When Jesus met a woman at a well in Samaria, it turned out that they both had something to offer to one another: Refreshment.
Here’s a transcript:
I’m thinking about the fourth chapter of John’s Gospel (John 4:5-42): the conversation between Jesus and a woman he met at a well in Samaria.
The conversation started with Jesus’ simple request that she share some of the water she was drawing so that he could have a drink. It went from there to matters much deeper — deeper even than the well, if you like. It went to spiritual matters. It went even to the identity of the Messiah, the Deliverer, the one who was coming.
Unlike lots of other conversations, Jesus actually acknowledged to the woman that he was the Messiah.
The conversation was persuasive enough that she went back to the town and invited her neighbors to meet him. She said, “Come and meet a man who told me everything I’ve ever done. He couldn’t be the Messiah — or could he? Come and see.”
It occurs to me that this story is about refreshment. It started with Jesus asking to be refreshed with the literal water to be drawn from the well. It continued with the refreshment that Jesus offered to this woman and to her neighbors: refreshment of the spirit.
He offered and delivered not just an acceptance, but also real valuing for her and for those around her, despite the fact that she was a Samaritan, despite the fact that she was a woman, despite the fact that there were a number of things that should have kept them distant from one another.
Yet they refreshed one another.
I think refreshment is a central activity, a central calling, a central obligation, if you like, of the life of faith. We are not simply here to be ourselves. We are here to support one another, to be a community, to be a family, if you like. In that family we refresh one another. We provide refreshment such as water, food, shelter. We provide refreshment emotionally and relationally. And when and how we can, we offer refreshment for the spirit: that living water of which Jesus spoke that flows through our very souls and renews our lives.
Refreshment.
That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.
Who can receive grace? According to the Apostle Paul: anybody and everybody.
Here’s a transcript:
I’m thinking about the fourth chapter of the Apostle Paul’s letter to the church in Rome (Romans 4:1-5, 13-17).
Paul faced a real challenge. It was a challenge of theology. It was a challenge of thought. It was a challenge of relationship. He firmly believed that the salvation that God had offered through Jesus was urgent and important. He firmly believed that it needed to be extended to the entire population of the world.
The relationship with God, however, have been understood for centuries as mediated by a couple of limiting factors. They believed that the relationship with God was primarily for the descendants of Abraham. Other people could be added, but it took time and effort. Further, they believed — Paul believed —that through the gift of the Law offered through Moses, God had codified that relationship. Therefore people who followed the Law were those who could expect to receive any kind of grace from God.
The apostle Paul believed that that grace needed to be offered and expanded and extended as far and wide as possible.
So he went back the God’s relationship with Abraham. He went back and he found a critical aspect of that relationship. When God said to Abraham, “I will make you an ancestor,” even though that seems incredibly unlikely at Abraham’s advanced age, Abraham believed God. Abraham trusted God. There, said Paul, was the seed. There, said Paul, was the key to open the door.
Not the keeping of the Law, because as we know about law, law defines not “keeping” so much as it defines breaking. Not even kinship, ancestors sharing from Abraham, that was not where that original relationship had begun. It had begun in trust.
Trust in God, said the Apostle Paul, and that relationship is yours. That offer of salvation can be accepted. That place next to Jesus can be yours.
Not only for Abraham, not only for the countless others who had followed Abraham, not only for them, but also for you.
As we continue our Lenten journey, it is worth remembering that it was the Apostle Paul who, for the vast majority of us, made it not only for them but also for us.
May it also be a part of our Lenten journey to see that we understand and share God’s grace as not only for us, but for everyone.
That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.
I don’t remember the first time either of my children did something I had specifically told them not to do. I’m sure there was a first time. It’s been lost amidst all the other times. It’s one of the things my kids did as they grew – they knew that growing older meant shifting boundaries. Sometimes they’d test to see if the boundary had changed.
I remember that I didn’t do some things when they did something I had specifically told them not to do. I didn’t kick them out of the house, the way God sent Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden. Mind you, I did kick them out of the house eventually, when they’d graduated from college. But that wasn’t a consequence of misbehavior, that was just a consequence of growing up.
So what small wisdom can we take away from the story of Adam and Eve? It’s unwise to listen to talking snakes – which we don’t have to worry about on an island that doesn’t have land snakes. It’s unwise to do things you’ve specifically been told not to do by God – that’s certainly true, but you probably knew that already.
What happens after you do the thing God specifically told you not to do? You lose Paradise. You no longer live in a pristine world. The world is not a perfect place any more.
The world is not a perfect place.
It’s wise to know that the world is not a perfect place.
When Jesus confronted his temptations, he already knew that the world was not a perfect place. He’d just been baptized by John the Baptist, who washed people in the Jordan River so that their sins might be forgiven. You don’t need baptism in a perfect world.
But baptism doesn’t change the reality of temptation. That’s another small bit of wisdom. It’s astonishing how many people have lived their lives with the conviction that because of their baptism (or something else baptism-like) they, and only they, were right. I struggle with that one all the time. I like to be right, I work to be right, I have a professional obligation to be much more right than wrong. Right?
If I let myself grow accustomed to being right, I’m at risk of shortcutting the work, or relying upon prior rightness to get me through changing conditions, or mistaking “I was right given what I knew” for “I was absolutely right,” because I probably wasn’t.
God’s call. Baptism. Participation in the church. Success in work. Contributing to the harmony of a family. Leading in a community. None of that sets temptation aside. It’s always there, and it leaps out when you least expect it.
“However we think of the devil,” writes Warren Carter at Working Preacher, “the figure’s presence in the Gospel personifies the vulnerability of human life and life in relation to God. No one, not even God’s anointed agent, is free from having their identity and loyalty tested.”
Jesus didn’t escape temptation. You and I aren’t going to, either. It’s an imperfect world, and we are subject to temptation.
Temptation looks like good things. That’s another small wisdom. Temptation isn’t just shiny distraction. Temptation looks like blessing. In the case of Jesus, the temptations look like things he did later on. As Audrey West writes at Working Preacher:
Jesus refuses in the desert to turn stones into bread to assuage his own hunger, but before long he will feed thousands in the wilderness with just a few loaves and some fish (Matt 14:17-21; 15:33-38), and he will teach his disciples to pray to God for their “daily bread” (Matt 6:11).
He refuses to take advantage of his relationship to God by hurling himself down from the heights of the Temple, but at the end of his earthly ministry he endures the taunts of others (Matt 27:38-44) while trusting God’s power to the end upon the heights of a Roman cross (Matt 27:46).
He turns down the devil’s offer of political leadership over the kingdoms of the world, and instead offers the kingdom of the heavens to all those who follow him in the way of righteousness.
I’ve always found the last temptation, the realms of the earth, somewhat odd. The devil offered political power to someone he addressed as Son of God. Think about that for a minute. The Son of God already has power over the nations of the earth. The devil offered him what he already had.
Similar things happened in the other two temptations. Jesus had the power to create bread. He could have called the angels to him – and when the devil had gone away, they came without his call.
Temptation offers what we already have.
Another small wisdom. Temptation offers what we already have.
Sometimes, what’s tempting about it is a relief from labor or effort to achieve it.
Or, the temptation is to lift ourselves out of our humanity into some exalted condition.
As Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “These days, I read the story differently. The devil doesn’t come to make Jesus do something ‘bad.’ He comes to make Jesus do what seems entirely reasonable and good — but for all the wrong reasons. The test is a test of Jesus’s motivations. A test of his willingness to identify as fully human, even as he is fully God.”
Another small wisdom: Temptation urges us to be something other than fully human.
Temptation also invites us to raise others up to more than human. Jesus’ last response to the tempter is to quote Deuteronomy 8: “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” The devil has offered himself for worship, to be raised up above humanity and above whatever kind of being he is.
In addition, the offer to rule the nations ignored the people of those nations. What did they want or need? The devil didn’t ask. Those people weren’t important.
There’s a pair of small wisdoms: It’s temptation when you’re invited to raise someone else higher than human, and it’s also temptation when you’re asked to treat other people as unhuman.
That’s why all the “isms” – racism, sexism, homophobia, cultural imperialism, and so on – are so destructive. Each of them invites us to raise ourselves above other people by denying their full humanity.
Is there any small wisdom about resisting temptation? There is, but it’s hard. I wish it was as simple as reading Scripture and holding onto its directions – and that’s not simple. Plenty of faithful people well steeped in the Bible have fallen into temptation, myself included. I think the wisdom is, as best you can, try to resist temptation in company with other faithful, supportive people. Jesus did it alone, it’s true, and at some point in the process there’s nobody who can make the your decision for you. But Jesus did rely upon the religious tradition in which he’d been raised. He relied upon their recorded words and their recorded examples. He relied upon his relationship with God. He may not have summoned angels to him, but he trusted in their presence.
Jesus managed to resist temptation with those supports. Those might be enough for you and me. But as for me, I’m going to ask for more help if I possibly can.
There’s another small wisdom here that’s really uncomfortable. It’s the wisdom to find power in weakness, security in vulnerability. In John Milton’s poem Paradise Lost, he introduced the Son of God as a terrifying figure casting lightning bolts at the rebellious angels. There’s no sign of such a force in the Gospel accounts of the Temptation. A human, hungry Jesus faces a self-confident, more-than-human granter of wishes. It’s also uncomfortable to note that these temptations foreshadow the end of Jesus’ earthly ministry: bread that would represent his broken body, the nations triumphant over the Son of God, the Temple that gazed upon his crucifixion. As Amy Frykolm writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “True power is the mysterious path that Jesus walked. It comes with no guarantees. It is self-giving surrender, the strangest of paradoxes, and it leads to the cross.”
That’s a scary small wisdom.
It brings up one more small wisdom: that there really is resilience in the vulnerability, there really is strength in the weakness, there really is victory in the defeat. To quote an old hymn, there are angels hov’ring ‘round. As Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “Sometimes our journeys with God include dark places. Not because God takes pleasure in our pain, but because we live in a fragile, broken world that includes deserts, and because God’s modus operandi is to take the things of death, and wring from them resurrection.”
The world is not perfect. Temptation is real and we are vulnerable to it. Temptation looks like good things, not just shiny things. Temptation often offers what we already have. We may be tempted to lift ourselves above our humanity, or to set someone else as superhuman, or to regard others as subhuman. As best you can, find help to resist temptation. Find power in weakness. Remember that from death God brings resurrection.
Small wisdoms to bring us through temptation.
Amen.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Sermon
Pastor Eric makes changes while preaching, sometimes on purpose, sometimes accidentally. The text as prepared does not exactly match the sermon as delivered.
The illustration is Mountain Landscape with the Temptation of Christ by Joos de Momper the Younger (btwn 1600 and 1650) / Sebastiaen Vrancx – Web Gallery of Art: Image Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15417048.
Each Lent we tell the story of Jesus’ Temptation – because like Jesus, temptation is a part of our lives.
Here’s a transcript:
Lent begins this Wednesday, so I’m thinking about the fourth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 4:1-11). Each first Sunday in Lent, the Revised Common Lectionary tells the same gospel story (if from a different gospel each year). That story is the Temptation of Jesus.
As Matthew put it, after his baptism, Jesus went into the wilderness “to be tempted by the devil.” There were three of them that Matthew named. First, that the devil advised Jesus to transform stones into bread because he was hungry. The devil then invited Jesus to leap from a high place to demonstrate the protection of the angels to everybody else. Finally, the devil took him to a mountain and showed him all the realms of the earth, and said that they could be his if Jesus would just worship him: him, the devil. Jesus refused them all, and the devil left, and the angels came and ministered to Jesus.
Why did the editors of the lectionary place this story in front of us at the beginning of each Lent? I think it’s because it is a characteristic that we share with Jesus — not necessarily a direct encounter with a personification of temptation or evil (I suspect that those experiences are rare).
We do, however share with Jesus the experience of temptation, now don’t we? We know that there are times when we are invited to do things, to say things, to act in ways that are contrary to what God expects of us, to what society expects of us, to what our faith community expects of us, to what we expect of ourselves. Temptation may be small or it may be great. It can range from certain kinds of hungers to the temptation to ultimate power.
We share the experience of temptation with our Messiah.
Hopefully we also experience the resistance of temptation. Jesus did not rely solely upon his own inner strength to do so. He went back to the Scriptures. He went back to the things that he had been taught as a youth and as a young man: things that would help him to decide between what was right and what was wrong, what was good and what was better, what was fit to the circumstance and what would not help in this moment.
Somebody who is hungry should eat. That’s simply true. But in that temptation, Jesus refused to use his power to make stones into bread. And I think it could only be because he was tempted by the one he was tempted by.
So one of the questions for us is always: where is the temptation coming from? Are we hungry simply because we’re hungry, or are we in being invited to satisfy our hungers in ways that transform us into something we should not be? We should not be someone who exercises our power erratically or selfishly. We should be people who exercise our power on behalf of others.
Jesus resisted his temptations because he had the support of the wisdom of the ages and, of course, because he was he was. May we resist our temptations with the support of the wisdom of the ages, and with the aid of Jesus, who was who he was and is who he is in our lives.
That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.
In his documentary on the Darkness of the Renaissance, British art critic Waldemar Januszczak said, “Mountains have a powerful effect on people. Mountains cloud your judgment. They heighten your emotions and intoxicate you.” He’s right. The vistas from mountains – and the views of mountains – go right to the feelings. You find your breath catching, and not just because of the altitude.
We live at the foot of two of the earth’s great summits. I grant you that I’ve lived here not quite ten years, and most of you have lived here much longer than that, but I put it to you: have you ever looked up at Mauna Kea on a clear day and not felt something? Can Mauna Kea ever make you feel… nothing?
They make me feel something. They catch me, heart and soul, every time.
But do they cloud our judgment? I’m less sure about that. I do know that a mountain makes me see things in a different way. That can be quite literal, when I’m at the mountain summit and seeing the world as I can’t see it from the mountain’s foot. It’s also emotional. There I am, feeling at the top of the world, and not just from lack of oxygen.
I can feel at one and the same time both the greatest of all living beings and one of the small creatures I can’t even see far down the slopes.
Mountaintops are powerful. That’s true. They bring us away from the day-to-day of human living. They show us grandeur that’s beyond us. At the same time they place this grandeur in the palms of our hands.
I suspect that Simon Peter, James, and John anticipated something like that when they climbed the mountain with Jesus. They looked to see the glory of Creation stretching out below them. They expected to gasp air in deep breaths after the exertion of the climb. They probably hoped to hear something new from Jesus, whom they’d just acclaimed as Messiah (and been scolded for misunderstanding what Jesus meant by Messiah) six days before. Top of the world.
They got more than they’d bargained for. Jesus glowed like the sun. The two greatest religious leaders of ancient Israel stood there with Jesus: Moses who’d freed the people from Egypt and delivered God’s Law, and Elijah who’d maintained the faith against hostile monarchs and been carried away to God without dying. The Messiah, people whispered, would be a prophet like Moses. The Messiah, people whispered, would be heralded by Elijah returned.
“It is interesting,” writes D. Mark Davis at LeftBehindAndLovingIt, “that neither the transformation of Jesus, the appearance of Moses and Elijah, nor the bright light evoked fear in the disciples. Hearing the voice out of the clouds is what did them in.”
We don’t usually collapse at the top of a mountain – well, except to catch our breath from the climb. In fact, I usually find that the sight energizes me, lifts me up. I move about from place to place to take in the view in all directions. Mountaintops inspire. They rarely overwhelm.
Booming voices from clouds overwhelm. I’d have been overwhelmed. Without doubt. But as Rev. Davis says, all the strange and overwhelming things before that didn’t overcome them. Unusual? Yes. Unexpected? I wouldn’t have expected it. Frightful? No. I think there’s even a hint that, like the simple view from a mountaintop, the disciples found the experience inspiring as well as awe-inspiring. If I understand Peter’s offer to make shelters correctly, they were prepared to extend the inspiring experience, to learn more, to plan more, to prepare themselves for the work they’d undertake when they returned to the mountain’s foot.
Unsurprisingly, significant religious experiences in people’s lives tend to be called “mountaintop experiences.” Those experiences don’t have to happen on mountains. Plenty of them don’t. But like experiences on mountains, including most of the Transfiguration, they tend to inspire, not overwhelm.
Listen to that again. Most of the time, when God reaches out to someone, God doesn’t overwhelm them. God inspires them.
Mountaintop experiences aren’t necessarily visions of glory accompanied by angelic music and words of thunder. Mountaintop experiences are the ones that make a difference to your soul.
Mountaintop experiences are the ones that make a difference to your soul.
Debie Thomas writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “…as long as I can remember, I’ve measured the depth and ‘success’ of my faith by the number of mountaintop experiences I can truthfully claim. Have I ‘felt the Spirit’ in Sunday morning worship? Has Jesus ‘spoken’ to me? Have I seen visions? Spoken in tongues? Encountered God’s living presence in my dreams?
“Most of the time, the answer is ‘no.’ Which means I’ve spent most of my life feeling like a spiritual failure.”
Without commenting on the rightness or wrongness of the feeling – feelings, as I’ve noted before, happen whether they reflect external reality or not – I’ve never found Ms. Thomas a spiritual failure. Given how often I quote her in sermons, I’ve found her to be a significant spiritual guide. She’s described here a fairly widespread notion that spiritual success equates to overwhelming spiritual experiences. And… it doesn’t.
Spiritual success, I think, takes place when we pay attention to our experiences of God, whether they’re grand or subtle, and let them change our path.
As Audrey West writes at Working Preacher, “Then and now, the full meaning of a mountaintop experience may not become clear until after the return to the valley, after the passage of time. After they come down from the mountain, the disciples listen, as the voice has instructed: they hear Jesus’ parables, they hear his response to friends and foes, they hear his repeated references to the Son of Humanity.”
“Listen to him,” thundered the voice from the cloud. That overwhelmed Peter, James, and John, but it’s also the central theme of Matthew’s Gospel. Listen to Jesus. Each occasion of listening to Jesus is, to some degree, a mountaintop experience. It has the ability to transform us. It has the ability to redirect us. It has the ability to inspire us.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.” Are you inspired?
“Blessed are the peacemakers.” Are you inspired?
“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” Are you inspired?
“Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” Are you inspired?
“In everything do to others as you would have them do to you, for this is the Law and the Prophets.” Are you inspired?
I know you’ve been inspired, somewhere, somehow, by something. Why? You’re here. I have plenty of illusions about myself, but I’m pretty sure you can find things to do on Sunday morning that you’d enjoy more than dreading one of my puns coming along. But you’re here. You made the time. You made the effort. Why?
You’ve been inspired. Maybe you’re hoping for some more inspiration, but you’ve already been inspired.
It doesn’t happen every day, as you know. As Amy Frykolm writes at JourneyWithJesus.net, “This makes me think that perhaps the experience wasn’t given to the disciples so that they could cling to it. Perhaps it was given to them so that they could practice letting go. On the difficult path ahead, they are going to have to let go of Jesus again and again. Here they are asked to let go of even a vision so profound that it was called ‘transfiguration.’
“Maybe living with the coming and going of clouds incapsulates this lesson daily. ‘And thus I saw him and I sought him,’ Julian of Norwich writes. ‘And I had him and I lacked him.’ This isn’t something to mourn, she counsels, but is instead ‘the common working of this life.’ We glimpse God, and then God goes behind a cloud. In this way, we learn to love rather than cling.”
I’d add that we learn to love rather than puppet. We learn to love of our own initiative rather than depending on ongoing inspiration. We’re inspired for a moment. We’re changed in a moment. We move forward from there… and continue to learn, grow, change, and love in each place we go, no matter how far from the mountain.
As Maren Tirabassi wrote this week in a comment on ordainedgeek.com, “And so life-changing experiences are not really life-changing, just moment-changing and that always must be enough.”
It must, and it is. Those moments for each of you brought you to this moment. This moment may not inspire you that much, and if it doesn’t I apologize, since that is sort of the point of this exercise, but these moments, these experiences, they lead to new moments, new experiences, and if not all of them have the power of mountaintop moments, they all have power, they all give direction, they all inspire.
In these continuing moments, we follow Jesus. In these continuing moments, we love.
Amen.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Sermon
Pastor Eric writes his sermons ahead of time, but he makes changes while preaching, so the text prepared does not match the sermon as preached.
Photo of the summit of Mauna Kea by Eric Anderson.
Jesus and three of his disciples had a mountaintop experience of God’s presence and love. Can we bring our mountaintop experiences into our troubled times?
Here’s a transcript:
This Sunday is the last one before the beginning of Lent. That makes it Transfiguration Sunday, so I’m thinking about the seventeenth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 17:1-9), Matthew’s account of Jesus’ Transfiguration.
Jesus went up a mountain with his three closest friends: Peter, James, and John. While they were there, Jesus began to glow with some kind of inner light. Two other figures joined them on the mountain that they recognized as Moses and Elijah. Simon Peter offered to build some shelter and prolong the moment. A voice from a cloud, however, said that “This is my beloved son: Listen to him.” A moment later, the cloud was gone, the light was gone, Moses and Elijah were gone, and Jesus was saying to Peter, James, and John, “Get up, and do not be afraid.”
The Transfiguration of Jesus is a mystery. It has been a mystery since those first three disciples experienced it (alongside Jesus, of course). It was a mystery to them as they continued to follow him through Galilee and on to Jerusalem. I’m sure it was a mystery to those that they first told about it after Jesus’ resurrection. It was a mystery to Matthew, Mark, and Luke as they recorded it in their Gospels. And it’s been a mystery to all the rest of us over the centuries who have read it and sought to understand it — especially to those of us who have to preach about it.
We usually call significant religious experiences “mountain top experiences” based, in part, on this example from the Scriptures (there are other examples in the Scriptures as well). Mountains tend to be places where people have significant religious experiences, but they can have them in other places.
The point is that great epiphanies, great revelations of the heart and mind of God, are rare. We, most of the time live with the guidance we receive from Scripture, or from what we’ve been taught, from the example of other people around us. It’s not that common for a voice to sound from a cloud and say, “This is my beloved son: Listen to him.”
But most of us have something like that in our lives, some moment faith touched us more deeply than it had before, some kind of mountaintop experience unique to each one of us.
Hold on to the mountain top experience. Remember to bring its assurance down into the valley, not because the mountaintop experience makes you right about everything else, but because the mountaintop experience reminds you of the ever-present grace and love of God.
The first thing that Jesus said to his friends after that overwhelming experience was, “Do not be afraid.” Friends, I think that is what mountaintop experiences are for. When we’re down in the valleys and things are not going well, we can recall what we experienced that went so deep.
And in that memory we do not need to be afraid.
That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.
In her blog, preaching Professor Alyce M. McKenzie tells a story about a skit she and some students presented one year, which featured her giving feedback to Jesus on the Sermon on the Mount as if he were a member of her preaching class. In the skit, she said, “You remember we learned earlier in the semester that every sermon needs to have one single focus and you are all over the map with this one — salt, light, not coming to abolish the prophets, breaking and keeping commandments. It seems almost like you put a bunch of short sayings together in a row. And one more thing — your final sentence: ‘Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’ Where is the good news in this sermon ending? It sets out an impossible goal and then tells listeners they’ll be in trouble if they can’t do the impossible.”
The punchline, she wrote, is that while she was marking things on the blackboard with her back to the class, “Jesus” beckoned the other students to follow and they left her alone in the room.
There is some truth, however, to her critique. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus wasn’t making things easy for anyone. To a people whose Scriptures told them about their ancestors repeated failures to live up to the standards of the Law and the Prophets, Jesus said, “Fulfill them.” That’s where the light came from. It’s the source of the salt. And, oh yes, “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and the Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Now, we’ve been taught for years that the Pharisees and the scribes were the villains of the New Testament, and certainly by the time the Gospels were written there was a lot of dissension between the emerging Christians and the senior theologians of Judaism. To Jesus’ hearers, though, the Pharisees and the scribes weren’t bad guys, they were the tip top examples of what goodness meant. These were the people who seriously contemplated God’s law, who worked through the implications of the things the prophets had said. To exceed the righteousness of the scribes and the Pharisees set the bar incredibly high. Dr. McKenzie properly called it an “impossible goal.”
“’No!’ we might say, ‘Jesus didn’t really mean that,’” writes Karoline Lewis at Working Preacher. She continues, “But what if Jesus did? What if Jesus’ intention was for us as disciples to imagine and live into a righteousness that makes the kingdom of heaven possible? If this is true, no wonder Jesus tells this to his disciples from the beginning. They will need the rest of the Gospel to make sense of and embrace such a request.”
Fulfilling the Law and the Prophets. Jesus first – his followers next. Jesus first – and then you and me.
The usual complaint is that the Law and the Prophets are hard to understand. Are they? Really? “Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day and oppress all your workers,” wrote Isaiah hundreds of years before Jesus was born. Is it hard to understand that self-interest is a problem? Is it hard to understand that exploiting people, whether they’re your employees or your family or your neighbor is a problem?
Quarreling and fighting. Clearly problems. And then there are the behaviors that aren’t problems, that are precisely what God was calling for in the Law and repeating through the prophets: Loose the bonds of injustice. Don’t burden people. Don’t enslave them. Share your bread. House the homeless. Clothe the naked. Care for your family. “Then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday.”
Or as Jesus put it, “You are the light of the world.”
A light not to be hidden.
Eric Barreto writes at Working Preacher, “Jesus gives the central insight that lights don’t magically end up underneath bushels. The only way for our light to be covered is if we put a bushel over it. We can hear the incredulous tone in Jesus’ voice, ‘No one after lighting a lamp puts it under a bushel’ (verse 15). Ridiculous! Jesus is clear: we are not victims inevitably doomed to being distracted and drained by the bushels of inferiority or self-absorption or fantasy. Bushels can only block out the light when we put them there.”
There’s a lot of truth to that. You and I are more than capable of hiding our light, not by being humble, but by seeing something to do and leaving it undone. Somebody else will do it, we might think. Or there just isn’t time (which might be true). Worst of all, I’m too important to do this simple thing.
I can also think of more than one way in which others drop baskets over our light. Plenty of people have suffered being discounted by others. It is, in fact, an all-too-common experience. You sometimes hear of it being done by family members, who’ll tell one of the ‘ohana that their work is bad, that their opinions are unwelcome, that they themselves are worthless. We’re also familiar with broader prejudices within societies, which usually qualify certain groups as worth less or even worthless: children, foreigners, people with a different hue of skin, women.
In the January 31st edition of “Letters from an American,” historian Heather Cox Richardson quoted 19th century US Senator from South Carolina James Henry Hammond, who in 1858 told his colleagues that all societies need a “mudsill” class to do the work and to benefit their betters. African Americans served that purpose in the pre-Civil War South, but the North, he said, had “the man who lives by daily labor…in short, your whole hireling class of manual laborers and ‘operatives,’ as you call them, are essentially slaves.”
Senator Hammond’s words were literally a bushel basket meant to extinguish the light of the world. They have their echoes today. Do not mistake them. They will do what’s chemically impossible: cause salt to lose its taste. They will do what breaks hearts, families, and societies: hide the light.
When Jesus told us to let our light shine, he didn’t just mean, “Do nice things.” He meant, “See that the hungry are fed and the homeless housed. See that the oppressed are freed and the burdened relieved. Do not let the powerful say, ‘Sorry,’ and do nothing as if that took care of it. Do what John the Baptist did. Tell the powerful to repent for their sins.”
If our fasting does not enable us to discern God’s will more clearly, If our prayers do not stir us to address unmet needs around us, If our blessings do not compel us to bless our neighbor, If our sacramental rites do not move us to solidarity with the marginalized, If our praise of the abiding of Creator does not lead to care and respect of all creation, If our confession does not spur us beyond absolution to repair, If our assurance of God’s grace does not lead us to extend mercy, Then why would the Holy and Just God even participate in it?
Yet, if we remove the yoke among us… If we seek justice, speak truth, and love abundantly, If we embrace the immigrant among us, If we make space and consideration for the ignored and isolated, If we lend our voice for the persecuted, defamed, and disenfranchised, If we stand up to corruption and bear witness to wrongdoing, If we raise our voice and move beyond our discomfort, Then we too may receive the promise of the covenant and the Holy One’s declaration of “Here I am.”
Remove the yoke.
Remove the yoke.
Amen.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Sermon
Pastor Eric makes changes from his prepared text as he preaches, both accidentally and on purpose.
The image is Study for the Sermon on the Mount, a preliminary study for the cycle of paintings in Loccum Monastery by Eduard von Gebhardt (before 1925) – Van Ham Kunstauktionen (SØR Rusche Collection – Eduard von Gebhardt, Auktion 25.02.2021), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=103398414.
Jesus declared that he had come to fulfill the law and the prophets – and it’s worth remembering what the law and the prophets had insisted upon.
Here’s a transcript:
I’m thinking about the fifth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 5:13-20), the continuation of the Sermon on the Mount. That began, as we heard last week, with the Beatitudes, that series of blessings. It continued with Jesus first saying to his listeners, “You are the light of the world,” and “The city on a hill cannot be hid…” “so let your light shine.”
Jesus then said that he had not come to abolish the Law or the Prophets, but to fulfill them. The ancient Law and the guidance of the prophets was still relevant hundreds of years after they had been driven or spoken to the people. And so it’s worth remembering some of the things that it says in Law and Prophets that I think do represent that true light that can be seen as it shines from a hill.
A lot of people will tend to tell you it’s all about idolatry, about worshipping foreign gods, and indeed, the Law and the Prophets were concerned with these. The Law and the Prophets, however, were also concerned with the way that we treat one another. Over and over again the Prophets raised the question: what is happening with the widows and the orphans? What is their condition?
It is the welfare of the most vulnerable in a society that measures how well it is following the directives of God. If the widows and the orphans are suffering, if the foreigner among you is oppressed, if people are cheating one another in the businesses and the marketplaces, if they are lying to one another: Well, that is a measure of a society that is failing to keep the word of God.
So many things we shortcut. I’m not talking about dietary regulations or things like that. I’m thinking about the ways that we kind of let things slide and not insist upon a real diligence in our own ethical behavior. Those are the kinds of things that Jesus was concerned about. Jesus always raised the bar. He increased the challenge.
So for us, I think, the question is not just how are the widows and the orphans doing, but how are those other people who fit into groups that are usually dismissed, disregarded, dishonored? How are they doing?
And if they’re not doing well, then we as a society are not doing well in fulfilling the will of God.
That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.
In the Beatitudes, Jesus said that people who were suffering were also blessed. It takes time to appreciate God’s presence.
Here’s a transcript:
I’m thinking about one of the best known passages in one of the best remembered sections of all the Scriptures. I’m thinking about the Beatitudes, which open the Sermon on the Mount in the fifth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 5:1-12).
I’m sure you’ll recognize probably most of these words:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
Familiar, I’m sure. Familiar and comforting. Jesus, I’m sure, intended them to be comforting, but they are comforting in a way that looks forward. They are less comforting in the now. Although Jesus described all of the people having these experiences as “blessed” and blessed in the here and now, the blessings that he associated with these conditions…
So, for example, the blessings for the poor in spirit: Theirs is the Kingdom of heaven, Jesus said. Well, we may own the Kingdom of heaven if we are poor in spirit, but those who are poor in spirit — at least any time that I’ve felt poor in spirit I’ve not been able to perceive even my presence in the Kingdom of heaven, let alone that the Kingdom of heaven was mine. When I was mourning, it took some time before I could appreciate and settle into the comfort. And that’s true for pretty much all of these.
When we are in those conditions of suffering, of sorrow, of loss, of oppression, we are still awaiting the fulfillment of Jesus’ promises. Even that very famous one — blessed are the merciful for they will receive mercy — well, all too frequently the merciful are paid with oppression, and suffering, even death. Mercy, it seems comes later.
I don’t think Jesus meant for his followers to always be looking ahead for the fulfillment of his promises. I think he meant for us to understand that we are always accompanied by God. We are always held by God. We are always relieved in our trials by God.
But there is a step between the experience and the realization of God’s presence and strength and mercy. That gap, to some degree, is just natural humanity. When we are in the midst of struggle or trial, I’m not sure it’s possible to fully appreciate God’s presence. Our attention is focused on what we feel, and what we feel is bad. I think what Jesus encourages us to do in the Beatitudes is to expand our awareness from that which is most evident in the moment, to expand our awareness to the presence of God that always was, always is, and always will be there.
Then we can appreciate the comfort. Then we can experience the Kingdom of heaven. Then we can know we are held in the arms of mercy.
That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.
As Matthew described it, Jesus began his ministry by teaching the good news of God’s realm, summoning people together into it, and bringing people healing. This is the core of Christianity.
Here’s a transcript:
I’m thinking about the fourth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 4:12-23), his account of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry.
That ministry began when John was arrested. Jesus returned to the region of the Galilee. He then went and recruited the first of his disciples — Peter and Andrew, James and John — from where they had been fishing in the sea of Galilee. He taught in the synagogues. He proclaimed the good news of the Realm of God, and he cured the sick, any who came to him with some kind of a disease.
I think you can argue that this is the essence, not just of Jesus, but of Christianity. It is founded in the teaching (and the teaching of what?): the teaching of Good News, the teaching of God’s nearness, the teaching of God’s forgiveness, the teaching of God’s love.
And how do we express that love? We express it through healing, through comfort, through gathering people together, through building a better society, a better world.
There are so many ways to understand “Messiah,” “Anointed One.” The most obvious ones are to connect anointing with the creation of the monarch, or the appointment of a general, the selection of a leader of war. But Jesus, though he was the Messiah, simply didn’t go in any of those directions. He accepted baptism rather than an anointing with oil. He brought healing rather than war. He preached good news rather than condemnation. He spoke of repentance in order that people would find their way to full participation in the Realm of God.
“Come with me and I’ll make you fish for people,” he said to those first four followers. Fish for people not so that they might be consumed, but so that they might thrive.
This is the essence of Christianity: Teaching. Teaching good news. Summoning people together. And seeing that as many as we can find their healing.
That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.
