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
New Covenant—26 May 2024 (from 31 May 2015)
Matthew 13
10 Then the disciples came and asked him, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” 11 He answered, “To you it has been given to know the secrets[a] of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. 12 For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. 13 The reason I speak to them in parables is that ‘seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.’ 14 With them indeed is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah that says:
‘You will indeed listen, but never understand,
and you will indeed look, but never perceive.
For this people’s heart has grown dull,
and their ears are hard of hearing,
and they have shut their eyes;
so that they might not look with their eyes,
and listen with their ears,
and understand with their heart and turn—
and I would heal them.’
16 But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear. 17 Truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it.
Okay, prepare to have your minds blown: trailers used to come AFTER the movie. I know, it’s a lot to take in. Somehow, the trailers moved to before the picture, and in doing so pushed out newsreels, cartoons, The Little Rascals, and anything else that added some variety to the experience. But worry not, because most of this content was repackaged for Saturday-morning television, giving parents a handful of hours relief—while we learned that a falling anvil is mostly harmless and a portable hole can solve nearly any problem.
I long puzzled over the quality of these cartoons: the stories, the music, the allusions to high culture—until I learned that many were crafted for “the big screen,” and constituted a key part of the draw. From the 30s to the 60s, studios produced content that highlighted their work and promoted longer features. By the 70s, all this content shifted to television, and theatres were left with trailers that no longer trailed.
Now that your minds have drifted to Saturday morning, I want to say a word about these animated films. At the risk of offending people in a state dominated by The Mouse, I want to share with you my list of the best cartoons in the ‘short comedy’ genre:
“Operation: Rabbit” (1952) where Wile E. Coyote introduces himself as a genius and Bugs proves otherwise.
“Mad as a Mars Hare” (1963) starring Marvin the Martian who shows us he is “very very angry.”
“Rabbit of Seville” (1950) proving that kids love Rossini as much as adults.
“What’s Opera, Doc?” (1957) a Wagnarian treat that had kids everywhere singing “Kill the Wabbit.”
And finally, “One Froggy Evening” (1955), selected for preservation in the National Film Registry by the United States Library of Congress for being the “Citizen Kane” of cartoons.
And, of course, it’s “One Froggy Evening” that’s generated much scholarly debate. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? And if it’s a tragedy, is it actually a double-tragedy, pushing the literary envelope even further? And what about Michigan J. Frog himself? Is he just a singing frog, or is a symbol of something else?
“One Froggy Evening” begins, of course, with a demolished building and a singing frog that emerges from the cornerstone. He sings ragtime standards, and the man who finds him immediately dreams of vast riches. But the frog won’t sing, neither to a talent agent nor to a crowded theatre. Eventually the frog ends up in another cornerstone, and the story repeats.
I share all this because I’ve spent 35 years waiting to sing “Hello Ma Baby” from the pulpit, and because I want to use the story to explore an idea I’m working on—one that brings together Michigan J. Frog and the call of Isaiah.
The thesis/idea is this: Faith should be something that if you try to explain to people, they will struggle to understand. Like the singing frog, faith should be something that we experience but may not be able to share with others, at least not without considerable effort—an effort that may ultimately fail.
So we begin with a book most likely written in exile, that period of literal and figurative dislocation when the elite of Judean society are carried off the Babylon. In searching for reasons, they turn to the prophet Isaiah, an eighth-century prophet who predicted with some accuracy what would some day befall Judah. Isaiah believed that the disobedience of the people led to their exile, and he spends thirty-nine chapters being specific.
But the passage we heard this morning takes us back to the beginning, to the call of Isaiah. It’s a rich visual moment: when call and response evoke the wonder of this God who needs prophets to express God’s worldview and will. The moment begins with a vision of complex creatures with wings and various covered parts singing some of the most familiar words in scripture:
Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of power and might;
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
In my tradition, we call this passage the Sanctus (in the context of communion) before we pray a part of Psalm 118—familiar as the words shared on Palm Sunday, “Hosanna in the highest: Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”
In some ways, the liturgical churches who use these words have domesticated them. Back in context, they’re actually quite frightening, with a young Isaiah crying out “Woe to me!” as multi-winged seraphim fly toward him. Convinced he is going to die (he saw the Lord) he confesses that he has unclean lips and comes from a people with unclean lips. At this, the narrative shifts: the Seraphim touch his lips with coal from the fire, and his sin is forgiven. If only that was the end of the story, but it is not:
Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”
And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”
The obvious contrast here is to the call of Samuel, that extended dialogue between old Eli and young Samuel. It’s a humorous call, meant to delight:
Then the Lord called Samuel. Samuel answered, “Here I am.” And he ran to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.” But Eli said, “I didn’t call; go back and lie down.” So he went and lay down. Again the Lord called, “Samuel!” And Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.”
“My son,” Eli said, “I didn’t call; go back and lie down.”
You get the picture. Eventually Eli understands that this is a call story, and sends the lad back to truly answer the call. It’s light, it involves a loving relationship between young and old, and it’s about as far from the frightening call of Isaiah as you can get.
Some of you are still wondering about the frog, so I won’t torment you any longer. The double-tragedy of “One Froggy Evening” is that the man cannot realize his dream of sharing the remarkable thing he has discovered—and the frog ends up back in the box. Yes, his motive is crass, but he sincerely believes that the world will gain from the experience of a singing frog, something he is unable to share.
Isaiah, like a new Moses, has met God face-to-face and lived, a tale worthy of telling of ever there was one, but he is unable to share the complex majesty of the moment. Instead, God says ‘share this’:
‘You will be ever hearing,
but never understanding;
you will be ever seeing,
but never perceiving.’
This people’s heart has become calloused;
they hardly hear with their ears,
and they have closed their eyes.
And that’s the gentle beginning, before God gets really mad. Eventually forgiveness will follow, much in the way the coal touched the lips of Isaiah, but until then God will speak through the prophet and share a message that would fit just as well today as then. Here’s Isaiah 10:
Woe to those who make unjust laws,
to those who issue oppressive decrees,
to deprive the poor of their rights
and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people.
Perhaps you recall a story I shared last year, about the Methodist minister who quoted these words in the newspaper and was arrested for seditious libel. Back to my thesis, here we have another example of faith being something that if we try to explain it to people, they might struggle to understand. Seems in 1919 at least, this kind of faith might even get you arrested. Nonetheless, it is the expression of our faith in the public realm that may puzzle (and offend) precisely because God may call us to deliver an unpopular message to a people ill-disposed to accept it.
Another example would be the complexity and majesty of an encounter with God. Much ink has been spilled trying to understand the number of wings possessed by the seraphim, what the wings cover, and how this relates to the architecture of the Temple itself. And that’s just three verses of the hundreds that describe an encounter with God.
Fast-forward to the New Testament, and we meet God in Jesus Christ, and the encounter becomes more complex still. For every “I am” statement that tries to make plain our relationship to God in Jesus, there is another that leaves us shaking our heads. Treasure in a field, a dishonest steward, the fish with a drachma in its mouth—surely the Kingdom of God doesn’t need to be this complex?
By Matthew 13 the disciples have had enough. They ask, “Jesus, why do you speak to them in parables,’ meaning ‘we don’t have a hot clue what you’re saying.’ Jesus says, “Because the knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of heaven has been given to you, but not to them” and they likely did that wide-eyed thing people do when they are truly speechless. Then Jesus quoted the passage from Isaiah 6:
‘You will be ever hearing,
but never understanding;
you will be ever seeing,
but never perceiving.’
Thanks Jesus, thanks a lot. Faith should be something that if you try to explain to people, they will struggle to understand. The faith wasn’t terribly clear to the disciples, and they were there the whole time—right there. How much more will we struggle to describe a relationship and a set of beliefs and ultimately fail.
So this idea—that faith is something that if you try to explain it people will struggle to understand—often comes down to worldview. Consider the seraphim, who speak and begin to commission Isaiah by cleansing him with a hot coal from the purifying fire: “See,” they say, “this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away and your sin atoned for.”
We begin each service with words of regret and concession—we concede who we are and what we tend to do. This reminds us first, that we have sins, and second, that our sins are forgiven. The parables of Jesus might be a confusing mess, but the message “your sins are forgiven” couldn’t be clearer. And Jesus’ need to remind people has an obsessive quality to it, because it’s God’s key theme too.
But the world struggles to understand this obsession. And by the time the self-esteem movement took hold, we struggled to understand it too. ‘That’s a real downer’ people said, or my favourite—’I didn’t do anything wrong this week.’ Really? A full week without a negative thought toward anyone? Were you in a coma?
Faith should be something that if you try to explain it, people will struggle to understand. And that includes faith in a God who is complex and mysterious, a God who stands with the poor and the oppressed (thank you Isaiah), and a God who forgives us even when we forget we need forgiveness. God is all these things and more, yet we struggle to express our faith—so what to do?
When I was in my late teens I became a Christian—and joined a tradition where 99% of new members arrive with nine months notice. Obviously I didn’t know the rules, and I struggled to describe this new thing that entered my life. Always being a “deep end of the pool” kinda person, I was invited to participate in a national gathering of youth, and prepared to set off with a lively mix of excitement and ignorance.
My minister at the time, Rev. Camilla, tried her very best to explain what was ahead, and the kind of experience I could expect. And then she gave me some of the best advice I’ve received: when you come back, don’t try to express what it felt like, because people won’t get it. Tell us instead what you learned, because this is something people may understand.
Back to explaining our faith—which by now I’ve convinced you is impossible—we might do well to focus on what we’ve learned rather than trying to explain the gift of faith. Faith (at its heart) is an experience, not a set of beliefs. It’s something you feel rather than reason out, thus making it difficult to share. Back to the wise Reverend: don’t try to express what it feels like, because people won’t get it. Instead, tell them what you’ve learned—something people might understand. And in telling them what you’ve learned, you just might tap into some experience of God they’ve already had, maybe part of a puzzle they’ve long tried to solve. Some examples:
I’ve learned that a sense of awe is the gateway to something more. Some have said (rather dismissively) that anyone can find God in a sunset (which may be true), but awe is everywhere if you look for it. Children, grandchildren, the miracle of good friends, stories of the past that fill the heart with wonder: all these can prompt awe. When something moves us to tears, we are tapping into a larger pool of awe that has sustained people of faith for generations.
I’ve learned that compassion forms invisible connections between us and others, between us and people we may never meet, and even between us and the earth itself. When we open ourselves to compassion—walking with others, understanding their story—we become as one. And this oneness, this ability to collapse the differences that divide us, allows us to enter a new way of being—God’s way of being.
I’ve learned that forgiveness is a practice: right up there with flossing and checking your blindspot. Done frequently enough, it almost feels easy. But it never is. We’re wired to remember slights and errors, so we don’t stumble into the same situation again. But life with others is messy, and we need forgiveness as frequently as we extend forgiveness, putting it at the centre of every relationship. That, of course, includes our relationship with God, who I think also forgives without overthinking it, and thank God for that.
With that in mind, I’ve learned that grace is at the heart of everything, an invisible force that gives forgiveness meaning, that transforms everything we receive into a gift, and reminds us that the unconditional still exists in a heavily conditional world. There are few things as satisfying as doing something that is met with the question “why are you doing this?” This is best met with a smile or a shrug, or a shrug-smile and let God do the rest.
Finally, I’ve learned that all of this is best expressed in community. For some, this means church, but there are countless forms of community, from the people you live with (or live near) to everyone who’s in the store with you when you’re buying milk. Awe, compassion, forgiveness, and grace feed community, and make it work, blessed by the very God we struggle to describe.
In the end, explaining what we’ve learned, or what we’re hoping to learn, or what we’re struggling to learn, is just another way of saying “Here I am, Lord. Send me!” God says “whom shall I send” into this messy, needy, love-deprived world, and we get to give our best shrug-smile and raise our hand. Amen.
New Covenant, 12 May 2024 (from 1 June 2014)
Acts 1
In the first book, Theophilus, I wrote about all that Jesus did and taught from the beginning 2 until the day when he was taken up to heaven, after giving instructions through the Holy Spirit to the apostles whom he had chosen. 3 After his suffering he presented himself alive to them by many convincing proofs, appearing to them during forty days and speaking about the kingdom of God. 4 While staying with them, he ordered them not to leave Jerusalem, but to wait there for the promise of the Father. “This,” he said, “is what you have heard from me; 5 for John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now.” 6 So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” 7 He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. 8 But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” 9 When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. 10 While he was going and they were gazing up toward heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. 11 They said, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”
Hands up if you’ve ever has this dream:
You discover the test is in ten minutes and you forgot to study.
You can’t find the exam room, or the room has changed.
You show up for the exam, but realize you forgot to take the course.
You arrive at church in the dead of winter, and you forgot your shoes, so you’re going to need to preach in snowy boots or your sock feet (okay that’s mine: a dream I had several times—and then it happened!)
A few weeks into her first semester here, Carmen casually handed me her mid-term Bible exam, saying "take this exam and tell me what you think.” You know this is one of my worst nightmares, right? I passed. Barely.
You could argue that those fortunate (and foolish) enough to take on the role of pastor live a version of the exam nightmare everyday. It's one of the value-added services we offer in the church—a willingness to answer all questions of a religious nature. But sometimes, when we get into the random and obscure, suddenly I’m back in my sock feet.
Let me give you some examples. At least every year or two someone will ask me the difference between a disciple and an apostle. (Now I can say, ‘I dunno, ask Mitchell—he’s the Bible guy’) Rarely does an Advent go by without someone quizzing me on the names of the three wise men (not biblical, but by tradition: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar). And then there was the day my brother called up to say, ‘hey, what’s the deal with Ascension Day?’
As obscure religious questions go, he may have been going after some sort of prize. Or maybe not. It turns out Andrew was on his way to France to see his boss, and was having some trouble reaching anyone over there, as they were busy enjoying an Ascension Day holiday weekend.
“C’est un bon pays [set-an-bon-pay-ee],” I said in my best cereal-box French, confirming that “this is a good country.” I further explained that truly civilized countries like France mark all the obscure religious days. Name another country that enjoys a holiday on Good Friday, Easter Monday, Whit Monday, Ascension Day AND Assumption Day, All Saints’ Day and the Feast of Stephen. Add in a day to celebrate storming the Bastille, and you may be close to heaven on earth.
Now I’m not saying we might be better off if the French had won the French and Indian War, but by accident of birth or careless migration, we seem to have lost the statutory holiday lottery. So I might say ‘happy belated Ascension Day’ to you, but without the long weekend to go with it, it just sounds cruel.
Poor Andrew’s question remains unanswered, and perhaps you too are wondering too: ‘What’s the deal with Ascension Day?‘ Let’s take a look.
“Soon,” Jesus said, “you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and beyond, to the ends of the earth.” After he said this, he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight.
And that’s about it. Forty days after Easter is Ascension, fifty days after Easter is Pentecost (the French take the next day as a holiday) and then it’s barely a month to Bastille Day. Immigration forms can be found online.
And St. Luke, who is writing the Acts of the Apostles, must achieve a number of things in this first chapter of his sequel, since next Sunday it’s on to Acts 2 and the wind and fire of Pentecost. Acts 1 opens with a segue from Luke to Acts, some last words, the Ascension, a brief and bloody description of what happened to Judas, and a special meeting to replace him. The lot fell to Matthias, and the eleven were twelve once more.
There are a few things to note in this important summary chapter, this bridge from the Gospels to the rest of the Christian story. The first is a seemingly innocuous little verse that appears at the beginning of the passage we heard this morning. There, as Luke sets the scene, he says ‘After his suffering, he presented himself to them and gave many convincing proofs that he was alive. He appeared to them over a period of forty days and spoke about the kingdom of God.’
At first glance, this may seem unsurprising. While still with the twelve, Jesus spoke mostly in parables, and parables are always about the Kingdom of God. So if we track Jesus—in life, in death, in life beyond death—the topic is the same. Jesus only wants to talk about the Kingdom of God.
Surprisingly, this insight was more-or-less lost to the church for several centuries. Only in the nineteenth century did scholars and preachers rediscover this single-minded focus on the Kingdom of God, having been waylaid by questions of belief, practice, personal piety and national politics. Only in the period aptly named ‘the quest for the historical Jesus‘ did this emphasis on the Kingdom come.
The second noteworthy thing in this short passage is the appearance of angels, visitors who offer some much-needed advice. Their appearance is short and subtle—and almost easy to miss—but an important part of the story.
Just then he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight. They were looking intently up into the sky as he was going, when suddenly two men dressed in white stood beside them. “Men of Galilee,” they said, “why do you stand here looking into the sky?”
It’s a good question. But it’s the next thing said that really gets their attention. Just as they return their gaze to the earth and these strange men in white, they receive an important message. ‘You know he’s coming back,’ the angels say, ‘the same way he left.‘
Now this might have come as a bit of a shock to the group, only recently accustomed to the fact that Jesus was not dead, only recently accustomed to the fact that he would ascend to God, and now learning (perhaps again) that he will be back.
I say ‘perhaps again’ because Jesus did mention that he would return on the clouds, with power and glory, but we don’t know if they understood (Matthew 24). Even in the midst of comforting his disciples, in that tender passage in the 14th chapter of John he says ‘and if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and take you to myself, so that where I am you may be also.‘ Could they hear this, in the midst of the passion? Perhaps not.
And this was the second great discovery of those nineteenth-century theologians, or perhaps we should say re-discovery: that the promise of return was a central theme of the early church, and a central theme for Jesus—a theme that seemed to be overtaken by events. Some would argue that the promise of return was so immediate (“this generation will certainly not pass away until these things have happened”) that when it failed to happen it moved to the back burner. Yet the promise remained, and for the early church, the promise of return was as real as looking up at the clouds passing overhead.
I’m reminded of one of those five dollar words that comes in handy at a moment like this, a moment that we’re looking in our Bibles and trying to connect the dots. The word is intertextuality, the practice where we allow one passage or idea to suggest another passage or idea, in scripture or maybe beyond the scriptures too.
In this case, talking about the Kingdom of God, and talking about Jesus' return in glory, we might be reminded of some other famous words that suddenly get a little more context: “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
Jesus has them (and us) reciting a prayer with his entire program embedded in a single line. ‘Thy Kingdom come’ is both the persistent Kingdom message of the parables and the abiding hope of his imminent return. A single line that will guide the early church as they hold things in common, care for widows and orphans, preach the good news, and wait with one eye on the sky.
***
Wait with one eye on the sky. This project of waiting, this longing for God’s Kingdom, is based on the assumption that there is something more than what we can see here. It hinges on the belief that the sum of human experience is not limited to the years we are given, or the tangible things that surround us. It hinges on the same impulse that infuses all the great religions: that meaning exists beyond our limited understanding, and the quest for meaning is as natural as breathing.
I’m currently in the middle of Mark Gregory Pegg’s excellent history of the Middle Ages entitled Beatrice’s Last Smile. The book is unique in that he puts religion at the centre of the story, stepping away from a recent trend in the other direction. Having said all that, it’s not a religious book, simply a book that places religion at the centre of what is often called “the age of faith.”
This idea of waiting with one eye on the sky reminded me of a well-known story recounted in the book, the story of the conversion of Northumbria, a kingdom in the north of what we now call England. The King of Northumbria, Edwin, had more or less decided that his kingdom would embrace the new faith and accept baptism (for himself, and the leading families). But he wanted to convince them first, so he convened a meeting and allowed his noblemen to debate the matter. I say “debate,” but I think it’s safe to assume that everyone present knew which way the king was leaning.
Various noblemen spoke for and against the old gods, and finally an unnamed speaker stood to share a parable:
When we compare the present life of man on earth with that time of which we have no knowledge, it seems to me like the swift flight of a single sparrow through the banqueting-hall where you are sitting at dinner on a winter's day with your ealdormen and thegns. In the midst there is a comforting fire to warm the hall; outside, the storms of winter rain or snow are raging.
The sparrow flies swiftly in through one door of the hall, and out through another. While he is inside, he is safe from the winter storms; but after a few moments of comfort, he vanishes from sight into the wintry world from which he came. Even so, man appears on earth for a little while; but of what went before this life or what follows, we know nothing. Therefore, if this new teaching has brought any more certain knowledge, it seems only right we should follow it.
I guess I’m astounded how contemporary this supposed summary of life on earth sounds, published some 1,300 years ago by the Venerable Bede. This idea that ‘you live and then you die and that’s all there is’ is more popular than ever, driven by a loss of faith and (and a very appropriate) emphasis on caring about the world we know.
So how did we get here? I think it’s safe to say that too much talk of heaven and hell led people away from a place that was meant to be about love and mercy. It was a former Baptist who introduced me to the idea of the “fruit inspector,” busy deciding who was worthy and who was less worthy amid all this talk of heaven and hell. Add to that entire traditions dedicated to the end of the world, sending the not-so-subtle message that this world no longer matters.
So let me take you back to that intertextual link, the connection between Ascension Sunday and the Lord’s Prayer. When Jesus said “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” he wasn’t talking about the end of all things—he was talking about a union between heaven and earth. Bishop and theologian NT Wright put it this way when he said: “The God who made heaven and earth intends to draw them together at the last.” Anyone who argues that this world will someday no longer matter has missed the point of the prayer. “Thy Kingdom come” is a summary of Jesus’ entire project—the abiding hope that God’s realm and our realm may someday become one.
This, then, is the certain knowledge that an unnamed sage alluded to 1,300 years ago: that the warmth of that solitary flight through the great hall will become eternal, the known and the unknown drawn together to reveal God’s Kingdom. We can’t help but look up, trusting that Jesus will return the same way he left: preaching the Kingdom, calling disciples, seeking the lost, and extending love and mercy to everyone he meets.
The Kingdom will come, and the Kingdom's work will be done, and as we will look up longingly, we remember all the things we have to do here. We live in that in-between place, that liminal space between future hope and the important work God has set before us. May we attend to both, with God’s help, Amen.
New Covenant, 21 April 2024 (from 3 May 2009)
John 10
11“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. 12The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. 13The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. 14I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, 15just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. 16I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. 17For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. 18No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father.”
Imagine my poor mother, still in her 20s, two kids in tow, leaving her familiar home in the big city to follow my father’s dream of an acreage surrounded by farms. Further imagine her dismay the first time she encountered an ill-wind bringing a foul odour, and her desire to call the authorities. Maybe not the best idea.
But call she did, and the man from the township office listened to her story of an ill-wind and a terrible odour and replied with a simple message: “Well lady, you’re livin’ in the country now!” In later years she could laugh about the man from the township office and his very primitive form of mansplaining, and in fact she had to laugh because until the end of her days, ever time she complained of any kind of odour someone in the family would say “Well lady, you’re livin’ in the country now!”
To be fair to my poor mother, she did spend part of her childhood on the family farm and knew that the odourous ill-wind wasn’t quite right, and sure enough, the farmer responsible landed himself in some legal trouble with the man from the township office.
My own punishment for tormenting my poor mother happened on the very first day at my very first church across a country lane from a very busy sheep farm. Whatever schadenfreude—that would be taking pleasure in the misfortune of others—my mother felt, she didn’t say anything, and I guess she didn’t have to. In a karmic sense, I brought this on myself.
Of course, it was a great privilege to be placed among the faithful on a pastoral charge deep in the woods. Back then, you see, the church in her wisdom decided to send new ministers to small far-off places where we could do minimal amounts of damage while bringing years of dubious book-learnin’ to the people we served. For me it was three little churches: Althorpe, Bolingbroke and Calvin, in three communities that no longer appear on the map. The third, Calvin, was also the location of a lovely Victorian manse, located directly across the road from that very busy sheep farm.
And so I can confirm that both literally, and in a karmic sense, sheep smell. Think of it, however, and the best kind of applied theology, since sheep and shepherds are found throughout the Bible—in story, in parable, and in the very identity of our Lord himself. And so today, perhaps best described as Good Shepherd Sunday, we can enter the sights and smells—and the meaning of those sheep and their shepherds.
You didn’t need to travel far in the Ancient Near-East to find a field of sheep. Vast regions were well-suited to herding: too mountainous and too rugged for cultivation, but perfect for sheep. And it’s fair to argue that sheep were so common that they were never far from the popular imagination, and a ready source for metaphor.
“I am the good shepherd,” Jesus said. And just to make sure they understood, he said it again three verses later. So why the repetition? I suppose Jesus is speaking outside of time here, speaking to the disciples and explaining who he will be to them in the time to come, and also speaking to the early church, beset as they were with wolves in the form of Roman persecution. And so the character of the shepherd becomes central to the early Christian community: trusting that “the good shepherd” will remain steadfast in a time of trouble.
But he says more. He draws a comparison between himself as the good shepherd and ‘the hired hand,’ the bad shepherd who runs off at the first sign of trouble. He makes it clear to future followers that even death will not prevent him from guarding his flock. He also makes it clear that as he laid his life down for the sheep, he has taken it up again to continue to be a risen presence. We remain one flock, with one shepherd, and even in the valley of the shadow of death we have nothing to fear.
So we know that the Bible is a source of stories and smells, but it’s also filled with clues. The text is filled with allusions and links that range for the obvious to the hidden. Three times, in our eight verses from John this morning, Jesus uses the phrase ‘hired hand.’ As I said, he is making a point of comparison, but I think there is more.
The hired hand, it seems, was the most common type of shepherd. It was an occupation for the landless, people who were not inheriting the family farm, which in the Ancient Near-East described just about everyone. And so people would hire themselves out for this solitary life. And like most consultants, some did it because they were really good at it, and some did it because they couldn’t keep a regular job. Hire a consultant, and time will tell.
So the first listeners are busy nodding their heads and considering the limitations of the hired hand, but what’s the alternative? I expect they knew the Good Shepherd was a compelling metaphor, even more compelling since the Good Shepherd was standing in front of them. Still, I can’t help but think the first listeners would have been thinking about another common type of shepherd, and that would be the youngest child. Some families, with a surplus of children, would simply put the youngest out in the field. Farming was hard work, which the youngest couldn’t handle, and so they found themselves among the flocks.
And this, of course, is beginning to sound familiar: that young lad out in the field, too small to be selected to take on the most onerous tasks, best left with the sheep. All the other brothers are present, but poor David is only big enough to watch the flock. If Jesus was unwilling to trust a hireling to do the work of a shepherd, the first listeners' minds would naturally wander to the most famous shepherd in scripture, and that would be David.
David is the George Washington of the Hebrew Bible. There’s the broad outline of his story, there’s a list of accomplishments and firsts, and there are stories, some true and some dubious that make up his story. Such is the life of a national hero. His story was told and retold until it became hard to separate fact from legend, but the abiding point remained: there was no greater king than David, he was the one against whom all other kings were measured.
(I hope I can write an essay instead of taking the citizenship test, because this King David/George Washington stuff writes itself)
David, you’ll recall, is also credited with writing the 23rd Psalm. The most familiar passage in scripture is the second way that early readers of John would naturally assume that Jesus was drawing a link to David. Psalm 23 was written to portray the kind of protection a good king would offer: prosperity and fruitfulness, protection in danger and membership in a household built on righteousness. It becomes another test against which shepherds are judged, a way to determine which shepherd deserves the title ‘good.’
And it wasn’t just the Israelites that had heightened expectations about kings and governments. Over in Babylon, King Hammurabi concluded his famous law code with the following words, "I am the shepherd who brings well-being and abundant prosperity; my rule is just.... so that the strong might not oppress the weak, and that even the orphan and the widow might be treated with justice." It reads like both a promise and a goal: to ensure that the law serves everyone in society, and not just the powerful.
But there is more. The prophets also weigh in on this question of good versus bad. This is Ezekiel 34:
The word of the LORD came to me: "Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel; prophesy and say to them: 'This is what the Sovereign LORD says: Woe to the shepherds of Israel who only take care of themselves! Should not shepherds take care of the flock? You eat the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you do not take care of the flock. You have not strengthened the weak nor healed the sick nor bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays nor searched for the lost. You have ruled them harshly and brutally. So they were scattered because there was no shepherd, and when they were scattered they became food for all the wild animals.
The Kings of Israel, always known as shepherds, were not simply directed to care for the future of the nation but care for the most vulnerable, to heal the sick and seek the lost. And Ezekiel, speaking from exile, has a catalogue of all the ways these kings failed. The flock was scattered precisely because the bond between king and people, shepherd and sheep, was broken. It’s about as timeless as scripture gets, pointing to the corruption of power, the sin of neglect, and God’s response when weak and the vulnerable are left to fend for themselves.
‘Depart from me [he said], for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see thee hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to thee?’ Then he will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me.’
There’s more than enough evidence here to convict: Failure to meet the Davidic goal, failure to align with the aspirational leadership of even foreign kings, and a failure to protect the most vulnerable.
And in this we have circled back once more. Jesus gives us a new vision of kingship, the Divine Shepherd, willing to lay down his life for his sheep, and willing to take it up again and continue to guide us each day. Jesus takes the Davidic goal, and the prophets words, and the power of parable, and begins to separate the sheep from the goats. There is very little ambiguity for the Matthew 25 believer, or the Christian leader who seeks to follow the Good Shepherd. The sheepfold includes a food bank, a women’s shelter, an inner-city clinic, the county jail, and most certainly a refugee camp.
So we’ve talked about the shepherds, but what about the sheep?
This is the point in the sermon that I planned to give you a 10,000 year survey of sheep husbandry, but some of you look like you might want lunch soon, maybe some lamb or a little mutton. So I’ll give you a few interesting tidbits instread:
Sheep have indeed been domesticated for over 10,000 years, second in time only to dogs. Initially used for their meat, milk and skins, wool became a thing around 4,500 years ago, and is considered by some “the first commodity of sufficient value to warrant international trade.”* Further, it has been suggested that migrations beyond the fertile crescent may have begun because of wool clothing, and the ability to survive in places less like sunny Florida.
Speaking of Florida, we are home to a breed of sheep descended from animals carried by Columbus to the new world. Feral until early in the last century, Gulf Coast Sheep (also called Florida Cracker Sheep) are now an established breed known for their hardiness and ability to resist parasites.
Finally, the expansion of sheep farming (and the wool trade) in America was considered a threat by King George and his government in the run-up to the Revolution. Hidden among the Coercive Acts from Westminster were restrictions on the exportation of sheep (and their wool). I’m not really authorized to speak on behalf of His Majesty, but let me be the first to apologize for trying to take away your woolly mittens.
So we’re talking about sheep, but Jesus would say we’re talking about ourselves. Then he might open his Bible and read “All we like sheep have gone astray, and everyone has gone his own way.” Yet still—he would remind us—God insists on loving us and following us and finding us when we’ve wandered off. To quote our friend St. Augustine: "By loving the unlovable, You (God) made me lovable."
God has made us lovable and promised the protection of a good shepherd. God has lifted up the ideal king for us, and we in turn know what to expect from kings and governments as they are confronted by injustice and the difficult life of the most vulnerable in our midst. And God has promised that Jesus, crucified and risen, will walk with us and find us when we stray. We are lovable and ever loved, lost and imperfect, and the Good Shepherd abides, now and always, amen.
*https://www.sheep101.info/history.html
