SOMETHING NEW UNDER THE SUN

Second Sunday After the Epiphany

TEXTS: 1 Samuel 3:1-20 and John 1:43-51

 

What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; and there is nothing new under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

Well, here we are, barely two weeks into the New Year and already we could be excused for wondering why we persist in calling it “new.” There is a depressing familiarity about the first days of 2024—an awareness of dismal repetition, a sense that there is indeed “nothing new under the sun.” Our headlines have been dominated by events in Gaza and the problems of Israel and the Palestinians; by Russia’s ongoing brutal war against Ukraine; by violence in Sudan; and by the continuing gang wars in our major cities. Nothing much new there. And all the other world events that greet us each day seem to be very much business as usual, with the tired old world spinning endlessly on.

Then we turn to our appointed Scriptures for this Sunday and we find ourselves in familiar territory. “Now the boy Samuel was ministering to the Lord under Eli. The word of the Lord was rare in those days …” (1 Sam. 3:1). In other words, this was an era of spiritual famine—a time when the most evident feature of God was his absence, when visions were not widespread. People were groping in the dark. They lacked direction, and God did not seem to care.

The Scripture tells us that the aged priest Eli’s sight was dim. His vision was failing—and we may surmise that his blindness was not just a condition of his physical eyes, but was also a metaphor for the state of his soul. These were dark times. Then we read: “the lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying down in the temple of the Lord …” (1 Sam. 3:3). Of course, the setting of the story is night-time, and the reference is to an actual lamp that was dimming to a faint glow. But surely there is something deeper here. It was the very light of God’s presence that was flickering and spluttering and was about to go out. Israel was teetering on the brink of utter spiritual abandonment.

What is so depressing about this scenario is that there appears to be no way out, no way through, no hope of a better tomorrow. For where is “something better” going to come from? Where are the resources that might kick-start something genuinely new and different? There is a sense here of a tired old priesthood represented by Eli—a religious system which has now run its course and has nowhere left to go. It’s reached a dead end. Likewise, the religious life of Israel is barren and sterile and lifeless and people yearn for some new initiative, some new configuration. They long for something—anything—that will bring transformation and usher in something better, something different. But there is nothing. Nothing new. Just more of the same.

Depressing, isn’t it? But realistic. There really does seem to be nothing new under the sun—only endless repetition. And in our gospel lesson, we can see that Nathanael must have felt the same way about his time. Consider his cynical, jaded reaction to Philip’s excitement. Philip claims to have found the one foretold in the law and the prophets! But what is Nathanael’s response?

“Nazareth! Can anything good come out of Nazareth? We all know Nazareth! It’s a place for losers and always has been! Nothing good can ever come out of there. Nothing can ever change there.”

Nazareth is typecast. Maybe we could re-phrase Nathanael and ask, “Can anything new come out of Nazareth?”

But then we return to Samuel in the temple. We return to the silent darkness where the lamp of God glows so dimly and so faintly … and if we listen very carefully, what do we hear? In the stillness there is a soft voice calling: “Samuel, Samuel …”  And the voice of the child replies, “Here I am …” Of course, Samuel can only interpret what is happening in terms of the old and familiar. It must be Eli that is calling.

At first the aged priest cannot discern the voice of God in Samuel’s story, either. Why? Because he thinks that God does not speak anymore.

But it is not Eli calling, and Samuel is not dreaming. It is the voice of God—gentle but firm, easily misunderstood, yet persistent. And so God enters into that dark, empty place—and suddenly, something new is stirring. God is there, and God is at work.

So, too, with Nazareth. What we need to know about Nazareth is that it was more than just a dull and denigrated place. It was also a dark place. Around the time of Jesus—and in the area where he lived—there were a number of rebellions and uprisings against the Roman occupiers. Such rebellions were always ruthlessly crushed. The Romans did not counter insurrection with half measures.

One such rebellion occurred in a place called Sepphoris—just a few miles north of Nazareth—around the time of Jesus’ birth. The Roman response was swift. They burned Sepphoris to the ground, and made slaves of the people there.

And when a rebellion broke out at a place called Gerasa, the Romans slaughtered the young men, made prisoners of the women and children, and then set fire to the houses and advanced to the surrounding villages. The able-bodied fled, the feeble perished, and everything left was consigned to the flames. Even those in the neighbouring towns bore the soldiers’ wrath. As was said of the Romans, “they make a desert and call it peace.” *

It seems likely that Nazareth was not just a boring place, but a scarred place, also—a place of tears and bitter memories. While Jesus was growing up, the most traumatic recent event in the village’s life would have been the day the Romans came. Yet out of this place emerges the Anointed One. Here, Jesus is nurtured. Here, he grows, and is taught, and learns about God.

Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Yes! Yes, something—someone—does.

So maybe there is something new under the sun, after all. The voice of God is heard once again: calling out, after a lengthy silence. Something new does come out of scarred and despised places like Nazareth. But the trick is knowing how to discern it. Like Samuel, like Eli, we can all too easily fail to recognize it. Like Nathanael, our prejudices and presumptions can cloud our vision.

Last week, we heard Mark’s account of Jesus’ baptism in the river Jordan, which contains a most extraordinary description of what happened there. We are told that as Jesus emerged from the water, “he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’” (Mark 1:10-11)

This is an epiphany—a revelation of who Jesus is. Here something new is breaking in from above, tearing open the heavens, bursting upon the world. But that is not how it usually happens. More often, God arrives without fanfare—emerges from the tired old world with offers of new life and new hope … as a voice in the night, or as a stranger from Nazareth.

Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Yes, to our surprise, Jesus does! Can something new emerge from old, tired, scarred places? Yes! For those with eyes to see and ears to hear, it does.

In dark places today, God is at work. In Nazareth itself—as well as in Gaza, in a land where innocent children are torn apart by bullets and bombs—people are caring for one another, sharing with one another, supporting one another. And in other places—wherever there is armed conflict, disease, famine, or natural disaster—there are stories of heroism and love and self-sacrifice. Here God will be found, and God’s voice will be heard—if only in whispers—and Jesus will emerge.

I believe it will happen in the church, also. Here we are in our rampantly secular world, where faith seems to be under attack from every quarter; where we anxiously watch church attendance decline, and most people are abandoning religion. It feels a lot like Samuel’s day. It feels as if the Word of the Lord is rarely spoken; and there does not seem to be much outpouring of vision. Perhaps Nazareth is a good metaphor for the Church in our time: a dull place, a scarred place, a place of bitter memories.

Can anything good—anything new—come from this Nazareth? Well, yes, it can. And yes, it does. For it is from such unpromising places and situations that we will indeed “see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending.”

May the Lord open our eyes to what he wants to show us, and unstop our ears, that we may hear what he wants to tell us. Amen.

_________________________

*Auferre, trucidare, rapere, falsis nominibus imperium; atque, ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.  Translation:  “To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace.” Reported by the Roman historian Tacitus, this is from a speech by the British chieftain Calgacus addressing assembled warriors about Rome’s insatiable appetite for conquest and plunder. The chieftain’s sentiment can be contrasted to “peace given to the world” which was frequently inscribed on Roman medals. The last part, solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant (“they make a desert, and call it peace”) is often quoted alone.

TWO GREAT FESTIVALS

Epiphany/Baptism of Christ

TEXTS: Matthew 2:1-12 and Mark 1:4-11

 

Today we find ourselves celebrating—simultaneously—two of the great festivals of the Christian Church: Epiphany and the Baptism of Christ.

Epiphany Day always falls on January 6 (Saturday, this year). And—in our modern liturgical calendar—the first Sunday following that is celebrated as “the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord”.

Now, originally, the Baptism of Christ was observed on Epiphany, as part of a celebration commemorating the coming of the Magi, Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan, and the wedding at Cana. Over time in the West, however, the celebration of the Baptism of the Lord became a distinct feast from Epiphany. In most Eastern Orthodox and Eastern Catholic Churches, the Baptism of the Lord is still celebrated as an integral part of the January 6th date, called the Great Feast of the Theophany. 

Today, I’m going to tie the two ancient threads back together by using not one, but two, gospel lessons.

First, we hear about the wise men bringing their odd gifts to the Christ Child. Then we hear about the adult Jesus coming to the Jordan to be baptized by his cousin John. Ancient traditions aside … perhaps you find yourself wondering how these two events can possibly be connected. Is that a head-scratcher? Well, take heart! Because this day is all about finding things. Including, perhaps, yourself.

Remember what the word “epiphany” means. Spelled with a capital “E,” Epiphany is the religious day we’re all familiar with. But that, really, is a secondary meaning of the word.

According to the dictionary definition, an epiphany takes place “when you suddenly feel that you understand, or suddenly become conscious of, something that is very important to you or a powerful religious experience.”

In other words, “epiphany” is about revelation. It’s about things being revealed, uncovered, brought to light. It’s about “a-ha” moments, about realizing something that makes you sit bolt upright in shock. It’s about profound truth suddenly becoming crystal clear.

Consider the familiar story we read in Matthew, chapter two. The “wise men from the east”—whom we call Magi—were members of a learned class in ancient Persia. They were among the best-educated people of their time, and they specialized in the study of heavenly bodies in the night sky. However, beyond simply observing the constellations, they also believed that the stars and planets could reveal things about events here on earth. Today, we would call them astrologers, and you might expect them to have a horoscope column in the newspaper.

Whatever stock you place in astrology, these wise men seem to have known what they were talking about. Their celestial observations led them to conclude that a new king was about to be born in Judea, and they decided to go and see him.

Now, like I said, these were clever people. They must have realized that this was no ordinary king, but someone who was going to be of great importance to all humankind. Otherwise, I’m not sure why Persians would give a hoot about a new heir to the Jewish throne. Maybe they had some idea of what a “messiah” was. Maybe they hoped—as later many Jews would also hope—that this new king would defeat the Roman Empire, which the Persians viewed as a serious threat.

We can’t know any of that for sure, of course, but this much is clear: these wise men thought they already had their epiphany. They thought they had things all figured out.

And so when they got to Judea … Where did they go looking for the new-born king? In Jerusalem, of course!

That seems logical, doesn’t it? If you’re looking for the king, you go to the capital city. The new king must be the son of the old king … right? So you show up at the royal palace, asking: “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage” (Matt. 2:2).

Well, you know the story. You know there’s another epiphany in store for the Magi—because they quickly learn that they haven’t got it all figured out.

For one thing, the current ruler of Judea—Herod—has no clue what they’re talking about, and is none too pleased to discover that he has a rival for his throne.

For another thing, they find out that they got their directions wrong. The One whom they seek is to be found not in a palace in Jerusalem, but in a modest home in Bethlehem, about eight kilometres to the south.

Of course, none of this matters, in the end. Their mistakes don’t matter. Their missteps are of little consequence. When they finally do arrive on Jesus’ doorstep, the Bible tells us that they are “overwhelmed with joy” (Matt. 2:10). To me, that sounds like what they found at the end of their journey was even better than what they had expected. In other words, it was a real epiphany!

And that’s the Epiphany story we’re used to hearing, in our Western branch of the Christian Church. But—as I said before—in the Eastern churches, on Epiphany Day, we would not be hearing only about the Magi. No. We would also be hearing the second gospel reading I chose for today.

We would be hearing about the 30-something Jesus coming to the Jordan River to be plunged beneath its chilly stream in a baptism of repentance. And as he emerges from the water, Jesus sees “the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.” And then he hears a voice from heaven, saying: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Mark 1:10-11).

Now, why is this part of the Epiphany story, in the churches of the East? Well, it’s because they remain in touch with a very old tradition about Jesus—one which says that, at the moment of his baptism, he had his own profound epiphany.

In other words, this was the moment when the grown man finally understood—fully and completely—the exact nature of the mission God had given him. This was when Jesus finally “got” it, finally grasped the meaning of those bizarre stories his mother had told him—about shepherds and angels and wise men, about gold and frankincense and myrrh, about the mighty God of heaven being his real Father.

This is not a tradition that has been emphasized here in the West. And the reason, I think, has to do with a kind of discomfort on our part—a discomfort with the idea that Jesus was actually human.

Do you know what I mean?

We affirm—correctly—that Christ was God incarnate, fully divine. And we affirm—correctly—that he was fully human. But we have trouble sorting out what all that means.

We think that, if Jesus was God, he must have known all that there was to know about everything—and so the idea that he could have received a shocking revelation at his baptism seems incongruent. But look: don’t we believe that the Baby born in Bethlehem was a helpless infant? Didn’t he have to learn to crawl before he could walk?

As a bright teenager once pointed out to me, limitation is the very essence of humanity. As she said: “Isn’t that what we mean when we say, ‘I’m only human’?”

If Jesus of Nazareth was truly and fully human, he must have had limitations. If he was really and truly one of us, then he must have been subject to revelations—to epiphanies, to “a-ha” moments—just as we are.

In each of the gospel accounts, Jesus’ baptism is portrayed as a turning point in his life. From that moment on, things changed for him. After that epiphany—after that “a-ha” moment—the life of Christ had a sharp focus, and his ministry picked up steam.

If the Christian life—the life of discipleship—is about following Jesus, about striving to be like him, should we not expect to have our own moments of epiphany? Shouldn’t we be seeking them out? Shouldn’t we be making our own journeys to Bethlehem—and to the Jordan?

The truth is, we are making those journeys—whether we know it, or not. And we will have those moments of epiphany—whether we expect them, or not.

Some of you, I know, already realize this. Some of you have already had an epiphany or two. Let me tell you about one of mine. It took place when my now-grown-up son was a newborn infant, and Iris and myself had received this awful news that he had a serious heart defect, and needed emergency surgery. Several well-meaning ministry folk came to me and said something like, “You must be terribly angry with God.” And they wanted me to know that it was O.K. to be mad at God about this, that I shouldn’t feel guilty about it, but should just express it, just let my anger out.

Now, I have to say, I knew what they were getting at. If God is all-powerful and all-loving, it’s hard to understand how He could let my son—or any child—be born with this kind of cross to bear. And I also have to say that, in the years since, as I’ve received formal training in the field, I’ve discovered that most pastors are trained to say this sort of thing.

I might even say this myself to someone—if that person was facing something like this, and was in fact angry—because, let me tell you, God is big enough to bear human anger. And He is a God of love, and He won’t condemn you.

However, in point of fact, when those words were said to me—when people said, “You must be angry with God”—I realized that I was not angry. And as soon as I realized that, I was puzzled. I was a bit surprised. Because I understood the logic. Why had God allowed my son to be born with a defective heart?

Well, I did not know the answer to that question then—and I don’t know the answer now, either. But that’s not important. What’s important is this: the very next thought that entered my mind was, “The God I know does not torture babies!” And then, the very next thought that entered my mind was: “I know who God is!”

I know who God is! I did not know that I knew that. And I was shocked. I was dumbfounded.

But after I got over the shock, after my mind stopped reeling from the implications of this epiphany, all kinds of other things that had never made sense suddenly made perfect sense. And more than that, I knew that—however things turned out—my son was going to be all right, and so was I, and so was Iris.

Not long after that, I made the decision to pursue accountable ministry as a career. Or, to be more honest about it, I finally understood that I really had been hearing a call to ministry for a long time … and I’d been resisting it.

Someone else I know had his “a-ha” moment—his epiphany—sitting in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, across the table from someone he really did not care for very much. But on this day, sitting at this table, my friend was telling his own sad story of addiction—confessing the depths to which alcohol had plunged him—and he was finding it hard to do, because he felt so ashamed.

But then, he told me, he looked up, and he caught the gaze of this fellow sitting across from him—this person he did not like—and in the man’s eyes he saw something amazing, something that caught him up short, and stunned him for a moment. As my friend described it to me, what he saw in this man’s eyes was “the loving and compassionate gaze of Christ.”

All at once he realized that—whether or not he approved of this fellow, or was willing to accept him—the man across the table accepted him completely. In his look, there was no judgment, no condemnation. There was only unconditional love.

For my friend, that was his turning point. At that moment, something inside him was changed, forever. Until that day, his struggle to break alcohol’s grip on his life had been unsuccessful—yet, since that day, he has remained sober. He can’t explain exactly why, except to say that he met Christ sitting across from him at that A.A. table—and Christ’s love healed him.

Epiphanies. We don’t always understand them. Perhaps we never quite expect them. But I believe we all have them. They are evidence of God’s grace toward us. They provide us with hope for the future, and strength for the present—and I think they also, always, challenge us somehow.

Through this church season of Epiphany—which, this year, is going to last for over a month—I urge you to take some time to remember the “a-ha” moments in your own spiritual lives. And—if you feel able to—I hope you share them with one another. I hope you share them with me. Leave a comment. I’d love to hear your “epiphany” stories, because, my friends, sharing them is a way of sharing the good news of Christ. Thank God we have them! Amen.

THE FULLNESS OF TIME

First Sunday After Christmas (Year B)

TEXTS: Isaiah 61:10-62:3; Galatians 4:4-7; Luke 2:22-40

For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent,
and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest,
until her vindication shines out like the dawn,
and her salvation like a burning torch.
The nations shall see your vindication,
and all the kings your glory;
and you shall be called by a new name
that the mouth of the LORD will give.
(Isaiah 62:1-2)

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children. (Galatians 4:4-5)

When the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses, they brought him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord (as it is written in the law of the Lord, ‘Every firstborn male shall be designated as holy to the Lord’), and they offered a sacrifice according to what is stated in the law of the Lord, ‘a pair of turtle-doves or two young pigeons.’ Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon … (Luke 2:22-25a)

 

The three lectionary readings for today have their own kind of connectedness. What connects them, for me, is the theme of time—or of God acting in time, acting in history.

Our reading from Isaiah looks forward to a time when Jerusalem—and the Jewish people—shall be redeemed, and rescued from exile and suffering; vindicated, and given a new name, just as brides (and many of them still do it) receive on their wedding day a new name, and begin a new life.

In our gospel reading, Simeon and Anna are inheritors of the prophet’s hope. Their visions, too, are filled with assurances of salvation—of God fulfilling his promises in the sphere of history and time.

And Paul, in his letter to the Galatians, ties it all together, saying that God sent his Son “in the fullness of time.” Why? “To redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children” of God.

The promise which is fulfilled in Christ is much bigger than Isaiah could have imagined—though Simeon appeared to catch a glimpse of its greatness. He took the baby Jesus in his arms, and praised God, saying:

“Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”

(Luke 2:29-32; also see Isaiah 52:10; 9:2; 42:6; 49:6)

Our readings for today challenge us to ponder their meanings—to examine them for clues about how we are to live in this world of time, and about how we can make sense of our often-frightening existence within human history.

We do not know enough about Joseph and Mary to understand their politics, but the gospel accounts indicate to us how greatly they were affected by the political acts of governors and kings.

Can we read about their flight into Egypt and not be reminded of the slaughter of the Holy Innocents? Matthew tells that sad story in chapter two of his gospel. Enraged that the Wise Men had tricked him, King Herod ordered the murder of all the male children in the region of Bethlehem. Every boy of two years or younger was killed, as Herod tried to eliminate his rival. Mary, Joseph, and the child, however, were safe in Egypt, where they had fled as refugees to escape Herod’s wrath.

What a horrible story, you may say. It could never happen like that in our time, you might think. But the ongoing destruction of innocents in the Gaza Strip—which the UN has dubbed “a graveyard for children”—proves otherwise.*

Today, many people who are in political and spiritual exile need our help—or else they shall remain outcasts and strangers. In every Canadian city, thousands of homeless street people live in a world of mental anguish. Without family or friends, they lack the sense of purpose and accomplishment that community life provides.

Time is empty without the sense of belonging given by family life. Yet families—even the best—are messy realities, and the history of Jesus’ family is not complete; it is still being written—in our time, in our lives. However, examining the story of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus can create for us—in our time—the intention and the space to love.

We can pray that every task we share and every event that overtakes us will be accomplished in mutual and loving acceptance. But we must be willing to labour for the kind of harmony and understanding that existed between Joseph and Mary.

The intimacy and love this couple shared included the temple community and the elderly—even “fringe people” like Simeon and Anna. Their intimacy and love were also challenged by enemies who sought their child’s life.

Home is clearly no refuge from the world, yet, when all was said and done, they returned to Nazareth in Galilee, where, Luke tells us, “The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favour of God was upon him.”

Notice that? The child’s obedience and love are the working of God’s will—the beginning of salvation, not its reward. Christ was born in time as a helpless infant, who had to be loved and cared for, and who had to learn everything: how to walk, how to talk, how to live in this material world. Jesus grew as every human child grows—within human history, and within the dimension of time. He had to become who he would be, just as we have to. Our salvation—whatever that means for each one of us—is revealed in time. Those who say that life is a journey are quite correct.

The birthday of Jesus points to his baptism. The incarnation points to the cross and resurrection. And the resurrection points toward our own future as children of God—a future that will come to pass for each one of us “in the fullness of time,” as we journey on in God’s presence.

Holy days—like this Christmas which has just passed—are meant to be days filled with rejoicing and feasting. The Word of the Lord has gone forth, and we are on the brink of release.

But release to what? Release for what? Those are answers which each one of us must find for his or her own self. Those are answers which will only be revealed as time reaches its fulfillment.

Even as Mary and Joseph went up to the temple to do for Jesus what was customary under the law, so also we are called to praise God, to stand before the Lord in ways that are fitting and right. It is our portion, our share in the salvation that is to be from God, the source of our willingness to be reconciled to one another.

Let us pray for time enough to do all that is required, in order that we may grow in age and in wisdom and in God’s favour. Amen.

 

For those of you who may be planning worship for the First Sunday After Christmas, I offer this Recessional Hymn (set to a tune you’ll all recognize):

 

Song of Simeon

Tune: WINCHESTER OLD (“While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks”)

 

Now we, God’s servants, shall depart

in everlasting peace;

Our eyes have seen salvation’s hope,

our hearts are now at ease.

 

God has prepared a radiant Light

the darkness to dispel,

to lead the nations in His ways

and shine on Israel.

 

_________________________

* https://www.aljazeera.com/gallery/2023/12/28/photos-gaza-children

 

WORDS THAT CHANGE EVERYTHING

Annunciation

And in the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee, named Nazareth,

To a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary.

And the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.

And when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be.

And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God.

And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus.

He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest: and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David:

And he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end.

Then said Mary unto the angel, How shall this be, seeing I know not a man?

And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.

And, behold, thy cousin Elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren.

For with God nothing shall be impossible.

And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word. And the angel departed from her.

— Luke 1:26-38

 

In his book Peculiar Treasures, the American theologian Frederick Buechner reflects upon this familiar passage of scripture. He writes:

“She struck the angel Gabriel as hardly old enough to have a child at all, let alone this child, but he’d been entrusted with a message to give her and he gave it. He told her what the child was to be named, and who he was to be, and something about the mystery that was to come upon her. ‘You mustn’t be afraid, Mary,’ he said. And as he said it, he only hoped she wouldn’t notice that beneath the great, golden wings, he himself was trembling with fear to think that the whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl.” *

The whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl. Imagine all the angels gathered around, looking down, holding their collective breath. “What will she say? Will she do it? C’mon, Mary, say yes!”  Because they all know the way God works is only by allowing people freely to answer “yes.”

Freedom of choice, the exercise of free will, has always been God’s way with people. God never forces a “yes” from anyone, never tricks anyone into a response of love. We human beings have—always—the right of refusal. We are allowed to say, “no.”

That’s the way God has been from the beginning. God respects our freedom—has, since those days way back in the garden. If it weren’t so, God would not have to come up with new ways to reach out to people, to ask them again and again to say yes—to freely say yes. And now an angel stands before a girl, answering her questions, his knees knocking together, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice, as he and all the angelic host—and even God—wait. Will she do it? Will she say, “Yes”?

We know the answer Mary gave: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word.”

“Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” With this answer, all the heavens rejoice! With this answer, a plan is set in motion—a plan that will cause new light to shine in the darkness.

During Advent, we hear about how to prepare for the coming of the Lord, how to become more and more the disciples—the followers of Christ—we are called to be. We hear about Advent’s gifts to us:  a time for self-examination, a time for repentance, for turning away from things that keep us from drawing close to God.

Today, the Advent gift we hear about is the gift of commitment. We are called to turn toward God and make the commitment to offer ourselves as his servants; to say—along with Mary—our own yes:  “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” These are words that change everything.

Mary was not the first to say these words. She stands in a long line of witnesses who have been brave, or adventurous, or grateful, or obedient enough to say to God’s request, “Here am I!”

Noah said, “Here am I,” and God told him to build a floating zoo and wait for the rain to fall. God told him that he would spend the next 40 days feeling seasick and wondering why this was his reward for righteousness.

Abram said, “Here am I,” and God told him to pack up his wife, and his belongings, and go—sight unseen—to a land that God would show him.

The boy Samuel said, “Here am I,” and then began a long career of speaking truth to the powers that be—King Saul in particular—and being the bearer of the unpleasant news that Saul had done wrong in God’s sight. Samuel had no way of knowing if he would still have his head—let alone his job—in the morning. And Mary, this young girl—probably just old enough to bear a child—ponders and asks and wonders … and then says the words that change everything:  “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.”

And she would give birth to the One who would make service—even service unto death—the way of discipleship. She would give birth to the One in whose service is perfect freedom. The name of Mary’s baby was Jesus. In Hebrew, his name is Yeshua, which means, “Yahweh liberates.” God liberates. God brings freedom.

When we are willing to serve God and do what God asks of us, we find true freedom. When we can stop asking, “What’s in it for me? How does this help me? What can I get out of it? What have you done for me lately?” then we will know true freedom.

When we present ourselves as God’s servants and are open to hearing what it is that God asks of us, we will take our places in a long line of faithful people who have done just that. We will be made available for the adventures God has in store for us, for the work God needs us to do, and the work God has designed us—uniquely—to do.

That’s the beauty of it. Even though you may never have thought about what God is asking of you, it doesn’t mean that God hasn’t been preparing you to do it. Or that God doesn’t need you—and you in particular—to do it.

Mary has already taken care of giving birth to the Divine Word Incarnate, so God won’t ask you to take that on. But don’t think the angels aren’t all holding their breath to hear your answer when God approaches you with a task. And don’t think—just because you can’t hear it—that all the heavenly hosts are not singing, “Alleluia!” when you freely say, “yes.”

So listen, my friends. Listen for God’s call—not just in Advent, but all the time. And when the time comes for you to respond, you won’t need to find new words. These words will do:  “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” Amen.

_______________________________________

* Buechner, Frederick. Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who’s Who. New York: HarperCollins, 1979, p. 113.

 

Voices in the Wilderness

Second Sunday of Advent (Advent 2B)

TEXTS:  Isaiah 40:1-11 and Mark 1:1-8

 

A voice cries out: “In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. Then the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of the LORD has spoken.” (Isaiah 40:3-5)

The Bible is filled with stories of God’s people finding themselves in the wilderness. The word wilderness means a desert place—a solitary place, a lonely, desolate wasteland.

In the Book of Exodus, we read the story of how God’s people were led from a land of slavery to a land of hope and promise. But in the 40 years that it takes them to get from Egypt to the Promised Land, they spend their days wandering in the badlands of the Sinai Peninsula. These 40 years bring them through some hard times with God and with one another and with Moses, their leader. The wilderness is for them a place of struggle—the in-between place they must pass through to reach their final destination.

The gospels record Jesus spending time in the wilderness before he begins his ministry. It is there, in the desert, that he is tempted to reject God’s plan for his life and instead choose an easier path.

In the scriptures, the wilderness is a risky place to be. It is a place where one is alone and exposed and vulnerable. We may not literally reside in a desert climate, but I think that during the season of Advent it is not too hard to imagine ourselves traipsing through a wilderness, wandering in a dry and desolate place.

Christmas is just over two weeks away, and—even though we are in a season of preparation, and journeying towards a day of celebration—sometimes, on the way, we get overwhelmed. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle; in the midst of shopping for presents, preparing our homes, finalizing travel plans, and planning and attending activities at home, school, work, and church; we may lose our sense of direction.

It may seem like we are astray in the barrens, longing for the end of this exhausting season. The holidays are meant to be a happy time; but many people experience them as a season of distress—a time of loneliness, frustration, and hard work. Somewhere in the midst of Advent, we become disoriented.

It is just when we have lost our way that prophets are called to speak. And so, today, we read two passages, each offering direction for people who are struggling through a wilderness. Through the words of Isaiah and the preaching of John the Baptist, we find messages for such times as these—guideposts intended for people who find themselves lost in the wilderness, wondering what to do.

The prophet Isaiah speaks to the people during a time in Israel’s history when they had been forcibly removed from their own land and exiled to Babylon. It was for them a time of existential crisis. Having been torn from their homes and transported to a foreign country ruled by hostile forces, the Hebrew people cried out for deliverance. They longed for the day that they could return home and end this time of displacement, of waiting, of wilderness.

Where was God? Did He care about their plight? It must have seemed to them as if the LORD had forgotten them—that they would never again see the holy land and the holy city. But God had not forgotten His people, or ceased to care for them. And so God spoke to the prophet Isaiah and told him, “Cry out!”

“What shall I cry?” Isaiah wants to know what he could possibly say to them. The response comes: “Comfort, O comfort my people … Speak tenderly to Jerusalem … In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God … the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together … Here is your God! … He will gather the lambs in his arms.”

And in our gospel lesson, Mark starts things off with a bang. Unlike Matthew and Luke, who talk about Jesus’ birth, describing the Christmas story, Mark gets right down to business. John the baptizer appears in the wilderness, in the spirit of Isaiah, proclaiming baptism, repentance, and forgiveness—and announcing that the Messiah was coming, that the Kingdom of God was about to arrive.

As in Isaiah’s time, once again the people of Israel found themselves in a desolate place. Israel was an occupied country, and the Roman government was oppressing its people. Although the Jews were in their own homeland, they were not free. Their lives were monitored and controlled by these occupying forces. It was a wilderness time. So people were coming to John, repenting of their sins and being baptized in preparation for the one John said was coming—the one who would bring with him God’s Kingdom.  

These two voices, Isaiah and John—seven centuries apart—both cry out to people who are lost in the desert. What did their proclamations mean for those who so desperately needed to hear them?

Let’s think again of the Israelites when they were wandering, led by Moses. I think one of the reasons why the Israelites had such a difficult time in the wilderness is that they were always trying to get out of it, so that they could get on with their lives.

Forty years is a long time to live in transition, to wander with no fixed address. And it certainly does not seem that the Israelites tried to make the best of it.

Forty years is a long time to live in transition—but it is a good amount of time to live. You can do a lot of living in 40 years. But the Israelites seem only to have done a lot of complaining, and wishing they were already in the Promised Land.

Advent is like that. Only in part is Advent about reaching the destination of Christmas. It is also about the journey itself—the journey of preparation. Sometimes we forget that the process is as important as the product—that what happens on our way there is as important as what happens when we arrive. We can spend all of Advent wishing that it was already Christmas—or wishing, even, that Christmas was already past. Or we can cherish every moment of this Advent sojourn: this invaluable time of preparation.

The prophets’ message is that we do not have to arrive at our destination in order to find God. God is in the wilderness. God is in the journey. God is in the wandering. God is in the desert.

Isaiah cries, “Here—here is your God!” That is the comfort that God offers us, in the midst of a season that can fill us with so much anxiety. We do not have to wait until Christmas to experience Emmanuel—the “God-with-us” who shall arrive in the Christ Child. We do not have to wait until we exchange presents. We do not have to wait until the candlelight Communion on Christmas Eve.

To be sure, we are waiting—waiting for the baby; but while we wait, God says, “Here I am!” And in the wilderness, we respond: Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

“BEWARE, KEEP ALERT!”

First Sunday of Advent (Year B)

TEXT: Mark 13:24-37

 

But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Therefore, 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 13:32-37)

Quite a gospel reading for the first Sunday in Advent! We begin, it seems, at the end. We jump into the story near its conclusion—not Jesus’ story, but the world’s story. We begin at the world’s end. We begin this new church year with a reading describing the end of days.

Today’s reading from chapter 13 of Mark is startling, isn’t it? Suddenly, we are face-to-face with the strange contradiction of Advent.

Through Advent, we wait for Jesus’ arrival—both as a baby in Bethlehem and in a fiery cloud descending from the sky. It’s as if the hope of new birth and the terror of judgment share the same crib, fighting over the blankets. In Advent, we get both stories as if they mean the same thing.

I remember once, years ago, getting an earful from a church member who did not appreciate the judgment emphasis of Advent.

“Advent is like waiting for a baby!” she said. “What’s judgment got to do with being pregnant?”

But you know, it seems to me that judgment has everything to do with waiting for a baby to arrive—not in a condemning sort of way, but in a reflective, “worrying-about-the-world’s-future” sort of way.

If you’ve gone through a pregnancy—either as a mother or as a father—you know what it feels like to wonder about what kind of world this little person is going to be born into. You wonder what kind of life he or she is going to have.

Will he have the opportunity to explore old age? Or will he be cut down by illness or accident or addiction, way too early?

Will she have a chance to use her gifts—to find meaningful work? Or will she find herself trapped in a life controlled by other people’s expectations and agendas?

Will he continue down our path toward overheating the planet, and fighting over water and oil? Or will he be part of a solution to the world’s problems?

Will she have hope for the future? Or will she despair for a world consumed by its own greed and self-interest?

The judgment that meets a child’s birth is not so much a judgment of the past, as a judgment on the future. This judgment does not condemn. This judgment merely asks questions.

However, these are hopeful questions. We may worry about our children, but we hope for the best for them, don’t we? After all, isn’t that what birth is about—having hope for the future? Isn’t that what we’re waiting for, really? Isn’t hope at the heart of Advent?

Today’s gospel reading is only the second half of a much longer discourse by Jesus, where he talks about how the world is going to see terrible suffering. You can read it for yourself, if you like, beginning at verse one of chapter 13.

While Jesus and his disciples are walking out of the Jerusalem temple, one of them says to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings.” And Jesus responds by saying that someday it will all be thrown down, not one stone left upon another.

The disciples, naturally enough, ask when this will happen, and that’s when Jesus launches into his lengthy monologue about the end times. And it sounds pretty awful.

He laments for those who are pregnant because he sees terrible pain waiting for both mother and child.

He sees abject powerlessness for fathers who cannot protect their families.

He sees cities crumbling and people dying. He sees false prophets offering false hope—a delusional escape out of the destruction. He sees the end of the world.

And he asks his followers to “keep alert.” Sleep with one eye open.

“But in those days,” Jesus says, “after that suffering, 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. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.” (Mark 13:24-27)

That’s quite the scene, isn’t it?

Of course, this is not a newspaper account of the final chapter of the earth’s history. But Jesus is talking about great change: the sun and moon darkened, stars falling—a terrifying thought in an ancient world of dark night skies and no street lamps. All of this is what’s called “apocalyptic imagery,” and the Jewish Bible is chock full of it. Jesus’ disciples would have immediately understood what he was referring to. For example, “the Son of Man coming in clouds” … That’s taken directly from the book of Daniel in the Old Testament, where it says: As I watched in the night visions, I saw one like a human being coming with the clouds of heaven …” (Dan. 7:13a).

All of this stuff is shorthand for signaling the world’s coming transformation. It may sound perplexing to us, but it wouldn’t have made first-century Jews bat an eyelash. What may not be so obvious, however—and it wasn’t obvious to Jesus’ contemporaries, either—is that all this apocalyptic language really is not about an angry God bringing judgment upon a sinful world. That’s not the point.

No. the point is that Jesus comes here. Jesus comes here, bringing not condemnation, but mercy. Nothing is said here about condemnation. The point is that Jesus comes here to bring transformation—healing, justice, peace on earth. And the Son of Man—“one like a human being”—stays here, transforming everything.

Change is coming … and it’s coming to a neighbourhood near you!

And what’s your role? What are you supposed to do? Well, here’s Jesus’ message: You are to keep awake, because change is coming—coming here, coming soon, and you’ve got to be ready to be part of it at the first sign. At the first inkling, you’re going to fling wide the door and get everything prepared for the big changes that are on the way. Why? Because you are going to be part of the transformation that’s around the corner. You are part of God’s change for the world!

When we hear apocalyptic language, when we think about the “end time,” we tend to assume that it’s all about Jesus rescuing us from a broken planet and lifting us up to the heavenly realm. This is an idea that’s been made popular by the “Left Behind” series of books and movies. But we need to look closely at today’s gospel text to see what Jesus is really saying.

Jesus is saying he is coming down, not that we will be lifted up. Jesus isn’t saying that we’ll be rescued from this world, but that we will be agents for change in this world. Jesus isn’t saying that he hates this earthly realm. He is saying that he loves this world so much that he’s going to fix it.

And our job is to watch for him. Our job is to keep alert to what God is doing all around us. And when we do see God—with his sleeves rolled up, and sweat on his brow—we are expected to join in, to become part of the saving work that God is doing all around us. Today, God is recruiting us to work alongside our sisters and brothers in Christ—to become part of his Big Solution for a broken world. On this first of Advent, we are being asked to live God’s future today.

So keep alert. Watch. Be part of the change that God is doing in the world. But always remember that it’s God’s mercy that transforms, and God’s everlasting kindness that brings renewal.

A PRAYER FOR THE REIGN OF CHRIST

Christ the King Sunday

TEXT: Matthew 25:31-46

 

“Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’” (Matthew 25:34-36)

 

Gracious and merciful God, we give you thanks and praise this day for sending your Christ to be our King:

  • King of the poor, to whom belongs the kingdom of heaven;
  • King of the sorrowful, who experience a comfort this world cannot give;
  • King of the meek, who are destined to inherit the earth;
  • King of the hungry and thirsty, to whom are promised heavenly bread and wine;
  • King of the merciful, who give without expecting reward;
  • King of the pure of heart, who find hope where others see only desolation and despair;
  • King of the peacemakers, whom you call your children;
  • King of persecuted believers, who rejoice to be counted worthy of suffering for his sake.

Thanks be to you, God of Christ our wounded King, for everything he has taught us, for the humble path he has shown us, and for all he has suffered—for us, and for the whole world.

We think, O God, of all the places where we can find your Son and hear him calling to us.

We think of how he is present in the lives of those who are sick, and of how we can see him in the face of the strangers in our community.

We think of how he longs for us to visit him in prison; how he cries out to be fed, and clothed, and given shelter in the cities of our nation, and in the deserts and refugee camps and combat zones of our world.

We think of those who have no power; who find themselves at the mercy of forces over which they have no control—economic, political, military, and social forces which bring conflict, poverty, and myriad forms of hardship; climatic and environmental forces which bring drought, famine, and natural disaster; forces of nature which work to destroy the weakest and most helpless amongst us—forces which we are called to oppose, as people to whom you have given dominion over the earth.

Make us more aware of how Christ Jesus is to be found within the least of our brothers and sisters; of how he meets us in those we consider unimportant or less righteous or less deserving than others. Grant to us this day compassionate hearts and the will to serve.

By the power of your Spirit, O God, help us to live out our discipleship with increasing faithfulness; to show our commitment to Christ through our actions every day: through how we spend our time and our money; through how we employ our hands and direct our feet; through how we speak and how we think; through how we work and how we play.

We pray for your healing touch and assurance and peace for all those who are in need this day. We pray for those near to us, and for those dear to us. We pray for those whose names we know, and for those whose names—and needs—are known only to you.

Inspire our service—to all of these, and to the least of these—that we may feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome strangers, clothe the naked and visit the incarcerated, as faithful believers in the hope to which Christ Jesus has called us; in his name we ask it. Amen.

CURRENCY OF THE KINGDOM

25th Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 28A

TEXTS: 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11 and Matthew 25:14-30

 

For you yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. When they say, “There is peace and security”, then sudden destruction will come upon them, as labour pains come upon a pregnant woman, and there will be no escape! (1 Thess. 5:2-3)

“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 …  After a long time the master of those slaves came and settled accounts with them.” (Matt. 25:14-15, 19)

“The day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night,” when the master returns to settle accounts with his servants.

The first half of that statement comes, of course, from the epistle to the Thessalonians—and the second half is from our gospel lesson. First we hear from Paul, writing to the church in Thessalonica; and then from Jesus, speaking to … Well, speaking to his original 12 disciples, but—since Matthew saw fit to record it—speaking to us, as well.

Both Paul and Jesus sound rather harsh here, don’t they? Sudden destruction coming like labour pains, with no chance of escape. Outer darkness, with weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Before I go any further, I want to draw your attention to one point and remind you of another.

First, notice what Paul tells us. As believers, we are not lost in darkness—and we are not abandoned to destruction. As the apostle elsewhere assures us, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Rom. 8:1).

Second—with regard to the gospel lesson—remember that this is Jesus speaking. Yes. Jesus. The lover of hyperbole. Jesus. The master of attention-grabbing oratory.

Also remember that this story Jesus tells—which we refer to as the “parable of the talents”—is meant to convey a truth about the kingdom of heaven. That’s an important point, because (as we should all know by now) what’s important in heaven’s kingdom is not gold or silver or stocks or bonds. It’s not currency that will garner more interest in a mutual fund or an RRSP.

You understand this, right? The coin of the realm in God’s kingdom is not convertible to Canadian funds, US dollars, Euros, or Yen. You may indeed have a mansion in heaven, but you can’t flip it for a quick profit.

So what is this illustrative tale actually about?

Let’s back up a little bit, and clarify our terms. We call this the “parable of the talents.” But what is a talent, exactly?

That word “talent” has a double meaning. In its original sense, it refers to a huge sum of money. In the ancient world, a talent was worth about 15 years’ wages for an ordinary person. In present-day terms—based on the current Alberta minimum wage of $15.00 an hour—one talent is worth about $4.6 million! So, when the master gives his slaves (we might rather call them “servants”) five talents, or two talents—or even just one—he is entrusting them with a sizable fortune.

The second meaning of the word “talent” results from a particular interpretation of this parable. As the master entrusts his servants with talents, so does God entrust each one of us with practical gifts. “Talent” has therefore come to mean “ability” or “skill.” We say that someone has a “talent” for writing, or acting, or music, or business.

However, this “parable of the talents” is not really about money or ability. It’s about something far more important. “The parable of the talents” is about trust.

The story begins with an act of trust. As the master is about to depart on a journey, he entrusts his wealth to three of his servants. Each is given a different sum—yet each sum is immense. Clearly, the master trusts these guys. Notice he hands over the money without any instructions.

Eventually, the master returns and calls in his three servants. Two of them have doubled their money. The third has made nothing at all; he returns to his master exactly the amount he received. It turns out that he has simply buried the money in the ground.

Why? Well, as it turns out, his motivation—or lack of it—was born out of fear! And the explanation he gives isn’t going to endear him to his employer: “Boss, I know you’re only too glad to reap the benefits of other people’s labour without doing any work yourself—and I know how harshly you deal with those who fail. So I didn’t dare take any chances with your money at all. Here—have it back!”

His trust in his master was zero, so he reduced his financial risk to zero. Yet he reduced the possibility of profit to zero, as well.

You know, this story begs a question. How would the master have reacted if the first two servants had not brought in a profit? What if they had gambled and lost? What if they had put the money at risk and come back empty-handed?

Here’s what I think: I think the master would have forgiven them! Remember, this is a parable about the kingdom of heaven. The master commends not profits, but faithfulness. He does not praise the servant who produced five talents more than the one who produced two.

Each receives the same commendation: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Each receives the same reward: “You have been trustworthy in a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master.”

And in responding to the third servant, the master makes it clear that he would have accepted any kind of return—even rock-bottom, savings-account interest! Anything that was motivated by faith rather than by fear.

Moreover—since this is one of Jesus’ teaching stories—I think it’s significant that the servant who is given five talents makes five talents more, and the one who receives two makes two more. This doubling in each case suggests that the growth is automatic. It’s not the cleverness of the servants that produces results. No. It’s their willingness to trust.

Like I said, this parable is not so much about money or ability as it is about trust. The master trusts his servants—and he acts on this trust. Two of the servants return the favour by responding in trust, and they come back to their employer with one fortune stacked on top of another.

But the third servant … Well, he makes his boss out to be a greedy tyrant who demands success. And so, what he gets for his trouble is precisely the rejection he so deeply fears. He is a small-minded man convinced that his master is equally small-minded.

The other two servants, however, recognize generosity when they see it. The piles of cash thrust their way speak of an employer who is both trusting and generous—who is willing to take a risk, who has confidence in them, and will honour them for their efforts.

Finding themselves at the receiving end of such outrageous trust, they feel emboldened to take risks of their own. The love their master has shown them overpowers any thought of failure. They realize that a person who treats his money managers in this open-handed way is more interested in them—and in their abilities—than he is concerned about making a profit.

Like so many of the stories Jesus told, this one turns the standards of the world upside down.

According to Jesus, the worst thing that can happen to us is not failure. No. The worst thing that can happen to us is believing that God is an acrimonious old curmudgeon who will smite us if we fail.

The worst thing is not losing out. The worst thing is never risking. In the eyes of God, keeping his treasure buried in the ground is a terrible and shameful waste. It is a faithless act, symptomatic of an insidious form of atheism.

Faith, on the other hand … Faith dares to put God’s treasure to work. Faith dares to put God’s treasure at risk. And—even if the whole kit and kaboodle is lost as a result—our faith will earn our master’s praise. After all, we can learn from our failures. And, let’s face it, very often, it is failure that teaches the most valuable lessons. Fear teaches us nothing at all.

The word of Christ to us is, “Fear not!”  Over and over again, we hear him say, “Do not be afraid.” And—with his trademark hyperbole—he shocks us into the recognition that failing to trust in God is … Well, for those of us who claim to follow Jesus, such infidelity is unbecoming.

Jesus tells numerous stories to illustrate that point. There’s the spiteful older brother who refuses to welcome home the prodigal son; the all-day workers who demand that late arrivals receive less than the daily wage; and the Pharisee who thinks God will accept him because he has kept the rules—and not because the Lord is merciful. All of these characters live in a gray, fearful world—a world devoid of grace, where underachievers get thrown to the wolves.

Now, before we dismiss these folks as pathetic losers, we should ask ourselves: are we ever like them? Do we ever bury our talents in the ground, out of fear? Have we ever misperceived—and mistrusted—God?

Here’s another question: what if the true, living and only God has no interest in keeping score? What if God’s concern is simply that we all step up to the plate and take a turn at bat?

And still another question, no less challenging: what does all of this mean for those—including me—who wring their hands and stew about the future of the Church?

The Good News of Jesus breathes new meaning into our notions of success and security. Success is found not in accumulating more “stuff” than we can ever use—or in filling every seat at Sunday morning worship—but in our willingness to take risks for the sake of God’s kingdom. Security is found not in keeping pace with our rising paranoia, but in trusting our utterly reliable God—the One who trusts us before we trust ourselves; the God who takes risks—and calls us to risk, also.

The “parable of the talents” reminds us of something that we too easily forget—and that is simply this: what God requires of us is not success, but faithfulness. And I, for one, think that is very good news.

TENDING THE LAMP: KEEPING THE LIGHT BURNING

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2023

REMEMBRANCE DAY (CANADA)

TEXTS: Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25 and Psalm 78:1-7

 

Give ear, O my people, to my law:
incline your ears to the words of my mouth.
I will open my mouth in a parable:
I will utter dark sayings of old:

which we have heard and known,
and our fathers have told us.
We will not hide them from their children,
shewing to the generation to come the praises of the LORD,
and his strength, and his wonderful works that he hath done.

For he established a testimony in Jacob,
and appointed a law in Israel,
which he commanded our fathers,
that they should make them known to their children:
that the generation to come might know them,
even the children which should be born;
who should arise and declare them to their children: that they might set their hope in God,
and not forget the works of God,
but keep his commandments … (Psalm 78:1-7)

Both of our scripture readings for today are linked by a common theme: the theme of telling the story and—in the telling of the story—recommitting oneself to the principles and the personalities revealed in the story.

The story we are to tell is, of course, the story of our God and how he has been faithful to us as a people.

It is in remembering and telling the story that we discover who we are and the meaning of our lives. It is in recalling the past that we may best see our way into the future. Through remembering what happened and why it happened, we discover the principles and the guidelines by which our lives should be governed.

Telling the story. Recommitting ourselves. Recalling the past. Looking to the future. That is, of course, what Remembrance Day is all about. And as I began thinking about a message for today, it occurred to me that someone had already done a better job of it than I ever could.

So, today, instead of the usual blog, I’m going to do something different. I’m sure we all know John McCrae’s timeless poem, “In Flanders Fields.”  Now, I want to show you another poem. John Mitchell wrote it. It’s called “Reply to Flanders Fields.”

Reply to Flanders Fields by John Mitchell

Oh! Sleep in peace where poppies grow;
The torch your falling hands let go
Was caught by us, again held high,
A beacon light in Flanders sky
That dims the stars to those below.
You are our dead, you held the foe,
And ere the poppies cease to blow,
We’ll prove our faith in you who lie
In Flanders Fields.

Oh! Rest in peace, we quickly go
To you who bravely died, and know
In other fields was heard the cry,
For freedom’s cause, of you who lie,
So still asleep where poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields.

As in rumbling sound, to and fro,
The lightning flashes, sky aglow,
The mighty hosts appear, and high
Above the din of battle cry,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below,
Are fearless hearts who fight the foe,
And guard the place where poppies grow.
Oh! Sleep in peace, all you who lie
In Flanders Fields.

And still the poppies gently blow,
Between the crosses, row on row.
The larks, still bravely soaring high,
Are singing now their lullaby
To you who sleep where poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

Amen.

https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/reply-“-flanders-fields

PHYLACTERIES AND FRINGES

23rd Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 26A

TEXT: Matthew 23:1-12

 

They do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long.”

That, of course, is part of Jesus’ tirade against the Pharisees in chapter 23 of Matthew’s gospel.

“Phylacteries and fringes.” Do you know what that’s about? If not, don’t feel stupid. I would wager that very few of us modern Christians have any idea about “phylacteries” or “fringes.”

So here’s a brief explanation. The Pharisees, you may remember, were the good religious people of their place and time. Jesus and the Pharisees actually had a great deal in common—which may explain why they were so frequently the target of his criticism; he figured they were capable of better things.

Anyway, the Pharisees took two articles of dress which were worn by many other Jews, and they emphasized them. One of these was the phylactery. It was a tiny box—usually made of leather or metal or wood—which was fastened to the forehead (or sometimes to the hand) by leather straps. This little box contained scraps of parchment inscribed with Bible passages referring to the Passover, and to the redemption of the first-born.

Why would they do that? Well, because of their zeal to obey the Torah. In chapter 13 of Exodus, Moses is trying to impress upon the Hebrew people how important it is for them to remember their history—especially the story of their liberation from slavery in Egypt.

This history, Moses tells them, should always be uppermost in their minds—just as if they inscribed the story on their hands, or carried it upon their foreheads.

Now, you and I might think Moses was using a figure of speech here—but the Pharisees took his words quite literally.

The other special feature of the Pharisaic dress code had to do with blue fringes—or tassels—placed at the corners of their garments. If you’ve ever seen an authentic prayer shawl, you’ll know what this is about. This custom, also, comes from the Torah. In chapter 15 of the Book of Numbers, we read: The LORD said to Moses: Speak to the Israelites, and tell them to make fringes on the corners of their garments throughout their generations and to put a blue cord on the fringe at each corner” (Num. 15:37-38).

Well … okay … So the Pharisees took the Scriptures very seriously. So what? What’s wrong with that?

In and of itself, there’s nothing wrong with that. Trouble is … according to Jesus … too many of them were practicing their religion for the wrong reasons. Listen again to what he says: “They do all their deeds to be seen by others; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long. They love to have the place of honour at banquets and the best seats in the synagogues, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have people call them rabbi” (Matt. 23:5-7).

Even worse is this criticism: “The scribes and Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; therefore do whatever they teach you, but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach” (Matt. 23:2-3).

Ouch! This is not the first time Jesus has called out the scribes and the Pharisees for hypocrisy. Indeed, these good religious people must have felt—often—that this Galilean rabbi was picking on them. But why? Certainly not because they were inherently evil, or because Jewish law no longer mattered. No. In fact, Jesus constantly reminded his followers about the importance of the law.

Here’s what I think: I think Jesus singled out the scribes and Pharisees because they thought too highly of themselves … and because—in all their humanness—they fell so very short of the ideals which they espoused.

I wonder what Jesus might say about us. The truth is, it’s extremely difficult to live up to our ideals. Well, isn’t it? It’s awfully hard to really practice what we preach.

And perhaps, in our day, professional clergy (or “accountable ministers” like me) are among the worst offenders when it comes to not living out the humility we recommend to others. It’s amazing how much time and energy my own denomination has spent—and continues to spend—on questions relating to titles and privileges and showing due respect to the grand high exalted ones who stand behind a pulpit on Sunday mornings.

Should I “gown up” or not? (I do have a gown, by the way—along with a whole bunch of other regalia; but I don’t enjoy wearing it. I’ve never learned how to sit properly while wearing a dress.)

Here’s another question: who has the right to wear a clerical collar? And who does not? And why?

Should you call me “Reverend” or “Pastor” or “Mister” or just … “Gary”? (I’m OK with any title except that first one.)

Is an ordained minister inherently holier than an “ordinary” Christian? And why do we ordain anybody? Whatever happened to “the priesthood of all believers”?

Maybe we’re not so different from the scribes and the Pharisees.

Of course, the problem actually goes much deeper than what we wear or how we are addressed. Phylacteries and fringes, vestments and titles—all of these have their place, I suppose, when kept in perspective. Jesus’ concern, however, remains the same: when those things get out of perspective; when our motivations for doing them get distorted; when they become an end in themselves; then we have a problem. Because these superficial things can too easily become substitutes for what we really should be about: glorifying God and living as disciples of Jesus.

If their flawed human nature made it hard for the scribes and Pharisees to keep their motives pure, to practice what they preached, we in the 21st-century church may be even more profoundly challenged. Why? Because we still have the same human nature, and—on top of that—we live in a culture that values appearances, status, position, achievement, and material wealth.

That is pretty challenging, isn’t it? And coupled with the fact that the influence of religion in Canadian society is rapidly diminishing, it’s no wonder that so many of us are tempted to do things to make ourselves stand out. Like marching at the front of the Pride Parade. Or heckling the Pride Parade while waving signs objecting to it. Or angrily demonstrating outside an elementary school. Or calling for the defunding of the police. Or—perhaps especially in the so-called “mainline” churches—boldly stating how very little we actually believe … as if that’s a good thing!

Unfortunately—even when it’s undertaken with the best of intentions—this kind of behaviour too easily degenerates into bombastic self-promotion; and that leads us far, far away from the kind of discipleship to which Jesus calls us.

Christian discipleship has nothing to do with standing out or putting ourselves first. To the contrary, we—all of us—are called not to seek glory for ourselves, but to serve others. Jesus consistently reminded his followers that “the greatest among you will be your servant” (Matt. 23:11).

“All who exalt themselves will be humbled,” Jesus said, “and all who humble themselves will be exalted” (Matt. 23:12).

So we’re caught between what the gospel calls us to, and what our culture promotes. No wonder we so often find ourselves in the same bind as the scribes and the Pharisees. We believe one thing—in fact, we hold it in our hearts—and yet, our behaviour … Well, our behaviour contradicts our beliefs.

In the gospel lesson for today, Jesus paints a lurid picture of a barren religious life—one which features all the outward signs of righteousness but none of the inward reality. The scribes and the Pharisees looked good. And they were always ready to lay down the Law, to inform people about the rules and regulations. But the power of God’s love was absent from their pronouncements. They did not practice what they preached.

What if we were forced to be accountable in matters of faith? What if we were made to preach what we practice, not the other way around? What if we had to confess—in front of God and everyone else—what we actually do practice?

Would you or I be prepared to do that? I would guess … probably … not.

Jesus tells us that there must be a connection between our professions of faith and the quality of our lives. A code of ethics—however noble—is hollow without something to back it up.

Today’s gospel exposes the tragedy of being religious without being real—of emphasizing outward conduct rather than inward character. The scribes and the Pharisees did not recognize their own desperate need for change, for transformation. Too many of us, I fear, are just like them; we may “talk the talk,” but we do not “walk the walk.”

We may think we possess a high-octane faith, but—when forced to rely upon our spiritual resources, we discover that our tank is empty. We are all fumes, and no fuel.

I know this stuff isn’t easy. None of us is a hypocrite on purpose. It’s just that it’s hard for us to connect Jesus saying “Love your neighbour” with the guy next door who plays his music too loud or lets his dogs bark late into the evening. Or with the young woman selling her body on the street in order to satisfy her addiction.

It’s hard to reconcile Jesus’ command to “turn the other cheek” with the necessity of increased defense spending and reports of violence at home and abroad.

It’s hard to heed Jesus’ injunction not to “worry about what you shall eat or what you shall drink or what you shall wear” (Matt. 6:31) when your unemployment benefits are about to expire, or when your investments tank, or when your landlord tells you to clear out by the end of the month.

It’s hard to live up to our ideals. Sometimes we can’t even figure out how to practice what we preach.

There’s only one answer to this dilemma. There’s only one cure for what ails us. And that answer is God’s grace.

Yes. God’s grace. The grace of God. No matter how many times we stumble—no matter how often or how badly we fail as disciples of Jesus—God will give us yet one more opportunity for faithful living. One more kick at the can. No matter how often we behave selfishly, we will be given yet more chances to put others first. No matter how badly we fail to practice what we preach, God’s love and God’s grace are still there for us.

God’s love and God’s grace continue to hold us, and comfort us, and sustain us. We will always have yet one more chance. One more chance to get it right. One more chance to answer Jesus’ call to humble service; to love our neighbours as we love ourselves.

That’s what Jesus teaches, my friends. And it is very good news for imperfect people—people like me … and maybe even … people like you. Thanks be to God.