Advent 2 - Word of God, Come to Us

I was sitting on a city bus in downtown Saskatoon when I first met John the Baptizer.  I’m serious.  And, if you’ve gone to downtown Edmonton, maybe spent some time at a shelter, I’d imagine that you’ve met him, too.

I was riding downtown to go to St. Paul’s hospital on the West side, when a man came on the bus and sat down next to me.  He was wearing several years of coats, and more than a few days had passed since he last had a bath; his smell preceded him by a substantial amount.  He sat down, and proceeded to preach to those around him about…something.  I’m unclear what, exactly, was his point.  But Jesus was in there, and Satan, and George W. Bush, and the Middle East…if everyone had walked into a bar at the punchline, it would have been a good joke. 

But as I was sitting beside him he’d turn occasionally to look at me, and I’d look at him; and as it happened it was indeed close to this time of year.  Close enough to Advent that as I looked at this man I realized that I was likely looking at John the Baptizer.  Not that I believed this man to be the reincarnation of John (a Buddhist belief that would be a neat trick for a Hebrew to manage), but I realized that those people on the bus with me beheld a vision from two thousand years before: a man driven ragged by a vision before his eyes, without care of his appearance, only a burning desire to share his message of repentance and deliverance with all those who could hear.

If I’d have been anywhere but Saskatoon in the middle of winter I may have stayed longer to catch more of his message; maybe I could’ve gleaned out some of his personal story, found a hint of what propelled him to share such a message with strangers in such a strange land.  But I bundled my coat around me and stepped out into the dark morning.  For the rest of the day I thought about what I’d heard that morning; thought about deliverance and repentance, and what I would do if I ever felt a compunction to preach so fiercely that it swallowed my entire life.

That is what happened to the cousin of Jesus, beloved: the word of God came to John…in the wilderness…[and] he went out into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.  John became the last vessel for the word of God; in the old prophetic formula that Israel knew so well: “the Word of God came to [name] and said [subject]”.  John proclaimed that which Isaiah had seen: a straight path in the wilderness, no detours, no valleys, no mountains; nowhere to hide and nowhere to run, so that all of creation would see the salvation of God. 

And his family, friends, and people around him looked at him the way the people on the city bus in Saskatoon looked at the man in our midst: confused, weirded-out, but still almost compelled to listen (granted, on a city bus, in Saskatoon, in winter, there really is no place to go).  But John proclaimed deliverance, he talked – shouted – yelled about a covenant in which the people would delight: a promise of hope, of peace, of joy, of love that would level mountains and fill valleys. 

That kind of covenant – of promise – has been the believer’s hope for ages.  That God would come down and be with us; that we would see God and know God, and know that God is truly with us.  But God does more that fulfill that hope: God’s terms are generous, but dangerous; because we have invited God to be with us, God brings his presence to us and, like the prophets of old, we find that God’s purity can cause pain, and his holiness can cause hurt.  As the prophet Malachi said, he is like a refiner’s fire and like fuller’s soap, and he will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver.  We don’t make ourselves holy or pleasing to God (we can’t,) beloved; it turns out that God makes us holy, and pleasing – but that may not always be a gift that we want, or desire.

I was flipping through TV channels a little while ago when something caught my attention.  A religious program.  A well-dressed young man, energetic, enthusiastic, was preaching like he believed in what he was saying.  So, I did something that I hadn’t not done before: I listened for a bit.  We don’t make ourselves holy, he said, and we don’t work to be better for God.  Well, that was a bit enheartening, beloved.  It was like coming up on a whole mess of flashing lights on the highway, getting that sinking feeling that says “oh no, not an accident,” and realizing the whole thing is a training operation.  A bit of relief, a bit of “oh, well, that’s not bad, then.”

I should have changed the channel.  What followed was when we ask Jesus into our hearts, we’re telling Jesus what we want.  We’re telling Jesus that we want his blessing, and when we command those blessings, they’ll come.  The heart of the preacher’s argument was that Jesus won’t come into your heart unless you have a strong enough character to command him to do what you want.

I nearly put an axe through the TV.  Because beloved, that way isn’t going to bring you peace.  It’s going to cause you to do a lot of hurt to people around you.  

What God is going to do, Malachi says, is going to feel a lot like being melted down, shaped, and reformed, into a purer product.  Salvation comes not when you are finished, but when the Master takes you into his hands; you are formed not because you are lacking and God hates what is not perfect in you; but rather that God loves you too much to let you remain the same.  Salvation, it turns out, isn’t fire insurance or a doctrine to learn in confirmation class, but a relational experience with God and others through faith in Christ.  We become rooted, and grow in Christ.

John’s baptism was a baptism of repentance, turning from self-centred living to a life of self-giving.  If you live your life centred on yourself, on your own this-or-other-worldly success, you will only turn yourself into a hollow excuse of a human being.  When you learn self-giving, when your self is given to God, you let the voice of the Lord speak into your depths to renew and restore your souls.

In the old prophetic witness, the word of God came to those individuals who were called and made to proclaim the coming kingdom of God.  The word of God was how God worked in the world: speaking over the waters, calling out to Noah, and Moses to lead his people.  The word moved over the prophets of old and they proclaimed God’s promise: that into darkness, God would pour out light, and life, and peace.

The word advent means ‘coming,’ and throughout this season we prepare for the Word of God to come to.  That same word through which God created the world, spoke through the prophets, and promised salvation, took frail human flesh and lived with us.  The Word of God has come to you, beloved of God: you don’t need a prophet to tell you what to do.  You have a Saviour, that God promised you before the foundation of the world.

God made good on that promise.  The word became flesh, and dwelt amongst us.  But there was a catch: the peace that Jesus brought was not the absence of suffering or hardship, but purely the presence of God’s love and forgiveness.  In Christ, God’s love meets you when and where you least expect it; in your valleys low, or on your own high mountaintops – God’s Word came to and filled those valleys, levelled those mountains, made those rough places a plain, so that wherever we are, Christ may find us.  Beloved, God’s word comes to you; you may be in the wilderness, or right at home.  You may be in church, or you may be in despair: but the word still comes.

Through advent, you are called to listen to the prophet speaking in the wilderness; to listen to God’s promise of salvation and deliverance; to live in ways that bring about justice and peace.  For many people, this time of year is hard, as you remember those you’ve loved and lost.  But God is with you; holds you, moulds you, loves you.  Your darkness is shared by those around you.  Take heart, and look for the light beloved, because the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Let the people of God say amen.  

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Happy Advent!

First Sunday of Advent - Lessons from the Fig Tree

For someone who hung out with fishermen, have you ever noticed that Jesus spends a lot of time talking about plants?  Think about it: fig trees, trees, mustard seeds, whatever seed the sower is sowing, trees of life, growing trees, withering trees, leafy trees…there’s far fewer fishing metaphors, when you get right down to it.

There’s a point, though.  He’s talking to a large number of people in  metaphor, and not a lot of people know what fishing is about.  Everyone, though, has seen a tree.  Except maybe if they lived in certain parts of Saskatchewan.  You can mark the changing of the seasons by watching trees, Jesus says, and he’s right – when trees get leaves, you know that seasons are changing.  Or, you live in southern Alberta in Chinook country.  But today, Jesus says that like trees gaining leaves, it is possible to look at the world around us and see signs of his return.

That’s a bit of a tall order, I think.  I’m not going to preach on the end of the world, partly because I’m deeply suspicious when anyone tells me that they know when it will be.  Even Jesus’ criteria are a big vague: signs in the moon, and the stars, and on the earth…confusion by roaring of the sea and waves….the powers of heaven shaken.

A few generations before Jesus was born the volcanic island of Thera in the Mediterranean sea had blown up in a massive eruption that gave origin to the legends of Atlantis and affected weather patterns all over the globe.  People probably still talked about it, because the earth has been a restless place for a long time.  Yet Jesus says that when those things happen, you may now know “that the kingdom of God is near.”

The kingdom of God is near.  Stir up your power, Lord Christ, and come.  This is Advent; and beloved, I do wish that the kingdom of God would be near.  I wish that the kingdom of God would be visible and tangible and touchable and be a reminder that at least somewhere in the world there is grace, and peace.  In Advent we wait, we prepare for the coming of Jesus, both as a baby at Christmastime, and as the King who comes in glory. 

Remember, though: Advent is the beginning of our year, and from this season flows everything else we do; our preparations – spiritually and personally – during this time shape our selves and our community.  Like trees growing, these things take time.  We are asked to be patient, and wait, while God brings about these things.

So, if we are to watch for trees, beloved, then this is the time.  Now is the time to look for leaves sprouting, to see how the future is shaping up.  But it’s also time to turn and look at something else; because the health of a tree – whether or not it gives leaves – depends on its roots.

I like the example of the fig tree that Jesus uses, partly because a) fig trees are useful and produce tasty fruit; but also b) fig trees can grow massive roots.  Take this picture of a fig tree at Ankor Wat in Cambodia: the roots are huge.  To look at the fig tree is to understand how deep and big its roots really are – and a tree won’t grow if its roots are compromised.

 

At Advent, as our attention is called to the fig tree, it is a reminder that we are also called to take root, and grow.  It is a reminder that a we bear fruit as faithful Christians that those around us will see the kingdom of God come near.  It is a reminder that we know there are signs that we can look for to know that God is near.

I have several good friends who are first responders: firefighters, police, and medical technicians; they are trained to run toward the first sign of trouble.  And so, Jesus says today, are we: when you see these things, stand up and raise your heads, for your redemption is drawing near.  When others are faint with fear, we are called to lift up our heads and look for God’s presence.

We have the double blessing today of both beginning the season of Advent and officially welcoming new members into our community.  As I’ve said, you can join the community at any time of year; and membership isn’t a necessity for involvement, either.  But this is a day to celebrate these families who have taken the step of affirming their faith with us and becoming part of our family.

Becoming part of this family comes with some challenges, though, and I’ve sat down with all of you and we’ve talked about them: there’s the challenge of living with a great diversity of people; the challenge of growing in faith, love, and obedience to the will of God in this place; the challenge of leadership both in this family and in the community around us.  The sheer challenge of getting involved and getting along in a diverse group of people.  You can meet those challenges because your roots are strong enough, beloved of God; find your roots here, and bloom with us.

Jesus counsels you, beloved, to not to get caught up in wine, or worry; you don’t need to sedate yourselves with pharmaceuticals or phylacteries or Angry Birds; worry focuses your attention on the bad, so that when you could be seeing the kingdom of God, instead you turn your back.   

I see the kingdom of God in you, beloved; I pray that you see it among yourselves.

I said that I have one wish for Advent: to see the kingdom of God come near.  And beloved, I find that wish fulfilled here, with you.  I see Christians of different backgrounds and traditions coming together as family.  I see new believers walking with old; I see children welcomed into this family because they belong here and they offer life.  But most of all, beloved of God, I see your roots.

Your roots are showing.  Your roots of compassion, caring, community, and family bring forth fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control.  Your roots are showing; your fruit is the kingdom of God come near.  The Lord is your righteousness, and you proclaim God’s glory.

In this season of Advent may you see the kingdom of God come near: may you see Christ as the light of the world; may you see each other as family; may you bless each other as you are each a blessing to our community.  May Christ be the light that you bear to the world in its time of need; may people see by your leaves and roots that the kingdom of God has come near; that the kingdom of God is within them, and among them; that heaven and earth will pass away, that the grass withers and the flower fades; but that the word of our God abides forever.

And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Amen.

Christ the King - That Kind of King

This past week was Thanksgiving for our neighbours to the south, and it was tremendous.  Oh, the sales!  Oh, the sheer amount of STUFF you could buy, it was glorious!  And, the best part: we now have those sales here in Canada!  Come on, now, who took advantage of all those great deals?

‘Taking advantage’ of a great deal is a really good use of language.  Because you literally ‘take advantage’ of the person living in a third-world country who made the stuff that you bought – partly, it’s the benefit of living in Canada – that we can pay incredibly low prices for stuff that is made a a few thousand miles away, transported here, and eventually sold here.  Nobody’s making a fair wage in this system.  But, if you are lucky enough to live in the first world it is part of the system we operate in, and you can’t get out of it. 

Every so often, I’ll pick up a book about someone who’s voluntarily left North American society – usually to go to Thailand, or India, or somewhere that the climate is warmer and the western dollar goes a little further. They’re disconnected from a western address, but not from western society – they still communicate through telephone, email, cell phones, iPad, whatever.  There’s often a self-congratulatory tone to the book that centres around the author’s satisfaction with finding ‘spiritual awareness’ or ‘spiritual renewal’ in their avoidance of western culture. 

That drives me up a wall.  I’m too much of a Lutheran, too ready to confess I am captive to sin and cannot free myself, to buy into the idea that I can remove my awareness of my culpability, and participation in, systems that cause harm to other people.  I’m willing to admit that that’s likely the result of my education, forced awareness of these systems.  But I think it also is an awareness of the world; that a lot of the trappings of my life that I consider as necessary are, in fact, privilege.

Beloved of God, here’s an admission: the world we live in doesn’t work.  It needs a Saviour, it needs a Messiah, it needs a king; but I don’t know if we’ll ever agree on what kind of king it needs.  A king like David, say.  The reading from 2 Samuel today is the ‘last words’ of David – one of about 10 instances of last words from David in scripture.  Why are there so many?  Because David became the image of the perfect king.  If you know the history of David, even just a little bit, you’ll notice that’s pretty ironic – because David is not a nice man.  Murder, adultery, complicity in rape, and a few other things mar his record.  But David remains the king that looms large in Israel’s imagination.

If you’ll remember, though, God was not in favour of the Israelites having a king.  Earlier in 1 Samuel the Israelites go to Samuel and say “tell God we want a king”.  Samuel does, and God replies, ‘tell them they don’t, because a king is going to oppress them, tax them, drive them to war, rule them by force, and make their lives miserable.”  Samuel tells the Israelites just that; they reply “yada, yada, yada, we know; just give us a king, already”.  And along comes Saul, and then David, and then Solomon, and then a long line of others, down to a single point.

It comes down to an arena in Jerusalem: Jesus and Pilate stand, facing each other.  Jesus, the descendant of David, whom the crowd has called “King of the Jews”, and Pilate, the representative of the Roman empire.  The irony is that Rome is the empire that the Israelites asked for: mighty, controlling everything around it, complete with all the warnings and detractions that God warned them about.  They are mighty, over all; they rule most of the known world.  Jesus is their great hope: that he would be Rome, but tolerable; that he would bring oppression and fear to other lands, where before it was Israel that had lived in oppression, and fear.

But it’s gone, now.  And has been for over a millennia and a half. 

Two kinds of king stand, face to face.  One rules in might, with legions, and armies, the strength of economy.  One rules in love, with community, with boundaries, but with kindness.  But the people have already made their choice, and if you read on in the story you find that choice – we have no king but Caesar.  We admit to no king, but the one that can deliver us what we want, when we want it; we want a king who looks like a king, who acts like a king; who is going to let chosen people act with impunity and invulnerability. 

Two kinds of king stand, face to face.  One knows that he has the power of death over the other; but only One knows the power of life; the power of truth.  Jesus stands seemingly under Pilate’s judgement, and that of the people; but he stands as the king of all and all that is to come.

You say that I am a king…for this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth…everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.

The truth is, that Jesus is the kind of king of who doesn’t do ‘kingly’ things; he heals the sick, loves the widow, the orphan, the adulteress, and the outcast.  Jesus is the kind of king who welcomes sinners, and eats with them.

We confess that we are captive to sin, and cannot free ourselves.  To be free we need a Saviour – a king who rules in love, not wrath; because life only thrives in love.

The crowds rejects that kind of king, because they want a king who claims power, and control; not glory, or dominion, from the Greek word referring to ultimate authority.

But give praise to God, beloved, that the kind of king you have is the kind of king who welcomes sinners, and extends to them an invitation to his table. 

Give praise to God, beloved, that the kind of king you have is the kind of king who stands before the kind of king you think you need and refuses to acknowledge that temporal authority can ever touch the eternal.

Give praise to God, beloved, that the kind of king you have is eternal; is the Alpha, the Omega, the beginning, and the end; and that all will see him when he comes in glory.

Give praise to God, beloved, that all will see him not because he comes with armies to conquer, but because they have seen him in you.  That because of your baptism into death, that kind of king has become part of who you are; that kind of king has brought you to be a part of something greater than yourself, greater than you can ever imagine.

Give praise to God, beloved, that that kind of King loves you, died for you, and lives for you; give praise to God, and live for that kind of king.

Amen.

November 18 - Pentecost 25

So last week, I mentioned that the end of the world is coming around – now, it’s December 21.  That kind of sucks – you’ve spent all your money on Christmas, but haven’t had the chance to enjoy your gifts.

There’s a story that my Seminary president used to tell about the Metropolitan Archbishop of New York, whose office was in a tall building. One day, a homeless man wandered into the reception area and asked to speak to the Archbishop.  When the administrator asked the man who he was, the man replied, “I’m Jesus Christ”.  In fact, the man was quite insistent that he was, in fact, Jesus.  So, the administrator buzzed up to the Archbishop’s office.  When the Archbishop answered, the admin said, “there’s a man here who wants to see you”.  “Who is it?” the Archbishop asked.  “He says he’s Jesus,” replied the admin, a little sheepishly.

Without missing a beat, the Archbishop replied, “quick – look busy!”

The moral of the story is, I advise you all to attend the midweek Advent services this year.  You never know – it might help…

A few people have asked me how the date of the end of the world is determined.  The answer is: I don’t know.  Usually, as in the case of Harold Camping and others like him, people claim access or understanding of knowledge ‘hidden’ in the bible, in certain passages of scripture, or prophecies that they’ve been able to understand.  In other cases – like this December 21 thing – it comes from the end of the Mayan calendar.  The Mayans, as you may know, where a civilization in the Yucatan whose culture collapsed because of climate change before their religious types could figure out if they were right about the end of the world.

Speaking of which, the end of our year is next Sunday – Christ the King.  Are we speaking of the end of the world?  No.  Well, today, we actually are.  Which, is not really one of my favourite topics; I tend to think that many Christians focus so much on the end of the world so they don’t have to currently live in this one.   That’s a ‘Lutheran’ thing – theologically, we trust that God can handle this whole ‘end of time’ stuff, and that when it’s necessary, he’ll let us know.  As Lutherans, we trust that Christ has accomplished the work of our salvation, so until his return our task is life, together.  We’re ‘expectant’ Christians: we expect Jesus to return; we trust it’s going to happen, and we wait.  We don’t keep watching the skies; we don’t keep charts, graphs, or diagrams.

So, it turns out, that in today’s gospel Jesus is talking about the end of the world, and he’s actually kind of creeping the disciples out. They walk through the forecourt of the Temple, and the disciples are totally amazed at the size of the architecture.  “What large stones, and what large buildings!” and Jesus looks at them, as proclaims that it will all be brought down.

Imagine that.  Imagine me taking the congregation to the middle of downtown Edmonton, and proclaiming, “not a single one of these building will be left standing!”  You’d think I was a raving nutter.  Turns out, the disciples want to hear a little more from Jesus.  Later, four of them approach him, and ask what the signs will be that will bring about the destruction of the Temple.  And you have his answer: many false prophets, wars and rumours of wars, nation rises against nation, kingdom against kingdom, earthquakes, and famines.  I can see you thinking.  You’re thinking about all the news recently, about all these things.

Beloved, so were the disciples.  They didn’t have the media access that we do nowadays, but they still had ears.  And Jesus is speaking directly to their minds.  They’re thinking, but teacher, those things are happening NOW!  It’s truly terrifying, because Jesus knows what he’s talking about.  He’s not a random voice on a radio program.  This is the man who heals the sick, and raises the dead.  But then, Jesus adds one last thing: “this is but the beginning of the birth pangs”

I might point out: Jesus is not speaking to a group of well-enlightened, medically literate, educated men.  He’s talking to a group of superstitious peasants, who, by and large, believe that the simple fact that women menstruate means they’re being punished for something.  Birth, for them, is not a happy occasion: it’s weird, loud, and women obviously make too much fuss about it.  So, I’m pretty sure that when Jesus began talking about ‘birth pangs,’ the panic level of the disciples went up, not down – because it means that they might have to experience this awkward and scary event, too.

But you know, for a culture that is full of societal taboos and superstitions regarding childbirth and children, it turns out that God works a lot through those two events – look at the story of Hannah in 1 Samuel.  Hannah is the second wife of Elkanah, who is a good and faithful person; but she is barren (as Scripture describes it, the Lord had closed her womb, which is not a torment, but usually a foreshadowing that something bigger is intended for the person).  Hannah promises that if she can conceive and bear a child, then that child would become a Nazirite; one dedicated to the Temple from the day of his birth. Basically, if she has a child, she will give him to God’s service.  She goes to the Temple and prays, and the prophet Eli is impressed by her commitment, and bids her to go in peace.

The writer of 1 Samuel records that “…in due time, Hannah conceived, and bore a son”  - God’s faithfulness to her.  Taken as a single story, this little narrative becomes pretty standard Sunday-school fare: you want something, pray, be good, and God will give it to you.  But that’s not what this story is about, all in all – it’s the beginning of a narrative that stretches from this baby Samuel – who became a great prophet, who anointed the first king of Israel, who proclaimed the salvation of a great nation by the branch of Jesse’s tree – all the way to Jesus, sitting on the Mount of Olives, talking about beginnings.

Way back when the Lutheran theological tradition began to be formed, it came out of a time of great societal and cultural upheaval.  Martin Luther was not the only reformer; nor strictly speaking, was he the first.  Others rose up who proclaimed the end of the world; in the 16^th century doomsday cults drew as many followers as they do now.  People waited with breathless anticipation to watch the world burn and the undeserving be thrown to eternal punishment.  What Luther did provide was a sober second thought: yes, Christ would return.  Yes, the world would end.  But we are still called to form the church in the world.

It can be tempting to withdraw when we think things aren’t going well – many people do; in fact, there are people who are selling their houses, stockpiling food and weapons, for what they are certain will be the end of civilization, if not the end of the entire world. 

Yet that’s not what we are called to do.  As the writer of Hebrews said, let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful…and let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds…encouraging one another, as all the more you see the Day approaching.

Many of you have been there: you’ve been the expectant parents, grandparents, aunts, or uncles.  You’ve been anxious and excited at the same time.  Terrified, and topful of joy at the promise of new life before you. 

You’re expectant Lutherans, too.  Yes, the world looks like it darkens around us.  Yes, we hear reports from all around us that chaos is everywhere and the world is groaning like it is in labour.  Yet, look around our own community: here, you see signs of God’s faithful promise.  Here, you meet together to encourage and support, love and work, together because you hope that God is bringing forth something greater than us all.

The world is turning; it is turning into the creation that God made it to be; it is turning into the world that Christ redeemed as his own; it is turning into the great and holy place that God’s Spirit brings to birth – just as God is turning you to be his own people in this place; his own children.  God has waited for you, beloved of God: and you wait to see that your hope in God will be fulfilled, in turn.

Amen.

November 11 - Pentecost 24

Text: Mark 12:38-44

So, in case you hadn’t noticed, here’s something to note: apparently, the world is going to end.  This is not a repeat from last October.  Or, last May.  Or, from any other time when people have said that the world is ending.  Nope.  This time, it’s for real.  December 21, 2012.

In the disaster movie 2012, the opening scene is of New York city, flooded after bearing the brunt of a hurricane.  There are terrible winter storms.  Earthquakes rock the west coast.  There are Democrats in the White House.  Obviously, these are all signs.  Personally, I advise all of you to take all your money, give it to the church, and anticipate a welcome reception at the pearly gates.  This concludes today’s message.

What?  I think that’s a pretty simple way of looking at the gospel lesson for today: the widow gives her two coins – all, Jesus says, that she has to live on.  And he likes that.  What he doesn’t like is the scribes, or the rich people, the comfortably middle-class making between $200-$250k, and just give a little bit off the top. 

But something doesn’t sit right with me about that.  In fact, there’s something about that particular way of teaching that irritates me.  I think that I find it irritating because there have been times in my life when I’ve made a choice between giving to the church and buying milk for my children – and let me tell you, the children win out.  There’s no way of glossing over this: you can’t ‘but if you give more, you’ll be blessed more’ your way out of this.  There are two ways of interpreting what Jesus says about giving:

1)  that you should give sacrificially, even to the point of abandoning all that you have to live on, to support the structure of the church; or

2) that perhaps the widow is an illustration of Jesus’ words – not an example of the godly life that is characterized by giving the church lots of money.

I’m not intending to directly challenge a good two millennia of teaching on this passage.  I’m not; there’s an important dimension to good spiritual discipline that is tied to giving of financial resources; perhaps especially when those resources are abundant.  But I do think that it’s time to liberate this poor widow from the shadow of money, and let her bask in the light.

Jesus is talking to the disciples.  Now, if you have disciples, you’re pretty important.  If you hang around people that you admire; chances are, you’ll come to copy.  Consider Republican presidential candidate Rick Santorum and his sweater-vest army; Justin Beiber is surrounded by fresh-faced young people who buy his brands; and even Prime Minister Stephen Harper is surrounded by young and vibrant staffers who start wearing bad suits, fluffy sweaters, and not making a lot of sense.

Those disciples are maybe getting a bit tired of following Jesus.  He’s poor.  He’s dirty.  He stays in others people’s houses and eats with tax collectors and sinners.  They’re looking around at the other successful religious types in their neighbourhoods; the private plane, mansion on the hill, scores of admirers; snappy dressers, the lot of them.  That’s looking a little more like the sweet life; why toil for little or no pay, get a lot of people mad at you, and get threatened; when you can be the go-to person for all of life’s little conundrums?  You can pack stadiums, rather than packing groceries.

Jesus sees them looking, and adds a warning: you don’t want to be like those people.  Sure, they dress nicely.  Yes, they’re well-respected in the community, and are invited to the best parties.  But: they devour widows’ houses and the for the sake of appearances say long prayers.  They will receive the greater condemnation.

Here’s the problem: the scribes aren’t scribes because they’re good people.  They’re not successful because they’re good preachers, theologians, or pastors.  They’re successful because they use the religious law to help them get ahead.  People didn’t give to the temple out of their generosity: they were taxed, and the scribes and Pharisees were in charge of administering the tax.

So if, say, your husband died, you were left a lonely widow on your own.  Their interpretation of Scripture then held that you were inferior; and for your own good your property should naturally go to someone else; say, a trusted religious authority.  In the face of people looking and saying, gee, I don’t think that’s right, they could stand in their piety and offer up prayers as a testimony of their own devotion to the law – so nobody questions such a good believer.

Does that sound familiar?

So I wonder, is the house that the scribes devoured the one that offered shelter for the widow?  Is she at the treasury to offer her last two coins because she’s compelled too?  I don’t see the widow in this story as an example; I see her as a tragic figure, and I think Jesus does, too.  In Mark’s gospel, the next thing Jesus teaches is that the entire Temple – where that widow is leaving her coins – is going to be torn stone from stone.  All that money that everyone’s contributed to keep the Temple going will have been for nothing.

So, what is it that the widow is giving that Jesus sees as good?  The Greek text literally reads, but out of the poverty of her all, as much as she had, cast all the living of her.

Jesus isn’t talking about her money, beloved.  He sees her greatest contribution as her life; that as one oppressed and abused, that woman was still keeping the faith.  It is one thing to be the scribe, wealthy and powerful as long as the temple was there to be the symbol of religion for the people; but that widow’s faith was in God and not in the institution.

It seems, beloved, that around us all sorts of institutions are crumbling.  Indeed, there are earthquakes on the west coast.  That’s going to happen when you have a dense population on a fault like.  Yes, New York city is flooding and being batter by hurricanes.  That’s what happens when you build a substantial portion of a city on an island in the middle of a river on a coastline known for hurricanes.  And yes, the United States did just re-elect Barak Obama as president.  All sorts of old institutions are crumbling: old ways of doing things; the face of the world is changing..  But Jesus’ warning to the scribes is more pertinent now, than ever: those who cherish only the past will not be entrusted with the future (David Frum). 

Today is Remembrance Day; a time to remember the sacrifices made by members of the armed forces’ who fought to preserve some institutions, but also to destroy others.  As the world rushed towards war in their day, preachers proclaimed the end of the world as confidently as they do now.  And I wonder: what lessons have we learned from those who ‘cast all their living’…perhaps the most profound lesson learned is truly to beware those who use religion for power and influence.  In the First World War, armies on both sides marched to triumphant battle hymns that promised the continuation of their faith; by the time of the second the lines were just as clearly drawn and again, both sides marched to the assurances of divine favour and victory.

The reality was a bitter, bitter, pill to swallow.  But in the decades since then, conflicts have only gotten murkier; lines are not so clearly drawn.  Almost a decade in Afghanistan and young women still aren’t learning to read; warlords and corrupt bureaucrats are still the reality.  But into those spaces and places go those who are prepared to give all that they have to live on – not out of assurance of divine favour but out of conviction that the sacrifice would be worth it; that their own two coins given would be more meaningful than a lifetime lived standing on the sidelines and giving what they wouldn’t miss.

I don’t believe that Jesus looked at the religious world of his time and said that people who gave their lives to the system were more worthy that those who knew how to work it; I think that what Christ longed for and desired to see was one faithful person to actually trust God to fulfill the promises God has made, even in the face of oppression and evil.

On this day, may we all find that we can prepare ourselves to cast our lives to the care of God, even as we remember those who gave their lives for something greater than themselves: the lives of others.

May we all find, one day, that we would wake up to a world in which our Lord has returned; that tears are no more, that suffering, sickness, and death are no longer; that the sea and the grave have given up their dead; and that truly, the home of God is among mortals.

May we lift our voices then in the old prayer of the church: maranatha: our Lord, come.

Amen.

All Saints Sunday

Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

So, who was it?  Who, in your life, did you have to let go?  Wife, husband, child…there’s no end to it.  If there’s any one thing that is so frustrating about this life, it’s that it sometimes seems like we can live our lives always being touched by death – if not directly, then by the fear of death; the fear of loss that can often be just as eviscerating as the actual loss itself.  But living under that fear, in the end, only makes us angry: angry at the God who could make this unbelievably unfair world.

That’s the question that I’ve been asked the most in the years since I’ve been ordained: why did this happen?  Why are we the ones who are suffering?

I hear it slightly different than usually asked.  I hear it as Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.  In the feeling of utter helplessness that comes with waiting and watching and walking along with those who suffer, God dies.  God dies, not because of God’s own actions, but because in the experience of something so much more powerful than us – the power of death – the power of God, the power of life made manifest in Christ becomes eclipsed, covered up in great darkness.  Thick, suffocating, darkness.

In that darkness, there are some glimmers of light: the friends who come with a hug and a shared tear; the anonymous ‘thinking of you’ card that comes when you think you have no more energy; the quick phone call when you’re feeling desperately alone.  Those glimmers of light remind you that you are not alone; that others have walked that road before you and walk along beside you; they remind you that you do not wait alone.

And you do wait.  You wait as did the people of Israel, who longed for rescue, longed for God to come down and bring with him a new creation that would mean they would not have to watch their nation; their people, suffer, and die.  And God made them a promise: 

          And he will destroy on this mountain

          the shroud that is cast over all peoples,

          the sheet that is spread over all nations;

               he will swallow up death forever.

          Then the Lord GOD will wipe away the tears from all faces,

          and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth,

          for the LORD has spoken.

And they wait for that promise to be fulfilled.  A promised fulfilled by a commandment at a tomb:  unbind him, and let him go.

Jesus has wept at the grave of his friend, been berated by Mary, and in the face of the condemnation of the law, Lazarus has been raised from the dead.  Old Hebrew tradition held that the soul stayed in the body for three days after death; someone who had been dead for four days was ‘truly’ dead.  Prohibitions against touching the dead abounded, and now the crowd has a dead man in their midst.

A dead man, for whom moments ago they were crying.  Maybe not just crying; wailing, because the loss of the male head of a family would usually mean destitution and poverty for the female members of the family left behind. 

Jesus comes, the dead man is alive again; and the horrified crowd looks on, making Jesus’ instructions a necessity: unbind him, and let him go.

It’s small wonder that it is the raising of Lazarus that leads the Pharisees to understand that Jesus is too real to let live; if the crowd makes him king, the Romans will destroy their people.  From one life, comes death, and the crowd must then learn: unbind him, and let him go.  Unbind Jesus from their expectations, from their hopes, and let him be the Saviour that they need.  Death will still reign unless the Son of God can defeat death.

They also must unbind Lazarus from their fear, and let him be the man whom Jesus raised.  Fear, it turns out, may be as binding as the shrouds in which the dead are wrapped.  “See how much he loved him,” the crowd marvelled as Jesus wept; and Jesus did.  While the crowd and his sisters feared for Lazarus, feared for a future without Lazarus because they loved him, but they love imperfectly.  Jesus loves perfectly, and in the words of his friend John some years later, perfect love casts out fear.  Perhaps easy, for the Son of God; but an altogether different proposition for those who live and love in this world.

When my eldest son was born, I was a very proud daddy.  In fact, I was so proud I was probably floating two feet off the ground.  He was very little, but he showed promise early.  That pride was tempered with no small bit of anxiety; we were due within a week of his birth to move to Saskatoon for me to start my Seminary degree. 

A friend of ours who was a pastor came to visit us in the hospital, and after she’d ooo’d and aww’d a bit over the baby, she looked at me and said, “it’s amazing, isn’t it?” and I allowed that it was.  I was expecting the ‘soft paws’ approach to pastoral care.  But my friend looked at me, and continued as she said “it’s amazing that we can invite something so beautiful into our lives, but also realize that we’re inviting them to death.”

That sounds like a real downer.  But my friend is a very good pastor, and what she said stuck with me because to invite someone (anyone) into our lives is to invite them to death; and to invite grief.  Yet, I still hold my friend’s challenge to me as important because of the way I grew into my calling as a husband and father: I grew into fear.  Where I had never known fear of death – despite losing both sets of my grandparents before I turned 18, I felt largely untouched by fear.

That changed.

I began to have nightmares as I had never before.  I started to panic at the thought of my wife in hospital or my children – especially that first wee baby – getting sick.  It affected my health; it affected my capability to fulfill my calling.  Eventually, I had to realize that my fear was due to my love for that little family; but that my love had its roots in control: I want to control their health – even the to the extent of being God in God’s place, to dictate when, and where, and how.  But then I hear the words of the Saviour: unbind them, and let them go.

I had invited great love into my life; but I also invited them to be part of a creation in which death is a reality.  In the midst of my own darkness of fear, I had to let the light of Jesus Christ shine through – because God is NOT dead; God unbinds us and our love from the fear of death and decay.  God lives with God’s people as they care for each other: I learned that I did not care for my family alone.

In that understanding, you can raise your own voice with the people of Israel:  Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.  This is the LORD for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.  There is nothing I can do to save my family.  But, we can be together with all God’s people, and together we can wait, worship, and praise.

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, we are tied together by Christ, and we are tied to Christ through the gift of our baptism.  When death comes for each of us, Jesus unties us from this earthly life and releases us to eternal life with him.  Like Lazarus, we are raised.  We are eternally bound and tied together in Christ, tied to the past, tied to the future.

Today is All Saints’ Sunday, remembering all those who have been gathered to everlasting life in Christ.  Today, as we gather as a community around the table of the Lord, you have the opportunity to come and light and candle for the ones you love.  A light to show that you know the darkness won’t win; a light to know that their everlasting life is real; a light to know that in the midst of your own great pain, you can unbind the ones you love, and let them go.

Let them go to Christ, who loves them, who weeps with you.  Let them go as they let you go; not to loneliness, but to the community that gathered and gathers still around you: God with you, and you, God’s people – for the home of God is with us.

And let the people of God say amen.