Living Words

by William Klock

 

“As Jesus was leaving that place, he saw a man called Matthew sitting in the toll booth.”

 

I expect that Matthew was just itching to get to this part of the story as he wrote his gospel account.  It’s nine chapters in, roughly a third of the way.  But he knew that the Gospel is about Jesus, not Matthew.  Still, he was excited to tell people how he had met Jesus.  Up to this point, Matthew’s been telling us about walking around Galilee preaching good news and doing all the Messiah things that made the good news real and tangible to people.  He’s been across the Sea of Galilee where he cast a multitude of demons out of a man and now he’s back and on his way home to Capernaum.  And that’s how he meets Matthew.  Matthew’s a tax- or a toll-collector and here he is, sitting in his tollbooth next to the road.  I suppose there must have been some kind of gate.  Matthew would get up from his stool, go out to the road, and collect the toll from everyone going from Point A to Point B and from Point B to Point A.  And everyone who went by grudgingly handed over their money.  And they grumbled.  And probably not a few people had some choice words for Matthew.  Because everybody hated tax collectors.

 

I was racking my brain this week trying to think of an example from our world that would explain just how much people hated tax-collectors and why and it’s hard to think of a modern equivalent.  That was a different world.  No one likes a tax-collector, because no one likes paying taxes.  But in First Century Judaea there was way more to it than just people not liking paying taxes.  The local Roman government decided how much they would need to run things and then they’d farm the collection of taxes out to the highest bidder.  And, of course, the tax collectors had to make a living themselves, so they’d pad their collection.  But they weren’t just getting by.  Tax collectors were notorious for using their position to enrich themselves.  And the local council or governor didn’t care just so long as they got their cut of the revenue.  It was bad enough and common enough that when the rabbis wrote about tax collectors, they typically lumped them together with thieves.  And it only made it worse when the tax collectors were working for the Romans.  We don’t know if Matthew was working directly for the Romans or for some local Galilean authority, but at the end of the day it didn’t really matter.  At some level the Romans were in charge of it all and tax collectors were thieves doing their dirty work.

 

But there’s more to it than that.  We think of Matthew, padding his toll collecting and getting rich by stealing from people whom he's got over a barrel and we think he’s a pretty rotten guy.  That’s an awful thing to do.  That’s a scummy way to make your money.  But for the Jews there was another layer, something deeper to what made it so horrible, what made them hate someone like Matthew so much.

 

Let me try to explain.  So, if you or I hear about a thief—or maybe a crooked tax collector skimming off the top—we just think, “That’s a bad person”.  If we found out that this thief had been baptised and grew up going to church and Sunday school, we’d think something like, “I guess he forgot everything he was taught as a kid.”  Maybe if it came out he was an active warden or elder or deacon in his church, then we might start to think about what he’d done as a betrayal not just of his faith, but of us all.  Here’s a guy who professed faith in Jesus, but betrayed that faith by doing something really sinful.  And maybe that gets us closer to how Matthew’s fellow Jews would have thought about him.  Because Matthew was circumcised.  Matthew was part of the covenant community.  Matthew was marked out as one of the Lord’s people.  And Matthew knew their story.  Matthew knew all about the Lord and how he had delivered his ancestors from Egypt.  Matthew knew all the great things the Lord had done in the centuries that followed.  We can kind of excuse some people today.  We all know people who were baptised, but they were never really taught the faith, their parents never really took them to church, now they’re grown up and say they’re an atheist, and the sinful lifestyle they live kind of makes sense in light of all that.  But that wasn’t Matthew.  That wasn’t anyone in Israel.  Everyone knew what it meant to be God’s people.  There were no atheists.  They all knew that God hates sin.  They knew what it meant to be the people who lived with God in their midst.  They knew that you had not only to be holy to enter God’s temple, but that you also had to be pure.  That’s what set them apart from the pagans.  Matthew knew all of this.  Even if he he’d had rotten parenting, everything and everyone around him would have reinforced all of this.

 

And he rejected it.  Maybe he chose this life on his own.  Maybe he inherited the job from his father who inherited it from his father.  That probably would have made it easier.  But whatever the case Matthew chose to live a life in apposition to everything his family, his people, and his nation stood for and he chose to do it right in the midst of them.  Imagine an Amish boy who decides he doesn’t want to be Amish anymore.  Usually they leave and go to live in the outside world, but imagine this Amish kid decided to stay in his close-knit Amish town, but he struts around in fancy clothes, whips around town in his Porsche, and throws wild parties with loud music at his house on the weekends.  And everyone would be horrified at him.  That’s Matthew, a tax-collector in Israel.

 

But it gets worse.  Or at least I think it does.  Not everyone would agree with me on this part.  Mark and Luke, in their Gospels, refer to Matthew by the name of “Levi”.  Christian tradition has mostly understood Matthew and Levi to be the same person, but to make this connection is not without its difficulties.  One of those difficulties is that it was pretty rare for a Jewish person to have two Aramaic names.  A Jewish name and Greek name?  Like Saul of Tarsus who is also known as Paul: that’s common.  But usually if someone with an Aramaic name has a second Aramaic name, it’s because their given name is common, like John or Judas or Joshua, and the second name—maybe the name of his father—distinguishes him from other guys with the same name.  But neither Matthew nor Levi were common names.  No one was likely to confuse this Matthew with another Matthew.  But the one instance in which we see men with two Aramaic names is when they come from prominent families.  It wasn’t uncommon for these men to be known by their family names.  And I think that’s what has happened with Matthew.  Mark and Luke remember him as “Levi”—his family name—but Matthew went by his given name.  Because the family name Levi mean that they were a Levitical family.  And this made things all the worse for Matthew.  The tribe of Levi were the priestly family.  They were the ones who served in the temple.  They were the ones who acted as mediators between the Lord and his people.  Israel was a holy people, but the Levites were a holy tribe within that holy people.  Consider that one of the duties of the Levites was the collection of taxes.  They collected the tithes of Israel.  Those tithes were their livelihood.  And they collected the temple tax, to pay for the upkeep of the Lord’s house.  But Matthew had become a tax collector of another kind, not one dependent on the Lord and the faithfulness of his people, but a man who fleeced God’s people in collusion with the pagans.

 

Brothers and Sisters, that was Matthew sitting in his toll-booth.  A wealthy traitor not only to the Lord, but to his people and to his family and to his calling and despised by everyone.  I fully expect there were days when Matthew longed to get out of the mess he was in.  In theory he could have made everything right and returned to the Lord, but to do that he’d have had to make restitution.  I don’t think Matthew would have even known where to begin.  And so he stayed in his toll-booth, he kept his riches, and he threw parties for other tax collectors and sinners—because they were the only people who would associate with him.  And every day he became a little bit more dead inside.

 

And then, this day, along came Jesus.  Matthew knew perfectly well who Jesus was.  Everyone in Galilee was talking about Jesus.  If nothing else, Matthew would have heard about his miracles, but I expect he’d heard about his preaching, too.  Maybe Matthew had even stood at a distance a time or two in Capernaum to hear Jesus preach.  Matthew knew that in Jesus the God of Israel was doing something.  But Matthew stayed at a distance.  Because Matthew knew he was a traitor to his God and to his people and to his covenant.  As attractive as Jesus and his message were, it was not for someone like Matthew.

 

Brothers and Sisters, how many people around us feel just like that?  They’re sinners.  They feel the weight of it and would love for it to be gone.  They’ve got some vague knowledge of Jesus.  But they’d never come to church.  A coworker once said to me, “Church is for holy people, not for people like me.”  They see no way out.

 

And now Matthew sees Jesus approaching his gate.  Maybe he thought, “This might be the Messiah.  I should really cut him a break instead of ripping him off like I do everyone else.”  And that’s when, he writes in verse 9, Jesus “said to him, ‘Follow me.’”  And he just says, “And he rose up and follow him.”

 

I have to think there was at least a little bit more to it than that.  But those words, “Follow me” were ultimately what did it for Matthew.  No Pharisee, no scribe, no lawyer had ever come to Matthew and said, “Follow me, Brother.  Let me help you get out of your sins.”  They paid his extortionate toll, dropping their coin in the toll-box and being extra careful not to touch it or anything else that Matthew had touched.  They sneered at him—if they looked at him at all—called him “traitor”, and went on their way.  But this Jesus, this man in whom the God his fathers was so clearly at work doing something new, Jesus smiled and invited him to join in what he was doing.

 

Brothers and Sisters, sometimes that’s all it takes.  Matthew had seen God’s glory on display in Jesus, but he didn’t think it was for him.  He just needed to hear that, yes, in fact it was for him—for everyone, but especially for people like him.  That was actually part of the new thing Jesus was doing.  Without Jesus, reconciliation with is people was hopeless.  He was a toll-collector.  How could he ever make things right with everyone he’d ever stolen from?  How could he even make a good faith effort?  But in those words, “Follow me,” Jesus offered Matthew forgiveness.  Jesus bypassed the temple, because he is the new temple himself; he bypassed the priests, because he is our new priest; and he bypassed the sacrifices and the law of restitution, because he is the full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and satisfaction for the sins of Israel and the whole world.  Jesus simply held out forgiveness and reconciliation to Matthew.  All Matthew had to do was leave his tollbooth behind—that’s repentance—and follow Jesus.  And, Matthew says, that’s just what he did.  “He rose up and followed him.”

 

He “rose up”.  I think Matthew chose that language deliberately.  It’s resurrection language.  When he decided to trust Jesus—and that’s just what it was: trust and loyalty and allegiance—he was raised up out of his sin, he was raised up out of his alienation from God and from his people, and he was given his life back.  And not just given back his old life, Jesus gave him something even better.  He lifted Matthew up out of the life this evil age of sin and death and gave him a taste and a promise of the age to come, of new creation, of the Holy Spirit, and of the fellowship with God that his people had been so longing for.

 

And, too, Jesus restores to Matthew his birthright as a Levite.  As the Levites mediated the Lord to his people, so Matthew now brings the good news about Jesus to his people.  In verse 10 he immediately takes us to his house.  “When he was at home,” he writes, “sitting down to a meal, there were lots of tax-collectors and sinners there who had come to have dinner with Jesus and his disciples.”  Other tax collectors and sinners were the only people who hang around with Matthew.  Matthew knew that some of them felt the same way he did.  They were traitors to the Lord and traitors to his people.  They were hopelessly lost sheep.  There was no way out.  But Matthew had found it—or, rather, the way out had found him.  And so he invites his friends to meet Jesus.  They’d heard and seen him doing amazing things.  Like Matthew, they’d been on the fringe.  If the priest and Levites—not to mention everyone else in Israel—condemned them and kept apart from them, the Messiah certainly wasn’t for them.  But here he was and Jesus was saying the same thing to them that he’d said to Matthew: “Follow me.”  And, I expect, at least some of them did.  And Jesus and the disciples rejoiced with those people because they knew that heaven itself was rejoicing too.

 

But there were always the Pharisees.  Matthew writes that when they “saw it, they said to Jesus’ disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax-collectors and sinners?’  But Jesus heard them.  ‘It isn’t the healthy who need a doctor,’ he said, ‘it’s the sick.  Go and learn what this saying means: “It’s mercy I want, not sacrifice.” I haven’t come to call upright people, but sinners.’”

 

Like Paul says in our Epistle today, there was a veil over their eyes.  The Pharisees were sick in their own ways, and Jesus exposed their sickness by going to the tax-collectors and sinners.  When they complain about it, he quotes the words the Lord had spoken to Isaiah.  We heard those words last week when our Gospel was the parable of the good Samaritan—Hosea 6 turned into a story.  The problem was that the people lacked the heart of God.  The sinners devoted to their sinning, the greedy tax-collectors ripping everyone off, and the Pharisees too—almost everyone in Israel—was far from God.  His absence from the temple all those years was a metaphor for Israel’s problem.  Even those who were devoted to the law and who were “religious” about their tithing and their sabbaths and their diet and their sacrifices, were no closer to God than the prostitute or the tax-collector.  And so Jesus came to the sinners with God’s mercy—because they so desperately needed it—and he gave it to them in front of the watching scribes and Pharisees and all the “upright” people in Israel so that they could see that they needed to learn that same mercy and know it themselves.

 

It was that mercy that reached Matthew.  It was that mercy that reached Paul and lifted the veil from his eyes.  And it was that mercy, made manifest in Jesus, that both Paul and Matthew proclaimed.  It was this mercy that’s at the centre of the Gospel that Matthew wrote to his people.  And it’s this same mercy that Paul preached.  In today’s Epistle from 2 Corinthians 4, he writes that it’s this mercy that drives him forward despite all the obstacles.  “The ‘god’ of this world has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they won’t see the light of the gospel of the glory of the Messiah, who is God’s image.”  So what’s the solution?  Paul writes, “We don’t proclaim ourselves, you see, but Jesus the Messiah as Lord…because the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts, to produce the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus the Messiah.”

 

Brothers and Sisters, Paul—and Matthew, for that matter—knew that it wouldn’t be gimmicks or tricks or fancy speaking or trying to make God’s word palatable to sinners that would lift the veil from the eyes of unbelievers.  It would be the proclamation of the good news about Jesus.  That light—the glory of God in the face of the Messiah as Paul describes it—that light met Matthew in the darkness of his tollbooth.  That light met Paul on the road to Damascus.  And it lifted the veil.  It dispelled the darkness.  It cast out the ‘god’ of this world who enslaves us to sin and death and makes us to think there’s no hope of escape.  The light of the glory of God revealed in the good news of Jesus the Messiah is the answer and the only answer.  It’s our hope and our only hope.  We too often try those other things.  We water down God’s word to try to make it less offensives.  We try gimmicks or we try programmes.  But Brothers and Sisters, we should know better.  The Lord has promised that one day the knowledge of his glory will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea and that will happen because and only because his people have been faithful to proclaim his glory revealed in Jesus the Messiah who died and rose again.

 

Brothers and Sisters, don’t be afraid.  Don’t question whether it’ll work or not.  If the light of the gospel could tear down the veil that once had you blinded, if it could break the chains of sin that once bound you, it will tear down the veils that blind and it will break the chains that bind the rest of the world.  Just proclaim it.  Jesus has died and Jesus has risen, not just for you or for me or for holy people, but for sinners—for everyone.  He holds out his hand to us wherever we are and invites us to leave it all behind, to follow him, and to rise to new life.

 

Let’s pray: O almighty God, whose beloved Son called Matthew from his tollbooth to be an apostle and evangelist: Set us free from the chains of our sins to follow and to proclaim your Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

“A lawyer got up and put Jesus on the spot,” writes St. Luke in today’s Gospel.  If you’re following along, this is Luke 10:25.  “A lawyer got up and put Jesus on the spot.”  An expert on torah.  If you had a question about whether or not to do such-and-such or how you were to do this or not do that and it wasn’t spelled out in black and white in the Bible, this was the guy you asked.  He knew how to parse it and extrapolate it all out.  And he’s angry.  He's been hanging out on the edge of the crowd as Jesus addressed his disciples, but enough is enough.  He pushes forward.  He’s going to put Jesus on the spot and expose him for the fraud he is.  And so he calls out, “Teacher,” and he gets Jesus’ attention.  And then he asks, “What should I do to inherit the life of the age to come.”  I can imagine him leaning back on his heels, arms crossed.  Jesus is going to hang himself with his answer and everyone’s going to walk away and never listen to Jesus again.

 

But we before we get to Jesus’ answer, we need to ask what the lawyer was actually asking.  “What must I do to inherit…zoen aionion?”  Zoe aionios to say it in Greek.  Zoe means “life” and we’ve traditionally translated aionios as “eternal”.  That’s not wrong, but “eternal” doesn’t fully capture the significance of aionios as it was used by Judeans of Jesus’ day.  In English “eternal” just means “eternal”…“forever”.  And we think the lawyer is asking, “What must I do to live forever?”  For a lot of people that translates into “What must I do to go to heaven when I die?”  But it’s really a lot deeper than that.  At the root of this word aionios is the word—and it might sound a little familiar—aion.  It’s where we get our word “aeon” and it’s basic meaning is “age” and it became shorthand for “the age to come”—meaning the messianic age everyone was hoping and longing for.

 

And the lawyer asks this question about the age to come, because he’s been listening to Jesus address his disciples as they returned from the mission he’d sent them on.  He sent out seventy to proclaim the good news—to gospel the gospel in the cities and towns of Israel and they came back excited because of the things they’d seen.  At the name of Jesus, even demons obeyed them.  And Jesus said to them: This is what the prophets foretold.  Isaiah and Ezekiel told of their visions of the satan falling like lightening and you’re seeing it happen.  God’s kingdom is breaking in.  God’s light is driving away the darkness and toppling the rulers of the present evil age—and you’re part of it.  And this is where he says to them, “Don’t rejoice that spirits are subject to you, but rejoice [about what it means:] that your names are written in heaven.”

 

God’s got a book—metaphorically speaking—and in it he records the names of everyone who belongs to him, of everyone whom he will one day resurrect from death and lead into the age to come.  The Jews knew their names were written in that book.  God had chosen them and so long as they didn’t wilfully reject him—which is what the tax collectors and sinners did—their names were written in that book and, when the Messiah came, he would set the world to rights and lead them into the age to come.

 

But what’s got this lawyer worked up is that Jesus is implying that they may not all have their names written in the book after all.  The lawyer—like pretty much everyone in Israel—knew his name was written in the book because God had made a covenant with them and because they kept their end of the covenant—the torah.  Circumcision, sabbath, diet, all these things marked them out and demonstrated their commitment and love for God.  But Jesus has just said to his disciples, “A blessing on the eyes which see what you see!  Let me tell you, many prophets and kings wanted to see what you see, and they didn’t see it; and to hear what you hear, and they didn’t hear it!”  In other words, the renewal of Israel that God had promised through the prophets had come—in Jesus—and being written in God’s book is about more than just being born a Jew or even the outward observance of torah.  And it’s that last bit that Jesus is getting at in his answer.  Look at verse 26.  Jesus responds to the lawyer’s question and asks, “Well, what is written in the law?  What’s your interpretation of it?”

 

And the lawyer gives the answer that every kid in Judaea could have given: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your understanding; and your neighbour as yourself.”

 

And Jesus replied—I’m sure to the frustration of the lawyer—“Well said!  Do that and you will live.”  Picture the lawyer gritting his teeth.  No, no, no.  If that’s true, then we’re all on the same page!  But he knew they weren’t, because if Jesus’ disciples were “in”, then everyone else was, by implication, “out”.  So, Luke writes, “to justify himself” the lawyer asks Jesus, “But who is my neighbour?”  It’s his second attempt at a gotcha question.  And Jesus responds with a story, a parable:

 

“Once upon a time,” he said, “a man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and was set upon by robbers.  They stripped him and beat him and ran off leaving him half-dead.”

 

Everybody knew that road.  Very soon Jesus would be travelling it himself, going the other direction, up to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover—and to become the new Passover himself.  That road was steep and windy and notorious for the robbers hiding in wait for unwary travellers.  The wise travelled in groups or well-armed.  Travelling it alone, like this man did, was foolish.  This lawyer, listening to Jesus, would be shaking his head and thinking to himself that anyone dumb enough to travel that road alone was a candidate for a Darwin Award.

 

But Jesus goes on.  “A priest happened to be going down that road, and when he saw him he went past on the opposite side.’”  Now, you and I shake our heads and think, “What a horrible priest!  How could he not stop to help the man.”  But we only think that way because we’ve been shaped by the gospel and by Jesus and the Spirit.  The cross of Jesus has taught us mercy.  That God would not only humble himself, but would shed his blood on behalf of his rebellious children has taught us mercy in a way never understood before the gospel.  But that lawyer—and the crowd and maybe even Jesus’ disciples—they lived in the dark world on the other side of the good news of the cross.  They saw nothing wrong with this priest passing by the man.  The priests kept themselves ritually pure.  They had to in order to enter the temple.  Even though this priest is going in the opposite direction—probably on his way home from serving his rotation in the temple—he still kept himself pure.  He couldn’t tell if the man was dead or alive and if went over, rolled him over, and found him dead, well, then he'd be impure.  That was okay for normal people, but not for a priest.  And everyone knew this.  And, again, no one had a problem with it.  And, of course, this is the very problem with Israel that Jesus wants to highlight for the lawyer.

 

“Then,” said Jesus, “a Levite came by the place.  He saw him too and went past on the opposite side.”  He might not be a priest, but being a Levite, he too served in the temple.  Again, he’s going the opposite way—like the priest, he’s probably on his way home from serving in the temple.  But, still, being a Levite, he can’t chance becoming impure.  And, again, this was all normal and good and right as far as most people were concerned.

 

“But then,” said Jesus, “a travelling Samaritan came to where he was.”  Everyone frowned at this.  Samaritans were filth.  They were descendants of the Jews who intermarried with the native Canaanite peoples when the people of Judah were in exile.  They worshiped at their own illicit temple at Shechem and they compromised torah with pagan practises and pagan philosophy.  They were traitors of the worst kind.  Just being on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho meant he was fouling the promised land with his impure Samaritan feet.  And yet, Jesus said, “He came over to the man and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine.  Then he put him on his own beast, took him to an inn, and looked after him.  The next morning, as he was going on his way, he gave the inn-keeper two dinars. ‘Take care of him,’ he said, ‘and on my way back I’ll pay you whatever else you need to spend on him.’”

 

“Where’s Jesus going with this?”  Everyone was thinking.  “What’s his point?”  There’s no way this would happen in real life.  But that’s kind of the point.  Jesus looks the lawyer in the eye and asks, “Which of these three do you think turned out to be the neighbour of the man who was set upon by the brigands?”  Jesus is going make the lawyer come out and say it.  And the lawyer does, because there’s no escape for him.  “The one who showed mercy on him,” he said.

 

“Well,” Jesus said to him, “you go and do the same.”

 

I fully expect that as the lawyer answered the question and said, “The one who showed him…mercy.”  The lights suddenly went on for him for everyone else.  That word “mercy” is the key.  Jesus had just turned Hosea 6:1-11 into a parable.  Here’s what the Lord had said through the Prophet Hosea some eight centuries before:

 

Come, let us return to the Lord;

for he has torn us, that he may heal us;

he has struck us down, and he will bind us up.

After two days he will revive us;

on the third day he will raise us up,

that we may live before him.

Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord;

his going out is sure as the dawn;

he will come to us as the showers,

as the spring rains that water the earth.”

What shall I do with you, O Ephraim?

What shall I do with you, O Judah?

         like the dew that goes early away.

Therefore I have hewn them by the prophets;

I have slain them by the words of my mouth,

and my judgment goes forth as the light.

         the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings.

         there they dealt faithlessly with me.

Gilead is a city of evildoers,

tracked with blood.

         they commit villainy.

In the house of Israel I have seen a horrible thing;

Ephraim’s whoredom is there; Israel is defiled.

For you also, O Judah, a harvest is appointed,

When I restore the fortunes of my people.

 

This the Lord’s rebuke of the northern kingdom of Israel—also known as “Samaria”.  Hint, hint.  There’s a reason Jesus puts a Samaritan at the centre of the story.  The people of Israel went through the motions of obedience, but the Lord accused them.  Their love for him was “like a morning cloud, like the dew that goes early away.”  Their nation was a nation of evil-doers with blood on their hands.  They offered their sacrifices, but there was no love in their hearts.  The priests were lying in wait for their people like robbers.

 

Again, this was a rebuke of Israel eight hundred years before, but now Jesus brings the same rebuke to Judah.  And yet, there’s still the promise.  The long-awaited age to come is breaking in.  As the Lord promised through Hosea, he will come to heal his people, to bind up their wounds, to revive them after two days, and to raise them up on the third day.  But whom will he heal and revive and raise up?  The lawyer gave the answer “The one who showed his neighbour mercy.”

 

There was no mercy in the heart of the priest and no mercy in the heart of the Levite—and there was no mercy in the hearts of the people of Judah who saw nothing wrong with the priest and the Levite leaving the man to die.  For that matter there was no mercy in the hearts of people who saw the Samaritans as unredeemable, reprobate scum.  And that was the heart of the problem.  And this heart problem was precisely what Jesus came to fix.  Because the only people who will have a share in the age to come—in the kingdom of God—are the people who have the heart of God.  The people who are poor in spirit, who mourn the state of the world, the meek, the people who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the pure in heart, the peacemakers—and the merciful.

This is why I think it’s so important to pay attention to how we translate those words in the lawyer’s question—zoe aionios.  Because it’s not just “eternal life” Jesus offers; it’s eternal life in the age to come—in God’s world set to rights and eternal life in his presence.  Brothers and Sisters, “salvation” isn’t just fire insurance.  It's not just rescue from death so that we can live forever, so that we can see our loved ones again, so that we can experience bliss forever and ever.  That’s all a very self-centred, a very worldly, a very therapeutic understanding of salvation.  What Jesus offers us is the life we were meant for, the life we see Adam and Eve living in the garden at the very beginning of the story, a life of perfect fellowship with God, a life serving as the priests of his temple, a life stewarding his heart for the sake of the world.

 

And ever since he called Abraham, but especially since he rescued Israel and made them his people, God’s purpose for his people has been to reveal himself to the nations through them so that the world might know his goodness, his faithfulness, his love, his mercy, his grace—and on and on.  God’s purpose for his people has always been to make his heart known to the nations.  Our lives and our collective life together is meant to lift the veil on God’s future, on his new creation.  It’s not about us or about our glory; it’s about God and it’s about God’s glory.

 

When he delivered Israel from Egypt, God came down and dwelt in their midst.  He fellowshipped with them.  It wasn’t the perfect fellowship of the garden that Adam and Even had known, but it was a fellowship that made know his desire for humanity and a fellowship that pointed forward to the day when, through Jesus, he delivered us from sin—and even further to that day when sin (and death) are gone forever.  He gave Israel a law that set her apart and that taught her his heart so that they would know justice and mercy, love and grace, and put his heart on display for the world.  Theirs was to be a little microcosm of his new creation—however imperfectly—where reconciling love was on full display.

 

Israel failed.  They kept the law outwardly, but they lost the heart of God.  They offered sacrifices, but their was no mercy in their hearts.  But in Jesus and the Spirit the renewal that the Lord had promised has come.  In forgiving our sins, Jesus has taught us the true depth of God’s lovingkindess, of his grace and his faithfulness.  And in the Spirit he’s turned our hearts of stone into hearts of flesh.  He’s written his law of love on them so that we really can love him with all of our being and so that we really can love our neighbours as ourselves.

 

But I don’t think we reflect often enough on why God’s done that—in part because we too often think of salvation in selfish, or at least self-centred, terms.  Our salvation is not an end in itself.  God has called and created a people to witness his heart to the world.  Brothers and Sisters, in us God is leading a redeemed people—a people he’s already beginning to set right through the work of his indwelling Spirit—he’s leading us to bring hope and good news to the nations.  He’s using us to carry the good news about Jesus, crucified, risen, and Lord, to every part of the world and with it the kingdom, with it the message of new creation, with it the hope of a world set to rights, in which Jesus has finished once and for all the work he began when he died and rose again.  In the witness of Jesus and the power of the Spirit he’s given us his heart.  And that’s what it’s all about: bearing witness to his heart.  And the people who do that, they’re the ones who will one day know him eternally in the age to come.

 

I like to think of it like a symphony.  Jesus and the Spirit have made us the players.  We each have our instrument and we look forward to the day when we all come together in the great concert hall to play our parts in harmony and to finally hear that glorious and beautiful piece of music under the hand of the divine conductor.  It’s not about us.  It’s about the music and the one who leads us in it.  But in the meantime, he’s given us the sheet music for our parts and he’s sent us home to practise.  And we have the privilege of being able to meet in our little sections to practise some of those parts together.  And in our practising we get a foretaste of the great symphony to come.  But, Brothers and Sisters, do we actually practise?  Are we investing our practise time in the fruit of the Spirit?  Are we practising the reconciling love of God that we’ve known in Jesus?  Are we practising the justice and mercy we’ve met in God?  And along the way, are we drawing in the nations as they hear the beauty that’s present even in our little bits and pieces of the symphony?  Or are we wasting the time God has given us on sin?  Instead of practising the gospel life, are we investing in the fear and wrath and scrambling and grasping of the present evil age?

 

Like Gilead, the world around us is filled with evil and tracked with blood.  It’s always been that way, but it seems we see it getting closer and closer to home.  We’ve seen worsening in the last months and weeks and days in the US and there’s no reason to think we’re somehow safe in Canada.  Because this is what happens to a people without the gospel—and to a people who have lost the gospel.  And Brothers and Sisters, the worse it gets, the more the world needs the heart of God that Jesus and the Spirit have given us.  The more the world needs God’s promise to heal and to bind up our wounds.  The world needs Jesus and the gospel and you and I are the stewards of that good news.  Don’t be tempted to jump into the violent fray.  Don’t throw gas on the fire.  Instead, be the wine and the oil that God has made us to anoint the world’s wounds.  Show the world what godly justice and godly mercy are and minister the healing power of the gospel—of the good news that Jesus the Messiah has died for us, that he has risen for us, and that he is creation’s true Lord.

 

Let’s pray: Almighty and merciful God, by whose gift alone your faithful people offer you true and laudable service: Grant that we may run without stumbling to obtain your heavenly promises; 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

 

Imagine you’re an Israelite at the time of the Exodus.  Moses shows up and announces that the God of your ancestors—a God no one’s heard from in four hundred years—is going to deliver you from Pharoah’s slavery.  Sounds pretty sketchy.  But then God begins to act.  He sends ten plagues on the Egyptians.  He turns the Nile to blood.  Wow!  But then Pharoah’s magicians do the same thing.  Okay…maybe not as impressive as it seemed at first.  But as the plagues go on, they get more and more impressive and Pharaoh’s magicians can’t keep up.  By the tenth plague you know without a doubt that this God of your fathers is something.  He’s even more powerful than Pharoah and his gods.  And then the Red Sea.  Pharaoh chased you down.  Your people are stuck between the sea and Pharaoh’s army.  All is lost.  And then the God of your fathers parts the sea itself in an amazing display of power and authority.  Imagine what it was like to walk through the sea on dry ground.  And then to watch as, just as miraculously, the God of your fathers causes the waters to come crashing back into place just at the right time to drown Pharaoh’s army.  And you join with your people as, for the first time, you sing praise to this God of your fathers—a God whom you’re now starting to think of as your God.  But God isn’t finished.  He appears as a magnificent pillar of cloud in the day and a pillar of fire at night and he leads your people into the wilderness.  When there’s nothing to drink, he causes water to pour forth from a rock.  When there’s nothing to eat, he miraculously provides an abundance of manna and quail.  At Mount Sinai he meets your people in cloud and lightning on the mountaintop.  He establishes a covenant with you.  He will be your God and you will be his people.  He sends Moses down the mountain with the torah and with instructions for the tabernacle.  And having been in God’s presence, Moses’ face shines so brightly with God’s glory that he has to wear a veil.  And when your people have finished assembling the tabernacle, you see God’s glory—like a cloud—descend to fill it.  It's stounding.  It’s the sort of thing the Egyptians could only dream about their gods doing and the God of Israel does it for real.  And, eventually, just as he promised, God leads your people into Canaan—the promised land—and he conquers the people for you and gives you their cities.  And you know it’s him, not you.  There’s no doubting it.  He had you march on Jericho, not with swords, but carrying his ark and blowing trumpets as you marched in circles around the city.  Not to attack it.  Not to put siege to it.  But simply to announce that the Lord, the God of Israel had come.  And when that announcement was clear and when everyone could see that you and your people had done nothing but announce the Lord’s presence, he caused the walls to come crashing down.  He defeated the city.  And neither you nor anyone else could possibly think of taking credit for it.  Neither you nor anyone else took the Lord for granted.  Neither you nor anyone else could dream of giving your faith, your loyalty, your allegiance to any other god.  Because you had seen with your own eyes the glory of the Lord.

 

Even as the generations passed, the people remembered the Lord.  They lived in those cities, they drew from those well, they harvested crops from those fields that the Lord had taken from the Canaanites and given to their fathers and grandfathers.  They bore in their flesh the sign of God’s covenant—that statement, “I will be your God and you will be my people”—they bore that sign in their circumcision.  And every year they celebrated the Passover and not only recalled the events of the Exodus in which the Lord had saved their fathers; they participated, themselves, in those events—they owned them as if they’d happened to them.  And the covenant was renewed.

 

And if you read the Old Testament no further you might think it would be like that forever.  How could a people who had so experienced the glory of God ever take him for granted, let alone turn their backs on him?  How could a people who had so experienced the glory of God ever look for confidence and hope in anyone or anything else?  But it happened.  They took their status as his people for granted.  They began to take those cities and wells and vineyards and fields he’d given them for granted.  They stopped celebrating the Passover and remembering what he’d done for them.  They started worshiping other gods.  They lost faith in the Lord and started putting their trust in kings and in armies and in politics.  And when the prophets came to rebuke the people and to call them back to faithfulness, they refused to listen and abused those prophets.  Eventually, because they took it all for granted, because they were unfaithful, the Lord took away the land and the cities and fields and vineyards—and finally even his presence—and sent the people into exile in a foreign land.  But not before he promised them renewal.  One day he would restore them and make them new and fill them with his own Spirit, he would turn their hearts of stone into hearts of flesh, so that they would be forever faithful.

 

And, in Jesus, the Lord fulfilled that promise to his people.  In Jesus he was born as one of them, but rejected and crucified as a false Messiah.  God raised Jesus from death and overturned the verdict against him, declaring that he really was the Messiah and creation’s true Lord.  In rising from the grave Jesus conquered death.  And then, to those who were baptised and received the sign of God’s new covenant, he gave God’s Spirit.  The old Israel had a temple.  This new Israel is the temple.  And as we read in last week’s Epistle, Paul stressed that the risen Jesus appeared to the twelve, and to the other disciples, and even at one point to five hundred, and lastly to him.  And Jesus changed everything for them.  In his death and resurrection he led his people in a new exodus, not this time from physical bondage under Pharaoh, but from bondage to sin and death themselves.  And in baptism, Jesus leads his people like Moses through the waters of redemption to meet the Lord on the far side.  And the Spirit leads us, not as a pillar of cloud or fire, but as God’s very presence within us, as we embark on a world- and humanity-saving trek through the wilderness of the old evil age into the age to come, towards the New Jerusalem, to that day when gospel and Spirit have done their work and Jesus does away with sin and death and evil once and for all and forever, and creation is set to rights and we enjoy the presence of our God eternally.  Those first eyewitnesses took this astounding gospel story to Jerusalem and Judea and Samaria and to the world and amazing things happened.  It was more than just a story of the glory of God.  The story of the old exodus was that, but this was more.  The story of the Messiah and this new exodus has power unlike any story that has been told before or since.  This is a story backed by the life-giving and life-changing power of Jesus and the Spirit and the people who heard it and believed it and came to trust in the death and, most importantly, the resurrection of Jesus, they were changed.  Forgiven by the redeeming death of Jesus and then given a foretaste of the life of God’s new world by the Spirit whom he poured into them.  It was a change that no one could ignore.  Some were captivated by it and came to hear and to believe the gospel story for themselves and they shared in this new life too.  And others got angry as the gospel story and God’s new world challenged the gods and the kings and the systems in which they were already invested.  But to those who believed, the gospel, the good news about Jesus was life itself.  And they gathered together as often as they could and when they did, they not only shared the community the gospel had given them, they shared in the meal Jesus had given them.  In the Lord’s Supper they ate bread and drank wine—and just as in the Passover—they didn’t just remember what Jesus had done to deliver them from sin and death, they appropriated that death and resurrection, they participated in that saving event themselves.  They owned this new exodus just as the Israelites owned the events of the first exodus.  And each time it was as if the Lord was renewing his covenant with them: through Jesus and the Spirit, I will be your God and you will be my people.

 

And you might think that their faithfulness to the Lord would be unending.  You would think that their trust and loyalty—their confidence—would always and only be in Jesus the Messiah.  But it wasn’t.  If we’re honest about our struggles, we know that it’s easy to become distracted by other things.  There’s a reason we gather every Sunday to hear the good news again and to come to the Lord’s Table to be reminded and to renew the covenant.  There’s a reason why wendaily immerse ourselves in the scriptures and in the story there of God and his people.  Because when we don’t, even as glorious as that story is, even as it once captivated us so thoroughly, somehow—and to our shame—we forget.  And Jesus is still there, but we start focusing on other things and we start looking for other things and we start putting our confidence and our hope in other things.

 

It even happened in the early church with that first generation of believers.  Paul had arrived in Corinth in about a.d. 50 or 51.  He proclaimed the good news about Jesus and both Jews and gentiles there were captivated by the story.  They believed.  They were baptised.  And Paul stayed with them for about a year and half, helping them to set up a church.  And everyone knew that it wasn’t Paul who had done.  He was just an unassuming little man.  Funny looking, maybe with a speech impediment.  (Remember in last week’s Epistle he owned that insult about being a monster, prematurely born.)  What happened in Corinth wasn’t about Paul.  Brothers and Sisters, it was about the power of the gospel and the Spirit.  And yet just a few years later, it all started to fall apart.  The amazing story about the death and resurrection of Jesus that had once so spoken to them about the glory of God started to fade, and with it their motivation to holiness.  Sin—gross, truly wicked sin—started to creep into the church and they found ways to justify it.  Their worship became chaotic as people began using the gifts the Spirit had given to bring attention to themselves instead of to build up the body.  They abused the Lord’s Supper and twisted and undermined its covenant meaning.  And when Paul, their brother, the one who had not only brought the gospel to them, but who could speak with authority about it because he, himself, had met the risen Jesus, when he wrote to them they brushed him off.  They told him they didn’t want to hear from him anymore.  He’d been displaced by other preachers who were flashier, who were more handsome, who were better spoken then he was.

 

And so, at the end of 2 Corinthians 2 he appeals to them.  He talks about himself as “we” instead of “I” and I think he does that to emphasise that he stand with the other apostles whose authority came from being eyewitness of the risen Messiah.  The same could not be said of others who have come to them and led them astray.  He writes to them, saying, “We aren’t mere peddlers of God’s word, as so many preachers are.  We speak with sincerity.  We speak from God.  We speak in God’s presence.  We speak in the Messiah.”  The Messiah: that’s who this is really about.  Paul has no authority of his own.  He simply speaks what he heard from Jesus himself.  And his point here is that they had once been captivated by that gospel of the Messiah that Paul had proclaimed to them, but now they’ve been captivated by the words of mere men.  “Do you want a letter of recommendation before you’ll listen to me?” Paul asks.  “Do I need to give you a sheaf of reference letters so you’ll know I’m legit?”

 

“No,” says Paul, going on in 3:2: “You are our official reference!  It’s written on our hearts.  Everyone can know and read it.  It’s plain that you are a letter from the Messiah, with us the messengers.  A letter not written with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God.  Not on tablets of stone, but on the tablets of fleshly hearts.”

 

In other words, despite all their problems, despite their backsliding into worldly ways, they are not the people they once were.  Paul had proclaimed the good new—the story about Jesus and his death and resurrection and ascension—and through that preaching the Spirit had captivated them and filled their hearts with faith.  They believed.  They gave their trust, their loyalty, their allegiance, their obedience to Jesus and they were transformed.  And Paul could see it even through all their problems.  No, Paul doesn’t need to give them references.  “You are my reference,” he says to them.  I know you’ve kicked me to the curb, but it was the message I received from Jesus that I preached to you that transformed you—not the merely human words of the other preachers who came along.  It was the word of God that did it.

 

And they really, really need to hear this.  Because in the years since Paul left, as they’ve listened to teachers who led them astray, as the glory of the pure gospel has faded from their vision, they’ve begun to put their confidence in other things.  They no longer associate Paul with the gospel.  They’re thinking of him as that funny-looking little man with the speech impediment.  And following someone like that in Greek culture, well, that wasn’t going to get you anywhere.  And so they associated with the handsome preachers with eloquent rhetoric who could impress the Greeks.  They’ve forgotten that the gifts the Spirit gave them were gifts of grace to build up the body, and now they’re abusing them and putting their confidence in them.  They’ve forgotten that the gospel puts them all on an equal footing before the throne of grace, and they’re letting their old class and cultural divisions divide them up.  They were growing their church—as we’d say it today—but they weren’t growing it on the gospel.

 

We do the same thing today.  We may do it even more than the Corinthians, because commercialism is the cultural water we swim in and we don’t even realise how much it impacts how we think about church and we don’t realise how it so easily displaces the gospel and gospel growth and gospel ministry.  We build our churches around personalities.  We build our churches around programmes.  We build our churches around demographics.  We build our churches by advertising that we’re better than or that we’re not like our neighbouring churches.  We treat the church as if it’s a business or a social club instead of a family—the covenant people of God, transformed and shaped by the gospel and the Spirit.  The Spirit has transformed our hearts of stone into hearts of flesh through the power of the gospel, but we forget the centrality of the gospel and allow our hearts to calcify back into stone.  It might not seem like that’s what’s happening at first.  Our churches may even have the appearance of success, but it’s because we’re appealing to stony hearts of worldly people with what they value, not with the power of the transforming gospel they need.

It's that simple gospel that needs to be at the centre of everything.  The risen Jesus always before us.  The risen Jesus at the centre of every decision we make.  The risen Jesus at the heart of everything we do.  Just Jesus, crucified and risen.  The simple gospel.  So Paul goes on in verse 4: “That is the kind of confidence we have toward God, through the Messiah.”  Stop putting your confidence in other things.  Just put it in Jesus.  He and only he can bring us before God.  So Paul says, “It isn’t as though we are qualified in ourselves to reckon that we have anything to offer on our own account.  Our qualification comes from God: God has qualified us to be stewards of a new covenant, not of the letter, but of the Spirit.  The letter kills, you see, but the Spirit gives life.”  The gospel was his only qualification and the only one that mattered.  The same goes for us.

 

Now, think again of the glory that God put on display in the Exodus and in the story of Israel that followed.  That’s what Paul gets at in verse 7 when he writes: “But just think about it: when death was being ministered, carved in letter of stone,”—he’s talking about Mt. Sinai and the giving of the law”—“it was a glorious thing, so glorious in fact that the children of Israel couldn’t look at Moses’ face because of the glory of his face, a glory that was to be abolished.”  The glory God displayed in those days was astounding.  It moved the people to faith and trust and worship. But now Paul’s talking about the new covenant and what God has done in Jesus and the Spirit.  “Will the ministry of the Spirit not be more glorious?” he asks them.  “If ministering condemnation is glorious, you see, how much more glorious is the ministry of vindication—of righteousness, of justice?  In fact, what used to be glorious has come, by comparison, to have no glory at all, because of the new glory which goes so far beyond it!

 

O, Brothers and Sisters, would that we would also be so captivated by the glory of the simple gospel of Jesus the Messiah.  There is no other glory that can compare and if we will keep it always before us—this good new of Jesus, crucified, risen, and Lord—if we would keep our eyes always focused on it, if we let it shape our lives, if we let it shape our decision, if we let it be the basis for everything we do as the church.  If the glory of the gospel were our sole source of confidence and hope, it would transform our churches and make us the people God intends for us to be.  God’s promise is that one day the knowledge of his glory will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea, but, Brothers and Sisters, remember that he has made us the stewards of that glory.  He has entrusted his gospel of life to us and he’s filled us with his Spirit.  It is our calling to make his glory known by taking the good news of Jesus to Courtenay and Comox, to Vancouver Island, to Canada, and even to the ends of the earth.  You may have placed a veil over God’s glory.  This morning let the scriptures lift that veil.  Let the bread and the wine here at his Table lift that veil.  Look on the glory of the Lord revealed in Jesus the Messiah and be refreshed and renewed for the gospel ministry to which you have been called.

 

Let’s pray: Almighty and everlasting God, you are always more ready to hear than we to pray, and to give more than we either desire or deserve:  Pour upon us the abundance of your mercy, forgiving us those things of which our conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things for which we are not worthy to ask, except through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ our Saviour; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

“Two men went up to the temple to pray,” Jesus said.  The temple was the place where heaven and earth met.  The place where men and women could go to be in the presence of God.  Twice a day the priests would lead the people in prayers, at nine in the morning and at three in the afternoon, but people could go any time to pray. On this day, two men climbed the steps to the temple courts to pray.  “One,” Jesus said, “was a Pharisee.”  A Jew could pray anywhere—at home, wherever.  But if anyone was going to go out of their way to pray at the temple, it was going to be a Pharisee.  The temple was everything to them.  They weren’t priests, but they lived their lives as if they were.  So it was natural for a Pharisee to go to the temple to pray.

 

But there were two men this day, Jesus said, who went up to the temple.  “The other was a tax collector.”  If there was a polar opposite of the Pharisee, it was the tax collector.  The Pharisees were devoted to God’s covenant and to his law.  They kept every last jot and tittle of it.  But the tax collectors.  When Jesus mentioned a tax collector, his whole audience recoiled.  They were the worst of the worst.  There were “sinners”—that means Jews who made lifestyle that rejected God’s covenant with them—but then there were tax collectors.  They were a special kind of sinner.  The scum of the earth.  They got rich sucking up to the gentile dogs while swindling their own people.

 

I expect that as Jesus described these two men, everyone had a similar mental picture.  The Pharisee, dignified, wearing his fine clothes, making his way confidently up the steps to the temple complex, and striding just as confidently through the outer courts.  Everyone knew him, everyone he passed greeted him respectfully as he made his way through the various gates and colonnades, further and further into the temple complex.  But then the tax collector.  Maybe it took him three times to make it up those steps, because twice he turned around, overwhelmed by guilt and shame.  And on the far side of the court of the Gentiles, the soreg, the low wall that marked the boundary between the pure and impure, made him pause.  He didn’t belong on the other side.  But he’d already spent weeks tracking down the people he’d fleeced and making restitution to them.  There was no going back.  So he steeled himself and passed through, head down, trying to look unobtrusive, because he knew—he just knew—that everyone recognised him.  And he went to one of the men selling lambs.  And he picked one out, paid for it, took it in his arms—he wasn’t used to handling animals—and he got in line in the courtyard outside the sanctuary, waiting for a priest as the lamb struggled.  And finally, a priest motioned him toward the altar.  He presented the lamb, his sin offering, and as the priest held it, the tax collector laid his hands on it and slit its throat.  And the priest collected the blood and poured it out at the base of the altar, then butchered the little lamb and burned its fat.  Now he was pure.  But there was still more to do.  The tax collector went back out to the outer court and this time he bought a ram for a guilt offering.  And a servant helped him with the ram as he, again, went back to stand in line for a priest.  And, again, he placed his hands on the ram as the priest held it.  And he killed it, and as with the lamb, the blood was poured out and the fat was burned.  And his guilt was expiated.  And now he could go and pray.  And there he saw the Pharisee.  The Pharisee had seen him, too.  The Pharisee had seen him all along.  As he’d chatted with a friend, the Pharisee had seen the tax collector buy his lamb.  And he’d seem him again as he bought his ram.  As he stood there praying, he’d seen the sacrifice.  God may have forgiven the tax collector, but the Pharisee sure didn’t see him that way.  He took a smug look back at the tax collector and, Jesus says, “he prayed in this way to himself, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people: greedy, unjust, immoral, or even like this tax collector.  I fast twice a week.  I give tithes of all that I get.’”

 

And the tax collector.  Jesus says he “stood a long way off, not even wanting to lift his eyes to heaven.  He beat his breast and said, ‘God, be merciful to me, sinner that I am.’”  He’d gone through the formal actions of forgiveness, but he knew that mere formalism would never see him reconciled to God.  And so, after offering his sacrifices, he knelt humbly and prayed the words of Psalm 51: “Have mercy on me, O God—the psalm goes on—according to your steadfast love, according to your abundant mercy, blot out my transgressions.”  He knew.  God isn’t a vending machine.  Offering a lamb isn’t like pushing B4 and absolution drops into the slot for you to take.  He knew the words of the psalm.  David went on to sing, “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”  And so the tax collector knelt—and without any presumption—threw himself on the grace of God.  And, as Jesus has said elsewhere, all of heaven rejoiced over this repentant sinner—even as the Pharisee scowled at him.

 

And Jesus said to the people, “Let me tell you, he—the tax collector—was the one who went back to his home vindicated by God, not the other.”  That had to make some people angry.  It was one thing to grant—even if a little grudgingly—that there was something good about a repentant tax collector.  Okay, he offered his lamb and his ram and his contrition was obviously real.  But dissing the Pharisee?  That was too much.  But you see, this is exactly why Jesus told this story.  Luke introduces this episode saying, “Jesus told this next parable against those who trusted in their own righteous standing and despised others.”  And so Jesus explains: “Don’t you see?  People who exalt themselves will be humbled, and people who humble themselves will be exalted.”

 

Going to the temple, standing before the Lord, and singing out a litany of your own pious greatness—that’s not pleasing to the Lord.  That’s a good way to find yourself humbled on the last day.  And having this in mind that makes this bigger than the Pharisees.  Maybe they were the worst offenders, but Jesus gets to the heart of Israel’s problem and exposes it.  They knew they were “in”.  They knew that when the Day of the Lord came, judgement would fall on everyone else and that they would be vindicated and go on to live in his presence in the age to come, they knew this because they faithfully bore all the markers of God’s covenant.  They were circumcised, they kept the sabbath, and they ate the right foods—they kept God’s law.  That meant they were righteous…or so they thought.  But Jesus sort of asks here: “Where is your heart?”

 

This is what the prophets had been asking Israel—and warning her about—for centuries.  Reminding the people that formalism doesn’t cut it.  Yes, God required sacrifices.  He’d given them a law.  But obedience was supposed flow from a humble heart overflowing with gratitude for God’s grace.  It was supposed to be rooted in faith—faith in a God who had called a childless pagan named Abram and blessed him beyond anything he deserved; faith in a God who called a sorry and miserable group of slaves out of Egypt and blessed them beyond anything they deserved.  But Israel got complacent, and comfortable, and forgot the source of her blessings.  Instead of trusting God, she trusted in horses and chariots and kings—and even foreign gods.  She thought mere formalism would satisfy God’s requirement for holiness.  And her heart became hard, idolatrous, and self-righteous.  So for all their love of torah, the hearts of the Pharisees were far from God—and in that, they represented most of the people in Israel.  They exalted themselves and presumed upon God, when they should have been humble before him, thanking him for his grace.  When judgement day came, they were ready to sing that litany of their righteousness: We’re not like other people.  We fast and we tithe.  We’re circumcised and we keep the sabbath.  And God would high-five them and the invite them along to go smite the sinners and tax collectors and gentiles.  Their hearts will filled with pride, not faith.

 

Habakkuk was one of those prophets that had warned Israel in the days before the exile.  “Look at the proud!” he said, “His spirit is presumptuous and is not right, but the righteous shall live by faith.”  Pride and faith, Brothers and Sisters, are polar opposites.

 

Habakkuk looked around him lamented to the Lord:

 

O Lord, how long shall I cry for help,

and you will not hear?

Or cry to you “Violence!”

and you will not save?

Why do you make me see iniquity,

and why do you idly look at wrong?

Destruction and violence are before me;

strife and contention arise.

So the law is paralyzed,

and justice never goes forth.

For the wicked surround the righteous;

so justice goes forth perverted. (Habakkuk 1:1-4)

 

Wickedness, idolatry, injustice—pride.  Judah no longer trusted in the Lord and it showed.  The heart of the people was far from God and those who were humble, who did lean on his grace were trampled under foot.  And Habakkuk knew it couldn’t go on like this forever.  He knew the Lord’s judgement on a wicked and faithless and proud people had to come soon.  And so he cried out to the Lord and the Lord assured him: “The righteous shall live by faith.”  In other words, the righteous will live the way they always do, regardless of circumstances: by faith in the grace and mercy and goodness of God—not in pride, but by faith.

Pride is insidious.  It can take any form in order to push out faith.  The Pharisees were, in most ways, so close—but in them pride twisted faith itself.  I wonder what Habakkuk would think of our world.  We now have a whole season devoted to pride.  At first it was a month, but now it just seems to go on and on: Pridetide, the unholy parody of Trinitytide.  At least the Pharisees were prideful for their good works.  Today, the wicked and perverted announce their sins with pride and their “ally” lackies signal their virtue as loudly as possible.  And the wealthy and the powerful, governments and corporation and businesses big and small join in the litany of pride and woe to anyone who dares to dissent and on whom the scorn and wrath of the Pride Pharisees falls.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.  The proud are always convinced of their own righteousness and standing before God.

 

And yet Jesus told so many stories in which the proud—so sure of their righteous standing—ended up finding themselves in the outer darkness, weeping and gnashing their teeth, while the tax collectors and sinners—having discovered the mercy and grace of God, having repented in faith—found themselves welcomed into the feast.  Again, pride and faith are polar opposites, mutually exclusive.

 

And I think this is why the church, for the Eleventh Sunday after Trinity, has coupled this Gospel about the Pharisee and the tax collector with St. Paul’s affirmation of faith at the beginning of 1 Corinthians 15.  He begins with the gospel, with the good news about Jesus.  He writes: “Let me remind you, Brother [and Sisters], about the good news which I announced to you.”  I love the way it works in Greek.  Paul talks about the gospel that he gospelled to them.  The gospel is the best news ever.  It’s the news that changes everything.  It’s the news that dispels—or, at any rate, it should dispel—any ideas we have about being proud of ourselves.  Because Paul goes on and says, “You received this good news, and you’re standing firm on it, and you are saved through it, if you hold fast the message I announced—I gospelled—to you.  Unless it was for nothing that you believed.”

 

These were men and women who had stood on all sorts of things.  Some of them were Jews and once they had stood on that: on their circumcision, on their sabbath keeping, on their general keeping of torah.  Some of them were Gentiles.  They’d stood on their pagan gods, or on the emperor, or on their philosophies.  But then Paul came and he gospelled the gospel.  He announced the good news and it changed everything.  Or, at least it did for a time.  And then pride started creeping back in.  It’s insidious.  And as pride crept in, it pushed faith in the good news out.  And Paul says of that good news: “What I handed on to you at the beginning, you see, was what I received, namely this: The Messiah died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures, he was buried, he was raised on the third day in accordance with the scriptures, he was seen by Cephas, then by the twelve, then he was seen by over five hundred brothers and sisters all at once, most of whom are still with us, though some fell asleep, then he was seen by James, then by all the apostles.”

 

The good news is that Jesus died and Jesus was raised and that it happened just as God had promised in the scriptures.  Jesus led his people in a new exodus and in that exodus he revealed God’s mercy and grace and God’s power and might and glory.  He revealed God’s faithfulness to his promises.  In Jesus’ death sins are forgiven and in his resurrection the life of God, his new creation began.  If the exodus from Egypt and all it revealed about God and its annual remembrance every year in the Passover could dispel Israel’s pride and fill the people with faith in their God, how much more should this new exodus from sin and death dispel our pride and bring us humbly in faith to God through Jesus?  If we will only believe and trust.

 

That was Paul’s problem.  He was filled with pride.  He refused and refused and refused.  He persecuted the church.  But as a testimony to the patient grace of God, Paul goes on.  He writes, “And last of all, as to one untimely born, he appeared even to me.”  It’s hard to say exactly what he means here when he says “untimely born”.  The word in question is only used this one time in the New Testament, but it refers to a premature birth.  It could be a miscarriage or premature birth where the baby lives, but it could also refer to a child monstrously deformed by having been born premature.  It may be that some people in Corinth who didn’t like Paul called him a monster because of his appearance and Paul is humble owning the accusation.  But the key thing, what Paul’s getting at is the risen Jesus—not just a vision of Jesus but the real, live living Jesus—appeared to him last of all and Paul wants to stress that he didn’t deserve it.  “I’m the least of the apostles,” he writes.  “In fact, I don’t really deserve to be called ‘apostle’ at all, because I persecuted God’s church.  But I am what I am because of God’s grace, and his grace to me wasn’t wasted.”

 

Paul has been the epitome of the proud Pharisee.  And then he met Jesus on the road to Damascus and every last bit of his pride came crashing down around him.  Seeing Jesus alive was the proof that the gospel was true and if the gospel was true, none of the things in which Paul had prided himself mattered any more.  The only thing that mattered was faith—faith in Jesus the Messiah who died and rose again.  Paul knew he didn’t deserve that vision of Jesus.  He didn’t deserve the grace of God.  But there it was.  God had given his son to die, so that Paul, the proud Pharisee could live.  And ditto for everyone in the church in Corinth.  God gave his son to die so that those other Jews there could live.  He gave his son to die so that soldier proud of his devotion to Caesar or the prostitute proud of her devotion Aphrodite or the witch proud of her magic or the philosopher proud of his philosophy could live.  Each one of them, confronted with the gospel had their pride dispelled and that same gospel filled them with faith in the living God and his son who died and rose again.  And forever after they came to him in humility to fall on his grace and to praise him for his merciful lovingkindness.  Even Paul, after all he accomplished as a missionary apostle, writes to them: “I am what I am because of the grace of God, and his grace to me wasn’t wasted.  On the contrary, I worked harder than all of them—though it wasn’t me, but God’s grace which was within me.  So whether it was me or them, that was the way we announced it, and that was the way you believed.”  Paul won’t even take credit for what had happened in Corinth as a result of the gospel being preached.  It wasn’t Paul’s skill or his reasoning or his apologetics.  It was the grace of God.

 

Brothers and Sisters, be captivated by the grace of God on display at the cross.  There God displayed his glory and that glory ought to dispel every last bit of pride we have—whatever it is we take pride in.  The gospel shines so brightly, it exposes the things in which we take pride as filthy rags in comparison.  And when pride is gone, then the gospel—this good news of God’s saving grace, this good news about the God who humbled himself to take our form and to die for us so that we, his enemies can be his friends again, good news of the god who gave his own life to forgive our sins, that good news ought to fill us with faith overflowing.  So Brothers and Sisters, hear the good news about Jesus this morning.  How he died and rose again for you.  Not because you are so great, but because he loves you—his precious creation so much—hear that good news in the scriptures and in the liturgy and when you come to his Table.  Let it dispel all pride; be humbled by the gospel, and be filled instead with faith.  In the midst of a broken word, faith in the living God will begin to set things to rights, not pride in ourselves.  Faith in the living God, not pride in ourselves, is our real and lasting source of hope.

 

Let’s pray: Lord God, you declare your almighty power most chiefly in showing mercy and pity: mercifully grant to us such a measure of your grace, that we, running the way of your commandments, may receive your gracious promises, and be made partakers of your heavenly treasure; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

St. Bartholomew the Apostle.  He’s pretty much a mystery.  As far as the New Testament goes, Matthew, Mark, and Luke list him as one of the twelve.  Beyond that, we have nothing.  His name, Bar tholomais probably means “son of Tolomai”, but it may actually be his given name since when Matthew, Mark, and Luke want to refer to someone as “son of So-and-so” they use the Greek way of doing it not the Aramaic “bar So-and-so”.  Since John never mentions Bartholomew, but does mention Nathanael, some think that the two are the same.  I don’t find the argument very convincing.  Various stories and legends describe him going off to evangelise India or Pontus or Armenia, amongst other places.  When I consider sources and dates, I think the story of him taking the gospel to India is probably the most likely.  Almost without a doubt he was martyred for proclaiming Jesus the Messiah—probably flayed and maybe then beheaded.  He was an apostle—one of Jesus’ hand-picked messengers sent to herald the good news—so what we can confidently say is that that’s exactly what he did and that he probably died, very painfully, for the sake of his Lord.

 

But since there are no scripture passages that tell us about him, our Epistle and Gospel today are simply passages that tell us about the apostles in general.  So with that, I’d like to look at our Epistle

—Acts 5:12-16.  Here's, again, what Luke writes:

 

One Saturday morning back in my computer tech days I found a woman sitting in her car outside the door when I showed up to open the store.  She was from out of town and afraid that if she waited to call until we were open, there wouldn’t be time to fix her computer the same day.  So she just showed up.  And she had a box of doughnuts by way of apology—or bribe—really a little of both.  So I got to work on the computer and the doughnuts while she watched and talked to me.  They were really good doughnuts and I told her and she told me she’d made them herself.  In fact, she owned a little doughnut shop in a tourist town an hour away.  And she told me how she got started.  There was only one place in town that sold doughnuts, but they didn’t make them.  Their doughnuts were delivered from the city and were a day old—at least—by the time they were served.  She opened up a little place in a converted camping trailer selling doughnuts and coffee to the tourists, but the coffee shop that had been there forever had a corner on the coffee and doughnut market, plus a primo location to catch the tourists.  She was about to call it quits, when the owner of the garden shop across the street from the coffee shop came to see her.  The garden shop and the coffee shop were in some kind of spat and the owner of the garden shop decided to invite this woman to park her trailer in their parking lot.  See, the tourist industry there was all about tulips.  People would come to see the tulips and the reason that old coffee shop was in such a good location was because the place across the street—the garden shop—sold tulip bulbs from the local growers.  People came to see the tulips, then they went to the garden shop to buy bulbs, and finally ended up across the street for coffee and doughnuts.  But coffee and doughnuts in the parking lot of the garden shop was more convenient than coffee and doughnuts across the street.  It helped that her doughnuts were better and that they were fresh.  So pretty soon all the people were crowding around her trailer for doughnuts instead of going to the old mainstay across the street.  And, of course, the coffee shop owner wasn’t happy.  He went to the town council and tried to have “mobile restaurants” banned from town—an early version of today’s restauranteurs trying to ban competition from food trucks.  It didn’t work and this woman who’d brought her computer in eventually won the doughnut war.

 

That’s a bit like what’s going on in Acts 5.  Pay attention to the fact that this is Acts 5.  This is right at the beginning of the story.  These are the days and weeks just after Pentecost.  And if Peter and James and John had gone back home to Galilee and done these signs and wonders, they would have drawn crowds just like Jesus had done there, but being so far away from Jerusalem, they probably wouldn’t have drawn the ire of the Jewish religious authorities.  The Pharisees, of course, were always there scowling and scolding, but the Pharisees weren’t the gatekeepers.  They were just a popular interest group.  But Peter and the other apostles didn’t go back to Galilee.  They stayed right in Jerusalem.  Not only that, but Luke writes that they were meeting together in Solomon’s Porch.  Solomon’s Porch was a great colonnade on the eastern side of the outer court of the temple.  So the apostles would go to the temple to worship, but they would also spend their days gathered together, preaching, and doing signs and wonders in the outer court.  This was where all the people were coming and going and it was probably near the house where the serving priests lived.  It was a busy place.  The temple wasn’t a church, but what the apostles were doing would be a bit like coming to church and then hanging out afterward on the front porch or in the rectory garden.  And the crowds would gather.  Some of them stopped to listen or to be healed on their way to or from the temple proper, but many people were coming just to hear the teaching of the apostles.  Many people were coming, just like they’d come to Jesus, because they’d heard that Peter and the others were casting out demons, giving sight to the blind, and healing the lame.  And I fully expect that Peter was repeating several times a day the same thing he preached on Pentecost—about Jesus fulfilling the promises of the old covenant and making a new and better one.

 

They’d set up a doughnut stand right in front of the established coffee shop that had been there forever.  And they were selling delicious, fresh doughnuts while the coffee shop was still trying to sell day-olds delivered yesterday.  So you can understand that this raised the ire of the Jewish authorities.  The apostles weren’t just tweaking the noses of some Pharisees in backwater villages.  They were—you might say—stealing customers from the religious authorities and doing so right on their front porch.

 

And let’s talk about the healings that were happening, because I’ve noticed that we’re very, very, very, very prone to taking passages like this out of context.  It’s not just that the apostles were working a multitude of healing miracles.  It gets pretty weird.  Luke says that people would even lay out their sick loved ones just so Peter’s shadow would fall on them and they’d be healed.  Every last one of them, Luke seems to be saying, was healed.  The part about Peter’s shadow seems kind of over-the-top.  I can’t help but think of various medieval stories of people being healed by the relics of saints or people stealing Baby Jesus’ diapers off Mary’s washline and being healed by them.  And yet Peter’s shadow isn’t the only weird thing like this in Acts that we might be tempted to doubt.  Luke also tells us later in Acts that people would take Paul’s handkerchiefs and use them to heal the sick.

 

And there are people today who think that stuff like this should be the norm always and everywhere.  There are scammers sending out vials of holy water or oil as a cure-all and televangelists who will wave their jackets at a line-up of people and claim they’ve been healed.  And if you don’t experience miracles like this in your own life or in your own church, well, they’ll shame you and tell you that you lack faith.  A few weeks ago someone sent me some commentary about a new “worship” song that came out of one of those sorts of places.  The song calls for revival and courage and strength and faith, which are all good things and all things the church today often lacks, but then the heart of the song is a prayer for a new Pentecost.  They don’t see the sort of miraculous happenings today that we see in Acts 5 and they think that what we need is another Pentecost.  What they’re saying is that the modern church—or at least mainstream churches that don’t do the things they claim to do—lack the Holy Spirit.  And I cringed.  That’s no different than saying that because some Christians still walk in sin, we need Jesus to die again.  No.  A thousand times, no!  Just like Jesus death and resurrection, Pentecost has already happened.  It was a one-time event.  We don’t need another one.  What we need is to live as the people, as the community, as the church born that day when God poured out his Spirit.  And, in some cases, we need to read scripture better so that we don’t set unrealistic expectations.  Remember, Brothers and Sisters, miracles are acts of God, not acts of men and women.  If God wants us to see miracles, nothing is going to stop him.  If he could act through a pagan prophet like Balaam, he can act through even the most lukewarm Christian.  Maybe the problem is that we’ve misunderstood what God was doing through the apostles in the book of Acts.

 

Remember that context is everything, so let’s look at this story about the apostles in context.  When Jesus had risen from the grave a few week earlier, he inaugurated God’s new creation.  He was the firstborn of the resurrection.  God’s new life went out like a shockwave from the empty tomb on Easter.  And that new life, that new creation met the disciples of Jesus on Pentecost.  And God wanted it be clear, he wanted the world to see that in Jesus and in this new covenant people who identified with Jesus, his kingdom, his new creation was being born.  And so, first with Jesus and then with the apostles and those first believers, God did amazing things so that no one would or could mistake what was happening.  Remember the people in the gospels, people like Nicodemus who said to Jesus, “No one can do the things you do unless he’s from God.”  Jesus’ signs and wonders validated his messiahship.  And now, as we get into Acts, we see that God wanted to make sure that when those first Christians started telling people the good news that Jesus had risen from the dead and that new creation had begun, they had his witness, they had these signs and wonders to go along with their preaching and their actions.

 

But it’s wouldn’t be like that forever.  Miracles would stop being noteworthy if they happened all the time.  We really need to pay attention to the big biblical story here.  Miracles aren’t a common thing in that story.  They cluster around the times when God does something new.  Think of the exodus from Egypt.  The biggest cluster of miracles in the Old Testament is found in the Exodus: from the burning bush, to the plagues sent on Egypt, to the parting of the Red Sea and the drowning of Pharaoh’s army, to the water from the rock and the manna in the wilderness.  But it doesn’t stop there.  That generation knew miracles like no other.  They saw the Lord in the pillar of cloud and the pillar of fire, leading them to the promised land.  They knew the bronze serpent Moses raised up.  They knew the miraculous battles won for them by the Lord.  And when they marched into Canaan, the Lord dried up the Jordan.  He won their battles and toppled cities like Jericho.  And it happened so that Israel would powerfully know his goodness and his glory and then pass that knowledge to future generations.  And, too, the Lord did these thing so that the nations would take note.  The God of Israel is powerful and glorious and cares for his people.  He’s unlike any other god.  But then take note: those future generations were expected to know the goodness and the faithfulness and glory of God, not through ongoing daily miracles, but through the witness of their fathers and through the scriptures.  And, too, each new generation bore in its flesh the sign of circumcision, the sign of God’s covenant with them and of his faithfulness.  And every year the families of Israel gathered together and ate the Passover and participated themselves in the glorious events of the Exodus.  The Lord took his people from the witness of miracles to the witness of what we might call the common means of grace.  Miracles convinced a people who didn’t know the Lord to trust and obey him.  But the covenant people who then knew him, who lived with him in their midst, who had his word, who bore his covenant sign and ate his covenant meal—they didn’t need miracles to know the Lord was worthy of their trust and obedience.

 

And, Brothers and Sisters, the Lord followed exactly this pattern in the new exodus.  Jesus’ ministry and then the ministry of the apostles were full of the miraculous.  Jesus himself and then the Spirit are the evidence of God’s goodness and faithfulness and glory, but as Jesus led his people—not this time into Canaan, but into his new creation—he made that new creation manifestly real as he made all the sad things of this world become untrue, as he undid the real-world consequences of sin and death and as he showed how he had defeated the devils at the cross.

 

In the book of Acts God shows the world very dramatically what the church is—that it is the beachhead of his kingdom, his new creation in the world.  His church is the new covenant community, the temple in which he now dwells, the steward of both his Spirit and his gospel who will spread his new creation wherever it—wherever they—wherever we—go.  Acts is about God’s formation of his new people.

 

Consider that the passage just before our Epistle today is the story of Ananias and Sapphira.  It’s telling that people will think miraculous healings should be everyday occurrences, but I’ve never heard anyone suggest that God striking down people who lie to the church should be just as ordinary.  If it were, we’d have a lot of dead faith-healers.  But we shouldn’t expect that to happen.  The Lord only needed to strike down a couple like Ananias and Sapphira once.  The point isn’t that this is what happens to people who lie to the church.  The point is that this one frightening miracle should—and I think it has—reverberated down through the generations with the message that God expects holiness of his people.  Acts 5 begins with that call to holiness and it makes it very plain that a church that lacks holiness, even if it isn’t literally struck dead, will die.  Jesus will take away its lampstand.  We’ve seen that through history and we see it today.  So, after establishing that holiness is an essential characteristic of the people of God (and not, that’s what much of Exodus is about as well), Chapter 5 then continues with these signs and wonders done by the apostles to back up their proclamation that in Jesus new creation has begun.  Again, the church doesn’t ordinarily need miracles to show God’s new creation.  We show the world God’s new creation as we live the fruit of the Spirit, as we bring the reconciling power of the gospel to broken people and broken relationships, and as we work to bring things like mercy and justice and life to a sin-broken world.  But in those early days, the Jewish authorities could say that’s just what they were already doing.  So God gave better doughnuts to the apostles.

 

And that’s then followed by the arrest of the apostles by the temple authorities.  They were angry because they’d set up a doughnut shop on their front porch and were stealing their customers.  Just as they’d crucified Jesus to say, “He’s not really the Messiah,” they have Peter and the others arrested to send the message, “Despite their miracles, these men are frauds.  Don’t believe them when they claim to be a new temple.  That’s blasphemy!”  But do you remember what happened?  That night as the apostles sat in their jail cells an angel appeared, set them free, and sent them back to the temple court to keep preaching the gospel.  The next day the priests met to decide what to do with the apostles.  They sent for them to be brought from the jail and that’s when the guards reported they were gone.  And that’s when someone came running into the council chamber saying, “Look!  The guys you arrested and put in prison are right now in the temple preaching.”

 

It's God, again, backing up his newly established church with miracles.  When he raised Jesus from the dead, he overturned the false verdict of Pilate and the Jews and this time he overturned the false verdict of the priests and validates the good news Peter was preaching.  And the apostles took it to heart.  They kept preaching and preaching and preaching—in Jerusalem, in Judea, in Samaria, and eventually to the world—and all but John were martyred.  They were killed for their faithful proclamation of Jesus.  But they knew the same God who had raised Jesus from the dead would one day raise them.  Death had no more power over them than the demons or sickness or prison doors.  And their story was told through the generations of Christians to come: to Christians in Rome, to Christians in pagan nations, to Christians living under Communism, to Christian missionaries who gave their lives to proclaim to the good news to hostile people.  They didn’t need to experience miracles first hand.  Just as Isreal knew the stories of the first exodus from Egypt, these Christian brothers and sisters knew the stories of the second exodus from sin and death.  And as Israel bore God’s covenant sign of circumcision and celebrated the Passover and remembered God’s goodness and faithfulness and glory, so those Christians bore themselves the sign of baptism and celebrated the Lord’s Supper and not only knew the goodness and faithfulness and glory of God, but they also knew—as we should too—that we are the embodiment of God’s new creation, we are the stewards of his Spirit and his gospel, we are the beachhead of God’s new creation.  Miracles or not, what we need to remember is that the power to defeat the enemies of God is the power of his gospel and the power of his Spirit.  It always has been and it always will be.

 

Let’s pray: O almighty and eternal God, who gave your apostle Saint Bartholomew grace truly to believe and to preach your Word: Grant that your Church may love that Word, and both preach and receive it; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

by William Klock

 

All the tax collectors and sinners were drawing near to listen to Jesus, writes St. Luke at the beginning of Chapter 15.  But the Pharisees and the scribes—the legal experts—were grumbling.  “This fellow welcomes sinners!” they said.  “He even eats with them!”  (Luke 15:1-2)

 

You can just picture these angry Pharisees, their faces red, veins popping in their foreheads, grumbling with each other.  They’d heard troubling things about Jesus, but then he’d come to town and they listened while he preached in the synagogue and they were pleasantly surprised.  They nodded along with him.  And they watched as he healed sick people and cast out demons.  People were saying Jesus was the Messiah.  Maybe he really was.  Maybe the bad things people were saying about him weren’t true after all.  But then the party last night.  Matthew, the guy who collected taxes for the Romans, the traitor to his people, they’d heard rumours that he’d taken up with Jesus and last night he threw a big party and invited all his scummy, sinner friends.  A bunch of JINOs—you know, Jews-in-name-only.  Not a single one of them kept the law: tax collectors, prostitutes, greedy businessmen who supplied the Roman army.  Rumour had it they were eating bacon-wrapped prawns!  And Jesus was there.  They raged.  How could a guy seem so holy, preach such great things, know the scriptures so well, and even work miracles that only God could do, and then go and party with sinners?  I mean, yeah, there were also rumours that Jesus was telling his kingdom stories at the party and someone even said that some of those sinners had decided to repent and sin no more.  But that just made these Pharisees angrier.  If Jesus were really the Messiah, if he'd really come to usher in God’s kingdom, he should be calling down fire and brimstone on those tax collectors and their sinner friends.  No, they grumbled to each other, this won’t do.  This won’t do at all.

 

So Jesus answered their angry grumbles with three stories.  The first story is about a shepherd who loses one of his hundred sheep.  He secures the ninety-nine in the fold and sets off into the night to find the lost one.  When he finds that lost sheep, he carries it home on his shoulders, and rejoices with the other shepherds.  What was precious had been lost, but was now found.  In the second story Jesus tells of a poor old woman who loses one of ten silver coins.  They were probably her dowry.  She can’t find the coin anywhere.  She turns her whole house upside-down in her frantic search for the precious coin.  Eventually she sweeps the house and finds it.  In her great joy she runs to tell her friends so that they can rejoice with her.

 

And Jesus likens the joy of the shepherd who found the lost sheep and the joy of the woman who found the lost coin to the joy in heaven when a lost sinner repents.  Jesus’ knew exactly how to poke the Pharisees.  It’s that last bit about the rejoicing in heaven that really drove the point home.  The Pharisees—like everyone else in Israel—knew that the world is not as it should be.  They knew the story of how the Lord had created the world and then created Adam and Eve to live in his presence and to steward his temple.  Heaven and earth were supposed to overlap.  God and humans were supposed to live together.  But sin had ruined everything.  Sin drove a wedge between heaven and earth and God and man and now everything is broken.  But then God had called and created this special people—Israel—to be his people and to live in his presence.  When they were lost in Egypt, like the shepherd in the story, he sought them out and rescued them.  And in the middle of their community stood the temple.  And in the most holy place in the temple was the ark.  It represented God’s covenant with them.  And it was his footstool.  And on it rested his presence in a cloud of glory.  Or that’s how it was before the exile.  But the temple was the one place on earth where heaven and earth still overlapped, the one place where sinful people—purified from their sins—could enter God’s presence.  That’s why the Pharisees lived like they did.  They weren’t priests, but they lived as if they were—aways ritually pure, always ready to be in God’s presence.  They were the original on-earth-as-in-heaven people.  They loved what God loved.  They rejoiced when heaven rejoiced.  Or so they thought.  Because that’s what Jesus is getting at here when he talks about heaven rejoicing over a single sinner who repents.  In Jesus, the God of Israel was searching out and finding his lost sheep, his lost coins and all of heaven was rejoicing.  So this is a very pointed rebuke.  They’re angry because they think Jesus is doing it wrong and Jesus flips it all around: No, actually, they’re the ones who have got it all wrong.  They think they have the heart of God, but they don’t.

 

And now Jesus has their attention.  Their faces are angry and red.  They’re about to blow their tops.  So Jesus seizes the moment to really drive his point home with a third story.

 

Jesus describes this younger son as a truly despicable character.  A father could give his sons their inheritance early, but only a truly despicable son would demand it.  And when a father did give his sons their inheritance early, it was expected that they would continue to give their father the proceeds of the land.  Dutiful fathers take care of their sons and then dutiful sons take care of their fathers.  But there’s nothing dutiful about this kid.  He not only demands his inheritance early, but then he sells the land, takes the cash, and goes to a far-off country.  He cares nothing for his family, for his brother, or for his father.  And then, on top of that, he abandons his people.  He’s leaving Israel—the place where God’s people live in his presence—to go to a pagan gentile land where they’ve never heard of the torah or the sabbath.  He’ll never set foot in the temple again.  And here’s Jesus’ point.  This kid is the epitome of a “sinner”.  Everyone trips up from time to time, everyone sins, but when the Pharisees talked about “sinners” they were talking about people who chose sin over faithfulness—people who made a choice abandon God’s law, God’s covenant, and God’s people.  They lived lives that were incompatible with being a faithful Jew.  But it gets worse.  Jesus goes on:

 

When he had spent it all—everyone saw that coming!—a severe famine came on that country and he found himself destitute.  So he went and attached himself to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him into the fields to feed his pigs.  He longed to satisfy his hunger with the pods the pigs were eating, and no one would give him anything.

The boy abandoned God and now, to all appearances, God has abandoned him.  He squandered his inheritance on prostitutes and loose living and now he finds himself feeding pigs.  For a Jew to have anything to do with pigs—the epitome of uncleanness—that was bad enough, but to actually be hungry enough to eat their food—well—Jesus has conjured up an image of complete moral and physical degradation.  This is rock bottom.  Some of the Pharisees were thinking, “Serves him right!  That’s justice.”  I wonder, though, if others weren’t starting to clue into where Jesus was going with this.  Remember that these were people who had concluded they were still living in exile.  Their ancestors had worshipped idols and forsaken God’s law.  Israel was God’s son, but they were a son who had taken advantage of his father’s patience and mercy and goodness.  And so they had found themselves in exile, in Babylon, in a pagan land, with nothing and far from God.  I suspect that at least some of the scribes and Pharisees were beginning to hear their own story being told by Jesus.

 

So finally, Jesus says, the son smartened up: He came to his senses.  “Just think,” he said to himself, “There are all my father’s hands with plenty to eat and here I am, starving to death.  I’ll get up and go to my father and I’ll say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you.  I don’t deserve to be called your son and longer.  Make me like one of your hired hands.’”  And he got up and went to his father.

 

I trust that, again, at least some of the scribes and Pharisees saw themselves in this, because this is what their ancestors had done.  Sitting by the waters of Babylon, first they wept for all they’d lost, and then they wept in repentance for all their unfaithfulness.  And this is what the Pharisees were still doing: trying to be faithful to the law, urging everyone else to be faithful to the law, in the hopes that the Father would take them back.  This is why they were so angry at the tax collectors and sinners.  They were calling everyone to national repentance in the hopes that the Lord would return to them and set the world to rights, but the tax collectors and sinners refused to get with the programme—they were holding everything back.

 

But, too, Jesus’ last two stories about the lost sheep and the lost coin were still echoing in their ears.  The tax collectors and sinners were the lost sheep of Israel and Jesus had been sent by the Lord to find them.  I see one of the Pharisees putting his hands to his heas in frustration and thinking, “It’s like Jesus is saying we’re all lost sheep, we’re all lost coins, we’re all lost sons of the Father!”  They weren’t ready to accept that.

 

And then the father in the story.  Jesus says: While still a long way off, his father saw him and his heart was stirred with love and pity.  He ran to him, hugged him tight, and kissed him.

 

Everything in the image goes against the image of the ancient near eastern patriarch.  The father should be dignified, stern, disciplined, ready to carry out justice, but instead Jesus gives us a picture of this father—so incredibly undignified—running to meet his son, his robes blowing behind him, his sandals slap-slap-slapping as he ran.  And instead of running to his son to give him a kick in the pants and beating for being such a lout, he loves him.  The son tries to begin the spiel he’s been rehearsing the whole of his long journey: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you.  I don’t deserve to be called your son any longer.”  But his father cuts him off and calls for his servants: “Hurry!  Bring the best clothes and put them on him!  Put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet!  And bring the calf that we’ve fattened and kill it.  Let’s eat and have a party!  This son of mine was dead and is alive again!  He was lost and now he’s found!”  And they began to celebrate.

Jesus has this brilliant way of telling stories.  First, it’s so obviously about the tax collectors and sinners but then somehow he manages to carry on with the story so that it becomes about both the tax collectors and sinners and the whole people of Israel longing for the return of their heavenly Father.  And then he reminds everyone that their Father is full of love and mercy and grace, ready to pour out his blessings and to throw a party for anyone who repents.  It’s hard to imagine that at least some of the scribes and Pharisees didn’t get it.  “Oh man.  He’s talking about all of us,” they were thinking.  But still, some were obstinate.  They didn’t get it.  “What a stupid father,” they were thinking.  “He should beat his lout of a son, disown him, and tell him he never wants to see him again.”

 

And that’s why there’s a place for everyone in Jesus’ story.  He says, The older son was out in the fields.  When he came home and got near to the house, he heard music and dancing.  He called one of the servants and asked what was going on.  “Your brother’s come home!” he said.  “And your father has thrown a great party.  He’s killed the fattened calf.  Because he’s got him back safe and well!”  Well, the older son flew into a range and refused to go in.

Sound familiar?  I expect that as he said this, Jesus was looking straight at those Pharisees who were still boiling with rage.

 

Jesus has a way with words and here he puts the words of the Pharisees into the mouth of this angry older brother who won’t let go of his grudge.  They’ve been slaving away for the Lord all these years.  They’ve never disobeyed a single one of his commandments.  And when the Messiah comes—assuming Jesus really is the Messiah—he goes and throws a party with the tax collectors and sinners instead of with them!  And so Jesus says to them in the words of the father to the older son: “My son, you’re always with me.  Everything I have belongs to you.  But we had to celebrate and be happy.  This brother of yours was dead and is alive again.  He was lost and now he’s found.”

 

Jesus gets at their hypocrisy.  Notice how the older brother refuses to own his brother.  He yells at his father about “this son of yours”, but the father reminds him here at the end, “this brother of yours was dead and is alive again…this brother of yours.  This is the funny thing with the Pharisees—and they weren’t the only ones in Israel who thought this way: on the one hand they were angry with the tax collectors and sinners.  They knew that these people belonged to God.  They knew they were lost.  Their sins were, they thought holding back the rest of Israel from experiencing the Lord’s return and an end to their long exile.  But on the other hand, they disowned the tax collectors and sinners.  They longed and prayed for God’s judgement to fall on them, right along with the gentiles.  They refused to acknowledge them as lost brothers.  And now they’re mad because Jesus has come to bring them back to the sheepfold.  They should be rejoicing.  Your brother who was dead is alive again!  You’re brother!

 

I’m sure that resonated with the Pharisees.  Think of Ezekiel and his vision of the valley of dry bones.  Those dry bones represented Israel.  She had forsaken the covenant and the Lord had disciplined her by sending her into exile.  But the Lord promised that one day his word would come and restore his wayward and faithless people to life.  What was dead would be made alive again.  And not just in some figurative sense.  One of the central doctrines of the Pharisees was the dearly held belief that one day the Lord would literally raise the dead of Israel to life in his presence.  One day he would set everything to rights, beginning with his people.  One day he would take what was dead and make it live again.

 

And by way of the parable, Jesus is now saying to the Pharisees that he’s the one who’s come to do it.  But he hasn’t just come to reward them with the life of the age to come, he’s come to offer that life even to the prodigals of Israel.  Prostitute and Pharisees, both are part of the people of God, both are the Lord’s children, both belong equally to him.  The Lord had rescued the ancestors of the prostitute from Egypt just as he’d rescued the ancestors of the Pharisees.  He desires life for the prostitute just as much as he does for the Pharisee.  That’s what they need to wrap their heads around, because no amount of law keeping will get them into the kingdom if they don’t share God’s heart.

 

You see, judgement was coming for Israel, but not quite like the Pharisees thought.  They thought that in the end, the Lord would recognise his people by their faithfulness to the law—to circumcision and sabbath and diet.  That meant the tax collectors and sinners were out.  But the fact was—and this is the point of Jesus’ parables—that when judgement came on Jerusalem and on Judah, what would mark out the people of God was not faithfulness to the law, but faithfulness to Jesus the Messiah.  Jesus had taken on Israel’s identity, he had picked up her failed mission, he died the death that she deserved, and when he rose from the grave and sent God’s Spirit, he formed a new family, a new covenant people not centred this time on law, but on himself.  As St. John wrote, “To all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God” (John 1:12-13).  And, Brothers and Sisters, at the heart of Jesus’ ministry was mercy—and God the Father rejoiced in heaven to see that mercy at work amongst his people, as his lost sons and daughters were found, as what had been dead became alive again.

 

Brothers and Sisters, do want to share God’s heart?  Then hear Jesus’ story. It’s about the loving and merciful faithfulness of God revealed in Jesus as he fulfils his promises to his people.  It was that faithfulness, revealed in Jesus and proclaimed by those first Jewish believers, that brought the first gentiles into the Church.  And that, itself, was a fulfilment of the Lord’s promises.  This new people of God, this new Israel centred on faith in Jesus, brought the nations to the Lord, to the God of Israel, in awe, in reverence, and in faith.  Because membership in this new family was based not on law but on faith in Jesus made it possible for the nations—for you and I—to become children of God and fellow heirs with the natural brothers and sisters of Jesus.  And this opens that category of “the lost” to encompass an entire world.  In the parable Jesus was talking about the lost of Israel, but through Jesus the sort of restoration that the Lord sought with the lost of Israel has been opened to all of humanity.  You and I ought to see the lost of our own world, people created to bear the image of God, but lost to him because of their sin, you and I ought to see those people and desire for them the same mercy and restoration that God has shown to us through Jesus.  We ought not only to rejoice when we see that mercy at work, the joy of our own experience of God’s mercy ought to be sending us out to the lost.  But all too often we become blasé about what God has done for us.  We lose the joy we once found in our salvation.  Or, for those of us who have never known life apart from God’s covenantal mercy—like so many in Israel—we take his mercy for granted.  Brothers and Sisters, take time to think on what the Lord has done for us in Jesus and rejoice.  Make a point of it.  As you read scripture.  When you come to the Lord’s Table.  Make a point of it.  Rejoice and stand in awe at the mercy of God.

 

And, I think, if we do that, we will avoid the stance of the Pharisees who had forgotten the nature of God’s mercy, who chafed at Jesus offering the mercy of God to sinners while they worked so hard to be faithful.  We’re prone to the same sort of thing.  We forget the mercy of God.  We forget his forgiveness.  We forget that as much as God is pleased with us when we are faithful and pleased with our good works, we too are only part of this family because of his mercy and his forgiveness.  And then we start looking at the lost, not as people to be found, but as people who deserve their comeuppance, who need God’s judgement rather than his mercy.  And, in that, we forget what the kingdom of God is all about.

 

Brothers and Sisters, think on the mercy of God and rejoice.  Come to his Table this morning and be reminded that he sent his Son at great cost to seek out the lost and to restore us to the fold.  Here we see the faithfulness of God, a witness that has now brought you and I who were not even of that flock.  A witness that has brought us in awe and wonder and in faith to Jesus the Messiah—a faith by which the Father has welcomed us, too, into the sheepfold.  Rejoice in the mercies of God and carry that rejoicing to the lost that they, like us, might see and know themselves the mercies of God at work in Jesus.

 

Let us pray: Grant us, Lord, we pray, to know your mercy and never to take your salvation for granted.  Make us faithful stewards of your mercies that we might rejoice as you do at the restoration of the lost; 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

 

In 597 b.c. the Babylonians conquered Judah.  The Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, ordered the deportation of the ruling elite of Jerusalem.  That meant King Jehoiachin, most of the royal family, and thousands of others including many of the priests.  That included Ezekiel.  He had been born into one of the important priestly families.  He was twenty-five years old.  Had everything gone as expected, had everything gone to plan, he would have been ordained a priest at the age of thirty and gone on to serve before the presence of the Lord in the temple.  Instead, with the rest of those Jewish exiles, he sat down by the rivers of Babylon and wept as he remembered Zion—as one of the psalmists put it.  And he wondered how he and his people could ever sing the Lord’s song in a strange land.

 

And then, on Ezekiel’s thirtieth birthday, he had a vision.  He saw the Lord enthroned in glory and the Lord commissioned him.  Instead of being a priest, the Lord ordained Ezekiel a prophet—a prophet to the exiles and to the people of Judah.  Ezekiel was to announce to his people why they had been defeated and carried off into exile.  He was to accuse his people of their idolatry and of their unfaithfulness to the Lord’s covenant.  And he was also to announce that the Lord’s judgement on Judah had only just begun.  And so Ezekiel’s ministry began with a series of acted out prophecies.  He acted out the coming destruction of Jerusalem with miniatures.  He lay on his side for a year, acting the part of the scapegoat, while eating food cooked over human waste.  He cut off his hair with a sword.  Again, to announce the coming judgement on Jerusalem.  And all for nought.  The Lord told him that no one would listen and they didn’t—because Israel’s heart was hardened against the Lord.

 

But just because the people wouldn’t listen didn’t mean Ezekiel’s job as a prophet was done.  The Lord gave him another vision, this time of the temple in Jerusalem.  He saw his people worshipping idols in the temple court and then he saw the Lord’s glory—the cloud that rested on the ark of the covenant in the holy of holies—he saw that cloud of glory depart from the temple.  And the Lord announced to him that the temple would be destroyed.  Again, because of Israel’s idolatry and lack of covenant faithfulness.  Ezekiel accused his people of being like a rebellious wife and like a rampaging lion.  He described Israel and Judah as two shameless and reprobate prostitute sisters.  And he dragged his people into the divine courtroom and put them on trial before the Lord.  They could beg for mercy all they wanted, but the time for mercy had passed.  God’s goodness and faithfulness demanded that he judge his people.  For centuries he had shown them his patient mercy, but now is was time for justice.  And that’s when word reached Ezekiel that Jerusalem had fallen, the temple had been destroyed, and that the Lord’s judgement had come on Judah.

 

But that wasn’t the end of Ezekiel’s ministry.  The Lord would not leave his people in judgement forever.  If being faithful to his word meant judgement on their unfaithfulness, it also meant restoring them and making them faithful.  And so Ezekiel’s prophetic messaged shifted from judgement to hope.  Through him the Lord promised the restoration of his people under a new king, under a David-like messiah.  And the Lord promised to breathe his Spirit into his people to take away their heart of stone and to give them a heart of flesh.  He gave Ezekiel a vision of a valley of dry bones and commanded the prophet to speak his word over those bones.  And the word of the Lord brought them back to life.  It was a promise of new creation.  But the wicked pagan nations still stood in the way of that new creation.  And so the Lord also gave Ezekiel a series of visions in which he defeated the nations.  And then, finally, Ezekiel had a vision of creation set to rights.  That vision begins with a temple.  Not the old temple, but a new one.  A new one infinitely grander and more beautiful than even Solomon’s temple.  And after being given a tour of this temple, Ezekiel has a vision of the Lord’s glory descending to fill it.  It’s the Lord’s way of saying that he will not abandon his people forever.  He will be with them again.  And out of this temple’s gate flows a stream and as it flows down the mountain from the temple the stream turns into a great river.  Wherever it flows trees and lush vegetation spring up.  And eventually the river flow down into the desert and there it causes a lush garden to grow—Eden restored—a garden named “the Lord is there”.

 

Now, everyone likes that last part.  Everyone wants to hear and to claim for themselves the messages of hope.  No one wants to hear the call to repentance and the warning of coming judgement.  No one would listen to Ezekiel’s warnings.  It’s not that they didn’t hear them—or see them.  It was hard to miss the weird guy playing with action figures or hacking his hair off with a sword or laying on his side and cooking food over poop.  They saw it all.  But they refused to take it to heart.  They were convinced their exile to Babylon was an accident of history, not the Lord’s judgement on their idolatry.  But once Ezekiel’s prophecies of doom came true, I expect the people were hanging on his every last word of hope.  That’s the test of a prophet, after all: does his word come to pass.  Ezekiel’s did.

 

And for that reason the people were still hanging onto his words when Jesus came, still looking for and longing for those divine promises to finally be fulfilled.  Because judgement had happened as the prophet foretold, that restoration of the people, that new creation, that new life with God would happen just as surely too.  It was just a matter of time.  So it shouldn’t be a surprise that as Jesus preached he drew on the words of the old prophets like Ezekiel.  But it was the same old thing all over again.  The people gathered to hear Jesus preach good news.  They flocked to him for healing and deliverance and miracles that showed the kingdom of God was breaking in.  But they didn’t want to hear the warnings.  They gasped when he told them that to see that coming kingdom, to know that garden called “the Lord is there”, they needed righteousness, they needed covenant faithfulness far beyond that of the scribes and Pharisees.  Judgement was coming on Judah again and Jesus was there to create a new people, a new community that would have that righteousness, that would be salt and light, that would be a city on a hill, that would come out the other side of God’s judgement to see his kingdom.  The people in Ezekiel’s day didn’t want to hear that part of the message and neither did the people in Jesus’ day.  Ed Stetzer likes to say, “If you want everyone to like you don’t be a pastor, go sell ice cream.”  I think Ezekiel (and Jesus) would say the same thing about being a prophet.

 

Our Gospel today is taken from the closing words of Jesus’ sermon on the mount.  Jesus has spoken hard words—just as Ezekiel had.  But there was reason to hope.  In him the Lord was finally doing that new thing everyone had been waiting for since the prophets, but Jesus was also condemning their covenant faithlessness and announcing coming judgement.  And so he warns the people—this is Matthew 7:13—“Go in by the narrow gate.  The gate that leads to destruction, you see, is nice and wide and the road going there has plenty of room.  Lots of people go that way.  But the gate leading to life is narrow, and the road going there is a tight squeeze.  Not many people find their way through.”

In other words, “Yes, I know what I’ve been saying is hard.  Yes, I know it means repentance and turning away from sin and pursuing covenant faithfulness with everything you’ve got and even then you’re going to need God’s help, but that’s the way to life.  Listen to me, because judgement is coming again and it’s coming soon.  (He later told the disciples: before this generation passes away!)  And if you refuse to listen and if you keep going down the wide and easy path you’re on, you’re as sure to meet that judgement as the people of Ezekiel’s day did.

 

“Watch out for false prophets!” Jesus says.  There are people invested in the ways and the ideas and the systems of the present evil age.  They don’t want to see you repent and turn back to the Lord.  They know everyone loves ice cream and they’re going to show up with a cart full of it and everyone’s going to listen to them—because ice cream is a lot more fun than calls to repentance.  “They will come to you dressed like sheep, but inside they are hungry wolves.”  Jesus draws on Ezekiel’s condemnation of the leaders of Israel and Judah.  They were like wolves in the midst of the flock, tearing apart the sheep, shedding blood, all for their own gain.  It’s always the way of false prophets.  They proclaim what people want to hear.  When the Lord desires repentance, the false prophets proclaim the status quo.  When the Lord desires sacrifice, the false prophets proclaim health and wealth.  When the Lord warns of judgement, the prophets proclaim “Peace!  Peace!”  And so Jesus warns in verse 16, “You’ll be able to tell them by the fruit they bear: you don’t find grapes growing on thorn-bushes, do you, or figs on thistles?  Well, in the same way, good trees produce good fruit and bad trees produce bad fruit.  Actually, good trees can’t produce bad fruit, nor can bad ones produce good fruit.  Every tree that doesn’t produce good fruit is cut down and thrown on the fire.  So you must recognise them by their fruits.”

There’s never been any shortage of false prophets in the world.  In the Old Testament the test of a prophet was whether or not what he said came to pass.  The punishment for false prophecy was death.  Brothers and Sisters, claiming to speak the very word of the Lord is serious business.  His words are life.  When people claim to speak for the Lord, but speak falsely, it gives people reason to doubt his actual word.  But people took it lightly in Ezekiel’s day, people took it lightly in Jesus’ day, and far too many people take it lightly today.  The Old Testament test of a prophet still stands: Do his words come to pass?  But when Jesus warned the people, there wasn’t time for that.  Judgement was coming soon.  So Jesus gives another way: look at the fruit.  It was a good test then and it’s a good test now.  When someone says, “Thus says the Lord,” look at that person’s life.  Does their life show the fruit of the Spirit?  Do you see things like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, and self-control?  Or are they just selling ice cream and getting rich?  It’s always amazing to me how many people flock to men and women who claim to work miracles and who claim to speak for God, but the miracles are false, the words are heresy, and the things they say never come to pass.  But it is a testimony to just how much we like ice cream, how much we’d rather hear “Peace, peace!” than a message about repentance.  Look at the fruit.  If the fruit is bad, the tree is bad and there’s only one destination for bad trees: the fire—judgement.  Don’t end up in the same place.

 

Look for the fruit.  I know the language of the fruit and the gifts of the Spirit is something that developed later with Paul, but I think it’s worth noting that Jesus talks here about fruit.  Too many people look for signs—what Paul would call “gifts” of the Spirit.  But even Paul warns these things can be faked.  Signs and wonders aren’t necessarily evidence of a true prophet.  Fruit is the evidence.

 

And Jesus goes on, “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven; only people who do the will of my Father in heaven.  On that day lots of people will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord, we prophesied in your name, didn’t we?  We cast out demons in your name.  We performed lots of powerful deeds in your name.’  Then I will have to say to them, ‘I never knew you.  You’re a bunch of evildoers.  Go away from me.’”

“On that day.”  That’s language right out of the Old Testament prophets about the coming day of the Lord, about the day of judgement when the Lord will punish evil and vindicate the righteous.  A lot of people thought that just being an Israelite and having the Lord as their God gave them a place in the coming kingdom, but Jesus says that, no, that’s not enough.  In fact, he narrows it down even further: a lot of people will think that because they’ve thought of Jesus as their Lord and done amazing things in his name, that they’ll have a place in the kingdom—and not even that will cut it.

 

It's important, I think, to remember here that Jesus isn’t talking directly to us.  He was talking to First Century Jews and the judgement he was warning about was the judgement that would come forty years later when the Romans destroyed Jerusalem and the temple.  Those who would survive, those who would see the birth of the kingdom, would be those who truly identified themselves with Jesus in faith.  The people who followed him in the new exodus through baptism and into whom God would pour his Spirit.  They’re the ones—not the ones who merely had an appreciation for what Jesus was teaching or thought of him as a great prophet—but the ones who truly recognised the God of Israel at work in Jesus the Messiah and who became part of his family, this new Israel redeemed by his death and given a new heart of flesh by the Holy Spirit.  They would be the dry bones that lived again.  They would be the ones whom God would deliver from the coming judgement.  They’re the ones who would live to testify to the nations of the glory of the God of Israel revealed in the cross.  They’re the ones who would live to proclaim the good news to the nations.

 

And so Jesus concludes his sermon with a final allusion to Ezekiel.  In verse 24 he says, “So, then, everyone who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock.  Heavy rain fell; floods rose up; the winds blew and beat on that house.  It didn’t fall, because it was founded on the rock.  And everyone who hears these words of mine and doesn’t do them—they will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand.  Heavy rain fell; floods rose up; the winds blew and battered the house—and down it fell.  It fell with a great crash.”

Ezekiel warned the false prophets about the wall they’d built.  It’s a pretty clear reference to the temple just as Jesus’ “house” here is, too.  The false prophets had built a wall and they’d whitewashed it and it looked great.  It looked like a wall for the ages.  But when the Lord’s judgement came, when he sent the rains and the floods and the winds, that wall came crashing down and exposed its builders as the unfaithful and idolatrous false prophets they really were.  The same thing would happen again.  The people of Jerusalem and Judea looked up to the temple as their hope, but Jesus condemns them.  Not this time as whitewashed walls, but as whitewashed tombs.  They went through the motions of faithfulness, they maintained their ritual purity, they proclaimed their love for and their loyalty to God, but their hearts were far from him.  Because God’s heart was in Jesus.

 

Jesus had to come to fulfil the prophecies of hope and life.  He’d come to build God’s new temple.  Not one whitewashed with false piety, but one washed with his own blood.  Listen to Peter’s call in his first epistle: “Come to him, to that living stone.  Men rejected him, but God chose him and values him very highly!  Like living stones yourselves, you are being built up into a spiritual house—a new temple!—to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices that will be pleasing to God through Jesus the Messiah.  That’s why it stands in scripture: ‘Look!  I am setting up in Zion a chosen, precious cornerstone.  Believe in him!  You will not be ashamed.’”

The false prophets, the wolves in sheep’s clothing, the grifters selling spiritual ice cream, they whitewash false piety, they whitewash selfishness, they whitewash heresies—they whitewash the ugly things of the world.  They proclaim “Peace, peace” in the face of coming judgement.  Brothers and Sisters, don’t be duped.  Listen to Jesus.  Stay focused on Jesus.  Think of Peter’s confession later in Matthew’s Gospel: “You are the Messiah, the son of the living God!”  This is the rock on which Jesus has built his church—his people, his new temple—and not even the gates of hell will overpower it.  Never forget that this is the temple in which his Spirit dwells. Never forget that this the temple from which God’s new life flows to the world.  Never forget that this temple is the source of God’s new creation.  And it’s built on the rock and nothing but the rock that is Jesus.

 

Come to the Lord’s Table this morning and be reminded that in Jesus, God has given his own life for you—for us.  Come to the Lord’s Table and be reminded that in Jesus, God has breathed his life into our dry bones and made us live again.  Come to the Lord’s Table and be reminded that he’s made us the precious stones of his temple.  Then be that Spirit-filled and life-giving water that Ezekiel saw flowing out from the temple into the world carrying God’s life, carrying his new creation.

 

Let’s pray: Gracious Father, in Jesus you have washed us clean from sin and by your Spirit you have renewed our hearts and made the priests of your new temple.  Guard our hearts from the temptations of false prophets and false gods that our desires might always be for you and your kingdom, through Jesus our Lord.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

I’ve been reading a great book by an Oxford classicist named Teresa Morgan.  It’s a study of the Greek and Latin words for faith and what they meant in the culture of the Greeks and Romans, the Jews, and in the early Church.  It’s a fascinating read and as we were getting ready to go camping last Sunday afternoon I tossed it in my bag.  But then I stopped for a second, I panned across a wall of bookshelves, and my eyes settled on a copy of Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One, which is—as far as I’m concerned—the ultimate novel written for Gen-X nerds who were born in the early Seventies and came of age in the Eighties.  It’s a sci-fi novel built around references to things like the Atari 2600, Dungeons & Dragons, Zork, and Pac-Man.  I read it about ten years ago, but I decided to read it again this week with apologies to Dr. Morgan and her study of pistis and fides.  And I enjoyed it the second time as much as the first.  In the back of my mind, however, I was mulling over our Epistle from Romans 6 and how St. Paul writes about being slaves.  That meant that one particular part of the book kind of jumped out at me.  In the story there’s an evil mega-corporation out to conquer and corrupt the virtual reality paradise where everyone in the future spends all their time.  And this evil corporation has its fingers in everything, which means it’s easy to end up owing it money.  And when that happens, you’re arrested and transported to headquarters where you become an indentured servant, slaving away at some menial and demeaning job until you die—because there’s no way out. Between late fees, interest payments, charges for room and board and healthcare, your debt only grows, it never gets any smaller.  And Cline does a pretty good job of making it sound utterly miserable—at least to me—because it reminded me of my days as a Mac tech when I had to do phone support, which is an utterly miserable job.  But this book makes it ever more miserable: these indentured servants—slaves—did the phone support.  The description hits close to home in a lot of ways and it makes you—or at least me—want to shout out, “Let my people go!”

 

But like I said, I also had Romans 6 percolating away in the back of my brain too and I was asking myself: Would I rather be a slave like the Israelites in Egypt, breaking my back to make bricks without straw under the hot Mediterranean sun or having my brain turn to mush doing non-stop tech support for Innovative Online Industries?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that being delivered from either one of those slaveries would completely change my outlook on life, the universe, and everything.

 

And that’s just how it was for Israel.  The beginning of the Book of Exodus paints a bleak and desperate picture of Israel’s turn of fortune—or, I should say, “providence” because, we learn as the story unfolds, the Lord was in control of the narrative all along.  Jacob and his family went down to Egypt as honoured guests of Pharaoh, but four hundred years later a new Pharaoh turned them into slaves, making bricks for his grand building projects.  Mixing mud and straw, filling moulds, baking them in the sun, then carrying those heavy loads of bricks to wherever they were needed.  All the time baking themselves in that hot sun, day in and day out.  Day in and day out with no rest.  Eating out of fleshpots—which sounds pretty awful all by itself.

 

Put yourself in that place.  (Or doing phone support as a slave if that seems worse to you.)  And then imagine how you would feel after the Lord came and delivered you from that slavery.  And not just a simple jailbreak.  Consider how the Lord came first to Moses and his people and reminded them that he was their God, the one who had made promises to their fathers and who had been sovereign over all of this all along.  And the Lord then goes, through Moses, to Pharaoh.  Again, this isn’t a secret jailbreak in the dead of night.  The Lord announced to the king, before his whole court, that Israel belonged to him, that Israel was his beloved son, and demanded Israel’s release.  And then the showdown began.  The Lord sent ten plagues that exposed Pharaoh and his gods for the powerless frauds they really were.  Defeated, Pharaoh finally let them go, but that wasn’t the end of it.  In one last ditch effort to recover his slaves and his dignity, Pharaoh went after the Israelites with his army and cornered them at the Red Sea.  Israel had escaped the frying pan only to land in the fire.  And then the Lord acted again.  He bared his mighty arm and parted the waters of the sea so that his people could pass through on dry land.  And when the Egyptian army tried to follow, the Lord drowned them all and left “mighty” Pharaoh, the greatest king on earth, powerless and pounding sand on the opposite shore.

 

Again, it wasn’t just a simple jailbreak under cover of darkness: You know, the Lord rescuing his people but with as little effort as possible.  To the contrary, he showed his faithfulness and his love towards his people, but he also showed his glory.  He brought the prison walls tumbling down in broad daylight for everyone to see.  He humbled the greatest king and the most powerful gods in the known world.  And he wasn’t done.  That was just the first act.  From the Red Sea he led Isreal into the wilderness and fed her miraculously on manna and quail and water he caused to flow from a rock.  He met her at Mount Sinai and there he made a formal covenant with her.  “I will be your God and you will be my people.”  And he gave them his law, a new way of life that would separate them from all the other peoples of the earth.  They wouldn’t just be the Lord’s people.  The law would allow them to be the people who lived with the Lord in their midst.  A holy people, set apart.  And so they built a tabernacle as a place of meeting with him and the Lord’s glory descended like a cloud to fill it.  And for a third act, the Lord led them into the land of Canaan and conquered it for them.  The Lord gave them cities they hadn’t built; wells they hadn’t dug; and fields and vineyards they hadn’t planted.  All to show them his faithfulness, his love, his grace, and most of all his glory.

 

The Lord made them the rescued-from-slavery people and every year they celebrated that identity and the great show of glory and faithfulness the Lord had made to make them that people.  Each year they gathered as families and ate the Passover and as they did that they remembered who they were and what the Lord had done for them.  And they were grateful.  They loved the Lord with all their heart and soul and mind and strength.  They loved their neighbours the way the Lord had loved them.  They were righteous—meaning that they love and obeyed his law.  His heart was their heart.  They worshipped him and him alone.  And, forget horses and chariots!  They trusted in the Lord who had shown the power of his mighty arm when he delivered them from slavery.

 

Or so you might expect.

 

But then you read the history of Israel and it’s mostly the opposite.  They neglected the Passover and, not surprisingly, they forgot what the Lord had done for them.  They forgot his faithfulness.  They forgot his love.  They forgot his grace.  They forgot his glory.  They neglected his covenant and his law.  They worshipped other gods—the very gods defeated when the Lord conquered Canaan for them.  And instead of trusting in the Lord and his mighty arm, they trusted in horses and chariots and politics and intrigue and money.

 

And that’s where our Old Testament lessons comes into this.  The Lord sent the Prophet Hosea to the king and to the people of Israel with a message.  At this point the kingdom had split: Judah in the south and Israel in the north.  Judah was bad, but Israel was so bad they made Judah look like a goody-two-shoes.  And Hosea’s ministry began with an acted-out prophecy.  The Lord told him to take a prostitute as his wife.  Hosea obeyed.  He married Gomer, a prostitute, probably from one of the pagan temples.  And he loved her and cared for her and he had children with her.  But repeatedly she left Hosea and returned to her life of prostitution.  And each time, his heart broken, Hosea would go out and find her and bring her back to his home and love her.

 

Through the prophet the Lord was saying to his people: I am Hosea.  You’re the prostitute.  I loved you.  I delivered you from Egypt.  I gave you a land that was not your own and I caused you to prosper in it.  I repeatedly defeated your enemies so that you could live at peace.  But over and over you’ve prostituted yourselves to foreign gods and foreign kings who have done nothing for you other than to lead you away from me, your true love.  Through the prophet the Lord stressed his faithfulness over against Israel’s unfaithfulness.

 

And so the Lord called to his people:

 

And the Lord promised: If they would do this.  If they would repent and return to him:

But Israel had to leave off her idolatry.  It was not Baal or Asherah who delivered them from Egypt and caused them to prosper in the land.  It was the Lord.

One way or another the Lord would heal their apostasy.  One way or another the people he had chosen as his own would reveal his glory before the watching nations.  Either they would be faithful to him and he would prosper them beyond measure or he would punish their unfaithfulness and let the nations destroy them.

 

And if you’ve read the books of Kings and Chronicles and the Prophets you know that the latter is what happened.  Israel continued in her idolatry and was destroyed by the Assyrians, the tribes scattered and lost forever.  About a hundred years later the same thing happened to Judah, but it was Babylon that defeated the people and destroyed Jerusalem and the temple.  But in Judah’s case, even though the people were exiled from the land, they kept their identity and were eventually allowed to return.  They rebuilt Jerusalem and the temple.  And, so far as the worship of pagan gods went, they’d learned their lesson.  Never again was that kind of raw idolatry a problem for the people of Judah.  And yet we’ve seen in some of our recent Gospel lessons that the people still failed to be faithful to the Lord.  Last Sunday we heard Jesus condemn the Pharisees—the most righteous, the most covenantally faithful people around.  Even they weren’t as faithful and as righteous as they thought.

 

Enter Jesus.  God himself, incarnate, became the faithful Israelite.  He perfectly submitted himself to the God of Israel, to his will, to his heart, to his law.  His righteousness—which, if you remember from last Sunday, means his faithfulness to God’s covenant, was perfect.  And his fellow Jews killed him for it.  They got the Romans to crucify him on their behalf.  And that means that in Jesus, the son of God wasn’t just incarnate as an Israelite, wasn’t just the perfect Israelite in his covenant faithfulness, he even died the very death that the Israelites would face when the judgement he announced came to them a generation later.  He very literally died the death that their unfaithfulness deserved.  And just like Israel in Egypt, the fate of the son of God in Israel was all guided by providence.  The Lord knew what he was doing.  And in that, Jesus became a sacrifice for the sins of his people.  If they trusted in him as the Messiah he claimed to be, they found forgiveness of their sins.

 

But that’s not all.  The Lord also knew what he was doing in allowing sin and evil to concentrate themselves all in one place so that they could rise up and do their worst to Jesus.  It was Pharaoh and the gods of Egypt all over again.  If you know the story, you recognise that this how the Lord works.  In the same way he allowed Israel to become enslaved to the most powerful king in the world who had the most powerful gods in the world, so the Lord allowed Jesus to go to the cross where the most powerful forces in creation would kill him.  And he did it so that he could, once again, bare his mighty arm and raise Jesus back to life.  In doing that he not only overturned the false verdict against him in his sham trial, but more importantly, he defeated sin and death the same way he defeated Pharaoh and his gods.

 

Jesus was leading his people in an exodus—the exodus—the exodus that the old one, the one that shaped them as a people, the one they remembered every year at Passover, was but a foretaste.  The old exodus happened so that the Lord could set a pattern and teach his people his loving and faithful character—so that he could prepare them for a future rescue, not just from a pagan king and his fake gods, but so that he could rescue them from sin and death.  Not to lead them into a land of milk and honey, but to lead them into his new creation—into a world finally set to rights, a world where they could live forever in his presence.  And as he did in that first exodus, so in the second, the Lord displayed his glory not just to his own people, but to the watching world.  And so Jesus didn’t just make a new way of covenant faithfulness for his own people, he made it for everyone who would see the glory of the God of Israel at the cross and at the empty tomb.  For anyone who will trust that Jesus is Lord, who will trust that in his death and resurrection he has defeated sin and death, and who will pass through the waters of baptism to life with God—a life infused by God’s own Spirit—on the other side.  A life of righteousness, of covenant faithfulness that exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees.

 

Brothers and Sisters, that glory displayed at the cross and the empty tomb is what has drawn each of us.  It’s faith in that glory and in the promise offered in our baptism that has taken us through those waters.  And yet, like Israel of old, that vision of God’s glory and of his loving faithfulness somehow fades from our vision.  That vision of glory that once caused us, like the Israelites singing the Lord’s praise on the shore of the Red Sea, to sing his praises ourselves, to joyfully proclaim the good news to the world, that motivated us covenant faithfulness—to a life of holiness—somehow it fades or maybe we just take our eyes off of it in the midst of our various trials and tribulations.  And we lose our passion for the Lord, for holiness, for proclaiming his gospel.  St. Paul saw it happening in the Roman church.  The old divisions between Jew and Gentile were creeping back in.  They were no longer pursuing holiness and gospel life the way they once had.  And so he reminds them in Romans 6: “But now you have been set free from sin and enslaved to God, you have fruit for holiness.  Its destination is the life of the age to come.  The wages of sin, you see, are death; but God’s free gift is the life of the age to come, in the Messiah, Jesus our Lord.”

Brothers and Sisters, we need to be reminded of the glorious thing that God has done for us in Jesus.  We were slaves to sin and death.  We had no hope.  But then we heard the story—the good news—about the mighty and glorious God of Israel, how he gave his son to die to redeem his people from their sins, how he raised him from death, and how his new creation has begun in this new people.  How he’s poured out his Spirit on them and made them a temple and a foretaste of the life and the world to come.  A free gift.  God’s amazing gracious grace.  And we believed and with joy we jumped into the waters of baptism.  We left Pharaoh—we left sin and death—pounding sand over another escapee—and we met Jesus on the other side.  And he filled us with his Spirit.  And we set out with him to the promised land, to the New Jerusalem, to the life of the age to come.  But somewhere along the way the joy and enthusiasm faded.  We began to trade holiness for sin.  We began to lag behind Jesus along the way, and began to look longingly at our old gods.  We became apathetic about the gospel, about the good news that had once so captivated us.

 

Brothers and Sisters, come to the Lord’s Table this morning and be renewed.  This is our Passover meal in which we recall the mighty saving deeds of our faithful, loving, gracious and glorious God.  This is the meal that reminds us we were once hopelessly enslaved to sin and death, but that the God of all creation loves us so much that he gave his own and only son to die on our behalf.  Remember that in him our sins have been forgiven.  And remember that this meal is also God’s future, pulled into the present.  It’s a reminder that death no longer has a hold on us, because in rising from the grave, Jesus defeated death as thoroughly as he defeated sin.  The bread and wine here at the Table are a reminder of what God has done for us in Jesus and they are a reminder of the hope—the new world and the new life—that lies before us because we have trusted him.

 

Let’s pray: Lord of all power and might, the author and giver of all good things:  Graft in our hearts the love of your Name; increase in us true religion; nourish us with all goodness; and bring forth in us the fruit of good works; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

In last Sunday’s Gospel we were with Jesus and Peter in that fishing boat as Jesus preached to the crowd on the shore.  I said that I had a pretty good ides the sorts of things Jesus was preaching, because both Matthew and Luke preserve versions of his favourite sermon about the kingdom.  Today’s Gospel gives us a snippet of Matthew’s version of that sermon.  In Matthew 5:20 Jesus says to the gathered crowd, “I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”  In the words leading up to this, Jesus was preparing the people to hear this.  He talks about being the salt of the earth and the light of the world and a city set on hill and a light held high on a lampstand for everyone to see.  “That’s how you must shine your light in front of people!” he says, “Then they’ll see what wonderful things you do, and they’ll give glory to your father in heaven.”  Do your works, does you the way you live make people take notice and give glory to God?  That’s a tough one, isn’t it?  And then, just in case people might be thinking that Jesus came to do away with the law and the prophets: “Don’t suppose that I came to destroy the law or the prophets,” Jesus said, “I didn’t come to destroy them.  I came to fulfil them!  I’m telling you the truth: until heaven and earth disappear—and since that won’t happen this just means never—not one stroke, not one dot, is going to disappear from the law until it’s all come true.  So anyone who relaxes a single one of these commandments, even the little ones, and teaches that to people, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven.  And anyone who does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.”  And this is where Jesus says those words, “Yes, let me tell you: unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never get into the kingdom of heaven.”

Because Jesus was doing and saying so many things that a lot of people thought weren’t right, I suspect some people thought that Jesus was teaching an easier way to the kingdom.  The Pharisees were mad because he didn’t seem to keep the law with the same zeal that they thought everyone should, but I suspect there were others who thought Jesus was offering them a way to God without all the spiritual rigor and rules.  Just this week I found myself talking to someone who had left an orthodox, biblical church a few years ago and is now worshipping at a United Church.  The reason: “They aren’t so strict.  They let people be themselves.  They aren’t so bound to the Bible.”  In other words: The United Church offers a way to God that you can follow on your own terms.  I suspect some people thought Jesus was doing a sort of First Century Jewish version of that.  And so Jesus makes it clear that this is not the case.  No, just the opposite in fact.  Not even the Pharisees with all their zeal for torah, not even they meet the standard.  Later in the sermon he’ll go on to talk about the wide and narrow way that will lead Israel to destruction and the narrow gate that few can find and the narrow and difficult way beyond that leads to the kingdom.  No, Jesus hasn’t come to relax the standard.  Not at all.

 

But before we can go on we need to ask a couple of questions.  When Jesus talks about “righteousness”, what does he mean?  Well, for the Jews “righteousness” was bound up with torah, with the law and with God’s covenant.  A righteous person was someone who was faithful to God and to the covenant and that meant, fundamentally, that he was faithful in living the law that God had given his people.

 

The name “Pharisee” means “separated one”.  That’s what Israel was supposed to be.  The Lord had delivered Israel from slavery in Egypt to be his people and he gave them a law, he gave them torah, as a way of life that would separate them and that would make them distinct from every other people on earth.  When the nations looked at Israel they were supposed to be moved to give glory to God.  But for most of their history, the Israelites didn’t do a very good job of being that separate and distinct people.  They were selective in their obedience.  They worshipped idols.  And so just as he cast Adam and Eve out of the garden and out of his holy presence, the Lord cast out Israel and sent her in exile to Babylon.  Righteousness means “covenant faithfulness” and if Israel wasn’t going to be faithful to the covenant, then in order to be faithful himself to the covenant, the Lord would have enact the covenant curses that he promised would befall his people if they didn’t keep their end of the covenant—if they were unrighteous.

 

As I’ve said before fairly recently, the Pharisees knew all of this.  More than that, they believed that the exile was, after a fashion, still ongoing.  Because Israel was still ruled by pagans and because the Lord’s presence had never returned to the temple.  They desperately wanted an end to Roman rule and even more than that, they prayed for the Lord’s return.  But that wasn’t going to happen as long as Israel was still unfaithful—still lacking in righteousness.  So the Pharisees decided to set an example.  They weren’t just going to obey the law as best they could; they were going to live their whole lives as if they were priests in the temple.  They wouldn’t just keep themselves from sin.  They’d keep themselves ritually pure at all times.  They were ready for the Lord to return.  If only they could get everyone in Israel just as ready!  But not everyone in Israel was as interested in righteousness as they were.  There were a lot of people who just weren’t as serious about God’s law as they were.  But worse were the compromisers—the Jews who gradually assimilated to the pagan ways of the Greeks and Romans and the people who willingly and knowingly became traitors to the covenant: tax collectors and sinners.

 

Think of it this way: The Pharisees saw themselves in the midst of a culture war.  And they knew it wasn’t the first time Israel had faced a culture war.  And so their heroes were the righteous men of Israel’s past culture wars.  One of those heroes was Phinehas, one of Aaron’s grandsons.  In the book of Numbers we read how Balak, the King of Moab, had hired a prophet to curse the Israelites.  But the prophet, Balaam couldn’t do it.  Every time he opened his mouth to curse the Israelites, the Lord caused blessings to spill out.  So Balak, instead, sent a bunch of beautiful Moabite women to infiltrate the Israelite camp and to entice the men of Israel to worship the Canaanite god Baal with them.  Isreal’s first culture war.  The men were enticed into sexual immorality and then into idolatry—those two always go hand-in-hand.  But Phinehas, came upon one of the Israelite men in flagrante delicto with one of these women.  Filled with holy zeal, Phinehas grabbed a spear and ran them both through together.  That was the end of Israel’s first culture war and Phinehas became a hero for his righteous zeal.

 

But much more recently, the Pharisees looked back on the heroes of the Maccabean Revolt—about 160 years before.  In those days Judah was ruled by Greeks.  And the Greeks just sort of thought that because their culture was so superior to everyone else’s, everyone would just assimilate given the chance.  Think of Gus in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.  “There are two kinds of people: Greeks and everyone who wish they was Greek.”  But no matter how many temples or gymnasiums the Greeks built, the Jews wouldn’t assimilate.  Antiochus IV Epiphanes had enough of it and finally outlawed the law.  If you circumcised your son, you and he would be executed.  He defiled the Lord’s altar by sacrificing a pig on it.  In Second Maccabees we read a horrific story of seven brothers and their mother who were tortured and gruesomely martyred when they refused to eat pork.  Jews were forced to offer sacrifices to Zeus.  Mattathias Maccabeus was watching as one Jewish man caved into that pressure.  The writer of First Maccabees tells us how Mattathias burned with zeal for the law, just like Phinehas had.  He ran forward and killed the man at the altar, then turned and killed the King’s soldier.  That would kick off a revolt against the pagan Greeks.  But the Maccabean revolutionaries didn’t just go after their foreign rulers; like Mattathias they went after compromising Jews as well.

 

They were the inspiration for the Pharisees.  The Pharisees didn’t have that kind of power.  They couldn’t force anyone to keep the law or to keep it better.  But they had the same kind of zeal.  They desperately wanted, they prayed for the Lord to return to Zion to destroy the Romans and all the other unrighteous pagans—and all the compromisers like the tax collectors and sinners in Israel, too.

 

And—getting back to Jesus peaching on the hillside—and Jesus now says that even that kind of zeal, that kind of righteousness isn’t enough to get folks into the kingdom.  In other words, to the people who were coming to Jesus thinking he was making it easier—kind of like some modern liberal spirituality that you can shape to your own liking—Jesus says, “No.  I didn’t come to make it easier.”  But then he condemns even the Pharisees.  They were the most righteous people around and even they weren’t going to make the cut.  So what now?  Imagine all the people holding their breath to hear what Jesus is going to say next.  They really, really want to know.  Before he ever started preaching, they’d seen him doing all the Messiah things: casting out demons, healing the sick and the blind and the deaf.  They knew without a doubt that the God of Israel was somehow acting in and through Jesus, so they had to think that when he preached, he preached with authority and he spoke for God.  He’s got their attention now.  Now they want to know what it means to be more righteous than even the Pharisees.

 

So Jesus goes on and says, “You have heard it said to the people of old, ‘You shall not murder’; and anyone who commits murder shall be liable to judgement.  But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be liable to judgement; anyone who insults his brother with foul and abusive language will be liable to the lawcourt; and anyone who says, ‘You fool,’ will be liable to the fires of Gehenna.”

And Jesus keeps going on like this.  If we skip down to 5:27—picking up just were today’s Gospel ends—Jesus says something similar about adultery.  “You have heard it said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’  But I say to you: everyone who gazes at a woman in order to lust after her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”  On and on.  Divorce falls in Jesus sites too: Divorce is wrong.  Marriage is a life-long covenant.  Tell the truth, he says, and you won’t need to make oaths for people to believe you.  The law commanded justice and put limits on retaliation, but Jesus says, “Don’t resist evil with violence”, “turn the other cheek”.  “When someone wants to sue you and take your shirt, let him have your coat, too.  When someone forces you to go one mile, go a second one with him.”  And in verse 43 Jesus puts a cherry on top of all this.  They knew that the law was about loving your neighbour, but then they got the idea that the only people who were their neighbours were their fellow Jews.  Love your neighbours, yes, but hate your enemies—people like the Romans, the tax collectors, and the sinners who openly rejected God’s law and covenant.  Love your neighbours.  Pray for God to smite your enemies.  And Jesus says, “No!  I tell you: love your enemies!  Pray for people who persecute you!”  Why?  “So that you may be sons [and daughters] of your Father in heaven.”

Do you want to have a share in the kingdom?  Do you want to be a child of the Father?  Do you want to know how to have a righteousness—a covenant faithfulness—greater than even the Pharisees?  Do want people to glorify God when they see how you live?  Then love the way that God loves.  That’s what righteousness has always been about: it’s been about a people that conforms to the heart of God.  Righteousness is about sinlessness, but it goes deeper than that and that’s what the Pharisees and so many others in Israel had forgotten even though it was there all along: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one Lord.  And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and your neighbour as yourself.”

 

Brothers and Sisters, this is what kingdom people look like in a culture war.  They love the way God loves.  This is the narrow gate, this is the difficult path that leads to the kingdom and life with God.  It’s hard.  All we have to do is look around us.  Things haven’t changed much since Jesus preached this two thousand years ago.  We’re in the middle of a war ourselves and it seems like Christians are prone to the same two failures.  There’s a ditch on either side of the road.  You fall into the ditch on this side when you give in and compromise.  Whether it's the Judeans who went along with the Greeks, leaving their sons uncircumcised, eating pork, and making offerings to Zeus or the Christians today who give up and buy into the pagan world’s notion that love is whatever you make it, anything goes, and we can all live and fellowship with God on our own terms.  Brothers and Sisters, compromise with a godless and anti-gospel culture isn’t the way.  Jesus didn’t come to make it easier to get into the kingdom, but there are a lot of people and churches today who think that the answer to the culture and to dwindling interest in the gospel is to lower the bar and to make it easier to think of yourself as a Christian.  Appealing to the cultural moment might get you a few followers in the short term, but it will land you in the outer darkness, weeping and gnashing your teeth just as surely as the opposite error will.

 

The opposite error—the ditch on the other side of the road—is Phariseeism.  And that happens when we forget that the gospel wins not through violence and force but when Christians love the way that God loves.  Brothers and Sisters, no amount of compelling, force, violence, or political power will ever move the heart of an unbeliever to give glory to God because of what they see in us.  But in the midst of a culture war it’s very easy for God’s people to think that seizing the reigns of power is the answer.  We’ll do anything, compromise just about anything, team up with just about anyone no matter how ungodly they are, to get our hands on that power.  And we can do it all with a zealousness like that of Phinehas or Mattathias that feels so right.  We try to meld Caesar and Jesus together, forgetting that Caesars bloody and violent way is the opposite of the gospel, which conquers through love.  You can’t trust in Jesus and at the same trust in horses and chariots.  You can’t trust in Jesus and at the same time trust in political power.  Jesus demands our allegiance and our trust—all of it and without compromise.  And it’s when we give him that full allegiance that we have the loving heart of God.  It’s when we’re willing to follow Jesus as we turn the other cheek, as we give both our shirt and our coat, as we go the extra mile, even as we go to our own deaths, it’s then that world takes notice and give glory to God.  That’s how the gospel captivates hearts and transforms the world.

 

Brothers and Sisters, that’s the narrow gate and the difficult path.  Don’t give up on righteousness when the going gets tough.  And never forget that law is ultimately about loving God and loving our neighbours—everyone—the way God loves them—enough to give his own son.  Love them as God does—even your worst enemy—even to point of sacrifice.  That’s how God once captivated your heart and it’s how he will captivate theirs.

 

Jesus stresses just how important this is.  Going back to the end of our Gospel in Matthew 5:23 he says, “So, if you are coming to the altar with your gift and there you remember that your brother has a grievance against you, leave your gift right there in front of the altar, and go first and be reconciled to your brother.  Then come back and offer your gift.”

We probably miss the significance of this.  To go to the temple in Jerusalem to make an offering to God was the peak of righteousness, of covenant faithfulness.  This took precedence over everything else.  No one.  No. one.  Would go to Jerusalem.  And remember, Jesus is preaching in Galilee, a three day’s journey from Jerusalem.  No one would trek all that way, carrying their animal for sacrifice or buying one at an exorbitant price at the temple, wait their turn, and then standing there with the priest ready to make the sacrifice, suddenly realise they needed to go all the way back home to make something right with a brother or a sister.  Yes, I think Jesus is using a bit of hyperbole here, but he wants to drive his point home, because this is how people—especially the Pharisees thought.  If you were doing it for God, nothing else mattered.  Think of the priest and the Levite in Jesus’ parable, leaving a man for dead on the side of the road lest they become ritually impure.  For all their talk of loving God, they’d forgotten just how much God loves us and they’d failed to live it out.  That’s why they grumbled when Jesus ate with tax collectors and sinners.  They’d forgotten that all of heaven rejoices over a sinner who repents.

 

No, says Jesus.  Never think that you’re honouring God if, at the same time, you’re failing to love your neighbour the way God loves him.  Never think you’re doing God’s work if, at the same time, you’ve compromised his call to faith and to faithfulness.  Never think you’re building the kingdom if, at the same time, you’re compromising its principles.  Instead, stop what you’re doing and make things right.  Go back and love your neighbour.  Reconcile and make things right with him.  Remember that you serve the God who gave his son out of love in order to reconcile sinful you to himself.  Have that kind of love in your heart and let it shape every thing you do.

 

Brothers and Sisters, every Sunday we recite those words of Jesus: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, You shall love your neighbour as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.”  Don’t just mindlessly say those words.  Be shaped by them.  Love God and love your neighbour with everything you’ve got and then you will have that righteousness greater even than that of the scribes and the Pharisees.

 

Let’s pray: O God, you have prepared for those who love you such good things as surpass our understanding: Pour into our hearts such love towards you, that we, loving you above all things, may obtain your promises, which exceed all that we can desire; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.