What Must I Do?

Texts: Deuteronomy 30:9-14; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37

The story is told of a young keen and rather zealous new Christian getting onto the tube in London, and finding himself in a compartment with only one other traveller. The other traveller was a grave looking man, a businessman, probably, for he was dressed in a suit, a dark overcoat and a bowler hat, and was reading The Financial Times.

The young man's zeal for the Lord could not be contained. He leant forward, pushed the man's newspaper to one side and said, "Excuse me sir, but I have an important question for you. Are you saved?" The businessman looked at him for a moment, then replied, "Fortunately for you, young man, I am."

That is a good example of how not to go about sharing our faith with others, and few of us Anglicans are likely to make that mistake. Our mistake is more likely to involve not being willing or able to discuss our faith with someone who asks us to. That won't do either. There is a very important little text hidden away in 1 Peter 3:15: Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect…

So my question this morning, picking up on this gospel reading is this. If someone – a family member, say, or a close friend, or (as happened to me once in my former existence) a colleague at work – were to ask you, "What must I do to be saved?" would you be able and willing to answer? I must confess that when it happened to me, I wasn't able to say anything that made sense to me, let alone to my inquiring colleague. She had asked me why she needed a Saviour – what did she need saving from? It's not the sort of question Parliamentary Counsel often asked each other, and I was defeated by it.

As I came to think about this question this week, I found a curious thing. I've been in full-time ministry now for about 17 years. During that time I can recall a number of people raising this question in respect of other people – my nephew asked me where my own father (his grandfather) had gone after he died. I can remember at least three people asking me about the eternal destination of their pets – always a tricky one as the object of the inquiry is the sort of dog I don't want on earth let alone in heaven.

But as far as I can remember, only one person has ever asked me as a priest about eternal life for herself. So perhaps we might like to start there. What do we believe for ourselves? When we have an answer to that question, perhaps we are on the way to being able to give an answer to anyone who asks us about salvation for them or their loved ones.

So let's have a look at today's readings. And let me say right away that I don't find the Old Testament lesson of tremendous use. It's link to the gospel reading is tenuous, to say the least. Perhaps the best I can draw from it is that we are not left in the dark. God has revealed his will for us and to us. We do not have to search the heavens or the earth to discover it: the word of God, says the author, is very near you: it is in your mouth and in your heart so that you may obey it.

Hmm. Is it that simple? There is one other thing in this passage that worries me even more. Not only are we assured that the word of God is within our reach (which, of course, is true), but the author also tells us that "it is not too difficult" for us. Well, if that's true, where's the problem? As my colleague asked me, what do we need a Saviour for or from?

Perhaps we should step back a moment and ask what we mean by salvation or eternal life. Again, if someone asks that it would be a fair enough question, wouldn't it? But what would our answer be? Well, St Paul, as always, is a reliable guide. Salvation is something about being in right relationship with God. God's purpose from the beginning has been to create a universe to receive his love and to love him in response. We have only to look around us – and in us – to know that all has not gone smoothly. Something has gone wrong in our relationship with God.

To use one of St Paul's favourite terms, "reconciliation" was required. And so we find in today's marvellous hymn of praise in his Letter to the Colossians the following description of Christ's role in salvation. St Paul says this: For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross.

What a huge amount there is in just those two verses – 39 words! If you want to know about the Christian understanding of salvation, start there. (And, incidentally, if you are looking for biblical grounds for the Doctrine of the Incarnation, start here, too.) What was going on in the Christ event? Our answer is that in Christ God was reconciling the whole of creation to himself – restoring the relationship between himself and his creation. God was doing for us something that we could not do for ourselves.

But why can't we do it for ourselves? If we know what is required of us – if it is within our reach – and if it is not too difficult for us, as the author of the Book of Deuteronomy claims, why can't we do it?

Which gets us to the Gospel reading. If anyone should be able to save himself it ought to be an expert in the Law. Yet that is precisely who comes to Jesus and asks that all-important question, 'what must I do to inherit eternal life?' Personally, I don't think we need to get too hung up on how he actually phrased the question. He could as easily have asked, 'what must I do to be saved?' So let this guy stand in for our hypothetical family member, friend or colleague who asks us a question of this kind, and see what we can learn from the way Jesus answers him.

And if we do that slowly and carefully, we will find some surprises. We know that at a later stage Jesus is going to tell one of his most famous and beloved parables. We know it and love it as the story of the Good Samaritan. It has passed into our language. We often refer to people who have gone out of their way to help others as 'good Samaritans'. I've heard the expression used more than once in the Mucking In programmes. And because we know and love the story our tendency is to jump straight to it, and overlook the fact that Jesus uses it to answer the lawyer's supplementary question, not his primary question. His primary question, remember, is not, 'who is my neighbour?' - but 'what must I do to inherit eternal life?'

And Jesus' answer is – or ought to be – a bit of a shocker to us; because, in effect, Jesus says that what the man must do to inherit eternal life is to obey the law. He doesn't say, believe in me, or follow me, or start going to church more often. He says, obey the law. And in some respects, that is what we are exhorted to do every Sunday when we are using today's liturgy. Turn back for a moment to page 406 of the Prayer Book and there it is. The Minister says, 'Hear the teaching of Christ', and reads the summary of the Law. That is exactly the summary that the lawyer recites to Jesus in this encounter. And what is Jesus' response? 'You have answered correctly,' Jesus replied. 'Do this and you will live.'

And here we are faced with an interesting little paradox. The lawyer, knowing the law, and (presumably) doing his best to keep the law, clearly believes that there must be more to eternal life than that; otherwise, what is the point of his question? On the other hand, Jesus, whom we think of as the embodiment of love and grace seems to be saying, no, there is nothing more to it than that. Keep the law and you will inherit eternal life.

It is when the lawyer tries to get into the detail that Jesus hits him with the story of the Good Samaritan. And, in a way, he hits us with it, too. Because the temptation for us is to take this story as meaning that we inherit eternal life through doing good deeds to those in need. In other words, we are back to a gospel of works, not grace. So we have a conundrum again. And in each case it is the same question: if we inherit eternal life by obeying the law, or if we inherit eternal life by being a good neighbour to all in need, where does Christ fit in? What is Eater all about?

Here's one clue before I finish. I think the key is St Paul's idea of reconciliation. What does that state of reconciliation between God and his creation look like? What does it involve? How does it come about in practice? How are we involved in it?

Could it not be that the law describes this state of reconciliation? That good neighbourliness towards all others describes this state of reconciliation, which can also be described as this state of salvation or eternal life? If we want to participate in it, to inherit it as the lawyer put it, then we should seek to shape our lives in that way.

And there's the rub. Despite what the author of Deuteronomy says, it is not easy. In fact, it is impossible for us to do it in our own strength. If your family member, friend or colleague believes he or she can do it, let him or her try for a month. And be ready when the month is up to speak about the saving grace of Christ and the empowering of the Holy Spirit. He or she might be ready to listen by then.

Just don't bother to try it with a stranger on a train.

The Meaning of Life

Texts: Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14, 2:18-23; Colossians 3:1-11; Luke 12:13-21

As I have said in the notes in the pewsheet today, of the four gospels, St Luke's is the one that puts the most emphasis on the whole issue of material wealth, and over the next two months or so he will keep bringing us back to the issue. He has the story of the rich young ruler told by Jesus to go and sell everything, and give the proceeds to the poor. He has the story of the rich man living in luxury in his house while ignoring the beggar at his gate. He has the somewhat strange story of the shrewd or dishonest servant who, losing his job for dishonesty, marks down the debts owed to his master, thereby winning the gratitude of the debtors. And he has today's story about the man whose harvest was too big for his barns.

And just in case we manage to wriggle out of these stories – convince ourselves that they don't really apply to us because we're not rich – he quotes Jesus saying this to the disciples: Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

And he didn't say this to a lone rich guy or two – he said this to his disciples. If we wish to follow Christ we cannot evade this issue of material wealth, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us feel. So how do we deal with it?

Well, let's leave St Luke for a moment, and have a look at one of the most entertaining books in the whole of the Old Testament, the Book of Ecclesiastes from which our first lesson is taken this morning. With the possible exception of the Song of Songs, this is probably the most surprising book in the whole collection, because, although it does include the odd 'nod to God', it contains very little theology. Mostly it is a depressive rant that can be summed up in language worthy of any moody teenager: "Life sucks!"

It's some time since I recommended some reading for a wet Sunday, so try this book. Read the whole thing: It's only got 12 chapters, and it's followed by the Song of Songs, so if you need cheering up you can just keep going! The author is usually called the Teacher, with a capital 'T', although he claims to have been the wisest king ever to sit on the throne of Israel. He is a bitter and disillusioned man. He has tried everything life has to offer, and he has found them all essentially meaningless.

Here is a classic example of his many complaints: I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure. My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labour. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after wind; nothing was gained under the sun.

Nothing made a real difference – nothing had lasting significance. And what is true of human life is equally true of the whole of creation. The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises. The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning to its course…. What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.

What do we make of all this? Do we find ourselves nodding sadly in agreement, or do we find the whole thing hugely funny? I ask that question because one of my happiest memories from a previous parish concerns one man's response to this book. We had a Disciple Bible study group there, and one of the attendees was a senior staffer in Treasury. When we got to this particular book, he had clearly never come across it before, and it delighted him. Usually a quiet, rather serious man, he frequently became convulsed with laughter as we worked through this text.

Apparently he was fantasising about using it to prepare replies to questions from his political masters. But the point is, I think, that he could see how completely the views of this book clashed with our cultural views today, at least in the circles in which he himself moved. What would happen to our national economy if we all embraced the point of view expressed by the Teacher in this book? Why work hard? Why increase productivity? Why train and re-train, study and up-skill? On the other hand, why spend all our time having fun, eating drinking and being merry? That, too, according to the Teacher, is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

In short, there is no sensible way to lead our human lives. Nothing makes sense in itself. Retail therapy, coffee, sport, sex, etc., may temporarily ease the pain; but at the end of our lives, looking back, what will there be of any true significance? And where all this leaves Kiwi-Saver, only Michael Cullen knows!

Well, we could go on having fun with this amazing book, but I want to defend it on the basis that it provides a wonderful critique of modern secular thinking. Although he seems to believe in God, the Teacher is really showing us what a godless human existence is like. Leave God out of the equation and we have to find our deepest value in something else. But in what? In making money? In winning sports trophies?

And at the back of all this is the fundamental question: does life make sense in itself? Or must it lead somewhere – must it have a goal or a direction – if it is to mean anything to us? At the heart of the Teacher's complaint is mortality – the belief that death is final. We work hard all our lives, we accumulate nice things, then we die and those nice things pass on to the next generation who has not had to work for them Where's the justice in that? Where's the sense?

It's time to bring St Luke back into the picture, because the 'hero' in today's passage is on the same track as the one the Teacher has been railing against. This guy seems to be a grain farmer of some kind; and one season he reaps an enormous harvest. And, as always with St Luke, be on the look out for clever details. Here are two. He says the ground of a certain rich man produced a good crop. He didn't produce the good crop, the ground produced it; so we're talking about gift, grace, blessing, etc. And the man is already rich before he receives this good crop.

Far from being grateful, this man sees this great bounty as posing a problem. He hasn't got enough storage space. What can he do? And, of course, he decides to rush around, tear down his present barns and build bigger and better ones. Those barns have been adequate for his purposes in the past, so the new ones must be more than adequate. In other words, his grain supplies are more than adequate to meet his needs.

So what is his plan for the surplus? To finance his future, so that he can "take life easy, eat, drink and be merry". This is his version of superannuation – he is the first person to set up his own Kiwi-Saver scheme. But then he drops dead and God says to him, You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?" There's the very question that bothers the Teacher, and if the gospel passage had finished there we would be no further advanced. But it doesn't; there's a new sting in the tail. "This is how it will be with those who store up things for themselves but are not rich towards God."

Today we are berated for spending too much on our credit cards, and told that instead we should save more for our future. Economically and financially that may make sense. But both are essentially self-centred. Whether we spend more on ourselves or save more for ourselves, we are still being generous to ourselves. What these readings tell us is that spending or saving in this way still leaves God out of the equation. Spending and saving both assume that this life is all there is.

That is the danger of wealth. It can lure us into becoming focussed on ourselves. What is best for me and my family? How can I improve things for me and them, how can I secure my future and theirs? These teachings raise deep questions of a different kind. In the coming weeks St Luke will make sure we ponder those deeper questions some more.

The Doctrine of the Yeti

Texts: Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-32; Romans 5:1-5; John 16:12-15

This is the tragic story of a man called Mikail Szearchov, a Bulgarian zoologist. As a young man he proved himself to be a brilliant scholar, able in all sciences, and eventually choosing to specialise in zoology. Within a few years he had risen through the academic ranks in his native Bulgaria, before being given a prestigious position in the Academy of Advance Sciences at Moscow University. A professor at the age of 29, he was soon talked of as a future candidate for a Nobel Prize. His future seemed assured.

But somewhere in his studies he came across an article about a strange new animal, known to us in the West as the yeti, or, more colloquially, the abominable snowman. He became intrigued, then fascinated, and, in the end, obsessed by the question of this animal's existence. Here, he felt, was a new and exciting challenge for him that would make his name once and for all.

He devoted all his spare time and an increasing amount of his academic time to thinking about this creature, studying all he could find on it, which wasn't much, and trying to devise a method of determining whether or not the evidence he had gleaned could be assembled in such a way as to prove or disprove the existence of the yeti. He organised field trips for his students in areas of possible sightings, training them to look for any possible clues of the presence of an animal of a kind not yet identified. Every footprint and trail, every animal dropping, every bit of hair or fur caught on a bush, was carefully studied, and only dropped from his inquiries when it had been positively identified as belonging to some known species.

Over the years his gut extinct that the yeti did in fact exist grew stronger, but being the great scientist he was he fought it off, determined to keep an open mind: his quest was to prove the existence or non-existence of the yeti once and for all.

At first, money was no object. The Russians at this time were strongly backing science, and particularly great scientists like Mikail Szearchov, hoping to reap much prestige in their competition with the West. But as year gave way to year, his funders began to become a little disillusioned and pushed him for results. Talking it over with some colleagues at the Academy, he came up with the idea of calling an international conference of all those working in the field in the hope that, by pooling their expertise, they may discover a way through.

The conference was not a success, it has to be said. First, because of the Cold War that was then at its height, no one from the West attended. About two hundred delegates from the Eastern Bloc attended; but to Mikail's dismay, there were almost as many views as there were attendees. And the ensuing debates were not exactly characterised by calm, dispassionate scientific analysis.

The first hint of trouble came on the first day when the chairman, a non-scientist appointed to the position by the Communist Party for inscrutable reasons of its own, included in his opening statement a reference to the yeti as "a mystery whom no man has ever seen". This provoked immediate objection from the leader of the Mongolian delegation, who insisted that, to the contrary, he had himself seen a yeti on many occasions, as, indeed, had many of his countrymen. This claim was immediately ridiculed by the cultural attaché and official interpreter of the Chinese delegation, who went on to tell the conference that it was well known in China that Mongolians were habitual liars and could not be trusted on any matter, scientific or otherwise.

In a desperate attempt to restore some semblance of order, Mikail urged the chairman to suggest that the delegates be divided into two groups, one group of those who believed that yetis had been sighted, and the other of those who did not. The chairman accepted this suggestion, and Mikail decided to go to the group of believers and listen to the 'evidence' put forward.

It was not a happy choice. In that group the arguments became even more fierce, each participant convinced that his version was right. Some said the yeti was like a bear, others said it was a member of the cat family. Some said it had thick fur, others that it was thinly covered in hair. Some said it walked upright on two strong legs, and had arms rather like humans, while others insisted that it ran on four legs of equal length and strength. They argued over where it lived, what it ate and whether it was a sociable or solitary animal.

History does not recall how long the conference lasted. Mikail himself had had enough after only two days, and went home bitterly disillusioned. He turned his interest away from the subject of the yeti, and went on to do some pioneering research into birth defects. But then came the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of the Cold War, and the lifting of travel restrictions. Mikail was offered a visiting scholar's position at Edinburgh University and jumped at the chance. And, as luck would have it, very soon after he took up residence in that beautiful Scottish city, he heard of a conference to be held in Geneva on….The Quest for the Yeti!

He was among the first to register. All that he had experienced of his fellow scientists at Edinburgh filled him with conviction that scientists in the West were open-minded, liberal, tolerant of one another's views, and keen to learn from one another. When the time came, he set off for Geneva with high hopes.

They were to be cruelly dashed, but not in the way of his previous experience. There was no boorishness, rudeness or offensiveness. No politically, nationally or racially motivated insults. Every speaker was listened to politely and rewarded with polite applause when he or she had finished. The programme included time for informal socialising and chatting, and this, too, was very low-key and without any semblance of irritation or animosity.

Naturally, the participants had different views on the various topics under discussion, but everyone was careful to acknowledge that they were just as open to the possibility of error as everybody else; and when the chairman pointed out in his closing remarks that all truths were equally valid, the applause could be heard four blocks away from the venue. When it was all over many delegates said it was the best conference they had attended for many years or even ever!

That was not Mikail's view. He had held his tongue, with extreme difficulty, for the four days of the conference; but when he was shown the draft communiqué that was to be issued from the conference, he could contain himself no longer. He was loud (and alone) in his dissent. He simply could not put his name to a document that said,

"As scientists working together for the good of humanity we affirm our belief that our unity with one another and our respect for one another is of the first importance. For four days we have worked, talked, lived and laughed together, wryly amused by the trivial matters on which we disagree, and warmed by the wider truth that we all joyfully embraced and by which we are in turn embraced. In that spirit we affirm the essential duality of truth, accepting that the yeti both exists and does not exist, has four legs yet two, has fur yet hair, lives here but there, is sociable yet solitary, and is exclusively vegetarian yet carnivorous."

That very evening Mikail resigned all his positions, and abandoned scientific research and study for ever. He turned, instead, to theology, and soon became intrigued, then fascinated, and finally obsessed by the Doctrine of the Trinity. He soon found a marked division between Eastern and Western Theology. In the East few doubted the existence of the Trinity, but fierce debate raged over the details. In the West there was little debate. Theologians were free to believe anything or nothing about the Trinity, and not even bishops seemed too concerned about it.

He's thinking of giving up theology in favour of macramé, or welding, or perhaps sumo wrestling. Anything really. What does it matter?

Signs of the Times

Texts: Jeremiah 23:23-29; Hebrews 11:29-12:2; Luke 12:49-56

This semester at Varsity I'm studying a paper called "Salvation in Christian Perspective". It looks at the whole idea of salvation within the Christian faith. What is salvation? Does it apply to everyone, or only to some people, and, if only to some, then who are the some? Who is saved? From what are they saved? How are they saved? And what's it all got to do with something that happened 2000 years ago? It's hard, fascinating and often frustrating stuff.

Part of the reason for this is that the New Testament itself seems to give us a variety of answers to some of these questions. The scholars talk of "models of atonement". There is, for instance, the model of the cross as victory. That on the cross a final battle was being waged between God in Christ and the devil, and that Christ was the victor, proven by his resurrection. He was victorious over sin, death and the devil. That's one model, and there is support for it in the Scriptures.

Other models focus on the judgment that sin brings on humanity. We are estranged from God because of our sin. Sin is so awful in the sight of the holy God that he cannot bear to look upon us. A penalty must be paid but we are incapable of paying it so Jesus pays it for us. He literally redeems us, buys our freedom, by his sacrificial death. That is another model – or a group of models – for which there is clear authority in the Scriptures.

Here's one more. It is said that in his life and death Jesus sets the example of the perfect human life. We look at him and are inspired to follow his example of love, no matter what the personal cost may be.

Well, how do we evaluate these models? One way is to ask ourselves what each model says about God. Is God involved in the model at all? Some critics suggest, for example, that the first and third models leave God out of the equation. In the victory model it sounds as if God's hands are tied. He wants to be reconciled with his creation but because of our sin he can't be. So his Son has to rescue him from that conundrum by dealing with our sin, for God's sake as much as our own. That can't be right, can it?

A similar criticism is sometimes made of the model of Christ as supreme example. If Christ does all the work here, what role does God have? And if we answer, ah, but Christ is God, then we can ask, how then can he give us mere human beings an example and expect us to be able to follow it?

Which leaves the middle model – the one that shows God as deeply offended by our human sin and demanding the payment of the debt we owe to him. This model has a number of variations but basically it puts justice, God's justice, at the top of the tree. It is said that God could not simply forgive us because that would be inconsistent with his justice. He had to find a way of forgiveness that at the same time meets the requirements of justice. His solution was to send his Son to take upon himself the sins of the world, to suffer death as the penalty for those sins, and then to forgive all those who pleaded Christ's death in their own defence.

That last approach has had centre stage, at least in Western theology, for many centuries now. It is the classical evangelical approach. We are saved by the blood – the sacrificial death - of Christ. But there have always been those who find that type of understanding repugnant. It seems to show, not a God of love, but a God of justice. Not a God of mercy and forgiveness, but an accountant God demanding payment in full of outstanding debts.

Worse still, it is said, it shows a violent God. A God who demands blood, and who is even prepared to go to the ends of killing his own Son to get it. Given our own human propensity for violence, including ghastly child abuse, do we really want a God like that?

And so the search is on for a model of atonement that does not involve divine violence; and one of those involved in this search is a Mennonite theologian called, J Denny Weaver. I don't know much about the Mennonites, but the one thing I do know about them is their commitment to pacifism – they are a peace church with a long and proud record of opposition to war. So we shouldn't be surprised that Dr Weaver is seeking what he calls a non-violent atonement.

And in his book of that name he gets of to a promising start. He reminds us that it is a fundamental teaching of the Christian faith that Jesus is the full revelation of God. If we want to know what God is like, we look at Jesus. God is like Christ, as a former Archbishop of Canterbury has famously put it, and in him there is no unchristlikeness at all.

So far so good. And, says Weaver, we look at the manner of Christ's life, his teaching and his death and we find that he is throughout thoroughly non-violent. He never resorted to violence in his own defence; he never used violence to overcome opposition or to achieve his own ends; and, of course, he taught his disciples to follow in his non-violent footsteps. Turn the other cheek, forgive over and over again, and love your enemies.

Again, all this sounds right. So, concludes Weaver, if Jesus is himself non-violent, the God whom he fully reveals must also be non-violent. We must therefore reject any model of atonement that shows God using or demanding any form of violence, including violence against his own Son. Jesus' death on the cross was, purely and simply, a criminal outrage committed by a bunch of human thugs protecting their own power. It was not willed or sanctioned in any way by God.

Great stuff – and very appealing! But as always in theology there is a problem in all this. What Weaver says about Christ's teaching is true, but it's only half the truth; and to see the other half we only have to think about his so-called judgment parables. And we only have to look at today's gospel reading. The blunt fact is that most of what we are told in the New Testament about God's wrath and judgment we learn from the gospels; not from the tough-minded St Paul, as his critics often complain, but from Jesus himself.

It was Jesus who told us, for example, the story of the unforgiving servant. Remember that guy? He was forgiven a huge debt by his master, but then insisted on the payment of a much smaller debt owed to him. When the master found out he was so angry with him he threw him in prison, revoked his waiver of the debt, and told the man he could rot in jail until he repaid every last cent. And what does Jesus say at the end of this story: This is how my heavenly father will treat each of you unless you forgive one another from your heart.

And then there is today's gospel reading. What are we to make of that? One commentator goes so far as to describe it as one of Jesus' mission statements. Jesus explains why he has come: I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled. What sort of image does that conjure up for us? Not a warm glow in a Yunca helping to overcome a brisk Otago winter, surely, but a raging bush fire sweeping across thousands of acres. It is an image of judgment.

Jesus has come to show us the way to God, and to warn us that the opposite way leads from God. It leads to disaster. Just as our experts tell us that our bad diets lead to diabetes and other health problems, and other experts tells us that our affluent lifestyle leads to environmental degradation, so Jesus is warning us that our damaged spiritual life leads away from God to a hell of our own making.

And, he says, the signs are all around us. What are those signs? Do we really need to have them spelt out for us before we recognise the spiritual malaise that is growing in this country? Increase in crime, in addiction, in depression and other mental illness, in teenage pregnancy and abortion, in pornography, in racial and ethnic tensions, in gross materialism? Are they not signs that something is seriously wrong with the path we're on? As the verse immediately following today's reading says: Why don't you judge for yourselves what is right?

Of course, the question remains, what has all this got to do with the cross? Well, we're only half way through the course. If we do discover the answer to that in the second half, I'll let you know in a later sermon.

Let Us Pray

Texts: Genesis 18:20-32; Colossians 2:6-19; Luke 11:1-13

We have some more very basic teaching today, as we continue to reflect on what it means to be a disciple or follower of Christ. We shouldn't be too surprised to find that one of the things it involves is prayer: one of the things we do as Christians is pray; we pray together in our services of worship, or in small groups, etc, and we pray by ourselves. But why do we do it? What is the point of praying – what does it achieve? Does it make any difference to the world or to ourselves?

All those are reasonable questions to ask, it seems to me, and many of us ask them from time to time. But there's a strange twist to this, because we tend to ask those questions of ourselves, individually. We don't ask other people for advice because we assume that other people don't experience the difficulties and doubts we have about our prayer life. As a priestly colleague of mine once put it at clergy school, there are two areas of life in which men suffered performance anxiety, and of the two prayer was the most troublesome for him!

So it may be reassuring for some of you this morning if I start off by saying that there have been occasions in my life when prayer has come easily and joyfully, and I have really felt that I was "getting somewhere" – but they have been more than off-set by long periods when I have wondered what on earth I'm doing, when I've been bored stiff, and when I have only been too pleased to be interrupted. I find regular prayer, sustained and sustaining prayer, real prayer, very difficult.

So over the years I have accumulated quite a few books on how to pray. Go into any Christian bookshop and you will find hundreds of them. There is a huge market for them, which, if nothing else, re-assures me that I am not the only one who finds prayer difficult sometimes. And, of course, the marvellous thing about reading books on prayer is that it takes the place of praying! If, like me, you're inclined to feel guilty if you haven't prayed for a while, reading a book on prayer seems to ease the guilt a little.

However, I have learned one or two things about prayer along the way – not from any of the books I have read, but from seeking the advice of people who pray regularly, and also from my own trials and errors. A spiritual director asked me once to recall one or two occasions on which I felt that I had been engaged in real prayer. Of course, once a lawyer, always a lawyer, so I asked him to define the term – what did he mean by real prayer? So he sent me away with some homework to do: he gave me a list of biblical passages to reflect on and to see if I could find any parallels with my own payer experience.

And one of those passages was the one we have as our first lesson this morning. When we read it or hear it, it doesn't sound like prayer – it sounds like a face-to-face encounter between Abraham and God, doesn't it? But hold on a minute – isn't that what prayer is? Isn't real prayer an encounter with God – a dialogue with God – a talking with God? So when we pray we need to be aware that we are in God's presence – face-to-face, as it were. That's a good starting point for real prayer. What else can this lesson teach us?

The second thing it can teach us is the subject matter of the prayer. What is Abraham praying to God about? Well, here's a bit of a shocker. Abraham is praying for his enemies. He is praying for the safety of the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. He can't bear the thought that those whole towns are about to be wiped off the face of the earth, so he's interceding for them. He's pleading for them. He cares passionately about them. So here's a second learning point about real prayer: real prayer occurs when we are passionately involved in it.

It's easy to pick up a Prayer Cycle, turn to the right day of the month, and say a formal prayer for the people of Madagascar, or wherever; and there's nothing wrong with that as a regular prayer practice, I hasten to add. But my own experience is that I feel most connected to God in prayer when I am passionately concerned about a matter on which I am praying.

And that ties in with the third point. This prayer of Abraham's today is pretty bold stuff, but far from being uniquely so. The Psalms are loaded with passionate prayers, as are the Books of the Prophets, where nothing is outside the realm of prayer. If the people praying are angry with God, they don't hold back; they tell him just how they feel. In other words, real prayer involves being real with God. Expressing our feelings to God, positive or negative.

So Abraham, the great man of faith, is also the great man of prayer. He knows how to be real with God – he knows how to be real in prayer. But there's one thing that is missing from this morning's lesson, and that's the outcome. Many of the popular books on prayer tell us to keep a prayer diary. We should note our requests and the date on which we make them, and then record the date on which they are 'answered'. These books are very strong on the concept of answered prayer, and often have a sort of trouble-shooting section where they grapple with 'unanswered' prayer.

Well, here's the thing. Abraham's prayer for Sodom and Gomorrah was not 'answered' – or, to be more accurate, it wasn't granted. Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed. A great man of faith prayed passionately for a very specific outcome, and the actual outcome was the complete opposite of what he wanted. What went wrong?

Perhaps we can find the answer to that question in our gospel reading this morning. Whatever else we can say about Abraham's prayer, it is intended to talk God out of his intended course of action. Abraham is trying to change God's mind. In other words, he is not asking that God's will be done, but that God's will be changed. That, it seems from the teaching Jesus gave to his disciples, is a no-no. What else can we learn from our gospel reading?

First of all, we should note that Jesus' own disciples feel something is missing from their own prayer practice. They have noticed that John the Baptist taught his disciples how to pray; so now they come to Jesus and ask him to teach them how to pray. And the first thing we should notice about his answer is that it starts with content, not technique. He doesn't say anything about posture, for example, or whether our eyes should be open or shut, or where we should pray, or how often and for how long. Jesus tells them and us what to pray, rather than how to pray. And to whom we should pray.

That last point may seem rather obvious, at least to those who didn't attend the Synod Eucharist in the Cathedral recently. Real prayer is addressed to God – not to the congregation; and therefore it starts reverently, in a way that is honouring to God. And it focuses on God's kingdom and God's will. We ask that his kingdom replace the chaos of the present world, that his will be done in the particular situation about which we are praying.

So here's another clue to real prayer. It involves discerning God's will in the particular circumstances of the here and now. Sometimes that will be clear to us, sometimes it won't be. What do we do when it isn't? Well, we pray; and here, I think, is a way of understanding these troublesome verses we have in our reading this morning. Verses 9 and 10 simply do not accord with our own experience of prayer if they mean that whatever we ask for will be granted. That was not Abraham's experience, and it has certainly not been mine.

But what if we are to understand the primary purpose of prayer as being to discern God's will? Then, perhaps, we're getting somewhere. Ask, seek, knock, and you will discover the will of God. Then you will know what to pray for – and what to do – in a particular situation. Maybe, too, that's why at the end of our passage this morning we are assured that what we will receive when we ask is the Holy Spirit.

So where are we so far? What is real prayer? Well, this is where I've got to, I think real prayer requires of me a conscious awareness that I am in the presence of God. I bring to that encounter something or someone about which or whom I have a passionate concern. I don't proceed to tell God what he should do about it; I ask God what his will is in this regard. Is there something required of me to facilitate God's will being done in this situation?

That's it, so far. It's not much for twenty years of trial and error. But it's probably more than I've got out of any book on prayer. Except, of course, the Bible.

Facing Opposition

Texts: 1 Kings 19:15-16, 19-21; Galatians 5:1, 13-25; Luke 9: 51-62

Today is Refugee Sunday; and in the amazing way that the Scriptures have of coming up with something relevant to anything that is going on in our society, one of the major themes that emerge from today's readings is what to do in the face of opposition. Do we run away and hide? Do we fight back? Do we give in – seek compromise and peace? Or is there some other way we can work through the problem of opposition.

And, of course, we are posing these questions to ourselves this morning as Christians: what is the Christian way of responding to opposition? Do our readings this morning offer us any guide on this matter? Well, I think they do, but let's stay with refugees for a moment.

New Zealand recently hosted a visit from perhaps the world' best known refugee, although I don't think I saw or heard any reference to his status as a refugee in any reports on his visit. I'm referring, of course, to the Dalai Lama, who fled Tibet after the Chinese take-over of the country. That was his response to opposition – he left the country; and, it could be said, he has had a fairly comfortable life ever since, being treated as a world statesman and wined and dined in the capitals of the world.

Less famous is Aung San Suu Kyi, who won a general election in Burma some years ago and has been under house arrest ever since. She has been offered a few deals over the years that would have secured her release, but she has turned them all down. She remains a prisoner, yet the leader of her followers and a symbol of hope for the future of her country. Like Nelson Mandela before her, she embodies a spirit of freedom even while kept in virtual solitary confinement.

So there are two responses to violent opposition – to take refuge elsewhere, and to attempt to orchestrate opposition from abroad; or to remain in prison and share in the suffering of your people.

Which gets us to Elijah. This morning we come in at the tail end of the marvellous story I always think of as the Battle of the Bonfires. You may remember how Elijah challenged the Prophets of Baal to see whether Baal or Yahweh was the most powerful God. Each side was to build a huge bonfire, and then pray to their God to set the thing on fire. Try as they might, the prophets could not get a spark from heaven to light their fire. Elijah, ever the great showman, poured water all over his fire, but, when he prayed, it burst into flames and he won a unanimous points victory, as we say.

But his victory celebrations turned nasty, as he slaughtered over four hundred of the losing side. Not a good career move – Queen Jezebel, the power in front of the throne of King Ahab, was a worshipper of Baal herself and took offence at Elijah's actions. So he is now facing royal (governmental) opposition. How does he respond? He goes into hiding – and he sinks into self-pity. It is in that frame of mind that he is again confronted by God, the God whom Elijah believes he has served so spectacularly well – with little to show for it.

What's to be done? Remain in hiding for a while and hope the Queen loses interest in him? Flee to another country, and try to rustle up opposition from outside the borders? Surrender, and if necessary become martyr for the cause?

He gets a decidedly mixed message from God. Far from encouraging Elijah to keep a low profile for a while, God sends him back into the fray; and how! God commands Elijah to anoint a new king to replace Ahab – not exactly the most conciliatory thing to do in the circumstances. And as if that were not bad enough, God also commands Elijah to anoint a successor for himself – Elisha. Not a lot of sentiment here, is there? The message to Elijah is not one of comfort and assurance: there's no suggestion of a pat on the back for services rendered and an offer of a contented retirement. Elijah is to continue to act in opposition to the King, and, because that is a dangerous road to travel, it's time to find a successor to carry on the work when he is 'gone'.

The message here, then, is that when a leader of God's people faces opposition, the leader must simply keep on going; and if it ends in death, well, no worry, there will be someone else ready to pick up the baton. That's tough stuff, and it has never been a very popular message inside the Church, let alone outside it. Self-preservation has always had wider appeal.

It certainly had for James and John. Our gospel reading starts with an interesting little insight into the way in which Jesus conducted his itinerant ministry. It seems that he sent some of his aides on ahead, to make any necessary arrangements, rather as famous visitors do today sometimes. Book halls, get the word out, arrange catering, that sort of thing.

James and John are on this sort of work on this occasion, and they meet opposition in a Samaritan village. The villagers want nothing to do with them ostensibly because they know that Jesus and his team are on the way to Jerusalem, and the Samaritans refuse transit rights to such travellers. James and John are not well pleased by the villagers' response. They report to Jesus; and possibly with Elijah's bonfire success in mind, they offer to call fire down from heaven to destroy the villagers. Today we might call it the scorched earth policy: destroy the village in order to save it.

Jesus' response is important – particularly in today's world. He didn't smile sweetly and thank them for the suggestion – he rebuked them. It's the same word used in the Scriptures for the rebuking of demonic spirits. Jesus treats the idea of nuking his enemies as demonic. That is not his way. He will not go where he is not welcome. St Luke finishes this account with a simple statement: "they went to another village".

But today's gospel teaching doesn't finish there. It goes on to tell us about three people who came to Jesus and expressed an interest in joining his band of followers. Each of them was rebuffed, and in terms that strike us as being rather harsh. To the first one Jesus warns about the lack of home and security that being a disciple of his brings. The second wanted to bury his father before signing up. In other words, he wanted to fulfil his cultural obligations before committing himself to follow Jesus. The third wanted time merely to say goodbye to his family.

To be frank, this strikes us as a bit harsh, doesn't it? Is it so terrible to want to attend to family matters, even to say goodbye to them? Isn't Jesus going a bit over the top here? Does he really want people to give up everything – even our families – for him? Isn't that too extreme, too fanatical? Don't we usually expect such whole of life, single-minded dedication to be reserved for a career, for farming, or building up a business, or becoming a top sportsperson? We admire the commitment of those people – and we understand when they eventually retire and explain that they are looking forward to spending more time with their families. But putting our faith before all other considerations?

As often happens, it's St Paul that offers they key to this puzzle this morning. He reminds us that in Christ we have been set free. We are free from all that binds us, whether that is the oppression of political leaders, the opposition of those who do not welcome us or our faith, family obligations or anything else that can stop us being true to our calling. When we face opposition we are to stand firm in the faith, seeking the guidance of the Spirit.

As fellow human beings we understand Elijah's feelings; we understand why James and John found retaliation so appealing. We understand the plight and flight of refugees, including the Dalai Lama, even though we admire those who stay and suffer with their people. In each case our human nature may well command similar thoughts and actions.

But it is precisely from the dictates of our human nature that we have been set free in Christ. We are free to choose another path. We are free to follow another voice. Do we go into hiding, or do we re-enter the fray? Do we go where we want to go, or only where we are welcome? Do we meet our commitments regardless of the cost to ourselves, or do we compromise to keep the peace? In each case, says St Paul, ask the Spirit. Go where the Spirit leads, do what the Spirit says. That is the freedom we have in Christ.

Very often there will be no conflict. In most cases the loving thing to do will be to meet the needs and wishes of family members. In most cases, following Jesus does not result in homelessness, or other deprivation. But if we find ourselves in that conflict, we need to stop and think and pray. The question then is not, what is the easiest thing to do? How can I keep the peace? But, what does the Spirit require of me?

That is not always an easy question to answer, but it is always the right question to ask. Becoming a Christian is about learning to live in this new-found freedom, and that can be scary.

Ask any refugee.