Readings, Psalm 8 and Luke 18:9-14
Image, Salvador Dali, Confession (1960) Woodcut 
 
We could make the case that, at least at first, the Pharisee in the parable does little wrong. His first line of the prayer, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, could, resemble a common refrain in the life of faith: “there but for the grace of God go I.” At the heart of our prayer life – particularly for those of us who have some material comfort, who are not looked at with derision by the pious and the privileged – ought to be a humility born of our understanding that should we have been dealt a different hand, it would be very easy for our life to be otherwise. If we had been born into a warzone. If we had been raised in a household of neglect. If we had been born into a marginalised community. If we had a bit more bad luck, a few less opportunities, a bit less positive reinforcement, a few less positive role models, a few more burdens laid on us too young. Any number of things, we admit, could have left us a lot less stability in the self and comfort in life, facing instead one ripe with struggles and sparse with choice. Such an admission is essential to our self-understanding and prayer, less we confuse and conflate worldly comfort and esteem with moral purity, and material struggle with character flaw and immorality. When we see neighbours and strangers struggling against the forces of the world, struggling with addiction, poverty, violence, and trauma, one could be like the Pharisee and pray, I thank thee God, that I am not as others are… not because we were so wise and goo, but because we got lucky.
 
Unfortunately, it seems this is not the way the Pharisee intends it. For in uttering the following: I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess – the Pharisee is claiming that the reason he is not like others is because of his piety, moral strength, religious devotion. He looks at what good has befallen him not as something which leads him to gratitude and humility, but as that which justifies himself before God (and in spite of others).   
 
In contrast, the tax collector benefits from brevity; a simple, true statement. Striking his chest, as many Christians still do today in the mea culpa, he says only: God be merciful to me a sinner. He considers no one else, nor seeks to evoke comparison with someone worse.
 
Clearly, this gets it right, he is the one who goes down to his house justified. Obviously, we would like to locate ourselves in his camp. But it is perhaps not so easily done – or, full admission – I do not find it easy. It takes a lot of trust to let this be the first, and perhaps only thing we say of ourselves. To resist all impulses to justify and equivocate, to slip in an addendum to our confession. Yes, Lord, I have sinned… of course, yes, a sinner I… but remember I didn’t do that thing, and this week I did less of the other… oh, and remember that good deed, that kind thought… and also, well I’m not like them.
 
It's not easy, we might say it is hardly natural. After all we’ve been taught to make a good impression – that even asked about our weaknesses in a job interview our answers are best couched as hidden strengths (work too hard, care too much, I can be a perfectionist, perhaps too ready to allow middle managers to take credit for my work). Are we willing to let this be the first, and perhaps the final thing said about ourselves in front of the mercy seat of God? To not seek judgment on a curve against the ‘real’ sinners but stand in the stark, unflattering light and recognise our absolute dependence on God? Not easy indeed.
 
And are we willing and ready to let this be the first and perhaps final word that is said of other things we would like to justify, those we would like to offer a few words to their credit to hopefully balance the scales or improve them by comparison? Because when we come to speak of Christians of the past, or the church in other times, there can be a real nervousness to let the sin be spoken, to name their misdeeds and attitudes as sinful. We can be quick to reach for those justifications again – yes, they did that, or yes, they were participants in that, or no, they didn’t speak against it, or sure, they profited from it, but they at least didn’t do… or they weren’t as bad as others… or how could they have known that it was bad?
 
But like ourselves standing in the courts of God, the church is first and foremost the church in confession. The church which understands all too well its propensity for falling prey to worldly value systems and the lure for power. The church is community seeking to turn back, to resemble more, to follow closer. And to be that we need to be willing to confess without reserve that while those before us handed on the beauty, wonder, and meaning of the message, they also fumbled, harmed, erred and require the mercy of God. 
 
Now, maybe you’ve been finding this a little bleak. A little morose to press again and again that, like the tax collector, we need to be ready to let the first and perhaps final word said about us (or the church) before God be have mercy on me, a sinner. Yes, we might recognise that this is vital in fostering humility, in keeping us from judging and condemning our neighbour, in reminding us of our dependence on the grace and mercy of God, and need to restore what has been broken. All that’s good, but is it good news? Well, this is a sermon, and what kind of sermon would it be if we did not proclaim some good news, and we begin to proclaim some good news with the words of Jesus that close out this parable: for every one that exalteth themself shall be abased; and they that humbleth themself shall be exalted.
 
You might have found yourself in a conversation at work, church, school, even around a family table, and there’s an opening for you to share something you’ve done of which you are proud, some achievement or milestone. You’re thinking about blurting it out, but are worried how it might come across, and then someone else says, “you know, Liam just did this cool thing…” “or Liam’s great at that, ask him.” And while there is nothing wrong with speaking up for ourself in a moment like this, sharing something we’re proud of or worked hard for, it feels great when someone does it for us, when someone else says more about us than we would have hazarded to say for ourself. And that’s where we come to the good news, because when, like the tax collector, we only hazard to say of ourselves, have mercy on me a sinner, this is not all that is said about us: for those who humble themselves will be exalted.
 
Christ has determined to be for us and for our freedom. Christ has chosen in grace to share with us all that was his by righteousness. In Christ’s victory we have not been given a spirit of fear in order to fall back into shame, but a spirit of adoption: we have been made children of God, siblings with Christ, co-heirs with the Son. We, who have been taught to pray for forgiveness, taught to seek mercy, are also those the psalmist reminds us have been made but a little lower than God, crowned with glory and honour.
 
In so many ways this sermon has gone in the wrong direction, speaking first about the need to confess with simplicity and brute honesty, and then only now about all that makes it possible. The better way to go is to say, because God has already said of us: beloved, child, redeemed, cherished, honoured, we are able to say: have mercy on me a sinner. Confession is only truly possible in the full reality of Christ’s generosity, grace, and love. Confession takes its proper place within the unfailing, unending love of God, amidst the delight and kindness of God. That is to say, if you are struggling with confession they trick isn’t to focus more on your sin, or wallow in your guilt. Rather if you are struggling with confession that fix comes through delighting further in God’s love and grace, focusing more on Christ's abundant care. For it is when we grasp that we have already received the spirit of adoption, already been brought in under the umbrella of grace, then we are able to come in freedom, trust, and confidence to the courts of God and offer our confession. Only in the knowledge that in Christ we have already been justified, can we resist the impulse to try and justify ourselves. We are able to offer the word of confession because we are already assured of forgiveness, we are able to be humble because we are exalted in Christ’s word of grace. We can say sinner, because Christ has already and will always say so much more wonderful and divine things about us, than we could ever possibly hope to muster.

Readings, Psalm 36:5-10 and 1 Cor 12:4-13
 
Today’s psalm gives us an image of God’s faithful, abundant, and delightful provision. God’s love is declared to provide shelter, light, food, and water. The very building blocks of our survival and flourishing, the very foundation of life itself:
How precious is your steadfast love, O God!
   All people may take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the abundance of your house,
   and you give them drink from the river of your delights.
For with you is the fountain of life;
   in your light we see light.
 
The scriptures emphasise that creation is the good gift of God. Creation, lovingly formed, overflows with what we need to live abundantly and harmoniously together. Creation, as generous and thoughtful gift, brings forth what we need and in doing so, provides for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, worship and testimony to its Creator. When we feast on the abundance of fruits and vegetables brought forth from the earth, we are led to give thanks for the feast of abundance in the house of God. When we quench our thirst and are revived by cool waters, we are led to praise the one leads us to drink from the rivers of God’s delights. When we experience the comfort and safety of homes built from the stuff of the earth, we remember that all people may take refuge in the shadows of God’s wings.
 
But if creation is good and lovingly gifted, made to bring forth what is needed, then we are struck with the problem that large swaths of plant, animal, and human life are struggling to survive. But again, for those with eyes and ears willing to perceive, this struggle provides its own testimony. For the piles of food thrown away, the gallons of water wasted, the thousands of homes left empty, the increasingly rapid depletion of biodiversity lament and testify to human greed, apathy, and pride. Testify to fractured relations between us and the earth, one another, and God. Testify to the way our society insulates the privileged from the rhythms of place and the wisdom of others. Testify to our need to repent and reform in order to better love our neighbour and steward God’s creation.
 
Sundays like this in the life of our church serve multiple purposes. In part they are a response to the brave and faithful witness of Indigenous siblings in the church who ask us to stand with them in the journey of truth-telling, justice, and repair. In part they give us the opportunity to hear the truth, and seek in the truth not shame, but freedom and repaired relations. And in part they help us turn back to Christ, learn anew from members of Christ’s body, and recognise the interdependence of our oneness.
 
How might we learn with each other so that we might respond to the testimony of the earth? Sundays like this encourage us to remember that those from the cultures, traditions, and peoples formed by untold generations of relation and reliance on these lands, might teach us how to live better on country, how to better steward God’s creation in this place, how to better ensure that what God has provided is not squandered, hoarded, or forgotten, but delighted in, shared, and engaged with in God-honouring and neighbour-loving ways.   
 
Because God does not only provide the gift of abundant creation. God also provides the gifts of the Spirit shared through the body of Christ. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. Whether Jew or Greek, slave or free we drink of the same Spirit who activates in the church gifts, services, and activities for the benefit of the body. Gifts are varied, fluid, mysterious, and poured out on all for all, without hierarchy or distinction.
 
The problem is that too often the church has done the very thing Paul warns against: telling certain members it has no need of them, nothing to learn or receive from them. It has developed and inherited worldly systems that determine who has wisdom, knowledge, and responsibility and who does not. And too often the have and have nots run along racial lines (just as they so often have run along (and been amplified by) lines of gender, class, or clericalism). And these worldly, sinful designations of have and have nots not only deny the biblical witness, not only blaspheme against the Holy Spirit, but rob us all of wisdom, practices, and knowledge poured out by God and developed through culture. And when we consider the specific question of how we walk on, relate to, and delight in the lands and waters, we see that such robbery is leading to ruin. Ruin to creation, to neighbours, and to ourselves. 
 
But thankfully, and this is one of those great Christian proclamations not only on Sundays such as these: it is never too late to make a change. Never too late to fling oneself onto Christ in hope. Never too late for the church to become more like the body. Never too late for the Spirit to work wonders through its members. For God’s steadfast love extends to the heavens, God’s faithfulness to the clouds. And the one who created all things in their goodness has promised, that despite human folly, we shall be saved. The earth and all that is in it will be restored, redeemed, rectified and made new. The day will come when waters, lands, and skies will sing once more undiminished and unrestricted of the glory of God and the right relations of all things in God’s light.
 
And being part of Christ’s body the church, being part of a people able to hear truth, mourn, repent, and believe the good news, means we do not need to wait until that final day for this restoration work to begin. Indeed, we must not wait. Instead, because we have received the gifts of the Spirit – poured out upon us for the common good – we get to make changes today. Every week there are increasingly disturbing news reports, increasingly disheartening findings… the odds feel stacked against the kind of dramatic upturning we require. But dramatic upturnings are what our faith is based on. And the good news, the really good news is that if we want to step out in search of just such an upturning, we do not step out alone. For we have the Spirit, we have its gifts, poured out on all to be shared and received with and by and from all. So, if we have eyes to see and ears to hear, we might yet learn from the old and new wisdom of others how to live together well in this place; relating to and delighting in building blocks of our survival and flourishing in a manner that gives testimony to the fountain of life.

Reading, John 11:17-40
Image, Resurrection of Lazarus, 12th century.  St. Katherine's Monastery, Sinai
 
When I was first studying the gospels at college, much was made of the scene where Jesus asks his disciples, who do you say that I am? And Peter’s answer: You are the Messiah, is the first great Christological confession made by one of Jesus’ followers. Jesus is rightly identified, his significance emphatically observed. In Matthew’s account, Jesus even remarks that the profundity of Peter’s response was only possible because the Father revealed it to him. The scene is the great payoff of the first half of the gospel. Jesus’ wonders have brought the reader to the question: who is this man? And Peter gives them the answer.
 
This scene, however, essential as it is to Matthew, Mark, and Luke, is not in John. To be sure Peter makes an essential confession in John 6 when – after the difficulty of Jesus’ words turn many away – Peter responds to Jesus’ question do you also wish to go away? With, Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God. Despite this, today’s scene with Martha feels a more proper equivalent of the scene where one of Jesus’ followers reveals him as the Messiah.
 
But before proceeding with that scene, let us consider another appearance of Martha’s. Last week’s sermon on Mary of Bethany included Martha’s scolding of her sister. And while we noted Jesus’ defence of Mary’s choice of the better part, what we did not observe, which must be attended now, is how Martha addresses Jesus. For even if her request was misguided, her recognition of who was before her was just as accurate as Mary’s.
 
Lord, do you not care… begins Martha’s petition. And that “Lord” is important. For since so very few so grasp the identity of Jesus during his lifetime, very few use this term of address. Alongside Martha we find, Elizabeth, John the Baptist, Peter, a leper, a Centurion, James and John. And just because Martha errs in her request, doesn’t diminish the significance of her right naming of Christ (indeed, James and John name Jesus Lord, as part of their request he rain down fire on a village that didn’t receive them).
 
Martha’s ability to recognise and rightly name Jesus is carried into the story we heard in John’s gospel. In grief (and grief is overwhelmingly the emotion that shrouds this whole scene) she comes before Jesus and says, Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died. Again we note her use of the term Lord, and with it a recognition of Jesus’ power to heal. But, as she continues, she reveals further understanding of Jesus’ unique relation to God. But even now I know that God will give whatever you ask him. Martha recognises Jesus’ intimacy with the Father, from whom he was sent.
 
What is important to realise is the way these this qualification follows quickly on the heels of Martha’s lament. If in one breath she confronts Jesus with her grievance, with the next she affirms his capacity to give them a new future. This stands in contrast with her sister, who comes to Jesus with the same lament, Lord if you had been here my brother would not have died, but then falls silent. It is not that her lack of speech brings condemnation on her, by contrast Jesus is moved by her weeping to his own, however, it is because Martha’s speech continues, that space is opened for a richer dialogue between her and Jesus.
 
Jesus responds, Your brother will rise again. Martha, displaying her faith, affirms what she believes Jesus is saying, I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day. But at this point, Jesus clarifies his meaning, and reveals to Martha more of who he is, and has come to do: I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?
 
Do you believe this is but another shade of who do you say that I am or do you also wish to go away. Fundamentally each ask: from what you have seen and heard, what are you willing to confess. And Martha confesses, Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world. Like Peter she makes the profound confession, and recognises the significance of Jesus beyond anything heretofore confessed. Just as in the other gospels this moment proves a turning point, a hinge on which the narrative shifts its attention toward Christ’s entry in Jerusalem and the cross which awaits him.
 
There’s a terrific line in the Stephen Sondheim musical, Merrily We Roll Along. The show’s protagonists, having just performed a song at a party, are asked by their host to sing it again. One seeks to decline, while the other insists that they sing, saying “Charlie they loved it, they thought we were great.” “You want to know what true greatness is?” Charlie retorts, “knowing when to get off!”
 
Pessimistic as it might sound, usually the longer things go on the more chances there are for missteps. The exuberant glory Peter experiences through the commendation of his Christological confession is short lived. For when Jesus teaches that what it means for him to be the Messiah is to be handed over to suffer and die, Peter rebukes Jesus. For this act, Peter (who moments ago apparently received direct revelation from God) is identified by Jesus as Satan, tempting Jesus from the path of God. Peter has to leave that scene thinking to himself (as we all have at one time or another) why didn’t I just stop talking!
 
The scene with Martha also continues on long enough for her to misspeak. Despite her confession that Jesus is the Messiah, and her hearing Jesus say your brother shall live, when Jesus asks the crowds to remove the stone from Lazarus’ tomb, Martha interjects: Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days. Like Peter not comprehending that Christ’s Messiahship will lead to his death, Martha does not grasp that since Jesus is the resurrection and the life, her brother will rise today. Understanding that Jesus is the Messiah doesn’t necessitate comprehending all that this implies.
 
What do we learn then, from Martha? The first is we can get it wrong. Like Martha, each Christian is able to speak one sentence filled with wise and profound reflections on the nature and significance of God, and then speak a second which completely misses the mark. We are all of us theologians (in that we think and reflect on God and the world in relation to God) and all of us are prone to misspeaking (often in a way common to Peter and Martha, by downplaying or dismissing the surprising and mysterious character of our God).
 
The second lesson is better, which is that the first lesson doesn’t matter all that much. Whether it is Peter trying to get in the way of Christ’s mission, Martha doubting the power of Jesus’ resurrection life, or Mary stopping short of asking Christ for anything, none of this changes who God is and what God is up to. Jesus’ response to Mary’s silence and Martha’s confusion is the same – he raises Lazarus from his tomb.
 
We do not have to get our speech right about God in order for God to move toward us in love and call us into the work of creation, restoration, and reconciliation. For God’s nature is love, and God’s call is undeterred by human folly. We give thanks that no human blunder can overcome the purposes of God. We can overstay our welcome, singing way too many songs and it won’t change God’s affection for us, nor our calling to follow in Christ’s stead.
 
Which means that learning to recognise and reflect on the nature of Christ, to enter into dialogue with Christ and seek to speak rightly of God is not a means toward an end. It is not that getting the right words in the right order unlocks God's affection or action. No, it is an end in itself. For theology, the sublime thought on God, is its own joy, comfort, and delight. To reflect on how to shape our lives as God’s ambassadors of reconciliation is its own way of entering deeper into the mystery of God. To learn how to proclaim, in our own idiom, Christ as Lord is to luxuriate in the wellspring of life. Martha demonstrates that even when we don’t get it perfect, recognising the significance of Christ, opens up wonders of dialogue and devotion that draw us nearer the resurrection and the life.

Readings, Psalm 130 and John 6: 35, 41-51
Image, Twilight in the Wilderness, Frederic Edwin Church (1860)

Let us consider the wilderness generation, those who received the manna from heaven and followed God for forty years. A generation passing away beneath the pillar of smoke by day, and fire by night. In one reading, this is a tragedy. Those who saw the sea part and sung the songs of deliverance on freedom’s shore, who saw the holy mountain and heard the covenantal promise, nonetheless display such distrust and division that they would never see the promised land. Sin destines them to wander until each member of that generation is buried in the dust. Only when the new census is taken, and not one name recorded at the mountain of God remains, shall the nation reach the promised land. Clearly a tragedy.
 
However, there’s another reading.* Despite their failings, and the judgment brought upon them by their mistakes, God, in steadfast love, gifts this generation an unparalleled privilege. For this generation pass their years receiving their daily bread from God. Each day the manna and the quail from heaven – never enough to store, but always enough to eat. Forty years as pilgrim people, freed from tomorrow’s worries: life in the benevolence of God. With the future all but closed off, they waded in the waters of God’s presence until their rest. What other generation has lived in such times as these, fed from the hand of God, falling to sleep beneath the stars of God’s creation and the fire of God’s presence? They may perish before seeing the promised land, but they lived within the nurturing sphere of God’s grace, a devotional walk, uninterrupted by the demands and distractions of daily life. In this reading the wilderness generation prefigure what John refers to as eternal life, that life lived fully attuned to the presence and promise of God, that life which begins now and reaches perfection in the age to come, that life of abundance which Jesus came to gift to all.
 
I am the bread of life, Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. Jesus, proclaims himself this very present provision of God. His body descended from heaven to give eternal life, feeding a pilgrim people (as the Basis says) on the way to a promised end. The Christian yearns for a life like the wilderness generation, enveloped by God’s steadfast love and provision. For the church lives in the time-in-between, an Advent people proclaiming Christ’s resurrection while hastening and waiting for Christ’s return. We are those wait for the Lord, more than those who watch for morning. Of course, this future is out of our reach, belonging to God alone, arriving at an appointed time of which not even the angels are privy. Therefore, like that wilderness generation, we live in the perpetual now of God’s grace.
 
This is, in part, why Jesus teaches us not to store up treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume. Do not worry about your life, he teaches, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. The Christian is the one who considers the lilies of the field and in so doing learns to eat the bread of life which strengthens us to strive first for the kingdom of God and God’s righteousness.
 
Now I do not wish to imply that this kind of life is reached with ease. The wilderness generation did not achieve this state of perpetual intimacy with God’s daily provision out of their piety. Their life was gifted to them after their many errors. So too, we do not achieve sparrow like bliss through gritted teeth, we do not simply decide to stop worrying. These are gifts given out of God’s steadfast love, Christ’s abundant grace, and the Spirit’s freedom.
 
And yet, even though this kind of life cannot be gained by effort, we are called not only to wait, but to hasten. That is to say, while we cannot recreate the conditions by which we might learn to be like the lily, we seek to order the rhythm of our lives together to taste the living bread and seek first the kingdom of God. A rhythm, we might learn (in part at least) from today’s psalm… which begins in the depths. 
 
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.
   Lord, hear my voice!
As so many prayers, we cry out when we find ourselves in the depths. Whether the grind of daily life, or those heightened moments of calamity, we begin when we are honest about our situation. Rather than plaster on an image of shiny happy people, we turn to God when we see where we are, acknowledge what has befallen us, and cry out. 
 
If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
   Lord, who could stand?
Honesty begets honesty. If we can tell the truth about the depths of woe in our world, we can then tell the truth about our own depths. We can allow ourselves the introspection of Saint Paul, who spoke truly of the human condition when he wrote, I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. This honesty leads to the recognition that our hope is not ground in our possibility of perfection, but in God, in whom there is the forgiveness of sins and the possibility of renewal. 
 
I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
   and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
   more than those who watch for the morning,
   more than those who watch for the morning.
We recognise the time in which we live: Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again. We place our hope in the Word as our soul waits for the Lord to come again in glory and wipe all tears from our eyes, beat the swords into ploughshares, and bring about the consummation of the age when God shall be all in all. 
 
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
   and with the Living God is great power to redeem.
Though we despair, though we sin and fall short of the glory of God, though we wait with anticipation for the day when only love remains, we do so with joyful confidence because out of God’s great love for the world, Jesus was sent not to condemn but reconcile all things to God. In this we know and trust, God’s great power to redeem. 
 
What is notable, is that even at the end of this psalm, even here with the promise of redemption, the psalmist remains in the time of anticipation, even, perhaps, in the depths. Like the generation living beneath the fire of God, they are, after all, still in the wilderness. Like the church today, we remain, after all, in the present age of sin and shame. All this occurs here – there is no account of a reversal of fortunes and little on earth that could be confused with heaven. And yet, in faith and hope we hasten and wait for the horizon where God shall come like the dawn, and a new morning shall break.
 
We do not have to reach the promised land of longed-for inward perfection in order to come and taste the bread of life. We do not need to drag ourselves out of the depths of our own making nor those of the world’s ills in order to experience the eternal life offered in Christ’s own body. We do not need to live with the lightness of the sparrow in order to consider the lilies. A doctor goes to the sick, bread is given to the hungry, and Christ comes to the weary. As our High Priest, familiar with our travails, Christ gives his body to us in our depths – for there is no depth he has not descended – so that we shall not hunger or thirst while we wait for morning. Instead, we are fed by Christ and clothed in God’s righteousness, in order that we may share what we have received with those fellow-travellers crying out from the depths, yet to see the manna in the wilderness illuminated by the fire by night.

* I owe this reading to Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's Bewilderments: Reflections on the Book of Numbers ​(Schoken Books, 2015)