First Sunday in Advent

“… in those days, after that tribulation, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.” (Mark 13:24-25)

TEXT: Mark 13:24-37

Nuclear war. Asteroid impact. Supervolcano eruption. Global pandemic. What does the future hold?

Economic downturn? Or better times? A promotion at work? Or unemployment? Will crude oil prices continue to plummet? Or should you invest in green energy?

And what lies ahead for baby-boomers like me, as we approach our “golden” years? Can I have a retirement plan that does not involve a bottle of whiskey and a handgun?

What do we think will happen? Tomorrow? Next month? Next year? Our view of the future radically affects how we live today.

How about you? How do you see the future? Is it bleak? Or is it bright?

A great many of us see the future as a headlong dive into the abyss. To them, tomorrow looks pretty bleak. Things are going downhill fast, from bad to worse.

Then there are others who look to the future as holding great promise. They foresee a bright tomorrow. “Nothing is beyond us,” they say, “if we will only pull together.”

Those with a bleak outlook, I think, must live in a constant state of anxiety. As I said before, a person’s expectation of the future colours their view of the present. Because they have no faith in the future, the here and now becomes a terrifying place, full of pitfalls and threats and struggles.

Those with an authentically bright outlook, on the other hand, have better chances for living purposeful, creative, and productive lives. They have long-range goals, and they are willing to take risks. Because they are optimistic about the future, they usually find it easier to be patient as they wait for the fruits of their labours to ripen.

So … are you pessimistic? Or are you optimistic?

Admittedly, there seem to be plenty of grounds for pessimism. There’s lots of evidence around us pointing to a bleak future.

How optimistic would you be if you were part of the 80% of the world’s population that has access to only 20% of the world’s resources and wealth?

Or what about those African nations ravaged by AIDS, ebola, malaria, and hunger? How much optimism can they be expected to muster?

How much optimism is there amongst the children of homes where addiction and anger hold sway? And consider that, since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, cases of domestic violence have skyrocketed in Canada.

For many people—here and elsewhere—the outlook does indeed appear quite bleak. As followers of Jesus, we have to recognize this. We cannot ignore the human misery and uncertainty that exists in so very many places.

However, as Christians, surely we are aware of abundant reasons for hope. Even in difficult times, we are called to hope—and to watch! As the apostle Paul said to the Romans, “salvation is nearer to us now than when we first believed” (Rom. 13:11b).

Those words apply to us, also. Hope is our business. And ours is a realistic hope.

Our hope is not based upon ignoring life’s grim realities. It’s not about pretending that every cloud has a silver lining.

Jesus does not call us to be hymn-singing ostriches who pop our heads out of the sand to shout, “Hallelujah!”  No. He calls us to have our eyes wide open.

“Watch!” he says. “Keep awake!”

As followers of Jesus, we have a responsibility to observe life honestly—to recognize evil and name it openly. At the same time—if our eyes really are open—we should be able to see our Lord at work everywhere, even in places of utter cruelty and chaos.

We are called to draw attention to a Saviour—one who dares to be redeemingly busy, even in the bleakest of circumstances. That is, after all, the whole reason why his symbol is a cross. The cross remains—forever—a tangible sign of his real presence amongst his people.

Remember: our God brings light out of darkness and growth out of decay. The Lord reconciles enemies and creates love where previously no shred of love existed.

This is the message we are called to bring into a world of hurt. But we can carry that message only if we have a firm belief in the future as belonging to the God of Christ Jesus. From the very earliest days, Christians have held to the belief that Jesus Christ comes again. He comes to every generation in judgment and mercy—and he will come again at the end of time; a final return when he will finish what he started at Bethlehem.

His is “the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow … and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord …” (Philippians 2:10-11).

Christ is the Lord of history. More than that, he is the destination of history. He is the one true end; he is the one true Lord. Final victory belongs to him.

To him! Not to chaos. Not to terrorism. Not to war, greed, injustice, cruelty, neglect, or survival of the fittest. Or to final, world-wide, self-destruction. None of these demons will prevail! Christ alone is our end and our destiny. He is our future.

To believe in the Christ who comes again is to live with an indestructible hope. Evil may be loud, and boastful, and busy everywhere—but evil will not win the final day. The ultimate victory lies with Christ Jesus. That is the substance of our hope.

Such hope is a command. “Watch!” says Jesus. “Keep awake! For you do not know when the master of the house will come; in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake” (Mark 13:35-37).

Now, “staying awake” is not a passive activity. We are not called to watch the clock like bored travellers waiting for a train that never arrives. No.

Keeping awake means being ready for Jesus—being fit for him here and now, as he confronts us in the rough and tumble of everyday life. It means being eager to work alongside him in his ministry to “the last and the least.”

It means believing in him as the end of all things—as God’s final Word, the loving climax of history. It also means believing in him as one who is to be loved and served right here, right now. It means daring to hope.

In Jesus, God dares us to hope! So … start hoping!

Wake up and start hoping. And while we’re waking up—waking up to Jesus, waking up to hope—let’s make sure we understand what real hope is!

Hope is not a natural disposition which some lucky people have in larger quantities than others do. Hope is not some special feeling that we get and then cultivate like a hot-house tomato.  Hope is not related to your material prosperity or your outward success in life.

Hope is a response to the Word of God in Jesus Christ. It is a matter of decision. It requires commitment. It demands obedience. Hope is about living proactively, creatively, lovingly, and self-sacrificially.

Hope is about living that way no matter what obstacles we encounter—and in the face of the darkest clouds looming on the horizon. Hope is about being committed to fundamental optimism, even—and especially—in a world churning with distrust and violence and fear.

“Watch!” says Jesus. “Be ready for me—for I will come suddenly; and what I say to you I say to all: keep awake!”  Amen.

Reign of Christ

Texts: Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24 and Matthew 25:31-46

“For thus says the Lord GOD: Behold, I, I myself will search for my sheep and will seek them out. As a shepherd seeks out his flock when he is among his sheep that have been scattered, so will I seek out my sheep, and I will rescue them from all places where they have been scattered …” (Ezekiel 34:11-12)

On “Reign of Christ” Sunday (or “Christ the King” Sunday), we are called to consider what it means to say that Christ is our Sovereign Lord.

One of the best ways to do this, I think, is to reflect upon our baptisms. Through the water of baptism, we pass into the Kingdom “of our God and of His Christ,” as George Frederick Handel once wrote.

“King of Kings! Lord of Lords! And he shall rule forever and ever. Hallelujah!”

How we love those words from the “Hallelujah Chorus”! Even with lyrics like those—taken from the Book of Revelation—the music seems to strain to express the inexpressible splendour of Christ’s final triumph as king.

And his victory, we have been promised, will be ours, in the measure that we have laboured with him to build the kingdom of justice, love, and peace. That is the kingdom into which we have been baptized—”the kingdom of our God, and of his Christ”. We must labour, for that is the mission which Christ has entrusted to us.

Christ reigns through us—in our history, until the task is completed and the human family has at last been united in God’s love. Then will come the victory, when Christ will hand over the kingdom to God—subjecting himself to God—so that God may be all in all.

That Christ’s final victory is this act of loving surrender to God is a key to understanding this kingship of Christ and of Christians. It suggests a style of reigning that has its origins in the “shepherd king” imagery of the Hebrew Scriptures.

The prophets of old often spoke of a saviour-king, but the shepherd-king—David—was their prototype, and the shepherd image was dominant. God had called David a man after his own heart* precisely because David ruled as the Lord’s servant, executing God’s intentions as supreme Shepherd and King of Israel.

“I myself will look after and tend my sheep, as a shepherd tends his flock,” God says in Ezekiel, chapter 34. But God also says, referring to the coming day of salvation: “I will appoint one shepherd over them to pasture them, my servant David.”

We can only guess how Jesus’ soul must have responded to Ezekiel’s words, which echo so clearly in his portrayal of himself as the good shepherd. Jesus’ mission was to care for his flock, seeking out the scattered and the lost, binding up their wounds, providing them rich pastures and life in abundance.

With the authority of the shepherd whose single-minded concern was the welfare of the sheep, Jesus discerned what would bring life and what would bring death; with the power of the shepherd’s love he defended his sheep, even giving his life for them.

Ezekiel’s strong denunciations of the false shepherds of Israel are also echoed by Jesus in his judgements against the hirelings who get into the shepherding business just for the money—and who exemplify the self-serving politicians who hold office in every institution.

Our world abounds with false shepherds who fit this description—political, social, cultural, business, professional and religious leaders—who are pasturing themselves at the expense of those under them. And you know, institutions tend to magnify exponentially the power of individuals for good or for evil.

Nations, corporations, religious bodies—all organizations—are subject to divine judgement, which will be directed against those who have created or used institutions to dominate or enslave.

The judgement scene in Matthew 25 makes our task specific: we cannot escape our responsibility for the common good. We are all shepherds charged with the care of one another. “Love one another as I have loved you,” is the good shepherd’s command. We will be judged on whether we have used the authority and power invested in that command to care for the neediest of Christ’s sheep.

As Christians, however, we have an even more explicit call to share in Christ’s work as shepherd-king: we must bear witness to the truth. As individuals and as the church, we must try to discern—with the mind and heart of the good shepherd—what conditions will foster the life of the sheep and what will bring only death. We must study, reflect, pray, and then make judgements regarding the moral issues confronting society today.

We bear witness to the truth as we see it, recognizing that our judgements are limited and may need correction in time. We bear witness to the truth as Jesus did—by our words and by our lives. We may even lay down our lives for the truth, as Jesus did. But we must never force on others our understanding of the truth; for that is precisely what false shepherds do.

Jesus lived, taught, and died in greater possession of the truth than we can ever be in this life—but he never coerced anyone to believe in him or to follow his way. We must be wary of using any kind of social or political or legal pressure to compel others to conform to our truth. Witness, yes; force, no.

There is something inconsistent, for example, in preaching respect for human life while denying human freedom; or advocating family while rejecting the sister or brother whose sexual orientation is different from our norm; or proclaiming liberty and justice for all while supporting tyrants at home, in church, or across the sea.

The power of false shepherds—the tyrants of this world—is FEAR! The only power for the Christian is love, a love that is rooted in a profound respect for the freedom of human persons. God’s kingdom is a community of freedom, and force has no place within it.

It is in joyous freedom that all people are called to sing: “King of Kings! Lord of Lords! And he shall reign forever and ever! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

Amen.

_________________
* 1 Samuel 13:14; Acts 13:22

 

 

 

TEXT: Matthew 25:14-30

“For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them; to one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away.” (Matthew 25:14-15)

The parable of the talents is a parable about the manner in which God will judge the world and his people. It is a straightforward account—coloured by Jesus’ characteristic hyperbole, but a straightforward account, nonetheless. A man who is about to leave on a journey entrusts his servants with different portions of his property. They are to look after that property and to ensure that it continues to work for the master, that it continues to make a profit while he is away.

Two of the servants double the investment they are entrusted with, and are richly rewarded for doing so. But the third gains nothing from it for his master; all he does is bury the money to keep it safe! And the result for him is …? What was entrusted to him is taken from him and given to the servant with the 10 talents—and then he gets booted off the estate. He’s canned. Fired. Gone. Just like on an episode of The Apprentice.

Wow. That’s heavy stuff. As I said, it is a straightforward account. This parable of the talents—this parable of the three servants who each were entrusted with fabulous wealth by their master—is a straightforward account of how God judges the world.

So, what should we make of it? Well, I think we need to consider ourselves to be one of the servants in the parable—or perhaps even a fourth servant. We need to consider ourselves—and our families, and our church—as servants who have been entrusted with fabulous wealth. We have been given wealth to look after while our master goes on a long trip. We need to consider ourselves as having been given one, or two, or three, our four, or five—or maybe even ten—talents and being left with this treasure, to do with what we will. What would we do? What will we do?

I ask that because that is precisely what God has done. God has given each one of us a fabulous treasure—each in a different but abundant measure—and left what we do with it up to us. God has endowed you. God has endowed me. God has endowed his church.

So what will we do with it? Are we going to play it safe—and hide it under the mattress—much like the third servant did? Or are we going to risk it—like the first and second servants did? Think about it. Think about what God has entrusted to you. Think about who God has entrusted to you. Think about what we have been given in this life by our God—what we have been entrusted with for a matter of a few years, and what we have been promised will be ours for an eternity. Think of the fantastic treasure that has been poured out upon us with the giving of our breath, with each meal we can eat, with each person we come into contact with, with each sight we can see.

Most of us do not think about these treasures often enough, or deeply enough. If we did, things would be different, wouldn’t they? Different for us. Different for our world. There is a little piece I’ve seen reprinted in various forms in different church newsletters over the years. It goes like this:

What would the church be like if every member were just like me? Would our church be empty on Sunday, or full to overflowing, if everyone attended as I do? How much Bible Study and prayer would occur if everyone took the time I do? How many bruised, hurting, lonely people, would be touched by the church if every member acted exactly as I do? Would we need more ushers and offering plates if everyone gave like me? How many children would be led to faith through the Sunday School and church if everyone had my priorities? Would the church just be an attractive social club? Would it be closed, bankrupt, out of business? Or would it be a dynamic force for Jesus Christ in our community and our world—if everyone was just like me?

 

You know, one of the basic teachings of the Bible is that if we don’t use it—we lose it! Even though Paul writes: “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God—not the result of works …” (Ephesians 2:8-9a) there remains a judgement. A judgement grounded in mercy, absolutely; a judgement given in love, no doubt … but a judgement nonetheless. Someone once rewrote the Parable of the Talents to try to get at this point. The rewrite goes like this:

Once there was a king who had three sons, each with a special talent. The first had a talent for growing fruit. The second for raising sheep. And the third for playing the violin. Once, the king had to go overseas on important business. Before departing, he called his three sons together and told them he was depending on them to keep the people contented in his absence.

Now for a while things went well. But then came the winter—and a bitter and cruel winter it was. There was an acute shortage of firewood—and so, the first son was faced with a difficult decision. Should he allow the people to cut down some of his beloved fruit trees for firewood? When he saw the people shivering in the cold, he finally allowed them to do so.

The second son was also faced with a difficult decision. Food became very scarce. Should he allow the people to slaughter some of his beloved sheep for food? When he saw the children crying with hunger, his heart went out to them and he allowed them to take some of the sheep.

So the people had firewood for their fires, and food for their tables.

Nevertheless the harsh winter continued to oppress them. Their spirits began to sag, and there was no one to cheer them up. They turned to the fiddler … but he refused to play for them! In the end, things got so bad that, in desperation, many of the people emigrated.

Then one day the king arrived back home. He was terribly sad to find that many of his people had left his kingdom. He called in his three sons to give an account of what had gone wrong. The first said, “Father, I hope you won’t be mad at me, but the winter was very cold and so I allowed the people to cut down some of the fruit trees for firewood.” And the second son said, “Father, I hope you won’t be angry, but when food became scarce I allowed the people to kill some of my sheep.”

On hearing this, far from being angry, the father embraced his two sons, and told them that he was proud of them.

Then the third son came forward, carrying his fiddle with him. “Father,” he said, “I refused to play because you were not here to enjoy the music.”

“Well then,” said the king, “play me a tune now, because my heart is full of sorrow.”

The son raised the violin and bow … but he found that his fingers had gone stiff from lack of exercise, and his musical skill had wasted away from want of practice. No matter how hard he tried, he could no longer play a tune.

Then his father said, “You could have cheered up the people with your music, but you refused. If the kingdom is half-empty, the fault is yours. But now you can no longer play. That will be your punishment.”

What would the church be like, if every member was like me? What would the world be like, if every believer believed like I do?

 

The problem with the third servant was his fear. He either feared too much—or perhaps not enough. And so he was very, very careful with all that his master gave him. Like the man who is afraid to love, because he might get hurt; like the woman who is afraid to reach out, because she might be rejected; like the child who is afraid to walk, because he might fall down—the third servant was afraid. And as is the case with most fears, his fear came true! In the end, what he had was not enough for his master.

The third servant was afraid. He was afraid even though the constant message of God—the message heard whenever God visits his people—is: “be not afraid!”

Be not afraid. Be not afraid of losing what you have. Be not afraid of being alone, or of being hated. Be not afraid of suffering or dying. Instead, trust God. Trust in the One who said: “those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it” (Luke 9:24). Trust in the One who gave himself on the cross, and who—in doing so—made an end of death.

The Parable of the Talents is not a lesson about our degree of ability or productivity—it is a lesson about our attitude and our responsibility. It is about stepping out with God’s treasure in our hands and risking it all for the sake of God. It is about really daring to love—really daring to care—even though the conditions do not seem right for it; even though the persons involved do not seem worthy of it; even though 1001 bad things might happen.

The sin of the third servant is the sin of not daring to risk! It is the sin of not believing that God will reward all who trust in him. It is the sin of not trusting Jesus—who died and rose for us—to raise us up when we give our lives for him. The mystery of the Gospel is not entrusted to the Church to be buried in the ground. It is given to the Church in order to be risked!

Be not afraid. If we have invested ourselves as well as we possibly can for the sake of God’s kingdom—if we have used the gifts of God for the glory of God—then God will be pleased with us, and we will enter into his joy. We will sit down and eat with the bridegroom, and we shall know the bliss saved up for all who trust and believe—now, and forevermore.

Remembrance Sunday

TEXT: Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25

“Now if you are unwilling to serve the LORD, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served in the region beyond the River or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living; but as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.” (Joshua 24:15)

As Joshua called the people of Israel together to remember and to decide, so—on this Sunday before Remembrance Day—are we called together, to remember, and to decide. Today, we remember the drama and tragedy of war: the sacrifices made by so many; the pain and the loss; the comradeship and the closeness; the high hopes and dark fears; pervasive evil and enduring goodness. We remember the ultimate victory of one side, and the crushing defeat of the other.

And if we look closely at what we remember—and consider honestly the history to which those memories point—we are struck by the truth of the statement that human history repeats itself. Therefore, today, as we remember, let us also meditate upon yet deeper things: those things in this world that divide families, groups, peoples, and nations one from the other. Let us ponder the need not only for peace, but also the need for the justice upon which lasting peace may be built; the justice which shows mercy to those seek it—and even to those who do not.

The value of remembering—for some—lies strictly in telling the story: in sharing what is important to them; in working out the good and the bad, the joy and the misery, which they have encountered. For others, the value of remembering lies in examining the lessons of history. For still others, remembering is a matter of honouring and evoking the emotions and feelings that spring from humanity at its best—laughter, joy, tears, peace, outrage, forgiveness, humility, determination.

Remembering is good. But remembrance is also a call for decision on our part; and without the decision—without the deciding that we are called to do—our remembering has little power, and less purpose.

In today’s Old Testament reading, Joshua recounted the story of how God had dealt with the children of Israel: how the LORD had chosen Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, and promised them a land; how he had remembered Joseph in Egypt, and raised up Moses to deliver the people; how he had led his people safely from the clutches of Pharaoh and watched over them in the Wilderness of Sinai; and how, finally, he had brought the 12 tribes across the Jordan and into the promised land, driving out their enemies before them, and giving them a country that they had not laboured for, grapes and olives that they did not plant.

Joshua tells the story. He remembers. Then he calls the people to understand what has been remembered. And he calls them to make a decision: the decision to choose to follow and be true to the God who gave them life—or to choose to follow in the path of the nations around them and to worship their gods.

The people respond to this challenge by reciting back to Joshua the story as they remember it: how God worked miracles to set them free and although other nations surrounded them, the Lord protected them wherever they went. Then they say to Joshua that—like him—they will serve the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob; the God of Moses; the God that has been so good to them.

Today, we are called to remember: to remember not only all those who suffered and died, but also to remember the cause for which valiant men and women have struggled throughout the centuries—namely the good of not only their own nations, but of the whole world. And—most importantly—we are called to choose.

When Joshua reminds the people of their history—of their experience—and then demands that they choose which God they will serve, he warns them that this is no easy decision. He tells them that there is a cost involved, the cost of total commitment; and that should they falter—should they put their hand to the plow and look back; should they attempt to live with one foot in the Kingdom of God and the other in the world of idols—then God himself will turn against them, even though he has been good to them in the past.

Today, we remember—and we are called to choose. We are called to choose this day much the same thing Joshua called upon the people of Israel to choose. We are called to choose life or death; to choose God and the things of God—or to choose ourselves and the things of this world; to choose selfish advantage rather than common good.

The message for us is the same as the message to the children of Israel. It is the same message that every veteran of every battle with this world’s evil can tell you. And the message is this: those who forget—those who choose to ignore the call of God, and to instead be like everyone else—to be people who look after only themselves; who seek privilege instead of justice; who opt for political expediency rather than truth; who elevate any earthly thing as a value above that of the will of God … these are the souls who are lost!

Should we follow other gods: should we value our own prosperity while ignoring the poverty of others; should we desire our own comfort more than we desire to help others; should we prefer the peace of endless compromise to the hard work of standing up for the truth—and standing up against terrorism and against oppression … then we will surely perish!

Today, we are called to choose the things of God—to do justice, regardless of the cost; even though it may cost us our own lives. But if we do not—if we choose something else, something which may be easier—but is not right—then not only will the sacrifice made by so many others on our behalf be in vain, but their memory will be dishonoured even as we pin poppies on our lapels and lay our wreaths and sing our hymns.

The Kingdom of God—the Kingdom that is distinguished by joyful peace; by freedom from pain and death; by love that knows no boundaries; by abundance that knows no limit—this Kingdom demands our all. We are called to give ourselves completely for the sake of what is right. May God grant us courage to offer nothing less. Amen.

All Saints’ Day ~ Sunday, November 1, 2020

TEXT: Matthew 5:1-12

By the time Sunday arrives this year, another Halloween will have come and gone. If you live in a place where pandemic restrictions allow for door-to-door visiting, I wonder what you will have noticed as the little ones in their disguises cried out for “Halloween apples” or shouted “Trick or Treat!” What sort of costumes did the children wear?

It depends on the fads of the year, of course, but you can likely count on scary, dark characters: axe-murderers from horror movies, Grim Reapers, vampires, skeletons, ghosts, monsters, headless horsemen, and mummies. Maybe even somebody dressed up like a flu shot!

But think about it: despite the fact that Halloween is the eve of All Saints’ Day, not many children come dressed in a religious theme. And that’s curious, in a way. Why so many devil costumes—and so few angels? Why so many violent characters—and so few peaceful ones? So many sinners … so few saints!

Mind you, there aren’t a lot of choices: where would you buy a saint costume?

I suppose we could make costumes depicting saints. But how do we even know what a saint looks like? Well, in our gospel lesson for today, Jesus gives us some hints:

• “Blessed are the poor in spirit ..
• “Blessed are those who mourn … the meek … those who hunger and thirst for righteousness …
• “Blessed are the merciful… the pure in heart … the peacemakers … those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake …”

Of course, all of that is really about what saintly behaviour looks like—but maybe it’s a description that points us in the right direction.

What would a “saint costume” look like?

How about going out wearing rags with stuffed animals and toy birds attached to them? This would be Saint Francis of Assisi, who loved all God’s creatures as brothers and sisters.

How about dressing as an old worn-down woman with scars from beatings by cruel overseers? This would be Sojourner Truth, a saint who gained freedom from slavery and preached the gospel of liberation to a perverse generation.

How about wearing a plain white shirt with a stethoscope and a big white handlebar mustache? This would be Albert Schweitzer, a saint who spent his life as a missionary and doctor in Africa, even though he could have remained in Europe, living in luxury and fame.

Why not dress in a black suit and simple tie, with a dark mustache, carrying a Bible? This would be Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior—a saint who gave his life trying to end racial discrimination in the United States.

Or you could don a pair of glasses, ruffle up your hair, and go as another Baptist preacher—Tommy Douglas, the “Father of Medicare,” once named “the Greatest Canadian” in a CBC poll.

Or how about dressing as a woman with dark circles under her eyes and rough hands from being up nights caring for a sick child and working days at some arduous labor to put food the table? This would be a single, working mother, giving herself away to make a better life for her family.

Maybe a trick-or-treater could just go dressed as a regular child—such as the boy who went to a scouting contest for homemade racing cars. It was one of those events where the contestants are supposed to do their own work, but most of the fathers help too much.

At this one event, a youngster with no dad showed up with a racer he had obviously made with his own unskilled hands. The contest pitted boys in pairs, one against another, with the winner advancing to the next round in a series of eliminations.

Somehow this one kid’s funny-looking car won again and again, until, defying all odds, he was in the finals against another scout with a slick-looking, well-made racer.

Before the championship race, the boy asked the director to wait a moment so he could pray. The crowd, now enthralled by the unlikely story unfolding before them, stood in silence, loving the boy and secretly praying with him that he might win; he seemed so deserving.

After the boy won the race and was given a trophy, the director said, “Well, I guess it is a good thing you prayed, so you could win.”

“Oh, no!” the boy protested. “I didn’t pray to win. That would have been wrong. The other scout had as much right to win as I did. I couldn’t pray that God would make him lose. I just prayed that God would help me keep from crying if I lost.”

Far more important than how we dress up on Halloween is understanding that we can emulate the saints—that we can become saints, too! Because, you know, when the Bible talks about saints, it just means ordinary believers like you and me—ordinary, but sincere and dedicated folks who do their best to be faithful disciples of Christ. We can do that—following the saints who show us the way.

All Saints’ Day celebrates those whose good examples remind us of what we can be, at our best. The stories of their lives remind us of who we are, what we believe, and what we can become. They remind us how closely a human being can follow the example of Jesus.

Saints draw us forward, give us courage, strengthen us to do God’s will, and lead the way. Whether they are people we hear about, or people we know, their good examples remind us that God reaches out to us with grace and love and care.

The saints inspire us not to lose sight of the ultimate goal: Jesus’ imperative to love God with all our hearts and souls and minds, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. Remembering the witness of the saints can help us feel God’s comforting touch when we are discouraged.

Why? Because the saints call us to an awareness of God’s peace that surpasses human knowing. They help keep us from presuming too much about our own strength. They teach us to trust in the One who has loved us beyond all measure.

All Saints’ Day is a time when—by considering the faithful lives of those who have gone before us—we are challenged to think beyond our limitations.

On All Saints’ Day, we are reminded that we each have the potential to respond to God’s gracious love, also—to respond with active love for others; with commitment and caring and giving. The saints of old—and the saints in our lives today—lead us into the fullness of life that God intends for us all. Thank heaven for their witness to us. Amen.

Testing … testing … One, two, three, test …

In a congregation I served once, there was a notoriously unreliable sound system. Especially bad were the remote microphones—the wireless ones, that were supposed to let me move around and still be heard. One of them made all kinds of strange noises. And the other one couldn’t be depended on to transmit any kind of sound at all. For a while, I used to do the “1-2-3, test” thing with both of them, trying to determine which one was malfunctioning the least! Eventually, they both stopped working, so there was no point in testing them any more.

We get tested, too … don’t we? Life tests us. Things happen that shake us up. Or shake us down. Things that challenge us to face our deepest questions and doubts and fears. Your marriage breaks down. You lose your job, or your investments, or your health. The kids leave home. Or the kids come back home! Or perhaps it’s that “midlife crisis” that so many of us go through.

Any of these can knock us backwards or sideways, or bring us to a full stop—at a place where we find ourselves asking questions like: Is this all there is? What do I really want? What matters? What doesn’t? What do I want my life to count for?

Sometimes the question gets asked more directly. A new family moves in down the street, and their kids ask your kids what they believe. Or you become friends with a Muslim coworker, and find yourself deeply impressed with the quality of that person’s life. And then you wonder whether your own faith tradition can give you that. Or, somebody lets door-to-door evangelists into your living room—and you wish you could articulate just what it is that you believe!

Moments like that test us. But not so much in the sense of “knowing the answers.” I think it’s more like what we do when we turn on a sound system. We tap each microphone to check whether it’s on; and then we lean in close, and we say, “Test … test … 1-2-3, test …”

We’re trying to find out if the system works—what kind of sound quality and range we get with it, how wide a field of pickup it has. In other words, we want to know how well it’s going to serve us as a communication tool. Do we need to adjust the mike stand? Should we move things around a bit? Or change the settings on the mixing board?

It’s that kind of a test—a test to see what’s working, and what needs adjustment, and maybe even what needs replacing.

In today’s gospel lesson, that is the kind of test to which the Pharisees put Jesus. And there may not be anything sinister about it. Here’s this guy who’s giving profoundly insightful responses to challenging questions, who won’t back down from an argument—who makes people really think about where their lives are headed. They want to know more about him. And so they come up close to Jesus … and tap him!

Testing … testing … One, two, three … “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

Of the 613 commandments given in the Torah, and the hundreds more elaborated upon through the years to guide our living, which one is paramount?

One, two, three, test … Haven’t we all felt the tap-tap-tap of challenging, unsettling questions?

Is it more important to be truthful or to be kind? Should I use my God-given talents to advance my career, or should I devote my life to humble service? As a Christian, am I primarily supposed to care for others? Or am I primarily supposed to stand up for my beliefs? How does this Christianity thing work, anyway?

Notice that Jesus does not rebuke the Pharisees for asking the question. In fact, I think he welcomes the debate, because—after he answers their question—he asks them one in return, challenging them to re-think one of their favorite messianic texts—to probe what it is they hope for, and ask themselves whether their ideas are big enough.

One, two, three, test … Someone once said that unless we are willing to scrutinize what we already know, our knowledge will never expand. In the same way that testing allows us to fine-tune a sound system, open-minded questioning fine-tunes our understanding—and causes our faith to increase.

“Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

Of course, we already “know” the answer Jesus gave. He quoted the Hebrew Scriptures: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind … And … You shall love your neighbour as yourself.”

However, precisely because we know this answer so well, we may overlook its implications—and its power.

Those of you who are of my vintage may remember growing up in the 1950s and 60s, when atmospheric nuclear testing was still allowed to take place. As stupid as that seems now, few people at the time understood how damaging it would be for human health and the future of our species. I remember hearing about how visitors to Las Vegas would gather on the rooftops of hotels so they could watch the fireballs exploding off in the distance at the Nevada Test Range.

I guess it was a pretty spectacular sight. It even inspired someone to write—of all things—a gospel song about it. Some of you may know it. It’s called “Jesus Hits Like the Atom Bomb.” (If you’ve never heard this … amazing … piece of music, you can check it out at:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CC-AL53nmvo)

Anyway, this answer Jesus gives to the Pharisees … it hits like an atom bomb! “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and mind—and your neighbour as yourself.”

It’s like a time bomb, actually, dropped into chapter 22 of Matthew’s gospel. And there it sits, waiting to detonate in our lives—right in the middle of some particular situation we’re in.

Sometimes it’s hard to know how to “love” someone—whether it’s God, or our neighbour, or even ourselves. We may think it means having warm and fuzzy feelings toward them 24 hours a day. But we know that’s next to impossible—even with people we deeply and truly love. And God knows full well that there’s no point in commanding us to have the warm fuzzies. But here’s the thing: the kind of love Jesus commends to us is an active love. It’s about doing, not about feeling. It’s not the emotion that matters—it’s the action.

What does that action look like? It surely cannot mean the same thing toward God (who—strictly speaking—needs nothing from us), as toward, say, our children. And the love our children need is different than the sort of love we owe to our spouses, or to our co-workers, or to the homeless person we encounter on the street. Or the driver who just cut us off in traffic.

One, two, three … Another test question: what does it mean to love?

As we consider that question, here’s something to bear in mind: today’s gospel reading leaps quite far ahead in the story—all the way to the last week of Jesus’ life, in fact. In Matthew, this episode is part of a much larger discussion about what it means to love God. The preceding chapters contain a string of parables about the kingdom of God and the last judgment.

Last Sunday, we heard Jesus answer a loaded question about how a faithful Jew should live under a pagan empire. And—reading ahead a bit—we find that Jesus will condemn the Jewish religious leaders for distorting the message of the Torah, turning faithful observance into a petty and burdensome catalogue of regulations—all the while ignoring what it teaches about justice and mercy.

Reading ahead even further, we find Jesus railing against his people’s habitual rejection of God’s messengers—and we hear him warn of impending disaster.

In all of this, Jesus says at least as much about what it means to love and obey God as he says about loving our neighbours. So what does love mean, when it comes to God?

As a wise person once said, one of the most important commitments of love is the commitment to pay attention. We can easily see how that plays out with human beings: you wouldn’t give a homeless person a potted plant—and you wouldn’t give a chess set to a two-year-old. In order to give appropriately, you need to pay attention to the situation and needs of each person.

It’s the same with God. Paying attention to God requires much more than ritual observance. To fulfill the law and the prophets—to rightly love God and neighbour—we have to pay attention. We have to spend meaningful time getting to know who this is that we are worshipping. We need to immerse ourselves in the scriptures and in prayer and in the concerns of the world around us, until our hearts beat in time with God’s heart.

Does that sound like a tall order? I guess it is. But this rabbi whose disciples we are—he stands very tall, and he casts an exceedingly long shadow. He does not hesitate to speak the truth to anybody—or to demand the truth from anybody. He’s the one who tries us out as if we were a finicky sound system … one, two, three, test …

Are we up to the challenge? I hope we are. As we pay attention to situations of testing; as we pay attention to God and to others and to ourselves; as we learn to view the world with honest and attentive compassion … I wonder whether, perhaps, something amazing may happen. Maybe—just maybe—we will find ourselves becoming the love that God is. And maybe—just maybe—that is what we should be striving for above all else.

 

TEXT: Matthew 22:15-22

“Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

Or—in the perhaps more familiar King James Version—Jesus says: “Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s” (Matthew 22:21).

Church treasurers love this quotation, because it has spawned so many stewardship sermons! And I guess my message today is about stewardship … sort of. But probably not in the way most of you might expect.

Let’s do some digging—some exploration—in this passage from Matthew’s gospel. Beginning at verse 15 of chapter 22, we read: “Then the Pharisees went and plotted to entrap Jesus in what he said. So they sent their disciples to him, along with the Herodians …”

This combination of people approaching Jesus is interesting, to say the least. The Pharisees and the Herodians—this is an unexpected alliance. The Pharisees, you understand, hated the idea of giving money to their Roman oppressors—and so they were completely opposed to paying taxes to the emperor. The Herodians, on the other hand … Well, Herod was a puppet king kept in power by the Romans! So the Herodians had a vested interest in making sure the emperor received his due.

Continuing through verse 17, we hear the question being asked: “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” The reference is, of course, to Jewish Law—the Law of Moses. Obviously, it was by Roman standards perfectly lawful to pay the tax—in fact, it was obligatory. The question was about whether it was proper and moral for a Jew to pay the tax.

Now, you see the trap they’re trying to set, don’t you? They think they’ve left Jesus with an impossible choice. If he speaks against the tax, the Herodians will haul him into a Roman court on charges of treason. If he speaks in favour of the tax, he will alienate many in the crowds that follow him. But the Galilean rabbi is more cunning than his adversaries realize. He sets a kind of trap of his own.

“Show me the coin used for the tax,” he says.

Now, the coin used for the tax was a silver coin called a denarius. It had a picture of Caesar on one side, and—on the reverse—the image of a woman called “Pax.” She was a symbolic personage, kind of like the statue of Liberty. Except “Pax” was symbolic of peace. She was peace, personified. Anyway, since each denarius contained not one, but two, graven images, these coins offended against Jewish law.

Remember that incident where Jesus overturned the tables of the moneychangers and drove them out of the Temple? These moneychangers had a livelihood because—if you were going to do business in the Temple—you first had to exchange your pagan currency for special Temple coins. Carrying the image of Caesar into the Temple was a sacrilege. Even so, when Jesus asks for a denarius, one is quickly located. Jesus then asks the question that everyone in Israel could have answered without having a coin in hand. In the New Revised Standard Version, he says: “Whose head is this and whose title?”

But this is a case where the venerable old King James Version is a superior translation, as it has Jesus ask: “Whose is this image and superscription?”

The Greek word eikon (εἰκών)—which the NRSV renders as “head”—is better translated as “image.” When the Herodians and Pharisees answer Jesus’ question by saying that it is Caesar’s image on the coin, he tells them to give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar. It’s his coin anyway! So who cares if you give Caesar back his own coin for the tax?

Some feel this would be a better translation even than the King James: “Give back to Caesar what belongs to Caesar.” And likewise, the other half of Jesus’ statement: “Give back to God what belongs to God.”

It’s kind of an amazing one-liner, really. It leaves everyone calculating just exactly what that might be. What is it that belongs to God, that we are supposed to give back to him?

In case you’re wondering, the clue lies in that word “eikon” or “image.” If I can imagine Jesus expounding on this point, I think he might refer us to chapter one of Genesis, beginning at verse 26: “And God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness.’” It goes on to state, “God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.”

Think about that. Just as the denarius has Caesar’s eikon upon it—and therefore belongs to him—so do we belong to God because we bear his image and his likeness.

Jesus doesn’t so much affirm or condemn the tax, as he makes it irrelevant. He implies that, though we do owe something to the state, there are limits to what the state may claim. However, Jesus places no limits regarding what we owe to God.

Yes, this text is often used to talk about stewardship in terms of what you should give to the church. But this passage is not about tithing. According to Jesus, if giving 10 percent of our income is all we do, we fall 90 percent short of the mark—because, in truth, everything we have and everything we are already belongs to God.

Of course, I’m not telling you to give 100 percent of your income to God (sorry, church treasurers). The Lord knows you need money to purchase the necessities of life. But I think Jesus would tell us that, once we have given God some of the money we’ve earned, we should not feel that we have paid off an obligation. God wants a share of your time and energy, as well; so the “100 percent” formula pertains to your calendar as well as to your wallet.

What God wants is nothing less than to come and abide in your heart. The point is that God loves you. You have been made in the image and likeness of God—and God notices the family resemblance. As someone has said, “If the Lord has a refrigerator, your picture is on it!”

See, here is Jesus’ urgent concern: he wants you and I to live into the image and likeness of the God who lovingly created us.

We begin to live into the image and likeness of God by conforming our lives to be more like Jesus’ life. Giving back to God through the church certainly does matter. But merely giving money—to the church, or to the government, or to any good cause … Well, that’s only a small part of a big picture.

You catch a glimpse of the big picture, though, when you dare to ask: “What is it that belongs to God, which I am supposed to give back to him?” Because the real answer to that question is … “You.”

 

Thanksgiving Sunday (CANADA)

TEXTS: Deuteronomy 8:7-18 and Luke 17:11-19

One of the things for which I am most grateful today is the wonderful, wired world we live in. My understanding of social media and all that stuff is, I admit, pretty limited. But I thank God for the internet and all its gifts. I do! I’m especially glad for e-mail, because sometimes people use it to send me stuff that’s really useful—and sometimes even profound. Like this story:

It’s a story about a man who was two days away from celebrating an important anniversary—a very important one for an A.A. member. In two days’ time, he would celebrate 20 years of sobriety. But just two days’ previously, his wife had left him for another man. She left him right after hearing him announce that he had lost his job.

So this poor man was completely depressed. He’d lost much more than a wife and a job, terrible though those losses were. He had lost faith—faith in himself, faith in God, and faith in other people. And so it was that he awakened on a cold, wet, dreary morning, wondering why he bothered with life—wondering, really … why he should go on living.

He decided that he needed a drink.

However, neither the bars nor the liquor stores were open this early in the day. So he went to have breakfast in a small neighbourhood restaurant. Now, when he arrived at the diner, he could see that there were already quite a few other people there. But—for whatever reason—nobody was speaking to anybody else. It was quiet as a tomb. So this man—this man who had lost faith in himself, in God, and in other people—he just sank deeper into his own misery as he hunched over the counter, stirring his coffee with a spoon.

Now, in one of the small booths along the window, there was a young mother with a little girl. They had just been served their food when the little girl broke the melancholy silence with words that were heard by everyone in the place. She said, “Mommy, aren’t we going to pray before we eat? How come we don’t pray here?”

The waitress who had just served their breakfast turned around and said, “Sure, honey, we can pray here. Will you say the prayer for us?”

Then she turned and looked at the rest of the people in the restaurant and told them: “Bow your heads!”

And surprisingly, they did! One by one, the heads went down. The little girl then bowed her head, folded her hands, and said: “God is great, God is good, and we thank him for our food. Amen.”

That simple prayer completely changed the atmosphere inside the restaurant. People began to talk with one another. Soon laughter was heard. The waitress said, “We should do this every morning.”

And, all at once, this man—this man who had been so lost in his bitterness and despair—all at once, he realized that his whole state of mind had begun to improve. Following that little girl’s example, he started to thank God for all that he did have and stopped dwelling on the things that he didn’t have.

And he never did go get that drink.

Now, I have no idea whether all of that really happened, or not. Maybe it’s a kind of parable like Jesus used to tell. But, regardless of whether the story is true, it does tell the truth! It tells us that thanksgiving is about giving thanks for what we do have.

Here’s another story I found on the internet …

One afternoon a shopper at the local mall felt the need for a coffee break. She bought herself a little bag of cookies and put them in her shopping bag. She then got in line for coffee at the food court, found a place to sit at one of the crowded tables, and then—removing the lid from her cup and taking out a magazine—she began to sip her coffee and read. Across the table from her a man sat reading a newspaper.

After a minute or two she reached out and took a cookie. As she did, the man seated across the table reached out and took one, too! This put her off a bit, but she said nothing. A few moments later she took another cookie. Once again, the man took one, also. Now she was getting a bit upset! But still she said nothing. After having a couple of sips of coffee, she took a third cookie. So did the man. She was really upset by this—especially since, now, only one cookie was left!

Apparently, the man also realized that only one cookie was left. Before she could say anything, he took it, broke it in half, offered half to her … and proceeded to eat the other half himself. Then he smiled at her, and—tucking the paper under his arm—got up and walked away.

Was she steamed! Her coffee break ruined—already thinking ahead about how she would relate this offense to her family—she folded her magazine, opened her shopping bag, and there discovered her own … unopened … bag of cookies.

That story makes me think about how well God treats me even when I am not treating him very well. It also makes me think about how, sometimes, I neither appreciate what I have nor act like I understand where it came from. And it reminds me of the Old Testament passage for today.

As the children of Israel are preparing to enter the promised land, Moses tells them how blessed they are going to be—how, after so many years of slavery and wandering, they will reside in a land of plenty. He tells them:

“Do not say to yourself, ‘my power and the might of my own hand have gained me this wealth.’  But remember the LORD your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth, so that he may confirm his covenant that he swore to your ancestors, as he is doing today” (Deut. 8:17-18).

That speaks to us, I think, of something that, deep in our hearts, we all know, but too often forget. It speaks of how everything we have is a gift from God: a gift worked upon by our hands, to be sure—a gift perhaps even enhanced by our own strength—but a gift nonetheless. For it is God who gives us hands to use, and God who gives us strength to labour.

No one likes to be taken for granted—or to see someone that they love taking things for granted. Because we certainly know what it feels like to be thanked for something. And we also know what it feels like not to be thanked for something! We know how much that can hurt.

In today’s gospel story about the ten cleansed lepers—and about how only one of them returned to give thanks—we see that Jesus knows exactly how we feel. The story begins with Jesus and his disciples on the move. Luke tells us they’re traveling through the region between Samaria and Galilee—and this is a significant detail! Why? Because that region was a racially mixed area, inhabited by both Jews and Samaritans.

That’s right. Jews and Samaritans: people who absolutely despised one another! Luke provides this detail to set us up for the punch line near the end of the story.

As Jesus and his disciples are about to enter a village, they encounter a group of ten men—all of them Jewish, except for one, and all of them afflicted with leprosy. Leprosy, you understand, was the most dreaded of all ancient diseases because it ate away at the body and left its victims maimed and disfigured, and with almost no hope of a cure. Lepers were cursed with a terrible existence. In an attempt to contain this awful disease and prevent it from spreading, Jewish law (Lev. 13:45-46) prescribed that lepers had to be expelled from the community. They were forced to live outside of the village, made to wear distinctive clothing, and required to shout “unclean, unclean!” so that other people were warned to avoid them. They were excluded from worship because they might infect others and because they were deemed by the priest to be ritually impure. In that place and time, disease was considered to be God’s punishment for sin.

Imagine what it was like to be a leper in Jesus’ day. Not only were you presumed to be physically contagious, but also you were seen as morally and spiritually inferior, as someone cursed by God. So, to protect the community from physical contagion—but to shield it against moral or spiritual corruption, as well—you were cut off from virtually all human contact. At the same time, you were utterly dependent on the charity of family members or neighbours for your survival.

That was the predicament of these ten men. They walked the earth. They breathed the air. They ate, when they could. They had hopes and aspirations just like you and me. Yet, in a way, they were as good as dead. Without hopes for a family life, for a useful occupation, for a better future, they were like dead men walking—living in the hell of loneliness.

Keeping their distance from Jesus, these ten lepers cry out to him saying, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” (Luke 17:13)

And when Jesus sees them, he tells them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”

Remarkably, they obey him. And on their way, they are made clean (Luke 17:14).

“Go and show yourselves to the priests.” Do you understand the significance of that instruction? According to Jewish law (see Lev. 14), only a priest could declare a person to be healed of leprosy, and therefore fit to re-enter society.

On their way to see the priests, all ten were made clean. All ten were healed. But only one of them, when he saw that he was healed, came back, praising God with a loud voice. He threw himself at the feet of Jesus and thanked him. And then … here’s the punch line … “he was a Samaritan” (Luke 17:16).

Notice the thankful leper’s response. While all ten lepers had called out loudly to ask for mercy, only this one leper—the Samaritan, the outcast—only this one offers loud thanksgiving and praise to God. He throws himself at his Saviour’s feet in a gesture of complete devotion and profound gratitude—and Jesus receives his thanks graciously. Then Jesus asks, “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?” (Luke 17:17-18)

And there’s the surprise ending to this story. The only thankful one is the outcast, the foreigner—the non-Jew who gives glory to God and says “thank you” to a Jewish Messiah. The Samaritan puts the others to shame.

Now, none of them was any less cured—but the story implies that the other nine were certainly less grateful. Their bodies were changed, but their hearts were left untouched. Only the outsider—the foreigner—gives glory to God. Only the outsider—the Samaritan—only he is transformed by Jesus’ gift. And that’s the point. Thanksgiving blesses the one who is thanked—but it transforms the one who gives the thanks! It works the same way with us … when we remember to do it.

When we forget to do it … then, hard things get harder. When we allow the situation we are in to swallow us up and drown all thought of God’s power and goodness; when we begin to think we deserve all the good things we have because we’ve earned them; when we forget that—by God’s power—we can stand firm against any storm … Then, life becomes bleaker—and true virtue becomes much more difficult to find.

Here is the testimony of Scripture: God wants us to celebrate his love and give him thanks. But God doesn’t want this because he is greedy for praise. The Lord doesn’t need our thanks in order to feel better about himself. No. He wants it because he knows it will bless us. He wants it because it will bless the world he has created.

So, my friends, let’s learn from the Samaritan. Let’s learn from this grateful outcast. Let’s remember that the Thanksgiving holiday is about much more than simply filling our stomachs. It’s about filling our hearts and souls, as well.

Thanksgiving is about offering thanks for everything that we do have. Thanksgiving reminds us that everything we have is a gift from God. As a wise man* once wrote: “If we never say any other prayer than ‘thanks’ … we have prayed fully.”

Amen.

______________

* Eckhart von Hochheim O.P. (c. 1260 – c. 1328), commonly known as Meister Eckhart, was a German theologian and mystic.

¹ Matthew 21:40

² Matthew 21:41

³ C.S. Lewis, The Magician’s Nephew (New York: HarperCollins, 1983), p. 171.

⁴ Ibid., p. 175.

⁵ Ibid., p. 190.

TEXTS:  Matthew 21:23-32 and Philippians 2:1-13

When [Jesus] entered the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him as he was teaching, and said, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” (Matthew 21:23)

You’ve heard the story. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all agree on when it happened—this interrogation, this questioning of Jesus by the religious authorities of his day. It took place not long after what we call the “Palm Sunday” event. You remember. That’s when Jesus entered Jerusalem riding on a donkey. Crowds lined the street, shouting “Hosanna!”

“Hosanna!” means “Lord, save us!” And it expressed the people’s hope. Hope that Jesus was, in fact, the long-awaited Messianic liberator.

Soon thereafter, he headed straight for the Temple. And he proceeded to do some house-cleaning. He overturned the money-changers’ tables—and scattered their animals—because the priorities of God’s people were all messed up. He turned things upside down to show how much of a mess it really was.

It was this messing around in the Temple that caused the priests and elders to ask their pointed question: “By what authority are you doing these things?”

It’s a familiar passage of Scripture, isn’t it? When I read it, I want to place myself beside Jesus as one of his disciples. I want to identify myself with him. When those religious authorities come marching up, I see myself on one side of the question. But you know, maybe I should really place myself on the other side.

After all, let’s face it; I am a modern-day “religious authority.” I’ve been a pastor for about a quarter-century now.

By the authority vested in me, I am qualified to officiate at wedding ceremonies, and legally join two people in marriage. For many years, I sat on an interview board, which examined prospective candidates for accountable ministry in my denomination. Every time that board convened, I found myself in precisely the same place of authority as the priests and elders in today’s gospel lesson.

Whether I like it or not, I’ve had the same role as those men who came to Jesus and questioned his authority.

So, looking at this encounter between Jesus and the religious hierarchy, perhaps I need to identify with them, rather than with him. Maybe we all should—we good, religious people. Maybe we should approach this story from the other side of the question. We ask the question, not someone else. And we ask it not of ourselves, but of Jesus. By what authority is Jesus doing the things he is doing in our lives?

Do we ever ask that question? Do we ask that question when what the Lord is doing is obviously working to our advantage? When we experience healing, for instance? Or get a promotion at work?

When good things happen to you, do you question Jesus’ authority?

Probably not. But, like Matthew McConaughey once said in an automobile commercial, “Maybe you should.”

Those chief priests and elders way back then … they were not just thinking about the “money-changer episode” in the Temple, when they came and questioned Jesus’ authority. No. The miracles he had performed—the healings, the great things he had done—these troubled them, also!

See, those guys weren’t stupid. They understood that the miracles and the Temple cleansing and Jesus’ teachings were all bound together into one package. It was the package deal they questioned.

When the Lord does good things in our lives, there are often larger purposes involved. When we experience some kind of healing, for instance, it may be for a reason—quite possibly one that we do not at first appreciate.

We’ve all heard people talk about how the bad things that come our way happen for a reason … right? Well, what about the good stuff?

Perhaps good things happen for a reason, too. Like helping us face difficulty in the future. Perhaps the healing is in preparation for something else.

What about forgiveness? That’s good stuff! In Christ, we may come to a deeper awareness of God’s grace and mercy. We come to understand that we have been forgiven for a great debt. And then comes Jesus’ call to forgive as we have been forgiven!

Remember that gospel lesson from two weeks ago? Peter asked Jesus, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

And how Jesus answered, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times [or seventy times seven]” (Matt. 18:21-22).

You may also recall these familiar words of invitation from Jesus: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).

Jesus calls us to come and lay our burdens at the foot of the cross. What comforting words! We can let go of our sins and sorrows and regrets, and God will restore us. But then he adds the next line—which should catch us up, if we truly listen:

“Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:29-30).

Wait a minute, Lord! In one breath, you invite me to lay my burden down. In the next, you ask me to carry another. “Easy” and “light” you say, but it’s still a “yoke.”

Something good leads to a larger purpose—a calling that may consume your entire life. When you consider what taking up this yoke truly involves, might you not also question the authority behind Jesus’ call?

When you invite Christ into your life, you can expect him to do some “house-cleaning.”

He will turn your life upside down. He’ll flip your tables over, and drive out your wrong-headed ideas about what God requires of you.

We may think it’s our own little religious rituals that draw us closer to our Creator, but in reality, it is God who is drawing us to himself. Or, to look at it a different way, we usually think of “faith” as a noun, and not as a verb. But faith is active. Faith is a way of following.

When the children of Israel stood at the edge of the Red Sea and God parted the waters for their escape, was “faith” a noun? Or was it a verb?  For them, believing meant stepping forward and walking out onto the seabed.

Faith is not a religious ritual. Faith is not a theological statement. Faith is an often-terrifying step in a particular direction.

“Take up my yoke,” Jesus says.

“Seventy times seven,” Jesus says.

“My house shall be called a house of prayer…” (Matt. 21:13; Isaiah 56:7).

His words and actions should give us pause, and make us ask, as did those religious authorities so long ago: “By what authority do you say and do these things?” That’s not just yesterday’s question. It’s a question for today.

The chief priests and elders knew it boiled down to two options: either Jesus’ authority was derived from the author of Creation—from God—or else it was something much less.

By the way, whenever we hear the word “authority,” we should notice the word “author” within it. Are these words and actions “authored” by God or not?

When Jesus flipped the question back on them, asking about John the Baptist, those were the two options they debated. Either John’s authority was from God, or it was just his own voice talking.

That remains the issue for us, today. Is this stuff from God or not?  And if it’s from God, what are we going to do about it?

Jesus followed up this encounter with a parable—a story of a man who had a vineyard and two sons. He goes to one boy and says, “Son, go and work in the vineyard today.”

The kid says, “No, I won’t!”  But later he changes his mind.

The father goes to the other boy and asks the same thing. That kid says, “Sure!” … but he never does it.

Then Jesus asks the religious leaders which son did what his father wanted—the one who first said “no,” but went ahead and did it anyway, or the one who said “yes,” but did nothing.

Of course, their answer was, “the first son.”

Those religious leaders had heard God’s call through John the Baptist—just as they had heard it through the prophets who came before him. They had said their “yes” to God, but they weren’t really doing what God had asked of them: like …

• doing justice (not just talking about it, but doing it);
• extending mercy (making forgiveness a lifestyle, not merely a ritual); and
• humbly walking with God (making faith a verb, not just a noun).*

In other words, the hard stuff.

When you listen to today’s gospel lesson as if you are the one who questions Jesus, what happens? Do you become aware of your own inner resistance to the authority of God in your life? Are you really allowing the author of Creation to write his Word on your heart?

How do we know God’s Word is written upon our hearts? When faith becomes a verb, not just a noun. When we take seriously the words of Jesus in John’s gospel: “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).

By what authority do we do what Jesus has called us to do?  A good scripture text for that is what the apostle Paul wrote to the Philippians, when he quoted an early Christian hymn (at least, many think it is). And the hymn speaks of Jesus’ authority in a different way.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,

             did not regard equality with God

             as something to be exploited,

but emptied himself,

             taking the form of a slave,

             being born in human likeness.

And being found in human form,

              he humbled himself

             and became obedient to the point of death—

             even death on a cross.

Therefore God also highly exalted him

             and gave him the name

             that is above every name,

so that at the name of Jesus

             every knee should bend,

             in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue should confess

             that Jesus Christ is Lord,

             to the glory of God the Father.

(Phil. 2:5-11, NRSV)

Do you see? Jesus was totally equal with God, but he released it all—he let it go—and became like us. By doing that, he did what God wanted—even though it cost him his life. Because of this, the hymn says, “… at the name of Jesus every knee should bend … and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father”

His authority was not in any crown he wore, or in any badge of honor pinned to his chest, or in any claim to fame he may have made. It was derived from his complete obedience to his Father’s will. It was etched upon his heart by God’s own hand.

His authority becomes ours when we allow this same handwriting to be etched upon our hearts and minds. Paul urged the believers in Philippi to do precisely that; and I think the Holy Spirit is urging us to do it, also—here and now.

And so, we need to ask—even as we are being asked:  Where does this authority come from? Is it from God, or not?  And if we say it is from God, what are we going to do about it?

^{_________________}

* see Micah 6:8