With one eye on the future

Texts: Amos 8:4-7; 1 Timothy 2:1-7; Luke 16:1-13

One of the great things about Archbishop Desmond Tutu is the wonderful
stories associated with him, some of which may even be true. I'm
assured this one is. You may be surprised to hear that there's an
Anglican Cathedral in Cairo in Egypt – I'm not sure how that came to
be, but there it is. And the story goes that a young priest in South
Africa received an invitation to go to this Cathedral and preach.

He was honoured and excited to be asked, of course, but also a little
nervous, so he asked Archbishop Tutu for some advice. In particular,
he asked the archbishop what text he should preach on. "Egypt, eh?"
said the archbishop in his inimitable way. "Well, my son, if I were
you I stayed well clear of the Exodus!"

That's funny, but it also makes a serious point. The Book of Exodus
is a hard sell in Egypt. Whenever we divide people into us and them,
on whatever basis we choose, we run the risk of assuming that the
Scriptures are ours not theirs, and, even worse, that God is ours but
not theirs. The Exodus story is about the forging of a new people,
about a national or ethnic identity, and it necessarily is written
from the point of view of those people. The "other people" – the
Egyptians – are the enemy. They're beyond the pail. They cop the
plagues. Their army gets drowned. We're God's people, they're not.
Who cares about them?

But if we fast-forward from the time of the Exodus to the time of the
prophets, we find a rather different picture. At least, when we look
at the prophet, Amos. He's got up a full head of steam, but the
target of his vitriol is not the Egyptians, or any other "foreign"
group of people. This is all in-house stuff. Here the division is
not on national or ethnic grounds; here the divisions are
socio-economic, as we would call them today. The commercial classes
are giving capitalism a bad name. They are the epitome of unbridled
greed. They are cheating the poor, with false measures and with
inflated prices.

And there are two important points to note here, both arising from the
fact of who they are. They are Jews, descendants of the very people
whom God rescued from Egypt. The very people whom God endowed with a
land of their own. Yet, first of all, they are dishonouring God by
fretting about the restrictions on their economic activities on
Sabbath Days and Festival Days. Far from treating the Sabbath as a
day of rest and thanksgiving, they find it a tiresome waste of time
and want it over with as soon as possible.

Secondly, their victims are fellow Jews, fellow people of God. Far
from being a light to the Gentiles, an example to the other nations of
the world, Israel has become like everyone else, greedy, self-seeking,
and forgetful of God. But there is no immediate threat of divine
intervention, no plagues, no wholesale drownings. These people, rich
oppressors and cheats though they are, are still God's own people.
Still the people of the Covenant. There will be a final accounting:
God will never forget what they have done. But there is a sense in
which the prophet's words are to be taken as a warning: think what
you're doing; remember that you will be called to account. Stop your
evil ways, and repent.
In other words, there is no suggestion in this passage that the rich
oppressors are, to God, simply dispensable, as the Egyptians rather
seemed to be in the Exodus story. God loves all his people, rich and
poor, powerful and powerless, sinner and sinned against.

And that message is there for us in St Paul's First Letter to Timothy.
In this morning's passage St Paul is giving instructions about
worship; and in particular about our prayers when we gather like this
for worship. He wants our prayers to be all-embracing. He wants us
to pray for our rulers or leaders, for "kings and all those in
authority". And not just prayers of intercession, we should notice,
but also of thanksgiving. We should give thanks to God for those in
authority over us. We need them, with all their weaknesses, because
human society needs leaders to keep the peace.

There is no room here for any us and them divisions. Why? Because,
says St Paul, God "wants all people to be saved and come to a
knowledge of the truth". That is why Jesus Christ "gave himself as a
ransom for all". Divisions along national or ethnic lines, divisions
along socio-economic lines, divisions along political lines, all fall
to the ground in the face of the divine desire that all of us come
together and return to God as one people.

But what about division along the lines of faith and ethics? What
about the division between the Church and the world? It's time to
turn our attention to this puzzling parable in today's gospel reading.

The outline of the story is clear enough, and we are given a few clues
to fill in some of the details. In particular, we are told about two
of the debts owed to the master. They are both large, and each is
expressed in terms of an agricultural product. – olive oil and wheat.
So a fairly safe bet is that this master is a moneylender, who lends
money to peasant farmers at the start of the season, and expects
payment when the harvest has been sold. He isn't directly involved in
this business himself; he has employed a manager to run it for him.

The next clue is that this manager has not performed well. He is
accused of wasting his master's possessions. That word "wasting" is
the same word used of the Prodigal Son, who wasted his inheritance in
wild living. It doesn't involve actual dishonesty – the manager does
not seem to have been into embezzlement. Rather it suggests a lack of
care and prudence, and business acumen. Putting it all together it
may be that he is being accused of making unwise loans, without
checking to make sure that the borrowers had a reasonable prospect of
being able to repay the debts.

So maybe the master has now found that he has a lot of bad debts on
his books. He tells the manager that he is fired, and demands a final
set of accounts. All this seems feasible enough. So does the
reaction of the manager. He is now facing a bleak future, with no
source of income available to him. (This tends to confirm that he
hasn't been salting away his master's money in an offshore bank
account!) What can he do? He is facing a labouring job, a drop in
status bringing shame on himself and his family, or, worse still, a
life of begging.

So he hatches this plan that is at the heart of this story. He calls
in his master's debtors and discounts their debts by a considerable
amount – 50 percent in one case, 20 percent in another. He figures
that they will be so grateful to him that he can touch them for a few
favours later. Again, this makes some sort of sense.

But when his master finds out about this the story takes a real twist
towards the bizarre. His master commends him for his shrewdness. We
expect the master to go ballistic – to beat or at least abuse him for
ripping him off. But he doesn't: he commends him, and this is the
first aspect of the parable that bothers us. Well, I suspect that
this is the clue to us that the master is not an innocent victim in
all this. Perhaps the master is himself a rogue – a loan shark
screwing the peasant borrowers for all he can get out of them

Notice that there is no hint of reconciliation, much less of the
reinstatement of the manager. He is still fired. So maybe the master
recognises the devious scheme of the manager as one rogue impressed by
another. That, too, makes some sort of sense to me; but then comes
Jesus' teaching in which he appears to encourage his disciples to
learn from these rogues. What exactly are we to learn from them?

I think, perhaps, it's got something to do with providing for the
future. The manager was trying, in his shrewd, worldly way, to secure
his future. He used his master's assets to that end. Jesus seems to
be urging us to secure our future, not by stealing, of course, but by
using our worldly wealth for the good of others. When it is gone, he
says, we will be "welcomed into heavenly dwellings". Almost certainly
he has in mind the lovely Jewish idea that those to whom we have shown
kindness in this world speak for us on Judgment Day.

The message seems to be, don't be too proud or self-righteous to learn
from the worldly wise, but transform their wisdom into the godly
variety. And always remember that there is a final accounting, for
rich and poor, creditor or debtor, master or slave.

As a story, it may not be as pithy or as witty as those of Archbishop
Tutu. But at least it could be preached in Cairo Cathedral.

Saints Alive

Texts: Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18; Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

November is the month of remembrance. On the first day of the month
we remember all the saints of the Christian Church, known and unknown.
And there's the first odd thing about all this. How can we remember
those who are unknown? Does that make any sense? Well, it makes at
least as much sense as the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior. We remember
him, a victim of war, even though we do not know his name. We
remember our fellow saints, even though we know very few of them by
name.

And there's the second odd thing about all this. Even on All Saints
Day, or All Saints Sunday, when we are remembering all the saints
known and unknown, we still seem to need reminding each year that we
are included in their number. We are ourselves saints, in the
Biblical sense. Because in the Biblical sense "saints" simply means
"believers" – followers of Christ – or, more simply, Christians. It
was never intended to mark out the great giants of the faith, in the
way the term seems to be understood today. After all, even if we
think of saints as martyrs, we only know a very few by name –
thousands, perhaps even millions, of people whose names will never be
known to us have been martyred for the faith we share with them.
Today we remember them all.

So November, the month of remembrance, gets off to that important
step. Then, the very next day, we come to All Souls' Day, when we
remember the departed, those who, in the words of our Liturgy, "have
died in the faith of Christ". And those are wonderful words, aren't
they? People die in all sorts of circumstances, from the ghastly to
the peaceful. They die in infancy, they die in old age, they die at
every age in between. They die in hospital, hospice, home, or
wherever, surrounded by their family, or all alone. Some die by
accident, some are killed, some kill themselves. whatever the
particular circumstances may be, what should matter most to us is that
we die in the faith of Christ. All those who have done so, we
remember with thanksgiving on All Souls' Day.

There is another special day of remembrance in this month of
remembrance; on the second Sunday of the month, called Remembrance
Sunday, we commemorate the end of the First World War. It's an
opportunity for us to reflect on the evil of war, as well as to
remember the terrible wastage of young lives. Every Anzac Day we hear
that solemn promise, "We shall remember them". Those words are just
as apposite on Remembrance Sunday.

So this month has three special days of remembrance. But it also
shares with every other month a number of individual saints deemed by
the Church to be particularly worthy of being remembered. Every week
on the back of the pewsheet you will see the names to be remembered in
this way in the coming week. I wonder if you give them much thought;
perhaps you wonder why I bother. Isn't that all a bit too Anglican
(or, horror of horrors, Catholic!), too fuddy-duddy for today's taste?

Why do we remember the dead saints of the past? Isn't it enough to
pray for one another, to pray for our brothers and sisters in Christ
around the world? Didn't Jesus himself say 'Let the dead bury the
dead?" Yes, he did; but aren't we shocked every time we're reminded
of that? Anyone who needs to be persuaded of the human desire to
remember the dead has never lost anyone dear to them. Ask a Jew why
it is important to remember the victims of the Holocaust; ask an
American why it is important to remember the victims of 9/11. We are
surrounded by evidence of that human need to remember the dead. Look
at our cenotaphs and our Honour Boards; look at our tombstones and our
In Memoriam notices. Over and over again we see the promise never to
forget.

In many cases, of course, these are family affairs, or the offerings
of close friends. Of course we will remember our own family members
and dearest friends, how could we not? But why do the Jews remember
all six million victims of the Holocaust; why do the Russians remember
the 20 million they lost in the war? Why do the Americans remember
the three thousand lost on 9/11? Because in each case those who
remember, and those they remember, are one people. They belong
together.

And there we have precisely the reason why we in the Church remember
the saints, past and present, great and small, known and unknown. We
remember them because they are our people, they belong to us and we to
them, we belong together. Together we are the Communion of Saints,
the believers of every age including the present, living and departed.

And there is the extra reason we have for remembering our own. They
are with us yet and ever more shall be. Though they have died, yet
they are alive in Christ, as we are alive in Christ. That is what we
mean when, in the Apostles Creed, we affirm that we believe "in the
communion of saints". The living and the departed held together in
God's single loving embrace. That's the wonderful vision of the
future that our Christian faith holds before us.

And more wonderful still, it is the vision that God has had from the
very beginning, indeed, even before time began. Surely one of the
most mesmerising passages in the whole of Scripture is the first
chapter of the Letter to the Ephesians, from which our second lesson
is taken this morning. Many scholars insist that St Paul did not
write this letter; but whoever wrote it we see that same extraordinary
breadth of vision that St Paul displayed in some of the other letters,

In a nutshell the author summarises God's purpose in creating and
sustaining and guiding all things to the end he has always had in
mind. God created all things out of nothing to be his Significant
Other, to love and to be loved by. But the essential element of love
is freedom; love cannot be compelled, it must be freely given. And so
God created humankind free to love him or reject him, and ever since
has been wooing us with his love for us. The path of true love has
not run smooth, but it is still running. Through the ages men and
women have heard that loving call and have responded; and as they have
done so they have come to share in the very life of God, the life that
St John has taught us to call eternal life. The life that death
cannot overcome.

And so all those who, over the millennia, have entered into that life,
even though they have died, yet are they living still, and we with
them in the great communion of saints. That is the gist of this
glorious first chapter of the epistle. Just listen to some of those
phrases again: blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual
blessing…chose us in him before the creation of the world…predestined
us to be adopted as his children through Jesus Christ……the riches of
God's grace that he lavished on us…to bring all things in heaven and
on earth together under one head, even Christ…the riches of the
glorious inheritance in the saints…far above all rule and authority,
power and dominion…On and on it flows to this great climax: And God
placed all things under his feet and appointed him to be the head over
everything for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who
fills everything in every way.

That's the Christian vision of the new age, which began to break in
with the resurrection of Christ. Compared to that vision all else
falls away. Daniel saw four great fierce kingdoms, but what are they
compared to the Kingdom of God? Even stranger visions are to be found
in our In Memoriam columns sometimes. Visions of Grandma twinkling as
a new star in the night sky; or good old Rex riding his Harley
Davidson around the heavens, or catching trout, or having a beer. But
what are they compared to the vision set before us by the teaching of
our faith?

Today, All Saints' Sunday, we remember with thanksgiving our fellow
saints, living and departed, as we pray for a strengthening of our
confidence in the vision we share, summed up in the last verse of our
great opening hymn:

From earth's wide bounds,
from ocean's farthest coast,
through gates of pearl
streams in the countless host,
singing to the Father,
Son and Holy Ghost.
Alleluia, alleluia! Amen.

Heavenly thoughts

Texts: Job 19:23-27a; 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17; Luke 20:27-38

Last week, when we celebrated All Saints Sunday, I talked about the
Communion of Saints, and I reminded us that we are included in that
Communion. We are saints, not because we are particularly good, or
heroic, or special in some other way, but simply because we believe in
Jesus Christ. Saints, in the biblical sense, are believers,
Christians; and with all those people who have died in the faith of
Christ over the last two thousand years or more, we are the Communion
of Saints.

Today our readings invite us to say a little bit more about this, and
particularly about what we usually call life after death. What can we
say about that? Well, as I probably said last week, we can say more
than we sometimes think, but a lot less than some Christians are
inclined to claim.

For instance, I'm always surprised how many longstanding members of
the Church harbour a secret belief in reincarnation. Never mind that
it is entirely inconsistent with most if not all of the biblical
teaching on the subject – inconsistent with the idea of eternal rest,
of resurrection, of redemption and all the rest. Never mind that
nobody has ever been able to explain the 'mechanics' of reincarnation;
how can I still be me if I am born again to different parents, with a
different gender perhaps, or even as a member of a different species?
How do I get from one incarnation to the next? Does it happen
immediately, and, if not, where am I between incarnations? Who
decides my next incarnation? The whole thing is, to put it very
mildly, problematic, and far less credible that the Christian teaching
on bodily resurrection. Yet, despite all that, our critics will laugh
to scorn our Easter story while insisting that we must take with
utmost seriousness and respect, the bizarre notion of reincarnation.

But I digress. Let's get back to what we can say about our
understanding of life after death. We start today with this
astonishing insight from the beleaguered Job. Conventional wisdom has
it that Jewish theology knew nothing of resurrection until very late
in the piece, about the middle of the second century BC. It's from
that period that we have the Book of Maccabees, in which the argument
is developed based on the justice of God. The orthodox view in the
Hebrew Scriptures was that terrible things only happened to sinful
people, while good things happened to righteous people.

The evidence for that, from both points of view, was always pretty
weak, and it came apart during the Jewish fight for independence under
the Maccabees. They were fighting a just war; they were following the
Torah; they refused to fight on the Sabbath and suffered the
consequences. How could this be? How could those on God's side be
killed by those who didn't believe in God? Was God powerless to save
his people? Was there no divine justice?

There certainly wasn't this side of the grave; therefore, if God is
just, there must be a sorting out after death – there must be a
judgment, a day of reckoning, when the good and the bad receive their
just deserts. From then on the idea of some form of personal survival
of death quickly gathered support, until by the time of Jesus, the
majority party, the Pharisees, believed in resurrection.
But this passage today reminds us that such a belief appeared, albeit
sporadically, much earlier on in Jewish teaching. And here we see
that it wasn't worked out in the clever mind of a deep thinker; it
struck Job as a gratuitous insight in the midst of his great anguish.
A whole succession of terrible things had befallen Job, a righteous
man with a deep faith in God.

His friends, of course, attributed it all to Job's secret and
unrepented sin; but Job protested his innocence. What, then – was God
acting towards him unjustly? Job couldn't bring himself to accept
that either. So what was the answer? As he wrestled with this
agonising issue, he suddenly had this breakthrough. He couldn't
explain it, but there were certain things he was absolutely sure of.

The first was that he had a Redeemer, someone who would buy his
freedom, someone who would save him. Someone who was living at the
time, and 'in the end' will stand upon the earth'. Although living
now he is not on the earth now. So where is he?

Secondly, Job is sure that after his own death ("after my skin has
been destroyed") he will, in his own flesh and with his own eyes, see
God! In other words, speaking under prophetic inspiration, Job
affirms his faith in the resurrection of the body! There is the first
instalment of the encouragement that we can offer to anyone today who
is going through the sort of personal hell Job was experiencing at the
time. This hell will end; and then one day you will see God with your
own eyes – and all will be well for ever.

In a way St Paul deals with the opposite problem in his Second Letter
to the Thessalonians. They believe in the resurrection of the dead;
in fact, they believe in the rapture of the living. They are not
suffering any great hardship – their only problem seems to be their
own impatience. They are ready to go now – they are waiting for Jesus
to return and collect them. Why is he taking so long? St Paul gives
a baffling answer that few if any scholars even pretend to understand;
but the gist is that we are called to go on living in the certainty of
Christ's return and the uncertainty of its timing. We are to be
prepared, to live each day in the belief that it could be the last
before we meet God face to face. When the Master returns, what will
he find his servants doing?

And so to the gospel reading. Once again, a group of his opponents
have some to Jesus in the hope of trapping him into saying something
that will upset either the Roman authorities or the devout Jews. The
opening skirmish about the requirement to pay taxes fizzles out, and
the Sadducees take the floor to have a go at him about life after
death. They draw his attention to the requirement of the Mosaic Law
that if a married man dies childless, his brother must marry the widow
and attempt to have children for him.

They go a bit overboard with the story, but the issue is clear: if two
or more men have married a woman, whose wife is she in the next world?
It sounds a difficult one to answer, but it is really no question at
all. They are assuming that resurrection means something like
restoration or reinstatement; as if life after death continues much as
it did before death. As I said last week, we only have to browse the
death notices and the In Memoriam columns in the ODT to see that many
people today are under the same misapprehension.
But, says, Jesus, in the age to come, life is not like that. There
will be no such thing as marriage, and no such thing as death. In
that respect we will be more like the angels than earthbound human
beings.

And then Jesus concludes this teaching with one of the greatest lines
in the whole of Scripture. He says that to God "all are living".
Think about that for a moment – let those words sink in. They are
words of the greatest possible comfort to all who have lost loved
ones. Have you lost a child? That child is alive to God. Have you
lost a spouse? Your spouse is alive to God. A brother, a sister,
parents? Every one of them is alive to God. That is the teaching of
our faith; and, as St Paul often said, we have that from the Lord
himself.

How are they alive to God? What does that mean? Where are they? We
don't know because it hasn't been revealed to us, and therefore we
cannot say. Such details shouldn't trouble us. All that matter is
that we have a Redeemer, that one day we will see God with our own
eyes, and that all our loved ones who have died are alive to God.

What more do we need?

Confessions

Texts: Jeremiah 14:7-10, 19-22; 2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18; Luke 18:9-14

We are nearing the end of the second half of our liturgical year in
which we have been invited by the Church through our weekly readings
to think about what is involved in discipleship, in following as best
we can Jesus' teaching. That teaching is not easy. It makes demands
on the whole of our lives. The Scriptures know nothing of partial
Christians. Christianity is like pregnancy in that regard; you either
are or you are not. Certainly we hope our faith grows within us so
that it becomes more and more obvious to others that we are Christian;
but once the egg of faith is fertilised then we are on the way. So
what does that way involve?

Well, according to the theme chosen for today it involves humility.
That's clearly right, but if I was choosing the theme again I might
prefer to choose a different word. I might now choose "Confession".
It's not quite the same thing, but they go hand in hand. They're
almost twins. And if you want to go for the trifecta, you could put
your money on mercy. Humility, confession, and mercy; they're a
formidable trio, and they are at the centre of the way of
discipleship, of being followers of Christ. And they are at the heart
of our readings today.

Here's a bit of an old chestnut to get us under way. A young man was
caught up in a conspiracy to assassinate Napoleon Bonaparte. He and
many of his co-conspirators were caught, tried, and sentenced to
death. He was the only child of his widowed mother, and without him
to support her she would be destitute. Somehow she managed to wangle
an audience with Napoleon and begged the emperor to spare her son's
life.

Napoleon was not impressed. "Madame," he said. "Why should I have
mercy on him? He is guilty. He deserves to die." "Oh, yes,' the
woman agreed. "He is guilty and he deserves to die. That is why I do
not ask for justice for my son, for that would do him no good. It is
because he is guilty that I beg you to be merciful to him."

I can't remember the outcome, so if you prefer happy endings you can
assume that Napoleon was bowled over by the widow's plea and her
clever argument and granted his would-be assassin a free pardon. Or,
if you're on a sugar-free diet, you can assume that Napoleon decided
to execute her, too! Either way, the point is that mercy is only
available to the guilty.

If we seek God's mercy we must first acknowledge our guilt, which is a
good enough cue to turn to our gospel reading. St Luke gives us this
very compact, well-known story. A couple of Jews go up to the Temple
to pray. One is a Pharisee, one who tries very hard to keep the Law.
And when we look at his prayer, we may have a little sympathy for him.
We won't admit that, of course, because previous experience tells us
that the Pharisees are the bad guys. But deep down, on the quiet, we
might admit to ourselves some sympathy for this particular Pharisee.

For a kick-off, of course, he has at least made the effort to go to
the Temple to pray. That's more than we can say for about 90% of our
compatriots on any given Sunday, let alone a weekday. Then we hear
what he is praying. He doesn't get off to the best of starts, I must
admit: God, I thank you that I'm not like other people. That puts us
on edge a bit, doesn't it? Who does he think he is thanking God that
he's not like you and me? But hang on a minute. We seem to have
misunderstood. He goes on to identify the sorts of people that he is
not like. It turns out he's not talking about people like you and me,
at all. He's talking about robbers, evildoers, adulterers, and
tax-swindling collaborators. And we're not included in that list, are
we? And thank God we're not!

He goes on, "I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get." Hmm.
It might have been better if he'd quit while he was ahead. This does
sound a bit boastful – not the sort of thing to say out aloud, even
though we might think something along these lines. The public arena –
and in particular the Temple/Church - is hardly the right place to
start boasting in this way.

But with that reservation noted, assuming he's telling the truth about
himself, he doesn't sound too bad, does he? It seems he makes a real
effort to keep up his religious observances. And in that respect at
least, he probably isn't like "this tax collector". This tax
collector is a scoundrel, ripping off his fellow Jews, and sucking up
to the Roman occupiers.

But then it's his turn to pray. And as he prays he (inadvertently)
creates the simple prayer at the heart of Eastern Orthodox
spirituality, known simply as the "Jesus Prayer". Of course, he is
not at this time addressing his prayer to Jesus; he is praying to the
God of Israel, the one true God. But his prayer is very clear. He
knows what he is like. He knows he is guilty. He is indeed a sinner.
Justice would do him no good at all. If justice had her way, the
Pharisee would have been acquitted and the tax-collector sentenced to
death.

But when Jesus passes judgment his verdict is the other way around.
They are both guilty, but one of them only has recognised that and has
asked for mercy. We are acquitted – "justified" in the words of this
passage – through God's mercy, not in accordance with his justice.

Now, this tax-collector had come to the Temple to confess his sins.
In modern parlance, dealing with sin was the core business of the
Temple - think of all the sacrifices made as sin-offerings – and for
several centuries the Church took over this role. We no longer needed
to make sacrifices, of course, because Christ has made the one perfect
sacrifice sufficient for all the world for all time. But it was still
thought necessary to confess our personal sins to and through a
priest.

Then came the Reformation. And ever since the Anglican Church has
held that we can confess our personal sins directly to God, whenever
and wherever, without going through a priest. We can use a priest,
and sometimes that can be very helpful, but we're not obliged to do
so, and few Anglicans today do so. So why do we still come to church
to confess them? And the answer is, we don't.

To understand what we do in our various Liturgies, we can turn to our
reading from Jeremiah. Here we see the corporate nature of prayer,
including prayers of confession. Judah is suffering from a terrible
drought, so Jeremiah, as a Judean and on behalf of himself and all
other Judeans, is crying out to God for relief from the never-ending
Big Dry, as our Aussie neighbours would say. But as he does so he
acknowledges that the people do not deserve rain – they do not deserve
divine help. Why not? Well, they are terrible sinners. What have
they been up to? Are they also the sort of people the Pharisee was on
about – robbers, evildoers, adulterers, and tax collectors? No, what
Jeremiah acknowledges is the sin of backsliding, that is, not being
zealous enough in their religious practices. They haven't prayed
enough, or fasted enough, or given alms, or respected the Sabbath, or
whatever. They've become less committed, lazier, in relation to the
commands of their faith. They're backsliders. We can thank God we're
not like them, eh?

The prayer of Jeremiah is the prayer of the People of God. In the
same way, when we gather together in this Holy Place, we are gathered
as the People of God, the Church; and so when we pray in our liturgy,
we pray, not as individuals like the two in our gospel story, but
collectively, with one voice, like the voice of Jeremiah. We
acknowledge, not our own individual sins, but the sins for which we
are collectively responsible in this place.

What might they be? Well, one example that crops up regularly at Holy
Trinity is our failure to love one another as he loves us. Whenever
we use this liturgy (page 404) our liturgists change the text a wee
bit: The text as written says: "In silence we call to mind our sins."
But our Liturgists usually change this to, "In silence we call to
mind our own failure to love as he loves us." Now, that's fine –
that's a perfectly legitimate use of the liturgy. And it can be
helpful. It changes from the relative safety of the general, to the
more challenging specific. Instead of acknowledging "our sins" in
general, which might be different from week to week, our liturgists
are telling us that the besetting sin of this congregation, time after
time, is our failure to love one another as he has loved us.

We are guilty of a failure to love. And so when we suffer our own
drought, when our membership and our finances dry up, we are right to
cry to the Lord for help, first acknowledging that guilt and our need
for God's mercy, for only God can end our drought. As Jeremiah said,
can the idols of the nations offer help? No, it is you, O Lord our
God. Therefore our hope is in you, for you are the one who does all
this.

Real Faith in the Real World

 

Texts: Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4; 2 Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 17:5-10

 

One of the more bizarre stories that has gripped our news media in the last few days concerns the young man from Hastings (or Napier or wherever) who mysteriously disappeared after going out for takeaways or a spare part for his computer, depending on which particular version you believe.   The bit of the story that interested me was the reaction of his father and of his partner (or ex-partner, presumably).  Both were quite adamant that something terrible had happened to him.   Could he have simply done a runner?  No, no – they were quite sure he wouldn't do a thing like that.

 

In other words, they thought they knew him, and on the basis of that they trusted him.  They relied on his integrity and honesty; he just wasn't the sort of person who would put his loved ones through such hell.    They had faith in him, based on their previous experience of him.  They believed in him.

 

And because they believed in him in that way, they were bewildered by what was going on.  Nothing made sense.   He was a good son, a faithful friend, and a car buff.  Why then would he desert his father and his partner, burn out his car, and take off?   Their faith in him told them that that just didn't make sense.

 

And it's that sort of belief or faith in someone that is the prime meaning of faith in the Christian understanding.   We sometimes make life harder for ourselves by using the word in a number of different senses.  We talk of the Christian faith, and if pushed we might explain certain articles or propositions that we believe to be true.     'We believe in God' may simply mean we believe that God exists.  We might say that Christians believe that God is Trinity, or that Jesus of Nazareth was God incarnate, or that at Pentecost the Holy Spirit was poured into the hearts of the believers.

 

All those things are true – they are all essential parts of the Christian faith.  And we might talk of coming to faith, or having faith, as if it is something almost solid, something we can acquire, or receive, or be given, rather like a birthday present.   Again, there is truth in that sort of understanding of the word 'faith'.

 

But the primary sense of the word 'faith' in the Christian context is the one displayed (mistakenly, as it now appears to have turned out) by the anxious father and partner of that young man.   When we say as Christians that we believe in God (or in Jesus Christ) we mean much more than we believe in his existence.  We mean we trust him.   We rely on him.  We mean that we know him to some extent, and based on that knowledge we have some idea of his nature and character.   Our past experiences of him have led us to feel that he is faithful and trustworthy.

 

So that when something goes wrong we are bewildered.  This doesn't fit with our previous experience of God.   That's why people of faith often suffer most when something terrible happens.  We can't understand it.  We can't understand how God could let this happen.  We have questions and doubts, not because we have a weak faith, but precisely because we have a strong faith.   If we didn't truly believe in God, we would still regret what's happened, we might curse our luck or whatever, but at least we would be spared the sort of anguish Habakkuk shows us this morning.

Habakkuk is a faithful Jew, a man of deep faith.  But everything has turned to custard and he can't make head or tail of it.   He is as bewildered as the father and the partner have been.  He's been praying and praying, and all to no avail; so now we get this heartfelt plea.   He cries out to God for an answer, for an explanation.  What is going on?  That's the first part of our reading this morning, a wonderfully bold and honest prayer, almost demanding to be heard.

 

And then he is heard.  For some reason a bit of splicing of the tape is going on here.   The Lectionary gives us Habakkuk's first complaint, then jumps to the Lord's answer to his second complaint; but it's all much of a muchness.  There is no soft, reassuring words – no assurance that all will be well.   The Lord tells him to wait: all will be revealed.  And if we want to know what is to be revealed we can read on.   But in the meantime, until whatever is to come, comes, "the righteous will live by their faith".

 

And there's that key point about faith.  Habakkuk is not to go on believing on the basis of some promised future; he and all righteous people are to have faith in God, regardless of what God is planning.   We don't trust in God because he has promised us something: we trust in God, we have faith in him, because he is trustworthy.  Habakkuk's anguished prayer is answered, but his world remains in a mess – and, in fact, things are going to get a whole lot worse.

 

In our second reading, we can see both senses of the word "faith".  St Paul is writing to his young protégé, Timothy, who is finding parish ministry in the young church at Ephesus hard going.   Once more there is no attempt to paint a rosy picture, no attempt at false cheer.  How could there be when St Paul himself is writing from a prison cell, probably already under sentence of death?   So St Paul urges Timothy to hang on to the faith, meaning here the gospel, the teaching that has been handed down to Timothy by his faithful grandmother and mother, and, of course, supremely by St Paul himself.   Remember what we believe, young Timothy, and hold fast to the truth of the teaching regardless of what others may say or do to you.  Hold on to the Christian faith, as we might put it.

 

But St Paul is also very clear that our Christian faith means relying on and trusting in Jesus.   "I know whom I have believed", he says.   And then he puts these two concepts of faith together when he urges Timothy, " What you heard from me, keep as the pattern of sound teaching, with faith and love in Jesus Christ."   Hold on to the Faith – keep your faith in Jesus.

 

But how do we first acquire that sort of faith?  Where does it come from and how do we "hang on to it"?   As it happens, for my own spiritual reading recently, I have gone back to one of the old classic works from the early 1950's.  It's by the then Dean of Wells, Dr F.P. Harton, and it's called The Principles of Ascetic Theology.  In some ways it's as dry as its title and appearance suggests; and much of its terminology is rather antiquated.   But it's a good summary of some basic principles of Christian practice and belief.

 

And he says some helpful things about faith.  After reminding us that faith is, in classical terms, one of the "Three Theological Virtues" (along with hope and charity/love", he goes on to insist, in another old-fashioned term, that each of those Virtues are "infused".   That means it is not part of our natural make-up – we're not born with it.  It is, if you like, supernatural; it is a gift of God.   It is part of the gift we receive through the Holy Spirit at baptism.  But, and here's the next important point he makes, the Theological Virtues are given to us to be exercised regularly.   If they are not exercised regularly they can wither and die, or at least become dormant.  As I read all this, an obvious analogy came to mind.   These Virtues are like the muscles of the soul.  They need to be exercised if they are to grow strong.

 

And that seems to be a way into this rather strange teaching we have about faith in the gospel reading this morning.   In this version Jesus says it doesn't matter how small our faith is – it can be as small as a mustard seed – yet if we tell a mulberry bush (famously deep-rooted) to move it will go. That's a bit of teacher's hyperbole, of course, but it seems to mean that we should not sit around speculating on the size of our faith, we should get up and exercise it and (so to speak) take it from there.

 

And we should do so not for any specific result.  We don't exercise our faith so that something will happen. - perhaps that's why he used a ridiculous example – we exercise our faith in God (in Christ) so that it will grow and we become ever more faithful, ever more willing to rely on him.   The faithful servant is the one who is growing in faith, not the one who is trying to please his master so that his master will reward him.  We do not have to earn anything from God.  We have to learn to have faith in him, to hope in him, and to love him

 

And to learn from experience that he is utterly faithful to us no matter what circumstances we find ourselves in.    To run out on us is simply not in his nature.

Table Talk

 

 

Texts: Proverbs 25:6-7; Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16; Luke 14:1, 7-14

 

If you look at the front of the pewsheet for a moment you will see that our gospel reading this morning appears to be one of those split readings; it is taken from St Luke's gospel, chapter 14, and we begin at verse 1, but then jump to verse 7 and continue from there through to 14.   In other words we are omitting verses 2-6, and, as I have said before, that usually indicates that the Church wants to spare our blushes – there is something too non-P.C. for us to read.

 

But that's not the case this morning.  What we're omitting this morning is another healing-on-the-Sabbath story', which we have already had recently.   The point this morning is not so much that we are omitting verses 2-6, as we are preceding our story from verses 7-14 with this verse 1.  We are reminded, in other words, not so much that what is happening here is happening on the Sabbath, but that it is happening 'in the house of a prominent Pharisee', to which Jesus has gone to eat.   So Jesus is a dinner guest at the home of this prominent Pharisee.

 

There's the first surprise.  The Pharisees are in the vanguard of the increasing opposition to Jesus, yet here he is a guest in the home of one of their prominent members.   St Luke gives us another clue: he was being closely watched.  And that leads immediately to the healing story.   His host has arranged for a man suffering from dropsy to be there in front of him.  So this was in part a set up.

 

But it could also have been in part a genuine desire to hear more of what Jesus had to say.  Perhaps the host had in mind an evening of theological discussion and reflection.   Perhaps he had a few questions for Jesus on the finer points of the Book of Leviticus, for example – always a pleasant way to fill in an evening or two.    And in one sense Jesus didn't disappoint.  Only he concentrated, not on abstruse theoretical points, but on practical issues of right living, starting where they were all at.   He gave them a few pointers as to how guests and hosts should behave.

 

He started with guests.  St Luke says he noticed how the guests picked the places of honour at the table.   So this seems to be a fairly large, formal dinner.  There must have been a top table, where the host himself sat, and the most important guests would be seated near him.   In a culture where personal status was very important, the guests would have wanted to be seen to be seated at, or as near as possible to, that top table.   But who were to be so honoured, and who was to decide?

 

Here's a little anecdote that illustrates what's going on here.  At funeral services it is often the case that we will reserve the front two or three pews for family members; and they sometimes like to gather together and enter the church together after the other guests are seated.   In a previous parish, we had a particularly large funeral, and one regular member of the parish walked up to the reserved seats and sat down.  When I explained to him that he was sitting in a seat reserved for the family, he insisted that he was a very close friend of the family and they would be happy to have him with them.

 

The funeral director decided to check with the family, who took a very different view.  The man was required to leave that seat and find another at the back of the church.   He had a mistaken view of his own importance, and, through his own arrogance, he had exposed it to the whole congregation.  He was, to use the word from today's reading, 'humiliated'.   How much better for him if he had gone to the back and then been asked by the family to join them if they had so wished.

 

In my experience that man was very much an exception to the general rule.  Usually on such occasions, people tend to favour the back pews before the front ones.   Similarly, when we are guests at a dinner party we would usually wait to be told where we are to sit – we would not usually grab the position at the head of the table, or the most comfortable chair, or the one with the best view out over the harbour.  

 

Our cultural norms are different from those being addressed by Jesus in this first part of the teaching.  As with any society, we do have notions of status and rank, of course, but we also have a strong distrust of people pushing themselves forward.  We tend to hang back, and we prefer other people to do the same.   Which reminds me of a lovely little episode in a documentary about the life of Archbishop George Carey.  When he was Archbishop of Canterbury he went to South Africa, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu met him at the airport.   After their greeting, Carey stooped to pick up his luggage, but Tutu beat him too, it.  "No, no, George", he said.   "Let me.  I'm much more humble than you!"

 

Generally speaking, then, we don't have too much trouble with the first part of Jesus' teaching.  In the Church, on our formal occasions, we do trip over it a bit.   If you watch the formal procession in the cathedral, you will see it is in reverse order, with the Bishop bringing up the rear, and the most junior of deacons leading the clergy.   Presumably the idea is to suggest that the Bishop is servant of all, least of all, last of all, etc.  All very humbling and biblical.

 

Of course, it would work better if he didn't have by far the prettiest gear on at the time; and if the important people weren't given Communion before the masses.   But I'd better stop there and turn to the second part of Jesus' teaching this morning.  And here, interestingly, the roles are reversed.   Here we as individual Christians must feel challenged by this teaching, while the Church can claim to comply a little better.

 

Now Jesus changes from commenting on the behaviour of guests to commenting on the behaviour of hosts, and he says some astonishing things.    He says we should not invite our family, friends and neighbours, because they will in turn invite us to their dinner parties, and it becomes a sort of self-perpetuating cycle of hospitality with the same people included and, by implication, the same people excluded.

 

Instead, he says, we should invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.  In other words, those who cannot return the compliment.   Those who are complete strangers.  I'm reminded of one of the prayers suggested for use in a wedding service: Help them to be honest and patient with each other, and to welcome both friends and strangers into their home.   I particularly remember that prayer because it was included in a form of service I gave to a couple to look through.  Up until this point, the husband to be had been on his very best behaviour, but when he saw this he couldn't contain himself any longer:   "Who the Blankety-blank-blank does that?" was his question.

Who indeed?  And the answer is, the Church does that, doesn't it?  One obvious example is the community Christmas Day lunch, usually (although perhaps not always) run by local churches or city missions.  They are very good examples of this teaching in action.   Anybody is welcome to come along and share in such a meal.

 

And, of course, whenever we gather for worship we are open to everyone.  You don't need a ticket or an invitation to come in here and join in the meal of the Church.    Nor do you need to be one of those important people in the formal procession – though it can help if you are in a hurry!

Learning the Right Lesson

Texts: Isaiah 58:9b-14; Hebrews 12:18-29; Luke 13:10-17

 

It's perhaps worth reminding ourselves again that this is the period of the year in which we are invited to read the Scriptures to deepen our understanding of Christian discipleship.   What is involved in following Christ?  What do the Scriptures say about that?

 

Sometimes, of course, it's spelt out pretty clearly for us.  When Jesus tells us the Parable of the Good Samaritan, he ends with the words, "Now go and do likewise".   We may not always like the idea of doing likewise in particular circumstances, but at least we're not left wondering what Jesus meant.  There is a clear lesson on discipleship there for us, whether or not we want to learn it.

 

But what are we to take from today's gospel reading?  What does it tell us we should do as disciples of Christ?   Well, here's one possibility.  When we come to church we should look around carefully in the hope that there is a terribly crippled person present, someone who has been bent double for many years.   Then we will know what we are to do, won't we?  We are to lay hands on her and heal her.  That's what Jesus would do, so that's what we should do as his disciples!

 

Now, let's just suppose for a moment that something like that actually happened here in St Barnabas.  Then what?  How would we respond to such a happening?  Would we do the Oprah Winfrey thing – scream and yell as loud as we could, give each other high fives, hugs and back-thumps?   Or would we take a more businesslike, pragmatic approach?  Would we see the marketing potential in such an event?   Find ourselves a good web-page designer and have this healing featured on our website?  Or ring the news hotline at the ODT or TVNZ?  It could mean the end of our financial woes for a while, after all.

 

Or would we ask ourselves the question we should be asking ourselves: what does this mean for our lives as disciples?   And if we did remember to ask ourselves that correct question, what would the correct answer be?

 

Before we try to grapple with that, let's try another basic approach to the gospel story.  Instead of focussing on the human element – the person healed and our own response to such a healing – what happens if we focus on God?   For surely such an event as this miraculous healing could only mean one thing – God is present.  Only God can heal such a person in such a way.   So if such a thing happened in St Barnabas – here among us and in our sight – it could only mean that God was present here among us though not in our sight.   How then would we respond?

 

Would the Oprah Winfrey approach still seem appropriate – wild, loud praise and celebration?  Or would we be more likely to heed the words of our reading from Hebrews this morning and "worship God acceptably with reverence and awe"?   Would we be more likely to fall silent, or even fall prostrate, than to leap about cheering, or, perhaps, cover our embarrassment with flippant remarks?   And while we think about these questions for a moment, here's a bigger question.  Why are we assuming these questions are hypothetical?

We are talking as if that ain't ever going to happen here.  But what isn't? A miracle healing, or the same miracle of God's presence here among us in St Barnabas without a miracle healing?   And if the latter, then we have forgotten something – in fact, we have forgotten rather a lot.  But one thing in particular stands out – the first words spoken in our Great Thanksgiving.   In a few minutes I will be standing behind our Holy Table and I will say to you "The Lord is here."  And without looking too astonished or overwhelmed you will respond, "God's Spirit is with us."

 

Are they just words, or do they mean what they say?  I could change them without change the sense of it:   I could say something like this: The Living God who manifested his presence in Jesus Christ that day in the synagogue by healing the crippled woman is now here among us in St Barnabas manifested in this bread and this wine.   And I would be right, wouldn't I?

 

So perhaps one important thing we can learn from this gospel story this morning, and from our reading from the Letter to the Hebrews, to strengthen our discipleship is to remember that whenever we come to this holy place, we have come to the heavenly Jerusalem, the city of the living God.   We have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly – to the church of the firstborn whose names are written in heaven.  We have come to God, the judge of all people, to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant.   All those are present here among us in St Barnabas this morning and whenever we gather here to worship God acceptably with reverence and awe.

 

That's a pretty important lesson for us as disciples of Christ, but there's more.  It seems to me that there is a third way of reading this story, and this may even be the one Jesus meant us to use.   It seems to me that this story is not really about the woman who was miraculous healed –at least, not primarily about her.  What Jesus wants us to look at, perhaps, is the attitude of the religious elders.   This is their synagogue – they are the stalwarts who have set it up – put their time, money and other resources into it.  They come week after week after week, they clean the brass and mow the grass (well, their wives do!).   The last thing they want is some passing visitor coming in and turning the heads of the faithful with some healing stunt!  They run it.   They know how things should be done.

 

So hung up are they on prerogatives and protocol that they are completely blind to the irony of their position.   They are trying to enforce God's law, as they believe it to be, against God himself.  They don't realise it because they don't recognise God in their presence.   They have never witnessed God do anything like this before, so it doesn't occur to them that this miracle in their synagogue is the work of God.

 

So here's another lesson about discipleship.  Notice what is happening and look for God's hand in it.   When we notice what God is doing we may discover a new call to get involved.  At the very least we will discover new grounds for thanksgiving and praise.   No one had to tell the woman what to do next: as soon as she could, "she straightened up and praised God".  And she wasn't the only one, was she?   St Luke ends the story, "the people were delighted with all the wonderful things he was doing".

 

And there, perhaps, is the most important lesson for us as disciples this morning.  Whether it is the Sabbath or any other day of the week, we are called to delight in what God is doing.   It is all too easy and all too human for us to be bent over with the cares of the world.  We are bombarded with bad news from all parts of the globe, and it's right that we should care and suffer with the victims. Isaiah calls upon God's people to "spend yourselves on behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed".   But in the same passage this morning he calls upon us to "call the Sabbath a delight and the Lord's holy day honourable".  And against the bad news of the world, we have the good news of Jesus Christ.

 

We have the presence of the living God here among us in St Barnabas.  In him is our delight.   Amen.

Finding the Lost

Texts: Exodus 32:7-14; 1 Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-10

 

Let's start this morning with this woman who lost a coin.  I like this story for two reasons.   First, it puts economists in their place.  It reminds us that we are human beings, not economic units.  We don't constantly count the cost of everything we do, and act prudently.   We are governed by our feelings, which rarely care too hoots about the finer points of economics.  And secondly, I really identify with this woman.   When I cannot find something, it really gets under my skin.  It doesn't matter what it is, it doesn't matter if I don't really need it there and then, I simply cannot rest until I have found the jolly thing.

 

This story reminds me of another one I heard some years ago, also involving ten coins.  It was set in Treasury.   At the time Treasury employed an economist whose specific role was to challenge ideas and proposals that were put forward by other economists.  He was a sort of in-house devil's advocate.  One day he was asked to do some work with three new Treasury recruits.  He got them together in a group, appointed one of them as the leader, gave that one ten coins, and told him to share those coins with the other members of the group in any way he wished, provided only that he must give each of the other members at least one coin.

 

So how did he divvy them up?  If he was following rational economic teaching, what he should have done was keep eight coins for himself, and give each of the other two members of the group one coin each.   That way, he would have maximised his own profit, while staying within the rules of the exercise.  But he didn't do that.   He gave each of the other guys three coins, kept three for himself, and suggested that they should toss to see who would get the extra coin.

 

Why did he, a brand new Treasury recruit with a shiny new degree in economics, act in such an irrational way?   Because he didn't want to appear greedy, he didn't want his new colleagues to think ill of him; his relationship with them was more important to him than gaining a few extra coins.   And, I suspect, there was something else going on to.  There is something deep in our human nature that makes us value fairness.  We like to be treated fairly, and we tend to believe that we should treat each other fairly.   When we're told to share something with others, we tend to think of fair shares.

 

Now back to this lady with the lost coin.  At some point, economic prudence would have suggested that she should abandon the search and cut her losses.   If she costed out the time spent in searching for the coin, added the cost of the oil in the lamp she lit to help her search, and then, when she found the coin, all the time she wasted in calling her friends and neighbours in celebrating her success, she was probably well out of pocket.   But for her, that thought never entered her head.  She kept searching until she found the coin, and when she was successful she was so delighted she had to celebrate with her friends and neighbours.

 

What drove her?  Well, no doubt a psychologist could have a wonderful time with stories like this.   All sorts of emotions run through us when we are searching for something.  Sometimes, of course, it might be really important to find the missing object as soon as possible.   Car keys and reading glasses come to mind.  So the search may be urgent and we are driven by growing anxiety, frustration, and so on.   But that's not always the case.  Perhaps we might think we would like to read a particular book, or a magazine, or last Monday's paper, and we can't find it.   It's not vital – we could read something else – but for some reason or another we start searching.  And we can't bring ourselves to abandon the search until it's successful, can we?

 

Why?  Again, we seem to be dealing with something deep in our human nature.   We sometimes seem to search for something for no other reason than it is lost.    Certainly, I have to plead guilty to that.  Recently, I lost a telephone message I had written down on a pad of paper.   I remembered thinking that it might be safer to leave it still attached to the pad; but then decided that was silly, and that I was perfectly capable of tearing it off, carrying it downstairs to my study, and putting it on my desk.   The next day I looked for it on my desk and couldn't find it.

 

I won't weary you with the details, but I spent about an hour searching for this note, getting more and more frustrated and cross with myself for being so careless.   Eventually I found it, and when I had calmed down enough to think about it, I realised something.  I had remembered all the information in the message, so I didn't really need to find it.   I knew that, and yet I had kept searching for that message.  I was determined to find it for no other reason than it was lost.

 

So much for missing objects.  Moving up the scale, what about missing animals?   We all now the lengths to which the owner of a missing pet will go, but what about hard-nosed farmers?  It seems from Jesus' first parable today that the practice was to go look for the missing sheep regardless of economic considerations.   I once made the mistake of using this story for the children's spot in a service, and I asked the children what we should do if we had a hundred sheep to look after, and when we counted them up we found we only had ninety-nine.   Before any of the children could give me the right answer a farmer called out, "That's near enough.  Let it go – they're only worthy a few bucks!"   That was the voice of economic prudence, perhaps, but not the voice of human feelings.

 

When an object is lost, when an animal is lost, something deep in our nature drives us to search for it until it is found.   How much more so, when the lost is a person.  Even when that person is a complete stranger, we want him or her found.  People will go to extraordinary lengths, make great personal sacrifices of time and energy, to join the search for someone lost in the bush, or trapped underground, or stranded on a mountain somewhere.   And if a child is missing, nothing is too much trouble.  We keep going until he or she is found.

 

How to explain this deep desire to search for and find the lost?  It seems to me that this is one of the ways in which we can say we are made in the image of our creator.   God has a deep desire to search for and find the lost.  That, after all, is what Jesus' mission is all about.   God sent his Son to search for and bring back the lost; and this is reflected in our epistle reading this morning.  St Paul draws this teaching from his own experience.   Even though he had persecuted the Church, God in Christ had brought him back – had showered him with grace – had shown him mercy.

 

But there is a subtext here that we need to notice.  St Paul is clear that he was shown divine mercy because he had acted in ignorance and unbelief.   He didn't know he was rebelling against God, he hadn't intended to do so – in fact, he was zealous for God.  But what if he had known – what if he was intentionally rebelling against God?   Would he have been shown such mercy?

 

Our first reading strongly suggests otherwise.  Here we have a classic story of rebellion; the people have decided they want a God of their own design, a temptation that is very much alive today.   And the seriousness of that rebellion is shown in the effect it has on the relationship between God and the people.  It is strained to breaking-point.   God is ready to disown the people, to wipe them out and start over.  He says to Moses, your people, whom you brought up out of Egypt.   Moses has to plead with God, and he does so, not by justifying their behaviour, but by reminding God that they are in fact God's people whom God brought up out of Egypt.  And he reminds God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to whom God had made the great promises of a people and a land in which to live.

 

In the heart of God is that strong desire to search for and rescue the lost, a reflection of which is in our own nature.   But God also respects our freedom.  If we wilfully turn away, if we succumb to the constant temptation to make gods of our own design, we will live and die with the consequences of our choice.  

 

If we do not wish to be found, we won't be.

Doors and Gates

Texts: Amos 6:1a, 4-7; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31

 

I happened to be on the University campus this week, and I had to chuckle to myself when I saw two young students approach one of those old-fashioned doors that you still see around from time to time.   You know, the kind of doors that you have to open for yourself.  This one had a sign on it in very large capital letters; it read PUSH.   On the outside of the door it had a similar sign in equally large capital letters, reading PULL.  That's how old-fashioned the door was.

 

Too old-fashioned, it seemed, for these two bright young students, who when I first saw them were standing patiently face-on to the door waiting for it to open.   Then they glanced up, and around….  I took pity on them, said "Allow me", and pushed it open.  I could see from the looks they gave me that they were in awe of my technological know-how.   It was one of the better moments of the last week, and it got me thinking about doors and gates, those I've known, and those I've had trouble with.  And about the sort of messages, written or unwritten, doors and gates give to people.  And their growing importance in our society today, as we become ever more security-conscious.   All sorts of deep thoughts about doors and gates!

 

My Warden here, for instance, has very impressive front gates, and I remember being nearly defeated by them the first time I tried to gain entry to the property.   The problem wasn't with the gates; the problem was with my gender; there is a clear notice telling visitors how to open the gates, but, of course, being a male, I never read instructions until I have failed at something at least three times!

 

But there's that same combination of door/gate and messages.  The Varsity door says, in effect, you can come in but you have to make a bit of an effort.   We might say you have to pull or push your way in.  My Warden's gate says you can come in, but you have to use a bit of intelligence.   You have to read the instructions, understand them and even follow them if you want to get through the gates.

 

In some cases, of course, the message is quite clear.  The padlocked gate with the words, PRIVATE PROPERTY – KEEP OUT, or TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED doesn't leave much room for doubt.   No matter how physically or mentally able we are, we're not welcome.  And in between the two extremes of welcome and unwelcome, there are a whole range of more ambiguous possibilities.   The property we bought recently has a sign that says "Please shut the gate".  It's a bit of a puzzle to me because it's on the outside of the gate, but not on the inside, so unless you come out backwards you're unlikely to see it.

 

Then there are the warning notices, "Beware of the Dog" being the obvious example; or the variant near the vicarage that says, in ruder language than I'm going to use, "Never mind the Dog – beware of the kids"!   And my all-time favourite, which I came across in a lift some years ago, read "Please don't exit the lift until the doors are open."

 

Gates and doors are necessarily ambiguous.  They serve two opposite purposes.   When they are open they let people in or out.  When they are closed they are intended as a barrier, to exclude people.  They serve as markers – the meeting point of the public and the private domain.   In a sense, every door or gate is a drafting-gate; the occupant's hand is, as it were, on the drafting-gate, deciding who can and who cannot come into the fold.   Who can come into our own private space?  Those we know and love, certainly, but what about the stranger, the vagabond, the beggar at our gate?   What are we to do about them?

 

Our gospel story this morning challenges us to think very clearly about questions of this kind.  It's typical of the stories only St Luke has – that's why he is by far the most troublesome of the gospel writers.   As always he draws his picture vividly.  He may or may not have had in mind the passage from Amos we had this morning.   He certainly has the same satirical edge that Amos is famous for.  He describes this unnamed rich man living in luxurious splendour.  For some reason he is fixated on the rich man's fine clothes – he's dressed in purple and fine linen.  (I'll refrain from observing that he sounds like a bishop in full regalia.)

 

The critical point for the storyline is that this man has a gate.  Let's pause for a moment and picture that gate.   How high might it be?  Is it wide or narrow?  What's it made of?  Does it have a notice or sign on it?  If so, what might it say?  St Luke doesn't tell us any of these details, of course, but we can imagine a fairly imposing gate.

 

What St Luke does tell us is that outside the gate there is a beggar.  A crippled beggar, it seems, because he was "laid there".   Someone placed him outside the rich man's gate.  We can guess why.  But how do we feel about that?   How would we feel if a street collector parked themselves at our gate and rattled their tine every time we went in or out?  At this stage, are our sympathies with the rich man or with the beggar?

 

The beggar's in a terrible state; he is covered in sores, which the local dogs lick.  That's a revolting thought, isn't it?   Where are our sympathies now?  Wholly with the beggar, or do we have some feeling for the rich man?  And talking of the rich man, did you notice what St Luke does not say?   I have heard people preach on this story and tell us that day after day this rich man ignored the plight of the needy beggar at his gate.  That may very well have been so, but that's not in the story as St Luke tells it.

 

As St Luke tells it there is a rich man, a gate, and a beggar.  That's all he says, before going on to say what happened when the two men died.   There is another omission, too.  St Luke doesn't name the rich man.  He doesn't tell us who he was, and he doesn't tell us what his attitude towards the beggar actually was.     He leaves us to fill in the gaps.  He invites us to put ourselves in the picture.  Which one are we?   Do we identify with the beggar at the gate – or with the rich man in the house?  Are we outside the gate or inside?   Do we want the gate opened or shut?

 

Today, here at St Barnabas, Warrington (in the Province of Otago!) Audrey and Alan, and Christine and Leslie, are bringing Jessica to a very important gate – in fact, to the most important gate of all.   In the material, physical world we might call it the Gateway of the Church.  In the spiritual realm we might call it the Gateway of Heaven.   It too has a sign on it with some words in large capitals.

 

It doesn't say "Pull" or "Push", which is just as well because Jessica is a bit young for that.  It doesn't have any instructions, which is just as well because Jessica is a bit young to read.   And she won't need a swipe-card, a PIN number or any other form of high-tech I.D.

 

The words on that gateway this morning, in very large capitals, read "WELCOME JESSICA".  And that gate will swing open for her at the very moment that she is baptised.   It will be opened for her from the inside.  At the very moment that the baptismal waters are sprinkled on her head so the Holy Spirit of God will come to her and the gateway will be opened.

 

Many people say that we enter heaven when we die.  Many people in the Church still believe that.   I don't know why.  That has never been the teaching of Scripture – it is certainly not the teaching of St John or St Paul.  We enter heaven through baptism.   The gate opens and there before us is the path of faith on which all the baptised are journeying towards the full presence of God.

 

We rejoice this morning that Jessica is to join us on that journey.  All glory and thanksgiving be to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.   Amen.