Christ the King Sunday

TEXTS: Jeremiah 23:1-6 and Luke 23:33-43

On the last Sunday of the Church Year, the day we call “Christ the King Sunday”—we are called to reflect upon a question. And the question is: “Who’s in charge?”

In this world which is torn apart by war, which is threatened by climate change, where millions go hungry while a few grow more and more obese—this is a fundamental question: “Who’s in charge?”

Who exercises dominion over whom? Who—or what—rules our lives, and how? Who—or what—dominates our culture?

The answer to the last question—who or what dominates our culture—is, I think, quite evident. The forces of evil hold great sway both here in Canada and around the world. Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear—these are the powers which fuel the decision-making process on planet earth: in our corporate systems; in our media—and especially our advertising media; in our economic and governmental systems, where what matters most is not whether you are right, but whose side you are on, or who you voted for; and in the hearts of many individuals—of those who think only of what’s in it for them and theirs.

Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear … The fruit of those powers that rule in our culture—and in every nation of this world—is as obvious as the rioting in Hong Kong today. The fruit of those powers is as clear as the pictures of desperate refugees which appear on television each night—interspersed with advertisements for stuff none of us really needs.

Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear … Their fruit is abundant! They yield a bumper crop of homeless, beaten, battered, abused, drug-dependent persons who live—and die—on the streets of our cities. Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear—what do they look like? They can look like the pursuit of happiness. They can look like the pursuit of success. But in reality they are the exaltation of our families, our country, our politics—to the detriment of our neighbours, near and far. In today’s world, greed, pride, selfishness, and fear are poisoned trees, and they yield a bitter harvest. Their toxic fruit nourishes the hatred, the rage, the desire for vengeance which consumes so many.

Who and what rules our culture? The answer is depressingly obvious. Greed, pride, selfishness, and fear! The fruit they bear is death—and that, too, is depressingly obvious. And it feels even more obvious—and all the more depressing—when we focus upon the troubles that afflict us personally. When we look at all the negative stuff, when we suffer the body blows of trouble within our own families, when we are knocked down by the series of illnesses and deaths within our community—don’t we wonder: “Who’s in charge”?

So many friends and loved ones have been taken from us—one after the other, both young and old. You just get up off the floor from having been hit by one death or illness or tragedy, and another comes and flattens you! It makes you wonder if the sorrow and the suffering will ever end—if things will ever get better.

Even so … on Christ the King Sunday, we assert the gospel message: the message that Christ is in charge. And we assert the gospel message that not only is Christ in charge, but the peace that we need, and the hope that we need, can be found in him—now, today! More than that, we assert the gospel message that the peace our world needs—the peace our culture needs—is coming through him, on the day that God has chosen.

But—as Jesus himself said to the disciples on the night of his betrayal—the peace he gives, he gives not as the world gives (John 14:27). And that is very important to us, as we name Christ not only as the King of the Universe, but as King of our hearts and lives. The prophet Jeremiah told us: “The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as King and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In his days Judah will be saved and Israel will live in safety. And this is the name by which he will be called: ‘The LORD is our righteousness.’” (Jeremiah 23:5-6)

The righteous branch of David—the one who will be called, “The LORD is our righteousness”—is, of course, Christ Jesus. Now, for most of us, the word righteousness conjures up an image of someone who is holy and good, of someone who is following the laws of God—and that is indeed part of the meaning of the word righteous. But when the word righteous is applied to God in the Bible, it is almost always used in reference to his saving and healing activity.

God shows us that he is righteous by delivering us from our enemies and by making us whole. God is righteous when God forgives us. God is righteous when he keeps his promise to be our God and to watch over us and protect us. God was being righteous when he came to us in the person of Jesus, who was—and is—a King with a difference.

It’s a difference which I think is illustrated by a story told by Richard Fairchild on his Kir-Shalom website. It is the story of a little boy who wanted to do something good. It goes like this:

Six-year-old Brandon decided one Saturday morning to fix his parents pancakes. He found a big bowl and spoon, pulled a chair to the counter, opened the cupboard and pulled out the heavy flour canister, spilling it on the floor. He scooped some of the flour into the bowl with his hands, mixed in most of a cup of milk and added some sugar and an egg, leaving a floury trail on the floor, which by now had a few tracks left by his kitten.

Brandon was covered with flour and getting frustrated. He wanted this to be something very good for Mom and Dad, but it was getting very bad. He didn’t know what to do next, whether to put it all into the oven or on the stove, (and he didn’t know how the stove worked!).

Suddenly he saw his kitten licking the bowl of mix and reached to push her away, knocking the egg carton to the floor. Frantically he tried to clean up this monumental mess, but he slipped on the eggs and landed on the floor—getting his pajamas white and sticky. Just then he saw Dad standing at the door. Big tears welled up in Brandon’s eyes. All he wanted to do was something good, but he’d made a terrible mess. He was sure a scolding was coming, maybe even a spanking.

But his father just watched him. Walking through the mess, he picked up his crying son, and hugged him—getting his own pyjamas white and sticky in the process of loving him.

That’s how God—our Lord and our King—deals with us. That’s how Jesus—our Lord and our King—deals with us and the mess we have created. Jesus steps into our reality and takes our mess onto himself. He loves us and forgives us, and shows us the way of true love: the way that gives life—and that abundantly; the way of the Kingdom over which he rules; the way of the Kingdom in which he serves.

Jesus provides us with an image of royalty totally different from the world’s image of royalty. His is a total reversal of roles usually assigned to royalty and servitude. He refuses to be master of the world, the mighty monarch, the spiller of blood. Rather, he is a King who serves others. Jesus our Lord, our Righteousness, is one who heals, who forgives, who restores; one who refuses to take up the sword to protect himself, or call ten thousand angels to save him from the cross.

King Jesus is one who, even as he dies, promises that he will remember us when he comes into his Kingdom. King Jesus conquers, not by killing others, but by allowing himself to perish. Jesus is our Lord–Jesus is our King—precisely because he is not like the kings of this world. His faithfulness and his obedience and his love have defeated death and opened the way to eternal life. And citizenship in his Kingdom is offered to all—not just to those who are good enough, or strong enough, or smart enough.

Who and what rules our culture? I think we know who rules right now. But it will not always be so. Jesus told Pilate, “My Kingdom is not from this world” (John 19:36). And that is true. But this world will be his Kingdom one day!

I believe that. I know that. I know in my heart—and I know from the words of Scripture—that the one who rules in our lives is stronger than the one who rules this world. So—for now—let us work for Christ’s Kingdom.

How? By focusing on our Lord, and living by his direction, his values, and his wisdom. When the world strikes you—when the world kicks you—remember to whom you belong! Trust in him. Pick yourself up. Turn the other cheek. Forgive those who need forgiving. Proclaim once again that Jesus is Lord and King and that his way is the way of life. And as you do you that, you will find within yourself the peace that he has promised to give. Thanks be to God for our awesome King! Amen.

Remembrance Day

TEXTS: Isaiah 2:1-5 and Matthew 5:1-12

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:1-3)

Here we have the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount, which Matthew offers to us as a concise summary of Jesus’ message—“Jesus in a nutshell,” as someone has said. It begins with promises and with blessings. Nine blessings—nine “beatitudes.”

There’s a parallel sermon in Luke’s gospel (6:20-23), and it also has beatitudes—but it has only four. They are about the poor, the hungry, those who weep, and those who are persecuted; and they all begin, “Blessed are you …”

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.

“Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled.

“Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.

“Blessed are you when people hate you because of me …  for surely your reward is great in heaven …”

In Luke, Jesus is clearly speaking about human need, proclaiming that when God’s Kingdom comes, there will be change—and it will be good news for people who are poor, hungry, sorrowful, and downtrodden. In Luke, we hear Jesus speaking to the victims.

However, in Matthew’s account—which is before us today—we find not only more beatitudes, but also a different tone. Here, the focus is less upon the needy to whom promises are made, and more upon the disciples in Jesus’ audience—including us. In Matthew, the beatitudes are not so much promises as they are challenges.

Here, Jesus challenges us to be “poor in spirit” and to ourselves “hunger after righteousness.” The kingdom of heaven will be for people like this, Jesus tells us—and if you want to enter it, here’s a glimpse of the citizenship exam.

This emphasis on attitude and behaviour is central to Matthew’s understanding of Jesus’ message. In this gospel, your status—whether as an Israelite or as a Christian—is of no consequence if you ignore the will of God.

Matthew’s nine beatitudes are good news, to be sure—but they also put forth nine hefty challenges. And on this day in particular … in this particular world … perhaps the most challenging is number seven: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

The Swedish chemist Alfred Nobel is best-known today for the prizes which bear his name, including—and perhaps especially—the Nobel Peace Prize. In his day, Alfred Nobel was a prolific inventor, filing hundreds of patents during his career—for everything from synthetic rubber to artificial leather to the gas meter.

He was also an arms manufacturer and the man who came up with dynamite.

Nobel developed the new explosive after a series of experiments in Sweden in the 1860s, adding to humankind’s arsenal an easily usable—and profoundly destructive—weapon. Fenian terrorists in Ireland were among the first to use it.

When his brother Ludvig died in 1888, Nobel got a copy of the newspaper to see what was said about his brother. He was shocked to discover that a dreadful error had been made. The death notice he was reading was not for his brother Ludvig—but for Alfred himself!

Calling him a “merchant of death,” his premature obituary went on to say: “Dr. Alfred Nobel, who became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before, died yesterday.”

Nobel was devastated. He quickly realized that if his obituary was to be rewritten, he would have to do it himself by changing the nature of his life.

So Alfred Nobel did just that.

When he signed his last will and testament, he set aside the bulk of his estate to establish the Nobel Prizes, to be awarded annually without distinction of nationality. After taxes and bequests to individuals, Nobel’s will allocated 94% of his total assets for that specific purpose—more than 31.2 million Swedish kronor!

Alfred Nobel died on the 10th of December in 1896, and the first Nobel Prizes were awarded in December of 1901—including the first-ever Nobel Peace Prize. According to the terms of his will, the Peace Prize is awarded to the person who in the preceding year “shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.”

I dare say that Alfred Nobel is better known today for his contribution to peace than for any other thing he did in his life. And the fact that he provided for several categories of awards—covering fields like chemistry, physics, medicine, and literature … this points to a broader understanding of peace.

For the old Swedish industrialist, “peacemaking” was about much more than simply telling nations to lay down their arms—it encompassed all those areas of human endeavour which improve and enrich our earthly existence. In fact, it was very much like the idea of shalom.

Shalom is a Hebrew word meaning “peace.” However, it is a conception of peace that implies and presupposes a wide range of other ideas, such as harmony, wholeness, prosperity, health, tranquility, divine justice, compassion, and—especially—completeness. Certainly, it describes a state of affairs where there is no dispute or conflict—but shalom is about much more than that.

When Jesus calls the peacemakers blessed, it’s because they follow in his footsteps. It’s not peacemaking that causes us to be children of God; it’s being children of God that causes us to be peacemakers.

When we love God, we are drawn into God’s family business. And the family business is shalom—real peace, the restoration of all things into the shalom of God’s love.

It occurs to me that when we gather on a day like this one to remember and give thanks for the sacrifices that others have made on our behalf, we are in very large part honouring their hope. It also seems to me that this was—and is—a hope of shalom. Not simply a hope of victory, or hope merely for the cessation of war, but something much grander and larger: hope for a better world—for a freer and more just and more humane world. That is what so many fought and died for—and it is that for which so many more continue to struggle, even to this present day.

Our part, if we would be peacemakers, is to honour their hope by taking up their cause—taking up their quarrel with the foes of freedom and justice and peace. To do that, we must become planters of shalom.

Few of us will ever be in a position to champion world peace in such a high-profile manner as did Alfred Nobel. However, we are called to strive for peace in small ways as well as big ones. We are called to plant the seeds of peace wherever God has planted us.

Therefore, my friends, let us seek the good of all our neighbours—whether they be homeless persons in our great cities, or frightened refugees newly arrived in our midst; whether they are starving children on another continent or the working poor who rely upon our food banks to feed their own children.

The legacy of those whom we honour this day is a legacy of hope—hope for a better future. It is a legacy of shalom for all humankind. It is a brilliant torch. Let’s hold it high.

For out of Zion shall go forth instruction, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more … come, let us walk in the light of the Lord! (Isaiah 2:3b-4, 5b)

All Saints’ Day

TEXT: Luke 20:27-38

Some Sadducees, those who say there is no resurrection, came to [Jesus] and asked him a question, “Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies, leaving a wife but no children, the man shall marry the widow and raise up children for his brother. Now there were seven brothers; the first married, and died childless; then the second and the third married her, and so in the same way all seven died childless. Finally the woman also died. In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had married her.” (Luke 20:27-33)

Most likely, the Sadducees’ question leaves modern readers scratching their heads. So let me try to unpack it.

Here’s what’s going on.

Jesus’ journey toward the cross is nearing its conclusion. He has already entered Jerusalem—riding his little donkey—as the multitudes waved palm branches and shouted, “Hosanna!”

He has already overturned the tables of the merchants in the Temple courts, accusing the money-changers and the sacrifice-sellers of turning his Father’s house into “a den of robbers” (Luke 19:46).

Now he has taken up residence in the Temple, teaching there “daily,” as Luke tells us (19:47).

And he has made some powerful enemies.

Among them are many from the religious party known as the Sadducees. The Sadducees did not believe in resurrection, and the bizarre question they put to Jesus is intended not only to ridicule the idea, but to make Jesus himself look silly. It’s almost like a political debate!

However, Jesus answers the question so well that the Sadducees are dumbstruck by the astuteness of his answer.

But who were the Sadducees? And why were they so opposed to Jesus?

Here’s a short history lesson.

The Sadducees had primary authority over the Temple. They recognized as fully authoritative only the original five “books of Moses”—called the Pentateuch.  Because the resurrection is not referenced in those first five books, the Sadducees poured scorn upon it.

What was their problem with Jesus? Well, remember that incident I alluded to earlier, when he denounced the merchants and money-changers in the Temple? The Sadducees would have seen this as an attack on the sacrificial system—and by extension, a challenge to their own authority. So they were looking for a way to discredit Jesus.

The law they referenced—called “levirate marriage”¹ comes from the Book of Deuteronomy (25:5-10). It was intended to ensure the preservation of one’s family name by stipulating that a man should marry the childless widow of his brother. The question is hypothetical, meant to take an ancient practice to the extreme in order to show that the whole idea of resurrection was foolish.

Jesus upends their trap by making two moves. First, he demonstrates their failure to understand the resurrection. Contrary to the assumption betrayed by their question, resurrection life is qualitatively different from life here and now. Second—by using another passage from the Pentateuch—he demonstrates their failure to understand the Scriptures.

Referencing the story in Exodus (3:1-6) of Moses’ encounter with God in the burning bush, Jesus establishes the validity—and indeed, the certainty—of life after death.

The passage declares that God is—present tense—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. It doesn’t say he was their God; it says he is their God. Therefore, Jesus concludes, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob must somehow still be alive; hence, the necessity of resurrection.

As for the question—as for all our questions—about precisely what resurrection life is going to be like … Perhaps deliberately, neither Jesus nor any other voice in Scripture goes into much detail.

The Bible does caution us, however, against confusing resurrection with immortality.

The “immortality of the soul” is a Greek idea. It theorizes that some spiritual element of a person continues beyond the physical death of the body.

The Hebrew concept of resurrection, however, insists that the whole person will in some way be united with God.²

It is the whole person—not just some wispy essence—that God promises to redeem. We do, in fact, die—there is no escaping that. But because of the One who died on the cross and was raised again from death, we live and die with the promise that God will similarly raise us from death to new life where—in the words of Jesus—we “cannot die … because [we] are like angels and are children of God, being children of the resurrection” (Luke 20:36).

It seems to me that this is what we are called to celebrate on All Saints’ Day. We are children of the resurrection. And resurrection is a truth we apprehend through faith.

In the Letter to the Hebrews, faith is defined in this way: “… faith is being sure we will get what we hope for.  It is being sure of what we cannot see” (Heb. 11:1, NLV).

That’s Hebrews chapter 11, verse one. Actually the entire 11th chapter of Hebrews is an ode to faith—as well as a celebration of saints.

Here’s your homework: go read the 11th chapter of the Letter to the Hebrews. For now, I’ll give you a synopsis.

In the King James Version, verse one is rendered thus: “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

Then follows a long list of Old Testament “saints”—beginning with Abel and ending with the prophet Samuel, with 14 names in between.

“By faith Abel offered to God a more acceptable sacrifice … he died, but through his faith he still speaks.” (11:4)

“By faith Noah, being warned by God … constructed an ark …” (11:7)

“By faith Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac …” (11:17)

“By faith Moses … refused to be called a son of Pharaoh’s daughter, choosing rather to share ill-treatment with the people of God than to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of sin.” (11:24-25)

A total of 16 names are listed, all of them long-dead faith-heroes from Israel’s history—people whose lives were distinguished by their triumphant faith in God.

Then, right at the beginning of chapter 12, there’s this famous verse: “… since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us … lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run the race with endurance …” (Heb. 12:1, ESV).

“All these many people who have had faith in God are around us like a cloud” (Heb. 12:1, NLV).

On All Saints’ Day, we contemplate the “great cloud of witnesses” which surrounds us—that is, all of the people of faith who have gone before us, who now stand before the throne of God, joining with us in worship as we gather here.

And, by the way, in Scripture, the word saint refers to an ordinary believer—like you and me, and all the faithful people we have known, whose lives have touched ours, whose Christian faith has informed our own.

So—besides those high-profile believers whom we usually think of when we hear the word “saint”—we need to remember that there are many, many more people in the “great cloud” whose names are not well-known. 

That’s what All Saints’ Day is about. And that’s why this day is—above all else—a celebration! We celebrate the saints we have known and loved, remembering that we remain connected to all of them, because—whether they are with us in this world or with God in the next world—they, like us, are part of the “Body of Christ” which is his Church.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

_________________

¹ from the Latin levir (“brother in law”)

² see 1 Corinthians 15, especially 35-49.

TEXT: Luke 18:9–14

Not long ago, I had a chance meeting with a church friend I had not seen in several years. I’ll call him Bill. It was the first time I had spoken to Bill since he had left his wife after more than 30 years of marriage. After some superficial chit-chat, and figuring that many people probably thought he was a slimeball for doing such a thing, I asked Bill if he felt socially isolated.

“Only by Christians,” he said.

I admit that I was as tempted as anyone to shoot the wounded. But as soon as he said that, what sprang to my mind was a story from Luke’s gospel (18:9-14).

Two men went up to the temple to pray, Jesus said. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a tax-collector. The Pharisee—who was one of the religious leaders, a fine upstanding man—prayed like this: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people—not even like this tax-collector. I fast. I tithe. God, I’m good!”

The tax-collector, though … Well, he stood far off. He would not even look up to heaven, but was pounding his chest and saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”

And Jesus said that it was the tax collector—and not the Pharisee—who went home justified … the slimeball, and not the saint. “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

By contrasting the two characters in this story as polar opposites, Jesus sets in bold relief two ways of being religious—one of which is death-dealing, the other of which is life-giving.

The Pharisee was religiously righteous. The tax man was an extortionist for the Roman oppressors. The religious expert was smug, sanctimonious, and confident. The outsider was anxious, insecure and timid. The saint paraded into the temple, while the sinner stood at a distance as if his physical separation from the temple expressed his alienation from God. The righteous man stood up. The sinful man looked down.

In an act of incredible narcissism, the Pharisee prayed loudly about himself. The tax collector could barely pray at all. The Pharisee puffed out his chest in pride; the publican beat his chest in sorrow.

As in so many Jesus stories that subvert conventional wisdom, the parabolic punch line culminates with a reversal: the respectable, reputable believer—so competent and accomplished, the one who had done everything right … He was rejected! Whereas the vile sinner—contemptible, inadequate, and untrustworthy … He went home justified before God!

I know the Pharisees get a rough ride in the gospels. However, for the most part, they weren’t bad people. It would be hard to imagine a more earnest, conscientious, religious person than the Pharisee. He prayed often, he fasted regularly, and he gave generously to help the needy. His spiritual discipline was rigorous. But, in the case of this Pharisee in Jesus’ story, the man made two tragic mistakes in his religious life—one about himself, and one about other people—the combination of which is poison to authentic spirituality. Two mistakes.

First, the Pharisee looked down on everybody else. And I think that’s a temptation for most of us. Contempt for others does lurk in the human heart; at least it does in mine, bubbling up all too easily:

“Why can’t that guy get a job like everybody else?”

“Where did he get that ridiculous tattoo?”

“Thank God I’m not as narrow-minded as she is.”

Sounds like junior high, doesn’t it? We imagine that by disparaging others we validate ourselves—or that at least we may compare favorably. To disparage someone like my friend Bill as a sanctimonious hypocrite might feel good, but that’s a slippery slope that Jesus warns us to avoid.

We harm people when we disrespect them. We harm ourselves, too, when we try to boost our own egos by tearing others down.

As the Book of James (3:2) says: “All of us make many mistakes.” What we need when we stumble and fail is not moral condescension but human compassion—not humiliation but empathy, not shame but hope.

True saints have always realized this. In the seventh century, Maximos the Confessor wrote: “The person who has come to know the weakness of human nature has gained experience of divine power. Such a person never belittles anyone … He knows that God is like a good and loving physician who heals with individual treatment each of those who are trying to make progress.”

The flip-side of condescension toward others is justification of yourself. This was the Pharisee’s second mistake. The Pharisee thanked God that he was “not like other people”—a thief, a rogue, or an adulterer. His religious narcissism was a form of spiritual self-justification, of which there are almost endless expressions. It’s scary to think about the many ways we try to justify ourselves before God, to others, and to our own selves.

We’ll invoke almost anything to justify ourselves—intelligence, education, wealth, achievement, athletic ability, politics, careers. A common form of self-justification invokes your postal code (“Where do you live?”), insinuating that net worth is a reliable index of self-worth. Ethical self-justification assures me that, “I am better than the next person.”

At one time or another—and to a greater or lesser degree—I’ve tried each of these versions of self-justification, and let me tell you: they don’t work! Society is relentless in demanding proofs and justifications from us, and it’s easy to take the bait, because living without self-justification makes you feel vulnerable and exposed.

But when you think about it, living without self-justification is extraordinarily liberating. As soon as you accept the fact that you are accepted—accepted by a good and loving God—you no longer have to prove yourself.

“Accept the fact that you are accepted.” But how do we get there? How do we reach that place of acceptance? Well, Jesus says that we need only seven words—the words uttered by the tax collector as he stood at a distance and stared at the ground: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

The moment we speak those words and cast our unadorned selves upon God, we experience God’s love—a love without conditions or limits.

“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Correctly understood, and spoken from the heart, that’s the most important prayer anyone can ever say; and—in a sense—it’s the only prayer you’ll ever need. Why? Because it proceeds from an honest appraisal of our human condition, and—more importantly—from confidence in the character of a God who welcomes the sinner as well as the saint.

A century ago, the British evangelist George Campbell Morgan commented on a line from the Book of Ephesians (2:10), which in the King James Version speaks about us being God’s “workmanship” (“For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works …”). Here’s what Morgan wrote:

We are God’s workmanship. That is where the song of hope and comfort begins. I would be frightened of the first, because when I say I am his I am not talking for effect; I am talking out of my life, deeply. Even today I say I belong to him, and I am almost ashamed because I do not feel there is anything worth his possessing in me. But wait a minute—we are his workmanship! That means he is working on us. There is the suggestion in it of artistic beauty. We are his workmanship, not yet perfected, but in process. [Stanley I. Stuber and Thomas Curtis Clark, editors, Treasury of the Christian Faith, New York: Association Press, 1949; p. 472.]

The tax-collector does not plead his good works, but the mercy of God in forgiving his sin. The mercy of God, who sees not simply what the man now is, but also what he can be—what he will be, for God is working on him. And so the sinner returns home, justified before God. Justified! In other words, God reckons him to be righteous. His sins are forgiven, and he is credited with righteousness—not his own, but the righteousness which God gives him.

God knows his own intention for him, and regards him in that knowledge—the knowledge that a new creation has begun, and will progress to completion. This is, it seems to me, the essential meaning of that theological term “justification”—and it is also the heart of the Christian gospel. Thanks be to God, who sees us not only as we are, but also as we shall be, through the working of his Spirit. Hallelujah! And amen.

TEXTS:  2 Timothy 3:14-4:5 and Luke 18:1-8

All Scripture is breathed out by God and is profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness. (2 Timothy 3:15-16)

So Paul wrote to Timothy—his friend, his pupil, his fellow-worker for the cause of Christ. Now, Timothy is an interesting character.

The son of a Jewish mother and a Greek father, Timothy was a native of Lystra, a town in Galatia, in modern-day Turkey. He probably became a Christian when Paul came through Lystra on his first missionary journey. His mother also became a Christian, although exactly when is unclear.

The Bible tells us that Timothy was a young man, and also that he was rather timid by nature. Nevertheless, Paul must have seen some leadership qualities in Timothy, and he encouraged his young friend to develop them.

Paul included Timothy in his group of missionaries, an apprenticeship that eventually led to Timothy becoming a leader of the Christians in Ephesus (some say he was in fact the bishop of that city). In today’s epistle reading, Paul’s words of encouragement to Timothy are forceful and bold. He says: “preach the word; be ready in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and exhort … be sober-minded, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry.” (2 Tim. 4:2, 5)

That’s challenging advice for someone who was by nature neither forceful nor bold!  Where would Timothy find the wisdom and the courage to “reprove, rebuke, exhort,” and “do the work of an evangelist?” Paul has already answered that question : “… continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus.” (3:14-15)

All the courage and wisdom Timothy needs, according to Paul, can be found in the “sacred writings”—the Hebrew Scriptures which Timothy learned on his mother’s knee. And then Paul adds this: “All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the [servant] of God may be competent, equipped for every good work” (3:16-17).

“All Scripture is breathed out by God.” Inspired by God, in other words. The study of Scripture, Paul says, is invaluable for the purpose of teaching, and correcting, and training disciples to be “competent” and “equipped for every good work.”

“All Scripture is inspired by God.” When Paul wrote those words, he could not have anticipated the controversy they would provoke amongst future generations of Christians. Nor, perhaps, would he have imagined that before long his own writings would be considered Holy Writ. For Paul (as for Timothy) the “Scriptures” consisted of the Torah—the books of the Law—and the writings of the Hebrew prophets. The New Testament did not yet exist, and while the apostolic letters were respected and read out loud in worship, they were likely not regarded as inspired Scripture. Not yet, anyway. No matter. They would be considered scriptural soon enough. And so, when Paul wrote what he did about Scripture being “breathed by God,” he started a controversy that has dogged the church for centuries: what do we mean when we say that Scripture is “inspired?”

How do scholars answer that question? Some say the Biblical authors had a sophisticated understanding of how to communicate truth through story-telling. To be sure, Jesus of Nazareth was a master of this craft. Consider his words from today’s gospel lesson (for Proper 24, Ordinary 29, Year C).

“In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor respected man. And there was a widow in that city who kept coming to him and saying, ‘Give me justice against my adversary.’ For a while he refused, but afterward he said to himself, ‘Though I neither fear God nor respect man, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will give her justice, so that she will not beat me down by her continual coming.’”

In order to understand Jesus’ teaching about prayer in the parable about the widow and the unjust judge, it’s not necessary to believe that Jesus was speaking about factual events in the lives of real people whom he had met.

Indeed, the parable itself is almost certainly fictional—a teaching story, or sermon illustration. But that hardly matters, does it? Its teachings about God, and about perseverance … these are the truths Jesus wanted to tell.

Certain scholars have a view of inspiration that does not depend upon God having dictated every word of Scripture for the human authors to record. They argue that the biblical writers reported events and presented ideas as best they could—often incorporating insights that became clear to them only after the passage of time.

Others insist that there is no metaphor in the Bible—that every word of Scripture is literally and historically true, coming straight from the mouth of God to the pen of the inspired writer. They feel that, unless every verse of the Bible is inerrant, none of it can be trusted!

This latter type of reasoning can be dangerous—not only to your credibility, but also to your health! Consider what you might be led into if you take literally these words of Jesus, recorded in the final chapter of Mark’s Gospel:

“And these signs will accompany those who believe: in my name they will cast out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up serpents with their hands; and if they drink any deadly poison, it will not hurt them …” (Mark 16:17-18).

Or even this advice from Jesus, from the fifth chapter of Matthew: “If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away … And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away” (Matt. 5:29-30).

Jesus of Nazareth was a powerful speaker who loved to use hyperbole and exaggeration—and even absurdity and sarcasm—to make his point. Probably, this was part of his charisma, and the people who flocked to hear him certainly knew his reputation. In any event, there’s no record of any of Jesus’ hearers gouging out their own eyes or chopping off their own hands! But they surely understood the point he was trying to make: “If anything is an obstacle to your faith in God—no matter what it is—get rid of it!”

But those of us who never heard Jesus speak or saw him in person are left, really, with only the words that were written about him in the New Testament. And, let’s face it: many of us are inclined to take things quite literally—especially when it comes to “God-talk.”

It’s not simply that we take the words of Jesus literally. We tend to do that with all of Scripture. Sometimes, we even go a step further, and jump to a conclusion that is not explicitly stated in the passage. Take, for example, the 17th chapter of Leviticus, which forbids the eating of blood. There are those who—on the basis of that passage—refuse to accept life-saving blood transfusions on the grounds that such therapy offends the will of God.

We may think such an attitude is extreme, but the question asked by literalists remains important: “Is the Bible true, or not?”

Years ago, I had a most amazing professor. She was one of the people who taught me how to interpret Biblical texts.

One time, she was supposed to deliver a lecture about “Biblical Inspiration and the Authority of Scripture.” So, of course, she brought a drip coffee-maker and a carafe full of water into the classroom. She also had a tin of coffee and some white paper filters.

“The pure Word of God,” she began, “is like the clear water in this jug. It is so clear, so pure—and so commonplace—that we can easily fail to notice it. In fact, if you’re used to drinking other things, plain water can seem kind of boring.

“So, we try to make it more interesting,” she said. Pouring the water into the coffee-maker, she placed a filter into the basket, and dropped a scoop of coffee into it.

Then she flipped the power switch, and water began to pour through into the carafe, as she continued lecturing (if you can call what she did “lecturing.” I think it was much better than that).

“The Bible,” she said, “is kind of like this coffee-maker. As the water pours through the grounds in the filter, it picks up some things that it didn’t have before.

“Some of the stuff it picks up is very good—like the rich flavor and delicious aroma of coffee. Even the colour of coffee is attractive to me,” she said.

“However,” she continued, “some of the stuff the water picks up is not so good—like dioxins and furans from the bleached paper filter. The coffee grounds also put some not-so-great things into the water—like volatile oils and chemical compounds that may be carcinogenic. And caffeine, of course, which is certainly addictive.”

When the water had all poured through, she paused and poured herself a cup of coffee, which she then proceeded to drink.

“The Word from God,” she said, “is like pure water—clear, but hard to see—and easy to overlook. In order for us to see it, and learn from it, it had to pass through a human filter. That’s what the Biblical authors were—filters. The Word passed through them so that we could drink it in.

“But—just as the water picks up some characteristics from the coffee grounds and the filter—the Word of God revealed in Scripture picked up some of the characteristics of the human filters it passed through.

“And some of that was very good—like Luke’s elegant prose, or Paul’s impeccable reasoning, or the bold and compelling messages of the prophets, or the exquisite poetry of the Song of Songs.

“But some of it was not so good—like the personal biases of male writers who under-valued the spiritual gifts of women, or blamed the Jews for the death of Jesus. “And some of it, “she said, “was neither good nor bad—but still influenced how the biblical message was framed. “For example, the Bible-writers thought the sky was like an inverted bowl covering the flat earth; that’s what they believed, and you have to bear that in mind when you read certain passages.”

After she was finished with her lecture, we all had coffee. Or at least, a few of us did. I was first in line. And as we drank our coffee and reflected upon the story she had told us …

Well, it was like a light was switched on, for many of us. Finally, we got it! The words upon the Scriptural page certainly do contain the Word of God—that eternal, unchangeable, creative Truth which speaks to human hearts, if they are open to it. However, because this divine Word speaks to us using human words, it is no longer as simple or as transparent as it was in the beginning. Even so, it is presented to us in a form that we can access—in words that we can see and hear and think about.

Is the Bible true? Of course it is.

Is the truth of the Bible perfectly revealed through the earthly language and human ideas of its human authors? Of course it isn’t. If they never made mistakes, if they did not have a limited world-view—if they did not add their own unique “flavours” and “colours” to the savoury brew we call “inspired Scripture”—then they would not have been human authors!

Especially when it comes to reporting on historical events, human authors—human lecturers, journalists, story-tellers … preachers … we do the best we can. The story I just told you is an example of that. For the sake of telling it, I’ve presented it as a kind of “quote-for-quote” monologue. Know what I mean? It sounds like I sat in the room and took notes … which I did …

But that lecture took place more than 30 years ago. I’ve long since misplaced the notes I took that day—and they would have been scribbled and incomplete, at best. So, when I tell that story about my prof and her coffee-maker, I do my utmost to recall her words from memory. However … it’s not like watching a video—or listening to an audio transcript—of her talk. I think Scripture—especially the gospels—are very much like that.

So—for us ordinary folk who read Scripture and scratch our heads—I think the message is this: Persevere!

Accept the challenge of uncovering the Bible’s eternal truth. Read it intelligently—but also read it and ponder it and share it with humility, trusting in the Holy Spirit to guide you, and acknowledging both the limits of human understanding and the grandeur of human expression.

Trust me—it is worth it!

 

Thanksgiving Sunday

TEXT: John 6:24-35

Jesus answered them, “Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life …” (John 6:26-27a)

Here’s a question for Thanksgiving Sunday: What motivates you? What moves you to act—to do something—when you otherwise might not?

Well, we’d all like to think that we’re motivated by noble ideals, or a sense of duty, or a higher purpose. And sometimes we are, I guess. But our human nature seems to result—often—in us being motivated most powerfully by self-interest.

Once upon a time, I was part of an organization that was trying really hard to get people interested in coming to our meetings. It seemed like the only good time to get people to attend was during lunch … but we weren’t drawing much interest. What to do?

What we did do, finally, was this: we decided that we would use our organization’s budget to offer everybody a free lunch! And before we knew it, we had a regular, steady attendance at our meetings. Maybe at this point, I should go ahead and admit that this was a ministerial association, and the meetings were aimed at pastors … I guess maybe all preachers love a free lunch!

In any event, the free lunch seemed to be the trick to make people show up. And maybe it’s not just preachers who are like this. Don’t we all like to feel we’re getting a little something extra in life? Deals motivate us. We’re attracted by anything we think is a bargain. We love the free gifts—the bonus items that businesses will give away just to make us choose their product or service over others. Credit-card companies, for example, compete by offering “joining gifts”—like 1,000 free air miles for opening an account, or a free tote bag. Some department stores will give you a special holiday teddy bear if you spend a certain amount on shopping.

And you know what? Those tricks work! We love to grab something extra, to get a bargain. And that feeling—that rush—of getting something for nothing … that motivates us. Doesn’t it?

The crowds in our gospel lesson today are also motivated by the prospect of getting a little something extra. Sure, they would follow Jesus around, and listen to his teachings and preaching. But there was always the prospect of getting a little something extra. Perhaps a cure for a stubborn ailment … perhaps something else.

In the passage just before this one, Jesus had really wowed them. John’s gospel tells us that a large crowd had been following Jesus because they saw the miracles of healing that he was doing. Some 5,000 of them had gathered, and they were hungry. So what did Jesus do?

Well, I’m sure you know the story: with five barley loaves and two fish, he managed to feed them all. Five thousand people had enough to eat because of Jesus—and there were 12 basketfuls left over!

Apparently, this new bonus prize of getting free food from Jesus was a huge motivating factor—because, after Jesus and his disciples row across Lake Galilee to get away from these people … they find boats of their own and follow them! They go all the way to Capernaum to find the one who had provided them with such a great meal.

They want to keep tabs on this guy. So when they get to the other side of the sea and locate Jesus, they’re interested in pinning down his plans and his schedule. “Rabbi,” they ask, “when did you come here?”

Jesus sees their heightened interest in his movements for what it is: pure self-seeking opportunism. He says to the crowds, “Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.”

Then he challenges them: “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.” Jesus wants them to understand that he has something better—something deeper, and more completely filling, than any free meal they could ever get.

But they don’t understand. They want to know how they can do such miracles, too. They ask, “What must we do to perform the works of God?”

They want to know what they have to put in. They want to know the terms of the agreement: what they have to do in order to get the reward again—the bonus. They want Jesus to explain the details.

He answers them by saying: “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.”

They still don’t get it. “What sign are you going to give us then,” they ask, “so that we may see it and believe you?”

If Jesus insists on them believing in him—but won’t teach them how to do his tricks—maybe they can get him to do another sign, and get something more out of him. And—perhaps trying to tempt Jesus into a bit of a miracle-performing competition—they remind him that, with Moses in the wilderness, their ancestors got daily manna from heaven (see Exodus 16:2-4a, 9-15).

Can Jesus top that?

It reminds me a bit of the TV commercial that says you can have banks competing over who gets to give you a loan. The crowds are trying to work out a similar deal. What is Jesus gonna give them to claim status as their Saviour? How hard is he willing to work for it?

But Jesus is having none of this. He quickly puts things in perspective, reminding them that it was not Moses who provided the manna, but God who gives true bread from heaven. And this true bread isn’t just a tasty meal. No. The true bread from heaven gives life to the world.

Here, finally, is an offer the crowd is ready to accept. “Sir,” they say, “give us this bread always.”

So Jesus lays it out for them: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” If that’s the offer on the table, who needs a free tote bag on top of all that?

In the rest of this chapter, Jesus continues to talk with them about this bread—but it’s not an easy concept, apparently. In today’s reading, we can clearly see the confusion of the crowds as they ask question after question. They’re looking for the best deal they can get, and when Jesus offers them the very best, they start to look for loopholes! They wonder what exactly the fine print will bind them to. They’re wary of agreeing to anything where they have to give what they don’t want to give—or where they get less than they came for.

We certainly can relate to this attitude, can’t we? In the marketplace, as consumers, we are wary of getting taken in. And—no matter how much we want that bonus gift—we won’t accept it, if it sounds too good to be true. We’re wary consumers, motivated by the desire for the best deal, the best bargain … but we’re suspicious and hesitant, too.

And you know, I think we have this same dilemma when it comes to matters of faith. Our motivations for seeking out a relationship with God are many and varied. What is your motive, if you are totally honest with yourself?

Hopefully, for all of us—some of the time, at least—our motive for seeking God is the desire to fill the deepest longings of our hearts with this grace and love that God is offering. But sometimes—maybe for all of us—our motives are completely different. We are sometimes motivated by guilt and regret because of things we wish we had not done. Sometimes we’re motivated by a need to belong to a community, to have a social circle, to have the companionship that comes with belonging to a congregation. Sometimes we’re motivated by a sense of obligation.

There are many circumstances that can bring us to a time and place where we seek God’s presence in our lives. Some of them are more pure—and some of them are more selfish. 

Fortunately, God is both good and gracious. No matter what less-than-perfect motives get us into God’s house, or bring us to God’s table, or open us up to God’s message, God is still willing to give us the best of the best—the best offer, the best gift. No matter why the crowds came to Jesus—and no matter what would have been the ideal motive for their seeking him out—Jesus still offered himself to them as the bread of life. He still offered them life-giving bread, no matter what brought them to him that day. And this gift is still being offered to us, my friends. In Christ we find an offer of full, complete, abundant life—right now. It’s ours for the taking—free of charge—no matter why we’ve come. There are no other conditions upon this offer of salvation; all we have to do is accept it.

You can react like a suspicious shopper, if you want. You can scrutinize the offer as closely as you like. You’ll discover there’s no fine print; no shipping and handling charges; no “while supplies last.” There’s just a gift, freely offered, for you—you, whom God loves.

Surely, that is reason for thanksgiving!

 

World Communion Sunday

TEXTS: Psalm 137 and Luke 17:5-10

The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” (Luke 17:5-6)

There is so much to do. “Lord, increase our faith.” There are so many problems. “Lord, increase our faith.”

Today, we live in a world of decreased faith. The problems on all fronts seem to be escalating. We’re fighting wars … well, everywhere… while nervously keeping watch for terrorist attacks here at home. Crime is on the rise, and our society is becoming more violent. Mass shootings are now commonplace—even in Canada! Drugs have infiltrated our elementary schools. Sex has become a spectator sport. Militant atheism appears to be everywhere, and attendance at worship services continues to plummet. Everything is in crisis. At least, that’s the way it feels, sometimes.

Along with the disciples, we might be tempted to say, “Increase our faith.” What else can we say? Well, there might be other options. One is to borrow from Psalm 137:

By the rivers of Babylon—

there we sat down and there we wept

when we remembered Zion.

Yes, one option is to remember the past, to long for yesterday. To retreat into nostalgia, in other words. Nostalgia is wonderful. But, you know, we do not always recall the past accurately. There was a country song I remember hearing as a child, “In the good old days when times were bad.” It was never easy in the past. There was disease and warfare and discrimination then, too.

And yet we sometimes think, don’t we, that we are living in some kind of Babylon? As someone has observed, Babylon is no longer in Iraq. Babylon has moved west! Babylon is where we live.

Do you ever think it would be better if life were simpler, like it was in the old days? The people in exile—the people who sang that song about weeping for Zion—they felt that way, too.

In exile—in Babylon, where they hung up their harps on the willow trees—God’s people said to one another: “Remember the old days? Remember when we all went to the temple together, and observed the Sabbath, and ate kosher meals, and worshipped the God of our ancestors?”

The people in exile realized that the world as they had known it had come to an end. Maybe ours has, too. The old has passed away. But now, what are we left with? A new world? Perhaps a new world that we are only beginning to discover. It is a strange place, and often, a frightening one. So we find ourselves asking: What is life going to be like in this new world? What will family life be like in 20 years? What will the church look like in 20 years? What will our city look like in 20 years?

If our eyes are open to the world around us, we have some options. We can ask for more faith, or we can cling to the past. Or, there is another option: we can give up. This is despair. Sadly, some Christians choose this option—it is the option behind the Left Behind series of books. It says that God is not going to fix the brokenness of this world; it’s all going to come to an end, and some are simply going to be “left behind.”

So there are these choices before us. We can long for the world of the past, for life the way it used to be. We can give up, and hope that we’ll be raptured. Or we can ask the Lord, “Increase our faith.” How are we going to live in this world?

“Increase our faith,” the disciples ask Jesus. He responds, “If you had just a little faith, you would be able to do amazing things … if you had faith the size of a mustard seed.”

Now, at first glance, it sounds like Jesus is putting them down, doesn’t it? But if we look closer, we see that something else is going on. I’m no Greek scholar, but I certainly have access to people who are—and they tell me that the meaning of verse six is more like this: “If you had just the faith the size of a mustard seed—and you do! You do have faith.”

That makes more sense, to me. The disciples are asking Jesus to increase their faith—as if they didn’t have any. But Jesus knows that his disciples do have faith. Earlier, he sent them out into the villages of the region he was in, and they came back rejoicing, saying, “Lord, in your name even the demons submit to us” (Luke 10:17). Jesus knew they already had sufficient faith—even if it was only the size of a mustard seed.

Are you familiar with the saying of Mother Teresa? She said, “Our calling is not to do great things, but to do small things with great love.” Our gospel lesson might be saying something like that to us: we do not need more faith; we need to use the faith that we have!

This coming Sunday—October 6, 2019—Christians everywhere will observe World Communion Sunday. On World Communion Sunday, we reflect on the faith that we have. Surely, this faith helps us to see a power that can overcome any obstacles. Surely, this faith helps us to know a love that can overcome any divisions. Surely, this faith helps us to discover an abundance that can overcome any scarcity.

It’s true that often we see mostly obstacles, and divisions, and scarcity. Sometimes it feels like we are singing the Lord’s song in a strange and hostile land.

And so we pray, “Increase our faith.” And Jesus replies, “You already have enough faith. Put it into practice.”

“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

The teaching of Jesus projects a vivid image. If you plant a sapling in the ground, you expect it to grow. But planting it in the sea?

Perhaps the meaning here is that God works in all kinds of circumstances, among all types of people, in all kinds of situations. God works even in the midst of people like you and me—however weak we think our faith is.

That’s an important truth to consider, on World Communion Sunday. The needs of the world are so vast—even right here, right where we are. Yet the world extends beyond us, to those who are among the neediest of our brothers and sisters across this planet. We think about devastating floods and earthquakes, of famine and genocide. We think of those who suffer the ravages of warfare—on both sides of every conflict—and we remember families who mourn the deaths of their loved ones.

On World Communion Sunday, we think more deeply about our connection with the church around the world. Today, God’s people are meeting in cathedrals and in private homes. Today, God’s people are gathered as persecuted congregations and as established state churches—as Pentecostal and Catholic; as Evangelical and as Orthodox; as Anabaptist and as Reformed. All are expressions of Christ’s body. All are the fruit of the great commission, that Jesus would be with us to the end of the earth (Matthew 28:18-20). And so he is.

He is with us wherever there is faith—even faith the size of a mustard seed. He is with us in a great processional choir, and he is with us as a few faithful souls gather to sing in a small country chapel. He is with us as an aging woman who is no longer physically able to attend services, and he is with us as a young adult who has been burned by some bad church experience. Jesus is with us wherever there is faith—even faith the size of a mustard seed.

He is alive wherever Christians practice the faith that they already have. It is not so much that we need more! It is that we need to use what we already have!

There is something here that relates to our human nature and goes against the grain. We want more, don’t we? Isn’t that one of the first words a child learns to say: “More?”

I saw a documentary some time ago in which the fast-food cashier asked every customer, “Would you like to super-size that?” And most people would respond, without thinking, “Yes!”

Our spiritual logic tends to work like this: The world is a mess. We believe in God. We believe God wants us to do something. The solution? Increase our faith!

However, our prayer might be simpler, more grounded in a reality to which Jesus points: we don’t need more faith. We need to use the faith that we already have.

The good news, the promise of Jesus, is that even if we plant a tree in the midst of the ocean, it will grow. A small act of faith will work wonders.

On World Communion Sunday, 2019:

• Let the Christians across this planet pledge to live out the gospel they preach.
• Let the Christians across this planet pledge to share with all people the good news about Jesus Christ.
• Let the Christians of this world let go of divisions and judgmentalism.
• Let the Christians of the world forgive.

Friends, we don’t need to do great things. We need to do small things with great love. We don’t need more faith. We need to use the faith we already have!

Through the grace of God, by the power of the Spirit, may it be so.

TEXT: Luke 16:19-31

“The rich man and Lazarus”—one of the better-known parables of Jesus, I would guess. Whether you consider yourself rich or poor, this one sticks in your mind. And, truth to tell, many of us (perhaps most of us) really don’t like it when Jesus talks about money—or at least, about how we use it.

Trouble is, Jesus does a lot of talking about money. Reading through the gospels, we can’t help but notice that the Lord has a great deal to say regarding wealth and poverty.

First of all, there is the renowned “Blessed are the poor” statement in Matthew (5:3), spoken in the context of the Sermon on the Mount. Then, in chapter 12 of Luke’s gospel, Jesus tells us about a greedy farmer. Do you remember that story? After harvesting a bumper crop, this fellow wanted to retire early (it must have been some huge crop!). His plan was to build the biggest granaries in the country and then do nothing except “eat, drink, [and] be merry” (v. 19) for the remainder of his life—pretty much what some of us imagine we would do if we won the lottery. (“What would you do with 30 million dollars? … “Nothing … ever again!”)

However—perhaps considering how poor some of the man’s neighbours are—God is offended by the farmer’s intentions. How offended? Well, so offended that he calls the guy out. He says: “You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?” (Luke 12:21)

Jesus concludes that parable with the words: “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich towards God.” (Luke 12:21)

Do we get the point yet? Is Jesus saying that wealth is bad and rich people are evil? Let’s not jump to that conclusion. Backtrack to the first half of chapter 16 of Luke. Do you remember it?

Jesus talked about a financial manager who was similarly caught up in materialistic ambitions. This man saw his own economic stability fading because he had squandered the wealth of his employer. Only upon discovering that he was about to lose it all did he become an imaginative and energetic financial whiz. This was due primarily to the fact that—like the man for whom he worked—he had made wealth his true master.

Like I said before, Jesus had a lot to say about money:

• “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be, also” (Matthew 6:21);
• “From the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded” (Luke 12:48b);
• “What will it profit [you] if [you] gain the whole world but forfeit [your] life?” (Matthew 16:26).

In today’s gospel, we meet a rich man and a poor man. These two, along with Abraham, have taken up residence in the afterlife. Yes, it’s that Abraham—the one from the Old Testament.

You remember him. God promised to give Abraham a new land and countless descendants. And because Abraham believed in the promise of God, “the LORD reckoned it to him as righteousness” (Genesis 15:6).

You may also remember that Abraham was fabulously wealthy. The Bible doesn’t state that Abraham was merely rich. No. Instead, it records that Abraham was very rich in silver, cattle and gold (Gen. 13:2). He had so many servants that he was able to form his own army to go into battle (Gen. 14:14)!

As God continued to prosper him, he grew even greater, and God blessed him in every way (Gen. 24:1). In fact, his material wealth grew so large that he and his nephew Lot had to part ways because the land could no longer accommodate both of them (Gen. 13:6). And yet, Abraham walked with God and was called the friend of God (James 2:23).

So, Abraham is both wealthy and righteous. That should make him the perfect choice to act as a mediator between the rich man and Lazarus … or so you might think.

But … like so many of Jesus’ teaching stories, this one turns convention on its head. Here is this famously wealthy Old Testament figure, obviously in a favourable position in the afterlife—and at his elbow sits a man who was previously a beggar in his earthly life. Meanwhile, the man who was rich in his earthly life cannot find any relief.

Now, it needs to be said that this is hyperbole. This is a parable—a teaching story—and these people are characters in that story. Abraham, certainly, was a real, historical person—but the rich man and the pauper are fictional. Jesus may have named the beggar after his own dear friend Lazarus—but the fictional Lazarus was anything but poor.

So, if (like me) you take some satisfaction in seeing this reversal of roles—and in the rich man’s torment—you needn’t feel too guilty.

The rich man, after all, ignored the hunger of others while having plenty of leftovers at home in the fridge. For Lazarus and Abraham to defy the rich man, for them to ignore him—well, that just  seems right to me. At least, until I realize that—compared to most people in the world—I am among the wealthiest.

Still, it seems refreshing (doesn’t it?)—this word about justice—coming from a Jesus who is always preaching about grace?

More importantly, though, a point is being made here about the meaning of discipleship. Following Jesus is not simply about intellectual belief. Despite what many have said, belief in the right God or “correct” doctrine is only part of what it means to have true faith. Jesus presupposes that the one who genuinely knows God will be a person of compassion.

A pastor I know—who had been present as a prayer counselor at an evangelistic rally—told me about one man who, after coming forward to receive Christ, said: “So, I’m good now, right? There’s nothing else I have to do?”

Taken aback for a moment, my friend replied, “No. You don’t have to do anything else. But you will want to!”

“You will want to.” As the Holy Spirit begins to work in your heart, you will want to do something else. This is the truth about Christianity as presented in the New Testament.

The apostle Paul—in chapter 12 of his letter to the Romans—implies that the renewal of our minds will lead to the transformation of our character.

The Epistle of James emphasizes that “faith without works is … dead” (James 2:26).

And please don’t forget Jesus’ parable about the sheep and the goats. You know it. It’s the one in which he boldly teaches that inasmuch as you have helped or harmed “the least of these” (Matt. 25:40)—the poor among us—you have helped or harmed Christ himself!

Christianity—as described in the Bible—is not about some sort of intellectual assent. It’s not even about some feeling in your heart. No. It is about belief in the sense of being so attached to the truth that it causes you to go out and do something. As James put it, you are to become a doer of the Word, and not just a hearer of it (James 1:22).

Even in Jesus’ time, this understanding of “doing God’s will” was not a new thing. I think this is the point Jesus is trying to make by mentioning Abraham and other Old Testament figures.

Jesus grew up hearing about the spiritual heroes of Jewish faith, and so he can easily envision Abraham saying to the rich man who wanted to “go back” and warn his relatives: “Listen, they have Moses and the prophets … you had Moses and the prophets!”

I can imagine Jesus saying later to his disciples, “Look, some of this is old stuff. It’s tried and true. I’ve just come to fulfill this.”

Jesus knew the Book of Deuteronomy (ch. 15) emphasizes that the rich have a moral responsibility to help the poor. Jesus knew that the prophet Amos portrayed God as relentless in his criticism of the people when they do not care for those in need. And when he began his own ministry, Jesus chose as his mission statement these words from Isaiah:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,


   because he has anointed me


     to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives


   and recovery of sight to the blind,


     to let the oppressed go free,

 
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.” (Luke 4:18-19)

See, here’s the thing: all of Scripture tells us that our faith has to be about more than intellectual affirmation. Faithfulness should extend beyond our front gates.

Lazarus, in his earthly life, slipped right through the cracks—kind of like that old lost coin Jesus spoke about (Luke 15:8-10). Like that coin, Lazarus is found by the great Searcher. Unfortunately, the rich man in Jesus’ story is himself utterly lost—not because of his wealth—but because he did not use it to help others when and where he could have. In other words, he was lost because he had no love. He was not righteous because he was not compassionate.

I know. No matter how you slice it, Jesus’ words today are difficult. Lazarus and the rich man … both of them are caricatures. But they are caricatures we can identify with. And that must surely challenge us. May God use these difficult words to give us a heart for the lost—poor and rich alike.

TEXT: LUKE 16:1-13

Then Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ (Luke 16:1-2)

“The Parable of the Dishonest Manager.” This story—which opens chapter 16 of Luke—poses quite a challenge to preachers. Here, we encounter a dishonest manager who, really, is a pretty shady character. This guy is so terrible at what he does that, eventually—when he is called to account by his master—he cooks the books.

The manager knows that he has done a lousy job. He knows he’s going to get canned. So what does he do? He changes the bottom line on all the debts that are owed to his master. Some he drops by twenty percent, some by as much as fifty percent.

Why? His idea is as simple as it is brilliant. He wants to ingratiate himself to his master’s debtors. He’s betting that—after he gives them these massive discounts—they will gladly welcome him into their homes after he gets fired. And probably, he’s right! Like I said, the manager’s scheme is both simple and brilliant. Of course, it’s also completely unethical, if not downright illegal!

What happens when the master finally hears the story and calls the manager before him? Well … Here’s where things get strange. The master pats the guy on the back! He commends the manager for his shrewdness. Even though he’s become the victim of an outrageous fraud, the master apparently cannot help but admire the guy’s craftiness.

As William Shatner might say: “Is that weird, or what?”

How am I supposed to preach on a text like this? What in the world is Jesus trying to tell us?

Well, first of all, let me tell you that I do not believe Jesus is commending the dishonesty of the manager. I don’t think he’s applauding the guy for being a bad manager, or for cheating his boss. No. I think Jesus is commending the shrewdness of the manager in looking after himself by doing good to those who in turn may be expected to do good to him.

If you think back to other parables that Jesus told, you’ll notice that he often uses the most unsavory characters to illustrate what God is like—and what we should be like. Think about it. Think about the judge who would only give a poor widow justice after she nagged him and pestered him continually.¹  Think about the householder who would not budge from his bed to help out a neighbour until his door was practically broken down.²  Think about the man who found a treasure in someone else’s field and then went out and bought the field so that he could get the profit.³

Each of these examples tells us something important about how we should live our faith, and something important about God. But none of them tell us that God is unjust, or that he is annoyed when we call upon him late at night, or that we should cheat someone on a business deal. No. These stories are trying to tell us, in humorous and interesting ways, that if the reluctant judge can still give justice to the widow—or the grumpy householder can still get up and share his bread in the middle of the night—then how much more will God help us when we appeal to his mercy? And if a man will expend every effort—if he will even cheat—just to obtain a treasure which he has found in someone else’s field, then how much more ought we expend every effort to enter the Kingdom of God?

The point of today’s parable has nothing to do with the manager’s honesty or dishonesty. No. The issue here is: just how shrewd, clever, and committed are we when it comes to our faith? Do we really look after ourselves? Do we really use what we have at hand—in whatever proportion we have it—to the best advantage? Are we as anxious to ensure our future with God as the dishonest manager was to ensure his future in this world? Are we willing to change the bottom line so that, when the time of reckoning comes, there will be a place that welcomes us?

“You cannot serve [both] God and wealth,” Jesus tells us. Actually, I like the way the King James Version puts it: “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” You can’t serve two masters. You have to commit to one or the other.

The parable of the dishonest manager asks us this question: are we, as Christians—as people who profess belief in the living God—really committed to him and to his way? Are we? Are we really committed, really full of faith? Really committed to God, and to God’s purpose for our lives?

How can we tell? How can we know whether we are committed? What shows us whether we serve God or mammon?

One thing we can look at is how we feel about money—and what we do with it. You know, over one-third of Jesus’ parables and sayings concern the relationship between faithfulness and money. Jesus has quite a bit to say about money. Why? Because, when push comes to shove, our loyalties are revealed by what we do with our money and how we feel about it.

Remember the rich young ruler? He had to choose between following Jesus and keeping his money … and he chose his money.⁴ Remember Levi—who left everything and followed Jesus?⁵ Recall the Sermon on the Mount—and the lilies of the field which neither toil nor spin?⁶ Recall the camel and the eye of the needle?⁷ And remember the widow who put everything she had into the Temple treasury?⁸ All of these stories are about loyalty—about what is important to people, about choosing God or mammon.

Jesus ends the parable of the dishonest manager with these words: “the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light. And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.”

Like the dishonest manager, the children of this world will do all that is required to look after themselves. They will use all their money and all their power to get more money and more power. Better yet, if they can, they will use other people’s money and other people’s power to get these things, to ensure their future, to change their own bottom lines.

Jesus is right. The children of this world demonstrate a shrewdness that the children of light often lack. And it seems to me that they have this shrewdness not because they are any smarter than you or I, but because they are more committed. They are only serving one master. Their efforts are not divided, or confused, or lost in the gap that always exists between two masters.

We often fail in our discipleship because we attempt to serve two masters: to serve both God and mammon—both God and wealth. I think this is one of the reasons why so many of us dislike hearing about the problems the church has in raising money, and getting volunteers, and doing work that—on the face of it—only benefits others. We hate to hear this stuff because it makes us feel guilty. It reminds us of our own divided loyalties, of our attempt to have our cake and eat it too.

You know, as Christians, we’re called to use the wealth we have been given for God’s purposes—not just monetary wealth, but our wealth of time and energy, also. We’re supposed to use our wealth to make friends with others, but often we’re stingy in how we use it. We hoard it and protect it for ourselves and our families rather than being generous with it and using it to serve our Lord and Saviour. The results are mediocrity and friendlessness—and empty churches. No matter how you interpret the message of God’s grace, one thing remains true: we reap what we sow—and if we sow sparingly, then the harvest is poor.

I’m sure you’ve all heard that expression that a person ought to “give until it hurts …” Well, it strikes me that if you’re supposed to give until it hurts, then the average Christian has a very low pain threshold! Low, because we regard the wealth we have as our own rather than as a trust from God. Yet, it is a trust from God—a trust given to us so that we might make friends for ourselves and for the Kingdom we’re supposed to be serving.

Look at the energy we devote to cheering for our favorite sports team. Or the passion we devote to the fine arts. Or our enthusiasm for our own personal recreation. Now, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying things like that. The question is: how do we balance these pursuits with our pursuit of God? With our practice of discipleship? Where do we put our efforts? What do we do with our time, our energy, and our money? Who or what are we really serving?

If so many churches today seem lacklustre in their work and witness, maybe it’s because they haven’t been making many friends lately. Maybe it’s because their members have been unwilling to use the resources that God has given them to make themselves more welcome guests in the world out there.

So I think we need to ask ourselves: are we serving God with all the shrewdness and effort and resources that we put into other things in our lives?

The manager who is finally approved by the master is the one who is prepared to invest time, energy, emotion, and money so that the work that he or she is entrusted with succeeds—the one who is willing to change the bottom line in the way that God wants us to change it.

God has already made us into “children of light.” May he also grant us—each one of us—the wisdom and the discernment and the shrewdness to know how to share our blessings for his glory.

____________________________________________________

NOTES:

¹ Luke 18:1-8

² Luke 11:5-13

³ Matthew 11:44

⁴ Matt. 19:16-22; Mark 10:17-22; Luke 18:18-23

⁵ Matt. 9:9; Mark 2:14; Luke 5:27-28

⁶ Matt. 6:28-29; Luke 12:27

⁷ Matt. 19:24; Mark 10:25; Luke 18:25

⁸ Mark 12:41-44; Luke 21:1-4

 

TEXT: Luke 15:1-10

“Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15:10)

If we were to keep reading past verse 10, we would find ourselves in the midst of another famous parable—the one about the lost (or “prodigal”) son.

But consider what prompted Jesus to relate these three stories. Remember how the passage began:

… all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus]. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.” (Luke 15:1-2)

These should be familiar words to all of us who read the Bible—or even, those of us who have a passing acquaintance with the gospel story. Jesus of Nazareth never shunned the company of any person.

Yes, Jesus would teach in the synagogue. Yes, Jesus would accept dinner invitations from the wealthy and the powerful and the pious. But he would also break bread with outcasts and unsavoury people. Jesus dined with tax collectors (who extorted money on behalf of Rome). He associated with prostitutes, rough uncultured fishermen, lepers, Samaritans—and lots of others who would not be welcome in polite society. And the good, religious people—the refined, well-educated, well-meaning, church-going people—were scandalized.

“What kind of rabbi is this,” they asked, “who hangs out with the dregs of society?”

By way of answering that question, Jesus asks two questions of his own:

• “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?” and
• “What woman, having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it?”

His point is hard to miss. If human beings can care that much about livestock or money, how much more diligently will God search for what rightfully belongs to him?

And if human beings can rejoice upon recovering a sheep or a coin, how much more will God rejoice upon recovering a blessed child?

The shepherd does not care where the lost sheep has been. The woman does not care where the lost coin was hiding. Neither does God care about where the lost soul has been. What matters to God, Jesus says, is that the wandering and wayward one has come home at last.

Jesus rejects no one. He does not shrink from the company of sinners, because—if he did—he would be completely alone!

Some years ago, a Roman Catholic priest pointed this out to me: Jesus did not evict Judas Iscariot from his place at the Last Supper.

Not until Judas had received the bread did Jesus say to him: “What you are planning to do, go and do it quickly.”

Jesus rejects no one. We are welcomed by him regardless of who we are, or what we have done. We are welcomed by him even if we are baffled by the things he says and does.

Jesus accepts us not because we are religious, or moral, or instructed, but simply because we are human. If all were welcome at that Passover table in the upper room, then certainly all ought to be welcome at the banquet table in heaven.

Some years ago, during a Confirmation class where we were talking about the Sacrament of Holy Communion, a bright teenager made one of the most amazingly astute observations I’ve ever heard. She said:

“It doesn’t matter how Christ is present in the elements on the table. What’s important is that God’s people are there. That’s where the ‘real presence’ of Christ is—it’s in the people who come to the table!”

Wow. Amen.

How about you? Will you come to the table?