I would be the Pharisee in this story. I look out at the world and see greed in business, scandal in Hollywood, crushing cynicism in the media, self-righteousness in Christ’s Church, self-promotion in places of power, violence, racism, and exclusion everywhere, and I pray, “Thank you God that I’m not like them – those power-hungry politicians, those greedy businesspeople, those scandalous celebrities, those judgmental Christians. Thank you that I’m better than them.” I pride myself that I hate no one, except people who hate; I’m not prejudiced against anyone, except people who are prejudiced; I’m not judgmental against anyone, except people I judge to be judgmental. Do you see what I mean? Even when I’m thinking like Jesus – when I’m spotting hypocrisy, I’m only a nanosecond away from committing the same sins I am judging the other person of. And I’m left open-mouthed and wide-eyed as I contemplate the grace of God. That somehow Christ sees the sins of others but loves them anyway, wants the best for them, can see past the bravado, the hate, the prejudice, the self-righteousness, to the vulnerable and often damaged soul that dwells behind the mask. That is love divine, all loves excelling, and it silences me.

Patient Number Three is a very busy woman. She has a life to get on with. It has been years since she'd spent time with her husband or embraced her kids. She is now free. She needs to go home and hug her family; she needs to run through the street and shout out that she is healed. She needs to get with her friends and celebrate. She wants to thank Jesus - after all, he has literally given her back her life. And she will when she sees him next. He’s bound to come back this way soon, and when he does she’ll make a special effort to go out thank him for what he's done. People call her impetuous, but she prefers to see herself as living passionately in the moment. Do you know any threes?

The first thing that goes is your heart. It becomes closed, hard, calloused. Then, into some tight little crevasse a seed falls. The germ of apathy. And when it takes root and sprouts, its shoots reach up from the heart to the eyes, and you are blinded to the suffering of others. The rich man is trapped in such blindness that even as he endures the torment he feels entitled - the purpose of Lazarus, he thinks, is to serve him. He still doesn’t get it. “Send Lazarus to give me a drink, send him to warn my brothers” he demands of Abraham.

Take the dishonest words, the mean gesture, the spiteful action, and turn them around. Take the negative, the petty, the mean, the vicious, the selfish, and transform it into something that will do good. When hurt is hurled at you, catch it, allow God to transform it, and then throw it back in the form of forgiveness and love. Return curses with blessings. Repay evil with good. Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth.

One possible response to Jesus’ warnings against making promises you can’t deliver is fear. The kind of paralyzing fear that makes you decide never to make another promise in your life. But there’s another response you can make. Hear the Word of the Lord: Sometimes prudence grasps a snake. Wisdom may take the risk. Virtue assesses the danger, anticipates the pain, counts the cost, and walks the way of the cross. Fear of not delivering doesn’t stop wisdom from making promises. The truly wise know that often the easy way is not the way to prosperity; usually the path to growth, the road to contentment, the track to fruitfulness is steep, rugged, and littered with obstacles. We have a higher calling that transcends the pain. But we make that choice. We stand at a font and make promises, we kneel before a bishop and make promises, we get out of bed and tell God that today in his strength and with his comfort, we will endeavor to live as his disciple - because we know we were made to male that promise. And we do it basing our confidence not on our own ability to keep our promise, but because God is faithful to keep his.

Like Abram we are called to a life of fruitfulness. Count the stars, if you can.

To the schoolteacher, the fruit of young lives molded, sculpted, transformed into people who will make the world a better place: count the stars, if you can.

To the checkout operator, the fruit of customers who see your peace and spot the presence of Christ in your life: count the stars, if you can.

To the retired person whose service to God and the world is now prayer: count the stars, if you can.

To the stay-at-home parent investing hour after hour of time and energy into raising a child, who will grow to shape neighborhoods and communities: count the stars, if you can.

To the commuter wondering if the daily grind is worth it: count the stars if you can.

To all of us who sometimes wonder why we got out of bed this morning, and whether there is any point to our existence: count the stars, if you can. These are the twinkling reminders of God’s presence in your life, the daily signs of blessing, the refreshing promise of glory.

But what if being heavenly minded is a good thing? What if you are so heavenly minded that you start to see the world through the eyes of God? What if you can be so heavenly minded that when you see the suffering of the world you feel God's pain? What if you are so heavenly minded that when you encounter injustice, prejudice, and cruelty, your faith forces you to do something about it? What if you and me and everyone who calls themselves Christians were so heavenly minded that when we encounter evil we can’t walk by on the other side, retreat to our hermit's caves, or pretend that everything is wonderful in paradise? What if we are so heavenly minded that we see from God’s perspective the true belovedness of every human being – joining in Paul’s great declaration that there is no longer “Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free, immigrant or citizen, white or of color, gay or straight, conservative or liberal, or any other division that we care to name. But Christ is all and in all?

Often we religious types think we can control God. If I do my religious duty, if I follow the Ten Commandments, if I read my Bible regularly, then God will treat me well. I’ll be blessed. If, however, I neglect prayer, never go to church, fail to live the Christian life adequately, then God will punish me; he won’t bless me, and he won’t answer my prayers. Now if those conclusions were correct then it would mean that we control God. God must respond in a certain way according to what I do. So, I’m in charge. I take the initiative and God merely responds. I make the decisions (to pray or not to pray, to be holy or not to be holy) and God must act accordingly. But the Good News is better than that. It is God’s nature to bless and there is nothing you can do to change that. Nothing.

When I sit at the feet of Jesus something wonderful and miraculous happens to me. I find myself wanting to be a better person. When I hear his words my soul is stirred and my mind expanded. I dream of what is possible and imagine a better world. I desire above all things to be a better husband, father, worker, pastor, and friend. But much of the time I sit with other voices – voices shrill will fear and twisted in resentment. When I sit with those voices I don’t want to be a better person. I actually want to become worse. I start to fear my neighbor and not understand her. I want to reject my neighbor and not listen to him. I don’t want to be peaceful; I want to be angry.

The love Jesus calls us to have is not the kind that is rooted in warm feelings – it is impossible to have that kind of love for your enemy. You can't grit your teeth and try very hard to produce affection for someone who has seriously wronged you. And if you want those feelings to come before you love your enemy then you’ll be waiting for eternity. No, this love is a different kind of love. This love for an enemy begins with a decision. It is a choice to see the humanity of the other, the belovedness of the other, the true image of God stamped on the soul of the other.