New Covenant—15 Sept 24 (was 16 Sept 18)
Mark 8
27 Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” 28 And they answered him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” 29 He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.”[h] 30 And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.
31 Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. 32 He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. 33 But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”
There is nothing quite like a good disguise.
And nowhere is this more obvious than in films. Think Tootsie (1982) where Dustin Hoffman plays a notoriously difficult actor who must dress as a woman in order to find work. Or Mrs. Doubtfire (1993), where Robin Williams plays a divorced father who dresses up as a nanny to spend time with his children. Or Some Like it Hot (1959), where Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon dress as women to escape the mob, or to lounge around with Marilyn Monroe. Or both, really.
And disguises, of course, are not limited to famous actors putting on dresses. In The Parent Trap (1961), twins Susan and Sharon (both played by Hayley Mills) meet at Miss Inch’s Summer Camp for Girls and discover that they are literally “twins separated at birth.” Adopting the same hairstyle and mannerisms they switch places, a simple but effective disguise.
And there is the disguise we also call “slumming.” A famous example is Sir Kenneth Branagh’s adaptation of Henry V (yes, I know it was a play before it was a film) where King Henry puts on the cloak of someone of lower rank and moves among his troops to learn how they feel about their king and the looming battle. He uses the not-very-convincing name Henry Leroy (literally French for Henry the king) and tells people he’s Welsh (well, he was once the Prince of Wales). I love the film, but recognize that it’s really just Sir Kenneth’s excuse to make the famous speech:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
That’s the closest I’ll ever get to the stage. I share all this because the reading I shared is all about disguises. Listen again:
On the way [Jesus] asked them, “Who do people say I am?”
They replied, “Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.”
“But what about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?” Peter answered, “You are the Messiah.” Jesus warned them not to tell anyone about him.
It’s an odd little exchange, really. It appears almost word-for-word in Matthew, Mark and Luke, with the only real difference being a sort of conclusion added in Matthew whereby Jesus rewards Peter with the “keys to the kingdom.” Otherwise, they maintain the dialogue we heard this morning. There is no parallel in John—where there seldom is—with John’s Jesus being more vocal about who he is through a series of “I am” statements familiar to us.
But in our passage, Jesus wants to know what people are saying about him. In some ways, the disciples become a sort of focus group, sharing the most common responses they have heard. The first most common response is also the most obvious: “Some say John the Baptist.”
Obvious, because Jesus and John the Baptist are together at the beginning of the gospels, John the Baptist baptizes Jesus, and John the Baptism even seems to help Jesus craft his early message (“I did not come to bring peace, but a sword”). Even Herod (who is responsible for the Baptist’s death) decided that Jesus is John the Baptist come back to life—which may say more about his remorse than any theological insight.
Others, the disciples then suggest, say Elijah. This suggestion is both logical and plausible: Elijah multiplied bread and oil for the widow of Zarephath, he raised her dead son to life, he confronted Baal in the same way Jesus confronted the Adversary. Elijah is even predicted to come at the last, “during the great and terrible day of the Lord.” The parallels are irresistible, and by the time Jesus is transfigured, Elijah will appear (with Moses) before Jesus in glory.
But he’s not John the Baptist and he’s not Elijah. We know this because the focus group continues, as Jesus—unsatisfied with the answers so far—says “yes, but who do you say that I am?” Peter speaks first and for the rest and says “You are the Christ.” Mark remembers it as “the Christ, son of the living God” and Luke simply “the Christ of God.” With this, Jesus says “tell no one.”
I can tell you that a lot of sermon ink has been spilled on this statement “tell no one.” Most often it’s the contrast to John, the Jesus who introduces himself as “the light of the world” or the “Good Shepherd” or “the way, the truth and the life.” It’s hard to overstate the contrast, but it’s also hard to discount John’s recollection, since so many of these “I am” statements have brought so many to faith in Jesus. So we live with the tension.
I can also tell you that “tell no one” is a vain hope. If the somewhat thick-headed disciples can figure it out, then so can everyone in the next row of followers, and those who experience some miracle or healing. The disguise becomes increasingly thin until it’s no longer a disguise at all. Near the end of Mark, as the trial begins, the High Priest examines Jesus and says “tell me, are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed One?” Jesus has finally embraced the spirit of John’s Gospel and says simply “I am.”
But the disguises will continue. Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener asking “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me, and I will get him.” Two disciples have an extended conversation with Jesus on the road to Emmaus, only recognizing him when he breaks the bread before the meal. And again, after his death, the disciples are fishing and he appears on the beach, saying “Friends, haven’t you any fish?” “No,” they say, and he encourages them to try fishing from the other side. Only in the context of the miraculous catch that follows, do they see it is Jesus, who then grills some fish and shares some bread and instructs them one last time.
And the disguises will continue. One of the most pervasive heresies in the early church was docetism, the belief that Jesus wasn’t really human at all, that it was merely ‘God-in-a-Jesus-costume’ that came to earth and walked among us. It seems a convincing way to explain all the miracles and all the wisdom, and it also became a simple way to explain the bodily resurrection: Jesus was never really here, just God visiting in the form of a man.
The problem with this idea was immediately obvious. It reduced the Christ-event to theatre, and it eliminated the vital link we have to God through the humanity of Jesus. It makes Good Friday, Easter and all the resurrection appearances false, along with the very identity of the Lord and Saviour that continues to walk with us down to today.
Most importantly, the heresy denied Jesus his humanness, the very means by which he experienced the pain of human living and the suffering we experience in the face of death. The deep well of pain that God holds is only present to us if Jesus knew pain, if he felt betrayal, if he drew a last breath, and returned to God with the totality of human suffering. He can only save us because he knows that from which we need to be saved. He can only forgive us if he experienced our failure first hand.
And the disguises never end. The famous passage in Hebrews says “Don’t forget to entertain strangers—for in doing so, some have entertained angels unawares.” In Matthew 25, we are reminded that what we do for the least and last we also do for Jesus, perhaps the verse that most animates those who serve and seek to see Christ in others.
Let’s do a for-instance, but first, I need to share a primary rule for preaching. In preaching, the preacher should never be the hero of the story. Anytime the preacher appears in the sermon it should be limited to ‘the valuable lesson I learned’ or that time I looked like a complete idiot. Examples abound. Some crafty ministers try to get around the rule by bragging about their congregations, so “hey look at me” becomes “hey look at us.” So I’m going to talk about my last congregation, but I’m going to talk about the time before I arrived—staying squarely within the rule.
Central United in Weston is located in the largest town that was overtaken by Toronto’s suburban sprawl. So by the 1950s the town was no longer a town, but a neighbourhood—albeit a unique one. It has an old “downtown” with rooming houses and payday lenders, ageing highrises, a fine collection of Victorian homes—surrounded by lots of sprawl. By the 90s a recession and the loss of some key employers in the area meant the homeless population was on the rise. By homeless, I mean the people who live some of the year in the ravine across the street; to the “couch surfers;” to those who are frequently evicted (for any number of reasons).
So that’s Weston—what about the church? Picture an old brick church, formerly Methodist, with an even older cemetery surrounding the church. In the 1920s, they decided they wanted tennis courts instead, so the cemetery had to go. By the 1950s they had enough of tennis, and decided to erect a gymnasium for the swelling crowd of young people. By the late 80s the young people were fewer in number, so they tore down the gym and built housing for low-income seniors. So, not afraid of change. And just when they were feeling really good about their apartment building, and a very tangible response to poverty, they took a harder look at the streets around the church. People were hungry.
Now, Weston already had a food bank, so they decided to serve a weekly meal instead. It felt like a small thing in the face of so much need, but something had to be done. Then they agreed to abide by one simple rule: that church volunteers would eat with the people they served. And this proved to be the decision that changed everything.
Members of the church learned firsthand that the unhoused and underhoused need expert help dealing with landlords and slumlords. A small grant was secured, and the first drop-in staff person was hired. This led to additional programming, and more grants, including hiring a harm reduction worker. Today, the centre is open six days a week, serving a warm meal each day, and offering support, informal counselling, and basic needs relating to harm reduction—clean needles, crack kits, and condoms—to name a few. The idea is that while you are in the grips of addiction you need protection from related harms—HIV, hepatitis, and the rest.
In other words, the congregation saw the needy—the hungry, the homeless, the addicted—but ended up in conversation with people in need. They heard stories that reminded them of their own lives—people living lives until some twist of fate led them to their current situation. Rather than simply helpers, they became students. And the people they helped were teachers in disguise. “Truly, I tell you,” Jesus said, “as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you also did it to me.”
Imagining everyone in need as perhaps Jesus in disguise is a revolution in thinking—it creates a realm of concern and empathy and it destroys the very human impulse to serve only kin and clan or those who can provide some sort of reward. It promotes our common humanity in a world that is sorely lacking in a sense of common humanity.
Seeing through the disguise becomes a way to meet Jesus—it becomes a spiritual encounter—and an act of faith that returns him to our midst once more.
May we find Jesus in everyone we meet. And may God bless every act of kindness, Amen.
New Covenant—1 September 2024 (was 2 Sept 2018)
Luke 12
22 He said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. 23 For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. 24 Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds! 25 And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?[a] 26 If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? 27 Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin;[b] yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. 28 But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith! 29 And do not keep striving for what you are to eat and what you are to drink, and do not keep worrying. 30 For it is the nations of the world that strive after all these things, and your Father knows that you need them. 31 Instead, strive for his[c] kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.
32 “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. 33 Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. 34 For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
If you’ve ever seen an old painting, there’s a good chance you’ve seen a religious painting.
For you see, there was a time (before the Renaissance of the fourteenth century) that almost everything painted had a religious theme. It helped that the church was the primary patron of the arts, but in general terms, religious themes were considered to be the only themes suitable for representation in art.
And even after this assumption changed, and people started painting the human figure for the sake of beauty alone, or some Roman ruin in nature, or some classical story or character—even after such a profound shift in subject—religious art was still being created. The Last Supper is a Renaissance painting, an obviously religious theme by a painter who was equally interested in showing his use of perspective and the brilliant way he could paint human figures. Ask Dan Brown, he’ll tell you.
According to the National Gallery in London, fully a third of their collection of Western art is religious in nature. And the topics are easy to predict: the crucifixion, the (aforementioned) Last Supper, and any story that involves a beautiful woman: David and Bathsheba, Susanna and the elders, Samson and Delilah. Perhaps the most popular—unsurprisingly—is the Madonna and Child, to the extent that I’m sure a third of the third of religious paintings in the National Gallery In London depict Mary holding the baby Jesus.
(Incredibly, I’ve only ever seen two paintings of Joseph with the baby Jesus, and they’re both at the San Antonio Museum of Art. Seems it’s a theme that occurs in Latin American art, and a pleasing one to this dad.)
So I’ve taken you on this brief tour of religious art to highlight a bit of an anomaly that relates to our reading this morning: there are very few paintings based in the Song of Solomon. Yes, by the nineteenth century painters like Dante Rossetti would try, and Marc Chagall some decades later, but by-and-large the Song of Solomon was ignored over the span of Western art.
Why would this be? The primary reason, it would seem, is the way the book has been viewed through the ages. From the time it was included in the Jewish Bible down to the modern era of biblical interpretation, it has been viewed as allegory. Not a story of desire between two lovers, not a story about Solomon and one of his many wives, not even a guidebook on how to woo your lover (though it does a good job at that)—but a story that points to something else altogether—in other words—an allegory.
And it would have to. This book of the Bible that doesn’t mention God, or the law, or the covenant, must have some larger, symbolic meaning—so the earliest thinkers settled on the relationship between God and humanity. Later, Christian theologians would clarify this belief and say it’s an allegory of the relationship between Christ and his church, but the view is the same: a story about the passion God has for us and the passion we are urged to return.
I think you can see the issue for the visual artist. You could paint lovers or various creatures described in the book, but it’s not really about that. If it’s an allegory of mutual love between Creator and creature, that’s something that is hard to represent on a canvas. I think there may be a way—or at least I may have uncovered one way—but before we look at that, we should spend a bit more time on the Song of Solomon.
I used the word “story,” but even that is a little misleading. It’s not a story in the sense that it has a plot or a series of events. It’s more of a dialogue between lovers, a “celebration of love,” and a loose collection of moments (according to one scholar) of “passion, descriptions of physical beauty, memories of past encounters, and longing for the lover's presence.”*
It’s more like a collection of scenes, meant to evoke a sense of the passion and mutuality that exists between these lovers. Let’s listen in again:
8 Listen! My beloved!
Look! Here he comes,
leaping across the mountains,
bounding over the hills.
9 My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag.
Look! There he stands behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
peering through the lattice.
10 My beloved spoke and said to me,
“Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, come with me.
11 See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
12 Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
13 The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.”
We can hear the passion and the mutuality, but there is something else. A few verses later she says “My beloved is mine and I am his,” (2.16) which adds the virtue of fidelity, the abiding sense that these lovers will remain faithful within the sensuousness of the place they find themselves. Suddenly, this is starting to sound like a wedding homily, but there’s more.
Just a few chapters later, she picks up this theme again, but restates it to say “I am my beloved's, and his desire is for me.” (7.10) According to Dr. Ellen Davis, this is a critical moment in scripture, a moment when this confident woman has reversed the curse found in the Book of Genesis. Davis explains it this way: After the fall, Eve is punished for her disobedience and God says "your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.” And human history would seem to bear this out. But within the Song of Solomon, comes the reversal: “I am my beloved's, and his desire is for me.”
In other words, there is something in these words that returns these lovers to the Garden of Eden, repairing the rift that begins with forbidden fruit and restores them once more to equality and mutuality. Add to that the abundance of nature in our passage—flowers, cooing doves, the early fruit of the fig tree, and the fragrance of the vine—and we are transported to another theme in art that seems to locate our lovers once more: the peaceable kingdom.
The Peaceable Kingdom (already teasing your imagination up there on the screen) is a common theme in art—Edward Hicks painted this painting at least 62 times! The theme is most often associated with Isaiah 11: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.” It’s the same chapter where we find the Jesse tree, another frequent theme in early Christian art, making a link between King David and Jesus.
Hicks’ paintings often included settlers and their First Nations neighbours, or groups of Quakers (from his tradition) or simply the abundance of the natural world. In some ways it’s about a return to Eden, like the Song of Solomon, but it’s also about the age to come. It’s a glimpse of what God intends for us, and what God will provide in the fulfilment of time.
Before I continue, I want to pause for a minute or two over that little scene on the left hand side of the painting. As I said, Hicks often included this particular assembly in his paintings, a representation of William Penn and his fellow Quakers meeting members of the Lenape tribe, also known as the Delaware. It fits with the general theme of the painting. William Penn’s well-known respect for the first inhabitants of the colony (and his fair dealing) was worthy of a canvas that portrayed the lion and the wolf and the lamb together, and children sitting safely among wild beasts.
Sadly, the symbolism ended a generation after the meeting Hicks shows us. Penn’s sons, and unscrupulous land agents perpetrated one of the most infamous frauds in American history, the so-called Walking Treaty of 1737. An early (and forged) document was presented to the Lenape people, revealing a “newly discovered” treaty between the elder Penn and their indigenous forebears. It allowed the settlers to claim the amount of land a man could walk in a day-and-a-half. So out of respect for the late William Penn, the Lenape agreed.
Early on the first morning of the “walk,” the Lenape knew they were being swindled. Paths were cleared for miles, and fast runners were hired to head west as part of a well-planned relay. 36 hours later, the government managed to secure over a million acres of land, forcing the Lenape from their ancestral home. By the time Hicks was painting the Peaceable Kingdom, the Lenape had been on the move for over a century, forced further and further west by white settlers. Part of the genius of Hick’s painting is to add a note of discord—to remind the viewer that human failure is ever-present, and can test God’s great wish that we return to the garden.**
And in this sense, we’re back to allegory. If the Song of Songs is about God and humanity, or Christ and his church, then what we’re shown in the book is the way things ought to be. Or the way things will be in the age to come. There is living with passion, there is mutuality and the respect we extend to the people around us, there is fidelity to the relationship and the future we share, and there is the abiding sense that we are not only loved but sought after.
And it’s this passion that holds the key. Imagine each day God says to us “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me.” See the world as I wish it to be. See the world beyond human failure. See the others among my beloved who are doing my work, remaking the world as we speak, bringing together heaven and earth. “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me,” and see the peaceable kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. How can we resist?
Jesus said “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” How can we resist?
Then and now, Jesus knows us better than we know ourselves. And since he knows us better than we know ourselves, he first presents a kingdom without worry: worry about the span of your life; worry about the latest fad diet and that stubborn “final fifteen” you doctor never fails to mention; worry about your wardrobe, and that clever trick of keeping clothing long enough for them to become fashionable again. ‘Consider the egret,’ he says, or the pelican, or the sandhall crane: they neither sow nor reap, yet they don’t have a cupboard full of cans for hurricane season. Instead, God feeds them, all of them, even the Muscovy ducks, birds only a mother can love. “Can anyone by worrying,” Jesus asked, “add a single hour to the span of your life?”
Consider the Coreopsis—they neither spin nor toil—and even Solomon didn’t have a state flower as lovely as these! We need to do less striving and less worrying and strive instead for God’s kingdom—for where our passion is, there our heart will be also.
God would have us paint our own peaceable kingdom: a kingdom of fidelity and mutuality, a kingdom where needs are met and troubles are few. A kingdom where our first thought is for others and the world God made. A kingdom where we learn from our mistakes and gently help others do the same. A kingdom where the canvas is filled with love: hard to paint but easy to see, and easy to share, and should be easy to accept.
“Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me,” and see the peaceable kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. Amen.
*Kathryn M. Schifferdecker (workingpreacher.org)
**https://hiddencityphila.org/2019/08/philadelphias-forgotten-forebears-how-pennsylvania-erased-the-lenape-from-local-history/
New Covenant—18 August 24 (was 25 May 13)
Luke 9
But while they were all marveling at everything he did, he said to his disciples, 44 “Let these words sink into your ears; for the Son of man is to be delivered into the hands of men.” 45 But they did not understand this saying, and it was concealed from them, that they should not perceive it; and they were afraid to ask him about this saying.
46 And an argument arose among them as to which of them was the greatest. 47 But when Jesus perceived the thought of their hearts, he took a child and put him by his side, 48 and said to them, “Whoever receives this child in my name receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me; for he who is least among you all is the one who is great.”
49 John answered, “Master, we saw a man casting out demons in your name, and we forbade him, because he does not follow with us.” 50 But Jesus said to him, “Do not forbid him; for he that is not against you is for you.”
51 When the days drew near for him to be received up,[b] he set his face to go to Jerusalem.[c] 52 And he sent messengers ahead of him, who went and entered a village of the Samaritans, to make ready for him; 53 but the people would not receive him, because his face was set toward Jerusalem.[d] 54 And when his disciples James and John saw it, they said, “Lord, do you want us to bid fire come down from heaven and consume them?”[e] 55 But he turned and rebuked them.[f] 56 And they went on to another village.
The weekend of my ordination, my parent’s house was hit by lightning.
Yes, I was staying there, and no, I didn’t interpret it as a commentary on my ordination. And yes, the TV and the VCR were fried, but no, I didn’t take it as a sign to give up television. Yes, my parents were annoyed, but no, they didn’t avoid the ordination service and the threat of further lightning strikes.
33 years ago, in what now seems like some sort of child-ordination program, I prepared to serve the church. Years of training, of course, didn’t mitigate the foolish thoughts that ran through my head as the service unfolded.
Let’s start with baptism. I wondered: If I splash someone in the pool, have I just baptized them? That’s so cool! Splash! Christian! Imagine the pool party where someone says “Pastor, I’m really on the fence about this whole baptism thing and you say ‘aw, c’mon.’” Oops.
Maybe I was daydreaming about Section 176 of the Criminal Code of Canada. Now you’re curious! It’s unlawful to interfere with a minister on her or his way to perform a sacred duty. Instead of lame excuses when the officer asks how fast you were going, you get to make a citizen’s arrest! How cool is that?
Or daydreaming about being on the cusp of such a great adventure: imagining a new stage in life and a new church and new people, and then foolishly believing that I could somehow lead a church without being the leader (I’m gonna say more about this in a minute).
But mostly—on that day—I felt blessed. Foolish, certainly, anxious about lightning, maybe, but mostly blessed: blessed by teachers and elders who walked the long journey at my side, blessed to be affirmed by wise sisters and brothers, and blessed by the opportunity to serve the God that is the source of all blessing.
But before I continue my look at foolishness and leadership, I should caution you that everything I say about serving the church applies to you too. Luther was pretty clear that we’re all priests, we minister to each other, and we help each follow Christ. We’re the leaders God needs, even as we seek to be faithful followers of the Way. It’s the paradox at the heart of our faith: we follow as we lead, and we lead while we follow.
And while we’re on the topic of foolishness and becoming leaders, it might be time to take a hard look at the disciples. But just before we dig into Luke 9, I might set the stage by giving you three handy rules of thumb that apply to stories like these, and may aid in our understanding.
The first rule is that we are heirs of the disciples. Since we inherited this church and can claim our lineage back through time from believer to believer, we are direct heirs. So whenever we read about the disciples—wise or foolish—we are reading about ourselves. It is both helpful and humbling.
The second rule is that whenever you set about peeling back the layers of tradition, and whenever you seek to identify what might be more authentic or more relevant to our life together, start with the places where main characters look bad. If authors and editors overlooked the ‘optics’ of certain words and deeds, and highlighted them for us, pay attention to what we may learn.
The third is a little more philosophical, but it is important to acknowledge that the strength of the Judeo-Christian tradition is the extent to which there is no whitewash, and no attempt to present ‘the greats’ of the Bible in the best possible light. And thank God for that, since much that we learn from the disciples borders somewhere between ‘cautionary tale’ and ‘don’t try this at home.’
Just one more thing before Luke 9, another frame to understand the importance of this passage. MBA graduates in the crowd, maybe trying to keep it on the q.t., will tell you that business schools use ‘case studies’ to share insights because they most accurately reflect the kinds of situations that may confront the student later on. So we can think of Luke 9 as an extended case study, in four parts, on what NOT to do in leadership.
(Just as an aside, I learned this from reading a book called “The Ten-Day MBA,” a book that cost me $15. If you spent thousands on your MBA, and I spent $15, you have to wonder who’s the better businessperson.)
Part one of our case study is a simple one, with Jesus insisting they listen carefully (another giveaway that something important is coming) then he says “The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of others.” Now Luke tells us they didn’t have a hot clue what this meant, and were afraid to ask. It’s not the most dramatic lesson in leadership, but it’s a lesson nonetheless: If you don’t understand, ask.
The second part of our case study begins with the very familiar words: “An argument started among the disciples as to which of them would be the greatest.” If you would permit me to give you a little glimpse into the secret life of ministers, this argument continues. And it is both tiresome and seemingly never-ending, and never settles as quickly or neatly as Jesus’ object-lesson: the one that involves a little child and the abiding knowledge that the little ones are the spiritual all-stars, and not those with titles and degrees.
The third part of our case study ranks high in the ‘teachable moment’ category of the Bible, and if we take it seriously, may just save the world. The conversation goes like this:
“Teacher,” John said, “we saw someone driving out demons in your name and we tried to stop him, because he is not one of us.”
“Do not stop him,” Jesus said, “for whoever is not against you is for you.”
So that’s the Jesus Doctrine—’for whoever is not against you is for you’—which is never to be confused with another doctrine, famously summarized by someone who said: “Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.” I don’t think it takes a geopolitical theorist or a moral theologian to see which way leads to life, and which way ends in disaster.
The fourth and final part of this case study concerns a certain Samaritan village that got wind that Jesus was coming and shut the village gates. The disciples were miffed, and two went to Jesus with a suggestion that might better be left off your conflict resolution strategy list: “Lord, do you want us to call down fire from heaven and destroy them?” We call this the smoting strategy, and it seldom works.
How uncomfortable when the Bible names names. Yes, James and John, we mean you, with your supposed ‘call down fire’ ability. They will never live this one down, but I would argue it was not their fault. Maybe they spent too much thinking they had the kind of power Jesus had. Maybe they were in the back of the boat mumbling under their breath “yeah, storm, be still.” But only Jesus had power over nature, because he is God. Jesus is God and we are not, nor are James and John, something they learned the hard way—with a rebuke.
So our catalog of leadership lessons might read something like this:
Leaders ask questions, and may in fact spend more time asking questions than giving answers, because the best insights and the most growth comes from helping others find the answers themselves, and therefore we ask questions.
Leaders let go of the desire to be great, and in doing so, may just be regarded as great. And the reverse is also true: the leader that is willing to look foolish, and make mistakes, and describe those mistakes to others, will have a most lasting impact—much more than those dedicated to appearing in the best possible light on every occasion. After all, our faith is based on the principle that we are all redeemed sinners, forgiven and therefore better equipped to forgive.
Leaders try to see everyone as an ally, with something to share or something to give. Great leaders can begin to see everyone as a sister or brother, sharing a common humanity, but this enters the territory of mystics and saints, and we’re simply trying to be good leaders.
Leaders recognize that God is God and we are not. We will foolishly set about to create things and transform things and redeem things, when clearly this is God’s work. It is God that inclines the heart to pray, and it is God who gives birth to possibility and new life, and it is our job as disciples and leaders to name it and celebrate it and praise God for it.
Finally, leaders overcome the very natural impulse to say “oh, I couldn’t be the leader,” or “there are many others more suited to leadership.” Long ago, when I went to school, leadership was seldom discussed and considered somewhere between passé and dangerous. Leaders were seen to take charge, push their own agenda, speak louder and longer than everyone else. For this reason we largely abandoned the study of what it meant to be a leader in a congregation and in the community, and by this we were diminished.
Luckily for us, the quest to define good leadership has returned, and in the spirit of Jesus and his great reversals, we have discovered that leadership has less to do with strength and more to do with foolishness. There is the foolishness of the disciples, the kind that gives us permission to make all the mistakes they made and still become the leaders that can grow a church. That’s the first kind. And there is the kind of foolishness that is foolishness in the world’s eyes, the kind of foolishness that allows us to embrace God’s wisdom as we reject the wisdom of the world.
It was foolishness that compelled Paul and Silas to stand their ground, even as the prison door fell open, because their jailer needed to hear words of new life.
It was foolishness that compelled Rosa Parks to remain in her seat, so utterly convinced of her dignity and her humanity that she would endure any cost.
It was foolishness that allowed Nelson Mandela, from his cell on Robben Island, to imagine a new South Africa based on truth and reconciliation.
And it is foolishness that compels us to worship and pray and advocate for the very people the world seems to have discarded, not because we have to, but because we want to. To love and serve God can’t be subject to a cost-benefit analysis or demonstrate a return on investment, and will therefore remain a counter-cultural act, and thank God for that.
I want to conclude with a couple of stories of leadership: one far away and one (for me) closer to home.
I begin with the last time a group of Cardinals made an unlikely choice and the world took notice: that would be John XXIII. On Christmas day, 1958, shortly after his election, Pope John decided to visit a children’s hospital. To our ears this doesn’t seem extraordinary, but it becomes extraordinary when you consider that in 1958 a pope hadn’t left the Vatican (after his election) in 88 years. Needless to say, the staff were ill-prepared.
Never one to rest, the next day he decided to visit a prison. The staff were beside themselves. But the pope is the pope and so they went along. He began the visit in his own particular way when he said to the prisoners (with a big smile), "You couldn’t come to me, so I came to you." And just to torment his staff some more, he asked to be let into the cell of a convicted murderer. Inside, the somewhat surprised prisoner asked “Father, can there be forgiveness for even me?” Pope John gave the man a hug.
The other story describes the highlight of my young life—one that didn’t involve dodging lightning bolts—namely a trip to my denomination’s national convention. (You’re thinking ‘wow, that guy’s a church geek’).
Few of us travelling to Sudbury in 1986 had a sense of the momentous decision before the convention, or the extent to which offering that first apology to Canada’s Native population would transform our denomination’s sense of itself.
And almost equally momentous was the process to get to the apology, for the Moderator and the other leaders suggested the decision be reached by consensus, rather than voting. Seems simple enough in theory, of course: take a group of people, discuss a matter at length, ask them throughout the day ‘can you live with this?‘ until everyone is on side.
It made perfect sense to begin this journey of reconciliation with a decision-making method given to church by the very people that we were seeking to apologize to, and it displayed a beautiful foolishness to imagine it could be done with 400 delegates in the room.
By the end of a very long day, a long day of the Moderator asking and re-asking if the Commissioners could live with the decision, there were only three holdouts, three of 400 who couldn’t get there by consensus. The court moved to a vote, and it was at that moment that our Native sisters and brothers decided to leave the meeting, and leave Commissioners to the up or down vote that comes when consensus fails.
All stood as our friends left, and in the silence (and the sadness) of that moment, someone—off in the corner of the room—started to hum “Amazing Grace.” One by one others joined in—humming and not singing—until the sound filled the room. Commissioners voted through tears to make an apology.
Lawyers hate it when organizations make apologies—too risky, they say—but the most beautifully foolish ones do it anyway. Churches lead when they ignore the risks and opt instead for amazing grace.
May God bless each of us, leading and following in the most foolish way possible: through selfless love, with compassion, and prioritizing what the world struggles to understand. Amen.
New Covenant—21 July 2024 (was 5 Jan 2020)
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
30 The apostles gathered around Jesus, and told him all that they had done and taught. 31 He said to them, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat. 32 And they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves. 33 Now many saw them going and recognized them, and they hurried there on foot from all the towns and arrived ahead of them. 34 As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things. 53 When they had crossed over, they came to land at Gennesaret and moored the boat. 54 When they got out of the boat, people at once recognized him, 55 and rushed about that whole region and began to bring the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was. 56 And wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.
It’s 35 in the shade and Canadians are worried. You see, when I tell people back home that it’s 35 degrees out they imagine it’s like that fiery scene at the end of Indiana Jones when the evil French guy opens the Ark of the Covenant. Here, when I slip up and say it’s 35 in the shade I get some very puzzled looks, then eventual recognition, followed by a request like “Can you give me that temperature in American?”
Luckily, I’m thermally bilingual, so I can make that conversion. Actually, you can too: it’s the temperature in Celcius multiplied by 1.8 plus 32. Voila, the temperature in Freedom Degrees.
But it didn’t have to be this way. In fact, it wasn’t: in 1975 President Ford signed into law The Metric Conversion Act making the US one more happy nation with metres, kilograms, and temperatures that make sense to the rest of humanity. But there was one hitch: it was purely voluntary. Seems no one wanted a half-kilo of butter or 3.7 litres of milk. They didn’t want to drive at 120 (maybe they did), and they didn’t want their water to freeze at zero. In Canada, all the signs changed overnight, milk appeared in litre bags (ask me later), and the weatherman explained why 25 degrees is the best day ever.
I’m going to save for another day the story of how we launched one and two-dollar coins with barely a whimper, why we cheerfully pay our taxes, and why we dearly love being governed. There’s obviously more to Canada than litres of overpriced maple syrup, but it’s time to move on.
I share all this with you today because there are always things that are foreign to us, but known to others. Or things that we know well, but completely foreign to others. Like, for example, going to church. So far today it’s narthex, sanctuary, bulletin, pews, announcements, invocation, adoration and praise, and the Lord’s Prayer...I think you get the picture. And if you give this list to someone who has never come to church before, you might lose them at narthex and a bunch of other words that don’t make a lot of sense with the exception of announcements. Everyone understands announcements.
Now, this isn’t an evangelism sermon (not yet)—I simply want you to understand the extent to which we are engaging in a slightly complex endeavour that will be unfamiliar to most. Actually, it’s slightly less than slightly, but I don’t think there is a word for that, so we’ll go with slightly. It’s not complicated like Metric, but it’s certainly unfamiliar (to many) in the same way.
So what do you do? Some churches (like this one) have tried to eliminate some “insider language” like narthex, and opted for foyer instead (that’s English for foyer). And I guess that’s okay to eliminate insider language, but part of the joy of joining something and having a new experience is learning. It’s certainly part of the appeal of meeting people from different cultures, or travelling to new places. The hope is that learning makes the experience more engaging, not less.
And if you take away all the insider or churchy words that describe rooms and rituals, can you stop there? What about words related to faith and belief, do you take them away too? Grace, redemption, salvation—are these words too churchy? I expect few would want to ditch grace, even though it’s an insider word that describes God’s unconditional love for us. It’s part of the learning curve of faith, as is the word faith, now that I mention it.
Speaking about faith, one of the ways we learn the faith is through reciting well-known prayers, singing hymns, or memorizing a catechism. A catechism—now that we’re confronting churchy words—is a form of instruction, usually in a question-and-answer format. If you learn a catechism, you are engaged in catechesis. The adjective is catechetical (you undertake catechetical instruction), which is not only fun to say, but an important step in a life of faith.
So why have we arrived at catechetical instruction, of all places? Well, because Ephesians said we should. St. Paul (or more likely someone writing in Paul’s name) wants to tell us about predestination, unity, and glory, more or less in that order, and he wants us to understand how unique we are—with something that is available to everyone. So let’s do first things first.
No one is predestined to win $300,000,000 on Tuesday, but buying a ticket will increase your odds—but not by much. Predestination doesn’t work that way, because if it did, we could point to any misfortune and say ‘that was their destiny,’ it was meant to be. In fact, it’s more complex than that. Misfortune, and even good fortune, comes from a mixture of external factors, sheer randomness, and the choices we make in life with the ever-present gift of freewill. We live in the tension between God’s control over our lives, and the extent to which we live in a complex collusion of human factors.
So what does Ephesians say? First, we are called to praise the God who chose us “before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight.” In other words, this is our destiny: to be holy and blameless. And just to be clear, he says it again: “In love, he predestined us for adoption through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will.” It is God’s desire (God’s will) that we be God’s children—not just to reflect what God wants, but for God’s pleasure.
In other words, we have been adopted as God’s children—this is our destiny—that we might be holy and blameless in the same way Jesus is holy and blameless. It brings God great pleasure to have this bond with us—in Christ, and to each other. And not just us, but all people, because there is no limit to this potential bond. And this takes us to unity, and what we are destined to experience together. Let’s listen again:
With all wisdom and understanding, God made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ, to be put into effect when the times reach their fulfillment—to bring unity to all things in heaven and on earth under Christ.
Again, reaching our destiny gives God pleasure, but in this case it’s a larger project than adoption, maybe the largest project of all—the end of time. Jesus prayed and said “thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” and his goal was unity, “unity to all things” in this world and the next. It is, therefore, God’s desire (and our destiny) that this realm and the heavenly realm be one, and we each experience the unity this implies.
The question that follows, of course, is what do we do in the meantime? What do we do while we wait for the fulfilment that will come at the end of time? And for that answer, we need some catechism. Perhaps the most famous (in the Presbyterian tradition) is called the Westminster Shorter Catechism, originally written for the instruction of children. This is perhaps why it’s so profound, profound in its clarity and simplicity. And the author of Ephesians would approve. The first question is all we need:
Q: What is the chief aim of humanity?
A: To glorify God and enjoy God each day.
It’s certainly simpler than the difference between metres, litres and kilos, and that’s no accident. The first question of the “shorter” catechism is meant to stick with you, to live in your heart and mind, to challenge and guide in the face of the everyday. So taken in reverse, do you enjoy God everyday? It is actually a tough question, but one worth pondering. If half of my purpose in life is to enjoy God each day, how will I do it?
Giving thanks—that’s a great place to start. It’s not the obligatory “thank you” that your mother made you say, but the ‘Thanks!” that you spontaneously say when someone does something really thoughtful for you, when you are really enjoying the gift. And then there is wonder, the enjoyment we find in the people we love, or the things we treasure, or the time we have been given. And then there is mystery: enjoying God’s grace, the inexplicable, inexpressible, and often undeserved love God has for us.
And to glorify God? First, we glorify God by living well, reflecting God’s glory in what we say and do. And second, we glorify God because God deserves our praise. God is the author of all that is, the source of love and mercy, the light in the darkness—but mere words cannot express the glory that surrounds us. And so, we become students of glory, seeking examples of God’s glory and seeking ways to express that glory. All in the light of Jesus the Christ.
I want to ponder this idea of being “students of glory” and to do it we should maybe take a look at our Gospel lesson. Listen to a couple of verses again:
Now many saw [Jesus and his disciples] going and recognized them, and they ran there on foot from all the towns and got there ahead of them. When he went ashore he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. And he began to teach them many things.
Of all the names given to Jesus, teacher seems to be the most common. And when it wasn’t teacher he was usually rabbi, which means teacher or master of the Torah. So the earthly Jesus is first a teacher, then we might say a healer, and then we might begin to add prophet. Later, the people around him will add Christ or Lord, but throughout his ministry he is the teacher. Whether it’s hill or plain, lakeside or even sitting in a boat, he is the teacher.
What did he teach? He taught them about the Kingdom. He taught them about the scriptures. He taught them about the One he called Abba or Father. And he taught them what happens when God visits humankind and all that God might suffer. And finally, on the cross, he taught them that God can forgive what we did—in our utter failure to embrace all that we were taught.
Yet the hunger remained. Like sheep without a shepherd, the people were hungry for a glimpse of something more, some sense that what we see is not the sum of all that is. Too often we imagine that sheep need to be led, or coerced into staying within the fold, and not become lost sheep. There may be something to that, but in this context the sheep are students, eager to learn, eager to escape life without a shepherd/teacher by their side.
Now, the eagle-eyed among you’ll say, “yes, preacher, he taught the crowds, but what the crowds really wanted was healing.” And you would be right. Our passage ends with sick people from across the region, gathered from the towns and villages, the marketplace and everywhere else they were found. And they were healed, but there was an oft-repeated phrase that takes us back to where we began: Jesus said some variation of “your faith has made you well.” That’s faith in Jesus, the faith that comes with learning.
When we understand what it means to be chosen by God, we are more open to the healing and wholeness God gives. When we accept that we are adopted, when we are one with the Most High, we can set aside the soul-sorrow that comes with separation from God. And when we learn our destiny, that heaven and earth be joined at the last, how much more will we be able to join in the healing of creation, and in doing so, be healed.
Chosen, adopted, destined—we seek to unify heaven and earth, and in doing so, give God the glory, now and ever. Amen.
New Covenant—2 June 2024 (was 19 August 2018)
Mark 2
23 One Sabbath Jesus was going through the grainfields, and as his disciples walked along, they began to pick some heads of grain. 24 The Pharisees said to him, “Look, why are they doing what is unlawful on the Sabbath?”
25 He answered, “Have you never read what David did when he and his companions were hungry and in need? 26 In the days of Abiathar the high priest, he entered the house of God and ate the consecrated bread, which is lawful only for priests to eat. And he also gave some to his companions.”
27 Then he said to them, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. 28 So the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath.”
Suddenly everyone wants feedback. Would you be willing to take a brief survey? Suddenly everyone is attacking my receipt with a Sharpie, insisting I scan the code and follow the link. Has anyone ever done this?
Nonetheless, feedback is good. We should all be seeking feedback, just without the annoying pop-ups and vague promises of future discounts. So, in the spirit of this, I asked my son to take a customer satisfaction survey. It went like this:
Me: Son, have I failed you in any way?
Son: You’re gonna need to be more specific.
Me: You know, things I forgot to tell you, or neglected to do.
Son: You want a list?
Seems I neglected to show him either Casablanca or The Shining. Didn’t see that coming. Also, (and I’m not making this up) I forgot to tell him that America is awesome. Now it just sounds like I’m pandering. But he wasn’t finished. I neglected to introduce him to the endless cycle of American elections, something he now takes perverse pleasure in. And then one last thing: I forgot to tell him that while driving in Florida, you should look both ways before proceeding on a green light—it seems the abundance of freedom here includes ignoring traffic lights (this is the public service announcement section of the sermon).
I’m not sure the satisfaction survey really worked. But it got me thinking, what did my parents neglect to share? Heck, why stop there, maybe everyone older than me has been keeping stuff back. Stuff like great quotes, little known facts, and historical tidbits that I’ll enjoy. Take, for example, the eminently quotable John F. Kennedy. President Kennedy collected quotes, shared quotes, and generated quotes in a way few presidents did.
And those of you old enough to remember President Kennedy have first hand knowledge of something I have only recently learned: He loved reversals, lines that take something and then turn it into something else. An example? I’ll ask you. What’s his most famous quote?
“Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”
It kind of defined the spirit of the age. The president challenged people to set aside narrow self-interest in favour of serving others. Oh, how times have changed. But let’s not dwell on that, let’s look instead at these great reversals that JFK loved and no one felt the need to share with me.
"The weapons of war must be abolished, before they abolish us."
“Our problems are man made—therefore, they can be solved by man."
“Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.”
“Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.”
"Together we shall save our planet, or together we shall perish in its flames."
I’m going to assume it’s something he picked up at Harvard, perhaps while reading the classics, since this type of reversal was quite popular among Greeks and Romans. It has a technical name, antimetabole (anti-meh-tab-oli), a device that allows new meaning from the reversal of (often) common words.
Take for example, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” See how the use of the word “tough” transforms from “hard times” to “people who can handle it.” So the linguistic trick is to employ the same words, but expand the meaning. Some have suggested that “When the going gets tough, the tough get going” was first said by Joe Kennedy, father of JFK, so perhaps the president found this linguistic habit a little closer to home.
And the technique doesn’t even need to be that complicated. Back to the first example (“Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”), all the president is doing is shifting the focus from selfish to selfless. He still reverses the words, but mostly seeks to create a comparison. And since the preferred option is usually presented last (“what you can do for your country”) it reinforces that this is the option to choose.
I share all of this because Jesus also favoured reversals—we find one in our passage:
27 Then he said to them, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.
It’s an antimetabole (anti-meh-tab-oli) of the more simple variety, reversing the same words, but in this case presented the preferred option first. In this way it seems to add authority. It fits with all the “verily, verily” passages, which continue “I say unto you...” followed by some important lesson.
So what does this sabbath lesson mean, and who on earth is Abiathar?
Maybe we’ll look at the second question first. We get to Abiathar through a field of grain, as Jesus and his disciples create some controversy picking grain on the sabbath. The Pharisees challenge them, and (as is his custom) Jesus offers them a lesson. Jesus recounts the (then) familiar story of David’s struggle with King Saul.
David is on the run from Saul, who considered him a rival for the throne. He shelters among the priests, and seeks food for himself and his men. The chief priest prays to the LORD for guidance, and is instructed to give the sacred bread of the priests to David and his companions (1 Samuel 22.10). Lacking weapons, David also asks for a sword, and the priest turns over a treasured relic, the very sword that David took from the giant Goliath years before, and the story continues.
The lesson Jesus points to is God’s willingness to overlook a hard-and-fast rule for the sake of David’s future. The story of Israel’s greatest king hinges on surviving this moment, and God provides. In other words, it’s God’s rule, and God may belay the rule if it conflicts with something else God hopes to achieve.
For the rule-driven, this kind of thing drives them mad. Why make a rule if you’re going to set the rule aside the first time some future king is in trouble? What’s the point of having capital L laws if they suddenly become optional? To this, Jesus would say something like “the sabbath law was made for humans, not humans for the sabbath law.”
In other words, observing the sabbath is supposed to improve our situation, not make it worse. If Jesus and his disciples are hungry, and David and his companions are hungry, why should following the law add to their burden? If the point of sabbath is renewal, how can hunger on the sabbath renew them?* Clearly, it can’t.
Just now you might be thinking “I’m not really a rule-bound person, but even I wonder at God’s willingness to make exceptions.” And I hear you, even if you’re just thinking to yourself. I wonder too at this subjective God, making and breaking rules to suit this or that need. And then I remember Exodus 32.
It’s one of my favourite scenes in the Ten Commandments. The Israelites roll out the Golden Calf, which in the film looks like a cross between a rabbit and whippet, painted gold, and paraded among the people. The narrator says the people were “perverse and crooked,” when it actually looks more like a country line-dancing.
Meanwhile, on Sinai, God fumes at their disobedience. Making another god to worship jumps to the top of the shall nots, and God says “look at what your people do. In my anger I will destroy them all and make you into a great nation instead.”
But Moses pushes back: “First of all, these are your people, the very people you just rescued from Egypt. Do you want the Egyptians to say ‘what kind of god would rescue the people only to kill them in the wilderness?’ I don’t think so. So turn from your anger and keep your promises, the promises you made to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”
And God relents. God’s subjectivity saves the Israelites—God’s willingness to turn aside from anger and forgive them the party and the whippet-rabbit cross. God’s subjectivity is based on the very practical principle that the law was made for us, we weren’t made for the law.
The law is meant to guide us, to temper our actions, direct our choices—not bind us to fail. If we were made for the law, our constant failure would eventually render the law void. Is a law even valid if no one is able to keep it? Jesus knew that keeping the sabbath (and all the other laws) were aspirational, goals for human living, and not the kind of legislation that would lead to our doom. We’re too broken for hard-and-fast, too human for the letter of the law.
But just as God’s law is aspirational, God’s forgiveness is aspirational too. God’s forgiveness is the signal that God sees more in us than we can see in ourselves. We know our limitations, but God sees beyond them to see what we can do. That includes what David and his companions can do, what the disciples can do, and ultimately what we can do—when we understand that we’re loved and forgiven.
So if I had to sum it up, I might say something like ‘you can’t have faith in God unless you accept that God has faith in you.’ You can quote me!
But before I invite you to follow the link to a 30-second survey, I should say a word or two about today. How does all of this work in 2024? I think we all know letter-of-the-law people, but I want to expand the concept, and try to locate it in our time and place.
But before I go on, we need to look back at 1140, and a sudden rash of heretics. I’m still reading Mark Gregory Pegg’s excellent history of the Middle Ages, and he pauses the narrative to puzzle over this emerging trend. Across Europe, accusations and counter-accusations came to the fore, something unseen since the fifth century. An entire class of Christian intellectuals suddenly became concerned that there were heretics hiding in every monastery, classroom, cathedral or village church.**
Obviously we’re familiar with sudden outbreaks of religious hysteria (we’re looking at you Salem), but this was different. Pegg’s conclusion about these thousands of accusations is that they were the outward sign of an early reformation—thinkers trying to reform the faith in the only way they knew how. By identifying and labelling heretics, the church was creating a greater sense of what constituted the true church of Christ.
Of course, Dr. Pegg’s not advocating, he’s explaining. Stepping back, what we’re really seeing is the neverending tension between factions of the same group, trying to define who’s pure. When we think of the Bible and purity we generally think of washing and eating, but purity also includes an overall sense of God’s desire. Who’s closest to the mark—the Pharisees or Jesus and his disciples? Again, it’s factions of the same group, and we’re left to decide who’s pure, who’s closest to the divine will.
Back to today, much of the tension we’ve witnessed in recent years ends up being a discussion (shouting match?) about purity. The same thing is happening in Canada, the same thing is happening in other parts of the world. Suddenly everyone else is a heretic, everyone else has become impure, everyone else has lost the plot. We live in a time of extremes and extremists, with the loudest and most aggressive voices trying to capture our attention. They lure us in, offering countless purity tests, urging us to set aside whatever we’re feeling in favour of rage.
Fortunately, these things pass. The non-reformation of the 12th century ended, the madness in Salem ended, and this era will end too. This is the gift of studying history. Eventually other voices entered the dialogue, insisting we listen rather than judge, consider rather than condemn, understand rather than stand apart. Setting aside the constant misuse of the idea, there is a “silent majority” that wants to live with others—not despite our differences, but because of our differences.
Just as ‘you can’t have faith in God unless you accept that God has faith in you,’ you can’t have faith in other people unless you accept that other people can have faith in you. At one time, we called this being neighbourly, as in ‘love your neighbour as yourself.’ We pray this day may return, in Jesus’ name, amen.
*Lamar Williamson
**Pegg, p. 282
