Sixteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 19A

“One must, it is true, forgive one’s enemies. But not before they have been hanged.” ― Heinrich Heine

“Forgive others, and you will be forgiven.” — Jesus

TEXT: Matthew 18:21-35

So the slave fell on his knees before [the king], saying, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.” (Matthew 18:26)

“Have patience with me, and I will pay you.” How many bankers and lenders have heard that? It would be hard to guess—but it is that very plea which, in today’s gospel lesson—illustrates Jesus’ most important teaching about the theme of Christian forgiveness.

In the church, the concept of forgiveness seems to pop up a lot. And most of us know why. Forgiveness is one of the most universally recognized—yet least frequently practiced—mandates of those who call themselves disciples of Christ. Jesus calls us to forgive, and forgive, and forgive again. Yet in our reasonably honest moments, we all know how almost impossibly difficult that can be.

When people hurt us, if there is one thing that does not come naturally, it is forgiveness. This is why Peter’s utterance is one of the most timeless of all biblical questions: “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” It is our question today as much as it was Peter’s question way back then.

The New Testament sets our lesson within Matthew’s so-called “fourth discourse” of Jesus, comprising Chapter 18 of Matthew’s Gospel. This lesson—like the one for last week—has the community of faith as its context. Perhaps it is a lesson that needs to be heard by the church most of all.

In last Sunday’s gospel (Matt. 18:1-20), Jesus instructed his disciples about what they were to do when one of the members of the church sinned against them. Now Peter—presumably for further clarification—asks his all-important question: “… how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?”

Now, the usual rabbinical teaching recommended a three-time formula: the faithful Jew was expected to forgive a wrongdoer three times—and in exceptional cases—even four times. Peter, in his question to Jesus, goes far beyond that—and so he is showing great liberality in asking if seven times is enough. It’s important to make note of that, because we do not give Peter enough credit for his generosity in proposing seven-fold forgiveness.

Jesus’ response must have shocked not only Peter, but all those who were listening. “Not seven times,” he said, “but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.” Or, as some translations have it, “seventy times seven.”

What does Jesus mean? All of us know the literalistic approach to such a saying. We think to ourselves, “Let’s see, seventy times seven … Does Jesus mean 490 times we are to forgive?”

No. What Jesus means is that forgiveness in the community of faith should be infinite. Forgiveness should have no limit. In Scripture, the number seven represents perfection. For example, God created the world in seven days—and that represents God’s perfect work of creation. Thus, “seventy times seven” is equal to a perfect number of instances of forgiveness multiplied by seventy—a staggering number of times of forgiveness! What Jesus is trying to suggest, I think, is that forgiveness is not a matter of mathematics, but rather an attitude toward life and those with whom we share it.

To emphasize the importance of this principle, Jesus tells a parable to reinforce and illustrate his teaching about the nature of forgiveness. Jesus says that “the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves.”

Now, the first debtor brought before the king owes him an astounding sum. This slave’s debt is 10,000 talents. In Jesus’ day, a “talent” was the equivalent of more than 15 years of wages for a common laborer. This means that it would have taken this man more than several lifetimes to repay the debt. Obviously, he could never repay the debt; “and, as he could not pay, his lord ordered him to be sold, together with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment to be made.” (v. 25)

At this point, the slave begs for more time. “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything,” he says.

Then the king does something amazing. Moved by pity, he forgives the slave his entire debt, and sends him on his way. If the parable had ended there, it would be a wonderful story about God’s boundless compassion and forgiveness. However, an odd thing happens as Jesus continues the parable that—for the moment—looks so happy in its ending.

The first slave—of whom the king has just forgiven a debt larger than King Herod’s whole treasury in Jesus’ time—now comes upon a fellow slave who owes him a mere hundred denarii. He grabs him by the throat and demands immediate payment.

Slave number two begs for mercy in words nearly identical to those that the first slave has just used: “Have patience with me, and I will pay you.”

The first slave, however, will have none of this. He refuses the second slave’s plea, and has him thrown into prison for the hundred denarii. Now, a denarius was the usual day’s wage for a laborer—so the amount owed was about three months’ wages. It was a significant sum, to be sure—but nothing compared to the debt that had been owed to the king.

Well, the first slave is not only without compassion, but also, it seems, without any common sense—because he demonstrates his cruel selfishness in front of witnesses. And these witnesses—who had no doubt also witnessed the king’s act of mercy—are outraged. Immediately, they go and tell the king, and Jesus brings the parable to its conclusion:

Then his lord summoned him and said to him, “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?” And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he should pay his entire debt. (vv. 32-34)

That would have been a life sentence. Jesus’ final words in today’s passage are chilling: “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” (v. 35)

One helpful word—among many that we draw from Jesus’ teaching—we find in our Lord’s Prayer: “Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matt. 6:12).

For Jesus, forgiveness is at the heart of what it means to be a disciple. In last week’s gospel, he outlined our responsibility to hold others accountable; this week, he reminds us of our duty to forgive. Forgiveness of a bountiful kind is the foundation of the community of faith. Believers must practice it, if the community is to remain faithful and intact. The word to the church is a “threefold amen” about the nature of forgiveness.

First, the church is meant to be a place where forgiveness is not only spoken of, but also practiced. We are not to simply talk about forgiveness; we are to forgive.

Second, Jesus reminds us—by his use of the character of the first slave—that God has forgiven us a huge debt. Now, forgiven Christians must not withhold forgiveness for lesser offenses that creep into the fellowship of the church. My guess is that if most of us only remembered how much God had already forgiven us, then it would be a lot easier for us to let go of those nagging resentments that eat away at us.

Third—and this may be the crux of the matter—those who cannot accept God’s forgiveness will not likely be able to forgive others. Make no mistake about it: those who have not received love or charity from God will not be able to share it with others. You cannot give away to others what you have not first received yourself.

One of the truest proverbs of the last few centuries—even though it gets misused too frequently—is the one that tells us: “To err is human, but to forgive is divine.” By forgiving others, we participate in the divinity of Christ … and isn’t that what “being his body” is all about?

I’m not saying it’s easy. I know it isn’t easy! In fact, I think that—by our ordinary human capabilities—it is impossible for most of us. But through God’s grace, the impossible becomes possible. So let us pray for the grace to forgive, as we have been forgiven; in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Fifteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 18A

[Jesus said:] “If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If the member listens to you, you have regained that one. But if you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you, so that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses. If the member refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax-collector. Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”

—Matthew 18:15-20 (NRSV)

Once upon a time—years ago now, back when I was in my early 20s—I worked with a fellow who hailed from the city of Saint Louis, Missouri. He had been raised in the Lutheran Church there. Or I guess I should say, in a Lutheran Church there.

As you may know, there is a very large—and very conservative—Lutheran denomination that takes its name from the state of Missouri. But it has other flavours of Lutheranism, too.

Anyway, my friend told me this story about his hometown. He said that, within the radius of a few city blocks in downtown St. Louis, there were no fewer than four different Lutheran churches. And the people in each one were absolutely convinced that the people in all the others were going straight to hell.

“That,” he told me—“that is what really happens when two or three Christians gather together.”

Here’s another story. Probably, you’ve heard it before (I know it’s an old enough joke).

There was this man who had been shipwrecked, and now he was stranded all alone on a desert island. He had been surviving there for years, always hoping some ship would sail close enough to notice him.

Eventually a passing ship did notice him. And the captain sent a few of his crewmen in a small boat to check on the man.

As the rescue party approached the shore, he ran down to the beach to meet them. At last, he was going to be rescued!

Now, as the members of the rescue party greeted the castaway, they noticed that several small buildings had been put up on the island. How odd. So they asked the man: “You’ve been here all alone. And yet you’ve built all these little huts along the shore. How come? Why so many buildings?”

“Well,” the man said, “I wanted to keep busy.”

Pointing to the first hut, he said, “That building there is where I slept.”

Pointing out the others, he told them: “That building over there is where I would spend the day. That building is where I prepared my food. That building is where I went to church.”

Then, pointing to another building, he said, “And that is where I used to go to church.”

That story is funny only because it references a quite unfunny truth. For as long as people have been in the habit of gathering together and calling themselves a “church” they’ve also been habitually frustrated with one another. So much so that they inevitably separate and move on. They break into more and more disparate groups, based on what they think are irreconcilable differences. Kind of like Hollywood marriages. According to one source, there are now—worldwide—about 45,000 distinct Christian denominations. ¹

But of course, dissention and disagreement occur not only between denominations, but also within them. We in the so-called “mainline” churches continue to experience this sort of anxiety and divisiveness as we have internal debates about … well, all kinds of things—from climate change and pipeline development to Middle East politics to questions about marriage and inclusiveness and countless other social issues. And even, in some quarters, about the nature of Christ and the reality of God.

Some of us—who hold to a more traditional theology and world-view—wonder at times why we remain in the mainline churches at all (even as some of our less traditional colleagues kind of wish we’d leave).

It’s a good thing, I suppose, that Jesus has no illusions about the church, or about Christians’ ability to get along. Our Lord understands the challenges we face as we try to remain connected to one another. He knows the church on earth consists of real people. Real people, of course, come with real differences! And—too often—with concrete opinions that are wedded to harsh and uncompromising attitudes. All of which, of course, leads to alienation. Yet we are supposed to be “one body.”

We sing, “Blest be the ties that bind our hearts in Christian love,” but Christian love does not come automatically, and—sometimes—it does not come easily. We also like to sing, “We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord,” but we too seldom behave as though we really believe it.

The truth is, the smallest disagreements can boil over and then erupt like a supervolcano. Church fights can be brutal and dirty.

Some of you will know what I’m talking about. In recent years, we’ve seen increasing numbers of people leaving the church. Sometimes, they’re upset about some particular issue, but sometimes … Well, sometimes, they’re just worn down and worn out by the church’s inability to make the gospel real. As Mahatma Gandhi put it: “I love your Christ, but I do not like your Christians.”

Probably, all of us understand what he meant. Christians appear to be exquisitely skilled at creating discord and division, and woefully unskilled when it comes to reconciliation and community.

This is why Jesus’ words from today’s gospel are so important. He calls us not to sweep divisive issues aside, but rather, to face them head-on (difficult though that may be). He calls us to build up the community of faith—and he provides us with a methodology for doing that.

First of all, Jesus says, go and see the one with whom you have a conflict. Yeah. That’s right. Go and visit that person. Don’t just send a text message. Make a lunch date. Something face-to-face. And this is not merely a suggestion; really, it is a command—go and see that person.

And while you’re having that sit-down, be cognizant of who it is you’re speaking to. Because this is not just any person! No. This is a brother. This is a sister. This is someone with whom you are meant to be in community, and that close relationship has been disrupted.

Go and see the person. This takes courage. This takes prayer and humility and grace. Go and see the person—but not with your finger pointing! Go and see the person—but leave your righteous indignation at home.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Go in humility and talk things through in private, Jesus says.

This is the hard work of discipleship: going … seeing … speaking … listening … working to repair the damage. This is the calling of faithfulness. And when it works, the results can seem miraculous.

“If the person listens to you,” says Jesus, “you have won them back”—back into the community. Most often, what matters is not correctness, but community. It’s not about who is right—it’s about right relationships. In the Lord’s scheme of things, the whole reason for confrontation is to bring about reconciliation. It’s not about revenge or vindication or winning an argument or proving a point. Remember—Jesus is all about humility and grace and peace.

Of course, Jesus is also a realist. He says: “If you are not listened to, take one or two others and try again, in private. And if that does not work, tell it to the whole church.”

But then … sometimes … if nothing works … if there is no reconciliation … then, Jesus says: “Well, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

Now, at first, that sounds like—after sincere efforts to reconcile—you should just walk away. Let them go. Get over it.

But wait. Who did Jesus hang out with? He ate with tax collectors and sinners. And to Gentiles, he showed mercy and grace. To such people, he extended his hand of blessing.

Never is anyone beyond the reach of God’s love. Whatever the problem is—however insurmountable it may appear—once we place it in the Lord’s hands, we have ample reason for hope.

“Let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector,” Jesus says. And then he makes another seemingly cryptic remark about “binding and loosing.” Remember that from our gospel lesson the week before last? After Peter declared that Jesus was the Messiah, Jesus told him: “Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (Matt. 16:19). Today, we hear him tell all the others the same thing.

“Binding and loosing.” Whatever else that may mean, I think its most important meaning is this: the way we treat each other has profound implications. Whatever we set loose here will be set loose in heaven. Whatever we bind up—or put back together—here on earth will be likewise dealt with in heaven.

Friends, this is simply the logical consequence of being forgiven. Because we have received so great a gift from God, our forgiving one another is a profound extension of that same loving act. It’s just as Dr. Martin Luther King once said:

Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend. We never get rid of an enemy by meeting hate with hate; we get rid of an enemy by getting rid of enmity. By its very nature, hate destroys and tears down; by its very nature, love creates and builds up. Love transforms with redemptive power. ²

Here is the core of our Lord’s call to love one another as kin: we are meant to build one another up. Here is why we are to see our actions in this community as harbingers of the heavenly kingdom. We love because God loves—and God’s love reconciles all things.

In his book Thunder From the Mountain, John Stroman tells a story about a Dutch theologian named Henry Kramer. A group of lay Christian leaders came to him in late 1940 and said “Our Jewish neighbors are disappearing from their homes. What must we do?”

Kramer answered, “I cannot tell you what to do. I can tell you who you are. If you know who you are, you will know what to do.” ³

And that was the beginning of the Dutch Resistance movement, which worked to protect Jews and others targeted by the Nazis—and to assist Allied efforts in World War Two.

Jesus calls us to remember who we are. We are a forgiven people, bound to one another as brothers and sisters through the waters of baptism. More than that, we are a transformed people—called to work together in God’s vineyard. That is our challenge.

It is also our blessing.

^{____________________________________________________}

¹ www.gordonconwell.edu/center-for-global-christianity/research/quick-facts/

² Martin Luther King, Jr., Strength to Love (New York: Harper & Row, 1963), p. 38.

³ John Stroman, Thunder From the Mountain: The Ten Commandments Today (Nashville: Upper Room Books, 1990), p. 113.

Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 17A

TEXTS: Romans 12:9-21 and Matthew 16:21-28

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. (Matthew 16:21).

“From that time on”? From what time on?

If you’ve been reading my blogs over the past few weeks—and if you can call to memory the gospel lessons you’ve heard about—you’ll have some idea of what’s happening here. But, in case you’ve got a memory like mine … I’d better recap.

Someone has calculated that Jesus travelled over 3,000 miles during his three-year ministry—that’s more than 5,000 kilometres! And by the time we catch up with him today, he’s nearing the home stretch.

Two weeks ago (in Matt. 14:14-33), we heard about Jesus teaching and healing near Capernaum, where he wound up feeding over 5,000 people with five loaves and two fish. When Mark’s gospel reports this same story, it says that Jesus felt compassion for the people there because they were “like sheep without a shepherd” (Mark 6:34). This was actually a swipe against the religious leaders of Israel—the ones who were supposed to be shepherding the people, but in fact were failing miserably.

The week before that, we found him in the province of Syria, far to the north of Galilee, where he took pity on a Canaanite woman whose daughter was being “tormented by a demon” … whatever that might mean. Jesus heals the girl, and by doing so violates all kinds of rules of propriety, not least because the woman and her daughter are Gentiles. He even commends the mother for her great faith! When they hear of this, the Pharisees and Sadducees will be scandalized.

Returning to his own country, he is confronted by those same religious leaders. By now, they have realized that this Jesus is no fly-by-night religious fanatic who will soon disappear—and they’re getting worried. So they call a kind of showdown:

The Pharisees and Sadducees came, and to test Jesus they asked him to show them a sign from heaven. He answered them, “When it is evening, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red.’  And in the morning, ‘It will be stormy today, for the sky is red and threatening.’  You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times” (Matt. 16:1-3).

“No signs!” Jesus says. “Even if I gave you a sign, you wouldn’t recognize it.”

The movement of Jesus’ ministry out of Galilee—and toward his death in Jerusalem—has now begun. Things are beginning to get dangerous for him and his little band of followers. And so, as we heard last week, once they arrive in the district of Caesarea Philippi, Jesus gets serious with them: “Guys, you’ve been around the town. You’ve heard the talk. What’s the word on the street? Who do people say that I am?”

They tell him: “Some say you’re John the Baptist, come back to life. Some say you’re Elijah or Jeremiah or one of the prophets.”

And then Jesus gets really serious with them. “What about you?” he asks. “Who do you say that I am?”

Not surprisingly, Peter is the first to speak. “You are the Christ,” he says, “the Son of the Living God. You are the Messiah we have been waiting for.”

Jesus is impressed. He tells Peter that it was not merely human reasoning that had given him this insight, but divine revelation.  Then he declares that Peter—or, at least, the faith of Peter—is going to be the foundation stone for the church.

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven,” Jesus says. “Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.”

This was a sacred moment. And it must have seemed like a triumphant moment, also.

But it would not last very long. Because—as we heard today—from that time on Jesus began to show them what lay ahead; that in Jerusalem he would suffer and die. He would be tried before the Sanhedrin—the Jewish Supreme Court—which would condemn him and hand him over to the Romans to be executed like a common criminal.

Peter is stunned by this news. He is shocked. He cannot conceive of such a fate befalling the Messiah. So he takes Jesus aside and begins to say to him, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you. Let’s get hold of those keys you gave me last week and we’ll do some binding and loosing. We’ll fix this.”

Peter means well, but Jesus … Well, Jesus loses it!

“Get behind me, Satan! You are getting in my way, for you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.”

So in just six verses of Matthew’s account, Peter has gone from being a foundation stone to being a stumbling block—from the bearer of divine revelation to an instrument of Satan.

Talk about a rooster one minute and a feather duster the next!

Poor Peter. Nothing in his background had prepared him for this. The Messiah would be rejected by the religious leaders in Jerusalem? Israel’s champion would suffer a shameful death? Their great hero was going to lose?

How could that be? The Messiah was expected to inflict suffering and death upon Israel’s enemies, not to suffer and die himself!

It is kind of puzzling, isn’t it?

Well, isn’t it? For 2,000 years, the church has taught that Jesus’ crucifixion was a revelation of his glory. Some have even said that Christ’s cross was his kingly throne. But who can really understand that?

Our idea of being blessed is to have a good job. A nice house. Healthy, intelligent kids. Good return on our investments. A great retirement plan.

Jesus’ concept of blessedness is very different.

“If you try to hold on to control of your life,” he says, “you’ll wind up losing everything. But if you let go of your life—even if you pay the ultimate price for your commitment to me—you will discover real life. Eternal life. What’s the point of conquering the world if getting it kills your soul?”

I feel for Peter, don’t you? I relate to this guy. I think Peter is us! His heart is in the right place, but he has trouble following the plotline. He experiences the tension—and wrestles with the paradoxes—that we all do from time to time.

Like every serious Christian, Peter is caught between faith and doubt, between understanding and confusion, between obedience and disobedience. In his strengths and in his weaknesses, he represents us ordinary Christians who strive to be faithful followers of Jesus … but trip over the cracks in the sidewalk.

We are like Peter, aren’t we? We want the story of faith to go according to our script. We want it to make sense.

But Jesus overturns our tables. He crashes through our religious upbringing. He turns our cultural understandings inside out. He tosses our ambitions and aspirations out the window. Sometimes Jesus scares us as much as he inspires us.

We wish it were different, don’t we? I know I do. I would like a smoother ride. I’d like the way of discipleship to be more fun! More comfortable. More successful. I’d like to edit out the unpleasant parts of the story … especially when they include me as a character.

Ever heard of Ignatius Loyola? He founded the Society of Jesus—the Jesuit Order—way back in the 16th century. He is still regarded (and not only by Roman Catholics) as a kind of spiritual master. Ignatius spoke about the need to distinguish between the good and bad spirits which try to influence us.

We want to listen to the voice of a good spirit and reject the advice of an evil one. According to Ignatius, discernment of spirits is a way to understand God’s will for us.*

That sounds simple enough. Simple, but not always easy, because the bad spirit … Well, the bad spirit can seem so reasonable, so sensible, so in tune with our culture. Very skillfully, the bad spirit uses our fear and our guilt and our prejudices to delude and manipulate us.

That’s the reason why—just like Peter—we can go from certainty to confusion so rapidly. One moment, we see the will of God clearly—only to lose sight of it a moment later. We have to guard against that.

In his letter to the Romans, the apostle Paul urges us to live our lives with intention. He says:

“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 … be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer” (Rom. 12:9-12).

These attitudes of the heart do not come to us automatically. Always, there are choices to be made: decisions about how we shall live and how we shall respond to others.

Yes. How we respond to others.

Discipleship is lived out in the midst of community. We are reminded of the call to follow Jesus through our interactions with others who share our journey. With them, we learn servanthood. Because of them, we are challenged to confront our own fears and prejudices. The apostle Peter faced these challenges, too—not always with success. But he persisted. And he did not cut himself off from the fellowship of believers.

That’s why Peter was present for that breakfast on the beach with the risen Christ—the one John recorded at the end of his gospel. And because he was present, he received a new commission—one which Jesus stated three times: “Feed my lambs … Tend my sheep … Feed my sheep” (John 21:15-17).

In other words, “Stay in this faithful community and serve my church.”

Perhaps that sounds less prestigious than being “keeper of the keys” … but through this kind of humble servanthood, Peter would perfectly emulate his Lord. And—by doing that—he would discover the meaning of grace.

May it be so for us, also.

_____________________

* www.ignatianspirituality.com/making-good-decisions/discernment-of-spirits/introduction-to-discernment-of-spirits

Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 16A

TEXT: Matthew 16:13-20

Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” And they said, “Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” (Matt. 16:13-15)

Ever had an embarrassing moment? We all have memories of times we’d rather not think about—because, when we remember them, all the anxiety and embarrassment of the moment comes rushing back. Right? You know what I mean. We’ve all had experiences that obliterated our self-confidence or damaged our self-esteem.

It’s called “high school.”

One particular high school embarrassment, when I recall it, still makes me cringe. And it didn’t just happen once, unfortunately. It happened numerous times, and maybe some of you can relate to it, too … unless you grew up to be an accountant. You see, I’m talking about math class. Math was always my worst subject.

There were days in high school mathematics class when the teacher would fire off a question out of the blue, and most of the class was not prepared to answer it. Or, at least, I wasn’t prepared. It seemed to me like the teacher called on me more often than on anyone else—maybe because he knew I would never have the right answer. And the questions were always so bizarre!

I remember one time he set up a problem, saying, “The level of water in a funnel drops at a rate of six feet per minute.”

Yeah. Feet, not metres. It was that long ago.

Anyway … Six feet per minute? That’s one big funnel! Anyway, his question was: “At what rate is the surface area of the water changing when the water is ten feet high?”

Like we should know this! The room grew quiet. I knew that, if no one raised their hand to answer, the teacher would pick someone (probably me). In the silence of it all, my palms grew sweaty, my mouth dried out, and it seemed like I had only two options.

Either I could sit completely motionless, hoping that the teacher might mistake me for a statue and call on a kid in the next row … or … I could look down at my desk, shuffle my papers deliberately, click my pen meaningfully (as if I were somehow in command of the subject matter), and again hope that the teacher would spring the question on someone who looked less “with it” and even dumber than me.

Those were the two options. However, regardless of which one I chose, the teacher usually seemed to pick me! It was horrible. You can’t really fake an answer in math—especially when you know your peers are going to burst into laughter the minute they hear how ridiculously “off” your answer will be.

So why, today, am I reliving the misery of my high school math class? Well, it’s all because of a little exchange that happened between Jesus and his disciples one day. He asked them what they had heard other people saying about him: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”

Now, to answer this question, all that the disciples had to do was regurgitate what other people had been saying. There is not a lot of controversy or risk involved when you speak using the third person: “Well, some say you are John the Baptist, but others say you are Elijah, and still others speak of you as Jeremiah or one of the other prophets.”

Now, even if that was the “word on the street,” those comments did not actually reveal much. At best, they were mere snippets of information shared.

So, Jesus altered the question. Evidently, he wanted more than impressions from people eating at the deli down the street. So he changed one word, and repeated the question: “Who do you say that I am?”

Can’t you see the red faces on the disciples? Their sweaty palms? Their dry mouths? Jesus’ question must have evoked something like the terror that I knew in high school math class on those days when I didn’t have the answer and the teacher called on me without warning.

That little word “you” can make all the difference in the world when asking a question or giving direction. It implicates a person. And you know, it’s the first word God ever spoke to a human being in Eden. To Adam, God said, “You may freely eat of every tree in the garden [except for, of course, that one over there]” (Gen. 2:16). Suddenly, Adam realized he had a stake in creation—and a personal place in the heart of God.

Insert that little word “you”—as in “Who do you say that I am?”—and it’s a bit like the teacher suddenly catching you unaware. One little word can make all the difference in the world. Talking about Jesus as an idea is a far cry from trusting your life to him. Believing in the concept of God does not begin to compare with actually knowing God.

It’s the difference between talking about love and telling someone that you actually love him or her. That’s the kind of difference Jesus seems to be hinting at here. Something in his question—“Who do you say that I am?”—wants to know about the disciples’ love.

How would they respond to their teacher’s unexpected question? Some of them probably tried the “statue option,” hoping that Jesus would mistake them for marble slabs and call on someone else. Others likely stuffed their panic inside, cupping their chins in their hands and looking down as if studious and reflective on the whole situation.

But not Peter. No. Peter was the first to speak up—and, without any equivocation, he said: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.”

Something in those words struck Jesus as completely genuine—full of love and personal passion. It wasn’t anything like the textbook responses that the other disciples were thinking up. No, this was Peter through and through—heart and soul, all Peter. It felt to Jesus like Peter was saying directly to him, “I love you, Lord.” And all Jesus could say in reply was, “Blessed are you.”

You know, the Christian Church today is full of panic-stricken believers. Now, when I say “panic-stricken,” I’m thinking about how you feel when you are asked a question to which you really don’t know the answer.

Have you ever had trouble expressing your faith? Ever had any difficulty finding words to say what you believe? Have you ever found that when you finally got those words out, they really didn’t say very much? Didn’t contain any of the passion or insight that is truly from you? It’s possible that you even realized virtually anyone could have said them as well as you (or better).

In other words, they were not distinctive to your life. They sounded more text-bookish than anything else—almost as if you sort-of-believed them … but not quite. As if what you were saying was a nice idea or a holy-sounding concept—but certainly not anything requiring your whole heart, soul, mind, and strength.

Back in the 19th century, a Danish theologian and philosopher named Søren Kierkegaard complained about the “paltriness” that defines too many Christian lives. In a book called Either/Or, he wrote this:

“Let others complain that the age is wicked; my complaint is that it is paltry; for it lacks passion. Men’s thoughts are thin and flimsy … The thoughts of their hearts are too paltry …” *

Kierkegaard lamented the complacency of his fellow Christians. He called them “shopkeeping souls,” people consumed by dull religious duty, rather than fiery passion.

For just a moment, forget about what you are accomplishing in your life or achieving in your vocation. That’s all well and good and important. But the question I want to ask you today is: “Do you love Jesus?”

Are you in love with Jesus? Is there fire in your soul for him? Does your face light up when you speak about him?

Does he really matter to you? Are you just passing time, moving through your days in emotionless fashion? Is your discipleship about nothing more than “getting by”? Or is there more to your faith?

I believe it’s worth asking ourselves these sorts of questions, because I think Jesus would like to know. He wants to know—from you—exactly who you think he is, with respect to the way you are living your life.

There is a word for the “shopkeeping” kind of faith that Kierkegaard observed. There’s a word for the dullness in too many believers’ lives. That word is Laodicean.

Laodicea was a city of the ancient world, in the Roman province of Asia, where Turkey is today. One of the earliest Christian communities was established there, and it was one of the seven churches addressed by name in the Book of Revelation. The words written to the Laodicean church take the form of a message from Christ himself—but they are far from complimentary.

He says, “I know your works; you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth.” (Rev. 3:15-16)

Wow! What a condemnation! It almost sounds like having a Laodicean variety of faith is worse than having no faith at all. We need a vibrant faith—one that’s hungry for God. We need a faith that’s in love with Jesus. Do you know what I mean? I’m talking about a faith that’s made of something besides textbook responses.

We all know there are a lot of people in this world who do not believe in Jesus. And, for some of them, their disinterest and unbelief may be due, in part, to the fact that they consider Jesus irrelevant or maybe even a fraud. But I don’t think that’s the prevailing opinion. More likely, they just see too little passion in those of us who claim to follow Jesus. They see a joylessness, a smugness, a complacency, a dullness.

So, today, ask yourself: If Jesus should call on you when your hand is not raised, and ask you the question, “Who do you say that I am?” … how will you answer him? Are you ready to answer him with your life? Your money? Your decisions? Your kindness? Your humility? Are you ready to display your love rather than just talk about it?

It’s scary, isn’t it? You may start sweating the second you realize that you’re going to have to answer with something more than just words. But take heart! To that same Laodicean church that Jesus threatened to spew out of his mouth, Jesus also said this: “Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me.” (Rev. 3:20)

If you feel you don’t know Jesus well enough—if you’re afraid you might be stumped by his question, “Who do you say that I am?”—well, just listen. He’s knocking at the door to your heart, waiting to be let in. He wants to get better acquainted. He wants you to know him. He wants you to be certain of his love for you.

So, open the door! Open your Bible. Open your heart. Spend time—daily—in prayer. Engage with your fellow believers. Ask questions, even if you think they’re dumb. Give answers—even if you’re afraid of being wrong. Put in the time. Make the effort. Wherever you go—to your work, your school, your home—take Jesus along with you. Introduce your friends to him. Ask him for help when you need it. Offer help when others need it—and show them the love Christ has shown you.

Do these things. Do them consistently, and—before you know it—you’ll have your own answer to his question, “Who do you say that I am?”

For the companionship, for the friendship—for the Lordship—of Jesus … thanks be to God.

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* Søren Kierkegaard (trans. Alastair Hannay), Either/Or: A Fragment of Life. London: Penguin/Random House UK, 1992. p. 48.

Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 15A

TEXT: Matthew 15:21-28

Jesus left [Gennesaret] and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”  But he did not answer her at all. (Matt. 15:21-23a)

Let’s be honest: in today’s reading from Matthew, Jesus is distressingly unkind. This poor Canaanite woman comes to him seeking help for her daughter, and Jesus … our Jesus … gives her the brush-off! First he tries to ignore her—and, when that doesn’t work, he turns to her and draws the line:

“Look, I’m sorry. I can’t help you. You’re not my department! I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel. 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.”

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

And the Son of God, apparently, is gobsmacked. This Canaanite woman sets him back on his heels. No matter how insignificant 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 beloved child. And in this way, she assumes her rightful place in the Kingdom. Jesus gives her what she asks for. “Woman,” he says, “great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.”

So, a happy ending, I guess. But this is an unsettling story, isn’t it? It is disturbing to consider Jesus’ behaviour at the beginning of this passage. Where is our familiar, loving, compassionate Saviour? And as the story progresses, even more unsettling questions get raised.

What happened here?

Did the Canaanite woman change Jesus’ mind?

Did her clever answer open his eyes to her humanity?

Did this encounter alter Jesus’ plans for his own ministry?

My inclination is to answer “yes” to all those questions. Yes, she changed his mind. Yes, she caused him to see her as a fellow human being. Yes, because of the Canaanite woman, Jesus suddenly realized his mission was to all humanity, and not only to the Jews.

And yes, I know the questions that come next: if Jesus was God incarnate—the Word made flesh—how could anything change his mind? How could any mere mortal reveal something new to him?

Well … Simply put, I believe Jesus was fully God—but I believe he was fully human, as well.

And—despite the inherent paradox—being fully human, being human as we are human, implies limitations. When you say, “I’m only human,” you’re pointing to a universal truth about the human condition: real human beings have real limitations. A huge one is death. God is not mortal as we are. God cannot die. But all human beings die—and Jesus died, also. As the apostle Paul put it, “he became obedient unto death—even death upon a cross.” (Philippians 2:8-18)

If God in Christ was so completely human that he could actually die as we die, then surely it isn’t a stretch of the imagination to consider that maybe, just maybe, he was also sometimes confused or unaware or even ignorant about some things. He would have been influenced by his culture, just as we are influenced by ours.

That’s how I explain this passage. But, in fairness, I have to admit that there’s another way of looking at it. According to my colleague Richard Fairchild, my way of interpreting the passage is “nonsense.”

And he’s not just being petulant. On his sermon website,* Fairchild reminds us that “the scriptures are full of passages saying how salvation will proceed from the Jews to the Gentiles—and Jesus was well aware of them.”

He also makes clear the fact that—by this point in Matthew’s gospel—Jesus has already performed at least one miraculous healing for a Gentile: the Centurion in charge at Capernaum, telling his disciples as he did so:

“I say to you many will come from the east and the west, and will take their places at the feast with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven …” (Matt. 8:11).

Richard Fairchild’s view is that—from the very beginning of his ministry, Jesus had no intention of proclaiming the good news only to the children of Israel. Here’s what he says in his sermon for this day, from that same website:

I think that Jesus was testing the disciples—the disciples who were so eager to send the Canaanite woman away from Jesus and who in fact begged Jesus to send her away … and yes—I think that perhaps Jesus was testing the woman herself. I believe that Jesus was trying to make a point about faith, and about the barriers that people place in the way of salvation—barriers of race, barriers of culture, barriers of sex, barriers of wealth, even barriers of morality and religion. As it says in Isaiah—the prophet that Jesus quotes the most—“Is not the House of the Lord of Israel, the House of God, to be called a House of Prayer for All Nations?”

Fairchild makes some good points here. Truth to tell, most evangelical Bible scholars would agree with him. And I would agree with him and them on this point: the important thing about this story has to do with the outcome. Jesus does heal her daughter.

Whether he was testing her or testing his disciples—or whether he was just having a bad day—Jesus rewards her persistent faith. She believes this Jewish Messiah can help her, and she won’t take “no” for an answer. No matter how difficult it is, no matter how embarrassing it is, she is resolved to plead her case. She pours out her heart. She hides nothing. She asks for what she needs.

Most importantly, she knows where to turn.

How about you?

When the chips are down … when you’ve come to the end of your rope, the end of your courage, the end of your endurance … Do you know where to turn? And do you have the sort of courage this woman had, to persist in asking for help?

As I started working on this blog, I remembered that nine years ago this month, on August 11, 2014, the American actor and comedian Robin Williams was found dead at his home in Paradise Cay, California. It was death by suicide. He was 63.

That news shook me up when I first heard it. Despite his well-publicized battles with depression and addiction, this beloved performer (from all that the public could see) had seemed to overcome his personal demons. To be sure, he had—after some 20 years of sobriety—relapsed in 2003, but it certainly appeared that he had gotten his life and his career on track again.

With three films still unreleased at the time of his death, he seemed to be as busy as ever professionally. And the depth of his love for his family—especially for his three children—has never been questioned by anyone. More than that, Williams had this persona—this manic, joyful, upbeat persona—that, on the surface at least, betrayed no hint of melancholy.

Yet, in private, having been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, Williams struggled with despair, anxiety, and increasing paranoia. Apparently, he could see no way forward for himself.

Peeking from behind Patch Adam’s big red clown nose, a Scriptural truth reveals itself: The state of a person’s heart may not be visible to others. Or at least, not obvious.

As the Book of Proverbs says: “The heart knows its own bitterness, and no stranger shares its joy” (Prov. 14:10). Our human tendency is to hide our pains and sorrows and sins. Because someone else may take advantage of our weaknesses and use them to manipulate us … or simply to hurt us … we shield our innermost parts. Instinctively, we want to protect ourselves. Above all else, we try to disguise our vulnerabilities. And that is why wounds in need of healing are too seldom revealed. They remain buried in the recesses of our overprotected souls.

In the secret places of our hearts, we harbour the bitterness caused by years of neglect and abuse and sorrow. And, desperately, we try to ignore these feelings while in public we smile bravely. As the Book of Proverbs also says: “Even in laughter the heart is sad, and the end of joy is grief” (Prov. 14:13).

The fact of the matter is this: the wounds we hide can only be healed if we expose them. And if we do not pour them out—to God and to trusted friends—they can metastasize like a spiritual cancer gnawing away at our souls.

Apparently, something like this was true for Robin Williams. While making us roar with laughter at a father dressing in drag in order to be with his children—and at a professor who misses his own wedding while experimenting with flying rubber—deep within, the man who brought us “Mork from Ork” hid an aching heart. Many people we meet from day to day do the same thing. And the more skillfully they hide their anguish, the more urgently they need someone to tear down their walls; someone who can burst through their defenses with Christlike compassion.

Certainly, it is wise to protect ourselves from as much injury and evil as we can in this fallen world. Yet it is even wiser to pour out our hearts and our hurts to Jesus—and to those who will offer his comfort. “Come to me,” he said, “all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).

At Jesus’ feet, we can remove our clown noses. We can take off our masks and make our true feelings known to him. We can say to him: “I’m angry,” “I’m scared,” “I hate the way I’m being treated,” “I’m tired of being alone,” or, “I can’t take any more of this!”

As One who was mistreated above all others, who beheld more pain than anyone, who faced the most terrible fear in the universe—and who forgave those who betrayed and murdered him—Jesus can bear whatever emotions we throw at him. He will not break our trust. He will not exploit our pain. But he will, with sympathy and with empathy, bind up our deepest wounds.

Jesus offers the joy of his love, and he wants us to abide in it. He will rescue and heal us, if only we will pour out our hearts as the Canaanite woman emptied hers. If only we trust in him. If only we will persevere in asking him, we also will hear him say: “Great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish” (Matt. 15:28).

May God grant us holy courage … and spirited persistence. Amen.

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* http://www.rockies.net/~spirit/sermons/a-or20sm.php

Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 14A

TEXTS: Ephesians 3:14-21 and Matthew 14:14-33

Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled … he made the disciples get into a boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds.  And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. (Matthew 14:19b-20a, 22-25)

 

Near the end of the last century—way back in 1995—the British writer Sara Maitland lamented the quality of contemporary Christian witness, saying: “The real sadness is not that we cause people to laugh at the idea of God and alienate them from the source of their very selves … but that we deprive ourselves of revelation, of knowledge of God.” ¹

That quote is found about a quarter of the way through a book called A Big-Enough God, which (as you might guess) Maitland wrote to underscore the point that most people—including most professing Christians—have a conception of God that is, simply put, not big enough.

In this, she echoes something that another Brit—J.B. Phillips—wrote much earlier in the last century.

Those of you who are of my vintage may remember J.B. Phillips as the translator of one of the most celebrated post-war modern-English versions of the New Testament. But back in 1952, he wrote a book with the provocative title Your God is Too Small. He said: “The trouble with many people today is that they have not found a God big enough for modern needs.” ²

Phillips’ observation was as true in his decade as Maitland’s was in hers. And, honestly, I don’t think the situation today is much different—on either side of the Atlantic.

Many of us do have a god who is too small. Without knowing it, we have substituted a feeble and feckless tutelary for the great and gracious God revealed in the Bible. The substitute deity we have fashioned is limited, and narrow, and—above all—tame. He does nothing surprising or amazing—and he is confined by our own understandings and preconceptions.

This god is stingy with mercy and has only enough love for “our kind of people”—whether that means our nation, or our tribe, or our race or family or social class … or denomination. This is a god of our own making. He is predictable. He is safe. And he is boring.

Trouble is, this kind of god hardly elicits praise. We may offer him rote and mumbled prayers—but this is entirely one-way communication. We may pray at this god of our own making … but it never occurs to us to listen for his response. And why would we? He could not possibly have anything interesting to say. We don’t expect this tiny god to restore or redeem or transform anyone or anything.

From him, the best we can hope for is sympathy. And those who proclaim him can do nothing more than offer banally humanistic advice and politically correct admonitions about caring for Mother Earth. Such preaching is about coping with the way things are, rather than about “preparing the way of the Lord.”

Apparently, many of us—even if we aren’t out-and-out atheists—conceive of God as being remote, passive, and—at most—innocuously voyeuristic. In other words, completely detached from our world and from our human experience. This far-away god never comes close enough to nourish and sustain us; he enlightens us about how to fend for and feed ourselves, perhaps … but that’s it. Far from being the bread of life for our hungry hearts, this god is like a report from the agriculture department about anticipated wheat production.

Like I said, this kind of god cannot restore, redeem, or transform anyone or anything.

Contrast this insipid picture of God with the portrait of Jesus painted for us by the gospel writers.

In today’s reading, Matthew has recorded two of Jesus’ great miracles, back-to-back. We first hear the story of a hillside full of people, who have come to Jesus because they are hungry for many things. Jesus’ disciples try to figure out how to feed this gigantic crowd—and they conclude that they simply don’t have the resources to accomplish it.

You know, the disciples really aren’t very quick on the uptake. You’d think that, by now, they would have clued in. Since when does Jesus do things the way anyone expects? And here again is yet one more example.

With five loaves of bread and two fish, we are told that Jesus fed 5,000 people that afternoon, with plenty left over—12 baskets full!

Not a small thing. And certainly not what you would expect from a small god.

Anyhow, in the evening of that very same day—with the grass still flattened from where all those people had been sitting—the disciples are out on the lake in a boat, and Jesus shows up … once again, in an unexpected way. When John’s gospel reports this same story (John 16:15-21), it tells us they were three or four miles from shore, huddled together in the middle of a storm—the dead of night all around them—when Jesus appears. Walking upon the water, first he calms the storm—and then he calms the disciples.

Again, not a small thing. Not a small god. And certainly not a god that we would have invented—because he is so surprising!

More importantly, though, this God whom we see revealed in Jesus—this God who became one of us—seeks not to merely surprise us or entertain us … but to transform us.

“Feeding the 5,000” and “walking on water”—what links these two stories together is that Jesus does something totally unexpected, and it forever changes the lives of those around him.

Nobody on that hillside could have imagined what was going to happen when Jesus got hold of that bread and those fish. Not one of the disciples expected Jesus to stroll up beside their boat and greet them in the middle of a storm.

Jesus is constantly doing things that no one expects. In all four gospels, we find stories about a Messiah who shows up in unexpected places—and in unexpected ways. And he continues doing this. Why does it still surprise us?

This Saviour, born in a manger to a frightened teenager and a humble carpenter … This man, born in our flesh, very God in human form … This King, killed upon a cross, and then resurrected into life …

No one was expecting the Messiah as he came the first time. And I’m sure no one will be expecting him when he comes again. But look—the truth is: he has never really left us! Through the power of the Holy Spirit, he has remained with us, doing the unexpected, loving the unexpected, caring for the unexpected … all the time.

Yeah. Our God is good—all the time. Even now! He is very real, and he is still “Emmanuel”—God with us, right here, right now. Not far away. Not distant or removed or uninterested. And this is very good news for us, my friends—because a distant god can’t do one thing about the empty hunger within our souls.

We all live through seasons which demand more of us than we can possibly deliver:

• Work grinds on, but our energy is long depleted.
• Needs pile up, but we lack resources to meet them.
• Our schedules are jammed full, and our hearts are alarmingly, achingly empty.

Maybe that’s how things are for you, right now. You’ve debited your emotional account into near-bankruptcy; you’re way over your limit; you’ve maxed-out your heart and soul.

Most days, we get up in the morning, put on our uniforms of responsibility, our practiced façades of “can-do” optimism, our masks of habit … and we do what we have to do.

To be sure, there’s a kind of grace in our being able to do that; but I can tell you that there are many people—many more than you might imagine—who worry and fret about how much longer they can cope with all the demands, respond to all the pressures, and meet all the expectations they feel weighing down upon them.

A lot of us feel that way, don’t we? We feel hollow. And our hollowness unsettles us. So we stuff it with things and experiences—food, drink, drugs, sex, noise, busy work, money, fantasy—anything that promises temporary relief.

Eventually—and inevitably—the emptiness threatens to consume us. It becomes like a spreading cancer, moving to take over everything that we are. And when it does, a small and distant god cannot possibly help us.

Thankfully, the apostle Paul’s words to the Ephesians remind us that we do not have a small and distant god. The real God—the living God revealed to us in the history of Israel and in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ … this God is magnificent, and mysterious, and mighty. Paul said:

I pray that, according to the riches of his glory, he may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love. I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. (Eph. 3:16-19)

The real God is vast beyond our comprehending, beautiful beyond our appreciating, and wonderful beyond our imagining. God encompasses everything: past and present and future; near and far; what we have discovered and what remains obscure. God is above and beyond, among and within, high and holy, close and compassionate. God’s great love should leave us breathless with astonishment!

Paul prayed that we would know what he admitted was beyond knowing: “the breadth and length and height and depth” of God’s love. It includes everyone and everything. It radiates with a redeeming grace which dissolves our shame and guilt. It shines with a dazzling glory that fills every dark corner of our human hearts.

Thankfully, this prayer that Paul offers is not a list of assignments for us to carry out, or expectations to meet, or demands to shoulder. The God who has been made known and real to us in Jesus is not standing over us with a clipboard and a checklist. Nothing in the apostle’s words even hints at a self-help project or a self-improvement regimen.

Paul’s prayer simply invites us to realize how deeply God loves us. It calls us to experience God surrounding us, and encompassing us, and holding us in his loving embrace. And it promises us that God will fill us when we are empty, make us strong when we are weak, and keep us rooted and grounded even when our world feels like a stormy sea.

I invite you to experience this prayer for yourself. Ask God to thrill you again with a sense of wonder. Ask him to fill you with his own life. Ask him to show you all you can comprehend about the wide embrace of divine love. Receive God’s strength. Open yourself to God’s fullness, so that the once-empty places in you may overflow with abundance and glory.

We have a vast, loving, and powerful God whose power is “at work within us” and who “is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine.” To that God “be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever.” Amen.

^{__________________________________}

¹ Sara Maitland, A Big-Enough God (New York: Riverhead Books, 1995), p. 48.

² J.B. Phillips, Your God is Too Small (New York: Macmillan, 1960), v.

Tenth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 13A

TEXTS: Romans 8:26-34; Matthew 14:13-21

And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. (Matthew 14:20)

Sometimes I feel our thinking in the church is too sophisticated.  Too often, we miss straightforward truths, stated plainly and simply—what some would call the “old time religion.” That’s one reason I appreciate it so much when I hear the “God is good” chant at the start of a worship service; because it expresses a simple truth. When the preacher shouts, “God is good,” the people reply with enthusiasm, saying: “All the time!”

This is a wonderful way to express the truth we know about God’s power to provide for his people—and this is a fundamental truth of what we call “good news.” From today’s gospel lesson, we learn once again that God is God—that God will provide what we need.  We re-learn, in the midst of the Body of Christ, that God will lift up amongst us resources to accomplish his holy and life-giving purposes.  

In Matthew, chapter 14, we encounter people who, having followed Jesus into a desolate rural area, now find themselves hungry. The disciples suggest that Jesus send them away to get something to eat.  But Jesus has something else in mind. Maybe it was his way of saying, “God is good.” But the disciples did not know how to reply, “All the time.” So Jesus told them to feed the hungry people themselves:

Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” (Matt. 14:16-18)

He was saying, “You don’t think there is enough for this great multitude, but there is enough—because God will provide.”  

This miracle—where over 5,000 people are fed with five loaves of bread and two fish—is a kind of “acted out” parable. It reveals how God can raise up in the midst of his people just exactly what they need. How? Well, we don’t know how. But we do know why. It’s because God is good—all the time.

This miracle can give us hope and direction—if we can see that everything is possible with God; if we can see that looking to love—the love that comes from God—can be the key to meeting the needs of our brothers and sisters.

Sometimes we are too sophisticated to believe in miracles—to believe that God really is good—all the time; that the power of God can, in every instance, provide more than we can hope for or imagine.  Sometimes we know so much we cannot see the truth when Jesus faces us down with the familiar, “You!”

“You give them something to eat.”

And yet, the goodness of God assures us that God’s love, moving in us and overflowing from us, can provide what his people need—because God is good, all the time. In every circumstance of life, God’s power works toward lifting up whatever promotes love in that situation.  Wherever there is injustice or pain or grief or hardship or hunger, God is there. Why? Because God is good—all the time.  

As the apostle Paul says so majestically in his Epistle to the Romans: “… in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us” (Rom. 8:37). Paul reminds us that in all things God’s abundance will, in the final analysis, be sufficient to meet our needs.  Right here, right now—in the midst of who and what we are—God will provide; because God is good, all the time.

This does not mean, of course, that Christians will be without problems or suffering. No. But it does mean that God will give us the grace and strength to bear the load as we overcome and move through whatever misfortune may befall us.

Ours is not a faith of easy answers and unrealistic solutions. But Jesus entered our human life and died upon the cross for us—and by doing that, he demonstrated something. He showed us that—in whatever we experience, in whatever may trouble us, in whatever distress or threat we feel—we need not despair, because God is in it with us.

God will lift up in our midst exactly what we need to make it through. Why? Because God is good, all the time. And because God calls us to demonstrate goodness—and courage, and compassion, and faith—all the time. And maybe—in that call of God—we find humanity’s only real hope for peace. Just as on that day so long ago, Jesus took the little bit of food his disciples had and multiplied it fantastically, so on this day, I believe, he is asking us to offer him whatever scraps of peace—of goodness—we have. And if we offer it, he will multiply it.

As someone once said: “Peace has to start somewhere.” And given the violent history of the human race—and the conflict that is so pervasive in our society—I think it goes without saying that it has to start small. Looking at how the efforts of governments have failed—from the League of Nations to the United Nations to NATO—it should be clear that the big solutions do not work very well.

Peace, I think, is a grass-roots process. It has to start small. It has to begin with small actions—lots of them—by people like you and me. People who look for places where peace is absent—in their communities, in their schools and workplaces and homes—and who offer in those situations whatever small portions they have of the peace of Christ.

If we do that, our Lord will multiply what we offer.

God is not far away and aloof from us. In his life and death and rising, Jesus shows us that God does not stand outside of life, but is right here with us—beside us—in our broken and troubled and suffering world.  As Paul said to the Romans, “[nothing] in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Rom. 8:39b)

In whatever crisis or issue we face in life, in whatever trouble may come our way, the power of God’s love will provide us with what we need. From the midst of the Body of Christ, God will lift up the resources to accomplish his loving purposes.

Why?

How?

Because God is good, all the time.

All the time, God is good. Amen.

Ninth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 12A

TEXT: Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like … a raspberry seed that someone planted in his garden. It is the smallest of all seeds, but when it grows up … it takes over your entire yard!

Yeah. I used to have raspberry bushes in my yard—and every year they produced seemingly endless quantities of fruit. They’re not hard to grow. In fact, the real challenge lies in containing the raspberries. And I’m not talking about containing the fruit in jars.

No. I mean keeping the bushes from growing where you don’t want them to grow. That’s the challenge. Because raspberry plants keep popping up everywhere—in the vegetable garden, amongst the flowers, over the other side of the fence … even through cracks in the concrete sidewalk.

You don’t need the wisdom of Solomon in order to cultivate raspberries. Or even a green thumb. I mean, if you’re looking for a foolproof business, I think raspberry farming would be it! Raspberry bushes are incredibly tough.

You don’t even have to bother planting the tiny seeds. You can just cut some branches and stick them in the ground; they will develop roots and grow. They produce an abundant summer harvest, and always seek to enlarge their territory. The only difficult thing is keeping up with their production.

In today’s gospel lesson, Jesus tells a parable not about raspberries, but about mustard. But they are kind of similar plants, in a way.

Not that mustard tastes very much like raspberry jam … but raspberries and mustard (at least, the kind of mustard Jesus had in mind) … Well, they have a few things in common. They both have tiny seeds. And they share the same kind of energy.

The people listening to Jesus would have understood that the mustard plant is a weed that grows like a bush and spreads. We see it in Canada, too. We call it wild mustard. Wild mustard is an invasive weed. Left unchecked, it will entirely take over a field, choking out the other plants. And it will do that before you know it.

Think about that. Jesus is comparing the Kingdom of Heaven to a plant that constantly and inevitably (and vigorously) keeps on growing and spreading. Just like raspberry bushes. Or like ivy growing on the outside of an old building. The ivy will climb and spread until it covers the entire wall, taking it over completely.

Now, there’s a visual! And according to Jesus, that’s what the Kingdom of Heaven is like. Or at least, that’s how it turns out in the end. Jesus’ point is that the beginnings of the Kingdom are tiny.

The Kingdom of Heaven starts out small. It’s barely noticeable. But once the Kingdom takes root, it spreads everywhere. You can’t miss it. In fact, you and I are part of that growth—part of that Kingdom—even if nobody recognizes us for what we are. The most important thing, however, is that God knows what we are. Our heavenly Father recognizes us.

We might be small and insignificant today—but tomorrow we’ll be invasive weeds!

Maybe that’s not exactly what Jesus meant. But you get the picture, right? And even if you don’t, Jesus provides another illustration. He says that the Kingdom of Heaven is like yeast that a woman mixes with flour to make huge amounts of dough.

Now, in Jesus’ day, yeast did not come in convenient little packages. “Leaven” was a remnant of dough that was allowed to … well … rot! Or ferment. A fungus from the air—in other words, yeast—would settle on the dough and begin to work. This remnant was then used to leaven the next day’s batch—which it would quickly do, working its way throughout the entire lump of dough.

If you don’t understand what’s going on, it seems like magic, because yeast isn’t just small—it’s microscopic! A single cell.

Mustard seeds and yeast. Two parables about small, insignificant things turning into great big things. But more than that, they are parables about how the Kingdom of Heaven takes over everything around it.

The mustard takes over the field. The yeast takes over the bread. They are barely noticeable to begin with, but—over time—they change everything around them. That, Jesus says, is how the Kingdom of Heaven works.

You know, that should be encouraging to us. Because sometimes it seems like our efforts to bring about God’s Kingdom are not really doing a whole lot of good. If you’ve been active in church life over the years, you surely understand what I mean. You’ve witnessed the struggles that take place inside a congregation. You know what it’s like to yearn to see the fruit of your labours. You realize how wearying discipleship can be. Which is why so many people give up on it.

From time to time, a few of them actually leave the church in frustration. But many more … even if they do not absent themselves from worship, they pretty much abandon discipleship. It’s like they carry Jesus around in their pockets and take him out for an hour or so on Sunday mornings, only to put him back in as soon as they leave the church parking lot.

I think we’ve all been guilty of this at one time or another. We get settled in our daily lives—immersed in work and school and worldly obligations—and we forget about the One we claim to follow. Or maybe we just get overwhelmed by the immensity of following him.

“I’m just one person,” you say. “What difference could I possibly make?”

Or maybe you think, “I’m just part of a tiny little church. We can’t do very much, so why bother?”

Why bother? Well, because God bothers. Then God asks us to bother … usually more than we want to.

Jesus tells us that the Kingdom starts out small like a mustard seed—but then it turns into a giant tree that shelters and nurtures life around it. And by the way, that’s hyperbole. Jesus knew full well that mustard does not actually grow into a tree. If that happened, it would be a miracle. Or perhaps just a daily occurrence in the Kingdom of Heaven. God can do amazing things with even our tiniest efforts.

Scott Hoezee is a well-known preacher and author. He’s also the Director of the Center for Excellence in Preaching at Calvin Seminary in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Not long ago—on the seminary’s website—he wrote this:

… as bearers of God’s kingdom, we keep plugging away at activities which may look silly or meaningless to the world but which we believe contain the very seed of a new creation. We keep coming to church and singing our old hymns, reciting our old formulas and creeds. All of us who preach keep cracking open an ancient book called the Bible, looking to find within it truths that are anything but ancient. We keep gathering at sick beds and death beds and whisper our prayers for the Spirit of the resurrection to be with us in life and in death. We keep drizzling water onto squirming infants and popping cubes of white bread into our mouths in the earnest faith that through the Spirit baptism and communion don’t just mean something, they mean everything.

And we keep working for Jesus in this mixed-up, backward world of ours. We quietly carry out our jobs and raise our kids and tend our marriages in the belief that God has designs for all those things and it’s our job to follow them. We keep pointing people to an old rugged cross, having the boldness to suggest that the man who died on that cross is now the Lord of the galaxies.*

Did you hear that, you tired disciples? What you do matters. Not just what you do in church on Sunday morning, but what you do at work, or behind the wheel of your car, or at the grocery checkout, or anyplace else you turn up through the rest of the week—it all matters! More than that, it makes an incredible difference. If Jesus can say that the Kingdom of Heaven takes over this world through little things like mustard seeds and yeast, then the Kingdom of Heaven is surely taking over this world through you, as well! Even your small corner of the world is being transformed because of what God is doing through you. 

Yes, you may struggle. Raspberry bushes are covered with thorns.

Yes, you may feel insignificant.

Yes, it may seem like what you do has little effect.

But in these parables, Jesus tells us different. He says that the Kingdom of Heaven is coming through things that appear unimportant and ineffectual.

So, don’t give up! Keep planting those mustard seeds. Remembering that God sees what is done in secret, keep hiding that yeast in the bread. Continue sowing seeds of kindness and mercy. Keep doing what is just and right, even if you meet opposition. Because—although you may not see the fruit of it—Jesus promises that this is how the Kingdom comes. This is how God’s Kingdom will turn the world upside down.

That, I think, is a promise we all need to hear—and believe. Amen.

______________________

* http://cep.calvinseminary.edu/sermon-starters/proper-12a/?type=the_lectionary_gospel

Eighth Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 11A

TEXT: Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

“The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well.” (Matt. 13:24b-26)

In my previous post, we discovered that God has some unusual farming practices; he casts the seed indiscriminately, on poor soil as on good. This week—with the parable of the weeds in the garden—we discover once again God’s method of farming is different than ours; and I, for one, am very glad of it.

Last week’s “parable of the sower and the seed” and today’s “parable of the weeds” are parables about the church—about the field that God plants in the hope of gaining a rich harvest. We are the field of God—we are the ground God works—the plants God nurtures—the people upon whom God’s hope rests. We are the soil in which God plants seed. The farmer’s parables are parables about us—about you and I here in the church—we who are called by the name of Christ.

These days, we hear it said that traditional Christianity is in decline because of its outdated theology—and that the mainstream churches are in decline because their liturgies and structures no longer have any appeal to modern people. At least, that’s what some prominent scholars and theologians are telling us. But I wonder about that. Because what I hear from the folks I know is quite different. I daresay that the two biggest reasons modern people give for not being Christian and for not attending church are the following:

(1) People in the church as just as bad as everyone else in the world! In general they are hypocrites, thieves, liars, gossips, cheats, snobs, and adulterers; and

(2) The whole idea of a good God is clearly ridiculous! If God is so good, why does so much evil exist in the world?

Does either one of those sound familiar to you? It’s true. That’s where people are at. Like the farmer’s servants in today’s parable, they are concerned: concerned that there are weeds among the wheat; concerned that the harvest might not turn out right; concerned that the good purpose of their master might fail. At least, some are. The rest are just plain critical—they do not understand the things of the Spirit (nor do they want to understand the things of the Spirit).

It is easy to be discouraged by what we might call the weeds in the church. It is easy to focus on the weeds that exist here in the church and out there in the world. It is easy—so easy, that we can forget the vast bouquet of flowers that makes up the rest of the church. Flowers. And wheat. And yeast—the leaven that raises the whole loaf!

Still, we wonder: why? Why do the wicked prosper while the innocent suffer?

But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled;
    my steps had nearly slipped.
For I was envious of the arrogant;
    I saw the prosperity of the wicked.

For they have no pain;
    their bodies are sound and sleek.
They are not in trouble as others are;
    they are not plagued like other people.
Therefore pride is their necklace;
    violence covers them like a garment.
Their eyes swell out with fatness;
    their hearts overflow with follies.
They scoff and speak with malice;
    loftily they threaten oppression.
They set their mouths against heaven,
    and their tongues range over the earth.

Therefore the people turn and praise them,
    and find no fault in them.
And they say, ‘How can God know?
    Is there knowledge in the Most High?’
Such are the wicked;
    always at ease, they increase in riches.
All in vain I have kept my heart clean
    and washed my hands in innocence.
For all day long I have been plagued,
    and am punished every morning.

(Psalm 73:2-14, NRSV)

Why does so much evil co-exist with what is good?

It is, alas, a question for which I have no ready answer. I cannot imagine why—to use Jesus’ language—God allows the devil to cast his horrible seed in this garden called Earth.

But consider our gospel text. The Word that God gives his servants is very clear: “Do not disturb the weeds! Do not try to pluck them out—because, if you do, you’re going to wreck the whole place! You’re going to pull up the wheat along with the weeds, no matter how careful you are!

“Leave it to me,” God says. The weeds will be burned at the time of harvest—and all of you will have a hand in it. You will see justice done. The weeds will perish—and the wheat will be stored in the granary of heaven.”

“Leave it to me,” God says. “Wait for the time I have set.”

But it’s hard to wait, isn’t it? Especially when you see such terrible things happening. But when it comes to dealing with other people—both in the church and out of it—God calls us to plant and not to pluck up—at least for a while.

We are called to resist evil, of course—in ourselves and in others—through the power of God. We are called to recognize evil, and to name it, and to ask God to take care of it; but—most of all—we are told to do good instead of doing evil. We are called to bless instead of curse; to praise instead of criticize; to help instead of hinder; to love instead of hate; to forgive instead of resent; to tell truth instead of lies.

It seems that there is a plan—that God does have a higher purpose. But still, when you look at it with only the dim light of human wisdom—or through the closed eyes of human doubt and human pride—there is no explaining why God allows the weeds to grow in his garden.

Still, I want to finish off today by saying that—in this strange system of divine agriculture—I, for one, am very glad that God does not rush to pull up the weeds. You see, every now and then, it occurs to me that perhaps … perhaps I am being a weed right now! And I know for sure that I have been a weed in the past; that too many things I have done—or failed to do—were more of the devil than they were of the Lord.

And knowing that—and knowing what God has done and can do with me and for me, when I let him—I am content to have the weeding put off, for now.

How about you? How often have you been a weed in the Lord’s garden?

I think that perhaps the message of the parable of the weeds is this: through the mercy of God, evil is allowed to exist so that what is good might grow.

Oh, I know that’s not a perfect answer to the question of evil—and it isn’t perfectly satisfying! But I think it is a partial answer that points to a profound truth—a truth which has a substance to it, something tangible that can be touched and experienced, even as the disciples touched the risen body of Christ. And that truth is a saving truth, a healing truth, a truth that can only be found in that crazy, upside-down field in which God plants his seed; and in the love of Christ Jesus our Lord, who gave himself over to death so that we might live—and who lives so that we might never die.

Thanks be to God for the privilege of growing in this field—and in this time. Amen.

Seventh Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 10A

TEXT: Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

 

“A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell on the path . . . other seeds fell on rocky ground . . . other seeds fell among thorns . . . [but] other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain . . .”

Our gospel reading focuses on the ones to whom God’s Word is addressed, and on the responsibility each of us has for hearing. While the major character is the one who sows, the focus is not on the sower, but on the soil—that which receives the Word.

How do we receive God’s Word? What kind of soil are we? Do we bear fruit? This parable tells us that the hearer has the power to thwart—or at least to divert—the productive power of the Word.

The Scriptures tell us that the Word has come to all creation, and, in some form, to every person.

In what ways has it come to us? We can identify parts of our lives that have received the Word gladly, and allowed it to flourish. But there are other parts of our lives that have been like hard paths, like rocky ground, or parts that have been choked with preoccupation.

This is true in our individual life. It is true also in our congregational life. And it is true of our society. These are the “hearers” of which each of us is a part.

We must confess that there is something in every hearer that has not heard, that does not hear, and does not want to hear. That is the sin that clings so closely to us.

There is in each hearer, whether in the individual, the congregation, or the society, a portion of life that is trampled hard by the daily traffic. It produces calluses so thick that there is no longer any sensitivity, and the Word cannot penetrate it.

There are small or great sins to which we have become accustomed. And the longer they are harboured, the less we notice them.

As individuals, perhaps we allow ourselves the thrill of malicious gossip disguised as “Christian concern.” Possibly we harbour petty resentments, prejudices and hatreds, telling ourselves they are justifiable.

In our local congregation, perhaps there is apathy towards community outreach or towards the plight of the poor and hungry.

Or maybe there is a callousness towards the financial needs of the pastoral charge or of the larger mission of the church. There may be lack of concern for global issues like peace, or economic justice. Or perhaps “church” has become a place we go to, rather than a people we are.

This deafness to the Word pervades our society as well, causing us as a people to become ingrown and insensitive to what God’s Word would have us do.

Where, in our society, has the Word fallen on hard and hostile places? Well, we seem to keep electing politicians who promise to give us more, while cutting back on health care budgets, and slashing funding for programs that help the poorest and weakest amongst us.

Are we willing to balance provincial and federal budgets by letting our neighbours’ children go hungry?

If the answer is “yes,” then our hearts have indeed become as hard as pavement! How can God’s Word find nourishment there? Where can the seed broadcast by God’s Spirit take root in us?

This past week, as I was thinking about what it means for seed to fall on the path, I remembered once, years ago, walking along an abandoned blacktop road north of Winnipeg.

It was amazing to see the power of the seed in that blacktop. The surface was full of cracks, and grass and weeds and even wildflowers were growing in the cracks. In fact, there were places where the grass was two or three feet high.

Seeds, thank God, can be powerful and persistent.

In Matthew’s gospel, a bit later in the 13^th chapter, Jesus tells the story of the mustard seed and of the leaven:

[Jesus said]  “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.” [And then he] told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.” (Matthew 13:31-33)

It may look like the advantage is held by the field, by the three measures of flour, by the blacktop. It would seem that the odds are on the side of the powers of darkness. But the Scriptures teach that the darkness has not been able to overcome the Word—for out of the Word shines brilliantly the light of divine life.

And so we must watch for the cracks in our personal lives, in our congregations and in society; cracks in which the Word may lodge and begin its transforming power.

In the church, at least, we may hope to find some who will at least pour the occasional bucket of water into our cracks—who will offer encouragement for sprouting faith.

But of course—even within the church—there are places of shallow soil, where there is too little Christian nurture, too few Christians, too little advocacy.

Sad to say, too many congregations are just like that—places where the soil is not deep enough. Places where what looks like genuine faith is in reality but a thin veneer. In such places, the sprouting of the Word may be vigorous at first, but the vine of faith soon withers away.

And in each of the hearers—whether in myself, in my congregation, or in society—there is the problem of the divided life. We say, “yes, yes, yes” to the work of God’s Word, but we have so many vested interests—so many other concerns—that (like thorns) these intruders finally overshadow and thwart the Spirit’s working.

Thus far, the parable of the sower appears to be a commentary on sin. But we must not overlook the note of grace which is also sounded here. There is hope in this parable, also. For whether it be in myself, in my congregation, or in society, there is a part of each hearer that receives the seed of the Word with gladness—that brings forth an abundant harvest: 30-, 60-, and a hundredfold.

The gospel calls us to enlarge our hearts, to expand the cultivatable areas of our lives so that they can become even more productive.

And each hearer—whether it be the individual, the congregation, or society—should be receptive to God’s Spirit that moves us forward to that fulfillment of all things in Jesus Christ, when the whole of each hearer will be fully redeemed. For in this hope we are saved. We can take hope in God’s promise that the divine Word will not return to God empty, but it shall ultimately accomplish the purpose for which Christ was sent.