Readings, 2 Samuel 7:1-14a and Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
Image, Christ in the Wilderness – the Hen, Stanley Spencer (1938) We begin with a question: When someone – in a state of stress or exhaustion – exclaims something surprising, is that a moment of unguarded truth or do we note the external factors and assign it as ‘out of character’? If, at the end of one of those weeks, I am walking through the house and trip on an errant toy left in the middle of the kitchen, and I reactively exclaim “how can anyone live with such slobs!” Is this a moment revealing my true feelings long hidden away? Or is this simply stress searching desperately for one point of blame and doesn’t reflect my actual feelings? Perhaps as pain temporarily blocks conscious considerations unconscious truth slips through, it may be out of character, it may surprise even me, but does it nonetheless reveal unguarded truth? There’s clearly no uniform answer. Sometimes it is one, sometimes the other, and likely we discern this based on our relationship and experience with the person. It may be that we realise, that while this isn’t an accurate expression of their beliefs, it names a simmering frustration which should have been articulated earlier. In such cases the flashpoint provides an opportunity, through apology and honesty, to address unspoken issues. Jesus is regularly tired in the gospels. He routinely seeks places to rest either alone or with his disciples. And yet, time and again he is hounded by the crowds, let down by his friends, challenged by opponents, and pressed to move on. And sometimes Jesus grows frustrated. Sometimes Jesus chastises his disciples, bemoans the crowds, and upbraids his opponents. I take some comfort in this… it really does emphasise that Jesus was fully human. That Jesus really experienced the full gamut of what it is to pitch a tent in the midst of the human experience. It is Jesus’ exasperation and exhaustion as much as anything that proves the great line from Hebrews: For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. In the same breath, I take comfort in what emphasises Jesus as fully divine. That even when his rest is cut short by crowds following him from place to place, Jesus looks on them and has compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. This comfort is only amplified in the final verse of our gospel reading: And wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the market-places, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed. Such is the power of Jesus’ divine nature. Whatever he might be feeling in these moments, whatever day he might be facing, whatever toll might be paid by his mortal flesh and finite patience, his nature is such that even the fringe of his cloak can be make us well. Like the haemorrhaging woman, reaching for his cloak in the crowd, Jesus’ lifeforce and divine power bursts forth without decision. He does not need to know who has approached for their approach to be rewarded. Jesus, as fully God, simply is compassion and healing, simply is consolation and joy, simply is the light and life of the world, simply is love. Even moving into his presence moves us into the presence of love, light, life, joy, consolation, healing and compassion. There is no hidden nature, no truer feelings repressed beneath the surface, no ulterior motives lurking out of sight. Jesus is life, Jesus is freedom, Jesus is salvation, and this is revealed not only in the compassion displayed for the needy crowds at the end of a long day (for this could just be the proof of saintliness, of an exemplary display of human compassion). No, the nature of Jesus as hope and healing for a weary world is revealed in the restoration and salvation that occurs simply through his presence as Emmanuel (God with us). It is this divine nature which flows through Christ to the world without even needing him to turn his gaze, that proves the following verse of that Hebrews passage: Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. We get pretty adept, as humans, of knowing when to approach others to ask a favour. And the more we know a person the better we are at reading the signs of their mood and sensing the tactical moment to approach. We may even cultivate these moments: quietly moving in the background to remove points of stress, biding time from one request to another, or striking when the iron is hot off our own benevolent favour granting. This may be a necessity of human relations, but this is not the relationship of the flock to the shepherd. This is not how it is for the Christian and their High Priest. Because though the human Jesus - bound by the limits of appetite and sleep - grew weary and frustrated, the risen Christ is the ascended one. And if the weary Jesus saw the crowds and was moved by compassion, how much more may we trust the loving response of the one who has now been given all authority over heaven and earth? If Christ, who as Incarnate had no place to lay his head and yet proved time and again to be rich in love, how much more will the one who sits on the throne of heaven pour forth compassion and tenderness for those who approach his presence? If the fringe of his cloak could heal, how much more restoration might be known through the unbound presence of the cosmic Christ? This is the good news: since we know that even when tested and tried Jesus could not give up on those who reached out for help, how much more might we trust in the ascended and unencumbered Christ who is by nature simply the full force of compassion, faithfulness, peace, and love. There is nothing contradictory to be revealed, however many toys we leave out. Christ simply is the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep, calls us by name, and leads us into life.
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Image, The Seven Corporal Works of Mercy, Pieter Brueghel the Younger (1559)
Readings Psalm 24 and Ephesians 1:3-14 I think there is a sweet spot when it comes to a social gathering or group trip, which is to be included, but not responsible. I want to come and enjoy the activities but far be it from me to plan, chase up, handle logistic or funds. I want to be there, but I don’t want to be responsible for everyone who is there. Be a groomsman, not a best man. And I can justify such an attitude because this is what we learn from this most beautiful reading in Ephesians. When it comes to our salvation, our life in God, we are included, but not responsible. For God chose us in Christ, before the foundations of the world. In God’s perfect freedom, before any need or appeal, God elected to be with and for us. In perfect love God determined to send Christ into the world, so that we might be found holy and blameless. God took the responsibility for our state, and destined us for adoption through Jesus Christ. This was no concession, nor was it performed conditionally. It was done according to the good pleasure of God’s will for no other reason that we might praise the glorious grace bestowed upon us in Christ. In short, God has chosen to adopt us, before we could do anything to warrant or require such a grace – we are included, not responsible. Now, for those who may have spent some time in church before, what we are discussing here is the doctrine of election – a squirrely doctrine which has confounded and befuddled many a Christian, has lain underneath many a controversy, and often been deplorably employed to violent ends. Let’s explore a little. Christians start thinking about election because of passages like this in Ephesians, which speak of God choosing or electing people (or in the case of Israel, a whole nation) either for a purpose or redemption. They also begin to consider election as an extension of thinking about grace and sin – we (as sinners) cannot will ourselves to faith, and thus receive it as a gift from God’s grace… however, not everyone has faith and if that is not due to effort is it because God has not chosen them? Here you start getting into the issue of logically needing to confess that an all loving, all powerful God only chooses some, only gives saving faith to some, while others God predestines to eternal damnation. All of a sudden God doesn’t sound quite so loving, and the good news of the gospel becomes bad news for the masses. And it is not that the awkwardness was lost on those developing these theologies; both Augustine and Calvin cautioned against teaching predestination in excess as it could dishearten and confuse. And to their credit, both had pastoral concerns in mind; the doctrine was meant to be an assurance to the faithful that their salvation lay in the hands of God, not their own efforts, and both instructed the faithful against trying to speculate over who was and was not chosen, but to treat everyone as a sibling. However, by and large, this did not happen. And a system by which some are determined chosen by God and others not, can not only make one an arrogant neighbour, but can all too easily be laid atop other systems of human hierarchies and divisions. Indeed, the wretched sin of colonialism often ran on a narrative where the chosen people came to a new promised land and were thus justified (if not obligated) to dispossess the reprobate indigenous and seek to deprive them of their culture, language, and religion (deemed to be deficient compared to the language, culture, and religion of the elect through which God has determined to move). Does all this theological malpractice forever problematise the intended comfort of the teaching that we have been chosen since the foundations of the world? Can we continue to consider ourselves the adopted and elected without raising ourselves aloft from others? There are two moves that reconfigure the notion of chosenness and election. The first is to move away from the individual. We cast aside the notion that God treats humanity like petals of a flower, “I love thee, I love thee not.” Instead, the decision God makes before the foundation of the world is a decision for all of humanity. God decrees to elect Jesus Christ, and in the election of Christ all humanity is reconciled to God. “In freedom and love as defined in and through Christ, God has chosen to be the God of human beings.”[1] God has chosen to be with and for us, bestowing a spirit of adoption so that none should fall back. This move maintains the reality of sin while honouring the sufficiency of Christ’s grace and the perfection of God’s love (as Paul would have it, just as Adam’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so Christ’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all). There are not the elect and unelect, chosen and the not, there is simply Jesus Christ – the stone the builders rejected but God chose, in whom all receive the spirit of adoption. As fully God, Jesus elects, and as fully human Jesus is elected, and this act belongs to us all. To draw on the language of our psalm today, Jesus is the one who not only was with God when the world was founded on the seas, but he is the one - who with clean hands and pure heart - ascends to the mountain of the Lord to receive the blessing from God which is then shared with each and all; for such is the King of Glory. The second move is to refocus what election teaches us. It is not, in the first instance, about individual salvation. It is about the task and calling of the church. For just as Jesus was predestined, or elected to be our head, this is so we can be his body.[2] God’s election is a promise that amid the “ruins of nations… the church of God will remain.” This is the word we speak over those commissioned into ministry: the God who called you will not fail you. Election is the promise that before all things God determined to be with and for a people. This with and for, leads to a with and for – which ties election to church’s mission. As those not responsible for our salvation, we are instead included in the work of God in the world. “Being elected means being elected for service to God and others.”[3] Election is not set apart from, but set apart for. Set apart and set alight to stand with the world in its struggles. It does not make us “into the ‘privileged ones’ over against those who are ‘rejected’; instead God’s gracious election sends us out not only to serve God but to serve our fellow human beings and God’s good creation as well.”[4] Most acutely, we are called to stand with and serve those who the world treats as rejected, as lesser, as condemned. We are called to recognise that those our political and economic systems cast off are the beloved God has chosen to be for and with. These too are chosen in Christ since the foundations of the world. Worldly injustice and prejudice are affronts to the divine choice to love. If the church has any special standing in the world, it is only because – by the gift of faith – we have heard this proclamation. The church is that corner of God’s world who recognise that God has chosen to be the God of humankind, that God has chosen to graciously bestow upon the human what rightly belongs to Christ, that God has chosen to love us with an inseparable love. The church confesses this truth and then acts accordingly – living lives of service, pursuing justice and mercy for the world. We lay aside responsibility for salvation, the responsibility of determining in and out. Instead, we give thanks for the joy and meaning found in being included (elected) to pursue God’s work until in the fullness of time, when all things in heaven and on earth are gathered lovingly unto God. [1] Margit Ernst-Habib, “Chosen By Grace: Reconsidering the Doctrine of Predestination,” 87. As R. Jenson writes, “the one sole object of eternal election is Jesus with his people.” Systematic Theology Vol 2., 175. [2] Paraphrasing Augustine. [3] Ernst-Habib, 88. [4] Ernst-Habib, 90. Readings, 2 Cor 12:2-10 and Mark 6:1-13
Image, St. John the Baptist Preaching, c. 1665, by Mattia Preti This snippet of Paul’s letter to the Corinthians has two sections which have given rise to endless speculation. The first is his enigmatic reference to people caught up to the third heaven and paradise (whether in the body or not, Paul has no clue). The second is Paul’s reference to the thorn in the flesh, which plagues him despite his repeated prayers for relief. The first has given way to all kinds of theories, many specious and irresponsible, about the layers and levels of heaven, its secret wisdom and proofs. The second, numerous proposals as to what exactly tormented Paul – illicit desire, physical disability, spiritual torment? Unfortunately, what this speculation misses, is Paul’s own efforts to draw attention away from these details. Paul is determined to deflect attention toward a more important and fruitful truth from which we all can glean comfort and wisdom: that Christ’s grace is sufficient, that even in our weakness we are strong. Before arriving at what we heard, Paul has been defending his apostleship against those who have come to Corinth and sought to undermine him. They turned Paul’s own humility and simplicity of speech into a mark against him, and sought to diminish his commitment to the cause of the gospel. In his place they promoted themselves as “super apostles” (Paul’s term), eloquent in speech and elaborate in boasting. For this reason, Paul finds it necessary to cite some of his bona fides. He too is a Hebrew, Israelite, a descendent of Abraham. For the sake of the gospel, he has been imprisoned and flogged, lashed and beaten, shipwrecked and sleepless, cold and hungry. But like the thorn in his side, Paul does not use this suffering to justify his teaching or apostleship. He does not appeal to this as a basis of the virtue of his words or the righteousness of his authority. Instead, If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness… so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. This goes the same for Paul’s proximity to those who have experienced wondrous marvels, which Paul mentions, but does not elaborate. Paul could boast on behalf of such a one, but I refrain from it, so that no one may think better of me than what is seen in me and heard from me. Paul does not want to appeal to his own sufferings nor the stories of miraculous elation. He continually redirects the attention to Christ’s sufficient grace. If we see human weakness let us see through it to Christ’s sustaining strength. If we hear tell of the remarkable, let us give thanks to the crucified one who lives in the power of God. For such is the task of the apostle: to point to Christ. Such is the mission of the church: to gesture towards and participate in what God has accomplished in Christ. This is the ground on which we stand, the gospel by which we live, the hope in which we are assured. Such a proclamation and promise does not need to be adorned and accessorised by superfluous stories of supernatural snatchings up to heaven, does it need to be accented by an emphasis on our ability to wade through thornbushes. Does not need to be proceeded by an enforced initiation into a foreign culture. We proclaim Christ crucified, live as witnesses to his resurrection, and participate in Christ’s acts of mercy and justice. The Christian is one who points beyond themselves to a grace sufficient for the world redeemed. The table of grace reminds us of this: bread and wine, body and blood, broken and poured out for us and for the world. It is by this we are fed and sustained, from this we are sent, and for this we labour. If this leads to suffering or exaltation, it is not for our own glory and legitimising, but serves as an opportunity for the power of Christ to dwell in us. For this is how apostles are sent out by Christ; two by two, with no bread, no bag, no money in their belts. Sent out to rely on the kindness of strangers and the authority of Christ. It is from a place of weakness and welcome that begins the ministry of reconciliation, the word of repentance, and the overcoming of the forces of Sin and Death. The good news is not spread through the eloquence and status of super-apostles, God is not glorified in the speculative stories of what belongs to God alone, the kingdom is not rightly heralded by those who arrive with the presumption of self-sufficiency, who can give and take, but never receive and grow. The gospel goes forth and God is glorified in the quiet, unassuming witness of those who do not hide their weakness but allow it to reveal the strength of Christ. It is in the vulnerability of those who set out relying on the welcome and care of others. It is in the everyday efforts of the many members of the one body living to repeat Christ’s ministry. For it is he alone who sends us out in our weakness so that through him we (and the world) might know real strength. Reading, Mark 5:21-43
Image, Bohumil Kubišta, The resurrection of Lazarus, 1911 to 1912. Oil on canvas There’s a story in the book of Samuel. King David, having retrieved the Ark of the Covenant, leads a parade and all the house of Israel were dancing before the Lord with all their might, with songs and lyres and harps and tambourines and castanets and cymbals. In the midst of this revelry, the oxen pulling the ark of the covenant, slips. The ark begins to slide, and a man named Uzzah reaches out to hold it in place. However, so holy is the ark of the covenant, pulsating with divine presence, that for all his good intentions Uzzah is struck dead on the spot. David is filled with fear, and while continuing his dancing before the Lord, determines not to let the ark rest under his care in his own city. I recount this story because it sheds light on the fear and trembling experienced by the haemorrhaging woman after she reaches out to lay a hand on the garment of Christ. We’ve talked before about the varying socio-religious categories that helped order the life of Israel. Pure/Impure – Holy/Profane. The categories function on several levels, one of which is not unlike our own rules that delineate what is and isn’t allowed to share the same space (can’t put a toilet in a kitchen, can’t sit a living animal at the restaurant table where a dead animal is being served). But they also function to safeguard God’s holy presence and protect God’s people from the consequences of wrongly approaching God. For, (as is the case of Uzzah) while God is infinitely loving and merciful, God is a powerful and holy force. By the metrics of these categories, the haemorrhaging woman is considered impure, so too is the corpse of the child. To say impure, of course, is not to say sinful (however sadly those two are sometime conflated). It is not a moral failing (people moved between pure and impure at various points in their life), but the system does require separation of the impure from the pure, at least until they have been judged clean. Two things are thus at risk when the impure comes into close proximity with the pure – the impure is destroyed (as is the case of Uzzah) or the pure is defiled and rendered impure. The woman in our story fears these outcomes. She has rightly recognised Jesus as holy, as possessing power enough to heal and restore her to the fullness of life in community. And yet, in recognising this, she is hesitant to touch him. When his power bursts forth from him (interestingly we note that, like the Ark of the Covenant, so potent is the force of life itself bubbling within him that this happens without his choosing) she hides, and when he demands to know the one who touched him, she approaches with fear and trembling. What if her offense is so great that like Uzzah she will simply be struck dead for infringing upon the site of God’s holiness dwelling on earth, or what if in touching the hem of his cloak she will have somehow corrupted the whole of his person through her contagious impurity? Neither occurs. Instead of being struck down she is commended for her faith and courage to risk it all in trust that this man wants her to be well. The story teaches that Jesus has come not to scorn the system, but uproot the causes of impurity in this world, to beat back the forces of death which seek to smother the gift of life. Instead of him being corrupted his power is undiminished, his holiness uninterrupted. Indeed, immediately following this Jesus shows his power to overcome an even more extreme case of impurity, a more extreme affront on life, for Jesus comes into contact with a corpse, and brings her to life. All four Gospels contain accounts of Jesus interacting with corpses. In this story in Mark, the girl has only been dead a short while, and Jesus, in calling her back to life takes her by the hand. However, in other gospel stories, such as that of Lazarus, the person has been dead longer, and Jesus is able to overcome the force of death at a distance. Those first communities reading the gospels inhabited a world that almost universally perceived corpses as conveying impurity not only through contact but also through proximity. These stories testify that Jesus’ holy power not only equals but surpasses the contagious, defiling power of death. Jesus is continually brought into contact with the forces of death and impurity, and continually overcomes them; the heart of the confession then, is that Jesus is a source of holiness more powerful than death itself. With Jesus, God has sent something new into the world. It is in him that the fullness of God’s holy power was pleased to dwell, but so too the fullness of God’s love and mercy. Jesus has come then, not only to overcome the power of death, but to do so in a way that the impure can approach without being destroyed, can touch without his body being corrupted. This confession crescendos at Easter. The forces of death stake a claim directly upon Jesus’ body on the cross and in the tomb. They reach out a hand and grab hold of his very person, but even here Jesus’ holiness triumphs, even here the life of the world cannot be snuffed out, but swallows up death itself. If the hem of Jesus’ garments can make the woman well, his wounded body is the site that brings us all out from under the force of death. And so we are baptised into Christ’s death, so that nothing can separate us from God’s loving presence. In baptism we celebrate that Christ takes us by the hand and gently instructs us to rise. Such is his holy power that when we reach out to grab the hem of his garment, or he reaches out to take our hand, we are not destroyed, death is. O death, where is your sting! Paul writes; O grave, where your victory? Jesus has come and dwelt among us, in him the fullness of God was pleased to dwell – as such he is the site of God’s perfect holiness, a force more powerfully, vibrantly contagious than any force of death or impurity. For this reason, we need not fear approaching his presence, nor tremble at the majestic mystery of his lifeforce. Rather we take the leap of faith and cling to the hem of his garment, knowing that he shall take our hand, commend our audacity, and lead us into life. Readings, 1 Samuel 17:32-49 and Mark 4:35-41
Image, Edgar Degas, David and Goliath (1863) We heard two of the big hits from any kid’s Bible today. Indeed, recently my year two SRE class completed 11 weeks on the gospel story. As I was recapping the module with the class, one story stuck out again and again in their memory as a favourite: Jesus stills the storm. This isn’t all that surprising, as Jesus’ ability to control the storm is perhaps the closest we see Jesus fit the mode of a typical superhero. And then we have David and Goliath, and again it is unsurprising that kids are excited to read about the small felling the great. The story’s details befit a classic action romp – a menacing giant, armour too large to be worn, the simplicity of the slingshot, pro-wrestler-esq banter, and the swift victory of the underdog. But the appeal of such stories is found not only in their exciting and memorable details. It is also testament to the simple, though profound message at their heart. God delivers us through storms and strife. While David begins his appeal to Saul by recounting his skill with a sling, he nevertheless makes clear that his deliverance from past snares and his confidence in a present victory, rests solely in the Lord of Hosts. For God does not save with the sword and the spear, but the Holy Name before which all falls silent. It is because God is with David that David defeats Goliath. God is the deliverer of Israel. David’s sling is no more responsible for the defeat of the Philistines than Moses’ staff for the deliverance out of Egypt. It is the presence of God, with and for us, that provides the assurance of deliverance amidst worldly strife. So too with Jesus on that boat. Winds howl and waves crash, and Jesus sleeps. Do you not care that we are perishing? This is a prayer as honest as any psalm, a petition as raw as any crossing mortal lips, a plea as primordial as Christ’s own cry of desolation. For there is no despair deeper than the fear of God-abandonment in the midst of crisis. The fear that our creator, redeemer, and sustainer feels disinterested in our plight and distant from our prayers. For how could the one who called the disciples from their boats allow them to sink in his own? Now, we know that the faithful answer is, “he won’t.” Jesus would simply not allow those who have taken refuge in him to sink, but in the heart of the storm, no confession of faith is entirely without suspicion. Having completed our little module on the gospel story, my SRE class are now exploring the big promises of God. The main themes so far are, God makes promises, and God keeps those promises. Some kids, in their delightful way, have started to question the premise. What if God promises something that God can’t keep? What if God promises to give me a new car but doesn’t? I attempt to explain, God would not make a promise that God didn’t intend to keep. God keeps every promise made, but doesn’t promise to do everything (as much as we’d like that new car). Nevertheless, there are many reasons to question even the stated promises, to doubt their assuredness, hedge our bets, and cover the alternatives. So even if the disciples had the faith to step from their boats into Christ’s, agreed to leave their life to live within Christ’s, this is no immunity to the fear of storms. After all, we learn at a young age that there are no monsters under the bed, but that doesn’t mean any of us feel particularly comfortable sleeping with one arm hanging off the bed. One might suggest that this is the natural by-product of David’s astute confession, The Lord does not save with the sword and the spear. The means of God’s deliverance are subtler than we might design. God perennially chooses humble, surprising, even foolish things to demonstrate God’s power and fidelity. The sling of a youth to fell an army, the baby in a basket to free the slaves, the child born of Mary to save the world, parables to announce the kingdom, the cross to conquer death, a little bread and wine to sustain the church. Even in the storm, Jesus simply speaks it into stillness. The very story of God’s mighty acts is preserved in testimony and community, kept afloat by through the praise and proclamation of fallible humans and the uncontainable movement of the Spirit. Perhaps our fears would be better conquered by the undeniable vision of God swinging a sword and deafening the sounds of the earth with a heavenly voice. But in conquering our fears such approach would first conquer our freedom, and any chance to be anything more than a stone subdued in place. We are instead called into becoming, called into a life of faith, a life devoted to the joyful exploration of the disciple’s question, who then is this? This question leads us back to the beginning, back to the unremitting allure of these stories. Yes, it is their narrative charm, yes, it is their extraordinary details, but yes, it is also because these stories say something fundamentally profound about our God. They are stories which draw us toward the ground of the question, who then is this. Who then is this that stills the storm, who then is this that saves the boy from the paw of the lion, who then is this that saves not by the sword or the spear… it is our God, our strength and refuge. It is our God who cares about us, who is present with us and for us. Our God whose Anointed One called us from the boats of our old life and promises the meaning and joy of his own voyage. Even in the moments where the winds of trial and the waves of strife crash in, even when the worldly armour does not fit, even when our cries seem to fall on sleeping ears, our God is the one who will not let us perish, who forgets not the cry of the afflicted, but stands and speaks the word of peace and invites us into a life of faith. Readings, 2 Cor 5: 6-17 and Mark 4:26-34
Image, The Last Moments of John Brown (1883) Thomas Hovenden So if anyone is in Christ, new creation! Everything old has passed away; see everything has become new! For the Christian, the story of God and the world pivots on Christ. The event of Christ marks a staggering and irreversible shift in all things. Because, we are convinced that one has died for all; therefore all have died. Christ’s death is the monumental rupture in the story of humanity. His death is all of our deaths; the moment that we, each and all, are lowered into his death, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. As the parable suggests, we are sown upon the ground, buried in the soil that is Christ. Christ has died for all (and therefore all have died), Christ also rises for all (and therefore all shall rise). And in rising we are raised to new life; which we live for the one who died us. So radical is this shared death and resurrection, that it is nothing short of new creation. As the parable suggests, we are sown upon the ground, buried in the soil that is Christ, so that in Christ we may grow up as the greatest of all shrubs. Here the world begins anew and in the face of such forcefulness of life everything old simply must pass away. Those in Christ become the site of the new creation, our life together signifying the urgent welling up of the new. From this moment of death and resurrection, this ever-present moment of new creation, we begin our work. For as the parable suggests, we are sown upon the ground, buried in the soil that is Christ, so that in Christ we may grow up as the greatest of all shrubs and put forth large branches so that the birds of the air can make nests in the shade. I was reading a discussion asking what is the greatest line in a Christian hymn. And before I reveal the emphatic favourite of those involved, does anyone want to shout out their vote? Any all-time favourite lyrics? My vote might have been for I trace the rainbow through the rain, and trust the promise is not vain (which we sung yesterday at Dorothy’s funeral), or Pleased as man with man to dwell (from Hark the Herald). But in this discussion, the overwhelming favourite was Julia Ward Howe’s line from “Battle Hymn of the Republic”: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.[1] I bring up this lyric, because it captures so well the movement of this section of 2 Corinthians and the theme of the sermon so far. That Christ died to make humanity holy (a new creation reconciled to God), we ought now die - or at least live - to make others free (by taking up the ministry of reconciliation and become the righteousness/justice of God). The lyric captures how, on becoming aware of what Christ has achieved for us, we are commissioned to seek the material benefit of our neighbour. Having died with Christ we live no longer for ourselves but for him who died and was raised for us (now found in the least of these struggling for freedom, connection, dignity, and survival). Christ’s reconciling act ushers in the new creation, and everything old passes away, and see everything becomes new. Now, it takes little to realise this passing away and becoming, while having occurred at a cosmic/spiritual level, has clearly not been completed in the flesh. We are thus called to live as new creations within the passing away and becoming; as if the old is truly vanquished and the new vibrantly present. This is not easy, for we live in a society that still regularly teaches us to regard one another from a human point of view. A point of view held captive by worldly judgments, prejudices, stereotypes, and fears. Therefore, to live as a new creation often involves standing against the grain, pursuing God’s righteousness and human dignity in the face of worldly norms and expectations. It means pointing bravely to the new, which heralds justice and freedom. This may bring scorn and derision, and thus we have Christ with us and the Church beside us. For the church ought to be that communion of saints who have likewise discerned that as Christ has died to make us holy we live to make others free, who have likewise discerned that he who knew no sin, became sin so that we might become the righteousness of God, who have likewise discerned that the kingdom of God is such that even the small seeds of justice may sprout like the mightiest of shrubs and offer shelter for many. Before Julia Ward Howe composed lyrics for the Battle Hymn of the Republic, the tune was known as John Brown’s Song. The song was inspired by the radical abolitionist John Brown, a passionate Christian who believed ardently that God had called him to oppose and dismantle the system of slavery in the US. This, unsurprisingly, was a deeply unpopular opinion within white America, and one which required him to stand against church and government. But John Brown took the call of the gospel seriously, and fought for other’s freedom even to his death (Brown was hanged for treason for inciting a slave insurrection in Virginia). Julia Ward Howe hemmed close to the mythos of the John Brown Song in her own lyrics and one can imagine few who took as seriously the cry, As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free as did John Brown. John Brown and his rebellion were unsuccessful, but his efforts, along with other abolitionists, and enslaved and freed Black Americans were planted into soil. These small seeds of a movement, in a society stridently committed to regarding others by a human point of view, grew into a mighty shrub that procured the end of slavery. The struggles in which we are engaged differ from times such as Brown’s. And yet, we are no less called to the work of freedom, no less commissioned into the ministry of reconciliation, no less equipped to point to the new thing God is doing, and no less made to become the righteousness of God. For the love of Christ urges us on, reminding us that we no longer live for ourselves but are called to make visible the life of Jesus on our mortal flesh, pursuing reconciliation and righteousness in such a way that our words and actions might grow in the soil of Christ and the church into the greatest of all shrubs. So if anyone is in Christ, new creation! Everything old has passed away; see everything has become new! Now, as he died to make us holy, let us live to make others free. *** [1] This, like my choice from Hark, are lyrics of such compact intensity that despite their gendered quality are so difficult to find equally impactful gender expansive re-revisions (which is important and vital work). “Please with humankind to dwell” doesn’t have quite the same poeticism, at least in my opinion. We need a better one-syllable gender neutral term to take the place of men/man which captures the expansiveness and fluidity of human gender without disrupting the metre. Readings, 2 Cor 4:13-5:1 and Mark 3:20-35
Image, The Harrowing of Hell, Lincoln Cathedral in Lincoln, frieze (c. 1150 AD, restored in 2009) Let’s start with the perspective of the family of Jesus. For whatever they suspect of him and his calling, there is no denying that over the past months things have dramatically altered. First, Jesus went out to be baptised by John. Then he disappeared to the wilderness for forty days. Following this John is arrested and Jesus heads off the Galilee to proclaim the kingdom of God and call disciples. After this he sets off on a preaching tour and you don’t see him for a while. News returns of miracles performed, conflicts entered, a movement growing. He sends out twelve apostles to proclaim his message and cast out demons. Only now he returns home but a crowd gathers with such intensity, that you cannot not even eat. The family has enough. Rumours and crowds were one thing, but now people are outright declaring Jesus is out of his mind, and scribes sent down from the big city announce him demon possessed! Given all this, it is perhaps understandable that his family went out to restrain him. If not for their own sense of propriety, then for his own safety. Jesus, perhaps not helping his case, called everyone to him and spoke in parables (is this really the time for parables?). I can’t possibly cast out demons by the power of demons… how can that be profitable to Beelzebub? No, I am simply tying up the strong man so I can plunder his house. His mothers and brothers come. If the extended family is unable to bring Jesus to sense, his intimates surely will. Their presence will calm the crowds and scribes, and if not outright halt Jesus’ newfound ministry, at least perhaps smooth its more intense edges. Instead, (and again hardly helping matters) Jesus refuses to admit them and declares to those present that his mother and brothers are only those who do the will of God. Now, nestled within this family drama are two radical claims on the part of Jesus. Part of my reason for foregrounding the response and concern of the family is to do justice to their stark strangeness. For it is easy for those of us initiated in the claims of the Christian faith to take in stride Jesus’ promise to plunder the strong man and claim us as his kin. But this is the wild heart of the Christian faith. That this man from unremarkable origins would be the anointed one of God sent to destroy the powers of evil in this world. That this Jesus has been charged to set free the prisoners of captive sin, and make of humanity a new family defined not by blood or birth but grace and commission. Jesus’ response to the charge of demon possession is to say, I wield a power far greater than any demon. Jesus’ response to the reproach of his family is to say, I wield the power to make a far larger family. It is little wonder he has raised such concern. Jesus stands in his hometown and makes the brazen claim to be able to bind the prince of demons and liberate all who languish in his captivity. Jesus stands in his home and makes the borderline offensive claim that his family are those who do the will of God. And if these strange claims meet our ears as the familiar good news of great joy, we cannot attribute this to our own power (be that of reason or trust). No, it is dependent wholly on the Spirit who awakens in us the faith that the one who made these claims was indeed sent down and raised up by God. It is only with the gift of faith, graciously bestowed, that we hear these claims and feel in our hearts the eternal weight of glory. It is only under the umbrella of Christ’s grace, that we encounter these brazen claims not as off-putting but as a balm for the day by day renewing of our inner spirit. It is only as those who have been made a new creation that the earthly tent of this radical scene reveals a house not made with hands. That is to say, that we ought not scoff at the concerns of Jesus’ family, nor the opposition mounted by the scribes and crowds. In the same way we should not find it perplexing that many today feel such claims of the Christian faith strain the limits of credulity, or fall beyond the pale of the plausible. We can have no arrogance in finding these claims beneficial to our soul, for we can boast in nothing but Christ Jesus our Lord. For even our faith is not reached by effort or ingenuity. Faith is a gift freely given; a grace generously bestowed. Not so that we may lord it over the world, but so we would serve the world. Faith is a gift so that the church might be that corner of the world that lives in the knowledge of Christ’s victory and is in turn sent to live as a new humanity, a new family, freely pursuing the will of God. What then, we might ask, of those family members, those crowds and scribes, what of those who found no faith in Christ and indeed opposed, arrested, and mocked? Not every neighbour needs to know the house was plundered for it to be found empty. The gospels speak time and again of Jesus’ victory as final, his triumph as complete, his righteousness as sufficient, his grace as insurmountable, his love as unbreakable. As Paul writes, since all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, all are now justified by Christ’s grace as a gift. And what is more, Paul says, because of Christ’s faithfulness, the free gift is not like the trespass. For if sin did abound in Adam’s trespass, how much more does grace abound in Jesus Christ’s triumph. Indeed, Paul affirms, just as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all. The church confesses that as strange as it sounds (and has always sounded) this man Jesus plundered the house of the sin and death and set the captives free, this man Jesus dwelt among us and made all humanity his kindred. We are, all, his own. Such is his power and faithfulness that conscious or not we receive all that was his by righteousness. This truth renews us day by day so that we do not lose heart, turning instead to the vital work of the will of God in service of the world; pursuing kindness, justice, and mercy at each turn. Readings, 2 Cor 4:5-12 and Mark 2:23-3:6
Image, The Reaper, Vincent Van Gogh. 1889. There are two different stated reasons for the giving of the Sabbath. One draws attention to God’s creative activity, noting that our sabbath rest reflects and remembers God’s own rest on the seventh day. The other focuses on God’s deliverance of Israel from slavery, noting that we keep the sabbath as a way of remembering God’s mighty hand and resisting the restless tyranny of empire. The sabbath is a gift of God that not only reminds us of the character of God but teaches us how to live as its witnesses. Now, for this reason, the sabbath is of vital importance in efforts to carve out and sustain a religious identity. This is especially so when (as in the context of our reading) the community is under threat from tyranny. Keeping sabbath is a way of surviving and defying malevolent and ambivalent forces that subject the people. Keeping sabbath is a witness to God’s power and faithfulness, and the people’s devotion and hope. Thus, when Jesus is suspected of jeopardising the seriousness of the Sabbath, he is bound to attract attention and criticism. What is important to note, as is usually the case with disputes of this kind in the gospels, is the line of argument Jesus employs. Jesus does not dispense with the Sabbath or denigrate the Torah. Rather Jesus argues (as prophets, priests, and rabbis have done before and since) from within the tradition, with affection for it, and what it exists to safeguard. In the first instance Jesus cites precedence from history – did not David breach a more serious prohibition, taking food offered to God? Following this he takes theological turn, reminding the assembly that as a gift from God the sabbath is given not for its own sake, but for us and our needs. Persisting in this line, he questions assumptions. When his critics are confronted with a man in need they presume their options are, a) do nothing (good) or b) do something (bad). Jesus reframes this. For doing nothing is doing something (and here specifically, to do nothing is to do something evil) while doing something is doing good. Passivity is not neutrality, and so keeping the sabbath in order to witness to God’s character takes active choices to ensure dignity, survival, and flourishing. In his discussion of the Sabbath, Jesus foregrounds the character of God, considers the breadth of the tradition, unsettles assumptions and invites those around him to reflect on the purpose of the command. None of this, contra the fears of his opponents, seeks to dismiss the importance of the sabbath in discerning how they are meant to be faithful to God in an antagonistic world. Instead, it takes seriously the role the sabbath plays in the life of the faithful, and the role the faithful in the life of the sabbath. How to remember the sabbath and keep it holy remains a live question in communities that live in covenant with God. The incredible diversity in approaches to the sabbath observable in communities of Jews and Christians exists not as a fault in the sabbath. The command is not flawed by virtue of the many ways we might consider observing it (it is not a stop sign after all). Rather the very diversity in the ways in which communities continue to discern how to remember it is a testament to Jesus’ words: the sabbath was made for humankind. Different communities in different times require unique things from the sabbath and are required to observe it in unique ways if it is meet those needs. Jesus does not provide a universal and rigid blueprint for how his followers are to remember the sabbath and keep it holy, rather he provides an example of how we approach the question of the sabbath as a gift and grace of God. And in that spirit, I suggest a couple of things we can glean from this reading for our own discernment of what the sabbath asks of us. First, like the disciples walking through fields, the sabbath is a time to remember that the world is good and has been created to sustain life. This ought, on the one hand, encourage us to take pleasure and delight in the beauty and biodiversity of creation. On the other hand, we ought to oppose worldly systems which have so unequally distributed God’s provisions that millions go hungry each day. For keeping the sabbath, is yet another way to make the life of Jesus visible in our mortal flesh. Second, like the man entering the synagogue in search of healing, the sabbath is a time to remember that we are made for freedom and flourishing; made not only to have life, but life in abundance. God desires for us rest, leisure, healing, and hope. These are not earnt; they are a grace. They are given freely by the one who heard the cries of the oppressed and defined the divine character by the mighty acts to set them free, who saw the needs of his fellow, and defined the divine character by how they were treated by the Lord of the Sabbath. To remember the sabbath and keep it holy starts by remembering that it was made for humankind. In particular, the sabbath is made for communities whose inherent value is so often maligned, and whose right to rest and take pleasure in the world is regularly infringed. In such settings sabbath remains defiance against the powers and principalities of this world. For the sabbath is a proclamation of the goodness of God’s creation, the generosity of God’s character, and the freedom of the human. Keeping sabbath testifies that what makes us is not our own effort, but the grace and glory of God who has gifted the sabbath so that even when we are afflicted in every way, we are not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed. Sabbath by sabbath our inner nature is renewed and prepared for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure. Readings, Acts 2:1-21, Romans 8:22-27 and John 15:26-27, 16:4b-15
Image, Teresita Fernández, Fire, 2005. Silk yarn, steel armature, and epoxy. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, California. Pentecost is regularly and rightly approached with vigour. Like Easter Sunday and Christmas, it is an exuberant high point of the Church year celebrating the coming of the Spirit and the birth of the Church. A time to give thanks for the plurality of cultures and tongues which proclaim the good news, take joy in the gifts given and fruit borne, and remember the in-breaking of the Spirit, which positively disrupts assumptions and boundaries, expanding the body of Christ into the world. We put on our red, play some upbeat songs, and listen to that familiar account of the rushing wind and tongues of fire. But some years feel less exuberant, less suited to unreserved elevation. There are days where the wind feels less like a force billowing at our back, than something we are walking against. There are some years where we get to this day dismayed and disheartened by the evil in our world, the violence on the news, the loss in our communities, the fracturing in our families, and the heaviness of our heart. And on those days, we are compelled to ask, what does Pentecost mean in this kind of season, to this kind of moment? And when we approach the day with those feelings at the forefront of our mind, little details begin to stand out where perhaps they didn’t before. When you’re in a play and you study the script, not every emotional beat is laid out for each character. You have to look to the dialogue for the clues. If the character talking to you says something like, “no post today, my dear… oh don’t cry darling” it is a pretty clear sign that you need to have begun crying. In the same way, listening to our gospel reading, we get a sense of the feelings of the disciples gathered around Jesus for his farewell discourse. For as Jesus speaks of the coming of the Spirit and the impending hour of his death, he says, because I have said these things to you sorrow has filled your hearts. Then still, even having assured them that it is to your advantage that I go away, because it is this that allows the sending of the Spirit, he says, I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. The emotional setting in which the Spirit is promised, is one of sorrow, worry, and loss. The Spirit is promised as consolation, relief, and comfort for those who are facing the shattering of meaning, the loss of their dear teacher, and the coming hatred of the world. Likewise in Romans, Paul situates the gift of the Spirit within the groaning of creation writhing in labour pains. By extension, the Spirit is sent to help us in our own groaning, waiting, and weakness. The Spirit is sent to those hanging on in hope, longing for the redemption of our bodies, placing our trust in the things unseen. Back when we had our little Lenten discussion group, we spoke about how the doctrine of sin is the only Christian doctrine that is empirically demonstrable. That is, sin is the only doctrine where you can just point at the world and say, look there it is. Sin and evil, wickedness and wretchedness, these are things that are seen (seen all too easily and too often). It is grace, hope, redemption, and the promise of restoration that are all too often the unseen. These are the things we doggedly hope for in faith. And because the ugly brutality of the world insists itself upon our vision, while the future glory can feel so elusive, we can so often come up short when searching for the words to pray. We fall silent when looking for the words of hope, thanks, and promise. But it is in these moments, Paul reminds us, that the Spirit draws nearest, nearer even than the distance between feeling to speech, interceding with sighs too deep for words opening our heart to God and the reminder of our purpose and glory. With this we reach that famous reading in Acts and consider the feeling that comes over the disciples when the house fills with wind and fire. Or, perhaps more specifically we think of their breath. The Spirit is associated with breath and we might think immediately of the enlivening breath of the Spirit that carries the disciples out of the room generating this new and surprising speech in tongues previously unknown. But I wonder if the first breath that slips through the disciple’s lips when the Spirit stirs the house on the day of Pentecost was a sigh. That the first breath was a sigh of relief. For the arrival of the Spirit is the final vindicating stamp of all that Christ has promised. The arrival of the Spirit is the moment where so much that was unseen is seen and felt. When what was promised becomes present, where the pain of Jesus’ departure is not erased but met. Jesus was all that he said and showed himself to be, and he has remembered us in our need, and sent the one who will prove the world wrong about sin and judgment, who will teach us that even if all we see is the violence, injustice, bloodshed, and betrayal, that is not all there is. That which is seen does not define the world. For the world is held together by the unseen love of God, which permeates and sustains all things, and is the end of all things. Such is the message of Pentecost for times such as these. Such is the hope of Pentecost for those of us wracked with worry and woe, the hope of all that groans out while waiting for redemption. The arrival of the Spirit might not feel like the rush of mighty wind or the blaze of tongues of fire. But it is no less real, necessary, or beautiful when it arrives as the sigh of relief that is uttered when we are reminded that we are not alone. Reminded that the world – though wracked with woe is not wrong. It is within the troubled turbulence of our times that the Spirit works to bear good fruit and draw us to glory. Pentecost can mean many things. One of those is the day where Christ - who has seen the sorrow of his friends - sends to them the one who will comfort and console through the trials to come, the one who intercedes in our weakness, drawing nearer than breath to help us see that which is unseen: the presence of God, the hope of redemption, the coming of peace, the love of Christ. Readings, Psalm 1 and Acts 1:15-26
Image, Nicholas Pope, "The Apostles Speaking in Tongues, Lit By Their Own Lamps,” 2014. Terracotta, metal, wick, paraffin, and flame. Salisbury Cathedral installation. In the Uniting Church, we have a fairly elaborate process for calling a minister. Written profiles, a Synod committee, a JNC with presbytery representatives and members of the congregation; and here we read we could have just been rolling dice to decide all this time. We’ve stumbled into a little bit of a mini-theme these past three weeks, how to make a Christian decision… how to discern what we, as a disciple, are meant to do when confronted with the unforeseen. It is not unsurprising as these readings follow that interesting time of the early church, stepping out in faith without the immediate presence of Jesus. You might have sought guidance and wisdom from God when making a difficult decision. One time, facing a complex decision, having exhausted the more reasonable paths of discernment, I decided I needed a sign, and so I tried to engineer one. Waiting to cross the road, I decided that I would count the red cars that drove by, if there were more than four, I would go one way, less I’d go the other. Probably not what God had in mind when sending the Spirit to be our wonderful counsellor, but perhaps you’ve tried something similar? Because sometimes we use chance not to reveal the right outcome, but to reveal what we want in our heart of hearts. To use an innocuous example, say you are trying to decide if you want Thai or Italian for dinner. "It's fine," you say, "either is good" - so you decide to flip a coin to choose. But this is the moment (coin cascading back down to earth), that you realise, oh no, I really want Thai, gosh I hope this lands on tails! The coin flip reveals we already know what we want, we just need to be faced with the possibility of the alternative to admit our desire. Perhaps some apostles felt this as the lots were cast. Perhaps their true preference for Justus or Matthias was revealed to them as they waited to see where the lots fell. What is striking though, is that this is not a small decision. The disciples are seeking to replace one of the twelve apostles. And they need to do this because one of the original twelve betrayed Jesus, betrayed them all – a betrayal so pulsating with wickedness that the betrayer simply fell headlong into his ill-bought field guts bursting forth. So, you know, it is not that there aren’t consequences for allowing the wrong disciple into the twelve. Despite the provisions they put in place in terms of someone who accompanied Jesus the whole time, that is no guarantee against potential betrayal, for Judas fit those provisions too. With the stakes so high, how, we wonder, might they have justified such a practice as casting lots? Well, in the first instance, there is simply a difference in culture. Lots were viewed as an appropriate way for the will of God to guide human decisions, indeed they circumvent the frailty of human wisdom. You might remember for instance, that Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist was elected to go into the sanctuary whereupon he received his miraculous visitation from the angel after the casting of lots which was the custom of the priesthood. But I think there is something we can learn from the confidence displayed by the apostles in their casting of lots. It is not to emulate my car trick, nor to develop some new practice of chance as divinely ordained to reveal the hidden will of God. No, I would say that what this story highlights for those of us wondering how to make decisions when discernment and prayer has not settled the matter, is to free ourselves of the fear that one wrong decision will somehow derail God’s plans. That one wrong decision will render for nought all that God is doing through our community. That one misstep will foreclose God’s future in our life. The disciples, having done all they can to discern, trust that Jesus will abide with whoever is initiated into the twelve. If Judas could not derail the plans of God, then neither could Matthias, Justus, or anything else that malevolently seeks to frustrate the kingdom of God. Jesus lives and reigns, and if we abide in love, we abide in Christ. The disciples can make their decision however they choose, because if they do so in love, they do so in Christ. The psalmist sings, God watches over the way of the righteous, and happy are they who delight in the law and meditate on its precepts. Such a psalm can appear threatening at first, for who wants to be among the wicked; like chaff driven away by the wind? But the psalm is not out to create the impression that any of us are one decision away from our innards spilling out onto the field we purchased with blood money. Rather, those who abide in love and seek the truth in humble earnestness are watched over. The good news is that those who seek to make their decisions while abiding in Christ’s love and seeking the movement of the Spirit are freed from the fear that each fork in the road has only one correct decision. Indeed, so great is God’s faithfulness that had Judas not foreclosed his own end, he might not have needed replacing. Consider Jesus’ treatment of Peter; who denies Christ in his hour of need. Even this terrible decision does not foreclose the future Christ had laid before him. Interestingly, Matthew conveys the death of Judas differently from Acts. There, Judas, realises the innocence of Christ and hangs himself. The field is named the field of blood, not because it is where Judas met his ghastly end, but because it was bought with the silver he sought to return. Perhaps the only way to make a truly terrible choice from which even Christ cannot work to restore us to grace and community, is if we give up on the possibility of Christ’s forgiveness. For would not the resurrected Christ, who gathered Peter who denied, Thomas who doubted, and the disciples who fled, not also gather the one who betrayed? Would there not have been forgiveness even for this poorest of choices? And do not we have hope, that Christ who went down unto death, proclaimed good news to the spirits in prison, and harrowed the halls of hell, might not have found a way to gather Judas to him still? Such is the basis of our freedom and boldness, because if there is the possibility of hope and mending for the betrayer, how much more so for us? The lesson is thus: If we love Christ, delight in the scriptures, discern with community, and stay open to grace we can make choices free from fear. Because whether we go left, right, up, down, or round and round, God is with us, and wherever the path leads, God is its end. God is with us before, at, and after each fork in the road, enveloping us in steadfast kindness and calling us to the work of an apostle, a witness to the good news of Christ's abiding love. |
SermonsPlease enjoy a collection of sermons preached in recent months at the Kirk. If you have questions about the sermons, or attending a service reach out using the Contact Page. Categories |