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

TEXT: Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

… the Lord appointed seventy others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go. He said to them, “… Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road” (Luke 10:1-4).

If today’s gospel lesson tells us anything, it tells us that you do not want Jesus organizing volunteers at your church! Can you imagine? It’s coffee hour, and everybody’s milling around after the service, chatting and laughing and getting caught up with each other. Then Jesus steps into the middle of the room. He clears his throat and holds up a clipboard as he says loudly: “Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention for a minute? I still need 70 volunteers for a service opportunity this week. This is a great chance to go out into strange and dangerous neighborhoods and invite yourselves into people’s homes.

“It will be like you are defenseless lambs sent out alone into the midst of ravenous wolves. Oh, and please remember not to bring anything that might make it easier or safer or more comfortable for you to do that, okay? So just come on over here and we’ll get you all signed up. Thank you!”

That’s no way to recruit volunteers! How can he expect anyone to answer that call? Everybody knows you have to sell it, right? Say it won’t be hard. Say, “Anyone can do this.” Tell them it won’t take much time or effort. Tell them everything will be set up for them, that all they have to do is show up.

Look—we all know how this works, don’t we? If you want volunteers to help with a church project, you have to make it easy for them to commit. You can’t ask too much of people—and you certainly can’t expect them to take any kind of risk! What is Jesus thinking? This is no way to gain a following. This is no locker room pep-talk. Where’s the inspirational speech? Sheep in the midst of wolves? Who wants to play that role?

That’s not all. These first Christian missionaries are commanded to take nothing with them—not even the most basic provisions necessary for the road. No purse. No bag. No sandals. Sheep in the midst of wolves. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? Jesus is certainly aware of how dangerous the work will be, and yet he allows them to take no precautions whatsoever as he sends them out.

And yet, he does not send them out empty-handed. No. Listen to what he tells them:

^“Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this house!’ And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you. Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the labourer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’” (vv. 5-9)

What Jesus gives them is the power to share in his work. He gives them the power of his peace. The peace that they give will be the peace of Christ. And wherever the peace of Christ goes, powerful things happen—as these missionaries soon find out. When they return for debriefing, this is their report: “Lord, in your name even the demons submit to us!”

“Even the demons submit to us!” Wow! What a rush that must have been. How wonderful. How awesome. And, how frightening. How life-changing. Jesus has pushed them beyond their comfort zones—and out into the world.

No longer safe on the sidelines, these 70 disciples are commissioned to a task. Jesus gives them a charge, a mission, a project. He gives them his labour of peace. They are to share his peace through table fellowship, by curing the sick, and by proclaiming the kingdom of God. In other words, Jesus calls them to live out and practice the faith which they have already professed. And it is in the doing that the 70 are transformed from bystanders into harvesters.

Now, they are active participants in the work of God—and Jesus urges them to travel light. They are to carry with them no money, no food or supplies, no sandals for their feet. All of these comforts and necessities must be left behind. The only thing they are to carry is a message—and the message is simply this: “The kingdom of God has come near.” This is their proclamation, and this is their promise: “The kingdom of God has come near.” They are to speak these words to those who offer them hospitality—and even to those who reject them: “The kingdom of God has come near.”

These 70 souls are now ambassadors for Christ. And, as such, they are to live out God’s vision for the world. They are to practice peace, do justice, perform the faith. After seeing what they have seen—after witnessing so much pain and so many miracles—these followers were sent out to be doers of the word, carriers of the kingdom.

There is something about the Christian faith that simply has to be lived in order to be understood. If you’ve ever been engaged in any kind of Christian service or outreach or mission, you will understand what I’m talking about.

There are some gospel truths that only make sense in the homeless shelter or the prison cell, at a hospital bed or a disaster scene—or in any one of the great number of places where people cry out for mercy, for bread, for justice, for compassion. This, I think, is why Jesus sends his followers into the mission field carrying only the message that the kingdom has come near.

He gives us the same commission today—and the task is no less daunting for us than it was for the 70. We can clearly see the pack of hungry wolves circling around us—but the kingdom of God … Well, that’s not so visible.

We might be tempted to disagree with Jesus in so strongly asserting that the kingdom has come near. I mean, all you have to do is open the morning newspaper and scan the headlines to come to the conclusion that we do not live in such a peaceable kingdom. Wars rage on with little sign of stopping. Poverty and hunger claim the lives of millions while a few live in comfort with more than enough. Many are unsafe even in their own homes, while others enjoy the security of gates and fences.

These are not the signs of the kingdom that we would expect! In fact, if the kingdom itself knocked on our door with no sandals, no food, and no money … we might be tempted to tell it to go away!

But Jesus is insistent. The 70 are to proclaim to those who receive them—and to those who do not—that the kingdom is near.

How can they do such a thing? If the kingdom has indeed come near, why can’t we see it? What are the signs of its coming?

Well, let’s take another look at the instructions Jesus gives to the 70 missionaries:

• They are to enter a town, and—wherever they are welcomed—that’s where they are to stay; that is Christian hospitality.
• They are to eat whatever is given to them; that is table fellowship.
• They are to cure the sick; that is compassion and caring.

After all of that, they are to proclaim that the kingdom of God has come near. But you know, by that time it should be obvious, because—in all of these things—God’s kingdom has been revealed. In the faithful and loving ministry of the disciples, the kingdom of God has in fact come very near.

Many Christians in our own time have begun to speak of the kingdom of God as a metaphorical and idyllic symbol of life as we wish it could be—as we hope (albeit dimly) it may be … someday. But this is not Jesus’ message to the 70 as he sends them out. Instead, Jesus declares that—through the mission and ministry of these believers—the kingdom of God has come near.

Walter Rauschenbusch (1861-1918) was a theologian and social reformer who was one of the great voices of the Social Gospel Movement in the early 20th century. As a young man, Rauschenbusch became pastor of a German Baptist Church in New York City. His congregation was located in a part of the city called “Hell’s Kitchen”—a depressed area in which poverty, malnutrition, unemployment, disease, and crime were rampant.

It was precisely in this setting—and not within the ivory towers of academia—that Rauschenbusch began to develop his theology of the kingdom of God. Later, he would write, “The kingdom of God is always coming, but we can never say it has arrived. It is always on the way.” *

I’ll say it again: there is something about the Christian faith that must be lived in order to be understood. Jesus knew this, and so he sent his disciples out into the world with only the message of the kingdom to guide them.

It was all they needed.

We can use our theology as a hammer with which to bash others who cannot muster the faith we have. We can shout louder, speak longer, or preach harder than anyone else. We can be absolutely sure of our right answers and the certain damnation of others. We can stay in our comfort zones, detached from the real issues of faith. But, if we do—if we refuse to get our hands dirty and our hearts changed—we risk missing the kingdom of God that has already come near in Jesus Christ. We risk missing the terrifying and empowering journey that requires nothing but faith in God to sustain us—and trust in our fellow-travelers to support us.

Jesus is sending us out, today. He is sending us into a complex and hostile world—like sheep in the midst of wolves. All we carry is a message; but the message is all we need. The kingdom of God has come near! Amen.

^{____________________________________}

* Walter Rauschenbusch, A Theology for the Social Gospel (New York: Macmillan, 1917), p. 227.

TEXTS: Luke 9:51-62 and Galatians 5:1, 13-25

Now the works of the flesh are evident: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God. (Galatians 5:19-21)

On the way to Jerusalem—actually, on his final trip to Jerusalem—Jesus called a man he met on the road, saying, “Follow me.” But the man replied, “Lord, let me first go and bury my father.” And Jesus said to him, “Leave the dead to bury their own dead. But as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”

Another man came alongside Jesus and said, “I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” And to him, Jesus said, “No one who puts his hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

Decades later, the apostle Paul wrote to the Christians in Galatia, describing “the works of the flesh” which would keep a person from inheriting God’s kingdom. He mentions all kinds of things. To us, some of them—like idolatry and sorcery (and perhaps even orgies)—may not sound all that tempting. But then he goes on to list sins like:

• jealousy (ever cursed another driver because she found a parking spot before you did?);
• enmity and strife (is there somebody you’re not speaking to right now?);
• fits of anger (ever wished you could call down fire from heaven?).

And as for “sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality … rivalries, dissensions, divisions … drunkenness” … Let’s not even go there!

Today’s two Scripture readings kind of hit like a sledgehammer, don’t they?

Between the severe demands of Jesus reported by Luke and the withering list of all-too-familiar sins laid down by Paul … Well, am I the only one who feels uncomfortable?

Oh, to be sure, Paul tries to moderate things by also listing a whole bunch of good stuff, which he calls “the fruit of the Spirit”: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. But when I really think about that list—and consider how often I fall short in almost every category—it makes me feel even worse.

On a website run by the University of Göttingen, a Lutheran bishop named Luke Bouman recalls a conversation he once had when he was a parish pastor. Listen to the story he tells:

He sat across the table from me at a local fast food establishment. This deeply spiritual young man was talking to me about a decision he had made. He would go to medical school rather than seminary. I nodded, thinking that it was a good decision for him. But something made me wonder, and I probed for the reasons behind the decision. It was then that he started talking to me about his faith journey during college.

“I attended one church,” he began, “where the people talked a lot about serving others. But when it came right down to it, none of them were doing it very much. They were serving each other, serving themselves, but there was so much to do in the community—and they ignored all of it. I went to another church for a few Sundays in a row, and suddenly I got a letter from the pastor telling me that I was a member.

“When I asked her about it, she said that, since I already had a church, I would be an associate member of her church. I just don’t get it. I don’t want to be part of a church with such low expectations. I don’t want to be part of a church that makes it “easy” for me to be Christian. I want to be part of a church that challenges me to think, to act, to be so much more than I already am.”

I began to respond that there are more than two congregations out there when he cut my response short.

“Not to be rude or anything, pastor—but can you honestly tell me where I can find the congregation that I’m looking for? I want one that wants to make disciples, not members. If I am going to give my time to something, I want to know that it will be well-spent, that I will make a difference in the world. So, where is that church?”

I drank in all that he said. I knew the pastor of the “church of the three-Sunday member rule.” She had bragged to others about how many new members she had, that people were looking to belong and her church was growing. I wondered what she would say to my young man. I thought of my own congregation in Austin, Texas, which had nurtured this young man’s faith and inquisitive mind. Would they even measure up to his expectations? Most of Christendom, I suspected, would fall short. As a rule, most Christians don’t want to practice the difficult and demanding faith that is Christianity. They don’t seem to want to work that hard.*

Again, I ask: am I the only one who feels uncomfortable? I know that Christianity is a “difficult and demanding faith.” I know it’s hard to practice. None of that is news to me (or to you, either, I expect). And when we hear passages like those the lectionary offers for Proper 8, Ordinary 13 … perhaps all they do is make us feel like failures.

Is perfection really what Christ demands of us?

I remember another conversation. I was party to this one—some years ago—along with several other United Church members who had gathered as a committee to do some work on behalf of the Presbytery. Somehow the topic of other denominations came up, and I made a favourable comment about a well-known, large, evangelical congregation in Calgary—basically stating my admiration for the good work they do. I may even have said that some of the finest people I know are members there.

But my praise of that Christian group seemed to irritate one of those present.

I guess she thought that—not being United Church folks—they must be too “religious,” or something. Actually, I think she was offended because she figured that all evangelicals are overly moralistic, narrow-minded, and preach a higher standard than they practice (aren’t you glad mainline Christians never do that?).

Anyway, she sort of capped off her tirade by saying, “I could never belong to a place like that, because I’m not a hypocrite!”

Yes, she actually did say that. “I’m not a hypocrite!”

I didn’t have the nerve to say it out loud, but I thought to myself: “You’re not?”

Then, my next thought was: “I know that I am.”

And yes, I am.

I don’t like it. I do not aspire to be a grade-A-number-one hypocrite, but … Well, I know that I am.

I claim to follow the Prince of Peace, but I am often belligerent. I know that Jesus calls us to care about the poor and work for justice … but then I’ll buy clothing from Bangladesh because it’s so much less expensive. And I very seldom even think about whether the coffee I’m drinking has been fairly-traded.

To get even more personal about it … even though Jesus tells me to “turn the other cheek,” my first impulse is often to punch the other guy’s lights out! Don’t worry—I haven’t actually done that for many, many years (but I still think about doing it, sometimes).

I wonder if my friend from that committee ever wants to punch somebody’s lights out. And I wonder where her shoes were made … Ah, but there’s another one of my many shortcomings; I harbour resentments for much too long.

But again, I wonder: am I the only one? Actually, I know I’m not. Over the course of some 20 years of pastoral ministry, I’ve heard lots of people speak of how inadequate they felt as Christian disciples.

I don’t think most of us would dare to say that we’re “not hypocrites” … would we? Most of us—if we’re not seriously deluded—are aware that we do not always live up to our own standards.

Sometimes we’re rude. We hurt others’ feelings—on purpose.

Sometimes—perhaps out of fear—we are less than honest.

Sometimes we shirk the responsibilities of discipleship—or even simply those of church membership—saying that we’re too busy, too tired, too short of cash, too offended because of what someone else said or did … or that it’s somebody else’s turn, because we’ve done too much already!

Ouch. Please don’t think I’m scolding you. I do that stuff, too. I think we all do … sometimes. And make no mistake about it: when it comes to saying, “No. Please ask someone else” … occasionally, we have to do that, or our heads will explode!

My point is just this: there’s none of us perfect.

Even the apostle Paul—who compiled that long list of sins in chapter five of Galatians and said, “those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God”—had in mind people “who do such things” habitually, and without a single pang of conscience. How do I know that? Because of Paul’s own testimony about himself. This same Paul spoke about having a “thorn in the flesh” (2 Cor. 12:7) because he struggled with pride. He called himself “the least of the apostles” because he had persecuted the church of God (1 Cor. 15:9).

More than that, listen to the testimony Paul makes about himself in his Letter to the Romans:

“… I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate … I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing” (Rom. 7:15, 18).

Paul is pouring out his heart and soul here! He goes on, saying: “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (v. 24) And then he answers his own question: “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (v. 25)

Who will deliver me from this body of death? Who will deliver us from our weaknesses, our addictions, our pettiness and pride? Who will deliver us from our fears and failures and foolishness? “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”  Paul understood what we need to understand: we are saved by grace, because of what Christ has done for us. We are saved not because we are perfect, but because God is rich in mercy and loves us with a great love (Ephesians 2:4-5).

Jesus told us that, too—more than twice. Sure, on his way to Jerusalem to die on the cross, Jesus has set his mind upon what lies just ahead of him. We can forgive him, I think, if he’s a little bit cranky! In chapter nine of Luke, Jesus is telling us where he is going, what he has done, and what he is doing. It is Jesus who chooses to journey without a permanent address—without a home in which to lay his head. It is Jesus who has left his mother to be cared for by others in her old age. It is Jesus who has left the bench, hammer and saw of the workshop—and not looked back. At this point, those who come saying they want to follow him need to know what they’re getting into.

But this Jesus who sounds so harsh is the same Jesus who said he came not to congratulate the righteous, but to rescue sinners (Mark 2:17). He knew what he was getting into, as well. Sure, he said, “No one who puts his hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God”—but consider this: he welcomed Peter back, even after Peter had denied him three times. He put Peter’s hands back on the plough and told him, “Tend my sheep” (John 21:16). Peter may not have been fit for the kingdom of God—but he got that way!

So can you. So can I. We can—if we don’t give up. If we trust God to lead us. If we pay close attention to the lessons the Spirit teaches us. And if we stick together—if we encourage one another. That last point is really important. Paul emphasized it in just about every letter he wrote. Stick together. Care for one another. That’s what discipleship is really about. Put up with one another … even when you feel like punching the other guy’s lights out!

Or, as Paul himself put it, just a few verses later in his Letter to the Galatians: “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ … And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” (Gal. 6:2, 9).

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* http://www.predigten.uni-goettingen.de/predigt.php?id=2333&kennung=20100627en

TEXT: John 16:12-15

Trinity Sunday. This is the only day on the liturgical calendar that is named for a doctrine. Most of the other days—if they have a special designation—are named for persons (like all those “saints’ days”), or events (like Pentecost or Christmas or Epiphany), or divine attributes (like “Christ the King”). But only one day—this one, the first Sunday after Pentecost—is named for a doctrine.

Part of the reason why is that the liturgical calendar is meant to be an ecumenical calendar. That means there has to be a high level of concurrence with regard to the dates, and—as you may have noticed—Christian denominations have a diversity of opinions about doctrine. That’s why there’s no such thing as “Transubstantiation Day” or “Predestination Sunday.”

Only the doctrine of the Trinity gets its own day. It’s one of the very few things about which most churches agree. I recall hearing someplace that 95 percent or better of all professing Christians take the Trinity as a matter of fact.

Unfortunately, that does not mean that the doctrine of the Trinity is easily explained! So, one of the challenges facing any preacher is finding a way to speak about the triune nature of God without either getting bogged down in technical theological language or lapsing into silliness.

Well, let’s ask the question: What is the doctrine of the Trinity all about, anyway?

The British theologian Robin Parry has said: “For many Christians the Trinity has become something akin to their appendix: it is there, but they are not sure what its function is; they get by in life without it doing very much; and if they had to have it removed they wouldn’t be too distressed.” ¹

However, throughout Scripture—and throughout our Christian life—the careful listener will detect Trinitarian echoes. At Creation, the Father creates through his Son, breathing his Spirit into humanity. At the Incarnation, the Father sends the Son into the world by the power of the Spirit. We pray to the Father through the Son in the power of the Spirit.

And the church is the community of the Holy Spirit. Now, while there are a number of ways of speaking about the Trinity, it is this idea of community that I’m going to focus on here. Because—just like the church—God himself is a divine community. Let me explain.

In the 16th chapter of John’s gospel, we hear Jesus speak about “the Spirit of truth” who is soon to come. We also hear him say, “All that the Father has is mine.” Then, in the next chapter—as he is speaking to his Father, and praying for his disciples—we hear him say this:

“I ask … that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me. Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world … Righteous Father, the world does not know you, but I know you; and these know that you have sent me. I made your name known to them, and I will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.” (John 17:20-26)

Here we are given a fleeting glimpse of God as he is in himself. Three times in this passage, Jesus speaks of the Father’s love for him. He prays that those who trust in his name may “see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world.” From all eternity, the Trinity has existed in love. God has always existed—not in isolation, but as persons-in-relationship. God is divine community.

But the Trinity is more than a community of love or a close family. It is a community of being. The persons of the Trinity share one being (or one nature). Jesus prays that those who believe in him will be one “as you, Father, are in me and I am in you.”

Then—still addressing his Father—he asks that his disciples may be one even “as we are one.” Father, Son and Spirit mutually indwell one another. Yet each one is as distinctive as coffee, cream, and sugar.

Yeah. Coffee, cream, and sugar. Once you mix them together in a cup, they become part of each other—and you cannot separate them out again. The Trinity is sort of like that. Theologians call this perichoresis.² That’s a Greek term used to describe the “interpenetration” of the three persons of the Trinity.

Some have described perichoresis as a “sacred dance” which engages the three persons of the Godhead and expresses their essential unity.

Hmmm … that’s verging on theological gobbledygook, isn’t it? So let’s just put it this way: at the core of Trinitarian doctrine is the idea of community.

Jesus’ prayer for his disciples—which includes all of us believers—remains the same as it has always been: that we may all be one—not only one with each other, but also one with this Triune God whom we worship and serve. Think about that. Divine power is available to us because—through the work of the Holy Spirit—we are united with Christ, and united with his Father in heaven. If we are willing, in faith, to step into the circle of the sacred dance, then—together—we can get through the toughest of times. Together, we can get through anything!

Thanks be to God.

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¹ Robin Parry, Worshipping Trinity: Coming Back to the Heart of Worship (2nd ed.), Cambridge: Lutterworth, 2012, p. 14.

² Perichoresis (from Greek: περιχώρησις perikhōrēsis, “rotation”) refers to the relationship of the three persons of the triune God (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) to one another. Circumincession is a Latin-derived term for the same concept.

 

TEXT: John 20:1-31

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ (John 20:26)

In most of our churches, at chancel front or otherwise prominently displayed, we find … a symbol of death. A Roman cross. An instrument of execution, as vivid as a hangman’s noose or guillotine, as surely lethal as an electric chair.

But of course, unlike those other tools of destruction, the cross is not only a symbol of death. It is also a powerful symbol of something else. And that something else is reconciliation.

The apostle Paul says we are reconciled to God through Christ (2 Cor. 5:18-19), for—as he told the Christians at Colossae—”in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross” (Col. 1:19-20).

During a Good Friday service some years ago, I set up at the front of the sanctuary a very large wooden cross (about eight feet tall). As worshippers arrived, each one was handed a square of red paper. Later in the service, I asked everybody to write down—on those squares of red paper—their own personal wishes or prayers for reconciliation. About a broken relationship, perhaps. Or a grudge. A regret. A situation over which they had no control. Anything and everything that was getting in the way of their relationship with God—or their relationships with other people. Then those squares of paper were collected and fixed onto the cross. Because that is the symbolism of the cross. There, upon those rough pieces of wood, all of our sorrows and sins die along with Christ—so that we can be raised with him—raised in him—as brand-new creations.

It’s all about us starting over, as people who are reconciled—to God, and to one another.

Reconciliation is about bringing things together; or, more specifically, bringing things back together—things which are meant to be together. It’s closely related to the idea of atonement—or “at-one-ment.” We believe that, in Christ, God himself became “at one” with us. Actually, he became one of us.

See if you can wrap your head around this: God felt estranged from us. God created us to have intimate fellowship with himself, but the relationship had broken down—because we “wanted some space.” So we made space. Lots of it. So much space that, when the freedom we craved proved too much for us to handle … Well, we couldn’t find our way back home, through all that … space.

But no one mourned this broken relationship more than God did. He longed for things to be the way they were. As someone once put it, “The Lord missed Eden!”

God tried lots of things. He gave us rules of conduct, but we couldn’t follow them. He sent prophets to point us to his kingdom, but we ignored them. Humanity and God just kept getting farther and farther apart.

So, finally—“when the time was right”—God took drastic action. He became a human being named Jesus of Nazareth. He took on our mortal flesh and became one of us—subject to all the limitations and afflictions that are common to us.

He was born as we are born, and then he had to grow and learn, just as we have to grow and learn: how to walk, how to talk, how to live in human society. He had to learn a trade so that he could support himself. He knew the joy and the agony of our earthly existence. He faced hunger, temptation, sorrow, physical pain, emotional suffering—and even death! He became completely “at one” with us—and you can’t get any more reconciled than that!

Because of what Jesus did, the rift between God and humanity—that great, bottomless canyon separating earth and heaven—has been bridged. No longer can we claim that we don’t know what God is like, or that God is remote and far away and doesn’t care about us. Or that we’ve got no future because our sins and stupidity condemn us.

No. We are reconciled with God, and we have an eternal future with Christ; he even came back from the grave to tell us that.

Which is what Easter is all about, of course. If Jesus had not come back from death, who would understand the significance of his life?

Yes, from heaven’s point of view, God had been reconciled to us in Christ. That work of atonement was completed when Jesus spoke his last words upon the cross: “It is finished” (John 19:30). But nobody on earth knew that. Jesus had to rise again—and make himself known to us—before the reconciliation could be made effective.

The Easter story is just dripping with reconciliation! All the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus ooze this theme of reconciliation, as broken relationships are mended and made new.

Remember John’s account of Easter morning? When Mary Magdalene came to the cemetery early on Sunday morning, she was filled with despair. Her relationship with Jesus—which had been so deep and so close—was now broken in the most final and complete way possible. He was dead, and she had no hope of ever seeing him again. All she could do was weep. She would have given anything, to hear him speak her name … just one more time …

Then a voice behind her called out, “Mary!” In an instant, her broken heart was mended. And she was given a commission. Jesus called her to carry the most important message ever proclaimed: “Go to my brothers,” he said, “and tell them I’ve come back!”

His brothers? Mary understood that he meant the male disciples, who were still in hiding, back in Jerusalem. His brothers? To be sure, Jesus had often called them that. But … after they had deserted him … and denied him … Really? He called them his brothers?

Yes. Really. In Jesus’ mind, they were already reconciled.

However, the disciples did not realize that. They were just a group of defeated, demoralized, frightened men. If I had a time machine, and could travel back 2,000 years … and give the disciples little squares of red paper … I wonder what kinds of things they would write upon them. They had promised Jesus they would stand by him no matter what—that they would even die with him, if they had to. But then, when the chips were down, they all deserted him and fled. And now they were ashamed of their cowardice.

At the same time, maybe they felt that Jesus had let them down. They had truly believed he was the Messiah—that he was going to save their people from Roman oppression, and restore Israel to greatness. But instead, he let himself be arrested and killed, without even attempting to raise an army or make any kind of resistance. Perhaps—whether they dared to express it, or not—some of them even harbored bitterness toward God, for allowing this terrible disaster to take place.

They had completely lost hope. Even when Mary Magdalene came pounding on their door with her breathless report—“I have seen the Lord”—it did nothing to lift their spirits. In Luke’s account of this story, he mentions that there were several other female eyewitnesses, as well, and—along with Mary—they brought the glad news of Jesus’ rising. But to the disciples, their words “seemed … an idle tale, and they did not believe them” (Luke 24:11).

Which is why Jesus needed to do what John tells us he did later that evening. Into the midst of the disciples, through the barricaded door of the room where they were cowering in fear, “Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’”

“Peace be with you.” Not, “Where were you when I needed you?”

No recrimination. No accusations. Just, “Peace be with you.” Blessed words of reconciliation. “All is well between us, dear friends. You are still my brothers.”

He doesn’t need to tell them he forgives them, because it is obvious: he never blamed them! John tells us, “the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord.” That must be the greatest understatement of all time!

Just one problem, though. One of the disciples is not present. For whatever reason, Thomas isn’t there. He seems to be the only man among them who is not afraid to walk the streets. Or maybe he’s just so devastated that he doesn’t care what happens to him. Maybe he’s down at the Jerusalem Bar and Grill drowning his sorrows. We don’t know where Thomas is, but he is not present on this particular evening, and he misses the whole thing.

So when the others try to tell him about this miracle that has happened, Thomas thinks they’ve lost their minds. They say to him—just like Mary had said to them—“We have seen the Lord.”

In reply, Thomas says, “Bull!” Thomas says, “What a load of manure!” He must be thinking, “What is this? Some kind of cruel joke? Have they all gone crazy?” So Thomas responds with words of bitter doubt: “Unless I see the holes in his hands, I won’t believe it!”

Actually, it sounds to me like something more than doubt. This is utter disbelief. These are the words of a man who believes his friends are lying to him … for what reason, he cannot imagine. And so Thomas is placed at odds with the rest of them. Now, he is the only one who does not believe. Now, his relationship with these men—with this “band of brothers” who had walked with Jesus on dusty Judean roads … His relationship with them is broken.

And it probably would have stayed broken, except for Jesus, whose dearest wish for his friends remains, “that they may all be one.” Remember him saying that? Back in chapter 17, John quotes Jesus’ prayer for his disciples: “that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me”(John 17:21). Again, blessed words of reconciliation, meant to break down all the barriers separating us from God—and from one another.

God cannot bear to see Thomas estranged in this way. So, a week later, when Thomas is with the others in that same room, Jesus returns for a repeat performance, with the same opening line: “Peace be with you.” He has come back—intentionally, purposefully—just so that Thomas can see and hear what the others have seen and heard. “Put your finger here,” he says, “and see my hands … Do not doubt but believe.”

John doesn’t waste words trying to describe Thomas’s feelings in that moment. He simply records his joyful exclamation: “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus’ work of atonement continues, as the community of the disciples is restored. Restored, that is, except for Judas. Poor Judas. If only his anguish and guilt had not so utterly destroyed his own hope for reconciliation—had not driven him to suicide. If only he had waited—even for just three days—the gospel record might contain a second story about a prodigal son.

How about you? Have you been waiting? Have you been struggling to hold on? Have you been watching your own hopes fade? Have you been carrying—for far too long—a heavy burden? A burden of guilt? Or regret? Or resentment? What is it that keeps you awake at night? The terrible secret that you live with? That you can’t let anybody know about?

What have you done, that you think even God could never forgive? What has been done to you, that you cannot forgive … or don’t want to?

What are the barriers in your life? The things that keep you from accepting love from God—or from others? What prevents you from giving love?

In other words: what, in your life, cries out for reconciliation? Whatever it is, I tell you this: today—this very day—Jesus can make it right. You don’t have to write out your request on a square of red paper. All you have to do is ask him, sincerely, in prayer … and then watch what happens.

If you will let him, the One who healed Mary’s broken heart can mend your heart, too. If you will but give him permission, the carpenter from Nazareth can renovate your entire life, tearing down all the walls that keep you confined. If you feel like you’re in prison, Jesus is the One who can break you out!

It’s what he does. It’s what reconciliation is all about. It’s what the cross is for.

TEXTS: Acts 10:34-43 and John 20:1-18

On Easter Sunday, we gather in excitement and joy to celebrate the power of Christ’s resurrection. It’s a special day the world over. It’s the day that we’ve been preparing for all through the many weeks of Lent. It’s the day we’ve been preparing for all weekend, as well—and not just spiritually either, but with cooking and baking and shopping. Today is special. For, as the old hymn proclaims, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today.”

Yes, there is something wonderful about Easter. But there are also some extremely powerful—and perhaps even threatening—things about the meaning of this day. These are the things that we don’t particularly want to rack our brains over as we’re dyeing eggs or biting the ears off a chocolate rabbit.

Because, no matter how much we like to think about Easter as the time of eggs and bunnies and giggling children, this is the day on which we celebrate Jesus’ return to life. I think most of us would prefer to face the consequences of eating twenty chocolate rabbits, rather than face the real power behind Easter.

That’s because the power of Christ’s resurrection lies in its challenge to us as human beings. While it certainly does something for us—on our behalf—it also does something to us; it changes us! And when someone or something changes us, well … it isn’t usually comfortable, is it?

Today, I’d like to highlight what I think are two of the biggest challenges posed to us by Christ’s resurrection.

The first is that in Christ’s death and resurrection we have the assurance that God really, honestly understands what it’s like to live and die as a human being. In taking on the flesh and blood of humanity, God experiences both the highs and the lows of being like us.

What is the challenge here? I think the challenge lies in our relationship with God—this relationship in which we so often find ourselves wanting to say, “God, you just don’t understand!”

God, you just don’t understand how bad things are. You don’t understand just how deeply I’ve been hurt and betrayed. God, you just don’t understand how much I miss that person I loved and lost. God, you just don’t understand how lonely or sad or anxious or brooding I feel. God, you just don’t understand me!

It’s hard for us to believe that God does understand. Yet, surely the meaning of incarnation is just exactly this: God knows what a difficult life this is to live. God knows what it means to be in physical or emotional pain. God knows what it’s like to suffer loss.

The challenge of Easter lies in the truth that—just as God knows what it’s like to suffer as a human being—God also knows what it is like to transcend such suffering. In Christ’s resurrection, we experience the hope of new life. Christ died, and was buried, and on the third day rose again—rose to offer us the promise of something greater than our suffering. Yes, we do experience horrific pain in life; but just like Christ, we can be renewed by the power of God.

Now, many times we think of that renewal as happening only in the future—in what some refer to as “that great getting’ up morning” in the afterlife. But Easter renewal can happen in this life, as well. If we believe that Christ’s resurrection means that he lives on today; if we believe it means that he is present with us now; if we believe it means that he is present inside us and works through us; then we have to be open to the possibilities of Easter miracles happening in our lives now.

Many of us can point to times when we’ve had “Easter moments”—times when we thought we were finished… but then were miraculously raised to new life.

For some of us, those miracles happened in hospital rooms, or detox centres, or prison cells. For others of us, the miracle took some other form: the return of a loved one we never thought we’d see again; an experience of receiving forgiveness, of getting a second chance; or maybe—suddenly, miraculously—finding a way to accept something we thought we could never accept.

It’s those experiences of newness, of hope, of change, that have kept our faith going, even through the worst of times. Easter is real, and it happens both in the future of the hereafter, and in the now of today. Resurrection is real.

O.K. That’s the first challenge offered to us by Easter. The second challenge is maybe even a bigger one—and it’s about inclusivity and welcome. It’s the challenge that confronted Peter when he received the invitation to visit Cornelius the centurion. This was a scandalous thing for a Jew to even consider, to enter the home of a gentile! And not just any gentile, but a Roman! And not just a Roman, but an officer in the army which occupied Peter’s homeland!

It couldn’t have been easy for Peter to accept that invitation, but he did—because, as he explained: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.” (Acts 10:34b-35)

Or—to look at it from another perspective—consider what the apostle Paul wrote in his first letter to the Corinthians: “For since death came through a human being, the resurrection of the dead has also come through a human being; for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ.” (1 Cor. 15:21-22)

Everyone—absolutely everyone—ends up in the trap of death. No one can escape it. And—in the metaphorical language of Paul—this can be related back to the “fall” of humankind which occurred through the one person called Adam. Like Adam, Christ is one person—and through that one person of Christ, we can all experience new life. It’s available to anyone who wants it! And that’s a big challenge for us today.

It means that Christ offered new life to those who betrayed him and denied him and killed him. It means that Easter is just as much for the Romans and for Pilate—and even for Judas—as it is for me and for you. Christ Jesus will welcome all who come to him—even the people we can’t stand!

Jesus wants to give life to everyone—even the people we most fear and despise; even the people who have abused us—who have hurt us so badly. They can experience Easter just like we do. If you’re like me, accepting that is a huge challenge! Without God’s help, it’s a challenge I could never hope to meet.

So—to face these challenges—how much help does God give to us? A lot, actually. For the message of Easter is as powerful as it is simple: God is indeed with us. God knows just what we’re going through, because God has gone through it, also.

On Easter morning, we know that Christ is risen. Christ is risen today, for us! And on account of that, Christ does something to us. Easter means that there is available to us resurrection in our lives—right here, and right now. And it is not just for us, but for all those around us—even the most unlikely people. That is the challenge of Easter—and it is also the gracious gift of God.

Blessed are we, if we accept it.

Palm Sunday

TEXT: Luke 19:28b-40

As [Jesus] was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” (Luke 19:37-38)

So begins Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. The people of the city—or, at least, many of them—catch sight of Jesus, and they go wild with reckless enthusiasm. “Jesusmania,” as Tim Rice called it.*

Yes, the Palm Sunday circus has come to town! And to each and every one of us, it is a familiar account—isn’t it? From years of Sunday School processions and decades of gospel readings, we all know the story of Palm Sunday. Probably, most of us could describe these events without even opening a Bible.

But, did you notice? There’s an important word that’s missing from Luke’s account. And that word is: “Hosanna!” Luke never uses it. He doesn’t mention palms, either—but for me, it is the missing hosanna that stands out. All of the other gospels use that word.

In chapter 21 of Matthew’s gospel, we read: “The crowds that went ahead of [Jesus] and that followed were shouting, ‘Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!’” (Matt. 21:9)

Mark tells us that “those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, ‘Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!’” (Mark 11:9-10)

John’s account says, “they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet [Jesus], shouting, ‘Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord—the King of Israel!’” (John 12:13)

So why doesn’t Luke place “Hosanna!” on the lips of the crowd? Well … perhaps he does, indirectly.

Hosanna is an Aramaic rendering of the Hebrew phrase hosia na (HO-shee AH-na)—and the original gospel texts from Matthew, Mark, and John all transliterate the Aramaic word, inserting it—verbatim—into their Greek sentences.

Luke, however, appears to paraphrase it with the Greek word for “glory”—as in “glory in the highest heaven” in verse 38.

No matter. It seems obvious that hosannas were indeed raised for Jesus as he entered the city gates. But what is this word? What does “hosanna” mean?

Originally, it was an appeal for deliverance. Hosia nameans, “please save!” or “I beg you to save!” or “please deliver us!” In temple liturgical usage, it came to serve as an expression of joy and praise for deliverance—whether granted or anticipated.

When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the words erupted from the Passover crowds.

The ones who shouted “Hosanna” on that day believed that Jesus was God’s Messiah—the “anointed one”—the “Son of David” heralded by the prophets. They hoped that—through him—all their messianic expectations would be fulfilled. For them, hosanna was both a cry for salvation and a recognition that Jesus was able to save.

“Jesus saves!” That’s a familiar proclamation even today. However, we understand it quite differently than the way in which the Jerusalem crowds understood it.

They were hoping for a warrior Messiah who would drive the Roman occupiers out of their homeland and restore the Davidic line to the nation’s royal house. Kind of like a political candidate who promises to “make our country great again.”

Of course, they were in for a huge let-down. As Jesus himself kept trying to tell them, he was not going to be that kind of Messiah. The salvation he offered was of a different quality altogether—and the only blood being shed would be his own. As that became clear, the disappointed crowds would cease their “hosannas” and—scarcely five days later—take up another cry: “Crucify him!”

And the rest, as they say, is history. The true nature of Jesus’ Messiahship—and of the salvation he offers—would not start to become clear until Easter morning. And I would suggest that the true “saving significance” of Christ is still being made clear in our time.

So what does it mean to say that “Jesus saves”? Or to cry out to him, “Hosanna! Save me! Lord, deliver us!”

What is this “salvation” that Jesus brings?

Over the centuries, much ink has been devoted to this topic—as well as a great deal of heated discussion and even acrimonious debate.

The field of theological studies dealing with theories of salvation is called soteriology, and scholars have offered numerous perspectives.

One of these is Anselm’s theory of “substitutionary atonement,” which is today the dominant opinion amongst Christians, especially in the West. In a nutshell … even though it’s too grand a line of reasoning to comfortably fit in a nutshell … substitutionary atonement holds that Christ met the requirements of divine justice by taking responsibility for our sins upon himself, and dying in our place.

Another view is called the Christus Victor  theory. The idea here is that humanity was enslaved by the powers of death and evil, and that Jesus achieved salvation for all by reconciling us with God through his death and resurrection. When Christ returned from the grave, he won the decisive battle in a centuries-old struggle between God and Satan. Which means Jesus was a kind of warrior, after all.

Another one is called “moral transformation” or the “moral influence theory,” which holds that Jesus saved people from sinfulness through his life and teachings.

In other words, the struggle for faithful discipleship itself has transforming power. As the believer strives to follow the example and teachings of Jesus, he or she becomes righteous in God’s sight—even though moral perfection is not expected, and mistakes are forgiven.

There are plenty of other salvation theories, plus variations of variations of theories. Personally, I find none of them completely satisfying. Trying to nail down an exactly correct, precise definition of just how it is that Jesus saves us … Well, I think that’s a bit like attempting to scientifically explain love. It is something that always eludes our complete understanding.

But you know when you’re in love, don’t you? It is, ultimately, subjective—and it is one of the most profound experiences that any of us will ever have. We cannot adequately describe it. We may not completely understand it, but it is authentic. We know it’s real because of the effect it has upon us. It utterly transforms us.

I think the salvation Jesus offers is like that, too. It’s like a love affair. It’s like a personal relationship. It binds together those who experience it—and yet, each person’s experience of it is unique.

This kind of touches on what I mean when I say that the true saving significance of Christ is still being made clear today; it is continually being re-discovered in the life of each believer. And it can only be described anecdotally—through testimony, through the telling of stories.

With that in mind, I’m going to tell you three stories. Don’t worry … none of them are very long.

The first story is one I’ve told before in this blog. It’s about a young woman I’ll call Susan. When I met her in Kamloops, Susan had been clean and sober for several years. Before that, she had been addicted to heroin, and worked as a street prostitute in Vancouver. In those days, Susan would do whatever she had to do to get money for drugs.

To be sure, from time to time, she would half-heartedly try to stop using—but (of course) without success. Susan told me that a big part of her problem was that she hated her life—and so she could see no good reason for straightening it out.

That is, not until her baby girl was born.

It quickly became obvious that Susan’s drug use had seriously damaged this poor infant. The baby looked normal enough, but she screamed and cried most of the time, and she was very sick all of the time. When Susan saw this, it broke her heart. She had not expected to love this little girl. And she was appalled by the harm she had done.

The infant was, of course, apprehended by social services and placed in foster care. But Susan wanted her daughter back. And so, for the first time in her life, she had a compelling reason to change.

She went into rehab once again—but this time, she worked very hard to get well. After that, she joined a support group and made some tremendous positive changes in her life.

To make a long story short, Susan’s child was eventually returned to her. That was many years ago, and that baby girl has herself now grown into a fine young woman. You see, Susan turned out to be a very good mother. If you were to ask her what made the difference for her—what finally made her want to turn her life around—Susan would tell you it was the sight of her newborn baby in severe distress.

In that moment, she found out not only what love feels like—but also what it looks like. Love showed her how terrible her addiction (her “sin,” if you like) truly was. And her love for her child—her own unanticipated love—was what finally brought her to repentance.

As I contemplate her story, it occurs to me that—in a quite literal sense—Susan’s baby daughter became as Christ for her. In her own tiny body, she bore her mother’s sin, and by doing so … she removed it. Susan experienced her daughter’s suffering vicariously—and that transformed her. A case of “substitutionary atonement” if ever there was one!

I think the salvation Jesus offers looks just like that.

Then again, I think salvation looks like a newly-released convict I also met in Kamloops, some years ago. I got to know this man through some outreach work I was doing through the New Life Mission in that city. He was an example of someone who actually did turn his life around while in prison, and was trying very hard to re-enter society—and his faith was a huge support to him as he struggled to do that. One day, he surprised me with something he said. He said, “I don’t want to be a murderer anymore.”

Like I said, that surprised me—in fact, it shocked me. In an instant, I realized two things. First, I realized it had never occurred to me that you could decide to stop being a murderer! I believed a person could repent of wrongdoing and turn from it … but, without ever having thought much about it, I just figured that once you had killed someone … well, you were, forever afterward, a murderer. That’s what you were, as if that somehow defined you.

But, in a flash, I also realized that this fellow was a living example of the kind of change the apostle Paul describes in his Second Letter to the Corinthians, chapter five, where he writes:

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself … in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them … (2 Cor. 5:17-19, ESV)

Here, again, is a case of profound transformation through the power of Christ. The one who is in Christ is, indeed, a new creature—a fresh creation. That’s the kind of salvation Jesus offers us. And it does sound like a hard-won victory of the warrior Christ, doesn’t it?

My final story comes from a conversation I had many years ago with a woman who taught journalism here in Calgary.

She told me how, when in her early 20s she was a fledgling reporter in Ottawa, she somehow landed an interview with a very well-known Canadian politician. One day, this man would be prime minister—albeit briefly. At the time, he was minister of justice.

Anyhow, she told me about how this man warmly welcomed her into his private office, where she set up her tape recorder and proceeded with the interview, which lasted well over an hour. Then, when the interview was done, she picked up her recording device … and discovered that she had never turned it on! In her nervousness, she had forgotten to do that.

How terribly embarrassing. And yet, she told me that when this important cabinet minister—this very busy man—realized what had happened, he went out of his way to make light of the situation, trying to make her feel better.

What he did next was unexpected. He invited her to have dinner with him in the parliamentary cafeteria, where he happily re-did the entire interview!

“And,” she said to me, “he didn’t even hit on me!”

Something which, apparently, powerful men occasionally do …

Now, I don’t know if my friend the journalism instructor was aware of it, but—by various accounts and his own testimony—this Canadian politician was and is a serious Christian. I don’t think I knew that about him when I first heard this story—but when, later, I learned this fact, I immediately remembered the tale of the young female reporter and her interview gone wrong. And I remembered her words: “He didn’t even hit on me!”

And I thought to myself: at some point, because of his relationship with Christ, this man had decided: “I am never gonna be that guy!”

That sounds like “moral influence” to me. As someone once said, “the difference between an ethical man and a moral man is that, while an ethical man knows he shouldn’t cheat on his wife, a moral man actually wouldn’t!”

At any rate, I guess my point is simply this: when you’re trying to figure out what “salvation” looks like, you need to ask yourself what it looks like in your own life. We have a wonderful Saviour. He may not always give us what we think we want, but always—always—he offers us what we really need. I invite each of you to ponder that, in the week ahead.

That way, maybe—just maybe—come Easter morning, you will discover Jesus rising up in your own heart. And you may find yourself raised, with him, to new and abundant life. May it be so. Amen.

__________

* Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice: “This Jesus Must Die” from Jesus Christ Superstar (1970): “What then to do about this Jesusmania? How do we deal with the carpenter king? Where do we start with a man who is bigger than John was when John did his Baptism thing?” [http://lyrics.wikia.com/wiki/Andrew_Lloyd_Webber_%26_Tim_Rice:This_Jesus_Must_Die]