Fr. Michael’s Sermon for Sunday, September 1, 2019 (Year C, Proper 17)

Luke 14:1, 7-14

One of the problems of belonging to

a religious community, whether that’s the church, a synagogue, a mosque, or

even a cult, is that maintaining membership in the community depends upon one’s

ability to give the right answers to the right questions and to behave in ways

deemed appropriate by the community. There is, on the one hand, orthodoxy,

which is believing the right things, and on the other, orthopraxy, which is

doing the right things. To belong and to continue to belong to the religious

community, you are expected to give the right answers and to behave the right

way. And this creates an obvious problem and an obvious danger. Because of our

desire to belong and our desire to continue to belong, through Sunday school,

sermons, Christian radio, books, and Adult Education, we become almost

programmed to say the right things and to do the right things so that we can

continue to belong. And this situation can make it difficult to parse whether

the words we say and the things we do come from a place of authenticity,

meaning they are true, or a place of inauthenticity, meaning they are false.

Let me give you an example of how

this works. Are we justified by faith or by works? Go ahead and shout it out.

Right, we are justified by faith. Now I want you to picture that I just asked

that question in Adult Ed or in a Bible study. What would happen if someone

said out loud in response to that question, “You know, I think I’m going to get

into heaven when I die because I’ve been a really good person. I wasn’t always

perfect, but I was better than most people. I wasn’t Mother Theresa, but I wasn’t

Hitler either. (They’re always the high bar and the low bar for works-based

righteousness.) I’m definitely making it past St. Peter and through those

pearly gates because God knows that I’m a good person.”

What would happen? I’d correct that person immediately. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. The people in the class would probably be a bit in shock. There would probably be private conversations about that person, gossiping. (“Did you hear what so and so said?”) Some people would start to question that person’s salvation. He certainly wouldn’t be allowed to have a position of leadership, especially in any teaching capacity. He’s probably getting invited to fewer dinners. He’s probably not getting asked to serve on the vestry. If he keeps insisting on saying it in Adult Ed classes, he might be asked not to come. In short, his standing within the community is in jeopardy.

But what’s this person’s crime?

What has he done wrong? Is his crime believing that he’ll get into Heaven

because of the good works in his life? No, because he’s probably not the only

one who believes that if we are being honest with ourselves, and because if he

had just shut his mouth, sat in his pew, and given the right answer to the

question (“Faith!”), no one would have batted an eye, no one would have any

idea of what was actually going on in that person’s heart, but his standing

within the community would still be secure. You see, just because we know the

right answer, doesn’t mean that we believe the right answer, and that is a

precarious place to be in.

So, what I am exhorting you today

not to listen to the preprogrammed responses to questions of faith and practice

that are in your head, but instead to listen to your heart. We all know the

saying (go ahead and finish it), “The last shall be first, and the first shall

be last.” In our reading this morning from the Gospel of Luke, we are just a

few verses away from Jesus having said this, and you could argue that

everything he says in our reading this morning is a reflection upon that point.

We all know that the last shall be first and the first shall be last. We can

rattle that off our lips without a moment’s hesitation. But how many of us

actively pursue being last? And do not listen to your head when you ans

Fr. Michael’s Sermon for Sunday, September 1, 2019 (Year C, Proper 17)

Luke 14:1, 7-14

One of the problems of belonging to

a religious community, whether that’s the church, a synagogue, a mosque, or

even a cult, is that maintaining membership in the community depends upon one’s

ability to give the right answers to the right questions and to behave in ways

deemed appropriate by the community. There is, on the one hand, orthodoxy,

which is believing the right things, and on the other, orthopraxy, which is

doing the right things. To belong and to continue to belong to the religious

community, you are expected to give the right answers and to behave the right

way. And this creates an obvious problem and an obvious danger. Because of our

desire to belong and our desire to continue to belong, through Sunday school,

sermons, Christian radio, books, and Adult Education, we become almost

programmed to say the right things and to do the right things so that we can

continue to belong. And this situation can make it difficult to parse whether

the words we say and the things we do come from a place of authenticity,

meaning they are true, or a place of inauthenticity, meaning they are false.

Let me give you an example of how

this works. Are we justified by faith or by works? Go ahead and shout it out.

Right, we are justified by faith. Now I want you to picture that I just asked

that question in Adult Ed or in a Bible study. What would happen if someone

said out loud in response to that question, “You know, I think I’m going to get

into heaven when I die because I’ve been a really good person. I wasn’t always

perfect, but I was better than most people. I wasn’t Mother Theresa, but I wasn’t

Hitler either. (They’re always the high bar and the low bar for works-based

righteousness.) I’m definitely making it past St. Peter and through those

pearly gates because God knows that I’m a good person.”

What would happen? I’d correct that person immediately. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. The people in the class would probably be a bit in shock. There would probably be private conversations about that person, gossiping. (“Did you hear what so and so said?”) Some people would start to question that person’s salvation. He certainly wouldn’t be allowed to have a position of leadership, especially in any teaching capacity. He’s probably getting invited to fewer dinners. He’s probably not getting asked to serve on the vestry. If he keeps insisting on saying it in Adult Ed classes, he might be asked not to come. In short, his standing within the community is in jeopardy.

But what’s this person’s crime?

What has he done wrong? Is his crime believing that he’ll get into Heaven

because of the good works in his life? No, because he’s probably not the only

one who believes that if we are being honest with ourselves, and because if he

had just shut his mouth, sat in his pew, and given the right answer to the

question (“Faith!”), no one would have batted an eye, no one would have any

idea of what was actually going on in that person’s heart, but his standing

within the community would still be secure. You see, just because we know the

right answer, doesn’t mean that we believe the right answer, and that is a

precarious place to be in.

So, what I am exhorting you today

not to listen to the preprogrammed responses to questions of faith and practice

that are in your head, but instead to listen to your heart. We all know the

saying (go ahead and finish it), “The last shall be first, and the first shall

be last.” In our reading this morning from the Gospel of Luke, we are just a

few verses away from Jesus having said this, and you could argue that

everything he says in our reading this morning is a reflection upon that point.

We all know that the last shall be first and the first shall be last. We can

rattle that off our lips without a moment’s hesitation. But how many of us

actively pursue being last? And do not listen to your head when you ans

Fr. Michael’s Sermon for Sunday, August 25, 2019 (Year C, Proper 16)

Hebrews 12:18-29

The book of Hebrews is 13 chapters long. In Greek, it consists of about 5,000 words, and for context, that’s about 4 times the length of one of my sermons. In our pew Bibles with their small print and double columns, the book is 10 pages long, and the verse count is over 300. And at the end of this, after 13 chapters, 5,000 words, 10 pages, and over 300 verses, the author says, “I have written to you briefly” (13:22).

This ending to this book always

makes me laugh because, first, I wouldn’t call the letter to the Hebrews brief,

and second because I have some sympathy with the author. This book is so rich

and it’s discussions so compact and condensed, at the end of the book the

author reminds me of someone who just finished preaching or teaching, and all

he can think about is all the things he wanted to say but didn’t. And when you

feel like that, it makes the work you just did feel incomplete, brief, too

short. You know there’s more you should have said, and I can sympathize with

that.

But one thing that does stand out

about his letter is that, unlike some of Paul’s letters, the author makes a

consistent argument from beginning to end, and today in our reading we come to

the end of that argument. The author does have a bit more to say, so we have

one more week with the letter to the Hebrews, but the principle argument comes

to an end in our reading at the end of chapter 12. As a side note, this book is

often referred to as the Letter to the Hebrews, but it is probably more like a

sermon or theological treatise than a letter since it doesn’t bear the usual

marks of a letter, like, for example, telling us who wrote it.

But back to the argument of the

book. There are two things that it seems to be the author of Hebrews wants us

to understand. First, he wants us to understand how much greater our salvation

is than what came before. He wants us to understand how much greater the New

Covenant is than the Old Covenant. Chapter after chapter he points out, in

several different ways, how our salvation in the Messiah is greater than what

came before under Moses. But the author senses an inherent danger in what he’s

saying, and that leads us into the second thing the author wants us to

understand, which is this: just because our salvation is greater than what came

before, does not mean that we can take it for granted.

The author says at the beginning of

chapter two, “Therefore we must pay much closer attention to what we have

heard, lest we drift away from it. For since the message declared by angels

proved to be reliable, and every transgression or disobedience received a just

retribution, how shall we escape if we neglect such a great salvation?”

(Hebrews 2:1–3).

You see, the Gospel, the good news of God, comes to us a double-edged sword. The Gospel comes to us both with a promise and a warning; it cuts both ways. Or, to use a different analogy, promise and warning are two sides of the same coin. It’s nearly impossible to look at both sides of a coin simultaneously without cameras or mirrors or the like, but you don’t get one side without the other. You can’t have a one-sided coin, and likewise, you can’t have the promise of the Gospel without the warning of the Gospel, and vice versa.

Consider, for example, what the

author says at the end of chapter four. He says, “For we do not have a high

priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every

respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with

confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find

grace to help in time of need” (Heb 4:15–16). He exhorts his readers to draw

near to the throne of grace because of what Jesus has done, and yet in our

reading today he reminds us that the one who sits on the throne of grace is a

consuming fire, whose voice, when he came down to Mount Sinai, shook the mountain

a

Fr. Michael’s Sermon for Sunday, August 25, 2019 (Year C, Proper 16)

Hebrews 12:18-29

The book of Hebrews is 13 chapters long. In Greek, it consists of about 5,000 words, and for context, that’s about 4 times the length of one of my sermons. In our pew Bibles with their small print and double columns, the book is 10 pages long, and the verse count is over 300. And at the end of this, after 13 chapters, 5,000 words, 10 pages, and over 300 verses, the author says, “I have written to you briefly” (13:22).

This ending to this book always

makes me laugh because, first, I wouldn’t call the letter to the Hebrews brief,

and second because I have some sympathy with the author. This book is so rich

and it’s discussions so compact and condensed, at the end of the book the

author reminds me of someone who just finished preaching or teaching, and all

he can think about is all the things he wanted to say but didn’t. And when you

feel like that, it makes the work you just did feel incomplete, brief, too

short. You know there’s more you should have said, and I can sympathize with

that.

But one thing that does stand out

about his letter is that, unlike some of Paul’s letters, the author makes a

consistent argument from beginning to end, and today in our reading we come to

the end of that argument. The author does have a bit more to say, so we have

one more week with the letter to the Hebrews, but the principle argument comes

to an end in our reading at the end of chapter 12. As a side note, this book is

often referred to as the Letter to the Hebrews, but it is probably more like a

sermon or theological treatise than a letter since it doesn’t bear the usual

marks of a letter, like, for example, telling us who wrote it.

But back to the argument of the

book. There are two things that it seems to be the author of Hebrews wants us

to understand. First, he wants us to understand how much greater our salvation

is than what came before. He wants us to understand how much greater the New

Covenant is than the Old Covenant. Chapter after chapter he points out, in

several different ways, how our salvation in the Messiah is greater than what

came before under Moses. But the author senses an inherent danger in what he’s

saying, and that leads us into the second thing the author wants us to

understand, which is this: just because our salvation is greater than what came

before, does not mean that we can take it for granted.

The author says at the beginning of

chapter two, “Therefore we must pay much closer attention to what we have

heard, lest we drift away from it. For since the message declared by angels

proved to be reliable, and every transgression or disobedience received a just

retribution, how shall we escape if we neglect such a great salvation?”

(Hebrews 2:1–3).

You see, the Gospel, the good news of God, comes to us a double-edged sword. The Gospel comes to us both with a promise and a warning; it cuts both ways. Or, to use a different analogy, promise and warning are two sides of the same coin. It’s nearly impossible to look at both sides of a coin simultaneously without cameras or mirrors or the like, but you don’t get one side without the other. You can’t have a one-sided coin, and likewise, you can’t have the promise of the Gospel without the warning of the Gospel, and vice versa.

Consider, for example, what the

author says at the end of chapter four. He says, “For we do not have a high

priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every

respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with

confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find

grace to help in time of need” (Heb 4:15–16). He exhorts his readers to draw

near to the throne of grace because of what Jesus has done, and yet in our

reading today he reminds us that the one who sits on the throne of grace is a

consuming fire, whose voice, when he came down to Mount Sinai, shook the mountain

a

A Sermon for Sunday, August 18, 2019 (Year C, Proper 15)

Hebrews 12:1-14

Yesterday we said not “goodbye” but “we’ll see you soon,” to our brother Fred. Before the service, while Fred’s family was gathered in the fellowship hall, I prayed with them a prayer from our new prayer book. The prayer is entitled “For Help to Bear Bereavement,” and it goes like this: “Heavenly Father, help us to entrust our loved ones to your care. Though sorrow darkens our lives, help us to look up to you, remembering the cloud of witnesses by which we are surrounded. And grant that we on earth, rejoicing ever in your presence, may share with them the rest and peace which your presence gives; through Jesus Christ our Lord.” It’s subtle in that prayer, but the prayer, assuming the deceased to be a believer, implies that the one we’ve lost has gone on before us and joined that great cloud of witnesses who are cheering us on and encouraging us to continue to run the race that is set before us. Since that passage from Hebrews that speaks of this great cloud of witness is one of our lessons this morning, I think it would be appropriate for us to linger here and reflect on this incredible passage, remembering that Fred has gone on before us and joined that great cloud of witnesses.

Hopefully by now, you know how much value I find in understanding the Christian life as a journey. I typically describe this as New Exodus theology or typology, but to put it most simply Christians are always people who have been set free but have not yet arrived. Hopefully, we are always progressing forward but there is always the temptation to be looking. The metaphor the author of this epistle uses in our reading isn’t the metaphor of a journey but of a race, but the basics still apply. We have begun the race, and we must finish it. In the New Exodus the danger is looking back to Egypt, looking back to our sins and our former way of life, longing for them, and acting upon them. In the race, the danger is not so much looking back as it is being tripped up by things in our life that make running the race unnecessarily burdensome.

The ESV and many English

translations say, “Let us lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so

closely,” and that’s a fine translation, but the idea isn’t exactly that sin

“clings closely to us.” The Greek word εὐπερίστατος means “easily ensnaring,

obstructing, or constricting.” The idea isn’t just that sin clings closely to

us, but rather that as we are trying to run the race, sin is like a trap. It

ensnares us. It obstructs our ability to run. It constricts our movement.

The first thing that the author of this epistle wants us to know about our race is that we have a great cloud of witnesses, those who have already crossed the finished line ahead of us, and they are cheering us on. This particular race isn’t so much about who finishes first but making sure that we all finish, and those who have gone before us in this life into the presence of Jesus, people from Abel to Abraham to the unnamed heroes and heroines at the end of chapter to our loved ones who have died in Christ, are cheering us on, not only in the present but also with the witness that they have left us in this life. This is why it’s good to familiarize yourself with saints and heroes of the faith, and why it’s particularly good to embrace intergenerational ministry. The more mature among us should be investing their lives into the youngest amongst us because when you pass on to the next life you will be cheering them on, so why not begin now to cheer them on and leave them a witness of faith and of a life well-lived?

The second thing that the author of this epistles wants us to know about our race is that we are being hindered in our running. What’s important to note here is that the author seems to have two general categories. One is “sin” and that’s obviously part of our lives that hinders us from running our race well and which we should actively be trying to

A Sermon for Sunday, August 18, 2019 (Year C, Proper 15)

Hebrews 12:1-14

Yesterday we said not “goodbye” but “we’ll see you soon,” to our brother Fred. Before the service, while Fred’s family was gathered in the fellowship hall, I prayed with them a prayer from our new prayer book. The prayer is entitled “For Help to Bear Bereavement,” and it goes like this: “Heavenly Father, help us to entrust our loved ones to your care. Though sorrow darkens our lives, help us to look up to you, remembering the cloud of witnesses by which we are surrounded. And grant that we on earth, rejoicing ever in your presence, may share with them the rest and peace which your presence gives; through Jesus Christ our Lord.” It’s subtle in that prayer, but the prayer, assuming the deceased to be a believer, implies that the one we’ve lost has gone on before us and joined that great cloud of witnesses who are cheering us on and encouraging us to continue to run the race that is set before us. Since that passage from Hebrews that speaks of this great cloud of witness is one of our lessons this morning, I think it would be appropriate for us to linger here and reflect on this incredible passage, remembering that Fred has gone on before us and joined that great cloud of witnesses.

Hopefully by now, you know how much value I find in understanding the Christian life as a journey. I typically describe this as New Exodus theology or typology, but to put it most simply Christians are always people who have been set free but have not yet arrived. Hopefully, we are always progressing forward but there is always the temptation to be looking. The metaphor the author of this epistle uses in our reading isn’t the metaphor of a journey but of a race, but the basics still apply. We have begun the race, and we must finish it. In the New Exodus the danger is looking back to Egypt, looking back to our sins and our former way of life, longing for them, and acting upon them. In the race, the danger is not so much looking back as it is being tripped up by things in our life that make running the race unnecessarily burdensome.

The ESV and many English

translations say, “Let us lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so

closely,” and that’s a fine translation, but the idea isn’t exactly that sin

“clings closely to us.” The Greek word εὐπερίστατος means “easily ensnaring,

obstructing, or constricting.” The idea isn’t just that sin clings closely to

us, but rather that as we are trying to run the race, sin is like a trap. It

ensnares us. It obstructs our ability to run. It constricts our movement.

The first thing that the author of this epistle wants us to know about our race is that we have a great cloud of witnesses, those who have already crossed the finished line ahead of us, and they are cheering us on. This particular race isn’t so much about who finishes first but making sure that we all finish, and those who have gone before us in this life into the presence of Jesus, people from Abel to Abraham to the unnamed heroes and heroines at the end of chapter to our loved ones who have died in Christ, are cheering us on, not only in the present but also with the witness that they have left us in this life. This is why it’s good to familiarize yourself with saints and heroes of the faith, and why it’s particularly good to embrace intergenerational ministry. The more mature among us should be investing their lives into the youngest amongst us because when you pass on to the next life you will be cheering them on, so why not begin now to cheer them on and leave them a witness of faith and of a life well-lived?

The second thing that the author of this epistles wants us to know about our race is that we are being hindered in our running. What’s important to note here is that the author seems to have two general categories. One is “sin” and that’s obviously part of our lives that hinders us from running our race well and which we should actively be trying to

A Sermon for Sunday, August 11, 2019 (Proper 14, Year C)

Hebrews 11:1-16; Luke 12:32-40

“Now faith is the

assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” We’ve all

heard this verse dozens of times, if not hundreds, but how often have we

stopped to consider the difference between faith and hope. “Faith is the

assurance of things hoped for.” For years I heard this text and wondered what

the difference was. If faith is the assurance of things hoped for, then isn’t

faith just another word for hope? But surely that’s not the case, because the

Bible elsewhere speaks frequently of “faith, hope, and love” as this great

triangulation of the life and values of Christians. Certainly in the formula

“faith, hope, and love” faith and hope are not synonyms, but if faith is the

assurance of things hoped for, then how are they not synonyms? So that’s what

I’d like us to consider this morning. What is Biblical faith?

To start, let’s talk

briefly about what faith is not. There is ‘faith,’ and there is ‘the faith.’

The faith is a essential Christian doctrine, the beliefs apart from which

someone cannot be a Christian. The incarnation and virgin birth of Jesus, as

well as his death, resurrection, and ascension fall into this category. As does

his Lordship. For us, we recite the Nicene Creed together as an accurate

summary of the Faith, but having the ability to articulate the Faith, or giving

assent to the Nicene Creed by reciting its words, is not the same thing as

having faith. The Faith is what we believe, but knowing what we believe is not

the same as belief itself. So, that’s point number one. Faith is not assent to

fundamental Christian doctrine, although it may include that.

Point number two. On the

opposite end of the spectrum, faith is not the warm, fuzzy feeling inside that

we experience when we hear someone talk about Jesus or when someone plays the

type of Christian music that we like. That feeling isn’t bad, nor should it be

ignored. It should be cultivated and grown. All of us experience that sensation

differently, and that’s a good thing. God makes us all different, all unique,

and he speaks to all of us differently. One of the worst things that we can do

as a church is downplay other people’s experiences of God because they are

dissimilar to our own. But that feeling of being connected with something

greater than yourself, that’s not faith either. Faith should include that type

of experience, but that experience and faith are not the same thing because

people have that kind of experience about all sorts of different things that

are completely disconnected from Christ and his church.

So, if faith is not

assent to Christian doctrine nor is it a warm, fuzzy feeling when Jesus is

mentioned or our favorite style of music is played, then what is it? If we

start with our reading from Hebrews, we might say that “faith is the assurance

of things hoped for,” except that the word ὑπόστασις , which the ESV and most

translations translate as “assurance,” probably doesn’t refer to a feeling of

surety. Faith isn’t a feeling of assurance or confidence about the things that

we hope for. That is not what the author of this letter is saying. The word ὑπόστασις

is stronger than that and more certain. It can refer to the essence or reality

of something, a definite plan, a specific situation, or, and this is the likely

meaning for our passage, a guarantee of ownership, something like a title deed.

It’s not as catchy as the

word ‘assurance’, but what if we were to translate this verse the “faith is the

title deed of things hoped for”? At least then we’ve put a more obvious

distinction between faith and hope, but we are still left with the question,

“What is faith?” The author of this letter goes on to answer this question

indirectly. In our reading this morning we hear of Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham,

Sarah, all who “by faith” did x, y, or z because, and this gets clearer as the

author’s list goes on, they were basing

A Sermon for Sunday, August 11, 2019 (Proper 14, Year C)

Hebrews 11:1-16; Luke 12:32-40

“Now faith is the

assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” We’ve all

heard this verse dozens of times, if not hundreds, but how often have we

stopped to consider the difference between faith and hope. “Faith is the

assurance of things hoped for.” For years I heard this text and wondered what

the difference was. If faith is the assurance of things hoped for, then isn’t

faith just another word for hope? But surely that’s not the case, because the

Bible elsewhere speaks frequently of “faith, hope, and love” as this great

triangulation of the life and values of Christians. Certainly in the formula

“faith, hope, and love” faith and hope are not synonyms, but if faith is the

assurance of things hoped for, then how are they not synonyms? So that’s what

I’d like us to consider this morning. What is Biblical faith?

To start, let’s talk

briefly about what faith is not. There is ‘faith,’ and there is ‘the faith.’

The faith is a essential Christian doctrine, the beliefs apart from which

someone cannot be a Christian. The incarnation and virgin birth of Jesus, as

well as his death, resurrection, and ascension fall into this category. As does

his Lordship. For us, we recite the Nicene Creed together as an accurate

summary of the Faith, but having the ability to articulate the Faith, or giving

assent to the Nicene Creed by reciting its words, is not the same thing as

having faith. The Faith is what we believe, but knowing what we believe is not

the same as belief itself. So, that’s point number one. Faith is not assent to

fundamental Christian doctrine, although it may include that.

Point number two. On the

opposite end of the spectrum, faith is not the warm, fuzzy feeling inside that

we experience when we hear someone talk about Jesus or when someone plays the

type of Christian music that we like. That feeling isn’t bad, nor should it be

ignored. It should be cultivated and grown. All of us experience that sensation

differently, and that’s a good thing. God makes us all different, all unique,

and he speaks to all of us differently. One of the worst things that we can do

as a church is downplay other people’s experiences of God because they are

dissimilar to our own. But that feeling of being connected with something

greater than yourself, that’s not faith either. Faith should include that type

of experience, but that experience and faith are not the same thing because

people have that kind of experience about all sorts of different things that

are completely disconnected from Christ and his church.

So, if faith is not

assent to Christian doctrine nor is it a warm, fuzzy feeling when Jesus is

mentioned or our favorite style of music is played, then what is it? If we

start with our reading from Hebrews, we might say that “faith is the assurance

of things hoped for,” except that the word ὑπόστασις , which the ESV and most

translations translate as “assurance,” probably doesn’t refer to a feeling of

surety. Faith isn’t a feeling of assurance or confidence about the things that

we hope for. That is not what the author of this letter is saying. The word ὑπόστασις

is stronger than that and more certain. It can refer to the essence or reality

of something, a definite plan, a specific situation, or, and this is the likely

meaning for our passage, a guarantee of ownership, something like a title deed.

It’s not as catchy as the

word ‘assurance’, but what if we were to translate this verse the “faith is the

title deed of things hoped for”? At least then we’ve put a more obvious

distinction between faith and hope, but we are still left with the question,

“What is faith?” The author of this letter goes on to answer this question

indirectly. In our reading this morning we hear of Abel, Enoch, Noah, Abraham,

Sarah, all who “by faith” did x, y, or z because, and this gets clearer as the

author’s list goes on, they were basing

A Sermon for the 6th Sunday after Trinity, July 28, 2019

Colossians 2:6-19

What is a paradox? A paradox is “a seemingly absurd or contradictory statement or proposition which when investigated may prove to be well-founded or true.” Let me repeat that. A paradox is “a seemingly absurd or contradictory statement or proposition which when investigated may prove to be well-founded or true.” Let me give you some examples. There is the Liar’s Paradox: “This statement is false.” If the statement is false, then the statement is true, and therefore false again. It’s a paradox. There is Zeno’s Paradox: “You can never get from point A to point B because you first must travel half the distance, and then half the distance left, ad infinitum.” Schrodinger’s Cat is another famous paradox, but since it involves a potentially dead cat, we’ll let that one go.

Here are some paradoxical quotations. “Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.” -Gandhi. “It’s weird not to be weird.” -John Lennon. “Life is a preparation for the future, and the best preparation for the future is to live as if there were none.” -Albert Einstein. “I know one thing: that I know nothing.” -Socrates

Paradoxes are fun because often

they invite us into the absurd. Our brains don’t like contradictions so we try

to resolve them, but some paradoxes can’t be completely resolved, and all we

can do is smile and laugh at the absurdity. But paradoxes can also help us see

the world from a different angle. They can expose to us a flaw in our thinking

or of our understanding of the world. If we know something to be true with a

capital T, and yet that truth makes other truths or other experiences seem

paradoxical, that is absurd or contradictory, it tells us that there may be

something wrong with those other truths or those other experiences.

Within the Bible and Christian Theology, the greatest paradox is the cross of Jesus Christ. It is seemingly absurd. It is utterly contradictory. And yet when investigated may prove to be well-founded or true.” The cross is the great truth with a capital T. It is the Truth of the universe, and it is the Truth by which all other truths and all other experiences are called into question.

How many of you have ever played capture the flag? If you aren’t familiar with this game, it’s pretty simple. There are two teams, each team has a flag on their side, and the goal is to get across to the other team’s side, grab their flag, and bring it back to your base. Now that is kind of the opposite of what we did with the moon landing. With the moon landing, we took our flag to the moon and planted it there, and we had video cameras rolling to record the event.

In the first century, when it came to war, they did some of both. The Roman Empire would go to a place, conquer it, and raise their flags and banners. Except, in the first century, there were no cameras, so how could you prove to the people back home what had happened? This is where capture the flag comes in. Roman wars were essentially gigantic games of capture the flag. We go over into your territory, we conquer you, we take your flag, and then we bring it back to our base. And not just your flag. We bring your treasure. Your prized possessions. Your royal family. And we march them all into the city with great fanfare and pomp. We throw a big celebration to honor our victory, and at the climax of that celebration, we would kill the king who dared opposed the might of the Roman empire.

This is, in a lesser way, what happened to Jesus. Except Rome didn’t think he was even worth bringing back to the capital for execution. If he had shown up with an army and led a military campaign, that is certainly what would have happened. But Jesus wasn’t considered a threat. Not really. And so he died just outside his home city on a Roman cross with a sign hanging above his head that announced his treasonous crime: “King of the Jews.” On that day he was

A Sermon for the 6th Sunday after Trinity, July 28, 2019

Colossians 2:6-19

What is a paradox? A paradox is “a seemingly absurd or contradictory statement or proposition which when investigated may prove to be well-founded or true.” Let me repeat that. A paradox is “a seemingly absurd or contradictory statement or proposition which when investigated may prove to be well-founded or true.” Let me give you some examples. There is the Liar’s Paradox: “This statement is false.” If the statement is false, then the statement is true, and therefore false again. It’s a paradox. There is Zeno’s Paradox: “You can never get from point A to point B because you first must travel half the distance, and then half the distance left, ad infinitum.” Schrodinger’s Cat is another famous paradox, but since it involves a potentially dead cat, we’ll let that one go.

Here are some paradoxical quotations. “Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.” -Gandhi. “It’s weird not to be weird.” -John Lennon. “Life is a preparation for the future, and the best preparation for the future is to live as if there were none.” -Albert Einstein. “I know one thing: that I know nothing.” -Socrates

Paradoxes are fun because often

they invite us into the absurd. Our brains don’t like contradictions so we try

to resolve them, but some paradoxes can’t be completely resolved, and all we

can do is smile and laugh at the absurdity. But paradoxes can also help us see

the world from a different angle. They can expose to us a flaw in our thinking

or of our understanding of the world. If we know something to be true with a

capital T, and yet that truth makes other truths or other experiences seem

paradoxical, that is absurd or contradictory, it tells us that there may be

something wrong with those other truths or those other experiences.

Within the Bible and Christian Theology, the greatest paradox is the cross of Jesus Christ. It is seemingly absurd. It is utterly contradictory. And yet when investigated may prove to be well-founded or true.” The cross is the great truth with a capital T. It is the Truth of the universe, and it is the Truth by which all other truths and all other experiences are called into question.

How many of you have ever played capture the flag? If you aren’t familiar with this game, it’s pretty simple. There are two teams, each team has a flag on their side, and the goal is to get across to the other team’s side, grab their flag, and bring it back to your base. Now that is kind of the opposite of what we did with the moon landing. With the moon landing, we took our flag to the moon and planted it there, and we had video cameras rolling to record the event.

In the first century, when it came to war, they did some of both. The Roman Empire would go to a place, conquer it, and raise their flags and banners. Except, in the first century, there were no cameras, so how could you prove to the people back home what had happened? This is where capture the flag comes in. Roman wars were essentially gigantic games of capture the flag. We go over into your territory, we conquer you, we take your flag, and then we bring it back to our base. And not just your flag. We bring your treasure. Your prized possessions. Your royal family. And we march them all into the city with great fanfare and pomp. We throw a big celebration to honor our victory, and at the climax of that celebration, we would kill the king who dared opposed the might of the Roman empire.

This is, in a lesser way, what happened to Jesus. Except Rome didn’t think he was even worth bringing back to the capital for execution. If he had shown up with an army and led a military campaign, that is certainly what would have happened. But Jesus wasn’t considered a threat. Not really. And so he died just outside his home city on a Roman cross with a sign hanging above his head that announced his treasonous crime: “King of the Jews.” On that day he was