 Readings, Isaiah 56:1-8 and Matthew 15:10-28
Image, Michael Cook, “Crumbs of Love” There are a lot of overlapping themes and tensions across our last few readings from Matthew. Today, I want to lay them out to see how they might shape our approach to some of the prickly parts of today’s reading. But it is helpful to attend to our reading from Isaiah, which sets a helpful backdrop to all we are going to encounter. I’ve been teaching a class on the church at United Theological College this semester, and early on in the course we do a week on the doctrine of election. The aim of the course is to explore what makes the church the church, and that particular class introduces the idea that part of what makes the church the church is the action of God to choose and call a people to witness to the way of Christ. Of course, this idea of God’s electing activity is around long before the church. The story of Exodus is organised around the famous words I will be your God, and you will be my people. God chooses Israel and delivers them from Egypt, so they can witness to the reign of God in the world. Now, thinking about election leads to a number of tensions and issues – many more than we can do justice to today (I’m not sure I got through them all in a two-hour class), but one is the issue of universality vs particularity. Scripture attests that God is the God of all, the God of all the earth, the God of all creation, the Sovereign, Universal Singular. Yet, Scripture is also emphasising the particularity of God vis a vis Israel, or vis a vis Israel and the Church. Naturally, this can, and has, lead to superiority complexes of various kinds – with attendant justification of violence and dispossession not only in scripture but across history. Now, Scripture also has threads which undermine or trouble the particularity. God, for instance, makes a promise to Hagar to make a great nation from Ishmael (just as God had promised Abraham to make a great nation from Isaac). In the Book of Numbers, God speaks through the non-Israelite prophet Balaam. The Book of Ruth celebrates the determined faith of the foreigner, who becomes part of the Davidic line. And, in what we heard today, the prophet Isaiah reminds the people of the word of the Lord: the foreigner and the eunuch should not be kept separate, but those who love God and keeps the sabbath shall be brought to God’s holy mountain and made joyful in the house of prayer, for my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples. Thus says the Lord God, who gathers the outcasts of Israel, I will gather others to them besides those already gathered. Of course, this passage alone does not solve the tension of universality and particularity – importantly, the vision in Isaiah is still that of a situation where those on the outside are brought in to a kind of stable centre. But it does critique the hardlines we might want to draw between who are or aren’t the chosen, who or who don’t warrant the care of God. God is the one who will gather those besides those already gathered, God’s house shall be a house of prayer for all people. There is an expansive trajectory we might say, that the particular is not the be all and end all, but rather it is through the particular calling of Israel and the Church that God will bring about the universal salvation of the world. The chosen elect are thus those who are called to witness to what, someday, many more will know. Which, in my mind, makes all the more strange and troubling the rebuke of Jesus to the Canaanite woman, I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. Is not the promised Messiah the one who will gather others? Who will bring about the messianic age where all shall come to the holy mountain and pay homage to God’s glory? Why is Jesus insisting on such strident particularity? Why is he so determined to cast those of Israel as children, and the Canaanites as dogs?
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 Reading, Matthew 14:22-33
The moment that puzzles me most in this reading is Peter’s response to hearing Jesus identify himself as the figure approaching them across the water. Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water. The more I think about it the stranger it feels that Peter chooses this command unprompted. To recap, the disciples are out on the boat near dawn, the winds are against them and they have spent hours being battered by the waves. A figure approaches them in the darkness, seemingly walking on the water… understandably they are terrified of this approaching ghost, perhaps come to bring them down to a watery grave. Hearing their fear the figure responds, Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid. Now what adds to my puzzlement, or exacerbates the strangeness of what Peter says next, is that it is unclear how sure the disciples are that it is Jesus. Perhaps in the crashing of waves and whooshing of wind it is hard to discern for certain the source of this voice? Perhaps the phantom is posing as a trusted voice so that they drop their guard? Perhaps it is Jesus and so their fears of immanent ghost attack are replaced by concern for what this storm will do to Jesus or their boat? The thing is, I’m not sure which of these scenarios best explains Peter’s request: Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.  Readings, Genesis 32:22-31 and Matthew 14:13-21
Image, Laura James, 5000 Fed (1999) There’s a kind of story I’m sure most of us a partial towards. It’s when you have experienced something go off without a hitch, only to find out later that a string of near disasters were only narrowly averted. It’s the invisibility of these hurdles that makes their belated revelation all the more thrilling. The revelation that the cake was nearly dropped en route to the table, that the actor was nowhere to be found moments before their cue, that the star athlete won gold with all kinds of hidden injuries, or, the soloist prepared for entirely the wrong concerto and only realised the moment the orchestra sounded the first chords. We then played this video of Maria Joao Piers having prepared for the wrong concerto: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=300t2DS3VdQ It is often lauded as a sign of true grace under pressure when someone is still able to execute after everything has gone wrong without giving away that anything had gone wrong. Both of today’s readings share something of this quality. Both are famous scenes, where the central character performs something miraculous, which is made more incredible when we realise the wider context of pressure and hurdles they are facing. That is to say, the acts of the miraculous feeding and the wrestling with the angel are impressive enough on their own, but are even more so when we understand all that Jesus and Jacob are experiencing, before, beneath, and beyond these scenes.  Readings, Psalm 10 and Luke 16:19-31
Image, Vitaly Polyakov, After storming the Winter Palace Out of a kind of morbid curiosity which is surely not benefitting me at all, I am prone to read the comments on news stories on social media. Now everyone rightly says don’t read the comments, and that’s even truer at this stage of the internet, with what we know about the proliferation of bots and paid commenters. Nonetheless I go to the comments because sometimes, and here’s where the morbidness comes in, I’m fascinated by the vitriolic ways people can respond to almost anything. And if there’s one thing that earns the ire of a particular kind of internet commenter it is a story about wealth inequality. Particularly a story about someone (or group of people) struggling with poverty or inequality etc. You can read the most heart-breaking story about someone who has lost everything through terrible luck, unpredictable tragedy, or the nefarious scheming of bad actors and you will still find comment after comment blaming the victim or the society that enables their victimhood. And so, I can only imagine, stripped of its biblical pedigree, the comments on a news post that begins: There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. This would only earn similar vitriol as our contemporary stories: similar blaming of Lazarus for getting himself in this situation, similar commending of oneself that you would never let it get that bad, and similar defence of the Rich Man as someone who has likely earned his stature and security through hard work, and doesn’t owe a layabout like Lazarus anything, let alone a dreaded handout. Jesus however, in keeping with the general tenor of the biblical witness, displays no such blame for the poor man, nor defence for the rich. Against the tendency of society to associate poverty with a lack of morals, ethics, intelligence, or effort, and to attach to the wealthy a presumption of virtue, wisdom, and aptitude, Jesus narrates the poor man in eternal comfort while the rich languishes in Hades. There is not a word about character, belief, or the choices which led one to be in purple finery and the other sores… but the simple fact of unaddressed economic inequality is enough to generate the great chasm which can no longer be crossed. Jesus doesn’t play with the excuses of the rich or the blaming of the poor, he is immune to the click-clacking of the comment section trying to condemn Lazarus under the banner of personal responsibility. Jesus, steeped in the psalms, knows: God will not forget the oppressed and nor the rich and wicked, who in their pride falsely believe God does not see and will not seek them out.  Readings, Psalm 131 and Luke 12:22-34
Image, Claude Monet, Poppy Field in a Hollow near Giverny (1885) Let’s hold that gospel reading in mind for a moment, while I read these famous words from the letter of James: If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill’, and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? Now I want us to consider if there any conflict between those words and the teaching of Jesus heard today? That is to ask, could James’ words be offered as a rebuff to Jesus’ encouragement: do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear, seemingly offered here without attending to the crowd’s bodily needs? No one panic! We’re not attacking Jesus. No one is saying Jesus did anything wrong. And yes, we might say, Jesus did feed people with the fish and the loaves, and we might say, that Jesus does note at the end of the passage that food and shelter and clothing will be given as well, as natural offshoot of striving for God’s kingdom. But if we want to be a little brazen, we could ask: what is the good of telling people not to worry about what they will eat or what they will wear without providing them with what they need to keep warm and full? Would we not critique a more common man for so casually teaching us not to worry about things so basic to our survival? What should we do about this tension? The great picture of what it looks like to strive for God’s kingdom and receive the basics needs as well comes in the early chapters of Acts. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Here we see the material needs being met, overflowing as an outcome of centring the communal life on striving after the kingdom. This is a community, we might say, that has organised itself in such a way as to make it easy not to worry about what you shall eat. If the apostles were to pass on the teaching of Jesus in the midst of a community holding all things in common, we would see no discrepancy. Indeed, it is the harmonious picture of faith and works in concert, where striving for God’s kingdom includes the meeting of earthly needs. What I want to offer, is that what Jesus says about considering the lilies is a bridge between the encouragement not to worry and the community of Acts. The teaching to consider the ravens and the lilies is not only key to observing the instruction do not worry but paves the path to that harmonious common life. Learning to consider the lilies is thus foundational to becoming not only a person able to lay aside the drive to strive for more and more worldly things, but also to becoming a people of God able to tend to one another’s needs. But to get to how, we need to consider a psalm and poem… for that is the series after all.  Readings, Acts 1:6-14 and John 17:1-18
Image, Bagong Kussudiardja, Ascension, 1983. I built a graph for today’s sermon – look at that, it’s got an x and y axis and everything… I’m way out over my comfort zone here. What we’re tracking here is something fairly simply, being left in charge of something (either of relatively high or low importance) – that’s on the x axis, and then on the y we’re charting our confidence in our capacity to handle the responsibility of being left in charge. So we all love the ones down the bottom left – easy tasks for which we are completely confident. The sweet spot, and by and large, we hope that these fill the bulk of our days. Now when we get around the middle, where our capacity/confidence is just a little below what is required, we might say this is a pretty good spot for learning and growing. We’re going to be stretched but not overwhelmed. And then way down here on the right, this is where we don’t want to be – this is the stuff nightmares are made of where we are pushed out onto stage in front of a full house to play Hamlet without having ever studied the script. We’ve just heard Luke’s account of the ascension, Jesus going ahead of the disciples and instructing them to wait until the coming of the Spirit so that they may carry on and expand his work. At this moment, as they look to the skies seemingly anticipating his immediate and dramatic return… where do you place the disciples on our little table? Fundamental to the Christian faith is this: Jesus didn’t take us with him, but sends us on in his name (and with his Spirit).  Reading, Psalm 23 and John 10:1-18
Image, Good Shepherd Sculpture, 280-290CE Today’s gospel reading is out of sequence. Since Easter we’ve been enjoying the post-resurrection accounts of Jesus gathering up his wayward disciples, but now we jump back to well before his death. Why is that the case? Why have we been taken here? I think we can approach it like a flashback at the end of a movie. One of those brilliant moments, when at the crescendo of the film, with the camera swirling and the music welling, we revisit an earlier, seemingly small moment in the plot, which is suddenly imbued with vibrant significance. All of a sudden a passing comment, an innocuous act takes on a new and greater meaning. The moment is plucked out from its sequence, and shown again, now in new light and clarity, demonstrated to relate palpably and personally to this moment in our protagonist’s life. Such is the nature of a well-executed flashback, and such is the power of today’s reading in this season of the church. We’re going to attempt then, to enter such a scene, to feel such a flashback, to encounter anew this teaching of Jesus in the light of the resurrection… Picture, the scene: early morning, green fields, a woman approaches rocky tombs. Her feet were drenched from the dew. She had trod this path three times already this morning; once walking solemnly, twice running bewildered. Now, as she inhaled the morning air, its crisp freshness felt coarse in her throat and lungs. Bending to look in the tomb, reeling with exhaustion, she grabbed her knees for balance. She wept long and loud, sweat and tears ran down her face, drops painted the dirt below. “Woman, why are you weeping?” came a voice from a stranger in the tomb. Her mind filled with all manner of horrors – Had the tomb been ransacked for valuables? Had Roman soldiers come by night, still giddy from the rush of power, to further violate the body of their victim? In desperation she exclaimed, ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him!’ At that moment, still not having comprehended these figures occupying her Lord’s resting place, she heard footsteps and turned. She saw a gardener, sun rising behind his right shoulder. “Woman, why are you weeping?” she heard him say. Perhaps he had said it the first time too? Maybe the tomb was empty after all… “Who are you looking for?” For a split second she had a glimmer of hope, perhaps Jesus’ body just had been laid elsewhere, she asks the gardener if he moved her Lord, if so she will tend to the body. It is such a small request, surely if this man has any heart he will grant her this mercy. “Mary.”  Readings, Ezekiel 37:1-14 and John 11:1-45
Image, The Raising of Lazarus, 1943, by Jose Clemente Orozco (1883-1949) We have two incredibly famous passages today, both perfectly placed by the lectionary as the sun begins to set on Lent. Both point to what we are moving toward, what we will come to celebrate at Easter: the power of God over the forces of death. We have talked before that the gospels record much of Jesus’ ministry in a way that points to his power to cure and dispense with the forces of death. Across the gospel Jesus meets with, tends to, and heals those who have been made impure, all to foreshadow his crucifixion, where death will be taken up in Jesus’ own body, where death will seemingly overwhelm Jesus’ body, only for the resurrection to reveal Jesus’ ultimate triumph. The message of the Lazarus story, in such a sequence, is one of amplification. Jesus has healed those who are living but have the signs of death on their body (such as lepers), Jesus has healed those who have only recently died (such as the young woman), but now, Jesus heals Lazarus who has been dead for four days, whose very body stinks of death. And what’s more, Jesus heals him from a distance. The difficulty, as it were, of these conflicts with the forces of death have been increasing, amplifying the wonder of Jesus’ power, preparing the way for the greatest wonder of them all, which we will see with the Easter dawn. But we when we pause and pay attention to just how very dead Lazarus is, especially when we couple it with the Ezekiel reading, we can learn something more still.  Reading, Romans 12
Image, Joan Mitchell, Sunflower V Today we’re building off last week’s sermon on the confession that God’s good pleasure is the founding ‘why’ of the sending of Christ. Today the question is, what kind of community emerges in response to this delighting of God to adopt, elect, call and send a people in response to the loving good pleasure of our of God revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. At the risk of coming off like the supermarkets selling hot cross buns the moment it ticks over to Boxing Day, I am starting this January sermon at the Crucifixion. Specifically, the scene in John, where Jesus gives his mother and the beloved disciple to one another. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home. We might say that in this tender scene the church is born. As one disciple is given to another, forged into a new family by faith of the Son. As Jesus has been preparing the disciples for his going ahead of them, to the day when they will no longer have him with them, he has urged their need to be with and for each other (just as he has been with and for them), to love one another (as he has loved them), and to be one (just as he has made them one with him). Jesus makes of these two disciples a new family in his name, and in so doing, begins the path toward the church.  Readings, Jeremiah 31:7-14 and Ephesians 1:3-14
Image, Lee Krasner (1908–1984) Through Blue, 1963 There are some pleasurable phrases out there you love to hear: “all inclusive,” “take your pick,” “I got both kinds,” “it’s all free!” Undoubtedly others come to mind. Characteristic of these is a freedom from imposition or limit, freedom from any concession or compromise, freedom from only if or only after. In hearing these phrases our decision is governed not by any consideration of external factors or tit-for-tat, but solely by the good pleasure of our will. Though it is not the good pleasure of our will that I want to focus on today. Instead, it is the good pleasure of God’s will that will occupy us, as we heard in today’s reading: God destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ, according to the good pleasure of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace that he freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. Why does Christmas happen? Why is the Son sent? At a foundational level, the Christian confession is that all this happens… according to the good pleasure of God’s will. |
SermonsPlease enjoy a collection of sermons preached by Rev Liam at the Kirk. If you have questions about them, or attending a service reach out using the Contact Page. Categories
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