Liturgy of the Palms & Passion Sunday (2007): "Forging True Friendship"
Palms: Luke 19:28-40;
Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29
Passion: Isaiah 50:4-9a;
Psalm 31:9-16;
Philippians 2:5-11; Luke 23:1-49
Preached by the Rev. Preston Parsons, April 1st, 2007
This is an odd Sunday in the church year. It feels like we just gave away everything that we should have held onto until Good Friday. The tradition of reading the story of Jesus' crucifixion on the Sunday before Good Friday arose for some good reasons. It arose out of the desire for people to hear the passion when there is no Good Friday service, though it is probably kept in some places by anxious rectors who knew that a lot of people wouldn’t show up for Good Friday even if there was a service. Though I have no such anxiety. I know you will all be here, right?
Without hearing the passion, you go straight from celebrating Jesus' Triumphal entry into Jerusalem, straight to the celebration of the resurrection, without any of the nastier more difficult bits in between, like Jesus' betrayal and his death on the cross.
But I didn't choose to keep Passion Sunday because I don't expect to see you on Friday.
It's partly because the prayer book makes no allowance for anything else, but it's also that if we did substitute some other gospel lesson, the passion according to Matthew, Mark, and Luke would never be heard on Sunday mornings in church. The other passions simply don't come up again in the Sunday lectionary, so all we would ever hear is John's passion.
But in the other passions, Like Luke's, there are details , that preachers might like to take advantage of. And in Luke's passion, this preacher would like to do just this, and lift out something unique to Luke: and today that is Luke's thoughts on friendship. We'll save the crucifixion sermon for Friday. Today, I'll talk about friendship.
***
Imagine for yourself two young men going away from home to study. They're both devout Christians, but they find themselves in a whole new world, a world of drinking and carousing – perhaps a little like going to university now – except that these two young men aren't coming from a small Manitoba town in the 1950's to go to the University of Manitoba. Instead, these two young men are coming from small towns in Turkey, to go to study in Athens, and it's not the 50's, it's the middle of the 4th century. And these young men are in an ancient world where students didn't just drink a lot, by the way - they also fought in the streets with rocks and clubs for the prestige of their teachers.
These two young Christian men who went off to study together in ancient Athens would later become saint's of the church: St. Gregory the Theologian and St. Basil the Great. But for us, in our story, they are just young Christian men, living together and loving God, praying, studying the scriptures, living a common life, both trying to get a good education from a good Christian teacher. (And while they're at it, trying not to get clubbed in the head by rival students.)
They had a very close friendship, Basil and Gregory. And friendship then, in the old old world were not quite like ours. Your friendships were closer than your relationships with your wife or your husband. Gregory would even write that his friendship with Basil was made with eternal bonds, that their friendship was "a full harmony of heart and nature", and even that, though he and Basil had two different bodies, they nevertheless shared the same soul.
***
In Luke we read of two more friendships. The first one we read of is a new friendship between Herod and Pilate. Luke writes in Chapter 22, verse 12, that "that same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each other; before this they had been enemies." These two Roman governors came to a new friendship, according to Luke, through Pilate recognizing Herod's authority, and Pilate’s sending of Jesus the Galilean to Herod, because it was Herod who was governed Galilee. This new friendship between Herod and Pilate was born on the day of Herod's mockery, the day of Herod’s disappointment about not seeing Jesus perform a sign. In other words, this was a friendship born out of the recognition of temporal, earthly authority, and in the context of the inability to recognize the meaning of Jesus’ innocence and his heavenly kingship.
"That same day," the day of Jesus' trial and crucifixion, "Herod and Pilate became friends with each other; before this they had been enemies."
***
And the third friendship is the friendship between Jesus and the confessing criminal on the cross beside Jesus. This was also a friendship born out of a recognition of authority, like the friendship between Herod and Pilate; and this friendship was also born out of a sign, the sign that Herod didn’t care to see.
The confessing criminal on the cross recognizes two things: he recognizes the true sign of Jesus's power, the sign that Herod looked for but could not see, the sign of Jesus' innocence. "This man has done nothing wrong," says the confessing criminal, yet he "stands under the same sentence of condemnation." This confessing criminal Jesus' suffering lets slip the truth, that the friendship of Herod and Pilate is deeply corrupted, because it is built upon the denial of Jesus' true power, built upon their inability to care at all about the sign of Jesus' innocence.
The confessing criminal, crucified with Christ, recognizes Jesus' true authority, his heavenly authority, the authority that Herod could only mock. So the confessing criminal on the cross asks: "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." The heavenly Kingdom, the true Kingdom. And Jesus, the one who wouldn't even speak to Herod, says to the condemned and dying man on a nearby cross, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise." Jesus and the criminal make, through the confession that Jesus is innocent though suffering, and a king though in the form of a slave, through this confession the bond between the criminal and Jesus is made sure and eternal.
***
I began this reflection on friendship with those two young Christian students, Saints Gregory and Basil. I should be honest, though. The friendship between Basil and Gregory, the friendship born through their common confession, their studying the scriptures together, and their common life; the friendship with Basil that led Gregory to say that their hearts were in full harmony, their bond was eternal, and that though they were in two bodies, that they shared the same soul; the truth of the matter is that their friendship fell apart. Basil left Athens and the Christian affection, and deep deep friendship between Basil and Gregory, was in ruins. And Gregory had a very hard time forgiving Basil for this.
Years later, after both of them had become powerful bishops and theologians, Basil died. Even after years of this estrangement from his friend, Gregory gave a speech about Basil, still saying that their friendship was an eternal one, even while speaking truthfully about their friendship falling apart. Despite the very real bitterness, Gregory still said his friendship with Basil was made with an eternal bond.
Even Pilate and Herod, if they were the best of friends to their last days, hanging out at the circus and going to the theater together, the friendship between Pilate and Herod would never have been what Basil and Gregory had.
The friendship between Pilate and Herod was born out of the mockery of Christ's kingship; it was born out of a recognition of earthly power apart from this King Jesus. Their friendship, though revealed through Jesus, was born in lies and untruth.
But Gregory, despite his estrangement from Basil, could look in hope to the maker of eternal bonds, the one who will make all things well in good time. That Christian friendship was marked by an eschatological hope in the Christ that promises reunion in paradise: Gregory with Basil, Christ with the criminal, and all of us who are marked by hope in the King who rules eternally.
Even that confessing thief on the cross can turn with confidence. Even the friendships faltering now, if they be friendships forged in the eternal bond of Christ the King, the friendship will be restored in truth through the promise of paradise. Trust and believe, all things will be made well, thanks be to God.
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Fifth Sunday in Lent (2007):" The Anointing at Bethany"
Fifth Sunday in Lent (2007): "The Anointing at Bethany"
Isaiah 43:16-21; Psalm 126; Philippians 3:4b-14; John 12:1-8
Preached by Jane Barter Moulaison on March 25th, 2007
I am very blessed this morning because I get to preach on one of my favourite texts in the entirety of the Bible--the anointing of Bethany.
I was trying to think of why it one of my favourite texts, and I was struck by three things that I would like to explore in some detail this morning: these are beauty, love and politics. Now these do not always go together all that well. The closest we get in our current climate is the ill-fated love of Belinda Stronach and Peter McKay, but I am speaking of a different kind of beauty; different kind of love, and supremely, a different kind of politics.
One is the role of beauty in the Church.
This passage is about beauty—it is about earthy sensuality. Jesus has come to the home of his friends, and his friends have prepared a great meal. He has come to the house of his sister, Mary, and she washes and anoints his feet, using the most precious and extravagant oils, and dries her feet with her own hair.
It is an act of generosity. It is an act of sensuality. It is an act of deep devotion and love. And if the love seems to be of an erotic kind, then this is no accident. Even Saint Augustine in his Homily on John, a saint who is generally and wrongly remembered as being anti-sex, sees a parallel running through this story with the lovers in the Song of Songs. Augustine links the perfume that fills the entire house with that great image in the Song of the Beloved’s longing declaration: “Thy name is as ointment poured forth.” Christ, to Mary, is also the ointment, the one who offers her healing and completion.
And this is why beauty is so important to the church, although we often forget this to be true. Beauty reminds us that the things of the world are intrinsically good. That God created the world and created us for his pure delight. Not so that we could learn a lesson; not so we could make the world better. But God created us for delight, for Beauty.
Surely Mary’s act of grace and beauty is in keeping with God’s own creative action.
Yet, there is something unsettling for us when we hear Jesus’ and Judas’ exchange over Mary’s gift. The oil, we are told, costs three hundred denarii, which would have been nearly a year’s wages for a labourer in Jesus’ time.
I must admit that when I was younger I used to find Jesus’ quip, “You always have the poor with you,” a bit offensive. Is Jesus commending complacency in fighting poverty? Surely not. There are two things worth noting in this passage. One is that Jesus is speaking to Judas, who cares not a whit about the poor, who keeps the common purse and hoards away money for himself. The second is the most important part of this passage, and that is “you will not always have me.” Everything in this passage must be read in the light of Jesus saying this. As he predicts his imminent death, Jesus reminds his disciples of the special urgency of this time. There is no more time for worrying about the costs of our discipleship and devotion--Christ’s time has come. There is no need for a calculating of costs and a strategizing over effective action—Christ is about to be put to death. This now becomes the centre of our attention and focus.
And I think this passage has something to teach us today about beauty and goodness. If our efforts to do the right thing with our resources do not praise God, if they are not characterized by Beauty, then they fail to be truly Good. It is only when we place Christ, the Beloved, at the Centre that we know what goodness and beauty are. Yet, we in the modern Church, have been afraid of beauty. We have measured the value of a thing only by its utility. And so, we become nervous about art and about adornment, because they do not serve a purpose. We pride ourselves on being practical. But sometimes our practicality can be a sign that we think it our responsibility to save the world. Beauty helps to remind us that the world as God created it is good and worthy of enjoyment for its own sake. Like Mary, our task is not to shape the world to our own will, but it is to respond generously to God’s action and God’s being. Our job, as Christians, is simply to rejoice in God! And such praise, as the musicians in this congregation will surely tell us, is the greatest source of beauty that the world has known.
A second thing to note about this passage has to do with the nature of love in discipleship.
In Jesus’ time, washing of the feet took place upon entering a house. Feet were usually dusty and dirty from desert travel, and the ointment would be a balm to help soothe tired feet. It was the task of the slave to offer hospitality to guests by washing feet. The work itself was considered too intimate, too base, for free people to undertake. Read in this light, Mary’s act is one of great humility, even humiliation.
Contrast this act with the words of Judas. Whereas Judas’ words are full of suspicion and self-protection, Mary’s act is a pure gift of vulnerable love, counting not the cost, either of the bottle of perfume, or of the act that she performs. Not calculating the kind of repercussions it will have, the only thing worth noting is that Jesus was here, and that he would not be for long. We do not know to what extent Mary knows what is about to happen to Jesus as goes to Jerusalem, but she does, in this act of discipleship, display that she knows who he is in a way that the male disciples do not. And, in so this act, which is clearly an act of love is, in fact, a confession of faith, such a confession is made not just by our tongues, but also by our bodies. Like Mary, we are called to display through our bodies a discipleship that is turned entirely to Christ, a discipleship that is placed at the feet of Christ.
How different this example of love is from our contemporary notions about the love between a man and a woman. The love that Mary displays is a love that can only be understood through her confession, through the commitment of her entire being to tangible practices of caring for Christ. It is a pledge that she will not turn away even in his weakness, incapacity and death.
I want to suggest that it is precisely such pledges we make when we share table fellowship. We commit ourselves to a life bent toward Christ, but also to his Church, to his people. We pledge ourselves in the breaking of bread to a kind of care of one another that rejects the calculation of cost and benefit to ourselves. We commit ourselves in our partaking in the Body of Christ to refuse to turn away from those we love in their vulnerability or in their dying. And thus we commit ourselves to a way of being that offers the world a political life, a common life, of a radically different kind:
And so, the third is the nature of the political life that we share in the Body of Christ.
The passage refers throughout to those outside the walls of Mary’s home. Here they are, assembled in a household just outside of Jerusalem, and the crowds are moving in on Jesus. He has recently raised Mary’s brother, Lazarus, from the dead, which has incited the terror and the hostility of the religious authorities; the Chief Priests and Pharisees are conspiring against him. The religious council, the Sanhedrin, has set a warrant for Christ’s arrest, asking that his whereabouts be revealed and that he be handed over. The whole drama of the event is reaching a feverish intensity as preparations for Passover are underway. And even within the sanctuary of the home, there is Judas who has now become a representative of those on the outside—cynical, full of fear, and read to hand Jesus over.
In the midst of this political and religious terror, the disciples are hopeful for a happy ending—a victory and a vindication. It is time for Jesus to step up to the plate as Messiah and turn the religious and political authorities on their heads. Yet Mary knows different. She breaks the bottle of nard to anoint her king, as all kings were anointed, but she anoints his feet, not his head. And Jesus states, against all expectation, that she has anointed him not for battle, not for victory, but for death.
There will be no political victory here; no glorious crusade into Jerusalem. There is, in the politics of Jesus, only renunciation, defeat, poverty, and death. This politics is inaugurated by Mary as she washes Jesus’ feet, a practice that the disciples are later commissioned to do. It is a sign of their humility, their servanthood to one another, and to the peaceful practices that Jesus will train them into.
The Church today.
Understood in this light, the actions of Mary, of beauty of love, and indeed of a kind of politics, are all the more profound.
For we see in her action, for a time, in midst of the ugliness and sinfulness of violent political and religious life, a display of great beauty.
For we see in her action, in spite of the dominant economy of measuring up costs and benefits, an act of abundance.
For we see in her act, in a world that fears vulnerability and denies death, a meeting of these face-on with depth, and servanthood and joy.
For we see in her action, for a time, how the forces of the world which crowded all around Jesus were kept at bay.
And this, I would venture, is the mark of true discipleship. Not just for 2000 years ago; not just for a moment in the disciples’ life where we are at the brink of Christ’s violent death, but here and now, too, when the forces of this world are closing in on us.
Where governments convene in the endless cycle of cause and effect, cost and benefit, we are called to display an extravagant life.
And where utility is prized above all other things, we are to be a place that remembers God’s delight in creation, in joyous praise and thanksgiving.
And where death and violence are met with fear and denial. We are called to be a community of the dying, knowing the limits of our lives together, and finding within these limits the language and the action of a beautiful response of praise and thanksgiving.
As we move toward Jesusalem, may we too incline our bodies toward Christ, not turning away from his suffering, nor counting the cost of his calling us.
Isaiah 43:16-21; Psalm 126; Philippians 3:4b-14; John 12:1-8
Preached by Jane Barter Moulaison on March 25th, 2007
I am very blessed this morning because I get to preach on one of my favourite texts in the entirety of the Bible--the anointing of Bethany.
I was trying to think of why it one of my favourite texts, and I was struck by three things that I would like to explore in some detail this morning: these are beauty, love and politics. Now these do not always go together all that well. The closest we get in our current climate is the ill-fated love of Belinda Stronach and Peter McKay, but I am speaking of a different kind of beauty; different kind of love, and supremely, a different kind of politics.
One is the role of beauty in the Church.
This passage is about beauty—it is about earthy sensuality. Jesus has come to the home of his friends, and his friends have prepared a great meal. He has come to the house of his sister, Mary, and she washes and anoints his feet, using the most precious and extravagant oils, and dries her feet with her own hair.
It is an act of generosity. It is an act of sensuality. It is an act of deep devotion and love. And if the love seems to be of an erotic kind, then this is no accident. Even Saint Augustine in his Homily on John, a saint who is generally and wrongly remembered as being anti-sex, sees a parallel running through this story with the lovers in the Song of Songs. Augustine links the perfume that fills the entire house with that great image in the Song of the Beloved’s longing declaration: “Thy name is as ointment poured forth.” Christ, to Mary, is also the ointment, the one who offers her healing and completion.
And this is why beauty is so important to the church, although we often forget this to be true. Beauty reminds us that the things of the world are intrinsically good. That God created the world and created us for his pure delight. Not so that we could learn a lesson; not so we could make the world better. But God created us for delight, for Beauty.
Surely Mary’s act of grace and beauty is in keeping with God’s own creative action.
Yet, there is something unsettling for us when we hear Jesus’ and Judas’ exchange over Mary’s gift. The oil, we are told, costs three hundred denarii, which would have been nearly a year’s wages for a labourer in Jesus’ time.
I must admit that when I was younger I used to find Jesus’ quip, “You always have the poor with you,” a bit offensive. Is Jesus commending complacency in fighting poverty? Surely not. There are two things worth noting in this passage. One is that Jesus is speaking to Judas, who cares not a whit about the poor, who keeps the common purse and hoards away money for himself. The second is the most important part of this passage, and that is “you will not always have me.” Everything in this passage must be read in the light of Jesus saying this. As he predicts his imminent death, Jesus reminds his disciples of the special urgency of this time. There is no more time for worrying about the costs of our discipleship and devotion--Christ’s time has come. There is no need for a calculating of costs and a strategizing over effective action—Christ is about to be put to death. This now becomes the centre of our attention and focus.
And I think this passage has something to teach us today about beauty and goodness. If our efforts to do the right thing with our resources do not praise God, if they are not characterized by Beauty, then they fail to be truly Good. It is only when we place Christ, the Beloved, at the Centre that we know what goodness and beauty are. Yet, we in the modern Church, have been afraid of beauty. We have measured the value of a thing only by its utility. And so, we become nervous about art and about adornment, because they do not serve a purpose. We pride ourselves on being practical. But sometimes our practicality can be a sign that we think it our responsibility to save the world. Beauty helps to remind us that the world as God created it is good and worthy of enjoyment for its own sake. Like Mary, our task is not to shape the world to our own will, but it is to respond generously to God’s action and God’s being. Our job, as Christians, is simply to rejoice in God! And such praise, as the musicians in this congregation will surely tell us, is the greatest source of beauty that the world has known.
A second thing to note about this passage has to do with the nature of love in discipleship.
In Jesus’ time, washing of the feet took place upon entering a house. Feet were usually dusty and dirty from desert travel, and the ointment would be a balm to help soothe tired feet. It was the task of the slave to offer hospitality to guests by washing feet. The work itself was considered too intimate, too base, for free people to undertake. Read in this light, Mary’s act is one of great humility, even humiliation.
Contrast this act with the words of Judas. Whereas Judas’ words are full of suspicion and self-protection, Mary’s act is a pure gift of vulnerable love, counting not the cost, either of the bottle of perfume, or of the act that she performs. Not calculating the kind of repercussions it will have, the only thing worth noting is that Jesus was here, and that he would not be for long. We do not know to what extent Mary knows what is about to happen to Jesus as goes to Jerusalem, but she does, in this act of discipleship, display that she knows who he is in a way that the male disciples do not. And, in so this act, which is clearly an act of love is, in fact, a confession of faith, such a confession is made not just by our tongues, but also by our bodies. Like Mary, we are called to display through our bodies a discipleship that is turned entirely to Christ, a discipleship that is placed at the feet of Christ.
How different this example of love is from our contemporary notions about the love between a man and a woman. The love that Mary displays is a love that can only be understood through her confession, through the commitment of her entire being to tangible practices of caring for Christ. It is a pledge that she will not turn away even in his weakness, incapacity and death.
I want to suggest that it is precisely such pledges we make when we share table fellowship. We commit ourselves to a life bent toward Christ, but also to his Church, to his people. We pledge ourselves in the breaking of bread to a kind of care of one another that rejects the calculation of cost and benefit to ourselves. We commit ourselves in our partaking in the Body of Christ to refuse to turn away from those we love in their vulnerability or in their dying. And thus we commit ourselves to a way of being that offers the world a political life, a common life, of a radically different kind:
And so, the third is the nature of the political life that we share in the Body of Christ.
The passage refers throughout to those outside the walls of Mary’s home. Here they are, assembled in a household just outside of Jerusalem, and the crowds are moving in on Jesus. He has recently raised Mary’s brother, Lazarus, from the dead, which has incited the terror and the hostility of the religious authorities; the Chief Priests and Pharisees are conspiring against him. The religious council, the Sanhedrin, has set a warrant for Christ’s arrest, asking that his whereabouts be revealed and that he be handed over. The whole drama of the event is reaching a feverish intensity as preparations for Passover are underway. And even within the sanctuary of the home, there is Judas who has now become a representative of those on the outside—cynical, full of fear, and read to hand Jesus over.
In the midst of this political and religious terror, the disciples are hopeful for a happy ending—a victory and a vindication. It is time for Jesus to step up to the plate as Messiah and turn the religious and political authorities on their heads. Yet Mary knows different. She breaks the bottle of nard to anoint her king, as all kings were anointed, but she anoints his feet, not his head. And Jesus states, against all expectation, that she has anointed him not for battle, not for victory, but for death.
There will be no political victory here; no glorious crusade into Jerusalem. There is, in the politics of Jesus, only renunciation, defeat, poverty, and death. This politics is inaugurated by Mary as she washes Jesus’ feet, a practice that the disciples are later commissioned to do. It is a sign of their humility, their servanthood to one another, and to the peaceful practices that Jesus will train them into.
The Church today.
Understood in this light, the actions of Mary, of beauty of love, and indeed of a kind of politics, are all the more profound.
For we see in her action, for a time, in midst of the ugliness and sinfulness of violent political and religious life, a display of great beauty.
For we see in her action, in spite of the dominant economy of measuring up costs and benefits, an act of abundance.
For we see in her act, in a world that fears vulnerability and denies death, a meeting of these face-on with depth, and servanthood and joy.
For we see in her action, for a time, how the forces of the world which crowded all around Jesus were kept at bay.
And this, I would venture, is the mark of true discipleship. Not just for 2000 years ago; not just for a moment in the disciples’ life where we are at the brink of Christ’s violent death, but here and now, too, when the forces of this world are closing in on us.
Where governments convene in the endless cycle of cause and effect, cost and benefit, we are called to display an extravagant life.
And where utility is prized above all other things, we are to be a place that remembers God’s delight in creation, in joyous praise and thanksgiving.
And where death and violence are met with fear and denial. We are called to be a community of the dying, knowing the limits of our lives together, and finding within these limits the language and the action of a beautiful response of praise and thanksgiving.
As we move toward Jesusalem, may we too incline our bodies toward Christ, not turning away from his suffering, nor counting the cost of his calling us.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Second Sunday in Lent (2007): "Luther Throws a Rope"
Second Sunday in Lent (2007): "Luther Throws a Rope"
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Psalm 27; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35
Preached on March 4th, 2007, by the Rev. Preston Parsons
I spoke last week about temptation and sin. We pretty much agreed that we are in captivity to many of our sins, we sin before we even know we've sinned, and that we give in to temptation a lot of the time. I do hope, though, that you remember a couple of other things from last Sunday: that temptation is not the same as sin; that we ought to call on the name of the Lord, not because calling on him saves us, but because Jesus is the one who saves us by his crucifixion and his resurrection.
If you weren't here, don't worry. I am going to build a little on what I said last week, but this is an expedition you can join at any time.
I hope to continue focusing on Lent, and continue to bring us face to face with our sin, because it is only by coming face to face with our sin that we will know what to repent of, and repentance is one of the things that the church asks us to do as we prepare for holy week. But let’s think of this as a kind of dangerous adventure, searching deep and dark caves: except that the cave is us, as persons, and as a people. Let’s do some spiritual spelunking.
***
Sin is real, right? We do the wrong thing. We know this. We don’t live into the wholeness that God desires for us. But my question for you all today, is whether we sin, but whether we should be afraid of sin.
***
I actually wish we talked about sin more. As a church we are beginning to talk about it less, to the point where some would take the confession right out of the regular Sunday service.
I'm willing to do that, by the way, but only on the condition that you all regularly line up outside my door for confession. Either that, or you could assure me that you all have spiritual friendships where your wrongdoings were all on the table on a regular basis. We need partners in this expedition below the earth, friends to rely on, someone to hold tight to the rope. Friends who can speak of God’s mercy directly into our particular sins.
Now I’m getting a little anxious, and I wonder if all this talk about sin is feeling somewhat oppressive. Yes? No?
I agree! Sin is fearsome and oppressive, yet at the same time nothing to be feared.
***
In 1519 Martin Luther was coming to terms with Paul's letter to the Romans, and he was struggling with what it meant to call God righteous. Luther had been taught that God's righteousness meant that God judges us harshly, because we are incorrigible sinners, and that God's justice demands satisfaction.
Luther's teachers were right, but only half right: yes, we are incorrigible sinners; and yes, God is just and righteous. As the monks of the desert said it, we are in captivity to our sin.
But Luther, reading Romans and badgering St. Paul, made a discovery that would shake all of Europe, and eventually change Christianity all over the world: Luther discovered that God's justice is about our condemnation. God’s righteousness is something that he gives to us through faith. God, instead of judging us as unrighteous because of our sin, clothes us with his righteousness, and saves us from our sin. Not though retributive justice, not through the justice that condemns, but by a merciful justice we receive as a gift through faith.
Luther, from his tower, throws down a rope; but this rope doesn’t lift us out of the earth. It allows us to go even deeper down into the cave.
This is tremendously important to remember in Lent. We can have a genuine sense of our sinfulness, we can easily answer the question, "The temptation that I give in to is . . . " We can do this while we celebrate the overwhelming joy through God's promise revealed to us in the crucifixion and the resurrection.
We can even be explorers, spiritual spelunkers, exploring deeply into our faults and sins, (as Christians exploring even more deeply than anyone else) because there is no risk in discovering what lies beneath. There is only more opportunity to discover just what God saves us from, because we can repent of it all, knowing that it is God's property always to have mercy.
Attach rope to your belts, and explore your caves; put the helmet on, pass the rope to your friend; embark on a discovery of the deep, dark, and unknown places of your heart, knowing and being sure of God's mercy and forgiveness, knowing that there is nothing you will discover that will not be covered by God’s mercy.
***
Luther wrote that this reading of Romans, helped him understand all of scripture anew. Luther saw salvation by grace through faith all over the New and Old Testament. And I've been thinking about our movie for this Thursday, "Luther," so I’ve got Luther on the brain. What do you think popped out at me when I read Genesis this week?
"And [Abraham] believed the LORD; and the LORD reckoned it to him as righteousness."
God has made a terrific promise to Abraham, that he will have offspring, and that Abraham will have as many descendents as there are stars in the sky. A pretty awesome promise to make to an old man married to an old woman!
But nevertheless, "[Abraham] believed the LORD; and the LORD reckoned it to him as righteousness."
Abraham was not reckoned as righteous for any other reason than that he believed God's promise.
But did this make Abraham's life of faith all sweet milk and honey?
The psalmist seems to be on some kind of spiritual high. He writes about not being afraid, about being confident in God, and about the goodness of God. Should Abraham feel this way?
Some people do have this response in faith. Some have the confidence to say that if God has made his promise to us, and I believe the promise, what is there to be afraid of? Nothing, right?
This confidence is something to be attentive to, because the Psalmist is right! God keeps his promise; Christ is resurrected; there is nothing to be afraid of, even if my mother and my father forsake me the Lord will take me up; God will protect me from all enemies, because God is good, because God is gracious.
We can hold this to be true, that God is good and will protect us from our enemies, we can, like Abraham, receive the gift of faith, and the LORD will reckon it to us as righteousness.
We can be spiritual spelunkers, trusting that there is nothing we will find in the darkest caves of our soul, nothing we will find out about ourselves that God cannot forgive, because this is God's promise: Abraham, and us as well, are good in the eyes of God by his overwhelming gift, though our faith.
But Genesis captures another part of the Christian life. All is not sweet milk and honey for Abraham, at least not yet. Just after Abraham is declared righteous by his belief, we read that "a deep and terrifying darkness descended upon [Abraham]."
"A deep and terrifying darkness descended upon [Abraham]."
The Psalmist writes: Don't be afraid. But for righteous Abraham, "a deep and terrifying darkness descends.”
When you get to discovering the depths of those caves, and you discover what sins lie deep beneath the surface of your life, I'm not going to promise that you won't be
downright stunned and blinded fight or flight afraid.
A deep and terrifying darkness descends.
Do you need to be afraid? NO! God is good.
Will you be afraid? Absolutely. Sin is terrifying.
Yet- the holy and living God invades this earth in bondage to sin and breaks us free. The good news is, despite what you find in the caves of your soul, the holy and living God invades this earth in bondage to sin and breaks us free, shining a light over all of this.
***
Jesus calls out to you: "How often have I desired to gather you together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings." Jesus, facing his fate in Jerusalem, (we’re gonna crucify him, right) in the abundance of his grace and mercy, nevertheless calls out to us, "how often have I desired to gather you together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings."
Find your rest, your shelter at the end of the day; God keeps his promise.
Repent; and you are forgiven! God is good. God sets free this earth in bondage to sin. Find your shelter, he is inviting you and I, find your shelter under the wings of the Holy One.
Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Psalm 27; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35
Preached on March 4th, 2007, by the Rev. Preston Parsons
I spoke last week about temptation and sin. We pretty much agreed that we are in captivity to many of our sins, we sin before we even know we've sinned, and that we give in to temptation a lot of the time. I do hope, though, that you remember a couple of other things from last Sunday: that temptation is not the same as sin; that we ought to call on the name of the Lord, not because calling on him saves us, but because Jesus is the one who saves us by his crucifixion and his resurrection.
If you weren't here, don't worry. I am going to build a little on what I said last week, but this is an expedition you can join at any time.
I hope to continue focusing on Lent, and continue to bring us face to face with our sin, because it is only by coming face to face with our sin that we will know what to repent of, and repentance is one of the things that the church asks us to do as we prepare for holy week. But let’s think of this as a kind of dangerous adventure, searching deep and dark caves: except that the cave is us, as persons, and as a people. Let’s do some spiritual spelunking.
***
Sin is real, right? We do the wrong thing. We know this. We don’t live into the wholeness that God desires for us. But my question for you all today, is whether we sin, but whether we should be afraid of sin.
***
I actually wish we talked about sin more. As a church we are beginning to talk about it less, to the point where some would take the confession right out of the regular Sunday service.
I'm willing to do that, by the way, but only on the condition that you all regularly line up outside my door for confession. Either that, or you could assure me that you all have spiritual friendships where your wrongdoings were all on the table on a regular basis. We need partners in this expedition below the earth, friends to rely on, someone to hold tight to the rope. Friends who can speak of God’s mercy directly into our particular sins.
Now I’m getting a little anxious, and I wonder if all this talk about sin is feeling somewhat oppressive. Yes? No?
I agree! Sin is fearsome and oppressive, yet at the same time nothing to be feared.
***
In 1519 Martin Luther was coming to terms with Paul's letter to the Romans, and he was struggling with what it meant to call God righteous. Luther had been taught that God's righteousness meant that God judges us harshly, because we are incorrigible sinners, and that God's justice demands satisfaction.
Luther's teachers were right, but only half right: yes, we are incorrigible sinners; and yes, God is just and righteous. As the monks of the desert said it, we are in captivity to our sin.
But Luther, reading Romans and badgering St. Paul, made a discovery that would shake all of Europe, and eventually change Christianity all over the world: Luther discovered that God's justice is about our condemnation. God’s righteousness is something that he gives to us through faith. God, instead of judging us as unrighteous because of our sin, clothes us with his righteousness, and saves us from our sin. Not though retributive justice, not through the justice that condemns, but by a merciful justice we receive as a gift through faith.
Luther, from his tower, throws down a rope; but this rope doesn’t lift us out of the earth. It allows us to go even deeper down into the cave.
This is tremendously important to remember in Lent. We can have a genuine sense of our sinfulness, we can easily answer the question, "The temptation that I give in to is . . . " We can do this while we celebrate the overwhelming joy through God's promise revealed to us in the crucifixion and the resurrection.
We can even be explorers, spiritual spelunkers, exploring deeply into our faults and sins, (as Christians exploring even more deeply than anyone else) because there is no risk in discovering what lies beneath. There is only more opportunity to discover just what God saves us from, because we can repent of it all, knowing that it is God's property always to have mercy.
Attach rope to your belts, and explore your caves; put the helmet on, pass the rope to your friend; embark on a discovery of the deep, dark, and unknown places of your heart, knowing and being sure of God's mercy and forgiveness, knowing that there is nothing you will discover that will not be covered by God’s mercy.
***
Luther wrote that this reading of Romans, helped him understand all of scripture anew. Luther saw salvation by grace through faith all over the New and Old Testament. And I've been thinking about our movie for this Thursday, "Luther," so I’ve got Luther on the brain. What do you think popped out at me when I read Genesis this week?
"And [Abraham] believed the LORD; and the LORD reckoned it to him as righteousness."
God has made a terrific promise to Abraham, that he will have offspring, and that Abraham will have as many descendents as there are stars in the sky. A pretty awesome promise to make to an old man married to an old woman!
But nevertheless, "[Abraham] believed the LORD; and the LORD reckoned it to him as righteousness."
Abraham was not reckoned as righteous for any other reason than that he believed God's promise.
But did this make Abraham's life of faith all sweet milk and honey?
The psalmist seems to be on some kind of spiritual high. He writes about not being afraid, about being confident in God, and about the goodness of God. Should Abraham feel this way?
Some people do have this response in faith. Some have the confidence to say that if God has made his promise to us, and I believe the promise, what is there to be afraid of? Nothing, right?
This confidence is something to be attentive to, because the Psalmist is right! God keeps his promise; Christ is resurrected; there is nothing to be afraid of, even if my mother and my father forsake me the Lord will take me up; God will protect me from all enemies, because God is good, because God is gracious.
We can hold this to be true, that God is good and will protect us from our enemies, we can, like Abraham, receive the gift of faith, and the LORD will reckon it to us as righteousness.
We can be spiritual spelunkers, trusting that there is nothing we will find in the darkest caves of our soul, nothing we will find out about ourselves that God cannot forgive, because this is God's promise: Abraham, and us as well, are good in the eyes of God by his overwhelming gift, though our faith.
But Genesis captures another part of the Christian life. All is not sweet milk and honey for Abraham, at least not yet. Just after Abraham is declared righteous by his belief, we read that "a deep and terrifying darkness descended upon [Abraham]."
"A deep and terrifying darkness descended upon [Abraham]."
The Psalmist writes: Don't be afraid. But for righteous Abraham, "a deep and terrifying darkness descends.”
When you get to discovering the depths of those caves, and you discover what sins lie deep beneath the surface of your life, I'm not going to promise that you won't be
downright stunned and blinded fight or flight afraid.
A deep and terrifying darkness descends.
Do you need to be afraid? NO! God is good.
Will you be afraid? Absolutely. Sin is terrifying.
Yet- the holy and living God invades this earth in bondage to sin and breaks us free. The good news is, despite what you find in the caves of your soul, the holy and living God invades this earth in bondage to sin and breaks us free, shining a light over all of this.
***
Jesus calls out to you: "How often have I desired to gather you together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings." Jesus, facing his fate in Jerusalem, (we’re gonna crucify him, right) in the abundance of his grace and mercy, nevertheless calls out to us, "how often have I desired to gather you together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings."
Find your rest, your shelter at the end of the day; God keeps his promise.
Repent; and you are forgiven! God is good. God sets free this earth in bondage to sin. Find your shelter, he is inviting you and I, find your shelter under the wings of the Holy One.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
First Sunday in Lent (2007): "Calling On the Name of the Lord"
First Sunday in Lent (2007): "Calling On the Name of the Lord"
Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16; Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4:1-13
Preached by the Rev. Preston Parsons, February 25th, 2007
I would like to speak a bit about temptation and sin this morning. Not a bad topic for us in most seasons, but it is Lent, and in this season it is especially appropriate.
And the story of Jesus' temptation in the desert will be an excellent place for us to start.
***
There is one thing I would like for you all to know by the time you leave this morning: temptation is not the same as sin.
Now there is good news and bad news in what I am about to tell you- the good news is this: you know all the times when you are tempted to do something that you know is sinful? All the times, everyday, you are tempted to commit a sin? The times you are tempted to gossip about your enemies, friends, or (perhaps most likely) when you are tempted to gossip about your brothers and sisters in Christ? Or, perhaps the times when you are tempted to steal from the place you work? Perhaps the times when we are tempted to think of the church as a private club?
I could go on, about what your temptations might be, but I won't. I have a feeling you've got a pretty good sense of your own sinfulness, and you can pretty easily fill in the blank in the sentence "my biggest temptation is . . ."
The good news is that those temptations to sin aren't actually sins until you give in.
***
Jesus, in our story, was tempted, though didn't give in: Jesus is tempted, tempted as we are. Yet we know that Jesus is without sin. So we can take some comfort that Jesus was tempted in the desert, because if Jesus was subject to temptation, yet he was also without sin, we know that our own temptations are not the same as sin.
I suppose the bad news, or the hard news, is that we will always be subject to temptation. Even the holiest among us are, and always will be, subject to temptation. So is good to know that we are not alone in our temptation, that Jesus was tempted as well; but it is also hard to know that there is no end to temptation, because resisting temptation is hard work, isn't it. We aren't Jesus, none of us are quite that holy. We all give in, we all sin.
(If you tell me you don't give in to sin, that just makes your spiritual diagnosis that much easier because I already know that you are giving in to the temptation to lie. Either that or you are deluded enough about sin that we need to have a nice long talk.)
***
A long time ago- around the time that Christians were no longer being persecuted by the Romans, in the 4th century AD- around that time, some Christians began to flee to the desert, some to the deserts of Egypt, some to the same desert we read about in Luke. These Christians went to the desert, lived in huts and caves, chanted the psalms, and wove baskets for a little bit of money. They did this to come face-to-face with their own temptations.
None of them overcame their temptations, but many of them, did learn how to deal with their temptations. In the body of literature that owes its debts to these early monks, they wrote the same thing I'm saying today: temptation never ceases. But there is, according to these spiritual athletes of the desert, a dynamic of temptation and sin that we can recognize if we take the time.
You know those sins you commit- the sins that you don't realize you've committed, until you look back and say "how did that happen again!" Most sins are committed this way. Everything happens before we even know it. But the monks of the desert, sitting in their little huts and caves, singing the psalms and weaving their baskets, teach that there are actually a number steps in between temptation and sin.
After temptation, say the temptation to gossip, perhaps, for example, the temptation to tell Heather that Bill said that he thinks Preston smells funny on Sunday mornings-
after temptation comes acceptance of the temptation, and the dwelling on the temptation; you begin to think to yourself "I wonder what it would be like to tell Heather that Bill said that he thinks that Preston smells funny on Sunday mornings . . ."
Often, after dwelling on and thinking about the temptation, we then wrestle with that temptation, and we begin to think "I really shouldn't tell Heather that, should I . .. " Sometimes we successfully defeat that temptation in a spiritual wrestling match, and we don't commit the sin and gossip.
But, if the temptation remains undefeated, the next stage is assent, and we give in, feeling helpless. After assent, we do it, we gossip, and we say something bad about Bill and Preston to Heather.
This is where the monks of the desert teach us that sin happens, not in the temptation to sin, or the wondering about the sin, or in the wrestling with the sin, but in our assent to the sin, and the putting of the temptation into effect.
Further, when we give in to gossip enough, or we give in to any temptation often enough, temptations like the temptation to steal, or to think that the church is only for us - once we give into temptation often enough we become captive to the sin. And the movement from temptation to sin becomes nearly instantaneous.
The movement from temptation to sin becomes so quick that we don't even realize that we've been tempted and that we've given in. This is called captivity, and I'm sorry to report that captivity is where most of us are in our sinfulness.
The monks of the desert have a way to combat temptation before we give in and sin. Following St. Paul, as he writes in our passage from Romans, the monks of the desert teach us to call on the name of the Lord. Sometimes this was to say something as simple as "help," or to say something like "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
Why did the monks of the desert do this? Two reasons, and both of them are good news: Firstly, as St. Paul writes in Romans, "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved . . ." The monks of the desert knew this to be true because they practiced it, continually calling the name of the one who saves us from sin. By their calling on the name of the Lord, they weren't saved from temptation, but they were often saved from acting on the temptation and committing the sin. This is something that all of us can practice: we can all call upon the Lord in prayer to save us from our sin.
But the monks weren't saved from sin because they called upon Jesus for help, and this brings me to the second reason the monks called on the name of Jesus, and why we also would call on the name of Jesus: we call upon Jesus for help because he is the one who has saved us from the power of sin, and whose power working in us (by the Holy Spirit) sanctifies us. The prior act of Christ’s resurrection saves us from sin.
So I urge you to take the resurrection of Jesus to heart, and I urge you to confess Jesus’s lordship with your mouth.
Jesus saves us not because he was a holy man like the other holy people of the desert, but because he is Lord, as St. Paul writes, the Lord of all, Son of God, like us in all things, yet without sin.
It took this man, the one without sin, the Son of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, the resurrected one, to save us: believe in the resurrection, and you are justified; confess him as Lord with your mouth, and you will be saved, not from temptation, but from our captivity to sin. And this salvation of the resurrected one, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, is good news indeed.
Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16; Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4:1-13
Preached by the Rev. Preston Parsons, February 25th, 2007
I would like to speak a bit about temptation and sin this morning. Not a bad topic for us in most seasons, but it is Lent, and in this season it is especially appropriate.
And the story of Jesus' temptation in the desert will be an excellent place for us to start.
***
There is one thing I would like for you all to know by the time you leave this morning: temptation is not the same as sin.
Now there is good news and bad news in what I am about to tell you- the good news is this: you know all the times when you are tempted to do something that you know is sinful? All the times, everyday, you are tempted to commit a sin? The times you are tempted to gossip about your enemies, friends, or (perhaps most likely) when you are tempted to gossip about your brothers and sisters in Christ? Or, perhaps the times when you are tempted to steal from the place you work? Perhaps the times when we are tempted to think of the church as a private club?
I could go on, about what your temptations might be, but I won't. I have a feeling you've got a pretty good sense of your own sinfulness, and you can pretty easily fill in the blank in the sentence "my biggest temptation is . . ."
The good news is that those temptations to sin aren't actually sins until you give in.
***
Jesus, in our story, was tempted, though didn't give in: Jesus is tempted, tempted as we are. Yet we know that Jesus is without sin. So we can take some comfort that Jesus was tempted in the desert, because if Jesus was subject to temptation, yet he was also without sin, we know that our own temptations are not the same as sin.
I suppose the bad news, or the hard news, is that we will always be subject to temptation. Even the holiest among us are, and always will be, subject to temptation. So is good to know that we are not alone in our temptation, that Jesus was tempted as well; but it is also hard to know that there is no end to temptation, because resisting temptation is hard work, isn't it. We aren't Jesus, none of us are quite that holy. We all give in, we all sin.
(If you tell me you don't give in to sin, that just makes your spiritual diagnosis that much easier because I already know that you are giving in to the temptation to lie. Either that or you are deluded enough about sin that we need to have a nice long talk.)
***
A long time ago- around the time that Christians were no longer being persecuted by the Romans, in the 4th century AD- around that time, some Christians began to flee to the desert, some to the deserts of Egypt, some to the same desert we read about in Luke. These Christians went to the desert, lived in huts and caves, chanted the psalms, and wove baskets for a little bit of money. They did this to come face-to-face with their own temptations.
None of them overcame their temptations, but many of them, did learn how to deal with their temptations. In the body of literature that owes its debts to these early monks, they wrote the same thing I'm saying today: temptation never ceases. But there is, according to these spiritual athletes of the desert, a dynamic of temptation and sin that we can recognize if we take the time.
You know those sins you commit- the sins that you don't realize you've committed, until you look back and say "how did that happen again!" Most sins are committed this way. Everything happens before we even know it. But the monks of the desert, sitting in their little huts and caves, singing the psalms and weaving their baskets, teach that there are actually a number steps in between temptation and sin.
After temptation, say the temptation to gossip, perhaps, for example, the temptation to tell Heather that Bill said that he thinks Preston smells funny on Sunday mornings-
after temptation comes acceptance of the temptation, and the dwelling on the temptation; you begin to think to yourself "I wonder what it would be like to tell Heather that Bill said that he thinks that Preston smells funny on Sunday mornings . . ."
Often, after dwelling on and thinking about the temptation, we then wrestle with that temptation, and we begin to think "I really shouldn't tell Heather that, should I . .. " Sometimes we successfully defeat that temptation in a spiritual wrestling match, and we don't commit the sin and gossip.
But, if the temptation remains undefeated, the next stage is assent, and we give in, feeling helpless. After assent, we do it, we gossip, and we say something bad about Bill and Preston to Heather.
This is where the monks of the desert teach us that sin happens, not in the temptation to sin, or the wondering about the sin, or in the wrestling with the sin, but in our assent to the sin, and the putting of the temptation into effect.
Further, when we give in to gossip enough, or we give in to any temptation often enough, temptations like the temptation to steal, or to think that the church is only for us - once we give into temptation often enough we become captive to the sin. And the movement from temptation to sin becomes nearly instantaneous.
The movement from temptation to sin becomes so quick that we don't even realize that we've been tempted and that we've given in. This is called captivity, and I'm sorry to report that captivity is where most of us are in our sinfulness.
The monks of the desert have a way to combat temptation before we give in and sin. Following St. Paul, as he writes in our passage from Romans, the monks of the desert teach us to call on the name of the Lord. Sometimes this was to say something as simple as "help," or to say something like "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
Why did the monks of the desert do this? Two reasons, and both of them are good news: Firstly, as St. Paul writes in Romans, "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved . . ." The monks of the desert knew this to be true because they practiced it, continually calling the name of the one who saves us from sin. By their calling on the name of the Lord, they weren't saved from temptation, but they were often saved from acting on the temptation and committing the sin. This is something that all of us can practice: we can all call upon the Lord in prayer to save us from our sin.
But the monks weren't saved from sin because they called upon Jesus for help, and this brings me to the second reason the monks called on the name of Jesus, and why we also would call on the name of Jesus: we call upon Jesus for help because he is the one who has saved us from the power of sin, and whose power working in us (by the Holy Spirit) sanctifies us. The prior act of Christ’s resurrection saves us from sin.
So I urge you to take the resurrection of Jesus to heart, and I urge you to confess Jesus’s lordship with your mouth.
Jesus saves us not because he was a holy man like the other holy people of the desert, but because he is Lord, as St. Paul writes, the Lord of all, Son of God, like us in all things, yet without sin.
It took this man, the one without sin, the Son of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, the resurrected one, to save us: believe in the resurrection, and you are justified; confess him as Lord with your mouth, and you will be saved, not from temptation, but from our captivity to sin. And this salvation of the resurrected one, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, is good news indeed.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Ash Wednesday (2007): "Jesus Christ the Gravedigger"
Ash Wednesday (2007): "Jesus Christ the Gravedigger"
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17; Psalm 51:1-17; 2nd Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
Preached by the Rev. Preston D. S. Parsons, Feb. 21, 2007
There’s at least one thing that we can say for the hypocrites in this gospel. At least they were worshipping the right God.
According to Matthew, these hypocrites are giving alms. They are praying. They are fasting. These are, in and of themselves, Godly pursuits. It seems that the only mistake these hypocrites make is that they worship God conspicuously.
But they are at least worshipping God.
But when I think of the things that I do conspicuously, I am worse off than even these hypocrites. What I conspicuously worship is not even God. I drive through downtown Winnipeg, and I look out my truck window at people lying on the street, hungry and desperate people. I feel conspicuous when their eyes catch mine.
I conspicuously worship wealth. And the convenience that comes with wealth. I am a conspicuous consumer. I am doing my part, participating in this vast economy where the product is obvious, but the cost is hidden: a conspicuous consumption that might very well make our entire world fall apart.
And I hate it. I just hate it. It makes me angry, because I don’t even know how to stop worshiping these false gods of wealth and consumption. I don’t know how to pull out, how to disconnect from what by all reports has little to do with God’s purpose for the world.
I wish that I could at least be a hypocrite. But I am worse off. I am not even a conspicuous worshipper of the one true God.
***
This passage of Matthew's points outward toward the things that we worship, toward our conspicuous idolatries. But there is another idolatry that precedes our pursuit of wealth and comfort, the idolatry of the self. There is a person that I present to the world. There is a person that I create, the person that I would have myself be. The person that I would like people to think I truly am.
I’m successful, I’ve overcome adversity and I’m entirely independent, I’m on my very own spiritual journey.
The hypocrites have nothing on me.
At least they want people to think that they are holy. I just want people to think that I am successful, and valuable, and spiritual.
Sometimes I don’t even care if I am lovable in the eyes of God. I only want to be deemed valuable in the eyes of the world, a world that values the spirituality of self-infatuation above communal disciplines, a world that congratulates wealth above poverty: a world that values our idolatry.
These burdens, all of our idolatries, they’re like a great load of earth lying on top of a coffin. I might be alive inside. You might be alive inside. But the earth is so heavy that no matter how hard I push the lid remains closed. Trapped in the coffin, buried in the graveyard. For all intents and purposes, I am a dead man.
And what are these things keeping us in the graveyard? Wealth? Convenience? A house full of stuff? A career? The esteem of colleagues? Is that where my heart is? Is that where your heart is? In the earth on top of a coffin?
We need to be dug out, we need to repent. Lent is about exactly this: repentance, and forsaking our idols. The Lenten project is to call out for help, to repent of our idolatries, and the be restored to life in Christ.
We cry out for the help of a man with a shovel.
And thank God he comes. Shovelful by shovelful he sets us free. Jesus Christ the gravedigger, digging us out of the grave. And that gravedigger says – “Friend – I love you always, even when you are burdened. Know this - I love you even when you have nothing. I love you even without wealth. I love you even without your car. I love you even without your job. I love you even without your friends. I love you even in your spiritual pride. I love you even without your love for me. And when you repent and turn to me, I will heal you.”
And so with God’s help the earth itself is moved. And with God’s help we find that torn heart in that pile of earth.
God doesn’t love us for our wealth. Or for what we do at work. Or for who our friends are. Or for who we want the world to think we are. God loves us despite these things. He rejoices when we turn away from our idols and turn to him. God rejoices when we put aside all these things that keep us in the graveyard, and we turn to Him for help.
This is good news! We are free from these burdens – St. Francis runs through the town naked. Bach writes a Cantata. We can turn and worship the living God: the living God that transforms the world, the God that can move the earth, the God that is moving the world from corruption into life, the God that is moving the world from death into life. The one who responds to even our faintest cries for help, and rejoices.
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17; Psalm 51:1-17; 2nd Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
Preached by the Rev. Preston D. S. Parsons, Feb. 21, 2007
There’s at least one thing that we can say for the hypocrites in this gospel. At least they were worshipping the right God.
According to Matthew, these hypocrites are giving alms. They are praying. They are fasting. These are, in and of themselves, Godly pursuits. It seems that the only mistake these hypocrites make is that they worship God conspicuously.
But they are at least worshipping God.
But when I think of the things that I do conspicuously, I am worse off than even these hypocrites. What I conspicuously worship is not even God. I drive through downtown Winnipeg, and I look out my truck window at people lying on the street, hungry and desperate people. I feel conspicuous when their eyes catch mine.
I conspicuously worship wealth. And the convenience that comes with wealth. I am a conspicuous consumer. I am doing my part, participating in this vast economy where the product is obvious, but the cost is hidden: a conspicuous consumption that might very well make our entire world fall apart.
And I hate it. I just hate it. It makes me angry, because I don’t even know how to stop worshiping these false gods of wealth and consumption. I don’t know how to pull out, how to disconnect from what by all reports has little to do with God’s purpose for the world.
I wish that I could at least be a hypocrite. But I am worse off. I am not even a conspicuous worshipper of the one true God.
***
This passage of Matthew's points outward toward the things that we worship, toward our conspicuous idolatries. But there is another idolatry that precedes our pursuit of wealth and comfort, the idolatry of the self. There is a person that I present to the world. There is a person that I create, the person that I would have myself be. The person that I would like people to think I truly am.
I’m successful, I’ve overcome adversity and I’m entirely independent, I’m on my very own spiritual journey.
The hypocrites have nothing on me.
At least they want people to think that they are holy. I just want people to think that I am successful, and valuable, and spiritual.
Sometimes I don’t even care if I am lovable in the eyes of God. I only want to be deemed valuable in the eyes of the world, a world that values the spirituality of self-infatuation above communal disciplines, a world that congratulates wealth above poverty: a world that values our idolatry.
These burdens, all of our idolatries, they’re like a great load of earth lying on top of a coffin. I might be alive inside. You might be alive inside. But the earth is so heavy that no matter how hard I push the lid remains closed. Trapped in the coffin, buried in the graveyard. For all intents and purposes, I am a dead man.
And what are these things keeping us in the graveyard? Wealth? Convenience? A house full of stuff? A career? The esteem of colleagues? Is that where my heart is? Is that where your heart is? In the earth on top of a coffin?
We need to be dug out, we need to repent. Lent is about exactly this: repentance, and forsaking our idols. The Lenten project is to call out for help, to repent of our idolatries, and the be restored to life in Christ.
We cry out for the help of a man with a shovel.
And thank God he comes. Shovelful by shovelful he sets us free. Jesus Christ the gravedigger, digging us out of the grave. And that gravedigger says – “Friend – I love you always, even when you are burdened. Know this - I love you even when you have nothing. I love you even without wealth. I love you even without your car. I love you even without your job. I love you even without your friends. I love you even in your spiritual pride. I love you even without your love for me. And when you repent and turn to me, I will heal you.”
And so with God’s help the earth itself is moved. And with God’s help we find that torn heart in that pile of earth.
God doesn’t love us for our wealth. Or for what we do at work. Or for who our friends are. Or for who we want the world to think we are. God loves us despite these things. He rejoices when we turn away from our idols and turn to him. God rejoices when we put aside all these things that keep us in the graveyard, and we turn to Him for help.
This is good news! We are free from these burdens – St. Francis runs through the town naked. Bach writes a Cantata. We can turn and worship the living God: the living God that transforms the world, the God that can move the earth, the God that is moving the world from corruption into life, the God that is moving the world from death into life. The one who responds to even our faintest cries for help, and rejoices.
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