Grottenberg the Elder

¹ Matthew 21:40

² Matthew 21:41

³ C.S. Lewis, The Magician’s Nephew (New York: HarperCollins, 1983), p. 171.

⁴ Ibid., p. 175.

⁵ Ibid., p. 190.

TEXTS:  Matthew 21:23-32 and Philippians 2:1-13

When [Jesus] entered the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him as he was teaching, and said, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” (Matthew 21:23)

You’ve heard the story. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all agree on when it happened—this interrogation, this questioning of Jesus by the religious authorities of his day. It took place not long after what we call the “Palm Sunday” event. You remember. That’s when Jesus entered Jerusalem riding on a donkey. Crowds lined the street, shouting “Hosanna!”

“Hosanna!” means “Lord, save us!” And it expressed the people’s hope. Hope that Jesus was, in fact, the long-awaited Messianic liberator.

Soon thereafter, he headed straight for the Temple. And he proceeded to do some house-cleaning. He overturned the money-changers’ tables—and scattered their animals—because the priorities of God’s people were all messed up. He turned things upside down to show how much of a mess it really was.

It was this messing around in the Temple that caused the priests and elders to ask their pointed question: “By what authority are you doing these things?”

It’s a familiar passage of Scripture, isn’t it? When I read it, I want to place myself beside Jesus as one of his disciples. I want to identify myself with him. When those religious authorities come marching up, I see myself on one side of the question. But you know, maybe I should really place myself on the other side.

After all, let’s face it; I am a modern-day “religious authority.” I’ve been a pastor for about a quarter-century now.

By the authority vested in me, I am qualified to officiate at wedding ceremonies, and legally join two people in marriage. For many years, I sat on an interview board, which examined prospective candidates for accountable ministry in my denomination. Every time that board convened, I found myself in precisely the same place of authority as the priests and elders in today’s gospel lesson.

Whether I like it or not, I’ve had the same role as those men who came to Jesus and questioned his authority.

So, looking at this encounter between Jesus and the religious hierarchy, perhaps I need to identify with them, rather than with him. Maybe we all should—we good, religious people. Maybe we should approach this story from the other side of the question. We ask the question, not someone else. And we ask it not of ourselves, but of Jesus. By what authority is Jesus doing the things he is doing in our lives?

Do we ever ask that question? Do we ask that question when what the Lord is doing is obviously working to our advantage? When we experience healing, for instance? Or get a promotion at work?

When good things happen to you, do you question Jesus’ authority?

Probably not. But, like Matthew McConaughey once said in an automobile commercial, “Maybe you should.”

Those chief priests and elders way back then … they were not just thinking about the “money-changer episode” in the Temple, when they came and questioned Jesus’ authority. No. The miracles he had performed—the healings, the great things he had done—these troubled them, also!

See, those guys weren’t stupid. They understood that the miracles and the Temple cleansing and Jesus’ teachings were all bound together into one package. It was the package deal they questioned.

When the Lord does good things in our lives, there are often larger purposes involved. When we experience some kind of healing, for instance, it may be for a reason—quite possibly one that we do not at first appreciate.

We’ve all heard people talk about how the bad things that come our way happen for a reason … right? Well, what about the good stuff?

Perhaps good things happen for a reason, too. Like helping us face difficulty in the future. Perhaps the healing is in preparation for something else.

What about forgiveness? That’s good stuff! In Christ, we may come to a deeper awareness of God’s grace and mercy. We come to understand that we have been forgiven for a great debt. And then comes Jesus’ call to forgive as we have been forgiven!

Remember that gospel lesson from two weeks ago? Peter asked Jesus, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

And how Jesus answered, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times [or seventy times seven]” (Matt. 18:21-22).

You may also recall these familiar words of invitation from Jesus: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).

Jesus calls us to come and lay our burdens at the foot of the cross. What comforting words! We can let go of our sins and sorrows and regrets, and God will restore us. But then he adds the next line—which should catch us up, if we truly listen:

“Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:29-30).

Wait a minute, Lord! In one breath, you invite me to lay my burden down. In the next, you ask me to carry another. “Easy” and “light” you say, but it’s still a “yoke.”

Something good leads to a larger purpose—a calling that may consume your entire life. When you consider what taking up this yoke truly involves, might you not also question the authority behind Jesus’ call?

When you invite Christ into your life, you can expect him to do some “house-cleaning.”

He will turn your life upside down. He’ll flip your tables over, and drive out your wrong-headed ideas about what God requires of you.

We may think it’s our own little religious rituals that draw us closer to our Creator, but in reality, it is God who is drawing us to himself. Or, to look at it a different way, we usually think of “faith” as a noun, and not as a verb. But faith is active. Faith is a way of following.

When the children of Israel stood at the edge of the Red Sea and God parted the waters for their escape, was “faith” a noun? Or was it a verb?  For them, believing meant stepping forward and walking out onto the seabed.

Faith is not a religious ritual. Faith is not a theological statement. Faith is an often-terrifying step in a particular direction.

“Take up my yoke,” Jesus says.

“Seventy times seven,” Jesus says.

“My house shall be called a house of prayer…” (Matt. 21:13; Isaiah 56:7).

His words and actions should give us pause, and make us ask, as did those religious authorities so long ago: “By what authority do you say and do these things?” That’s not just yesterday’s question. It’s a question for today.

The chief priests and elders knew it boiled down to two options: either Jesus’ authority was derived from the author of Creation—from God—or else it was something much less.

By the way, whenever we hear the word “authority,” we should notice the word “author” within it. Are these words and actions “authored” by God or not?

When Jesus flipped the question back on them, asking about John the Baptist, those were the two options they debated. Either John’s authority was from God, or it was just his own voice talking.

That remains the issue for us, today. Is this stuff from God or not?  And if it’s from God, what are we going to do about it?

Jesus followed up this encounter with a parable—a story of a man who had a vineyard and two sons. He goes to one boy and says, “Son, go and work in the vineyard today.”

The kid says, “No, I won’t!”  But later he changes his mind.

The father goes to the other boy and asks the same thing. That kid says, “Sure!” … but he never does it.

Then Jesus asks the religious leaders which son did what his father wanted—the one who first said “no,” but went ahead and did it anyway, or the one who said “yes,” but did nothing.

Of course, their answer was, “the first son.”

Those religious leaders had heard God’s call through John the Baptist—just as they had heard it through the prophets who came before him. They had said their “yes” to God, but they weren’t really doing what God had asked of them: like …

• doing justice (not just talking about it, but doing it);
• extending mercy (making forgiveness a lifestyle, not merely a ritual); and
• humbly walking with God (making faith a verb, not just a noun).*

In other words, the hard stuff.

When you listen to today’s gospel lesson as if you are the one who questions Jesus, what happens? Do you become aware of your own inner resistance to the authority of God in your life? Are you really allowing the author of Creation to write his Word on your heart?

How do we know God’s Word is written upon our hearts? When faith becomes a verb, not just a noun. When we take seriously the words of Jesus in John’s gospel: “the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these …” (John 14:12).

By what authority do we do what Jesus has called us to do?  A good scripture text for that is what the apostle Paul wrote to the Philippians, when he quoted an early Christian hymn (at least, many think it is). And the hymn speaks of Jesus’ authority in a different way.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,

             did not regard equality with God

             as something to be exploited,

but emptied himself,

             taking the form of a slave,

             being born in human likeness.

And being found in human form,

              he humbled himself

             and became obedient to the point of death—

             even death on a cross.

Therefore God also highly exalted him

             and gave him the name

             that is above every name,

so that at the name of Jesus

             every knee should bend,

             in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue should confess

             that Jesus Christ is Lord,

             to the glory of God the Father.

(Phil. 2:5-11, NRSV)

Do you see? Jesus was totally equal with God, but he released it all—he let it go—and became like us. By doing that, he did what God wanted—even though it cost him his life. Because of this, the hymn says, “… at the name of Jesus every knee should bend … and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father”

His authority was not in any crown he wore, or in any badge of honor pinned to his chest, or in any claim to fame he may have made. It was derived from his complete obedience to his Father’s will. It was etched upon his heart by God’s own hand.

His authority becomes ours when we allow this same handwriting to be etched upon our hearts and minds. Paul urged the believers in Philippi to do precisely that; and I think the Holy Spirit is urging us to do it, also—here and now.

And so, we need to ask—even as we are being asked:  Where does this authority come from? Is it from God, or not?  And if we say it is from God, what are we going to do about it?

^{_________________}

* see Micah 6:8

TEXT: Matthew 20:1-16

Now when those hired first came, they thought they would receive more, but each of them also received a denarius. And on receiving it they grumbled at the master of the house, saying, “These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.” —Matthew 20:10-12 (ESV)

Well, I ask you, what kind of a way is that to run a business? Does this sound like any labour dispute you’ve ever heard of? Where employees are complaining that they received the wage they agreed to? Where the boss defends his right to pay more than is necessary? Where you get the same wages no matter how long you work? How on earth could you develop incentive to increased productivity in a system like that? What kind of fairness is this? The fairness of a system in which the first ones hired are the last in line? The last ones in move up to the front? Where sweat counts for nothing? What gives?

This, Jesus says, is how it works in the kingdom of heaven. When Jesus taught, he spent most of his time talking about the kingdom of heaven, telling us that the way the world works and the way the kingdom works are two very different things. Jesus taught that, in the kingdom, we are to love our enemies, give away our coat if someone asks for it, not worry no matter what’s going on, forgive as many times as it’s required, eat with people who have no reputation—or at least no good one!

None of this advice sounds like what the world suggests for those who want to get ahead. In the chapter preceding this one, Jesus said to his disciples: “it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.” (Matt. 19:24)

Tough words to hear, if you’re a first-world Christian! But Jesus was not condemning wealth per se. What he was saying was that we have to enter the kingdom as beggars—bringing nothing, contributing nothing—but expecting God to provide. To enter the kingdom, we need to have empty hands and light hearts. Wealth and possessions and status and responsibility are not bad things. But they can make it hard for us to be empty-handed and light-hearted.

Those who are first in position, first in achievement, are not necessarily going to be first in the kingdom of heaven. So, Jesus says, many who are first in this world will be last, and the last will be first. And to illustrate that point, he tells this parable.

The kingdom of heaven is like a landowner, who goes out at the crack of dawn to hire labourers to work in his vineyard. He finds them, agrees on the usual wage, and sends them out. He’s made a covenant with them: if they work all day, he will pay them a day’s wage. Now every three hours or so he goes back to the marketplace, finds more people standing around, and sends them out, as well.

This is what I’d call “hands-on management.” He’s monitoring progress, “up-sizing” the workforce as needed. Then, an hour before quitting time, he goes back out to the marketplace. Finding still others standing around, he says to them, “Why have you been idle all day?” “Well, no one put us to work,” they say. “You go to the vineyard too,” he says, even though there’s only one more hour to go. It’s hardly worth the paperwork!

Then at six o’clock it’s payroll time—reckoning time. Like many parables of the kingdom that Jesus tells, this one deals with the Day of Reckoning. What’s going to happen when we are called to account at the end of our workday?

Well, this reckoning happens according to the deal struck at the beginning. The covenant is kept. The demands of the Law are met. Everyone gets paid the same, the amount agreed upon, the daily wage. What could be more fair than that?

And yet, those first workers laboured for 12 hours in the blazing sun! Shouldn’t they have gotten more than those who only worked one hour? Isn’t that more fair?

On the other hand, the landowner’s perspective is perfectly correct. It’s his capital; he can spend it as he wants. The complainers received not one penny less than what they had agreed to. Notice, their complaint was not that they didn’t receive enough. Their complaint was that the latecomers were elevated to a place of equality with them. Their complaint is not that they’ve been cheated, but that generosity is shown to others.

Now in the context of Matthew’s Gospel, this may reflect the complaint of the Jewish leaders and Pharisees—or even of early Jewish Christians—that the promises of God’s Covenant were being extended to Gentiles and others who were unworthy. But I think it’s broader than that; I think it reflects something deep in human nature.

This is a theme that runs through all the gospels: resentment. Not at deprivation, you understand, but at generosity shown to another. The cry of the Pharisee—the cry of the good girls and good boys over all the ages—is, “Why are other people getting rewarded when they’ve been bad? When they haven’t done half of what I’ve done?”

Do we ever find ourselves resenting someone else’s advancement? Have you ever known yourself to be perfectly content with your title and your salary … until you hear of someone else getting a better one? What usually gets us into trouble is what got these 12-hour workers into trouble—comparing ourselves to others instead of focusing on what we have received.

Underneath that thinking—which is as common in the church as it is in the business world or academia or medicine or the playground—is a deep-seated fear that there is not enough to go around. We fear that if someone else receives more than we do (or even as much as we do) we will receive less.

The question for us today is: can we believe in enough? Can we trust in enough? We have a distorted outlook—one which tells us we don’t have enough. Now, it has nothing to do with what we actually do have. It has do to with our perception. We, looking at all our wealth, see ourselves as poor!

Why? Because we’re comparing ourselves to someone whom we think has more. For some reason, we rarely compare ourselves to people who have less! I heard a shattering statistic the other day: if you have just $4,210 to your name, you’re still richer than half of the world’s residents (!)* We are the richest of the rich, most of us. But that’s not how we feel.

So much of our way of thinking is based on an assumption of scarcity, of having to earn our way. But the message of the kingdom is abundance—a measure filled and overflowing.

God is always saying to us, “There’s more where that came from.” Food for 5,000 out of five loaves and two fish—and a dozen baskets left over! Jugs and jugs of finest wine created out of water, never running out! A spring of living water welling up to eternal life. Love that will never be exhausted. The message of the kingdom is one of unmerited love and forgiveness in abundance, of overwhelming grace.

So, what then? Should we all quit our jobs? Get out of the business world? Is the non-profit sector the only place for Christians?

I don’t think that is what Jesus meant. I think we are called to remember this parable in the way we do business—perhaps to evaluate success on lines other than by comparing ourselves to other companies or people. Evaluating, perhaps, by internal standards: have we accomplished what we set out to do? Are we doing more than we were before? Are we treating our employees and our competitors with dignity? But that’s just good business, and good business people already operate that way.

Ultimately, I don’t think this parable has any more to do with business than the parable of the good shepherd has to do with sheep. This lesson has to do with understanding the kingdom of heaven. And the currency of the kingdom of heaven is grace. Grace goes beyond the covenant. We cannot earn it, no matter how hard we work. Grace is given to those who believe, regardless of how much or how little they work.

Now, I don’t know about you, but that’s hard for me to hear. I guess I am what you would call a spiritual striver. Many of us who are very achievement-oriented in life—who tend to evaluate ourselves based on productivity—find this mentality extending to the way we operate in our lives of faith. So we excel in showing up for worship. We pledge a lot of money (not that I’m knocking that!). We serve on two or three—or four—committees. We get elected to the church board. We cook for turkey suppers and Meals on Wheels. We teach Sunday School … well, okay, not many of us do that! But still—so many of us—we do and we do and we do.

It’s almost as if we never heard the word of grace—that everything we could possibly need “done” has already been accomplished through the life and death and rising of our Lord Jesus Christ. Anything that we are called to do, we do as grateful servants—as day labourers in the kingdom.

God loves us with a love that made us, that knows us, that redeems us, that transforms us. All we have to do is receive it. We cannot earn it. We do not need to ask for it. We are given all we need—no more, no less. All we bring is empty hands ready to receive grace that is enough for today—until that eternal day when we sit at the heavenly banquet table, where there is a place set for each of us. Wow! That is good news! Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

____________________

* https://www.cnbc.com/2018/11/07/how-much-money-you-need-to-be-in-the-richest-10-percent-worldwide.html

 

TEXTS: Matthew 18:21-35; Romans 14:1-12

“Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive?” (Matthew 18:21)

“If another member of the church sins against me …” Does that sound familiar? Like … maybe … last week’s blog post?

“If another member of the church sins against you,” Jesus said, “go and voice your concern privately, when the two of you are alone … if you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you … if that doesn’t work, tell it to the whole church …” (Matt. 18:15-17)

Yeah. If you read my previous blog, you remember it, don’t you? It was about conflict in the church, and Jesus’ advice about how to deal with it. He describes a kind of step-by-step process, with an emphasis upon reconciliation; that’s part of what he’s getting at when he says, “if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven” (Matt. 18:19).

His underlying assumption seems to be that fellow Christians (“members of the church”) will have a deep and genuine love for one another. The kind of love that makes reconciliation possible. The kind that mirrors Christ’s own love for his people. That’s why he concludes by saying: “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them” (Matt. 18:20).

Jesus expects us to love one another. He even commands us to love one another (John 13:34). Yet, at the same time, he takes it for granted that there will be friction between us. Disagreements. Quarrels. Backbiting. Personality conflicts.

He knows us pretty well. And last Sunday, we heard him give some very practical advice. Detailed advice. Step-by-step, he lays out a plan—a formula for sorting out church fights. First, try this. If that doesn’t work, do this. And if you still get nowhere, here’s something else you can try.

Jesus probably thought that he had covered all the bases, making clear that it’s really all about reconciliation—about building upon the love that his followers already have for one another.

After all, the church is supposed to be a community of grace. Surely, we are sisters and brothers, eager to forgive one another’s shortcomings. We are all forgiven sinners. We want to get along.

“Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them,” Jesus says.

“Any questions?”

Yeah. Peter’s got a question: “Lord, if another church member sins against me, just how often do I have to forgive him, anyway? Is seven times enough?”

And we all know how Jesus answered: “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times!”

Or, as some ancient manuscripts have it, “seventy times seven.”

Four hundred and ninety times, Peter. Keep on forgiving until you lose count! And then—perhaps in frustration—he engages in some hyperbole.

Hyperbole. What does the word hyperbole mean?

hyperbole noun, Rhetoric.

1. obvious and intentional exaggeration.
2. an extravagant statement or figure of speech not intended to be taken literally, as “to wait an eternity.”

Hyperbole is an extreme exaggeration used to make a point. It is like the opposite of understatement.

• I’ve told you a million times!
• It was so cold, I saw polar bears wearing parkas.
• He’s so dumb, he thinks Taco Bell is a Mexican telephone company.
• I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.

Jesus loved hyperbole. It was a tool he often used, when he wanted to make a point. Earlier in Matthew’s gospel—after warning them against lust—he told the men in his audience: “If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.  And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away …” (Matt. 5:29-30).

See, the thing about hyperbole—about hyperbolic language—is that it’s memorable. I doubt that very many of Jesus’ disciples plucked their eyes out. But I’m sure every one of them remembered what he said.

“Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive?”

Jesus gives his short answer: “Not seven times, but seventy-seven.” And then he launches into this disturbing parable about the hard-hearted servant. Or slave, as the New Revised Standard Version has it.

Anyway, this guy owes his boss 10,000 talents. To put that in perspective, one talent was worth 15 years’ wages for an ordinary labourer. In today’s money—based on an average labourer’s wage of $20 an hour—that comes to … well …

Ten thousand talents is about 6.2 billion dollars!

I told you Jesus loved hyperbole.

Six billion dollars. Of course, he cannot even begin to pay what he owes. So his boss—the king—orders him to be sold (along with his wife and children and all his property) in order to recoup at least part of the immense debt.

But the servant begs the king for mercy: “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.”

Which is unlikely. But—amazingly—the king takes pity on him, and decides to just cancel the entire debt. The man is free to go.

He is barely out of the room, however, when he bumps into one of his fellow servants, who owes him money. A much smaller amount. A hundred denarii. A significant amount—about $16,000 in today’s currency. Significant. But a pittance compared to $6.2 billion.

So this guy—who’s just been forgiven that whole massive debt … What does he do?

Seizing the other man by the throat, he says, “Pay what you owe.”

His fellow-servant pleads with him, begging for more time. “Have patience with me,” he says, “and I will pay you.”

But the first servant is having none of it. He calls the cops, and has the second man thrown into prison until he pays up. Now this is pure spite. How can anybody raise money from a prison cell?

Well, we know how the story plays out. The people who witness this heartless act go and tell the king about it—and he reverses his earlier merciful decision. Calling the heartless servant onto the carpet, he says: “You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. Should you not have had mercy on your fellow-slave, as I had mercy on you?”

Then he hands the guy over to be tortured until he comes up with that six billion dollars! And Jesus concludes the parable by saying, “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”

Gulp. Here’s hoping this story is hyperbole! However, Jesus’ point is crystal-clear: we are to forgive one another—forgive our fellow-servants—an infinite number of times. Just like the Lord’s Prayer: “forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.”

Yeah. Debts and debtors. That’s how Matthew frames the prayer back in chapter six. Sins and wrongdoings were considered as debts in Jewish society. And forgiveness was regarded as a paramount virtue.

Now, remember that Jesus was talking about how we are supposed to treat fellow believers. According to a footnote in my study Bible, “member of the church” can also be rendered as “brother or sister.”

“So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”

Brother. Sister. Fellow servant. We who claim Jesus as Saviour and Lord are servants of the heavenly King. No matter how determined we are to rat one another out, God is the One who settles accounts, in the end. As the apostle Paul states the case: “[We] must not pass judgment on those … [whom] God has welcomed … Who are you to pass judgement on servants of another? It is before their own lord that they stand or fall. And they will be upheld, for the Lord is able to make them stand” (Romans 14:3-4).

“We will be upheld, for the Lord is able to make us stand.”

There’s the word of grace in all this, I think. However badly we mess up, somehow the Lord will sort us out. If we belong to Jesus, he will uphold us. However far we fall—however hard we fall—we can trust him to set us back on our feet.

I believe that—behind all the hyperbole—the truth remains the same: our salvation is not about having to live up to some unattainable standard of righteousness. No. It’s about being part of the family and household of God. As Paul says in his Letter to the Romans: “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s” (Rom. 14:7-8).

Jesus’ hyperbole challenges us to become better disciples. And the life of discipleship is challenging. At least here on earth, the challenges never cease. Someone has said that following Jesus is just like being in boot camp! Sometimes, it takes everything you’ve got. But it always makes you better. In fact, it challenges you to become the best that you can be.

Sometimes, we’ll succeed in that. Sometimes we won’t. But we have this promise from the One who goes before us: “Whoever comes to me, I will never cast out” (John 6:37).

Kind of like the United States Marine Corps (at least, in the movies) … Jesus will leave none of his comrades behind.

Jesus will leave none of his sisters or brothers behind. He came here on a rescue mission to break our chains and set us free. He ransomed us. And now, he will never abandon us. Let’s make sure we never abandon one another.

TEXT: Romans 12:9-21

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. (Romans 12:14)

Heinrich Heine once said, “One must forgive one’s enemies—but not before they have been hanged.” ¹

And you know, many of us feel that way. It’s what works on the football field and the hockey rink. It’s what works in nature. You don’t see cats turning around and saying to dogs who are chasing them up a tree, “I forgive you.” You don’t have dolphins saying to the shark, “We forgive you for eating our brothers.” It’s a “dog-eat-dog” world out there, not a “dog-forgive-dog” world.

If that is the world of nature—and if that’s what is supposed to be instinctive to us—why does the Bible stress forgiveness? Why does Paul, in his letter to the Romans, urge believers to bless those who persecute them?

Well, maybe because Jesus said it first!²  We know it’s what we’re supposed to do. That’s why we pray: “forgive us as we forgive others.” Forgiveness is at the core of our religion—and yet, it’s not easy for most of us.

But then there are people like Dale and Diane Lang. Their son Jason was 17 years old when he was shot and killed by a 14-year-old boy at a high school in Taber, Alberta, in 1999. I’m sure you all remember that. I’ve never been able to forget it.

For some reason—even though I’ve never met any of the people involved—this tragic, terrible incident has gotten under my skin, and I still feel a tide of anger rising within me whenever I think about it. I guess that’s because I’m a parent, and I imagine my own son in Jason Lang’s place. I know how I would have reacted if my child had been murdered, and forgiving the murderer would have been the last thing on my mind.

The Langs, however, reacted differently. Dale Lang—an Anglican priest—publicly forgave his son’s killer, and prayed for the boy and his family. At the teenager’s sentencing—after he pleaded guilty to first-degree murder and received three years in a youth facility—Diane Lang told the Canadian Press: “We have been asking God to give wisdom to the judge … to do what is best for this young man.”³

Now I know the Langs are Christians, obviously … but I’m still shocked by what they did. It flies in the face of the human desire to retaliate. Who hasn’t been tempted to exact some kind of revenge? Fighting back and responding in kind seem to be basic human impulses when we are mistreated.

Most of us have a strong built-in sense of justice—or, at least, we know when we have been treated unjustly. So when we have the chance to implement a little justice of our own, we jump at the chance. Mind you, it’s our own version of justice that we like to execute, and it often involves a pretty subjective application—one that’s based on however we’re feeling at the moment.

Maybe you’ve used the expression—or had it used on you: “I have my scruples and I’m going to stand on them.”

Most of us assume “scruples” mean “principles.” To be scrupulous, we think, is to be concerned with what is honest and right. But a scruple is actually a sharp stone. The phrase “to stand on your scruples” comes from the experience of being irritated by a small sharp stone in your shoe.

That small stone may feel uncomfortable, but you stand there anyway. You stand there faithfully. “Standing on your scruples” means to stand firm. It implies—because of that little stone—that we are going to stand with sensitivity or with tender feet.

Jesus teaches a kind of walk through life that involves tender feet and sensitivity—not just a stubborn tromp, believing that we’re always right. Read the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew sometime—all three chapters—and you’ll see what I mean. Jesus encourages tender-footed walking.

The apostle Paul lays out a whole set of scruples in our reading from the 12^th chapter of Romans—little sharp stones in the shoes of Christian people. Here are those scruples in all of their beauty:

Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honour. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers.⁴

What a beautiful little treatise on the Christian life! But then Paul follows it with a most demanding ethic—one that’s all about loving and blessing our enemies. Remember? He said:

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them … Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” No, if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink … Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.⁵

Wow! Try telling that to the Department of National Defence! Can you imagine the reaction? Those who are in the business of conducting military operations do not want to hear, “Bless those who persecute you.”

Paul has taken the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and—after assessing its core principles—ruled out any use of revenge. Personal vengeance is excluded. It is forbidden.

Now, in its place, you might think Paul would recommend passivity. But no. Instead of passivity, he recommends that we actively bless our enemies with kindness. Imagine that. We’re supposed to go out of our way to bless them!

That’s not the way the world does things. You did not hear Romans 12 quoted by the President of the United States this week when he announced that he would be sending federal troops to “restore law and order” in Kenosha, Wisconsin. In fact, the Trump administration swiftly deployed nearly 1,000 National Guardsmen and 200 federal law enforcement personnel, including FBI and US Marshalls, to subdue protests in the wake of the police shooting of Jacob Blake this Sunday past.⁶

Paul’s critics say he is soft on justice. But, actually, Paul is full of justice. All he is doing is placing the burden of vengeance exclusively in the hands of God.

Both the Old and New Testaments pronounce the same idea as Paul gives us. “Vengeance is mine,” says the Lord. Vengeance is not ours to do with whatever we want.

Here’s a story. It comes from a clergyman and author named Myron Augsburger, and it was told to him by a friend of his, a man named Herman Riemple.

Herman Riemple’s father was Aaron Riemple. He was a very wealthy Mennonite farmer in Gnadenfeldt, Russia, and had a large estate. He was so well known that the Czar of Russia would visit and go hunting on his land.

In the early teens of the 20th century, when the Red and White Armies were battling, they raged back and forth across Gnadenfeldt. One evening Aaron Riemple was coming home from the market where he had gotten some things for his wife, and he came by a railroad siding. And there was a boxcar full of people about to be shipped off to Siberia. From inside, a man called out and said, “Sir, we’re so hungry. We’ve been in here all day with nothing to eat. Can you help us?”

And Aaron Riemple, out of the goodness of his own spirit and heart, went over and shoved his bolognas and his bread and cheese through the slats and the man said, “Thank you.”

Aaron Riemple said, “God bless you.” And he went on home.

Sometime later the Red Army overran the whole territory. They rounded up the Mennonite farmers and put them in boxcars and shipped them off to Siberia. Now Aaron Riemple had lost his estate. He went from wealth to poverty, but he still had his own ingenuity. He was quite an entrepreneur, and in Siberia he began getting tea imported from China, and he was selling tea.

But this was contrary to the ideals of the new Communist regime. So Aaron Reimple was accused of a kind of capitalism, and he was brought to trial.

In the courtroom, of course, the evidence was given against him and he was found guilty of capitalism. The Commissar asked him to step forward to be sentenced, and Aaron Riemple stepped forward, expecting this to mean his death.

The Commissar looked at him and said, “I believe we have met before.”

Mr. Riemple said, “Your Honor, I think not.”

“Yes,” he said, “I think we have. Have you been in Gnadenfeldt?”

“Yes,” he said, “I lived in Gnadenfeldt.”

The Commissar asked him, “Do you remember one evening when a man called to you from a boxcar and said, ‘Sir, we’ve been in here all day with nothing to eat. Would you help us?’”

“Ah, yes,” he said, “I remember.”

“And what did you do?”

“Why, I went over and shoved my bolognas and bread and cheese through the slats.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘God bless you’.”

The Commissar said, “We have met before. I was that man!”

He said, “I’m not going to sentence you. If you would like, I will sign papers so that you and your family can emigrate.”

And Aaron Riemple said, “Sir, if you will sign those papers for all Riemples, I’ve got brothers here with their families.” And this whole family emigrated to California.⁷

Now, when Aaron Riemple shoved that food through the slats, he had no idea what would happen in the future.

He simply did it out of the character of his being, and by so doing, he overcame evil with good—in that present moment, and also, as it turned out, in a future moment.

This is the challenge offered to us today in chapter 12 of Romans: to become God’s people in truth; to put into practice the quality of the Christian life—to overcome evil with good.

I think that’s what Dale and Diane Lang were trying to do by forgiving their son’s killer. And I think it’s what they are still doing, when they travel across North America speaking and teaching about restorative justice and the importance of forgiveness.

Others might disagree with their choice to leave vengeful thoughts and actions to the Lord. And, of course, love shown to a victimizer is never popular. But, for these two people, their course of action seemed clear from the beginning. In a newspaper article, Dale Lang was quoted thus:

“… as someone who had been a follower of Jesus Christ for 22 years, forgiveness was the only response that I could give. I didn’t think about it, my wife and I didn’t sit down and talk about it, it was a response out of our faith. We did it because it was the way we understood who Jesus is. And we did that, and it had a significant impact on people in the country. I can’t explain, except to say that people just are not used to forgiveness.”⁸

Sadly, I think he’s right: people in this “dog-eat-dog” world are not used to forgiveness. Maybe none of us are really used to it … I guess that’s why we appreciate it so much—and why we’re so shocked and relieved when someone forgives us. But listen! Listen to these words, which are at the very heart of the Christian gospel: “… God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” ⁹

This is the good news. It’s not about condemnation or punishment or vengeance. It is about mercy and grace. It’s about forgiveness offered “seventy times seven”—actually, offered an infinite number of times. This is the message the world needs to hear. But more than hearing it, this is the message the world needs to see.

People need to see this message made real in the lives of Christians like us. That, it seems to me, is the only way the world’s evil can be overcome by heaven’s goodness.

May God grant us serenity, courage, and wisdom to live our faith—and live it for the benefit of all. Amen.

________________________________

¹ http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Heinrich_Heine

² see Matthew 5:44

³ http://www.ctv.ca/CTVNews/topstories/20001117/ctvnews78798/

⁴ Romans 12:9-13

⁵ Romans 12:14, 17-20a, 21

⁶https://www.cnn.com/2020/08/27/politics/donald-trump-jacob-blake/index.html

⁷ http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/augsburger_3820.htm

⁸ http://www3.telus.net/st_simons/cr0207.htm

⁹ John 3:17

 

 

 

TEXT: Matthew 16:13-20

“You of little faith, why did you doubt? … You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.” (Matt. 14:31; 16:18)

For Peter, the path of discipleship must have seemed like a roller-coaster ride—marked by low points, followed by high points … heights, and depths.

In Scripture, Peter is portrayed as the brash one of the Twelve. We saw that demonstrated earlier in Matthew’s gospel (14:22-33). Remember the “walking on water” story? With great confidence, Peter attempts what the others in the boat will not: he steps out onto the water’s surface, and begins to walk toward Jesus … only to falter and fail, and hear his master say: “Why did you doubt?”

Not long afterward—and with equal enthusiasm—Peter is the one who makes the bold declaration: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus heaps praise upon him: “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah … you are the rock on which I’ll build my church … and I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven.”

First a low point, then a high one. Peter almost sinks to the bottom of the sea—and then he is raised almost to the heights of heaven. First he stumbles, then he soars.

And it’s a pattern that continues. If we keep reading in Matthew past verse 20 of chapter 16, what we find is this:

From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “God forbid it, Lord!  This must never happen to you.” But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling-block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things” (Matt. 16:21-23).

Ouch. In three or four verses, he goes from “keeper of the keys of heaven” to “mouthpiece of Satan.” Peter must have had a really thick skin! Because Jesus always seems to be taking him down a notch.

On the night of Jesus’ betrayal, after their last Passover meal together, Peter declares that he will never abandon Jesus—even if he has to die with him. And we all remember Jesus’ response: “Peter, tonight—before the rooster crows—you will deny me three times” (see Matt. 26:30-35).

Yet—even though his prediction about the rooster comes all too terribly true—Jesus, after his death and rising, reconciles with Peter and entrusts him with the care of his flock: “Feed my lambs … Tend my sheep …” (see John 21:15-19). And he does. It’s not clear that everyone in the early church appreciated Peter’s leadership, but we do know that he persisted in spreading the gospel of Christ, finally dying a martyr’s death in Rome around 64 A.D.

Even if he was sometimes bumbling, Peter was, in the end, faithful. Sometimes his faith was weak. Sometimes his faith was strong. When Peter’s faith was strong, he was like a speedboat with a full tank of fuel and the throttle wide open. When Peter’s faith was weak …

Well, when Peter’s faith was weak—when he took his hand off the throttle and he began to stall, and then to sink—he still knew enough to grasp the outstretched hand of his Lord, who would pull him up to safety.

Here’s something I think is true of all believers: all of us, to varying degrees, sometimes lose the power of God in our lives. Sometimes the power is lost because of our disobedience to the Lord. At other times, we just plain forget about the power that’s available to us, and we try to “go it on our own,” without God’s help.

But here’s the thing: the fuel of the Christian life is nothing less than the power of the Holy Spirit, which Jesus promised would be with us forever (John 14:16).

In chapter 14 of John’s gospel, Jesus tells us that “This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him [but] you know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you” (John 14:17). The Spirit keeps our gas tanks full.

Make no mistake about it: if you are a believer, the Holy Spirit keeps you constantly supplied with the highest-octane fuel in the universe. Faith is how we access that power supply. Faith can be compared to the accelerator that we use to apply the power of God.

I’ll say it again: for the Christian, it is never a matter of having an empty tank, because we have the power of God in our lives. The problem is that we let go of the throttle. We pull back on the controls by not trusting in the Lord. That’s when we begin to waver in our faith. That’s when we begin to falter … and stall … and sink.

Even so, Jesus’ hand is extended to rescue us. We have Christ’s own assurance that we will arrive safely in heaven.

“This is the will of him who sent me,” Jesus said, “that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me … This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life …” (John 6:39-40).

Of course, that does not mean that the voyage to our final destination will be uneventful. All of us experience storms and rough seas. It would be wonderful if we did not have to endure trials and problems in life. We all want to avoid suffering and sorrow and misfortune—circumstances that drag us down and make us anxious.

However, Jesus never promised us smooth sailing. In fact, he said just the opposite: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 16:24-25).

Realistically, no one can promise we will not encounter troubles in our lives.

However, Scripture tells us that—even in the midst of a storm—we can be at peace with God and with ourselves. The apostle Paul—who endured enormous suffering in his life—was able to write:

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation, who consoles us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to console those who are in any affliction with the consolation with which we ourselves are consoled by God. For just as the sufferings of Christ are abundant for us, so also our consolation is abundant through Christ (2 Cor. 1:3-5).

The consolation of which Paul speaks points to a life lived with God’s power continually applied—the power of the Holy Spirit in a believer’s life. Power which is accelerated by faith.

Oh, I know … believe me, I know … it’s easier said than done. Sometimes that leap of faith seems like a very long jump. Sometimes doubts arise. Even if we have no doubts about God, we may have grave doubts about ourselves—about our own abilities, our own strength of character, our own comprehension.

Sometimes nothing appears to make sense and our grip on the throttle seems weak. But look: the Bible and human history both teach us that even the greatest saints have, at times, struggled with this issue of doubt and faith.

Augustine of Hippo—the fourth century North African scholar who is regarded as one of the church’s greatest thinkers, confessed: “I wish I could be made just as certain of things I cannot see as I am certain that seven plus three make ten” (Confessions, VI.iv.6). Yet he never found that certainty.

The great Reformer Martin Luther battled constantly against doubt and depression. He once wrote: “For more than a week I was close to the gates of death and hell. I trembled in all my members. Christ was wholly lost. I was shaken by desperation and blasphemy of God.” *

We see this same struggle played out in the pages of the Bible. Adam, Sarah, Jacob, Job, Jeremiah, Habakkuk, Jonah, Thomas, Martha, Peter … these are all people who question, who falter, who doubt … and yet, in the end, they remain faithful. I think that, for many of them—and for many of us—the experience is summed up by the words of a father in chapter nine of Mark’s gospel (9:23-24). This man’s son is gravely ill, and he begs Jesus, “Do something if you can.” Jesus replies, “All things can be done for the one who believes.”

And immediately the father exclaims, “I do believe; help my unbelief.”

I can relate to that father, can’t you? We do believe, but sometimes we struggle. And we’re not peculiar because of that. You know, it’s ironic: in the gospels, we frequently see a reversal of what you might expect with regard to who has faith and who does not. Often those who should have much faith, have very little—while those with little reason for faith somehow come up with it.

For example, in chapter seven of Luke (7:1-10), we read about a Centurion—a Roman officer, a Gentile—who said to Jesus, “Lord, you don’t even have to come to my house to heal my servant. Just say the word here and he will be healed.”

Jesus is amazed, and he declares: “Truly I tell you, I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith as this man has.”

Or think of that Canaanite woman in last week’s gospel lesson (Matt. 15:21-28). Remember? She sought Jesus out because her daughter needed healing, and he tried to put her off. But she was so persistent—and so confident in his ability to help—that she won him over. “Woman,” he said, “great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.”

It’s surprising (isn’t it?) that a Roman soldier and a Canaanite—both of whom lacked Jewish roots—would put their trust in a Jewish Messiah. And contrast that with those who should have trusted him!

Jesus’ own neighbours and family doubted him. John the Baptist—his cousin, who had called him “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29) … even John began to doubt him, and sent his own disciples to ask Jesus: “Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?” (Matt. 11:3)

And among those closest to him—his 12 disciples—Judas would betray him, Peter would deny him, Thomas would doubt him, and all would abandon him.

But look, here’s the exciting thing, the thing that should give us hope: whatever grain of faith people have—whatever speck of faith we can muster—God is able to use. Even through the faintest glimmer of faith, God is able to work.

Whether it was the bold Centurion with his absolute trust, or the distraught father who cried out, “I believe, help my unbelief” … or Peter’s terrified cry as he began to sink: “Lord, save me!” … Jesus always embraced their faith, no matter how great or how little.

Here’s another exciting truth: struggles and doubts—and even suffering—can lead us into mature faith. We often look back on difficult times with a fond remembrance because those were the times when we grew the most.

Sometimes, in hindsight, we realize that God used our seasons of doubt and difficulty to increase our faith and deepen our understanding —to motivate us to read and explore and pray … and to reach out. And we grew to maturity as a result.

What a blessing!  I hope our growth never ceases until—as the apostle Paul also said—”until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ” (Eph. 4:13).

May it be so—for you, for me, for each of us and all of us. Amen.

__________

* Quoted in Roland H. Bainton, Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1978), p. 374.

TEXTS:  Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32 and Matthew 15:21-28

There was a time not so long ago when you were on the outs with God. But then the Jews slammed the door on him and things opened up for you. Now they are on the outs. But with the door held wide open for you, they have a way back in. In one way or another, God makes sure that we all experience what it means to be outside so that he can personally open the door and welcome us back in. (Romans 11:30-32, The Message¹)

If you take time to read the lectionary selections for Proper 15, Year A—especially the Epistle and the Gospel—you might notice some details which are at one and the same time interesting and disturbing.

In the gospel lesson, we hear Jesus say, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (Matt. 11:24). At the beginning of his ministry, it seems that even Jesus himself believed his mission was for the Jews only.

Yet, some 30 years later, when Paul is writing to the Christians at Rome, the church has become so predominantly Gentile that the apostle feels he has to speak up in defense of the Jews, reminding his audience of non-Jewish Christians, “There was a time not so long ago when you were on the outs with God.”

Yes, there was indeed such a time. When the Canaanite woman begged Jesus to heal her daughter, he tried at first to send her away. He said, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs” (Matt. 15:26).

To the dogs? Ouch.

I wonder how many of you are familiar with that series of children’s books by C.S. Lewis, called The Chronicles of Narnia. In one of those volumes—Prince Caspian—there’s a scene that reminds me of today’s gospel passage.

Reepicheep, the bravest mouse in all of Narnia, loses his tail in battle. And as he bows to Aslan, the Great Lion, the King of Narnia, he suddenly realizes his loss.

“I am confounded,” said Reepicheep to Aslan. “I am completely out of countenance. I must crave your indulgence for appearing in this unseemly fashion …”

“But what do you want with a tail?” asked Aslan.

“Sir,” said the Mouse, “I can eat and sleep and die for my King without one. But a tail is the honour and glory of a Mouse.”

“I have sometimes wondered, friend,” said Aslan, “Whether you do not think too much about your honour.”

“Highest of all High Kings,” said Reepicheep, “permit me to remind you that a very small size has been bestowed on us Mice, and if we did not guard our dignity, some (who weigh worth by inches) would allow themselves very unsuitable pleasantries at our expense …”

“Why have all your followers drawn their swords, may I ask?” said Aslan.

“May it please your High Majesty, “ said the second Mouse, whose name was Peepiceek, “we are all waiting to cut off our own tails if our Chief must go without his. We will not bear the shame of wearing an honour which is denied to the High Mouse.”

“Ah!” roared Aslan, “you have conquered me. You have great hearts. Not for the sake of your dignity, Reepicheep, but for the love that is between you and your people … you shall have your tail again.”²

Let’s face it: in today’s reading from Matthew, Jesus is distressingly unkind. Our informed, tolerant, accepting selves curl up at the edges when Jesus puts the Canaanite woman in her place.

Matthew doesn’t even give her the dignity of having a name. Jesus refers to her as a “dog,” making her the most unclean, unworthy, undesirable person imaginable.

Not only that, but she is a woman. She has no authority, no social standing, no property—no status whatsoever. Even Reepicheep the mouse has higher stature in Narnia than the Canaanite woman has in ancient Palestine.

She should count herself lucky that Jesus pays any attention to her at all. Any other rabbi would have had absolutely no time for such an impertinent woman. Another teacher would have taken great offense at her audacity. Certainly, the disciples find her cries irritating. “Send her away,” they say, “for she keeps shouting after us.”

Finally, Jesus is forced to deal with her. So he turns to her and draws the line: “Look, I was sent only to the Jews—only to the lost sheep of Israel. I’m sorry. I can’t help you. You’re not my department!”

We’ve all done that, haven’t we? Sometimes we think we need to do it. We don’t have the time. We don’t have the energy. There is too much at stake, too much to do. Our lives are crazy enough. We can’t get involved. We can’t afford to open that door.

We all know what it’s like to be stretched to the limit, don’t we? So we can sympathize with Jesus. And you know, in this fast-paced society where we all feel so over-worked, perhaps we need a Saviour who can draw the line, who can say, “NO!”  Jesus isn’t trying to be a superhero. Why should we?

But look at what happens next in this story; it is one of the most remarkable dialogues recorded from Jesus’ public ministry.

Matthew has spilled a river of ink telling us about how Jesus’ message was completely misunderstood. Even the disciples usually could not grasp the meaning of his parables. The Pharisees were confounded and annoyed at Jesus for challenging their system of rules and regulations. And the ordinary people … well, they swarmed around him like a crowd at a three-ring circus, hoping to witness a miracle.

Then along comes this Canaanite woman, shouting at him, “Have mercy on me, Lord … my daughter is tormented by a demon.”

The disciples say to him, “Send her away. Get rid of her. She’s been bugging us all day long.”

So he says, “Look, I’m sorry, but you’re not my problem. I only have time for my fellow Jews. That’s why I came—to help them. It isn’t fair to take the children’s food and throw it to dogs like you.”

And then—right away, just like that—she comes back at him, saying, “Even dogs get the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

Wow. This upstart Gentile woman—this Canaanite who doesn’t know her place—she gets him! She understands Jesus completely.

In her pithy little statement about dogs and tables and crumbs, she makes her own bold claim to grace. She even embraces Jesus’ metaphorical language—something the disciples can never quite seem to pull off. Instantly, this Canaanite woman—this outsider—stands head-and-shoulders above the rest.

The assumptions she makes are both simple and insightful. She knows Jesus can heal her daughter, and so—despite her third-class status—she states her case. She makes her plea. In all the humility of her station, she demands her place in the Kingdom of God—however small a portion that might be.

And the Son of God is thunderstruck. Jesus is amazed. This Canaanite woman gets it! No matter how unimportant she is from the Jewish point-of-view, she is willing to argue with God himself. She will do whatever it takes to obtain healing for her daughter. And in this way, she assumes her rightful place in the Kingdom.

As someone has said, she is one of the first drops from the waterfall of Gentiles who will be welcomed into Christ’s loving arms. He gives her what she asks for. “Woman,” he says, “great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.”

Today’s Gospel is not about faith in what we deserve. No. It is about faith in the grace we need.

It is about our struggles for justice, and righteousness, and dignity. It is about a persistent, stubborn faith that pursues the truth, no matter what. It’s about contending with God—directly! Most of all, it is about a God whose head we can turn. It’s about a God who does listen to our prayers.

We are a people who constantly utter the words, “Thy will be done,” to a lofty Lord enthroned in heaven above. Our theology wonders about how our prayer can change the mind of a God who knows everything—who knows our needs before we ask. We realize we’re dealing with a God who says, “My ways are not your ways.” And we know we’re reckoning with a God who, all-too-often, allows suffering to run its course.

Let us take seriously the faith of the Canaanite woman—a faith that stands far above our own. Let us indeed put our faith in a Creator who made the stars and the galaxies, a Spirit who is active in the deepest parts of our being, a Saviour who knows our beginnings and our endings.

But let us also remember that we worship a God who made creatures that are capable of surprising Him. That’s why our own personal dialogue with God is so very important. That’s why we should never give up on prayer. If we are faithful in prayer—and persistent, and honest—we may be surprised by how completely our deepest needs are satisfied.

And—if we listen—we just might hear a voice saying to us: “Ah! You have conquered me. You have great hearts. Let it be done for you as you wish.” Amen.

____________________________

¹ The Message Copyright © 1993, 2002, 2018 by Eugene H. Peterson.

² C.S. Lewis, The Chronciles of Narnia:  Prince Caspian (New York:  HarperCollins, 1979) pp. 208-209.

And here’s an update to my update, since the Globe & Mail apparently wasn’t let you read their coverage without paying them …

https://www.cbc.ca/news/world/hong-kong-media-tycoon-jimmy-lai-arrested-china-security-1.5680301

God bless the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation!

Just a few days ago, I put up a post on this site praising Hong Kong pro-democracy activist Jimmy Lai for his courageous resistance to the Communist crackdown on human rights and personal freedoms in the former British colony. I mentioned that Lai was awaiting a court date on September 15, related to his involvement in the June 4, 2020 vigil marking the anniversary of the Tiananmen Square crackdown. But it looks like Beijing couldn’t wait another month to silence him. Lai was arrested at his office on Monday morning. You can read the Globe and Mail reporting about this HERE:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/world/article-hong-kong-media-tycoon-and-pro-democracy-activist-jimmy-lai-arrested/

All I can do today is reiterate what I said in closing my post last week …

Let’s all pray for Jimmy Lai. Let’s pray for the bolstering of his courage in the face of danger, and the preservation of his love of freedom, and of his commitment to the truth. Let’s pray that his faith remains unshakable—especially his faith in the idea that circumstances in Hong Kong may yet improve.

More than that, let’s do whatever we can to encourage our western governments—in Canada and elsewhere—to do whatever they can to support those who are risking everything to preserve freedom of expression and human rights in the former British territory. Let’s pray for an outstretched hand. Let’s put our prayers into action.