Texts: Genesis 29:15-28 and Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Now Laban had two daughters; the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah’s eyes were lovely, and Rachel was graceful and beautiful. Jacob loved Rachel; so he said, ‘I will serve you seven years for your younger daughter Rachel.’ Laban said, ‘It is better that I give her to you than that I should give her to any other man; stay with me.’ So Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days because of the love he had for her. (Genesis 29:16-20)

The story of Jacob and Rachel is probably familiar to you. It is, after all, one of the great love stories told in the Bible.

Jacob’s mother Rebekah implored Jacob’s father Isaac to demand that Jacob not choose a wife from amongst their Canaanite neighbors, and the ever-eager-to-please Isaac did exactly that. To Jacob, he said: “You shall not marry one of the Canaanite women. Go at once to Paddan-aram to the house of Bethuel, your mother’s father; and take as wife from there one of the daughters of Laban, your mother’s brother” (Genesis 28:1-2).

So—obedient to his father’s wishes—Jacob sets out to visit his uncle. The Bible doesn’t tell us what young Jacob thought of the idea, but we can well imagine that a lot of things must have run through his mind on his journey to Paddan-aram.

Finally, Jacob reaches his destination and encounters some shepherds and their flocks gathered around a well. Local custom, it turns out, prevented use of the well until all rightful parties could be there to get their fair share. And so the mouth of the well was covered by a huge stone which was—supposedly—too heavy for any one person to lift.

As Jacob is speaking to the shepherds, he learns that they are from his uncle’s country and asks if they know him. They reply that they do, and that Laban is flourishing. Then one of them, pointing to a figure approaching from a distance, says, “Here is his daughter Rachel, coming with the sheep.” The Bible describes Jacob’s reaction in this way:

Now when Jacob saw Rachel, the daughter of his mother’s brother Laban, and the sheep of his mother’s brother Laban, Jacob went up and rolled the stone from the well’s mouth, and watered the flock of his mother’s brother Laban. Then Jacob kissed Rachel, and wept aloud. And Jacob told Rachel that he was her father’s kinsman, and that he was Rebekah’s son: and she ran and told her father (Genesis 29:10-12).

Did you notice what happened? Upon seeing Rachel, Jacob strides forward, picks up this huge rock (which he isn’t supposed to be able to lift) and rolls it away so that the young woman may water her flock. I think we can say that Jacob was smitten!

Laban is happy to see his sister’s son, and brings him into his house. Jacob apparently ends up doing some work for his uncle—probably as a sort of unpaid farm hand. After a month, Laban feels his nephew should be receiving some wages, and that is where this morning’s lectionary reading picks up the story.

It is at this point, I think, that the story begins to have something in common with the parables that Jesus told in our Gospel reading. The parables, you will notice, are about the kingdom of heaven. They are about God’s realm, and yet they are about everyday things, too—which ought to encourage us to look for evidence of the divine in the midst of the ordinary.

“The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed,” Jesus said. It’s the smallest of seeds, but—if you have the patience to wait for it—it grows into a tree big enough for birds to nest in.

And again, he said, “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.” Not only patience, but also hard work, is spoken of here. The yeast’s potential is not realized until the baker’s toil releases it.

The final parables in our selection are about treasure—about what is valuable. Whether it is treasure hidden in a field, or a pearl of great value, or good fish which need to be separated out of the catch, that which is truly valuable is also truly demanding. That which we value highly, we will work hard for—like the fishermen hauling in their heavy nets, and taking the daily risk of putting out to sea. In fact, risk is something else that our desire for the valuable forces upon us. In the stories Jesus told, the man who found the treasure and the man who found the pearl both went and sold everything they had for the sake of winning their prize. That’s some risk!

Young Jacob, intoxicated with love for his beautiful cousin, strikes a bargain with his uncle: “I will serve you seven years for your younger daughter Rachel.”

And here come the points of contact between this story and the parables from chapter 13 of Matthew: patience, hard work, and risk. Jacob knew he’d need patience while those seven years passed. And he knew he’d have to work hard.

But maybe he didn’t understand the risk.

The risk, of course, had to do with local customs about marriage, and with his uncle’s craftiness. After Jacob’s seven long years of labour, his uncle pulls a switcheroo! He gives Jacob not Rachel, but her older sister Leah. The deception was made possible because the bride was brought veiled to the bridegroom. And so poor Jacob must work for another seven years to win his beloved Rachel.

Why did I say this story was like a parable? Because I think it has some things to tell us about the nature of that which is valuable—and about hard work, and patience, and risk—and also about the way God deals with us.

Sometimes, in my experience, God has been like Laban. Oh, I don’t mean that God is a swindler or a cheat—but I do mean this: God is the One who makes up the rules. And because I’m not God, I quite often don’t fully understand the rules. I often think I do—but then I find myself surprised. I think I know what the deal is, but then I discover that God has some things in mind which I hadn’t bargained for.

Is it ever like that for you? Has life ever surprised you, and brought you before God to ask, “Why have you deceived me?”

Perhaps you began a marriage, only to watch it turn ugly. Perhaps you trained long and hard for a particular career, only to find yourself having to re-train in your middle age because your position has become redundant. Or maybe you turned to religion thinking it would solve all the problems in your life, only to find that religion gives you a whole set of new problems to work on.

Life surprises us. Life disappoints us. The One who said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” leads us into pain and suffering, and finally into physical death.

But he leads us also into something else, if we accept the challenge of following him. He leads us into new life. He leads us to places where we can grow stronger. And more than that, he cares for us on the journey, soothing our pain and binding our wounds and pointing out to us the unexpected joy and beauty along the way.

The one whose heart seems as broken as her wedding vows finds to her amazement and joy that there is someone else for her, and her second marriage is everything her first was not. With God, there is always one more chance.

The middle-aged man who finds himself an at first unwilling student discovers that in the classroom he is exposed to ideas that excite him and challenge him in ways his previous career had never done. And so new life—and new enthusiasm for life—is birthed out of  initially forced and unwelcome change.

Hard work, and patience, and risk. That which is most valuable requires all of these. From them, we grow stronger, we gain discipline, and we are gifted with faith.

This is how God deals with us. This is how God helps us to grow, to learn, to become the people we were meant to be: not by giving us everything we want, or by controlling our every move, but by holding before us that which is most valuable, and by encouraging all of our halting, tentative steps toward it.

“The kingdom of heaven,” one might say, “is like a young mother holding out her arms to a toddler who is learning to walk.” Shakily tottering from one foot to the other, the young child risks that long journey across the room. He might fall. He might get frustrated. He might even get hurt, despite his mother’s watchful eye. It would be so much easier if she would just pick him up and carry him wherever he wanted to go, for the rest of his life—but mothers aren’t that way, fortunately.

The kingdom of heaven isn’t that way, either—and thank God for that!

Hard work, and patience, and risk. These are the life-lessons which are part of our journey to the kingdom. These are the difficult components of the faithful life, and the reasons why religion seems to give us more problems than it solves.

But hard work, and patience, and risk bear fruit in our lives, because they make us look at things differently. Hard work, and patience, and risk open our eyes to the beauty which is all around us—in bad times and in good. And more than that, they teach us what faith and love are all about. They help us grasp what is really important, and embrace what is truly valuable.

Let us pray to God for that wonderful grace of divine encouragement which has borne us on the journey thus far. And let us remember that even if we should fail, God will not. What a glorious truth!

TEXTS: Romans 8:12-25; Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. (Romans 8:24-25)

This week, Iris and I celebrated 39 years of marriage. Thirty-nine years. As I reflect on that, I recall how different we both were, way back then. In many ways, we were completely unlike the persons we are today.

On July the 18th, 1981—in the eyes of the church and of the law—we became a married couple. Fait accompli! An accomplished, presumably irreversible fact. But in reality, each of us was still very much an isolated individual. This new thing we were creating—this unity of husband and wife … it was still a work in progress. And there would be long years of struggle ahead of us, as the new thing took shape.

In very truth, 39 years later, it is still taking shape.

I suspect most long-married couples would report the same experience.

Some 10 years after we began our journey together, Iris and I found ourselves in a hospital delivery room, as our only son was being born. It was not a quiet process. There was much groaning and crying out (not all of it from Iris) as this new struggle of creation unfolded.

Groaning and crying out. Those are the sounds of creation, as something new is being fashioned. Wedding anniversaries have that aspect to them, as well. Or so it seems to me.

Groaning and crying out. The soundtrack of creation.

It’s like going into a gym—or anywhere that weight training is underway. While weightlifters are “pumping iron,” you will hear a lot of grunting and groaning as they strain to push weights off of their chests, or over their heads, or pull and heave them off the floor. This is all part of the struggle to create a new and stronger body.

Groaning is the soundtrack of creation. As Paul says in his Letter to the Romans, “We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labour pains until now” (Rom. 8:22).

To anyone who’s given birth—or witnessed a birth—Paul’s metaphor packs quite a punch. It is a vivid image, underscoring the arduous nature of creation. That work—that struggle—can be not only difficult, but also frightening. At the very least, it is hard labour. It produces groaning.

And this groaning occurs in a divide—the divide between what we are doing and what we hope to do. In the divide between what is and what is yet to be, we labour and we groan.

Today’s readings from the New Testament are all about living in this divide. We hear about the divide between creation as God intends and wills it—and the reality of here and now. Paul urges us to embrace optimism and hope—even while living in a world that rarely delivers what God has promised.

“Life in the divide.” Or, as Paul calls it, “life in the Spirit.” His entire ministry was—in a way—about bridging this divide.

Paul believed that—in Jesus—he had seen the fulfillment of creation. He also believed—fervently—that this fulfillment was not only within reach, but soon to become a universal reality. He wrote, “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us” (Rom. 8:18).

Even so, Paul realized that those who read his words were still living with injustice, war, poverty, persecution, and pain. He saw future glory even as he felt present suffering. In his Letter to the Romans, Paul exhorts the Christians there to “live in the Spirit,” while looking toward the glory that lies just beyond the divide. That is “life in the Spirit,” according to Paul.

Life in the Spirit is a life defined by supreme confidence—confidence that, through Christ, we have already been freed from those things that would increase our suffering.

Life in the Spirit is a life devoid of hatred and violence, filled instead with love and reconciliation.

Life in the Spirit, according to Paul, is about living in the divide between what is and what shall be. It’s about living not in desperation, but in joyful exertion.

Then there’s our gospel lesson, which also speaks about life in the divide. Jesus compares the Kingdom of Heaven to a grain field.

A field of grain, you know … Even if it’s been a very bad year, a grain field will surely produce more than just one loaf of bread. And in a good year, it produces a bumper crop. An abundance of grain. An abundance of what was—and for many still is—the basic food, the indispensable source of physical life.

The grain field Jesus describes is a vision of an abundant life. Yet even this vision of abundance contains weeds:

“The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away” (Matt. 13:24-25).

The weeds pop up between the stalks of grain, and they cannot be easily removed. This is a parable about living in the divide—in a world of both wheat and tares. It’s about patiently waiting, trusting in God’s assurance that—in the end—the weeds will not spoil the harvest.

“Living in the divide” is not easy. Even though we may catch a glimpse of glory beyond the horizon, we still live here—in a place that is not yet fully glorified. The first Christians felt this most acutely. Those who had actually known Jesus had—in him—witnessed the Kingdom of Heaven in action.

As for Paul … His eyes had seen the glory of the risen Christ! And his conviction and faith and excitement must have been contagious, filling the hearts and minds of those in the churches he had planted. Yet, the inglorious world lay just outside the door of each house church. Every time the fellowship meal ended and people returned to their everyday lives, they were confronted some harsh realities. Especially for those outside the ruling class, Roman society did not much resemble heaven’s kingdom.

Jesus told parables about the world to come. Paul wrote about adoption into God’s family and “waiting with eager longing” and hoping for what we do not see. Such words were intended to help ordinary believers who were “living in the divide” between what is and what will be.

They are also helpful words for today—because Christians are still living in the divide. Many of us know the feeling of God’s love and have experienced it in our lives. Many of us have seen it in grand acts of compassion—and in small but grace-filled acts of kindness. We rejoice when justice triumphs, and we celebrate when sickness turns to health. These are signs that the Kingdom of Heaven has come near.

Yet, every day we wake up in a world of festering pandemic. We awaken to news about war and rumors of war, about violence in homes and communities, about soul-crushing poverty, injustice and persecution. Everywhere we look, it seems, the security and inherent dignity of each human being is under attack.

As Paul reminded the Christians in ancient Rome, so he reminds us, here and now: our hope is not based on what we can see. Christian hope is based on the confidence and assurance that the risen Christ is present in the world, bringing the Kingdom of Heaven into being. In other words, Jesus is closing the divide.

Through his Spirit, God is even now building a bridge between what is and what will be. And this has been the work of God from the beginning of creation. Living as a Christian—living in the divide—means joining in this work. As children of God, we are expected to pitch in and help.

How do we do that? The way we can pitch in—the way we can join in this work—is by living a life in the Spirit. And we absolutely cannot live that way by ignoring the divide. No. Jesus calls us to stride confidently into the divide—working for justice, standing for peace, feeding the hungry, weeping with those who weep and rejoicing with those who rejoice … all the while striving and straining and groaning.

“Striving and straining and groaning.” We know a thing or two about that, don’t we? We know about the importance of hard work. We are acquainted with hope, as well. More than that, we know what change looks like. Sometimes it makes us smile. Sometimes it makes us groan.

Groaning is the soundtrack of creation. It’s the sound of the divide closing. It’s the sound of the Spirit overcoming resistance. Life in the Spirit strains and groans to close the divide. It is a good, honest groaning. And it heralds what will be.

Life in the Spirit bridges the divide between the agony of labour and the joy of holding the newborn. Life in the Spirit closes the divide between the weight on the chest and the weight lifted high and triumphantly overhead.

Life in the Spirit closes the divide, and ultimately it leads us to a place where we can look back upon our long journey with a sense of satisfaction and gratitude.

As Christians, we are called to build bridges across every divide. We are called to notice the distance between what should be and what is. We are called to strain, and heave, and work, and hoist … all in order to close that divide. And when we groan in the doing, we sing in harmony with the soundtrack of creation.

So, friends, let’s stay true in the struggle—groaning if we need to, laughing at our groaning when we can. And never doubt this: the divide is closing. Thanks be to God.

TEXTS: Isaiah 55:10-13 and Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

… he told them many things in parables, saying: “Listen! A sower went out to sow…” (Matthew 13:3)

It has taken me a very long time to learn to appreciate the value of even a small backyard garden. But my dear wife has always understood it, and—thanks to her persistence—I’ve finally learned to enjoy not simply the produce of a garden, but also the experience of tending a garden. Because, you know, if you persevere at it, a garden—even a small one—gives you an intimate view of Creation. The gardener, after all, gets down in the dirt. He sorts out weeds from valued seedlings. She collects seeds for next year’s flowers, and picks aphids off the rosebuds.

The garden touches all of our senses. It offers fragrances that envelop us, colours that dazzle us. It presents us with the ever-changing picture of the seasons—and also the sounds of the seasons, like the evening breeze rustling through the shrubs and bushes. The garden offers us taste—like ripe tomatoes; and touch—like the sudden brief pain of a thorn. Above all, the garden offers us time to reflect—not just upon gardening, but upon life.

No matter how urbanized we may have become, we are still drawn to the soil and what grows in it. Gardens touch the human soul. It’s no wonder, then, that the Bible is filled with narratives based upon the garden—from Eden to Gethsemane; from the Song of Songs to the Gospel of John. It’s also not surprising that most biblical garden references speak of the garden’s beauty. The biblical garden is a place of nurturing, of comfort, of spiritual growth—a place where God walks closest to us.

The prophet Isaiah used the language of the garden to bring God’s Word to the troubled and oppressed people of Israel. They were oppressed because Jerusalem and Judah had fallen to the Babylonians, and the leaders of the Jewish nation had been exiled. In the great, optimistic passage which opens chapter 55, the Lord reminds his people of the covenant with David:

Incline your ear, and come to me;
    listen, so that you may live.
I will make with you an everlasting covenant,
    my steadfast, sure love for David. (Isaiah 55:3)

Then—in magnificent poetry—God promises that the mountains and the hills shall burst into song (v. 12), and that the trees of the field shall clap their hands!

And what precedes these lovely and exciting words? God’s description of falling rain and snow, and the purpose of their falling: they are like God’s Word, which will accomplish God’s will—the redemption of his people. God, you see, is eager to bless them—to provide them with rain and snow and seed and bread. All they have to do is change their ways. God asks them to reaffirm their side of the great Davidic covenant. So the will of God requires some nationwide gardening efforts, rooting out weeds of wrongdoing. Once that happens, God assures the people that the garden which is Israel shall flourish once again.

Over 500 years later, when Jesus told his disciples the parable of the sower, he had been rejected by those he had come to save. Just as the leaders of Israel had turned their back on God during Isaiah’s time, they were doing so again. And just as God offered redemption for the repentant in Babylon, Jesus—the Saviour sent by God—offered redemption for the repentant in Palestine. But only a few heard his message and took it to heart.

Hence, the parable of the sower. It tells a gardener’s story. We know that each seed that falls on the ground has the potential to grow into a sturdy, beautiful plant—but we also know that the seed has to fall on the right ground, and it has to be protected, and watered, and fertilized. If it’s not, then nothing good will come from it.

The parable tells us that it’s not enough to just be passive ground. If the seed lies too long upon the hard, unprepared surface, then birds will come and eat it up. And so the seed will fail to produce a harvest. In just the same way, if we close our ears to the Word about God’s Kingdom, the consequence will be sin and moral failure.

We must at least open our ears to hear, to allow God’s Word to penetrate our consciousness. We must do more than that, however. We must also hear God’s Word with joy in our hearts! Mark that: we must hear it with joy in our hearts! If God’s Word brings us joy, we will want to hear it again and again. We’ll want to hear it—and meditate on it, and pray about it—every day. With the dedication and persistence of a gardener, we are to persist in tending to God’s Word—every day, no matter what else is going on.

If we make it part of our lives only when times are good—if we make time for it only when we find it convenient—then we have not prepared the ground for it to grow within us. An undisciplined approach to spiritual practice and belief will not last long. It is not enough.

Of course—even if we read the Bible and pray and attend church regularly—it’s possible to hear the Word and yet ignore it; to allow the routines of daily life to make us numb; to allow the pursuit of wealth to distract us. If we would be faithful stewards of the seeds God has sown in our lives, we must cease the barren chase after mere wealth—and we must break free from the deadening effect of mindless routines.

But you know, even that is not enough for a disciple of Christ! We must also be good soil—hearing the Word and understanding it—so that we may bear fruit and yield 30, or 60, or 100 blossoms for every seed that falls upon us.

How can we prepare ourselves? How can we be the gardeners of our own spiritual backyard? We can do that—first of all—by dedicating a part of each day to God. We can do it with a prayer first thing after awakening—and by prayerfully taking stock of the day when evening comes. We can do it by studying the Bible—alone, or in a group. We can do it by seeking the company of fellow believers—not just on Sunday morning, but all through the week. We can even do it while we work in the garden!

We discover clues to God’s garden plan in Scripture, and our moral life grows tall. When storms bend our stalks, we look for help in our community of faith—and Christian friends bolster us against the wind. The important thing is this: that we do what good disciples and good gardeners must do. We must tend our plants and our souls in all the seasons of life—during the dry season and the flood, during the planting time and the harvest.

To be sure, our garden demands much of us in return for its bounty. It requires ongoing, loving, informed attention. Just like gardening, Christian faith is not a low-maintenance enterprise! We are sowers of seed and receivers of God’s blessed showers of grace. The interplay between who we are in God’s sight and how we act in God’s world—this is what defines us as people of faith.

Each one of us is both garden and gardener. So, let’s remember that we are the garden, receiving God’s gifts and graces as passively as the earth receives the sun’s warmth and the cooling rains. And at the same time, let’s also remember that we are the gardeners, tilling the receptive soil of our own hearts and minds.

Together, as people of God, we are called to do God’s work—in our own backyard and in the garden of our community. The soil awaits us, and the garden tools are in our hands. Let us use them well—for Jesus’ sake.

TEXTS: Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30 and Romans 7:15-25a

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It sounds great. These are comforting words. They’re meant to be comforting, to be soothing—and they work!  At least, they seem to work pretty well as long as nothing really heavy is burdening you, or grinding you down. They tell us: “If you come to Jesus—if you believe in him, if you take his yoke upon yourself—you’ll find rest. You’ll find comfort, because Jesus’ yoke is easy … Jesus’ burden is light.”

But, what if your soul feels not just weary, but on the verge of collapse? What if—even though you’re a believer, even though you have, as far as you can tell, taken Jesus’ yoke—you find yourself staggering under a crushing load?

What is Jesus’ “yoke” anyway? As perhaps you know, a yoke is a wooden crosspiece that is fastened over the necks of two animals and attached to the plow or cart that they are pulling. But it means something else, too. Those of you who’ve watched some of those NOOMA videos Rob Bell put out some years ago may have heard this before.

In one of those videos (called “Dust”) Rob Bell explains that a rabbi’s “yoke” was his teaching. Actually, more than just his teaching. If you were a disciple of a rabbi, taking on your rabbi’s “yoke” meant living as the rabbi lived—and doing what the rabbi did.

Bear this is mind: you didn’t just volunteer for that gig. The rabbi had to invite you. He had to call you. And if the rabbi does call you, it means he thinks you’ve got what it takes. It means he thinks you actually can “take on his yoke.” It means he thinks you’re capable of doing what he does. It means he believes in you.

But suppose it’s rabbi Jesus who’s calling you. What does that mean, exactly?  What’s involved in “taking Jesus’ yoke upon yourself?”

Some people say it means living in obedience to God as Jesus did, and that you’ll find rest and comfort if you’ll just do that. I think that’s the truth, ultimately … But there’s a catch. If you actually devote yourself to following God’s instructions, you’ll very quickly find out that God is forever asking people to do things which are hard—if not practically impossible. I mean, look at the scriptures. Look at what the Bible says God has asked certain people to do:

• “Abraham, leave your home and your family. Just pick up and go. I’ll tell you where you’re going later.”
• “David, take this tiny rock and go slay that giant.”
• “Hosea, marry that woman who’s going to betray you, and redeem her with your love. Make sure everyone knows about your humiliation so they’ll see a model of my love for them.”
• “Jesus, give up your glory to live among the fallen, the poor, and the lost—and then let yourself be tortured and executed.”
• “Paul, you just keep on preaching until they kill you. And when you’re whipped bloody and thrown into prison, be sure to count it all as glory.”

The call of God can be described in many ways, but … easy and light? Those don’t seem like the correct adjectives here. “Take up your cross and follow me” seems more like it.

So what is Jesus talking about, when he says, “My yoke is easy and my burden is light”?

I think that maybe—maybe—I’ve figured it out. The first thing we need to do is acknowledge is that some of our ideas about life are wrong-headed. Most of us want to believe that “living a good Christian life” guarantees that we will be safe, respected, comfortable, and—hopefully—prosperous. But that’s not what the Bible tells us.

No. In the scriptures, we see God calling people to follow him by living recklessly. God never guarantees our safety, or our comfort—or even our respectability. Instead, he asks us to take risks—often big ones—in order to follow where he leads. That’s not a very comforting thought, is it?

Let’s take a look at something else Jesus said a bit earlier in Matthew’s gospel. In chapter six, verse 33, he says: “strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

This is part of that “lilies of the field” passage. You know: “Don’t worry about tomorrow; God will take care of what you need in order to survive.”

In other words: trust that God has you covered.

I think this means that we are called to do what God asks us to do—regardless of the cost—and trust that God will cover us.

Is your job on the line because your employer wants you to do something you know is wrong? Say no. Refuse to do it, and trust that God will cover you.

Do you know that God wants you to help someone who needs money to get her car fixed? Then give her what she needs and trust that God will cover you.

Is your church asking you to affirm something that goes against your conscience? Then speak against it. Stand up and be counted, and trust God to cover you.

First, seek God’s kingdom. Always and in all things—regardless of the cost—seek God’s kingdom first, and trust that God will cover you.

The problem is that, inevitably, there is a cost attached to this. There is suffering involved. Sometimes it may seem like God is not doing his part.

There’s not enough money to pay the bills.

Your own car breaks down.

Your church denounces you as a heretic, or a blasphemer, or a bigot.

And you begin to think that maybe you’ve just been foolish—that God is not really going to cover you; that he wants you to use good judgment and take care of yourself—not do foolish, reckless things. And you’ll find plenty of good Christian folk who are eager to tell you just exactly that.

Here, I think, is where Jesus’ “yoke” comes in. Just a couple of verses before the famous “yoke” verse, Jesus prays, saying: “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants [that is, to little children]” (Matt. 11:25).

Maybe what it comes down to is child-like trust. Maybe this is Jesus’ yoke. Even in the midst of calamity, you can trust that God is in charge, that he has a purpose for what is happening. So you trust. You don’t despair. You don’t rail against God. If you allow the Holy Spirit to work, you will even find that the fruits of the Spirit continue to grow in your life. Instead of anxiety, you’ll find joy and peace.

Of course, that’s not easy advice to follow. And even if you try to follow it, you may begin to wonder if you are crazy. It doesn’t help that people keep coming up to you with sad puppy-dog eyes to ask, “How are you doing?”

So you force a smile, and you say, “I’m fine.”

“No, really. It must be so hard. It’s OK not to hide behind a strong face all the time.”

“Um, well, I have my moments … but really, I’m doing well. I’m just trusting God, I guess.”

“Of course. Well, if you ever need to talk …” And then they pat your hand and walk away.

So you begin to wonder. You say to yourself: “I thought I was OK. But maybe I’m just kidding myself. Maybe I’m subjecting myself to some weird form of self-induced brainwashing and really I should be majorly depressed. What if it’s not really God, and I’m simply delusional?”

Or, at least, that’s what you say to yourself if you’re me.

See, I wonder if we struggle with the yoke because it is easy—because it is light. We’re like oxen used to pulling too much weight—always having to lean into it, tug and pull and strain at the exertion of carrying this heavy load.

So Jesus comes along and gives us his yoke. But it just feels wrong. It’s so easy and so light. It’s so comfortable that it makes us uncomfortable. So we’re tempted to go back to our old, heavy yokes. They’re painful, but at least they feel like they fit!

And then all of us Christians who have taken back our yokes (if we ever actually took them off to begin with—most of us don’t), we lay awake at night and worry just like everybody else. And we live just like everybody else, because we think God can’t really be asking us to go there or do that … surely he knows what an unreasonable burden it would be. That’s for saints and missionaries, not for everyday Christians like me.

This is exactly how we lose our “saltiness,” as Jesus put it. Then we wonder why Christianity is seen as fit for nothing more than to be trampled underfoot.

But listen:  Jesus’ yoke is easy. Jesus’ burden is light. And that’s a good thing—because there’s no way we can go where God wants to send us if we’re still carrying our own yokes. To go there, we have to be willing to trade our worry and sorrow for his peace and joy. We have to be willing to give up our safety and respectability for his gentleness and humility. We have to be willing to trust that God will cover us—because he will.

Are we going to have that willingness all the time?

Of course not. Just like Paul said in his letter to the Romans, our decisions won’t always result in proper actions. Whenever we decide to do good, sin will be there to trip us up by making us feel guilty, or afraid, or unworthy—and fear will try to seize control of our lives. At such times, we’ll want to cry out along with Paul, saying: “I’m at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me?”(Rom. 7:24)

Of course, there is—none other than Christ Jesus himself. The apostle assures us that Christ has “acted to set things right in this life of contradictions.” (Rom. 7:25)

And, as Paul says a little later on in that Roman letter (8:38-39), nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. When we take on Christ’s yoke, we also take on Christ’s love—and that love makes all things possible. It can lighten our burdens. It can give rest for our souls. It can even teach us how to be gentle and humble in heart … and it is the reason why the good news is good news.

So … let’s seek Christ’s yoke, and accept Christ’s love. Here’s my closing advice, friends: every day, choose to follow the rabbi who has called you, always remembering this: Jesus of Nazareth believes in you.

TEXT: Matthew 10:40-42

“… and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones … none of these will lose their reward.”  (Matthew 10:42)

Undoubtedly Jesus hoped that the hospitality offered to one of these little ones (whoever they might be) would not stop with a cup of water, but that more extensive hospitality might be offered. Remember, there was no Holiday Inn Express in ancient Palestine!

But sometimes just offering a cup of cold water speaks volumes about the one offering the drink. Back then it might have included an extra trip to the well to get a “cold” cup of water, as over against offering a drink from that jug of water that has been sitting out for several hours or days.

When Jesus refers to “one of these little ones,” he means the least of his followers. That is, these were followers who did not have positions of leadership or influence. They were those who might have been … not from the right family, or the right class, or race, or gender. But no matter, they were still followers of Jesus—people for whom he cared deeply.

Many theologians assert that the gospels display a preferential bias in favour of outsiders—those who are looked down upon or left behind by mainstream society. And that kind of bias truly does seem to be there.

Now, to be sure, that was always part of Jewish tradition. The Hebrew Scriptures make it very clear that “the poor”—particularly the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner—have rights as human beings, and must be treated fairly. Today, we might translate those categories into racialized persons, or indigenous Canadians, or refugees or temporary foreign workers or immigrants—perhaps especially illegal ones—and anyone living below the poverty line, no matter who they are.

But today’s text is not about liberation or money. It is about the importance of offering hospitality to those who are working as labourers in the harvest. How we treat God’s workers is indicative of how we welcome Jesus—which in turn demonstrates how we welcome God. Jesus goes through a list of categories of who might be included here. He begins with the welcoming of a prophet, then a righteous or godly person, and finally his “little ones.”  To welcome any of these is to welcome Jesus and the One who sent him.

Today’s brief gospel text reminds us that Jesus identifies very closely with his followers. The New Testament is full of such reminders. Another one is the account of Saul’s conversion in the Book of Acts. I’m sure you remember it. Saul met the Living Christ on the road to Damascus.

Saul would soon become known as Paul, the Apostle. But on the Damascus road, he had arrest warrants in his pocket, hatred in his heart, and what he believed to be a mandate from God to rid the world of Christians. Then he heard Christ speak these words: “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?”

“Why are you persecuting me?” Jesus asked.

If welcoming a follower of Jesus is like welcoming Jesus … then persecuting one of them … is just like …

It’s just like persecuting him.       

Earlier in chapter 10 of Matthew, Jesus said something similar. He instructed his disciples that, upon entering a village on their mission, they should note the hospitality offered individually and by the town. Since they were being sent in the name of Jesus, their treatment in a place would indicate whether its inhabitants were accepting or rejecting him.

In Jesus’ day, if a given follower had sacrificed much in terms of following him—perhaps even losing his or her family’s respect—that became their “taking up of the cross.”

Something we have to remember here is that those who might listen to this new message—or even be somewhat friendly to the messengers—sometimes also risked rejection and persecution. So, by offering a cup of cold water—or even a little bit of food—you were putting some important things on the line.

Jesus was well aware of this. That’s why he said, “Whoever welcomes a prophet … will receive a prophet’s reward.”  In other words, those who offered such hospitality were as blessed by God as those who were traveling around, risking much for the cause of faithful discipleship.

When you understand and see the community of faith as a whole, then you see that leaders are no more blessed than those who have less visible roles. Acts of hospitality can be offered by anyone, but there seems to be special significance when it is offered as part of one’s faith response.

Having said that, many have noted that those of modest means sometimes appear far more hospitable to their guests—or to those in need—than are those who are wealthy. There is something beautiful in such hospitality, even when it makes us uncomfortable. Sometimes it is hard for us to accept the gifts of hospitality we are offered—especially when we know the one offering the gift has very little. Yet, in such a case, accepting the gift is so very important. It’s important because it affirms and validates the giver. It also affirms that—at the core of things—there is no real difference between us.

The giving and receiving of a cup of cold water symbolizes this for us. And so also, I would suggest, does the offering of food and drink at the Lord’s Table. Not that your physical hunger or thirst is likely to be much satisfied by a cube of bread and a thimbleful of grape juice … but, hopefully, the meager fare will do something for your spiritual hunger and thirst, even if all it does is assure you that—whoever you are—you are welcome in the community of faith.

Jesus said that anyone who serves others will be blessed. I often say that the way we treat each other translates into the way we treat Jesus. That should give us pause, knowing that whatever we share with others—even a cup of cold water—can remind them (and us) of the grace we have already received. Thanks be to God. Amen.

TEXT: Matthew 10:24-39

“Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.  For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.” (Matt. 10:34-36)

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus reminds us that being a Christian does not mean that life will be a bed of roses. There is a cost to discipleship. As followers of Jesus, we live in a world that does not usually share our values. More often than we like, we encounter people who are openly hostile to Christian principles and teachings. And you don’t have to be especially perceptive in order to understand that there is a real presence of evil in this world—evil that goes far beyond an Adolf Hitler or an Osama bin Laden or even a Derek Chauvin.

Throughout the centuries, the church has taught that in our world there is a polarity—of good and evil, darkness and light, heaven and hell. Or, to state it differently, there is a Kingdom of God—which is a state of being where God’s love reigns supreme—and a kingdom of evil, in which the evil one (or devil) reigns. These kingdoms are in constant warfare with each other, struggling to prevail. That is traditional Christian teaching, and when we look at human history, it certainly appears that this perspective is not far off the mark.

As Christians, we live in a world that unceasingly tempts us to do evil—to take a lesser road in life, to satisfy the self with no regard for the impact it will have on others. The church, when it is true to itself and its Lord, calls us to seek the higher road—and to willingly pay the price the world extracts from the righteous, the loving, and the merciful.

The whole of our Lord’s ministry focused on calling us to this higher road. In his “Sermon on the Mount,” Jesus spoke of those who are “blessed.” Now, to be “blessed” in the sense meant here means to possess an inward contentedness and joy that is not affected by physical circumstances—in other words, to have a soul which is at peace. The Beatitudes imply that people who are not normally considered blessed on earth are in fact blessed by God—and will experience the Kingdom of God!

As you may recall, Jesus lists a whole string of blessed ones: the poor, the persecuted, the meek, the merciful, the hungry, the pure in heart, and the peacemakers (see Matt. 5:1-12). But if there is one group that stands above them all, in terms of being even more blessed, it is those who are persecuted for seeking righteousness. Jesus says that those who seek righteousness are assured of a place in the Kingdom of God.

And so it is that our gospel passage focuses on the price of seeking righteousness. Jesus warns again and again that those who follow him as disciples will pay a price. He said: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword” (Matt. 10:34).  This is figurative speech, certainly—but his point is made. We have to be willing to take up the cross if we want to follow him.

Yet, we are taught, from an early age, that if we want to get along we must play life smart, never discussing religion and politics. We are told that we must absolutely separate religion from public life. Well, if we follow that advice, we can only describe ourselves as “closet Christians”—hiding for fear of humiliation and persecution.

I think we have to honestly ask ourselves: if we act as if we are ashamed of God because of a fear of consequences from others, what do we suppose God thinks of us? Jesus was pretty clear about this, in today’s gospel reading.  He said: “Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven” (Matt. 10:32-33).

Following the Lord involves a cost because following the Lord cannot be done in secret. Following the Lord involves public action; it involves all aspects of our lives. Above all, it involves telling others about the Lord who loves us and who gives us life. And this is where the cost begins to make itself known.

In Canada, we do not live in a society which uses the power of the state to persecute Christian proclamation. There are in the world many places were Christians remain subject to arrest and punishment for publicly proclaiming the Good News. Yet even there the Good News is preached.

In our society the cost of “going public” about one’s faith often looks different. Our culture increasingly views Christianity as irrelevant, a cultural hang-over from some unenlightened pre-modern era. Or it sees Christianity as painfully relevant, but as one of the “bad guys”—wielding a “big stick” and sternly enforcing a moral code which is imposed even on those who choose not to embrace it willingly.

In many places—and in many hearts—Christianity is being replaced by some vague notion of a private, innate spirituality which makes very few demands intellectually, socially or morally. The refrain here is: “I’m not religious, but I’m a very spiritual person.”

In most parts of our country, Sunday morning is no longer viewed as the time for gathering to offer praise and thanksgiving to Almighty God (and this was true long before the pandemic locked all the church doors). Rather, since many people still don’t work on Sunday morning, it has become the ideal time to gather for brunch or soccer or hockey practice. And when you decline the brunch invitation or refuse to attend the soccer game, the cost begins to show itself. Your child is bounced off the soccer team, ostracized from her peers. And those who invite you to brunch look at you in disbelief. They say, “You can’t really believe all that stuff!”

In our society, the cost of discipleship takes the form of ridicule and ostracism. Yet, to be a disciple means “going public” about one’s faith.

It is something to think about. To share the glory of God’s Kingdom, we must be disciples. To be a disciple is to study and learn from the Lord and then carry his message wherever the Holy Spirit takes us.

All of us who have been baptized into his death and resurrection are called to proclaim—in thought, and word, and deed—the Good News of the risen Christ. If we do it, we should feel assured that on the day when Jesus stands before us as judge, we will hear him say: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Amen.

TEXT: Matthew 9:35-38

The year’s at the spring
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world!

— from Pippa Passes (Act I: Morning by Robert Browning, 1841) https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Pippa_Passes/Introduction

 

“God’s in his heaven—All’s right with the world!”

On this fine spring day—on this second Sunday in the month of June, 2020—Robert Browning’s words fall upon our ears with the same irony he intended when he penned those lines almost 180 years ago.

On this fine spring day, we know better. Everything is not right with the world.

• For those of us still reeling from the shock of watching video footage of a Minneapolis policeman crushing the life out of a helpless George Floyd;

• For the families of Chantel Moore and Rodney Levi in New Brunswick, or Regis Korchinski-Paquet in Toronto, or the families of too many other racialized persons who have died violently after interactions with Canadian police;
• For those left mourning in the wake of (to date) almost half a million COVID-19 deaths across the globe …

For all of these, little seems right with the world.

Now, you’re thinking: “Way to bring us down, preacher! Aren’t you supposed to bring good news?”

Sorry about that. But I mention all that dreadful stuff because I want to get you thinking about a question. And the question is this: “What is God’s biggest problem?”

Ever wondered about that? Experience tells us that our God is a loving God. We know he doesn’t want bad things to happen to good people … or, for that matter, for bad things to happen to bad people!

So, when we consider all of the suffering and injustice and tragedy in our world, it occurs to us (doesn’t it?) that God has to deal with a whole Pandora’s Box of problems, every day. War. Terrorism. Famine. Pandemics. Crime. Poverty. Domestic violence. Racism. Disasters that he gets blamed for … The list of troubles in this world seems endless.

For a loving God who sees all of us as his children … Well, you might think that, for such a God, every day must seem like a really bad day at the office!

Ever had one of those? Had one recently? Perhaps you can relate to the story about the man who came home after a very bad day at work. He did not want to hear about any more problems. So he said to his wife, “I’ve had a horrible day. So if you have any bad news tonight, please keep it to yourself.”

And she answered him: “Okay.”

“Okay, “she said. “I won’t tell you any bad news. But here’s some good news. Remember our four children? Well, three of them did not feed laxatives to the dog!”

Fortunately, God never says to us, “Look, I’ve got a very messed-up world on my hands. Please don’t bother me with your petty little problems.”

To the contrary, Jesus issued this standing invitation: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28). This offer was not limited to the first 100 weary persons, or to a particular group of favoured people, or to those who could drop money into a collection plate. No. It was for all of us. “Come to me, all of you—every one of you with a heavy burden.”

See … God’s biggest problem is not that there are too many problems.

So, what is? Today’s gospel lesson provides us with a clue:

Then Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, ‘The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest.’ (Matt. 9:35-38)

God’s biggest problem is this: in our world, God has a bumper crop of lost and hurting people—but he does not have enough workers to bring the harvest in!

And this is not a new problem. Almost 800 years before Jesus’ time, the prophet Isaiah had a profound encounter with the living God. He was so overwhelmed by the experience that he felt completely undone. In chapter six of his book, Isaiah says: “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips” (Isaiah 6:5).

Then an angel comes to Isaiah with a live coal from the altar of God, and he touches Isaiah’s lips with it, saying: “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out” (6:7b).

Then Isaiah hears the voice of God asking, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And Isaiah replies, “Here am I; send me!”

Today, God is still asking that question: “Whom shall I send? Who is willing to go?” Who will carry the good news of God’s forgiving and healing love to a broken world?

When Jesus walked upon this earth, his voice could reach but a very few. As far as we know, during his entire ministry, he never ventured outside of Palestine. The crowds upon whom he had compassion were but a tiny fragment of lost and wandering humanity. But he wanted to do so much more.

In John 10:16, he says: “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, [and] one shepherd.”

Jesus still wants people to hear the good news. He still wants people to know that God loves them and cares for them—and wants them to experience his love. But they will never hear unless someone tells them.

It is the eternal desire of Christ that every disciple of his should become a labourer for the harvest. That means every one of us, wherever we are.

So, how do we do that? How can we help solve God’s biggest problem? Let me offer you a few principles for effective harvesting.

First, you must be able to see the harvest. You cannot be a harvester if you do not see a harvest. And we appear to have trouble doing that. Even Jesus had to tell his disciples to look at the harvest! In John’s gospel—chapter four, verse 35—we hear Jesus urging them: “Do you not say, ‘Four months more, then comes the harvest’? But I tell you, look around you, and see how the fields are ripe for harvesting.”

I wonder: is the harvest clear to you? Do you know someone who desperately needs the love of God and the encouragement of a caring friend? If you think the answer is, “No!” … look more carefully. Those who would be harvesters must learn to see with the eyes of Christ.

Here’s my second point: you must care about the harvest.

When Jesus saw the crowds, Matthew says, “… he had compassion for them …” He saw their helplessness and hopelessness, and his heart was moved to care for them.

There was a world of difference between the way Jesus saw the crowds and the way the religious leaders saw them. They saw chaff where Jesus saw wheat. They saw social rejects where Jesus saw lost souls and searching hearts. They saw unacceptable and untouchable outcasts. Sinners. Heretics. Foreigners, aliens … those whom they considered inferior, less worthy, less … human.

But what Jesus saw was … God’s beloved children.

They said, “Who cares?”

Jesus said, “God cares!”

“My Father cares!”

In order to help with God’s biggest problem, we must have not only the eyes and the ears of Jesus, but also his heart. And, for those who need Jesus most, you can develop a heart!

Yes, you can! Remember whose body you’re part of. As you observe the people around you—at work, at the grocery store, even as you practice social distancing—make a special effort to look at others with the eyes of Jesus.

Here’s the third point: you must go into the harvest!

A few years ago, Joe Aldrich wrote a book entitled, Lifestyle Evangelism.*  It’s still quite popular—even though it’s also quite challenging. The main thing Aldrich says there is that Christian people need to build bridges of friendship with those who lack a spiritual home. It is across these “bridges” that people can cross over into the love of God and the fellowship of Christian community.

It is one thing to see the harvest—and it is important to see it. It is another thing to care about the harvest—and it is important to care about the harvest. But it is something else entirely to go into the harvest. Seeing and caring can be done from a distance—but entering into the harvest … Well, that demands a commitment to join with Christ in solving God’s biggest problem.

In his book, Aldrich points out that the church’s usual method is to “call out to the harvest.” We expect the sheaves to come in and be harvested!

But that isn’t possible, with the mandated closure of so many places of worship. It’s also the opposite of how Jesus worked. He left the magnificent splendour of heaven for the mundane dreariness of our world. He came to where the harvest was … and—carefully and lovingly—he laboured in the field. Then he said to his closest followers, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you!” (John 20:21)

How about us? Are we willing to be sent? Are we at least willing to support those brave souls who have said, “Here am I; send me” … ?

Whether it means sacrificing some time and talent here at home, or providing material or prayer support for those who are risking a much greater sacrifice abroad, Christ calls us not only to carry the cross, but also to lift it high.

May God give us eyes to see the harvest, hearts to care for the harvest, and a willingness to work in the field.

_____________________

* Aldrich, Joseph. Lifestyle Evangelism: Learning to Open Your Life to Those Around You. Colorado Springs: Multnomah, 1993.

 

Trinity Sunday

Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshipped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:16-20)

Probably, most of you have had an experience like this. You’re hard at work—concentrating deeply on something or other—when, suddenly, you sense that you are being watched.

When I was in pastoral ministry, this would happen to me several times a week—usually when I was in front of my office computer, putting together a sermon or a prayer or an order of service. I was on a roll! Wrapped up in the task at hand and almost oblivious to what was going on around me. Almost.

But then, somehow, I would become aware of a presence. And even before I looked, I just knew that somebody was standing in the hall peering through my doorway to see what I was doing … wondering if I had time to talk. Which was, after all, what I was there for.

I don’t know what makes me aware of another person’s presence. Usually it’s not because I see movement, or hear heavy breathing. It’s something else. It’s like some kind of sixth sense kicks in, and I can feel someone close by.

Do you know that feeling? It’s hard to describe as anything except “an awareness of presence.” And, for the life of me, I cannot figure out how it works.

I wonder: is this what the Lord meant when he promised to be with us, always?

Let’s think about this. Jesus issues these marching orders—this “Great Commission”—to all who believe. He says that “all authority in heaven and on earth” has been given to him. He commands his followers to go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. And then he says we must teach these new disciples, instructing them to obey the commandments that he has given us.

Well, Jesus must have realized the enormity of the task he was laying on us, because—right away—he utters these words that conclude the Gospel of Matthew: “Remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll always be with you—no matter what.”

Years and years ago—when I was barely into my 20s—I had a good friend named Audrey who was a lifeguard and swimming instructor. Now, somehow I let it slip to Audrey that I had never learned to swim. Of course, she thought this was a terrible thing, my not being able to swim. So she wanted to teach me.

“I can’t float!” I said.

“I just sink,” I told her. “I just sink right down to the bottom.”

But she told me not to worry about that.

“Anybody can float,” she said. “You just have to be completely relaxed.”

Audrey had devised a plan. As I lay on my back in the water, she would support me with her arms. When she could tell that I was completely relaxed—and not a moment before—she would let her arms fall away from beneath me … and I would see that I could, indeed, float.

She kept insisting that we try this until, eventually, I gave in. So, I found myself on my back in a public pool, with Audrey’s arms underneath me, holding me upon the water’s surface.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” she said. “I’m right here.”

So my friend began the first step of teaching me to swim: making me believe that I could, in fact, float. And she was in no hurry about this. Gently supporting my tense body, she guided me through a leisurely, gentle—even tranquil—passage out into slightly deeper water.

I have to say, it was quite wonderful. I still remember that part of it. Gradually, all my fear of being in the water slipped away. I did relax. I was no longer concerned about anything, because I had my friend’s assurance: “Don’t worry. I’m right here.”

Then, once Audrey sensed that my anxiety had disappeared—and that I was completely relaxed, no longer fearful … she let her arms fall away from beneath me … and … serenely … blissfully … I sank!

Now, I might have serenely and blissfully sunk to the bottom of the pool—and maybe even into the next life—except Audrey was, in fact, right there.

And when she realized what was happening, she dragged me back to the surface and stood me on my feet (because, truly, all I had to do to save myself was stand up).

Then she looked at me in wide-eyed amazement and said: “I know what your problem is. You can’t float!”

I still can’t.

Somebody else told me that, if I had more body fat than muscle, then I would be able to float.

I now know that’s not true, either!

Anyway, the point of this anecdote is … actually, I guess there are two points.

First, Audrey did not let me drown. Just as she promised, she was right there to rescue me.

Second—even though she couldn’t teach me how to swim—Audrey did help me overcome my fear of being in the water. She fixed me up with some effective floatation devices, and impressed upon me that I should always use such things to buoy me up. Because of her, I learned to enjoy being in a swimming pool … and even a lake or an ocean.

This was an achievement of no small significance. And, still today, whenever I’m in—or near—a large body of water, I think about Audrey. I feel her presence. I recall her advice.

And, as I’m strapping on my lifejacket, I can almost feel her arms beneath me, holding me up. It’s like she is still “right there.”

She may not have turned me into a swimmer, but Audrey did show me how I could love the water as much as she did. Which is the important thing, I think.

Jesus calls his followers to go out and make disciples. As partners with God, we are to create disciples in much the same way that God created the world—in love. We are to create new disciples in a spirit of love.

We are to be with them to help them increase in faith—to grow in confidence toward God.

The call of Christ is real, and true—and urgent! We are to go out and make disciples. We are called to be evangelists. We are called—each one of us—to carry the good news to others.

I know this is a tall order—but the reality is inescapable: as Christians, we are called to bring the gospel to those who have not heard it. How do you feel about that?

How do you feel about your responsibility to invite people—not just to come to church on Sunday, but to invite them into your life? Into your community? Into the transforming love of God in Jesus Christ?

If you’re like me, it makes you uncomfortable. I would also guess that some of you are shy about naming yourselves publicly as Christian, let alone inviting others to join you.

Honestly, I know what that’s like. There have been times when I’ve seen an opportunity to witness for Christ—to offer the gift of Christian community to someone who could really use it … and I didn’t. I choked.

Why? Maybe because I didn’t want to come off looking like a door-to-door salesman. Or maybe because I’m afraid of looking foolish in front of someone who’s smarter than I am.

How about you? What are your reasons?

Why do you go through a whole week without asking someone to come to church?

Why do you go through a whole week without telling someone about the love you’ve experienced through God’s work in your life?

This is not an easy thing. People don’t like to be evangelized. They are so used to the dysfunction of this society that they think it’s normal, and anyone who suggests that it might be different, that there might be an alternative, is considered … well, just a little bit crazy … at best.

Suffice it to say that there are lots of reasons why we might be reluctant to put ourselves out there. But here’s where this Jesus thing comes in. Here’s why Jesus said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you.” Even until the end of the age.

Even to the end of the age! Does that mean now? Absolutely. Jesus is with us. Now. Here. Wherever you are, Jesus is present. Jesus is real. You might become aware of it in the same way I sense somebody’s eyes on me through my doorway. You may experience it like some unseen arms supporting you in the water. Or you may encounter the presence of the living Christ in a totally different and unique way.

But here’s the thing, my friends: as we share the love we have found in Christ, this same love accompanies us.

Wherever you are, with whomever you are, whatever joys or sorrows are visited upon your life, the power of the love of God in Christ Jesus is with you.

And this love stays. Forever. This love walks with you, sits with you, buoys you up, and calls you to share it. And the operative word here is “share.” Our call to evangelism is a summons to humility and gentleness. We are called to offer Christ as we surrender to the ways of Christ’s love.

So let’s accept the challenge. Let’s do what our Lord has asked us to do. Go, and make disciples. Go, in the name of the Father. Go, with the grace of the Son. Go, in the power of the Holy Spirit.

Take Jesus with you into your community, into your school, into your workplace. Take Jesus with you, on vacation. Share him. Share him when you sit down for a meal, or when you sing around a campfire, or when you have a conversation.

Go—and teach others about God by showing them the love of Christ—the One who is with us always … even to the end of the age. Amen. 


The Day of Pentecost

TEXT: Acts 2:1-21

When the Feast of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Without warning there was a sound like a strong wind, gale force—no one could tell where it came from. It filled the whole building. Then, like a wildfire, the Holy Spirit spread through their ranks, and they started speaking in a number of different languages as the Spirit prompted them. (Acts 2:1-4 from The Message*)

It is a familiar story to most of us, isn’t it? Through many years of worship services on the Day of Pentecost, we’ve heard this story told over and over again. I’ll bet some of you could almost recite it by heart—or at least manage to hit the high points:

• The disciples are all together, meeting in a house.
• Then, there’s a mighty rush of wind—and with the wind, fire!
• Tongues of fire rest upon each one of them, as they are filled with the Holy Spirit, and the Spirit empowers them to preach the gospel in foreign languages they have never learned.

Then all the visitors and natives of Jerusalem are “amazed and perplexed” by this astonishing display:

“Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power” (Acts 2:7-11).

Of course, some want to dismiss it by saying the disciples have stayed too long at a champagne breakfast. But Peter sets them straight:

“This is what was spoken through the prophet Joel: ‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream  dreams … [and] everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved’” (Acts 2:16-17, 21).

Yeah, it’s a familiar enough story. And as Peter’s evangelistic sermon continues, it takes up almost the entirety of chapter two of Acts—the next 18 verses, in fact! And when he was finished, “those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added” to the church (2:41).

That’s some altar call! And that’s why we remember this day as “the birthday of the Christian Church.” (I don’t know if they had cake back then.)

This was what Jesus meant when, before his Ascension, he told the disciples that they would “be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now” (Acts 1:5).

Making the connection with Hebrew prophecy, Peter quotes the Book of Joel:

Then afterwards
    I will pour out my spirit on all flesh;
your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
    your old men shall dream dreams,
    and your young men shall see visions.

Even on the male and female slaves,
    in those days, I will pour out my spirit.

(Joel 2:28-29)

Although Joel reported those words centuries earlier—and the Jews, at least, must have heard them before—the message they carried was jarring and revolutionary: the Spirit was to be poured out on all flesh—not just to chosen individuals.

This was a mark of the Messianic age, and it was a game-changer! From now on, things would be profoundly different. And perhaps no one would be changed as drastically as the disciples themselves. Because from this point forward, they would no longer be merely disciples, but apostles. No longer students, but proclaimers. Proclaimers of a radical new way—not just a new kind of religion, but a brand new way of life. A whole new way of being the church.

That’s really what Pentecost is all about. A whole new way of being the church. And for the past two millennia, the Spirit of Pentecost has remained alive and well—and forcefully disruptive—within the Church of Jesus Christ.

If you’ve done even a little bit of reading of church history, you’ve surely noticed how many, many times the church has re-defined and re-invented itself. In fact, I think that it is precisely because of this adaptability that the church has managed to survive: through the power of the Spirit, the church has been able to change with the times, even while holding on to what’s essential.

Which is an interesting thing to consider, in our present circumstances. Today, once again, we have to find a new way of being the church. That, essentially, is the task facing us in this era of COVID-19 and social distancing. For the time being, at least, many (if not most) of our faith-communities cannot meet in person, in the usual worship space. In the province of Alberta, as of right now, we would be allowed to meet, if the following conditions were met:

• congregants seated two metres apart;
• no singing;
• those 65 years of age and older discouraged from attending; and
• no more than 50 worshippers at a time.

Frankly, even if we could guarantee that somehow we would enforce all those rules (“Okay … the first 50 of you are allowed in … the rest of you go home!”) … I’m not sure I’d want to ask people to risk it. Besides, in most of our mainstream churches, if you banned all the senior citizens there wouldn’t be many folks present, anyhow. So the church I’m part of now will, I suspect, continue with live-streaming services at least until there’s a vaccine (or sufficient herd immunity).

On the surface … well, that’s a bummer. However, from conversations I’ve had (not in person, don’t worry) it sounds like way more of us than I might have guessed actually do understand that the church is not a building, but a body. A community. The Greek word for that is ekklesia.

That is a key understanding. As someone put it, “We can be the church anywhere.” Even online, watching in real time on Facebook or YouTube, or interactively via Zoom meetings. Twenty-first century social media technology is, I think, proving to be a greater blessing than perhaps we ever imagined it could be.

We can keep on being the church just as long as we can connect with one another through worship and praise and sharing. Even online, the ekklesia remains active and alive. As I said, that is a key understanding—a foundational understanding—when it comes to this business of doing church differently. We need to become innovators. And that, of course, demands something of us.

In order to step away from what is familiar—and step toward what is unfamiliar, untested, unknown … In order to do that, you require a lot of faith. Faith in the Spirit’s ability to lead you … as well as faith in those who are your companions on the journey.

Let’s keep the faith, my friends. For that is the Spirit of Pentecost. May it keep burning in each of our hearts. Together, we will get through this.

_____________________________________________________

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

 

 

Ascension Sunday

TEXT:  Acts 1:1-14

“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” When [Jesus] had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. (Acts 1:8-9)

On Ascension Sunday the Christian Church on earth turns its gaze heavenward—just like those eleven apostles did on that long-ago day on the outskirts of Bethany.

Can you picture it? With their heads tilted back, hands held to shade their eyes, they watch Jesus disappear into the clouds.

Then they begin to wonder:  what’s next? What’s next for them? What will become of their hopes and dreams? What about the future that Jesus had so vividly described for them—God’s fulfilled kingdom of peace and wholeness and grace and beauty?

Was this the end? Or was it a new beginning?

With his last words to them, Jesus spoke to the disciples about power from the Holy Spirit—and about a grand mission of witnessing “to the ends of the earth.”

But how would all this happen? Who would provide direction and leadership? How would they be protected against persecution and failure? Would they be protected against persecution and failure?

Eleven disciples standing on an empty hillside outside Bethany, staring at an empty place in the sky, wondering what would come next, until two angels appear to shake them from their reverie with the message of Jesus’ return.

“This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven,” they say, “will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”

But when? And in the meantime, what?

On Ascension Sunday, the Christian Church on earth turns its gaze heavenward. When will Jesus come again? And in the meantime … what?

The anniversary of the ascension of Jesus Christ has come ‘round now—year in and year out—for two millennia. The Christian Church on earth has grown from eleven disciples to over two billion people spread through every nation of the world.

And down through the centuries, we who bear his name have suffered persecution—and, sadly, have also inflicted persecution.

From the beginning of Christianity under the weight of Roman intolerance; to the shame of the Crusades; to the rebirth of the Reformation; from Paul to Augustine to Hitler to Martin Luther King Junior; the name of the crucified, resurrected and ascended Christ has been invoked for great good—and for terrible evil!

Ascension Sunday is the anniversary of our commissioning. “You will be my witnesses,” Jesus tells the first disciples.

Their commission is our inheritance. Ascension Sunday is a day to consider how we have done—and how we are doing—at being Jesus’ witnesses. How are we doing at carrying on where Jesus and all the disciples before us have left off? Is Jesus’ ministry alive and growing in us and in our faith community? How are we doing when it comes to living out the principles he taught us? Are we living lives of compassion? Of justice? Of hope? Of forgiveness?

Have we welcomed the empowerment of the Holy Spirit to boldly speak the name of Jesus? Are we truly carrying on the work of those disciples in whose footsteps we follow?

On this Sunday of the Church Year, we turn our gaze heavenward. It would, in fact, be a good day to find a grassy hill somewhere, lie back and play that game some of us used to play when we were kids—of trying to find shapes and faces in the clouds. For we Christians—when we look into the sky, when we gaze at the clouds floating over—we see things a little differently than other folks. Or at least, we ought to!

Why? Because Christ has ascended.

A bit later on in the Book of Acts—in chapter seven—Luke tells the story of Stephen, who “gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God” (Acts 7:55). Even if our vision is less acute than Stephen’s was, we who look with eyes of faith can—in the clouds—discern the figure of our blessed Saviour.

When we gaze at the heavens—or when we consider the world around us—we do not look through rose-coloured glasses! But we do see with eyes of faith. And with eyes of faith, we see the hand of God still at work amongst us. We sense the wind of the Holy Spirit alive on the breeze. We recognize—and we celebrate—moments of grace and hope as sure signs that Jesus remains among us—and that salvation will indeed, one day, be finally and fully complete for this world.

Oh, I know. We have not always lived up to our commission as disciples of Jesus Christ. We have not always been faithful to our high calling as witnesses to his coming Kingdom. Not always has the Church been a shining beacon of hope and healing in the world. Yet—by the grace of God—we have not been abandoned nor marooned upon this earth. No. Far from it.

Just as he promised—through the power of the Holy Spirit—Jesus continues to work in our lives. And through us—imperfect as we are—he continues working:

• working for the healing of the nations;
• working to restore the outcasts, the unforgiven, those rejected and forgotten by polite society;
• working to bring life and hope where once there was only death and despair.

On Ascension Sunday we turn our gaze heavenward—and we are once again reminded both of our calling and of Jesus’ promise to be present with us, and to bless our witness for him … as we behold his Kingdom come … in our lives.