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]

 

Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (John 12:3-5, NRSV)

TEXT: John 12:1-8

“You know what I hate about the church? They’re always asking for money!”

How often have you heard that said? How often have you said it?

Well … let’s face it … it’s true!  The church—whether it’s your church, or another church, or a little church, or even a gigantic, multi-pastor megachurch—“the church” always seems to have its hand out, begging for money.

Always. The pleading never ends. Always, there is another fund-raiser, another “special envelope” appeal, another yearly budget that has to be met somehow.

Always. Always, there is another project, another crisis. A leaking roof that needs repairing. A worn-out refrigerator that finally quits working altogether. An elevator that’s leaking hydraulic fluid and certainly will not pass the next required inspection. A deteriorating building that, every year, seems to cost more and more to heat, and illuminate, and maintain. And then there’s staff that expects to be paid.

Always. Always, we have with us the “poor”—the hungry, the needy, and the homeless in our own city; and the victims of natural disaster, war, plague, and famine all around the world. And, blast it all, the church even has the nerve to ask for money to help them, too!

Ordinary people like you and me—we who live on fixed incomes, who are not millionaires, who may not even be adequately employed … Well, we get sick of hearing about it, don’t we?

Then, on the Fifth Sunday in the Midst of Lent, the Revised Common Lectionary serves up a gospel lesson wherein Mary of Bethany takes 300 denarii worth of perfume and pours it over Jesus’ feet. For an ordinary worker in Jesus’ day, 300 denarii would be almost one year’s wages; at the minimum wage rate in Alberta, it would be something close to $60,000 in today’s money.

It was very costly perfume, made of pure nard. Just to be clear, that’s nard—not lard!  “Nard” refers to spikenard, the plant from which this ointment was derived. Imported from India, it would have been a rich rose-red in colour, and very sweetly scented. John tells us that Mary had a whole pound of it, and that it was pure.

Normally, this would have been watered down or thinned, so that it could be sold for a profit … but not this time. Mary’s gift is of a large quantity, and of the finest quality, and worth a tremendous amount of money.

But … $60,000 worth of perfume! That’s mind-boggling, isn’t it? Can you imagine the pastor going to the church treasurer and asking him to cut a cheque for $60,000?

“What on earth do you need it for?”

“It’s for the Maundy Thursday service. I’m going to buy perfume to pour on people’s feet …”

I think the treasurer might be siding with Judas on that decision!

Or, maybe not. Not if he knows what’s really going on in the mind of Judas Iscariot. Six days before the Passover—less than a week before he will betray Jesus in the garden—Judas has certainly already formulated his plan.

He says, “Why was this perfume not sold … and the money given to the poor?” But what he really means is: “Don’t waste it on this guy! He’s not going to be king of anything. He’s toast! Jesus is done, doomed, finished.”

Now, Judas, of course, thinks he’s the only one in the room who knows this. But he’s wrong. Maybe none of the other disciples realize it, but Jesus has figured it out. And it sounds like Mary of Bethany knows it, too. Because when Judas begins to scold her about the perfume, Jesus cuts him off, saying: “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.”

The day of his burial? Yes, among its many uses, nard was sometimes used in the embalming process. Jesus is implying that—perhaps alone amongst those who heard him teach—Mary has understood that, when he said he was going to be killed in Jerusalem, he was speaking literally.

Remember? Remember how often Jesus told his disciples what lay ahead?

“See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over … they will mock him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him; and after three days he will rise again” (Mark 10:33-34).

“… 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” (Matt. 16:21).

Mary of Bethany—who used to sit at Jesus’ feet and listen to him (see Luke 10:38-42)—must have heard him say these things. Now, we usually think of her sister Martha as being the more practical, down-to-earth one of the two sisters, but Mary is the one who went out and bought stuff for the funeral! Mind you, she probably didn’t need to purchase a pound of the most expensive perfume she could find. That much pure nard … to be used all at once … That seems like an awful lot, even when used for embalming. Yet, according to Jesus, she bought it to keep for the day of his burial.

“She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.”

That’s what Jesus says, here. But, wait. It’s not the day of his burial, is it? That’s a whole week away. There’s much that has to happen first: a triumphal entry on a donkey’s back; shouts of “Hosanna!”; a last supper; betrayal, a rigged trial, and cruelest torture.

This is not the day of Jesus’ burial. What’s going on? Why did Mary change her mind about how and when to use this costly ointment? Well, truthfully, you could speculate here in many directions.

Maybe she thought she wouldn’t be able to get near Jesus’ body when the time came. But that seems unlikely. After all, you really can’t embalm somebody in advance! I’m pretty sure most people would not appreciate you trying to do that to them. I know I wouldn’t like it.

So, what is going on? What else is spikenard extract used for? Well, it was an anointing oil—and it was, of course, used to anoint the dead. But, listen, here’s a question—one which the Bible students amongst you might just be able to answer: in the Bible—besides dead people—who else gets anointed?

Kings get anointed. The Hebrew term “Messiah”—or, in Greek, Christos—means “the anointed one,” and is used to describe anyone who is anointed to be king.

Is this what Mary had in mind? When Matthew (26:6-12) and Mark (14:3-8) relate the story, they add the detail that the nard was poured over Jesus’ head, as well as his feet—which is certainly how kings would have been anointed. Did it suddenly occur to her that—while there would be others who would anoint Jesus’ corpse—nobody else was going to anoint him as king?

Did Mary of Bethany realize that Jesus’ only earthly throne would be a cross? Was she anointing him before he ascended to it?

Or did she, perhaps, see even further into the future—all the way to his triumphant resurrection? To his ascension to his heavenly throne? Were her actions at Bethany symbolic of her faith that, in fact, Jesus was not approaching the end, but rather the beginning, of his reign?

We can’t know any of that for sure. But we do know this much: whatever she thought the future held for Jesus, Mary believed that he was worth the very best she could offer. To honour him, no expense was too great. To express her love for him, no gesture was too grand.

When I think about that—when I consider this example of deep devotion and unquestioning faith—I want to leave the side of Judas, and kneel at Jesus’ feet with Mary of Bethany. I wish I could do that. I wish I could anoint him, this One who is my King, my Saviour, the Lord of my life. I wish I could tell him—and show him—how much I love him. Of course, I can’t do that, because he isn’t here. At least, he is not present the way he was that long-ago day in Bethany.

And yet, he is here, isn’t he? His body is present … in us. Remember? Remember what the apostle Paul said?

“Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Cor. 12:27) … and the members should have the same care for one another (12:25).

Or as Jesus himself put it: “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:34-35).

So, let’s keep faith, as Mary of Bethany kept faith: faith in the God who can raise us up, even as he raised Jesus up; and who holds the future—in safekeeping, for all of us—until the day of our own anointing. Amen.

 

 

 

The Book of Proverbs, chapter 14, verse 12 tells us: “There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.”

This week, in the Quebec National Assembly, we see the truth of that proverb most painfully illustrated. The “way” is Bill 21, the “man” is Premier Francois Legault, and the “end”—unfortunately—may very well be the death of religious freedom in La Belle Province.

For those of you who haven’t been following this story, here’s a link to a CTV News clip that aired recently: https://www.ctvnews.ca/video?clipId=1648076

In a nutshell, Bill 21 aims to prohibit the wearing of religious symbols by public sector workers in Quebec. The Coalition Avenir Quebec legislation would affect elementary and high school teachers, Crown prosecutors, police officers, prison guards, judges, and basically any other person regarded as holding a position of authority.

Premier Legault argues that his government’s secularism bill reflects the wishes of the Quebecois nation. His “Immigration, Diversity and Inclusiveness Minister” Simon Jolin-Barrette describes the proposed legislation as an affirmation of Quebec’s distinctiveness and its decades-long drive to separate church and state.

But it’s hard to believe that most Quebecers will be comfortable with the manner in which Bill 21 targets religious minorities, who will be prohibited from openly displaying their faith while working in government positions. Surely it is unreasonable (not to mention racist) to demand that an Orthodox Jew be prohibited from wearing his kippah, or a Sikh his turban. What kind of person would tear the headscarf from a Muslim woman?

What we’re talking about here are not merely optional decorations, like Star of David earrings or Winking Jesus cufflinks. No. What Bill 21 has in its sights goes to the core of a person’s identity. Not merely religious identity, but cultural identity, as well. If this legislation is in fact signed into law, it will effectively bar thousands of Quebecers from myriad professions, and limit advancement opportunities for hundreds who—while Legault promises they will be “grandfathered in” if already government employees—will be ineligible to move departments or assume other public sector positions.

In the face of criticism from civil rights groups and organizations representing religious minorities, Legault intends to invoke Section 33 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Bill 21 declares the law will have effect “notwithstanding” protections in the Charter and “despite” protections in the provincial Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms.

Of course, we’ve seen this sort of thing before in the Province of Quebec. The previous Liberal government passed Bill 62 in October 2017, which required public services to be given and received with an uncovered face. That law is being challenged in court on the grounds it discriminates against women wearing the niqab or burka.

As various commentators have pointed out, visible minorities already have a harder time finding jobs in Quebec than the white francophone majority, and Bill 21 reinforces the idea that a person can be judged based on his or her appearance.

Friends, what Coalition Avenir is proposing is reprehensible. It assumes that Quebec society is truly as intolerant as its worst critics insist that it is. Let’s hope and pray Bill 21 doesn’t prove them right.

 

Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! (Psalm 133:1)

 

At that very time there were some present who told [Jesus] about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, ‘Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.’

Then he told this parable: ‘A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” He replied, “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig round it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.”’ (Luke 13:1-9, NRSV)

We are now midway through the Lenten season, and nearing the end of the third month of 2019. In this month of March, the human family has been shaken by a series of tragic and spectacularly shocking events.

• On the first weekend, a series of devastating tornadoes swept through the southern United States, taking dozens of lives and causing property damage totaling many millions of dollars.
• On Sunday, March 10, Ethiopian Airlines Flight 302—en route from Addis Ababa to Nairobi—crashed shortly after take-off, killing 149 passengers and eight crew members.
• On Friday, March 15, a lone gunman attacked worshippers at prayer in two mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand, murdering 50 people—including women and children—and injuring at least 50 more.
• Most recently, Cyclone Idai—regarded as one of the worst tropical cyclones on record—has killed close to a thousand people and affected more than 2.6 million others in Madagascar, Mozambique, Malawi, and Zimbabwe.

How do we make sense of suffering on such a massive scale? Were all these people simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Do we blame poor construction standards? Inadequate emergency measures? Lax gun laws? How do we understand God in the middle of all this?

While I cannot pretend to know the mind of the Almighty, I am certain of one thing: God does not “have it in” for people who suffer and die in these kinds of circumstances. I am sure of this because of Jesus’ death and resurrection. God is for us, not against us. But at the same time, I cannot ignore the fact that bad things do happen—and there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. When we try to make sense of our world, we discover that senseless and random evil does exist—and that it breaks into our lives way too often.

Of course, this begs the question: “If God is all-powerful—and all-good—then why is there so much evil and suffering in the world?” People have argued about this for centuries. And any serious-minded person who claims to believe in a benevolent, omnipotent Deity will—sooner or later—be drawn into this deep philosophical debate.

Many religions teach that God will punish the wicked people and reward the good ones. The natural extension of this reasoning is that, when someone suffers, they must deserve it. That’s what was in the minds of the people who told Jesus “about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.” They were referring to an incident where several men had been slain by the governor’s order while worshipping in the Jerusalem temple. And their unspoken question was: “Did they deserve it?”

Since God did not protect them from Pilate’s soldiers, these must have been wicked men … right?

Our experience tells us that—very often—people whom we consider to be good suffer for no apparent reason. Likewise—very often—people whom we consider to be wicked seem to stroll through life being rewarded for their wickedness.

What’s up with that?

What is the relationship between our behaviour, the things that happen to us, and God? How does all this fit together? I wish I had good, clear answers to these questions … but I don’t. And these are questions which come up in our gospel passage for today; not just once—but three times—as Jesus refers to two contemporary examples, and then caps his teaching moment with a parable.

To those who bring him news of the men who were killed in the temple, Jesus responds with a question of his own: “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?”

Then Jesus brings up a tragic accident that claimed the lives of 18 people when an ancient tower in south Jerusalem came crashing down. He asks, “Do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?”

In each case, Jesus answers his own question with a resounding “No!”

But then he muddies the waters. At first, it sounds like Jesus is saying there is no connection whatsoever between sin and calamity. However, he goes on to urge repentance upon the members of his audience, lest they suffer the same fate: “Unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

Perhaps sin and suffering are not linked, but repentance and avoiding suffering appear to be!

Once again, our experience tells us otherwise. If we take what Jesus is saying literally … Well, we know that events do not always unfold in that way. Many people in Jesus’ time repented and were baptized by John—and yet, they were swept away in the Jewish rebellion against Rome that was going on at the time. Others in Jesus’ day seemed not at all concerned about their broken relationship with God—and they were able to keep right on going, without suffering any kind of penalty.

So, we’re left scratching our heads—and we are no closer to an answer.

Or are we? Let’s take a look at Jesus’ parable of the gardener. This story is unique to Luke’s gospel. But the theme should be familiar to us, because it is as old as the prophets. The garden, vineyard—or, in this case—fig tree, is not producing any fruit. It is not serving the purpose for which it was planted. The care given to it seems wasted, and so the landowner decides to put the soil to better use. But then the gardener intervenes, pleading for one more season to nurture the plant before it will either yield fruit—or be cut down.

At first, perhaps, the meaning of this parable seems obvious. The time is short. Bear fruit now! Be productive as God’s chosen people, or endure the wrath of the One who owns the garden.

I’m sure we’ve all heard that kind of message preached before. Trouble is, it’s just plain wrong!

Such an interpretation fundamentally misunderstands the nature of trees. Trees that do not bear fruit cannot simply start to produce on their own. It takes the proper soil, the right fertilizer, and plenty of water and sunshine for this to happen. The gardener understands that, and so he not only pleads for more time, but also formulates a plan to do just what is needed to make the tree bear fruit.

Now, if—as I suspect—Jesus is referring to himself as the gardener, then this is not the end of the story of the gardener and the tree. This story of Jesus is not told in isolation. It has everything to do with the destination that Jesus intends in Jerusalem.

Taken in the context of Jesus’ own death, the story of the Galileans killed by Pilate becomes more meaningful—and more poignant. Jesus does not need to repent—yet he suffers the same fate of cruel death at the order of the same person. When he speaks of perishing as they did, he is referring to something that he, himself, is going to do.

This gardener takes on the fate of all humanity. He meets our suffering and our death—head on! He not only tends to the tree … he dies on a tree. He suggests that being cut off from God is a terrible condition, and then he endures that same condition—along with us, and for us. By joining us in our suffering, Jesus does not answer our questions about why we suffer. No. Instead, he embraces the suffering.

Jesus demonstrates that suffering and death do not have the last word. Beyond our hope—and beyond our comprehension—is something greater still; something of which, in his death, we catch a glimpse. For this purpose, he tends the unproductive tree—and, he dies with it. He dies with us.

You know, most of the time, we are so preoccupied with our own pain and suffering that we fail to notice what God has done. God has joined us in life and in death—and he has opened up for us a new path into the future.

The love of God overrules the power of death upon humanity. Our suffering is strong and enduring, but God’s love is even stronger. We cannot avoid the pains and evils of this world, but we do not have to be resigned to them. Neither do we have to fall in line with them. Instead, we can follow Jesus.

Jesus had no need of repentance, because he remained completely faithful to his heavenly Father. I think that—when he urges us to repent—he is encouraging us to imitate him. Jesus calls us to turn away from the woes that consume us. He calls us to put away the things we use to numb our minds, and dull our pain, and distract ourselves from the reality of evil.

Jesus calls us to return to the God who loves us: the God whose love is, in fact, the only hope we have of changing the course of our lives—of changing the way our stories will end.

For it is in turning to our gardener for help and for hope that we may indeed become productive—just as plants become productive when they turn toward the light. This gardener has joined his future with our future, so that his destination might be ours, as well. Which is the whole point of our Lenten journey; it’s all about us preparing to face the tree of the cross, so that—along with Jesus—we may rise on Easter morning.

Jesus carries his cross for us—and Jesus carries his cross before us. God’s response to our suffering is not indifference. God chooses to join us in our suffering.

God joins us in our suffering in order that we might have the courage to plunge into the suffering world ourselves—the world where Jesus calls us to love and care for the wounded people all around us. This is God’s unexpected way in Christ—and it becomes our unexpected way, as well.

Being followers of Jesus means—at least, some of the time—that we do not run away from danger. Being followers of Jesus means—all of the time—that we do not turn our backs upon the suffering of this world.

We are called to enter into these things willingly, as we become apprentices to our Lord and Saviour. In this life, we may never understand God’s way completely, but we know this much: unexplained suffering and pain are part of our journey—but they are not part of our destination.

So, my friends, throughout our Lenten journey—and throughout our earthly pilgrimage—let us cling to our beloved gardener, as if our very lives depended on him. Because—in every sense—they do! Amen.