TEXTS: Hebrews 11:29-12:2 and Luke 12:49-56

“I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” (Luke 12:49)

Some of you may know the name Li Juncai. He is the pastor of the Yuanyang County Central House Church in Xinxiang, Henan Province, in the People’s Republic of China.

On February 20, 2019, local authorities detained Li for refusing to remove the church’s cross and replace a religious sign in the church with a state-approved one. Mass removals of crosses from church buildings began in Henan Province in 2018, with police removing at least 4,000 crosses in the span of one year.

When authorities brought a crane to remove the cross from Pastor Li Juncai’s church, a group of Christian senior citizens, mostly women, met the plainclothes policemen and their crane. The Christians sang hymns and prayed while attempting to keep the authorities from taking the cross. Police beat and arrested the protestors before forcing the church gate open and removing the cross. Pastor Li Juncai told the workers they should proceed according to the law and that he opposed the removal of the crosses. He was arrested and charged with “obstructing official business.”

The next day, Religious Affairs authorities removed signs from inside the church building and forced church members to fly China’s national flag from the front of the church. Many churches are now required to do the same, along with hanging an image of President Xi Jinping inside the sanctuary and installing security cameras facing the congregation.

In January 2021, a court sentenced Li to five years and six months in prison and fined him 50,000 yuan (about $9,500 CA) for “misappropriation of funds,” “embezzlement,” and “intentionally destroying accounting books,” as well as the original charge of “obstructing official business.”

If you keep tabs on missionary agencies, you will know that Christianity is viewed with suspicion or outright hostility by many governments in the developing world.* Even in places that we would consider relatively civilized—like China—the practice of Christianity is considered to be a dangerous behaviour that threatens to destabilize society.

Of course, Christian faith is viewed quite differently where we live. In fact, it seems that church attendance is still reasonably common among those who control the laws and finances of this country. If we were sitting in any of the big churches in Ottawa on a Sunday morning, I think that—as we looked around—we’d be a lot more likely to notice senior bureaucrats and bankers than subversives and agitators.

In our society, Christianity is seen as safe and conservative and acceptable. And I wonder whether that is a major factor in why it also appears to be dying out. Because it seems too familiar, too hum-drum, too safe. We keep hearing that people in our society are hungry for genuine spiritual transformation—and most of us can see that’s true just by looking around at our friends and neighbours. They’re hungry for life-changing food—but, by and large, they no longer expect to be fed in church.

I think that’s because (quite reasonably) spiritual seekers associate Christianity with the way “we” have always done things. They think Christian faith is too tired, too status quo, to have anything to offer them. And our historic hand-in-glove cooperation with colonialism hasn’t helped, either. People’s perceptions of what Christianity is have been formed by what church-going people are seen to be and do. And if we are perceived as being people who live comfortably with the status quo values of our society …

Well, in that case, we are a long way from the kind of Christianity described in today’s two scripture readings.

In the gospel lesson, Jesus says he wants to take a flame-thrower to planet earth! He tells us that his mission will be seriously divisive, even breaking apart families as people find themselves on opposing sides of fundamental issues.

And in the letter to the Hebrews, the exercise of faith is depicted as something over which kingdoms rise and fall—and for which people have been tortured, mocked, flogged, chained, imprisoned, stoned, sawn in two, and killed by the sword.

“They went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, persecuted, tormented,” it says in verse 37. And then the author concludes: “Of [them] the world was not worthy.” (Heb. 11:37b-38)

It seems to me that one of the reasons we have rendered Christianity safe and innocuous is that there has been a major change in the way we think about what faith is. We mostly talk about it as being something you have. We ask: “Do you have faith?” Or we say: “She’s got a lot of faith.” Or: “You need to have a little faith” … as if we could purchase it by the kilogram.

Those sorts of statements make faith sound like a possession—like something you own. And there are lots of things that our society has decided it can tolerate people possessing. Perhaps we’ve begun to think of faith as being a bit like an illicit drug: the possession of small amounts for private use won’t get you into much trouble—just don’t start trafficking it!

Somehow, I don’t think either Jesus or the writer of the Book of Hebrews was thinking of faith as something you simply possess for private consumption. Faith is not something you do while keeping your head down and letting the rest of the world go on about its business. No. Faith is not a thing that can be possessed. It is something you do, or something you exercise. Faith is something active that affects those around you.

Perhaps we could compare it to power. There is no such thing as simply possessing power without ever exercising it, and without anyone else being affected by it. Power only exists in the exercising of it—in putting it into practice. Faith is like that, too. Faith only exists as it is exercised and as it shapes what you do.

That’s why I think it is a mistake to completely equate faith with belief. You can have a belief that has no consequences. I can believe that Noah’s ark was 450 feet long, but that won’t make any difference to how I live when I wake up tomorrow morning.

Faith is more like trust; it is belief that steps up to the plate—that commits itself to action. If we say that we trust God’s foolishness will prove wiser than the wisdom of the world, we are exercising an active choice and backing one side over the other. We are committing ourselves to living by one and rejecting the other. And once we start to do that, the sparks begin to fly and the fires begin to break out.

If we say that we are willing to trust God’s radical hospitality over the world’s self-protectionism, then we’re taking a risk. If we reject the wisdom of the world that says that our country should not accept any more refugees; if, instead, we trust that those who offer welcome will be vindicated by God; then, not only will we find ourselves on the unpopular side of the opinion polls, but we may also find ourselves breaking the law and facing arrest and public vilification.

But that’s what faith is!  To say that we believe that something should be done—but that we’re not willing to do it unless it is popular, or at least legal … this is not the exercise of faith. It is the exercise of compliance.

Jesus was in no doubt that his own radical faith in God was going to plunge him into a baptism of fire. And he was also quite clear about the stress and anxiety that he was going to have to endure as he approached it.

And mark this: Jesus was under no illusions about faith making the world a nicer place. He said: “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on, five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three.” (Luke 12:51-52)

Now, that doesn’t sound at all inviting, does it? You might reasonably ask, “Where is the good news?” Well, both readings point to the answer.

Jesus speaks of a baptism of fire, but a baptism is not only something you are plunged into. It is also something from which you emerge. You come out of it with a new identity and a new life filled with the Spirit of God. The baptism of fire is the birthplace of new life. And in our first reading—from the Letter to the Hebrews—the first line speaks about God’s people exercising faith by passing through the Red Sea to freedom. The Israelites were trapped between an advancing army and a seemingly uncrossable body of water! This was not a comfortable situation to be in—but it was a situation which demanded a choice. On the one hand was the only easy way out—a compliant return to slavery. On the other hand was Moses, saying, “Don’t worry, the sea waters will part for us. Have faith!”

Some choice! However, the way to freedom and life was opened to those who were willing to trust: “By faith the people passed through the Red Sea as if it were dry land.” (Heb. 11:29)

The good news is that we are not called to face the fire—or wade through the water—for no good reason. We are not asked to take risks of faith just to be daredevils. No. We are called to face the fire because that’s what lies between us and the coming of God’s Kingdom on earth. We stride into the sea because there is no way around it.

As the writer to the Hebrews says, if we keep our eyes on Jesus and follow his lead, the vision of the joy to come will give us the perseverance required to push on through whatever threatens to engulf us. And you know, that vision of a world where love and justice finally reign, and all things are made one in God … Well, that is the promise of the only life that is ultimately worth living—and the only life worth dying for! Amen.

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* For up-to-date news on this subject, one excellent resource can be found on The Voice of the Martyrs website: https://www.prisoneralert.com/prisoners

TEXT: Luke 12:32-40

“Blessed are those servants whom the lord when he cometh shall find watching: verily I say unto you, that he shall gird himself, and make them to sit down to meat, and will come forth and serve them.” (Luke 12:37)

Perhaps I don’t often enough quote from the King James Version of the Bible; it has an eloquence like few other things ever written in English. But knowing my usual habit, you may ask yourselves, “So what’s with the King James English this time?”

Well, at least in part, it’s because I want to quote something else to you—and it’s from roughly the same era. It’s the opening passage from a poem called “Love,” which was written by George Herbert, who lived from 1593 to 1633—about the time of Shakespeare. Here goes:

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,

           Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack

           From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

           If I lack’d anything.

Herbert actually wrote three poems with the same title of “Love,” but near his death, he left this poem, the one that begins, “Love bade me welcome,” as the last poem. It was his final word, so to speak, on the subject of faith.

The poet George Herbert was one of those on his way up in the world of King James* (the one who commissioned the translation of the Bible which bears his name). Herbert may have aspired at one time to an important government office under King James. But then he decided to let his life take a permanent and irreversible detour to an out-of-the-way parish in the southwest of England, where he served quietly as pastor for the last three years of his life of just 40 years.

He could have taken steps leading toward high political office, but he gave up his secular ambitions in order to preach and to write poetry. Herbert said, “his soul drew back” in the presence of Love. In this poem, Love is his word for God.

We understand, don’t we? We also draw back in the presence of a superior. Wherever you are in life, are there not people above you? And in their presence, are you quite the same as you are with your peers? In the presence of one with titles, or position, or power, do not all of us show some kind of deference—or even reverence?

Life is marked by roles and expectations. Social rules dictate that some are higher and some are lower on the scale. And even though democratic societies are founded on the notion that all are created equal, we still live and work in situations where this ideal is not practiced.

This is an “up-down” world. But if we think we live in a time marked by expectations about roles and about one’s place in society, it’s nothing compared to the world that Jesus knew. Jesus lived in a time where a few were privileged and most were deprived. We see the issue of class in all those parables Jesus told about a master and the servants—and in today’s gospel reading.

And of course, what caused Jesus all kinds of problems was that his opponents thought he didn’t understand the rules governing society and religion. They thought he was just an ignorant carpenter, and they said he ate and drank with sinners—as if he didn’t know any better.

The whole ministry of Jesus was marked by a curious kind of crossing as he moved from the segment of society ruled by the religious establishment to that of the ruled—the underclass, those without property, the outcasts. He said the first would be last, and the last would be first. What a revolutionary statement! It was a message to trouble the powerful and comfort the powerless.

Jesus told his disciples that they should think of themselves as servants. That may be harder for us to consider than it was for them. They called him “rabbi” or “teacher.” In the Greek New Testament, the word is kurios, which means “lord” or “master.” Applying that term to Jesus shows that they already looked upon him in a special way. They were ready to serve him and his cause. It is a role that Jesus even commends them for (see Luke 17:7-10; John 13:13). The loyalty of a servant to a master is commendable.

Duty makes sense. You do what you have to do, and when you do it well and thoughtfully, it feels right. To be sure, you don’t always get rewarded for doing your duty or for doing what is right; it is just what you do.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus says servants should have their lamps lit. They should be ready for action. They should be waiting for their master to return. That’s what you would expect faithful servants to be doing. If the master comes in the middle of the night, he will be pleased to find the house well-lit. Once their master has returned, those servants will know they have done the right thing by being ready and watchful.

They would also still be servants. They would be ready to continue as servants. Like George Herbert, in the presence of their master, their souls would draw back, “guilty of dust and sin.” They would know their place in the system—a place ready to serve their lord and master—ready to serve his needs and not their own.

Then Jesus says something really astounding—something so shocking that this had to be one of those little parables that quickly made its way from house to house and town to town. This had to be one of those stories, for it contains something totally unexpected.

Jesus says of the master that he should fasten his belt. Now, you’ve got to understand, masters of a household don’t do this. In Jesus’ place and time, there were all kinds of rules regarding dress and decorum for both men and women. It’s a world where very little skin shows. For example, men who wear long traditional robes will hardly even make their feet visible. To “fasten his belt”—as a modern translation has it—or “he shall gird himself” as the King James Version translates it, means to hike up your robe.

The robe is lifted up and then tied around the waist, so it doesn’t drag on the ground. Once the robe is out of the way, a servant can move easily and quickly. Being a servant means getting a job done, even if it means sacrificing your dignity—even if it means letting others see your legs!

Never, though, never would a master gird his loins, except for a most extreme or unusual emergency. But Jesus says the master becomes the servant. And yes, Jesus said that of himself: “I am among you as one who serves”  (Luke 22:27). Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, an act so memorable that John felt it was the keystone event of the last supper. And here in today’s gospel, Jesus says that the servants will sit at the table while the master waits on them. All of these were images and ideas that stunned his original audience. And when we grasp the full meaning of it, we, too, can stand in utter awe that God would love us that much.

Here, again, are the words of the poet George Herbert:

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

           Love said, You shall be he.

I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

           I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

           Who made the eyes but I?

 

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame

           Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

           My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat.

           So I did sit and eat.

The dialogue between master and servant comes to an end as the servant accepts the offer.

How hard it is to accept such a reversal. How difficult it is to accept that our faults, our unworthiness, our inferiority, do not matter at all. Shame and guilt—that is the point at which we are met and accepted! The grace of this relationship with God is all about the gift that is given—not about a gift that is earned. It is about a place at a table that is there when we least expect it—because it is about the Lord who loves the undeserving ones. So when we are less, when we are least, and when we are lost, God stoops to welcome us. Love bids us welcome. To call Jesus “Lord” and “Master” does not mean that the gulf between us is so great that we must hang our heads in shame all the while we are on our knees. “I no longer call you servants,” he said, “but friends.” (John 15:15)

This change in relationship—where we are fed at the table—is not about us, but it is about Christ. It is about our accepting God’s grace, and it is about how God meets us in our lostness and in our leastness. That understanding permeates Herbert’s poem—and it explains why his poem is so enduring. “Quick-eyed love”—the “love that bore the blame”—does not ask us to prove ourselves or to climb up on some ladder of perfection. We are simply asked to be part of a community marked by acceptance and forgiveness.

Let us pray that the sense of community we have in the church may be marked by a willingness to be centred in such love. Let us pray that we, like the servants described by Jesus, might let him serve us at the point of our greatest need. Let us accept the welcome offered to us by the “Love that bore the blame.” Amen.

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* When Queen Elizabeth I died in 1603, Scotland and England united under King James VI of Scotland who then became King James I of England, the first of the Stuart line. In 1604, at the Hampton Court Conference, James authorized theologians to start a new translation for all English-speaking parishes. Forty-seven scholars were convened, worked for seven years, and produced The King James Authorized Version of the Bible in 1611.

Text: 1 Samuel 3:1-20

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

A common question that pastors are asked is, “What is the call like?”

When this question is asked, everyone knows that the questioner is not enquiring about a telephone call, but a much larger call—the call from God, the call to pastoral ministry—to “accountable” ministry, as the church likes to call it these days.

So, what is it like? As you might expect, it’s different for each person. For some, it is a slow evolution over a period of time. Some ministers say they knew when they were in elementary school. Some felt the call to ministry take them by complete surprise. And some of us, in retrospect, say we think that God must’ve got the wrong number! Or that we wish we’d left the receiver off the hook.

Today, we hear the story of Samuel’s call. God had a vision for his life, and not only called him once, but four times.

First Samuel 3 begins, “Now the boy Samuel was ministering to the LORD under Eli. The word of the LORD was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.” This tells us that heavenly calls were not frequent occurrences during Samuel’s time. In fact, there had been a 300-year period when no prophet had spoken the word of the Lord.

If you remember the story of Samuel, you’ll recall that his mother Hannah had dedicated him to a life of serving God. So when he was about four years old, she took him to the Temple and gave him to the priest Eli as his assistant. Since then, Samuel had been raised in the Temple, and was not only Eli’s helper but also a sort of surrogate son for the old priest, whose own sons were hopelessly corrupt and evil.

At any rate, it made sense that when Samuel heard his name being called in the night, he would go to Eli and say, “Here I am, for you called me.”

But Eli—roused from his slumber—said, “I did not call; lie down again.”

Three times Samuel heard his name being called. Three times he asked Eli what he wanted, and two times Eli told him to go back to bed.

But after the third call, we are told that “Eli perceived that the LORD was calling the boy.” Eli then gave Samuel some excellent advice: “Go, lie down; and if he calls you, you shall say, ‘Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.’”

In other words, Eli told Samuel to be quiet and let God do the talking. Samuel went down to lie in his place, and the Bible says God did come back, and stood beside Samuel’s bed, calling as before: “Samuel! Samuel!”

This time Samuel answered God’s call saying,  “Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.” Then God spoke, and Samuel listened. And Samuel became from that young age onward one of the most significant prophets that Israel would ever know.

Well, so far we’ve talked about two calls: the call to accountable ministry, and the call of Samuel. But, so what? Why should this matter to you, or to me?

Here’s why. You may think that calls from God only happen to pastors, or occur in the Bible—but make no mistake about it: God has also called you to be a minister, to be a servant.

What is your calling? You may or may not have a sure sense of what it is. If you would like a greater understanding of how God wants to use you, there are three important questions that are helpful to ask.

The first question is, “What do I feel called to do?” Chances are that you have a sense of what it is. If the answer is not clear, ask yourself, “What am I good at?” Very often our call is related to what comes naturally or easily to us.

The second question is, “What do other people tell me I am good at?” While it is important that we feel a sense of call, it is also important that others validate the call. Someone may feel deep within that she or he is called to be a pastor, or a Bible teacher, or even a church treasurer; but no one can fill those roles without affirmation from the larger church. Samuel was being called from the outside as well as from the inside.

And finally, the third question you can ask is, “Who’s calling, please?” To determine our true calling, we not only need to feel a sense of call and have others tell us we are called, we must also make sure that the call is from God. When Samuel finally understood this, he said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”

God spoke, and Samuel did what God asked him to do. Throughout Samuel’s life God continued to speak, and Samuel continued to act on God’s behalf. God used Samuel in a powerful way. He served as a judge, a priest, a prophet, and played a key role at a significant point in Israel’s history.

For Samuel, answering God’s call became a lifestyle. Each one of us is asked to carry on in that tradition.

You are called to be a minister. Yes, YOU. You are called to be a minister for God. You are called to minister to other people. We live in a world that is hurting, in a world where 40 per cent of all people report being intensely lonely, in a world that suffers from hunger, want, need, and injustice.

God is calling you to take stock of your gifts and to listen for God’s voice and the invitations of other people. God is calling you to a life of service, to a life of ministry. God is calling you to live your life in a way that God might be glorified.

There is no higher calling. So listen well. Amen.

TEXT: Colossians 1:15-28

[Christ] is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether in earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross. (Col. 1:15-20)

The story is told of a teenage boy who became attracted to a girl in his math class. Asked what about her appealed to him most, he answered: “Her mom. She’s hot!” Then he explained that, as he figured it, in a few years his classmate would grow into the very likeness of her “hot” mother.

It seems not to have occurred to him that she might grow up to look like her dad. However, the young man was thinking analytically. He deduced that the daughter was more or less the incarnate image of her mom.

In Colossians, Paul figures the same way. “[Christ] is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation … For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” (vv. 15, 19). Or, as Jesus himself put it, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9). Jesus is the clearest picture of God available to us.

Do you want to know what God is like? All you have to do is look at the earthly ministry of Jesus.

• Look at his grace toward sinners, and his joy in the presence of children.
• Look at his healing compassion for those who hurt, and his impatience with smug self-righteousness.
• Consider his love for the disadvantaged and oppressed—and his willingness to offer fresh starts and second chances.

In these and countless other ways, we are shown the very heart of the Creator. “He is the image of the invisible God.” Additionally, Paul identifies Jesus as the glue that connects everything. “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together” (v. 17).

“In him all things hold together.” Need an example? Consider the diversity of the Christian church. Our skin colours vary, as do our denominations, our politics, our genders, and our ages. Often, we do not understand one another. Nevertheless, in spite of our differences, we are family to one another because we all gather together around Jesus.

Or, as the apostle Paul liked to put it, we are gathered together in Christ. “Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Cor. 12:27). We find the same terminology in today’s epistle lesson, where—in verse 24—Paul refers to “[Christ’s] body, that is, the church.”

We are the church. We are Christ’s body. Individually, we are members of him. That concept, by the way, is called “extended incarnation”—and it challenges us to do what Jesus did. The name “Christian” literally means “little Christ.”

If we are Christians, then by definition we are supposed to be doing what Jesus did. As Paul says, we are to be “blameless and irreproachable … [to] continue in the faith, securely established and steadfast” (vv. 22-23). In short, our witness to the world is to be Christlike.

A tall order, I know. And yet, the truth is: if our witness for Christ is not “blameless and irreproachable … securely established and steadfast,” then it is a broken witness.

When churches (corporately) and church people (individually) are prejudiced, greedy, insensitive, arrogant, uncaring, or wasteful, the world is not likely to be won over. Only when people look at us and see Jesus—only when experience his love through us—will they see something that may attract them. It’s all about authentic witness.

From time to time you encounter people who have a bee in their bonnet about the Bible and they tell you in all earnestness that every word of the Bible is relevant and authoritative for every person today, and that we all have to obey every word of it. Ever meet folks like that? Here’s a Bible verse you might ask them about: Romans, chapter 16, verse eight. Ask them about how obeying that verse has been meaningful for them.

Now, I’m sure you’ve all memorized Romans 16:8, because it has been so meaningful to you … But in case you haven’t, I’ll tell you what it says. Paul is writing to the Christians in Rome, and he tells them: “Greet Ampliatus, my beloved in the Lord.”

Hands up, all those who’ve ever met anybody called, “Ampliatus” … Me, neither! Now what would happen if your relationship with God was dependent on obeying that specific verse? You’d have to find someone called Ampliatus so that you could greet him. But how? You can’t look him up in the phone book, because “Ampliatus” is probably his first name. You can’t just wait until you spot him in the street, because you don’t know what he looks like. Without an image of Ampliatus in your mind, you would not recognize him, even if you did see him.

Now of course, I’m being facetious here. But you see the problem, right? As disciples of Jesus, we are called to grow in godliness—or god-likeness. Our tradition tells us that, while we were created in the image of God, that image has been distorted. Jesus calls us to reclaim that image. In the Sermon on the Mount, he even goes so far as to say, “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matt. 5:48).

Well—just as if we were seeking to “greet Ampliatus”—if we are seeking to become godlike, we need to have an image in our mind of what we’re striving for. We cannot work towards something without some idea of what it looks like. If you visit any of the numerous gyms in your city, you will see people who are there every day—pumping iron and running on treadmills. If you asked them, I’m sure you’d find that they all have an image in mind of how they want to look. Maybe they want to build up some muscle. Maybe they want to get slimmer. Maybe they want to look like Brandon Curry. Or Rachel Cammon. But all of them have an ideal that they are working towards.

Not only with regard to physical attributes does this principle apply. If our goal is to be like God, then we need a clear image of God to work towards.

And—just to clear up a misunderstanding before it develops—I am not saying you cannot make a start until you have the full picture in mind. You can respond to what you know of God now—and the gaps in your picture will continue to be filled in as you go.

So, how shall we formulate our image of God? In our reading from his letter to the Colossians, Paul gives this question some serious thought. Listen once again to the words he wrote. Like I said earlier, Paul starts by saying that “[Christ] is the image of the invisible God” (v. 15). That’s probably the most radical statement ever made about God. It is the thing that most distinguishes Christianity from other religions.

Our tradition insists that Jesus of Nazareth—a person who was born in disreputable circumstances, who broke all kinds of religious rules, and who died a criminal’s death—is the image of the invisible God! No other major religion claims that we have seen in human form the exact image of the Creator of the universe. Most religions would call that blasphemy.

But Paul goes even further than that. He says that the great mystery of God that was hidden throughout the ages—and is now being made known—is that Christ is in you. That’s right; the image of God is in you!

Remember the message that Jesus proclaimed—and sends us to proclaim: the nearness of God. “The Kingdom of God has come near to you” (Luke 10:9). The image of God is within you. Christ is in us.

Now, when Paul describes the characteristics of this Christ who is the image of the invisible God, what does he say? Well, I’m sure he did not intend this to be an exhaustive description of the image of God, but it is a pretty good thumbnail sketch. First of all, Paul talks about creativity. Christ is the firstborn of all creation, and all things on earth and in heaven were created in him, through him and for him (vv. 15-16). The God made known in Christ is an enthusiastic Creator; he pours his very being into every creative act.

Then, Paul talks about sustaining what is created. That’s what he means when he says that, in Christ, “all things hold together” (v. 17). This is a remarkable image, one that grows richer the more you think about it. Christ is the power of cohesion within the universe.

The first image of creation in Genesis is about giving form to the “formless void”—or the “original chaos.” Christ is pictured here as the One who keeps everything from descending back into chaos. If Christ’s Spirit were withdrawn from the world, the whole structure of matter would just cave in on itself.

You can also think about this in terms of relationships. We know that good relationships require ongoing attention; we need to keep working at developing and holding together our relationships. The more intimate they are, the more this is true. Christ is the power that holds things together; he is the One who makes it possible for the togetherness to continue.

Thirdly, Paul describes Christ as the reconciler. Christ is the image of God in that he seeks to restore whatever is damaged within Creation. He identifies that which has become separated from the sustaining energy of God, and seeks to reconcile it.

And the thing that is especially notable about this characteristic of the Christ is that he is willing to suffer incredible personal loss—even an agonizing death—in order to bring about that reconciliation.

Paul says that in Christ “all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things … by making peace through the blood of his cross” (vv. 19-20). Notice that it doesn’t just say “all souls”—or even “all people.” It says all things. All people, all animals, all mountains and trees, all families and ethnic groups, all institutions and forms of commerce, all political and economic systems, all the realities that shape life in the world as we know it.

Through Christ, God was pleased to undertake the task of reconciling to himself all things that are not in right relationship with their Creator.

 And as an example, Paul uses …

Well, the example he uses is you! He says, you—“who were once estranged and hostile in mind … he has now reconciled in his fleshly body through death …” (vv. 21-22).

Our most common use of the word estranged is for an estranged husband and wife, after a separation. They are estranged, and there is hostility in their minds towards one another. According to Paul, this is how we were towards God. But, through his suffering, Christ has reopened the lines of communication. Reconciliation is made possible—and now, Christ presents us to God “holy and blameless and irreproachable” (v. 22). Christ presents us to God completely purified—totally beyond reproach. Now, there is absolutely no accusation anyone can bring against us before God. Nothing will stick. Before God’s throne, you and I stand in holiness. We are without blame and beyond reproach.

God creates and reconciles and sustains all things. That, in a nutshell, is the image of God that Paul says Christ demonstrates to us. Do you notice how Trinitarian that description is? One of the many good alternatives to describing God as “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” is to refer to him as “Creator, Reconciler, and Sustainer”—and those are indeed the three roles that Paul attributes to God in this passage.

There is, of course, much more that could be said about how Jesus gives us our image of God. Paul did not know Jesus before the crucifixion, so Paul concentrates upon the risen Christ. There is much more we can learn about God from the earthly life of Jesus, as reported in the gospels. However, even if all we look at is this first chapter of Colossians, the images of godlikeness offered here provide a lifetime’s worth of growing for us to do.

If we want to be more like God, if we want to grow to maturity in Christ, we must strive to be creators—people who produce and appreciate beauty and practicality. We are to be reconcilers—people who are willing to go out on a limb to ensure that all things are brought back into right relationship. And, we are to be sustainers—people who overcome what is divisive; who nurture healthy relationships; who seek to ensure the sustainability of Creation.

That is what discipleship is all about. This is what it means to try to imitate God.

Our epistle reading concludes with Paul saying that all his proclaiming and warning and teaching have but one purpose: so that we may be presented in heaven as mature persons in Christ. Friends, as we go out into the world to be the church, let’s make sure the apostle’s words are not lost on us.

God chose to make known … the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. It is he whom we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone in all wisdom, so that we may present everyone mature in Christ. (Col. 1:27-28)

Amen.

TEXTS: Colossians 1:1-14 and Luke 10:25-37

For this reason … we have not ceased praying for you and asking that you may be filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding, so that you may lead lives worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing to him, as you bear fruit in every good work and as you grow in the knowledge of God. (Colossians 1:9-10)

“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead.” (Luke 10:30)

In “American History According to Hollywood,” the Old West was a wild and dangerous place—a place where larger-than-life villains ruled by force of arms.

In the frontier America of the silver screen, anarchy has always held sway. The atmosphere of the typical Hollywood western is permeated with gunsmoke. It’s a place where bullets dart like horseflies across the prairie, and ordinary folks cower in fear until some larger-than-life hero comes to save them—somebody like John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood … or if you’re a lover of newer versions of old classics … Denzel Washington, Chris Pratt, Ethan Hawke, et al. in The Magnificent Seven.

Historians tell us that—while the reality of life on the American frontier was considerably less violent than Hollywood’s portrayal of it—there is a germ of truth behind the screenplays.

As for the Canadian frontier—historians tell us that it was a much tamer place, thanks in large part to a concerted effort by British authorities to ensure the rule of law in the developing territories west of Fort Garry. The North-West Mounted Police force was created for that purpose—and it was very effective.

There were instances of lawlessness and violence, of course—Fort Whoop-Up near Lethbridge being a notorious example—but, relatively speaking, the Canadian west was quite a civilized place. And I think we can say that Canada is still a pretty civilized, law-abiding place. Certainly, Canadians—for the most part—retain a deep-seated respect for the law of the land (so-called “Freedom Convoys” notwithstanding).

The Hebrew people in Jesus’ time had an even deeper respect for the Law—for the Torah. In fact, their feelings about the law transcended simple respect. Torah was a beloved thing. Torah was good. Torah was sweet. Torah was their delight. Then, as now, faithful Jews lived for the observance of the Law. For them, the Law came from God, not from human beings—and God’s commands could not be subject to argument. Torah demanded all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind.

For centuries, the struggle to observe the Law kept the people of Israel and Judah focused on the living God. The prophets amongst them recognized that obedience was the best sacrifice one could offer to such a Deity. Even so, the struggle to observe all the fine points of the Law continued. Now—and it probably goes without saying—the outward observance of the Law was always easier to attain than true purity of heart.

Certainly, outward observances were more easily monitored by others—especially by the self-appointed “morality police.” And the people who paid attention to appearances were content to think of themselves as righteous. But then, along came Jesus—this famous teacher and healer, a rabbi who spoke of God and God’s kingdom as no one else had ever done—and he confounded them!

When someone sick came to him on the Sabbath, he did not hesitate to heal that person. When a woman who was an outcast—a Canaanite—asked him to heal her child, he listened to the pleading of the foreigner and granted her request. He did not keep himself aloof from tax collectors, even though other Jews considered them traitors because they served the interests of the occupying Romans.

Jesus did not seem to care much for the outward niceties of the Law. Indeed, he declared that the Sabbath was made for people, not people for the Sabbath!

Those who heard him would have understood—correctly—that what Jesus was saying about the Sabbath, he extended to the whole body of Jewish law. According to Jesus, God intended the law to benefit the people, not to burden them and become a hardship. But this was a radical idea. Many who heard Jesus were deeply offended—and probably more than a little frightened, as well.

We can understand that, can we not? They did not want to lose the security of their traditions—the certainty of that which was familiar. Many of us would feel the same way, I think. Also, Jesus was asking them to think for themselves—and that is a tall order for human beings in any era!

Others, of course, were attracted to this charismatic young teacher who spoke about grace rather than perfection—about how God’s perfect justice was tempered by God’s perfect mercy and delivered through God’s perfect love.

Jesus filled Galilee with his loving presence, and people wanted to know his secret. They wanted to have what he had: a peace that could come only from close, daily communion with God. They desired to enter—to inherit—the kingdom of heaven, of which he spoke. So they came to Jesus to ask him about it. People from all walks of life sought him out.

We find several instances of that in the Gospels. The one in today’s reading from Luke occasions the telling of one of the most beautiful stories in all of Scripture. We know it as “The Parable of the Good Samaritan.”

In Luke’s account, a lawyer comes to Jesus, and asks him: “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

And Jesus refers the inquirer to what he (being a lawyer) must already know—the Mosaic Law: “What is written in the law? What do you read there?”

The lawyer answers correctly with words from the Shema, quoting its magnificent injunction to love God with our whole heart, soul and mind—and our neighbour as ourselves.

Jesus commends the man’s answer: “Do this and you will live.”

But the lawyer finds a stumbling block in the last part—the part about “loving your neighbour as yourself.” And so, he asks the probing question, “Who is my neighbour?”

In the story that Jesus tells to illustrate his answer, the wounded man is bypassed by two of the most respectable members of the religious community—a priest and a lay assistant. They pretend they don’t see the dying man. It is easier to pretend not to see, much less bother.

They are both so busy, you understand. They have important, holy business to attend to. Their hands are clean. Their clothes are fine—they must not become soiled with blood and dirt!

But the Samaritan (whom they would have considered an outcast) is not troubled by such concerns. He stops and offers help—the kind of help that takes responsibility, that is not “here today and gone tomorrow.” He takes the victim to the inn. He treats the wounds with his own hands. He stays with him through the night. He pays the bill, and he comes back to check on him.

No questions are asked here, except the one posed by Jesus: “Which one of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the wounded one?”

The answer—obviously—is: “The one who showed him mercy.” And the simple command of Jesus is: “Go and do likewise.”

Some years later, the apostle Paul would pick up Jesus’ message and spread it throughout the ancient world. Paul urged his fellow Jews to see past the minutiae of the Law in order to embrace the holy freedom proclaimed by that itinerant rabbi from Nazareth, whom we know as Jesus the Christ.

Paul—who as a young man had dedicated his life to the Torah—came to see how impossible it is for any of us to keep the Law perfectly. But—instead of being filled with despair over the human condition—Paul found good news to preach:

[God] has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. (Col. 1:13-14)

Jesus has shown us a way to God that is not dependent upon our ability to obey outward rules and regulations. What he offers us is a chance to walk in the light of freedom.

With the power and grace of God through Jesus Christ, we can indeed go out and emulate the Good Samaritan. We can “do likewise.” We can show mercy to our neighbours. We can “lead lives worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing to him, bearing fruit in every good work as we grow in the knowledge of God.”

So our Scriptures for today have given us some good things to remember—to take with us, as we journey into the future. First, there is the vision of the Good Samaritan from our gospel lesson, along with the words of Jesus, “Go and do likewise.” Then, there is Paul’s advice to the Colossians: “Bear fruit in every good work. But at the same time, grow in the knowledge of God.”

What can that mean, I wonder—to “grow in the knowledge of God”?

In part, I think, it means realizing—and really caring about—the fact that each human being was created in God’s image. And so, each person we meet is of infinite value in God’s sight.

Mother Teresa once said that her goal on the streets of Calcutta was to see that no one died unloved and alone. She was not able to save the lives of most of the dying, because the people were so sick when she found them. But she could give them a clean bed, a loving touch, and a measure of comfort.

We cannot always undo the effects of evil—but we can make sure that evil does not have the last word!

Bear fruit in every good work. Grow in the knowledge of God. Love your neighbour as you love yourself … and trust that the law of God is thereby fulfilled.

TEXT: Galatians 6:1-18

“May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, brothers and sisters” (Galatians 6:18).

These words, written by Saint Paul to the Christians in Galatia, come coursing down the centuries, a benediction on us from this man of God. And then, being the teacher that he is, Paul gives us some instruction, not on how to obtain this grace—for he would be the first to tell you that grace is a free gift from God—but rather on how, having been so gifted, we should then live our lives.

Early in the Epistle reading appointed for today, we hear Paul speaking of “a spirit of gentleness.”

This is not the only time we will hear about the quality of gentleness in Holy Scripture—nor, indeed, the only time we will hear Paul talking about it. But what does it mean—gentleness? What kind of person can be described as possessing this quality?

We probably need to rid ourselves of the image of one who is meek, mild, ineffective—what we would call a “doormat.” We’ve all read St. Paul’s letters and it is doubtful that you would use any of those terms to describe him.

Earlier in this same Letter to the Galatians, we read: “When Cephas came to Antioch, I opposed him to his face …” (2:11)

Cephas, you understand, is Peter—even then, considered by many to be the chief of apostles. But Paul wasn’t afraid to take him on! The disagreement they had doesn’t bear re-hashing here—but the point is: Paul was not a meek doormat!

However, he also knew that “a gentle answer turns away wrath.”

Remember his advice to the Galatians: “If anyone is detected in transgression, you who have received the Spirit should restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness.”

In other words, you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar!

In a given instance, we may be right and our sister or brother may be wrong. But if we speak to that person in such a way as to anger them, or cause them to become defensive—or so as to shame or humiliate them—the only thing we will accomplish is to slam the door shut on future discussion.

Hostile words can destroy relationships.

“Speak the truth in love,” Paul encourages us in the letter to the Ephesians (4:15). A spirit of gentleness leaves the door open for the other person to think about what we have said, perhaps to talk again.

It leaves the door open for us as well. Because sometimes—just possibly—we will be the ones who are in the wrong!

This same spirit of gentleness is needed when we share the Good News of Jesus Christ with others. The author of First Peter wrote about this:

“Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting of the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and reverence” (1 Peter 3:15-16).

Nobody likes being hit over the head, even if it is with good news. “Let your gentleness be known to all,” Paul writes in his letter to the Philippians (4:5).

The Christians in Galatia lived in a world that was much in need of a spirit of gentleness. So do we! As ambassadors of Christ, it is up to all of us to contribute this spirit of gentleness.

• In a world where competitiveness reigns, can we sometimes just yield to one another?
• In a world full of road rage, can we practice a little courtesy, even on the freeway?
• In a world of worsening climate crisis, can we live gently—and responsibly—within nature?
• In a world where politicians demonize their opponents in order to win elections, can we listen to both sides?
• In a world where even Christians let disagreements fracture the body of Christ, can we still be agents of God’s reconciliation?

Earlier in this same Epistle, Paul writes: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control” (Gal. 5:22-23).

And, as we hear in today’s reading, “Do not be deceived; God is not mocked, for you reap whatever you sow” (Gal. 6:7).

Let us, then, sow the kind of harvest that we will be happy to reap! As it is written in the letter of James: “a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace” (James 3:18).

Lord, make us instruments of your love, your peace, your gentleness—this day, and always. Amen.

TEXT: Luke 9:51-62

As they were going along the road, someone said to him, ‘I will follow you wherever you go.’ And Jesus said to him, ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’ To another he said, ‘Follow me.’ But he said, ‘Lord, first let me go and bury my father.’ But Jesus said to him, ‘Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.’ Another said, ‘I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.’ Jesus said to him, ‘No one who puts a hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.’ (Luke 9:57-62)

The week before last (on June 10), I posted a blog which referenced the 1996 movie, “Leaving Las Vegas” (I guess it qualifies as an old movie, by now). Today, I’m going to talk about another movie from that same year.

How many of you have seen the Tom Cruise movie, “Jerry Maguire”? *

If you’ve seen it, you know the title character—played by Tom Cruise—is a sports agent who has a moral epiphany which turns out to be very costly.

As the film opens, life is pretty good for Jerry Maguire. He represents some of the most gifted and talented athletes in sports. He lives in the fast lane, dashing from one meeting to the next, wheeling and dealing in multi-million dollar contracts. But then something happens. He starts noticing the greed, the selfishness, and—most importantly—the destroyed lives that go along with big-time, professional sports. Jerry Maguire realizes something has to change. He can’t go on representing spoiled, overpaid athletes.

One night Jerry suffers a “breakdown” (religious types might call it a “dark night of the soul”). He tosses and turns in his bed, unable to sleep. Finally, he gets up, turns on his computer, and begins typing a mission statement for the future of his company. As he writes, he tries to recapture his own love of sports—the excitement he once felt simply watching an athlete perform.

He writes about the values that his profession once had, but has lost in its quest for more money and more power. By the time he stops typing, he has written 25 pages. He entitles it, “The Things We Think and Do Not Say.” In the middle of the night, he takes the document to a copy center and makes 110 copies. Then he gives a copy to everyone in his company.

The next morning, Jerry realizes what he’s done. Timidly, he walks into his office. To his surprise, he receives a standing ovation for his act of courage. One person says, “Finally, somebody said it.”

Jerry feels more alive than he has in years. He’s just 35, but he feels like he’s starting his life all over again. It’s a wonderful, exhilarating feeling.

However, a week later Jerry is fired by one of his closest friends, who believes that the “new” Jerry Maguire poses a threat to the company. The new Jerry Maguire does not conform to the company’s values and cannot achieve the company’s goals. So Jerry is tossed out onto the street. Within a few days of losing his job, he also loses his fiancée—a woman who does not want to be married to a loser.

Just like “Leaving Las Vegas,” “Jerry Maguire” has a stunning realism. When a person stands up and speaks out for what is right, and defends what is true, there is inevitably a high price to pay. Just as “Leaving Las Vegas” does not soft-pedal the deadliness of alcoholism, “Jerry Maguire” does not romanticize or sentimentalize the role of the courageous reformer. Jerry never gets his job back. He loses the contract for the number one draft choice to the man who fired him. He does not get revenge. The tables do not turn. Jerry Maguire learns that idealistic choices are expensive choices.

In today’s gospel lesson, Jesus presents the high costs of discipleship—and his words are not easy to hear. You know, Jesus probably would have been a total flop at parish ministry. Pastors are supposed to be diplomatic and non-threatening … aren’t they? They’re supposed to comfort, not convict … right? Pastors are supposed to encourage, not demand. Jesus says all the wrong things. His words to his would-be disciples are sharp, tough, and unreasonable. The first disciple approaches Jesus beaming with enthusiasm offering his time and talents announcing that he is willing to follow the rabbi from Nazareth anywhere. Jesus tells the man, “If you follow me, expect to be homeless, hungry, and alone.”

In the second encounter, the would-be disciple just wants to attend his father’s funeral. You might think that Jesus would try to show a bit of compassion, and wait for the poor guy. But no. He tells the man that discipleship takes precedence over family. Your family commitments—your family obligations—must be put aside, if you want to be a disciple.

The third aspiring disciple only makes one small request. Before he signs on the dotted line, he wants to go home and say good-bye to his family. That seems reasonable enough. But once again, in his call to commitment, Jesus issues a rebuke. “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:62)

I am reminded of a rather odd question that was put to me once (years ago) in a written examination.  It was actually more of a thought-experiment than a question. It went like this: Imagine you have a time machine, and you go back to first-century Palestine and meet Jesus of Nazareth face-to-face. Imagine you spend some time with him. Imagine you listen to his teaching. Imagine you observe him as he interacts with other people.

Now imagine this: After you really get to know Jesus, you decide that you don’t like him! (And let’s face it—a lot of people who met Jesus didn’t like him!)  Then you get back in the time machine and return to the present.

Now what? What, if anything, would change about your Christian faith?

The way I actually answered that question was to regurgitate some theological mumbo-jumbo about the Jesus of history being different from the Christ of faith. I think I also threw in some pop psychology about clashing personality types and how that shouldn’t be allowed to detract from Jesus’ underlying message. That apparently satisfied the examiner, because I passed the test!

But as I contemplate the story Luke serves up to us today, it occurs to me that I might answer that examination question differently if I was facing it today. Because I don’t like the Jesus I read about here! But, if I’m being honest about it, I have to admit that what I don’t like about him is the difficult challenge he’s putting forward. He’s asking his disciples—and that includes me—to be absolutely single-minded about discipleship. He’s asking me to care about nothing else besides following him—not my family, not my home, or my friends, or my career, or even my own well-being.

“I’ll follow you, Lord, but first I just need to spend half an hour to get my cholesterol level checked…”

“No! You don’t have half an hour. You don’t have five minutes. Follow me now!”

This Jesus guy is a hard case, isn’t he? On the other hand, he certainly did practice what he preached. Maybe that’s why he makes us so uncomfortable. Perhaps too many of us—myself included—have a sort of “bookshelf” approach to God. Most people believe in God, but they place him on the shelf to admire—or to refer to in the proper company. God becomes a possession—one commodity amongst many. Every home should have at least one. Then, when we invite company over, we can show off our new living room furniture, our new dining room table, our new kitchen cabinets … and our quaint little “bookshelf God.” And God will stay on the shelf until a crisis strikes. Then we offer a “bail-out” prayer, and we expect our “bookshelf God” to comfort, support and assist us with a miracle.

But the God of the Bible is nothing like that. The God revealed in Jesus is a God who makes discipleship an arduous—even back-breaking—thing. He is more than a sympathetic, hand-holding personal friend. He calls his followers to make difficult choices—decisions that require sacrifice and commitment.

I don’t like it, either. But discipleship is not about creating a safe, caring environment where people’s needs will be taken care of. No. It is about a radically different way of life. It is about making hard decisions. It is about responding in faith to the demands of the living God. That does not mean that the church should forget about maintaining a safe and caring environment. What it means is that we cannot create a loving and supportive community of faith unless people are willing to make sacrifices to the difficult demands of discipleship.

Jesus knew what that was about. He gave himself wholly. He committed himself fully—so completely that nothing was left over. Like it or not, that’s what he asks of us, also.

Now, there’s something to think about on our summer holidays! May God grant us both insight and courage as we ponder what discipleship means for us. Amen.

_________________

* https://www.netflix.com/ca/title/60022922

 

TEXT: Luke 8:26-39

Then they arrived at the country of the Gerasenes, which is opposite Galilee. As [Jesus] stepped out on land, a man of the city who had demons met him. (Luke 8:26-27a)

So begins Luke’s account of this familiar story. It is a remarkable story—and not just because of its supernatural aura. Consider, if you will, some of the details of this account. First, Jesus arrives in the country of the Gerasenes; this district east of Lake Galilee was a largely non-Jewish area. Second—from what Luke tells us—pig farming seems to have been a mainstay of the region’s economy. Certainly, large quantities of pork would have been purchased by the Roman army to feed its soldiers in the vicinity.

Pigs, of course, were considered unclean animals by the Jews—and the fact that the Gerasenes were making a profit by feeding the Romans probably didn’t make them popular with their Jewish neighbours across the lake. This wasn’t a place you’d expect a travelling rabbi to visit! But this is precisely where Jesus and his disciples arrive as our gospel lesson opens. He has come, we may presume, to bring them his message of good news. Gentile or Jew—clean or unclean—it makes no difference to our Lord; all are children of the same Creator.

So Jesus steps out of the boat onto the Gerasene shore, and the very first thing that happens is that he is approached by this deranged person. Before Jesus can do anything else—before he can find a place to stay, before he can set up any speaking engagements—he is confronted by the spectacle of this man who has been living in a graveyard, who has been driven out of town by a frightened populace. He’s naked. He’s raving. In his fury, he can break strong chains and burst shackles applied to restrain him. He runs at Jesus, and throws himself down at his feet, screaming: “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?”

If none of the Gerasenes had noticed Jesus arriving before this, all their eyes were trained on him now! Jesus asks the man, “What is your name?”

“Legion,” he replies. “My name is Legion. My name is Mob. I have a whole mob of demons inside me.”

Taking pity on the man, Jesus orders the demons out. He casts them into some swine which are feeding on a nearby hillside, and then the whole herd of them goes berserk. They rush headlong into the lake, and they are all drowned.

Quickly, a crowd of villagers gathers; and what do they find? They find Jesus standing with the former demoniac, who is clothed and in his right mind. And they discover that their pigs—all of them—are gone!

Well, they say you never get a second chance to make a first impression. And the Gerasenes won’t give Jesus a chance to make a second impression. They’re afraid of what he might do next. So they ask him to leave—to get out of there, to get away from them, to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The disciples who had come across the lake with Jesus might have wondered what he was doing. After making the difficult voyage—during which there had been a violent storm—Jesus has squandered his opportunity to evangelize the Gerasenes. After going to all this trouble, after putting their lives in danger, after expending the effort to calm the dangerous wind and waves (we hear about this earlier in the chapter)—after doing all this just to preach to a bunch of worthless, pig-farming Gentiles—Jesus blows off the whole plan in order to heal this one pitiful soul.

What was he thinking?

You know, this story reminds me of another one—of a parable Jesus tells a bit later in Luke (15:4-7), about a lost sheep. You remember it, I’m sure. It’s about a shepherd who has a hundred sheep, but notices that one of them is missing. And so he leaves his 99 remaining sheep to fend for themselves, and he goes off and searches for the one who is lost.

Now, you’ve got to understand that Jesus was preaching to rural people—to farmers and sheep-herders. These were people who knew about the realities of keeping livestock, and they would have listened to his parable, and they would have thought that shepherd was irresponsible. You don’t go off and leave your flock unattended—unguarded, uncared for. You don’t trust the 99 remaining sheep to stay put. You don’t gamble that predators won’t attack them. You don’t risk losing all your sheep just to go looking for one that is lost. Not if you’re an experienced shepherd. Yet Jesus tells us that God is like that foolish shepherd. If we are his sheep, he’ll risk everything just to save one of us.

“Just so, I tell you,” Jesus says, “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” (Luke 15:7)

And so, the Son of God lands on the beach near Gerasa, all set to bring his message to this place which observant Jews find so repulsive. And immediately he is faced with a choice. Will he let this one disturbed individual get in the way of his larger mission?

Well, we know the choice he makes. He heals the demon-possessed man. But he wrecks the local economy in the process! And he so profoundly freaks out the Gerasenes that they don’t want to hear anything he has to say. All they want is for him to leave them alone. So Jesus steps back into the boat, and his disciples prepare to cast off from the shore. What a disaster! Can anything be salvaged from it?

Perhaps one thing can be. The man who was healed—for whom Jesus sacrificed his plans—the former demoniac wants to come with them. He wants to be one of them, to join in their ministry. And just think about that! Talk about a testimony! Can’t you imagine this guy standing before the crowd gathered on a Judean hillside, talking about all that Jesus has done for him? Can’t you imagine him dressed to the nines? All freshened up and clean-shaven and handsome in a nice tailored suit, saying: “My friends, I was not always the man you see before you now. No. Once I was a madman! It’s true. Once I had a mob of demons living inside me. And my friends and family had to drive me out of town. And I was naked, and I lived in a graveyard, amongst death and decay. But then, this man—this Jesus—he healed me!”

If Jesus was a TV evangelist, he’d want this guy in front of the cameras, introducing him. But Jesus doesn’t let the man into the boat. He doesn’t bring him back across the lake to star in his travelling salvation show. No. He tells him: “Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.”

Luke tells us the man did exactly that. He stayed put in Gerasa, amongst his countrymen and his neighbours—everyone who had known him at his worst—and he proclaimed the truth that Jesus had come to tell. And so maybe the mission was salvaged, after all. Maybe this Gerasene man—now cured of his afflictions, restored to his sanity, to his home, to his family—maybe he was a much more effective messenger than even Jesus could have been, for these people. Maybe this familiar face, this long-lost sheep, would have a much greater impact than some strange rabbi from across the sea.

I wonder … maybe for those of us in mainline North American churches, this gospel story salvages a truth that we too seldom proclaim. We do not often speak about individual salvation—or about individual experience of God, about knowing Jesus personally. We speak often about how all of us together comprise “the body of Christ” but we don’t often mention the fact that God cares about each member of that body—that while Christ came to save the entire world, he also seeks to have a relationship with each person in it.

That’s what the man delivered from his demons had—he had a relationship with the living Christ, with God, who healed him. He had a real and compelling testimony to give, one that would continue to touch hearts and change lives long after the foreign rabbi had left his country’s shores. I think that’s why Jesus left him behind; because he knew that, once the shock and fear had died away, the Gerasenes would realize that—while they could always get more pigs—it wasn’t every day they saw a lost sheep return home.

How great is our God, who risks all to save one—and who, by saving the one, gains the many.

 

TRINITY SUNDAY

TEXTS: Romans 5:1-5 and John 16:12-15

[Jesus said:] “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you. All that the Father has is mine. For this reason I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you.” (John 6:12-15)

OnTrinity Sunday, the Revised Common Lectionary serves us up the words of Jesus and the words of Paul. Both passages speak about the Holy Spirit, and both refer us to Christ.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus tells his disciples that the Spirit who will come will guide them into truth. More than that, Jesus says, “He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you.”

The Spirit comes to bring us the things of Christ. And if we aren’t sure quite what that means, the apostle makes it clear to us. Writing to the Christians at Rome, he says: “… since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand … and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Rom. 5:1-5).

The things of Christ are declared to us: “this grace in which we stand … God’s love … poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.”

Before I go any further, I want to ask you a question: have you ever seen the movie, Leaving Las Vegas? If you haven’t seen it, I suggest you consider renting it.* Nicholas Cage won an Academy Award for Best Actor for his performance in that film in 1996, and Elizabeth Shue was nominated for Best Actress.

Now, as I’m recommending it to you, I have to warn you that it has an “R” rating. And it got its “R” rating the old-fashioned way—it earned it! Still, it’s one of the most powerful films I’ve ever seen, for reasons I’ll make clearer shortly. For now, I’ll just tell you that it’s a film about—among other things—unconditional acceptance.

That’s a theological term, by the way. Unconditional acceptance. It was a favourite theme of the great theologian Paul Tillich, who sought to outline the gospel of Jesus Christ for a post-religious age. Writing from just after World War Two through the tumultuous Sixties, Tillich aimed to translate Biblical concepts into the language of a world whose faith in God had been shaken to its very foundations. In one of his great, ringing passages, Paul Tillich preached the following: “Sometimes a light breaks into our darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying: ‘You are accepted. You are accepted by that which is greater than yourself and the name of which you do not know. Do not try to do anything now; perhaps later you will do much. Do not seek anything; do not intend anything; do not perform anything. Simply accept the fact that you are accepted’.”

In the writings of Paul Tillich, the interchangeable terms “acceptance” and “unconditional love” appear over and over again. He specifically used the term “unconditional love” as a modern translation—a new synonym—for the Biblical term grace. “Unconditional love” means “the grace of God.”

Grace is the undeserved, unearned, unmerited love that the children of God receive from their Creator. Grace is the love of the father who keeps the candle flame of love burning for his wayward, prodigal son. Grace is the care of the Good Shepherd who leaves the 99 members of his flock on the hillside pasture and goes out searching for the one lost sheep. Grace is the Lord Jesus Christ nailed to a heavy, rough wooden cross, managing to say with virtually his dying breath, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34)

You and I depend upon the grace of God in the same way a skydiver depends upon his backup parachute. Grace is the forgiveness of our sins. Grace is the assumption of our debts.  Grace is the mending of our brokenness.  Grace is the affirmation of our identities. Grace is the restoration of our relationships. And the modern way of saying “grace” is “unconditional love.”

I think Paul Tillich would have been intrigued by the promotional blurb for the movie. It reads: “From the moment Ben and Sera (the two main characters) connect, they form a unique bond based on unconditional acceptance and mutual respect that will change each of them forever.”

What does our culture mean by “unconditional acceptance”? This motion picture provides us with some vivid insights about how we have come to understand that term.

Leaving Las Vegas is, quite simply, a portrait of two individuals in hell. Ben is a successful executive for a Hollywood film company, and he has it all—the BMW, the split-level home with a swimming pool, the gorgeous blonde wife and the terrific son. Or at least, he had these blessings until he drank them away. When we first meet him, Ben is being fired from his job because of his alcoholism. His wife has already left him, and has taken their child with her.

We don’t know any of Ben’s reasons for wasting his opportunities, and we are not let in on them as the story unfolds. And that’s a good thing, really, for every man who has ever drained away his future at the bottom of a bottle has done so with all the most plausible excuses in the world. All we know about Ben is that he has lost his will to live, and he has made up his mind to move to Las Vegas and drink himself to death. There in the glittering city of the night, he meets Sera, a young prostitute who has seen it all—at least twice. He hires her—not to have sex, but just to talk. And this is how their relationship begins.

By and by, Sera’s pimp meets with a violent death—and so she becomes her own boss. At the same time, her affection for Ben grows to the point where she invites him to move in with her. They are a very odd couple indeed, with Ben drinking himself into total oblivion every day and Sera going out to walk the streets every night. Her customers range from polite-seeming, well-dressed men to vicious creeps, and she comes out much the worse for wear.

At one point early in their cohabitation, Ben spells out his condition for staying with Sera: “You must never, never ask me to stop drinking.” In her turn, Sera expects Ben to not interfere with her performance of her chosen career.

What binds them together is their shared, desperate sense of loneliness. Some claim that a primary motive of alcoholics is to distance themselves from other people. Likewise, selling sex is a way to de-personalize this most holy of our physical gifts from God. Both Ben and Sera have made up their minds that—as far as the rest of the human race is concerned—they’re simply going to “check out”.

As tough as it is to watch, Leaving Las Vegas is a film with a heart. Before long, you care about these people. You want them to turn their lives around. You really believe that they love each other—and some of their tender moments together are achingly romantic. Yet the story is too realistic to have a sugary happy ending pasted onto it. The sad truth is that most people who set out to destroy themselves eventually succeed.

What happens? After a month of steady binge drinking, Ben finally defeats his body’s ability to absorb massive quantities of alcohol. Binge drinkers usually die either from acute liver failure or from aneurysms of the esophagus or the stomach, literally drowning in their own blood. Sera is there when Ben dies, after he mutters something about “putting us asunder”—a tragic echo of Jesus’ words so familiar to us from the church’s marriage ceremony.

We hear Sera’s perspective on her relationship with Ben through vignettes of her speaking to a therapist. These are her last lines: “I think the thing is, we both realized that we didn’t have that much time, and I accepted him for who he was. And I didn’t expect him to change. And I think he felt that for me, too. I liked his drama. And he needed me. I loved him.”

And that, my friends, is what our culture means by “unconditional acceptance”—to accept someone for who they are, and never expect them to change.

Mark my words: this is not—repeat—this is not grace. This is not the love God gives us, and it is not the love God calls us to have for one another.

The untold story of Leaving Las Vegas is all the other people like Ben and Sera. I think most of us would be shocked to learn how many real lives are careening out of their orbits. Not just in Las Vegas, but right here in our own pleasant neighbourhoods, people are perishing from loneliness and the hopelessness of thinking that no one really knows them—and that if they did know them, they wouldn’t like them.

Feeling so vulnerable—feeling so desperate for companionship—too many of us expect too little of others, just as we expect too little of ourselves. God loves real people who are sinking into the muck just like Ben and Sera.

The grace of God is the love of a parent who wants the very best for his or her beloved child. Can a loving parent stand by dully while his or her children let the promise of life slip through their fingers? No way!

To be sure, 1 Corinthians 13 tells us that love “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (v. 7). But does love not care about such things? Of course it does. Love cares about what happens!

Our culture has an expression that perfectly describes the commitment level of too many modern relationships: “I’ll always be there for you.” That’s great. But there is more to love than just being in the room when a loved one manages to commit suicide. Love also must be willing to intervene for the sake of the loved one.

Here is the crux of what the apostle Paul was getting at: “while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly … God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us.” (Rom. 5:6, 8)

This is love’s intervention into the destructive pattern of sin. Through Jesus Christ we have been given emergency access to the grace of God. Simply being there for his children was not enough for the God of infinite love. God has always been—and always will be—there for us. God loves us as we are; that’s a given. But in his boundless compassion, God saw that our persistence in sinning required a more dramatic, more effective action on his part. And so God intervened.

Can we learn something from movies like Leaving Las Vegas? You bet we can! The number one lesson we can learn is how lost we are without the love of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

But the good news is that this loving God is capable of turning any life around—no matter how messed up it is—through the transforming power of unconditional love. And that’s what it really means.

 

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* “Leaving Las Vegas” is apparently unavailable on Netflix Canada. However, if you’re an Amazon Prime member, you should be able to view it there: https://www.amazon.ca/Leaving-Las-Vegas-Nicolas-Cage/dp/0792838068