Living Words

Living Words

By The Rev'd William KlockReligion & SpiritualityChristianity
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  • But God!

    But God!

    Ephesians 2:1-10
    by William Klock

     
    Earlier this week Veronica and I watched an episode of the X Files that unintentionally had some pretty sound theology embedded in the story.  Agents Mulder and Scully were called to investigate some strange goings-on in a small town—as usual.  As it turned out, a guy cleaning out an abandoned storage locker found a genie.  And the genie gave him three wishes.  As you would expect, it didn’t go well.  He wished to be able to make himself invisible so that he could spy on people.  And not being terribly bright, he prompted got killed crossing the street, because he was…invisible.  His brother claimed the genie and didn’t fare any better.  His wish ended up blowing up his house with him in it.  And so Mulder ended up, unexpectedly, with the genie and three wishes.  And he asked the genie why the wishing thing always ends in disaster and the genie told him that it’s because people are stupid and selfish.  So Mulder thought long and hard and in his best effort at altruism, he wished for world peace.  St. Paul would call it shalom.  And he went outside to discover that he was the only person left on earth.  Because the genie knew fallen human nature and getting rid of all of us was the only way to bring world peace.  Thankfully, Mulder had two more wishes so he could undo the first and set the genie free with the third.
     
    And I thought that St. Paul would probably have a bit of a chuckle at that.  Because Paul knew the same thing the genie knew: we are all sinners, idolaters who worship anything and everything but the God who created us and loves us.  And, like Agent Mulder, but unlike the genie, Paul also knew that there is no shalom without human beings in our rightful place.  Creation groans in eager longing for the day God will finally set us to rights, he says in Romans, Creation waits for the day when God restores us to our position as his stewards, to rule creation and to serve him in his temple.  That, Brothers and Sisters, is shalom, peace.  Creation can never be complete without us in our proper place—filling the vocation God created us for in the first place.  That’s why God doesn’t just “Deal with evil” like so many people want him to.  Like the genie, he’d just have to remove us all from creation—and that’s not how creation is supposed to be.  This is why Paul practically shouts out ho de Theos, at the beginning of Ephesians 2:4: “But God!”  Because he knew that in setting creation to rights, God can and will, first, set us and our fallen, sinful hearts to rights—something no genie could ever do.
     
    And so far, in Ephesians 1, Paul has begun with a great shout of praise for what God has done in Jesus the Messiah and then he’s told the Ephesians how he prays for them—that they would know, that they would understand this great story of redemption, the power behind it to renew creation, so that they can be part of this story that ends with the knowledge of the glory of God filling the earth.  Remember at the end of chapter one, closing his prayer for them, he wrote about the church, united with Jesus and full of the Spirit being the “fullness of the one who fills all in all.”  It’s a prayer that God, that Jesus, that the Spirit, that the scriptures would form and shape them and truly make them the church.  And while we might miss the significance of Paul’s language of filling and fullness and being all in all, it was not lost on the Ephesians.  This was temple language.
     
    It’s the language of God coming to dwell with his people.  The way he did with Adam and Eve in the garden.  The story ever since has pointing in that direction.  The restoration of God’s temple, the return of his presence, and God dwelling with his people forever.  This is what the Exodus was all about.  God rescued and created a people, he gave them a law to make and to keep them pure and holy, so that he could take up his residence in their midst—so that he could tabernacle with them.  It wasn’t perfect.  The people needed to offer sacrifices repeatedly so that they could be purified by that blood.  A veil separated them from the direct presence of the Almighty.  But this model of new creation pointed forward to the day when God would set his people and his creation fully to rights.  The long exile, first from the promised land and the temple, then from the presence of God, primed Israel with hope for that coming day.  And now Paul’s ready to explain to the church that they—that we—are the beginning of that fulfilment.  In us, God has established a new temple.  By the blood of Jesus he has purified us.  Through the gift of his Spirit he has taken up his dwelling in us.  He has begun the work of setting our hearts to rights.  And in that, he has made us the working model of his new creation and stewards of his good news—that we might, to use the language he used with Adam and Eve, that we might be fruitful and multiply, spreading the gospel, until the earth is filled with the knowledge of his glory.
     
    Brothers and Sisters, this is the story we need to inhabit.  Too often Christians have got it backwards.  We think the gospel story is a story of escape from creation—that in Jesus, God forgives our sins, so that someday he can take us away from earth and up to heaven to live with him.  But it’s really just the opposite.  Through the blood of Jesus he has purified us and made us fit to be his holy temple, so that he can dwell with us.  Jesus is the model, Immanuel, God with us.  This is the story Paul wants to get across in Ephesians 2.  Ideally we’d cover the whole chapter all at once, but we’ll have to break it into two halves.  This temple story will jump out at us in the second half.  The first half begins with our sin problem.
     
    How did these mostly Gentile Christians in Ephesus find themselves in this oh so Jewish story?  He writes beginning at verse 1, “Well, you were dead because of your offenses and sins in which you used to walk, keeping in step with the world’s ‘present age’; in step, too, with the ruler of the power of the air, the spirit who is, even now, amongst the children of disobedience.”
     
    “You”—he’s addressing them as Gentiles.  In verse 3 he’ll link them with “us”—the Jews.  You were dead.  Because you walked—there’s that great word peripateo again—you walked, you lived a life of offense and sin against God.  And we can’t hear these two words sin and death together without it taking us back to Genesis.  And if we go back to Genesis 3 and Adam and Eve’s choice to listen to the serpent’s lie, not just to disobey God, but to reject their vocation as priests of God’s temple and to try to become gods themselves, if go way back to the beginning of the story there, we should understand that sin and death aren’t about God just setting up a bunch of rules and then condemning the people who disobey them.  Sin, and especially “offence”, are what we call it when human beings, created to bear God’s image—that means to be his priests and his representatives in the temple, in creation—sin and offence are what we call it when we reject that vocation.  When we try to take the temple for ourselves.  And death is not an arbitrary punishment, but the natural result of turning away from the God who is the source of life.  That’s why the wages of sin is death.
     
    And, of course, once humanity chose that path of disobedience and death it just snowballed.  Human culture and even those unseen powers that God had put in place to oversee the nations went horribly wrong.  The Jews called it the present evil age, because they lived in hope of the age to come when God would set creation to rights.  But the Gentiles had no hope.  They just went with the sinful flow.  We see it today as the world rejects Christianity.  Jeffrey Epstein and his cabal of degenerate, paedophile friends would have been right at home in pagan Greece or Rome and they’re exactly what you get when a people rejects God.  The devil didn’t just tempt the man and woman to reject God.  He and his cronies continue to steer and influence fallen humanity.  Paul will have more to say about this later when he writes about “principalities and powers”.  In our baptismal rite, we put this in terms of the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil.
     
    All these forces work together to keep humanity lost in idolatry and sin.  And so far as this goes, Paul is just restating the standard Jewish analysis of the Gentiles.  But then in verse 3 Paul goes on and writes, “We all used to live this way, in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of flesh and mind.  We, too—he means he and his fellow Jews—were by nature children of wrath, just like everyone else.”  Paul recognised that even though his own people had the torah, God’s law, and were trying to live by it, they were suffering the same problem as the Gentiles.  The corrupt desires of flesh and mind had just as much a grip on Israel as they did the peoples of the nations.  The whole world, all of humanity was mired in darkness, Jew and gentile alike.
     
    And this where, at the beginning of verse 4 Paul interjects this powerful, earth shattering: “But God!”  Into the darkness, into the hopelessness, into the condemnation, into the death, God intervenes to bring light, to bring hope, to bring deliverance, to bring life.  “But God,” Paul writes, who is rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, he took us at the very point where we were dead through our offenses, and made us alive together with the Messiah.  Yes, by grace you are saved!”
     
    Israel knew about God’s mercy and love.  The story they told of their history with God was full of mercy and grace.  And occasionally some gentile would hear that story and be drawn to it, because the God of Israel was unlike any of the other gods.  Zeus and Poseidon and Hades, Aphrodite and Artemis, people might believe all sorts of things about them, but no one ever believed that the gods loved them.  The gods served themselves.  If they sometimes showed favour to this person or to that city, it wasn’t because of love; it was to further their own schemes and ambitions.  No Greek or Roman—no Egyptian or Persian, for that matter—would have ever said of their gods anything even remotely like what Paul says here of the God of Israel: that he is rich in mercy, that he loves us with a great love, or that he has shown us kindness.  Zeus and Hera, Osiris and Isis, they were all purely transactional.  If you did something good for them and you were lucky, they might do something nice for you.  We need to be careful, because Christians can fall into the same pagan way of thinking about God—making deals with him or treating him like a divine vending machine.  But Paul makes it clear that the God of Israel isn’t like that.  Instead, he’s full of mercy and love and kindness.  Yes, his purpose is to fill the earth with his glory, but he is glorious precisely because he is unlike the gods humans dream up.  He is full of mercy and love.
     
    And Paul reminds the Ephesians: By his grace, God has taken what he did for Jesus when he raised him from death, and has made it true of us.  If we are “in the Messiah”, then we are alive together with him.  He goes on in verse 6: “He raised us up with him and made us sit with him, in the heavenly places in Messiah Jesus.  This was so that in the ages to come he could show just how unbelievably rich his grace is, the kindness he has shown us in Messiah Jesus.”  This is how God reveals his glory.  Not merely with a show of strength or power, but by showing his grace.
     
    Again, what is true of Jesus is true of the church—of the Ephesians Christians, and of us.  And it’s not just Jesus’ resurrection, his being made alive again.  Paul has said that before.  But here he also stresses that Jesus’ ascension is somehow true of us too.  God didn’t just make us alive with Jesus the King; he’s made us alive in order to sit us with the Messiah, with the King in the heavenly places.  So Jesus ascended to sit at the right hand of his Father.  He’s the King and that’s what kings do: they take their thrones and they rule.  But Paul is saying that if we are “in the Messiah”, then we’re right there with him.
     
    The resurrection part of that, the being made alive with Jesus probably isn’t too hard for us to wrap our heads around.  In Jesus, God has made us a promise.  Even though we’ll die, because we are in the Messiah, he will raise us to life again just as he did with Jesus.  If we have any doubts, Paul would remind us that God has filled us with his Spirit to give us a taste of and downpayment on resurrection life with him.  That part I think we can pretty well wrap our heads around.  But what does it mean to be seated with him in the heavenlies?
     
    This is where we need to make sure we’ve got the story right.  Because if we understand the climax of the story as someday escaping from earth, as escaping our bodies, to live a sort of disembodied spiritual life forever in heaven, we’re going to miss Paul’s point.  Again, the story isn’t about us going up; it’s about God making us fit, through the death and resurrection of Jesus, to be his temple—so that he can come down—to us.
     
    Consider: Jesus has already done this.  Remember the end of Chapter 1, where Paul said that Jesus is the one in whom heaven and earth—all of creation—are summed up, are brought together, are unified, the way it was in the beginning: heaven and earth overlapping, God and human beings dwelling together.  That’s how it began and that’s the ending towards which God is taking history—to set his broken, sin-sundered creation to rights.  Jesus is the prototype, the signpost who points us to, who shows us what God’s future will be like.  In him, God has joined our nature to his own.  In him, heaven and earth have been brought back together.  Think of that great Ascension Day hymns, “See the Conqueror Mounts in Triumph”: He has raised our human nature, on the clouds to God’s right hand; there we sit in heavenly places, there with him in glory stand.”  Brothers and Sisters, Jesus is the temple in person.  And Jesus is the whole of creation—heaven and earth—in miniature.
     
    And what is true of him is equally true of those who are united with him by God’s grace.  As we’ll see in the second half of the chapter, the church—the Ephesian Christians and you and me—we are also that temple and if we have any doubts, all we need to remember is that God has come to dwell in us in the person of his Spirit.  And remember the goal, the one promised by the prophets so long before, the goal is for the knowledge of the glory of God to fill the earth.  The church is his means of making that happen.  He didn’t just send his son to be the on-earth-as-in-heaven man, through his son and through his Spirit he has created a whole community of on-earth-as-in-heaven people to do just that: to live out in our lives, in our relationships, in our community heaven on earth—to be a people who show the world God’s love and mercy and grace and kindness.  To be a working model of his new creation and to give the world a taste of that future right now.  To reveal the glory and the beauty and goodness of God in our lives and in our own proclamation so that everyone around us will know his glory and be drawn to him.
     
    This is then what Paul gets at in verses 8-10.  He writes, “For you have been saved by grace, through faith. This is not of your own doing; it is God’s gift.  It isn’t on the basis of works, so no one is able to boast.  You see, we are his workmanship, created in Messiah Jesus for the good works that he prepared, ahead of time, so that we should walk in them.”  What does he mean?  Well, Paul’s reminding them that there was a time when Jews and gentiles were separated by the law, by torah.  God poured out his grace on Israel, set them apart with his law as a way to teach them how to love him and to love their neighbours, so that they could be a light to the gentiles—so they could make his glory known in the earth.  Israel failed in that mission, but God acted in grace again.  He gave his son to be the faithful Israelite and in Jesus, Israel’s mission to witness the grace and glory of God was fulfilled.  And now these gentile Ephesians who have encountered the risen Jesus, who have heard the gospel, and been filled with God’s Spirit—they’ve been united together with faithful Jews in Messiah Jesus.  In them, God’s promises—all the way back to Abraham and even to Adam—are being fulfilled.  In them, God’s glory is on display before the nations.  And there is no longer a need for the division that had been given by torah.  Now the Spirit is teaching them and enabling them to love God and to love each other for all the world to see.  In Jesus and the Spirit, God has made them a people who are fulfilling the very thing that torah was meant to do, not just because we keep a set of rules or live according to a certain moral code—there’s a sense in which we actually do do that—but because, through Jesus and the Spirit we actually live out and put on display the new creation, God’s future that is breaking into the world in the midst of the old.
     
    Paul puts it beautifully, but in a way we might miss in English translation, when he says that we—the church—are God’s “workmanship”.  The Greek word is poiema.  We get our word “poem” from it.  The Greek word doesn’t mean “poem”—maybe we could almost say it means “artwork”.  In the Old Testament it’s often used to describe the creative work of God.  In other places it’s used to describe things that are carefully and meticulously crafted for his use, like the garments of the priests or the vessels of the tabernacle.  Brothers and Sisters, we—the church—are God’s carefully, purposefully, and wonderfully created masterpiece.  He’s given his son and he’s given his Spirit to craft, to create, to work us into something good—to restore his broken creation in us.  And, Paul sums up, God has done this work in us so that in our own lives and in the life of the church together, we can do such good work too.  Not doing good works to please him or to earn his favour.  That would be like going back to the pagan world of people doing things to manipulate the gods.  God is pleased by our good works, but he’s created and enabled us to do good works as a way of showing his new creation to the world, a way of fulfilling the law he had given to Israel, as a way of loving him and loving each other—ultimately as a way to restore us to that vocation as his image bearers, to be the priests of his temple who steward his goodness and his good rule for the sake of creation.
     
    Brothers and Sisters, this is the story that God has written for us.  The story of our priesthood, reject and lost, but now restored through Jesus and the Spirit, a story of renewal and a story of hope—as it points us toward the day when God finishes his great work of bringing heaven and earth back together, of the day when he will return to dwell with us as he did in the beginning.  This the story that reminds what Jesus and the Spirit have made us.  It’s the story that reminds us of our vocation as the church—that we’re not just the people who long for things to be on earth as they are in heaven; we’re the people who find our very identity in Jesus, the heaven-and-earth Messiah, and who are, ourselves, called to be the heaven-on-earth people—a people who reflect back to the world God’s love and grace, his justice and goodness, who are by our very redemption witnesses of his faithfulness and, above all, his glory.  We are his workmanship.  May the world, by God’s grace, see his glory in us and in our life together.
     
    Let’s pray: Heavenly Father, our Collect today reminded us that without love, nothing we do is worth anything.  Fill us with your grace, that we might truly love.  Love you.  Love our neighbours.  Making us the heaven-on-earth people you intend for us to be, so that the world may see your glory on display in your church.  Through Jesus we pray.  Amen.
    37 min
  • A Sermon for Sexagesima

    A Sermon for Sexagesima

    Luke 8:4-15
    by the Rev'd Dr. Matthew Colvin

    Inspired by Pastor Bill’s saga of his war against the churchmice, I will now confess my sins to you all in the matter of my backyard, with apologies to Isaiah the prophet. In 2021, we bought a house in Port Alberni. It met all my criteria: lots of room inside, an attractive appearance, a good view of the valley, and the tiniest yard of any house on the block. Because I am not a gardener. But when I moved in, I discovered that it has five fruit trees at the top of a very sloping yard. But did I dig around them or make a wall or a winepress or a tower, like the song of the Vineyard in Isaiah chapter 5? No, I neglected them and let a huge mass of Himalayan blackberry brambles grow up around them. And I let the pear tree get so heavy with fruit that one of its main branches snapped off in the wind. And I didn’t do a good job of picking the fruit, so that many apples and pears and plums fell down among the blackberries to become attractants for raccoons and bears. And what did I do instead? I bought solar panels for my house, and tile and hardwood floors, and a light-up number sign that doesn’t even work properly. Judge now, between me and my fruit trees. What more could have been done for them that I have not done? Well, quite a lot, actually, and Lord willing, this will be the year to eliminate the blackberries. I have sinned against heaven and against my fruit trees.

    Our gospel lesson this morning is the parable of the soils. The term parable is from the Greek παραβάλλω, to put side by side for comparison, to make an analogy. It is one of about forty that Jesus tells in his public ministry, and indeed, the telling of parables seems to have been Jesus’ signature or hallmark device. It is a form of speech that has its origins in situations where the teller needs to speak carefully because he faces danger from someone powerful. Aesop’s fables were originally devised as a way for a slave to speak to his master: “No, sir, I wasn’t talking about you and your slave. It was just a story about a lion and a fox.” Telling parables is therefore a valuable tool in Jesus’ toolbox as he is leading a kingdom movement that is an affront to the authorities. He has a fine line to walk: how to attract followers of his movement while not bringing the authorities down on him until his hour has come. Doing miracles is always somewhat risky for this reason: indeed, his first miracle at the wedding of Cana is wrung out of him by his mother, and he rebukes her with the words, “τι εμοι και σοι” — which is best translated, “What do you have against me?” Why are you trying to get me in trouble by making me reveal myself by doing a miracle. In order to launch his kingdom movement and win followers before laying down his life in Jerusalem, Jesus has to be careful and speak in such a way that he doesn’t give any rope to the spies that might hand him over to Herod and the Romans.

    So Telling parables is a way to do that. Notice that after he tells his parable of the sower, Jesus’ final words to the crowd are, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear” – a challenge to the listeners, implying that if you do not have understanding, it is because you are lacking “ears”, i.e. the ability to understand. It punctuates the parable with a finality and a challenge. It is rather similar to the challenge in the book of Daniel “Let the reader understand” – the astute reader, the gleg reader, the reader who can read between the lines.

    Now, to the parable. It is a parable about plants. Ever since the last chapter of the book of Jonah, plants have been a treasured object lesson for the people of God. There are many features that makes them an attractive metaphor: their slow growth, their dependence on their environment, the patient work with which they must be reared and cultivated, their greenness as a manifest index of their health, their relation to water and to soil, their ability to suffer cutting and burning, and above all, the fruit they bear. For plants are in many ways like human beings: both have the ability to flourish and to be productive, and that is the goal, the well-being, the health and salvation of both plant and human.

    In the Bible’s stories about fruit and crops, it is always God who figures as the farmer or gardener or landowner. He is the one who plants the vineyard, sows the seed, grafts wild branches, and prunes to encourage more fruit. And it is always Israel that is his “pleasant plant”, his field of wheat, his fig tree, his vine which he brought out of Egypt and planted, his trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord. In nearly every God-and-Israel plant image, there is a focus on the necessary and vital connection between Israel and her Lord. The righteous Israelite is like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf does not wither. You do not support the root, but the root supports you, says Paul in Romans 11. There is a theme in the Bible that runs from the garden of Eden with its four rivers and its tree of life, to the trees planted by the rivers in the New Jerusalem in Revelation 22, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. The plant near the river - in Eden, in the New Jerusalem, in Psalm 1, in Jeremiah 17 - is Israel connected to her God, nourished on his kindness and hesed as a plant sucks up life-giving water with its roots.

    And the parable of the sower is another of these agricultural metaphors. But it is best understood in connection with three other parables — two others by Jesus (the Wheat and the tares and the parable of the Wicked Vinedressers), and one from the Old Testament, Isaiah 5’s song of the vineyard. To help you see the repreated pattern here, I’d like to show you some diagrams that express the plot of these stories.

    First, the parable of the soils from today’s gospel reading:

    farmer —->   fruit ——> himself

                           |

    fertility —> seed <— various problems

    Next, the song of the vineyard from Isaiah 5:

    farmer —->   fruit ——> himself

                           |

    tower, etc —> vineyard <— ???

    In the parable of the wicked vinedressers, it is:

    farmer ——->    fruit ——> himself

                                    |

    messengers —> tenants <— wickedness

    In the wheat and the tares, it is:

    farmer ——->    fruit (grain) ——> himself

                                    |

    planting —> harvest <— weeds/tares

    Now, each of these stories has a different bottom row because there are various problems: enemies who sabotage the field by planting weeds, wicked tenants who try to keep the field and its harvest for themselves, vines that unaccountably bring forth wild grapes, or, in today’s reading, three different sets of problems – rocks, birds, shallow soil, thorns. And these different sets of problems change the meaning of the various stories, to make them reflect the different situations of God’s people that they are devised to illustrate. But I want you to notice that in all of these stories, the top line is identical: God desires to receive the fruit of His field or vineyard. That’s the goal: fruit.

    God wants a crop of holy people bearing fruit for him. Remember John the Baptist’s command? “Bear fruit in keeping with repentance.” Remember the fig tree that Jesus withered? He first went up to it and looked for fruit. The tree was Jerusalem, the fruit was what God always looks for: loyalty and obedience. That’s why he called Abraham in the first place; that’s why he planted the vineyard and cultivates it. That’s why the sower sows seed.

    What is preventing that in our parable? What’s the opponent? All kinds of things: the fact that many people never believe the gospel in the first place, and so never become members of God’s people and never grow in His grace and bear fruit for him. Or they believe, but not with the sort of faith that lasts to the end, and so they become Christians but when persecution or trouble comes into their life, they fall away.

    Gardening is a work of patience. He bears with us, tends us, prunes us, labouring that we may become mature and bear fruit, no matter how long it takes. He isn’t deterred by our wildness, our perversity, our sinful lives. He grafts us into His tree anyway, feeds us with the sap of the root of the covenant He made with the patriarchs, and which has been fulfilled in Christ. And he waits. Oh, he waits, years, decades, striving with us by His spirit to produce the fruit he desires.

    God also wants us to have patience, or endurance. And his tool for producing this quality in us is the trouble that comes our way in life. Not that he is the author of trouble, or that our troubles are from him, but that he uses them to produce patience. James 1:2 says: “count it all joy when you fall into various trials, 3 knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.” Testing produces patience when mixed with faith. Reliance on the gardener, trust in Him, unswerving allegiance even in the face of trouble — that is what is shown by those “who having heard the word with a noble and good heart, keep it and bear fruit with patience.” that is what Job showed, and God rewarded him for it.

    Let’s focus for a minute on verse 14, with the verse that touches us most nearly in modern North America, especially here in BC. These plants are choked — the Greek word means “strangled” by cares, riches, and pleasures of life. These are the Himalayan blackberries of North America. These are things that can interfere with our allegiance to God. It is easier for a camel to enter through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Paul tells Timothy in 1 Timothy 6,

    “But those who desire to be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and harmful lusts which drown men in destruction and perdition. 10 For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, for which some have strayed from the faith in their greediness, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.”

    And he goes on:

    “Command those who are rich in this present age not to be haughty, nor to trust in uncertain riches but in the living God, who gives us richly all things to enjoy. 18 Let them do good, that they be rich in good works, ready to give, willing to share, 19 storing up for themselves a good foundation for the time to come, that they may lay hold on eternal life.”

    Pleasure can interfere with our allegiance to God. Paul writes in 1 Timothy 5 about women who were widows, and advises Timothy to test them and make sure of their character before enrolling them to be supported by the charity of the Church: “Now she who is really a widow, and left alone, trusts in God and continues in supplications and prayers night and day. 6 But she who lives in pleasure is dead while she lives.” We live in an age where technology has given us more capacity for leisured pleasure than at any time in history. It is not that pleasure is in itself bad; C.S. Lewis has his devil Screwtape say that

    “Never forget that when we are dealing with any pleasure in its healthy and normal and satisfying form, we are, in a sense, on the Enemy's ground. I know we have won many a soul through pleasure. All the same, it is His invention, not ours. He made the pleasures: all our research so far has not enabled us to produce one. “All we can do is to encourage the humans to take the pleasures which our Enemy has produced, at times, or in ways, or in degrees, which He has forbidden.”

    Pleasure at times, or in ways that God has forbidden: that is when pleasure becomes a distraction from following God; when it chokes our faith and makes us unfruitful.

    Does this mean that this plant grew up and survived, but just didn’t bear any fruit — so maybe we can be carnal Christians and we’ll squeak by, alive, but fruitless? I don’t think that’s a possible interpretation. Jesus has another parable about plants like that, in Luke 13:

    “6 He also spoke this parable: “A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. 7 Then he said to the keeper of his vineyard, ‘Look, for three years I have come seeking fruit on this fig tree and find none. Cut it down; why does it use up the ground?’ 8 But he answered and said to him, ‘Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and fertilize it. 9 And if it bears fruit, well. But if not, after that[a] you can cut it down.’”

    So there is no room for unfruitful plants in God’s vineyard or field.

    This is one of the few parables that Jesus explains in private to His disciples. Why? Because they are the core of the new Israel that he is planting by sowing the seed of the Word in their hearts. They are not the crowd; they have been given the knowledge of the mysteries — the hidden things being revealed — of the kingdom of God. See, Jesus is working a division in Israel, a gigantic pruning operation: he had been sent for the rising and falling of many in Israel; he did not come to bring peace, but a sword; he is chopping off the fig tree every unfruitful branch, and choosing out for himself fruitful branches that will survive to bear fruit. That is why he uses parables: they are a means of concealing the truth from those who are rejected: “so that” – that’s the purpose! – “So that seeing they may not see and hearing they may not understand.” They are culpable; the problem is with their ears, not with Jesus or His words. But Jesus’ inner group of disciples get the fuller explanation because He loves them and has welcomed them into intimate fellowship with Himself and thereby with God.

    We are in the position of these disciples: we have received the word; the mysteries have been explained to us; we have knowledge of the kingdom. But we are not to pat ourselves on the back and assume that “I’m elect, I can’t fall away.” For the parable of the soils is not a parable of different types of seeds. Nor is there a difference between the green shoots of the plant the springs up in the shallow, rocky soil, and that which sprouts in the good soil. And the parable does not say that you are the soil; it is not a parable about different types of people who hear the Word, or about how some of them have unregenerate hearts and others are elect; how some people can have faith, and others can’t, so don’t preach to them. No, throughout the Bible, God’s people are the plants, or the branches on the fig tree, or the shoots on the vine — they are supposed to bear fruit. The differences are circumstances, not ontology. It is not a parable about predestination, but about the preaching of the Word in history.

    We must have respect for the process. God is working on us, digging around us, watering us (perhaps through his ministers — remember Paul saying, “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gives the increase). At the end, we are to be harvested. And then there will be a separation of the wheat from the tares, as in Jesus’ other parable. Then, it will be apparent who are members of the church in the resurrection, and who has fallen away in history — only after the pruning, watering, tending activity has taken place and had its effects. But in Luke 8, none of those later steps of caring for plants is depicted. Instead, the focus is only on the first step: sowing the seed. It is the most haphazard process: fire and forget, flinging seed indiscriminately on all sorts of ground. But to understand the meaning of sowing, we must attend to the OT.

    The seed, Jesus says, is the Word of God; that is what the sower sows. This is a detail that connects the parable of the sower to Isaiah 55:

    For as the rain and the snow come down from heave

    and do not return there but water the earth,

    making it bring forth and sprout,

    giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,

    11  so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;

    it shall not return to me empty,

    but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,

    and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.

    What is this thing for which God sends forth His word? Isaiah continues:

    12  “For you shall go out in joy

    and be led forth in peace;

    the mountains and the hills before you

    shall break forth into singing,

    and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

    13  Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;

    instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle;

    and it shall make a name for the Lord,

    an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.”  (Isaiah 55:10–13, ESV)

    Israel will be restored, brought back from exile, made to dwell with her God once again. In Jeremiah 16:16, God had promised to send forth many fishers who would fish disobedient Israel “out of the north country and out of all the countries where he had driven them” — Jesus had called them from their boats on the Sea of Galilee to make them “fishers of men.” The scattering of the seed is the preaching of the Word that serves to divide Israel into those who hear the Word of God and obey it (Jesus’ disciples), and those who disobey and are cut off. God knows those who are his. For that reason, the sowing is to all. “Every branch that does not bear fruit, my Father removes, and every branch that does bear fruit, he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in me will bear much fruit.” Let us, then, understand ourselves as God’s planting, to bear fruit for Him. Let us remember that He is the gardener, and a lot better one than I am; at the end of the day, God will not be content with a back yard full of invasive Himalayan blackberries. Quite the contrary: “Christ will have the prize for which He died: an inheritance of nations.”

    30 min
  • To Know the Surpassing Greatness of his Power

    To Know the Surpassing Greatness of his Power

    Ephesians 1:15-23
    by William Klock

     
    Do you ever wonder how I pray for you as your pastor?  You know I pray about the needs and concerns each of you shares with me, but I’m talking more generally about how I pray for you all as Living Word Church.  It occurred to me this week that in all my years in ministry no one has ever asked me that.  But I do pray for you and our text today from Ephesians—it’s 1:15-23 if you want to follow along—this text is one of my favourite prayers.  For you.  In fact, I have this printed sheet taped inside my prayer book.  And what’s on it is five prayers, all taken from Paul’s letters; prayers he prayed for the churches he cared for.  Prayers inspired by the Holy Spirit.  About fifteen years ago it struck me that I should pray these Spirit-inspired pastoral prayers for you.  And so I typed them up, tweaked the wording a bit to fit the form of a collect, printed them out, and stuck them inside the back cover of my prayer book.  And each day at Morning Prayer, I pray one of these prayers for you.  And this one is, I think, maybe the most important.
     
    This prayer is still part of Paul’s introduction to his letter to the Ephesians.  Last week we read that long run-on sentence that’s all about the Father fulfilling his promises to Israel in Jesus; how we as Jesus’ people share in the inheritance that was promised to Abraham, to Jacob, and to David; and how God’s indwelling Spirit is the downpayment and guarantee of that inheritance.  And we heard that this inheritance is God’s new creation.  That long run-on sentence was sort of Paul’s opening shout of praise to God for what he’s done.
     
    Starting with Chapter 2, Paul’s going to use the rest of the letter to unpack this great shout of praise, to preach it, and to explain how it applies to us—how it shapes the church.  But first, there’s this prayer.  Paul prays that his brothers and sisters in Ephesus will really and truly hear this message, that they’ll take it to heart, and that they will be transformed by it.  In short: Paul’s told them about the promised inheritance they have as the Messiah’s people, now he prays that the knowledge of that inheritance will transform them.
     
    Before we get into Paul’s prayer, there are three Old Testament passages we need to be familiar with, because they’re what give shape to Paul’s vision of the Messiah and the church.  The first is Psalm 110.  Psalm 110 is one of those Old Testament passages it’s worth getting into your memory, because it echoes so powerfully throughout the whole New Testament.  It is, far and away, the most quoted Old Testament passage in the New.  This is the psalm, written by King David, that begins with the words, “The Lord said to my Lord, sit at my right hand, until I make your enemies your footstool.”  When the first Christians wanted to stress that Jesus isn’t just Saviour, but that he’s even more importantly Lord of all, the King of kings, this was their favourite Old Testament passage.
     
    And then there’s Psalm 8.  It’s a close second behind Psalm 110.  It’s the psalm that begins, “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”  For Paul writing to the Ephesians, the really important part begins in verse 4, where David praises God for what he has made us as human beings.  David sings, “What is man that you are mindful of him?…You have made him a little lower than the angels and crowned him with glory and honour.  You have given him dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet…O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth.”  The psalm echoes Genesis and God’s creation of human beings as his image bearers.  That means to be the priests and stewards of his garden-temple.  That’s what we were created to be and it’s the vocation we rejected when we, instead, chose sin—to try to be gods ourselves.  In Paul’s day many of the Jews saw not only the human vocation in Psalm 8, but they saw it as a prophecy of the Messiah who would be the truly human one—a new Adam who will get it right this time; a Messiah whom, according to Psalm 110, God would raise to his right hand to reign until he’s put all his enemies under his feet.
     
    And then, what does the Messiah’s victory look like?  Isaiah, especially chapter 11, was a favourite of the early Christians.  “There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.”  So Isaiah is talking about the king who will arise from the line of David.  “And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the Spirit of wisdom and understanding, the Spirit of counsel and might, the Spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.”  That’s the Messiah.  And his kingdom?  It should sound familiar: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the young goat…the lion shall eat straw like an ox…and a little child shall lead them.”
     
    This was the new world that Israel expected the Messiah, the great King from the line of David, this is what they expected him to usher in.  God’s Spirit would rest on him—That sounds like what happened at Jesus’ baptism, doesn’t it?—and through his wisdom and understanding, his counsel and power, his knowledge and the fear of the Lord, he will set this broken world to rights.  He will bring God’s justice to warring nations and hurting people.  Peace will reign and the knowledge of God’s glory will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea.  This was an incredibly important passage for Paul, because when Paul looked at the little churches that were popping up all over the Greco-Roman world, in pagan cities, right under Caesar’s nose, challenging the old gods, and most importantly bringing Jews and gentiles together in one family in the Messiah, Paul saw with absolute clarity the beginnings of the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy.  Through the Messiah, in these churches where Jews and gentiles were becoming one, where they were worshipping together the God of Israel across their social, cultural, and ethnic boundaries, the wolf and the lamb were lying down together at peace.  In them, Paul saw a foretaste of what’s to come.
     
    Putting all these layers together, we can sum up what the Messiah was to be and do in four points.  Israel expected the Messiah (1) to be the King who would defeat the powers of evil; (2) the King who would rescue God’s people from their bondage to those evil powers; (3) the King who would build a temple for God to dwell in; and (4) the King who would bring God’s justice or righteousness and his peace to the whole world.  That’s the Messiah.  And in doing those things, Jesus inaugurates the new creation.
     
    But Paul also recognised that the Church, that we who are united with the Messiah by faith share in that messianic ministry begun by Jesus.  Filled with God’s Spirit, we are the temple Jesus built.  And we confront the powers with his victory and proclaim the liberating gospel to those in bondage.  We live out God’s justice and peace.  And most importantly in this passage here: As a people full of the knowledge of God and his purposes for creation, we anticipate that day when the whole earth will be full of “knowing-God” as the waters cover the sea.  The church is the beginning of God’s new creation in the midst of the old.
     
    So now we’re ready to understand Paul’s prayer.  It begins at verse 15: “Because of all this and because having heard of your faithfulness to the Lord Jesus, and that you show love to all God’s saints, I never stop giving thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers.”
     
    Now, they weren’t perfect Christians.  No one ever is.  They weren’t a perfect church.  No such thing exists this side of eternity.  But Paul had lived with these people.  He’d got to know them.  When he was away from them, he heard what other visitors had to say about them.  And he knew that, however imperfectly, they were faithful to the Lord Jesus.  Faithful.  What does that mean?  It means not just believing the right things about Jesus, but more importantly, committing yourself to him.  That’s probably why Paul calls him “Lord Jesus” here.  You can believe all the true things about Jesus you want, but what makes a Christian is when you give your loyalty, your allegiance to Jesus as creation’s true Lord.  When we repent and turn away from our sins and from our selfishness, when we stop trying to play at being gods and to write our stories for ourselves, and instead choose to live for him and to live in hope of his kingdom, his new creation, and not just as some thing in the distant future, but something we are beginning to live out here and now, Brothers and Sisters, that’s what a Christian is.  Paul saw these men and women doing that.  He saw how much it cost them.  They were shunned by their families because they’d stopped worshipping the old gods; losing their jobs, because their guilds kicked them out for the same reason; their fellow citizens considered them disloyal for not taking part in the civil religion of Ephesus and of Caesar; just waiting to take the blame for bringing down the wrath of the gods on the city should some natural disaster strike.  Faith in Jesus cost them something.  It cost a lot.  And Paul saw that they were willing to count that cost.  And, too, he saw their love for each other and for their brothers and sisters struggling in other places.  Poor as they were, they sent money to the even poorer Christians in Jerusalem.  They supported and cared for each other like family.  However imperfect their faith may have been, in them Paul saw clear evidence of the gospel’s power at work.  And he prayed for that power to continue to work in them
     
    So he goes on in verse 16.  Here are the specifics of that prayer: “I pray that the God of Messiah Jesus our Lord, the Father of glory, would give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation in the knowledge of him, having the eyes of your hearts enlightened.  Then you will know what the hope is that goes with God’s call; you will know the wealth of the glory of his inheritance in the saints; and you will know the surpassing greatness of his power toward us who are faithful, according to the working of his strength and power.”
     
    Paul longs for them to be enlightened by the Spirit.  Wisdom and revelation.  Here’s what Paul means.  Wisdom and revelation are two facets of the same thing.  When you hear “wisdom” think of the book of Proverbs.  Wisdom is what you need if you want to truly live as a human being according to God’s design.  But thanks to King Solomon as the paragon of wisdom in Israel, wisdom is also a royal thing associated with kings.  Now remember Isaiah 11.  This is why Isaiah described the coming messianic king, the one who is truly human, the new Adam, Isaiah describes him as perfectly wise.  And Paul knows that the people who are in the Messiah, share in that wisdom, that “revelation”.  Think of “revelation” as “insight” into God’s design for living.  This broken world sorely lacks that wisdom and that insight, but it is ours in Jesus the Messiah.  In him we have the knowledge of God that the world lacks, the knowledge that will one day fill the earth.  The knowledge that, as the church lives it out in daily life, acts as the salt of the earth, as light in the darkness, that gives everyone around a anticipatory glimpse of creation set to rights.  Paul prays that their hearts will be opened to this knowledge.  He saw it happening already in their faith and in their love for each other, but he prayed that the Spirit would open their hearts more and more to the knowledge of God.  That the Spirit would clear away the fog that surrounds us.  Our world has its own ideas about wisdom—and they’re often wrong.  Think of how the world tells us to think about ourselves, our relationships, about work and vocation, about sex and money and power, about God.  All very different from what God, in his wisdom, says about all those things.  As Jesus’ people we need to take our cues and to glean our wisdom from God and from the scriptures, not the world, not worldly philosophies, not TV or movies, not social media, not motivational speakers, but from God.  As C. S. Lewis astutely pointed out in The Screwtape Letters, the devil doesn’t need to put wrong ideas into people’s heads; he just needs to keep the true ones out.  Brothers and Sisters, we need the eyes of our hearts opened to know God.
     
    And Paul says here that this knowledge primarily consists of three things.  These all come from that picture of the Messiah in Isaiah 11.  Paul wants us to know the hope, the inheritance, and the power.  The hope is for Jesus’ victory at the cross and the empty tomb to change the whole world, bit by bit, here and there, wherever it’s needed, to bring creation under the rule of the Messiah.  The inheritance is the promise that the Messiah will inherit and will rule the nations—every square inch of creation.  And I think we often forget, but this shapes the mission of the church.  This is our vocation.  This is our way today of being fruitful and multiplying and filling the earth and wherever we go we bring the power of the gospel, the reign of the Messiah, and the reconciling peace of his kingdom.
     
    And the power.  Brothers and Sisters, we forget the power of the gospel.  Verses 19 and 20 are a little difficult to translate into English because of the way Paul heaps up the words for power.  He literally says something like, “that you may know what is the surpassing greatness of his power for us who believe according to the energy of the might of his strength, which he worked out in the Messiah.”  Greatness, power, energy, might, strength.  Rooted in the resurrection of Jesus.  The living God raised Jesus from the dead.  The greatest display of his power in history.  It went out like a shockwave, pushing away the great stone from the tomb, and reverberating through creation.  New creation bursting into the old.  And, Brothers and Sisters, the church—we—are the working model of that new creation, of that power that is transforming the world as the good news of Jesus goes out and continues to reverberate through creation.
     
    But there’s more to it than just Jesus’ resurrection.  Remember that “Messiah” means the “anointed King”.  Jesus is Lord.  That’s a big part of this picture too.  So Paul goes on in verse 20: “This is the power at work in the Messiah when God raised him from the dead and sat him at his right hand in the heavenlies, above all rule and authority and power and lordship, and above every name that is invoked, both in the present age and also in the age to come.  Yes, God has ‘put all things under his feet,’ and has given him to the church as the head over all.  The church is his body, the fullness of the one who fills all in all.”
     
    Don’t forget Psalm 110.  There’s an echo here of Daniel 7, too.  The Messiah has been raised to sit at God’s right hand—to his throne as creation’s true Lord.  And the practical thing that means for the church is that no matter how things may look from our perspective here, Jesus sits above every authority, every CEO, every billionaire, every ruler, every king.  There is no name on earth that anyone can invoke that will trump the name of Jesus.  This was a jab at Caesar, whose cult was especially prominent in Ephesus, but it applies just as much to the kings and power-brokers of our own day.  Think of the names in the news.  Think of all the rivalries in business or in politics or in culture.  Brothers and Sisters, Jesus outranks them all.  And in this lies our vocation as the people of the Messiah.  A people, Paul says here, who is Jesus’ own body.  This sovereign power—a power rooted on the one hand in God’s power and glory and in the other in the love, mercy, and humility Jesus puts on display at the cross—this sovereign power is our vocation.  God created Adam and Eve to bear his image—to be good and wise stewards of his creation.  Remember we saw that in Psalm 8.  Paul’s prayer here is that we would recognise that Jesus is that truly good and wise human, now enthroned at God’s right hand and that through the gospel he is creating a people—you and me—to learn that godly wisdom, to learn that godly knowledge, and to share in his godly rule.  God has made Jesus the head of the church so that the church can now act, now live out that delegated authority as his body.  We’re called to be a community that embodies Psalm 110 and Psalm 8 and Isaiah 11.  Brothers and Sisters, the church is the fullness of the one who fills all in all.  We are God’s new creation, however small, however imperfect, however incomplete at the present, but still God’s new creation in the midst of the old, full of light and life and gospel power and authority, proclaiming the Lord Jesus and his kingdom and causing that Easter shockwave to continue to reverberate through creation until the knowledge of God’s glory fills the earth as the waters cover the sea.
     
    And if that seems impossible, if it seems ridiculous, if it seems overwhelming, if makes you afraid, think how it must have seemed to the people in those little churches around Ephesus in a.d. 50.  A handful of churches, each with ten or fifteen or maybe thirty people.  Mostly poor, more women than men, more slaves than freemen.  They lived for Jesus in the midst of a hostile world permeated through and through with paganism.  Everyone thought they were weird and crazy, impious and disloyal.  In not too many years some of them would be rounded up, arrested, tortured, sent to the arena to be eaten by lions because of their faith in Jesus.  The emperor would burn others alive as human torches to light his garden parties.  These little churches had no programmes.  No Sunday school or youth group.  No bands or fog machines.  No ad campaigns.  They didn’t even have their own buildings.  They just studied and preached God’s word, they loved and cared for each other, and they taught the world what grace and mercy and true holiness looks like.  They had the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen, and in that was a power that outshone everything.  Imagine how ridiculous and impossible it might have seemed to them: this idea that Jesus is Lord and that the knowledge of God will one day fill the earth.  And then drop them into a modern-day city.  I found myself thinking of the view we had from the US Consulate in Montreal, up on the twentieth floor of a skyscraper, looking out over the city and the steeples every few blocks—more than I could count, as far as the eye could see.  Even in little woefully unchurched Courtenay, you don’t have to walk very far in any direction to find a church.  Brothers and Sisters, the power of the gospel is real.  Even though there’s so much more work to do, just look at how the gospel has transformed the world since the days Paul wrote to those little churches in Ephesus.  Jesus really is Lord and the fact that you and I are here today to worship the God of Israel instead of worshipping whatever pagan God’s our ancestors worshipped is proof of that power.  When someone tells me, “I’m leaving, this church is too small,” I pray Paul’s prayer here all the more for them and I pray it for all of you and for myself: that we would be full of the knowledge of God and the power of the gospel and that we would trust it and have faith in what God has promised it will accomplish through us.  The proof of Jesus’ reign and the power of the gospel is all around us.  May he open the eyes of our hearts to see it.
     
    Let’s pray: Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus the Messiah, open the eyes of our hearts to the power of the knowledge of you.  Remind us of our calling in Jesus and the hope and inheritance we have in him.  Give us the faith and courage to be the people you have made us, to be the vanguard of your new creation as we live and proclaim your good news.  Give us a passion to see the knowledge of your glory covering the earth as the waters cover the sea.  Make us faithful stewards, we ask through Jesus our Lord we pray.  Amen.
    35 min
  • To the Praise of his Glory

    To the Praise of his Glory

    Ephesians 1:3-14
    by William Klock

     
    We’ll be looking this morning at Ephesians 1:3-14.  It never ceases to amaze me the riches that come from simply slowing down as I read the Bible.  Over the last several months I’ve taken multiple occasions to just sit down with Ephesians, to read it slowly, to pay attention, and to be immersed in it.  To pay specific attention to Paul’s choice of words and his grammar.  To notice how his choices of words and phrases bring echoes of the Old Testament into his letter and to meditate on how what Paul says here fits into the great biblical story of Israel’s God and his people.  As I said last week, in Ephesians Paul gives us the view from the mountaintop.  He shows the whole panorama of the great story of redemption.
     
    Verses 3-14 are an invitation into that story.  I think a lot of us—especially if you’re a theology nerd—a lot of us reading these verses easily lose the forest for the trees.  We see words like “election” and “predestined” and they stir up modern controversies over whether or not God chooses us or we choose him; over whether God elects specific people for eternal life or if he also positive elects others for damnation.  This is the fuel for heated arguments.  And, I suspect, were Paul to hear these arguments he’d ask something like, “Wait?  That’s what you got from what I wrote?”  Because I think the thing that Paul wants us to notice here, what he wants to centre us on, is the praise of God in light of that great story.  In fact, I’d never noticed before, but in Paul’s Greek, this whole section is one long sentence proclaiming the mighty and saving deeds of God.  It’s like Paul wanted us to hear one, beautiful, heart-stirring musical chord, or get a single amazing impression from a beautifully painted image, but since words and language don’t work like that, since you have to express them one at a time, Paul composed this as one, single rush of words meant to move us to praise.  Consider how be begins in verse 3, “Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus, the Messiah.”  Blessed be God.  It’s not meant to just be a factual statement that God is blessed.  To really get the sense of it in English it might be better to say, “Let us bless God.”  Because, Brothers and Sisters, that’s Paul’s real point here.
     
    Pagans praised their gods.  But Jews did something more: they blessed the God of Israel.  In fact, the word that Paul uses is one that for the Greeks simply meant to speak good of someone, but the Jews gave it a much fuller and deeper meaning to translate their Hebrew words for bless and blessing.  To understand this takes us all the way back to the beginning of the story.  When God created the world and filled it with life, he blessed that life that it might be fruitful, that it might multiply, and that it might fill the earth.  The fish, the birds, and eventually the man and the woman.  God blessed them.  And in the Hebrew worldview, it was God’s blessing that brought human flourishing and that provided all that is good in creation.  And so, in return, the Jews blessed God.  Obviously, human beings don’t have the ability to grant the goodness and flourishing with our blessings that God can with his, and so to bless God took the form of praise and thanksgiving for his goodness, for his faithfulness, and most of all for his mighty and saving deeds in history.  And all that is summed up in those words, “blessed be God”.  To this day, Jewish prayer begins with the words Barukh Attah Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-Olam, Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe.  But then when we unpack it, what we find is that at the heart of blessing God is telling his story, not just to rehearse for ourselves his greatness, but to proclaim it to everyone else.  Read through the Old Testament and you see God’s people praising him first and foremost by telling the story of his mighty deeds: sometimes what he’d done for the person giving the praise, but more often for his creation and his providence, and most of all for his recuse of Israel from their Egyptian slavery.  The Exodus was the great act of God in history that showed his blessing and for which his people blessed him in return.
     
    When the people of Israel gathered together, they rehearsed what God had done, whether it was Israelites in the days of David, sitting around campfires and hearing those stories faithfully passed down from generation to generation, or the people of Paul’s day reading the scriptures in the synagogue, they told the mighty deeds of God as an act of praise.  Brothers and Sisters, the same goes for us.  I suspect a lot of us hardly ever think of it this way.  We read the Bible for knowledge.  We read the Bible to win arguments.  We read the Bible because we know it’s a good thing to do or because we hope God will speak to us.  But, first and foremost, we read the Bible—in public worship and in private worship—to rehearse the mighty and saving deeds of God as an act of praise and as a call to praise.  Just read the psalms and see how they proclaim the great story as an act of praise and a means of blessing God.  The modern trend in worship, I think, gets this precisely backward.  We begin our services with praise—I often hear people say it’s to get us in the right frame of mind—and then we hear scripture, then we receive the Lord’s Supper.  The biblical model is the other way round: To read and to hear scripture is the first act of praise, everything else follows in response.  Thomas Cranmer, the architect of our liturgy, understood this.  In Morning and Evening Prayer, we first hear the scriptures, and then we sing the canticles (which are themselves mostly scripture).  At the Communion, we hear the scriptures, we receive the Lord’s Supper, and after all that, we sing the Gloria in praise and thanksgiving.  So this is what Paul’s getting at in verse 3: “Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus the Messiah! He has blessed us in the Messiah with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms.”
     
    But why?  Because, in Jesus, God has already blessed us.  With what?  With every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms.  That means, with the life of the Spirit, that foretaste of the age to come and the day when we, ourselves, will be resurrected to life with God just as Jesus has been.  Because, in Jesus and the Spirit, God has blessed us by making us heaven-on-earth people.  Through Jesus and the Spirit, God has begun the work of bringing heaven and earth, God and man, separated by sin, back together—in us.
     
    But Paul doesn’t just leave it at that.  He tells the Jesus story, the church story, but he does it in a way that echoes the bigger story all the way back to creation.  He never mentions Adam or Abraham, the Exodus or the Exile.  Instead, he describes what God has done for us in the Messiah using the words and phrases that Israel typically used to tell those stories.
     
    Now, because this whole passage is one long sentence and because it’s clear Paul wants us to hear it sort of like a music chord, let me read through the whole thing in one go starting with verse 4.  Here’s what he writes: “He chose us in him before the world was made, so as to be holy and without blemish before him.  In love, he foreordained us for himself, to be adopted as sons [and daughters] through Jesus the Messiah, according to the purpose of his will.  So that the glory of his grace, the grace he poured out on us in his beloved one, might receive its due praise.  In [the Messiah], through his blood, we have deliverance—the forgiveness of sins, through the riches of his grace, which he has lavished on us.  With all wisdom and insight he has made known to us the mystery of his purpose, just he wanted it to be and set it forward in him as a blueprint for when the time was ripe.  His plan was to sum up the whole cosmos in the Messiah, everything in heaven and on earth in him.  In him we have received the inheritance.  We were foreordained to this, according to the intention of the one who does all things in accordance with the counsel of his purpose.  This was so that we, we who first hoped in the Messiah, might live for the praise of his glory.  In him you too, who heard the word of truth, the good news of your salvation, and believed it—in him you were marked out with the Spirit of promise, the Holy One.  The Spirit is the guarantee of our inheritance, until the time when the people who are God’s special possession are finally reclaimed and freed.  This, too, is for the praise of his glory.”
     
    So Paul begins with the language of having been chosen.  It’s almost like he’s rehearsing the Passover story.  Being chosen resonated with the Jews.  Their father, Abraha, had been chosen and called from the paganism of Ur.  In the Exodus, the Lord had declared Israel to be his chosen.  Paul wants that mighty act of God’s goodness and mercy to echo into our story—to hear the Lord declare to Pharaoh that Israel was his beloved, his firstborn son.  Paul writes in verse 5 that we’ve been marked out as sons and daughters of the Father because of his love for us—love poured out in Jesus, love poured out at the cross as he shed his blood—blood that has marked us out as holy and washed us clean of sin.  Blood that has united us with Jesus, his son, and made us his children by adoption.
     
    And the language of deliverance and redemption in verse 7.  This is what Paul’s getting at.  Again, his choice of words is important.  The word he uses is the one used most often in the Greek translation of the Old Testament to refer to the deliverance, the redemption of his people from Egypt.  It’s a word that often carries the idea of buying a slave so that he can be set free and in the Bible it very often and more specifically recalls the image of Israel being redeemed from Pharaoh’s slave market and being set free by God—a freedom through which Israel was meant to proclaim and to live out God’s amazing and redeeming grace.  But there’s also an echo of Israel’s long-hoped for deliverance from exile—an exile the people were still living out when Jesus was born.  And, unlike the Exodus, the exile was the result of Israel’s sins.  And so the prophets, like Isaiah, had spoken of a new exodus, a deliverance from exile, but this time round it would be an exodus that had to address, that had to deal with Israel’s sins.
     
    And that’s why Paul writes of blood.  The blood of the Passover lamb was for the purification of the people.  Somehow blood would have to be shed to purify Israel and to and the long exile, so they could once again live in his holy presence and so that they could once again be fit to serve his purpose as priests and stewards of his temple.  This is why Jesus so often did things that echoed the Passover theme.  He was calling to mind this doubled tradition: The first exodus, deliverance from slavery, but also the promised and hoped-for second exodus in which God would somehow redeem his people from their sins and from the effects of that sin.  So when Paul, in verses 7 and 8, writes of the blood through which we have deliverance and the forgiveness of sins, when he writes of the riches of God’s grace and how it’s been lavished so richly on us, he wants us to see these layers of the great story: of creation, of exodus, of exile, of forgiveness, of redemption.  He wants us to see the glorious cross of Jesus, but he also wants us to see how the whole story has been one act after another, one great drama unfolding through history that shows us who God is, that reveals his grace and mercy, his goodness and faithfulness that then find their full fruit, that explode in one great act of glory in the events of the new exodus.  All these notes coming together a beautiful, harmonious chord.
     
    Why?  Because Paul knew that without this, we’re prone to forgetting our vocation, just as Israel had.  That’s why Paul goes on to talk about God making known the secret of his purpose—the great mystery—with all wisdom and insight.  In Paul’s day the Jews—many of them at any rate—associated the idea of torah—of Gods’ law—with the idea of God’s divine wisdom.  This fusion of torah and wisdom was God’s great design for life and for flourishing and not just that, but for life and flourishing that would cause his people to give him glory.  Brothers and Sisters, the gospel isn’t just the good news that we’ve been forgiven and promised eternal life.  The gospel is also about vocation—a vocation that goes all the way back to Israel—even to Adam and Eve.  It’s about being freed from our bondage to sin and death so that we might live to the glory of God as heaven-on-earth people, as the firstfruits of his new creation, as pockets of the age to come in the here and now.
     
    And Paul reminds us in verse 10 that this was God’s plan, his blueprint all along, one that would be fulfilled in the “fullness of time”—when the time was right.  None of it was an accident.  What we so often take in as disconnected Bible stories, was all along one great drama, setting the scene, establishing the plot, so that at the cross and the empty tomb, God could reveal his glory by leading his people in a new exodus.  As Paul puts it here, the plan was to sum up the whole cosmos in the Messiah—everything in heaven and on earth in him.  Restoring the creation we see in Genesis, where heaven and earth and God and man were one.  Bringing to fruition the image evoked by the tabernacle at the end of Exodus: of God once gain dwelling in the midst of his redeemed people.  That image at the end of Exodus in which the people complete the construction of the tabernacle and the shekinah, the great cloud of God’s glory, descends to fill it is one of the  most powerful images in all of scripture—looking back to how things are supposed to be and looking forward to a day when human beings really are fully restored to live in God’s presence—no veil, no sacrifices, just life in his awesome presence.  This is what Paul describes as an act of praise, the climax of the great story, a new exodus, a Jesus-shaped Passover—all now to be at the heart of Christian praise.
     
    But God’s presence entering the tabernacle wasn’t the end of the story.  Remember, once God had set apart his people and made them holy and taken up his presence in their midst, they were ready for him to lead them into the promised land—to receive the inheritance that he had promised to Abraham.  And in verses 11-14 Paul shows us how life in Jesus and the Spirit is the realisation of what that was pointing to all along.  Psalm 2, for example, was pointing this way all along.  That’s the psalm where God says, “You are my son and today I have begotten you.  Ask of me and I will make the nations your heritage and the ends of the earth your inheritance.”  The promise land and the promise of it was always pointing to something greater—to God’s claim on all of creation, on all the nations, on all the peoples.  The story proclaims: someday the entire earth will be God’s holy land.
     
    And here in Ephesians, Paul is saying that in Jesus and the Spirit, God has now given us—given those who are in the Messiah—this inheritance.  “Everything belongs to you,” he says in First Corinthians.  And here he says that the gift of the Holy Spirit, the indwelling, the tabernacling presence of God in us is the earnest, the down payment, the guarantee of the full promised inheritance.  Sometimes it seems like we think of the Holy Spirit in every way except for the very thing Paul tells us over and over that he represents.  Brothers and Sisters, the gift of the Spirit is the guarantee that what Jesus began when he rose from the grave, he will surely one day finish.  It’s the guarantee that God’s work of renewal and new creation in Jesus will, without a doubt, put a final end to sin, to sorrow, to corruption, to decay, and even to death itself.  It is the guarantee that the reunion of God and man that began when God took up his residence in the tabernacle, and that went a step further at Pentecost when he took up his residence in his people, will be fulfilled in the ultimate tabernacle of a new heaven and earth.  It’s the guarantee that that the fellowship between God and human beings in the garden at the very beginning of the story will also be the end.
     
    It’s easy to forget.  As Paul writes in Romans, the whole world is groaning under the weight of our mismanagement.  We still live with the effects of sin and corruption, of decay and death.  Like the Israelites when the spies returned from Canaan and warned that there were giants in the land and heavily fortified cities.  They gave up.  They became overwhelmed.  They forgot the promise.  They begged Moses to take them back to Egypt.  The things they feared were no joke.  But they forgot that the God who was with them is the God will one day dill the whole earth with his glory.  The tabernacle—God’s presence with them—was meant to remind them of that truth and that inheritance.  And, Brothers and Sisters, the Spirit in us serves the same function.  In him we have the full title deed, even if we don’t yet have the whole earth.  But that title deed, that earnest, that guarantee has been given to us by the Father to empower us to go out as his gospel people—to be heaven on earth, to bring his presence into the darkness, to challenge the corrupted principalities and powers of the old age, and to bring the light and life of new creation into the old.  And all, Paul finishes, the final notes in the chord, “is for the praise of his glory”.
     
    Brothers and Sisters, to live in assurance and hope of God’s promise of life is to live a life of praise.  It’s to live a life that blesses God and that makes his glory known in the earth.  That means that if we want to know what the life of the Christian and what he life of the church should look like, maybe we should work backward from that goal.  We should be asking ourselves what it is that we can do that makes God’s glory known.  Asking ourselves what we can do that shows the world our sure and certain hope in the inheritance—the new creation—in which we live.  Not running back to Egypt in fear, but ready to march around Jericho and to blow our gospel trumpets and trust God to do what he’s promised.  I think if we work backwards from the goal of filling the earth with the knowledge of the glory of God, it becomes a lot easier to ask whether what we do, what we value, what we invest in, how we treat others displays our hope in God’s kingdom to the world around us.  So, Brothers and Sisters, let us bless God, the Father of our Lord Jesus, the Messiah.  Let our lives be one great shout of praise.  Rehearse and proclaim the great story of redemption that proclaims his glory.  And let this Passover-shaped, this cross-shaped, story of redemption and renewal transform you so that you—that we all—might live for the purpose of filling the earth with the knowledge of the glory of God—to the praise of his glory.
     
    Let’s pray: Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus, the Messiah, through whose blood you have forgiven our sins, made us sons and daughters by adoption, and brought us into the great drama of your people, shape us, we pray, with your story.  Fill us with faith and assurance in the knowledge that, having plunged us into your Spirit, you have given us assurance of the promised inheritance that we might live faithfully in hope and to the praise of your glory.  Amen.
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  • To the Saints and Faithful Ones in Messiah Jesus

    To the Saints and Faithful Ones in Messiah Jesus

    Ephesians 1:1-2
    by William Klock

     
    Last week I was on my gravel bike, riding the logging roads through the foothills to Campbell River and back while pondering St. Paul’s letter to the Christians at Ephesus.  As I passed the turn for Rossiter Mainline I was remembering the first time I made that gruelling climb.  It goes up to the top of the north shoulder of Mount Washington, so it’s not just a big climb; it’s a steep climb.  And it’s a commitment.  Round trip is over a 100km.  I’d been looking at topographic maps and it looked to me that if you got up to the top, there ought to be a really spectacular view of the inland mountains you can’t see from down here: Alberta Edward, Alexandra Peak, Golden Hinde.  Maybe, I thought, you might even be able to see down to Buttle Lake.  So off I went.  In mid-March.  And at about 600m of elevation, after the worst of the climbing, I hit snow.  But I’d committed too much already so I kept pushing on.  I rode in the ruts left by a lone truck that had been there recently.  Then those ended and I pushed my bike through shin-deep snow.  And the whole time I was looking up in expectation.  And finally I got to the top.  And what a let down.  All I found was a huge gravel clearing in the trees where the logging trucks turn around to go back down the mountain.  And the trees were tall and thick.  There was zero view.  Absolutely nothing to see.  At all.  I was not a happy camper.  I was cold.  My toes were wet and frozen.  I was tired.  It was about 60km home.  At least a lot of it was downhill.  So back down I went, through the trees, across the clear cuts, and then I rounded a corner and the view took my breath away.  It wasn’t the view I expected.  I was so focused on the view I expected at the top, I never thought to look behind me at the view of where I’d been.  The real view was looking down over the Comox Valley and the Strait and over the coast range on the Mainland.  And it was all snowy and green and blue.  And as I stood there looking around, I noticed I was also looking down on at least half a dozen of my favourite gravel rides.  I noticed, not only how different everything looked from above, but how those trails and logging roads weren’t really how I imagined.  I had a map of the mountain in my head that I’d got from ground level, but that bird’s eye view changed a lot.  It was really neat.  It was worth the exhaustion and the wet, frozen toes.
     
    I say this to introduce St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians.  Lord willing, we’ll be making our way through this six-chapter epistle over the next several months.  And I think the best way to describe it is that it’s the unexpected view from the mountain top.  Emphasis on unexpected, because too often too many of us read Ephesians with the wrong expectations.  Like me looking for one view and finding the real gem was an entirely different one.  We’ve got Paul’s other letters and he was always writing to a church in crisis.  In Rome the Jewish and Gentile believers were splitting the church into factions.  In Corinth they thought Christian liberty meant tolerating sin, engaging in chaotic worship, and abusing the Lord’s Supper.  In Galatia, fear of persecution and false teachers were temping the people to retreat back into the Jewish law.  But Paul didn’t write to the Ephesians to address any particular crisis or problem they were having.  He was in prison when he wrote.  Maybe in Rome, in the early 60s, waiting to appeal his case to Caesar, but possibly right there in Ephesus in the early or mid 50s.  It’s hard to be sure.  But he was in prison and he wrote this letter to the Christians in Ephesus and the surrounding cities to encourage and exhort them.  The church there had been established by Apollos, but Paul had been their pastor for about three years.  He loved these people.  He couldn’t be with them.  So he wrote to them.  And what he wrote to them was about how to be the church.
     
    All this makes Ephesians the perfect place to get a view of what the church is supposed to be.  It’s easy to get lopsided views if we put all the emphasis on, say, Romans or Galatians.  This happened at the Protestant Reformation and the end result was that a lot of modern scholars decided that Ephesians probably wasn’t written by Paul at all—because it doesn’t fit with Romans and Galatians.  But, if we let Ephesians take us up to the lookout on the mountain and look down on Romans and Galatians and Paul’s other epistles from there, if we let that view shape how we read Paul’s letters as a whole, everything starts to harmonise and make sense and it’s easy to see that it really was Paul all along.
     
    The structure of Ephesians is really pretty simple.  In the first three chapters Paul writes about our calling as the church, as the people of God.  And then, in Chapters 4 to 6 he writes about living that calling out.  4:1 is the pivot between the two.  A lot of you probably know that verse by heart: “I appeal to you as a prisoner in the Lord, to walk in a way worthy of your calling.”  To walk.  Some translations say “live”.  It’s this wonderful Greek word paripateo that literally means “to walk around”.  It’s a great image of life as we go our way, as we make our journey together as the church.  Paul writes that as we embark on this journey of life as the Messiah’s people it’s essential that how we do it in a way worthy of our calling.  But what does “worthy” mean.  Here’s another Greek word, axios.  It’s the idea of bringing a scale into balance.  Picture an old-fashioned scale.  You’ve got A on one side and to get it to balance out you’ve got to add just the right amount of B to the other until they’re both hanging at an equal height.  Or, in modern terms, you might think of adjusting a crescent wrench, dialing it in, so that it perfectly fits the nut you need to unscrew.  Or finding that pair of shoes or that dress or those pants that just fit perfectly.  Not sort of fit.  But perfectly fit.  Like the balanced scale.  That’s axios.  The calling we’ve been given by Jesus and the Spirit is hanging on one side of the scale.  Now we’ve got to walk in such that we match it.  That’s a big ask.  But Paul’s also clear: We’ve got God’s word to show us what and how and we’ve got God’s Spirit to make it possible.
     
    Brother and Sisters, that’s Ephesians.  Let your walk be worthy of your calling.  And the emphasis isn’t on “you” singular, but on “y’all” plural.  He’s talking to us as the church, as the people of God.  Of course, that’s going to have implications for us as individuals, but Paul’s emphasis here is on our life together in Jesus and the Spirit.  So…we’re ready to jump into it…Chapter 1, verses 1 and 2.  Paul writes: “Paul, an apostle of Messiah Jesus through God’s purpose to the saints in Ephesus who are also faithful in Messiah Jesus: Grace and peace to you from God, our Father, and the Lord Jesus, the Messiah.”
     
    This is Paul’s salutation, but even here he gets to the church’s calling.  He introduces himself as an apostle of Jesus the Messiah.  In this case he doesn’t dwell on his authority.  He could have.  He’d met the risen Jesus and had been given his calling to take the gospel to the gentiles, he could speak with authority as one of the eye-witnesses and as someone specially equipped for this apostolic ministry, but Paul doesn’t need to do that here.  He might do that, for example, writing to the Corinthians.  He had to remind them of his credentials, because they’d sort of kicked him to the curb.  But here he’s writing to friends.  I think Paul’s main emphasis here is, instead, on the purposes or the will of God.  He’ll come back to this idea of God’s purposes in the verses that follow and especially in Chapter 3.  But I think this is his real reason for bringing up the fact that he’s an apostle.  Because Paul knew that there was no way he ever would have found himself in this position if it hadn’t been for God—and the same is true for the Ephesian Christians in their own ways.  Remember, Paul was a Pharisee, he was a member of the governing council of the Jews, and he hated Christians with a passion.  As far as he was concerned, Christians—at that point they were almost all Jewish—were traitors to their people and their God.  They were following a man who had been crucified as a false messiah and Paul didn’t believe for one second the reports that Jesus had been raised from the dead.  When they stoned Stephen for preaching about Jesus, Paul held everyone’s coats so that they’d be less encumbered throwing their stones.  He was the last person who would ever become a follower of Jesus.
     
    And then it happened.  On the way to Damascus to round up more Christians, Paul met the risen Jesus.  Not a ghost, not an apparition, not a dream, but the real and actual Jesus.  And everything changed.  It took Paul a good long while to sort out what it meant, but he knew from the beginning that if Jesus was really alive, then he really was the Messiah—the anointed King of Israel and the world’s true Lord.  It meant God’s new age, his new creation had begun.  Somehow.  Some way.  So Paul went off to Arabia by himself to think it all through in light of the scriptures and the story of Israel that he knew so well.  And when he’d done that and came back, he knew: God had a plan all along.  Jesus wasn’t some fluke.  He was the plan.  Everything in history had been working towards Jesus and everything from now on would be working from Jesus. And just as God had had a purpose in calling Israel and making them his people to be a light to the nations, so it meant that everyone who believed and found themselves part of this new Israel, part of this new people of God centred in Jesus the Messiah, they were part of God’s continuing plan.  Paul had been called and set apart as a messenger of this plan, but the Ephesian Christians were called and set apart in their own way as well, to live and to proclaim and to witness it.
     
    So, remember that Ephesians is about what it means to be the church.  Paul starts out reminding us that none of this is random.  God had a purpose and that’s why he’s called us.  Again, think of 4:1 right in the middle of Ephesians, where Paul reminds them (and us) to walk worthy of our calling—to walk according to the plan God has for us.  Christianity isn’t just some therapeutic thing that provides forgiveness of sins, a feel-good life, and heaven when you die.  It’s about being born again in Jesus the Messiah and then credibly living that new life, God’s new creation, in the midst of the old, proclaiming the good news of the king and growing his kingdom until it fills the earth.  The church, empowered by the Spirit of God, is Jesus means fulfilling the mission of renewal he began at the cross.  So that’s Paul’s introduction of himself.
     
    Next he addresses them.  He calls them the saints who are also faithful in Messiah Jesus.  First, saints.  Paul’s literally addressing the “holy ones”.  He’s not singling anyone out, as if there were some especially holy people in the Ephesian church and he’s writing to them and not to the rest of the ordinary Christians.  He’s talking about all of them.  Brothers and Sisters, understand, holiness or sainthood isn’t some status to be achieved that sets us apart from ordinary Christians.  The Christian who struggles with sin every minute of the day is just as much a saint as the most mature of believers.  It’s not a status we earn.  Holiness, sainthood is conferred on each of us by Jesus and the Spirit.  To be holy is to be set apart.  That’s what Israel was: a people set apart to fulfil God’s purposes in the world.  To be light in the darkness.  He set them apart by giving them his law—a way of life that was different from everyone else in the world.  And he gave them the visible mark of circumcision.  He made them a holy people.  Saints.  And now, in Jesus the Messiah, God has done the same for us, for the church.
     
    But before I get ahead of myself, there’s the second thing Paul addresses them as.  He calls them “faithful” or the “faithful ones”.  And it’s important to understand what “faith” or “faithfulness” means, because we’ve often reduced it to just believing the right thing.  We’ve got this idea that to be a Christian means believing the right thing about Jesus and about the good news of his death and resurrection.  Jesus died for our sins and if we believe that, if we give our intellectual assent to it, well then, that’s that.  When I was a kid, our family was involved for a few years with an organisation with the mission to evangelise children.  It was a popular programme, because the kids that signed up got to leave school early once a week.  We’d walk over to a nearby church and we’d hear Bible stories and sing gospel songs and we’d hear about Jesus.  And every week the leaders would close by inviting everyone to say a prayer with them to acknowledge Jesus as their Saviour.  When they asked who prayed the prayer and kids raised their hands, they marked them down as successes.  They were good to go.  They’d said the prayer.  They were Christians now.  Except there was no discipleship.  There was no church.  There was no Christian community.  Never mind, what all us Christian kids seemed to understand that the adult leaders didn’t: Those non-Christians kids were just coming and were just raising their hands because they liked getting out of school early.  Saying a prayer, even giving our intellectual assent to Jesus as Saviour, isn’t being “faithful”.  For that matter, baptism alone isn’t “faithful” either.  It’s God’s covenant sign that marks us out as his people—externally—but Paul is clear elsewhere that—as has always been the case for God’s people in the old covenant and the new—it’s faithfulness that truly marks us out.  And faithfulness, yes, means belief, but it also means trust and loyalty and allegiance.  As St. James writes in his epistle: faith without works is dead—it’s not faith at all.  Faith means walking worthy of our calling.  Admire Jesus, confess Jesus all day long.  Great.  But until you’ve actually committed to him and faithfully start walking with him according to his plan, not yours, friend, you’re not a Christian.
     
    But then the key thing about all this.  Paul doesn’t just address them as the faithful saints.  He addresses them—and us—as the faithful saints in Messiah Jesus.  “In the Messiah”.  Paul uses that phrase a lot.  He uses it in Ephesians more than he does anywhere else.  And for Paul “in the Messiah” is shorthand for “belonging to the Messiah”.  Brothers and Sisters, you can’t make yourself a saint.  And if you’re going to be faithful, you’ve got to be faithful to something.  Jesus.  Without him, we’re wretched sinners, enemies of God, faithless and committed to idols to self and to sin and doing all the things that make this broken world broken.  We serve ourselves and we worship idols.  We hurt others, we abuse others, we use others for our own purposes.  We break our relationships.  We break our promises.  We build unjust and unfaith systems and institutions.  We exploit creation itself in unsustainable ways.  We take no thought for the wellbeing of others or for generations to come, whether it’s polluting the world they’ll have to live in or running up obscene levels of debt that will leave them encumbered.  Even Israel, called and set apart by God and given his law to make them a light in the darkness, even thy ended up being all but swallowed by all this brokenness and darkness.
     
    Enter Jesus.  If you’re following along in a Bible, you may have noticed that when I read our text and read the word “Messiah”, your Bible probably reads “Christ”.  About ten years ago I made the decision to start using “Messiah” instead of “Christ” in my translations of the New Testament.  I did that as I realised way too many people have no idea what “Christ” means and an awful lot of people think it’s Jesus’ last name.  It’s not.  Christos is just the Greek word for the Jewish title, “Messiah”.  And “Messiah” refers to the anointed king that God had promised to his people through David and through the Prophets.  The anointed king—meaning the king called and set apart as holy in order to fulfil God’s purposes.  That’s who Jesus is.  That’s what the title “Christ” or “Messiah” means.  Jesus is the one set apart by God to set this broken world to rights, to inaugurate God’s new creation and the age to come and to rule it through his Spirit-renewed people until all his enemies have been put under his feet.  And Jesus did this first by dying the death his people deserved.  He didn’t deserve it.  They did.  But he paid the wages of their sin.  And then God raised him from the dead, defeating sin and death, and began the work of fulfilling God’s promise to bring life back to a world mired in death.  Jesus’ resurrection was the beginning of God’s new creation.  And here’s why Paul stresses that we are saints and faithful in the Messiah: because it is when we let go and turn away—that’s “repentance”—when we turn away from sin and self, from our idols and false gods, rejecting the corrupted principalities and powers of this world, and instead believe the good news of Jesus’ death and resurrection, trusting him and giving him our loyalty and allegiance—our faithfulness—we find ourselves united with him.  He forgives our sins and makes us holy.  And—this is important for Ephesians and the whole question of what the church is and is to be.  Brothers and Sisters, Jesus’ calling becomes our calling.
     
    And that brings us back to the whole “walking worthy of our calling” thing.  It brings us back to the fact that faith is more than just believing the right thing.  Because if we believe that Jesus, when he rose from the dead has inaugurated God’s new creation, that he’s begun the process of setting this fallen world—and fallen humanity—to rights, that he’s begun the process of wiping away the tears and making all the sad things of the world come untrue.  That he has, as Paul highlights here, poured out his grace on us and given us peace—the Hebrew idea of shalom, of wholeness and of well-being rooted in our fellowship with God.  Brothers and Sisters, it means that he’s called us into that same messianic mission.  He’s made us heaven-on-earth people.  In forgiving us and lifting the weight of our sins from us and in pouring his Spirit into us to give us a foretaste of the life to come, Jesus has given us a vision of this world set free from sin and death and a vision of life lived in God’s presence and fellowship.  Jesus has given us hope.  And that’s more than mere belief, it’s more than intellectual assent to a creed.  It’s not less than that.  But it’s also so much more.  It’s life and it’s hope.  And not just for us.  It’s life and hope that, once we’ve known and experienced it, should become our passion.  With the foretaste we’ve been given, with that hope before us, we ought to be a transformed people doing everything we can, with the help of the Spirit and following the scriptures, to be a people who forsake the sins and the selfishness that have made the world such a dark place; it ought to make us a people full of light and life, a people eager to bring God’s grace and God’s peace to everyone around us.  To lift the veil on God’s new world, to give them a glimpse of redemption and new creation, to share with them the hope we have.
     
    Brothers and Sisters, remember that hope when you come to the Lord’s Table this morning.  Here he reminds us that Jesus changes everything.  Here he reminds us that it is Jesus body and blood, shed on the cross, that purify us from sin.  Here he reminds us that it is Jesus who makes us his people.  And here he reminds us of the hope—the great feast of new life and fellowship with God—that is our hope.  Come and remember that you are his saints.  The ones made holy and set apart by Jesus to fulfil his purposes.  And then go out into the world as the faithful ones, filled with grace and peace, equipped to walk worthy of your calling.
     
    Let’s pray: Almighty God, through Jesus your son, the Messiah, you have poured out your grace and your peace on us, you have forgiven our sins, you have welcomed us into your fellowship, you have given us hope; remind us, we pray, that you have also given us a calling, a purpose: to proclaim that Jesus is Lord to the ends of the earth, and be living, walking, breathing pockets of your new creation in the midst of the old.  Make us faithful to that calling.  Give us the grace necessary to turn aside from sin and from self and walk worthy of that calling; through Jesus the Messiah, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit.  Amen.
     
     
    41 min
  • A Sermon for the Epiphany

    A Sermon for the Epiphany

    Ephesians 3:1-12 and St. Matthew 2:1-12
    by William Klock

     
    Have you ever wanted to live in another story?  For me the high point of Second Grade came every day after our lunch recess.  We’d sit down at our desks and Mrs. Andrews would sit on a stool at the front of the class and read us a chapter from C. S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia.  From the get-go, I was completely drawn into this story of four kids who stumble through the door of an ordinary wardrobe into another land of magic and talking animals.  And pretty soon I was obsessed.  Now, in 1979 there was no Narnia “merch” like there was in the early 2000s after The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe movie came out, but I still had everything I could get my hands on.  Pretty soon I had my own set of the books, because our teacher wasn’t reading them fast enough.  I had a calendar.  I had a giant map my dad laminated so I could hang it on the wall.  My mom even spent months making me a quilt with all my favourite characters sewn on it.  And I couldn’t open a closet door without a little tingle of hope: maybe this time there’d be a path to Narnia.  I’d even reach in and push on the back wall.  I remember blowing out my birthday candles at least once and wishing Narnia would be real.  But Narnia wasn’t my story.  It wasn’t even real.  There was no escape from my real-life story.
     
    Decades later I reconnected with one of my old school friends from those days.  “Remember when we wished Narnia was real?”  And he said, “You wanted to get into Narnia.  I just wished I could be part of your family.”  His home life wasn’t good.  His family was kind of a mess.  It didn’t help that they were poor—not that we were rich, but it’s funny that he thought we were even though we weren’t.  But he wanted out of his family and his story and into mine.  “That’s why I used to hang around your house so much and hardly ever invited you over to mine,” he said to me.  I felt really bad when he told me that.  I knew his life wasn’t easy, but it had never occurred to me that he might think mine was.  And I wonder: How often do we wish we could escape our story and live in someone else’s?  I guess if we were to go by things like Pinterest and Instagram, by the prevalence of all the home and garden and renovation shows on cable TV, by all the ways our culture gives us to try to escape reality—when you think of all the fantasies we obsess over that aren’t real and aren’t ours—a lot of us long to live in a story that isn’t the one we were born into.
     
    But here’s the thing.  Raise your hand if you’re baptised.  Put that hand on your head—on the place where the priest, the pastor poured those baptismal waters on you.  Martin Luther used to say that when the devil caused him to doubt his standing before God, he would put his hand on his forehead where the baptismal waters had been poured, and he would say to himself, “You are baptised!”  A tangible fact, an historical event in each of our pasts, that has objectively marked us out as God’s own.  Not fantasy.  Reality.  You belong to God.  And not just that.  Our baptism marks us out as the people, as the sons and daughters of the God of Israel, made one with the Messiah—with Israel’s anointed king—and filled with the God of Israel’s own Spirit.  And Brothers and Sisters, that means that you have been transferred into a story, into a family, into a household that is not your own.  I think of my ancestors.  A few of them were Sephardic Jews who eventually became Christians.  But most of my ancestors were born into a story of paganism.  They danced with druids or worshiped oak trees.  One branch of my family comes from a place not far from where Thor’s Oak was said to be, that sacred tree that St. Boniface set out to chop down with his axe.  I’ve wondered if my ancestors were amongst the pagan who watched, expecting him to be struck down by the gods for felling their sacred tree and then stood in awe as, instead, a great wind blew it down for him.  Were they amongst those first German converts who gathered to worship Jesus in the church Boniface built from that fallen oak tree?  One way or another, they heard the gospel, the good news about Jesus the Messiah who died and rose again and they were invited to pass through the waters of baptism.  And they weren’t just captivated by this story and its good news—by this family that was filled with riches they never could have imagined.  When they passed through those baptismal waters in faith, they stepped out of their old pagan stories and into a new story, not one that was theirs by birth, but one that was now fully theirs by faith and by the grace of God.  Just like the Israelites leaving behind their slavery in Egypt as they passed through the Red Sea to be named God’s beloved firstborn, so we’ve passed from a story of idolatry and sin into a new story of redemption and of light and of life.  What my friend longed for every time he came over to my house, what I longed for every time I pushed on the back wall of my closet, it’s happened for real in Jesus.  By faith, I—and you all—have been given a place, a home, a part in a story not originally our own.  And in that, Brothers and Sisters, God has revealed his glory.  But now I’m getting ahead of myself.
     
    What’s this got to do with Epiphany?  Epiphaneia is a Greek word that means “appearing” or “appearance”.  Or you could say, “manifestation” like the Prayer Book does when it gives the subtitle for the Feast of the Epiphany: the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles.  That’s us—most of us, at any rate.  We’re gentiles.  And that makes Epiphany our great feast.  The day we remember the wise men—those Persians astrologers—who came to worship the new-born King of the Jews.  And I have to think that if Christians had observed Epiphany in the First Century—they didn’t, it came along later, but not all that much later—I think Paul would have had a special place in his heart for Epiphany.  Because proclaiming the good news to the gentiles and offering them a welcome into this story that was not theirs by birth, that was—as we say today—that was Paul’s “thing”.  He was even in prison because this was so much his “thing”.  Look at our Epistle from Ephesians 3.
     
    He writes: “It’s because of all this that I, Paul, the prisoner of Jesus the Messiah on behalf of you gentiles…”  He trails off at that point.  He needs to say something else before he goes on.  But what we need to know is that the Church at Ephesus was predominantly a gentile church.  Paul had started it when he visited the city on his second missionary journey.  Now he’s in Rome, under house arrest, waiting to be able to appeal his case to Caesar.  He goes on: “I’m assuming, by the way, that you’ve heard about the plan of God’s grace that was given to me to pass on to you?  You know, the mystery that God revealed to me, as I wrote briefly just now.  Anyway…  When you read this you’ll be able to understand the special insight I have into the Messiah’s mystery.  This wasn’t made known to human beings in previous generations, but now it’s been revealed by the Spirit to God’s holy apostles and prophets.  The mystery is this, that, through the gospel, the gentiles are to share Israel’s inheritance.  They are to become fellow members of the body, along with them, and fellow sharers of the promise of Jesus the Messiah.”
     
    The great mystery, Paul’s passion, is the message that in Jesus, the gentiles are fellow heirs with the Jews.  A lot—most—of Paul’s fellow Jews would have gasped at this.  He could have gotten himself stoned, proclaiming this in Jerusalem.  Imagine your family is really wealthy.  And then imagine that you’ve got a brother—let’s call him Paul—who goes to the house of some strangers.  They’re not even remotely related to you.  They’re poor and miserable.  Maybe they’re even slaves.  But worst of all, they don’t share your values.  In fact, they laugh at your family’s values. They scoff at the very things that made your family rich.  But Paul goes to them and announces: My family’s riches?  Yeah, they belong to you as much as they belong to me and my brothers and sisters.  That’s what Paul’s doing here.  And that’s why he calls it a “mystery”.  The old Paul—Saul of Tarsus—would be gasping at the thought that he’d be saying these things a few decades later.  Even the Jewish believers in Jesus had trouble with this mystery.  Yes, gentiles could share in Israel’s inheritance, but to do so they had to become Jews.  Ritually purified, circumcised, observing torah so that they weren’t gentiles any longer.  But Paul’s now saying you don’t even have to do that.  The great “mystery” of the gospel is that it brings the gentiles—through Jesus—into the family, into the people of the God of Israel.  The law, torah, is no longer the defining mark of the family of God.  Faith in Jesus the Messiah is.
     
    “This is the gospel,” he writing in verse 7, “that I was appointed to serve, in line with the free gift of God’s grace that was given to me.  It was backed up with the power through which God accomplishes his work.  I am the very least of all God’s people.  However, he gave me this task as a gift: that I should be the one to tell the gentiles the good news of the Messiah’s riches, riches no one could begin to count.  My job is to make clear to everyone just what the mystery is, the purpose that’s been hidden from the very beginning of the world in God who created all things.  This is it: that God’s wisdom, in all its rich variety, was to be made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places—through the church!  This was God’s eternal purpose, and he’s accomplished it in Messiah Jesus our Lord.  We have confidence and access to God in him, in full assurance, through his faithfulness.”
     
    It took Paul a while to sort it out after he met the risen Jesus and realised that he really was the Messiah, but what Paul realised is that his people had got their own story wrong.  The way Israel told her story, it no longer had a meaningful place for the gentiles.  As far as they were concerned, they—the Jews—were God’s people, God cared about them, God would deliver them from their oppressors and put them on top, and one day he would rain down destruction on all the unclean people of the world.  Salvation was for the Jews, they might have said.  But judgement was for the gentiles.  Even those first Jewish Christians were still thinking in this vein.  Jesus was their Messiah.  There were a few gentiles who believed, but they had to first become Jews.  And there were the Samaritans who believed.  That was a challenge to this kind of thinking, but until Paul, no one had this vision of the deliverance, of the salvation of the Gentiles—at least not on a large scale.  But Paul, when he met Jesus, it started to sink it.  If Jesus had risen from the dead, then he was the Messiah, and if he was the Messiah, he had redefined the people of God around himself.  Jesus and the Spirit now define “Israel”.
     
    The irony is that today we’ve made the opposite mistake.  We’ve so dehistoricised, flattened out, and universalised the story that we’ve all but forgotten that “Salvation is of the Jews.”  Jesus spoke those words—Salvation is of the Jews—to the Samaritan woman and they ought to be a rebuke to much of the Church today that has forgotten our own story.  St. Paul writes in today’s Epistle to explain his unique apostolic ministry to proclaim the good news about Jesus to the Gentiles.  It has been my experience that many Christians have never stopped to consider just how odd Paul’s ministry would have seemed at the time.  They’ve never stop to think, because we have largely removed the gospel from its narrative and historical context and unnecessarily flattened it to communicate its universal nature.  Occasionally we need to recall that, even though “God so loved the world,” it is also true that “salvation is of the Jews”.  Out of a world that had lost all knowledge of him, the Lord chose and called Abraham and from him created a people whom he made holy and in whose midst he lived.  He gave this people his law and his presence and made them unique amongst the nations.  Jesus was born a Jew.  He was the Jewish Messiah.  He fulfilled the Jewish law and the words of the Jewish prophets.  He proclaimed good news about a coming kingdom and a coming judgement to Jews and for Jews.  While gentiles were welcomed when they came to him, he made it clear that his ministry was to his own people.  Even in his death by crucifixion, Jesus foreshadows the means of execution that the unrepentant Jewish rebels would face when judgement came a generation later.  Jesus literally took the death of his people on himself in that sense.  It cannot be stressed enough that Jesus, Israel’s Messiah, lived and died for the sake of his own people and to fulfil their story and to fulfil God’s promises to them.
     
    We can’t jump over this to get to John’s announcement that God so loved the world that he gave his Son, because when we do that, we short-circuit the story, we leave out most or all of the bits that show us how God, in Jesus, has been faithful to his promises made under the old covenant.  And when we short-circuit the story that way—hear me, because this is incredibly important—when we do that, we cast a veil over God’s glory.  It was necessary for Jesus to fulfil the story of his own people, because only then would the Gentiles see the faithfulness of Israel’s God, be drawn to what they saw, give him glory, and in the process be incorporated into the new people of God by faith.  In this, too, we see that the means by which the Gentiles are incorporated into the new Israel fulfils the message of Israel’s prophets and glorifies the Lord.  While it is certainly true that a dehistoricised and flattened gospel has brought millions to the Lord Jesus, it is also true that communicating the gospel within its context communicates the faithfulness of God as the basis for our own faith with far greater depth and builds upon a firm foundation, in contrast to so much that passes today for evangelism and Christian faith that is merely subjective.  Again, Christians today need to understand just how weird Paul’s ministry would have seemed in his day—even, at first, to the other apostles.  Again, most believed that the good news about the Jewish Messiah was for other Jews, and of little interest (or even relevance) to gentiles.  Jesus radically changed what it meant to be the people of God and this became Paul’s passion—and it should be ours.  Like you’ve spent your life pushing on the back wall of the wardrobe to no avail, but suddenly in Jesus you push through and find yourself in Narnia—you finally find yourself in that story of new life you’ve always longed for and the child of a God unlike any other god you’ve ever known of.
     
    To be clear, Israel should have known all of this all along.  Jesus and Paul are both clear about that.  The Lord delivered Israel from Egypt and set her apart before the watching nations.  She was to be his witness.  Through her he would restore and reconcile humanity to himself.  But as Paul points out in our Epistle, this “mystery” was largely lost on Israel—on previous generations.  And yet there it was from the beginning, all the way back in Abraham’s day—if anyone was paying really close attention—that the Lord’s intent was to one day bring the gentiles into his family and to make them fellow heirs with those who were children by birth rather than adoption.  This truth had been revealed by the Spirit to the prophets of old and, in the same way, had been revealed to the apostles—who took some time to parse it out—and to Paul it was a personal commission: to proclaim the good news about Jesus to the gentiles.  Paul adds here that this mission is not simply to ordinary people, nor is it a matter of personal piety.  As gentile believers come into their inheritance in the Messiah, the church becomes both a witness and a challenge to the rulers of the gentile world.  This diverse body of Jews and gentiles of every sort, living in unity the inheritance given them by Jesus, announces that he is Lord and that a new age is breaking in.  Just as was the case with Israel, the lords of the earth can submit in faith to the lordship of Jesus or face the judgement to come.
     
    Our Gospel today foreshadows all of this in story form.  Matthew puts the messiahship, the kingship of Jesus at the forefront.  First he shows us Jesus over against Herod.  The true King of the Jews over against the pretender and cheap imitation.  But very quickly, Matthew drives home the point that in Jesus the prophecies about Israel’s King are being fulfilled.  When the wise men go to Herod to ask where this newborn king is, it sparks a discussion of Micah’s prophecy.  Matthew includes a paraphrase of Micah 5:2-4.  This King of Israel, he said, will shepherd the Lord’s flock.  The Messiah is the King of Israel.  It is only once Micah has established that the Messiah will be King over Israel, that he will fulfil the Lord’s promises to judge and to renew his own people, that he will take up the role of King David, that he then goes on to tell us that this King “shall be great to the ends of the earth”.  Why?  Because in Jesus and in how he fulfils the Lord’s promises to his own, the pagan nations of the world will see the living God—a God unlike any god they’ve ever known.  Their idols—and our idols—pale in comparison.  And in the end, the nations can’t help but come to bow before him and to give him glory.  The wise men, the magi foreshadow this.  Matthew bookends his Gospel with the gentiles.  It begins with these wise men from the east coming to worship Jesus and to honour him as King.  And it ends with Jesus sending his disciples to go out and make disciples of all the nations.  The good news is only good news to the Gentiles because it reveals that the God of Israel is unlike the gods of the nations: he does what he says he will do and he fulfils his promises to his own.  Think of the gentiles in the book of Revelation: They worshiped the beast and frolicked with the great prostitute, but they discovered in the downfall of the beast that the kings and gods of this world can’t hold a candle to the God of Israel revealed in Jesus, to his power and might, and most importantly, to his faithfulness.  Specifically, he fulfils his promises to his people in Jesus.  It is this faithfulness just as much as the amazing report of Jesus risen from the dead and the defeat of his enemies that draws the Gentiles to give glory to the God of Israel and to submit in faith to Jesus, the King of the Jews.  Of course, this carries the same ramifications for Caesar and the other rulers and gods of this age as it did for Herod.  This is what Paul stresses in the final verses of our Epistle.  Their days are numbered, for as the royal summons to the King goes out, Jesus “shall be great to the ends of the earth”.
     
    Brothers and Sisters, the gospel about Jesus is good news, because it reveals the faithfulness of God.  He does what he says he will do.  He fulfils his promises.  He does so like no other.  And that’s reason for us to trust him, to give him our allegiance, to worship him and to give him glory.  And to proclaim his good news to the world.  And the wonderful part of it is that the gentiles, that we aren’t simply left to look into the windows of this rich family’s house and to wish that we could have part of it.  Jesus welcomes us in.  And there’s no having to go back home to our poor houses and our silent idols when the party’s over.  Through Jesus, we belong.  Later in Matthew 12, Jesus will say to the people with him, “My mother and brothers are those who do the will of my Father in heaven.”  By faith, we become his family.  He is our brother.  His house is our house.  Think about that today as you come to the Lord’s Table.  Eat the bread.  Drink the wine.  And think on the fact that it is our brother by adoption and faith, it is King Jesus, who welcomes us—not as outsiders, but as family.  If we are in him, if he has marked us out by baptism, this is where we belong.  This is our life and this is our story.
     
    And if you’re still looking in from the outside and wishing to be a part of it—like a kid who keeps pushing on the backwall of the closet in hopes of finding his way into a new world and a new story.  Stop pushing on the wall.  That’s not the way into this house.  Instead, take hold of Jesus’ hand in faith knowing that in him all the promises of God are fulfilled, knowing that he is supremely trustworthy and faithful.  Take his hand in faith and he will lead you, as he has led so many, through the waters of baptism and into this new story of redemption and light and life.
     
    Let’s pray: O God, who by the leading of a star manifested your only Son to the peoples of the earth: mercifully grant that we, who know you now by faith, may at last behold your glory face to face; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who is alive and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.
    40 min
  • A Sermon for the Second Sunday after Christmas

    A Sermon for the Second Sunday after Christmas

    Isaiah 61:1-3 & St. Matthew 2:19-23
    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:
     
    All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet:
             “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
                      and they shall call his name Emmanuel”
    (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:
     
    “A voice was heard in Ramah,
             weeping and loud lamentation,
    Rachel weeping for her children;
             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:
     
    There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse,
             and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.
     
    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.
     
    The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
             because the Lord has anointed me
     to bring good news to the poor;
             he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim liberty to the captives,
             and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;
    to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,
             and the day of vengeance of our God;
             to comfort all who mourn;
    to grant to those who mourn in Zion—
             to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,
     the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
             the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;
     that they may be called oaks of righteousness,
             the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.
     
    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.
    30 min
  • A Sermon for the Feast of the Holy Innocents

    A Sermon for the Feast of the Holy Innocents

    St. Matthew 2:13-18
    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.
    30 min
  • A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Advent

    A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Advent

    Philippians 4:4-7 & St. John 1:19-28
    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:
     
    They continued to question him, “So why are you baptising, if you aren’t the Messiah, or Elijah, or the Prophet?” John answered them, “I’m baptising with water, but there is one standing among you whom you do not know—someone who is to come after me.  I’m not worthy to untie his sandal straps.”
     
    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:
     
    Rejoice in the Lord always; I say again, rejoice.
     
    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:
     
    The Lord is near.  Do not be anxious about anything.  Rather in everything let your requests be made known to God, by prayer, supplication, and with thanksgiving.
     
    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:
     
    The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in King Jesus.
     
    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.
     
    37 min
  • A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Advent

    A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Advent

    Isaiah 35:1-10, 1 Corinthians 4:1-5, St. Matthew 11:2-10
    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.
     
    For thou art our salvation Lord,
    Our refuge and our great reward:
    Without thy grace we waste away
    Like flowers that wither and decay.
     
    To heal the sick stretch out thine hand,
    And bid the fallen sinner stand;
    Shine forth, and let thy light restore
    Earth’s own true loveliness once more.
     
    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.
    35 min

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Living Word Reformed Episcopal Church, Courtenay, British Columbia