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?

TEXT:  Luke 14:15-24

Who likes a good party?

Me, too! And, you know what? Some people know how to throw a good party! I had a friend named Walter. Not that long ago, his family threw him a 90th birthday bash … and it was an absolute blast!

Oh, sure, maybe Walter got a bit rowdy … But, hey! It was his party!

Kidding aside … Isn’t it a joy—and an honour—to be invited to a party? Isn’t it fun to get together with people, just to enjoy each other’s company? No matter what the occasion—whether it’s a birthday, or a backyard barbeque, or an anniversary, or a wedding reception, or whatever—gathering with friends is one of the great joys of life. Isn’t it?

If you read last week’s post, you may remember that Jesus was at a dinner party.

Jesus was at a Pharisee’s house to enjoy a meal on the Sabbath. In today’s gospel passage, he’s still there. Today, we get to hear the conclusion of the story Luke began telling us last week. Do you recall what happened?

What happened was this: to begin with, Jesus sat back and observed for a while as the other guests jockeyed for the most prominent seats—and as the host welcomed all the high-class big shots whom he hoped would reciprocate with invitations and introductions (I think that’s called “networking”).

So Jesus watched all of this going on … until, apparently, he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he began to lecture all of them about proper etiquette.

To paraphrase, here’s the gist of what he said:

“When you are invited to a banquet, do not sit down at the place of honour. No. Sit down at the lowest place, so your host may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher.’ And when you give a dinner, do not invite your friends, or your family, or your well-to-do neighbors. No. Instead, go scour the gutters of the town, and invite the dregs of the earth—the most wretched people you can find … because there’s no way they can repay you. And remember: those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” (see Luke 14:7-14)

Embarrassing, or what? Who invited this guy? Words of truth do not go over very well when all you’re trying to do is have a good time.

Anyway, Jesus also says that—if you follow his advice about guest lists—you can expect to be “repaid at the resurrection of the righteous” (14:14). Now, this comment causes a light to go on for one of the other guests, who realizes that these words look to the future—to the great Messianic banquet at the end of time. So this fellow exclaims: “Blessed is anyone who will eat bread in the kingdom of God!”

And then things get really interesting, because that comment inspires Jesus to tell a story about another man who threw a party.

Now, here’s something you need to understand: the custom in Jesus’ day was to send out two invitations. The first invitation said, “I’m having a party and you’re invited.” All the guests sent back their RSVPs, saying they were honoured to be invited, and to count on them to come. When the preparations were completed, the host sent out a servant to bring the second invitation, which said, “Come! It’s time. Everything is ready.”

Well, in this story, the unthinkable happens. One after the other, all the guests make feeble excuses. The food and drink has been bought and paid for. The decorations are put up in the hall. The DJ has been hired.

But no one is coming.

Today, when people RSVP and then don’t show up—or when they call at the last minute with an excuse … Well, you might be a little hurt or disappointed—but it’s not that big a deal, right? However, in Jesus’ day, it was very different. To decline after accepting an invitation?That was a terrible insult, an egregious social offense.

Some tribes or families literally went to war over such things! Turning down an invitation could have major consequences. But these slobs don’t care.

The first guest says, “I know I said I would come, but I’m too busy. I just bought a piece of land and I have to go out and see it.”

Sounds a little lame, doesn’t it? How many of you would purchase a piece of property without seeing it first? And besides, could you not go check out the property the following day?  

The second guest says, “I know I said I would come, but … I just bought five yoke of oxen, and I need to try them out.”

Okay, I’ve got to ask … How many of you would buy an ox, sight unseen?

Or to put it another way … Would you buy a car without test-driving it? It sounds like a pretty flimsy excuse—right up there with … “Sorry, I can’t come, I have to wash my hair!”

The third guest tells the servant, “Sorry, I thought I could come, but I can’t … because I just got married.”

You just got married? What was the rush? Like, you didn’t already know this a month ago? A Jewish wedding was a long-anticipated community event; it lasted about a week, and the entire village was invited. The groom would have long known that the party would conflict with the wedding plans.

Well, when the servant returns with this news, the host is livid with rage. He has planned the event carefully. It has cost him an enormous sum. And—now that the preparations are completed for this grand party—everybody is backing out! These invited guests have insulted him and dishonoured him.

That’s what it was all about back then—honour. This was equivalent to spitting in the guy’s face. You might as well have said, “I’ve changed my mind; you throw lousy parties, anyway!”

As Jesus told them about the impertinence of these invited guests, I’m sure the others at the Pharisee’s home were shaking their heads in disgust.

But then, as Jesus continues his story, we discover that the host responds to this affront in a most unexpected way—a way that would, in fact, have shocked everybody who heard about it. He sends his servant out into the streets and alleys to invite the poor, the beggars, the crippled, the blind and the lame. That’s right—the dregs of the earth! The most wretched people he could find.

The master wants a full house. And so, when the servant returns and says the table’s not full yet, he sends him out into the countryside—“into the roads and lanes”—to invite still others to come. Instead of seeking vengeance—instead of returning spite for spite—the host demonstrates generosity and magnanimity.

This parable offers us a glimpse of the kingdom of God. What is this story saying? It is saying that God’s invitation is inclusive, rather than exclusive. God’s invitation to come to the table is broad and wide, rather than narrow and selective. It is extended to all persons, regardless of who they are.

According to Jesus, we are in for a big surprise when we sit down at the Lord’s heavenly table. Why? Because we will be dining with people we never dreamed would be there! And likewise, they may be just as surprised to see us.

God is a host who loves to throw parties. God throws parties whenever someone shows up at his door. How do I know this? Well, in part, because of the stories Jesus tells in the following chapter of Luke. All the stories he tells in chapter 15 are metaphors for God—for the way God is. A shepherd finds a lost sheep and throws a party. A woman finds a lost coin and throws a party. A prodigal son returns home and his father throws a party.

As the King James Bible puts it, God “is longsuffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).

God desires all people to come to his banquet. God invites people from all walks of life. But he compels no one.

If I understand Jesus’ message here, he is telling us this: God gives us the freedom to respond—to either accept, or reject, the invitation he extends. 

Think about that. God has invited us—you and me—to a party in his kingdom.

What is evangelism? It’s nothing more or less than an invitation to God’s banquet. Through the church’s evangelistic message—which is us sharing our faith with others—the invitations are being sent out. 

We accept this invitation by faith—by responding to what Christ has done on our behalf. Through trusting and following him, we say “yes” to God’s gracious invitation. 

Is this not glorious news? There is an invitation to God’s banquet with your name on it! No one of us deserves that kind of hospitality. No one of us can earn a place at the table. The guest list has been put together by the King of heaven—and it includes every person who has ever lived—or who will ever live! The only thing that keeps us outside is our refusal to accept the invitation.

Jesus’ words here, in the Gospel of Luke, are timeless. They were not just meant for those Pharisees and dinner guests on that long-ago Sabbath evening. They were meant for all of us—and for everyone who looks for the kingdom of God.

This kingdom has come in Christ—though not completely, and we await its final coming. In reporting this story, Luke affords us a glimpse of what God’s banquet—God’s feast, God’s kingdom—is going to be like. It’s a place where the humble are exalted and the exalted are humbled. It’s a place where the least worthy of us are made welcome. It’s a place where seats of honour are neither reserved nor sought after—because all are equally held in the love and grace that extends from the table.

Do you want to grow your church? Here’s an idea: tell people about the banquet! Invite a neighbour. Invite a friend. Better still—invite an enemy, and make a friend! Say to them, “Come, for everything is now ready. The preparations have been completed, and the bill has been paid.”

All you have to do is show up.

TEXTS: Luke 14:1, 7-14 and Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16

“When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet,” Jesus said, “go and sit down at the lowest place.”

Weddings are interesting things. Sometimes they’re hair-raising things. Get a group of preachers together, and chances are you’ll hear some pretty outrageous stories about wedding ceremonies at which they’ve officiated: anxious brides; nervous grooms; fighting in-laws-to-be; rehearsal chaos; groomsmen who—on the wedding day—somehow end up at the wrong church (even though they were in the correct one just the evening before); and all kinds of people who are crying their eyes out because this is such a happy occasion!

Of course, weddings are also wonderful, meaningful things, too. Thankfully, those of us who officiate at them have many more stories like that to tell: about estranged families which were reconciled and reunited at the wedding of a son or daughter; about a great-grandmother’s tears of joy as she watched the next generation of her family grow to adulthood and wed; or about a young bride in a wheelchair who has discovered that true love is stronger even than disability.

Weddings just seem somehow to bring out the best—and sometimes the worst—in people. And I guess that’s because of the kind of occasions they are. No matter how blasé we think we are about rituals—or how cynical we consider ourselves to be about the institution of marriage—weddings make us sit up and take notice. A certain level of propriety is demanded at a wedding. It’s a time when how we behave—and how we appear—become extremely important. At weddings, most of us—for better or for worse—think and act in ways that are not our usual ways of thinking and acting.

Preachers all know that. And in our gospel lesson today, we see that Jesus knows it, too. It’s not for nothing that he sets his parable at a wedding feast where everyone is already anxious—trying their hardest to look and act their best, and jockeying for the best seats and positions.

At first glance, this story appears to be nothing more than a straightforward, practical lesson in the twin virtues of courtesy and hospitality. “When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet,” Jesus says, “do not sit down at the place of honour.” After all, there may well be other, more distinguished, guests who outrank you. Instead, Jesus’ advice is to “go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, “Friend, move up higher.’”

Well, that’s just common sense, right? That’s just good manners.

But Jesus has far more important things in mind here than simple table etiquette and protocol. He knows that our selfish instincts are not confined to wedding banquets and the dinner table. In every age and culture, it has been part of human nature for people to act in their own self-interest—sometimes even while pretending to care about the needs and wants of others. We do it all the time, often without even thinking about it.

Whole economies are based on the principle of rugged individualism and self-reliance. And our culture surely promotes the notion that we are much better off if we depend on our own initiative and enterprise—if we act in our own self-interest. It’s called “looking out for number one.”

There are those who would have us believe that this is actually a good thing—part of the natural process of evolution (“survival of the fittest,” and all that). And, let’s face it: all creatures have a natural inclination to foster and advance their own survival. We are no exception to that. As one bumper sticker puts it: “IT’S ALL ABOUT ME.” That pretty much says it all.

Now, on a certain level, this kind of thinking makes perfectly good sense. Flight attendants warn us to secure our own oxygen masks first before assisting others—and for fairly obvious reasons. Therapists urge clients to be sure they are “getting their own needs met” before trying to reach out to others. And we certainly need to recognize the importance of self-care—of taking responsibility for our own health and well-being.

But what takes place at the wedding banquet in Jesus’ parable is about something very different.

“All who exalt themselves will be humbled,” Jesus says, “and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

This is not the practical experience of the workaday world we know so well. No. Suddenly this has become a parable about the kingdom of heaven, where the ordinary rules of human engagement no longer apply. In the upside-down, topsy-turvy world of the gospel, everything gets shaken up. The humble are the exalted ones. The poor are the rich. The crippled and lame are the healthy ones. The blind are the ones who see. And it is not “all about me,” after all.

The world turns out to be not as solid and real as we had imagined. Ultimately, our self-reliance turns out to be an illusion. For we all depend upon one another—whether we recognize it or not. And whether we like it or not, we all depend upon God. More than that, according to Jesus, it is only by emptying ourselves of our selfish impulses and pride that we come to understand our true worth; only by accepting our utter dependence upon God do we find our real freedom. Only by humbling ourselves can we approach the One who humbled himself on the cross.

This is the paradox—and the challenge—of the gospel. The kingdom of which Christ speaks is a realm at odds with the norms and values of this everyday world of ours. In the spiritual realm of God’s kingdom, “survival of the fittest” takes on a whole new meaning. And the second law of thermodynamics* no longer applies: there is no limit—there is no end—to the energy of God’s love; it goes on forever. At the “resurrection of the righteous” we will be repaid—not with higher salaries and more exalted titles—but in the only currency that matters: the love God has for us, and which we share with one another.

Any bride and groom who survive the wedding and go on to a happy married life soon enough learn first-hand the important lesson of Jesus’ parable. They soon enough come to know the true meaning of selfless giving. They soon enough glimpse the kingdom at work in spouse and children and family life. But you do not have to be married to find God and his “angels” masquerading as “strangers” in your midst. The kingdom, after all, is close at hand.

And the key to that kingdom? Well, we catch a glimpse of it dangling from its chain when we listen to the words written so long ago by the author of the Letter to the Hebrews: “Let mutual love continue.”

Now, that would make an awesome bumper sticker, wouldn’t it?

____________________________

*The second law of thermodynamics states that a closed system will remain the same or become more disordered over time, i.e. its entropy will always increase.

 

TEXTS: Isaiah 58:1-14 and Luke 13:10-17

Now [Jesus] was teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath. And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.

But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.”

But the Lord answered him and said, “You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?” When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame; and the entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things that he was doing.

(Luke 13:10-17)

Last week, I told you about this book I’ve been reading. It was written by two Christian psychologists—Henry Cloud and John Townsend—and it is entitled, Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No, to Take Control of Your Life.

Now, when Cloud and Townsend talk about “boundaries,” they mean those things which define us as individuals. Just as physical boundaries declare the limits of private property, our personal boundaries mark out our domain—our spiritual property: who we are, how we feel, what we believe, what we will or will not do. As the authors point out, God himself has very well-defined boundaries, and—in the Bible—he lets us know what they are. And we need to know that, if we want to be in relationship with him.

Time and again—throughout the pages of Scripture—God reveals his likes and his dislikes, what he will allow and what he will not tolerate. For example, one of the Lord’s boundaries—which he wants his children to respect—is this one, from the Book of Exodus: “Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy. For six days you shall labour and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the LORD your God; you shall not do any work …” (Exodus 20:8-10).

Sounds like a pretty firm boundary, doesn’t it? God’s boundaries seem clear and solid—and he wants us to have well-defined boundaries, too. According to Cloud and Townsend, that is the hallmark of a mature and well-adjusted individual. In fact, well-defined boundaries are what we need in order to live our lives properly.

A person with poorly-defined boundaries has great difficulty resisting the control, pressure, and demands of others. Usually, such people defer to the wishes of those around them, regardless of how they themselves feel about the matter at hand.

Not wanting to rock the boat, they bow to external pressure—and wind up harboring bitter feelings. As Cloud and Townsend put it, “they passively comply but inwardly resent.”¹

Well, that’s not what we see happening in today’s gospel lesson, is it? Presented with an opportunity to heal a woman who had been crippled for 18 long years, Jesus grabs it—seemingly without caring that:

(1) it was the sabbath day; and

(2) he was actually inside a synagogue, teaching in front of the gathered assembly!

Seeing this poor, bent-over figure hobble into the room, Jesus interrupts his own sermon, calls her up to the front of the room, lays hands on her and declares: “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” And, Luke tells us, “immediately she stood up straight and began praising God” (Luke 13:12-13).

What gives? As an observant Jew—never mind as a rabbi—Jesus would certainly have been aware of the fourth commandment: “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy.” How? By not doing any kind of work, that’s how! Everybody knows that. It’s always been that way, and it is still that way. In synagogue on the sabbath, you’re not even allowed to bring a pen and paper to take sermon notes. No wonder the synagogue leader was indignant!

“There are six days on which work ought to be done,” he says, “come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” Actually, it sounds like most of those present were dismayed and disapproving, because Jesus—ever tactful and diplomatic—responds by calling them all “hypocrites.”

I think Cloud and Townsend would identify this as a boundary conflict. The folks in the synagogue believe they understand the boundaries of holiness—the limits of acceptable behaviour before God. But Jesus clearly has a different set of boundaries.

“Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water?” he asks. “And ought not this … daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from [her] bondage on the sabbath day?” (vv. 15-16)

Now, up to this point, there’s been a lot of dramatic tension building. It looks like the precursor of a riot inside the worship space. But when Jesus says that … everything quickly calms down: “When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame; and the entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things that he was doing” (v. 17).

So often in the gospel accounts, we hear that Jesus does something to enrage the good religious people, and as a result they try to lynch him. But not this time. This time, they listen to his words and are immediately ashamed of themselves. Their anger turns into rejoicing, and—in the blink of an eye—Jesus goes from being a heel to being a hero. What happened?

Well, what happened was that Jesus—lucky for him—was addressing a group of Jews who understood the spirit of the Torah. More than that, they had been paying attention over the years, when the scrolls of the prophets were opened and expounded upon. When Jesus argued that it was right and proper to do good on the sabbath, they might very well have remembered passages like chapter 58 of Isaiah. It warns against “trampling the sabbath” and “pursuing your own interests on [the Lord’s] holy day”—but it is actually part of a much longer treatise on religious observance.

The first part of Isaiah 58 deals with fasting, and reports the frustration of some who feel that God is ignoring their noble acts of self-denial. “Why do we fast, but you do not see?” they ask. “Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?” (Isaiah 58:3a)

I can understand why they’re upset, can’t you? Here they are, doing all this great religious stuff, trying hard to obey all the rules and put on a good, sober face. Why, they even make a point of fasting—depriving themselves of food and comfort—to show how devoted they are to the Lord, how serious they are about self-denial …

And what do they hear from God? Nothing! Not a word. Not so much as a thank-you card. So they raise a protest against God, upbraiding him for being so impolite and ungrateful. “How come you haven’t acknowledged the depth of our piety?”

Well, beginning in verse three of chapter 58, the Lord tells them why:

Look, you serve your own interest on your fast-day,


   and oppress all your workers.

Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight


   and to strike with a wicked fist.

Such fasting as you do today


   will not make your voice heard on high.

Is such the fast that I choose,


   a day to humble oneself?

Is it to bow down the head like a bulrush,


   and to lie in sackcloth and ashes?

Will you call this a fast,


   a day acceptable to the LORD?

Is not this the fast that I choose:


   to loose the bonds of injustice,


   to undo the thongs of the yoke,

to let the oppressed go free,


   and to break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,


   and bring the homeless poor into your house;

when you see the naked, to cover them,


   and not to hide yourself from your own kin?                (Isaiah 58:3b-7)

The Lord continues speaking, and he makes plain his genuine concerns. What pleases him is not fasting, or strict religious observance, or public displays of self-abasement. No. The kind of sacrifice that pleases the Lord—and that will make him want to reward those who offer it—is quite different:

If you remove the yoke from among you,


   the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,

if you offer your food to the hungry


   and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,

then your light shall rise in the darkness


   and your gloom be like the noonday. 


The LORD will guide you continually

and satisfy your needs in parched places …     (Isaiah 58:9b-11a)

This is how you can avoid “trampling the sabbath” and “pursuing your own interests” on that holy day. As Jesus would say, “Love God with all your heart, and your neighbour as yourself; this is the entirety of the law”—on the sabbath day, or any other day. ²

So many of the “good religious people” whom Jesus met seem to have missed the point of it all. Whether it was their almsgiving, or their strict sabbath observance, or their exhibitionistic devotion, much of their piety was actually intended to improve their status in the community. Their real concern was to impress others with their holiness—not to honour God.

However, the synagogue congregation we heard about today was different. They must have been, or Jesus’ rebuke would have had no effect upon them. While they understood what God had said in Scripture about where his boundaries lay, they also understood that those boundaries belonged to God—and he could shift them as he saw fit.

The Old Testament contains several examples of that. Jesus himself refers to one of them in chapter 12 of Matthew, when his disciples are criticized for plucking and eating some heads of grain on the sabbath day. He draws the accusers’ attention to the story in the First Book of Samuel, where David and his men—desperately in need of sustenance—ate the consecrated bread, which was only supposed to be consumed by the priests.³

Anyway, the point—as Jesus also says in Matthew 12—is this: “it is lawful to do good on the sabbath” (12:12). Religious laws have their place, but God permits exceptions.

Or to put it differently, God gave us ears to hear his Law, but he also gave us brains—and he expects us to use them! To be sure, that takes a measure of courage, sometimes, to risk stepping over a boundary. But—as Cloud and Townsend explain in their book—the goal of boundaries is to learn to love in freedom and responsibility. “This,” they say, “is the true self-denial of the New Testament.”⁴

It is also the true self-denial of the Old Testament, as underscored by our passage from Isaiah. If many Jews in Jesus’ time seem to have forgotten this point, well … let’s face it: many Christians in our time seem to prefer religious form over spiritual substance.

In some places, the Sunday experience appears to be focused primarily on entertaining the worshippers. In others, it seems to be mostly about getting the service over with in an hour or less, so those present can congratulate themselves on doing their bit for God by staying awake through it all. I’m not sure which is worse!

But I suspect the distraction of a bent-over woman—or anybody in genuine distress—would be most unwelcome in either context.

Those first-century Jews, at least, were trying to respect God’s boundaries. Their hearts were in the right place. When Jesus reminded them that the responsibility to show compassion overrides the fine points of the Law, they got it. And their anger about the trespass quickly evaporated as their joyful gratitude caught fire.

Satan had bound this sister of theirs for 18 long years, but now—in this synagogue, on this sabbath—Satan has been defeated! What could be more appropriate? What could possibly be more honouring of the Lord’s holy day? And it all happened because Jesus was willing to shift some boundaries.

So, what’s the lesson here, for us? As we listen to this gospel story—and to the prophet’s words—what does the Lord require of us?

Perhaps the best thing we can do is examine our own hearts—taking a long, hard look at the quality of our faith, and daring to ask some probing questions.

Are there rules and regulations, doctrines and conventions and habits, which impede our ability to love and serve our fellow human beings?

Do we have boundaries which are so firm, and so rigid, that they cannot be shifted to include our society’s outcasts?

Are we prepared to welcome seekers, with all their doubts? All their fears and apprehensions? All their woundedness?

If it meant we could include a new generation of believers, might we be willing to change some of our cherished ways of doing “church”?

These questions might be disturbing—but I think they are the right kinds of questions for us to be asking at this point in our history, as we contemplate the future of the North American church.

Here’s how I see it: one way or another, our boundaries are going to shift. Either they are going to expand to include new possibilities, new people, and a new century … or else they are going to shrink—rapidly, and drastically.

Personally, I’ve never been a fan of shrinkage.

______________________

¹Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend, Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No, to Take Control of Your Life(Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), pp. 36-37.

² See Matthew 22:36-40; also Mark 12:28-34 and Luke 10:25-28.

³Matthew 12:1-8, referring to 1 Samuel 21:1-6.

⁴ Cloud & Townsend, p. 172.

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

Others were tortured, refusing to accept release, in order to obtain a better resurrection. Others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were stoned to death, they were sawn in two, they were killed by the sword; they went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, persecuted, tormented—of whom the world was not worthy. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground. (Hebrews 11:35b-38)

Of late, I have found myself re-reading one of the most helpful books I’ve ever come across. Entitled Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No, to Take Control of Your Life, it was written by two Christian psychologists—Henry Cloud and John Townsend.

I heartily recommend this as worthwhile reading for anyone who—some of the time, or much of the time—feels overburdened, unappreciated, or taken advantage of. But it’s also a pretty good treatise on how to live the Christian life. When Cloud and Townsend talk about “boundaries,” they mean those things which define us—or which should define us—as individuals. For example, words can be boundaries—especially the word no. The word no tells others that you exist apart from them—that you, not they, are in control of you. “I am the boss of me.”

There are other kinds of boundaries, too—including time, truth, distance, and even skin—but it seems to me that the most basic one is this word no. It helps communicate your feelings, intentions, and preferences.

“No, I don’t have time to do that right now.”

“No, I don’t like that.”

“No, that behaviour is not OK.”

“No, I won’t lend you any more money until you pay back what you have already borrowed.”

No is the most basic boundary-setting word. And—just like physical boundaries which delineate private property—our personal boundaries mark out our domain—our spiritual property: who we are, how we feel, what we believe, what we will or will not do. According to Cloud and Townsend:

People with poor boundaries struggle with saying no to the control, pressure, demands, and sometimes the real needs of others. They feel that if they say no to someone, they will endanger their relationship with that person, so they passively comply but inwardly resent. Sometimes a person is pressuring you to do something; other times the pressure comes from your own sense of what you “should” do. If you cannot say no to this external or internal pressure, you have lost control of your property … ¹

If you don’t speak up and define your property, others will not know where you stand. But—if they want to be in relationship with you—they need to know that. Others require a sense of the “edges” that help identify you.

As the authors point out, God himself does exactly this throughout the pages of Scripture. Time and again—chapter after chapter, verse after verse—God lets us know what he likes and what he hates, what he will allow and what he will not tolerate. And we need to know that, if we want to be in relationship with him. If we want to play in God’s yard, we have to know God’s rules.

Or, as Cloud and Townsend put it:

Knowing the truth about God and his property puts limits on you and shows you his boundaries. Realizing the truth of his unchangeable reality helps you to define yourself in relation to him. ²

If we have chosen to define ourselves as followers of Jesus, we have embraced a very particular style of living. And if we are growing as Christian disciples, we will find ourselves increasingly at odds with what the people around us consider normal. We will want to change some of our behaviors. Our attitudes and opinions will not remain the same. Certain activities which seemed fine to us before will now trouble our consciences. And some things which previously we never thought about will now be revealed as matters of paramount importance.

In other words, once you invite Jesus into your life—after you begin to define yourself as a follower of Christ—your boundaries will start to shift. You will begin to say “no” more often; maybe even in church—but certainly in your workplace, your social life, and even with close family and friends. And, inevitably, some of the people you know will object to that.

Some of them simply will not respect the new boundaries which you and Christ have drawn together. They will oppose the changes they see in you—perhaps strenuously—as they try to make you do what they want, rather than what you want. Cloud and Townsend refer to this as “outside resistance.”

It is just this kind of “outside resistance” which Jesus describes so vividly in today’s gospel reading. He’s warning us that such resistance will come. He’s telling us that, once we choose to follow him, strife and conflict are unavoidable.

“Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on, five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided: father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law, and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law” (Luke 12:51-53).

There is a cost to discipleship. When we re-draw our boundaries inside the borders of God’s kingdom, some things—and some people—will suddenly be left outside, whether temporarily or permanently. And that may grieve both them and us.

Years ago, I witnessed this sort of grief and conflict playing out in the life of a dear friend, after his personal conversion to Christianity. This young man had been raised in a Jewish home, and when—in his late 20s—he was baptized and joined a Christian church, it caused a rift within his family. It even drove a wedge between the young man’s parents, because—while his father respected his decision and remained close to him—his mother would not speak to him for years thereafter. Eventually, she did come around, but it took almost a decade. And while the young man’s Christian faith remained intact, his parents’ marriage did not.

There is a cost to discipleship. There is a cost—usually a hefty one—attached to anything that’s really worth having. Anyone who’s ever struggled with addiction can attest to this fact. In almost every case, achieving sobriety requires cutting ties with former friends and acquaintances—sometimes even with other family members. For many addicts, this is too high a price to pay—until, finally, setting boundaries around alcohol or drugs becomes a matter of life and death.

As Cloud and Townsend observe:

The driving force behind boundaries has to be desire. We usually know what is the right thing to do in life, but we are rarely motivated to do it unless there’s a good reason … And we usually only see the good reasons when we’re in pain. Our pain motivates us to act. ³

“Our pain motivates us to act.” That’s often true, isn’t it? As someone once said, “Nobody likes change—except babies!”  Yet, it’s only the infant’s discomfort that makes her parents aware of her need.

As Jesus so often reminds us, God is like a loving parent who wants to satisfy our needs. He does not rejoice in our suffering, and he takes no pleasure in our misfortune—even when we’ve brought it upon ourselves. But God is also a wise parent—and he knows that there are some struggles which we must work through on our own. God knows his own boundaries—and he respects ours. He will not force himself upon us. He will not violate our boundaries by compelling us against our will. And sometimes, that means he has to leave us in distress until the pain has done its work.

There is a cost to discipleship. For real, meaningful change to take place in our lives, there is a price to pay. When you make a survey of your life, you may be surprised to discover where your true boundaries lie. And if your faith in Christ leads you to embrace convictions and principles that are at odds with the desires of those around you, then you may find yourself fighting to protect your borders. To quote Cloud and Townsend one more time:

“God has secured our salvation and our sanctification. In position and principle he has healed us. But we have to work out his image in us … we are the ones who have to do battle.” ⁴

Sometimes, the battle will go well for us, and—like the faith-heroes spoken of in the Letter to the Hebrews—we will behold the waters parting and the walls tumbling down before us. Sometimes it will not go so well, and we may feel that we are being mocked and flogged, stoned and sawn in two. But here is the promise: whatever happens, if we are faithful—if we defend the boundaries Christ has helped us draw—we will know ultimate victory. We will find lasting peace.

Peace rarely comes without some kind of struggle. Again, Scripture tells us as much. Before the children of Israel could live in peace in the promised land, they had to escape from slavery, wander 40 years in the desert, and wage war against one enemy after another. But in their struggles, they learned that God is faithful. Even when they rebelled against him, God did not abandon them. As a result, these people—as the Book of Hebrews tells us—“won strength out of weakness” (11:34).

So it is with us. If we embrace discipleship and accept its cost; if we learn to depend on God to sustain us—even in the face of strong opposition—we shall indeed be able to “run with perseverance the race that is set before us” (Heb. 12:1).

How? By “looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross …” (Heb. 12:2).

And why? Because “yes” is a boundary-setting word, as well.

“Yes” also defines you—who you are, how you feel, what you believe, what you will or will not do. Jesus said “yes” to God’s plan for him, even though that meant saying “no” to a host of other things. He said “no” to Satan’s offer of wealth, power, and earthly glory. He also said “no” to a life of conventional goodness—wife, children, a family business—not because these were bad things, but because he had already given his “yes” to God.

How about you? Have you said “yes” to God’s plan for your life? Do you know where your boundaries lie? Have you considered that perhaps now—at this stage of your life—it might be time to re-draw them?

Perhaps you’ve been a faithful disciple for many years, and now—whether in retirement or approaching it—you find yourself wondering, “What next?”

Or perhaps you’re a new Christian, and you’re asking yourself, “What does the Lord require of me?”

Or perhaps your career doesn’t seem as exciting or fulfilling as it once did, and the question forms in your mind: “Is this all there is?”

Maybe it’s time to ask Jesus to help you re-draw your boundaries—to look closely at the borders of your personal territory: what it needs to include, and what it ought to leave out.

But wherever your boundaries run, make sure they do not stray outside God’s kingdom. Allied with the Creator of the universe, no enemy can defeat you, because your faith “is the victory that conquers the world” (1 John 5:4). Filled with the power of God, you can meet any challenge the world throws at you.

Here is the good news: by virtue of your faith in Christ, you have been made a child of almighty God, and a citizen of his realm. As you journey through the world, remember that his Spirit is your passport—the declaration of where your boundaries lie. Rest in God, my friends. Follow Jesus, and travel safe.

_________________________________

¹ Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend, Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No, to Take Control of Your Life (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), pp. 36-37.

² Cloud & Townsend, p. 37.

³ Cloud & Townsend, p. 245.

⁴ Cloud & Townsend, p. 246.

TEXTS: Romans 8:18-39 and Matthew 26:36-47

 And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:27-28)

Why does God let bad things happen? How can a good God allow evil to take place?

Why do good people suffer? Why does anyone suffer?

Some people ask those questions out of purely philosophical interest. But most of us, I think … when we ask questions like that about evil and suffering … it’s almost always because misfortune has touched our own lives.

In his introduction to a book called Christian Faith and the Problem of Evil, Peter van Inwagen writes this:

Angels may weep because the world is filled with suffering. A human being weeps because his daughter, she and not another, has died of leukemia this very night, or because her village, the only world she knows, is burning and the mutilated bodies of her husband and her son lie at her feet.¹

It’s one thing to consider evil and suffering as a philosophical problem; living with it is something else again. Contemplating that, I recall the familiar Palm Sunday passage from John’s gospel.

“Hosanna!” shouted the crowd. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the King of Israel!” (John 12:13)

They wanted a Messiah who would take up the sword and drive the Romans out of their homeland. Instead, they got a Suffering Servant who took up a cross.

Rather than deal death to those who deserved it, this Messiah died to bring eternal life to those who did not deserve it. And in the process, he broke the hearts of all who loved him.

Sorrow and pain are very personal things. They have faces—and they have names.

Looking at my online news feed, I see that at least one person has died in a high-rise fire in Ottawa overnight.²

That was a tragic accident.

But other tragedies in the recent past have been deliberately wrought. Like the murder—by arson—of 33 people in an animation studio in Kyoto, Japan on July 18.³

Over the past month, our news headlines have been dominated by the Canada-wide manhunt for two young men—Bryer Schmegelsky, 18, and Kam McLeod, 19—suspected in the murder of up to three individuals in British Columbia.⁴

Just this past weekend, a 23-year-old man was arrested in Markham, Ontario for the murders of four members of his own family.⁵

Also on that weekend, three were killed and at least 15 injured in a mass shooting in Gilroy, California.⁶

As I write this post, news arrives that police across the Greater Toronto Area are investigating three separate homicide cases—a stabbing in Brampton, a shooting in Oshawa and another shooting in Markham.⁷

And the examples just keep on coming.

Yeah. I know.

Those are difficult things to hear about. They illustrate the reasons why some of us cannot bear to watch the evening news.

We don’t want to acknowledge the problem of evil, or the reality of suffering. Yet evil and suffering, injustice and sorrow and atrocity go on, all around us, all the time.

Even those of us who do pay attention to the news are seldom affected deeply by the tragedies therein reported. But sometimes they hit very close to home.

Four years ago this past June, my wife and I heard a sad report on the TV news. A “31-year-old Calgary woman” had died in a hiking accident on Grotto Mountain near Exshaw. As it turned out, that initially unidentified young woman was a friend of ours.⁸

Her name was Suzanna. By the age of 31, Sue had beaten cancer twice. She also survived an horrendous car crash on Deerfoot Trail. She had resumed her active lifestyle, had a new man in her life, and had just graduated as a paramedic. Finally, Sue’s future looked bright.

On June 8, 2015, she had been cancer-free for almost two years. That same day, she fell off a mountain.

We still grieve for her.

I’m sure every person reading this has experienced tragic loss. Or has a story to tell about apparently pointless human suffering. Or grave injustice.

Which is why we need to talk about this, I think.

Some years ago, the California-based Barna Group took a poll of the general public: “If you could ask God one question and know that you would receive an answer, what would you ask?”

The most common response was, “Why is there pain and suffering in the world?”⁹

As someone has said, “The problem of evil is the cornerstone of atheism.” Invariably, atheists offer up the problem of evil as proof that the God of the Bible does not exist. And you will not get very far in a conversation with a non-believer before the subject comes up.

It is a legitimate question. “Why is there pain and suffering in the world?”

Why doesn’t God intervene to prevent bad things from happening?

I asked that question in a sermon not long ago. And predictably, at coffee time after church, someone gave me the answer: “It’s because of free will!”

It’s because God gave people free will, and they choose poorly: evil instead of good, risk instead of security, foolishness instead of wisdom. Case closed. Problem solved.

It’s one of the oldest explanations in the history of Christian thought.

More recently, what’s called the “free will defense” has been stated by the theologian Alvin Plantinga. He says:

A world containing creatures who are significantly free (and freely perform more good than evil actions) is more valuable, all else being equal, than a world containing no free creatures at all. Now God can create free creatures, but He can’t cause or determine them to do only what is right. For if He does so, then they aren’t significantly free after all; they do not do what is right freely. To create creatures capable of moral good, therefore, He must create creatures capable of moral evil; and He can’t give these creatures the freedom to perform evil and at the same time prevent them from doing so.¹⁰

This appears to be a reasonable enough argument. However, I think it offers only a partial and limited solution to the problem of evil.

Certainly, it explains the evil that is caused by the acts of human beings—like a sniper targeting policemen at what was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration. Or a suicide bomber blowing up innocent people in the name of God. Or lung cancer caused by smoking tobacco.

Or, I suppose, the choice to take the risk of hiking in the mountains.

But it does not account for natural evil, such as the suffering caused by earthquakes, tornados, and the Zika virus—tragedies which have nothing to do with human choice.

It’s puzzling. It’s mysterious. It’s frustrating. And in the midst of trying to figure it all out, we hear these words from Romans, chapter eight, where Paul says: “… we know that for those who love God all things work together for good …”

“We know that all things work together for good for those who love God” (Romans 8:28).

In the face of grave misfortune, that can be very hard to believe.

Yet, somehow, sometimes, some people can do it. In his excellent book on this subject—entitled If God is Good—Randy Alcorn tells the story of Philadelphia pastor James Montgomery Boice. After explaining to his congregation that he had been diagnosed with terminal liver cancer, he stood before them and said this:

Should you pray for a miracle? Well, you’re free to do that, of course. My general impression is that the God who is able to do miracles—and He certainly can—is also able to keep you from getting the problem in the first place. So although miracles do happen, they’re rare by definition … Above all, I would say pray for the glory of God. If you think of God glorifying Himself in history and you say, where in all of history has God most glorified Himself? He did it at the cross of Jesus Christ, and it wasn’t by delivering Jesus from the cross, though He could have …¹¹

That’s a brave and remarkable statement by Pastor Boice, isn’t it? It draws our attention not only to the cross of Christ, but also to that scene in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus told his disciples, “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death” (Matthew 26:38).

And then he fell to his knees and prayed, “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.”

James Montgomery Boice—who would pass from this earth a mere eight weeks after delivering his message—went on to tell his people this:

God is in charge. When things like this come into our lives, they are not accidental. It’s not as if God somehow forgot what was going on, and something bad slipped by … God is not only the one who is in charge; God is also good. Everything He does is good … If God does something in your life, would you change it? If you’d change it, you’d make it worse. It wouldn’t be as good.¹¹

“It wouldn’t be as good.” I have to confess, I find that statement hard to swallow. I’m not sure that—if I were in Pastor Boice’s place—I would be as able to say what he said.

My difficulty is … while I might be able to accept the diagnosis … and I can even believe that God might use it to accomplish some kind of good … and I hope I would trust God to see me through whatever followed …

I don’t think I could ever believe that God gave me cancer on purpose. Alas, I know that does not help make sense of the issue at hand. And who knows how I would actually feel, if I had to face a thing like that.

So maybe Pastor Boice was on to something. Certainly, he expressed the classical Christian viewpoint.

In any case, I think the parallel to Gethsemane is instructive. On that terrible night, Jesus bowed to his Father’s will because he trusted God. Because he believed that, somehow, even this horrible suffering would “work together for good.”

And it did.

The passion of Christ bought our salvation, even as his resurrection sealed the promise of eternal life.

Perhaps our own suffering is like that, too. In some way, it “works together for good.” Perhaps it has some divine purpose, whether we understand it, or not. We can trust that—eventually—we will understand everything that we need to understand. With that in mind, I’m going to let Randy Alcorn have the last word:

On the other side of death, the Bible promises that all who know him will fall into the open arms of a holy, loving, and gracious God—the greatest miracle, the answer to the problem of evil and suffering. He promises us an eternal kingdom on the New Earth, where he says of those who come to trust him in this present world of evil and suffering, “They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:3-4).¹²

May it be so. Amen.

______________

¹ Peter van Inwagen, ed., Christian Faith and the Problem of Evil (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), xii.

² https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ottawa/donald-street-fire-rescue-1.5234206

³ https://www.cnbc.com/2019/07/19/japan-arson-attack-on-anime-studio-is-worst-mass-killing-since-2001.html

⁴ https://www.cp24.com/news/opp-assign-investigative-unit-to-focus-on-unconfirmed-sightings-of-b-c-murder-suspects-1.4534252

⁵ https://toronto.ctvnews.ca/funeral-to-be-held-for-family-members-murdered-inside-markham-home-1.4534132

⁶ https://globalnews.ca/news/5696242/garlic-festival-shooting/

⁷ https://www.thestar.com/news/crime/2019/08/02/father-dead-son-in-hospital-after-double-stabbing-in-brampton-early-friday-morning.html

⁸ https://calgaryherald.com/news/local-news/young-woman-who-died-in-hiking-accident-survived-cancer-remembered-as-fierce-lover-of-life

⁹ Quoted by Greg Laurie at: https://www.wnd.com/2012/05/questions-for-god/

¹⁰ Alvin Plantinga, God, Freedom, and Evil (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1974), p. 30.

¹¹ Randy Alcorn, If God is Good … Faith in the Midst of Suffering and Evil (Colorado Springs, CO: Multnomah, 2009), p. 15.

¹² Ibid.

 

TEXT: Luke 11:1-13

“So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Luke 11:9-10)

The first time I remember praying, I was 12 years old. Oh, I know I had prayed before that. Certainly, I had recited “The Lord’s Prayer.” I’m actually old enough that—when I was a kid—the Winnipeg public schools began each instruction day with the entire class reciting it. If you didn’t want to recite the Lord’s Prayer, you had to get special permission to opt out—and very, very few people ever did that.

But this was different. This time I was praying as hard as I could, and in my own words, for something I wanted more than anything. I was praying for my grandfather’s life.

My mother and I lived with her parents, you see. And my mother’s mother—and my mother’s father—were closer to me than anyone else on earth. My grandfather was more like a father to me than a grandparent.

He had just had a massive heart attack in our living room. Back in those days, doctors still made house calls, and we had summoned ours. I remember waiting anxiously at the front window for him to arrive—which he did, very quickly. I still vividly recall the sight—and the sound—of his big Buick screeching to a halt on our front street. The doctor sprang from the car, and—medical bag in hand—he ran to our door.

At that point, I must have been ushered into the back porch, because that’s where my recollection of things picks up again. And that’s where I was, terrified, on my knees, praying as hard as I could: “God, please don’t let my grampa die … Please, don’t let him be dead.”

The next thing I remember, I was back in the living room, helping the doctor lift my grandfather’s lifeless body out of the easy chair where he had been sitting. We laid him out on the chesterfield, on his back, like he was sleeping. I think by this time my mother had been called home from work, and together—she and I and my grandmother and the doctor—we waited until the hearse arrived.

That is my first vivid memory of praying for something—and of its results, which were not what I was so desperately hoping for. It’s still a painful memory, after all these years. It’s an intensely personal story—and a difficult one to tell. So why am I mentioning it now? Because I want you to know that—like many of you—I have struggled with the words of Jesus in our gospel text: “Ask, and it will be given to you … For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.”

However, it doesn’t always seem to work that way, does it? As someone has said, “Prayer is not like ordering a pizza.” You do not always get what you ask for.

So, what was Jesus talking about, anyway? After all, we know that he himself made at least one request in prayer that was not granted. In Gethsemane, on the night of his arrest, he was—as the Scripture says—“distressed and agitated.” And “he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said … Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want” (Mark 14:35-36).

At the beginning of chapter 11 of Luke’s gospel, Jesus gives us a parable, which might well be a reminiscence of his own boyhood. It’s sometimes called the Parable of the Importunate Friend. Let’s consider what it might be teaching us.

Imagine, if you will, a first-century family asleep on the floor of their one-room dwelling, laying round the fire with its embers still glowing. Suddenly there is a pounding on the door. The father awakens. And then he hears a voice calling from outside—a voice he knows well: “My friend, I know it’s midnight, but … I need to borrow three loaves of bread. My old army buddy has shown up, and I have nothing to feed him.”

We probably all have a friend like that one, don’t we?

Now, you have to understand: hospitality was a vitally important thing in the ancient world. So this scenario might not have seemed as bizarre to Jesus’ disciples as it sounds to us. But even so, the father in this case could not answer his friend’s request without disturbing his entire household. They were all sleeping together in that one little room, you remember. Even to get up and answer the door, he would have had to pick his way between the sleeping bodies on the floor of the darkened room.

So he tries to give his friend the brush-off: “Look, this is not my problem! The door’s locked. My kids are in bed. I’m not giving you anything. Go away!”

However, as Jesus tells the story, the midnight caller won’t take “no” for an answer. He refuses to be brushed off. He keeps pounding on the door and calling out … and eventually the father gets up and gives the guy what he’s asking for.

Who but Jesus would think to use an illustration like this one when speaking about prayer? Still, it’s a pretty good one. There’s no danger of serious misunderstanding here. If a human being who does not want to get up out of bed can be made to do so by sheer unashamed persistence, how much more will your heavenly Father—who welcomes the knock at his door—be quick to listen and reply! Even so, God often has difficulties greater than we can dream of in answering our prayers, and appreciates our perseverance.

Jesus does not tell us that we shall get what we want when we ask; or that, when we seek, we shall find what we expect. When we knock at the door, there is no guarantee that what waits for us on the other side will be altogether to our taste. But it will at least be the best thing possible. God does not play practical jokes on his children, as the heathen gods do with their worshippers, leading them on, and then cheating them with snakes that look like fish.

Jesus, you know, loved hyperbole. He used exaggeration to grab people’s attention—to shock them, even—to make a point. “If your right eye causes you to sin,” he said, “tear it out and throw it away … and if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away …” (Matthew 5:29-30). No one hearing him would have taken his advice literally—but they would have understood what he meant: sin is a destroyer, and it must be dealt with radically and decisively.

Likewise, he said: “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:26). But this, also, is clearly not meant to be taken literally. Jesus himself spoke about our responsibility to obey the sixth commandment (Mark 7:9-13), and he certainly cared for his own mother (John 19:25-27). Jesus was teaching that following and obeying him was to have number one priority in the life of believer. Nothing was more important than that obedience.

It seems to me that Jesus’ mind was, in more than one respect, the mind of a poet; and poets seldom qualify their statements. The poet sees a truth about life and affirms it—simply, and boldly. But few truths can stand alone.

Every magnificent generalization leaves something out of account. That does not mean the generalization is untrue; but it is true as a great poem is true. It says one thing; other things are true also, but they will be said in other poems or by other poets. If we look at today’s parable in this way, then I think the one true thing this “poem” says is that God cares for us—that he listens to our prayers, that he rejoices to give us what we need. If we didn’t know that to be the case—if we didn’t believe in the truth of that—how could we have any faith at all?

So, why do we have faith? I could ask each one of you that question. Why do you have faith? Why do you believe? And each of you would, I’m sure, have a different answer. But I suspect that—as you thought about the question—many of you would recall instances of answered prayer. You would remember cases where you did get what you asked for—or perhaps something even better than what you asked for.

I could tell you several stories about that. I can certainly tell you that, although I lost my grandfather—which I was, let’s face it, bound to do, sooner or later—the Lord did not abandon me. As awful, as painful, as that day was, it was also the first time I remember feeling God being especially close to me—near to me, and real to me, with a closeness that has never since left me, even in my worst moments.

Our life experiences give us many reasons to believe—and many reasons to doubt. I believe prayer can help us make sense of all that. Either we are speaking to a God who acts, or we are merely prattling on to ourselves. Yet in asking God for things, we have said, “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Prayer is conversation with God, not magic. Prayer is not some hocus-pocus through which we hope to entice an apathetic deity to act in a way that pleases us. In prayer, we recognize that God is continually acting in the world. In prayer, we signify our desire to be part of that divine activity.

In prayer, we ask for what God can and will do. But we also, in prayer, acknowledge, “Thy will be done,” realizing what God does not do. There are so many things we ask God to do—feed the hungry, make peace, work reconciliation—that we are unwilling to do ourselves because of the sacrifice and struggle, the conversion and suffering it might cost us. Yet there are things which God, for some reason, cannot or will not do. Why? That’s a good question.

We usually do not understand why we pray for badly-needed rain and get none, or ask for a tumor to be healed and it becomes worse. Prayer does not usually answer the “Why?”—but our prayer can give us the faith to live in spite of the lack of answers.

Thanks be to God for the gift of prayer. Amen.

Text: Luke 10:38-42

But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to [Jesus] and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” (Luke 10:40)

The story of Mary and Martha is surely one of the best-known in Scripture. Even people who’ve never read the Bible know about it. Yet this well-loved tale contains some surprising (albeit hidden) elements.

On the surface of things, the point of the story is clear: Jesus visits the home of Mary and Martha, and the two sisters make very different choices about how to respond to Jesus’ presence.

One of them—Mary—sits down at his feet and listens to his teaching. The other—Martha—goes off to do some work.

Then Martha comes back into the room, and complains that her sister has left her to do all the work related to the visit. And she asks for Jesus’ support in this squabble with her sibling: “Don’t you care that she has left me to do everything?”

Jesus’ reply, in so many words, is: Mary is doing what is right and proper. In this situation in which the two of you find yourselves, Mary has chosen “the better part.”

Yet, poor Martha is doing exactly what she is supposed to do—the right and proper thing, the hospitable thing. When someone comes to your home to visit, you welcome them and prepare a meal for them.

According to every custom of the day, Mary should be assisting Martha. Instead, she sits down at Jesus’ feet and listens to his teaching.

Now, you have to understand something: in Jesus’ day, a woman was not permitted to fill the role of a disciple. It was unthinkable. Only males could serve as disciples to the great teachers of the day. Only males could discuss with their teacher the meanings and nuances of the Torah. In fact, some rabbis taught that it was better to burn the Torah than to teach it to a woman!

What happens in this story is astonishing, in the context of that time and culture. Of course, Jesus of Nazareth was a controversial figure precisely because—through his teachings and his example—he challenged the social and religious traditions of his day.

So his actions in this text should not be surprising; it is simply important to understand that they are radical. When Martha makes what was by every indication a justifiable protest about the action of her sister, Jesus surprisingly sides with Mary.

So what does this mean for us? What could this antiquated social code have to do with 21st-century people like us? What difference could it possibly make in our lives?

Obviously, the social customs of our day are very different. There is no longer (or at least, there should no longer be) a question about whether or not women have the same rights as men. In our world, Mary’s discipleship would appear entirely appropriate. So, how can this passage speak to us?

I think that two parts of this story are as meaningful today as they were in biblical times. The first has to do with social custom as opposed to what is clearly right and just.

Someone in a study group one time referred to Mary as “the first liberated woman in the Bible.” I think if we read the Hebrew Scriptures carefully, we will find others before her—certainly Rachel and Deborah and Ruth would come to mind.

Jesus, however, was (as far as I know) the first significant male religious teacher in history to recognize the equality of women. This attitude got him into trouble, time and again.

In the gospels, Jesus continually engages women in public conversation, which is against the social and religious code. Men were not supposed to speak to women in public. Jesus did so, and on a regular basis. He turned that religious and social code upside down.

Yeah. Turning the accepted order of things upside down. That, it seems to me, is the theme of chapter 10 of Luke. The story immediately preceding this one is, after all, the parable of the Good Samaritan. In telling that story, Jesus challenged conventional ideas about who should be regarded as a neighbour. And by his actions in today’s gospel passage, Jesus challenges conventional ideas about gender.

So it’s quite a chapter, this 10th chapter of Luke. It contains some pretty radical stuff.

First, Jesus is represented as suggesting that a Samaritan is equal to a Jew in loving one’s neighbour, and then—in the story of Mary and Martha—Jesus says that a woman is equal to a man when it comes to loving God!

So here’s the first lesson for our present day: the lesson of Mary. The lesson of what Mary did right.

The passage suggests that a disciple of Jesus is expected to be in the forefront when it comes to issues of social justice. We are not status quo people! When necessary, we are called to “upset the apple cart” and make it clear that God’s love is not limited to our likes and dislikes, whether personal or national.

God’s reign is over all of Creation, and God’s intention is to one day claim all of Creation. No one will be left out. To use a modern buzzword, Jesus had an inclusive vision.

Now, here’s the second lesson from our gospel text; it concerns the continuing struggle in our own minds as we try to understand this “Mary and Martha” issue. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Whose side should we be on?

Well, that’s not an easy question. It is made more difficult by the fact that the word in the text which is used to describe Martha’s “work” translates in the Greek as the word “service.” So, the real question is: What’s more important—our devotion or our service?

The text suggests that our devotion is more important. Jesus says to Martha: “there is need of only one thing: Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

There is little question as to how that verse is to be interpreted. But let’s think about that for a moment, and especially about what the text is trying to say to us which can benefit us in our everyday life: “One thing is needed.”

Given the rest of the gospel message, I cannot believe that Jesus is labelling Christian service as unimportant. It would be a serious mistake to take a passage like this one so much out of the context of the entire scriptural canon as to suggest that.

The New Testament, especially, issues a call for discipleship; for each of us—in our own way, using the best of our gifts and talents—to go out into the world to heal and to teach.

Why, then, this text? Well, as I get older, I think I’m beginning to understand.

Like at least a few who are still breathing, I grew up in the 1960s, a revolutionary era of social change—a time when young people, especially, wanted to change the world. There was tremendous energy expended on all of that, to the point where many of my friends found themselves simply burned out—and unable to care much anymore. My generation became disillusioned, angry, and frustrated.

We wanted to change the world, but the world refused to change! At least, it wouldn’t change as quickly as we wanted it to.

The goal was worthy: peace with justice for all people. But it just turned out to be too hard to accomplish—too discouraging. And when the new and better world did not arrive on schedule, all the energy was sapped. For many, there was no way to replenish it.

You see, that’s what Mary knew. And that’s what Jesus knew that Mary knew. Jesus himself had to go to the wilderness now and again—to get away, to pray, to meditate—so that he could be effective in the world. So that he could renew his energy and his spirit. So that he could take advantage of that time with God which rejuvenates the spirit within us.

I have found that virtually impossible to do in the midst of my everyday work. Look: if Jesus needed to get away from it all sometimes, it’s a good bet we will need to do that, too.

As disciples of Jesus, we must find places and spaces to replenish our spirits—to renew our souls. If we don’t, our energy will leave us. Our ability to serve will be compromised. And—like Martha—we will become distracted (and maybe even a little bit cranky).

Today’s passage from Luke invites us to return to the well often—to the wellspring, to our God—when we need to replenish our spirits. And the good news of the gospel is that there is an eternal wellspring available to us—one that never goes dry.

The good news of the gospel is that when we are truly seeking the living water—when we put our entire focus on God—we will certainly find that renewal, and it will give us the strength we need to go on.

That’s the promise. That’s the “better part” of which Jesus speaks in this text. It is essential.

Take time—regularly—to be alone with God. If you do that, your life will be blessed. And no matter what difficulties you face or the challenges before you, you will be given everything you need.

God is faithful. And that really is good news! Thanks be to God for it.

 

TEXT: Luke 10:25-37

“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side.” (Luke 10:30-31)

This is, of course, the beginning of Jesus’ “Parable of the Good Samaritan.” It’s about a traveller who is accosted on his journey, robbed, beaten, and left to die. Subsequent to that, two of the most respectable people in Jewish society—a priest, and a Levite—hurry past the poor fellow, doing nothing to help him. But then a Samaritan—a member of a race despised by the Jews—arrives on the scene. And he is the one who stops to rescue the injured man.

We all remember this parable. Jesus told the story to answer the question: “Who is my neighbour?” And—in Jesus’ mind—a neighbour is one who shows mercy. Even though the injured traveller was most likely a Jew—and therefore an enemy—the Samaritan behaved toward him as if he were a friend.

It reminds you of the biblical story of Esther, doesn’t it?

Right now, I’ll bet those of you who’ve read the Old Testament Book of Esther are thinking, “Huh? What?”

What does the Parable of the Good Samaritan have to do with the story of Esther, the Jewish girl who became Queen of Persia?

Bear with me for a moment. I’m guessing that most of you aren’t all that familiar with the story of Esther, whose Jewish name was Hadassah. So, I’ll try to give you a quick synopsis.

Hadassah was a Jewish orphan, raised by her cousin Mordecai in the Persian city of Susa. Hadassah grew up to be a beautiful young woman. The queen of Persia at this time was another beautiful woman, whose name was Vashti. Unfortunately for Vashti—and for reasons which are, well, kind of X-rated—she fell out of favour with her husband, King Ahasuerus. As a result, he deposed her as his queen—and an empire-wide beauty contest was staged to replace her.

To make a long story short, Hadassah entered the contest and she won! Ahasuerus married her, and she became the new Queen of Persia.

However, there was a bit of subterfuge involved here. Mordecai had advised his adopted daughter to hide the fact of her Jewish heritage. So she did. As part of her masquerade, she even changed her name from Hadassah to Esther—because “Esther” sounded more Persian.

For five years, Esther manages to keep her secret from the king. But then, something terrible happens. At the instigation of Haman, the king’s evil prime minister, an empire-wide pogrom is announced. About a year from the day of the announcement, all the Jews in Persia are to be rounded up and killed!

Now, Esther—ensconced in the royal court and shielded by her Persian disguise—ought to be quite safe from this persecution. However, when Mordecai begs for her help, she faces a dilemma. If she asks her husband to call off the pogrom, her Jewish identity will be revealed, and her own life will be in peril. In fact, her life would be in danger simply for approaching Ahasuerus without being invited.

He sounds like a dream husband, doesn’t he? But that was the protocol: no one—not even the queen—was allowed to just barge in on the king. Anyone who did that was liable to be executed—unless the king decided to show mercy … which I gather Ahasuerus seldom did.

If Esther did nothing, her entire race would be wiped out—including Mordecai, who raised her. But if she went to the king to plead the Jewish case, she might be killed just for asking. What would she do?

Stephen Davey—who has written an excellent study resource on the Book of Esther—calls this a “defining moment” in the life of Esther. Davey writes:

It may be a form of literary irony that, at the beginning of this story, Scripture gives us two names for this queen: Hadassah, (her Jewish name) and Esther (her Persian name). Now, at this juncture in the story, the queen would have to decide which name she was going to live out. Mordecai had confronted her with the question, “Just who are you … Hebrew or Persian?” ¹

“Just who are you, anyway?”

Defining moments ask that very question. And how you respond to them not only reveals who you are at this moment, but also determines—in large measure—who you’re going to be from this moment on.

“Who are you, Esther? Who are you going to be? Will you be the queen who stood up for her people, or the coward who kept her mouth shut?”

Who are you? And who are you going to be? The characters in Jesus’ parable are facing those same questions, whether they know it or not.

Who are the characters in this story? First of all, there’s the traveller. He was the one who chose to make the journey from Jerusalem to Jericho. Then, there’s the priest—who represented the highest level of religious leadership among the Jews—and the Levite, who was the designated lay-associate of the priest. And finally, there’s the Samaritan—the foreigner who was not expected to show any sympathy for Jews; and yet, he was the one who was “moved with pity.”

Now, in Jesus’ day, the road from Jerusalem to Jericho was notorious for its danger and difficulty. In fact, it was known as the “Way of Blood” because robbers had murdered so many people there. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.—in his “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech—described the road as follows; he said:

I remember when Mrs. King and I were first in Jerusalem. We rented a car and drove from Jerusalem down to Jericho. And as soon as we got on that road I said to my wife, “I can see why Jesus used this as the setting for his parable.” It’s a winding, meandering road. It’s really conducive for ambushing. You start out in Jerusalem, which is about … 1,200 feet above sea level. And by the time you get down to Jericho 15 or 20 minutes later, you’re about 22 feet below sea level. That’s a dangerous road. In the days of Jesus it came to be known as the “Bloody Pass.” And you know, it’s possible that the priest and the Levite looked over that man on the ground and wondered if the robbers were still around. Or it’s possible that they felt that the man on the ground was merely faking, and he was acting like he had been robbed and hurt in order to seize them over there—lure them there for quick and easy seizure. And so the first question that the priest asked, the first question that the Levite asked was, “If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?” … But then the Good Samaritan came by, and he reversed the question: “If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?” ²

Defining moments. They are as much about the questions we ask ourselves as they are about the questions asked of us. And our answers do indeed define us. For 2,000 years now, this story has been told—about the priest and the Levite and the badly-beaten traveller … and the Samaritan. For 2,000 years now, we’ve been hearing about their defining moments.

The priest and the Levite—the good religious people, the fine, upstanding pillars of their society—chose to define themselves as men whose first concern was for themselves. We remember them because all they were worried about was themselves. They wanted to save their own skins. Or perhaps—even worse—they were simply in a hurry and did not want to be delayed by a dying man. Maybe the priest and the Levite were on their way to the same important meeting. Can you imagine their exchange once they arrived?

“Did you see that guy on the side of the road? I sure hope somebody helped him.”

“Maybe, if he’s still there when we’re going back … maybe we should do something. What do you think?”

What do I think? I think their schedules, and their personal safety, were more important to them than that poor man’s life. I think they both defined themselves as … Well, at best, they were callous.

The Samaritan, though … Whatever his own agenda was—whatever his plans were for that day—he set them aside to minister to this complete stranger who was in such dire need.

He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the inn-keeper, and said, “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend” (Luke 10:34-35).

Through his actions, he defined himself as—and has for 2,000 years been remembered as—the very picture of compassion. Or—as Jesus tells us—as the definition of what it means to be a neighbour.

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself” (see Deut. 6:4-5 and Lev. 19:18).  That’s what the law of God requires—as the lawyer who questioned Jesus knew full well. But—wanting to define the limits of his duty—he asked, “Who is my neighbour?”

Jesus turned the question back on him, telling this story and then asking, “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” And the lawyer was forced to spit out the obvious and inescapable answer, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Who is our neighbour? The one in need of mercy. The one who crosses our path—whoever that person is, and regardless of whether he or she is ugly or pretty, worthy or undeserving, polite or belligerent. And regardless of whether the service required of us is easy or inconvenient or even downright risky.

Like so much of Jesus’ teaching, this is a hard lesson. But the truth is: when the neighbour crosses our path—and it is about “when” and not about “if”—our response matters; because how we respond will define us. The question for us is: who will we choose to be?

As for Esther … in case you’re wondering, she chose to stand with her people. If you want to know what happened after that … Well, you’ll have to read the book! The important thing to remember, though—which God’s people have remembered now for much more than 2,000 years—is that Esther chose to define herself as a hero.

As Stephen Davey tells us, “The difference between a hero and another human being is the voice they listen to … A true hero listens to the voice of conscience … ultimately, the voice of Christ.” ³

The voice we listen to is the voice which defines us.

__________________

¹ Stephen Davey, Esther(Wisdom Commentary Series). Apex, NC: Charity House, 2012, p. 73.

² Martin Luther King, Jr.: “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop”—delivered April 3, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee.

³ Davey, p. 78.

Illustration: Queen Esther (1879) by Edwin Long