Readings, Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29 and John 12:12-16
Image, Palm Sunday, A. Lois White (1935) We enter Holy Week together, and today’s psalm gives us one of those most succinct and sublime verses which teaches the very foundation of Christian proclamation: The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone. A couple of weeks ago Jesus had his confrontation in the temple, when after turning over tables and chasing out the money changers, he was asked by what authority he did such things. Jesus told them that if they tore down the Temple, he would raise it himself in three days. What no one realised, in that moment at least, was that Jesus was referring to himself as the temple, he was the stone which would be raised… but, as we know too well, he shall be rejected. All those here, in the days following this jubilation, turn away. But the stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone. Easter is the great reversal, the grand table turning of God’s way over the ways of the world. This Galilean peasant arrives in the temple with a ragtag group of fishermen, tax collectors, wealthy women, and one guy raised from the dead. A strange sight to herald as the One who comes in the name of the Lord. But the ragtag group, the motley scene, the humble colt, all of which is there to confirm the teaching "do not be afraid, daughters of Zion." The one who comes in the name of the Lord comes not with sword and army, not with might and intimidation, not with fear and coercion, but in humility, mercy, grace, and above all, love. But what awaits one so blessed? He is opposed on all sides, betrayed by one of his own, denied by another, abandoned by a host more. He is arrested, subjected to a grand miscarriage of justice, and is tortured, exploited, violated - crowned with thorns and derision. His clothes they shall steal, his prayers they shall sleep through, his body they shall pierce, and his kingdom they shall bury. Or, at least, this is how it shall appear. Instead, the stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone. For despite the fickleness of their hosannas, this is indeed the one who comes in the name of the Lord. And despite their intended irony, this is indeed the King. And despite his crucifixion this is indeed the glorified one. And despite his death this is indeed the living Lord. For God is Good, and God’s steadfast love endures forever. And the one who appears defeated shall reappear in the triumph of the resurrection. Death will be defeated through death, Sin will be vanquished by the one who became sin, the power of empire will be exposed as futile by the weakness of God. Goodness shall prevail, truth will out, love will win, for the stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone. This Holy Week, let us press in near to the foot of the cross, to see the great swindle of life over death, grace over sin, love over hate, God over all. For we are not those disciples in those crowds, who did not yet understand. We are those who have seen Christ glorified, and who look back and know: This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvellous in our eyes - the stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone
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Readings, Jeremiah 31:31-34, John 12:20-33
Image, Eric Gill, The Body of Jesus is Laid in the Tomb (1917) Where I am, there will my servant be also. This is the call on the life of the Christian. That we serve Christ by following Christ, serve, that is, by living after the pattern of Christ’s own life. Christ who, late in the day, looked around and saw the mounting opposition, the increasing animosity, the threat intensifying, and did not seek to be spared what the hour required. Instead, despite his troubled soul, Jesus trusted that through his service of the world he would be glorified, and through his glorification the holy name of God would be glorified too. For Christ knew the saying was true and trustworthy: unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies it bears much fruit. Christ trusted that his crucifixion would not be a site of defeat, but his glorification, that his death would not be a site of loss, but of victory. He trusted that even if the world said “no” and rejected him, God would say “yes” and vindicate him. This “yes” is heard in the resurrection of Christ. It is in his word of comfort and commission to Mary, his word of peace to Thomas, his asking John to feed his sheep. This “yes” echoes in the fruit of Jesus’ followers, who receive the Spirit at Pentecost and spread out to be the body of Christ in all the world. The saying is true and trustworthy, Christ was planted into the ground in death, so that through his resurrection, he could bear much fruit. It is by this, Christ declares, that the ruler of this world will be driven out. That the powers of Sin, Evil, and Death shall be confronted and overcome so that their grip on the world will be loosed. Having driven out the ruler, having loosed the grip of sin that has traced its course through human history since Adam, Christ is able to perform that which he was sent to perform, the reason he has come to this hour: Christ is able to draw all people to himself. His arms reach wide upon the cross, wide enough to embrace the whole world, draw us toward himself and hold us fast, so that wherever we are, there he shall be also. In some ways, in the latter days of Lent, we are led back to where we began: The call placed on the Christian (to take up our cross and lose our life for Christ’s sake, to be found always where Christ is found) has been made possible by what Christ has already performed for us. Indeed, not only has Christ made it possible, but he made it the way to glory. To say it another way, the servant is able to be where Christ is, because Christ has promised already and always, to be with us. Christ is Emmanuel, after all. Christ went down into the ground so that in resurrection and ascension he would be with all people in all times and places. Through the Spirit the single grain bears much fruit. Now, it is good to delineate, that while Christ is Emmanuel, and has acted already to draw us to him and abides with us always, there are nonetheless places in which the servant is specifically called to be in order to be with Christ. Sites where the servant encounters and follows Christ in the most palpable and specific way. The first place is at the table of grace, where Christ shares with us his very body and blood. The church community is the body of Christ, where the Word is proclaimed and the sacrament administered. And so we follow him here, to be further conformed to his image, to learn again – hour by hour - how to bear the fruit of his grain of love. And the second place is with the least of these. It is when we love and serve the hungry, sick, poor, lonely, estranged, and imprisoned that we are most directly where Christ is. For what we did to the least, we did unto Christ. The servant of Christ is one who becomes a servant of the least of these in their struggle for freedom. Standing with those the world pushes and punishes, forgets and forsakes. It is with these the Lord of Glory sought fit to be intimately identified. The servant who intends to be found with Christ, must be found amongst the least, following in Christ’s way of mercy, friendship, and justice. Holy Week draws near, we shall see the grain planted in the earth once more. May we bear fruit worthy of this glory, finding ourselves with the One who drew all humanity to himself. Readings Numbers 21:4-9 and John 3:14-17
Image, Moses and the Brazen Serpent, Augustus Edwin John (1878–1961) At its heart, Lent is about learning where to look to see the glory and consolation of the living God. Where to raise our eyes to behold the path to life. As the Israelites trudged through the wilderness, the initial glee of their liberation from slavery diminished. In its place came a very human, perfectly understandable, and comically relatable kind of revisionist looking back. Were things really that bad back in Egypt? Was our toil so unbearable? Was our exploitation completely without benefit? Look maybe it was terrible, but at least it was consistent. I wonder how many of us can identify our own moments of such revision as we and pine for a time we couldn’t stand. As calamity for their ingratitude come the serpents, and as result of the serpents comes repentance, and from repentance emerges a solution: a bronze serpent held aloft, at which the people need only look in order to live. But is this not a rather inelegant solution to the problem of the serpents? Couldn’t God just blast them away, or at least send a pack of hungry mongoose. What meaning might we take from such a peculiar story? Last week we spoke about the difficulty of proclaiming redemption in a world so flagrantly unredeemed. The difficulty of trusting Christ’s triumph over sin, evil, and death, in a world wracked by all three. The foolishness of God which proclaims Christ crucified as the site of God’s power is not reached by signs and wisdom but encounter and embodied faith. Is the cross not itself an inelegant solution to the problem of the serpents of sin, evil, and death? But this is what makes the image so compelling for the Christian alive in the world today. For even though we have encountered Christ, have gone down into the waters of his death through baptism and been raised up to share in his life, serpents abound. The wickedness in human hearts and structures that fuels the imperial violence that put Christ on his cross besieges cities and makes martyrs of the innocent to this day. The fear and fragility in the human heart that caused Peter to deny, Judas to betray, and the disciples to flee, wells up in us to this day, clouding our moral compass with apathy and self-protection. The short-sighted ingratitude of the wilderness generation which made them pine for the familiar evil over unfamiliar new beginnings, takes hold of communities still today, foreclosing the possibilities of the radical changes needed to avert a climate catastrophe. We still live in a world of serpents, reminders that the sins of the world bite at our heels, and lead people to ruin. But what good would the Christian be without an awareness of these serpents: the ones which constrict our own hearts, and the ones that have their fangs in our neighbours. What good would the Christian be if we were able to turn our eye from the inequalities and injustices of our world? If we cease to feel the tragedy of those exploited in workplaces, intimidate in their homes, and bombed while seeking refuge… what good would the Christian be if they were sent into the world without the wisdom of serpents? But, in the same breath, what good would the Christian be if all we saw were serpents? What good would we be if there was no north star to set our course, no way to live amongst sin and death without being consumed and defeated? And Christ, like the bronze serpent, is raised up for us to see. We have Christ crucified, a symbol of God’s willingness to stand in complete solidarity with the world so that we might live. For our sake he was raised up, so that we can lift our eyes to see the one who trampled serpent under foot, swallowed death, vanquished sin, overcome evil with good, and ascended to the right hand of God, advocating mercy for all, until the great and glorious day when he shall return, and all wrongs will be made right, all tears wiped from our eyes, and all creation restored. What a sight to behold! The sight of Christ in the present age, does not occlude our vision of the serpents of this world. Serpents remain in the present age and we must not ignore the sorrows of our neighbour or the suffering of our world. But we are not overcome. For the sight of Christ gives us somewhere to look to empower us in our vital task of defanging the serpents of our times. It gives us somewhere to look to console us that a day will come when the sin, death, and evil of the world shall be no more. The sight of Christ crucified and glorified, standing with and setting free, shows us the path to the kind of life a Christian is good for: a life of doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly with our God; trampling serpents under foot. Readings, 1 Cor 1:18-25 and John 2:13-22
Image, Mirka Mora, Crucifixion (1976) When I was thinking about hymns for today, I was considering, Come as you are. But it felt a funny paired with today’s gospel reading. If anything, “come as you are” could sound a bit like the cool dry wit of a Hollywood action star preparing for a fight. The Jesus of this story feels a little at odds with the pastoral image of the good shepherd, or the compassionate image of the suffering servant, or the hospitable image of Christ at the table. Even our images of Jesus as one who stands for justice, are a little harder to square with this man, fashioning a makeshift whip. So given that this is a picture of Jesus that might cause us some questions, let us consider how we might understand it in its place, and then in our own. First, it is good to establish that Jesus’ act is not unprecedented. To act with prophetic zeal to purify the temple stands in a line with the Jewish/Hebrew prophetic tradition. The protest is not one against the Temple, nor the sacrificial system, but a call for a truer worship, a challenge of the encroachment of the market (and its varying inequities and inequalities). It echoes, in this way, the commission given to Jeremiah by God: Stand in the gate of the Lord’s house, and proclaim… Amend your ways and your doings, and let me dwell with you in this place. Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord.’ As an act of prophetic zeal, Jesus’ critique nonetheless affirms the Temple as a place in which God’s presence abides. Now, Jesus’ act not only echoes the prophetic tradition. It also reflects the hopes of his people at the time that God would bring forth a a new, purified, indestructible and incorruptible temple. Some hoped God would build this, for others it was their responsibility, while for some it will be the heir of David’s throne, or the Messiah who will establish this glorified temple. Such a desire is understandable. It would likely have been intensified following the seizing and desolation of the Temple by Rome and its reclaiming and purification in the Maccabean revolt some centuries earlier. The temple remained a place that could be taken, could be misused, could be locked from the people, and so in this context there is the hope that a temple shall be raised which could never be destroyed. This all goes some way to explain the response of those in the temple. Because if someone came in here today and chased the elders around with a whip, I can’t say with much confidence that our first question would be: what sign can you show us for doing this? That’s a question born of a history of prophetic reform, and a present hope in renewal. And so, Jesus offers them a sign. Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up. Of course, no one understands Jesus, not even those closest to him, who as John points out, only make this connection following his resurrection. Because this sign, like the crucifixion and resurrection it is pointing toward, is one which reflects the foolishness of God. This proclamation of Jesus prefigures his conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well, where Jesus speaks of a coming time where we shall no longer worship in the temple or the mountain, but we shall worship in spirit and truth. Jesus teaches that the temple shall be rebuilt in his own body, which can never be destroyed, for even in death it is raised up. Such teachings would resound with greater profundity for those with fresh memories of the destruction of the temple forty years after Jesus’ death. The promise of the temple abiding in the body of the ascended Christ, gives hope in the face of such a devastating loss. And yet, such a promise is not without its challenges. It is not easily reached through signs and wisdom. It asks one to accept that the temple which was stone is now found in the body of a man killed on a cross. That like this body which can’t be grasped or seen, our worship too will not be in one holy land or place, but a dispersed spirit and truth. It asks us, in other words, to trust in the foolishness and weakness of God. For what Christ promises is only comprehensible after we have encountered his death and resurrection. It asks us to lay aside the desire for sign and wisdom, and take as the centre of our faith a stumbling block, to take as the ground of our hope an event which by all worldly appearances seems a failure, to take as the justification of our worship that by some divine paradox the crucifixion of Jesus is the site of the power of God. It asks us to confess that this moment in the story, where Jesus has been sentenced by the religious and political powers of his day, condemned by the people of the city, betrayed, denied and abandoned by the bulk of his followers, and cries aloud on a cross that God has abandoned him, is somehow the moment that assures us that when he said he would raise up the temple in three days he was right, that when he said he was sent by the Father to save the world he was right, that when he said that the kingdom of God was near he was right. What’s more, such a foolishness asks us to proclaim of redemption within a world that feels flagrantly unredeemed. Of those other visions of the glorified temple brought on by the messiah, none would have the audacity to claim that this could happen in part. That we could claim the victory of God over sin in a world still riddled with sin, that we could claim the overcoming of evil with good and yet still live in a world wracked by evil. It asks us to claim that Jesus has brought the salvation of the world while all of creation is still groaning out for redemption. This is not an easy path to take, not only in the absence of signs and wisdom, but indeed despite all worldly signs and wisdom pointing to the opposite: the world is unredeemed, the temple, like the body, was not raised up. And so we need something other than signs and wisdom: we need the story of Easter. And to grasp that story we need the season of Lent to prepare once more for the paradoxical foolishness of God who snatches victory through defeat, and glory through humility. We need this season to encounter the cross and the tomb in such a way that they do not prove a stumbling block, but rather reveal the power of God. Like the disciples trying to decipher Jesus’ inscrutable comments, our faith in Christ is made possible by an encounter with his death and resurrection. This encounter cannot be reached through signs and wisdom, but by allowing the weakness of God to work within us. Through ordering feeling, thought, and act, after the way of Christ. It happens as we take up our own cross and come to understand the way to glory is pathed by solidarity, humility, and justice. It happens as we allow the topsy-turvy nature of the kingdom of God to become our vision of the world as it should and will be. It happens, in short, in the act of living after the way of Christ, accepting the invitation to come as you are: taste, hear, and see the good news of great joy. Readings, Genesis 9:8-17 and 1 Peter 3:18-22
Image, The Rainbow: Study for 'Bathers at Asnières,' Georges Seurat (1883) Today’s readings lead us into Lent, the church’s season of repentance and preparation, with two reminders:
Earlier this week, I was speaking with a young guy who was very passionate about justice actively organising campaigns on climate, refugees, Gaza. He asked what had inspired me in the past to get involved with justice campaigns and action. I was able to share about how both my faith motivates a love of justice and relationships within the Christian community played a key part in guiding our activity. But what I also noted, was that a key way faith and relationships play in drawing one into the work of justice is that they allow a path for repentance without shame. I think one of the principal barriers prohibiting people committing to a justice issue, is that we must accept that the world is worse than we want to believe or have experienced. We have to accept, for example, that the astronomical and devastating statistics about domestic violence are in fact true (and who would want to accept such a thing). And if true, then also they are closer to home than we would like (present in our neighbourhoods, community organisations, schools, sport clubs, and churches). We then have to accept that these are not isolated, individual occurrences, but there are insidious and harmful views and values baked into our culture, which we have imbibed and need to do the work of unlearning and relearning. It is difficult to stay open through this process. It is difficult to remain open to the truth. All the more so today with the onslaught of news, exposing us to a preponderance of tragedies happening around our world in real time, and the rigorous work of history exposing us to injustices and atrocities long swept out of view. To be confronted with the prevalence of sin and harm in our communities, world, and history is not easy. We can quickly become ashamed that we didn’t know, that we hadn’t spoken, that we might have profited, that we could be unconsciously complicit. And shame is a negative spiral. Shame grabs right at the core of our being and activities that flight/fight/freeze response. When confronted with the truth of the scope of injustice and harm, it is so easy to run, to push away, to shut our ears and hearts. Insisting that the rose is on the bloom is one of the more understandable human responses to ugliness. And all the more understandable when we are alone. The call for us to acknowledge the truth, repent of our sin, and take up the work of justice that lies before us, is impossible alone. Alone it feels awful, immense, impossible. Alone guilt and shame dominate the conversation. Alone we falter and flail without hope. Lent is not meant to be about shame; it is about readiness. Repentance is not self-flagellation; it is a return to Christ. Truth is not scary; it sets us free. Justice is not punitive; it is restorative. To confront sin, we first must comprehend grace. To confess we must know we have been forgiven. To take up our cross we must first behold the empty tomb. For it is only when we know, deep in our bones, how loved we are, how safe we are, how accompanied we are, how saved we are, that we are ready to receive the truth of the world and ourselves, to repent and return, and to go forth in love for the sake of the world. And so we begin Lent with these reminders. 1) The bow in the sky signifies the promise of God’s covenant with all of creation which shall not be forsaken. And 2) Christ has died once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, so that all shall be brought closer to God. Christ even went to those spirits in prison, thought condemned from the days of Noah, to proclaim deliverance and salvation. We cannot be cut off or estranged from God’s love. We shall not perish, for the one granted all authority over heaven and earth has shared all things with us. It is only after all this is accomplished, only on the heels of this promise, only within the covenant, only when we know ourselves as under the umbrella of grace that we can begin the work of confession, repentance, and renewal. It is from here that we can tell the truth about ourselves and face the truth about our world and not be struck down by shame, stuck in apathy, or led away by falsehood. It is only from here that we can look rightly at the sin in our hearts, homes, and world and trust that we can make a change, trust that we can work for justice, trust that what has been doesn’t need to determine what will be. It is from the sphere of nurture that is the saving grace and restorative love of Christ Jesus our Lord that we begin our Lenten journey. Let us not fear, nor let us delay, the Spirit is calling, repent, be reconciled, and become the righteousness of God. Readings, Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18 and Mark 9:2-10
Image, Maquette for tapestry 'Death and transfiguration,’ John Coburn (1986) We have reached the end of Epiphany. Ash Wednesday is days away and with it Lent, the season of preparation for Easter. Through the season of Epiphany the glory of Christ is slowly revealed. The Wise Men arrive before the Christ child with gifts and praise. At the temple Simeon and Anna recognise him as the messiah. At his baptism a heavenly voice proclaims his belovedness. The first disciples witness signs of his power. And now, atop the mountain, the heavenly voice returns, Moses and Elijah surround Christ, transfigured in dazzling light. We enter Lent having seen Christ’s glory revealed and proclaimed by Gentiles in their pilgrimage, Israelites in their hope, demons in their anguish, and the heavens in their majesty. The hope of Advent and the joy of Christmas are vindicated in Epiphany – we were right to wait, right to rejoice, for Jesus Christ is the glorified one of God. And yet we move into Lent, where Christ is revealed to also be the man of sorrows, crowned with thorns. Opposition increases, contest heightens, confusion abounds, tragedy looms. Right back at the beginning of Epiphany, Simeon warned Mary that Jesus was destined for the falling and rising of many of Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed, and that this would mean a sword will pierce [her] own soul too. And now, as Jesus is enshrined in light atop the mountain and yet chooses to step back down to the woes, worries, and violence of the world he came to save that sword draws ever closer to its target. For the story of Christ is never one thing… or perhaps, it is, but that one thing is the story of glory amidst and through crisis. For the glory of Christ’s birth is followed by the massacre of the innocents. The glory of Christ’s baptism is accompanied by John’s arrest and execution. The glory of Christ’s miracles is accompanied by antagonism. The glory of Christ’s teaching is met with confusion and rejection. The glory of the Last Supper is punctuated by betrayal. The glory of Palm Sunday is followed by the trauma of Good Friday. This is not a fault in the plan of the incarnation, nor an unforeseen side-effect of the mission of Emmanuel. This is what it means for God to take seriously the world as it is and yet choose to be with and for us. This is the holy one coming to dwell in a fractured world and choosing not to enforce glory and submission on the creature, but to invite us into fellowship through the proclamation of good news and the ministry of mercy. Glory revealed amidst crisis is good news, because we know all too well the world is neither all one thing or another. Crisis and pain abound, but they are not all there is. Glory and joy break through, but they are not perpetual. Christ walked among us in a world of mountains and plains, and he abides with us today as we traverse our own peaks and valleys. It is for this reason we have the commands; a vision of the world as God wills it. The beautiful passage we heard read from Leviticus is the heart of the book, the heart of the ethical code of the Torah. It crescendos with the (equal) greatest commandment: love your neighbour as yourself. But this command doesn’t come out of nowhere; love takes a concrete and communal form, a structured, societal form. It is not simply a matter of affection, but action, not simply kindness, but justice. Because how else will we, as a community, buffer ourselves against the harsh winds of the world’s crises? How else will we organise ourselves to protect and dignify those most likely to feel its harsh effects? Ill-weather falls on all people but it does not affect everyone equally. The poor, the labourer, the refugee, the alien, the blind, the deaf, the widow, the orphan, are all adversely affected by the universal crises of life, not to mention the additional specific and particular crises an unequal society places upon them. And thus what it means to live for the glory of God is to head back down the mountain, back to our neighbours (particularly those most vulnerable and forgotten) and place ourselves amidst the crises of the world offering compassion and advocating a more just order. The culmination of the season of Epiphany is not to build tents on the mountaintop. Rather it is to draw strength from the power and wonder of Christ’s glory, take up our cross, and return to the world. After all, Christ is already there, his presence hidden amongst those most adversely affected by the world’s crises. Present with those who await most acutely communities that take seriously the ethical responsibility we owe to the least and last. We who behold the glory of Christ and hope in his resurrection, cannot simply live as if this glory didn’t stake a claim on every corner of our lives. For just as Christ didn’t not regard the glory of equality with God as something to be exploited, nor the mountaintop somewhere to retreat; so too we who have received a spirit of adoption, do not exploit that glory or shelter on mountaintops. Rather, in humility and purpose, we step humbly into the world, ordering our lives after God’s commands so that we might be ready to love our neighbours as ourselves. In the spirit of Epiphany, we stand alongside one another in the crises of the world, constructing shelters and addressing their sources, so that further glory might yet be revealed. Readings, Isaiah 40: 21-31 and Mark 1: 29-39
Image, Henriette Browne, La Lecture de la Bible (1857) “What do I love when I love my God?” Saint Augustine asked this most wonderful question that spurs us into thought today. What do I love when I love my God? Instinctually we might want to propose a simple answer: well, I love God (but we all have different views on what God is/does). We might try and specify by saying, I love Jesus Christ – God made flesh (but there are many competing accounts of who Jesus is and what he has accomplished). This, of course, isn’t a fault in the question, nor in our faith, for our God is no idol but a living God, and Christ is no idea but the crucified and risen one. We cannot fully comprehend or exhaust what there is to know of the holy and divine mystery. Like Moses, we cannot look directly upon the face of God, but see God’s back through a cleft in the rock as the glory passes by. What do I love when I love my God? We’re not going to do written reflections like in Advent, but I’ve no doubt we would get a fascinating and inspiring range of responses. The ways in which we have encountered God differ, the stories from scripture that sustain us differ, the hymns that form us differ, the needs we have for God in our lives differ. And all of these differences shift and shape how we picture and speak of God, what aspects of God’s nature and activity we are most drawn, or how we understand the good news of great joy. This does not imply that all these different images of God, appreciations of Christ, and proclamations of good news float about disconnected and untethered. Rather they are interrelated, overlapping, intermingling. Like points on an astronomical chart these differing conceptions and accounts relate to each other because they orbit the one centre: the effusive reality of God’s love as revealed in Christ Jesus. The gravitational pull of this reality holds all our responses together in their differences and delights. The love of God made known in Christ Jesus is a mysterious infinity (it cannot be controlled or comprehended in totality by any mortal being) and yet – out of God’s generous grace – we are able to approach this mystery, glance at its passing glory, through the event of God taking on flesh and living among us. That God condescends to human likeness means that we can approach the question, what do I love when I love my God and have these personal responses be part of something as concrete and intimate as a church community. We are not all asteroids floating untethered through the darkness. In all our diversity we are held together in the orbit of a singular inexhaustible reality. Indeed, it is this reality that not only makes possible our community, but the confession that there could be (despite all divergence and disagreement) such a thing as the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church. This is not to say that all accounts of who God is, or what Jesus is like, or what makes up the good news are now relativised and equal. There are beliefs about God and humanity that have and continue to do great harm. Theologies that disregard God’s creation, that dismiss mental health struggles, which see women as lesser, cultivate racial hierarchies, and denigrate trans bodies. It is good to challenge these theologies and offer alternatives that we have seen bear good fruit. We have come to be part of a particular community with faithful commitments through prayer, discernment, and witness, and this is a source of joy. Holy Scripture, of course, read with community, prayer, and rigour, remains the well-spring through which we consider and construct our response to the question: what do I love when I love my God. From Isaiah’s poetic joy, we are drawn to the wonder of God’s majesty and creative force. God is the one who stretches the heavens out like a curtain. The one so awesome as to make the rulers of the earth seem like nothing. And yet, God is also the one from whom no one is missing. The one who, as Mark will tell it, abhors neither the sick or possessed but comes at once to the bedside of the one laid low to take them by the hand and give power to the faint. God is the one who wills that we shall be renewed, who acts that we might be mount up with wings like eagles, who desires that we who have been fearfully and wonderfully made will run and not be weary, walk and not be faint. And it is for this reason that the table is set. Because the God we love, first loved us. The God we love searched us out when we were far from home and said follow me. The God we love has a house with many rooms and a banquet with many places. We might not be able to gaze upon the face of the God we love, but the God we love has freely given body and blood so that we might be sustained on our way to the promised end. The God we love says come, all who are weary and I will give you rest. The God we love has given us this meal so that we might orbit nearer the heart of creation. What do I love when I love my God? It is, at least in part, the one who says come as you are to the table of grace. Readings, Mark 1:21-28 and 1 Cor 8:1-13
Image, Juan Sánchez Cotán, Still Life With Quince, Cabbage, Melon, and Cucumber, 1602-1603. As we grow, the same activity might become increasingly less beneficial. Shoshanna can leap off a high place onto the hard earth and not even flinch. I can recall being able to do similar through my teenage years and perhaps (in the right shoes) into my twenties. Were I to do it now, I might not crumble to dust, but I won’t be able to turn my neck for a fortnight… as the decades pass the carefree leap becomes less a flight into fancy than a crash into reality. All things are permissible, but not everything is beneficial. Alternatively, anyone who has picked up a new hobby knows that while there may be all kinds of tricks one can learn to expedite a process or revel in wider freedoms, it is not altogether wise to teach that to a beginner. Sure, Rodger Federer can hit a cross-court pass from between his legs, but don’t try that your first afternoon at the local club. All things are permissible, but not everything is beneficial. This phrase comes just a bit later in Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth than what we heard, but the logics are already developing. In a stark contrast to the way Christian ethics are often flattened into a list of do and do not, Paul outlines a far more complex and neighbourly way of determining the appropriateness of any activity. Paul takes up the question of whether it is ok to eat food offered to idols. And yet he offers neither an unequivocal don’t eat the meat, nor go ahead and eat the meat. For the case of “go ahead and eat” Paul reminds the people that idols do not exist (they aren’t real in and of themselves, but only have the power we give to them) so eat, because all things (including that food) exist in and through our Lord Jesus Christ. God is real, idols are not, sin is vanquished, grace abounds, eat and be merry for these things cannot harm. However, Paul quickly notes not everyone has this knowledge. There are those in the community who still believe in the reality (and power) of idols. They might see you eating and become confused and unsettled in their faith. And so, for the sake of those weaker members of the faith, refrain from eating the food given to idols. There are things that are permissible, but not always beneficial, because of what they might communicate to another. Rather than shalt or shalt not, we (as those in Christ, under grace, reconciled and liberated) are given freedom. Yet with freedom comes the responsibility of neighbour love, the compassionate care of our fellow, the encouraging and upbuilding of the community. And so, sometimes, freedom comes with a responsibility to refrain. How we ought to behave as Christians, what is appropriate Christian ethics, is so often treated simplistically. At the one end we can make our faith an entirely individual matter and not consider how the grace we have received from Christ ought to impact our consumption, treatment of others, or use of our gifts, wealth, and time. At the other end, the entirety of personhood is removed, and we are told exactly how the grace we have received from Christ ought to be followed. We are given a list of do this and don’t do that, with no conception that the ways we move through the world are radically different and diverse influenced by societal structures, cultural mores, family histories that are often wrapped up in sin. A side effect of such an approach is that it flies in the face of Paul’s main point: Filled with fear that any wrong decision, any misplaced word, any ill-advised mouthful, any inappropriate affiliation risks our salvation, the flattened approach gives too much power to evil, too much credence to malevolence, too much authority to sin. There’s a great line in Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame which captures this theological misstep. It’s when the villainous Bishop Frollo, blaming his feelings of temptation on another, sings “It’s not my fault, if in God’s plan, He made the devil so much stronger than a man.” No, says Paul, fear not. The Devil is a nothing. There is one God, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ through whom are all things and through whom we exist… for the earth and its fullness are the Lord’s. Mark’s gospel makes clear that Christ has already triumphed over all other powers. Before recording any teachings, Mark details Jesus’ authority over evil through this confrontation with an unclean spirit. This confrontation and victory (foreshadowing a larger victory) sets the ground for Christian life and ethics, for the shape of the Christian community. Jesus has come, confronted and overcome sin and death, ascended to God’s right hand and been given all authority over heaven and earth. In doing so Christ has dealt with the sin of the world, issued a spirit of adoption, and ushered us all under the umbrella of his grace. We are alive in Christ, and with him we are more than conquerors. It is from this position that we consider what is permissible and what is beneficial, the gift of freedom and responsibility. To give way to fear and live as if there are monsters in every closet and snares in every snack disregards and diminishes what Christ has done. To scorn the concern of our neighbour and live as if we’re in an ethical vacuum, disregards and diminishes what Christ has called us to do. By grace have received freedom, hallelujah, and community, amen. Christ’s liberating act draws us into the church. It is with one another that we discern, time and again, how we ought to live together in service of the world. This may be daunting – and in many ways is more complex and time-consuming than the ‘shalt and shalt not’ – but oh is it so much more life-giving, so much more beautiful and noble, and oh is it such a better testament to the freedom and joy that is found in Christ. And though it may be complex, and though all our choices are provisional (open to the changing needs of the community and fresh wind of the Spirit) we should not worry. For we do this work together within an environment perfect love that drives out fear. For what once held dominion is vanquished, and freely we step out into the world as those who live in, with, and through Christ! Readings, Psalm 139:1-18, 1 Sam 3:1-10 and John 1:43-51
Image, Nathaniel (asleep under the fig tree), Mark Cazalet (1993) The story of Samuel’s calling opens with two important details, the word of the Lord was rare in those days, and Samuel was asleep. We are clued in as the reader that Samuel is completely unexpectant of hearing the voice of the Lord (both because of its general rarity and because, well, he’s unconscious). The story of Nathanael’s calling also contains two important details, his disbelief that anything good can come out of Nazareth, and that he too was asleep. We are clued in as the reader that Nathanael is completely unexpectant of hearing the voice of the Son of God (both because of his presumptions and because, well, he’s unconscious). That neither is expecting the calling of God in these moments is confirmed by their disbelief. Samuel does not expect God to come to him, Nathanael does not expect God to come to him from over there. But before we go further with human misgivings, let us dwell on God’s grace. But let’s do it somewhat circuitously. In Richard Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman (I warned you this was circuitous), the cursed Dutchman is able to alight from his ship and walk ashore just once every seven years. His only hope to lift the curse is to find a wife who will be true. On the eve of his allotted time on land, the Dutchman approaches port. Little does he know that waiting ashore is a young woman, Senta, who is devotedly and passionately in love with a portrait (despite not knowing who the portrait is of, or where he is, or if he will arrive). That is until the Dutchman walks into the room, the subject of the portrait and coincidental guest of her father. Before Senta has met the Dutchman, the love is there, a love marked by truth, goodness, and sacrifice, a love that shall redeem. This love is not earnt or elicited, the Dutchman is loved because it is Senta’s character to know, love, and redeem the Dutchman. God relates to us in such a way. God know us before we have heard God’s voice. And having known us, God loves us first and without reserve. And having loved us, God calls us into freedom and life in the Kingdom of God. God calls us before we know what to listen for, without us having to prove a worthiness of our spirit or the virtue of our labour. God calls us, because God simply is the One who knows us perfectly, elects us freely, and loves us infinitely. While we were still at sea, while we were sleeping, God knows and loves and awaits the moment to awaken us to our redemption and calling. As the psalmist says, I awake, and am still with you... not awake and am now with you, God is there, abiding, enveloping, holding. So there’s the initiating grace of God, let’s get back to human misgivings. Being a tragic opera, the Dutchman gets in the way of Senta’s perfect love. His insecurities, his past failures, his jealousy and rage burst forth when he suspects Senta’s love of being fickle. He rushes back to his ship and seven more years at sea. But Senta is true to her word, to her love, and she casts herself into the ocean. Her perfect love, sealed in sacrifice, redeems the Dutchman and they ascend together, embraced in free and joyful bliss. A great act for an opera, though not something any are encouraged in our own love lives. Despite hearing the call of God, Samuel and Nathanael have misgivings. Their misgivings are typical of the two great human misgivings that inhibit our response to God’s call and experiencing the epiphany of God’s glory in our lives: self-dismissal and worldly values. Samuel, a young apprentice, outside the family of priests, hears the voice of God but rushes to Eli. If the word of the Lord is rare and visions not widespread, why should Samuel assume himself special enough to be one of the chosen few? His arm might be short, but the list of reasons he ought to be called in the night couldn’t reach past the elbow. It’s not even that he doubts that God is calling him, it is simply beyond the categories of the possible. How many, I wonder, would behave the same? How many of us have felt (or been made to feel) that the calling of God, the great work of faith, the commission of the disciple is not for us. We might be able to believe we are loved (sure, isn’t everyone), but called? Known by name? Sought out and led forth? That’s a little too much for one so modest. Nathanael’s misgivings are built on worldly values. There is a place called Nazareth, which isn’t worth the three syllables it takes to conjugate. If God’s anointed One is going to come from somewhere, it is going to be somewhere else. There are more fitting places to look for the one whom Moses and the Prophets wrote. How many, I wonder, behave the same? Have we missed something God was doing because of who told us about it? Has our image of God and vision of the Kingdom been truncated because we presumed that the only good things to know about God emerged in our own backyard? Have we neglected the presence of Christ in the least of these because the least of these were from the Nazareths of our world? Which would be a little too much to bear for one so respectable. Thankfully, like Senta hurling herself in the ocean, God does not abandon us to our worst instincts (whether they be about ourselves or our neighbour). God pursues, God abides, God knocks and knocks again, calls and calls some more. Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. If we ascend to heaven, God is there; if we make our bed in Sheol, God is there. If we take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there God’s hand shall lead us, and God’s right hand shall hold us fast. God keeps on calling us, because that is what perfect love requires, an insatiable desire to awake the beloved to their redemption and calling, to a way of life where they are free. A final word. We dwelt on God’s grace, and considered human misgivings. But there are also Eli and Phillip, two people in the stories we do well to emulate. For it is the task of Eli, Phillip, us to gently dispel the self-dismissal and push back on the worldly values. Our role to say come and see, or to encourage our neighbour to say Speak Lord. To remind each other that the good news of God’s grace can come to any of us, from any place. For the one who beheld our unformed substance, is the one who loved us first, laid down his life for his friends, and calls us by name into the abundant and meaningful life of a disciple. We are known before we know, are loved before we act, and called before we hear. Such is the way of the goodness of God. |
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 |