by William Klock

 

Today’s Gospel lesson picks up where last Sunday’s left us with Joseph, Mary, and Jesus in Egypt.  St. Matthew tells us:

 

After the death of Herod, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt.  “Get up,” he said, “and take the child and his mother and go to the land of Israel.  Those who wanted to kill the child are dead.”  So he got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel.  But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling Judea instead of his father Herod, he was afraid to go back there.  After being advised in a dream, he went off to the region of Galilee.  When he got there, he settle in a town called Nazareth.  This was to fulfil what the prophet had spoken, “He shall be called a Nazarene.”  (Matthew 2:19-23)

 

The Gospels of Christmastide tell us the Nativity story from St. Matthew’s perspective.  They jump around a bit, so we don’t quite get the story in order—the part about the wise men, of course, is saved for this coming week—for Epiphany.  But our Gospel today picks up towards the end of Matthew’s second chapter.

 

Matthew 2 begins with the wise men arriving in Jerusalem, following an unusual star—some think it was the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn.  In those days the planet Jupiter was associated with kings and many people associated Saturn with the Jews.  Seeing their conjunction, the wise men—astrologers from the East—concluded that a great king had been born in Israel.  They naturally went to Herod, and were probably surprised to find he knew nothing about any of this.  Herod sent them on their way, but he was troubled.  Like I said last week, I doubt Herod saw a serious threat here, but he was evil enough to think to himself, “Hey, if this kid exists, I might as well kill him…just in case.”  So he asked the wise men to stop on their way home to tell him what they had found.  When they returned by a different route, Herod just decided to murder all the baby boys in Bethlehem, two years old and younger.

 

And so Herod’s soldiers marched to nearby Bethlehem and did just that.  For Matthew’s Jewish readers, this sure called to mind their own story—how long ago Pharaoh had tried to stamp them out by having all their baby boys drowned in the Nile.  Now it’s happening again, and that’s Matthew’s subtle way of telling us that God is getting ready, once again, to visit and to deliver his people.  It shows us the depth of the darkness of a fallen world full of sin and death, but it also says that the light is about to break through.  Or as Mr. Beaver puts it in the popular children’s book as he sees the snows of winter melting and flowers beginning to blossom: “Aslan is on the move.”

 

When St. John opens his Gospel by talking about light coming into the darkness, this is what he has in mind.  This is why Jesus had to be born right in the middle of it.  Jesus didn’t come to deliver his people from the outside.  He came in such a way that he identified with them, he became one of them—one of us—and he knew their suffering, he knew their pain, he knew their tears.  He knew the deep, deep darkness.  He was touched by the demands of Caesar, demanding and pushing his people around: Go here!  Go there!  So that I can count you, so that I know what’s mine.  He was touched by the wickedness of Herod.  A true King of the Jews would have known that his people belonged to God, but Herod saw them as his.  He could kill them at will.  Jesus experienced the darkness.

 

Why?

 

Consider the names that the angel revealed to Joseph before Jesus was born.  Joseph was understandably upset when he found out Mary was pregnant.  He was prepared to quietly divorce her.  But then the Lord spoke.

 

“Joseph, son of David,” the angel said, “do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.  She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”  (Matthew 1:20-21)

 

And Matthew comments on this, saying:

(which means, God with us). (Matthew 1:22-23)

 

You shall call his name Jesus.  Jesus was a common name.  It’s a variant of “Joshua” and it means “Yahweh Saves”, “The God of Israel Saves”.  And it was a common name precisely because of the darkness in which the people lived.  They were desperate for the Lord to save them and we know that especially in the time in which Jesus was born the people were particularly expectant—the worse things got, the stronger their hopes became—and things were horrible.  And so, as Joshua led God’s people into the promised land, Jesus was sent to lead his people in a new and bigger and better exodus into a new and bigger and better promised land.  In the first exodus the Israelites were delivered from Egypt, declared to be God’s son, and entered into a covenant with him.  “I will be your God and you will be my people,” he had promised.  He took up his dwelling in their midst.  Matthew wants us to understand here that in Jesus, a new exodus is about to take place.  Not from Egypt, this time, but from sin and death.  He will, in Jesus, establish a new covenant and through that new covenant he will make a new people—a people in whom he will dwell, not just in their midst, but actually in them.

 

And yet it’s in Matthew’s commentary that we see the “how” of it all.  This he says is to fulfil what Isaiah spoke: “The virgin shall conceive and bear a son and he shall be called Emmanuel, which means ‘God with us’.”  Matthew quotes from Isaiah 7:14.  Now, no one before Matthew ever seems to have understood this passage as pointing to the future Messiah.  Isaiah had spoken these words over seven centuries earlier and he spoke them to King Ahaz of Judah during another very dark time for the Lord’s people.  The king of the northern tribes of Israel had made an alliance with the king of Syria and they laid siege to Jerusalem.  King Ahaz and his people were scared, but through the prophet the Lord exhorted them to stand firm in faith.  They were to trust him and he would vanquish their enemies and this promised child was a sign.  A young woman, perhaps Ahaz’s wife or daughter or Isaiah’s own wife, would bear a son and before he’s old enough to know the difference between good and evil the Lord would make good on his promise to deliver his people.  The child was to be prophetically called “Emmanuel—God with us”, giving assurance to the people that the Lord had heard their cries from the darkness, that he would visit them, and that he would deliver them.

 

Just as the exodus in the days of Moses became an image of the ministry of Jesus leading his people out of sin’s bondage, the baby—Emmanuel—born in the reign of Ahaz became another image of Jesus’ ministry.  In him God once again had heard the cries of his people from the darkness—the darkness of Herod, the darkness of Caesar—in Jesus he visited his people, and in Jesus he delivered them.  Even more so, Jesus is literally “God with us”.  In him God took on our human flesh, becoming one with us.  He was born not in some privileged palace to wealthy or noble parents, but to a humble couple just as they were being submitted to the indignity of Roman rule.  Almost immediately he was made a refugee by the wicked and murderous King Herod.  In Jesus, God is truly with us in every way imaginable, sharing our nature, sharing our life, sharing our pain, sharing our griefs, sharing our humanity—sharing our everything.  Jesus has come into the darkness and into the pain and into the grief.  This is how the Lord saves.

 

Joseph and Mary’s flight to Egypt underscores just how Jesus came into the midst of the darkness and not just that he’s come and joined us in it, but that he’s found us in the darkness, so that he can lead us out.  After telling us about the angel warning Joseph to flee to Egypt, Matthew tells us that this took place to fulfil what the prophet Hosea wrote: “Out of Egypt I called my son.”  But Hosea wasn’t looking forward to the Messiah—to Jesus—when he wrote those words.  He was talking about Israel.  She was the Lord’s son and the Lord called that son and rescued that son out of Egypt.  And now Jesus is constituting a new Israel where the old Israel had failed.  He is the Lord’s Son and the Lord will call him from Egypt as he once did Israel.  Matthew points to Jesus as the fulfilment and the culmination of Israel’s story.

 

And then as Matthew writes about the slaughter of the children of Bethlehem, he quotes from Jeremiah’s prophecy:

 

         she refused to be comforted, because they are no more.” (Matthew 2:18)

 

It might seem like an odd passage to quote.  When Jeremiah wrote those words he was writing to the people of Judah during their exile in Babylon.  It’s a passage, first, of mourning.  The children of Rachel had lost everything.  Think of the darkness of the world.  Israel had lost it all: her land, her prosperity, her temple.  Everything that the Lord had promised and everything that reminded them of their status as the Lord’s people had been taken away.  Had the Lord forgotten them?  That was what they asked as they wept by the river of Babylon.  But Jeremiah then wrote about the Lord renewing his covenant with Israel.  When she had repented he would restore her to the land he had promised and he would make her prosperous again.  Eventually the Lord did restore Israel.  She returned from exile.  She rebuilt Jerusalem and rebuilt the temple.  But the darkness remained.  And so Matthew recalls the time of the exile, of Israel in mourning, and he does so to say that in Jesus, the Lord is acting once again to rescue his people from the darkness, from their exile, and to restore and renew his covenant with them.

 

And, finally, at the end of today’s Gospel we’re told that when the family returned from Egypt and heard that Archelaus was in power, Joseph decided to settle the family in Nazareth—about as far from Archelaus as he could get.  And Matthew says in verse, 23, that this was “so that what was spoken by the prophets might be fulfilled, that he would be called a Nazarene.”

 

Again, Matthew doesn’t use or quote the prophets the way we might expect him to, as if there’s a one-to-one equation between Isaiah or Jeremiah and the events surrounding Jesus’ birth.  Verse 23 continues to raise questions after two thousand years, because there is no mention of Nazareth anywhere in the Old Testament.  None of the prophets says anything about Jesus being a Nazarene.  The most likely explanation is that Matthew was making a word play.  In Isaiah 11:1 the prophet wrote about the Messiah:

 

They key word is the word “branch”.  In Hebrew the word is nazir, which sounds like Nazareth or Nazarene.  It’s not the sort of thing we would do with an Old Testament text, but it’s just the sort of sounds-like word game that was common then.  The point is that Jesus has a royal lineage.  The Lord had established a covenant with David that his house would be established forever.  In the course of history, David’s house eventually fell.  No descendant of David ever returned to the throne after the exile, but the covenant was still there.  A shoot from the cut-off and seemingly dead stump of Jesse—David’s father—would one day come forth and that branch—that nazir—would bear fruit.

 

Do you see what Matthew is doing here?  Think of the big picture—the sweep of Israel’s story as it’s told in the Bible.  That’s what Matthew is getting at with these quotes from and references to the prophets.  Matthew’s putting the great themes of the story of God and Israel in front of us and showing how, in Jesus, the story is reaching its climax.  Quoting Hosea he reminds us of the Exodus.  Quoting Isaiah 11—the passage about the branch or nazir from Jesse—he reminds us of the covenant the Lord established with David.  And quoting Jeremiah 31 he gives a vivid picture of Israel’s need for rescue and of the darkness in which the world was lost.  Again, Jesus didn’t parachute into history at random.  Matthew stresses that Jesus came when the time was exactly right and that he came as the culmination of Israel’s story.  In him all the covenants and promises the Lord had made to Israel are brought together and fulfilled.  Jesus is Israel, which is why St. Paul can talk about gentiles like us being grafted into Israel.  John the Baptists warned, as he preached the need for repentance in preparation for Jesus’ coming, that the Lord would lay his axe to the dead wood of Israel while raising children for Abraham from the stones.

 

Brothers and Sisters, this means that by faith in Jesus, you and I are now part of this story—the story that goes back to God’s covenant with Abraham, to the Exodus from Egypt, and to the covenant with David.  All those who are in Jesus the Messiah—all those who have turned aside from everything that is not Jesus and instead have laid hold of him in hoping faith with both hands,who have given him their faith, their loyalty, their allegiance—share in the great story of Israel and of Israel’s God and in his promise to deliver the world from the darkness and to deliver us from our bondage to sin and death.  As Jesus came to bring light into the darkness—into the darkness of Caesar’s empire and of Herod’s brutal and murderous cruelty, Jesus has come to bring light into our darkness.

 

Listen to the words of our lesson from Isaiah 61:1-3.  These were the words Jesus preached from in the synagogue in Nazareth at the beginning of his ministry and they were words he claimed for himself.  This is what he came to do.  This is how he came to be light in the darkness.

 

This is Jesus—the Lord’s salvation.  This is what it looks like for God to be with us.  He has delivered us from bondage to sin and from the fear of death, its wages.  There’s darkness all around.  Again, all we have to do is turn on the evening news, read the paper, or look on the Internet.  And we each have our own struggles with the darkness.  We struggle with our own sins.  We struggle with our own strained and broken relationships.  We struggle to make ends meet.  We struggle through pain and sickness and death.  Brothers and Sisters, Jesus has come into the darkness.  He has shared it with us.  He knows and he understands.  And so Jesus speaks good news to us, he binds up our broken hearts.  He takes away the ashes that have been poured on our heads and the sackcloth we’ve been wearing in mourning and gives us beautiful headdresses and garments of praise.  He is light in our darkness.  He is God with us.  Isaiah says that this is so that we will be called “oaks of righteousness” planted by the Lord so that he will be glorified.

 

Having God with us brings amazing transformation.  Imagine the chaos of the world all around, lost in sin, everyone struggling to get on top.  Think of our own suffering and pain and grief.  And then picture what we become when God is with us.  Isaiah says we are oaks of righteousness.  Look at those huge oak trees outside the windows.  They’ve been here forever.  As our building deteriorated in the 50s, 60s, and 70s those trees only got stronger and bigger.  The storms come and go.  Every once in a while one of those big storms damages the church building, but the trees are there as strong as ever.  They’re an illustration of what Jesus has called us to be: light in the darkness, oaks in the storm, standing firm, making him known, providing a place of shelter to any who will come, living as pockets of his new creation, and inspiring everyone around us to give glory to God.  He has not abandoned us.  In Jesus he saves.  In Jesus he has come to be with us—to find us in the darkness and to make us light.

 

Let us pray: Almighty God, you have poured upon us the new light of your incarnate Word:  Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Have you read a great book and then gone to see the movie and the movie totally lost the plot?  Or maybe you got into a TV show, but then the longer the show ran, the more it seemed to lose the original plot?  We’ve been watching one show that started out spectacularly, but now I’m starting wish they’d just ended it after the first season, because lately it feels like the original plot has been hijacked by today’s obligatory plot about sexuality. I found myself thinking how ironic it is that in a postmodern culture that claims to hate metanarratives and insists we all write our own stories, its stories all seem to go the same way.

 

And in the midst of it all, as we all try to write our own stories while having our stories hijacked by the various commercial, political, and sexual plot-writers of our culture, often without our even realising it’s happened, well, Christmas comes.  And if we’ll listen, we just might hear, we must might realise that there’s a greater story and a greater drama with a happier ending.  A story so wonderful, so masterfully written, that it shows up just what fools we’ve been to try to writer our own stories.  A story, too, that’s full of grace.  A story in which God himself has come into the midst of our mangled plotlines to forgive our bad writing, to remind us how the story is supposed to go and what a truly good story looks like, even to welcome us back into his great drama of love and faithfulness and redemption and glory.

 

Genesis reminds us how the story was supposed to go: human beings created by God, mortals made of the same stuff as the rest of creation, but animated and brought to life by the very breath of God.  And then we were placed in his temple.  In the spot where pagans would place their idols to represent the presence and rule of their gods, the living God placed us.  To represent his good and sovereign rule over creation, to act as his stewards, and to know the goodness and the life only found in his presence.  It was a story in which we knew all those things we’ve recalled when lighting the Advent candles—a story of perfect love, peace, joy, and hope.  And we were to be fruitful and to multiply so that we might ever expand the Lord’s temple until it filled all of creation with his glory.

 

And then we tried to hijack the temple for ourselves.  Instead of being the image of God, we tried to become gods ourselves.  And immediately we began to accuse each other.  We began to exploit and dominate each other.  Within a single generation, as Genesis tells it, we were murdering each other.  We were at each other’s throats.  Everyone out for himself, no matter who he had to step on or exploit or enslave or kill.

 

I talked last week about the darkness of the pagan world into which Jesus came.  A world of petty and fickle gods, constantly fighting amongst themselves.  Gods representing the idols of the human heart: power, sex, money, war…you name it.  If it can be used to exploit others, we made a god for it.  The world was dark.  But there was a light—or there was supposed to be.  Two millennia before, the living God had called Abraham out of the darkness of pagan Ur and set him up to be a light in the midst of the darkness.  A man who knew the light of the living God and became, himself a light to the nations.  At first just one man, but then a growing family, and eventually a whole nation—set apart by God and living around a temple in which that light was manifest as a visible and awe-inspiring cloud of glory.  But even Israel succumbed to the darkness.  The kings and people of Israel did what rebellious humanity had always done: they tried to write their own script.  And so Jesus came not only to the dark world of the pagans; he also came to the dark world of Israel.

 

Our Gospel today is a stark reminder of just how off-script things had gone for God’s own people.  It picks up immediately after the wise men had visited Jesus.  Remember that they had travelled to Jerusalem from somewhere in the east, probably Persia, following a star that somehow told them that a king had been born.  They went to the palace of Herod, who was the King of the Jews—at least in title.  And when they asked where they might find the new-born King of the Jews, of course, he had no idea what they were talking about.  These foreigners had to remind him of his own scriptures about the coming king, the one who would finally shepherd God’s people aright, and how he would be born at Bethlehem.

 

From Jerusalem, the wise men travelled to Bethlehem where they became the first of the gentiles to worship Jesus the Messiah. And you’ll remember that an angel came to them and warned them to avoid Jerusalem on their way home.  But Herod didn’t forget the prophecy or the wise men.  He bore the title “King of the Jews”, but he wasn’t really Jewish.  He was the child of a forbidden marriage between a Jew and a gentile.  He was a puppet king set up by the Romans.  He tried to win the people over with grand building projects and public works.  The most important was a renovation of the temple.  But no one like him and no one really thought he was the legitimate king.  And so he was also paranoid.  He wasn’t above murdering his own sons just to make sure he had no rivals.

 

And so, St. Matthew tells us, “After the wise men had gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. ‘Get up,’ he said, ‘and take the child and his mother and hurry too Egypt.  Stay there until I tell you.  Herod is going to hunt for the child, to kill him.’”

 

Tom Wright tells a story that I expect must have happened when he was Bishop of Durham.  A prominent historian who was well-known for his scepticism about the Bible showed up at church one Christmas.  Wright was preaching.  And when the service was over, the historian approached him and said something to the effect of, “I’ve got it all figured out why people love Christmas so much.  It’s about a baby and babies threaten no one, and so we all feel good, but in the end it’s really all about nothing.”  And Wright goes on to say just how dumbfounded he was.  Had this man not heard the Christmas story?  Right here from the get-go, an evil king—a king who insisted on writing his own story—did everything he could to stop God’s rewrite before it could even be started.

 

Considering how impious Herod was, I suspect he didn’t even really believe the prophecy about Bethlehem and a king.  He was just a paranoid despot who had it in his power to murder people frivolously, so…why not?  You know, just in case.

 

“So,” Matthew goes on, “Joseph got up and took the child and his mother by night and went off to Egypt.  He stayed there until the death of Herod.  This happened to fulfil what the Lord said through the prophet [Hosea]: ‘Out of Egypt I called my son.’

 

And so Jesus escapes, but there’s no good news here.  Herod just lashes out blindly.  He’s powerful, he can, and he does.  And so Matthew tells us, “When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he flew into a great rage.  He dispatched men to kill all the boys of Bethlehem, and in all the surrounding districts, from two years old and under, according to the time the wise men had told him.  That was when the word that came through Jeremiah the prophet was fulfilled: ‘There was heard a voice in Rama, crying and loud lamentation.  Rachel is weeping for her children, and will not let anyone comfort her, because they are no more.’”

 

Tell me again how this baby threatens no one.  The shadow of the cross hangs over Jesus’ story before he can even walk or talk.  Because Herod couldn’t stand the thought of not being the master of his own story.  And under threat, he did what he always did: he murdered.  How many?  Bethlehem was likely a town of about a thousand people in those days.  There were probably somewhere between a dozen and two dozen boys there two years old and younger.  And Herod didn’t give it a thought to have them killed.  And apparently neither did his soldiers.  That, or they feared Herod more than they feared God.

 

Again, Herod reminds us that it wasn’t just a dark pagan world into which Jesus was born.  The same darkness hung over Israel.  Because Herod’s problem is a universal one.  Ever since Adam and Eve, we’ve all been trying to write our own stories and to put ourselves in the place of God.  To define for ourselves who we are and what our purpose is.  To define for ourselves what is right and what is wrong.  And the end result of all of our self-serving stories is that we trample and abuse and exploit others to further our own ends.  None of us has the relatively unchecked power of an ancient near eastern despot like Herod and so we balk at his evil.  And yet here in Canada the official statics show that about 20% of pregnancies in any given year are ended by abortion.  And that number is low, because it under-reports at-home chemical abortions.  If we can get away with it, if we can dehumanise another person in our minds, and if that child threatens the story we’re trying to write for ourselves, many, many, many of us will do precisely what Herod did and kill an innocent.  And many will and have done it repeatedly.  Abortion is an extreme example.  Maybe we’d never dream of going that far to guard the narrative we write for ourselves.  Maybe we’d never go that far in our attempt to play God.  But this rot, this rebellion that corrupts human relationships spreads its roots through our society in all sorts of ways.  Maybe it’s the influence of the wicked principalities and powers that St. Paul writes about in Ephesians—trying to corrupt everything, even the good systems we try to put in place.  But the rot spread.  Recently I was listening to a friend tell me the havoc pornography has wreaked in her life.  We tend to think of pornography use as a personal sexual sin—and that’s certainly part of it—but this conversation had me thinking that at the heart of pornography is a dehumanising exploitation of others.  It turns fellow human beings into objects to be used to fulfil our own ends, human beings turned into non-player characters in the sinful and self-gratifying stories we write for ourselves.  It’s not just about sex or sexual immorality.  It’s about the abuse and exploitation for our own ends of fellow human beings, created by God, meant to bear his image, fellow priests of his temple to whom we have an obligation of love and humility and grace and respect.

 

And when you think about it in those terms, you start to see just how much our rebellion against God, just how much our desire to write our own stories and to be our own gods infects and corrupts our network of relationships.  Our marriages and our families break down because we choose to use our husbands or our wives or our children to fill roles in the stories we write for ourselves, instead of being the fellow players we’re meant to be in God’s great drama.  We do the same thing in business and with the people we employ—as if they exist to serve us, to meet our needs, to act their parts in our stories.  And then we get into economics and politics and without even realising it, we’ve let the powerful and the well-placed convince us to live out their stories—that we have to be this  and buy that in order to be fulfilled and happy.  That we have to support this and vote for that, that we have to hate this person over here and that person over there because they have the wrong values, support the wrong thing, or are playing parts in the wrong narrative.  And so we write those people into our stories as the bad guys or the guys to be exploited or the guys to be hated or the guys who aren’t really human at all—they’re garbage, trash, something sub-human.  And they do the same to us and it spiral and spirals and the pain and the sorrow and the hurt and tears just get worse and worse.  And we get caught up in all of this and forget that none of these stories, none of these narratives, none of these dramas matter one whit.  Brothers and Sisters, it’s God’s great drama that matters; it’s God’s drama that we need to remember and live.

 

And God knows all this.  He knows how we’ve fallen.  He knows how we so want to write our stories for ourselves.  He knows—better than we do—the pain and the misery and the tears that we inflict on others and that they inflict on us.  And so he comes, as the baby, into the midst of the darkness and the tears and, again, before he can even walk or talk, he’s a homeless refugee in a foreign land with a king looking to kill him.

 

This was the thing no one expected of the Messiah.  They expected a great king, like David, but greater.  Born in a place.  Eventually riding in to Jerusalem in a chariot to bash Roman heads and to set the world to rights by putting Israel on the top of the heap.  They expect that because the people of Israel were still trying to write their own story for themselves.  But, instead, Jesus is born in humility to ordinary parents.  From his birth he knows the danger and the tears of being part of someone else’s wicked story.  All things that Israel should have known.  This is what Matthew is getting at when he quotes Hoses saying, “Out of Egypt I called my son.”  That’s who Israel was.  They were God’s beloved son and they were the rescued-form-Egyptian-slavery people, born in sorrow and tears and pain, exploited and abused by a king who thought he was a god and who forced them to live his drama.  Jesus came the same way.  He knew the pain of sin.  He knew the pain of abuse.  He knew what it meant to be forced to live as someone else’s non-player character.

 

And in that echo of Israel’s past and Israel’s identity, there’s hope.  Again, Matthew cites the prophets—this time Jeremiah—as he recounts the horrible murder of the holy innocents of Bethlehem.  Think again of Pharoah, threatened by the fruitfulness of the Israelites.  Pretty soon there would be more of them than there were Egyptians.  And so he ordered their baby boys to be drowned in the Nile.  Rachel wept for her children, as Jeremiah said.  But Moses, Israel’s deliverer—Israel’s first “messiah”, if you will—escaped in the Lord’s providence, and rose up to challenge Pharoah and his gods and to lead the people out of their bondage in Egypt.  Just so, Matthew wants us to hear that story echoing in the story of Jesus.  Like Pharoah, Herod tried to write his own story, he tried to stamp out the Lord’s deliverer, but the Lord is sovereign and somehow always manages to take our bad and pathetic rewrites and bring them into his own great drama to further his own ends and to reveal his glory to the world.

 

He did this at the cross, Brothers and Sisters.  The people of Judaea, the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the priest and Levites and scribes together with Pilate as the representative of Rome and the pagan nations, they tried to write their own story—a story in which Jesus was a pretend king and a blasphemer of the temple and the things of God, a story in which they were right and Jesus was wrong, a story in which they were justified in rejecting and mocking and crucifying the son of God as a false messiah.  And that Friday when Jesus gasped out, “It is finished” and his friends took him down from the cross and buried him in a tomb, the people of Judaea, the Pharisees and the Sadducees, Pilate and Rome all thought they had the happy ending they wanted.  They were the heroes of their own stories and Jesus was dead, but all the while God was using their rebellion and their grasping at godhood to his own ends.  They rebelled, but God in his sovereign grace, incorporated their stories into his own to serve his own ends.  A story in which evil and sin and death foolishly concentrated themselves all in one place, in which evil and sin and death did their worst—and failed—as three days later Jesus burst out of the tomb with the power of God’s life and his new creation.  Burst from the tomb alive to sweep the whole of creation itself up into God’s great drama of light and life.

 

Brother and Sisters, that’s grace.  If this were one of our stories, we’d fire the writers who made such a mess of it and consign them to oblivion, but God instead comes in love and grace to forgive and to set right.  He takes our horrible stories and, master storyteller that he is, he uses them for good and instead of consigning us to oblivion, he offers us our places back in the great divine drama we once rejected…if we will only trust that he is the way and the truth and the life, if we will give him our allegiance and pledge to live out his story instead of ours.  It should be such an easy choice when see the wake of destruction our stories have left in contrast to his great story of love and grace that leads to life and new creation and all the sad things we’ve written for ourselves somehow one day becoming all untrue.

 

Brothers and Sisters, hear the Christmas story again this year.  Really and truly hear it so that it drowns out and overcomes all the other narratives and stories and dramas you’ve been hearing and living.  Let it be a reset.  Let this story of God, humbly incarnate who humbly dies for rebellious sinners, let this truth become the truth by which you measure everything.  Let the glorious light of resurrection and new creation and the presence of God be your hope and your only hope and be so overcome by it that you lose all desire to write your story for yourself, and choose to become a faithful player in Jesus’ drama of love and peace, of joy and hope.

 

Let’s pray: Almighty God, whose loving purposes cannot be frustrated by the wickedness of men, so that even infants may glorify you by their deaths: strengthen us by your grace, that by the innocency of our lives and constancy of our faith even to death, we may glorify your holy name, through Jesus Christ our Lord who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

For the last few months I’ve been reading Tom Holland’s book Dominion.  (That’s Tom Holland the historian, not the actor.  Until recently I didn’t even know there was an actor because, I guess, I’m a history nerd.)  Anyway, I’ve been reading a chapter here and a chapter there in between reading other more important things and it’s been worthwhile.  Holland isn’t a Christian, but this rather large book is nevertheless about the influence that the Gospel, the good news about Jesus, has had in shaping Western Civilisation.  One of the points he stresses is just how brutal and barbaric the ancient world was.  Greeks and Romans knew little of mercy and grace.  Theirs was a dog-eat-dog world.  It was cruel.  The weak were something to be exploited and if they couldn’t be exploited, they were a liability and left to fend for themselves.  Nearly a third of the people of the Roman empire were slaves.  Infants were routinely left to die of exposure.  Sexual immorality was everywhere and was a central part of the worship of many gods.  Marital fidelity, especially amongst the wealthy and powerful was uncommon.  Think of the pagan gods of Greece and Rome we learned about in school: petty, capricious, fickle, unloyal, angry, and constantly fighting amongst themselves.  These were the gods the Greeks and the Romans created in their own image.  Whatever problems we see in our world—and it’s getting worse the deeper we drift from the Gospel and return to paganism—but however bad you think our world is, theirs was worse.  Brother and Sisters, the gospel has had a profound impact on our world.  And even as gospel virtues go to seed in the secular world and we have distorted and perverted version of love and mercy and justice thrown at us, the very fact that anyone at all in our society cares about things like justice, is because of the powerful impact of the gospel.

 

It’s appropriate that Advent comes to us at the darkest time of the year, because it reminds us of the darkness of the world into which Jesus was born.  Surrounded by those pagans, Israel had the light of God’s law, but even then, Israel lived in darkness.  They’d returned from their Babylonian exile five hundred years before, but the Lord had never returned to his temple.  The priests kept the lamp lit in the temple—the lamp symbolic of the Lord’s presence with his people, but behind the great and heavy curtain, the holy of holies was empty.  And Israel was ruled by a series of pagan empires: the Persians, the Greeks, and then the Romans.  But Israel had her story.  They were the people whom the Lord had delivered from slavery in Egypt.  They knew his character and they knew his faithfulness.  And they knew his promises.  They had faith.  And so they lived in hope and expectant longing.  One day the words of Isaiah—the ones we read in our Old Testament lesson—“Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that her warfare is ended, that her iniquity is pardoned, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.”  One day those words would be fulfilled.  And, most people were pretty sure, that day was coming soon.  That’s the setting for today’s Gospel, which begins at John 1:19.

 

This is the testimony John [the Baptist] gave when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, “Who are you?”  He confessed, and did not deny, but confessed, “I am not the Messiah.”  “What then?” they asked him, “Are you Elijah?” “I am not,” he replied.  “Are you the Prophet?” And he answered, “No.”  “Well, then who are you?” they said.  “We’ve got to take an answer back to those who sent us.  Who do you claim to be?”  He said, “I am ‘a voice calling in the wilderness, Make straight the way of the Lord,’ just as the prophet Isaiah said.”  (John 1:19-28)

 

So the priests were the spiritual gatekeepers of Israel and when they heard of this prophet, John, preaching and baptising, they sent their people to ask him what he was about—to see if he was legit.  People were talking about John like he was the Messiah—as if he were the one come to fulfil the prophecies of deliverance and salvation.  Was John the one?

 

So they ask, “Who are you?  Who do you claim to be? Elijah?”  Remember that the Prophet Elijah had never died; he was swept up into have by a fiery chariot.  And Malachi had prophesied that “before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes” the Lord would send Elijah back.  Like King Arthur returning to Britain in its hour of greatest need. But John says, “No.  I’m not Elijah.”  He hadn’t come to earth in a fiery chariot.  He was the son of Zechariah the priest and his wife, Elizabeth.

 

“Are you the prophet?” they asked.  In Deuteronomy 18 the Lord had promised that he would one day raise up a prophet like Moses, who would declare his words.  Many people thought this prophet would be the Messiah.  But again John answers, “Nope, I’m not the prophet either.”  We get a sense of just how great the longing of these people was.  Like a kid getting up every morning of December and asking his parents if it’s Christmas yet, the people of Israel longed for the Messiah to come and set the world to rights, to end the darkness, to once again fill the temple with the glory of the Lord.

 

John was as eager as anyone, but he tells them “No, I’m not the Prophet.”  In fact, John was fulfilling those prophecies—Matthew and Mark tell us as much.   But I think John denied it because he knew people associated the prophecies of Elijah and the Prophet with the Messiah.  John knew he wasn’t the Messiah; he was the Messiah’s herald.  And so when the priests finally let him speak for himself, he quotes Isaiah 40:3, and says, “I am ‘a voice calling in the wilderness, make straight the way of the Lord.’”  In other words, John was indeed fulfilling prophecy—not as the Messiah, but as the one sent to prepare Israel to receive the Messiah.

 

And that surprised those priests.  People in the past had claimed to be the Messiah.  No one claimed to be his herald.  That was weird.  So they dig deeper.  Look at verses 25-27:

 

 

For the Jews, baptism was a symbol of cleansing and of ritual purity.  It was a ritual washing.  At this point the other gospel-writers are helpful as they expand on John’s answer.  Mark tells us that John’s baptism was a baptism of repentance—it was a preparatory act in light of the coming judgement the Messiah would bring.  And Matthew and Luke also report John going on about this one who will come, this one greater than him: “He will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and with fire” (Matthew 3:11, Luke 3:16).  In other words, John is calling Israel to repentance in anticipation of the Messiah, who will fulfil the Lord’s promises to set Israel to rights by filling his people with his own Spirit.  The law written on stone tablets would be inscribed on the hearts of God’s people so that they could finally fulfil his law of love.  But the Messiah was also coming in judgement.  He would baptise the repentant with God’s own Spirit, but he would baptise unrepentant Israel with fire.

 

These are the two sides of the gospel coin.  You can’t have one without the other.  Jesus’ advent, on the one hand, brought mercy to the repentant, but on the other it also brought judgement on the unrepentant of Israel.  What’s important for us here, Brothers and Sisters, is that this exchange between John and the priests reminds us of the Messiah’s place in Israel’s story and of the faithfulness of God to his promises.  It is this manifestation of the Lord’s faithfulness (and of his goodness, mercy, grace, and wisdom) to Israel—something we see brought to its climax in the birth, the death, the resurrection, and the ascension of Jesus, that has drawn us—you and I—to the God of Israel and that, by faith, has incorporated us into the people of God.  Through our union with Jesus, through our incorporation into this people, through our being made adopted sons and daughters of Abraham, you and I have come to know God’s mercy and the life of the Spirit, too.  Because of the faithfulness of God, revealed in Jesus and in the power of the gospel, the darkness that Israel knew; that deep, deep darkness full of false gods and wicked kings and evil principalities and powers has been driven away by the light.  The light has come into the darkness, his gospel has thrown those powers down and lit up the world.  And you and I have seen—we live in—the glory of that light.  And knowing that takes us from our Gospel passage today into our Epistle.  Paul writes those wonderful and challenging words in Philippians 4:4:

 

 

Paul spoke these words to a people surrounded by the dark.  “Rejoice in the Lord always!”  Because being surrounded by the dark, it’s awfully easy to forget the light of the gospel.  Just before he wrote this, Paul exhorted two women in the Philippian church, Euodia and Syntyche, to “agree in the Lord”.  These two sisters in the Messiah, once close, once working together in gospel life had some kind of falling out.  We don’t know the details, but it was something important enough to prompt Paul to address them publicly.  They’d let the darkness extinguish their light.  Instead of standing as a witness to the victory of Jesus over the principalities and powers of the present wicked age, the local church was letting those powers have their way in their midst.  Brothers and Sisters, don’t let that happen.  Paul exhorts them (and us) instead:

 

Let everyone know how gentle and gracious you are.  (Philippians 4:5a)

 

Gentle and gracious.  Paul uses the same description in 2 Corinthians 10 to describe the meekness of Jesus as a model for Christians.  This is gospel light lived out.  What Paul’s getting at is that Jesus is the King, but in him we see this amazing display of gracious gentleness.  This is the gentleness we see revealed as Jesus, the one to whom heaven and earth belong, humbled himself to be born one of us, to die on the cross, and to show mercy to his enemies.  And in that, Jesus defeated the powers that held the world in darkness and sin and now, we his people, are called to live that victory out amongst ourselves as witnesses to Jesus’ victory and the inauguration of God’s kingdom.  This is our Advent stewardship.

 

So consider, Brothers and Sisters, when we demand our rights, when we grasp for power, when we nurse grudges, we undermine our gospel witness—we put on display the very darkness from which we’ve been delivered by the one who is light.  In contrast Paul calls us to rejoice in the Lord and to manifest Jesus-like gentleness in our relationships.  Jesus’ gracious gentleness has forgiven and restored us and that same gracious gentleness ought to shine through us and through the life of the church.  Consider that every time we hold a grudge, allow a relationship to break down, or follow the world’s advice to cut those problem or negative people out of our lives, we undermine the Church’s witness to the world.  But that’s not all. Paul goes on:

 

There’s our Advent theme again: Jesus has given us a job to do.  He’s given us a gospel treasure to steward in his absence.  In the meantime, rather than being anxious—and anxiousness is so often the thing that evil uses to manipulate us—instead of being anxious we should take our needs to God.  Jesus made the same point in the Sermon on the Mount.  The pagans worry about what they’ll eat, what they’ll wear, and where they’ll sleep.  God’s people should know better than to worry unduly about these things.  The God who fed Israel with manna in the wilderness will provide.  He is faithful to his promises.  The story of his dealings with Israel is the proof and even more so, so is his gift of Jesus, who died and rose again to set us free from sin and death.  So go to the Lord with your needs and ask.  And while you’re at it, give thanks, because you know his faithfulness and his love.

 

This is part of the witness of the people of God—it’s how we are light in the darkness—and it ties back into rejoicing.  When Paul talks about rejoicing, at least part of what he’s got in mind is a public display or a public witness.  The pagan Greeks in Philippi regularly held public celebrations to honour their gods.  And yet the pagans, as Jesus said, were always anxious.  Because their gods never delivered.  Pagan religion was a non-stop game of trial and error, trying to guess what the gods wanted, trying to guess what you may have done wrong to offend them, and then guessing at what you might offer to appease their anger or to ingratiate them to you in order to get what you needed or wanted.  The pagan gods were silent and they were notoriously capricious and unreliable.  And in this context Paul exhorts the Philippian Christians: Rejoice yourselves.  Let the pagans see you celebrating the fact that the Creator of the universe has, through Jesus, made you his own and lives in your midst by his own Holy Spirit.  Let the pagans, who know only mean and capricious gods and who live in a dog-eat-dog world, let them see the gracious gentleness of God in you.  Live in such a way that they see in you the God who humbles himself to die for the sake of his enemies.  And let the pagans see you living in faith, praying in confident thankfulness to the God whose story reveals an unfailing pattern of promise and fulfilment.  Shine the light of Jesus into the darkness of the world.  And if you’ll do that, he says in verse 7:

 

I think we tend to look at Paul’s exhortation here as something we should do in order to experience the peace of God ourselves, but given the context in Philippians, I think Paul’s point is actually more about our witness.  If we truly live as stewards of the good news about Jesus, if we truly live as people who know the faithfulness of God revealed in Jesus and particularly in his death and resurrection, if we truly know the life of the Spirit, the peace of God—instead of the strife and anxiety of the world—will guard our hearts and minds in a way that will astound the unbelievers around us.

 

I like to say that Jesus calls us—his church—to be a pocket of new creation in the middle of the old—to be heaven-on-earth people, living Gods’ future in the hic et nunc, in the here and now.  Brothers and Sisters, this is how we do that.  And this makes us the John the Baptists of our own place and age as we proclaim the good news about Jesus—how we proclaim and show the world that Jesus has triumphed over the principalities and powers just as he has over sin and death.  And as the world took notice of those tiny and seemingly insignificant Christian communities popping up around the Roman empire, so it will take not of us.  And some will give glory to God as they see his faithfulness, they will come in faith to Jesus and his cross.  But it will also threaten those who are invested in the present age, its pagan gods and sinful systems.  And they will fight back.

 

So we need to ask: Does the world see our joy?  Are we the voice crying in the wilderness?  Are we the royal heralds the Lord has called us to be, summoning the word to let go of its false gods and to come to the Lord Jesus, calling the world away from sin and self and to come to the cross?  And we need to ask how the world is responding to us.  If we’re faithfully proclaiming the good news about Jesus, if we’re faithfully calling people to repent and to believe, if we’re faithfully proclaiming that Jesus is Lord and that his kingdom has come—well—people will respond in one of two ways.  Either they’ll believe or they’ll get angry—as Herod got angry with John.  There’s some of both out there in the world, but overwhelmingly, when I look at how people respond to or think of the church these days in our part of the world, it’s often just indifference.  Why?

 

Because we have not been the witnesses God calls us to be.  We are afraid to confront the world with the good news about Jesus and we are half-hearted in our allegiance to his kingdom.  Like old Israel, we pray to God, but we’ve failed to tear down the old altars to Baal and Asherah—or money, sex, and power.  We name Jesus, but we deal dishonestly in business, we sell our souls to the commercialism that surrounds us, we look to politics or to science as our saviours, and we dabble in the sexual immorality of the age.  We’ve failed to proclaim the gospel and we justify it, saying that we’ll preach it with our lives.  But if we stop to ask what the world sees in our lives, is it really very different?  Does the world see us rejoicing in the Lord?  Does the world see us manifesting the gracious gentleness of Jesus?  Does the world see us living in faithful prayer and trusting in God, or does it see people just as anxious as everyone else?  Does it see enmity and strife and broken relationships or does it see a gospel people living out the healing and reconciling love of Jesus in loving unity?  Does the world see the peace of God ruling our hearts and minds?  Does the world see us, holding high the gospel, as a challenge to its gods and its kings and its sins?  It should.  But sadly, I think that for the Western Church at large, the answer is often “no”.

 

And, all too often, when we do proclaim the gospel, we do so without power or authority.  Think of John boldly declaring the coming judgement and calling Israel to repentance.  It was urgent and powerful.  In contrast we tend to hold the gospel out as good advice, rather than as the good news that it is.  Friends, the gospel is the royal summons to come in faith to Jesus, the world’s true Lord—the Lord who has come with mercy so that the repentant will escape when he comes one day in judgement.  This was the power behind John the Baptist’ preaching.  But all too often we present the gospel as just another option on the religious smorgasbord—something you might want to try. See if you like it.  See if it works for you.  If not…oh well.  Brothers and Sisters, that’s not the gospel.  The gospel is life! The gospel is good news to the people living in the midst of darkness and death: the king who will set the world to rights has come.  And that means the gospel, when preached as it should be, will challenge and upset the Herods and Caesars of our age and all those invested in the false gods of the world.

 

The Advent message is to be prepared.  Jesus has given us a gospel mission to take the good news of his death, his resurrection, and his lordship into the world.  Brothers and Sisters, pray that we will be faithful to our mission—faithful enough to provoke opposition, because that’s the kind of faithfulness that also reaps a harvest for the kingdom.  Pray for the holy boldness of John the Baptist and the gracious gentleness of Jesus.  Pray that we will be the salt of the earth and the light of the world.  Pray that the joy of the Lord will overcome us.  Brothers and Sisters, Rejoice!  Rejoice in the Lord always.  Again, I say rejoice.

 

Let’s pray: O Lord, come among us, we pray, with your power and strengthen us with your great might; that whereas, through our sins and wickedness we are grievously hindered in running the race that is set before us, your bountiful grace and mercy may speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, to whom with you and the Holy Spirit, be honour and glory, now and for ever.  Amen.

 

by William Klock

 

Many years ago, as we were driving home from church on a Sunday morning, a very young Alexandra asked, “Dad, can Episcopalians cry?”  I thought, “What?  Of course we can. What makes you ask that?”  And she said something to the effect of, “The song said the Baptists cried”  “Ah!  ‘On Jordan’s bank the Baptist’s cry…’ and I found myself trying to figure out how to explain plurals and possessives and punctuation to a pre-schooler who couldn’t read yet, and in the end I said something like—“No, the song is about John the Baptist, not Baptists, and he wasn’t crying because he was sad, he was crying—like yelling out—to the crowds about how, in Jesus, God had come to save his people like he’d promised, so they’d better get ready by getting rid of their sins.”

 

That hymn was written by Charles Coffin in 1736 for the Paris Breviary and was a hymn to be sung at Lauds—more or less what we call Morning Prayer—during Advent.  And it wonderfully blends the account of John the Baptist that we have in the Gospels with Isaiah’s prophecies of the coming Messiah, his call to make straight the way of the Lord, and his promises of forgiveness and reconciliation, of healing and new creation.  Maybe it’s because we reference the hymn by its first line, but somehow that first line—little Alexandra wasn’t the only one—lots of people hear that first line and imagine poor John sobbing on the banks of the Jordan river, when what we’re singing about is John, proclaiming with an urgent joy the coming of the Messiah and the fulfilment of Israel’s hopes and longings.

 

It’s certainly an appropriate image for this season of Advent as we prepare ourselves to celebrate the birth of Jesus and are reminded about the vocation he’s given us to prepare ourselves and his creation for the day when he returns.  But I still wrestle with this passage and with today’s Epistle from 1 Corinthians 11, every time the Third Sunday in Advent rolls around.  Last week’s lessons are some of my favourites.  They remind us how important it is that we know and root ourselves in the story of God and his people.  But I always find today’s lessons hard.  First we hear Paul rebuking the Corinthian Christians.  They’d rejected his authority and he writes them to say, “Hey, that’s not the way I should be treated.  You need to regard me a servant of the Messiah and steward of God’s mysteries.  Who are you to judge me?”  If we didn’t know better we might think Paul’s head was a little swollen.  And then in the Gospel we’ve got Jesus defending John the Baptist and his calling and ministry.

 

And I know that the reason these lessons were appointed for the Third Sunday in Advent is because this is an ember week, one of those weeks that most people have forgotten about, that come around four times a year—the times when ordinations traditionally took place.  And so the lessons were chosen to remind us of the importance of those who serve as ministers in the church.  We prayed in the Collect, “Grant that the ministers and stewards of thy mysteries may so prepare and make ready your way by turning the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, that at your second coming to judge the world we may be found an acceptable people in your sight.”  That’s a good thing to pray.  I hope that you pray for me and that you pray for our bishops and for those who lead and teach in our church—and all the churches.  But I get kind of uncomfortable standing at the pulpit and suggesting that I—or any other clergyman, by he a presbyter or a bishop—can talk that way about my ministry the way Paul could speak about his apostolic ministry and authority.  That was a unique authority given to Paul and the other apostles and to no one since.  Our duty—both mine and yours—is simply to faithfully proclaim the faith given to us by those uniquely authoritative apostles.  Ditto for Jesus’ defense of John the Baptist.  I hope with all my heart that if a crowd of people were doubting my faithfulness, that Jesus was come to my defense.  But I can’t presume to talk as if Jesus’ words in today’s Gospel mean that you all should see and respect me as a modern-day John the Baptist.  Every year when this set of lessons comes around, I can’ help but think of the words of our Declaration of Principles, where it says that “this church condemns and rejects the following erroneous and strange doctrines as contrary to God’s word...” And the second of those erroneous and strange doctrines is “That Christian ministers are ‘priests’ in another sense than that in which all believers are a ‘royal priesthood’.”

 

Brother and Sisters, together we are the body of Jesus the Messiah.  Some of us are ears or eyes, some hands or feet, some hearts or brains.  I may have pastoral training and authority granted by the church to teach and to administer the sacraments, but that doesn’t make me more important.  The church, to be the church, needs all of us.  And the really important thing that we really need—all of us—to do is not to treat our pastors or our bishops as if they carry Paul’s apostolic authority.  What we need to do is to see ourselves—all of us—in the same place as the Corinthians and submit ourselves to that apostolic teaching handed down by Paul and Peter and John and the rest of the apostles.

 

Because our witness depends on it.  God’s kingdom depends on it.  We are the stewards of the good news and we’re stewards of God’s Spirit.  We are the stewards of his kingdom and his new creation.  And as Paul writes, “it’s required of stewards that they be found trustworthy”.  When Paul writes “steward” he’s describing the manager of a household or an estate.  Think of Joseph, Potiphar’s steward, put in charge of everything he owned, responsible for how it was all managed, responsible for the profits and losses, responsible for making sure all of Potiphar’s assets were put to good and efficient use and not wasted, squandered, or damaged.  That’s what Paul saw himself as when it came to the mysteries of God.  And not some highfalutin executive, but as a humble slave, graciously chosen by God to steward the gospel.

 

And because you and I have been entrusted with that same gospel—handed down by Paul and Peter and John and the other apostles—we’ve become stewards too.  Not with the apostolic authority that Paul had and the ability to announce “Thus saith the Lord.”  But still a people called to work in the Lord’s household or in his vineyard, entrusted with his mysteries—with the gospel, with his grace, with his Spirit—and called, each of us in our own way, to steward the Lord’s good things faithfully.

 

When we look at First and Second Corinthians, the folks in that church weren’t doing a very good job.  Picture them.  A small church—probably a few dozen people at most.  Most of the people in it were converts from paganism.  They used to worship false gods who represented things like sex, knowledge, money, war, power, government.  The Corinthians all had their favourite sins: lying, cheating, anger, pornography, drunkenness, drugs, adultery.  You name it, they’d done it—often as part of their worship.  But then this funny Jewish man showed up preaching a bizarre message about the God of Israel and his son, the Messiah—the anointed king—who had been crucified and then raised from death.  And this man, Paul, he’d been abused, beaten, stoned, left for dead so many times for the sake of this message, this “good news” he was so earnest about.  He was a little frightening to look at, because he literally bore the marks of this gospel, the marks of Jesus on his own body.  But this good news was unlike any news they’d ever heard before.  This God, this Jesus, was unlike any god they’d ever worshiped.  He brought love, mercy, grace, and hope into a world of darkness, greed, selfishness, and brutality.  In Paul they saw and in hearing the good news he announced, they met God’s new world and they were won over.  They were baptised into this God who is Father, Son, and Spirit and the new creation begun by Jesus was born in them.  Paul stayed and he taught them and they grew in Jesus and the Spirit.  And they lived as a little pocket of God’s new age right there in the midst of brutal, wicked, dark, pagan Corinth.  And then Paul moved on.  And they started to struggle.  The temptations of their old pagan ways came back—as so often happens.  The new life of Jesus and the Spirit—so thrilling at first—became hum-drum and they started seeking after new experiences and new excitements.  That resulted in factions in the church: this group became a fan of that preacher and that group became fans of this preacher.  In the name of Christian liberty they became tolerant of sin—even some that were unspeakable to the pagans.  And that led to further divisions.  They began to use the gifts the Spirit had given them, not to build up the church, but to build up themselves.  Their worship became chaotic and dishonouring to God.  And when Paul heard what was happening and wrote to them.  Think of Advent.  He wrote to them: “Hey, you’re living like you’re still part of the old evil age, subject to the old false gods and the principalities and powers that Jesus defeated at the cross.  You’re supposed to be living as heralds of God’s new creation!  You’re supposed to be a church full of John the Baptists, crying out, announcing that the Lord is night!”  And they wrote back a nasty letter telling him they were done with him—they didn’t want to hear his “correction” anymore.  They had grown beyond his teaching and they were doing well on their own, thank you very much!

 

And I think we tend to read about the Corinthians think, “Wow, what horrible Christians!”  And yet, I don’t know that the modern church is all that different.  It’s full of quarrelling and divisions.  We’re jealous of other pastor’s or other church’s successes.  We use the gifts God has given to benefit ourselves rather than the body.  We lack holiness.  We’re worldly.  We lie, we cheat, we steal, and we exploit in our business.  Our families are often a mess.  Unrepentant divorce is rampant.  Sexual immorality, pornography, drugs and drunkenness, abortion are nearly as prevalent in the church as they are in the world.  Bishops and presbyters abuse and lie and plagiarise and get drunk and engage in sexual immorality.  We say we’ve given our allegiance to Jesus, but we sell ourselves out to the materialistic and consumeristic and individualistic and political spirits of the age.  We take our cues from advertising and become dissatisfied with what God has given us and where he’s placed us.  We take our cues from politicians instead of the Bible.  We see evil in the world, we see injustice in the world and instead of speaking out or doing something about it, we look the other way and refuse to act. Our worship is too often chaotic and man-centred rather than God- and gospel-centred.  We preach self-help instead of sin and grace, the cross and new creation.  Brothers and Sisters, the church is supposed to be the advance guard of God’s new creation.  It's supposed to be his temple, the place where God and man, where heaven and earth meet.  We’ve been entrusted with the mysteries of God.  But we’re too much like the old creation.  Our allegiance is half-hearted.  We are unfaithful stewards, squandering the gifts of God.  The principalities and powers of the old age often rule and govern the church more than Jesus and the Spirit do.  I don’t think it’s any wonder that—to use the analogy of John’s vision in Revelation—I don’t think it’s any great wonder that Jesus seems to be taking away our lampstand here in the post-Christian West.

 

And I know there’s little if anything you and I can do about the church on a large scale, but we’ve been entrusted with our little corner of the church and we can do something about that.  Advent reminds us that as Israel was to listen to men like John the Baptist and prepare for Jesus first coming, the church now needs to listen to the scriptures—to the prophets and apostles—and prepare for Jesus’ return.  As Paul warned the Corinthians that they needed to heed his apostolic authority, he might as well be warning us, too.  Hear the apostles and hear the prophets—and don’t just hear; do.  Hear the words of Isaiah we read today: “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing.  The glory of the Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.  They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God.”

 

Maybe that doesn’t mean much to us today, but for people who lived in the desert, those were words of hope.  New creation was coming.  God has promised to come and set the world to rights.  To bring his people back to the garden to live in his presence.  And so Isaiah tells them, “Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees.  Say to those who have an anxious heart, “Be strong; fear not!  Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God.  He will come and save you.”

 

Don’t be discouraged.  Don’t lose hope.  Don’t forget his promises.  Don’t forget to whom you belong.  Don’t give up on your holy vocation.  Don’t forget that you are stewards of the good things of God for the sake of the world.  What he has promised he will do.  He will not let you thirst in the desert forever.  “The eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy.  For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; in the haunt of jackals, where they lie down, the grass shall become reeds and rushes.  And a highway shall be there, and it shall be called the way of holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it.  It shall belong to those who walk on the way; even if they are fools, they shall not go astray.  No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there.  And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.”

 

John the Baptist saw that in Jesus God was beginning to fulfil this promise.  In fact, what John saw in Jesus—preaching good news, healing the sick, casting out demons—looked so much like the fulfilment of God’s promises made through Isaiah and the other prophets, that he had confidence to announce to Israel that the kingdom was at hand. It gave him the confidence to preach, not just the joyful part of Isaiah’s message, but to also declare the part about God’s judgement coming and to call the people to repentance in preparation.  He was confident enough that he even called out King Herod’s personal sins.  And that landed him in Herod’s dungeon.  But when Jesus didn’t break him out, he started to wonder.  I don’t know that he really doubted the message, but it seems like he began to wonder and so he sent his disciples to Jesus to ask, “Are you the one or should we look for someone else?”  And Jesus reminded them of all the Messiah things he’d been doing.  The blind received their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, even the dead are raised, and the poor are hearing good news for the first time.  And in case the crowds were doubting, Jesus reminded them of the absolute certainty John had shown.  “What did you go out to the wilderness to see?” he asked them.  Not a reed flapping in the wind.  Not some fop dressed in fine clothes.  You can find that in Herod’s palace.  No, you went out to see a prophet—to see a man who knows God’s faithfulness and wasn’t afraid to proclaim both the joy of salvation and the sternness of judgement.  You went out because he was calling you to repentance in preparation for God’s coming.  Yes, you went out to hear the one of whom it was written: “Behold, I send my messenger…who will prepare the way before you.”  In other words, Jeus says to them, “You saw what God is doing through me and so you went out to meet John, to listen to his message, to be baptised in the Jordan, because you knew that you need to be prepared for God’s coming.

 

And, Brothers and Sisters, we need to hear the same thing.  We’ve seen the goodness of God, we’ve seen his faithfulness in Jesus.  We’ve know the joy of being forgiven our sins and restored to fellowship with God.  We’ve received his Spirit and have known the beginning of new creation.  We’ve experienced the fellowship of this redeemed community.  We should be as certain as John was that in Jesus God’s salvation has come, that in Jesus new creation has begun.  And we should be as certain as John was of the need to make straight the way of the Lord, to shout to the world with joy and also with earnestness: Repent, because the kingdom of God is here.  But I think we’ve lost that—or at least a good bit of it.  The joy has faded and we’ve become complacent.

 

And so Advent is a call to remember the faithfulness of God that we have known, to remember the joy and love and hope we once knew, and to renew our allegiance to King Jesus and to his kingdom…and then to repent in dust and ashes for our sins and failures and betrayals and to commit ourselves as the church, as his temple to truly be the place where heaven and earth meet, the place that confronts the kingdoms of men with the kingdom of God, that confronts the principalities and powers with the victory of the cross, to be the people who know the redemption of sins and who go out into the world to make straight the way of the Lord.  Brothers and Sisters, let Advent remind you of the joy of your salvation; let Advent remind you of the kingdom vocation you’ve been given; let Advent be a time recommitment as you lay aside everything else and once again give your full attention and your full allegiance and your full self to the coming King.

 

Let’s pray: O Lord Jesus, Messiah, who at your first coming sent your messenger to prepare your way before you: grant that we being faithful ministers and stewards of your mysteries, might so prepare and make ready your way by turning the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, that at your second coming to judge the world we may be found an acceptable people in your sight; who lives and reigns with the Father in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

In our Epistle, in Romans 15:4, St. Paul writes, “Whatever was written ahead of time, you see, was written for us to learn from, so that through patience and through the encouragement of the scriptures, we might have hope.”

 

Maybe more than any of our other Advent scripture lessons, that verse sums up what Advent is about.  There’s a big story.  The story of God and his people and the world.  And the Christmas story is just one part of it.  A very importantly part, without a doubt, but still just one part.  Pull it out, try to make it stand on all on its own, and it ends up becoming something else.  And that’s what secular culture has done.  Contrast how the world prepares us for Christmas and how the church prepares us.  Our commercialistic, materialistic, entertainment focused culture just starts shoving Christmas at us as soon as Halloween is over.  How do you get ready for Christmas?  You buy Christmas stuff.  You start listening to Christmas music.  You start watching all the Christmas movies on TV.  Our culture prepares for Christmas by doing Christmas.  And then Christmas comes and then it’s suddenly over in a day…or maybe two, if you count Boxing Day.  And I hear it all the time: people are left wondering what happened, feeling like they missed something.

 

It occurred to me that this is like trying to explain to someone that Die Hard is a Christmas movie by making them watch the scene of Hans Gruber falling from Nakatomi Plaza…over and over and over.  It’s an iconic scene.  It says Christmas almost as much as Baby Jesus in the manger.  But your friend will still have no idea what Die Hard is about, let alone why it’s a Christmas movie.  He just knows it ends with a bad guy falling off a building into a big explosion.  If you want him to understand, you’ve got to start at the beginning.  He has to know the story all the way back to the opening with John McClane on the airplane.  Then your friend will get it…and maybe he’ll even understand why it’s the best Christmas movie ever.  And when the time comes for that scene, the grand crescendo of the movie, and Hans Gruber falls from Nakatomi Tower, he’s gonna cheer, because it’s not just a cool scene.  It’s not just iconic.   It’s the denouement of the story.

 

And that is what the church does with Advent, Brothers and Sisters.  It takes us back into the story of Israel and Israel’s God, it shows us the darkness of the world and the fallenness of humanity, it reminds us God’s plan and his promises to set it all to rights, to make everything new again.  That’s why our daily readings through Advent are taken from Isaiah.  And so, when Christmas comes, it’s more than just an orgy of consumerism and it’s more than just sentimental feelings about Baby Jesus in a manger, it’s more than vague good thoughts about God.  No, when Christmas comes and we’ve been reading the promises in the scripture and singing the promises and songs of longing during Advent, we recognise the light and life that have been born into the midst of darkness and sin, we see God’s saving Messiah, and most of all we’re moved to give him glory because Christmas shows that he is faithful to his promises.

 

And for Paul, that was kind of everything.  Because when you know what the story is all about and when you know where it’s going, you realise that following Jesus isn’t just about sentimental feelings, or about being good until you die so you can go to heaven, it’s about the fact that in Jesus, God has sent his king to bring new creation into the midst of the old and to make us a part of it.  In fact, to make us the agents of that new creation and his saving work.  To be the stewards of his good news and his Spirit who carry his light and life into the darkness and death of the world in preparation for the day when Jesus’ work is consummated.  When people don’t know the story, they too often reduce Christianity to fire insurance, to a “Get out of hell free” card.  Christmas becomes a sentimental holiday about a baby.  But when you know the story, you that Christianity is all about is a vocation—to be the people of God for the sake of the world—and the baby in the manger shows us what our vocation looks like.

 

And this is precisely why Paul writes what he does here in Romans 15.  Because when you forget the story, or when you forget where it’s going, and especially when you stop living in hope of God’s future, it becomes very, very easy to just go with the flow.  To take the path of least resistance.  To let the world and its values and ideas carry you away back into the darkness.  To give up on the vocation that the gospel and the Spirit have given us.  The big problem Paul saw in the Roman churches was that the Jewish believers in Jesus and the Gentile believers in Jesus were splitting up.  They were letting ethnicity define them instead of Jesus and because of that they were losing their gospel witness and letting the darkness and division of the world define who they were.

 

And Brothers and Sisters, the same thing happens to us.  It still happens with churches dividing up over ethnicity and language and things like that, but it happens all sorts of other ways too.  We lose sight of our hope.  We lose sight of God’s future.  And when we do, we lose our vocation and instead of being gospel people of light and life swimming upstream, we end up just going with the worldly flow.  Sometimes it happens without us even realising it.  Other times we knowingly give up because it seems like there’s no other option.  I was talking with someone this week about politics in my country and he said, “Well, you have to be a Democrat or a Republican!  There’s no other choice!”  And I kept saying, there is another choice.  You commit to doing the right thing, the kingdom thing, to following Jesus and being light and life.  These days that means saying no to the options that everyone else is making.  It means making a deliberate choice to lose, but you do so knowing that God’s justice will win in the end—because the story shows us that God is always faithful to do what he’s promised and to finish what he starts.  If you understand the cross, this shouldn’t be a difficult concept.

 

This is why Paul starts out with some of that scripture that was written in the past, some “Old Testament” as we call it.  In verse 3 he writes, “The Messiah, you see, didn’t please himself.  Instead, as it was written, ‘The reproaches of those who reproached you are fallen on me.’”  In other words, Jesus took on himself a punishment he didn’t deserve.  When David wrote that psalm he was thinking of his own situation.  It’s Psalm 69.  He cries out to God because the flood waters are rising around him.  Because he feels like he’s sinking in the mud with no footing to be found.  His enemies were surrounding him and kicking him when he was down.  But he knew the Lord and he knew his promises and he knew the Lord is faithful, so he cried out for justice and salvation.  And as he closes the psalm, he cries out with hope-filled praise.  God hadn’t delivered him yet, but David still praises the Lord for his salvation—what he knows God will do.

 

And this wasn’t just David’s story and vocation, it was the story and vocation of Israel and that meant that when Jesus came as the faithful Israelite to represent his people, it became his story and his vocation.  David knew, Israel knew, Jesus knew because it had been written, because they had God’s word and because of that they had Gods’ promises.  The way of God’s people is the way of the servant who suffers.  It’s the way of unjust suffering for the sake of others and for the sake of the whole world.  But through that suffering God has brought redemption and kingdom and new life.

 

As the Mandalorian says, “This is the way.”  Looking to the good of others instead of our own good is the way of the cross.  Just as it was for Jesus the way to his throne, it is for us the way to his kingdom.  Jesus could have given in to the devil’s temptation in the wilderness.  He could have bowed down to him and received his throne.  And he’d be king, but he’d be king of a people still enslaved to sin and death.  The world would still be dark and broken and fallen.  Think of our Gospel last week.  Jesus could have let the Palm Sunday crowd carry him into Jerusalem and seat him on a throne.  But again, he’d have his throne, but the primary mission would have failed.  He’d be king over a dead people.  Instead, he had to come as a humble servant, he had to face the rejection of his people, he had to face their jeers and their mocking, and he had to go to his death in a way so humiliating that polite people wouldn’t even discuss it.  But through the cross, by letting all the forces of evil come together to do their worst in one place, Jesus defeated them and brought light and life back to God’s good world.  And now, as Jesus said, he calls us to take up our cross and to follow him.  Not when it’s expedient.  Not when the cross is light.  The point of a cross is that it’s heavy!  It’s our calling, no matter what.  But it’s a joyful calling in the end, because we know the story and we have the promises of a God who faithful.  The lowly birth, the constant antagonism, the humiliating and painful death make possible the glory and the joy of the resurrection and new creation.

 

So, Paul goes on writing in Romans 15:5, “May the God of patience and encouragement grant you to come to a common mind among yourselves, in accordance with Jesus the Messiah, so that, with one mind and one mouth you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus the Messiah.”

 

That’s the mission, Brothers and Sisters: to glorify God.  And not just when we come to church and pray and praise and give thanks.  That’s certainly one way we give him glory, but one of the things the story teaches us is that God is glorified when we respond to his faithfulness with faithfulness of our own—and especially when the watching world sees it, especially when it involves humility and even suffering.  God was glorified as the world watched Jesus go to the cross, trusting his Father’s promises.  And God is glorified today as, trusting our Father’s promises, we take up our crosses and follow him.  As we walk in faith, as we do good, as we live in hope, and as we do it without compromise, even it means trouble or loss.  Think of the apostles.  Think of all the Christians in the first centuries after Jesus who lived in hope of God’s future and who trusted in his promises and refused to compromise their gospel life and witness and gave their lives for it.  At first it seemed like a pointless failure, but as the world watched, their gospel witness made a difference and eventually—not in a single generation, but eventually—their witness brought an entire empire to Jesus and taught it grace and mercy and lifted it up out of barbarism and sexual immorality the likes of which—even in light of the world today—we’d be hard-pressed to imagine.  And it happened because Jesus’ people were united in him and faithful in hope and witness.

 

That unity part is a major theme of Paul’s letter to the Romans, because the unity of the church across the Jew-gentile divide was one of the most significant ways the early church broke with both Jewish and Greco-Roman culture and swam against the current.  We don’t think about that nearly as often as we should.  Unity is essential to our Christian vocation.  It reveals that our identity is Jesus the Messiah.  Those early Christians showed the world what it looks like to find your identity, not in your ethnicity or language, not in your customs or biological kin, not in your social class, but in Jesus.  Jews and gentiles, rich and poor, slave and free came together as brothers and sisters in those churches and it shocked the world, Jews and Greeks alike.  It became a powerful witness to God’s new creation.  It was that witness coupled with the proclamation that Jesus, crucified and risen, is the world’s true lord, that brought the nations—a few at first, but eventually a whole empire—that’s what moved them to give glory to the God of Israel.  Something absolutely unthinkable.  Romans giving glory to a loser God of a loser people.  But Jesus changes everything and the faithful witness of a servant church backed that truth up.

 

So, going on in our Epistle, Paul says in verse 7: “Welcome one another!”  Don’t let the values, identities, and prejudices of the world divide the church.  Paul says, instead, “Welcome one another as the Messiah has welcomed you, to God’s glory.  Let me tell you why: the Messiah became a servant of the circumcised people in order to demonstrate the truthfulness of God—that is, to confirm the promises to the patriarchs, and to bring the nations to praise God for his mercy.”

 

That was the plan all along.  This is the big story.  God called Abraham and through him created a people, a holy nation through whom he would eventually save the whole world.  Jesus was the culmination of that chapter of the story: the perfect, faithful Israelite, the humble Davidic king, who died the death his people deserved in order to deliver them.  In doing that, God fulfilled what he’d promised the patriarchs, what he’d promised Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, what he’d promised to David.

 

The unity of the church, the bringing in of the gentiles into the covenant family, is a witness to the faithfulness of God, so Paul keeps hammering away at it.  These are the things, the scriptures, that were written in the past and that tell us the story.  And so Psalm 18:49.  It’s the Psalmist celebrating the victory that the God of Israel has given him as he declares that he will praise him not just in Israel, but in the midst of the nations so that they hear of the glory of God, too.  He sings: “That is why I will praise you among the nations, and will sing to your name.”  And then, in verse 10 Paul quotes Deuteronomy 32:43: “Rejoice, you nations, with his people!”  This was the song of Moses celebrating God’s victory over and just judgement on both rebellious Israel and the gentile nations and Moses calls those pagan nations, having seen the victory of Israel’s God, to join in his praises.  And then, verse 11, Paul is back to the Psalms, to Psalm 117:1: “Praise the Lord, all nations, and let all the peoples sing his praise.”  Again, the Psalmist calls to the nations to come and praise the God of Israel with him.  And then, finally, the Prophet Isaiah: “There shall be the root of Jesse, the one who rises up to rule the nations; the nations shall hope in him.”

 

The bit from Isaiah is important.  Because Paul’s showing the Roman Christians (and he’s showing us), that it was God’s plan all along for the nations to join Israel in praising and glorifying Israel’s God.  And in the days of Moses and the days of David, that was crazy talk.  People didn’t glorify other people’s gods.  The gods were the strength of their respective nations, so not only was it unpatriotic to give glory to a foreign god, it was sort of like inviting the defeat of your nation and your king.  But this was God’s plan all along.  To bring the nations to him in faith.  And Paul’s reminding the Roman Christians that this is exactly what’s happened to them.  Pagan Romans heard the gospel and they saw the uncompromising witness of the believers there—probably mostly Jews—who believed Jesus was truly the Messiah.  And those pagans were moved to faith.  And in the early days of the church there, Jewish and Gentile believers were doing the unthinkable: they were worshipping the God of Israel side by side.  And that only served to witness the power of the gospel even more powerfully.  But things happened and those Christians started to go with the flow and the unity began to fall apart: Jews worshipping in that house and Gentiles in this one over here.  And so Paul reminds them how God has fulfilled his promises in Jesus.  The root of Jesse promised by Isaiah has come and he was raised up on the cross to the glory of God, and the nations have begun to come to him.  And Paul’s saying: don’t lose that that or you risk losing the whole gospel.  I know it’s hard.  The gentile believers will be mocked by their friends and family for worshipping the God of the weirdo Jews, with weirdo Jews at their side, no less.  And the Jewish believers, they were going to be hassled by their Jewish family and friends for worshipping beside those unclean gentiles.  And Paul’s saying, “Don’t give in to the pressure from the world.  Keep witnessing the power of the gospel.  Remember that you worship the God who was born in humility as one of us and who went humble to a cross for our sake.  Live humbly for the sake of each other—and live humbly for the sake of the world.  Romans, you show your people that the God of Israel is faithful and full of mercy and grace and unlike any god your people have ever known.  And Jews, you show your people that in Jesus, your God has purified the gentiles and is fulfilling his promises.  And he wraps it up exhorting them, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”  Paul knew that persecution was coming and the temptation to fragment would be even strong, but the hope-filled joy that began with the birth of Jesus and that carries through the story to the cross, burst out of the tomb with joy on Easter—and that resurrection hope, that light and life, would keep them faithful to their calling.  Will keep us faithful to our calling.

 

A people overflowing with hope.  Hope in the fulfilment of what God has promised and what he’s revealed in Jesus: hope for a world where the darkness is gone, hope for a final end to sin and death, hope for the day when heaven and earth are brough back together and men and women live and serve in the presence of God as he created us in the beginning.

 

And here’s the thing, Brothers and Sisters, it’s that gospel- and Spirit-filled hope that will make us the gospel force Jesus calls us to be.  It’s that hope that makes us heaven-on-earth people even when it means swimming upstream, even when it means choosing the option that no one else will choose, even when it means that the world is angry with us, even when it means rejection—and in some cases even martyrdom.  It’s that hope that will drive us to proclaim the good news of Jesus’ death and resurrection; it’s that hope that will give us the hearts of servants ready to humbly teach the world mercy and grace; it’s that hope that will move us to love our enemies and even to die for them; it’s that hope that will move us to take uncompromising stands against what is wrong and for what is right, even if it means losing in the short term.  Because our hope is sure and certain—that what God began in humility at the manger, he will surely one day bring to completion in an all-consuming burst of glory.  Let’s close with our collect.  Think on that prayer and how it calls us, not just to read the scriptures, but to so immerse ourselves in them that they become a part of us.

 

Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: help us so to hear them, to read, mark, learn and inwardly digest them that, through patience, and the comfort of your holy word, we may embrace and for ever hold fast the hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Saviour Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

 

by William Klock

 

The Gospel we read on Christmas Day is the introduction to St. John’s Gospel.  Those familiar words: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was in the beginning with God.  All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made.  In him was life, and the life was the light of men.  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it…The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.”

 

The light, God’s Messiah, Jesus has come into the world.  He’s brought light into the darkness.  He’s brought life into the middle of death.  In him, God has become present to the world.  But between us and Christmas, between us and the coming of the light, stands Advent—to remind us what the world was like before light and life came into the midst of darkness and death—so that we might appreciate more the gift that God has given us in Jesus, so that we might appreciate more his love, his mercy, and his grace; so that we might appreciate more his faithfulness as we see his promises fulfilled in the Christmas story.  So that we might better live out the story he’s given us in preparation for the day when he comes again.

 

And so Advent begins with Jesus, the Messiah, the anointed king, on the Sunday before his crucifixion.  Palm Sunday.  Jesus has arrived in Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover.  Today we have St. Matthew’s telling of that day.  He writes—at the beginning of Chapter 21: “When they came near to Jerusalem and arrived at Bethpage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of the disciples on ahead.”

 

The road from Jericho up to Jerusalem made its final approach to the city around the southern slope of the Mount of Olives. As the road came over the ridge, there was Jerusalem, across the Kidron Valley, a mass of great walls and rooftops, and above it all on Mount Zion, was the temple—the place where earth and heaven were supposed to overlap, the place where men and women could draw near to the presence of God, the shekinah, the cloud of glory that sat on the ark in the holy of holies.  A cloud of smoke went up perpetually from the altar in the temple court where the burnt offerings were made.  This was the scene that met Jesus as the road took him over the Mount of Olives: the city, bustling with crowds of visitors for the Passover, the temple in all its beautiful glory standing above the city, and that column of smoke going up, an aroma to the Lord.

 

A Jewish man or woman, walking over that ridge and seeing this scene ahead, might be overcome.  It was heaven on earth—or the closest you could get to it.  It was a scene of glory.  It was a scene that would make your heart swell with pride, knowing that you were the people who lived with the living God in your midst.  And it was exciting for all these people travelling from the outlying regions of Judea and Galilee—like they were arriving at the centre of the universe.  I think of the description Victorian travellers gave of arriving in London, to the heart of the British Empire.  To the way I’ve heard New Yorkers talk of flying home from other parts of the world and seeing the skyscrapers or the Statue of Liberty out the window and knowing that you’re home and swelling with pride because their home is—today—the centre of the universe.  This past March, Veronica I drove down Highway 101 to the central California Coast.  Between Sausalito and the Marin Headlands, you pass through the Waldo Tunnel and when you come out the south end of the tunnel, you’re greeted with a stunning panoramic vista of the Golden Gate Bridge with San Francisco’s skyscrapers in the background.  That’s where I was born.  And when we drove out of the tunnel and saw that view, I think I felt something very much like the Jews would have felt coming round the Mount of Olives and seeing Jerusalem and the temple in the distance.  Jesus’ disciples—a bunch of bumpkins from Galilee, way up in the north—must have felt that way.  But not Jesus.  Matthew leaves this part out, but St. Luke tells us that Jesus, seeing that beautiful and glorious view, stopped and began to sob.  The beauty, the glory wasn’t lost on him, but he sobbed because he knew that it masked a people with no heart for God.  The city and temple were like a whitewashed tomb—beautiful, but full of dead men’s bones.  He knew—as everyone knew, but dared not admit—the glory, the presence of God was not there.  The smoke my have risen from the altar, but the holy holies was bare and empty—just like the heart of the people.  Jesus saw the coming judgement of God on a faithless people.  He saw the city and the temple as they would be in a generation: a smoking ruin.

 

Matthew puts our attention on Jesus’ acted out prophecy.  He sends two of his disciples ahead into the village of Bethphage, “‘Go into the village,’ he said, ‘and at once you’ll find a donkey tied up and a foal beside it.  Untie them and bring them to me.  And if anyone says anything to you, say, “The lord needs them, and he’ll send them back straightaway.”’  He sent them off at once….So the disciples went off and did as Jesus had told them.  They brought the donkey and its foal and put their cloaks on them, and Jesus sat on them.”  Why?  Well, says Matthew, “This happened so that the prophet’s words might be fulfilled: ‘Tell this to Zion’s daughter: Behold!  Here comes your king; humble and riding on a donkey, yes, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

 

Matthew quotes from the Prophet Zechariah.  Matthew could see what Jesus was doing here.  Jesus never did anything randomly or without reason.  The location, the donkey, the colt—they’re all important.  Jesus could have taken a different route to Jerusalem, but he picked this one so that he’d be standing on the Mount of Olives when all this happened.  This was the spot were Zechariah said that the Lord would stand when he came in judgement on faithless Jerusalem.  And Zechariah explains the strange command to the disciples about the donkey.  This was not how kings made their triumphal processions.  At least, not ordinary kings.  They were carried by their servants or they rode on horseback or in a chariot.  But Zechariah, hundreds of years before, had highlighted the humble nature of the coming Messiah.  He was the one who would ride to his coronation on the back of a humble donkey.

 

Jesus’ acted out prophecy reveals who he is and it exposes all the wrong ideas his people had about the Lord and his Messiah—and it probably exposes some of our wrong ideas, too.  To the people who longed for the Lord to come in judgement on the nations, Jesus comes in judgement to his own people.  To the people who imagined the Messiah coming in a chariot with a great army to liberate Jerusalem and to reign over his people like a greater David, Jesus comes riding on a donkey with an army of ordinary pilgrims.  To the people who imagined God coming in merciless, vengeful, pitiless wrath to bring judgement on sin, Jesus comes in humility, weeping over the coming judgement.  Jesus is coming to take his throne, to fulfil what the Prophets—like Zechariah—had spoken, to show the Lord’s faithfulness, but not in the way anyone expected.

 

I think of our Epistle today from Romans, where St. Paul writes those words: “Owe no one anything, but to love one another, for the one who loves his neighbour has fulfilled the torah.”  I don’t think Paul could have written those words before he met the risen Jesus.  He certainly knew what the greatest commandments were: to love God and to love his neighbour.  But he didn’t understand.  He was part of that Jerusalem Jesus wept over.  A city that talked about love of God and love of neighbour, but a city—a nation—of people at each other’s throats, a people longing eagerly for fire and brimstone to rain down on their enemies, a people with little if any thought for those in their midst most in need, a people ready to cry out in demonic rage for the crucifixion of their own Messiah.  And a people who did all these things with an absolute and devoted passion for a God they utterly misunderstood.  And this was why what should have been the beating heart of Jerusalem—the presence of the living God in the temple—this is why it, why he was missing.  The people had returned from their Babylonian exile, they had rebuilt the temple, but the heart of the people was still far from God.  They were impure.  Their salt had lost its savour.  Their light had turned to darkness.  They were false witnesses of their God.  And so his presence, the cloud of glory, had never returned.

 

The road to Jerusalem was jammed with people who say Jesus sobbing.  They probably thought his tears were tears of joy to see the holy city.  Little did they know.  They were just excited to see him.  They’d heard the stories.  Word was no doubt spread through about the healing of blind Bartimaeus in Jericho.  Pilgrims from Galilee told others of the amazing things Jesus had done and taught there.  And as the disciples places their coats on the donkey and Jesus took his place, word was going through the crowd: “That’s him!”

 

So, says Matthew, “the great crowd spread their coats on the road.  Others cut branches from the trees and scattered them on the road.  The crowds went on ahead of him and those who were following behind shouted: ‘Hosanna to the son of David!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.  Hosanna in the highest!”

 

The crowd surrounds Jesus. All the way to Jerusalem they’d been singing the psalms of ascent and the royal psalms.  Songs full of hope.  Psalms about that recalled the glory days of David, psalms about God coming to his people, psalms about God finally setting this broken world to rights.  Psalms that looked forward to the coming Messiah.  And now—maybe, they hoped—here he was.  Not like anyone expected, but they’d heard the stories.  Maybe they’d heard him preaching.  Maybe they’d seen his miracles.  And that was enough.  So they parade him down the Mount of Olives, across the valley, and back up and into the gates of Jerusalem.

 

Along the way they, Matthew says, they laid their coats and palm branches on the ground.  Now it’s the people acting out prophetically even if they didn’t know it.

 

Matthew, writing to a Jewish audience makes sure that as they read this, they’re reminded of a scene or two from their own history.  In 2 Kings 9 we read about Jehoram.  He was King of Israel, the son of the wicked King Ahab.  And in Jehoram, the apple had not fallen far from the tree.  He was as wicked as his father, so the prophet Elisha ordered that Jehu, instead, was to be anointed King in his place.  He announced that Jehu would bring the Lord’s judgement on the wicked house of Ahab.  As Jehu was anointed by the prophet, the men who were gathered cast their coats on the ground before him and blew a trumpet.

 

And then there’s Judas Maccabeus.  2 Maccabees 10:7 describes the people hailing Judas as king by laying wreathes and palm branches at his feet.  Judas had not only defeated Israel’s enemies and liberated the nation, but he had purified the temple from its defilement by the Greeks.  He was a national hero—particularly for the Pharisees and the Zealots.  Judas’ kingdom inspired hope.

 

But Jehu was not the saviour the people hoped for.  As a king he was a mixed bag.  He put an end to the more outrageous form of idolatry in Judah.  He got rid of the altars to Baal.  But he never removed the golden calves that Jeroboam has set up at Bethel and Dan.  He failed to dig out the root of Judah’s idolatry and faithlessness to the Lord.  In the end, the Lord still allowed the people to be exiled for their faithlessness.  And Judas Maccabeus.  He was a national hero.  But his kingdom was short-lived.  The shekinah never returned to the temple, despite his zealousness for torah.  The hope he’d brought to the people was quickly crushed.  But this time, looking at Jesus, the people hoped, it would be different.  And so they sing to him.  They acclaim him as the Messiah, the anointed king.  “Hosanna—save us—O son of David!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.  O Hosanna—save us—we cry to heaven!”

 

Matthew gives us a sense of the longing and hope of the people.  They’re desperate for the Lord to come and set their broken world to rights.  Jesus sees it too and I expect it made him weep all the more, because he knew that God’s new world was not going to come the way they wanted it to, he knew that he would not going to his messianic throne the way they wanted him to, because he knew that to set everything to rights would mean judging the sin and corruption of his people and the city and even the temple.  And he knew the only way to his throne was through their rejection and death on Roman cross.

 

But on he went into the city.  Acting out the prophecy.  Matthew writes that “When they came into Jerusalem, the whole city was gripped with excitement.  ‘Who is this?’ they were saying.  ‘This is the prophet, Jesus,’ replied the crowds, ‘from Nazareth in Galilee!”  This is the Prophet.  They weren’t saying that Jesus was just another prophet.  He was the Prophet.  The one the people hailed Jesus as in our Gospel last Sunday, after he fed the multitude.  He was the one promised to come, like another Moses, to save the people and lead them out of bondage.  In other words, “This is the Messiah, Jesus, from Nazareth in Galilee.”

 

He had come to take his throne.  And so from the gate of the city, Jesus led the triumphal parade of cheering people through the winding streets—the same route he would take in reverse, bearing a cross, just five days later.  He made his way up and up through the city to the temple and through the gate.  And when he got there, Matthew says, “Jesus threw out all the people who were buying and selling in the temple.  He flipped over the tables of the money-changers and the seats of the dove-sellers.  ‘It is written,’ he said to them, ‘My house will be called a house of prayer, but you have made it a lair of bandits!”

 

Jehu and Judas Maccabeus had cleansed the temple.  That was the expectation of the Messiah.  But not like this.  I think we often focus too much on Jesus’ actions as a condemnation of the commerce going on in the temple—probably because we’re aware of the evils of our own overly materialistic and commercialistic culture.  I don’t think Jesus was angered by the commerce itself.  People needed animals for the sacrifices and not everyone was a farmer.  A lot of people were travelling from far away and it wasn’t easy or realistic to bring the animals with them.  And the money changers, well, since the temple only used its own coinage, they were at least a necessary evil.  Nevertheless when you think of Mary and Joseph going to the temple for her purification after the birth of Jesus and offering two turtledoves, it says something about how poor they were.  When you think about the words of her Magnificat, singing about filling the hungry with good things and sending the rich away empty, when you think of the widow offering her “mite” in the offering box, you certainly get the sense that the system was privileging the rich and making access to the temple a burden for the poor—and in that this whole system was emblematic of the way in which Israel had lost the heart of God and was desperately in need of judgment…or renewal…or as it would happen: both.

But the really important thing about Jesus flipping tables and driving out the merchants is something I think we’re prone to missing.  Again, this is another acted out prophecy.  The really important thing is that what Jesus did brought the work of the priests and the whole sacrificial system that day to a grinding halt.  It goes along with everything else he said about the temple—like announcing that he would tear it down and rebuild it in three day—and it goes right along with all the times that he bypassed the temple, the priests, and the sacrificial system by offering forgiveness apart from them.  That, far more than everything else, is what had angered the Pharisees.  That was what got him arrested and crucified.

 

So what Jesus is getting at here is that the Messiah has come, not just to purify the temple, but to establish a new and better one.  To really inaugurate the work of new creation that the old temple had always pointed to.  The people had forgotten this.  The temple was never meant to be an end in itself.  The temple pointed to God’s future—to the day when sin is gone, to the day when creation is made new and the garden restored, and to the day when men and women are made new as well, to the day when a renewed humanity once again lives in God’s presence and serves in his temple as priests.

 

And, Brothers and Sisters, that’s what Jesus inaugurated through his crucifixion and resurrection.  He shed his blood, not for a building, not for an altar made of stone, but for a people: a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and satisfaction for their sins.  At the cross, Jesus washed his people clean and he’s washed them—he’s washed us clean—so that we can be God’s temple.  And so Jesus rose from the grave and ascended to the right hand of his Father, the perfect man, the new Adam, to take up his vocation as high priest.  And as high priest, he’s poured God’s Spirit into his people, purified by his blood.  He’s made us his temple and called us to join in the vocation we were originally created for: to be God’s priests and stewards serving beside our saviour.

 

So Advent comes as a forced pause.  We’re racing towards Christmas and to the joy it represents.  And the church says, “Hold on.  Slow down.  You need to stop and think about what it all means.  You need to stop and think about why Jesus came, why he was born, why it was necessary for light and life to be born into the world.  You need to reflect on the darkness of this fallen and broken world.  You need to reflect on the awfulness of sin and of death and of our slavery to them so that you can fully appreciate the gift in the manger with more than mushy holiday sentimentalism.  This is the Messiah, this is the saviour—Israel’s saviour and now our saviour.  Come not just to make us feel good, but come to deliver us from sin and death, come to set God’s creation to rights.  Come to purify us with his blood, to dwell in the midst of the people, to fill us with Gods’ Spirit, and to sweep us up into his messianic mission.  Brothers and Sisters, to make us the people in whom the world encounters the glory of the living God and meets the humble saviour whose kingdom has come, not by a sword, but by the cross.  To make us stewards of the Gospel that, empowered by the Spirit, we might prepare the world for Jesus’ return.

 

Let’s pray: Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armour of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

As we come to the last Sunday in the Church Year, I’ve been reflecting on the scripture passages we’ve read these last twenty-two weeks of Trinitytide.  The first half of the Church Year walks us through the life and ministry of Jesus.  The second half, following Trinity Sunday, walks us through the life and ministry of the church.  The lessons remind us who we are and encourage us to be the people and the community that Jesus and the Spirit have made us.  Last week we were reminded that just as the old temple was the place where Israel found forgiveness and the presence of God, so the church—the new temple—is also to be the place where the world encounters the presence of God and the forgiveness that flows from the cross.  On All Saint’s, just a few weeks ago, we heard the Beatitudes and were reminded of the character that Jesus and the Spirit have given us.  We are the community that is poor in spirit, that mourns sin and the fallenness of the world, the meek who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, and the peacemakers.  And thinking of all that, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed.  Sometimes we fail.  A lot of the time it just feels like the pushback against us is overwhelming.

 

I feel like Israel in the wilderness with temptation after temptation and enemy after enemy.  But then I think, wait a minute.  Even in the wilderness, God was with Israel.  I think of Moses, reiterating the torah, the law, to Israel as they were on the verge of finally entering the Holy Land, and as he called them to commit to the Lord’s covenant—and he knew it seemed like an overwhelming thing to them—he said to them: You can do this.  It’s not too hard.  It’s not far off.  It’s not in heaven that you have to go and bring it down.  It’s not across the ocean, that you’ve got to send someone far away to fetch it.  God’s word is near you.  It’s in your heart and it’s in your mouth so that you can do it.”  Even more, there was the Lord, present in a shining cloud of glory right in their midst—always present with them in the tabernacle.  Ready to forgive and to purify and to strengthen them to be the people he’d created and called them to be.  And if that was true of Israel and of her relationship with God in the Old Covenant—well, maybe I shouldn’t be so discouraged.  Because, in Jesus, God has established something even better.  And so I pore over his word, and I pray, and I look forward to Sundays and his invitation to come feast at his Table.

 

I find hope in the promise in the lesson we read today from Jeremiah.  It’s a passage I think of a lot.  To a people who had failed, to a people broken and being carried off into exile, to a people who had lost his presence, the Lord promised:

 

“Behold, the days are coming, declares the Lord, when I will raise up for David a righteous branch, and he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.  In his days Judah will be saved, and Israel will dwell securely. And this is the name by which he will be called: ‘The Lord is our righteousness.’  Therefore, behold, the days are coming, declares the Lord, when they shall no longer say, ‘As the Lord lives who brought up the people of Israel out of the land of Egypt,’ but ‘As the Lord lives who brought up and led the offspring of the house of Israel out of the north country and out of all the countries where he had driven them.’ Then they shall dwell in their own land.” (Jeremiah 23:5-8)

 

All of it is important, but the part that really gets me here is that promise that the Messiah would redefine what it meant to be God’s people.  The Lord’s deliverance of Israel from exile was the thing, the event that defined them as a people.  It was the event that they could hold onto as proof that the Lord was real and living and active, that he is faithful and worthy of trust.  That he makes good on his promises.  It was his gracious and loving deliverance of Israel from Egypt that motivated them to return his love and faithfulness with their own devotion and allegiance.  And yet, the Lord says, when the Messiah has done his work, it’ll no longer be about Egypt and the exodus, but about the deliverance brought by the Messiah.  In hindsight, we can say that our existence as the people of God is defined by the cross and the empty tomb—by the body and blood of Jesus the Messiah shed for us.  The Passover, the meal that reminded the Jewish people of their identity of God’s people, the meal through which each generation participated in that rescue from Pharaoh’s bondage, was redefined by Jesus.  He took the Passover bread and the Passover wine and redefined them.  No longer do they represent deliverance from Egypt, but our deliverance from sin and death by his body broken and his blood poured out.  And Brothers and Sisters, in the midst of the wilderness; struggling to keep our baptismal vows to fight the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil; struggling to be faithful stewards of the gospel and the life of the Spirit, it ought to be strengthening to remember both what the Lord has done for us and that he is so closely with us.

 

This is why the church gives us today’s Gospel—the familiar story of Jesus feeding the five thousand.  For the last six months the lessons have been exhorting us to take up Jesus’ yoke, to take up our crosses and to follow him.  And when we forget who we are and what the Lord has done for us it’s easy to forget that Jesus has promised his yoke is easy and his burden is light, and that in taking up our crosses, he walks alongside us bearing his own.  He is with us in the wilderness.  And that’s what today’s Gospel is all about.  St. John, in the sixth chapter of his Gospel, writes: “Jesus looked up and saw a great crowd coming to him.  ‘Where are we going to buy bread,’ he said to Philip, ‘so that they can have something to eat?’  (He said this to test him.  He himself knew what he intended to do.)  ‘Two hundred denarii,’ replied Philip, ‘wouldn’t be enough to buy bread for each of them to have just a little!’  One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, joined in.  ‘There’s a boy here,’ he said, ‘who’s got five barley loaves and to fish.  But what use are they with this many people?’  ‘Make the men sit down,’ said Jesus.  There was a lot of grass where they were, so the men sat down, about five thousand in all.  So Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks, and gave them to the people sitting down, and then did the same with the fish, as much as they wanted.  When they were satisfied, he called the disciples.  ‘Gather up the bits and pieces left over,’ he said, ‘so that nothing is lost.’  So they collected it up and filled twelve baskets with the broken pieces of the five barley loaves left behind by the people who had eaten.  When the people saw the sign that Jesus had done, they said, ‘This truly is the Prophet, the one who is to come into the world. (John 6:5-14)

 

Now, the lectionary leaves out the first four verses of the chapter.  Because of that we miss two important details.  The first is the time and the second is the place.  John tells us in verse 4 that “the Passover was at hand”.  Remember again what the Passover was all about.  Passover was the annual festival in which the Jews recalled the events of the Exodus—those events that Jeremiah points to as defining the very identity of Israel as the people of God.  I’ll say it again, because it’s important to understand: In the Exodus the Lord had delivered them from their Egyptian slavery, he had defeated Pharaoh and the gods of Egypt, he had given them his law and the tabernacle and had taken up his dwelling in their midst, and he had led them through the wilderness.  Each new generation of Jews, as they took part in the Passover meal, became participants in the events of the Exodus, in the establishing of the Lord’s covenant.  The Exodus, commemorated by the Passover, was the defining event in Israel’s life as the people of God.  So it's not just at the Last Supper, but throughout his ministry that Jesus takes the Passover and redefines it in terms of himself: his provision for the people, his body and blood, his cross and his resurrection leading a new people in an exodus from sin and death.

 

The other important detail in those first verses is the place.  This took place on the far side of the Sea of Galilee.  Jesus has led the people into the wilderness and he’s taken up his seat on a mountain.  Again, John stages the story using the imagery of the Exodus.  We have a great crowd of people in the wilderness.  John wants us to be thinking about Israel in the wilderness.  These people are hungry for supper, but there’s no food to be had.  The only thing missing is the people grumbling to Moses.  But these people were just hungry to hear Jesus.  This time it’s Jesus who realises the people’s need before they realise it themselves.  That’s something to take comfort in.  Jesus is looking after our needs before know them ourselves.

 

Jesus turns to Philip and asks what’s to be done to feed all these people.  Now, Philip—a good Jew whom I’m sure knew his people’s story—should have recalled the manna in the wilderness, but he wasn’t thinking of Jesus on that level just yet.  Andrew, on the other hand, has met a boy who happens to have brought a sack lunch: a couple of fish and five little loaves of bread.  Such a little bit of food might as well have bene nothing if you’re thinking about distributing it to five thousand people.  But I don’t think Andrew would have bothered telling Jesus about this boy and his lunch if he hadn’t thought that Jesus could make use of it somehow.  What could Jesus possibly do with so little?  The situation seemed totally impossible, and yet the Lord had provided for his hungry people in the wilderness all those centuries before.  Why not again?  And so Andrew gives us a hopeful sign.

 

Brothers and Sisters, this is how the people of God are called to respond in hopeless situations.  This how we’re to depend on Jesus as he leads us through the wilderness—when our calling, our task, our vocation, when being the people he’s made us seems so hard, when you feel like you can’t carry your cross another step.  Don’t grumble like Israel did.  Don’t give up on God and put your faith in horses, chariots, foreign kings, and pagan gods like Israel did back in the days of Jeremiah.  The Lord has always been faithful to provide and he always will.  Andrew knew that.  I don’t know if Andrew was thinking about it, but I think that as John wrote this, he was thinking about one particular event in Israel’s past and about King Hezekiah.  The way John tells the story seems to deliberately echo the story of Hezekiah.

 

Hezekiah was also in a hopeless situation.  The Assyrians had besieged Jerusalem.  The messenger of the Assyrian king called up to Hezekiah’s men on the walls of the city that he would destroy them and that it would be because Hezekiah had purged Judah of its altars and shrines to the Assyrian gods.  The Assyrian king sent a message to Hezekiah, warning him that the Lord would not be able to deliver him.  Hezekiah no doubt had advisers who saw the situation as hopeless.  Some would have advised him to surrender to the Assyrians and to bow before their gods.  Others would have urged him to form an alliance with the Egyptians, which would have involved their gods as well.  To many, it would have seemed that Hezekiah was out of options.  But he knew better.  The King took the message from the Assyrian king and went to the temple.  He prayed.  Sometimes that’s all you can do.  And the Lord sent the Prophet Isaiah to Hezekiah with a message of reassurance:  The king of Assyria will not enter Jerusalem.  “I will defend this city to save it for my own sake and for the sake of my servant David” (Isaiah 19:34).  And that very night an angel struck down 185,000 men in the camp of the Assyrians.

 

Andrew now, like Hezekiah taking Sennacherib’s letter to the temple and not knowing what to do, only that the Lord would do something, Andrew now brings the boy and his lunch to Jesus.  The Lord will provide.  Somehow.  In some way.  And Jesus does just that.  He took the bread, gave thanks to God, and started breaking it into pieces and somehow there was still bread in his hands as the baskets began to fill.  And the same with the fish.  No matter how much Jesus gave out, there was still more in his hands.  And everyone—the multiple thousands sitting there on the grass—everyone had their fill.  Just like they did in the wilderness after they’d left Egypt.  And yet there’s an element of the story here that points to this new exodus that’s taking shape being even greater than the first.  In the first exodus, there was no manna left over.  There was always enough to satisfy the needs of the people, but if you tried to gather extra and to keep it, it rotted away and produced worms.  In contrast, when Jesus feeds these people in the wilderness, there are twelve basketfuls left over—presumably food the people took home with them to eat and to be reminded the next day of what the Lord had done.

 

But that’s not the only Old Testament echo that John works into the story.  Andrew faithfully taking the loaves and fishes to Jesus echoes Hezekiah going before the Lord to ask for a miracle.  But as John tells us about Jesus dividing up the bread and fish, there’s an echo of another story the people would have known very well. John, I think, tells the story to deliberately recall the prophet Elisha and, in particular, the events of 2 Kings 4.  There was a famine in the land and Isaiah had a band of followers to provide for.  A man brought them twenty loaves of bread and a sack of grain, but it wasn’t nearly enough to feed Elisha’s men.  That didn’t concern Elisha.  He gave the sack of bread to his servant and commanded him to give it to the men so that they could eat.  His servant balked at that.  “How can I can set this before a hundred men?” he asked.  Elisha commanded him again to take it to the men and said, “Thus says the Lord, ‘They shall eat and have some left.’”  And, somehow, the men ate their fill and, just as the Lord had promised, there were leftovers remaining (2 King 4:42-44).

 

Now, back to our Gospel: The people on that mountain with Jesus put the pieces together: Passover, wilderness, bread from heaven, baskets of leftover bread.  And they declare that Jesus is “the prophet who is to come into the world.”  Jeremiah’s new exodus is somehow underway, with Jesus at its head.  Their acclamation is taken straight from the Lord’s promise to Moses in Deuteronomy 18: “I will raise up a prophet like you from among their brothers.  And I will put my words in his mouth, and he shall speak to them all that I commanded him” (Deuteronomy 18:18-19).  The new exodus has begun.  Jesus is the prophet who was promised, a prophet like Moses, a prophet like Elisha—and yet a prophet even greater.  Verse 15 says: “So when Jesus realised that they were intending to come and seize him to make him king, he withdrew again, by himself, up the mountain.”

“King” means “Messiah”.  Now, did the people really understand who and what the messiah was to be?  I don’t think so.  Almost no one fully understood that until after the events of Jesus’ death and resurrection.  But that doesn’t mean the people that day, filled miraculously with bread and fish, didn’t recognise the Messiah in Jesus.  All the pieces were there.  Here was the good shepherd who cared for the sheep when no one else would.  (It’s worth noting that when Mark tells this story, he introduces it saying that when Jesus looked out at the crowd, he saw sheep in desperate need of a shepherd.)  Here was the prophet who would lead the people like Moses in the long-awaited exodus.  If Jesus was those two things, then he also had to be the long-awaited branch that Jeremiah had prophesied would come from the root of David.  Jesus saw the recognition dawn in their eyes and he withdrew.  The time wasn’t right.  This wasn’t how the Messiah was to come into his crown or to take his throne.  Nevertheless, as we draw the lines that connect the promises of God in Jeremiah to their fulfilment in John’s Gospel, you and I should, ourselves, be overwhelmed by the faithfulness of God.  He does what he promises.  He will feed us in the wilderness.  He will go before us to conquer the promised land.

 

Brothers and Sisters, the Lord invites us to his table this morning and here we again recall his faithfulness.  Here, like the Jews participating in each new generation in the events of the Exodus and finding their place in the people of God, we find our manna in the wilderness, we recall and participate in the death and resurrection of Jesus, and are reminded that we are his people and that, just as was promised so long ago, he has delivered us from our bondage to sin and death.  The sheep that were scattered, have been drawn together by the God of Israel.  You and I have heard the story of God’s faithfulness.  We have come to Israel’s king and submitted ourselves in faith.  And now, here at his Table, we experience his faithfulness ourselves as we eat the bread and drink the wine.  Here is our new covenant manna in the wilderness.  Finally, having known the faithfulness of God, we’re summoned ourselves to walk in faith, trusting that the Lord will finish what he has begun, that he will do what he has promised.

 

In our Collect we asked the Lord to “stir up our wills”.  We may have come to the end of another Church Year, but the story is hardly over.  Advent is almost here and with it the reminder that Jesus is coming and that as we wait for him, he’s given his Church a mission and his own Spirit to ensure that mission is fulfilled.  He has made us stewards of the good news that he is this world’s true Lord.  We have our own parts to play in this story.  And it’s not an easy task.  But take heart.  The fact that the principalities and powers (as Paul described them in that Ephesians passage we read a couple weeks ago), the fact that they’re fighting back means that we’re precisely where the Lord wants us to be and doing what he wants us to do and the powers of darkness know it and fear what Jesus and the Spirit will accomplish through the church.  So don’t give up.  Don’t be afraid.  Don’t be weary in well-doing.  Petition the Lord in faith, knowing that he is faithful to fulfil his promises.  Whether it takes a hundred years or a hundred thousand years for the world to answer the king’s royal summons to faithful allegiance, he will be with us and he will equip us for every good work.  He will feed us in the wilderness and see us through to the promised land.

 

Let’s pray: Stir up, O Lord, the wills of your faithful people; that we may produce abundantly the fruit of good works, and receive your abundant reward, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

 

by William Klock

 

Jesus had just been explaining to the disciples how to respond when someone sinned against them.  “If your brother sins against you, go to him…alone…and talk it out between the two of you.”  Don’t go whining or blabbing about it to everyone else.  “Go to your brother, have it out between the two of you, and if he listens to you, you’ve won him back.  If he won’t, then you should go back to him with another brother—a witness—and only after that do you take the matter public to the whole assembly.  If he still won’t listen, if he still won’t admit his sin, then—and only then—you treat him like you would a Gentile or a tax collector—like an outsider.”

 

That’s good advice.  Don’t make the problem any bigger than it needs to be.  Don’t cause your brother to have a bad reputation with others—because it may well be the case that he didn’t even realise that he’d done something wrong.  Maybe you misinterpreted what happened.  A lot of our problems are easily resolved if we just go and talk to the other person involved.  We confess or we forgive—or sometimes both—and we move on without losing or hurting that brother or sister.

 

But I can picture Peter sitting there, listening to this, and thinking, “That’s all well and good.  I’m happy to do that.  In fact, maybe instead of being so impetuous and prone to losing my temper, I should really be more like this.  But what if it keeps happening over and over?”  We’ve all know that situation.  Your brother or sisters wrongs you, you go to him, you talk it out, he asks you to forgive him and you do, and then not too long after he does it again—and again—and again.  So—and this is where our Gospel today picks up at Matthew 18:21, “Peter came to Jesus and said, “Lord, how many times do I have to forgive my brother when he sins against me?  Is seven enough?”

 

Peter thought seven was pretty generous.  A lot of us would probably struggle—have struggled—to forgive someone fewer times than that.  The rabbis seem to have thought that three times was enough.  They seem to have got that from passages like Amos 2:4 and Job 33:29.  Through Amos the Lord said that for three sin of Moab—and later for Judah—and for four, I will not revoke punishment.  But that’s not saying that he would forgive three sins, but four was too much.  The Lord’s point was that Moab and Judah were heaping up transgressions and that they were unrepentant about it.  Under the circumstances, he could no more forgive the first three than the fourth.  But that may be the sort of idea Peter had grown up with.  Be generous, like the Lord, and forgive your brother three times, but after that…no more.  But Peter’s been watching and listening to Jesus and he’s seeing mercy and grace the likes of which he’d never seen before and he’s thinking, “Okay.  The rabbis say I should forgive my brother three times; maybe I should be more gracious.  Is seven times enough, Jesus?”

 

And Jesus responds, “I wouldn’t say seven times, but as many as seventy times seven times!”

 

Just when we think we’ve got this kingdom mindset figured out, Jesus comes along and shows us just how far we have to go.  Really, Jesus’ point to Peter here is that if you’re going to put a number on it, if you’re going to put a limit on your forgiveness, you really haven’t understood what God’s kingdom is about at all.  And that, I think, is why he tells Peter, “Why not seventy times seven times?”  Jesus’ point is that there’s no limit, but to say it he draws unmistakably on the old story, way back in Genesis 4.  Almost at the beginning of the story.  There’s a man there named Lamech and he really dramatically illustrates just how quickly things went wrong because of Adam and Eve’s sin.  They disobeyed the Lord.  It took only one generation before the first murder happened when Cain killed Abel.  From there everything goes from bad to worse and within five generations, or just a couple of sentences in the story, we’ve got Lamech, who writes the first recorded song—a song about his revenge.  Some guy hit him, so Lamech responded by killing him and then he went home and serenaded his wives with this tale of vengeful manhood.  And it shows how quickly and how horribly mankind fell from our vocation as God’s image-bearers, from being the priests of his temple.  We’ve become unrepentant, murderous brawlers.  And when we do start thinking that maybe this isn’t good and that we should probably be more merciful—the Jews knew this because the Lord’s mercy towards them had taught them—when we do start thinking we should be more merciful, we limit it.  Three times?  Is three times enough?  No?  Okay, surely seven times is enough?  Seven is generous, right?

 

And Jesus says, “No.  I’m inaugurating God’s new creation.  I’m going to set everything to rights, I’m going to undo Cain and Lamech and all the evil that followed them.  If Lamech represents the present evil age with his seventy times seven vengefulness, Jesus’ new creation is going to a place where men and women forgive seventy times seven times.  It’s a complete reversal, a complete change of ways and thinking about human relationships.  It's a world in which God gives his own son to die for the sake of his enemies and his people, and knowing that reconciling grace, we live it out joyfully and generously in our own relationships—not grudgingly, as in “Is seven times enough?”

 

And then, as you might expect, Jesus tells Peter a story to drive this point home.  This begins at 18:23.  “So you see, the kingdom of heaven is like a human king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants.  As he was beginning to sort it all out, one servant was brought before him who owed ten thousand talents.  He had no means of paying it back, so the master ordered him to be sold with his wife and children and everything he possessed, and payment to be made.

 

“So the servant fell down and prostrated himself to him, saying, ‘Be patient with me and I will pay you everything!’

 

“The master had pity on the servant, let him off, and forgave the debt.”

 

“But that servant went out and found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred denarii.  He seized him and began to throttle him, ‘Pay me back what you owe me!’ he said.

 

“The fellow servant fell down and begged him, ‘Be patient with me and I’ll pay you.’

 

“But he refused and went and threw him into prison until he could pay the debt.

 

“So when his fellow servants saw what had happened, they were very upset.  They went and informed their master all that had happened.  Then his master summoned him.

 

“‘You wicked servant!’ he said to him, ‘I let you off the whole debt because you begged me.  Shouldn’t you have taken pity on your fellow servant as I took pity on you?’

 

“His master was angry and handed him over to the torturers, until he had paid the whole debt.”  And then, picture Jesus looking Peter in the eye as he goes on: “And that’s what my heavenly Father will do to you, unless each of you forgives your brother [or sister] from your heart!”

 

I expect Peter’s reaction was the same as most people’s today when they hear this story.  Okay, wow, the master was super gracious with his servant.  Ten thousand talents was an absurd amount of money.  Jesus talking about “ten thousand” talents would be like someone today talking about “a gazillion dollars”.  It's like the national debt: you can’t ever pay it back.  You have to wonder what kind of guy this servant was in order to rack up that kind of debt—and it seems that somehow he did it without his master knowing it was happening.  So knowing he’d never get his money back, the best the master could do was sell this servant into slavery, along with his family and everything he owned.  It wouldn’t get him his gazillion dollars back, but it was better than nothing.  And yet, when the servant pleaded with him, the master had compassion.  Real compassion.  He didn’t force the man to sell his possessions to pay back part of the debt.  He didn’t come up with a plan to garnish his wages.  He just forgave the whole thing.  Done.  Free and clear.  Imagine how you’d feel.  The relief.  The joy.  The gratitude.

 

But not this guy.  Even though his master forgave the debt, he’s angry for being reminded of the debt in the first place and he’s angry for being reminded that he was in over his head and that the only way to get out was by his master’s good graces.  We’ve met people like that.  The gospel’s message of forgiveness ought to bring us joy, but some people’s hearts are so hard and their pride so strong, the idea that they can’t pay their debt themselves just makes them angry.  That’s this guy.  So he goes stomping out of the master’s presence and on his way home to kick the dog and yell at his wife, he runs into one of his fellow servants.  We get a sense of what a sleazy wheeler-dealer he is.  Not only has he racked up a crazy debt himself, but he’s making loans to other people—probably from the money be borrowed from his master.  This fellow servant owes him a hundred denarii.  That’s a reasonable amount—about a hundred days wages.  The first guy owed the national debt.  This other guy owes the price of a used car.  And the first servant, with his huge debt forgiven, well, there’s no reason to collect on the second.  He no longer needs the money to pay back his master.  When he saw his fellow servant, he should have run up to him with a big smile, “Hey!  Guess what.  I’m feeling magnanimous today.  Forget about the money you owe me.”  But instead, all this greedy jerk can think about his filling his own pockets even fuller than they already are.  Those hundred denarii are now his, so he grabs his fellow servant by the throat, starts throttling him, and demands the money.  And, just as he had pleaded with the master, this guy pleads with him using almost exactly the same words.  But instead of showing mercy, the first servant has his fellow servant thrown into prison.

 

It was scandalous.  Jesus’ story was purposefully over the top.  They usually were.  But it really did drive the point home.  Merciless vengeance?  That’s the world of people like Lamech.  But here’s the thing.  The world where people will only forgive a brother or sister three times—or even seven times?  The world where you forgive up to a point and then demand your pound of flesh?  That’s also the world of people like Lamech.  The world where I grit my teeth and say, “No one’s gonna walk all over me!”  That’s the world of Lamech, too.  The world of Lamech is a world of darkness.  It’s the world out of which the Lord had called Abraham.  It’s the world out of which the Lord had rescued Israel when he delivered them from Pharaoh’s bondage.  So that they could be a light in the midst of that darkness, a light that would draw the nations to the Lord and to his life.  And that world of Lamech, it’s that world that Jesus came set to rights.  And Jesus didn’t come to set it right by killing all the Lamechs.  He came to set it right by forgiving all the Lamechs, to die on a cross and pay the blood-debt of all the Lamechs with his own blood.  He came to teach all the Lamech’s grace and to fill them with his Spirit so that they would understand and know and reciprocate that grace.  So that God’s grace would overflow from them and begin a cascade of forgiveness and healing and reconciliation in the world.

 

And that, I think, explains Jesus’ explanation.  He ends the story with the angry master throwing the servant into prison—to the torturers as some translations put it—because the idea is a merciless jailor who will somehow extract every last cent from whoever is entrusted to their devices.  I don’t know how that works and I don’t really want to.  It’s just bad.  And Jesus says, “That’s what my heavenly Father will do to you unless each of you forgives his brother or sister from your heart.”

 

And that’s where some people struggle with this.  Not the parable.  The parable makes sense.  But that God will revoke or somehow withhold his forgiveness from us if we don’t ourselves forgive.  That gets some people’s hackles up.  And yet it’s not the first or only time Jesus says something like this.  Think of the Lord’s prayer.  He teaches us to pray, “Forgive us as we forgive our debtors.”  And, again, that bothers some people.  But it shouldn’t.  Not if we remember that bigger story of God’s redemption and not if we stop and think about forgiveness itself.

 

So let’s think about the latter first—about the nature of forgiveness.  Some of God’s gifts don’t depend on us at all.  He can and does give them to us regardless of our attitude or standing before him.  But forgiveness is different.  Think of it like breathing.  When I started swimming competitively in grade school, one of the first things I had to learn was how to breathe.  There’s some instinct in human beings that when you put your face in the water, you want to hold your breath.  And so you see all the young kids swimming along and when they raise their arm and turn their head to breath, that’s when they exhale and then gasp for another breath of air before putting their face back in the water.  You can hear them: loudly exhaling and then gasping for air.  But that doesn’t work.  There isn’t enough time to do both while your head is turned.  So you have to learn to exhale when your face is in the water, so that your lungs will be free to inhale—not gasp, but naturally inhale—when you turn your head.  Learn to do that: exhale in the water, then turn your head and inhale, and you can go forever.  But if you won’t give up that oxygen when your face is in the water, you won’t be able to inhale the oxygen you need when you turn your head.  You’ll be out of breath in a length or two.  Forgiveness is like breathing.  If you can’t give it, you can’t receive it.  A couple of weeks ago we heard the beatitudes.  Jesus’ list there starts with being poor in spirit.  Brothers and Sisters, you’ve got to be empty—and know it—before God can fill you.  That, and God’s forgiveness doesn’t stand alone.  It’s not a gift that’s given for its own sake.  God’s forgiveness serves a purpose.  And that’s why we need to understand this in the context of the whole big story of redemption.

 

Right from the beginning, God has had a purpose—a vocation—for his people.  Adam and Eve were the priests of his temple called to steward creation and, while they were at it, to be fruitful and multiply.  If they’d done that, if they’d been faithful to that stewardship and been fruitful, it would have meant the growth and expansion of the temple until it filled the earth.  Sound familiar?  It should sound like the Prophet Habakkuk’s words of hope about the glory of the Lord covering the earth as the waters cover the sea.  And so when God set out to redeem his creation that has been corrupted by human rebellion and sin, he called and saved a people to be his means of restoring humanity and creation.  He poured out his grace on Israel and set her up to be a light to the nations.  And when Israel failed, he sent his own son to be a faithful Israelite, to die and to shed his blood and to rise again in order to a create a new Israel, a new people and this time he filled that people with his Spirit as the Lord had promised to do through the Prophets.  And this people, forgiven by Jesus and filled with God’s Spirit, have been called and equipped to take his kingdom to the world, to be light in the darkness, to proclaim the good news of Jesus’ death and resurrection, to announce that he is the world’s true Lord, until his enemies have been defeated and God’s glory is known throughout the earth as the waters cover the sea.

 

And on that last day, whatever is left of evil, of sin, and even death itself—all the intractable Lamechs, unwilling to breathe out that God might breathe into them—all of it will be destroyed as everyone in Jesus the Messiah and even creation itself are resurrected and made new and God’s new creation comes in all its glory—as heaven and earth and God and human beings are once again united.

 

But in the meantime, Brothers and Sisters, you and I—the people of Jesus and the Spirit—are God’s means of making known his glory—as we proclaim the death and resurrection of Jesus and as we live out the life of the Spirit that anticipates his new creation—and not for our own sake, but for the life of the world.  When we embrace Jesus, when we empty ourselves and let him breathe his life and his forgiveness into us, he forgives our debt and reconciles us to God.  He even fills us with his Spirit and makes us his temple.  And the natural result of that, should be a grateful joy that first fills the church with the same forgiving and reconciling love.  But then that joy and that desire to share the reconciling love of God in Jesus cascades out from the church to the world—as we forgive and share God’s grace in our families, in our community, in our neighbourhoods and schools and workplaces and shops and as we drive our cars and ride our bikes, in our board meetings and city councils and legislatures and parliaments—as Jesus’ people bring God’s grace into places of conflict and brokenness.  Is it an easy task?  No.  But it begins here.  Come to the Table this morning.  Eat the bread and drink the wine.  Remember what Jesus has done for us at the cross.  Participate in his forgiveness anew.  And as you go out, don’t let it fade.  Meditate on what Jesus has done for you.  Keep exhaling yourself that he might breathe his life into you.  And then take his life-giving breath to the world.

 

Let’s pray: Keep, O Lord, your household the Church steadfast in godliness; that through your protection, it may be free from all adversities, and may devoutly serve you in good works, to the glory of your name, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

If you haven’t noticed, we have a mouse problem.  Usually the mice stay to the attic or the crawlspace, but for some reason, this year, they’ve decided to go everywhere.  For the last six weeks I’ve been plugging holes and setting traps and experimenting with bait: everything from peanut butter to dog treats to Veronica and Meredith’s maple fudge.  All to no avail.  They don’t touch the traps, but they poop right next to them as if to say, “Do you really think we’re that stupid?”  And Friday, Friday was the last straw.  The last while has seemed like a steady stream of setbacks and disappointments.  This week I was working on my book on preaching while sending feedback to a couple of guys I’ve been advising on preaching.  I’ve been really struggling with that book and this week, chatting with these two guys, I finally kind of identified the obstacle I’ve been running up against and I don’t really know how to get around it, and that’s left me frustrated and discouraged.  And the City of Courtenay.  They won’t clear the leaves in their little “conservation” area anymore, so I cleared the sidewalks, but then Thursday’s storm blew the leaves back even deeper, so Friday morning I was using a snow shovel to move them out as far away as I could from the church so the wind wouldn’t blow them back and in the process I strained something in my leg.  And then the news coming out daily this week from ACNA and about bishops not doing what bishops are supposed to do and bishops allegedly doing things that bishops aren’t supposed to do.  I was really, really discouraged on Friday.  I’m rarely tempted to give up, but Friday I was close.  And then I heard a noise, and I turned and saw a mouse dart across the room and into the storage cubicle in the Sunday School.  So I got up to see where the mouse went.  I didn’t find it, but I did find the nest.  In the seasonal banners.  It was gross.  The mice had peed and pooped and chewed holes in them.  And that was it.  Stick a fork in me.  I’m done.  I packed up my things and went home.  I tried the Elijah therapy.  I had a snack and a nap.  It didn’t really work.

 

I came back yesterday morning to clean up the mouse mess.  I checked the traps first.  I wanted revenge.  But alas—nothing—as usual.  So I started sweeping and mopping and vacuuming and while I was doing that I was praying—mostly for the death of the mice.  But somewhere between the mopping and the vacuuming it hit me.  Of all the things wrong with the world and wrong with the church, it wasn’t the mice.  People sin, bishops sin, I sin—but not the mice.  The mice, as annoying as they are, the mice are doing exactly what God created them to do.  They’re upstairs peeing and pooping and chewing on the banners, because that’s what God made them to do and in doing it they give him glory.  And while I was discouraged and tempted to just give up, they were happily doing their thing, not caring at all that I’m out to get them—laughing their little mouse laughs at me as they poop right next to my traps.  Looking for a new place to build a nest after I kicked them out of the last one.  And as I vacuumed up their poop St. Paul’s words from our Epistle kept running around my head like a mouse on a wheel: Stand firm!

 

I—we—need to be like the mice.  We need to be what Jesus has made us to be and in that we will give God glory.  And, of course, in doing that, we’ll catch the attention of the enemy, who will do his best to oppose us, to discourage us, to persuade us to throw in the towel.  Our Epistle today is from Ephesians 6—just about at the end of the letter.  The first part of the letter is about who we are—or, better, who Jesus has made us through his death and resurrection.  In Chapter 2 Paul writes that if we belong to the Messiah—if we have put our faith, our trust, our allegiance in him—then we are already “seated with him in the heavenly places”.  If by faith we are in the Messiah, then that’s who we are: we’re part of God’s new creation, seated with our king in glory.  But of course, this is one of those “already, but not yet” things.  It’s begun, but it’s not yet finished.  Think about it.  When he rose from death, Jesus won the decisive battle over sin and death.  But that doesn’t mean the war is over.  Sin and death, the principalities and powers of the old evil age still, nevertheless, continue to fight on even though they’ve already lost.  It won’t be over until the gospel and the Spirit have gone out to bring God’s new creation to the ends of the earth—until the knowledge of his glory covers the earth as the waters cover the sea.  And here’s the point that Paul is trying to make here at the end of Ephesians: Because we’ve been united with Jesus the Messiah, because what’s true of him is true of us, because we are seated with him in the heavenlies, that means that we’ve been recruited to take part in this great messianic battle to carry the gospel and God’s glory to the ends of the earth—to proclaim the victory Jesus won on the cross to the people who haven’t yet heard that good news, who haven’t yet heard that he’s the world’s true lord.

 

And if we do this, we will face opposition.  That’s why, when you make it clear for example, that your church isn’t in the business of playing musical chairs with other churches, but about going out to proclaim and live the gospel to bring people to Jesus, the devils will fight you.  That’s why, when you make it clear that you’re not going to compromise with the philosophies, with the politics, with the systems of the world, the devils will fight you.  That’s why, when you make it clear that you’re going to live out new creation and make the glory of God known here and now, the devils will fight you.  They will fight you.  They will throw hurdles in your path.  They will go for the weakest link and they will cause your leaders to stumble and fall.  They will do whatever they can to discourage you and tempt you to throw in the towel.

 

And so Paul writes to the Ephesian Christians and he says, “The one thing left to say is this: Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power.”  Don’t be strong in yourself.  That won’t cut it.  Be strong in the Lord, because he’s the one who has won the victory.  “Put on God’s complete armour,” he says.  “Then you’ll be able to stand firm against the devil’s schemes.”  And, to be clear, it’s the devil’s schemes.  “The warfare we’re engaged in, you see, isn’t against flesh and blood.  It’s against the principalities, against the powers, against the cosmic powers that rule the world in this dark age, against the wicked spiritual elements in the heavenly places.”

 

I expect this took some time to sink in with Paul’s original audience—especially his fellow Judeans.  It’s not that they didn’t believe there are unseen forces in the world.  That’s a problem unique to people today with all of our post-enlightenment materialistic thinking.  If we can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.  People in the First Century knew better than us.  They knew there are spiritual powers we can’t see.  The issue is that when we think of enemies, we almost always think of people.  It’s the guy on the city council who wants to take away the tax exempt status of churches.  It’s the people in the wrong political party.  It’s the people in that foreign country that hate us.  It’s the Communists or it’s the Muslims or the alphabet people or the pronouns people.  Paul’s people thought the same way.  Judeans thought it was the pagans.  Their enemies were the Greeks who tried to stamp out their way of life back in the Second Century B.C.  It was the Romans who presently ruled them and whose grip was getting tighter and tighter.  Paul knew that as persecution came to the churches at the hands of unbelieving Jews and pagan Greeks and Romans Christians would be tempted to start thinking the same way about them.

 

And Paul’s wanting them to understand here that none of those people is the real enemy.  Maybe they once were, but when Jesus died on the cross and rose again, he redefined the battle.  Jesus didn’t go to the cross to defeat the Greeks or the Romans or the Communists or the Muslims.  He went to the cross to defeat sin and death and the powers of evil—those powers that, since the serpent tempted Eve, have infiltrated God’s good creation and corrupted it, that have caused us to worship idols instead of God, that have caused us to forsake our vocation as the stewards of his creation and priests of his temple, that have caused us to turn on each other instead of loving each other as God loves us.  Jesus came like a new Adam to defeat not us, but the powers of evil, and in the process to forgive us for our rebellion and treason and to restore us to our old vocation, to do the job he created us for in the first place.  That’s what it means to bear his image.

 

And Paul knew that this meant Jesus has called us to fight at his side.  Not to fight the Greeks or the Romans or the Communists or the Muslims, but to fight the powers of evil, the principalities and powers and spiritual forces that have infiltrated creation and brought darkness where there should be light.  Again, at the cross he won the decisive victory, now he calls us into his gospel army to proclaim that good news.  To announce to the world that Jesus is Lord, that there is forgiveness of sins and reconciliation with God through him if we will only come in faith and give him our allegiance.  The Greeks and the Romans, the Communists and the Muslims aren’t the enemy.  It’s the dark powers behind them.  And never forget that those dark powers were once working in us, too.  And they’re often much closer to home—even doing their work of corruption in our own house—if you’ve followed the ACNA news the past couple of weeks.  But the good news is that Jesus can deliver those people, just as he delivered us.

 

This, by the way, is why Jesus hasn’t just done the war all at once.  Because God is patient, loving, and gracious he’s chosen to fight this war over the long term, giving the whole world the opportunity to hear and respond to the good news about Jesus.  Giving time for the gospel and the Spirit to infiltrate the systems and powers and people of this old evil age to undo what sin and death have done.

 

So, Paul writes, stand firm and be prepared to fight—the real enemy.  And for that he says we need to take up the whole armour of God.  That’s verse 13.  And this is really telling.  If you were paying attention when we read the Old Testament lesson this morning—the one from Isaiah 59—what Paul says here should sound familiar.  Through Isaiah the Lord promised that he would send a redeemer to set the world to rights.  Our Old Testament lesson is a promise of the coming Messiah, of Jesus.  Here’s what we read: “‘The Lord saw it, and it displeased him that there was no justice. He saw that there was no man, and wondered that there was no one to intercede; then his own arm brought him salvation, and his righteousness upheld him. He put on righteousness as a breastplate, and a helmet of salvation on his head; he put on garments of vengeance for clothing, and wrapped himself in zeal as a cloak. According to their deeds, so will he repay, wrath to his adversaries, repayment to his enemies; to the coastlands he will render repayment…And a Redeemer will come to Zion, to those in Jacob who turn from transgression,’ declares the Lord.”

 

Jesus was the first one to put on this armour and now, because we’re united with him, because he’s made us part of his new creation, and because he’s called us to enter the battle and to stand firm against the darkness, he shares his armour with us—otherwise we wouldn’t be able to stand at all.  And here’s the armour as Paul describes it in Ephesians, starting again at 6:13: “For this reason you must take up the whole armour of God.  Then, when wickedness grabs the moment, you’ll be able to withstand, to do what needs to be done, and still be on your feet when it’s over.  So stand firm!  Put the belt of truth around your waist; put on justice/righteousness as your breastplate; for shoes on your feet, ready for battle, take the good news of peace.  With it all take the shield of faith; if you’ve got that, you’ll be able to quench the flaming arrows of the evil one.  Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is God’s word.”

 

It starts with truth.  A Roman soldier’s belt or girdle was sort of the thing that everything else attached to or hung from.  Put on truth as your belt.  Everything else depends on that.  In Isaiah’s vision the Messiah was to come to set this broken world to rights and that begins with the truth.  The reason the world is in the mess it’s in is because we believed the serpent’s lie—that we could be like God.  Brother and Sisters, the truth is that that’s idolatry.  Every other sin cascades from that.  The great lie that permeates the world is that we can do and be whatever we want.  That we can make our own reality and define goodness for ourselves.  But Jesus has come to remind us of the truth—the truth of the original creation and the truth of God’s new creation.  And so before we go to battle evil, we’ve got to tie that truth around us.  The gospel isn’t about our feelings; it’s not what we make it; it’s not about what we think might offend or not offend people; it’s about the truth, the reality of God’s goodness and his good creation and his purpose to set it and us to rights revealed in the good news about Jesus.  Tie that on and the rest follows naturally.

 

Second, as a breastplate, put on God’s justice or righteousness—remember in Greek they’re the same word.  It’s a reminder that at the heart of the gospel is God’s plan to set this broken world to rights—to undo everything that’s wrong, to undo all the sad things, to wipe away all the tears—ultimately and eventually to wipe every last bit of evil and sin and darkness from creation and even death itself.  And it’s a reminder that when God raised Jesus from death, he overturned the world’s false verdict against him and declared him to be in the right—and that if we are united with him, then we share in that verdict, in his vindication.

 

And then for our shoes: peace.  “How beautiful are the feet of the one who announces peace…who says to Zion, Your God reigns.”  This is the place where Paul changes that Old Testament image from Isaiah.  Instead of vengeance, he calls us to put on peace.  The Jews wanted vengeance on their enemies, but Paul’s reminding us that the Messiah, through his death, has reconciled us to God.  He’s given us peace.  And that peace isn’t just for us; it’s for everyone.  And it’s on our feet.  We stand on it.  The enemy will try to knock us down by making us think we’re in this for vengeance—that we need to go after the Greeks or the Romans or the Communists or the Muslims, but if we stand on peace, on reconciliation with God, we will stand firm and remember that our fight is not with flesh and blood, but with the devil.

 

The fourth bit of armour is the shield of faith.  In the ancient world an enemy might shoot flaming arrows at you, so you soaked your wooden shield in water.  We soak our shield in faith.  That means in the faithfulness of Jesus the Messiah and in our own responding faith—remembering that he’s won the victory and trusting that he will empower us to stand firm in this gospel battle and win in the end.  And that goes with the helmet of salvation—like a gospel thinking cap, it reminds us Jesus has rescued the captives.  You and I no longer belong to sin and death, but to the Messiah.  It reminds us, too, why we’re waging this battle: to free the men and women still captive, still slaves to sin and death.

 

So far this armour is all for defence.  The Christian has only one offensive weapon and that should remind us about the nature of this battle.  It’s not against flesh and blood, but against the unseen forces of evil that infiltrate the systems and institutions of the world.  Our sword, the weapon by which we advance the kingdom of God is the word.  In Isaiah 11:4 the Messiah smites the earth with the rod of his mouth and slays the wicked with the breath of his lips.  It’s a wonderful illustration of the power of God’s word and God’s Spirit—not violence, but his creative and life-giving word—to free and to transform and to set the broken world right as it confronts the great lie with God’s truth.

 

But our Epistle doesn’t quite end there.  Truth and justice, peace and faith, salvation and the word are all essential if we are going to stand firm.  To take up these things is to be the people that Jesus has made us through our union with him.  But union is about more than putting these things on, it’s about real, literal union—or communion—with him.  We need to talk with our commander.  And so, in verses 18-20 Paul writes: “Pray on every occasion in the Spirit, with every type of prayer and intercession.  You’ll need to keep awake and alert for this, with all perseverance and intercession for all the saints.  And also for me.  Pray that God will give me his words to speak when I open my mouth, so that I can make known, loud and clear, the secret truth of the gospel.  That after all, is why I’m a chained-up ambassador.  Pray that I may announce it boldly; that’s what I’m duty-bound to do.”

 

Paul was in prison because of his preaching, because he’d put on the armour of God and because he’d proclaimed God’s truth.  But he knew that prison could not stop the march of the gospel and so he asked his brothers and sisters to pray for him—and not only for him, but live prayer, because that’s what it means to be united to Jesus and to be baptised in God’s Spirit—to be in constant communion with God.  It’s not just about formal prayer—like when you sit down with your Prayer Book and your Bible and you prayer the prayers and pray the Psalms.  It’s a life saturated with the presence of God and with communion with him.

 

I don’t know how it works.  I don’t think anyone does.  I’ve read books and books on prayer and it remains a mystery, but the best ones all conclude: I don’t know how it works, but I know it works.  Prayer doesn’t change God—as if somehow hearing from me causes him to realise that my ideas and my plans are better than his.  But prayer changes things and it changes me and it changes us and things—kingdom things, grace things, glory things—happen when we pray and live in that communion with God.

 

Brothers and Sisters, to pray is to act on and to live out the reality of Jesus’ cross and of the new creation he’s made us.  It’s to know that, through Jesus and the Spirit, we can now walk with God the way Adam and Eve once did.  That we live in his presence and in his grace and in his love.  It’s to know that he is our strength.  And so to pray, is to be what he has made us, it’s to consciously reject our rebellion and sin, and to be his new creation.  The mice—they know nothing of sin, nothing of rebellion.  Mice have always been what God made them in the beginning.  And, like I said, because of that, mice give him glory even when they’re just doing the ordinary things mice do.  We, on the other hand, rejected that life.  Jesus has given it back, but it's a struggle.  That’s why Paul urges us to put on God’s truth and justice, his righteousness and peace.  And it’s why he urges us to pray without ceasing.  Because reliance on God is the only way we’ll put to rest our old nature and be able to live into the new one he’s given.  To pray is to look back to the cross in gratitude and to look forward in hope to God’s new world, and find our life and our strength and everything else that matters in him—so that we can stand firm and so that we can glorify him.

 

So, Brothers and Sisters, stand firm.  Stand firm and be the new creation that Jesus has made us.  Remember that we stand with our king in the battle, but that this battle is not against flesh and blood.  It’s against the dark powers that corrupt flesh and blood, that make us hate and that make us enemies of one another.  Stand firm in God’s truth and justice, stand firm in his peace and his salvation.  And confront the world with the good news of Jesus, crucified and risen.  And pray, pray, pray, remembering that he is with us and that he is our strength and our hope.

 

Let’s pray: Merciful Lord, grant to your faithful people pardon and peace; that we may be cleansed from all our sins, and serve you with a quiet mind; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

What does it mean to be “blessed”?  In today’s Gospel we hear St. Matthew’s telling of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount—or the beginning of it, at any rate.  Blessed is this person and blessed is that person.  But what does it mean to be blessed?  And what’s Jesus really getting at with this list: being poor in spirit, mournful, meek, merciful, and so on?  And who is the promise of blessing for?  This past Monday I found myself listening to a sermon by one of these woke, “exvangelical” guys whose ministry is about walking people through the deconstruction of their faith.  If you haven’t come across it yet, “deconstruction” is a trendy euphemism for apostasy.  You throw away all the bits of Christianity that you can’t harmonise with the secular world, leaving behind a gospelless gospel—like the security blanket I had as a toddler.  I wouldn’t get rid of it, so my mom slowly cut it down, a little bit at a time until all I had was a little bit of fabric I could hold.  It wasn’t a blanket anymore, but for some silly reason I still found security in it.  These folks do that with the gospel.  This preacher was preaching on the Sermon on the Mount and he started out by holding up Mohandas Gandhi as the one man who followed Jesus better than anyone else in the Twentieth Century.  Gandhi heard these words of Jesus and faithfully followed him.  Never mind that he was also a devout Hindu.  This preacher reduced the Sermon on the Mount to a bracing ethic.  It’s Jesus teaching us how to be good and, through that, how to make the world a better place.  It doesn’t really matter, he said, if you’re Christian or Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist.  Jesus just wanted people to live this way and in doing so, we’ll know the blessings of a better world.  He took the gospel and turned it into law.  And not even a good law.  The Old Testament law—the torah—has a lot more gospel to it than I think we often realise.  At its heart was that first and greatest commandment: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.  The God who reveals himself in the scriptures.  Not Zeus or Jupiter.  Not the gods of Gandhi’s Hindu pantheon.  Not Mohammed’s corruption of the biblical God.  Only the God who has made himself known through the law and the prophets, the evangelists and apostles, and most of all through his son, Jesus the Messiah.  Without love for him, no amount of loving your neighbour as yourself will truly heal the hurts of the world.  There is no blessing apart from him—and, more specifically, apart from loving him with all our being.

 

Why?  Because it was our rejection of him that brought sin and death into the world in the first place.  Idolatry—whether it’s the worship of false gods or the worship of ourselves—idolatry is the first sin from which all the others and all the world’s misery cascade.  This is why God’s gracious plan to set his creation to rights began as he reestablished our relationship with him.

 

If we look to the scriptures we see that blessing comes through being in relationship with the God of Israel.  Specifically—because “relationship” is such a squishy modern idea—specifically blessing comes through being in covenant with him.  Think of Abraham.  The Lord established a covenant with him.  The Lord promised Abraham a family and a land and great name.  In a word: blessing.  In return Abraham was to trust him—to live by faith and to give the Lord his allegiance.  And, centuries later, when the Lord delivered Israel from slavery in Egypt, consider what he did.  He revealed his glory by defeating Pharoah, his army, and his gods.  He revealed his glory in signs and wonders the likes of which no one had ever seen.  And then he met his people at Mt. Sinai.  He made them a promise: to make them great, to give them a land, and most important of all, to live in their midst.  Their end of the covenant—their promise to God—was embodied in the law.  Like Abraham, they were to live by faith and obedience and to give him their full allegiance—to love him with all their being and to love their neighbours as themselves.  And not just for their own benefit.  The Lord had a greater purpose.  He wanted the nations not only to see his glory, but for them to see the blessing that comes through living in fellowship with him.

 

And so, before he died, as Israel was encamped in Moab and ready to cross the Jordan River to conquer Canaan, Moses assembled the people and reiterated the covenant.  “If you faithfully obey the voice of the Lord your God, if you carefully do all his commandments, the Lord will set you high above the other nations…Blessed shall you be in the city and blessed shall you be in the field.  Blessed shall be the fruit of your womb…and blessed shall be your basket and kneading bowl.  Blessed shall you be when you come in and blessed shall you be when you go out.”  And Moses reminded them that this was no mere “duty”.  This was no mere exchange of works in return for a declaration of righteousness.  This was grace.  Through Moses, the Lord reminded the people of all he'd done for them.  He’d rescued them from Egypt.  He’d defeated Pharaoh.  He’d done signs and wonders.  Their clothes had not worn out.  He’d provided every last morsel of food that they’d eaten for forty years.  All so that they would know that “I am the Lord your God”.  In other words, to reveal his love, his grace, his glory, and above all else his faithfulness—to enter into relationship with them and to give them every reason to have faith in him and to give him their allegiance.  To keep the law was to live by faith in the character and promises of God—to love him in return for his love.

 

And this theme rings through Israel’s history and Israel’s scriptures.  This is what blessing means in the biblical economy.  Think of David’s words in Psalm 1: “Blessed is the man that hath not walked in the counsel of the ungodly, not stood in the way of sinners, and hath not sat in the seat of the scornful.  But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law will he exercise himself day and night.  And he will be like a tree planted by the waterside, that will bring forth his fruit in due season.”  The prophets use this same language of blessing when they rebuke Israel for having strayed from the Lord.  Blessing isn’t just some nebulous idea of things being good—as a lot of people use it today.  Blessing is about creation—and humanity—being set to rights.  If you want to picture “blessing” in your mind’s eye, picture Adam and Eve, in the garden, all their needs provided, as they faithfully steward God’s creation and live in his immediate presence.  Brothers and Sisters, that’s blessing.  David wasn’t posting #blessed on Instagram with a picture of his pumpkin spice latte next to the fireplace.  For David it was #blessed with a picture of the tabernacle radiating the visible presence of the Lord in the midst of a people serving and loving and taking care of each other.

 

This is what we’ve got to have in mind as we listen to Jesus begin to preach his great sermon in Matthew 5.  And we have to remember that it wasn’t the reality that Israel knew.  This is why the people were so desperate for the Messiah.  The world is not as it should be.  Israel was most definitely not as it was supposed to be.  They wanted to know God’s blessing—not just in the sense of material prosperity—above all, they longed for his presence.  And so, Matthew writes, “Seeing the crowd, Jesus went up the hillside and sat down.  His disciples came to him.  And he opened his mouth and taught them, saying:

 

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for justice, for they will be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.

 

Do you want to see God’s kingdom, to know him as Father, to know creation set to rights, your sins forgiven, and your tears wiped away?  This is the way.  And it’s not a set of ethical guidelines.  Too often we think of it that way.  It’s character.  It’s a mindset.  It’s the character and the mindset of men and women who know desperately that the world is not as it should be.  But not just that.  Gandhi knew well enough that the world is not as it should be.  This is, first and foremost, the mindset of people who know the world as it should be is centred on the living God who created and sustains all things and us living joyfully, lovingly, and faithfully in his presence.  This is the mindset of people who have that image of Adam and Eve in the garden walking with the Lord in the cool of the day in their mind’s eye and the longing of their hearts.  It’s the mindset of people who have that image of tabernacle full of God’s presence in the middle of a people who love him with all their being and their neighbours as themselves.

 

And so it’s the mindset of men and women who are not only outraged over sin and evil and longing for God’s justice to fall on the people who have done them wrong.  It’s the mindset of men and women who know that they’ve done wrong themselves—who know their own poverty of spirit.  Of men and women who mourn not only the sinful state of the world around them, but who also mourn their own sinfulness and the contributions they’ve made to the world’s sick and sorry state.  It’s the mindset of men and women who are meek, because they know that pride and selfishness do nothing more than deepen the world’s darkness—who know that pride and selfishness are rooted in the very idolatry that drives God to the margins.  It is the mindset of men and women who, knowing the injustice and the unrighteousness of this broken world, hunger and thirst for God’s justice and righteousness.  They long for his return as king to bring an end to evil and to rule with justice, because they know that we can never fix the world on our own and in our own power.  It is the mindset of those who are have known God’s mercy and are therefore merciful themselves.  Of those who understand the ugliness of sin and idolatry and run from it, who are pure in heart.  It’s the mindset of men and women who know the story and know of God’s grace and how he loves sinners and desires above all else to be reconciled with them, and so they themselves become peacemakers and reconcilers.

 

I don’t think Jesus’ list here is by any means exhaustive.  He preached this sermon more than once.  I expect he preached some version of it just about everywhere he went and it was a little different every time, which is what we see in the parallel passage in Luke’s Gospel, where the list of beatitudes is shorter and a little different.  Jesus is describing a mindset using characteristics that resonated with his fellow Jews in that specific time and place.  These were the attitudes needed to counter the problems that infected First Century Israel.  Notably, these are all characteristics deeply rooted in Israel’s prophetic tradition.  And I can’t help but wonder if he learned this mindset, this character from his mother.  She sang her song, the one we call Magnificat and sing at Evening Prayer, when Elizabeth blessed her on hearing the news she was pregnant with the Messiah.  I wonder if Mary sang that song to Jesus when he was a boy, because we can hear echoes of it in his beatitudes: “My soul doth magnify the Lord and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.  For he hath regarded the lowliness of his hand-maiden.  For behold, from henceforth all generations shall call be blessed.  For he that is mighty hath magnified me and holy is his name.  And his mercy is on them that fear him through all generations.  He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.  He hath put down the mighty from their set and hath exalted the humble and meek.  He hath filled the hungry with good things and the rich he hath sent empty away.  He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, forever.”  Can you hear the echoes?

 

But that’s not the end of Jesus’ beatitudes.  There are two more and I think they give us the key to how this works.  In verses 10-12 he continues: “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of justice [or righteousness—the Greek word means both and there’s no easily drawn line between justice and righteousness], for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are you when people slander you and persecute you and say all kinds of wicked things about you falsely because of me.  Celebrate and rejoice!  There’s a great reward for you in heaven.  For that’s how they persecuted the prophets who went before you.”

 

And as we read that we should start to realise that while Jesus is talking about “them”, what he’s also doing is outlining his own vocation and ministry.  Jesus would stand weeping over Jerusalem, mourning the unfaithfulness of his people and the judgement that was hurtling towards them like a freight train.  He would let himself be arrested and then stand, unresisting and refusing to retaliate or even to defend himself as he was mocked and spit on and beaten to within an inch of his life.  He would, beaten and bloodied, carry his own cross through the streets of Jerusalem and out to Golgotha.  His clothes would be stripped from him by the soldiers.  And as he breathed his last and died, one of those very soldiers would declare, “Surely this man was the son of God.”

 

We think that when God comes to set the world to rights he’ll send in the cavalry.  Most of the Jews in Jesus’ day thought the same thing.  The Messiah would come like David, riding at the head of a great army to crush the heads of the Gentiles.  But instead the Messiah went humbly to Calvary.  He let sin and death rise up to their full height and strike him down so that when he rose from the grave three days later, he crushed the serpent’s head and overturned the victory of sin and death.

 

Brothers and Sisters, this is how God takes his throne and sets the world to rights.  This is how Jesus becomes Lord.  This is how blessing comes.  In poverty and meekness, bringing mercy and making peace.  And giving his life for the sake of his enemies.  Because any other way would simply perpetuate the very things you and I have done to get the world into the mess it’s in.

 

And now that Jesus has done it, our calling as his people is to keep doing it.  As St. Paul says, we’re to have the mind of the Messiah.  This mindset has always been the mindset of the faithful people of God and it will be until the mission is one day done.  I suppose if he wanted to, God could simply save his people from their bondage, set the world to rights, and set them free to live in it, but that’s not how he does things.  From the beginning he created Adam and Eve to bear his image—that means to be his stewards, to act as the priests of his temple.  And so when he delivered Israel from Egypt, he showed the people his glory and gave them reason to love and trust and obey him.  He established a covenant with them.  He took up his dwelling in their midst so that they would be his light in the midst of a dark world—so that the nations would see and come to give him glory.  He made them stewards of his glory and his grace.  And, Brothers and Sisters, in Jesus he has done the same for us.

 

I started slowly reading through Ephesians this week—which might give you a hint of things to come—and the first thing I was struck by in the very first chapter was how, over and over, Paul proclaims the glory of God that has been revealed in Jesus and the Spirit—and that is also revealed in us.  I couldn’t help but think how Jesus goes on after the Beatitudes: “You are the salt of the earth…You are the light of the world.  A city can’t be hidden if it’s on top of a hill…That’s how you must shine your light in front of people!  Then they will see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.  This is what we see at the end of Revelation: the nations seeing the glory of God revealed in Jesus and his church and streaming to the New Jerusalem to worship him.  Brothers and Sisters, God’s glory revealed in us, because he’s made us new, and God’s glory revealed by us, as we go to live and to proclaim his new creation.

 

It is no easy task, but it is the only way to know and to make known God’s blessing.  We go out, knowing our own poverty of spirit, but also the riches of God’s grace.  We go out meek and mourning, but also knowing the joy of being coheirs with the King.  We go out hungering and thirsting for justice, but we do so having experienced mercy ourselves.  We go out to battle, paradoxically, with the intent to reconcile.  And as we do this, we also transpose this Messiah-like character into the key necessary to meet our own culture.  In a world of ugliness where truth is now defined as whatever we want it to be and politicians try to win our loyalty with lies and appeals to our greed, we go out knowing that blessed are those who hunger and thirst for truth, beauty, and goodness.  In a culture obsessed with consumption and debt, we go out knowing that blessed are those who are satisfied with the riches of God.  However we do it, Brothers and Sisters, our calling is to go out into the world as light in the darkness, knowing and confident on the one hand that Jesus is Lord and has won the battle, but also going out with the same humility of spirit that took him to the cross.  Knowing that when God rides out to war to set the world to rights, it’s not with the cavalry, but to the humility of Calvary.  So, too, must it be with us.

 

Let us pray: O almighty God, you have knit together your elect in one communion and fellowship in the mystical body of your Son Christ our Lord: Give us grace so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those inexpressible joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, in glory everlasting.  Amen.