Living Words

by William Klock

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

by William Klock

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

by William Klock

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

by William Klock

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

by William Klock

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

by William Klock

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

by William Klock

 

In our Gospel St. Matthew writes that “Jesus got into the boat and crossed back over to his own town.”  Back to Capernaum.  From the far side of the Sea of Galilee.  From that place where he’d been confronted by a man filled with demons and cast those demons into a herd of pigs.  You know the story.  The demon-possessed pigs promptly stampeded into the sea and drowned themselves.  And that left the pig farmer and the local townspeople none too pleased with Jesus.  They pleaded with him to leave.  So he and the disciples got back into their boat and sailed across the Sea of Galilee.  And now he’s back home in Capernaum.  Matthew’s version of this story is the shortest on details.  Mark’s version implies that Jesus was tired.  He went home to get a break from the crowds and it took a few days before anyone realised that he was home.  But when they figured it out, the crowds were back.  Before he knew it, they’d let themselves into his house and he was preaching.  It was mostly just ordinary people, but there were some scribes and Pharisees there in that packed and crowded room.  They had to keep an eye—or an ear—on Jesus.

 

And that crowd posed a problem to four friends.  They had a fifth friend who was paralysed.  When they heard Jesus was back in town, these four men went and got their friend and carried him, cot and all, to Jesus’ house.  Jesus was healing everybody else.  Surely he would heal their friend.  If they could get to him.  And they couldn’t.  I can imagine them trying.  Asking politely if people might get out of the way.  Looking to see if maybe they could squeeze through a back door or a window, then going back and trying to push some people aside to get to the front door—all to no avail.  There was no way they’d ever get their friend into that house.  And that’s when they had an idea.  The roof!  In those days, in that place, roofs were flat—they served as extra living space when it was hot and you needed to get out into a cooling breeze—but more importantly, roofs were made of rush and palms plastered between beams.  So these men take their friend to the roof and they start jabbing at the roof with sticks and kicking at it with their heels and pulling it apart with their hands, until they’d made a hole big enough to lower their friend down to Jesus.

 

Now imagine Jesus, in the house, preaching to the crowd while that was going on upstairs.  Loud scratching and thumping.  And pretty soon bits of plaster and rush start falling.  Before too long there’s a hole in the roof and everyone sees these guys looking down—probably a little sheepishly.  I wonder what went through Jesus’ mind.  He was tired.  His rest had been cut short.  The crowd was one thing, but he really didn’t need some yahoos tearing up his roof.  “Great!  There goes the damage deposit,” he’s thinking to himself.  But pretty quickly, as they lowered their friend to him, he saw what was going on.  And I think Jesus smiled.

 

Why?  Because Matthew writes that Jesus saw their faith and if Jesus was anything like me and most of the other pastors I know, the exhaustion, the frustration of not having a break, the annoyance at having these guys destroy his roof, I think it all would have melted away, because seeing the faith of these men made it all worth it.  And looking down at the paralyzed man, Jesus says to him, “Have courage!”  Take heart!  In other words, “Don’t be afraid.”  Because I imagine some people might be afraid if their friends just tore a hole in the Messiah’s roof to get them inside.  Because even if Jesus was smiling, the people around him were looking shocked and outraged and angry.  “How dare you dig a hole in the Messiah’s roof!”  And so Jesus looks at him and says, “Your sins are forgiven!”

 

Now, that’s not what we might expect Jesus to say to this man.  Judging by Jesus’ other encounters, we’d expect him to say something like, “Get up and walk; your faith has made you well.”  But instead, he tells the paralysed man that his sins are forgiven.  That’s nice, but he’s still lying there paralysed on his cot.  So why would Jesus say, “Your sins are forgiven”?  Brothers and Sisters, Jesus found a teaching moment in everything.  He’d healed people more times than anyone could count at that point, and that was a sign that the Messiah had come and that God’s kingdom was breaking into the world.  But what did that really mean?  Well, remember that everyone had their own ideas about the Messiah and about the kingdom—and, most important, how they could have a share in it.  The people needed more than just to see miracles.  They needed to know more than that the Messiah had come; they desperately needed to know what the Messiah had come to do.  Jesus saw that group of scribes there in his house that day and saw a perfect opportunity.  Maybe they were legitimately curious to hear what Jesus had to say or maybe they were there just to criticise or report back to the priests or the Pharisees, but, right on cue, they hear Jesus’ words—“Your sins are forgiven”—and he can see their outrage.  He could see how they scowled as they grumbled to each other about how blasphemous this was.  “Who can forgive sins except God?” they howled in Mark’s telling of the story.

 

Just as Jesus could see the faith of the paralysed man’s friends as they lowered him through the hole in his roof, he could see the opposite in the grumbling scribes.  And so he asks them, “Why are your hearts so intent on evil?”  Of course, that just made them angrier.  “We’re not the evil ones!” they say back.  “You are…you…you…you blasphemer!”  But Jesus goes on with the teaching moment and says to them, “Which is easier to say, “Your sins are forgiven,” or to say, “Get up and walk?”  But so that you may know that the son of man has authority on earth to forgive sins”—and now he turns back to the paralysed man—“Get up, take up your cot, and go home.”

 

And the paralysed man got up, took up his cot, and went home.  I think there was probably a little more to it than that.  He probably stretched a bit and moved his arms and legs around and maybe jumped up and down a few times.  I think he probably laughed and yelled and gave a hug and many thanks to Jesus, but Matthew doesn’t get bogged down in those sorts of details, because his point is—as usual—that when Jesus healed the man, he was healed.  There was no struggle or delay.  This was the same word God spoke in the beginning when he said, “Let there be light!” and there was light.  When Jesus told the man to get up, to take his cot, and to go home, that’s exactly what the man did.  In Jesus, God’s new creation had come.  And if that’s all that had happened, the scribes would have had nothing to complain about.

 

What really stuck in their craw was Jesus declaring the man’s sins forgiven.  That made them mad.  Even for the Messiah, as far as they were concerned, that was too big a claim.  To heal the paralysed man?  That was good.  But if he had sins to forgive, his friends should have taken him to the temple in Jerusalem for that.  The priests there were the only ones with the authority to offer sacrifices for sin and to declare someone reconciled to God.  But the crowd understood and Matthew makes a point of saying that the crowd was afraid—afraid in the sense that they were awestruck by what had happened and knew that somehow and in some way the God of Israel was at work in and through Jesus—as if they’d just witnesses one of those great and awe-inspiring events from the Old Testament that no one in Israel had seen in a thousand years.  Matthew says they saw what had happened and that they praised God for giving such authority to men.

 

The story is sort of the whole gospel story in a nutshell.  Jesus teaches and he heals—he does the things the Messiah was supposed to be doing.  He even foreshadows the resurrection when he tells the man to “get up”—or better to “Rise up!”  That’s resurrection language.  This is what Jesus promises for everyone who trusts in him: He forgives our sins, he raises us to new life, and he invites us home—to live as his new creation in the presence of God.  But as far as the scribes and Pharisees were concerned, Jesus did all this the wrong way and that made it blasphemy.

 

But Jesus wasn’t worried about that.  You know when you’re accused of something bad by someone and you just want to say, “Man, look in the mirror!”  Or that old thing your parents used to tell you when someone insulted you, “Consider the source.”  Or that line from a certain cartoon character, “Your boos mean nothing to me; I’ve seen what makes you cheer.”  Jesus flips around the accusation.  He exposes the wickedness in the hearts of those scribes and he does it for everyone to see.  He discredits them and their accusations.  He leaves them fuming.  You can imagine their red faces and how their mouths are moving, but they can’t say anything.  And Jesus is left standing there full of authority and life and power.

 

I wonder if this teachable moment popped into Jesus’ head as the plaster rained down on him and the man was lowered through the hole.  The paralytic probably had an apologetic look on his face—like, “I’m really sorry, Jesus, for the hole in your roof.  Please forgive me and my friends.”  And Jesus realised that this was the perfect moment to say something about forgiveness—because this man and his friends and, in fact, all of Israel, that’s what they really needed: forgiveness, not for making a hole in his roof, but for far more serious sins—for idolatry and for greed and for faithlessness and for all the ways they’d failed to live out their covenant with the Lord.  Israel needed a lot of things—just like the paralysed man did—but most of all she needed forgiveness.  In that, the paralysed man represents Israel and all her wrong expectations of the Messiah.  The Jews wanted the Messiah to solve all their problems.  For some that was healing sickness, for others it was casting out demons, for some it was getting everybody to keep the law better, and for others it was bashing Roman heads and destroying the pagan gentiles.  But not very many people understood that none of these things was the real problem.  The real problem was sin.  Sin is why the world is in the mess it’s in.  Sin was why Israel was estranged from God.  The people had been unfaithful to the Lord.  He’d called them to be light in the darkness, but they’d hid their light under a basket.  More than anything else, they needed forgiveness, because forgiveness is the start; it’s what paves the way for everything else to be set to rights.  Forgiveness is the way to new creation.

 

I think that’s the part of the story that gets most of our attention.  But notice that what Matthew puts at the heart of this story isn’t the healing or the announcement of forgiveness.  The heart of the story is Jesus statement that the son of man has authority on earth to forgive sins and then the response of the people.  We miss this because we’re not thinking like First Century Jews.  When Jesus calls himself the “son of man”, he’s drawing on an image from Daniel 7.  The book of Daniel is about faithfulness in the midst of exile.  Israel had been defeated and the people taken off to Babylon. Worse, some like Daniel, were pressured to compromise, to bow to a pagan king and to pagan gods—to give up on the God of Israel and to give up on his promises.  And some did just that.  But Daniel stood firm and the Lord gave him a vision of those pagan kings cast down, of the God of Israel taking his throne, and the son of man “coming with the clouds of heaven…to be given dominion and glory and kingship, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him” (Daniel 7:13-14).  And yet, when Daniel asks what the vision means, he is told that this kingship and dominion “shall be given”—not to a single person, but “to the people, the holy ones of the Most High; their kingdom shall be an everlasting kingdom and all dominions shall serve and obey them” (Daniel 7:27).

 

The son of man in Daniel’s vision was a symbol for the faithful remnant of God’s people—for those who stood firm in their faith in the God of Israel, who remembered his covenant, and who refused to bow to pagan gods and kings.  So when Jesus referred to himself as the son of man, this is what the scribes (and everyone else) would have been thinking of.  And this is why Matthew says at the end that the people praised God that this authority has been given not to a man—Jesus—but to men, plural.  Because up to this point, Daniel’s vision had yet to be fulfilled.  The Maccabees, for example, had claimed to be that faithful remnant, but their kingdom didn’t last.  The people who were that faithful remnant—people like Zechariah and Elizabeth and Mary and Joseph and Simeon and Anna, although they were probably too humble to actually claim being the faithful remnant—people like them knew all too well that the Lord had yet to grant them anything like authority and dominion.  That’s what Mary’s song, the one we call the Magnificat, is all about.  But here Jesus identifies himself with that vision.  In him the son of man is finally being granted that authority and dominion—that kingship that everyone thought of in connection with God’s kingdom and the world finally being set to rights—and Jesus isn’t just saying it or claiming it.  He proves it when he tells the paralysed man to get up, take his bed, and go home.  For the people there that day, this was bigger than just the Messiah.  Jesus could claim to be the “son of man”, but the son of man wasn’t just one person, the son of man represented the whole faithful remnant in Israel.  We need to grasp the enormous hope embodied in those words of Jesus about the son of man.  It’s not just Jesus who will take his throne.  He will.  But that he will take his throne also means that all the faithful will be vindicated as their enemies are cast down, and that they will finally share in that God-given authority and dominion.  So the people in crowded in Jesus’ house that day recognised that in Jesus the Messiah, God’s kingdom had finally come and that they would be part of it—not just as subject, but as kings and queens themselves.  Or to borrow from C. S. Lewis, the day was coming when these sons of Adam and daughters of Eve would once again take their rightful place in creation set to rights.

 

This makes sense of another passage that often confuses people.  Twice Jesus said to his disciples “whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven”.  The first is in Matthew 16, after Jesus praises Peter for his confession, “You are the Messiah, the son of the living God”.  Jesus says to him and the others, “I will give you the keys of heaven”.  And in Matthew 18, in that passage about what we call “church discipline” and dealing with an unrepentant person, he repeats this statement about binding and loosing.  This is all “son of man” stuff.  Jesus isn’t giving special authority to Peter alone because he’s going to be the first pope.  In fact, he’s not giving any special authority just to the apostles.  No, this is a gospel authority given to all of the faithful remnant, to everyone who by faith identifies with the Messiah.  This is a people who are not only given dominion or kingship—to rule alongside the Messiah—but who also share in his role as prophet and priest.  That’s what this binding and loosing language is about.  As prophets, Jesus’ people were to speak out against the sins of Israel and to rebuke her faithlessness, and as priests they were called to mediate the saving, the forgiving message of the gospel to the nation—and eventually to the whole world.

 

This was good news and it explains why the crowds wouldn’t give Jesus a break.  Israel’s scriptures were full of promises, but so many of them had yet to be fulfilled.  Promises like Daniel’s vision of the son of man.  Promises of forgiveness and of restoration and of dominion and authority.  Time and again, things would happen and people would think, “Oh!  This is it!”  But it never quite happened.  The remnant returned from their Babylonian exile, but things were never as they had been.  The Maccabees defeated the Greeks and established Judah’s independence.  And for a little while it looked like the Lord’s promises were on track to be fulfilled.  And then it all fell apart.  But the people knew that the Lord is faithful.  Time and again he had shown his faithfulness in Israel’s past and they knew he would be faithful in their future.  Every year they ate the Passover and remembered the Lord’s promises and looked forward in hopeful anticipation.  And now, here was Jesus, and he was actually doing the things the Lord had promised and he was doing them like no one had before.  They had faith.  They would be forgiven, their enemies would be cast down, and the faithful remnant—who were now gathering around Jesus the Messiah—in them the people of God would be restored and made new and would be the people the Lord had promised—a people full of his life and a people for the life of the world—prophets, priests, and kings.  The sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve would be forgiven their sins and would take their thrones and all would once again be right with the world.  This was good news!

 

And Brothers and Sisters, this is still good news for us—maybe even more than it was for the people crammed in Jesus house that day.  In Jesus we see the faithfulness of God.  They were still looking forward in anticipation, but we can look back and see the whole picture and how Jesus fulfilled the Lord’s promises and that ought to strengthen our faith and ought to give us reason to look forward to our future in hope, knowing that what God has begun in Jesus he will surely finish.  The world is often dark, we can feel small and alone, sometimes it feels like we’re fighting a losing battle, but we can look back and see what the Lord has done and trust that he is faithful.  He always has been and he always will be.

 

And this is good news because it tells us who we are.  I think that too often we look at passages like this, where Jesus talks about himself as the son of man and we forget that it’s not just telling us something about Jesus.  The son of man represents a whole people.  Because Jesus has fulfilled the role of the son of man, that means that we his people, through our union with him, we have been caught up in that son of man identity, too.  Jesus has been given power and authority and dominion forever, and you and I share that with him.  It’s authority to live and to proclaim the good news that he has died, that he has risen, and that he has come again and that he brings forgiveness and life.  And it’s also the authority to speak as prophets to the world, to call out sin, to remind the world that the Lord will come in judgement to cleanse his creation, and to call men and women to repentance.  And hand in hand with that role, we have the authority of priests.  We’re not only prophets, but priests, mediating the good news of Jesus and the life of God’s spirit—mediating the redemption Jesus has made at the cross—to a sick world, desperately in need of forgiveness and life.

 

Brothers and Sisters, think about that as you come to the Lord’s Table this morning.  The bread and the wine reminds us of the forgiveness and the life and the hope we find at the cross, but they should also remind us who we are in Jesus.  We are Daniel’s son-of-man people.  We are prophets, priests, and kings and we have been made so for the life of the world.  Seeing the faithfulness of God revealed in Jesus ought to move us—like the people that day in Jesus’ house—to give God glory and there is no better way to glorify him than to be the people he has made us in Jesus and the Spirit, a people who live and proclaim his good news so that the world might see and know his faithfulness and give him glory.

 

Let’s pray: O God, because without you we are not able to please you, mercifully grant that your Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts, that in his power we might be the gospel people who have made, that we might be faithful in making known your faithfulness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Who is Jesus?  It’s important.  It’s why we have the creeds that put so much emphasis on who Jesus is.  Because if you get Jesus wrong, you won’t get anything else right.  Someone knocks on your door and wants to start talking theology and it sounds weird.  Ask them who Jesus is and you’ll immediately get to the root of everything.  Ah!  Mormon…or Jehovah’s Witness.  What they say about Jesus lays everything bare.  The last few days I’ve been watching videos from a conference that’s held annually down in Oregon.  I’ve wondered whatever happened to all the big-name people from the Emergent Church movement of fifteen to twenty years ago.  This week I found out.  They’ve moved on from just kind of being theology sketchy to holding annual conferences and seminars to help people deconstruct their faith—which is just the new, trendy way to talk about apostasy.  And in what I listened to, it was all about Jesus.  Except it wasn’t the Jesus revealed in scripture.  It was part of the Jesus revealed in scripture.  It was the warm-fuzzy Jesus.  But they’ve left out the Jesus who called people to repentance, the Jesus who talked about sin and judgement, the Jesus who stands alone and apart and above every other god and king.  They’ve built a false religion around a false Jesus.  Brothers and Sisters, it’s imperative that we get Jesus right.  Christians have known this since the beginning.  Again, it’s why we have the creeds.  Faith itself doesn’t save.  Faith itself doesn’t forgive sins.  Faith itself won’t set the world to rights.  It’s the object of our faith who forgives sins and saves us from death and fills us with God’s Spirit and promises we’ll be raised to new life as he has been.

 

As the Gospels reach their climax with the crucifixion of Jesus, they bring this to the forefront.  Who is Jesus?  That’s what’s going on in our Gospel today from Matthew 22.  All these last months our Gospels have been from early in Jesus’ ministry, but today we jump almost to the end and to two questions.  The first is about the law—asked by the Pharisees.  “Which is the most important commandent?”  And Jesus gave the right answer and left them fuming and with no grounds on which to challenge him.  At the same time, his answer was so correct that it left them and everyone there utterly challenged.  And then Jesus turned the tables and asks them a question: “Is the Messiah David’s son or David’s lord?”  “Or is he both?”  And you can just picture them totally flabbergasted.  No one had ever even thought to ask that question.  They had no idea how to answer even though the answer—Jesus—was standing right there in the middle of them.

 

And that was the end of Jesus’ confrontations with the leaders of the Jews.  The next time he’ll see them is when they have him arrested in the garden and then when they drag him before the Jewish council to make their accusations, and later as he hangs on the cross while they laugh and insult him.  But hanging over those three scenes, will be the knowledge that Jesus knows the answers to these two all-important questions and that they do not.  The very basis of their charges against him hangs on the answers to these two questions that they can’t even begin to answer.  And Jesus wants them to know (and Matthew wants us to know) that it is precisely in his arrest and trial and crucifixion that Jesus is fulfilling the two great commandments of the law.  And it’s precisely in his arrest, his trial, and his crucifixion that Jesus is taking his throne as Lord—as the King of the Jews and as David’s lord.  This is who Jesus is and this is how he’s come to rescue his people—from their sins, from death, and to bring them into God’s new world.

 

So that first question.  This is Matthew 7:34.  Matthew writes, “When the Pharisees heard that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, they got together as a group.  One of them, a lawyer, put him on the spot with a question: ‘Teacher, which is the most important commandment in the law?’”

The Lord gave Moses 613 commandments and everyone knew which was the most important.  It was so important that it had become Israel’s “creed” and part of their daily prayer.  (It still is today.)  Deuteronomy 6:4: “Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one.”  And it goes on, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.”  It wasn’t just something you did.  The fact that it was every observant Jew’s daily prayer meant that it was deeper than just doing.  Loving God was supposed to be something that made its way deep, into your very being.  It was a heart thing.

 

But the big question is: Did this all-consuming love for God really capture Israel’s heart?  The Pharisees, of all the people in Israel, knew that it hadn’t.  They, of all people, not only knew the struggle personally, they knew how Israel on the whole had failed and failed and failed.  That was their “thing”.  They knew that Israel was still basically in exile despite having returned from Babylon five hundred years before.  The Lord’s presence had never returned to the temple.  Pagans still ruled them.  And no one had heard the Lord’s voice in centuries.  And the Pharisees knew it was because God’s people hadn’t kept his law, because they hadn’t loved him with all their being.

 

Jesus knew this too.  A big part of his teaching—think of the Sermon on the Mount or we could go back to Matthew 15 where Jesus talked about cups that are outwardly clean, but filthy on the inside—a big part of Jesus teaching was that Israel was desperately in need of a renewal of her heart.  Outward keeping of the law?  Awesome!  Keep it up.  But what God’s most concerned about is a keeping of the law—of a love for God and a love for neighbour—that goes deeper than externals—that grows out of a heart that truly loves God above everything else.

 

But how is that even supposed to happen?  Before he died, Moses reiterated the law to the people a second time—deuter-onomy, second law.  And when he was finished, he exhorted them in Deuteronomy 30:11: “You can do this.  It’s not too hard.  It’s not far off.  It’s not up in heaven.  You don’t need anyone to bring it down to you.  It’s in your mouth and it’s in your heart so that you can do it.”  Neither Moses nor the Lord expected perfect sinlessness.  That’s why the Lord had made provisions for atonement in the law.  The Lord simply expected them to follow his law, to be the holy people he had made them and for whom he’d made provision to stay holy.  All they needed to do was to keep their eyes on him, to remember all he’d done for them, to know his word, to live in his grace.

 

And I read that passage from Deuteronomy and I think: Okay.  Being faithful to the law wasn’t too hard, but that doesn’t mean it was easy.  If it had been easy, Israel wouldn’t have failed over and over and over.  Living on this side of the cross.  Living as someone into whom God has poured his Spirit to fulfil his Old Testament promises of heart renewal, I still struggle to love God with all my being and to love my neighbours as myself.  We all do.  Sanctification is a process.  The Spirit doesn’t change our hearts all at once, although it’s often the case—especially with new believers—that the Spirit will do some amazing things to jump start the process.  I’ve been at it fifty-three years and there’s still lots to do to dig out and uproot the darkness that lurks in my heart.  Every time I think I’ve cleaned house and then sit down with the scriptures again, I hear God speak, and I find there’s always something I missed: the baseboard behind the couch needs dusting, I forgot to scrub that invisible spot under the rim of the toilet bow, or—sometimes—there’s a giant pile of garbage in the middle of the living room that I’ve somehow not noticed all this time.  It takes work and prayer and scripture and counsel—and most of all the Spirit—to root all that darkness out and to replace it with love.  Really, if I’m honest, I’m kind of sympathetic with the Israelites when they shared their skepticism with Moses.  Really, Moses?  This isn’t too hard?  I’m fighting to do it and I’m living in the fulfilment of God’s promise of the Spirit to renew my heart?  How were they supposed to do it?

 

But maybe that’s just it.  Too often we think of the law as commandments to be obeyed—mostly in our own strength.  Even Israel wasn’t expected to do that.  That’s why God lived in the middle of their camp.  He wasn’t going to leave them alone to be holy all on their own, because that is impossible.  But more importantly, what Jesus says here about loving God and loving each other really starts to come into focus as we see Jesus on the cross, dying for the sins of his people, his enemies, and then rising from death to bring to life God’s new creation.  Jesus forgives our failures and he invites us into this new life.  God even comes to dwell in us—not just in our midst, but in us to renew our hearts.  And we start to realise that these commandments aren’t orders to be obeyed in our own power and strength.  Instead, they’re invitations into a whole new way of life—an invitation into new creation.  They’re a hope that looks forward to the day when God finally sets everything to rights.  On that day there will be no more hate and no more pride and no more selfishness and no more sin.  We’ll be full of love for him and for each other.  And so, in light of that invitation and that hope, in the power of the Spirit, we just start to live it now, day by day, bit by bit, welcoming God to expose the darkness and the dirt in our hearts and then gladly cleaning it out and letting light and love and life fill us—day by day and bit by bit, a little at a time as we live in hope—knowing for sure that one day it’ll all be done.  This is why we live, not only looking back to the cross in gratitude, but also looking forward in a hope made sure and certain by the cross.

 

But wait, there’s more.  That’s only half today’s Gospel.  That was the first question.  The Pharisees asked it.  And now Jesus turns the tables (verse 41): “While the Pharisees were gathered there, Jesus asked them, ‘What’s your view of the Messiah?  Whose son is he?”

 

That probably seems like a weird question to us, but it probably wasn’t for them—although they wondered where Jesus was going with it.  They knew the answer.  It was an easy one.  Just as easy as the question they’d asked him.  “He’s David’s son,” they said to him.  Nothing controversial there.  In fact, Matthew’s made it clear right from verse 1 of his Gospel: “The book of the family tree of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham.”  That’s how Matthew’s Gospel starts.  But, of course, it can’t be that easy.  So Jesus follows up in verse 43, saying, “Why then does David (speaking by the Spirit) call him ‘Lord’ when he says, ‘The Lord says to my Lord, sit here at my right hand, until I place your enemies down beneath your feet.’  If David calls him ‘Lord,’ how can he be his son?”

 

What?  I should spell that like the Internet meme: “Wut?”  I can only imagine how they looked around at each other confused.  No surprises when Matthew says, “Nobody was able to answer him a single word.  From that day on nobody dared ask him anything anymore.”

 

This one would take some time to sink in.  I kind of suspect they never did figure it out—at least most of them.  Maybe some of them did eventually figure it out in the weeks, months, and years after Jesus rose from the dead.  Maybe they believed the stories—or maybe they saw him—and it finally clicked and they believed.  But even a lot of Christians who do believe don’t understand what Jesus is getting at.  So here’s his point: Just saying that Jesus is the son of David doesn’t give the whole picture.  For most of the Jews in those days, “Son of David” brought to mind images of a coming great warrior king.  Like a literal David, only greater.  And he would restore the kingdom of Israel over which David had once ruled at its height, only greater.  The Son of David would expand the borders.  He would utterly destroy every one of Israel’s enemies.  And there would be no end to his kingdom or his reign.  He would put Israel at the top of the heap forever.  No Solomon with his idolatry and foreign wives would mess it up.  No royal rivalries would split it up.  No foreign power would ever bring it down.  This was their vision of the world set to rights.

 

And we can probably forgive them, because it’s easy to read God’s promises that way.  Just like it’s easy for the folks in that deconstruction conference to read all the warm-fuzzy passages about Jesus and to forget the ones about repentance and judgement.  The passage Jesus quotes is the first verse of Psalm 110—the psalm quoted more than any other by the writers of the New Testament.  It’s a psalm attributed to David and it goes like this.  Again, Psalm 110 if you’re following along:

 

 

It’s right there.  The Lord will shatter kings on the day of his wrath. He will execute judgement among the nations, filling them with corpses; he will shatter chiefs over the wide earth.”  Again, I can’t blame them for expecting the Son of David to come and smash Gentile heads.  I can’t…except that there’s still the two greatest commandments in the law: love God with all your being and your neighbour as yourself.  You have to account for both.  Like our Article XX says, “It is not lawful for the Church to ordain any thing that is contrary to God’s Word written, neither may it so expound one place of Scripture, that it be repugnant to another.”

If the Son of David was just coming to crush and shatter Israel’s enemies, how would that encourage the people, how would that help the people learn to love God with all their being and (especially) their neighbours as themselves?  One of the things we see in Jesus, not least as he goes to the cross to give his life for his enemies, is that when we say that word, “God”, we’re talking about the almighty Creator who not only loves his own people, but who loves the whole world.  He loves his enemies enough to humble himself, taking on their—our—flesh, so that he could die the death that their—that our—sins deserve, all to reconcile us to himself and to set right the creation we have broken.  And he does it all so that we can have a share in, so that we can once again live in his presence in that new creation.

 

And so Jesus’ point here is that, if David’s son is also David’s lord, then the great warrior-messiah the Jews hoped for will, in the end, bring the saving, healing, restoring, setting-to-rights rule of this loving Creator God not only to Israel, but to the whole world.  And, yes, there will come a day when the last rebellious enemies of his people who remain, when the last rebels against the Gospel will be crushed and wiped from his creation so that it can finally and fully be set to rights, but in the meantime it means that Jesus the Messiah has not come to bash heads.  He will indeed put his enemies—and kings and nations—under his feet, but he will do that as the power of the Gospel goes out to the nations—as the good news of the servant king who gives his life for the sake of his enemies turns their hearts to this God who is unlike any god they’ve ever known and as Jesus’ new creation gives them a glimpse of and hope for a world to set to rights the likes of which they never imagined.  And that good news will go out and it will go out and it will go out until the glory of the Lord covers the earth as the waters cover the sea and when it has done its work, then the Messiah will defeat even death itself.

 

Brothers and Sisters, hear the scriptures and let this Jesus sustain you.  The Jesus who, like David, has gone to battle—who has done single combat against our enemies, against sin and death at the cross.  The Jesus who teaches us by his death what it looks like to truly love God with all our heart and life and mind and strength and to love our neighbours as ourselves.  The Jesus who has risen from death and who has poured his Spirit into our hearts so that we can know God’s life and God’s new creation and live in hope of the day when he will finish what he has started.  Not some other Jesus.  Not a Jesus we build like a Mr. Potato Head, picking and choosing the parts we like, but this Jesus: the Jesus who is both loving shepherd and warrior king; this Jesus who ate with sinners and condemns sin and calls us to repentance; this Jesus who loves his enemies so much that he gave his life for our sake, but who will also one day wipe from his creation ever last remaining bit of rebellion and darkness and sin; this Jesus and only this Jesus who truly reveals the glory of God and moves our hearts to worship and to love and to loyalty.

 

Let’s pray: Almighty God, gracious Father, we give you thank for your promises and for your faithfulness to them.  We think today especially of your promises to David and the Prophets that gave them a hope for your Messiah.  He is both David’s son and your own son, the true Israel, and in him we have forgiveness of sins and the life of your kingdom.  We pray that as we live the life he gives, we would also live in hope, knowing your faithfulness and trusting in your promises, and joyfully expecting—and participating in—the work of your Church, empowered by Jesus and the Spirit as we look forward to your renewal of all things.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

The world is not as it should be.  We know it in our bones.  Broken relationships, frail health, wars abroad, pandemics, and the simply daily struggle to get by—we all know the pain and the sorrow and the tears.  The Israelites knew this as well as anyone ever has.  They were slaves in Egypt.  They suffered under the bondage and tyranny of Pharaoh.  They knew pain and suffering and tears the likes of which you I can only imagine.  And, the biblical story tells us, they cried out to the living God and he heard their cries.  And because he is also the loving God, he delivered them from Egypt.  He dramatically defeated the God’s of Pharaoh and then he defeated Pharoah himself and drowned the world’s greatest army in the Red Sea.  And the Lord promised to set things to rights for his people.  He promised to lead them to a land of milk and honey and he promised to live in their midst.  It was—in a limited and imperfect way—a restoration of humanity’s original state: of Adam and Eve in the garden, living in the presence of God.  It gave the people hope that, despite the pains and troubles of life, God has a plan to set right what our sin and rebellion has broken.

 

But what was there to keep Israel from becoming just like the Egyptians?  If we’re honest, we all know that problem too.  The world is in the mess it’s in not only because others sin against us, but because we sin against them.  That’s where Israel’s sojourn in wilderness enters the great story.  In today’s reading from his letter to the Christians at Ephesus, St. Paul quotes a bit of Psalm 68.  “When he went up on high, he led bondage itself into bondage, and he gave gifts to the people.”  It's a reference to the Lord meeting his people at Mt. Sinai in the wilderness.  He called Moses up the mountain, and then sent him back down to the people with the torah, with his law.  On that day the Lord made a covenant with his people: I will be your God and you will be my people and his law set them apart from the peoples and nations of the earth.  The Lord gave them the law to ensure that they wouldn’t end up another Egypt—a land of oppression and idolatry—and in doing that he made Israel a community, a family, a covenant people so that, in them, the world would have a foretaste of the day when God restores sinful humanity to himself, sets his broken creation to rights, and wipes away our tears.

 

This is the background, this is the story that gives shape to what St. Paul writes in today’s Epistle.  What the Lord had once done for Israel when he rescued the people from slavery and made them his own, he has done again—but on even grander scale, through the death and resurrection and ascension of Jesus the Messiah.  This time he didn’t just rescue a people from Pharoah’s bondage.  In Jesus, he’s rescued us all from our greatest enemies, from sin and death themselves.  In the church he’s made a new people, a new humanity, a new temple in which he dwells—a people meant to lift the veil on God’s new creation, a people who live God’s future here in the present—to show the nations his glory and his grace.

 

Brothers and Sisters, the church is the continuation of Jesus’ healing and reconciling ministry.  We’re a people filled with God’s Spirit and entrusted with his gospel, with his good news.  We don’t just pray those words of Jesus, “Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”  We’re called by God and enabled by Jesus and the Spirit to live that prayer out—to bring God’s reconciling message (the gospel) and his presence (the Holy Spirit) to a broken world in desperate need of forgiveness and grace and healing.

 

But what happens when the church stumbles, when the church falters in this calling and mission?  Most of Paul’s letters to those first churches were written because they were doing just that.  They were a people rescued from sin and death to be heaven-on-earth people, but they were failing.  Paul wrote to the Ephesians because their unity was in danger.  Earlier in the letter he addressed the division that was happening between Jewish and Gentile Christians.  Jesus had given his people a new law—the law of the Spirit, but the old law of Moses, the law given at Sinai had so defined what it meant to be God’s people for so long, that it threatened to create this chasm between the Jewish and Gentile believers.  And so Paul stresses, as he does so often, that it is faith in Jesus, faith in his forgiving and reconciling death and faith in his life-giving resurrection, faith in the gospel, that unites them.

 

But that wasn’t all.  Because even when the gospel bridges the divide between Jew and Gentile, even when it makes us one, there’s still an endless list of things that threaten to drive wedges between us.  The same things that have made such a mess of the world, the same things that destroy our relationships—they’re still with us.  Any time you bring a group of people together, there’s going to be friction.  We don’t all see things the same way.  Toes get stepped on—sometimes inadvertently, but sometimes on purpose.  We’re prone to jealousy and selfishness and competition.  We’re often set in our ways and don’t like change.  We often hold too tightly to things and don’t want to give them up.  We too often think of our wants and needs without thinking of the wants and needs of others.  It’s the way of the world and it shouldn’t be the way of the church, but the fact is that sanctification, the process of God making us holy, it’s just that: a process.  The work of God’s word and God’s Spirit takes time—sometimes it seems, a dreadfully long time—and so none of us is perfect.  Jesus has made us new, he’s given us the life of heaven, but if Israel could end up just like Egypt, so we can end up just like the broken world from which we’ve been delivered.

 

The blinding light of the gospel, of Jesus crucified and risen for us, of God’s great loving and gracious generosity outshines everything else, but we let our guard down and pride creeps in and, Brothers and Sisters, pride is the great cloud that blots out the sun of God’s generosity.  And this is what was happening in Ephesus.  So Paul writes to them, if you’re following along, in Chapter 4 of Ephesians: “So then, this is my appeal to you…”  And then Paul pauses to say, “I, a prisoner of the Lord.”  He reminds them that he’s writing to them from prison.  He's been imprisoned for the sake of the good news about Jesus.  And he reminds them at this point to stress just how important all this is.  They’ve been called to be a gospel people, not just for their own sake, but for the sake of the world, but they’re not taking it seriously.  So Paul’s saying, “This is serious business—so serious that I’m in prison because of it—because Caesar and the powers of the present evil age can’t stand to be challenged by the good news that it’s Jesus who is the world’s true Lord and because they can’t stand to be challenged by the good news that a new order, that his kingdom is breaking in.”  Brothers and Sisters, think on that, because we often don’t take this seriously enough either.  Our Saturday breakfast group has been reading through Rod Dreher’s Live Not By Lies this year.  It tells the stories of Christians who knew what serious business the gospel is and who faced the wrath of the Soviet authorities for standing firm for the gospel—men and women who were imprisoned and many who were martyred for their faith.  Because they knew what serious business the gospel is—that the world depends on it if it’s ever to be set to rights.  You and I live in a place of such ease that we too easily take the gospel for granted.  We need to be reminded what serious business it is—that Jesus gave his life for this.

 

So Paul goes on and writes, “You’ve got to live up to the calling you received.”  It’s imperative.  If they fail to live up to their calling, they fail to be the church.  He says, “Bear with one another in love; be humble, meek, and patient in every way with one another.  Make every effort to guard the unity the Spirit gives, with your lives bound together in peace.”

 

Bear with one another.  Again, there are going to be points of friction.  We’re human and we’re not perfect…not yet, anyway.  That’s especially true with a community like the church.  Most communities draw together people who are similar, but the church is for everyone.  Jesus is our centre and he calls and draws in people from every tribe and tongue, rich and poor, slave and free, Liberal and Conservative, Ford and Chevy, Canucks and…well, I don’t know because I don’t follow hockey…but Jesus unites us all together into one people, because we’ve all known the redeeming love of God in Jesus.  Because the sun of God’s gospel grace outshines all the differences that would otherwise make us rivals and drive us apart.

 

We’ve rebelled against our Creator.  We’ve sinned.  We’ve broken his good creation.  We’ve worshiped other gods and we’ve worshiped ourselves.  And yet God has never ceased to be patient with us.  And he still loves us so much, he still so desires to reconcile us to himself, that he—the Creator of the cosmos—humbled himself to take on our flesh in Jesus, to be born one of us, and then to die an excruciating and humiliating death he didn’t deserve, in order to set us and his creation to rights.  And if we have grasped even a bit of the patient and humble and gracious lovingkindness of God made manifest in Jesus and the cross, Brothers and Sisters, we ought to be overcome by that same love, humility, and patience.  We ought to see each other—not to mention everyone still lost in the world’s darkness—we ought to see them through that same loving, humble, and patient lens and desire for them to know the reconciling love of God as we have.  If God can love us, who have made such a mess of his creation and who worship idols, if he can love us so much that he will die to heal the breach between us, how can we ever let the frictions between us destroy the unity he’s given?  In light of the sun of his love, every one of our differences—Jew or Gentile, man or woman, slave or free, Ford or Chevy—ought to pale in comparison.  His love doesn’t just save us from our bondage to sin and death, it makes—or it ought to make—us his new creation: a people who are light in the darkness, life in the midst of death, a people of love and grace, of mercy and peace, of humility and patience in the midst of hate and strife and selfishness and division.  A people who—even if imperfectly—lifts the veil and gives the world a glimpse of God’s future for the world.

 

In verse 7 Paul goes on.  He writes, “There is one body and one Spirit.  You were, after all, called to one hope which goes with your call.  There is one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all, through all, and in all.”

 

Let’s walk through that.  There is one body.  Jesus didn’t create a bunch of different churches.  He didn’t create an Anglican church and a Baptist church and a Roman church and a Pentecostal church.  He created the church.  We’ve fractured and divide because of our failings and these fractures have become so common and so entrenched that we take them for granted, we think they’re the norm—we even sometimes think they’re good and right.  In some cases, we’ve grown so far apart and developed our own ecclesiastical cultures and languages that it can be hard to even recognise the gospel when others preach it.  I was listening to a sermon by an Orthodox priest in Croatia this week.  And on the one hand the gospel was so obvious and clear, but at on the other hand, I had to stop several times and re-listen to what he's said, because his way of talking about it is so dramatically different than ours.  And, at this point, there isn’t really anything the average Christian can do to restore the unity.  But we can as individuals and we can as the local church do everything in our power to maintain fellowship with those who proclaim the same gospel that we do: Jesus the Messiah, crucified, risen, ascended, and Lord.  That’s what Paul’s getting at here.  There’s one body.  There’s one Holy Spirit whom God has poured out on all of us.  There is one Lord Jesus.  There is one faith.  There is one baptism.  There is ultimately one God and Father of all, who is over all, through all, and in all.  And that is our one, unifying hope.  The hope of every believer is the hope proclaimed by the prophets: that one day the glory of the Lord will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea; that the reconciling love of Jesus at the cross, that the power of his life-giving resurrection will bring us back to the Father and open the world’s eyes to his glory.

 

And note: we don’t create this unity.  Jesus and the Spirit have created it already.  Paul’s point is that it is our duty—so far as we are able—to maintain it.  And at the most fundamental level, we do that as we bear with each other.  As we forgive the sins of others just as we have been forgiven.  As we love each other, just as we have been loved.  As he live humbly with each other and seek reconciliation with each other, just as God has humbled himself to die in order to reconcile us to himself.

 

Being overwhelmed by the brightness of the sun of God’s love—you’d think—would be enough to drive away the pettiness and the selfishness and the pride, but still we need God’s help.  And so Paul goes on in verse 7—I want to go a few verses past the end of our Epistle so we can let Paul finish his thought.  He writes: “But grace was given to each one of us according to the measure of the Messiah’s gift.”

 

God has poured out his grace—his unmerited favour—on us, and not just poured it out, but poured it out in abundance so that it overflows, so that we can’t help but give, share, and pour out that grace on everyone around us.  It’s that grace that builds us up and that binds us together.  Specifically, in the next paragraph, Paul’s going to go on to talk about how, through the Spirit, God has given the people of his church a diversity of gifts, not just to build each other up, but to accomplish the gospel mission we’ve been given, but I think here we can understand God’s grace more generally.  This is where Paul quotes Psalm 68:18: “When he went up on high, he led bondage itself into bondage, and he gave gifts to his people.”  Again, the Psalm is about Moses going up on Mt. Sinai and coming down shining with the glory of God and with the torah—with a new way of life that would set this people apart and make them a witness to his light and life in the midst of a dark and pagan world.  And Paul quotes this to say that Jesus has now done this, but on a larger and grander scale.  Look at verse 9: “When it says here that ‘he went up,’ what this means is that he also came down into the lower places—that is, the earth.  The one who came down is the one who also ‘went up’ far above the heavens, so that he might fill all things.”

 

As Moses went up Mt. Sinai to meet the Lord, Jesus has ascended to heaven to take his throne, but he hasn’t left us to fend for ourselves.  As God sent Moses down the mountain with the law, so Jesus has sent God’s Spirit to indwell and to transform and to empower his people—to fill all things.  Brothers and Sisters, that’s temple language.  Moses came down the mountain with a plan for the tabernacle—for a temple where God’s presence would be enthroned in the midst of his people.  But in the Holy Spirit, God has come down and made his people themselves—he’s made us—his temple.  Jesus has washed us clean from sin by his blood shed at the cross, he’s made us holy, and God’s own Spirit has come to live in us.

 

And that takes us back—or it ought to—to the very beginning of the story: to Adam and Eve, to humanity, placed by God in his garden temple to be its stewards, to live in his presence, to be fruitful and to multiply, and in so doing to spread his temple and his presence to the ends of the earth.  Brothers and Sisters, in Jesus and the Spirit, God has begun the work of restoring us to that original vocation.  He has made us his temple, he has made us stewards of his good news, he has empowered us with his grace—he has not left us alone to be and to do this in our own strength.  He has entrusted us with his good news, he has shown us what his new creation is like, he has empowered us with his Spirit, and he has filled us with his grace.  And now he sends us out not just to proclaim the good news of Jesus and his new creation, but to actually be that new creation for the sake of the world.  To live and especially to live together in such a way that the world around us will see the bright light of Jesus in us; to make them constructively curious, wanting to know that light for themselves; so that one day the whole earth will give glory to our Father in heaven.

 

Let’s pray again our Collect: Lord, we pray that your grace may always precede and follow us, and make us continually to be given to all good works; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

“The next day,” says St. Luke in our Gospel lesson, “Jesus went to a town called Nain.”  No doubt to preach the good news that, in him, the God of Israel had finally come to his people to fulfil his promises to them.  No doubt to heal the sick or the blind or the deaf or whoever else came to him to be healed.  No doubt to cast our demons.  Not just to tell them that God’s kingdom was breaking into darkness of the world, but to show them.  To make the sad things untrue, as Sam Gamgee put it so eloquently.  But I expect that Jesus was frustrated.  Sure, crowds were following him wherever he went, but they didn’t get it.  They wanted their own personal miracle worker and, like the people in Nazareth, they got angry with him when he wouldn’t stay.  They knew—because it was impossible to miss—that in Jesus light had come into the darkness.  They knew hope for the first time.  But their vision of God’s light and life was just so, so, so small.  And then there were people like the scribes and Pharisees who were angry because, if he was the Messiah, he was doing it all wrong.  They couldn’t see past their rules and boundaries.  They had no grasp of the great height and width and length and depth of the love of God.  They were thrilled to have Jesus wipe away their tears and make the sad things of their lives untrue, but they were still committed to, still doing the very things that made the sadness in the first place.

 

Luke says here, in 7:11, that this happened on the “next day”.  It was the day before that Jesus had been met by the friends of a Roman centurion with a sick slave.  He got word that Jesus was on his way to his house to heal his slave and sent words to say, “No, don’t come to my house.”  He knew that as a gentile he wasn’t part of Jesus’ mission.  “No, Jesus, just say the word and my slave will be healed.  I know you’ve got authority to do it.”  And Jesus stopped and marvelled.  He healed the centurion’s slave, but he also turned and rebuked the crowd that was following him: “How is it that I’ve found more faith in this gentile than in you lot, in God’s own people?”

 

And now, it’s the next day, and he’s on his way to Nain and the crowd has followed him from Capernaum.  It’s about five miles.  And all the way he’s been teaching his disciples and anyone else within earshot who will listen.  I expect Jesus was trying to broaden their vision of the kingdom and what it all meant.  And then they arrived at the city gate.  Luke writes, “As he got near the gate of the city, a young man was being carried out dead.  He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.  There was a substantial crowd of townspeople with her.”

 

From a distance Jesus noticed that the town gate was unusually quiet and now he sees why.  Or maybe he heard it before he could see it, because as they got to Nain they met a burial procession coming through the gate.  There was the stretcher being carried by pallbearers and on it was the body of a young man.  Following behind was his mother, crying her eyes out and wailing loudly.  I wonder if Jesus knew them.  Nain wasn’t far from Capernaum or from Nazareth, so it’s entirely possible that Jesus knew these people or, at least, knew who they were.  Luke knew enough about them to report that the woman was a widow and that the young man was her only son.  Her husband was dead and now so was her only son and that meant that she was destitute.  That meant that she was without hope.

 

The whole town was gathered and they wept and they wailed loudly so that she could weep without embarrassment.  They were on their way to the burial plot outside town.  There would have been a little cave.  Sort of a family plot, with the bones of her husband’s ancestors.  Some time before she’d made this trip with her son by her side as the mourners carried her husband to that little cave and laid him to rest.  Eventually, she had gone and put his bare bones in a box, leaving the burial shelf empty.  And today she would put her son there.  And then what?  Come harvest time, she’d have to join the poor, gleaning in the fields and the vineyards, collecting whatever was left behind by the harvesters.  And she prayed no one would come to seize her house and turn her out into the street.

 

And seeing her, Jesus knew her grief.  He knew her hopelessness.  And I wonder what went through his head.  Did he recognise an opportunity here to make a point about the bigger, deeper, wider meaning of the kingdom for the crowd following him?  I suspect it occurred to him.  But I think, more than anything, Jesus saw in this woman the pain and the sorrow and the tears of this fallen and broken world and he was overcome with love—because that’s who he was.  The widow and the orphan have always had a special place in God’s heart.  How they were treated was always—and still is—emblematic of whether or not the people had the heart of God themselves.  And so I think it was simply the most natural thing in the world for the heart of Jesus to be overwhelmed with love and pity for this woman and he simply did what came naturally to him.

 

Luke writes, “And when the Lord saw her, he was very sorry for her.  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said to her.  Then he went up and touched the stretcher and the people carrying it stood still.”

 

That would have been bad form for anyone else, but not for Jesus.  I still expect people were shocked.  You didn’t get in the way of a funeral procession then any more than you do now.  But to touch the stretcher—that would render him unclean.  So the crowd watched in surprise or shock as Jesus stopped the procession.  And they heard him say to the woman, “Don’t cry.”  And I can only imagine what they were thinking when he then went to the dead boy and said, “Young man, I say to you, ‘Get up!’”  They’d seen Jesus do some amazing things.  They’d seen him heal the sick and the blind and the lame, but could he actually raise the dead?  That was kind of over the top, even for Jesus.  And yet…there were stories from the old days.  Could the things in those old stories happen again?

 

These people were deeply steeped in the scriptures and some of them must have recognised that what Jesus was doing had echoes of the stories they knew so well.  I say that because Luke recognised the parallels and makes a point of reporting this story very deliberately so that it echoes the stories of the prophets Elijah and Elisha—particularly Elijah in 1 Kings 17.

 

Nine hundred years before, King Ahab had ruled Israel.  He was the latest in a line of wicked kings who did what was evil in the sight of the Lord.  Ahab built an altar to the Canaanite fertility god Baal in the Lord’s temple and he led the people into idolatry and all sorts of unspeakable evils.  First Kings says that Ahab did more to provoke the Lord, the God of Israel, to anger than all the kings of Israel before him.  And so the Lord visited his people with a drought and the drought brought with it a famine.  And the Lord announced that drought and famine through the Prophet Elijah, whom he sent to the king.  Of course, that made Elijah rather unpopular with the king, so the Lord first led him to a hiding place in the wilderness, where he sent ravens to bring him bread and meat each morning and evening and where he could drink from a creek.  But when the creek dried up, the Lord sent him to the home of a widow and her only son.

 

The widow had nothing left but enough flour and oil to make a small loaf of bread.  When Elijah met her, she was planning to bake the bread for herself and for her son as a last meal.  Then they would die.  But the Prophet told her to bake the bread for him in faith.  If she did that, he said, the Lord would keep her jars of flour and oil full as long as the famine lasted.  And so, in faith, she did as he told her and, in response, the Lord provided.  All through the famine the Lord took care of her.  Neither the flour nor the oil ran out.

 

And then one day that poor widow’s son became ill and died.  And she forgot all that the Lord had done through Elijah to keep her and her son alive and she berated the Prophet for bringing this on her.  And so Elijah took the boy and laid him on his bed, and stretching himself over the boy three times, he pleaded with the Lord to restore his life.  And the Lord heard and the boy rose up and Elijah took him to his mother.  When she saw her boy alive, she declared, “Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the Lord in your mouth is truth.”

 

That, of course, wasn’t the end of the story.  This was all to spare Elijah from the wrath of King Ahab and eventually the Lord would send the Prophet back to the King to announce an end to the drought.  But it wasn’t quite that simple.  The Lord told Elijah to challenge Ahab’s pagan priests to a showdown.  Elijah would give them a chance to build and alter, offer a sacrifice, and to pray to Baal to end the drought, before building his own altar, offering a sacrifice, and praying to the Lord.  On the mountain, Baal’s priests proved their god’s impotence, while the Lord visited his people: sending down fire to consume Elijah’s offering and then causing it finally to rain, while his priests slaughtered the priests of Baal who had led the people of Israel into idolatry.

 

The story of Elijah and the widow of Zeraphath, situated in that bigger story of the God of Israel and the defeat of Ahab and his false god, it was a story about the Lord’s love.  About the Lord’s love for his people—a love so great that he would not let an evil king lead them off forever into idolatry and evil.  It was about the Lord’s love for the poor and destitute.  And it was a story of hope.  The Lord will not let his people languish forever in sin and darkness and hopelessness.  When the time is right, he will visit his people, he will deal with sin and death, he will wipe away the tears, and he will set the world to rights.

 

And it was that vision of the love of God that the people around Jesus—most of them, at any rate—it was that great vision of the love of God and the restoration of all things that they lacked.  When the Messiah came, they struggled to see him as anything more than their personal miracle-worker.  When it came to setting things to rights, they had trouble seeing any further than their desire for the Messiah to rain down fire and brimstone on the Romans and their pagan allies.  There were all these interest groups in Israel, from the Pharisees to the Sadducees, from the Essenes to the Zealots (well, the Zealots would come a few decades later, but their spiritual fathers were there in Jesus’ day).  And they all had their own vision of what the Messiah would be and what he would do and what it would look like when the Lord finally came to visit his people.  And their visions of all of that were just so incredibly small and self-centred and lacking in grace and with no real grasp of how truly deep and wide the love of God is.  The crude idolatry that Israel had known in Elijah’s day was long gone from Israel, but a more subtle idolatry had taken its place and it blinded people to who Jesus really was and what God was doing through him.

 

But this day the God of those old “fairy tales” was going to burst into the present—like King Arthur returned to rescue Britain in its darkest hour.  That day at the gate of Nain, Jesus—like Elijah and like Elisha (that’s another story Luke echoes, but we don’t have time for this morning)—Jesus stopped the pallbearers, put his hands on the stretcher, and said to the dead boy, “Get up!”.  And instead of uncleanness passing from the dead boy to Jesus, the life of the living God passed from Jesus to the dead boy and, Luke tells us, “The dead boy sat up and began to speak, and he gave him to his mother.”  And her tears of sorrow turned in tears of joy.  Jesus not only raised her son, but he also gave the womam back her own life.  But the bigger thing, at least for Luke, was the response of the crowd.  “Fear”—or maybe better great awe—“came over all of them.  They praised God.  ‘A great prophet has risen amongst us!’ they said.  ‘God has visited his people!’  And this report went out about him in the whole of Judaea and the surrounding countryside.”

 

Many wondered if the God of those old stories was real.  They hadn’t heard a prophet speak in centuries.  The same went for the raising of the dead.  And the glory cloud, God’s presence in the temple, had been gone for five hundred years—if it had ever been there at all.  But now they knew.  The God of Israel was real and alive and he was working through Jesus.  But did they really get it now?  Yes and no, I think.  Even the disciples wouldn’t really and fully get it until after they’d encountered Jesus risen from death.  And even then, they wouldn’t really, really get it until Pentecost and the sending of the Spirit.  But Luke does seem to be saying that the people “got it” more than they had before.  They stood in awe because they knew they were somehow and in some way either in the presence of the God of Israel or in the presence of this representative and one who had his power and authority.  They knew they had seen God at work and so they praised him.  And when they proclaimed that a great prophet had risen up amongst them and that God has visited his people, they were exuberantly proclaiming that they now knew that God had once again come into the darkness to set things to rights like he had done back in the days of Elijah, because only the living God has such power over death.  And so they cheered even if they didn’t understand or even if they still had messed up ideas about what it all meant or how it would play out.  They knew that in Jesus God had come to fulfil his promises: to right the wrongs, to wipe away the tears, and I think with this latest miracle, the hope dawned in some—maybe even many—that Jesus had come to defeat even death itself.

 

It's important that in telling the story, Luke doesn’t just look backward to Elijah.  The story echoes back into Israel’s past, but it also looks forward.  Because Luke also deliberate tells this story in a way that anticipates the story we know so well, the story to which all of this is leading.  We meet Jesus at the cross, where sin and death did their worst, where Mary wept as he died.  And then, three days later as Jesus burst from the tomb alive again, having conquered both sin and death; as he wipes away the tears of another Mary, who mistook him for the groundskeeper because he was there tending the garden, like Adam restored to Eden.

 

Brothers and Sisters, it’s the final story, the climax of the Gospels, the story to which all these others lead us, it’s there that we’re confronted once and for all by the love of God made manifest in Jesus.  God gives his son to die in order to set the world to rights, in order to defeat sin and death, and he does it for the very people who broke his creation and brought sin and death into it when they rebelled against him.  That’s love—and grace and mercy and patience and so much more—but above all it’s love.  And Brothers and Sisters, it’s love that overwhelms absolutely everything it encounters.  It’s the love that finally opened the eyes of Jesus’ disciples to understand that the Messiah wasn’t their personal miracle worker or that he belonged to Israel alone—to set them on the top of the heap while raining down fire and brimstone on the gentiles.  No, the love of God made manifest in the crucified and risen Jesus is the love that reveals a plan to redeem not only Israel, but the nations and even creation itself.  And a love that will spare nothing to do so.  It was that love, encountered in the risen Jesus, that opened the eyes of Paul and turned him from being a persecutor of Jesus’ people to being an evangelist, an apostle, a gospeller of the gospel—proclaiming the good news of this love made manifest in the death and resurrection of Jesus to the nations.

 

Paul knew that this love that is already in the process of setting the world to rights, is the same love that will—if we can only begin to grasp its depths—this love will set us to rights.  This love will realign our affections and purge us of our idolatries and our sins.  This love will reveal the values and systems and plans and things of this old evil age to be the worthless garbage they are and will set our hearts and minds on God and on his kingdom.  But for that to happen we have to truly encounter God’s love in Jesus.  This is why Paul, in our Epistle today from Ephesians, wrote to struggling Christians to say, “This is my prayer: that [God] will lay out all the riches of his glory to give you strength and power, through his Spirit, in your inner being; that the Messiah may make his home in your hearts, through faith; that love may be your root, your firm foundation; and that you may be strong enough (with all God’s saints) to grasp the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the Messiah’s love—though actually it’s so deep that nobody can really know it!  So may God will you with all his fullness.”

 

Brothers and Sisters, if we are still invested in sin, if we are still invested in ourselves, if we are still invested in the things of this age, if we are still looking for philosophy or science or politics or economics to set this broken world to rights, we need instead to focus all the more on Jesus and the cross and to plumb the depths of God’s love revealed there until our hearts are aligned with him and with his new creation.

 

We need to steep ourselves in the love of God that we might know the riches of his glory—riches so great, a vision of new creation so glorious, of all the sad things of this world made untrue—that we fall in love with it and let go all our idols.  A pearl of great price so beautiful that we give up everything to have it.  But Brother and Sisters, instead we too often lose sight of that vision as we’re overcome by the sadness and the pain and the darkness around us.  Our faith stumbles and we stop being the on-earth-as-in-heaven people that Jesus and the Spirit have made us.  We let the idols creep back in, and we start looking to them—to the things of this fallen world—as the way out and as our hope.  And we align ourselves with the very things that have corrupted God’s creation, with the very things that hurt our relationships, and that keep us and the people around us from flourishing in God’s goodness.  In the face of greater evils, we accept the lesser and we do it over and over and over until we’ve embraced idolatry, lost our vision of God’s new creation, and forgotten the true power of the good news of God’s love in Jesus.

 

The solution, Brothers and Sisters, as St. Paul says so often, is to keep our eyes on Jesus and on his kingdom.  To daily plumb the depths of the love of God made manifest in Jesus, crucified and risen.  If you struggle with sin, if you struggle with selfishness, if you struggle with idolatry, if you struggle to keep God’s new creation at the centre of your vision, if your hope is not in Jesus and Jesus alone, hear Paul’s words today: let the love of God in Jesus be your root and your firm foundation.

 

Let’s pray: O Lord, let your continual pity cleanse and defend your church; and because it cannot continue in safety without your aid, protect it by your help and goodness for ever, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.