New Covenant—3 November 2024 (was 1 Nov 2020)
1 Thessalonians 2
9 Surely you remember, brothers and sisters, our toil and hardship; we worked night and day in order not to be a burden to anyone while we preached the gospel of God to you. 10 You are witnesses, and so is God, of how holy, righteous and blameless we were among you who believed. 11 For you know that we dealt with each of you as a father deals with his own children, 12 encouraging, comforting and urging you to live lives worthy of God, who calls you into his kingdom and glory.
13 And we also thank God continually because, when you received the word of God, which you heard from us, you accepted it not as a human word, but as it actually is, the word of God, which is indeed at work in you who believe.
I suspect my mother was a secret Catholic.
And while my evidence may be vague and a little flimsy, it remains a question in my mind. My suspicion began with the purchase of a late 70s Corolla, used, brown in colour with a beige vinyl roof. Already you find this story troubling, and that’s before you sit inside. For there, in the middle of the dashboard, was a small ornament, like a little coin on a pedestal.
So I say: Mother, what is that?
Mother: That’s St. Christopher, patron saint of travellers.
Me: But you’re not Catholic.
Mother: I know, but he’s the patron saint of travellers.
Me: You’re just gonna leave it there, aren’t you?
Mother: Of course.
It was only later that I learned that St. Christopher had been demoted—maybe reassigned—within the list of Catholic saints. I can’t imagine that this information would have any bearing on the shiny metal object in the middle of the dash, since leaving it there was more about avoiding bad luck. In other words, she was not-so-secretly superstitious rather than secretly Catholic.
If you are currently looking at the St. Christopher medal on your keychain, I do not mean to offend. He’s an interesting case, and represents an important step in the evolution of the idea of sainthood. His story mirrors numerous saints who emerged in the Middle Ages and became increasingly popular. St. Christopher, like his colleagues St. Nicholas and St. George, appeared with the kernel of a story that was embellished over the centuries.
The name Christopher means Christ-bearer, and he is said to have carried a young child across a river, only to discover that he was carrying Christ. In this sense, he blesses travellers, as he was blessed. He becomes the embodiment of “entertaining angels unawares” (Hebrews 13) or serving Christ in the form of the “least of these.” (Matthew 25)
This, of course, was not enough to keep him on the formal list of saints. Church reform in the 1960s demanded that saints who were more legend than fact be removed from the primary calendar of commemoration. They were never fully omitted, just placed in a new category. This allowed the church to emphasize saints that were recognized through the highly organized process of canonization.
Over here in the Protestant church, we’ve taken a different approach. Our Anglican friends continue to commemorate pre-Reformation saints, but have shifted focus to “saints and heroes” of the faith. On the west front of Westminster Abbey you will find statues of Martin Luther King Jr. and Óscar Romero, modern saints and heroes—just two examples. Methodists have taken a similar approach, never praying to saints, but lifting them up as examples to follow.
The phrase “heroes of the faith” is helpful, since the common definition of sainthood is to display “heroic virtue.” Beginning in the Middle Ages, this meant demonstrating the four cardinal virtues (prudence, justice, fortitude and temperance) along with the three theological virtues: faith, hope, and charity. If these three sound familiar, it may relate to the many weddings you have attended. St. Paul commends faith, hope, and charity in 1 Corinthians, though we usually flatter the bride and groom by using the alternate translation, “faith, hope, and love.”
In many ways, Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians is an expanded version of faith, hope, and charity. The letter is less concerned with matters of doctrine, and more about living together as believers. The passage that I shared is like a letter inside the letter, giving us the gist of the matter:
For you know that we dealt with each of you as a father deals with his own children, encouraging, comforting and urging you to live lives worthy of God, who calls you into his kingdom and glory.
Paul is keen to remind them that he was trying to set an example, demonstrating “faith, hope, and charity” at Thessalonica, and urging them to do likewise. In some ways it sounds immodest, reminding them that he and his helpers were “holy, righteous, and blameless” while with them, but it strengthens his point. By living lives worthy of God, we practise the ultimate form of devotion, the greatest gift we can give.
His words are not fully without doctrine, because he shares an important principle in the next section:
And we also thank God continually because, when you received the word of God, which you heard from us, you accepted it not as a human word, but as it actually is, the word of God, which is indeed at work in you who believe.
“You accepted…the word of God, which is indeed at work in you…”
I’m going to be bold and suggest that what Paul is giving us is a summary of sainthood, a summary that includes virtue (in the word of God) and the abiding sense that God is at work in us. Consider it: when we follow the word, we take it on, we embody it—then we take it into the world. Without us, there is a risk that the word of God will simply be words on a page. But when we live it, when we personify the word, then God is working in us and through us.
Let me share one more story: My mother liked to tell us about the time she was an enumerator, visiting homes throughout East Gwillimbury, adding people to the voter’s list. She and her co-worker were met at the door by a potential voter with a less-than-welcoming look. When informed about the purpose of the visit, the person was quick to say “I’ll not be registering to vote—you see, I’m voting for God.” My mother’s co-worker, without missing a beat, said “I see, ma’am, but God’s not on the ballot.”
There’s something magical about having just the right comeback at just the right moment. I think we all wish we were as quick-on-our-feet as my mother’s co-worker that day. But setting aside the power of a good comeback, I’m left puzzling over the response, and the extent to which religious people vote for God.
If we could track down this anonymous non-voter, she might tell us that there should be a strict separation between church and state, and that those most actively involved in a life of faith should focus on that realm alone. Most Amish, for example, choose not to vote, believing that politics is too worldly and pits “brother against brother.” Or, perhaps her motive related to our “fallenness,” the idea that humans are too corrupt to govern themselves. It was Billy Connolly who said “The desire to be a politician should bar you for life from ever becoming one.” I’m not sure this person in the wilds of East Gwillimbury was channelling the great Scottish comedian, but the impulse is the same.
Whatever her reasons, I’m left with the question ‘how can we cast our ballot and vote for God at the same time?’ And the answer (as expected) can be found in scripture. (I should note that when I say “we cast our ballot” I mean “you cast your ballot” for obvious reasons).
Turning, then, to scripture, it provides comfort and hope, inspiration and direction, but it also reminds us of the many ways we can allow God to work in us. Think about some of your favourite passages, and then consider the mandate of allowing God to “work in us and others.” Think of Micah 6, for example: “What does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Then there’s “Love your neighbour as yourself.” (Matthew 22) Or “be perfect, as your Father in heaven is perfect.” (Matthew 5) Now we’re veering back to sainthood.
Recall: when we follow the word, we take it on, we embody it—then we take it into the world. We’re voting for God when we allow God to work through us, to translate the “words on a page” found in scripture into something tangible, redeemable, and worthy of the Most High.
Overall, by living lives worthy of God, we practise the ultimate form of devotion, the greatest gift we can give. We may not achieve the “heroic virtue” required for sainthood, but we can make “faith, hope, and charity” our theme, inching toward the “saints in light” we remember today. Amen.
New Covenant—20 October 2024 (was 18 Oct 2009)
Mark 10
35 James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came forward to him and said to him, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” 36 And he said to them, “What is it you want me to do for you?” 37 And they said to him, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” 38 But Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” 39 They replied, “We are able.” Then Jesus said to them, “The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized; 40 but to sit at my right hand or at my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.”
41 When the ten heard this, they began to be angry with James and John. 42 So Jesus called them and said to them, “You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. 43 But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, 44 and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. 45 For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”
In Oceans Eleven (1960), a group of army buddies (led by Frank Sinatra) reunite to rob the Sahara, Riviera, Desert Inn, Sands, and The Flamingo in one night.
In The Italian Job (1969), Michael Caine and his group of lads try to steal 4 million dollars of gold from Fiat in Turin. The 2003 remake is an abomination, never see it.
In Gone in 60 Seconds (2000), a group of car thieves reunite to save one of their own by stealing 60 high-end cars in a single evening.
In Oceans Eleven (2001), a group of career thieves led by George Clooney and Brad Pitt gather to rob the Bellagio, The Mirage and the MGM Grand.
In The Perfect Score (2004), the thieves are teenagers, trying to steal the answers to the standardized college admission test (SAT) and get the perfect score.
The genre “caper film” has a fairly standard plot, demonstrated by each of the films named. The first act is the planning stage, where the crew is assembled based on expertise and the unique needs of the job. Next, there is the heist stage, where the job happens with one or more glitches. In the third and final act, things unravel completely and eventually the story is resolved: a bus full of gold teeters on the edge of the Alps or a Mustang named Eleanor foils our hero once more.*
I think there is a story in the fact that in 1960 crime in film was not allowed to pay and now it can and does. But that’s a whole other sermon. For today, I want to look at Mark’s Gospel as a “caper film,” where a group of buddies assemble to pull an ancient near-eastern heist. We’ll call it The Judean Job (2024).
The story begins with assembling an appropriate team. Jesus starts with fishermen: "Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men and women.” From this simple beginning he starts the work of travelling about and driving out demons—while he continues to build his team. When the last apostle is called and anointed, he begins to instruct them. He uses parables such as The Sower Who Went Out to Sow and parable of The Mustard Seed to outline his plan, and the action begins.
In the second act of Mark’s Gospel, the troubles begin. The apostles argue amongst themselves regarding who is the greatest. They try to stop others from healing and driving out demons in Jesus’ name. And they try to stop the little children from seeking a blessing. In the final glitch in an otherwise perfect caper, James and John go rogue.
Of course, this is a common element to the caper film. Following the cliché, “no honour among thieves,” James and John decide that they want the seats of honour in the life to come. They approach Jesus in an almost childlike way and say, “please say yes to the thing we are about to ask.” Not falling for it, Jesus demands to know what they want. When they tell him that they want a greater share of the heavenly loot, Jesus says, “Do you know what you’re asking? Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?”
James and John claim they can. Jesus insists that the seats of honour are not his to give, and the whole group descends into conflict. Jesus finally regains control of the group by telling them how other heists have failed. Usually a strongman takes charge and “lords it over the others,” but Jesus won’t allow that to happen. They have to work together, he insists, by serving each other and being willing to die for the rest.
***
Before I reveal the ending to this caper, there is one more element we need to address. As the history of the church unfolds, we find rings of development. First Jesus, then the twelve, then the others, then Paul and his fellow evangelists, then the early church and so on. The rings expand, yet the centre remains. Our task as believers is to look back and take our cue from the twelve and Paul and those that followed, but especially the twelve. They stand in for us: we are them in the story, and they have much to tell us about ourselves.
Now, it makes sense that believers would look to the scriptures of their religion to learn how to behave. It would seem logical to include the norms and standards required to live a life of faith. This would explain the Sermon on the Mount and the Great Commandment, the Great Commission and all those parables.
Where the logic fails is in the foolishness of the disciples. Or the problems of David, Israel’s greatest king. Or the scheming of Jacob. Or Peter, the rock on which Jesus builds his church, who cannot admit he knows the Lord when the fateful moment comes.
So you have great goals and great teaching and very flawed actors moving through the narrative, showing warts and all. I can tell you that this puzzles non-believers and makes them crazy. They want us to pass the “hypocrite test,” where words are matched by actions. Sadly this does not happen. How do I know? The Bible tells me so.
From the first narrative (Hey Eve, aren’t you gonna share that delicious looking apple?) to the last (“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do”) human failure is at the centre of the story and serving God does not cure human failure, it only puts it into perspective. Of course they wanted to sit at the right and left hand of Jesus in glory, because the human story has always been the best hope and the least result. The best hope, the least result, and our God’s seemingly infinite capacity to forgive. Thanks be to God.
Wait! What about act three, and the ancient near-eastern heist? How will the story end? You’re going to need to wait a bit longer, because I want to talk about Cicero.
I can recall the first time I drove through western and upstate New York and passed through towns like Cato, Brutus, Cincinnatus, and (of course) Cicero. In fact, Cicero gets two, since Tully, NY is named for Cicero’s middle name. “Wow” I thought, “these people really love the Romans.” Do they have Roman pretensions? Oh yes, they do. We’ll call it ‘the best pretensions,’ since the Founders were students of the classics, and in particular, Marcus Tullius Cicero. Imagine the moment in 1789, when Supreme Court Justice James Wilson lectured on Cicero, and looking up from his notes saw George Washington, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson looking back.
Why is Cicero so important? For one, much of his writings survived, and became central to a classical education. Two, he was a politician and a philosopher, an unlikely combination then as now. And three, he was a witness (and participant) in the transition from republic to empire, and ultimately gave his life for the cause. The Founders wanted to reverse the clock: to leave the empire and restart the glory of the Roman republic on these shores. The voice of one who wanted to safeguard the republic was speaking directly to them.
Now, I’m no scholar—I simply bask in the reflected light of one. And since I’m no scholar I can share with you a summary of Cicero found in a work of historical fiction, Robert Harris’ Cicero trilogy, volume three. Cicero gives us a snapshot of a book he’s writing, and in doing so provides proof that he belongs among Dante’s “righteous pagans,” those who predate Jesus but give voice to his Kingdom project. It’s also helpful to recall that in the time of our lesson from Mark’s Gospel, the tyrants have (seemingly) won—the tyrants that Cicero fought and the tyrants that Jesus can dismiss. Here’s a summary from our friend:
In the fifth book, Cicero offered his practical prescriptions. A human being can only train for death by leading a life that is morally good; that is – to desire nothing too much; to be content with what one has; to be entirely self-sufficient within oneself, so that whatever one loses, one will still be able to carry on regardless; to do none harm; to realise that it is better to suffer an injury than to inflict one; to accept that life is a loan given by Nature without a due date and that repayment may be demanded at any time; that the most tragic character in the world is a tyrant who has broken all these precepts.**
As we ponder the end of our imaginary caper film, consider the tyrants who “lord it over others,” and in doing so, sow the seeds of their own end. They fail the human decency test, which simply means don’t harm others, and think about the way you live and how it reflects your character. It’s the tyrants our merry band must overcome if this story is going to come to a satisfying end.
So what about act three, and the ancient near-eastern heist? How will the story end? I will tell you. And with all good caper films, it may delight you and have you leave the theatre shaking your head and wondering how they managed to pull it off. Here we go:
In the final act of the story, Jesus makes a triumphant entry, clears the temple, shares a final meal and faces trial. He is crucified, dies and is buried in a borrowed tomb. On the third day the angel says to the women, “He is not here. He has risen!”
In the end, Jesus and his followers are successful in stealing two of the assumptions that made the Roman world work. Imagine the world altering scope of defeating these two ideas. Caesar sat secure on his throne, and didn’t even know that the caper worked and the thieves had carried off the two things that were more valuable than all his gold: The assumption that things will never change and that this is all there is.
Sure Caesar had legions and roads and fortifications, but his most powerful weapon was the belief that his position was secure and that the power of Rome would never face defeat. If things will never change, there is no point in trying, no point in working for change. But on the cross everything changed, Jesus gained power by giving up his life and became greatest of all by being least of all—dying as a criminal on the cross. When the people learned that in weakness there is strength, everything changed.
Same for the second assumption, that this is all there is. If this is all there is, there is no point seeking more, or trying to remake yourself, because there would be no point. Rome offered a pantheon of gods, including Caesar himself, and collectively they were supposed to provide for every eventuality. Bad crop, we have a god for that. Bad fertility, we have a god for that. Bad party, we have a god for that. But a God willing to lay down his life for you, to suffer and die—that the whole of human experience might be known in heaven as it is on earth? No, only we have a God for that.
Jesus and his band of hapless rogues stole and destroyed the two things that Rome needed most to rule: hopelessness and resignation. Tyrants panic at the idea that without them, we become free to see a new world and a new future—we can set aside fear and truly live.
Let me share one more story:
For my father’s service last week I resisted the temptation to control everything, a bad habit that clergy have when they find themselves on the other side of the story. To be fair to me, the minister did give me some latitude over the content of the service. So after I looked over Carmen’s short list of hymns under the category of “for the love of all that’s holy don’t pick these,” I considered my options. The first one was easy: "We Praise you, O God" by Julia Cory, a Dutch hymn that celebrates the faithfulness of our mothers and fathers. (I only recently learned that it’s a rewrite of “We Gather Together,” traditionally sung at your version of Thanksgiving).
The final hymn was “My life flows on,” a personal favourite, and a good hymn for those in the midst of loss:
My life flows on in endless song,
above earth's lamentation.
I hear the sweet, though far off hymn
that hails a new creation.
Composer Robert Lowry gave this hymn the title “Joy from God.” It first appeared in his 1869 collection of hymns called “Bright Jewels for the Sunday School.” The hymn describes the conversation between life’s trials and the new life found in Christ, and concludes each verse with the moving question “how can I keep from singing?”
The reason I share all this is found in the third verse of the hymn, written by Doris Plenn around 1957. She was a folk singer and friend of Pete Seegar and wrote the verse as a tribute to those imprisoned during the McCarthy era. Seegar began to share it with his audiences, and it found its way into various hymnals some years later.
When tyrants tremble, sick with fear,
and hear their death knells ringing:
when friends rejoice both far and near,
how can I keep from singing?
In prison cell and dungeon vile
our thoughts to them are winging:
when friends by shame are undefiled,
how can I keep from singing?
Again, Jesus and his band of hapless rogues stole and destroyed the two things that Rome needed most to rule: hopelessness and resignation. Tyrants tremble at the idea that without them, we became free to see a new world and a new future. Free to speak for the voiceless, free to find strength in weakness, and free to live for each other, now and always, Amen.
*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heist_film
**Harris, Robert. The Cicero Trilogy (p. 1089). Random House. Kindle Edition.
New Covenant—6 October 2024 (was 4 October 2015)
Mark 10
13 People were bringing little children to him in order that he might touch them; and the disciples spoke sternly to them. 14 But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs. 15 Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” 16 And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.
Apparently this sermon should write itself.
We’re talking about receiving the kingdom of God like a little child, so we make lists: Kids are open, kids are fun, kids forgive their parents foolishness and so on. ‘Be more like kids,” I’m supposed to say, then it’s off to lunch. Even a child could write such a sermon.
But that would be too easy. So we need someone to raise a counterpoint, to get a little debate going. Not the kind of debate you saw this week, the no audience, no fact-checking, and too much agreement bordering on bromance kind of debate, but rather a look at passages that speak to our passage to find out what the Bible has to say to the Bible.
First, to recap: Jesus said “Let the little children come to me” (I actually prefer the King James Jesus who said “Suffer the little children to come unto me”) ‘and don’t stop them, for the kingdom of God belongs to them.‘ And just to underline the point, he goes a step further, saying “Truly I tell you, unless you receive the kingdom like a little child, you will not be able to enter it.”
The kingdom belongs to children, and unless you are child-like you cannot enter the kingdom. That’s Mark 10, and Matthew 19, and Luke 18. So it’s all over the Gospels, though it doesn’t appear in John. John’s prologue says that those who welcome the light of the world become children of God, but there’s no delightful story of Jesus embracing the children.
Beginning, then, with the rule that unless you are child-like you cannot enter the kingdom, we turn to St. Paul. And if you’ve ever attended a wedding, you may already know Paul’s counterpoint to becoming like a child: “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” Good word, spake. That’s five letters and 11 points for you Scrabble players out there.
So Paul is putting away childish things, to peer through a glass darkly—and ponder the mystery of God. He seems to equate over-confidence in faith as somehow child-like, and worth discouraging. Instead, we ought to wait for the mysteries of God to be revealed in eternity, and put aside foolish over-confidence.
A chapter later, Paul picks up the topic once more, and seems to modify his stance: “Brothers and sisters,” he said, “stop thinking like children. In regard to evil, be infants, but in your thinking, be adults” (1 Corinthians 14:20). In other words, approach evil with child-like innocence, but in all other situations, think like adults. This seems to fit with the “shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves” theme that Jesus develops in Matthew, but it doesn’t get us any closer to understanding his kingdom command.
Finally, in 1 Peter 2, we may have the answer. The author picks up this discussion and adds this bit of advice: “Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation.” Perhaps, then, we enter the kingdom like newborns, and only then do we grow into mature spiritual beings. If we follow 1 Peter, being child-like is not the terminal destination, only the only starting point for entering the kingdom.
In other words, this sermon won’t write itself. You can’t simply point to a kid and say ‘everything we treasure about you is your ticket to the kingdom—here, let me make a list.’ Describing the pure, spiritual milk of human kindness might be a starting point, but the scriptural record suggests that we then mature into something more. And since our goal here is to understand Jesus before we disagree with Jesus, we need to explore further.
Maybe we should look at this idea of spiritual development, and then try to blend the need to be child-like and the need to grow in the faith. I might begin with the work of the late Ram Dass, psychologist, writer, and spiritual teacher. He shared a helpful metaphor to describe our spiritual development. He argued that we all view the world through various levels of reality or “planes of consciousness.” And to get at the idea of people seeing the world through levels of reality, he uses the simple metaphor of television. He describes the channels we receive, and begins with the one or two that all of us get:
We all receive channel one. It is the view we begin with as babies, seeing the physical make-up of the people around us (young, old, light, dark, male, and female). As adults we still possess this channel and still view it with comfort.
On channel two we view the social world around us. We begin by placing our family of origin into the categories of father, mother, sibling and what these titles mean in terms of social interaction. Later we see other categories like teacher or doctor, blue collar/white collar and so on. Finally, this channel allows us to view psychological attributes like happy, sad, angry or afraid. Add to the list affiliations such as conservative or liberal, and we begin to see why this is the most watched channel and why so many people are stuck on just two channels.
Channel three is little known and seldom watched. It is about the myths and roles we place on ourselves and how we understand others. If you are aware that someone is struggling because they are trying to live up to an ideal they have placed on themselves, then you are watching channel three. This channel asks the "why" question and tries to understand behaviour as part of a larger pattern.
The fourth channel is the place where we view the people around us and we no longer see differences but only similarities. We embrace our common humanity and the connection between all people through the Spirit. We only get glimpses of this channel and some have never seen it. (Sharp, p.74)
So Ram Dass—on the surface at least—seems to be making the opposite argument to entering the kingdom as a little child. He is arguing that we begin with an awareness of human physicality and nothing more, and only later we discover non-physical attributes (role and identity) and finally some context. And having mastered all that, if we are really fortunate, we may enter the territory of mystics and seers and find the common humanity that can only be described as visiting the kingdom of God.
And just because I love spiritual biographies, I will share one that fits our metaphor perfectly, the “conversion” of Thomas Merton. Merton was the Roman Catholic monk who almost single handedly reintroduced Christian mysticism to North America, and he did it from a small cabin in rural Kentucky. And his conversion, like the best spiritual biographies, comes with a time and a place.
On March 18, 1958, Thomas Merton went into the city from his monastic home to do a little shopping. He wrote these words: “In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the centre of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers.”
It was at this moment that he resolved to re-engage with the world beyond his monastery, and work for peace. He confessed that he had come to regard himself as a different sort of being from others, almost a ‘pseudo-angel’ in his monastic life. But through his Fourth and Walnut experience he discovered his common humanity with others, and some might argue moved from mystic to saint.
So back to Ram Dass and his television metaphor for a moment, he’s not really talking about children or having the faith of a child, rather he’s trying to map out one route from birth to a form of enlightenment. He doesn’t set out a timeline for the channels, nor does suggest that children are immature and that you need to be old to become a mystic or a saint. So if we’re looking for some insight into what children are really like, he shared another metaphor that may help us.
“When you go out into the woods, and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.
The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You are too this, or I’m too this.’ That judgement mind comes in. And so I practise turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.”
In other words, the child-like wonder he describes in the woods is lost as we age, as we follow the human way of dividing and diminishing. Children may struggle to understand context or the complexity of grown-up life, but they tend to be masterful at overlooking differences, particularly the kinds of differences that bring out the worst in big people.
Here’s an experiment. The next time you have a large meal with some kids at the table, and the conversation turns to some contentious issue like deficit spending or the difference between a tariff and tax, try to guess what the children think of the people and their dearly held views. You won’t be able to guess, because like mystics and seers, little children see only people and their common humanity, not the things that divide us. In effect, there is a great circle where we begin life literally unable to discriminate, we travel through a life of categories and bias, and hopefully to come to some context and maybe—just maybe—a child-like sense that all-are-one.
When Mitchell was looking for preaching dates, I suggested that I would gladly preach the Sunday before the election, but I wouldn’t touch the Sunday after with the ten-foot barge pole. “It’s not my place,” I might say, being a stranger in a strange land. And I’m not even sure what I’ll say on that Sunday before, but I bet it might have something to do with common humanity. Maybe I’ll just preach this sermon again and hope you don’t notice.
Whatever I say—in a completely non-partisan way—it will likely include the observation that some may seek to divide us, and may encourage us to regard others with suspicion and fear, but we ought to look to the children instead. We ought to imagine a time when distinctions didn’t matter—didn’t even occur to us—and claim our place in the kingdom of God. Amen.
*https://www.jmarshalljenkins.com/2019/04/02/shining-like-the-sun-with-thomas-merton-on-4th-walnut-louisville/
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/
