Living Words

by William Klock

 

Our Gospels during these first few Sundays of Trinitytide—so far—have all had us following Jesus as he made his way to Jerusalem to observe the Passover for the last time.  But today’s Gospel—from the Fifth Chapter of Luke—takes us back to the beginning of Jesus’ ministry—those early days when he was travelling around the region of Galilee a long way from Jerusalem.  Luke gives a series of vignettes in Chapter 4.  Every sabbath, he writes, Jesus was teaching in the synagogues.  He read from Isaiah one sabbath in his hometown synagogue in Nazareth and then he told the people, “Today this scripture is fulfilled in your own hearing!”  The people were so angry that they tried to stone him and he fled from the town.  So he went to Capernaum and taught in the synagogue there.  That’s where a demon-possessed man stood up and shouted at Jesus: “I know who you are.  You’re God’s holy one!”  And just to prove it, Jesus then cast out the demon and word went out throughout the whole region.  On another sabbath, after preaching in the synagogue, he was invited to the house of Simon Peter.  Peter’s mother-in-law was sick with a high fever.  Jesus rebuked the fever and straightaway she recovered and served them lunch.  Pretty soon everyone who was sick or who had a demon showed up and Jesus healed them all.  And because of that, no matter where Jesus went, Luke writes, the crowds hunted for him.  And that’s how today’s Gospel begins.  One day Jesus was standing by the lake of Gennesaret.  Finally a moment of peace.  An early morning walk on the beach.  He found a little cove.  The shores of Gennesaret (or Galilee as it’s otherwise known) are full of little coves.  He watched as the fishermen dragged their boats ashore after a night of hard work.  But then someone came down the trail to the beach.  And he saw Jesus.  And he went running back up the trail out of sight shouting, “He’s here!  He’s here!  I’ve found him!”  And others began to follow the man back down the trail to the beach.  And more and more until another crowd had gathered and was pressing in on Jesus.  They had seen for themselves or they had heard the stories of the amazing things the God of Israel was doing through Jesus and they wanted to see more.  They wanted to hear more of the good news that Jesus was proclaiming.

 

But it was no good trying to preach from the middle of the crowd.  People kept interrupting them with their problems.  Even if he could get a few words out, the crowd just couldn’t hear him.  So Jesus had an idea.  Sound travels wonderfully over water and the little beach cove was a perfect amphitheatre.  So he made his way down to the water where he’d seen the two boats, and got into one of them, and standing there, he called to one of the fishermen.  Jesus recognised the man.  It was the same fellow who’d invited him to lunch after the synagogue service.  It was the same fellow whose mother-in-law he’d healed.  “Hey you!  Was it Simon or Peter or Simon Peter.  Yes, this is your boat isn’t it?  Row me out a little way from the land.”  Maybe Peter felt like he owed Jesus something or maybe he was flattered that Jesus had chosen his boat and remembered him from the other day.  Whatever the case, Peter set aside his net, got in the boat, and rowed Jesus out into the middle of the cove.  And Luke says that Jesus sat down in the boat and began to teach the crowd.

 

It was probably some version of Jesus’ favourite sermon.  Luke has preserved one version of that sermon that we sometimes hear called “The Sermon on the Plain”—because Jesus preached it in a flat, open place, but mostly because it contrasts with the version preserved by Matthew, where Jesus preached from a hillside.  We call that version “The Sermon on the Mount”.  That’s the sermon where Jesus preaches about the kingdom of God.  It’s the sermon in which he calls the people of Israel to trust in the Lord because he never fails to provide.  He clothes the flowers of the field that wither tomorrow.  He feeds the birds so that they have no need to worry.  How much more important are you—the Lord’s elect, chosen, called covenant people—than flowers and birds?  So stop worrying and trust him.  Pursue, seek his kingdom above everything else, and trust him to take care of you.  Israel had struggled for forever with idolatry—in one form or another—instead of trusting in and giving her full allegiance to the Lord.  That’s what got them exiled to Babylon.  The Pharisees were right.  That idolatry and fickle faith was what kept them in a sort of in-house exile in their own time.  So, in other words, Jesus is saying to the people of Israel: Give the Lord your allegiance.  Give your all to his agenda: to holiness, to being light in the darkness, stop being so fickle.  You do that and, just as he promised, the Lord will take care of you—he’ll even pour out his blessings on you.

 

And Peter sat there right in front of Jesus, holding the oars, keeping the boat in position and Jesus facing the shore, and he listened.  The Bible doesn’t tell us anything about Peter’s past, but just like anyone else, he had one.  I don’t think Peter was any great or notorious sinner or anything like that.  Reading between the lines, I think it’s safe to conclude that he was just your ordinary, average Judean who obeyed torah as best he could, who celebrated Passover with his family every year, who went to the temple in Jerusalem as required—at least most of the time.  But he knew he wasn’t perfect.  He could be impetuous at times.  He could fly off the handle.  But most of all, as Jesus preached, I think Peter was convicted of his own fickleness.  He tithed, but sometimes he did so grudgingly.  He kept the sabbath, but sometimes he worried where the money was going to come from when he took off that one day a week from fishing.  Some days, especially in the summer, sunset on Saturday just couldn’t come soon enough for Peter so he could get back to work.

 

Jesus got Peter thinking.  Did he really trust in the Lord?  Or did Peter trust in Peter?  Had he really given his full allegiance to the God of Israel or was Peter really serving Peter?  And Peter mulled on these things as Jesus finished speaking and said to him, “Put out into the deeper part, and let down your nets for a catch.”

Peter was still playing through in his head what Jesus had been saying about trusting the Lord and giving him his full allegiance.  This snapped him out of it.  No more introspection.  It’s like Jesus knew what he was thinking.  Peter didn’t really want to let down his nets.  He’d fished all night and they hadn’t caught anything.  They certainly weren’t going to catch anything in the daylight.  That’s because they fished with nets made of linen.  The fish could see them in the day, but they’d swim right into them in the dark at night.  And Peter had just finished cleaning and mending his nets.  Now he’d have to clean them—and if they hit a snag, maybe mend them too—all over again.  Peter was born and bred to fishing.  He knew everything there was to know about it.  He knew the habits of fish, he knew about nets, he knew about the seasons, the time of day, and the play of light in the water.  He knew about boats.  He knew about marketing and selling fish.  He was a fisherman!  And if First Century fishermen were anything like Twenty-first Century fishermen, the last thing you’d want to do with Peter is start an argument over fishing—especially if you’re not a fisherman.  And, of course, Jesus was not.  His father had taught him the carpentry and the building trade.

 

Peter really, really didn’t want to cast his net into the water again and he wouldn’t have for anyone else.  But this was Jesus.  Just like everyone else, Peter wasn’t quite sure exactly what to make of him, but he’d not only heard the stories; he’d seen it for himself.  His mother-in-law had been on the verge of death, but Jesus made her well—so well that virtually instantly she was up serving them lunch.  And so he says to Jesus, “Master”.  Let me pause there.  Master is okay, but it might not be the best translation.  In the Gospels people address Jesus as “teacher” or “rabbi” or even as “lord”, but unique in Luke’s Gospel, people occasionally address him as epistata.  An epistates is someone in charge, someone with authority.  The ten lepers address Jesus as epistata.  The disciples, when they were in the boat being tossed around by the storm, addressed him as epistata.  That’s how Peter addresses Jesus here.  “We were working hard all night and caught nothing.  But okay, Master.  You’re the boss, you’re calling the shots here.  So if you say so, I’ll let down the nets.”

Peter sounds like he’s letting down his nets grudgingly.  I wonder if that’s how it really was.  He’s been convicted in his own heart of how he’s been half-hearted in serving the Lord.  He’s just been hearing Jesus preach about God taking care of flowers and birds.  Or something along those lines, because we know Jesus liked to preach on that topic.  It was exactly what fickle, half-hearted Israel needed to hear.  So Peter probably didn’t want to go through the hassle of letting down his nets again, but I think he wanted to trust that through Jesus, the God of Israel really would look after him.  Jesus might not know anything about fishing, but Peter had seen that Jesus had authority and that he took charge of things—whether demons or blindness or sickness or even the fish in the sea.  He could see, plain as day, that the God of Israel was working through Jesus.  Peter was thinking on those words: “Seek first the kingdom of God and all these thing will be added to you.”

 

I think the main reason Luke records these words from Peter about having fished all night and caught nothing is that he wants to remind us that this is the way the Lord works.  Jesus is telling Peter to fish at the worst possible time to fish.  Jesus does this throughout the Gospels.  He hears that Lazarus is sick and near to death, but then he waits three days before going—time enough for Lazarus to be well and truly dead.  So instead of healing Lazarus from sickness, he raises him from the dead and calls him out of his tomb.  Or think of the woman who was bleeding for twelve years or the man who was blind from birth.  In that last instance Jesus had the opportunity to explain why these things happened.  The disciples with their conventional wisdom assumed that either the man or his parents were great sinners and that the Lord had punished him with blindness.  But Jesus said that, no, the man was born blind that God might reveal his glory.  Because that’s how the God of Israel works and Israel is the chief example.  The Lord allowed his people to become slaves in Egypt so that he might display his glory both to them and to the watching nations.  In the events of the Exodus the God of Israel exposed the king and the gods of Egypt as frauds, totally lacking the great power and authority they claimed to have.  The God of Israel single-handedly beat the gods of Egypt at their own games and humbled mighty Pharaoh—the greatest king on earth—and drowned his army in the sea.  And at the same time, in Israel, he created a people who would forever be singing his praises and announcing his glory to the nations.  All because they had watched him do the impossible.  Every newborn baby boy was circumcised and, in that, he was given the sign of God’s covenant promise.  And every year the fathers of Israel led their families as they ate the Passover meal and recalled the Lord’s promises and the glory he displayed on their behalf in the Exodus.

 

Jesus was doing the same thing.  He had come to lead the people in a new exodus and along the way, he was acting out that exodus, that divine deliverance as he did the impossible—and the more impossible the better, because the more power and authority it displayed.  Why had Peter (and James and John, his partners) why had they been skunked that night?  I don’t know.  Maybe Peter said something unkind to his wife before leaving that night.  Maybe he’d shorted the Lord in his tithing that week.  Maybe he’d dallied too long with that dancing girl the day before.  Maybe Peter thought his empty nets were punishment for some sin.  But if he’d asked Jesus, “Why did I toil all night and catch nothing?  Did I sin?”  Jesus would have said, “No, Peter.  It was so that the Lord, the God of Israel, would be glorified.”

 

And that’s exactly what happens.  Luke writes, beginning at verse 6 that when they let down their nets, they caught such a huge number of fish that their nets began to break.  Usually they’d fish all night for a catch that wouldn’t break their nets, but now Peter let down his net and before he could even pull it back into the boat to keep from becoming over-full of fish, the catch was so great that it strained the integrity of the net.  I assume it was just he and Jesus in the boat and he and Jesus were, themselves, straining to pull the net in.  They signalled to their partners in the other boat to come and help them, Luke writes.  So they came, and filled both the boats, and they began to sink.

And right there, in a sinking boat, with fish wriggling all around them, Luke writes that Peter took stock of everything that had just happened.  He fell down at Jesus’ knees.  “Depart from me, Lord!” he said, “Because I’m a sinful man!”  James and John, the sons of Zebedee, Simon Peter’s partners were just as amazed, Luke writes.  But being in the other boat, they couldn’t kneel at Jesus’ knees.  But Peter knelt there convicted of his sins by this amazing display of God’s glory.  I found myself asking this week why Peter didn’t have this same reaction when Jesus healed his mother-in-law.  Why was Peter’s mother-in-law sick?  For the same reason: so that Jesus could display the glory of the God of Israel.  Presumably Peter was impressed when he saw the healing.  But it didn’t impact him the way the multitude of fish did.  And maybe that’s because Peter was a fisherman, not a doctor.  It highlight the fact that God gets to each of us in different ways to convict us of sin and to move us to faith.  Every one of us has a different story of how God got hold of us.  That, too, is how he works.  But one way or another, each of us has been amazed and captivated by the glory of God.

 

Our reactions to that revelation are often different too.  Some people encountered God’s glory and were moved to faith as Jesus wiped away their tears.  Peter, however, is met by that glory and is moved to tears.  He knew how the prophets had preached about the coming judgement of Israel for her sins.  He’d heard Jesus preach—not just the warm-fuzzies, but also the announcement of soon-coming judgement.  And when he saw the glory of God, when he experienced the presence of the holy, Peter found himself overwhelmed by his own sinfulness.  He knew he didn’t belong in the presence of the holy.  He knew he belonged with those people who would find themselves in the outer darkness weeping and gnashing their teeth.  He responded just like Isaiah when he found himself in the presence of the holiness of God.  Remember Isaiah.  He cried out, “Woe is me!  For I am lost.  For I am a man of unclean lips and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips.  For my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” (Isaiah 6:5).  But it was just as Isaiah acknowledged his sinfulness that an angel flew down to touch his lips with a cleansing and holy fire.  The angel announced that his guilt had departed and that his sin had been blotted out.  And when the Lord called out, “Whom shall I send?  Who will go for us?  Who will proclaim my message to Israel?”  Isaiah cried out, “Here I am!  Send me!”

 

And it’s that scene all over again in that sinking fishing boat on the Sea of Galilee with fish wriggling all around.  Peter knelt there shaking at Jesus kneels and Jesus said, “Don’t be afraid.  From now on you’ll be catching men!”  Jesus is, himself, the holy fire who purifies us from our sins.

 

Now, it doesn’t come across in our English translations, but when Jesus says that Peter will be catching men, that “catching” isn’t usually a word associated with fishing.  It has the sense of catching someone or something alive—like a warrior catching an enemy, but sparing his life.  There’s a reason behind Jesus’ odd choice of words.  What he’s doing is echoing the words of Jeremiah 16.  There, through the Prophet, the Lord announced the judgement that was about to come on the people of Judea for their unfaithfulness and their idolatry.  The Babylonians would come and none would escape.  The Lord says, “I am sending for many fishers, declares the Lord, and they shall catch them…For my eyes are on their ways.  They are not hidden from me, nor is their iniquity concealed form my eyes.”  Jesus draws on the common Greek translation of the prophet.  He uses the same word: catch.  The people of Judea in those days wouldn’t be killed, but neither would they escape the judgement of exile.  But now Jesus flips the imagery around.  The people of Judah are still in their long exile, still experiencing the punishment brought by their sins, but now the Lord will send fishers again, this time to catch sinners and to rescue them alive from the coming judgement.  What was in Jeremiah’s day an image of the Lord’s judgement on sinners, Jesus now turns into an image of God’s mercy for them.  As Jesus says in John’s Gospel, “God did not send the son into the world to condemn the world, but so that the world could be saved by him.”  That’s what Jesus has come to do.  And even though only he can go to the cross to accomplish the redemption of sinners, he’s not going on this fishing trip alone.  He’s calling Peter (and James and John and eventually a whole host of men and women that we call the church) to go fishing with him, to catch men and women that they—that we—might be delivered from our sins and from the coming judgement.

 

How much of this did Peter understand that day?  Probably not much.  But what he did know is that in Jesus the God of Israel was at work.  He knew that judgement was inevitable and he knew that somehow and in some way the Lord was making deliverance possible through Jesus.  He had seen the glory of the Lord and there was no going back.  And so, Luke writes, They brought their boats to land, then they abandoned everything and followed him.

Peter walked away from all of it.  The boats, the net, the sea, the fish.  They had been his source of security.  That’s what he’d trusted.  But he heard that reminder from Jesus: Seek first God’s kingdom, and all these things will be added to you.  If the Lord could fill his nets to bursting just to make this point, Peter was ready to trust him with everything—to give his full allegiance to Jesus the Messiah.  If God could do this, he could do anything.  And so Peter gave his allegiance to the Lord Jesus.  And he knew hardship and he knew persecution and eventually he would even come to know martyrdom.  His faith and his love for Jesus would eventually lead him from Jerusalem all the way to Rome and all along the way he proclaimed the glory of God.  All the way he proclaimed the good news that Jesus died to forgive sins and rose to restore God’s life to us and to the world, and that this Jesus is the Lord of all who shows us the glory of his Father.  Peter went out into the world to challenge the fake gods and the fake kings in whom we trust, and proclaimed the crucified and risen Lord so that everyone would know the glory of the one, true God.  Peter eventually died for that message.  But Peter knew that his risen Lord was master over death itself, just as he'd been master over all those fish that one morning years before.  And so he trusted Jesus’ promise: Seek first God’s kingdom and his righteousness—even if it means martyrdom—and he will take care of you.

 

Let’s pray: Father, you have called us and made us your people.  You send us out, like Simon Peter, to fish for people that they might know the life of your kingdom.  When we’re tempted to protest, thinking that we are unworthy of the task, that we are too sinful, that we aren’t up to it, remind us that in Jesus you have forgiven us, that you have made us holy, that you have filled us with your Spirit, and that you have given us this remarkable and irresistible story to tell the world, this story of your goodness, your love, your grace, your mercy, and your faithfulness.  Your glory.  Give us the grace to do the work of your kingdom as we trust in your faithfulness to us and to all who hear it.  Amen.

Romans 8:17-23

by William Klock

Sometimes you have to stand back and look at the big picture when you want to find your way.  Think of going to a strange town and getting lost going from street to street and intersection to intersection.  When I first started working in Bellingham I kept getting lost when I was out making service calls.  I have a good sense of direction.  I don’t usually need a map—which is what had back then before Siri.  But what’s now Bellingham was originally five separate towns, each with its own street grid that didn’t match up.  Then, to make matters worse, when they ran Interstate 5 through the city, they cut it in half and left only a handful of thorougfares connecting everything.  Our service manager handed me a nifty spiral-bound “Guide of Whatcom County” and said: “New guy takes the map.”  A map lets you get above everything.  It gives you a bird’s eye view,  so that you can see the lay of the land.  The big picture helps you get your bearings.

 

We need something like that for the Bible.  As kids we read books full of disconnected “Bible stories”.  We know Adam and Abraham and Moses and Jesus, but we struggle to know how their stories are related and part of the bigger story.  As adults the most common approach to reading the Bible—when we read it!—is the cover-to-cover, Genesis-to-Revelation approach.  Don’t misunderstand; any type of Bible reading is good Bible reading, but the order the books of the Bible are arranged in isn’t chronological and doesn’t do much to help us see the “big picture”.  Even Bible scholars and theologians aren’t immune from missing the big picture.  They’re often so focused on the individual trees that it becomes easy to inadvertently forget the shape of the forest.

 

I say this because our Epistle from Romans 8 this morning is one those wonderful, short passages that bring us back to the big picture of the Good News, of God’s redemption and renewal of humanity and of his entire Creation.  But even here we might miss it.  Many Christians reading through Romans miss the big picture here because they are not expecting Paul’s language of God subjecting his Creation to futility and bondage and of that Creation waiting in with eager longing.  And yet our Epistle this morning is St. Paul leading us right to the climax of his letter to the Romans.  Paul walks us up a mountain so we can see the lay of the land, where we’ve come from, where we’re going, and how it all fits together.

 

We don’t have time this morning to get into the details of Paul’s line of reasoning in the first half of Romans, but what he does in those chapters is to work his way through the story of Israel and all her ups and downs—and for Israel things were mostly “down”.  And now in Chapter 8 he begins talking about the life in the flesh versus life in the Spirit and the law of sin and death versus the law of the Spirit.  This is where, in verse 11, he famously writes that if the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead lives in us, the One who raised Jesus from the dead will also give life to our mortal bodies—if we are in Jesus the Messiah we live in hope of the same resurrection he has experienced.  But even more than that, Paul goes on to write, through our union with Jesus we are children and heirs of God, fellow heirs with Christ—that means sharing in Jesus’ inheritance.  But what is that?  Paul writes in verse 17 that it means to suffer with him so that we can be glorified with him.  The Christian life—life with Jesus—for Paul means two things: suffering and glory.  Suffering is a given as we long for glory.

 

And so we should what Paul mean by “glory”?  And what about suffering?  Most Christians living through the last two thousand years have understood that suffering is part of our calling as we follow Jesus.  Jesus promised it.  The New Testament writers talk about it often—and most of them faced it themselves and were martyred for proclaiming the lordship of Jesus.  Many of our brothers and sisters today are persecuted for their faith in various parts of the world.  And yet in the West—probably in part because we haven’t faced persecution for such a long time—many Christians have no place for suffering in their theology.  Many even go so far as to say that if you’re experiencing suffering—sickness, poverty, rejection or anything else negative—it’s due to a lack of faith.  But that’s just the opposite of what Jesus taught and it’s just the opposite of what Paul teaches here.  The inheritance we share with Jesus is one of suffering that leads to glory.  What this means is at the centre of our Epistle and Paul goes on in verse 18:

 

This is how I work it out.  Knowing the Scriptures, knowing Jesus, working under the Spirit’s inspiration, this is the only conclusion Paul can reach.  He’s been building this argument for eight chapters in Romans and here he reaches the inevitable conclusion: those who will be glorified will first face suffering, but he’s also worked out that this suffering can’t begin to compare with the glory to be unveiled in us.

 

Think about what a powerful statement that was when Paul wrote this.  When he writes that word “suffering” most of us probably read into that whatever our own trials and tribulations are.  That’s fine.  But what did Paul have in mind?  Later in the chapter, in verses 35-36 he writes that nothing will separate us from the love of Christ—nothing—and then he goes on to detail the sorts of suffering that he and other Christians were facing—things people might think mean that God doesn’t love them, things they might think show a lack of faith, things that might separate them from Jesus.  Here’s his list: hardship or distress, persecution or famine, nakedness or peril or sword.  And he quotes from Psalm 44: “For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted sheep to be slaughtered.”  These things are far worse than the sorts of suffering any of us are likely to face.  And as horrible as this suffering was, none of it could compare with the glory to be unveiled in us—no amount of suffering could make the glory not worth it.

 

But what is the glory Paul’s writing about?  Paul says this glory will be revealed in us.  It’s a sense of this glory being bestowed on us as a gift—and this makes perfect sense when we remember what Paul said before: that if we are in Christ, then we will share in and we will participate in his inheritance.

 

And then what’s the inheritance?  Well, consider: Who is Jesus?  He is Lord.  His glory is revealed or it’s unveiled in his glorious and sovereign rule of Creation and Paul is saying here that the glory we wait for with eager longing, the glory that is the basis for our hope as Christians is not glory in the sense many people often think.  We often think of “glory” as a place or a state of being.  When a Christian dies we often hear people say that he or she has gone on or been promoted to “glory”.  Brothers and Sisters, “glory” isn’t going to heaven when you die.  As Jesus’ glory is his sovereign rule over Creation, so the glory to be revealed in us is our participation, our sharing in the sovereign and saving rule of Jesus.  And this is why he says what he does in verse 19:

 

If our hope, if our glory—as it is so often wrongly portrayed—was for the destruction of this world and an eternity of disembodied existence in heaven with God, then the Creation would have no reason to eagerly long for that glory to be revealed.  What Paul describes here is the opposite: God’s Creation is waiting for the great day when its true rulers are revealed, the sons and daughters of God, and when it will be delivered from corruption.  Look at verses 20-22:

 

This is where we need to stand back and look at the big picture.  Everything Paul’s saying here is dependent on that.  It’s the big picture the Bible gives of us of God’s Creation, from beginning to end.  We read in Genesis that God created and that everything was good.  We even read there that when he created human beings he looked at his handiwork and declared us not just “good”, but “very good”.  But we look around us now and have to wonder what happened.  War is always ranging somewhere, there’s violence everywhere, there’s greed and corruption everywhere.  Justice is in short supply and so are the basic things that people need to survive—maybe not in our part of the world, but for billions of others.  And yet even if we don’t pay attention to the big evils that play out on the international scene—or even on the local scene, for that matter—we only have to look at the struggles that we have ourselves and that we share with our family and friends to keep away from sin and to do good.  Hate is easy; love is hard.  Paul knew it.  The Roman Christians knew it.  We know it.

 

So Paul tells the story of Creation in the book of Romans, but he tells it as Israel’s story.  We don’t have time to run through the whole book this morning obviously, but Paul’s point is that the whole Creation is enslaved in the same sort of way that Israel was in Egypt.  And right there we get a glimmer of hope.  Remember, when Israel went down to Egypt—we read about that in the story of Jacob and Joseph—it was all according to the Lord’s plan.  The Lord arranged for Joseph to become a slave in Egypt so that through him he could rescue his people.  Egypt started out good for Israel.  When things turned around under a new king who enslaved Israel, it wasn’t because the Lord had ceased to be good and it wasn’t because the Lord was no longer in control.  No.  We learn later that the Lord allowed the Israelites to become slaves in Egypt so that he could then manifest his glorious sovereignty to everyone—to Israel in rescuing her and to the Egyptians by showing his power over her false gods and over her mighty horses and chariots.  In the Exodus, the Lord marked Israel forever as the people he had freed from slavery, people to whom he had given a new life.  That became their national identity, celebrated every year in the Passover.

 

In all of that Paul is working up to his point here.  As the Lord allowed Israel to fall into bondage to Egypt, so he has allowed his good Creation to be subjected to death and decay.  We may look around and wonder if things are hopeless.  Every time one war ends and we see peace break out another war begins somewhere else.  We work hard to lift this group out of poverty, but then that group over there falls into it.  We cure one disease only to have two new ones crop up.  Isaiah wrote about a day when the lion would lie down with the lamb and we look around us and wonder if that’s ever going to happen.

 

And Paul assures us: Yes, it’s for real.  This is God’s promise.  No matter how bad things are, this is still his good Creation and he has promised to put everything to rights.  Even as he cast Adam and Eve from the garden he was promising them that he would one day overcome sin and restore everything to the way it should be.  Genesis shows things going from bad to worse.  It shows us humanity losing even the very knowledge of God and sinking into paganism and idolatry.  But then it tells us how God came to Abraham and established a covenant with him.  The Lord promised that through Abraham and his family he would restore not only humanity, but all of Creation and here Paul reminds us what that means, what it looks like and why the Creation itself would long for it to happen.

 

Again, we need the big picture—we need to remember where things started.  In Genesis we read that the Lord created human beings to be his image bearers.  The Lord built a temple for himself.  When the pagans built their temples, they placed images of their gods in them made of wood or stone, but in his own temple God placed human beings to represent his sovereignty and to rule his creation with wisdom and justice—to have dominion and to subdue Creation in the Lord’s name.  That’s what it meant for humanity to bear God’s image: to be his stewards, the priests of his temple.  But then we chose to rebel.  As Paul writes in Romans 1, we chose to worship the Creation instead of the Creator.  We subjected the Lord’s good creation to corruption.

 

Now, in light of that, it should make sense that Creation is longing for the day when our inheritance is revealed.  That’s the day when Creation will be set free from the corruption we brought on it.  That’s the day when we, Creation’s stewards will be restored and renewed and put back in charge, reigning with Jesus.  Again, think back to Israel.  God chose and called her, he rescued her, he made her his people, he sent her to the nations to bring healing and restoration.  But she rebelled and she rejected her mission.  And yet the Lord didn’t give up and he didn’t change his plan to redeem his Creation through Israel.  He simply sent a faithful Israelite—he sent Jesus.  And Jesus not only redeemed Israel by dying in her place, he established a new Israel in his own person, a new people to be a light to the nations—this time equipped by the Holy Spirit.

 

This is what Paul is getting at in verse 23.  It’s not just the Creation that groans in eager longing:

 

 

The Lord hasn’t given up on his Creation any more than he gave up on Israel.  Creation is eagerly waiting for its rightful stewards to be set right.  On that great day the Lord will make all things new and restore his redeemed people to their rightful place as good, wise, and just rulers of Creation—as the faithful priests of his temple.  This is what it means for our glory to be revealed.  The big picture, the story of redemption, reminds us that this was how it was supposed to be from the beginning.  And so we groan and we wait eagerly too.  We live in the mess we’ve made here in the world.  We live with sin and with sickness and with death, and yet we live in hope, knowing that what God has begun in Jesus he will one day complete.

 

And we can hope because our God has given us the firstfruits of his new creation.  He’s given a down payment on what he has promised.  The present age and its rulers have been decisively defeated by Jesus at the cross and the empty tomb and God’s new age has been inaugurated.  Jesus is Lord.  He truly is God’s King.  He’s given us his Spirit—Paul describes the Spirit here as the firstfruits—and that’s because we live in the overlap between these two ages, these two kingdoms.  The Jews brought the firstfruits of the harvest—usually sheaves of grain harvested at the very beginning of the season—as offerings to God.  They offered them in good years and even in bad years in faith that God would provide the rest of the harvest.  And so the Spirit is the sign of hope for us.  The life he gives to us here and now is a reminder that encourages our faith and hope in the resurrection and the new creation to come.  We groan and we sigh, we wait longingly in eager expectation, but our hope is certain because God is faithful and keeps his promises.  The prophet Habakkuk wrote that one day the glory of the Lord will fill the earth as the waters cover the sea.  Brothers and Sisters, when that seems impossible, we only need remember the cross of Jesus, his empty tomb, and his gift of the Holy Spirit.

 

But our faith is not a complacent faith.  We haven’t been redeemed by Jesus and given the gift of the Spirit so that we can retreat into a sort of personal holiness or private piety while we wait for Jesus to return.  Not at all.  Jesus has inaugurated this new age in his resurrection and somehow someday the making new that began in his resurrection will encompass all of Creation and you and I are called, in the power of the Spirit, to embody that renewing work here and now.  How is Habakkuk’s prophecy going to be fulfilled?  How does the knowledge of the glory of the Lord spread to cover the earth?  Brothers and Sisters, that’s our mission.  We’re called to proclaim to the world the Good News that Jesus is Lord and that his kingdom is here and now.  Our mission is to call the world to repentance and faith.  But don’t forget: We are also called to live out repentance and faith in our lives in such a way that we lift the veil on the kingdom and that we give a glimpse to the world of what heaven on earth looks like.  So far as we are able to do so today, we are called to exercise the good dominion that was given to Adam—we are called to be stewards of God’s temple, of his Creation.  Jesus has led the way for us here as the second Adam.  In his earthly ministry he made his Father’s new creation known in practical ways to the people around him and so should we.  In a word full of sin we should be visible in seeking after holiness.  In a world full of war and injustice, we should visible and at the forefront working for peace and justice.  In a world full of hurting and sickness, we should be seeking to make the healing ministry of Jesus known.  In a world full of anger and hate, we should be working for forgiveness and reconciliation.

 

If you’re like me you might get discouraged thinking about that mission.  When I think of these things I think of things that we as Christians can do to bring Jesus and his glory to the world in “big” ways.  I think of Christians—and there are so often so few of us—working on the big international scene or I think of missionaries going to far off countries.  And then I get discouraged.  That’s far away.  It’s bigger than me.  But Friends, never forget that for every St. Paul or St. Peter, there were thousands of ordinary saints manifesting Jesus in their ordinary lives, proclaiming the Good News, and building the kingdom right where they were.  We fulfil Jesus’ calling to us as we raise covenant children to walk with him in faith and to live the values of his kingdom.  We fulfil Jesus’ calling when we work for peace and reconciliation with our neighbours, in our workplaces, and in our schools.  We fulfil Jesus’ calling when we forgive as we have been forgiven.  We fulfil Jesus’ calling when we love the hard-to-love people around us, knowing that we ourselves are hard-to-love too, but that Jesus loved us enough to die for us.  We fulfil Jesus’ calling when we sacrifice ourselves, our rights, our prerogatives, our time, and our treasure in order to make Jesus and his love known.  In everything we do, we should be seeking to give the world signs and foretastes of God’s new creation.

 

Let us pray: Heavenly Father, as we asked earlier in the collect we ask again for grace to pass through the trials of this life without losing the things of eternal importance.  Remind us that the suffering we experience cannot begin to compare with the glory to be revealed in us.  Remind us always of the suffering that Jesus endured for our sake, that in love and gratitude we might suffer too for the sake of making him known.  And as we think of Jesus’ death and resurrection and as we live the life given by your Spirit, fill us with hope and faith, knowing that the glory inaugurated in us today will one day be fully accomplished in our own resurrection and the restoration of all your Creation.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

In today’s Gospel St. Luke tells us that: All the tax collectors and sinners were drawing new to listen to Jesus.  You would think faithful Israelites would be happy about that.  After all, Jesus was calling them to repentance.  The Pharisees had been doing that for generations and without much success.  But when Jesus did it, crowds of sinners gathered to hear what he had to say.  But, says Luke, instead of rejoicing: The Pharisees and the scribes [they were the legal experts] were grumbling.  “This fellow welcomes sinners!” they said.  “He even eats with them!”

And we can gather that they didn’t just grumble this to themselves.  They grumbled it out loud to Jesus and So—this is Luke 15, in verse 3—and So Jesus told them this parable: “Who amongst you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, wouldn’t leave the ninety-nine in the countryside and go off looking for the lost one until you found it?  And when you found it, you’d carry it back home on your shoulders, rejoicing.  And you’d call your friends and neighbours in.  “Come and rejoice with me,” you’d say to them, “because I’ve found my lost sheep!”

Jesus smiled at the Pharisees like he was the one who had found his lost sheep and was inviting them to a party to celebrate.  But they just scowled at him all the more.  But why?  This is what they longed for.  There’s a saying of the rabbis that came later, but it still speaks accurately of the Pharisees who were their predecessors.  They said that if everyone in Israel obeyed the law, even if only for a single day, the Lord would return to them.  So why were they so angry when Jesus was moving sinners to repentance?

 

Well, a bit about the Pharisees.  They were a group or a party—if we were talking about Christians, you could almost-but-not-quite think of them as a “denomination”.  Like nearly everyone in Israel, they knew the Lord’s promises that one day he would return to his people and set this broken world to rights.  They longed for that day.  They knew that the Lord had left the temple and allowed it and Jerusalem and Judea to be destroyed by the Babylonians and for the people to be carried away to Babylon in exile as punishment for being unfaithful.  They hadn’t obeyed his law, but worse, they had bowed to foreign kings and worshipped other gods.  And even though the people had returned to Judea and they’d rebuilt the temple, the Lord’s presence had never returned and the land was still ruled by foreign pagan kings.  And that meant that the exile had never really ended.  Israel was still being punished for her unfaithfulness.  And so the main business of the Pharisees was calling the people of Israel to be faithful to God’s law.  They urged the people to be holy.  And if everyone would do that, maybe their long exile would finally end and the Lord would return.

 

And right at the centre of everything the Pharisees did was the temple.  The temple was the one place—or at least it was before the exile—it was the one place where heaven and earth and where God and human beings met.  It was a bubble of hope in a dark world.  It was what creation is supposed to be.  Heaven and earth, God and man had been separated by sin, but in the temple God had created a place where everything was as it should be—or at least a taste of it—until Israel’s unfaithfulness and idolatry messed that up just as Adam and Eve had messed up Eden.  So the Pharisees resolved to live their lives as if they were perpetually in the temple.  They weren’t priests, but they lived like priests anyway.  All the time.  And they urged everyone else to live this way too.  And that made them popular with some people, while other people resented them.

 

The problem with the Pharisees’ way of life was that only rich people could afford to live that way.  Because it wasn’t just that they avoided sin—God called everyone in Israel to do that—but they also did their best to stay ritually, ceremonially pure at all times—like the priests in the temple.  They were ready for the Lord’s presence to return at any moment and they’d be prepared to be in it.  The problem was that normal people were ritually impure a lot of the time.  It wasn’t a sin thing.  You only had to be ritually pure when it came time to go to the temple or eat the Passover, the rest of the time it didn’t much matter.  Women became impure when they menstruated.  Farmers became impure birthing livestock or dealing with dead animals.  If a family member died and you had to touch the body, you were then ritually impure.  For some people impurity was an almost daily thing.  Again, nothing to do with sin.  It was about what the Lord required of his people before entering his presence in the temple.  But what it meant was that regular people could never meet the demands of the Pharisees.

 

So the Pharisees were well-meaning.  They understood God’s grace.  Contrary to popular opinion, they weren’t trying to earn their way into God’s favour.  But there’s something that seems to happen whenever people start looking for ways to be holy above and beyond the ordinary or when we start making rules for ourselves that God didn’t give us in the first place.  It happened with monastics in the Middle Ages, when celibacy became a sign of holiness and ordinary Christian—who were faithfully fruitful and multiplying as God commanded in the beginning—were made to feel unholy and second-class.  It happened with the Methodist Holiness Movement in the Seventeenth Century, with what started out as Wesley’s desire to simply see Christians being more faithfully holy turning into a movement where Christian brothers and sisters were frowned on for putting sugar in their tea rather than drinking it black and giving the money to the poor.  It eventually led to people thinking that the gift of God’s Spirit was a separate event in the life of the Christian that you had to earn by reaching a certain level of holiness—turning the Christian life completely upside-down.

 

So wanting to be more holy is a good thing, but certain ways of doing it seem to have a powerful tendency to make us self-righteous.  Even when we know that being God’s people is all about grace, we can still act very self-righteously.  It happened to the Pharisees and it can happen to us.  And so they rightly saw that the world is not what it should be.  It’s full of sin and pain and tears and that’s all because of unholiness and sin.  They knew that only God can ultimately set it to rights, but they also knew that God’s people—whether Israel in the Old Testament or the Church in the New—we’re called to live God’s law—the torah in the Old Testament and the law of the Spirit in the New—we’re called to live God’s law and through that to became bubbles of God’s new creation, his future world set to rights, we’re called to be bubbles of that here in the present.  But some people out there are obstinate in their sin.  Some people are really awful sinners and we can literally watch as they make a mess of the world around them.  They do things that drag others into sin.  For the Pharisees that was the tax collectors, who collaborated with the Romans and who stole from their own people.  It was prostitutes, who not only sinned themselves, but who enticed others into sin.  Pharisees could see the fallout as men destroyed their lives and families because of prostitution.  These things were grievously wrong and sinful.  They were choices people made and they were conscious rejections of God’s covenant.  They weren’t just people who stumbled into sin; they were traitors to the covenant people, choosing sin and making the world worse.  And so the Pharisees—and I’m sure even ordinary people in Israel—they longed for the Lord to deal with these sinners.  And that’s good.  And I expect they prayed: Lord, bring Matthew the tax collector, bring Mary the prostitute, to repentance—or smite them.  Either way, put an end to the sin.  And, again, that’s what God does with sinners.  They were right to pray that way.

 

But, again, something happens when we start making rules for ourselves that mark us out as especially holy.  First, we forget that even if our sins aren’t as heinous, none of us is ever perfect or sinless.  We all contribute in some way to the mess this world is in and the pain and the tears of the people around us.  But, maybe worse, we can start to resent when those really bad sinners don’t get their just comeuppance.  Self-righteousness creeps in and grace and mercy get pushed out even though we know better, and we start longing to see God’s judgement fall on sinners and we become resentful when they do repent—like the men in another of Jesus’ parables who were angry when they, who had worked through the heat of the day, received the same wage as the men who had only worked an hour.  The Pharisees expected the Messiah to come in judgement on the unfaithful in Israel, to smite the tax collectors and the prostitutes and all the other sinners, but instead Jesus was eating with them.  The Pharisees knew that if Jesus was the Messiah, sharing a meal with him was like a promise of the great banquet that the Lord had promised the prophets, the great banquet that would take place when Israel was restored, when the world was set to rights, and when sinners were wiped from the earth for ever.  That banquet was for people like the Pharisees.  The tax collectors and sinners were supposed to be outside in the dark, weeping and gnashing their teeth—suffering the Lord’s wrath because they’d missed their chance for repentance.  Even though they knew that being the people of God was about grace, the Pharisees had managed to become self-righteous.

 

But there was a second thing about the Pharisees.  Remember that they were all about the temple.  They weren’t priests.  They couldn’t live in and around the temple the way the priests did, so they had their way of bringing the temple to themselves by following the purity codes for the priests in their everyday lives.  They wanted to see things on earth as they are in heaven.  But as they followed Jesus around and watched him, one thing that we might miss, but that stood out like a sore thumb to them, was that he bypassed the temple.  According to the law, for a sinner to be right again with the Lord, he had to repent of his sins, he had to make restitution for his sins, and he had to offer a sacrifice at the temple.  But time after time, they watched as Jesus simply forgave sinners and sent them on their way.  Repeatedly, Jesus bypassed the temple, the priests, and the sacrificial system altogether.  That absolutely infuriated the Pharisees.  The Messiah—so they thought—should have been reinforcing the importance of the temple, but instead Jesus was bypassing it.  In fact, when he did go to the temple, he upset everything and brought the sacrifices to a halt while people ran around to collect all the animals he’d scattered.  And then he was announcing that he would destroy and rebuild it in three days.  This, I think more than anything else, made the Pharisees angry.  In Jesus, the God of Israel was doing something new.  In Jesus, the God of Israel had begun the process of uniting earth and heaven, when he took on human flesh.  In Jesus, the God of Israel had begun the work of creating a new people for himself, a people who instead of having a temple, would themselves be the temple as he poured his own Spirit into them.  That’s why Jesus was bypassing the temple and offering people forgiveness apart from the priests and sacrificial system.  This is why Jesus was announcing and acting out prophecies of the temple’s destruction.  But the Pharisees just couldn’t let go of the temple.  They couldn’t accept that in Jesus, the Lord was creating a new one.  If the tax collectors and sinners had first gone to the temple to offer sacrifices for their sins and then been welcomed by Jesus, the Pharisees would have rejoiced.  But for Jesus to forgive them and then celebrate with them without the temple in between.  Well, that was blasphemy.  That’s why they grumbled.

 

And so Jesus told them the simply story of the man who lost a sheep.  Some of them owned sheep.  They paid shepherds to look after them, but they knew the value of a sheep.  If you and I who have never shepherded sheep a day in our lives can identify with the joyful shepherd who celebrated finding his sheep, so could the Pharisees.  “Which one of you wouldn’t rejoice in that situation,” Jesus asks them.  He knew the answer and so did they.

 

But just to drive his point home, Jesus tells a second story in verse 8.  We go from one of ninety-nine being lost to now one of ten.  There’s a third parable about the prodigal son.  It follows, but isn’t part of today’s Gospel, but in that story Jesus goes from one of ten to one of two).  But Jesus said to them: Or a woman having ten drachmas [those were little silver coins] loses one of them.  Will she not light a lamp and sweep the house, and hunt carefully until she finds it!  And when she finds it she’ll call her friends and neighbours in.  “Come!” she’ll say.  “Celebrate with me because I’ve found my lost coin!”

I get this one.  A while ago the freehub on my road bike seized up.  The freehub is the thing in the back that lets the wheel spin when you’re not pedalling and then engages when you do pedal.  It’s full of tiny ball bearings—lots of ball bearings.  I took it apart to clean out all the grit that had got into it and when I went to put it back together I was missing three of those tiny ball bearings.  I turned on all the lights in the garage and hunted.  Eventually I swept the whole floor and then went through the dustpan with a magnet.  And I found one and I rejoiced and I found a second and I rejoiced.  And I really, really would have rejoiced if I’d found that third one, but I didn’t.  I still haven’t.  And I had to buy a new freehub.  So I get the story.  You get the story.  The Pharisees would have got it too.

 

So we’ve gone from a shepherd well enough off to have a hundred sheep to a woman with only ten drachmas.  They were probably her bridal headdress, but that there were only ten coins says that she was poor.  Headdresses with hundreds of coins were common.  We can imagine this elderly widow taking out her precious bridal headdress and putting it on to remember that day so long ago.  And when she goes to put it away she notices one of the ten coins is missing.  She doesn’t see it anywhere and panics.  The sort of house a woman like that lived in was small and dark—hard to see anything small—so she sweeps the whole house.  And finally she finds it and she’s so excited she runs to tell her friends so that they can share her joy.  And, again, there’s that question.  “If this happened to you, wouldn’t you rejoice?”  Of course they would.

 

Two-thousand years distant we understand the stories, we sympathise with the shepherd and with the woman.  I bet that everyone who reads these stories immediately thinks of some time when something like this happened to them and the Pharisees were no different.  Jesus really drives the point home: If we can rejoice over a lost sheep or a lost coin that we’ve found, how much more ought we to rejoice over a lost sinner who repents.  Jesus strikes at their self-righteousness and lack of mercy.  God had once rescued them when they were lost in Egypt and slaves to Pharaoh.  He’d delivered Israel and claimed them as his own.  He even named Israel his son.  He naturally grieves over those who reject his gracious covenant and he just as naturally rejoices when they receive his grace and return.  I fully expect the Pharisees understood this was what Jesus was getting at, but just to make sure he says it out loud at the end of each story:

 

“Let me tell you: that’s how glad they will be in heaven over one sinner who repents—more than over ninety-nine righteous people who don’t need repentance…[and]…that’s how glad God’s angels feel when a single sinner repents.”

You see, their idea of “on earth as in heaven” had gradually come to mean condemning sinners and consigning them to God’s judgement.  But Jesus is saying, if you want to see what’s going on in heaven stop looking to the temple.  That worked in the past, but in me God is doing something new.  Again, this is part of the reason why Jesus was forgiving sins and declaring people clean.  He was acting out and showing people how he is the new temple.  In him heaven and earth have come together.  In Jesus we have the firstfruits and a foretaste of God’s redemption and his new creation.  So in these parables Jesus is telling the Pharisees, if you want to manifest on earth what is happening in heaven, look at what I am doing, not at the old temple.  And in Jesus and in his banquets with tax collectors and sinners we see that God truly loves sinners and that he’s sent Jesus not to condemn us in our sin, but to rescue us and to lead us back to him in repentance and faith.  We’re reminded here of Jesus’ words in John 3:16-17:

 

The restoration of sinners was so important to God, that he was doing something dramatically new—and instead of rejoicing over what Jesus was doing, the Pharisees were rejecting him.  The Pharisees were partly right.  They were right to look forward to a day of coming judgement when God’s Son would come to condemn sinners and to vindicate the righteous.  What they got wrong was that it never occurred to them that God would send his Son, not just at the end of history, but would first send him into the middle of history, to call sinners to repentance and to offer himself as a sacrifice for their sins.  To step into the middle of history to set a group of people to rights so that they would be his means of proclaiming his kingdom and his gracious forgiveness of sins—his gospel—to the world, so that when he does return at the end of history we won’t be condemned.  In this we see the love of God.  He didn’t cast humanity from his presence with a “Good riddance!”  That’s what the Pharisees would have done.  Instead, when we sundered heaven and earth, God graciously set in motion a plan to bring us back together.

 

Brothers and Sisters, Jesus has sought us out in our lostness, he’s forgiven us, and now invites us to his Table.  He’s given himself as a sacrifice for our sins and this morning he invites us to his heavenly banquet.  But how do we come?  Again, this is the meal Jesus gave us to make sense of the cross.  He is the Passover lamb sacrificed for our sins.  By his death he frees us from our bondage to sin and death and leads us into new life and new creation.  In Jesus we see grace.  We don’t deserve any of this.  We’re the rebels; we’re the sinners; we’re the God-haters.  One day he will wipe such people from creation so that it can be finally, once and for all set to rights.  We deserve nothing but death, but in his grace Jesus offers us forgiveness and restoration and life.  And when we take hold of his grace in faith he tells us that the whole heavenly court rejoices.  What was lost has been found.  What ran away has been restored.  Someone who had been an enemy of God, is now a friend—even a son or a daughter.

 

But we’re always at risk of forgetting that we come to the banquet only by grace.  It’s interesting that in the gnostic pseudo-gospel of Thomas, the parable was changed.  In that telling of the story, the shepherd explains to the lost sheep that he sought it out because he loved it and he valued it more than the others.[1]  We’re prone to twisting the story the same way in our own minds—thinking that we’ve been invited here to the Table because we deserved to be here.  But that’s not the story Jesus tells.  The one sheep that was lost was no more valuable than the other ninety-nine.  The one coin lost was no different than all the others.  In fact, in the parable of the Prodigal Son, which follows them, the son who was lost was a disgrace to his father and many people justly wonder why his father didn’t simply disown him.  The only difference between the one and the ninety-nine and the one and the ten is that the one was lost.  Brothers and sisters, we are not here because we’ve earned God’s love.  We’re here by his grace.  We are here because he rejoices in redeeming sinners.  We’re here because it pleases him to forgive his enemies and restore them to his fellowship.  In this we see his glory.

 

Jesus upset the Pharisees because he made manifest on earth the reality of heaven that they had forgotten.  He revealed that the Lord is a God who loves his enemies and desires to save them.  We pray the words from Jesus’ prayer: “on earth as in heaven”.  But do we live out the reality of heaven in our lives by reaching out to sinners with the love and grace and joy of heaven?  It’s easy to fall into self-righteousness and it’s easy to live with an attitude of condemnation.  Brothers and Sisters, remember this morning that we come to the Lord’s Table because of his love and grace.  We come as sinners forgiven.  When you go, don’t leave all of this at the door of the church, but take it with you so that you can encounter the world with grace and with the same love that God has shown you in Jesus.

 

Let us pray: Loving and gracious Father, help us to grasp your deep, deep love for sinners and the profound graciousness of grace.  Remind us of the joy in your courts over sinners who were lost and now found.  And, Father, help us to love our fellow sinners as you have loved us and show us ways in which we can make the reality of heaven known here on earth.  We ask this through Jesus the Messiah our Lord.  Amen.

[1] Gospel of Thomas 107.

by William Klock

 

Another town.  Another Sabbath.  And Jesus found himself in the synagogue reading the scriptures.  He’d spent the last few days doing the usual Messiah things: healing the sick, casting out demons, proclaiming good news to the poor, calling the people to repentance because God’s kingdom was coming.  Some people loved it.  Others hated it.  If Jesus was the Messiah, he sure was doing it all wrong.  St. Luke says some of the Pharisees were determined to trap him.  They lurked everywhere he went, waiting for him to do or to say just the wrong thing that would get him into trouble.  “See!  See!” they want to shout to the crowds.  “He’s a fake!”  If they were really lucky, maybe Jesus would do something downright arrestable and he’d end up in jail.  So far, no such luck.

 

One of the leading Pharisees in this town invited him to lunch after the synagogue service.  If nothing else, it would look good to have this popular rabbi in his house, but maybe he’d get lucky.  Maybe he’d catch Jesus breaking the law red-handed.  And lo and behold as Jesus arrived at this Pharisees’ house, he met a man whose limbs were swollen with dropsy.  I doubt he was invited.  The rabbis taught that dropsy was the Lord’s punishment for secret sexual sins.  But in those days, doors were open, people came and went from banquets.  The poor and needy would show up looking for handouts.  On any other day, this Pharisee might have shooed away the man with dropsy, but not today.  It was a perfect opportunity to see what Jesus would do.  It was a given that Jesus healed the sick—but would he do his messianic doctoring on the Sabbath?

 

But instead of letting himself be put on the spot, Jesus—as he so often did—flips the tables.  He takes one look at the afflicted man, then turns to the Pharisee and his torah-expert friends and puts them on the spot.  “Is it lawful to heal on the sabbath or not?” he asked.  They really should have seen that coming.  Now, no matter what they said, they’d condemn themselves.  And so while they stood there looking awkward, Jesus healed the man with dropsy and sent him away.  And then he turned back to the Pharisees and to the lawyers and said, “Suppose one of you has a son—or an ox—that falls in a well.  Are you going to tell me you won’t pull him out straightaway even on the sabbath day?”  And, of course, they just looked at him.  They had nothing to say that wouldn’t condemn them.  Because if their son or their ox fell in a well, even on the sabbath, of course they’d pull him out.

 

It was hard to hear.  The Pharisees were right about a lot of things. They knew that Israel was supposed to be a bubble of God’s light in the middle of a dark world.  They were the people who lived with the living God in their midst.  They were his people, graciously chosen, delivered from bondage, and made holy for just this task: to be light in the darkness.  The Pharisees were zealous for the law because they were grateful for God’s grace.  Not all of the people in Israel were as faithful as the Pharisees.  The Pharisees tried to live their lives—even the little things—as if they were in the temple, in the presence of God.  They saw themselves as walking manifestations of God’s light and of his kingdom—walking bubbles of what the world is supposed to be like.  And Jesus just exposed them, because as much as they were right on a lot of things, they’d forgotten the most important thing.  The law was about more than do this and don’t to that.  It was about loving God and loving neighbour.  It was about showing others the same grace, the same lovingkindness that God had shown to them.  They knew this deep down, but somehow, through the generations, they’d forgotten.  Instead of being a light to lighten those lost in the dark, they were being light to shame and condemn those lost in the dark—and that’s not light at all.

 

At this point Jesus had already spoiled the party, so he just kept going.  Luke tells us in 14:7 that Jesus noticed how each guest claimed the best seat he could, so he told them that God’s people should, instead, be humble.  “If you go to a wedding and just assume you can sit in the seat of honour, the host is going to tell you to move so the real guest of honour can sit there and you’ll look like a fool in front of everyone.  No.  Instead, be humble.  Take the lowliest seat and let your host offer you a better place.”

 

They were starting to figure out what Jesus was getting at.  He said, “Everyone who pushes himself forward will be humbled, and everyone who humbles himself will be honoured.”  They knew this wasn’t just about banquets.  Jesus was saying that the way these leaders of Israel were behaving at banquets had become representative of how they thought of themselves in relation to God and to each other.  They acted like God had chosen them because they were special when it was really the other way around: They were special because God had chosen them.  They knew better—just like we do.  They knew God chose Israel because he is gracious.  But they didn’t act like it.

 

So Jesus says: If you truly want to represent God and his kingdom, stop thinking so loftily of yourselves, stop avoiding the people who aren’t like you and who don’t share your status, and start throwing banquets for the crippled, the lame, and the blind.  Rejoice when sinners repent.  Rejoice when God saves the lost.  That’s what God has done for you, after all—you’ve just forgotten.

 

Everyone could feel the tension in the room growing and that’s when some poor, clueless soul shouted out, “A blessing on everyone who eats bread in the kingdom of God.”  Maybe he’d totally missed point.  Maybe he was just trying to defuse the situation.  Blessed, indeed, is everyone who will eat bread in the kingdom of God, but who will be there.  That was Jesus’ point.  These people were sure they’d be there, but in so many ways the way they acted and the way they saw themselves said otherwise.  They weren’t the walking bubbles of the kingdom they thought they were.  For all their holiness, they were really more like walking bubbles of darkness.

 

So in response, Jesus told them another parable.  This is our Gospel today beginning at Luke 14:16.

 

 

As they sat eating what was probably a simple sabbath lunch prepared the day before, Jesus brings to mind an elaborate and expensive feast—the sort of thing that took days to prepare and that cost so much that the man throwing the part would send out invitation months in advance.  And the guests responded, “Yes, we’ll be there!” and he made preparations.  So much wine and so much fruit.  So much meat and so much bread.  He arranged for musicians and dancers and other entertainers.  He got his house ready.  He sent his servants around to remind everyone.  And then the day of, he put on his finest clothes, threw open his doors—and no one came.  So he sent his servant out to find out what was up with his guests.  And they all had excuses.  This one bought a field sight unseen and had to go have a look at it.  This one bought a bunch of oxen and just had to try them out.  Another just got married.  Obviously his honeymoon was more important than this man’s great feast.

 

Imagine all the effort and expense that this man invested.  It was a huge deal for him.  But no one else cared.  No one else valued all that he had done for them.  Imagine how you’d feel if no one came to your wedding banquet after they all returned their RSVP cards saying they’d be there.  Jesus says the man was understandably angry, but he wasn’t going to let all his expense and preparations go to waste.

 

 

If his rich friends won’t come, he’ll invite the poor.  Notice that his servant literally has to bring, to compel them to come to the banquet.  Imagine what the poor people in the town thought at the invitation.  Imagine what the blind beggar sleeping in a ditch thought when this rich man’s servant pulled him up and dragged him into a fancy house full of fancy food.  They would have thought it was a joke, at least until they actually got there.  That’s why the servant had to compel them to come, because they knew how these things worked.  They didn’t belong.  But the rich man brought them in.  He brought them all in.  And they had the time of their lives—and, I think, so did he.

 

Now, Luke doesn’t tell us how the Pharisees responded.  In the next verse he jumps to a completely different time and place.  But we know.  We know that this just made them angrier and more hostile to Jesus—not every last one of them, but most of them.  Eventually they’d be angry enough that they’d conspire to have Jesus arrested.  But why did the things that Jesus did and said at that sabbath lunch make them so angry?

 

So remember that the Jews, and especially the Pharisees, were waiting for the Lord’s return.  The prophets had talked about that day in terms of a great banquet and this banquet idea then became a common image of the coming Day of the Lord.  Israel’s God would return to judge and to cast down the nations (and the unfaithful within Israel—like the tax collectors and the sinner with dropsy) and then he’d throw a great feast for his beloved people.  The closest things they had to describe it was their entry into the promised land, the land of milk and honey, and the prosperous days of King David.  It would be like that, only a thousand times more so.  When Jesus told a story of a man preparing a great feast, everyone listening knew he was talking about the Lord and how he would come to deliver his people and set everything to rights and usher in the age to come—the age when they would feast in his presence.  And now Jesus explains that he’s come to throw open the doors to God’s great banquet.  This is what Israel has been waiting for all these years.  And yet Jesus rebukes them.  This isn’t the first time the Lord has extended his invitation.  For centuries he had called to his people through the prophets, but they had refused to hear the prophets and had even killed some of them.  The Pharisees knew that and they were committed to making sure they didn’t do the same thing.  Except that’s exactly what they were doing.  This time God has spared no expense.  His people had rejected and killed the prophets.  This time he’s sent his own son, who humbled himself to be born in their flesh.  He’s travelled through Galilee and Judea, calling everyone to the banquet, but like the people in the parable, they all have excuses.

 

And those excuses.  One man says that he’s bought five yoke of oxen sight-unseen and has to check them over.  Another has bought a field sight-unseen and needs to go have a look at it.  The third just got married and has obligations to his new bride.  All three of these excuses have echoes that go back to the law in Deuteronomy.  A man who had built a new house, but hadn’t dedicated it yet; a man who had bought a field, but hadn’t enjoyed its produce; and a newly married man were all legitimately excused from going off to war.  And now these guests twist those laws as excuses to reject their host’s banquet.  But this is what Israel had done with the law: twisting it into something it was never meant to be.  And it’s that twisting of the law that was particularly exemplified by the Pharisees.  Jesus didn’t meet their expectations of the Messiah.  His banquets included too many sinners, unclean people, and outsiders.  Those were the people that the Pharisees, with their hyper-holiness, left exposed.  The Messiah was supposed to come and feast with people like them, while raining down fire and brimstone on all those unholy people.  And so they scowled as Jesus forgave sins and welcomed home the prodigals.  The Pharisees had gutted the torah of its loving heart and that was profoundly exemplified by their angry glares as Jesus healed a sick man on the sabbath.  There could be no better way to celebrate the sabbath than to dance and sing and glorify God for his lovingkindness, but instead they tisked-tisked and frowned and gave Jesus disapproving how-dare-you scowls.  The angels rejoiced in heaven to see God’s mighty works—but here on earth the people most expecting it, the people most longing for it, frowned and disapproved because God didn’t do his mighty works according to what they thought the rules were.  That was their attitude towards Jesus’ entire messianic ministry.  The banquet had come, but now they wanted nothing to do with it.  And so Jesus warns them: I’m going to take my invitation to the unclean and to the sick and to the poor—and even to the gentiles—and having rejected me, you will have no share in God’s new creation.  If I were to let you in, you’d only mess it up—because you don’t know what love is.

 

The parable was a warning.  Matthew records it too, and I expect he was thinking of his people, most of whom continued to rejected Jesus even as their judgement day was so close.  But think of Luke.  He was one of those gentiles.  He was one of those poor men, sleeping in a ditch while the rich man prepared his banquet.  Maybe he didn’t even know the banquet was going to happen.  He saw the caterers coming and going, wondered what it was all about, but he never expected to be there.  He’d never received an invitation, but more importantly, he wasn’t even the right sort of person.  He was a gentile—uncircumcised and unclean.  Jews didn’t associate with his sort.  And then the rich man’s servant came, woke him up with a kick, and said, “Hey!  My master’s thrown a banquet and no one came, so now he’s inviting you to know his goodness.”  For Luke, that servant seems likely to have been the Apostle Paul.  And Paul gave Luke a firm gospel shove into the banquet.  And before he knew it Luke was dancing and singing and praising and glorify the God of Israel—the God of those weird, annoying Jews—and this God was like none of the gods he’d ever known.  This God was good and loving and most of all faithful.  And even though Luke, as a gentile, had no right to be at the banquet, he was welcomed in because when he heard about this Jesus, this Messiah who had died and risen from the dead, and he believed and he was caught up in God’s great redemptive act of new creation.

 

In fact, this unexpected and undeserved invitation to the banquet so transformed Luke that before too long he joined Paul as they set sail for Europe as gospel heralds—to proclaim to the lordship of Jesus.  A few years later he would join Paul on another missionary journey.  And about ten years after they’d left Troas that first time, Luke would journey with Paul on his final voyage, the one that took him to Rome to appeal his case before Caesar.  And not only was Luke, with Paul, singing the glories of Jesus and the God of Israel through Greece and on to Rome, he also talked to those who had met Jesus and he recorded their stories and wrote his gospel and then followed it up with the book of Acts.  Luke learned profoundly what grace is.  He knew profoundly the love of God.  Because even though he was a foreigner, through Jesus, the God of Israel had made him a son and even poured his own Spirit into him—including Luke in promises he had no natural right to be part of.

 

Brothers and Sisters, Luke is us.  Like Paul hauling him out of the ditch and sending him into the banquet, the Lord’s servants have come to us, proclaiming the good news about Jesus, hauling each of us out of our own ditch, giving us a gospel kick in the pants, and (with the Spirit’s help) propelling us into God’s great banquet.  We need a reminder of this, because we’re prone to taking our place before the Lord for granted.  The Pharisees had their way of taking their family status for granted and we have our ways, but however we do it, it always seems to stem from forgetting that whether Jew or gentile, whether we were born into the family or whether we came later, we forget that it is by the gracious lovingkindness of God—who gave his son to die so that we who were his enemies can be here as his sons and daughters.  And when we forget the lovingkindness of God, we tend to become unloving ourselves—just like the Pharisees.

 

Remember how Paul rebuked the Corinthians saying that they could have all sorts of spiritual gifts, but without love, they were might as well just be clanging cymbals?  Well, here’s how John puts that same sentiment in today’s Epistle—form the third chapter of his first letter:

 

We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love the family.  Anyone who does not love abides in death.  Everyone who hates his brother or sister is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has the life of the coming age abiding in him.  This is how we know love: [Jesus] laid down his life for us.  And we too ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.  Anyone who has the means of life in this world, and sees a brother or sister in need, and closes his heart against them—how can God’s love be abiding in him?  Children, let us not love in word or in speech, but in deed and in truth. (1 John 3:14-18)

 

Does God’s love abide in us?  I think that all too often, we come to the banquet, to the Lord’s Table.  We eat the bread and we drink the wine, but we’ve forgotten the amazing sacrifice of love in which we participate here.  We take the Lord’s feast for granted.  Or maybe we eat it for the wrong reasons.  But we find some kind of assurance here, the Table reminds us that we belong to God and to his family, but then we go out into the world—or maybe we even interact with our brothers and sisters here—and instead of being bubbles of gospel light in the darkness, instead of being bubbles of God’s future here in the present, we’re darkness.  We call ourselves God’s sons and daughters, we follow the rules, but there’s no love.  We eat the Lord’s bread and we drink the Lord’s wine and we should be reminded of God’s great provision for us, of his great blessings, but we ignore the needy.  Here we’re reminded that in Jesus and because of his death on our behalf, we’ve been given life and have a share in God’s new creation, but too often we keep it to ourselves instead of taking it to the highways and hedges.  Here we have the means of life, the gospel, the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen.  We know the gracious lovingkindness of God.  We don’t belong here, but he’s invited us anyway.  He’s forgiven our sins and filled us with his Spirit and given us a promise of new creation.  And we go out to a world in need, people suffering physically and people dying spiritually, and we close our hearts against them.

 

So, Brothers and Sisters, come the Lord’s Table this morning and be reminded that in Jesus, God has humbled himself and given his life for our sake.  This is the defining act of love.  But don’t just remember.  The Lord’s Supper is more than an intellectual exercise.  As we eat the Lord’s bread and drink his wine, we participate in that great act of love ourselves.  So be shaped, be transformed by the love of God made manifest at the cross.  Every time you come to the Table and participate in God’s perfect love, let it define you more and more.  Abide in God’s love and, more and more, let God’s love abide in you, that you might truly be a gospel light in the darkness.

 

Let us pray: Father, you delight to show mercy to sinners and you graciously sent your Son to suffer the punishment we deserve.  We have received your grace and have been given new life.  Remind us to set aside all thoughts of self-righteousness.  Give us opportunities now to share your gracious love with others—with each other and with the world, that everyone we encounter may be transformed by your gospel.  We ask this through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Jesus stopped in another town along the route of his final trip to Jerusalem.  Or maybe the people in the town stopped him.  They all wanted to see, to touch, to hear, to experience that walking bubble of God’s future for themselves.  A chance to encounter the long-promised and long-awaited kingdom.  And as things settled down, Jesus sat down and started to preach.  He told them a story—our Gospel today that begins at Luke 16:19.  He said: “There was once a rich man.  He was dressed in purple and fine linen, and feasted sumptuously every day.”

This man wasn’t just rich.  He was filthy, stinking rich.  No one was that rich in this town, but there were some Pharisees standing over there and some eyes wandered that way as Jesus spoke.  They weren’t feast-every-day or dressed-in-purple rich.  Almost no one was.  But they did wear fine clothes and you had to be pretty well off to live like the Pharisees did with their scruples and rules about everyday things.  Jesus continued: “A poor man named Lazarus, who was covered with sores, lay outside his gate.  He longed to feed himself with the scraps that fell from the rich man’s table.  Even the dogs came and licked his sores.”

Jesus paints a picture of extremes.  First there’s the rich man.  Super rich.  Ostentatiously rich.  He lived like a king.  And then there’s Lazarus.  He’s destitute.  He’s covered in sores, which means he’s unclean.  He’s probably lame.  Jesus describes him as having been deposited at Lazarus’ gate.  He couldn’t get there on his own.  He watched the rich man and his friends come and go.  He heard the music and laughter from the other side of the wall.  He smelled the meat roasting.  He would have been happy with the bread the rich people used to wipe their hands.  But there was nothing for poor Lazarus.  And to make his life worse, as he lay there helpless, the feral dogs of the town would come to lick his oozing sores and leave him stinging.

 

Jesus puts a new spin on an old story the rabbis told.  There was a story—it’s been preserved in the Talmud—that originated in Egypt and was brought back to Judah by Alexandrian Jews.  It was a story about a rich tax collector and a poor torah scholar.  They both died.  Of course, everyone attended the rich man’s funeral, but no one could be bothered to show up at the funeral of the poor man.  But then few days later, a friend of the poor man had a dream of paradise, and there in the middle of paradise was the poor torah scholar enjoying everything he’d sacrificed in life for the sake of God’s law.  And not far away was the rich man, parched and in torment, struggling to reach the stream, but forever held back.  When the story was told that way, everyone had sympathy for the poor torah scholar and hated the rich tax collector.  But Jesus changes the details—something he liked to do to make a point.  The rich man in Jesus’ version is just a rich man—maybe even a Pharisee.  And the poor man’s just a poor a man.  And when it’s told that way, given the thinking of the day, most people would have had their sympathies reversed.  Riches—so long as they weren’t gained from collecting taxes for the Romans—riches were a sign of God’s favour.  And the poor man?  Well, think of the disciples’ question to Jesus about the blind man.  “Who sinned?  This man or his parents?”  A lot of people would have chalked up the poor man’s state to his sins.  He was out of favour with God and deserved his miserable lot in life.

 

But that’s not the only change Jesus makes to the story.  In the typical telling, it’s the rich man who has a name.  As he tells the story his way, Jesus gives a name to the poor man instead.  He calls him Lazarus, which means “God helps”.  More importantly, Lazarus is the Greek form of the Hebrew name Eliezer.  Jesus would have said “Eliezer”, but remember that Luke is writing in Greek.  So I suspect that Jesus was making a deliberate connection with Abraham’s servant, Eliezer of Damascus.  If we go back to Genesis 15 we read how Abraham lamented to the Lord that he was childless and that his only heir was Eliezer of Damascus.  In response, the Lord promised that he and Sarah would have a son.  When Isaac was born he displaced Eliezer, a gentile and an outsider, as Abraham’s heir.  In Jesus’ parable, the rich man is one of Abraham’s sons.  Again, people would have seen his riches as a sign of his election and a sign of God’s blessing on him.  Even though Lazarus was a Jew, people treated him like an outsider: he was unclean and destitute, so obviously God was punishing him.  He was an outsider, like Eliezer of Damascus, and undeserving of Abraham’s inheritance.

 

And yet look at what happens.  Verse 22: “In due course the poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham’s bosom. The rich man also died and was buried.  As he was being tormented in Hades, he looked up and saw Abraham far off and Lazarus at his side.”

 

Both men died.  The rich man was buried.  That was really important in Jewish society.  He had all the funeral rites and a parade of mourners through the streets of the city.  He was honoured in his death.  But Lazarus?  He had no one.  The dogs ate his body and carried away his bones in the night and no one was the wiser.  Except for the Lord.  He saw.  He’d been watching all along.  And he sent his angels to escort Lazarus into paradise—to Abraham’s bosom.

 

The Jews described the Messianic age to come as one in which God’s people would feast and banquet in the kingdom, but in the meantime the dead would rest in the fellowship of Father Abraham.  Lazarus was probably as surprised as anyone, not only to be carried by the angels into paradise, but to be seated at the table right next to Abraham, in the place of highest honour.  That was the place reserved for someone like the rich man—not the place for a poor, lame, unclean beggar.  And yet there he was.

 

Again, with stark contrast, Jesus describes the situation of the rich man.  Despite his high status in life, he wakes to find himself being tormented in hades.  Where Lazarus finds himself feasting at Abraham’s side, the rich man finds himself on the far side of a great gulf that separates him from that banquet and from Abraham and from any hope of knowing God’s age to come.  The tables have been turned.  In life the rich man feasted and a great gulf kept Lazarus away and starving.

 

Now, it needs to be emphasised that Jesus’ parable is not meant to give us teaching about the afterlife.  A lot of people down through the ages have gone to this parable assuming that Jesus’ point was to teach us about the intermediate state or about heaven and hell.  That highlights the danger of pulling portions of Scripture out of context.  Jesus was using a well-known folk tale to make a point.  Think of it this way.  We tell jokes and stories about people being met at the pearly gates by St. Peter with his list, but St. Peter and his list are never the point of those stories.  We don’t believe that this is what actually happens when we die—it’s a popular folk tale in our culture.  The point is usually what happens to the people in the joke when they get there.  Jesus is telling a story like that here.  He’s using the elements of a common folk tale, not to teach about the afterlife, but to rebuke the people for their love of money and for their failure to truly live out the law and the prophets—to truly live as Abraham’s heirs.  As the Lord had been generous to Israel with his grace and his provision, the people of Israel should have been generous with their grace and provisions with each other—and especially with people like Lazarus.  That bubble of God’s future in the present that they all came to Jesus to encounter?  That’s what Israel was supposed to be—for each other and for the nations.  Instead, Israel had been like the rich man in the story.

 

So back to the story.  The rich man and Lazarus have their places reversed when they die.  And yet the rich man still doesn’t get it.  He sees Lazarus seated at the table with Abraham and he calls out in verse 24: “‘Father Abraham!  Have mercy on me!  Send Lazarus to dip the end of his finger in water and cool my tongue!  I’m in agony in this fire!’”

The rich man calls out to “Father Abraham”.  His entire life he had deceived himself into thinking that Abraham was his father simply because he was one of Abraham’s biological descendants.  Like so many others in Israel, he was convinced that his genetics, his circumcision, his diet, his sabbath observance, his separation from gentiles and from all things unclean, and all his sacrifices and offerings made at the temple guaranteed him a seat at the great banquet.  And yet he feasted away his days while poor Lazarus starved at his gate.  We should be reminded again of the Lord’s rebuke through the prophet Hosea:

 

         the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings. (Hosea 6:6)

 

Or as Jesus puts it in Matthew 9:13, “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.”

 

The rich man doesn’t understand Lazarus’ position either.  Not only is he still calling out to Abraham as if he has a claim on Abraham, but he calls out to Abraham to send Lazarus to him with some water.  He sees Lazarus at Abraham’s side and misreads the situation.  It never occurs to him that Lazarus is there to be honoured.  He thinks that Lazarus is there as Abraham’s servant: a waterboy in hades.  Abraham has to explain the situation to him.  Look at verses 25-26: “My child, remember that you in your life received good things, and in the same way Lazarus received bad things.  Now he is comforted here, and you are tormented.  Besides that, there is a great chasm standing between us.  People who want to cross over from here to you can’t do so, nor can anyone get across from the far side to us.”

The same thing happens in the folktale as it was usually told.  Abraham puts the rich man in his place.  Lazarus wasn’t taken by the angels to be Abraham’s servant—or the rich man’s for that matter.  And the rich man hasn’t landed in a place of torment by mistake.  The rich man, too late, realises that the way he lived his life was wrong—he’d been presumptuous about God’s grace and favour.  Again, Jesus’ point isn’t to teach us the geography of the afterlife.  He’s warning his people, he’s warning Israel: Judgement is coming and the role reversal that happened in this folk story could very well happen to them.  They’d better watch out.  The kingdom was at hand, judgement was coming soon, and they had little time left to repent.

 

But then, in the last verses of the chapter, Jesus changes the story again.  The way people were used to hearing it, the rich man realised the error of his ways and asked for warnings to be sent to his brothers lest they suffer the same fate—and the Lord or Abraham obliged.  As Jesus tells the story, just the opposite happens.  The warnings have already been sent.  Look at verses 27-31: “‘Please, then, Father,’ the rich man said, ‘send Lazarus to my father’s house.  I have five brothers.  Let Lazarus warn them, so that they don’t come into this place of torment.’  But Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the Prophets.  Let them hear them.’  And he said, ‘No, father Abraham, but if someone went to them from the dead, they would repent.’  ‘And if they do not hear Moses and the Prophets,’ came the reply, ‘neither would they be convinced, even if someone rose from the dead.’”

“If they do not hear Moses and the Prophets, neither would they be convinced, even if someone rose from the dead.”  That’s pretty ominous.  With the coming of Jesus, the kingdom of God was breaking into the world.  God sent Jesus to lead his people out of their long exile.  He sent his son to conquer sin and death and to lead his people out of their bondage to both.  And so with every sickness healed, with every demon cast out, with every sin forgiven Jesus was showing that the kingdom had come, that God’s new future was beginning.  This is why tax collectors and sinners were celebrating.  Jesus was setting them free.  Imagine the joy of Lazarus as he was carried by the angels to feast at Abraham’s side.  This is the reality that Jesus was making known to the poor and the outcast and to sinners.

 

And yet so many grumbled, especially the Pharisees, every time they saw Jesus doing these things.  The men who were sons of Abraham and who spent their lives in devotion to God’s law, they couldn’t accept what Jesus was doing.  He was inviting all the wrong people to the banquet!  And so Jesus is rebuking them; he’s calling them to repentance just as he called the tax collectors and sinners to repent.  And here he warns them: They’re like the rich man who refused poor Lazarus even the bread thrown under his table.  They’ve been entrusted with the light, but they refuse to share it with those living in darkness.  They’ve been entrusted with the law and the prophets—God’s Word and the means of redemption for the nations—but they’d rather keep it to themselves and see the nations, the poor, the unclean tormented in hades.  And at the end of the day, it’s just that attitude towards the poor and towards sinners and towards all those on the outside—it’s their refusal to celebrate as Jesus heals and forgives and makes new—that reveals that while they have the law and the prophets, they’ve never truly understood them and they’ve never truly lived them.  They’re supposed to be little bubbles of God’s future in the present, but instead they’ve been little bubbles of darkness.  And because of that, they may be surprised to find themselves, just like the rich man, on the receiving end of God’s judgement.  If they don’t repent and recognise that in Jesus the kingdom has come, they will have forfeited their inheritance and it will be given to others.  They will have no share in the kingdom.

 

This is where Jesus’ choice of the name Lazarus or Eliezer comes back into the story.  When Isaac was born, the gentile Eliezer lost his inheritance.  The Pharisees—and the rest of Israel—are the nation born of Isaac.  They are the inheritors of God’s promises to Abraham.  But with those covenant promises come covenant obligations—not just circumcision, avoiding unclean food, and sacrifices at the temple, but a seeking after justice and mercy and truly living out the lovingkindness of God in the world.  If Israel refuses to fulfil those obligations and if she refuses to acknowledge that in Jesus they are being fulfilled, she will lose those covenant promises—she will lose her inheritance and it will be given to others, to outsiders grafted into Jesus who is the true Israel and the one truly faithful son of Abraham.  Eliezer will inherit the promise after all.

 

This is one of the key themes of Luke’s gospel—ever since Mary sang out:

 

         and the rich he hath sent away empty. (Luke 1:52-53)

 

This was the message that John the Baptist was preaching: “You’d better prove your repentance by bearing the proper fruit!  Don’t start saying to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father’; let me tell you, God can raise up children for Abraham from these stones!  The axe is already standing by the roots of the tree—so every tree that doesn’t produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.” (Luke 3:8-9).  This was the warning that Jesus gave when he told the people to strive to enter through the narrow door before it’s shut, before it’s too late: “He will say to you, ‘I do not know where you people are from.  Be off with you, you wicked lot.’  That’s where you’ll find weeping and gnashing of teeth: when you see Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in God’s kingdom, and you yourselves will be thrown out.  People will come from east and west, from north and south, and sit down to feast in God’s kingdom.” (Luke 13:27-29).

 

The rich man and his brothers, just like the Pharisees and just like unfaithful Israel, all had the law and the prophets.  They didn’t need any more witnesses.  Jesus’ rebuke that even if someone should be raised from the dead they still wouldn’t believe is a prophetic look ahead at Israel’s fate.  They refused to listen to the law and the prophets.  Jesus came to renew Israel, and she refused to hear him, she cried out for his crucifixion, and she continued to reject him even when he rose from the dead.  And so others are being grafted in: unclean people, sinners, and gentiles are being grafted in and through Jesus are being given the inheritance that Israel forfeit.

 

Now, what does this mean for us?  Brothers and sisters, we have Moses and the prophets, but more importantly we have Jesus and the Spirit, too.  We’ve been renewed.  The Spirit has given to us the one thing that the old Israel lacked: he’s inscribed God’s law on our hearts.  He’s made it a part of us.  He’s made it such a part of us that St. John can say in our Epistle today:

 

Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God, and all who love are born of God and know God.  The one who does not love has not known God, because God is love….If we love one another, God abides in us and his love is completed in us.  That is how we know that we abide in him, and he in us, because he has given us a portion of his Spirit.” (1 John 4:7-8, 12-13)

 

Maybe this is why the Spirit appeared as tongues of fire on the heads of the disciples at Pentecost.  They became light in the Spirit—very visibly those little walking bubbles of God’s light-filled future, God’s new creation, pulled into the present for the sake of the world.  That’s the day when, through his Spirit, God made his people to truly be what he’d intended them to be all along.

 

Brothers and Sisters, it was easy for those First Century Judeans to take their convent status for granted.  It should not be so for us.  They were the natural sons of Abraham, but we are the dead wood that has been grafted into the living vine—by the Spirit, into Jesus.  We’re the ones who have received an inheritance that was not naturally ours.  The Table we come to this morning, the bread we eat and the wine we drink, remind us of our own poverty and the amazing grace and generosity of God towards us.  In so many ways and for so many reasons, we do not deserve his invitation to this table, but he has been gracious and merciful to us.  He’s given his own son to die so that we can be a part of this family.  May we never take his grace or our position before him or his table for granted.  May we, redeemed by his blood and filled with his Spirit, embody his love for the sake of the world.  May we always be faithful and living witnesses of God’s new creation—light in midst of darkness, love in the midst of hate; hope in the midst of fear.

 

Let’s pray: O God, the strength of all who put their trust in you: Mercifully accept our prayers; and because in our weakness we can do nothing good without you, give us the help of your grace, that in keeping your commandments we may please you both in will and deed; 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

 

Everywhere Jesus went the crowds followed him.  Everyone had a problem.  Some were deaf, some blind; some were sick, some dying; some were demon-possessed, some were weighed down by sin.  They knew that this is not how the world is supposed to be.  Everyone knew it then.  Everyone knows it now.  And that’s why everyone longs for the day when the world is set to rights and the tears are wiped away.  And that’s why the people flocked to Jesus.  Wherever he went, there was a little bubble of the world as it should be.  Wherever Jesus went, there was a little bubble of God’s future in the present.  Wherever Jesus went, there was a little bubble where the tears were wiped away.

 

And this man named Nicodemus—John says he was a prominent Pharisee and ruler of the Jews—Nicodemus watched from a distance—in the streets, in the temple court.  And as he watched, he saw the hopes of Isreal being fulfilled.  He saw that little bubble of God’s future wherever Jesus went.  And he believed.  It’s just that he wasn’t quite sure exactly what he was believing.  Have you ever felt that way?  You see God at work.  There’s no question about it.  But it’s not something you ever expected.  And so you believe, but you don’t really understand.  That’s where Nicodemus was at.  He wasn’t one of the simple people who just needed some physical manifestation of the kingdom like the blind and the deaf and the demon-possessed.  He knew the scriptures.  He knew how the God of Israel was supposed to fulfil his prophecies.  And Nicodemus could see that Jesus was fulfilling them.  But Jesus wasn’t doing it the way people expected.  So Nicodemus went to Jesus in the night, after the crowds were gone, when Jesus was alone with his disciples.  Knock!  Knock!  Knock!

 

And Peter—or John or James or whoever—opened the door and was totally surprised to see him there.  Everyone knew who Nicodemus was and he was the last person the disciples expected to be knocking at the door.  But here he was, probably with at least a servant or two.  You didn’t close the door on someone like Nicodemus, so pretty soon he was inside and seated with Jesus and the questions began.  Nicodemus wanted to understand.

 

If you listen carefully, you can hear the unspoken question in Nicodemus’ affirmation.  It’s the theologian’s equivalent of “Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief.”  It was like this for everyone.  The disciples saw, they heard, they believed, but when Jesus pressed them with questions, they still gave the wrong answers.  Peter knew with absolute certainty that Jesus was the Messiah, the son of the living God.  But when push came to shove, he drew his sword and was ready to usher in the kingdom with violence.  Despite three years with Jesus, the disciples were still full of all the wrong ideas the Jews had about the Messiah and his kingdom.  Nicodemus was no different.  It’s just that he knew he was missing something and he was here to sort it out with Jesus.  But Jesus doesn’t give him the answer he wanted—because Jesus knew that no matter how clearly he connected the dots for Nicodemus, that wouldn’t solve the problem.  Nicodemus needed something more.  And so Jesus answers Nicodemus’ question with those words so familiar to us, but so perplexing to him: “Let me tell you the solemn truth.  Unless someone has been born from above, he won’t be able to see God’s kingdom.”

This is John 3.  The beginning.  Jesus gives the answer to all the questions.  And consider how the disciples had three years to mull it over.  And as we’ve heard in our Gospels all through Easter- and Ascensiontide they still couldn’t wrap their heads around it.  Jesus told them he had to leave so that something better could come and they were confused and upset and afraid.  Jesus was a walking manifestation, a walking bubble of the kingdom.  How could anything possibly be better than that?—apart from the kingdom filling the whole world—but how’s that going to happen if Jesus is gone?  They had to be born from above, too.  But that’s just it.  In being born from above, they themselves would become walking bubbles of God’s future in the present.  That’s what we celebrated last Sunday at Pentecost.  The God of Israel sent his Spirit to indwell his people.  They were born from above—and suddenly, when that happened, it all made sense.  Peter preached that great Pentecost sermon—something that would have been impossible the day before—and from there the disciples went out to make God’s kingdom known to the world.

 

Incidentally, this is why the story of Nicodemus’ visit to Jesus is our Gospel today.  Long before there was a Trinity Sunday, this was the Sunday after Pentecost and today’s Gospel was chosen to explain the events we read about last Sunday.  When Trinity Sunday came along there was no reason to change the lesson, because here we see the Trinity revealed: the Son reveals that the Father must send the Spirit to give life to and to renew his people.

 

But back to Jesus and Nicodemus: “The central truth you’re missing is that you’ve got to be born from above,” Jesus says to the Pharisee.  Nicodemus understood so much.  He knew the world is not as it should be.  He knew that the Lord had chosen and called his people to be a light to the world.  And he knew that his people had failed—over and over and over.  That’s why the Pharisees were so zealous for God’s law.  If everyone in Israel would just shape up.  If they’d just remember all the wonderful things God had graciously and mercifully done for them and love him return by keeping his law.  If they would be faithful.  Then God would return and set everything right.  The Pharisees were an “on earth as in heaven” people.  And Nicodemus saw God at work in Jesus, but he was struggling to reconcile what he saw in Jesus with what he expected of God.  Jesus knew this and so he says that what’s missing—not just what Nicodemus is missing, but what all Israel is missing—is this new birth.  And, Brothers and Sisters, it’s really important that we understand that as much as Jesus is saying, “You, Nicodemus, must be born again—which is how the ears of modern Christians have been trained to hear this in individualistic terms—Jesus’ stress is on Israel, on the whole people: “All y’all must be born again,” as they might say in Texas.  In verse 7 he says, “Do not be surprised that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’”  Israel as a people had been born the first time when they passed through the waters of the Red Sea and Jesus is saying that now Israel has to be born a second time.  This is why John was out in the wilderness calling people to repentance and baptising them in the Jordan, but still stressing that water wasn’t enough.  Israel had been baptised with water before.  What Israel needed now was water and the Spirit.  Jesus walking around a little bubble of God’s future in the present—that’s what Israel was always supposed to be—so that the nations could see them and know the goodness of God.  And what Jesus is saying is that it’s the Spirit who will finally make the people what God had intended them to be all along.  As Jesus has said over and over in various ways: he, Jesus, was sent by the Father, but that it would be the Spirit—the “Helper”—who would come after, who would testify to them about this truth, and then that through them this Spirit would testify to the rest of Israel and even to the nations.  This would fulfil what the prophets had spoken: a new people, a new Israel through whom the Lord would fulfil the mission he’d begun with Abraham—a mission to fill the world with knowledge of his glory as the waters cover the sea.  This new Israel, full of God’s Spirit, would finally be that bubble of the kingdom, the manifestation of God’s new creation here in the midst of the old, so that the nations will flock to the God of Israel to give him glory.

 

But Nicodemus just sat there looking puzzled.  Ditto for the disciples.  Because the Spirit hadn’t yet come to testify about Jesus.  So Nicodemus asks, “How can someone possibly be born when he’s old?  You’re not telling me he can go back a second time into his mother’s womb and be born, are you?”  And as Jesus answers him, this is where he switches from saying things like “Unless one is born again” to “Unless all y’all are born again”.  Because it’s not such much about one person being born again or even about a whole bunch of individuals being born again.  It’s about Israel as a people being born again so that she could be put back on track to fulfil her mission to reveal God to the nations.  Now, this idea of new birth would have resonated with Nicodemus, because to be a Jew was all about being born as part of Abraham’s family.  Other things like circumcision and sabbath and diet were really important—especially to a Pharisee—but those things were important because they were the markers of Abraham’s family.  They drew a clear line between those who were in the family and all the uncircumcised, unclean gentiles who were most definitely not—the one’s people like Nicodemus expected God to destroy with fire and brimstone when he came to set the world to rights.

 

And what Jesus is now saying is that being born into Abraham’s family the way the Jews thought of it wasn’t enough.  In fact—and this really comes out in Paul’s letters—it never had been enough.  And Nicodemus should have known this.  For two thousand years people were born into Abraham’s family and the kingdom still hadn’t come.  For two thousand years people were born into Abraham’s family and still the gentiles hadn’t experienced the Lord’s blessing through them on the huge scale envisioned by the scriptures.  Just the opposite, in fact.  The Prophet Zechariah spoke of a day when the gentiles would be grabbing hold of Jews by their coattails and pleading with them, “Take us with you, because we hear that God is with you!”  But because of the way most of Abraham’s children were living, the nations mocked them and taunted them saying, “Where’s your God?”  It takes more than bring born of the flesh of Abraham.  It even takes more than being born of water, as Isreal had been in the Red Sea.  As a Pharisee devoted to exhorting his fellow Jews to be better keepers of the law, Nicodemus should have known that it wasn’t working—that the people needed something more.  He, of all people, should have been looking forward to the day when the law would no longer be written on tablets of stone, but engraved on the very hearts of the people by the Holy Spirit.

 

So Jesus says to Nicodemus, “I’m telling you the solemn truth.  Unless someone is born from water and the Spirit, he can’t enter the kingdom of God.  Flesh is born from flesh, but spirit is born from Spirit.”  This is what John the Baptist was getting at out in the desert.  God was about to lead his people in a new exodus.  As Israel had been led through the waters of the Red Sea to become a covenant family, so John was calling people to pass through the waters of the Jordan—a step of repentance and faith—and into a new covenant.  They all needed a baptism of repentance.  They need to turn aside, not just from their disobedience, but from their misguided expectations of the kingdom and of the Messiah.  But remember what John promised.  When people asked him if he was the Messiah, he said that he was only the forerunner.  “I baptise you with water,” he said, “but he will plunge you into the Holy Spirit.”  And that’s just what Jesus does.  As we remembered last Sunday at Pentecost, Jesus takes those who have repented, who have turned aside from every false god and from every false king and from every false “ism”, he takes those who have instead grabbed hold of him in faith by passing through the waters of baptism, and he plunges them—us—into the Holy Spirit.  And the Spirit transforms and renews and regenerates us.  He takes our old, dead wood and grafts us into Jesus the vine and new life courses into us to bear fruit.  The Spirit makes us those walking bubbles of God’s new creation—what God’s people were always supposed to be.  That’s what it means to be born again or born from above.

 

Brothers and Sisters, think of your baptism as something like Israel at the Red Sea.  There was the parted water and God calling Israel to pass through to freedom and new life on the other side.  There was no receiving the law in Egypt; they had to cross to the other side of the sea to find covenant, to find relationship with the Lord.  And so we stand at the waters of baptism today.  In them Jesus gives his promise: Repent, turn aside from every false way, trust me, follow me in faith and you will find forgiveness of sins and new life through the Spirit.  To pass through the waters of baptism is to take hold of Jesus’ promise and to be born again of water and the Spirit—and to be made part of this new covenant people ready and equipped to live and to proclaim his kingdom.

 

But, again, this didn’t fit what Nicodemus knew.  “How can this be so?” he asks.  And Jesus asks a bit incredulously, “How can you not know this?  You’re one of the teachers of Israel!”  Nicodemus knew the story.  He understood how Israel had so miserably failed in her mission.  As a Pharisee he was abundantly aware of this problem.  Jesus tells Nicodemus: God has heard your cries and is visiting his people and he’s doing it in me.  I’m the son of man, the one spoken of by Daniel all those years ago.  I can tell you reliably the things of heaven because I’m the one who has come down from heaven.  Nicodemus is pretty incredulous.  He came wanting to know, but he’s not liking what he’s hearing and so Jesus is basically telling him, “You have to trust me.”  That’s what it’s all about.  Sometimes this faith stuff doesn’t make sense, but keep trust Jesus and the Spirit will eventually make sense of it.  And in keeping with that Jesus reminds him of the time the Israelites grumbled against Moses—which was really just veiled grumbling against the Lord.  And so the Lord sent poisonous snakes into the camp.  The snakes bit people and many of those who were bit died.  But the Lord also gave Moses the remedy.  He told Moses to cast a snake out of bronze and to mount it on a pole.  Anyone who would look up to the bronze snake would be healed.  It didn’t make sense.  How would a bronze snake on a pole heal anyone?  But it did—by faith.

 

So Jesus says, “Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, in the same way the son of man must be lifted up so that everyone who believes in him may share in the life of God’s new age.”  Jesus is pointing to his own crucifixion.  As the snake was the affliction of the people lifted up for them to look at, so Jesus would take the affliction of Israel on himself—he would suffer the punishment for their sins—and be lifted up on the cross.  He would be lifted up for everyone to look upon—to see the horror and the gravity of their sin, to see that the wages of sin is death.  But they would also see Jesus taking it all on himself and in that, the horror and ugliness of his being raised up would become an act by which he is ultimately glorified.  In the cross we see the love of God made manifest in Jesus.  And Jesus says in the familiar words we all know, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.  For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.”

 

Jesus corrects the central error in the thinking of Israel in his day.  They were hoping and praying for the day when the Lord would come, not just to vindicate his people, but to judge their enemies—to rain down fire and brimstone on the Romans and all the other gentiles.  But instead Jesus tells Nicodemus that he’s come not to condemn, but to save all who will look to him.  All.  The Jews thought the Lord, when he came, would vindicate them for their faithfulness, but Jesus says to Nicodemus, “Even the most righteous of you need this new birth, this salvation if you want to know God’s vindication.  And it’s not just for you.”  The Jews looked forward to the condemnation he would bring, but Jesus says he’s come not to condemn, but to save.  And this is where the part about being born again of water and the Spirit comes into play.  Being born of water and the Spirit supersedes biology and genealogy.  In Jesus God opens his arms to welcome Jew and Gentile alike.  It was the Jews first, because if the Lord is faithful—and he is—he had to first fulfil his promises to his own people, but most importantly, in that act of faithfulness, the nations would take note of the God of Israel.  In Jesus, the nations would see that the God of Israel is not like the puny, selfish, fickle, and powerless gods they have known, and they would then flock to this God who is truly good and faithful.  This is what God’s future looks like, not just Israel set to rights and everyone else set on fire.  God’s future is for everyone who sees Jesus and his people wiping away the tears and forgiving sin, who believes, and who becomes part of it—whether born of Abraham by the flesh or born of Abraham by faith—all born in God’s Spirit.

 

Abraham’s family is integral to the story and the plan, but Jesus reminds us that genes and DNA were never really what made anyone part of Abraham’s family; it was about faith.  It was faith for Abraham himself and it was faith in God’s promises for all who followed after: for Isaac and Jacob, for Joseph and Moses and Joshua, for gentiles like Rahab and Ruth, and even for the great kings like David and Solomon.  And God’s promise was that through his covenant people, through these people who knew him in faith and were reconciled to him by faith, he would bless the nations.  It happened here and there in the Old Testament.  Rahab and Ruth are two of many small-scale testimonies to that, but here we finally see the Lord’s promise coming to full fruit.  It’s what we celebrated last week on Pentecost as Jesus sent the Holy Spirit on these men of Israel gathered from around the world.  They had heard Peter preach about Jesus and what he’d come to do.  They rallied to Jesus in faith and in response Jesus poured his Spirit into them.  Finally, through Jesus, Israel became the source of blessing she was intended to be—not by flesh, but by the Spirit—as these men and women took the good news to the nations: Jesus is Lord.  He has conquered sin and death.  In him is the forgiveness of sin, in him is life, in him God has returned to his creation as King.  And in him—the incarnate Word—God makes himself known.  In Jesus, God incarnate, we have the restoration and fellowship with our Creator that he has been working towards ever since the day we rebelled and were cast out of his presence.  In Jesus, God’s kingdom—his new creation—has been inaugurated, in us and through us in the world.  Brothers and Sisters, we are that people the God of Israel was working to create and to make new all those millennia.  Jesus and the Spirit have finally made us that bubble of God’s future in the present, the bubble where the world is set to rights and where the tears are wiped away, the bubble that shows the world the faithfulness and goodness of God.  May we be that people—God’s future in the present, the heralds of his new creation—may we be faithful in being this Spirit-renewed gospel people who make known God’s glory to the world.

 

Let us pray: Almighty God we praise you this morning for the grace you have shown us.  Even as we rebelled against you, our good Creator, you were setting in motion our redemption: Father sending, calling, electing; Son speaking, coming, dying, rising; and Spirit uniting, renewing, regenerating, empowering.  In the redemption of the world we see the glory of the Trinity and the majesty of the Unity and in gratitude we fall before you with the angels to sing, “Holy, holy, holy Lord God almighty.”  By your grace, keep us strong in faith, O Lord, but keep us also faithful in our witness and our ministry to make your redeeming love known to the world.  We ask this through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns together with you and the Holy Spirit, one God forever and ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  And so the great story began.  Six day.  God speaks.  And creation takes shape.  On the first day…on the second day…on the third day…and so on…like a liturgy.  In fact, there’s a theory that Genesis 1 was written to be used at the dedication of the second temple.  Because it describes God creating the heavens and the earth as his own temple.  In Genesis 2 we even see that this temple has a holy of holies: a garden called Eden.  There he carefully crafts a man from the dust of the earth, breathes his own life into him, and places him in the garden, in that holy of holies, to act as his priest, to care for his temple, and to live in his presence.

 

And then we humans sinned and it all went wrong.  But Genesis stands as a reminder of what the Lord intended and how it’s supposed to be.  The pagans tried to get it back.  They built temples for their gods and in them, to represent the gods’ rule, they placed idols carved of wood or stone.  And attempt to recover Eden, to re-enter that fellowship with God, but on our terms, not his.  But Genesis reminds us that God has built his own temple by the power of his creative word and that he created us to be his image, to tend and to keep his temple, and to steward his rule on earth.

 

And Genesis…and the whole story that follows…reminds us that the Lord will not leave us forever cast out.  Into the midst of the darkness God spoke again and called forth Abraham and with Abraham and his family, God launched a new heaven-and-earth project.  Over and over he showed his faithfulness to Abraham, to Isaac, to Jacob, and to the whole people of Israel.  When they were slaves in Egypt he heard their cry and he rescued them.  He defeated Pharaoh and the Egyptians and led his beloved people through the Red Sea and into the wilderness.  At Mount Sinai the Lord gave the gift of the torah, the law, to Moses and the people.  And with the torah he gave them instructions, think of them as blueprints, for the tabernacle.  The Lord promised: I will be your God and you will be my people.  Once again, the Lord would take up his dwelling in their midst.  The tabernacle was a portable temple full of the symbols of the garden of Eden.  Wherever the people stopped to camp, they set up the tabernacle, and the glory cloud, the shekinah representing the Lord’s presence, would descend to fill the holy of holies.  And the torah set the people apart from the nations and taught them how to be holy so that they might be the people who lived with the Lord in their midst.  Israel, camped around the tabernacle and the Lord’s glory cloud, were a sort of new creation in miniature—heaven and earth, God and human beings back together, even if imperfectly.  It gave the people hope.  A hope that one day the Lord would truly and fully set this broken world to rights—to make things the way they’re supposed to be.  And it wasn’t just hope for Israel.  The Lord intended the watching nations to see his people and take note.

 

That’s the climax of the Exodus.  Not the Passover or the Red Sea.  Those are important—vitally important—parts of the story.  But it’s Exodus 40, the last chapter of the book, where the Lord’s glory clouds descends to dwell in the tabernacle—that’s the climax.  The Lord once again dwelling with his people.

 

We see it happen again when the Israelites are settled in the land of Canaan.  King Solomon builds a permanent temple for the Lord and, once again, at its dedication the glory cloud descends to fill the holy of holies.

 

It was all there as part of the story to point the people in hope to God’s restoration of heaven and earth—to the day when the Lord’s promises would be fulfilled.  Because the Lord didn’t just come to Israel and manifest himself in a cloud of glory; he spoke.  Israel’s prophetic tradition was full of promises looking forward to that day.

 

King David knew the Lord’s promises and sang out in prophetic hope of that future day in Psalm 72: May he have dominion from sea to sea…May all kings fall down before him, all nations serve him…Blessed by the Lord, the God of Israel, who alone does wondrous things.  Blessed be his glorious name forever; may the whole earth be filled with his glory!  Isaiah sang of the coming Messiah who would set creation to rights: There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.  And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him.  And when God has done his work through the Messiah, Isaiah sings, the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.  Habakkuk similarly would sing out in hope: For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.

When the Lord’s cloud of glory descended to fill the temple, it pointed forward to that day when he would—when he will—fill all of creation with his glorious presence.

 

Think about this hope that Israel had and how great it was and I think it helps give a sense of just how tragic it then was when Israel failed to keep her end of the covenant and the Lord allowed the Babylonian army to capture Jerusalem and to destroy the temple—his temple.  Israel sinned, Israel showed disregard for the law the Lord had given to keep her holy.  And worst of all—over and over and over—Israel prostituted herself to the gods of the pagans.  It was a deep, deep tragedy.  As the Psalmist laments in Psalm 137: By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept.  Not just for what was lost, but like Adam and Eve, cast out and weeping over their own disobedience.  But even then, in those dark, dark days of exile the Lord still spoke.  Through Isaiah and Ezekiel, through Zechariah and Malachi the Lord promised that he would come back to dwell with his people.

 

And yet, as the Gospels begin, hundreds of years had passed and the Lord had yet to return.  Israel had returned from her exile.  The temple had been rebuilt.  The people and the priests went through all the motions.  The smoke went up from the great altar.  But the cloud of glory had never come down and returned to the temple.  And pagan kings still ruled with Israel under their heels.

 

Again, this is where the Gospels begin.  St. John describes the darkness, the hopelessness, the absence and then he says that the word became flesh and lived among us…The light shone in the darkness.  Brothers and Sisters, the Gospels are about the return of God to his people in fulfilment of his promises.  The word—the embodiment of God’s creative power—the word took on our flesh and was born of Mary.  In Jesus God not only returned to his people, he brought heaven and earth, God and humanity back together in his person.  Jesus is the manifestation of the hope of creation set to rights, of the breach between us and God healed.  Matthew puts it in terms of Isaiah’s prophecy: Jesus is the promised Immanuel: God with us.

 

And as the church has led us through the story of Jesus these last months, we’ve followed him to the cross where he took on himself the role of the Passover lamb.  He died for the sins of his people.  And just when sin and death thought they’d done their worst and defeated God once and for all, God raised Jesus from death.  It was like the Passover and the Red Sea all over again, only this time it wasn’t an Egyptian king and his army that were defeated, it was evil itself.

 

And then, last week, we stood with the disciples and watched as Jesus ascended to take his throne in heaven.  And if you know the story of Israel, if you know the Old Testament like Luke’s readers did, you can’t help but draw the connection.  If Jesus’ death was a new Passover, then his ascension isn’t just his going to heaven to take his throne as king.  It’s definitely very much that and that’s significant, but it also parallels Moses going up Mount Sinai to meet with the Lord.  And when Moses came down, he had the gift of the torah, the law, with him.

 

And so now, in today’s Gospel, from Acts 2 Luke writes: When the day of Pentecost had finally arrived, they were all together in the same place.

I’m sure Jesus’ disciples were expecting something.  I don’t think they knew exactly what.  As we heard in last week’s Gospel, Jesus said that he had to leave, to take his throne—and the disciples would be sorry to see him go—but that it had to be that way, because Jesus would send the Holy Spirit to empower them.  At the last supper he’d said that with his blood he was making a new covenant.  They knew that a new covenant would need a new law—a new torah—because the law was what taught the people how to live out their end of the covenant, how to live as the people in whose midst the Lord dwelled.

 

But what that would like was anyone’s guess.  But when Jesus told them to go and wait in Jerusalem and that he would send the Spirit in a few days, I fully expect they made the connection with Pentecost, because Pentecost—which is just Greek for “fiftieth” because it’s fifty days after Passover—because Pentecost was the great feast when Israel remembered and celebrate the giving of the law at Mount Sinai.  I think that by this time, the disciples were finally putting things together.  They were waiting those ten days with baited breath.  Jesus was alive.  Jesus was king.  Everything was happening just as he promised.  So they knew the Spirit would come.  But how?  And what would happen when he did?  And how would the Spirit be a new torah for this new covenant.  And so they obeyed Jesus.  They waited all together in Jerusalem—probably in that same “upper room” where they’d eaten the Passover.  And Luke goes on: Suddenly there came from heaven a noise like the sound of a mighty, rushing wind, and it filled the whole house where they were sitting.

So many parts of the story come together here.  It helps to understand that wind and breath are the same word in both Hebrew and Greek.  And so this divine wind sweeps in to the room to breathe the breath of God into the disciples, reminding them of the way God gave life to Adam in the beginning—taking that lifeless lump of moulded clay and animating it, making it as we say, a soul—a living being.  But this time it’s God breathing life into his new Israel.  There’s a reason that the one thing the disciples made sure they did during those days of waiting was to appoint Matthias as a successor to Judas.  If they were to be the new Israel, they had to be twelve.  And now the Spirit comes and breathes the life of God into this new people.

 

But, too, the imagery of the wind filling the house.  It doesn’t just recall God breathing life into Adam.  It also recalls God’s presence filling the tabernacle in Exodus 40 and the temple in 1 Kings 8.  The way God gives his Spirit is a reminder that Jesus people aren’t just a people full of the Spirit.  Brothers and Sisters, being full of the Spirit makes us God’s temple.  Jesus and us—together we’re the beginning of God’s new creation, the beginning of his restoration of heaven and earth.  Jesus has ascended to heaven bearing our human flesh.  And in the Spirit, God has come to earth to dwell with us.  In us, in Jesus’ people, the restoration of Eden has begun.  That’s why at the head of Jesus’ prayer are is that powerful petition: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

 

I think this is why all through the rest of Acts, stuff keeps happening at temples, whether it’s the next couple of chapters as we follow the events of Pentecost and Peter preaching and thousands being baptised or later as Paul confronts the pagans in their temples in Athens and Ephesus.  All because in Jesus and his people God’s real temple is being built—brick by brick, stone by stone, with each baptism…all laid on the foundation of the death and resurrection of Jesus.

 

So the disciples already knew when Jesus rose from death that new creation had begun.  Jesus was the first part of it.  And they were so excited to go out and tell everyone that Jesus had to calm them down and tell them to wait.  Enthusiasm is never enough.  They needed to be made part of that new creation too.  And that’s what the Spirit does here.  One day, when the church’s work is done and Jesus returns to finally cast death itself into the lake of fire, God will raise us as he raised Jesus and we will know fully the life he intends for us.  But the time for that hasn’t yet come.  The gift of the Spirit is the downpayment on that life—or to use an Old Testament term for it: the Spirit is the firstfruits of God’s new creation.

 

And that’s the other part of the feast of Pentecost that comes into this.  Pentecost wasn’t just the celebration of God’s giving of the law to Israel.  It was also the festival where the people brought their firstfruits to God.  They brought the first of their crops—like a sheaf of wheat—not just to give thanks for the harvest, but in expectant hope of his provision—trusting him for a plentiful harvest.  From now on, for Jesus’ people, Pentecost is just that: a reminder that the harvest has begun and that the Spirit is sure to make it a plentiful one.

 

But it wasn’t just the wind.  Luke goes on in verse 3: Then tongues, seemingly of fire, appeared to them, moving apart and coming to rest on each one of them.  They were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them the words to say.

The wind from heaven fills them and the Spirit manifests himself as flame and then they start to speak in other languages.  Again, the big story tells us why the Spirit came this way.  Genesis explains the origin of different languages and people groups with the story of Babel.  It’s the low point in human history.  Adam and Eve sin in Chapter 3, Cain murders his brother in Chapter 4, and humanity goes downhill from there until, in Chapter11, we’ve lost all knowledge of God.  In their hubris, the men of Babel built a tower to reach heaven and in response, the Lord confused their languages and scattered them.  It’s a bit like Psalm 2 and Daniel 7 that I mentioned last week.  The nations rage, but God laughs.  But all the while he has a plan to set us to rights.  In Psalm 2 it’s the son of David who will reign as king.  In Daniel 7 it’s the son of man who will be enthroned by the Ancient of Days.  And here at Pentecost, the son of David who is also the son of man takes his throne and sends the Spirit who creates a people ready to undo Babel.

 

Luke goes on in verse 5: There were devout Jews from every nation under heaven staying in Jerusalem at that time.  [Remember, because it was Pentecost.]  When they heard this noise they came together in a crowd.  They were deeply puzzled, because every single one of them could hear them speaking in his or her own native language.  They were astonished and amazed.  “These men who are doing the speaking are all Galileans, aren’t they?” they said.  “So how is it that each of us can hear them in our own mother tongues?

Luke goes on to list people from countries across the whole Roman empire and some from even beyond that.  And the men hearing this go on with the most important detail, “We can hear them telling us about the mighty things God has done—in our own languages.”

What does it mean?  Brothers and Sisters, this gift of tongues to the disciples was a sign.  It was a sign that Jesus truly had ascended to his throne and he now rules over a global dominion.  And it means that through his people, through his church, Jesus has inaugurated God’s new creation and has begun the work of setting everything to rights—starting with the confusion of Babel.

 

And that’s where today’s Epistle ends, which is a bit disappointing.  I wish we had a Pentecost season where we could at least work through the next couple of chapters.  “What does all this mean?” they ask, and in response Peter begins to preach and he explains to the gathered men how this was all in fulfilment of God’s promises.  These first eleven verses will have to be enough for today.

 

Brothers and Sisters, Pentecost reminds us who we are.  Again, think of Israel, rescued from Egypt and then formed as a people in the wilderness—a people defined by the law and by God dwelling in their midst.  Pentecost is a reminder to us that in Jesus, God has delivered us from our bondage to sin and death and that he has made us a people defined by his new law: the life of the Spirit.  And we don’t just have God in our midst; we are indwelt by God himself in the Spirit.  Pentecost is a reminder that in making us this Spirit-filled people, God has made us his temple.  We are the place where the world meets God.  But our calling isn’t simply to sit here like the temple on Mount Zion and wait for people to come.  Our calling is to be a temple on the move and a temple dispersed—a temple that goes out and meets the world with God and with the gospel—with the good news that Jesus, crucified and risen, is the world’s true Lord.  You and I have been entrusted with the story.  Go out and proclaim the mighty deeds of God and the Spirit will use that proclamation to change hearts and to grow the kingdom.  And, finally, Pentecost is a reminder that as God’s temple, we are also the firstfruits of God’s new creation.  We as a people are called to live out the life of God—not just to steward his word and to proclaim his gospel, but to truly be light in the darkness: living out and working for mercy and love and justice, showing the world the value of goodness, truth, and beauty, teaching reconciliation, bringing healing.  In other words, Brothers and Sisters, pulling God’s future into the present.  Not just praying “on earth as in heaven”, but living out that prayer so that all the world will see and doing so in trusting hope that God’s promise is true.  One day, when the church has done her job declaring the mighty deeds of God, the earth will be filled with the knowledge of his glory as the waters cover the sea.  That is what it means to be a “Pentecostal” people.

 

Let’s pray: O GOD, who on this day taught the hearts of your faithful people by sending to them the light of your Holy Spirit: Grant us by the same Spirit to have a right judgment in all things, and evermore to rejoice in his holy comfort; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

The King came to Canada this week and I can help but reflect on how providential this event has been—the King of Canada coming to take his throne in the Senate chamber in Ottawa—in the same week that we remember and celebrate the ascension of Jesus.  I might be tempted to title my sermon: A Tale of Two Kings.

 

So a new Parliament needed to be opened.  A throne speech had to be read.  That’s normally done by the Governor General, but these are not normal times.  The new President next door, in what has always been Canada’s best friend and ally, is now making economic war and daily challenging the country’s sovereignty.  It was time for the Sovereign to come and save the day.  And so the King came, and he ascended to his throne in Parliament, and he read a speech.  The last time the Sovereign did this was almost fifty years ago, so this is no small thing.  And yet the King was here for all of about twenty-four hours.  The speech he read was written by government speech-writers, not by the King.  And even then, it’s vitally important in our constitutional monarchy that the King avoid any openly political speech—and so the big concern of the day, the big thing that threatens the nation’s economic well-being and sovereignty—was only hinted at obliquely.  And everyone applauded.  And then the King got back into his jet and flew home.  And maybe it’s just because I’m an American, but it doesn’t seem to me that all the pomp and circumstance and expense really accomplished anything.  The King didn’t go to Washington to negotiate peace with the belligerent bully or to rough him up a bit or even to give him a good talking to.  Instead, he came here, he sat in the Senate chamber, and recited back to the government the talking points it gave him.  Again, I mean no disrespect to the King or to Canada’s constitutional monarchy, but watching and listening to this week’s events as an American—although I suspect even the staunches of Christian monarchists can’t help but notice it too—that there’s a big—an enormous—difference between the ascension of King Charles III in Ottawa this week and the ascension of Jesus that we read about today in both our Epistle and Gospel.

 

I listened to the throne speech and even though I know that the King can’t actually do anything, when it was over I still felt like: What now?  The King flies all this way, he ascends to his throne with great pomp and circumstance, he reads a speech intended to stir patriotic feelings—and even as an American, watching and listening I felt pride for Canada—but then he got back into his airplane and went home.  He didn’t do anything about the current crisis.  The enemy is still there.  In fact, the King’s talk of Canadian sovereignty just seemed to provoke a new round of fifty-first state talk.  It’s kind of a let down.  I don’t know what I expect the King should do, but he’s a king after all and I sort of have a mental image of him taking off his pinstripe jacket, putting on a shining suit of armour, going to Washington, and popping the President in the nose.  In real life that probably wouldn’t solve anything.  It’s just that kings are supposed to deliver their subjects in times of trouble and cast down their enemies.  Right?  That’s what kings are for.

 

This is why the disciples were so discouraged when Jesus was crucified.  They thought he was the Messiah, the anointed king, and then he got himself killed—and that’s not what was supposed to happen to the king.  He was supposed to defeat his enemies and take his throne.  And then Jesus rose from death and he met them and they were so excited to go declare the good news to Jerusalem that Jesus actually had to calm them down and tell them to wait.  Enthusiasm isn’t enough.  They also needed the power of God’s Spirit—but that’s for next week.  But for forty days Jesus has been teaching them.  He’s been walking them through the scriptures and showing them how it was there along: the Messiah had to die in order to defeat his enemies and take his throne.  Like I said a couple of weeks ago, those forty days must have been the most thrilling days in all of history as Jesus taught them and as it all came together.  And yet, even then, the disciples were still stuck on the wrong things.  But now I’m getting ahead of myself for today.  Keep this all in mind and let’s look at our Epistle again.  The first chapter of Acts.  Luke writes:

 

Dear Theophilus, the previous book which I wrote had to do with everything Jesus began to do and teach.  I took the story as far as the day when he was taken up, once he had given instructions through the Holy Spirit to his apostles.

Luke is talking about his Gospel.  He goes on in verse 3:

 

So good so far.  Forty days of Bible teaching with Jesus.  All about the kingdom.  He thinks they’re ready to do the proclamation part of their new ministry, they just need to wait a minute so he can ascend to this throne and send the Spirit who will empower that proclamation.  Jesus thinks their ready to be set loose on the world.  But have you ever taught something to someone, explaining it to them, and they’re nodding and you think they understand.  You’re ready to turn them loose.  And then they ask you a question and you realise that they still don’t understand the central point of what you’ve been trying to teach them?

 

I took calculus as a freshman in college.  Twice.  The only class I ever failed.  I understood the instructions.  But no matter how hard I tried and no matter how long the professor explained it to me—I had the benefit of sitting next to him in the church choir—I never understood what it was all about.  I didn’t get it.  I thought that at least I could just follow the instructions to solve the equations.  I found that usually worked pretty well with math.  But it didn’t with calculus.  So he—or my friends who understood calculus—would explain it to me and I’d say, “Right.  I do this, then this, then this, and so on.”  And they’d smile and say, “Yes!”  Like it was finally sinking in for me.  And then I’d do what I thought were the steps and it wouldn’t work and they’d ask me to explain it, and I couldn’t, because I never could wrap my head around the concept at the heart of it all.

 

Brothers and Sisters, the kingdom was the heart of everything Jesus was teaching and doing.  And the disciples knew this.  That’s, again, why they were so discouraged when he died.  Dead kings don’t establish kingdoms.  But now Jesus is alive again and they’re excited and especially so because for forty days Jesus has been teaching them even more about the kingdom.  And then they ask, “Master, is this the time when you are going to restore the kingdom to Israel.”

I remember the look on my calculus professor’s face when he through I’d finally got it through my thick skull and how his smile faded away when he realised I didn’t get it at all and I can picture the same look on Jesus’ face.  Disappointment and exasperation.  I don’t know.  Maybe Jesus knew that no amount of talk would get them straight on this and that it would only fall into place once they saw him ascend and once they’d received the Spirit.  But it’s clear: despite all the teaching, the disciples still didn’t get it.

 

See, this idea of the “kingdom of God”, for the Jews it had become shorthand for the idea that one day the Lord would fulfil his promises, come back to Israel, take up his throne.  He’d defeat Isreal’s enemies and he’d set Israel to rights—and then they’d all live happily ever after with God as their king and the pagans under their feet.  They sang songs, like Psalm 2, about the nations raging and the kings of the earth getting together to plot against the Lord and his people.  And in the middle of the song the Lord bursts out in laughter, mocking the nations and their feeble kings.  And then the Lord lets loose his wrath and announces, “I have set my king on Zion, my holy hill.”  And then the king speaks: “The Lord said to me, ‘You are my son; today I have begotten you.  Ask of me, and I will make the nations your heritage, and the ends of the earth your possession.  You shall break them with a rod of iron and dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel.”  And then the Psalmist can announce to the nations: “Now, O kings, be wise; be warned, O rulers of the earth.  Serve the Lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling.  Kiss the son, lest he be angry and you perish in the way, for his wrath is quickly kindled.”  It’s the king in shining armour come to crush his enemies and set his people to rights.

 

They sang songs like the one in Isaiah 52 about the beautiful feet of the one who brings good news and who announces to Zion, “Your God reigns.”  “The Lord has bared his holy arm before the eyes of the nations, and all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of God.”  This was the same song in which they sang about the suffering servant who would be exalted only after he had borne their griefs and sorrows, only after he’d been stricken and afflicted.”  This was the hope of Israel and this is why the disciples had followed Jesus.  They believed he was the Messiah, the king who would rescue his people and defeat their enemies.  Again, for those three days he was in the tomb it looked like they’d been wrong, but now Jesus was alive again.  They knew with absolute certainty that he really is the Messiah.  And so now they’re asking him: “Your resurrection put the story back on track, Jesus.  So when are you going to fulfil those old promises, defeat the nations and their kings, and set Isreal on the top of the heap?”

 

And Jesus says to them in verse 7: “It’s not your business to know about times and dates.  The Father has placed all that under his own direct authority.  What will happen, though, is that you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you.  Then you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judaea and Samaria, and to the very ends of the earth.”

I’ve noticed a lot of people read this and think that Jesus is saying something like, “No.  It’s not time to restore the kingdom.  I’ll do that sometime in the future and only the Father knows the date.”  But that’s not what Jesus is saying at all.  Think of the pair Jesus met on the road to Emmaus.  They were saying that they’d hoped Jesus was the one who would redeem Israel, but well, he’d been crucified so scratch that idea.  And that’s the point when Jesus explains to them that it was actually through his crucifixion that he would accomplish God’s long-promised redemption.  Even though it was there all along in songs like Isaiah 52, it doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that the Messiah would usher in God’s kingdom by his suffering and death.  And yet when Jesus says this, suddenly a lot of other things he said and did finally make sense.  Think of the stories—the parables—he told.  Over and over: The kingdom is coming—yes!—but it’s not coming like you think.  Instead, the kingdom is coming like seed planted in the ground.  The kingdom is coming like leaven in a lump of dough.  The kingdom is like a man who had two sons.  Or when Jesus and the disciples were approaching Jerusalem and they asked this same question: Is the kingdom finally coming now?  And Jesus said that the kingdom is like a nobleman coming back to see if his servants have been faithful with their stewardship.  Over and over Jesus has been saying, “Yes, the kingdom is coming right now, but you keep missing it because it doesn’t look like what you expected.

 

At that last Passover meal Jesus ate with his friends, he told them that he would not drink with them again until the kingdom had arrived. And here they are, these forty days after the resurrection eating and drinking with Jesus as he teaches them.  The kingdom has come, Brothers and Sisters.  Too many Christians live as if the mission of the church is to prepare for Jesus to become king, when the church’s mission is, in fact, really all about announcing and living out the reality that Jesus is the king even if his kingdom isn’t quite what a lot of people expected.

 

And then, just to make all of this absolutely clear, Luke says in verse 9: As Jesus said this, he was lifted up while they were watching and a cloud took him out of their sight.

We’re prone to missing the significance of this image because we’re not steeped in the Old Testament the way they were.  The disciples, however, understood exactly what was happening: Jesus was acting out the prophecy of Daniel 7.  That’s the chapter were Daniel has this nightmare full of beasts coming up out of the ocean.  It’s a vision of the nations and their kings raging against God’s people.  But then “one like a son of man” is taken up and exalted on the clouds to sit beside the Ancient of Days.  He’s given a kingdom, power, and authority so that all people, nations, and languages should serve and obey him.  It’s a vision of the kingdom being restored to Israel.  And now, all through Jesus’ ministry, we’ve heard him talking about himself as this son of man, as Israel’s representative, and now—in answer to the disciples’ question about the coming of the kingdom—Jesus literally acts out Daniel’s vision.  He fulfils it.  In fact, in Matthew’s telling of the ascension, Jesus even says—echoing the words of the Ancient of Days in Daniel—“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.  So you must go and make all the nations into disciples.”

 

The ascension proclaims: Jesus is king and his kingdom is here.  One day Jesus will return to finish what he’s begun, but never forget that it has begun.  As Paul says in Romans 15, “He has to go on ruling until he has put all his enemies under his feet.”

 

So the disciples were thinking that Jesus was going to lead a revolution—like Judas Maccabeus or Simon bar Kochba—except this time it wouldn’t fizzle out.  This time it would be successful and it would be forever.  And Jesus is saying (and acting out) that no, the kingdom has been inaugurated and it’s going to take shape and grow—the nations will be put under Jesus’ feet—not as the disciples take up arms, but as they go out into the world as witnesses of Jesus: as they go out and proclaim the good news that Jesus crucified and risen, is the world’s true Lord and as they live out the reality of his kingdom.  Like Jesus did, the disciples would work miracles—miracles that underscored that in the kingdom all the sad thing are beginning to become untrue; and they would live lives transformed by the Spirit’s fruit, but maybe more than anything else, they would confront the kings of the present evil age with the reality of Jesus’ lordship.  And through their witness, the world would begin to change.

 

It's not a linear, always progressing, always upward change.  That was the idea of theological liberalism a century ago, but two world wars and nuclear bombs and fascism and Communism blew that idea up.  But through the witness of the church, the world is changing.  I’ve mentioned before Tom Holland’s remarkable book Dominion and how, in that book, he writes about the profound changes that the gospel brought to Western Civilisation.  Each generation lives in its own brief age and so, if we don’t know anything about history, we’re prone to not even noticing the changes that have happened, but happen they have.  Christians began taking in the unwanted girl babies of the Greeks and Romans, left to die of exposure, and we taught the world the value of life.  The influence of the gospel put an end to gladiatorial games and slavery.  The gospel has taught the world mercy and grace, the value of life, the dignity of each person.  And on and on.  The church, when we are faithful witnesses of Jesus and living the new creation life the Spirit gives, builds and spreads the kingdom and someday, when the work is done, Jesus will return—not to take us away, but to restore heaven and earth, God and human beings, and to put an end to death and sin once and for all.  To consummate his new creation.

 

But there’s work to do in the meantime.  He created us in the beginning to be his stewards—to cultivate his garden.  That’s why, when it came time to set us back on that track, God called and created a special people for himself: to be his representative, to be his stewards, to be his living kingdom in the midst of the old.  And so Luke says, They were gazing into heaven as he disappeared.  Then, lo and behold, two men appeared, dressed in white, standing beside them.  “Men of Galilee,” they said, “why are you standing here staring into heaven?  This Jesus, who has been taken away from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you saw him go into heaven.”

Brothers and Sisters, there’s work to do.  Like Jesus said, they needed to wait a few days before going out, so that when they did go out, they would go out in the power of the Spirit.  The kingdom doesn’t happen in our power.  But it does happen as we go out to faithfully fulfil the mission we’ve been given to witness Jesus.  Our task is to go out in faith, to till the soil, to steward the garden.  It's an overwhelming task.  That’s why it takes faith to go out and do it.  But we go out in faith knowing that God has given us his Spirit who infuses what we do with divine power.  We go out in faith knowing that in Jesus—at the cross and in the resurrection—God has already done the impossible part.  Now, as Paul wrote, all he has to do is go on ruling until all his enemies have been put under his feet.  There’s no “if”.  It’s just “until”.  It’s a sure thing.  And so is the witness of his church.

 

It doesn’t always seem that way.  Sometimes it seems like we’re going backwards and things are getting worse.  People won’t listen or won’t take us seriously.  Sometimes we’re tempted to give up.  Sometimes we act like all Jesus did was come to earth to give us a rousing pep talk, then he went back home to heaven.  But read the Gospels and that’s not it at all.  He hasn’t just gone back to heaven and left us alone.  He’s ascended to his throne, where he rules and reigns over his kingdom, which—remember—is like seed planted in the soil and like leaven in a lump of dough and like a man who had two sons.  And one day, through his people—through us—the work of his word and the work of his Spirit will be done.  The world will know his death and resurrection, it will know the forgiveness of sins, it will know the end of death, it will know mercy and grace.  The knowledge of his glory will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea and every knee will bow and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord.  Because Jesus died and rose again, because the Lord’s word does not return void, and because he does not give his Spirit in vain.

 

Let’s pray: O God, the King of glory, you have exalted your only Son Jesus the Messiah with great triumph to your right hand in heaven: Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us for the task you have given, and that we might look forward in hope to the day when every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

I was out on my gravel bike this week, riding the trails through Merville and Black Creek and down to Williams Beach.  At one point I had to stop to take a picture.  I was riding down this narrow corridor with walls of little yellow flowers on both sides.  It was really beautiful.  But just a short way down the trail I ran into a big group of people cutting it all down.  I had a stop and wait for a minute so they could get their cart off the trail.  One of the women asked how my ride was going.  I said I was having a great ride.  It was a beautiful day.  I pulled out my phone and showed her the picture I’d just taken of the trail.  I thought it was beautiful, but she scowled at it.  “We’ll get there tomorrow morning,” she said, “Ugh!  Vile stuff, but we’ll get it!”  (And, sure enough, when I rode through again a few days later the walls of scotch broom were gone.)  I was kind of disappointed, but I’m sure the “broom busters” were happy, because they really, really, really hate scotch broom.

 

The funny thing is—I notice this most places they cut it down—is that when they’re done, there’s usually still scotch broom as far as the eye can see—on the other side of a fence.  It’s like that where I was riding my bike.  They cut it all down on Regional District property, but they can’t touch the private property on the other side of the fence.  And later in the summer, I’ll be riding my bike down the trail and in the heat of the day I’ll hear the seed pods popping open and scattering their seed on both sides of the fence.  And next year the scotch broom will be back.  To me the whole thing seems pointless, but these folks envision an island scoured clean of scotch broom and so they come back year after year after year to cut it down wherever they can get to it.  Even though that island scoured clean of broom will never be.

 

As I rode later in the week and saw the trailsides devoid of broom, but acres and acres of yellow flowers on the other side of the fence it got me thinking about the theme of our Eastertide scripture readings.  (I know, you think I’m just out there riding my bike, but I’m out there praying and meditating on scripture and putting sermons together in my head.)  We began Easter with the theme of hope.  Jesus’ resurrection meant something to the disciples.  It wasn’t just a miracle.  It was the evidence, the proof that God’s new creation had begun and that Jesus is king.  That’s what lit a fire under them to go out and announce the good news to Jerusalem, to Judaea, Samaria, and to the whole world—even though it eventually got them all killed.  This theme of resurrection life carries all through Eastertide and we meet it here again today.  We could run with either the Gospel or the Epistle, but I’m going to go with the Epistle—this lesson from St. James that begins with those familiar words:

 

Brothers and Sisters, the good news of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead ought to give us a vision of the world set to rights—of sin and death defeated and cast forever into hell, of no more trials and no more tears, and of new life with nothing to separate us from the presence of God.  When we look at the mess and the darkness around us that hope might sound crazy—like an island scoured clean of scotch broom—but the fact is that God has done the hard part already.  He gave his son to take up our flesh, to die, and to rise to life again.  The rest is just his people—us—going out to preach and to do that good news and to let his word and his Spirit spread and grow his new creation.  So don’t just hear the word.  Go out and do it.  Don’t just long for God’s kingdom, go out and be it.

 

It also helps to understand that for the Jews, speaking Hebrew, to hear and to obey were inextricably linked together.  The Hebrew word for “hear” is a call not just to the ears, but to the heart, and to hear is to respond, whether it’s for the Lord to hear the cries of his people in their bondage and to come to their deliverance or for Israel to hear the word of the Lord and to take it to heart and do it.  When Moses and the Prophets announced, “Hear the word of the Lord!” it wasn’t just a call to listen, but to obey—to do.  We have a word in English that we don’t use anymore that is very similar: hearken.  Don’t just hear, but take note, take what you hear to heart.  Do it.

 

Brothers and Sisters, words are important—and the word of God especially so.  As I’ve said so many times, God’s word brings life.  By his word he created life in the beginning and when we were mired in sin and in slavery to death, he heard our cries for deliverance and sent his word again, this time in human flesh, in Jesus, to die and to rise from death so that we might know life again.  This is at the core of Easter and so, these last two Sundays of Eastertide we read from St. James’ epistle about the power of God’s word to bring us life and to transform us.  But first he contrasts God’s word with our words, which are so often spoken in anger or spoken, not to heal or to give life, but to hurt.  This is in the first chapter of James.  Our Epistle begins at verse 22, but I want to back up a bit into last week’s Epistle, to verse 19.  Here’s what James writes:

 

So, my dear brothers [and sisters], get this straight.  Every person should be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.  Human anger, you see, doesn’t produce God’s justice.  (James 1:19-20)

 

“Be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.”  How many times would that have saved you a world of hurt if you’d only heard and obeyed?

 

Now, there can be a place for anger.  So often we get angry because the world isn’t what we know it should be.  Sometimes—a lot of the time—that’s just our pride being hurt or our selfishness being tweaked, but when we see real wrongs being done, when we see real injustice in the world, there is a place for just and righteous anger.  Godly anger over sin and injustice is often precisely what we need to get us up and out into the world to help the needy or the hurt, to stand up for the defenceless, or otherwise to speak out and to work for wrongs to be righted.  St. Paul writes in Ephesians 4:26, “Be angry” but then there’s an “and”, a big “and”: “and do not sin.”  Deal with what needs dealing with and “do not let the sun go down on your anger,” because that “gives opportunity to the devil”.  If you’re angry because your pride has been hurt, put a stop to it right there.  Swallow your pride and move on.  If you’re angry because something is truly wrong, use that anger productively to set things right, but do not sin in the process.  Two wrongs won’t make things right.  And righteous or not, don’t let your anger fester.  Deal with it one way or another, because simmering anger is fodder for the devil and for all sorts of sin.  We all know that from experience.  Let your anger simmer and before too long you’re thinking about payback and revenge and neither of those things have any place in the Christian life.  That was our lesson two Sunday’s ago: As he has vindicated Jesus, so the Father will one day vindicate us.  We don’t need to vindicate ourselves.

 

In short, James says, “Human anger doesn’t produce God’s justice.”  In other words, your anger is not what will set this broken world to rights.  I know it always seems like it will at the time, but it won’t.  Just consider: You think your anger will set things right so you lash out at that other person.  And now what are they thinking?  They’re thinking the same thing: All the situation needs is a little bit of their anger to fix it so they lash out at you.  And all it all does is make everything worse.  Brother and Sisters, James reminds us to instead be quick to hear, slow to speak, and slow to anger.  God is the one who will bring justice to the world and right the wrongs.  If we have been wronged, God will vindicate us.  The best thing we can do is to respond with the gospel and the Spirit.  Where the world is broken, where relationships are broken, we should be asking ourselves how we can bring to bear the things that God’s Spirit gives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.  Our anger won’t help God make things right.  And so James warns:

 

Do you see what he did there?  More often than not, when we get angry, it’s because our pride has been hurt and that kind of anger tempts us to lash out—it tempts us to respond to a hurt or a wrong with some kind of sin.  Insults, brawling, that sort of thing.  In contrast, James says that when our pride is threatening to take control of us, we need instead to meekly receive—to hearken to—the word that God has implanted in us.  If this were St. Paul, he’d be reminding us to put off the old man and to put on the new.  The pride and anger are the old man talking, but in Jesus and the Spirit God has made us new.  James puts it in terms of the word by which God has forgiven us and made us a new creation.  I think James had Isaiah 55:10-11 in mind when he was writing this.  That’s where the Lord, through the Prophet, says:

 

This is one of my favourite passages in all of Scripture.  When I get frustrated with my own sin and my own shortcomings and my own failures to be faithful to God, I remember what he says about his word here.  And as a pastor, when I’m discouraged with ministry and when it seems like nothing is happening or people aren’t maturing or when I see sin and shortcomings and failures to be faithful in the church, again, I come back to what the Lord says about his word here and I go back to the word, because God’s word is the source of life.  Nothing I can do will bring the life of God to myself or to other people—only his word can do that—and he promises through Isaiah that his word always accomplishes what he purposes and it always succeeds in that for which he sends it forth.  So I preach his word to myself and I preach his word to you and trust him to cause it to bear fruit in me and in you, because he says that that is what he will do.  God’s word is life.

 

So, Brothers and Sisters, don’t let God’s word go in one ear and out the other.  James writes, “Be people who do the word, not merely people who hear it and deceive themselves.”  Don’t just listen to the word.  Don’t just read it.  Hear it, Brothers and Sisters.  Hearken to it.  Do it.  If it helps, read your Bible with your finger in your ear to remind you not to let it go in one ear and out the other.  These are God’s words and they are life!  Too often we come to church and hear the word or we sit down at home and read the word, but we don’t actually hear it, we don’t let it sink in, we don’t let it take root like a seed, and so we don’t become doers of the word, letting it make a difference and transform us.  If we just let the word go in one ear and out the other we’re in danger of deceiving ourselves.  We think, “I’ve read the Bible or I’ve listened to it in church and I’ve done my duty,” but Friends, if the word doesn’t take root in our hearts and minds, if it doesn’t make a difference, we miss out on the life of God.  He promises that his word will accomplish what he purposes—that it will make a difference, that it will bring new life—but first we have to hear it, not just listen, but hear it, take it in, obey it, and let it change us.

 

James uses an illustration here.  Look at verses 23-25:

 

You walk past a mirror, have a look, then walk away and forget.  In one ear and out the other.  That’s not how we should approach God’s word.  And how do we know if we’re really letting God’s word take root and grow in us?  We know it’s growing in us when we go from being mere hearers to being actual doers of that word.  When we don’t just know in our heads that truth is important, but when we stop telling lies, when we stop misrepresenting people, and speak the truth.  When “love your enemies and do good to them” goes from being something in your head to something you actually live out.  When love your wife or submit to your husband translates into loving your wife or submitting to your husband in real and practical ways.  When the Lord’s Supper goes from being something you eat to something you live out in your interactions with your brothers and sisters in the Lord, showing love and living in the unity Jesus has given us.  When we confront the injustices of the world, not with anger, but with the gospel and the life of the Spirit.

 

And notice how James makes this point.  He takes us back to his own roots.  He was a Jew.  He was circumcised into the Lord’s covenant people when he was eight days old.  He grew up living torah, because he was one of the covenant people and that’s what covenant people did.  That’s how they were faithful to the Lord in return for his faithfulness to them.  And they learned the torah, the law, by reading and studying God’s word.  And as much as Jesus changed everything, he didn’t change the fact that the Lord continues to live in covenant with his people.  Jesus established a new covenant, but it’s still a covenant.  And the Spirit has given a new law, but it’s still a law.  God’s people are still called to be different from the world.  As he marked out the Jews with circumcision and called them to live according to the torah, so he marks out the people of Jesus with baptism and calls us to live the law of the Spirit—what James calls the “perfect law, the law of liberty”.  Faithful Jews were doers—keeping the sabbath, eating clean foods and not eating unclean foods, all of that.  Some people think that Jesus has freed us from all of the doing, but it’s really just the opposite.  Jesus calls us to even more and better doing, the difference is that instead of pointing to a list of laws written on stone and saying “Do that”, he fills us with God’s own Spirit, gives us his own example of love at the cross, rises from the dead and gives us a foretaste of his new creation and says “Do that in the power of the Spirit”.  And this new law, instead of burdening us, actually ends up freeing us from all those things that used to weigh us down: anger and filthiness and wickedness and replaces it all with the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control as the Spirit and the word work in us to redirect the affections of our hearts from sin and from self to love for God and love for each other.

 

And so James sums it up in verses 26 and 27, writing:

 

God’s word and God’s Spirit will transform us.  It doesn’t happen in an instant, so we have to be careful here.  Our expectations for a new Christian aren’t the same as they are for a mature Christian, but still, a Christian will show the transforming work of God’s life-giving word in his life.  And so James says that if you think you’re religious—note that “religion” isn’t the bad word some people make it out to be today.  Religion is our service to God.  There’s good religion and there’s bad religion as we’ll see in a bit.  So if you think you’re serving God but you don’t have a bridle on your tongue—that’s not the only thing that might show this, but since James has been talking about anger and sinful words, this is the example he uses here—if you speak hateful and hurtful and untrue things, you’ve deceived yourself.  You’ve been letting God’s word go in one ear and out the other.  You haven’t actually heard it and so it hasn’t taken root and it’s not growing in your heart.  It calls into question your profession of faith and your place in the covenant.  We enter the covenant through faith in Jesus.  And we show our membership in the covenant by doing the word, by living the law of the Spirit.  And if you aren’t living the law of the Spirit, well, it begs the question: Are you really a member of the covenant?  Is your faith in Jesus real?  Because a Christian without the fruit of the Spirit, a Christian who is worldly and doesn’t bridle his tongue, well he’s like a Jew who isn’t circumcised and who labours on the sabbath.  He’s a contradiction.

 

In contrast, true religion, real service to God looks like this: visiting orphans and widows and keeping yourself unstained by the filthiness of the world.  James could have listed any number of things here, but he’s certainly practical and these are things that stood out in the First Century and made people take note of Christians and the Church.  It was a dog-eat-dog world, but the Christians took care of each other and they took care of the poor and vulnerable, because that’s what love in action looks like and because that’s what new creation looks like.  And in a world of filth, where culture was crude and vulgar and religion often involved ritual drug use and prostitution, God’s people stood apart—much as the Jews of the old covenant had stood apart.  Jesus’ people, transformed by word and Spirit, should stand as beacons of his new creation, by our lives and by our proclamation, lifting the veil on what God has in store for this broken world.

 

So Brother and Sisters, be Easter people.  If you have believed that Jesus died and rose from the dead to forgive our sins and to make us part of his new creation, prove it.  Really be Easter people.  Immerse yourselves in God’s word and hear what he has to say.  Don’t let it go in one ear and out the other.  Let it sink in and take root and grow.  And then be the new creation that God’s word will make us if we give it the chance.  As he promised, he will make us the firstfruits of his new creation—and that, Brothers and Sisters, is how he is setting the wrongs of this world to right.  Not by our anger, but by his word and by his Spirit.

 

Let’s pray: O Lord, from whom all good things come: Grant to us, your humble servants, that by your holy inspiration we may think those things that are good, and by your merciful guidance put them into practice; through our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

How’d your week go?  Several times—actually, a bunch of times—I found myself thinking about what I preached last Sunday—thinking about the hope that lies before us.  Thinking about how Jesus, risen from the dead, is the beginning of God’s new creation and how he—and his gift of the Holy Spirit—give me assurance that what God began that first Easter morning he will one day complete.  Thinking that because I am by faith in Jesus the Messiah, I will one day know that new creation in all its fullness.  And I was thinking about that because—a bunch of times this week—I was looking forward to that day when God will set everything to rights.  Because I hope that in God’s new world there will be no broken spokes or being chased by dogs on the River Trail, no need to change timing belts or ball joints, and maybe the best part: no arguments started by random strangers on the Internet and no relationships with old friends strained by current events.  Because all those things did happen to me this week.  None of them were earth-shatteringly horrible—and I’m glad of that—but they remind me that the world is not as it should be.  And then I read the news and I learned about a man stuck in bureaucratic immigration limbo with seemingly no hope of getting out of it.  Having been through that process, his story resonated with me.  And I read about a farmer in Vermont stuck with a bill for thousands of dollars assessed on his cattle feed from Canada because of tariffs.  His business profits for the year gone.  And there’s absolutely nothing he can do.  And reading about people stuck in the middle of wars.  And a friend shared an article about the persecuted church in China.  And all I can do is pray, which feels like it’s not enough and some people say it’s a waste of time.  But I know it’s not, because Jesus has risen and I know that means that God’s new world has begun and one day he’ll set everything to rights.  And so I hope and I pray that it may be “on earth as it is in heaven”.

 

And then I started looking at this week’s scripture lessons.  And there’s the Old Testament lesson from Job and that verse we read in the procession at funerals: I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though this body be destroyed, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.  Brothers and Sisters, there’s that same hope.  Job had faith that the Lord would vindicate him.

 

And the Psalm.  Psalm 82 has been with me, running around in my head all week.

 

Psalm 82 is from a group of psalms written by Asaph.  Asaph was Samuel’s grandson and he and his sons were commissioned by King David to worship the Lord.  That was their job.  They were court worshippers.  And in Psalm 82, Asaph cries out with the whole people of Israel at the injustices of the world.  The gods of this age favour the wicked.  They will not come to the aid of the poor and needy.  In other words, Asaph knew that the world is not as it should be.  And yet Asaph knew what the Lord had done for Israel and he knew his promises and so he could sing out about the Lord, the God of Isreal, as the great judge in heaven.  Asaph had hope that the Lord would hold the powers of this present age accountable.  Asaph closes with that confident prayer: Arise, O God, and judge the earth: For you shall take the nations as your possession.  This was how Israel prayed “on earth as in heaven”.

Things were going well for Israel under King David, but even then, Asaph, with the people of Israel, still had a profound sense of the brokenness and the fallenness of the world.  It was the Lord’s plan, as he called and created a people for himself, that this people would know the crushing weight of sin and death.  He allowed them to become slaves in Egypt.  And he delivered them that they might know his grace and his faithfulness—so that they might know that he is the God who keeps his promises and that he is the judge who will vindicate the cause of the poor and the oppressed.  And this became Israel’s story and Israel’s identity.  Over and over she would find herself being crushed under the heel of this or that pagan king, and she would cry out to the Lord, and he would come as the great judge to vindicate Israel and to defeat her enemies and to rescue her.  And as this was the identity and story of Israel, so it would be the identity and story of the Messiah, and then the story and identity of the Messiah’s people, of the church.

 

But the disciples weren’t expecting this.  No one—or almost no one—in Israel was expecting this.  The Messiah was supposed to come and break this cycle.  In him God’s new world would come, they would all be raised, and they would reign forever in a world set to rights—once and for all.  And they were sort of right, but they got the timeline wrong.  And that’s because they’d forgotten the promises and the part of the story where God calls and sets apart this special people for himself in order to bring the nations to him in faith.  Only a people who knows suffering, who knows the crushing weight of sin and injustice, can carry God’s forgiveness and justice to the world.  That’s why the Messiah had to die.  Sin and death had to do their worst, so that Jesus could rise triumphant over them.  Deliverance comes through suffering.  Forgiveness and new life require sacrifice.  But they’d forgotten this and this is what Jesus has been trying to explain to the disciples through the lessons we’ve had from John’s gospel these past weeks.  And so he says in John 16:1:

 

Jesus by this point has already explained to them that very soon he’s going to be leaving them.  That was bad news enough.  But now he tells them that after he’s gone, persecution is coming.  Their unbelieving Jewish brethren will throw them out of the synagogues—which means cutting them off from the Jewish community, from family, friends.  They will become outsiders in their own community.  Some of them, Jesus warns, will even die for their faith in him.  And when that happens, Jesus knew, it will be really tempting to give up.  They thought that the Messiah was going to put an end to all the suffering and tears, but now Jesus is warning: you’re going to know suffering and tears the likes of which you’ve never known before—and all for my sake.

 

I didn’t say these things to you from the start, Jesus goes on, because I was with you.  In other words, as long as Jesus was with them they were still pretty sure of how all this Messiah stuff was going to work out.  Again, the Messiah would usher in God’s new world and everything would be great.  And then, with Jesus gone, they’re going to be tempted to give up—just like we saw them hiding behind locked doors.  If Jesus goes away without setting everything to rights, well, he must not have been the Messiah after all.  That would be the logical conclusion.  And they’d do their best to go back to their old pre-Jesus lives.  So now Jesus is getting them ready.  He goes on: But now I’m going to the one who sent me.  None of you asks me, “Where are you going?”  But because I’ve said these things to you, sorrow has filled your heart.

Well, yes.  If Jesus is leaving, how’s he ever going to accomplish his messianic mission?  But this is what Jesus wants to stress to them—even though they won’t understand right away.  This is his messianic mission: Truly, truly I say to you: It’s better for you that I should go away.  If I don’t go away, you see, the Helper won’t come to you.  But if I go away, I will send him to you.

Just in case it isn’t clear, what Jesus is talking about here is his ascension and the sending of the Holy Spirit.  The risen Jesus couldn’t stay here forever.  When his own people cried out for Jesus’ crucifixion they declared, “We have no king but Caesar.”  It was the ultimate rejection of both their God and their Messiah.  It was blasphemy and until that moment, if you’d asked anyone in Jerusalem if they considered Caesar their king, they’d have laughed at you.  The Lord was their king.  But they became so outraged by Jesus’ messianic claims, so outrage with the things he said about the temple, that they shouted the unthinkable to Pilate: “Crucify him!  We have no king but Caesar.”  And then to spite them, Pilate posted those mocking words on the cross: “This is the King of the Jews”.  But when God raised Jesus from the dead, he vindicated him.  It was a divine declaration that Jesus really is the Messiah and that he really is Israel’s (and the whole world’s) king.  And kings have to take their thrones.  And since God’s work of new creation has only just begun and Jesus’ throne is in heaven, that’s where he had to go to begin his rule.  The king couldn’t stay here forever.  But—the second thing Jesus is saying here—if he goes, he will send the Helper—God’s own Spirit—and God’s Spirit will make the reality of Jesus resurrection and of God’s new creation real to us.  The end goal is for heaven and earth and God and human beings to be reunited.  Jesus, the God man, is the embodiment of that hope.  But consider, Brothers and Sisters, that the gift of the Holy Spirit is too.

 

The title John uses is parakletos.  In Greek it literally means “called alongside”, which is a powerful image of who and what the Spirit is for us.  He comes alongside as our helper, our intercessor, and our advocate.  And this is essential.  Like I stressed last week, as the disciples began to realise the significance of Jesus’ resurrection, they got excited.  They were ready to go out and shout it from the rooftops of Jerusalem.  But Jesus stressed to them: “Wait.  Wait until I send the Helper.”  Because enthusiasm will only get us so far.  Jesus has given his people a mission, but enthusiasm and excitement alone won’t fulfil it.  We need the help of the Holy Spirit.  So Jesus goes on here in verse 8: When he comes, he will prove the world to be in the wrong on three counts: sin, justice, and judgement.  In relation to sin, because they don’t believe in me.  In relation to justice—because I’m going to the Father, and you won’t see me anymore.  In relation to judgement, because the ruler of this world is judged.

God’s people had longed for their day in court and for the Lord to vindicate them—just like we read in Psalm 82.  And Jesus’ point here is that it’s finally going to happen.  Except it’s going to be his people—this new Israel—who will finally get their day before the judge.  And as Jesus’ people bring their case before the great Judge, the Spirit will be there to help them—to be their advocate.  The Spirit will present the evidence for the world’s sin.  But there’s no reason for the Spirit to bring exhibit after exhibit showing the world’s—and that’s not just the pagan nations, but also unbelieving Israel—it’s not necessary for the Spirit to put every last sin on display to prove the world’s rebellion against God.  All the Spirit has to do is present as evidence the world’s rejection of Jesus.  Either you stand with Jesus and on the side of God’s new creation and are part of the world set right, or you stand in solidarity with sin.

 

And, second, Jesus says, the Spirit will convict the world in relation to justice.  If you’re following along, some of your translations might say “righteousness”.  These are the same word in Greek.  “Justice” fits the context better here.  Jesus’ point is that the world thinks it has justice on its side.  Like he told them earlier: They will kill you and in doing so they’ll think that they’re offering true worship to God.  But Jesus’ resurrection from the dead and his ascension to his throne are the evidence of his vindication by the Father.  At the cross the world issued its verdict against Jesus, but when he raised Jesus from the dead and enthroned him in heaven, God overturned the false verdict of the world and declared his son to be the Messiah and the world’s true lord.  If you want justice, look to Jesus, because everyone who trusts in Jesus and gives him their allegiance as king shares in that verdict.

 

And, third, Jesus says that the Spirit will give evidence that the world is wrong in relation to judgement.  The world was about to pass judgement on Jesus and condemn him to death as a false messiah, but his resurrection and ascension would prove the world wrong.  And not long after that the world would pass the same judgement on Jesus’ people, on the church, but Jesus promises that the Spirit will stand with them and continue to prove the world’s judgement wrong.  The Spirit will continue to present the evidence of Jesus resurrection and ascension as proof that the devil has been defeated and that death itself no longer has the final say.

 

Brothers and Sisters, the Holy Spirit isn’t just our advocate before the judge, he is our comforter amidst the trials Jesus promised we will face as we take up our crosses to follow him.  Jesus promised his disciples and he promises us that we will face hatred and even persecution—sometimes martyrdom—for the sake of his name.  But because we know he is faithful, because he has vindicated Jesus, we can trust that the judge of all the earth will do what is right.  Even as we face death itself, we know that death has been defeated.  As the Father raised Jesus from death, so he will raise us if we are in him.

 

And the Spirit comes alongside us not so we can hunker down inside our churches like the disciples hunkered down and hiding in the dark that first Easter weekend.  The Spirit comes alongside us to empower us as we go out.  As we take our message of hope and forgiveness, of the world set to rights and tears wiped away, as we take that good news of Jesus, crucified and risen and Lord to the world.  This is the point of our Epistle today from St. James.

 

I have to think that when James talks about the good and perfect gift coming down from the Father of lights he’s talking about the Holy Spirit.  Yes, everything good we have is a gift from him, but the Spirit is the gift above all others.  For Jesus in John’s gospel, the Spirit was the one who would come alongside to help and advocate for us.  For James, the Spirit shows us the constancy and faithfulness of the Father.  The gift of the Spirit is proof for James that God keeps his promises, because the life of the Spirit is the thing he’d been promising to his people all along: his own presence with them to give them a new heart and set them to rights.

 

James goes on in 1:19.

 

In other words, let the Spirit transform you.  Let the Spirit make you—or maybe better to align you with—God’s new creation.  The example James uses is anger.  Anger is what wells up from the fallen human heart in response to injustice, but responding to injustice with anger—and James isn’t talking about righteous or just anger, but about malice and pride—responding with anger just compounds the problem.  Sin can never make another sin right.  Instead, God’s word has been planted within you.  Let the Spirit cause that world to take root and grow.  That gospel word is what has saved your life.  But if you let the Spirit grow that word in you, if you let God’s word shape you, if you let the Spirt make you a truly gospel person, that life-saving combination of word and Spirit will overflow from you and you will be a gospel light in the darkness of the world, you will be a beacon of God’s new creation in the midst of the old.  Word and Spirit working through us will make us a people ready to endure suffering and persecution so that we can, even if it’s just in small ways, so that we can bring God’s justice into the world, so that we can wipe away the tears and proclaim the good news that Jesus is Lord.

 

Brothers and Sisters, this is how God’s new creation comes.  This is how he wipes away the tears and set things to rights.  Jesus started it when he rose from the grave, but God’s word and God’s Spirit, working through the church—through us—as we go out into the world, not only bring God’s salvation to individuals, but as we are transformed one by one, the gospel, the word, the Spirit create a whole new culture with Jesus and the gospel at its core.  One day Jesus will come back for the final act, to cast down death and to fully bring heaven and earth back together once and for all.  But that day will come because his people, empowered by his word and by his Spirit have been faithful in being his new creation right here in the midst of the old.  So, Brothers and Sisters, go out in peace to love and serve the Lord.  Alleluia!

 

Let’s pray: Father, as we asked in the Collect we ask again: fix our hearts on the good things you have promised.  Keep the hope of your salvation and of your justice ever before us, that we might go out full of your Spirit, to live and to proclaim the good news of Jesus and his kingdom.  Through him we pray.  Amen.