February 3, 2008, Last Sunday after Epiphany (Year A), Matthew 17:1-9
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, our Strength and our Redeemer. (Psalm 19:14)
I wonder how many of you ever watched “Sesame Street” – perhaps with your children or your grandchildren. If you did, then you’ll understand me when I announce that today’s homily is brought to you by the letter “T”. Certainly the central theme of today’s Gospel reading is the “T” word - Transfiguration. But I also propose to you three more “T” words that help us to understand today’s message. They are Transformation - Timing - and Triumph.
Let us start with Transformation. The words transformation and transfiguration are closely related. The word translated here as “transfigured” is in the Greek text “metemorphothe” – from which we get the word “metamorphosis”. But, when used elsewhere in the New Testament, the word is usually translated as “transformed”. And I feel the word “transformation” helps us to better understand the message.
But let us start with the Transfiguration of Jesus. It is a totally mysterious and unique event. What is happening here ? How do we comprehend it ?
The narrative is quite straightforward. Jesus goes up on the mountain with three of his disciples, Peter, James and John. Six days before, in a crucial moment of revelation, Peter has declared Jesus to be the Messiah (Matthew 16:16). Now on the mountain top Peter’s declaration is confirmed in that Jesus is glorified as the Messiah by God the Father. His face is suddenly illuminated like the sun. His clothes become dazzling white. To the disciples, his form and countenance are transformed from human to divine. This brilliance is not a reflection of his Father’s glory. It is authentically his own. The whiteness of his clothes suggests the robes of the Great High Priest. Then in a spell-binding scene that brings together the major elements of God’s covenant with his people, we glimpse the coming together of the Word (who is Jesus), the Law (which is represented by Moses) and the Prophets (represented by the great prophet, Elijah). Hereupon, Peter speaks some very Peter-like comments. And then a bright cloud overshadows the scene and the voice of God is heard in awesome affirmation of Jesus and his ministry. At this the disciples fall to the ground in fear. Jesus helps them to their feet with words of re-assurance. By then everyone has gone and the event is over.
Whenever we read scripture, we also search for meaning. How does the transfiguration event apply to us in our daily lives ? What is to be our “transfiguration” experience ? Searching for an answer takes us to those other places in the New Testament where the word is used. For example, Paul writes to the Romans (12:2): “Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” In other words, pursue a life that is set apart from the ways of the world. This is a life that is focused on worship and prayer, study and service; a life that shows to others an example of Christ-like living. And the more we practise these things, the more we may be able to say with confidence what Paul writes to the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 3:18). “And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever increasing glory, which comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.” So, then, what are we being transformed into ? What are we becoming ? Quite simply, we are being transformed into the likeness of Christ. That is our transformation.
Now for the second “T” word – Timing.
The Rev. Bryan Findlayson, a priest in the Anglican Church of Australia, and founder of a useful teaching resource called Pumpkin Cottage Publications, has described the transfiguration as “a momentary taste of future glory in the sea of struggle.” The key word is “momentary”. It is a moment in time.
The timing of the transfiguration is critical for Jesus. It comes at a crucial moment in his ministry. The stunning illumination of his presence and the affirmation of his divinity through the voice of His Father prepare Jesus for the final journey to Jerusalem. Jesus has to go down the mountain and take a difficult road. It will be a road of ups and downs. At first the path will be lined by adoring supporters but they will eventually end up siding with Jesus’s detractors and enemies. It will be a road strewn with palm leaves but the cries of “Hosanna !” will prove to be hollow. Ultimately the road leads up to another hill, to a place called Calvary, to a place of suffering, humiliation and death on the Cross. We will come to that place later.
The timing is important because this experience is intended to equip Jesus with the strength and affirmation and encouragement to go on with his ministry to its conclusion. It is, as it were, God’s seal of approval. In God’s timing the transfiguration experience is necessary and it is precisely at this point in time that it is necessary.
On the other hand, the timing does not work out so well for Peter. He wants to stay on the mountain top. He feels exhilarated to be there with Jesus and Elijah and Moses. He wants to build little huts for them so that they can all live there together happily ever after. But Peter’s timing is all wrong. This is not what God intends. This is not God’s timing. Worse yet he dares to imagine that the Son of God and Moses and Elijah could be confined to ramshackle man-made dwellings. It is not meant to be. No wonder that Peter’s wishful thinking is very abruptly cut short by the voice of God with His booming commandment: “Listen to Him !”.
Poor Peter ! Ultimately he too has to go down the mountain. He still has a very long and hard road to travel. Peter also will suffer many things and eventually die for his faith before he ever tastes this kind of glory again.
So it is with us and our mountain-top experiences. They cannot last for ever. We may try to stop the hands of time in the hope of capturing moments of euphoria. But this is in vain, because time marches on. Eventually we too have to go down the mountain and face the frustrations and squabbling and pettiness of everyday life. Again, to quote Bryan Findlayson,
“We must travel the narrow way in Christ, move through struggle to eternity . . .
The struggle is the struggle of life. It is not the journey of high-minded self-imposed asceticism - rather it is the tedious, frustrating, lonely, questioning, doubting, quietly desperate . . . business of life. This is the journey we undertake to reach glory, a journey shaped by the Word of God and all the time agitated by it. There is no short-cut.”
We have to move on from the “momentary taste of future glory” to that “sea of struggle”.
They say timing is everything. Yes, God’s timing is everything - our timing isn’t.
And so we come to the third “T” word. This is Triumph.
Note that we began this season of Epiphany with the light of a star that reveals the coming of Jesus into this world. On this last Sunday after Epiphany we read about the brilliant light transfiguring the form of Jesus and revealing him as the Son of God. Both are examples of how God breaks into our world through Jesus Christ. These are examples of the triumph of the glory of God.
There is no doubt about it. The whole transfiguration event is simply permeated with an air of triumph. The brilliance of light ! The coming together of the Law and the Prophets with the Word. The authoritative voice of God. What a spectacle ! What majesty ! Shock and awe, we might say today ! All around lies a comforting assurance that God is in control and all is right with the universe. As for the bothersome world below, it seems non-existent ! Yes, for a time, a palpable sense of triumph rules over this mountain top scene.
But there is a different kind of triumph to come. A more sombre triumph won at great cost. For a while my mind wandered to another mountain where Jesus goes with his disciples - to the Mount of Olives and the Garden of Gethsemane. There too he calls out his three favoured disciples, Peter, James and John, to come forward and keep watch with him a while - which they did not do !! Funny, isn’t it, how Peter says nothing about wanting to stay and build huts there !! Well, the contrast between the Mount of Transfiguration and the Mount of Olives is interesting but I missed the most obvious contrast.
So here I acknowledge Bishop Tom Wright, in his commentary “Matthew for Everyone”, who takes this idea a giant step further and delivers a contrast that packs a truly powerful effect. Consider this !
“The scene at the Transfiguration offers a strange parallel and contrast with the crucifixion. Here, on the mountain, Jesus is revealed in glory – at Calvary, he is revealed in shame. Here, his clothes are shining white – at Calvary, his clothes are stripped from him and soldiers gamble for them. Here, he is flanked by Moses and Elijah, two of Israel’s greatest heroes, representing the Law and the Prophets – at Calvary, he is flanked by two criminals, representing the depth to which Israel had sunk in rebellion against God. Here, a bright cloud overshadows the scene – at Calvary, darkness falls upon the land. Here, Peter blurts out how good it all is – at Calvary, he is nowhere to be seen for he is hiding in shame after denying he even knows Jesus. Here, the voice of God Himself affirms his Son with love and joy - at Calvary, it is left to a pagan soldier to declare: ‘Truly, this man was the Son of God !’ ”
Both events - the transfiguration and the crucifixion - are examples of triumph. We have to recognize the glory of God through Jesus Christ in both these events. It is easy to see the triumph in Jesus, illuminated in divine radiance and splendour on the Mount of Transfiguration. It is harder to see the triumph in Jesus, broken and despised on the Cross at Calvary. Yet by his death Jesus bore the full weight of our sins and he triumphed over sin and death itself. On the cross the power of sin is broken. And we are set free !
So to conclude – the triumph of Jesus’s life and death inspires us to seek transformation into his likeness – and all in accordance with God’s plan and timing.
Transformation – Timing – Triumph: these are the three “T” words that help us understand the meaning of the Transfiguration.
Sermons & Notes
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Sermon: 'Beloved Son'
Matthew 3:13-17
Baptism of the Lord, St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, January 13, 2008
A little over a year ago, near Nickle Mines, Pennsylvania, Charles Roberts carried his guns and rage into a one-room Amish schoolhouse. Determined to even a score with God, Roberts quickly made good on his commitment. As police surrounded the building, he opened fire on ten young female hostages, killing five of them.
The contrast between Roberts’s actions and the peaceful rural landscape made the Nickel Mines school shooting a dramatic story, but even more so was the Amish community's response: forgiveness, extended to the killer’s family within hours.
Horrified strangers worldwide sent over $4 million to the Amish settlement for a people who have no insurance. But the people used the gifts for more than medical bills. They gave shares to local emergency services that came to their aid and, in a move that caught the world’s imagination, to the widow and children of the man who murdered their daughters.
Coverage of their acts of forgiveness and reconciliation in the face of unspeakable horror and grief quickly overwhelmed coverage of the murders. Suddenly people were asking profound questions about a culture known more for its rejection of cars, television and other trappings of
modern life than for its ideals.
Miroslav Volf, director of the Yale Center for Faith and Culture at Yale Divinity School, believes the events occurred at a crucial cultural moment. "It came at a time when, rightly or wrongly, religion was in the news but not in a way that was flattering . . . [but in ] the midst of all this ... you suddenly have this prominent case where it is shown in a very different, positive light."
The evening of the shootings, Amish elders went to console the wife and three young daughters of Mr. Roberts and to the home of his parents to say they held no grudges. Later on, dozens of Amish, including some whose children he had murdered, attended Mr. Roberts' burial and offered condolences to his widow. One report indicated that more than half of those in attendance at the burial were Amish.
There are two aspects of our gospel lesson that I’d like you to notice. The Bible says, “As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him.”
The first thing is the mention that Jesus “went up out of the water”, and a reference, in the singular, to Jesus alone seeing the Spirit descend like a dove. We suppose from this that Jesus had taken a step or two away from John the Baptist and others who may have been there and that it was also Jesus, alone, who heard the voice which said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”
It appears that Jesus alone saw and heard the heavenly vision. In the rest of Matthew’s gospel, there is uncertainty and confusion about the identity of Jesus. Later, even John the Baptist has his doubts.
Following his baptism, the Gospel of Matthew describes a life of continuous conflict for Jesus. Conflict with his disciples who can’t seem to understand the implications of what he is saying. And conflict with the authorities who understand enough of the implications for their lives that they want him killed.
The ministry of Jesus often put him in a lonely spot, with all around him staring at him in confusion, doubt or hatred. In a small way, the preparation for that begins at the baptism itself.
But here’s the second thing to notice.
It is likely that the voice from heaven is calling to mind other similar passages from scripture.
A passage from Genesis, when God said to Abraham, “Take your son, your only son,” and offer him as a sacrifice.
The promise from Psalm 2 about the king God would send his people, descended from the great king David: ‘You are my Son; today I have become your Father’” (Ps. 2:7).
But here is a third and key passage, and one I’d like you to notice. It is a passage from Isaiah 42: “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen one in whom I delight” (Is. 42:1). This comes from one of four songs in Isaiah describing a servant who will save through his suffering. Israel trusted God and his promises to Abraham. Israel expected a king. Israel expected a servant. But no one expected a king who would serve by giving his life! (Mt. 12.18-21).
As one scholar (Jack Kingsbury) has put it, together, these several passages combine in Matthew 3:17 to form a solemn affirmation in which God declares that Jesus is his unique and only Son. That Jesus is the Messiah and King from the line of David. And, surprisingly and dramatically, that this Messiah will reign on the road of the suffering servant foreseen by Isaiah.
As followers of this king, God has not called us to charm people into the kingdom through the glory of earthly kings and queens. Instead, we have been called to the patient, persistent, persevering ministry in the footsteps of Jesus Christ. Ministering to the poor and needy. Healing the sick. Comforting the discouraged. Offering God’s forgiveness and mercy. And building the kingdom of God among all people and in all nations of the earth.
I know in your various capacities as professionals at work, parents at home, students in school and university, there are times when you wonder what it all means. When you wonder what difference can my simple life make in this fix that I find myself? When you feel the loneliness of the Christian mission under the sad clouds of this world’s hatred and violence.
But Jesus’ words are true. We are not alone. We have Jesus before us and the company of his followers, together with whom we walk and serve.
And the glory we saw and the voice we heard at our baptism was not our eyes playing tricks. It was trustworthy and true. And in the footsteps of Jesus, we have been called to carry on the kingdom work of Christ on earth.
Over the holiday I read an interview with Bishop Tom Wright, a noted biblical scholar and one of the pre-eminent bishops in the Anglican Church. He was asked, what difference does the cross and Christ’s self-sacrificing life make.
“The cross,” he said, “is not just an example to be followed; it is an achievement to be worked out, put into practice. But it is an example nonetheless, because it is . . . the model for what God now wants to do by his Spirit in the world, through his people. It is the start of the process of redemption, in which suffering and martyrdom are the paradoxical means by which victory is won.
So where does forgiveness fit in, he was asked.
“Some people believe,” he said, “that when it comes to forgiveness, you just draw a line and forget it even though it’s tough and messy. But this is too simple . . . Whether we are dealing with international relations or one-on-one personal relations, evil must be named and confronted. There must be no sliding around it, no attempt—whether for the sake of an easy life or in search of a quick fix—to present it as if it wasn’t so bad after all. Only when that has been done, when both the evil and the evil doer have been identified as what and who they are—can there be the second move towards . . . the one who has deeply hurt and wounded us or me.
“If I have named the evil, and done my best to offer genuine forgiveness and reconciliation, then I am free to love the person even if they don’t want to respond.”
He was asked to offer an example and he mentioned the Amish of Nickle Mine.
“The point of following Jesus,” says Bishop Wright, “isn’t simply so that we can be sure of going to a better place than this after we die.”
Our future beyond death is enormously important, but the nature of the Christian hope is such that it plays back into the present life. We’re called, here and now, to be instruments of God’s new creation, the world-put-to-rights, which has already been launched in Jesus and of which Jesus’ followers are supposed to be not simply beneficiaries but also agents.
“And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased’ (Matthew 3:16-17).
This is our king. Let us follow him today and in the days ahead. Amen.
Baptism of the Lord, St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, January 13, 2008
A little over a year ago, near Nickle Mines, Pennsylvania, Charles Roberts carried his guns and rage into a one-room Amish schoolhouse. Determined to even a score with God, Roberts quickly made good on his commitment. As police surrounded the building, he opened fire on ten young female hostages, killing five of them.
The contrast between Roberts’s actions and the peaceful rural landscape made the Nickel Mines school shooting a dramatic story, but even more so was the Amish community's response: forgiveness, extended to the killer’s family within hours.
Horrified strangers worldwide sent over $4 million to the Amish settlement for a people who have no insurance. But the people used the gifts for more than medical bills. They gave shares to local emergency services that came to their aid and, in a move that caught the world’s imagination, to the widow and children of the man who murdered their daughters.
Coverage of their acts of forgiveness and reconciliation in the face of unspeakable horror and grief quickly overwhelmed coverage of the murders. Suddenly people were asking profound questions about a culture known more for its rejection of cars, television and other trappings of
modern life than for its ideals.
Miroslav Volf, director of the Yale Center for Faith and Culture at Yale Divinity School, believes the events occurred at a crucial cultural moment. "It came at a time when, rightly or wrongly, religion was in the news but not in a way that was flattering . . . [but in ] the midst of all this ... you suddenly have this prominent case where it is shown in a very different, positive light."
The evening of the shootings, Amish elders went to console the wife and three young daughters of Mr. Roberts and to the home of his parents to say they held no grudges. Later on, dozens of Amish, including some whose children he had murdered, attended Mr. Roberts' burial and offered condolences to his widow. One report indicated that more than half of those in attendance at the burial were Amish.
There are two aspects of our gospel lesson that I’d like you to notice. The Bible says, “As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him.”
The first thing is the mention that Jesus “went up out of the water”, and a reference, in the singular, to Jesus alone seeing the Spirit descend like a dove. We suppose from this that Jesus had taken a step or two away from John the Baptist and others who may have been there and that it was also Jesus, alone, who heard the voice which said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”
It appears that Jesus alone saw and heard the heavenly vision. In the rest of Matthew’s gospel, there is uncertainty and confusion about the identity of Jesus. Later, even John the Baptist has his doubts.
Following his baptism, the Gospel of Matthew describes a life of continuous conflict for Jesus. Conflict with his disciples who can’t seem to understand the implications of what he is saying. And conflict with the authorities who understand enough of the implications for their lives that they want him killed.
The ministry of Jesus often put him in a lonely spot, with all around him staring at him in confusion, doubt or hatred. In a small way, the preparation for that begins at the baptism itself.
But here’s the second thing to notice.
It is likely that the voice from heaven is calling to mind other similar passages from scripture.
A passage from Genesis, when God said to Abraham, “Take your son, your only son,” and offer him as a sacrifice.
The promise from Psalm 2 about the king God would send his people, descended from the great king David: ‘You are my Son; today I have become your Father’” (Ps. 2:7).
But here is a third and key passage, and one I’d like you to notice. It is a passage from Isaiah 42: “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen one in whom I delight” (Is. 42:1). This comes from one of four songs in Isaiah describing a servant who will save through his suffering. Israel trusted God and his promises to Abraham. Israel expected a king. Israel expected a servant. But no one expected a king who would serve by giving his life! (Mt. 12.18-21).
As one scholar (Jack Kingsbury) has put it, together, these several passages combine in Matthew 3:17 to form a solemn affirmation in which God declares that Jesus is his unique and only Son. That Jesus is the Messiah and King from the line of David. And, surprisingly and dramatically, that this Messiah will reign on the road of the suffering servant foreseen by Isaiah.
As followers of this king, God has not called us to charm people into the kingdom through the glory of earthly kings and queens. Instead, we have been called to the patient, persistent, persevering ministry in the footsteps of Jesus Christ. Ministering to the poor and needy. Healing the sick. Comforting the discouraged. Offering God’s forgiveness and mercy. And building the kingdom of God among all people and in all nations of the earth.
I know in your various capacities as professionals at work, parents at home, students in school and university, there are times when you wonder what it all means. When you wonder what difference can my simple life make in this fix that I find myself? When you feel the loneliness of the Christian mission under the sad clouds of this world’s hatred and violence.
But Jesus’ words are true. We are not alone. We have Jesus before us and the company of his followers, together with whom we walk and serve.
And the glory we saw and the voice we heard at our baptism was not our eyes playing tricks. It was trustworthy and true. And in the footsteps of Jesus, we have been called to carry on the kingdom work of Christ on earth.
Over the holiday I read an interview with Bishop Tom Wright, a noted biblical scholar and one of the pre-eminent bishops in the Anglican Church. He was asked, what difference does the cross and Christ’s self-sacrificing life make.
“The cross,” he said, “is not just an example to be followed; it is an achievement to be worked out, put into practice. But it is an example nonetheless, because it is . . . the model for what God now wants to do by his Spirit in the world, through his people. It is the start of the process of redemption, in which suffering and martyrdom are the paradoxical means by which victory is won.
So where does forgiveness fit in, he was asked.
“Some people believe,” he said, “that when it comes to forgiveness, you just draw a line and forget it even though it’s tough and messy. But this is too simple . . . Whether we are dealing with international relations or one-on-one personal relations, evil must be named and confronted. There must be no sliding around it, no attempt—whether for the sake of an easy life or in search of a quick fix—to present it as if it wasn’t so bad after all. Only when that has been done, when both the evil and the evil doer have been identified as what and who they are—can there be the second move towards . . . the one who has deeply hurt and wounded us or me.
“If I have named the evil, and done my best to offer genuine forgiveness and reconciliation, then I am free to love the person even if they don’t want to respond.”
He was asked to offer an example and he mentioned the Amish of Nickle Mine.
“The point of following Jesus,” says Bishop Wright, “isn’t simply so that we can be sure of going to a better place than this after we die.”
Our future beyond death is enormously important, but the nature of the Christian hope is such that it plays back into the present life. We’re called, here and now, to be instruments of God’s new creation, the world-put-to-rights, which has already been launched in Jesus and of which Jesus’ followers are supposed to be not simply beneficiaries but also agents.
“And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased’ (Matthew 3:16-17).
This is our king. Let us follow him today and in the days ahead. Amen.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Sermon: "Decisive Intervention"
sermon: Decisive Intervention
You may have seen the movie, Bridge Over the River Kwai about Ernest Gordon, a British officer taken captive during WWII in a Japanese prisoner of war camp who, with the other prisoners, was put to work building the Burma-Siam railway. The movie tells of the brutal conditions they endured and their accomplishments in those circumstances. In 1963, Gordon wrote the book ATo End All Wars@ which gives a little fuller account of what happened.
Ernest Gordon should never have survived. With the other soldiers, but contrary to the Geneva Convention due to his standing as an officer, Gordon was put to work on the jungle railway. The railway was intended for a possible attack on
Gordon was so weak, he didn=t even have the strength to shoo the flies and bugs which crawled all over him. He mustered just enough strength to write one last letter to his mother and then lay down to die.
Little did Gordon know, however, that something had happened in the camp. The camp he had known had been one of survival of the fittest and every man for himself. Theft had been rampant, officers hoarded what little extra they received, each eyed the other with vulture-like attention.
But something was astir.
In the case of Ernest Gordon, two fellow prisoners came and pleaded with the guards for permission to take him to an elevated hut constructed just for him. There they and others brought extra rations, nursed his wounds and massaged his immobile legs. They sold watches and other valuables for medicine. Slowly, Ernest Gordon regained his strength.
On his feet again, Gordon watched how the transformation in the camp deepened and continued. Soldiers began looking out for each other. When one died, the others now buried him honourably and the place in the ground was marked with a cross. Among them, a range of talent existed and a prison camp university emerged. Gordon taught philosophy, another taught mathematics, another history, Latin, Russian and Sanskrit, and so on. As the philosopher, Gordon also became the impromptu chaplain. And it was a simple question that most wanted addressed. How do I prepare to die? From his studies, from the scraps of his Christian faith that he could recall, and from a clarity and focus which the circumstances demanded, Gordon gave what counsel he could and led, as he was able, services of public worship.
And when liberation finally came, the prisoners did not seek revenge on their captors. Rather, they showed kindness to the ones who had cruelly used them.
Why such a change? What had happened to bring about such a transformation in dreadful circumstances like these?
One day equipment was being counted at the end of work and a shovel was reported missing. AWho has it?@ hollered the guard. No one answered.
AAll die,@ screamed the guard, aiming his rifle at the first man in line. AWait,@ one of the prisoners said. AI took it.@
The prisoner stepped forward. The guard set upon him immediately, beating him to the ground, and continuing long after he had died. His fellows carried the corpse away.
But that night, they counted the shovels again. There had not been a theft. There had been a miscount. Every shovel was in its place.
And for the camp it was, as Gordon recorded, the decisive moment when one soldier had remembered: Agreater love has no one than this, than that he lay down his life for a friend.@
Ernest Gordon says: AThere was hatred, but there was also love. There was death, but there was also life. God had not left us. He was with us, calling us to live the divine life in fellowship.@ (From the account in Rumours of Another World, by Philip Yancey, Zondervan, 2003.)
Tonight we remember the events of Jesus= birth, but as the Gospels are want to do, we are reminded what those events mean. That Jesus Christ was God=s decisive intervention in the world.
There=s a great scene in Lord of the Rings. At the cost of his life, the wizard Gandalf stands between his friends and a terrible beast. AYou shall go no further@, he declares to the beast, planting his staff in the path and preventing the beast from advancing further. In Jesus Christ, God planted his staff into the earth, declaring that the forces of hatred, inhumanity and selfishness will not prevail and for those who follow Jesus Christ through the struggle of this life - Athere is death, but there is life. There is hatred, but there is love.@
Before us this evening is a challenge - not unlike the one posed by Moses to the people as they entered the new land. Before you is the way of life and the way of death. Which will you choose? Choose life.
How?
I=ve always liked the simple summary that John Stott makes. We answer the challenge by inviting Jesus Christ into our lives, making him our Saviour and Lord.
What does it mean to make him our Saviour? It is to acknowledge that we are creatures dependent on our Creator. It means to turn away from that which we know to be based on selfish grasping and ambition and turn toward Jesus Christ. It means, as Christians, that we seek the nourishment of the Bible and the Sacraments, and will offer lives lived for the glory of God in return.
What does it mean to make him our Lord - to make him the supreme authority who directs our lives? It means to answer the call of Jesus - follow me. >Let the disciple be like the master,= as the Gospel puts it. It means conforming our lives to the likeness of Jesus Christ. Conforming our minds through Christian study and preparation. Conforming our strength for use as Christian servants. Conforming our souls to make them fit for their reunion with God. And conforming our hearts so that they will bear the fruit of Christ=s spirit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Gal. 5.22).
In this world of struggle and tears, God has acted decisively in Jesus Christ. Tonight, let us offer our lives to God and join the life-affirming purposes of Jesus Christ. I urge you to choose life and to give your life to him.
A friend has sent me a beautiful and new Christmas song by Michael Card. It=s final verses are:
Above his dark obscurity,
The light of God has shone
And through the meekness of the lamb
God’s strength would be made known
The just and gentle promised one
Would triumph o’er the fall
And conquer by his own defeat
And win by losing all
Vicit Agnus noster, eum sequamur - AOur Lamb has conquered; Him let us follow.@
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Sermon: "Descendants", Matthew 3.1-12
Advent II, St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, December 9, 2007
The word ‘brood’ has an overtone in English that I don't think exists in the Greek word which 'brood' is used to translate.
In our lesson today about the people coming to be baptized by John, it says that one group received a tongue-lashing instead.
“Seeing the Pharisees and Sadducees, John said: ‘you brood of vipers.”
There’s no question about the second word ‘viper’. It means a snake that spits poison.
But on its own, brood simply means descendants. We are all brood. We have all descended from parents and grandparents. And in this Gospel, it is a word on which a spot-light shines.
The opening verse of Matthew reads, ‘An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham.’ The words for ‘genealogy’ and ‘brood’ come from the same root. And the sixteen verses which follow are the remarkable list of Jesus’ ancestors.
‘Boaz by his mother Rahab.’ Do you remember Rahab? To put it politely, she was a woman of ill-repute. But at the risk of her own life, she protected Joshua and his spies who led the children of Israel into the promised land.
At first, not a likely candidate, but a woman of ill-repute is on the list of Jesus’ ancestors.
It lists ‘Obed by his mother Ruth.’
You know Ruth. A foreigner. Widowed and alone with a mother-in-law who is also widowed. But when the older widow tries to protect the younger one from the grief she had already experienced by leaving home for a foreign land, Ruth replied, ‘Where you go, I will go. Where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people. Your God shall be my God.’
A devoted and dedicated foreigner is on the list of Jesus’ ancestors.
‘Solomon by his mother, the wife of Uriah.’
Now this is interesting. Solomon’s father is David. His mother is Bathsheba but her name is left out. Why? So that the name of her first and murdered husband can be included. Uriah, another foreigner, but the loyal and dedicated captain of an Israelite army who is callously sent to his death by King David who has committed adultery with Bathsheba. Unjustly killed by the King, forgotten by all and left to the ash heap, so it would seem. But the Bible says, he was not forgotten by the Lord. The Bible says, the murder of an innocent and loyal man did not go unanswered, and even the greatest king of Israel must give an account of himself before the Lord.
Uriah is on the list of Jesus’ ancestors.
And finally, the list includes ‘Josiah the father of Jechoniah at the time of the deportation to Babylon.’
This is a bit more complex to follow. But it takes us back to the great promise God made with Abraham, to whom He promised descendants and a family line that would last forever. To whom He promised a people who God would raise up in order to show his love to all the world. A promise, years later, God would extend through the kings of Israel and the throne of David (2 Sa 7:16).
It is a promise that God will keep through even the greatest of obstacles: physical frailty, human wickedness, national degradation, and then horrific division and conquest.
But at the moment when all seems lost, as history’s iron fist slams down hardest upon the people, at a time 600 years before Christ when the nation is conquered and brought to its knees, a little note is added at the end of the book of kings - the life of Jechoniah was spared and he was taken into Babylon.
Just a little note, but its meaning is this - God is keeping his promise! The line of descendants will continue. And in the list of ancestors which Jesus Christ the Messiah completes and fulfills, the name of Jechoniah appears as a testimony to God’s faithfulness when history offers no hope.
It is a magnificent portrait.
God lifts up the simple, sinful and humble in order to demonstrate his love.
God watches over those unjustly treated and vindicates them before the princes and kings of the earth.
God keeps his promises.
And through Jesus Christ the Messiah, son of David and Abraham, God will redeem the world.
And by starting there, with that great line of ancestors from whom the Messiah descends, we can feel the awful force of John the Baptist’s fierce words against the leaders of his time.
You who are meant to be a great light in the world have become a miserly flicker in a corner.
You who are meant to be a blessing to the nations have turned away from all but your own and left the widows and the weak to fend for themselves.
You who are children of the covenant with Abraham have become a brood of vipers!
And here’s what I understand to be the challenge of this passage for us. If we will let him, God will make us, as we are intended to be, His own.
We may see ourselves weak and frail, but God will raise us up and make us his own.
We may see ourselves on the wrong side of history, but God has His own plans for the world and will join us to them.
We may think of ourselves as weak and useless in a foreign land, but God invites us to work for that distant country, better for all.
Out of love unimaginable, Jesus Christ picks up the sinners and gives them love that will not fail, friendship that will not betray, hope that will not fade. Out of love for the world, the Baptist challenges us to straighten our lives and join God’s great and loving mission for the world.
And it is where, I think, we begin. To contemplate the marvel, wonder and beauty of what God intends. For when we see something truly beautiful, and when the hope it inspires shines within us, it will take us a very long ways.
Kathy Barnes told me a great story. Years ago one of her students was a royal terror. Hope for him among any who knew him was slim. Until one weekend, the class took a trip to a country camp. On that afternoon, her little terror came up to her and anxiously and urgently said, “Mrs. Barnes, come with me, quickly.”
Mrs. Barnes immediately thought, “Oh, oh. What classmate lies injured on the ground? What barn now burns in towering flames? What phlanx of police now encircles us outside?”
But out the door she went, following her little scholar forward to a point where he instructed, “Get down on your hands and knees. Don’t say anything, and follow me.”
So, even more uncertain than before, Mrs. Barnes got down on her hands and knees, not knowing why or to where she was crawling, and followed her little friend through the bushes. Until, at the edge of a clearing, they looked up and through to where stood a beautiful herd of wild deer. Sleek, magnificent animals. A breathtaking sight, the little city boy had never seen or experienced in all his life. And for twenty minutes, on their tummies, he and his teacher watched in silent wonder and regard.
Kathy said, “From that moment on, I had his number. I knew that there was more to him than terror and disorder.”
And so, it turns out, did he.
Years later, he found out where she was and came back to see her. It had not been an easy life. He had been in and out of trouble with the law. But he wanted to tell her that he had started straightening things out.
“I haven’t always done the right thing,” he said, “but I realize that what you were telling me was right, and the advice you gave me was good.”
“I’ve done better. I’ve finished high school. And I’m going to do something with my life.”
Kathy discovered later that his mother and siblings were mistakenly and brutally attacked at their home by a deranged neighbour. But when her little scholar heard the news, now a young and independent man, he returned immediately, gathered up the whole lot of them, and moved them into his own home where he knew they would be safe.
To whom do you wish to belong? On whose ancestral list would you like your name to appear? A miserly, poisonous one? Or the lineage of our Saviour and Lord? A motley list, to some eyes: rich and poor, strong and weak, charming and stubborn. But redeemed and being redeemed and being pushed forward to become more and more a light in a dark world.
As St. Paul exhorted the Ephesians:
I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe, according to the working of his great power. (Eph 1:17-19)
This Advent season, gaze on the beauty of what God intends. Consider the beauty of our life, the shards of glory in the world, and the mercy which surrounds us. Contemplate the Saviour who has come to redeem and restore it all. Straighten your life so that you can serve him wholeheartedly. And prepare yourself for the coming of the Lord.
The word ‘brood’ has an overtone in English that I don't think exists in the Greek word which 'brood' is used to translate.
In our lesson today about the people coming to be baptized by John, it says that one group received a tongue-lashing instead.
“Seeing the Pharisees and Sadducees, John said: ‘you brood of vipers.”
There’s no question about the second word ‘viper’. It means a snake that spits poison.
But on its own, brood simply means descendants. We are all brood. We have all descended from parents and grandparents. And in this Gospel, it is a word on which a spot-light shines.
The opening verse of Matthew reads, ‘An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham.’ The words for ‘genealogy’ and ‘brood’ come from the same root. And the sixteen verses which follow are the remarkable list of Jesus’ ancestors.
‘Boaz by his mother Rahab.’ Do you remember Rahab? To put it politely, she was a woman of ill-repute. But at the risk of her own life, she protected Joshua and his spies who led the children of Israel into the promised land.
At first, not a likely candidate, but a woman of ill-repute is on the list of Jesus’ ancestors.
It lists ‘Obed by his mother Ruth.’
You know Ruth. A foreigner. Widowed and alone with a mother-in-law who is also widowed. But when the older widow tries to protect the younger one from the grief she had already experienced by leaving home for a foreign land, Ruth replied, ‘Where you go, I will go. Where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people. Your God shall be my God.’
A devoted and dedicated foreigner is on the list of Jesus’ ancestors.
‘Solomon by his mother, the wife of Uriah.’
Now this is interesting. Solomon’s father is David. His mother is Bathsheba but her name is left out. Why? So that the name of her first and murdered husband can be included. Uriah, another foreigner, but the loyal and dedicated captain of an Israelite army who is callously sent to his death by King David who has committed adultery with Bathsheba. Unjustly killed by the King, forgotten by all and left to the ash heap, so it would seem. But the Bible says, he was not forgotten by the Lord. The Bible says, the murder of an innocent and loyal man did not go unanswered, and even the greatest king of Israel must give an account of himself before the Lord.
Uriah is on the list of Jesus’ ancestors.
And finally, the list includes ‘Josiah the father of Jechoniah at the time of the deportation to Babylon.’
This is a bit more complex to follow. But it takes us back to the great promise God made with Abraham, to whom He promised descendants and a family line that would last forever. To whom He promised a people who God would raise up in order to show his love to all the world. A promise, years later, God would extend through the kings of Israel and the throne of David (2 Sa 7:16).
It is a promise that God will keep through even the greatest of obstacles: physical frailty, human wickedness, national degradation, and then horrific division and conquest.
But at the moment when all seems lost, as history’s iron fist slams down hardest upon the people, at a time 600 years before Christ when the nation is conquered and brought to its knees, a little note is added at the end of the book of kings - the life of Jechoniah was spared and he was taken into Babylon.
Just a little note, but its meaning is this - God is keeping his promise! The line of descendants will continue. And in the list of ancestors which Jesus Christ the Messiah completes and fulfills, the name of Jechoniah appears as a testimony to God’s faithfulness when history offers no hope.
It is a magnificent portrait.
God lifts up the simple, sinful and humble in order to demonstrate his love.
God watches over those unjustly treated and vindicates them before the princes and kings of the earth.
God keeps his promises.
And through Jesus Christ the Messiah, son of David and Abraham, God will redeem the world.
And by starting there, with that great line of ancestors from whom the Messiah descends, we can feel the awful force of John the Baptist’s fierce words against the leaders of his time.
You who are meant to be a great light in the world have become a miserly flicker in a corner.
You who are meant to be a blessing to the nations have turned away from all but your own and left the widows and the weak to fend for themselves.
You who are children of the covenant with Abraham have become a brood of vipers!
And here’s what I understand to be the challenge of this passage for us. If we will let him, God will make us, as we are intended to be, His own.
We may see ourselves weak and frail, but God will raise us up and make us his own.
We may see ourselves on the wrong side of history, but God has His own plans for the world and will join us to them.
We may think of ourselves as weak and useless in a foreign land, but God invites us to work for that distant country, better for all.
Out of love unimaginable, Jesus Christ picks up the sinners and gives them love that will not fail, friendship that will not betray, hope that will not fade. Out of love for the world, the Baptist challenges us to straighten our lives and join God’s great and loving mission for the world.
And it is where, I think, we begin. To contemplate the marvel, wonder and beauty of what God intends. For when we see something truly beautiful, and when the hope it inspires shines within us, it will take us a very long ways.
Kathy Barnes told me a great story. Years ago one of her students was a royal terror. Hope for him among any who knew him was slim. Until one weekend, the class took a trip to a country camp. On that afternoon, her little terror came up to her and anxiously and urgently said, “Mrs. Barnes, come with me, quickly.”
Mrs. Barnes immediately thought, “Oh, oh. What classmate lies injured on the ground? What barn now burns in towering flames? What phlanx of police now encircles us outside?”
But out the door she went, following her little scholar forward to a point where he instructed, “Get down on your hands and knees. Don’t say anything, and follow me.”
So, even more uncertain than before, Mrs. Barnes got down on her hands and knees, not knowing why or to where she was crawling, and followed her little friend through the bushes. Until, at the edge of a clearing, they looked up and through to where stood a beautiful herd of wild deer. Sleek, magnificent animals. A breathtaking sight, the little city boy had never seen or experienced in all his life. And for twenty minutes, on their tummies, he and his teacher watched in silent wonder and regard.
Kathy said, “From that moment on, I had his number. I knew that there was more to him than terror and disorder.”
And so, it turns out, did he.
Years later, he found out where she was and came back to see her. It had not been an easy life. He had been in and out of trouble with the law. But he wanted to tell her that he had started straightening things out.
“I haven’t always done the right thing,” he said, “but I realize that what you were telling me was right, and the advice you gave me was good.”
“I’ve done better. I’ve finished high school. And I’m going to do something with my life.”
Kathy discovered later that his mother and siblings were mistakenly and brutally attacked at their home by a deranged neighbour. But when her little scholar heard the news, now a young and independent man, he returned immediately, gathered up the whole lot of them, and moved them into his own home where he knew they would be safe.
To whom do you wish to belong? On whose ancestral list would you like your name to appear? A miserly, poisonous one? Or the lineage of our Saviour and Lord? A motley list, to some eyes: rich and poor, strong and weak, charming and stubborn. But redeemed and being redeemed and being pushed forward to become more and more a light in a dark world.
As St. Paul exhorted the Ephesians:
I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe, according to the working of his great power. (Eph 1:17-19)
This Advent season, gaze on the beauty of what God intends. Consider the beauty of our life, the shards of glory in the world, and the mercy which surrounds us. Contemplate the Saviour who has come to redeem and restore it all. Straighten your life so that you can serve him wholeheartedly. And prepare yourself for the coming of the Lord.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Sermon: Staying Awake, Matthew 24.36-44
Advent I, St. Paul's L'Amoreaux, December 2, 2007
When I was a boy, a pair of new, leather goalie pads kicked off the beginning of Advent. The glossy picture of those hockey pads in the sports section of the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue, on the pages just after a very large toy section, battled for with my two sisters on the living room floor in our farm house in the third week of September, was what kicked it off. We didn’t call it Advent. We didn’t give it a formal name. We just knew that there was a season to prepare for Christmas. And it started in the third week of September.
Partly because that’s when the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue arrived. Partly because the crisp winter weather we’re tasting this weekend, could be enjoyed as early as September on our farm in Saskatchewan. Partly because some of the things we did at Christmas had to start early - Christmas letters overseas, treats from Toronto which took a month to order and receive. And partly because the combination of a stark, darkening prairie landscape combined with Christmas promises was intoxicating. It grabbed us by the heart and tightened its grip for three months.
While I know that memories have tumbled into each other, I remember a familiar ascent to Christmas Day - the first snow covering the prairie with a blanket you could see for miles; the first freeze that turned outdoor ponds into hockey rinks; the first Christmas pageant practice and parts we began to memorize; distant magical parades we watched on television early on a Saturday morning; and one great 60 mile trip to the city of Regina in our rickety little Ford Fairlane, where we rode the only escalator in the province with as much excitement as might ride the space shuttle, and where we wandered the store aisles wide-eyed at shelves stocked full of Christmas treats.
And I can remember the final few days in December of consecutive pageants, parties and preparation. It won’t surprise you, that nothing reminds me more of Christmas than the taste and smell of cherry cough drops. It was the one reprieve I came to expect - knocked out of the ring by a day or two of coughing, flu and fever - but back in it as soon as physically possible.
And so, it may or may not surprise you how I sometimes felt on Christmas Day itself.
One year Christmas landed on a Sunday. That evening, as was our custom, we were in church. At the end, at the back, crying and clutching my mother’s legs, a friend came up to ask what was the matter.
"It wasn’t quite what he expected," she answered.
Wasn’t quite? It wasn’t close! This was a buildup for a moon landing. For a visit from the Queen and all the royal family! For a very large chest of gold.
It wasn’t quite what was expected.
William Willimon, Bishop in the United Methodist Church, has this great line. Our trouble at Christmas is not that we don’t believe God can deliver. People who believe the advertising that meaning in life can be found if you buy a Lexus have the capacity to believe that God can deliver. What’s hard to believe is that what God had to deliver was Jesus Christ. Because what he gives is not always, on first glance, what we want. Our lives put straight. Our relationships put right. Our angry, divided world reordered and shown light.
We have become confused, believing that Christmas is primarily about gifts and cheerful thoughts falling on us all like snowflakes and things fairly far removed from the world we know and the lives we live.
We have neglected what God has given us in Jesus Christ, and we do this by busying ourselves with the decorations rather than the gift.
And we have misdirected and given up on those deep longings within us, which can lead us to the treasure that God has intended.
And that is why the church prepares us for Christmas, whether we like it or not, through the much older and solemn season of preparation called Advent. The season starting today, directing us to the treasure for which we’re intended, clearing our eyes so that we can see it, and strengthening our hearts to find it.
Last week, Pope Benedict released his second encyclical or ‘letter’ since becoming Pope. It is entitled "On Hope", and in it he describes three areas in which we nurture Christian hope.
The first area is prayer. And I like this. He writes:
Saint Augustine, in a homily on the First Letter of John, describes very beautifully the intimate relationship between prayer and hope. He defines prayer as an exercise of desire. Man was created for greatness - for God himself; he was created to be filled by God. But his heart is too small for the greatness to which it is destined. It must be stretched. "By delaying [his gift], God strengthens our desire; through desire he enlarges our soul and by expanding it he increases its capacity [for receiving him]". Augustine refers to Saint Paul, who speaks of himself as straining forward to the things that are to come (cf. Phil 3:13). He then uses a very beautiful image to describe this process of enlargement and preparation of the human heart. "Suppose that God wishes to fill you with honey [a symbol of God's tenderness and goodness]; but if you are full of vinegar, where will you put the honey?" The vessel, that is your heart, must first be enlarged and then cleansed, freed from the vinegar and its taste. This requires hard work and is painful, but in this way alone do we become suited to that for which we are destined.
This Advent, I urge you to pray. Join it to the discipline of fasting. For those of you who hear the word ‘prayer’ and think of something soft or silly, may I put it another way. A way that even an army general would take seriously. In these distracting, confused times, I hope you’ll stop, look and listen, with our Lord as your companion.
Secondly, the Pope recommends a purposeful movement toward action and suffering. That is, to serve others, and to serve even when we may suffer because of it. If you decide to serve a child who has been hurt, you may be hurt. If you decide to work for peace in a family dispute, you may be hurt. If you decide to serve a beleaguered young mother or a bewildered new immigrant, you may be hurt. For those reasons, a great many of us choose not to serve at all. But one of the clearest lessons from those queer Gospel passages about rumours of war and living in times of turmoil is that we are not intended to escape them. Accompanied by Jesus Christ, we must prepare to live through them.
And as the Pope says:
We can try to limit suffering, to fight against it, but we cannot eliminate it. It is when we attempt to avoid suffering by withdrawing from anything that might involve hurt, when we try to spare ourselves the effort and pain of pursuing truth, love, and goodness, that we drift into a life of emptiness, in which there may be almost no pain, but the dark sensation of meaninglessness and abandonment is all the greater. It is not by sidestepping or fleeing from suffering that we are healed, but rather by our capacity for accepting it, maturing through it and finding meaning through union with Christ, who suffered with infinite love.
And finally, we prepare for the coming of Christ by recognizing that our lives stand under judgment. They are, as the Gospel emphasizes today, under a watch.
Our lives mean something. And there will come a time when we will stand, naked and uncovered, before the Lord. But stark as that may seem, do you realize how deep the longing is within us to do just that? How many times do you check the mirror? How deeply do you desire to be seen and accepted as you appear.
That is the lesson from the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. The rich man has ruined his life: through pride and arrogance, through excessive and harmful luxury, through the neglect and forgetfulness of others, through a deadening of his capacity to love. But now, in hell, the desire and longing to love is an unquenchable thirst (Lk. 16.19-31)
But our destiny is otherwise, and the Christian warnings of judgement have the hope of redemption as their foundation. Our lives are meant for better. Our lives can be lived for more. Our hearts are meant for better treasure than the false and hollow treats glittering in front of us. And Jesus Christ, out of love unimaginable, has given his life for us and to us for that reason.
Our Gospel lesson urges us to ‘stay awake’. Let it be the refrain in our hearts and minds this Advent. In prayer, service, and holy seriousness, let us ask God to clear our eyes in order to see the gift of God in Jesus Christ - and to prepare ourselves for Christmas.
When I was a boy, a pair of new, leather goalie pads kicked off the beginning of Advent. The glossy picture of those hockey pads in the sports section of the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue, on the pages just after a very large toy section, battled for with my two sisters on the living room floor in our farm house in the third week of September, was what kicked it off. We didn’t call it Advent. We didn’t give it a formal name. We just knew that there was a season to prepare for Christmas. And it started in the third week of September.
Partly because that’s when the Eaton’s Christmas Catalogue arrived. Partly because the crisp winter weather we’re tasting this weekend, could be enjoyed as early as September on our farm in Saskatchewan. Partly because some of the things we did at Christmas had to start early - Christmas letters overseas, treats from Toronto which took a month to order and receive. And partly because the combination of a stark, darkening prairie landscape combined with Christmas promises was intoxicating. It grabbed us by the heart and tightened its grip for three months.
While I know that memories have tumbled into each other, I remember a familiar ascent to Christmas Day - the first snow covering the prairie with a blanket you could see for miles; the first freeze that turned outdoor ponds into hockey rinks; the first Christmas pageant practice and parts we began to memorize; distant magical parades we watched on television early on a Saturday morning; and one great 60 mile trip to the city of Regina in our rickety little Ford Fairlane, where we rode the only escalator in the province with as much excitement as might ride the space shuttle, and where we wandered the store aisles wide-eyed at shelves stocked full of Christmas treats.
And I can remember the final few days in December of consecutive pageants, parties and preparation. It won’t surprise you, that nothing reminds me more of Christmas than the taste and smell of cherry cough drops. It was the one reprieve I came to expect - knocked out of the ring by a day or two of coughing, flu and fever - but back in it as soon as physically possible.
And so, it may or may not surprise you how I sometimes felt on Christmas Day itself.
One year Christmas landed on a Sunday. That evening, as was our custom, we were in church. At the end, at the back, crying and clutching my mother’s legs, a friend came up to ask what was the matter.
"It wasn’t quite what he expected," she answered.
Wasn’t quite? It wasn’t close! This was a buildup for a moon landing. For a visit from the Queen and all the royal family! For a very large chest of gold.
It wasn’t quite what was expected.
William Willimon, Bishop in the United Methodist Church, has this great line. Our trouble at Christmas is not that we don’t believe God can deliver. People who believe the advertising that meaning in life can be found if you buy a Lexus have the capacity to believe that God can deliver. What’s hard to believe is that what God had to deliver was Jesus Christ. Because what he gives is not always, on first glance, what we want. Our lives put straight. Our relationships put right. Our angry, divided world reordered and shown light.
We have become confused, believing that Christmas is primarily about gifts and cheerful thoughts falling on us all like snowflakes and things fairly far removed from the world we know and the lives we live.
We have neglected what God has given us in Jesus Christ, and we do this by busying ourselves with the decorations rather than the gift.
And we have misdirected and given up on those deep longings within us, which can lead us to the treasure that God has intended.
And that is why the church prepares us for Christmas, whether we like it or not, through the much older and solemn season of preparation called Advent. The season starting today, directing us to the treasure for which we’re intended, clearing our eyes so that we can see it, and strengthening our hearts to find it.
Last week, Pope Benedict released his second encyclical or ‘letter’ since becoming Pope. It is entitled "On Hope", and in it he describes three areas in which we nurture Christian hope.
The first area is prayer. And I like this. He writes:
Saint Augustine, in a homily on the First Letter of John, describes very beautifully the intimate relationship between prayer and hope. He defines prayer as an exercise of desire. Man was created for greatness - for God himself; he was created to be filled by God. But his heart is too small for the greatness to which it is destined. It must be stretched. "By delaying [his gift], God strengthens our desire; through desire he enlarges our soul and by expanding it he increases its capacity [for receiving him]". Augustine refers to Saint Paul, who speaks of himself as straining forward to the things that are to come (cf. Phil 3:13). He then uses a very beautiful image to describe this process of enlargement and preparation of the human heart. "Suppose that God wishes to fill you with honey [a symbol of God's tenderness and goodness]; but if you are full of vinegar, where will you put the honey?" The vessel, that is your heart, must first be enlarged and then cleansed, freed from the vinegar and its taste. This requires hard work and is painful, but in this way alone do we become suited to that for which we are destined.
This Advent, I urge you to pray. Join it to the discipline of fasting. For those of you who hear the word ‘prayer’ and think of something soft or silly, may I put it another way. A way that even an army general would take seriously. In these distracting, confused times, I hope you’ll stop, look and listen, with our Lord as your companion.
Secondly, the Pope recommends a purposeful movement toward action and suffering. That is, to serve others, and to serve even when we may suffer because of it. If you decide to serve a child who has been hurt, you may be hurt. If you decide to work for peace in a family dispute, you may be hurt. If you decide to serve a beleaguered young mother or a bewildered new immigrant, you may be hurt. For those reasons, a great many of us choose not to serve at all. But one of the clearest lessons from those queer Gospel passages about rumours of war and living in times of turmoil is that we are not intended to escape them. Accompanied by Jesus Christ, we must prepare to live through them.
And as the Pope says:
We can try to limit suffering, to fight against it, but we cannot eliminate it. It is when we attempt to avoid suffering by withdrawing from anything that might involve hurt, when we try to spare ourselves the effort and pain of pursuing truth, love, and goodness, that we drift into a life of emptiness, in which there may be almost no pain, but the dark sensation of meaninglessness and abandonment is all the greater. It is not by sidestepping or fleeing from suffering that we are healed, but rather by our capacity for accepting it, maturing through it and finding meaning through union with Christ, who suffered with infinite love.
And finally, we prepare for the coming of Christ by recognizing that our lives stand under judgment. They are, as the Gospel emphasizes today, under a watch.
Our lives mean something. And there will come a time when we will stand, naked and uncovered, before the Lord. But stark as that may seem, do you realize how deep the longing is within us to do just that? How many times do you check the mirror? How deeply do you desire to be seen and accepted as you appear.
That is the lesson from the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. The rich man has ruined his life: through pride and arrogance, through excessive and harmful luxury, through the neglect and forgetfulness of others, through a deadening of his capacity to love. But now, in hell, the desire and longing to love is an unquenchable thirst (Lk. 16.19-31)
But our destiny is otherwise, and the Christian warnings of judgement have the hope of redemption as their foundation. Our lives are meant for better. Our lives can be lived for more. Our hearts are meant for better treasure than the false and hollow treats glittering in front of us. And Jesus Christ, out of love unimaginable, has given his life for us and to us for that reason.
Our Gospel lesson urges us to ‘stay awake’. Let it be the refrain in our hearts and minds this Advent. In prayer, service, and holy seriousness, let us ask God to clear our eyes in order to see the gift of God in Jesus Christ - and to prepare ourselves for Christmas.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sermon: Contemplating Time, Luke 21.5-19
St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, November 18, 2007
In his commentary on our lesson from Luke, Fred Craddock makes a lovely little observation. ‘Calculating the end of time,” he says, “is not the same thing as contemplating the fulfilment of time.’
‘Calculating the end of time is not the same thing as contemplating the fulfilment of time.’
You probably get the point right off. Our responsibility is to understand God’s purpose in the world through prayer and contemplation and to conform ourselves to it. But trying to calculate when the world will end has had great appeal to people and can serve as a tremendous distraction.
When I was a teenager in the 1970’s, with the cold war, the threat of nuclear bombs, and fears of oil and gasoline shortages, there were many prophets warning about the end of time. There were some scoundrels who made millions of dollars off of books and movies they produced, such as The Late, Great Planet Earth. They frightened, confused and discouraged a many people.
And yet when faced with a similar question, Jesus answers his disciples by focussing their attention on the fulfilment of time, rather than the mere end of time. He does so in two ways.
First of all, he says, don’t be fooled. Wars and natural disasters is the way the world is. It is not a special sign of the end.
Secondly, however, times of tumult are purposeful for Christians.
They are times in which the Christian can be a witness.
They are times in which Christians can serve confidently, because no mortal or eternal harm will come to them.
And they are times in which, through endurance, the roots of the Gospel can go further into the Christians heart and character.
‘You will gain your soul,’ says Jesus.
In other words, don’t be distracted by trying to calculate the end of time. Rather, let your mind focus on God’s purposes in time, contemplate what God has revealed in Jesus Christ, let that take root and, having done so, serve boldly and faithfully, just like Jesus Christ.
A few years ago, Joseph Ratzinger, the man who is now Pope Benedict XVI, was asked an interesting and related question. Christianity promises God’s redemption. But we’re now at the beginning of the third millenium since the time of Jesus Christ. Given the wait, and given, specifically, the horrors of the 20th century, has Christianity actually brought with it salvation or has it, instead, been quite fruitless?
And I liked his answer. First of all, he emphasized a point that the journalist questioning him had glanced over. The last century was not just one of pure horror. In fact, there are now more people alive on earth than ever before, and living for a length of time and at a level of comfort never before imagined.
Christianity has contributed to this, as, from Christian principles, it has motivated the development of democracy, of the rule of law, the arts, tremendous structures of health care and education, and of science itself.
But secondly, said the Pope, God’s redemption of the world is related to human freedom - and God will not annul human freedom in order to bring about his final purposes.
Humans are part of God’s plan of redemption. And humans have the freedom to cooperate - or to refuse, letting the world fall into darkness.
I admired the candor of the Pope.
Redemption or disaster - both are possible. And when God revealed himself to the world in the man who would be handed over and crucified on a cross, he took a risk on whether or not humans would cooperate.
I don’t know why God has taken the form he did in Jesus Christ, says the Pope. Who gave up the power and authority of heaven, and who will only succeed where men and women respond to him from the heart.
I don’t know why has revealed himself in this way. A way in which God has held back power available to him.
But I do know what the alternative has been in the world. When people have turned away from God and to their own devices. It is to use power and violence and force people into line. And its way, too often, has been one of unspeakable cruelty and death.
Our challenge, says the Pope, is to confront the remarkable powers placed in human hands and to measure what can be done by what should be done. We must confront our enormous physical ability with moral discernment. And this can only occur where God is a force and strength within.
The Pope used as an example the ecological movement which rightly protests the outer pollution of the world. And yet, many within the movement have treated the inner pollution of the soul as a fundamental right to be protected. I quote:
Instead of making it possible to breathe humanly again, we defend with a totally false conception of freedom everything that man’s arbitrary desire produces. As long as we [defend] the freedom of inner spiritual self-destruction, its outward effects will continue unchanged . . .The eighth chapter of the Letter to the Romans says this very plainly. It says that Adam, that is, the inwardly polluted man, treats creation like a slave, tramples on it, so that creation groans under him, on his account, through him. And we hear today the groaning of creation as no one has ever heard it before. Paul adds that creation waits for the appearance of the sons of God and will breathe freely when men [and women] appear in whom God shines through - and who only then will be able to breathe again themselves. (Salt of the Earth, Joseph Ratzinger, Ignatius, 1996, p. 231)
A few years ago the story of Wladyslaw Szpilman was brought to the screen in the movie entitled “The Pianist”. Szpilman was a talented, young Jewish and Polish pianist and composer. He had written quite a number of popular songs, including children’s songs, and many loved to listen to him. But during WWII, Szpilman’s family were sent to the
But when the day came, and as the Szpilmans were being crammed onto the train,
one of the policemen grabbed Wladyslaw by the collar, yanked him out of the throng and refused to let him through to rejoin his family on the journey to death.
Szpilman continued to avoid death’s clutches, surviving against all odds, often half-starved and usually alone, hidden in obscure corners of bombed, burned or empty buildings, intermittently helped by Polish friends risking their own lives to bring him food or find him shelter: helping a Jew automatically brought a death sentence (www.szpilman.net).
The strangest twist of all in Szpilman’s story came at its end. He was discovered by a German officer. Szpilman proved his profession to him by playing Chopin’s C sharp minor Nocturne on an abandoned piano. From then on, the German officer hid him and brought him food and a blanket for warmth. In the end, Szpilman would survive, passing away in July, 2000. And the officer who protected him - died in a communist ‘prisoner of war’ camp in 1953.
And as the movie portrayed matters, in the midst of the stifling darkness of Nazism, a family, a people, a city - and even a Nazi soldier - rose to the defense of a brilliant artist. In a violent time, it was a singular tribute to the beauty of a life, and the beauty of the music that one life was able to create.
How do we live in tumultuous times? I like the answer of Jesus. It is not to be spent calculating exact days and minutes. It is not to be spent interpreting the latest war and calamity. It is to be spent contemplating the Saviour we have seen. It is to let that life take deep root within us. And it is to share the light and life of Jesus Christ in the world.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Sermon: Where to Begin, 4 November 2007
Text: Ephesian 1.15-23
St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, The Feast of All Saints, November 4, 2007
If you were given great power, where would you start? What would you do?
There was a movie a few years ago entitled Karate Kid. About a kid in high school who moved reluctantly with his mother away from his childhood home to another city, moving into a small and ratty apartment while his mother saved for a better place, entering a school awkwardly at mid-term, with no friends to greet him. He didn’t like any of it. And for the fun of it, bullies picked on the new kid.
Pretty miserable, until one day he met an old Japanese man who chased away some bullies who had surrounded him. “You could use some help,” he says.
No one else was showing any interest, and to his surprise, the old Japanese man knew Karate. “I’ll teach you,” he said. “Come and see.”
So he did. The boy practically bounced to the old man’s home, thrilled at the prospect of lessons in karate. “I’m ready to learn."
“Good,” said the old man. “First lesson.
And picking up a block of wood with sandpaper fastened, the old man moved his hand and arm back and forth precisely, first with one hand, then the next. The boy was asked to imitate.
“No problem,” said the boy, and did just as the old man had done.
“Good,” said the old man. “Follow me.”
And opening the door to a brand outdoor deck, he pointed and said, “Sand the whole thing, just like I showed you.”
The boy raised his eyebrow and looked at the old man suspiciously. Bending down he began sanding furiously.
“No, no, no,” said the old man. “Like I showed you.” And so, imitating the same precise motion, the boy spent his free time for the next week, sanding the old man’s deck.
On Saturday, as he finished up, the old man watched the boy and the motion of his hands and arms. “Good,” he said. “Come back Monday.”
The boy came back Monday, glad to be done with the sanding, eager for his first lesson in Karate. The old man picked up a paint brush. “Watch,” he said. And then, very deliberately, very carefully, first with one hand, then the other, the old man stroked the brush up and down. The boy repeated the motion.
“Good,” said the old man. “Follow me.”
And he opened the door to a beautiful new fence that surrounded his large and spacious backyard. “Paint!” said the old man.
“Oh, now, wait a minute,” said the boy. “Paint!” said the old man, firmly.
Frustrated, the boy began painting, flicking the brush up and down, back and forth.
“No, no, no,” said the old man. “Like I showed you.” And again, the old man repeated the same, careful stroke of the brush and flick of the wrist that he had shown him before. “Like that, and no change.”
So the boy spent the next week painting the fence. On Saturday, as he finished up, the old man watched the boy and the motion of his hands. “Good,” he said. “Come back Monday.”
The boy came back, glad the sanding was done, and the painting, and eager for his first lesson in Karate. The old man picked up a large, soft cloth bundle. “Watch,” he said. And then, the old man demonstrated a deliberate, circular motion, first with one hand, then the next. The boy copied.
“Good,” said the old man. “Follow me.”
The old man took the boy outside to the door of a large shed. Opening the doors, the boy’s mouth fell open and he stared in at a row of beautiful vintage sports cars.
The old man handed the boy the cloth and a large tin. “Wax,” he said.
The boy rolled his eyes, and began pushing the cloth over the hood of the car. “No, no, no,” said the old man. “Like this.” And again, the old man repeated the same, deliberate circular motion. “Like that, and no change.”
So, just like he’d been shown, the boy spent his free time for the next week waxing the old man’s collection of vintage sports cars.
But by Saturday, he was furious. Three weeks wasted doing the old man’s chores. And as he came to inspect, he threw the waxing cloth down on the ground and glared at the old man.
The old man glared back and grabbed his wrist.
“I attack you with a punch from the front - you raise your hand like this,” and instinctively, the boy raised his arm and wrist, just as he done, countless times while painting the fence, and with surprising ease, turned back the punch.
“I come from the side - and you move your arm like this,” he said, and again, the boy fell into the motion effortlessly, repeating what he’d done hundreds of times while sanding the deck.
“And I try to strike with both hands, and you turn me away by doing this,” and as the boy circled his hands, as he’d done waxing the cars, he realized what the old man had taught him, he realized the power in these simple actions and his newly disciplined arms, and a smile of satisfaction covered his face.
“Good,” said the old man. “This is where we begin. And now I will show you more.”
There are two words in our lesson from Ephesians that I’d have you notice: ‘power’ and ‘enlightenment’.
The power of God is a constant theme throughout the Scriptures. But it is power for a purpose.
It is the power God displayed, when he chose Abraham and Sarah, an old and childless couple, and demonstrated his power to give life, and with it, a promise of an eternal line who would bring God’s grace to the world.
It is the power God displayed when he looked down on a beleagured band of slaves, bending back the sea in order to free his people for their mission in the world.
It is the power of God, as St. Paul specifies, to open a grave and empty it, in order that the immeasurable love of God might extend from the furthest depths to the greatest heights.
It’s the power which God has let loose in Jesus Christ. And it is that same power that St. Paul says is let loose in the lives of God’s people.
But where do you start with power like that? It’s an intriguing question. And I like how Bishop Tom Wright answers it.
With power like that, we start with ourselves. We start by dealing with our secret sins and in improving our habits of prayers.
What?
Read through Ephesians. See the great purposes for which the Son of God gave his life. Marvel at the hope being offered for every person, regardless of race, wealth or standing. And then look where it begins.
Scrub up, clean up, and shine up. No more lies. No more filthy thoughts. No more favourite vices tucked away in the corner. You’ve been given Jesus Christ. You wrap his life over your life.
And then, he says, ‘Dear God, I hope you can see it.’
This is the purpose of prayer. ‘May your eyes be enlightened,’ are Paul’s words, so that by prayer you can see the hope, the riches and the power that God is presenting you for his purposes in the world.
Have you ever thought, that these are two prayer to which we know, with 100% certainty, what the answer is? All those unanswered prayers, but to these two we know the answers. To the Christian coming to the Lord, asking that God might offer his power so that our hearts might be more like Christ, asking through prayer that our eyes might see more of what Christ saw, the answer, with 100% certainty, is yes.
It may not be easy. Some of us are stubborn.
It may not come instantly. Some of our selfish ways are deeply ingrained. We may need the help of a Christian counsellor or friend.
Things may not be clear to us all at once. We’re used to looking out for ourselves. It takes a while to see others the way Jesus does.
But we know the answer. And we have been offered the means: the power of God to give life, to turn back the floods, to roll back the stone, to conquer death itself. And for those who will ask, this power is offered to us.
And then, as this prayer is made and is being answered, there may be more. It’s always a little more complicated when we pray for others. Their freedom is involved. But with dirt cleaned up, muscles developed, and eyes sharpened, who knows what God might do with a life that’s been offered to him.
Yesterday in the National Post, as, in their own way, they mark the Feast of All Saints, was a feature on Jean Vanier, a Canadian who has founded a world-wide community of homes for those who’ve come into the world with great physical and mental injury. He has a new book and it summarizes his work the message of his life: the love that God offers in Jesus Christ, discovered first and foremost, right under our eyes, among those who are weakest. He sums it up in a sentence: To be human is to share with those who are weak.
One little thing they mentioned, which has always charmed me. He’s been spending the last week in school assemblies, sometimes in front of one and two thousand young people at a time. He doesn’t try to be clever. He doesn’t quote the lyrics of pop songs he’s never heard. He simply tells them of the love of God that begins with the obvious, and then reaches further.
The rooms are packed and the young people listen quietly and respectfully. He’s filled L’Arche homes around the world with bright young people who want more in life than new shoes and shiny cars and their search summons them to serve the weakest ones on earth. Their search brings them to the place where the power of God’s love begins.
If you were given great power, where would you start? We start here, with our own hearts. With our own eyes.
Where will it take us? We may be surprised, but the love of God has the redemption of the world in view.
St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, The Feast of All Saints, November 4, 2007
If you were given great power, where would you start? What would you do?
There was a movie a few years ago entitled Karate Kid. About a kid in high school who moved reluctantly with his mother away from his childhood home to another city, moving into a small and ratty apartment while his mother saved for a better place, entering a school awkwardly at mid-term, with no friends to greet him. He didn’t like any of it. And for the fun of it, bullies picked on the new kid.
Pretty miserable, until one day he met an old Japanese man who chased away some bullies who had surrounded him. “You could use some help,” he says.
No one else was showing any interest, and to his surprise, the old Japanese man knew Karate. “I’ll teach you,” he said. “Come and see.”
So he did. The boy practically bounced to the old man’s home, thrilled at the prospect of lessons in karate. “I’m ready to learn."
“Good,” said the old man. “First lesson.
And picking up a block of wood with sandpaper fastened, the old man moved his hand and arm back and forth precisely, first with one hand, then the next. The boy was asked to imitate.
“No problem,” said the boy, and did just as the old man had done.
“Good,” said the old man. “Follow me.”
And opening the door to a brand outdoor deck, he pointed and said, “Sand the whole thing, just like I showed you.”
The boy raised his eyebrow and looked at the old man suspiciously. Bending down he began sanding furiously.
“No, no, no,” said the old man. “Like I showed you.” And so, imitating the same precise motion, the boy spent his free time for the next week, sanding the old man’s deck.
On Saturday, as he finished up, the old man watched the boy and the motion of his hands and arms. “Good,” he said. “Come back Monday.”
The boy came back Monday, glad to be done with the sanding, eager for his first lesson in Karate. The old man picked up a paint brush. “Watch,” he said. And then, very deliberately, very carefully, first with one hand, then the other, the old man stroked the brush up and down. The boy repeated the motion.
“Good,” said the old man. “Follow me.”
And he opened the door to a beautiful new fence that surrounded his large and spacious backyard. “Paint!” said the old man.
“Oh, now, wait a minute,” said the boy. “Paint!” said the old man, firmly.
Frustrated, the boy began painting, flicking the brush up and down, back and forth.
“No, no, no,” said the old man. “Like I showed you.” And again, the old man repeated the same, careful stroke of the brush and flick of the wrist that he had shown him before. “Like that, and no change.”
So the boy spent the next week painting the fence. On Saturday, as he finished up, the old man watched the boy and the motion of his hands. “Good,” he said. “Come back Monday.”
The boy came back, glad the sanding was done, and the painting, and eager for his first lesson in Karate. The old man picked up a large, soft cloth bundle. “Watch,” he said. And then, the old man demonstrated a deliberate, circular motion, first with one hand, then the next. The boy copied.
“Good,” said the old man. “Follow me.”
The old man took the boy outside to the door of a large shed. Opening the doors, the boy’s mouth fell open and he stared in at a row of beautiful vintage sports cars.
The old man handed the boy the cloth and a large tin. “Wax,” he said.
The boy rolled his eyes, and began pushing the cloth over the hood of the car. “No, no, no,” said the old man. “Like this.” And again, the old man repeated the same, deliberate circular motion. “Like that, and no change.”
So, just like he’d been shown, the boy spent his free time for the next week waxing the old man’s collection of vintage sports cars.
But by Saturday, he was furious. Three weeks wasted doing the old man’s chores. And as he came to inspect, he threw the waxing cloth down on the ground and glared at the old man.
The old man glared back and grabbed his wrist.
“I attack you with a punch from the front - you raise your hand like this,” and instinctively, the boy raised his arm and wrist, just as he done, countless times while painting the fence, and with surprising ease, turned back the punch.
“I come from the side - and you move your arm like this,” he said, and again, the boy fell into the motion effortlessly, repeating what he’d done hundreds of times while sanding the deck.
“And I try to strike with both hands, and you turn me away by doing this,” and as the boy circled his hands, as he’d done waxing the cars, he realized what the old man had taught him, he realized the power in these simple actions and his newly disciplined arms, and a smile of satisfaction covered his face.
“Good,” said the old man. “This is where we begin. And now I will show you more.”
There are two words in our lesson from Ephesians that I’d have you notice: ‘power’ and ‘enlightenment’.
The power of God is a constant theme throughout the Scriptures. But it is power for a purpose.
It is the power God displayed, when he chose Abraham and Sarah, an old and childless couple, and demonstrated his power to give life, and with it, a promise of an eternal line who would bring God’s grace to the world.
It is the power God displayed when he looked down on a beleagured band of slaves, bending back the sea in order to free his people for their mission in the world.
It is the power of God, as St. Paul specifies, to open a grave and empty it, in order that the immeasurable love of God might extend from the furthest depths to the greatest heights.
It’s the power which God has let loose in Jesus Christ. And it is that same power that St. Paul says is let loose in the lives of God’s people.
But where do you start with power like that? It’s an intriguing question. And I like how Bishop Tom Wright answers it.
With power like that, we start with ourselves. We start by dealing with our secret sins and in improving our habits of prayers.
What?
Read through Ephesians. See the great purposes for which the Son of God gave his life. Marvel at the hope being offered for every person, regardless of race, wealth or standing. And then look where it begins.
Scrub up, clean up, and shine up. No more lies. No more filthy thoughts. No more favourite vices tucked away in the corner. You’ve been given Jesus Christ. You wrap his life over your life.
And then, he says, ‘Dear God, I hope you can see it.’
This is the purpose of prayer. ‘May your eyes be enlightened,’ are Paul’s words, so that by prayer you can see the hope, the riches and the power that God is presenting you for his purposes in the world.
Have you ever thought, that these are two prayer to which we know, with 100% certainty, what the answer is? All those unanswered prayers, but to these two we know the answers. To the Christian coming to the Lord, asking that God might offer his power so that our hearts might be more like Christ, asking through prayer that our eyes might see more of what Christ saw, the answer, with 100% certainty, is yes.
It may not be easy. Some of us are stubborn.
It may not come instantly. Some of our selfish ways are deeply ingrained. We may need the help of a Christian counsellor or friend.
Things may not be clear to us all at once. We’re used to looking out for ourselves. It takes a while to see others the way Jesus does.
But we know the answer. And we have been offered the means: the power of God to give life, to turn back the floods, to roll back the stone, to conquer death itself. And for those who will ask, this power is offered to us.
And then, as this prayer is made and is being answered, there may be more. It’s always a little more complicated when we pray for others. Their freedom is involved. But with dirt cleaned up, muscles developed, and eyes sharpened, who knows what God might do with a life that’s been offered to him.
Yesterday in the National Post, as, in their own way, they mark the Feast of All Saints, was a feature on Jean Vanier, a Canadian who has founded a world-wide community of homes for those who’ve come into the world with great physical and mental injury. He has a new book and it summarizes his work the message of his life: the love that God offers in Jesus Christ, discovered first and foremost, right under our eyes, among those who are weakest. He sums it up in a sentence: To be human is to share with those who are weak.
One little thing they mentioned, which has always charmed me. He’s been spending the last week in school assemblies, sometimes in front of one and two thousand young people at a time. He doesn’t try to be clever. He doesn’t quote the lyrics of pop songs he’s never heard. He simply tells them of the love of God that begins with the obvious, and then reaches further.
The rooms are packed and the young people listen quietly and respectfully. He’s filled L’Arche homes around the world with bright young people who want more in life than new shoes and shiny cars and their search summons them to serve the weakest ones on earth. Their search brings them to the place where the power of God’s love begins.
If you were given great power, where would you start? We start here, with our own hearts. With our own eyes.
Where will it take us? We may be surprised, but the love of God has the redemption of the world in view.
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