we hear provocative statements from Jesus—especially when we hear him say things that tempt us to lose heart, to lose hope, and throw in the towel on this discipleship thing—we need to remember the larger context of the Gospel. The Gospel is good news, not bad news.

Does Jesus condemn sin? Certainly, he does. But does Jesus condemn sinners? Apparently not. In fact, what he most often condemns is self-righteousness. He condemns those who think they are not sinners—those who think they are a cut above ordinary people like you and me, with all our weaknesses and poor judgment.

In fact, that’s actually what I think he’s doing in this morning’s gospel passage.

The law forbade adultery: “You shall not commit adultery.” That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?

So, on the surface of things, you might think that—as long as you managed to resist temptation—you could consider yourself far superior to those weaklings who gave in. Certainly, that was the conventional wisdom in Jesus’ day … because, after all, everybody has these feelings, right?

But what does Jesus say? He says, “everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” Or, to paraphrase those words a bit: “If you have lust in your heart, and know what that is like, then you ought to show some compassion for people. If you really know what temptation is, and how strong it is, then you can show some pity for the person who gets overwhelmed by it.”

People in the Alcoholics Anonymous program have a saying: “You’re only one drink away from a drunk.” What that means, of course, is that—for the recovering alcoholic—relapse is a constant concern.

But it also means that, in AA, the person who does relapse—who “falls off the wagon”—is treated sympathetically, because every person in the program realizes: “Tomorrow, that could be me.”

That, I think, is the point Jesus is trying to make here, in the Sermon on the Mount. He doesn’t say murder is acceptable. But to those who would cry out for the murderer’s blood, he says: “Consider where your own anger might lead you.”

God’s love and mercy toward us are not contingent upon our good behaviour. God’s laws and commandments were given to make our human lives better—but God understands how difficult our human lives can be. He understands that because—in the person of Jesus the Christ—God lived our human life.

In Jesus—who welcomed and embraced what we might call the worst of sinners—we see what God is like. In the words of Jesus, we hear God speak. And to those who come to Jesus—having been condemned by their neighbours, perhaps even condemning themselves—these are the words he speaks: “I do not condemn you.”

Whoever you are, whatever you have done (and I truly mean whatever) God is reaching out to you, offering not only forgiveness, but also blessing, and a way forward, into newness of life. It’s a wonderful gift, and it’s offered to every person. If you haven’t yet accepted that gift, I hope you will accept it—and soon.

“God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:17).

Sermon for Epiphany 5

TEXTS:  Matthew 5:13-20 and 1 Corinthians 2:1-13

“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.” (Matthew 5:13)

Some of the Anabaptists of the sixteenth century interpreted those words of Jesus very literally. At the end of their worship service, they would single out the Christians among them that had “lost their saltiness.” Then they would make these hapless folks lay at the threshold of the door. And then, the rest of the congregation—as they were leaving the church—would walk over them … trampling them under foot!

I don’t know how they decided who would trample and who would be trampled—and maybe I don’t want to know! But Jesus does use this imagery. He says that Christians who have lost their saltiness are … well … useless!

“You are the salt of the earth.” This is not a command or a suggestion from Jesus; it is a statement of fact. “You are the salt of the earth.” He goes on to say that we can be good salt or bad salt, but either way, we’re it!

We, the people of God, are the salt of the earth. If we fail to have the effect that salt is supposed to have, there’s no back-up plan. We are the salt of the earth.

Similarly, Jesus says: “You are the light of the world.” Again, we are it! If our light is hidden under a bushel basket, we’re just wasted light—we’re merely consuming fuel for no benefit. But we are still the only light. We are the light of the world.

Remember the beatitudes from last week’s gospel lesson? “Blessed are the poor in spirit … the meek … the merciful … the pure in heart … the peacemakers …”

Remember all of that? Well, today’s gospel lesson—especially the part about salt and light—today’s sayings form a bridge between two parts of the Sermon on the Mount. They are the link between the beatitudes and the Law.

In the beatitudes, Jesus tries to illustrate for us the kind of characteristics God really values in people; and when he speaks about us being “salt” and “light,” he’s leading us into his discussion of the Law of Israel, which takes up the rest of chapter five. Today, we heard Jesus begin that discussion by saying: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.”   

“You are the salt of the earth … You are the light of the world.”

Eugene Peterson translates Matthew 5:13-14 this way:

“Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage. Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world.” *

God is present and active in the world all the time; we know that. But we also know that God acts through us. The whole world is full of the presence of God—but if nobody is acting on that, then his presence will go unnoticed.

You know how it is with salt. The flavours in our food can be kind of muted and flat unless there’s some salt to bring them out. In just the same way, the Godliness of life will be almost undetectable unless we are living it out—boldly!

We are the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world. The purpose of our life together is to bring out the flavour, the colour, the zest of life—in other words, to bring out the Godliness of Creation.

Sometimes our saltiness will enrich the good that is already present. Sometimes it will enable the preservation of the good that might otherwise be lost. And sometimes it will sting in the open wounds of the world; a healing sting—but painful, nevertheless.

If we lose our saltiness, how will anyone taste Godliness? If we do not mourn the hurts of the world, if we are not humble, merciful and pure of heart, if we do not hunger and thirst for justice and strive for peace, how will anyone see beyond the callous, “me first,” “winner-takes-all” culture of this present day?

The Law alone—the written Word—cannot be salt for the earth. The Word must take flesh in us.

The Good News is not “fake news” and pedantic law-keeping is not life. If we continue to live without mercy, compassion, or integrity, God will not be the least bit impressed by our religious observances—or by the “lofty words” of human wisdom to which the apostle Paul referred.

And yet, Jesus says he has not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. The point is this: we do not fulfill the law by counting each commandment and ticking them off religiously. We fulfill the law as we live out of the mind of Christ that is being formed in us. We fulfill the law as we live in gratitude for God’s grace in us.

By all means, read the Scriptures. Every Christian ought to do that. The psalmist gives good advice when he urges us to meditate day and night on the law of the Lord (Psalm 1:2), and to contemplate the God revealed therein.

So read your Bibles, my friends. Read your Bibles! But don’t do it to memorize “proof texts” or lists of “do’s” and “don’ts” to be rigidly executed. Do it so that—as the apostle Paul said—the Holy Spirit can speak to you “in words not taught by human wisdom” (1 Cor. 2:13). Do it so that the mind of Christ may be more and more formed in you (see Philippians 2:5-6). Do it so that the life of Christ may be shown in your life—bursting forth in joyous living, in full-flavoured passion for life and compassion for all your neighbours.

By doing that, you will be living out the Law. That’s how you can be the salt of the earth. And through doing that, you will indeed become light for the world, shining God’s brilliance into the very darkest places of this earth.

Believers, remember this: “we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit that is from God” (1 Cor. 2:12).

There is no greater blessing.

________________________

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