Living Words

A Sermon for Whitsunday Acts 2:1-11 by William Klock In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  And so the great story began.  Six day.  God speaks.  And creation takes shape.  On the first day…on the second day…on the third day…and so on…like a liturgy.  In fact, there's a theory that Genesis 1 was written to be used at the dedication of the second temple.  Because it describes God creating the heavens and the earth as his own temple.  In Genesis 2 we even see that this temple has a holy of holies: a garden called Eden.  There he carefully crafts a man from the dust of the earth, breathes his own life into him, and places him in the garden, in that holy of holies, to act as his priest, to care for his temple, and to live in his presence. And then we humans sinned and it all went wrong.  But Genesis stands as a reminder of what the Lord intended and how it's supposed to be.  The pagans tried to get it back.  They built temples for their gods and in them, to represent the gods' rule, they placed idols carved of wood or stone.  And attempt to recover Eden, to re-enter that fellowship with God, but on our terms, not his.  But Genesis reminds us that God has built his own temple by the power of his creative word and that he created us to be his image, to tend and to keep his temple, and to steward his rule on earth. And Genesis…and the whole story that follows…reminds us that the Lord will not leave us forever cast out.  Into the midst of the darkness God spoke again and called forth Abraham and with Abraham and his family, God launched a new heaven-and-earth project.  Over and over he showed his faithfulness to Abraham, to Isaac, to Jacob, and to the whole people of Israel.  When they were slaves in Egypt he heard their cry and he rescued them.  He defeated Pharaoh and the Egyptians and led his beloved people through the Red Sea and into the wilderness.  At Mount Sinai the Lord gave the gift of the torah, the law, to Moses and the people.  And with the torah he gave them instructions, think of them as blueprints, for the tabernacle.  The Lord promised: I will be your God and you will be my people.  Once again, the Lord would take up his dwelling in their midst.  The tabernacle was a portable temple full of the symbols of the garden of Eden.  Wherever the people stopped to camp, they set up the tabernacle, and the glory cloud, the shekinah representing the Lord's presence, would descend to fill the holy of holies.  And the torah set the people apart from the nations and taught them how to be holy so that they might be the people who lived with the Lord in their midst.  Israel, camped around the tabernacle and the Lord's glory cloud, were a sort of new creation in miniature—heaven and earth, God and human beings back together, even if imperfectly.  It gave the people hope.  A hope that one day the Lord would truly and fully set this broken world to rights—to make things the way they're supposed to be.  And it wasn't just hope for Israel.  The Lord intended the watching nations to see his people and take note. That's the climax of the Exodus.  Not the Passover or the Red Sea.  Those are important—vitally important—parts of the story.  But it's Exodus 40, the last chapter of the book, where the Lord's glory clouds descends to dwell in the tabernacle—that's the climax.  The Lord once again dwelling with his people. We see it happen again when the Israelites are settled in the land of Canaan.  King Solomon builds a permanent temple for the Lord and, once again, at its dedication the glory cloud descends to fill the holy of holies. It was all there as part of the story to point the people in hope to God's restoration of heaven and earth—to the day when the Lord's promises would be fulfilled.  Because the Lord didn't just come to Israel and manifest himself in a cloud of glory; he spoke.  Israel's prophetic tradition was full of promises looking forward to that day. King David knew the Lord's promises and sang out in prophetic hope of that future day in Psalm 72: May he have dominion from sea to sea…May all kings fall down before him, all nations serve him…Blessed by the Lord, the God of Israel, who alone does wondrous things.  Blessed be his glorious name forever; may the whole earth be filled with his glory!  Isaiah sang of the coming Messiah who would set creation to rights: There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit.  And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him.  And when God has done his work through the Messiah, Isaiah sings, the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.  Habakkuk similarly would sing out in hope: For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.   When the Lord's cloud of glory descended to fill the temple, it pointed forward to that day when he would—when he will—fill all of creation with his glorious presence. Think about this hope that Israel had and how great it was and I think it helps give a sense of just how tragic it then was when Israel failed to keep her end of the covenant and the Lord allowed the Babylonian army to capture Jerusalem and to destroy the temple—his temple.  Israel sinned, Israel showed disregard for the law the Lord had given to keep her holy.  And worst of all—over and over and over—Israel prostituted herself to the gods of the pagans.  It was a deep, deep tragedy.  As the Psalmist laments in Psalm 137: By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept.  Not just for what was lost, but like Adam and Eve, cast out and weeping over their own disobedience.  But even then, in those dark, dark days of exile the Lord still spoke.  Through Isaiah and Ezekiel, through Zechariah and Malachi the Lord promised that he would come back to dwell with his people. And yet, as the Gospels begin, hundreds of years had passed and the Lord had yet to return.  Israel had returned from her exile.  The temple had been rebuilt.  The people and the priests went through all the motions.  The smoke went up from the great altar.  But the cloud of glory had never come down and returned to the temple.  And pagan kings still ruled with Israel under their heels. Again, this is where the Gospels begin.  St. John describes the darkness, the hopelessness, the absence and then he says that the word became flesh and lived among us…The light shone in the darkness.  Brothers and Sisters, the Gospels are about the return of God to his people in fulfilment of his promises.  The word—the embodiment of God's creative power—the word took on our flesh and was born of Mary.  In Jesus God not only returned to his people, he brought heaven and earth, God and humanity back together in his person.  Jesus is the manifestation of the hope of creation set to rights, of the breach between us and God healed.  Matthew puts it in terms of Isaiah's prophecy: Jesus is the promised Immanuel: God with us. And as the church has led us through the story of Jesus these last months, we've followed him to the cross where he took on himself the role of the Passover lamb.  He died for the sins of his people.  And just when sin and death thought they'd done their worst and defeated God once and for all, God raised Jesus from death.  It was like the Passover and the Red Sea all over again, only this time it wasn't an Egyptian king and his army that were defeated, it was evil itself. And then, last week, we stood with the disciples and watched as Jesus ascended to take his throne in heaven.  And if you know the story of Israel, if you know the Old Testament like Luke's readers did, you can't help but draw the connection.  If Jesus' death was a new Passover, then his ascension isn't just his going to heaven to take his throne as king.  It's definitely very much that and that's significant, but it also parallels Moses going up Mount Sinai to meet with the Lord.  And when Moses came down, he had the gift of the torah, the law, with him. And so now, in today's Gospel, from Acts 2 Luke writes: When the day of Pentecost had finally arrived, they were all together in the same place.   I'm sure Jesus' disciples were expecting something.  I don't think they knew exactly what.  As we heard in last week's Gospel, Jesus said that he had to leave, to take his throne—and the disciples would be sorry to see him go—but that it had to be that way, because Jesus would send the Holy Spirit to empower them.  At the last supper he'd said that with his blood he was making a new covenant.  They knew that a new covenant would need a new law—a new torah—because the law was what taught the people how to live out their end of the covenant, how to live as the people in whose midst the Lord dwelled. But what that would like was anyone's guess.  But when Jesus told them to go and wait in Jerusalem and that he would send the Spirit in a few days, I fully expect they made the connection with Pentecost, because Pentecost—which is just Greek for “fiftieth” because it's fifty days after Passover—because Pentecost was the great feast when Israel remembered and celebrate the giving of the law at Mount Sinai.  I think that by this time, the disciples were finally putting things together.  They were waiting those ten days with baited breath.  Jesus was alive.  Jesus was king.  Everything was happening just as he promised.  So they knew the Spirit would come.  But how?  And what would happen when he did?  And how would the Spirit be a new torah for this new covenant.  And so they obeyed Jesus.  They waited all together in Jerusalem—probably in that same “upper room” where they'd eaten the Passover.  And Luke goes on: Suddenly there came from heaven a noise like the sound of a mighty, rushing wind, and it filled the whole house where they were sitting.   So many parts of the story come together here.  It helps to understand that wind and breath are the same word in both Hebrew and Greek.  And so this divine wind sweeps in to the room to breathe the breath of God into the disciples, reminding them of the way God gave life to Adam in the beginning—taking that lifeless lump of moulded clay and animating it, making it as we say, a soul—a living being.  But this time it's God breathing life into his new Israel.  There's a reason that the one thing the disciples made sure they did during those days of waiting was to appoint Matthias as a successor to Judas.  If they were to be the new Israel, they had to be twelve.  And now the Spirit comes and breathes the life of God into this new people. But, too, the imagery of the wind filling the house.  It doesn't just recall God breathing life into Adam.  It also recalls God's presence filling the tabernacle in Exodus 40 and the temple in 1 Kings 8.  The way God gives his Spirit is a reminder that Jesus people aren't just a people full of the Spirit.  Brothers and Sisters, being full of the Spirit makes us God's temple.  Jesus and us—together we're the beginning of God's new creation, the beginning of his restoration of heaven and earth.  Jesus has ascended to heaven bearing our human flesh.  And in the Spirit, God has come to earth to dwell with us.  In us, in Jesus' people, the restoration of Eden has begun.  That's why at the head of Jesus' prayer are is that powerful petition: Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. I think this is why all through the rest of Acts, stuff keeps happening at temples, whether it's the next couple of chapters as we follow the events of Pentecost and Peter preaching and thousands being baptised or later as Paul confronts the pagans in their temples in Athens and Ephesus.  All because in Jesus and his people God's real temple is being built—brick by brick, stone by stone, with each baptism…all laid on the foundation of the death and resurrection of Jesus. So the disciples already knew when Jesus rose from death that new creation had begun.  Jesus was the first part of it.  And they were so excited to go out and tell everyone that Jesus had to calm them down and tell them to wait.  Enthusiasm is never enough.  They needed to be made part of that new creation too.  And that's what the Spirit does here.  One day, when the church's work is done and Jesus returns to finally cast death itself into the lake of fire, God will raise us as he raised Jesus and we will know fully the life he intends for us.  But the time for that hasn't yet come.  The gift of the Spirit is the downpayment on that life—or to use an Old Testament term for it: the Spirit is the firstfruits of God's new creation. And that's the other part of the feast of Pentecost that comes into this.  Pentecost wasn't just the celebration of God's giving of the law to Israel.  It was also the festival where the people brought their firstfruits to God.  They brought the first of their crops—like a sheaf of wheat—not just to give thanks for the harvest, but in expectant hope of his provision—trusting him for a plentiful harvest.  From now on, for Jesus' people, Pentecost is just that: a reminder that the harvest has begun and that the Spirit is sure to make it a plentiful one. But it wasn't just the wind.  Luke goes on in verse 3: Then tongues, seemingly of fire, appeared to them, moving apart and coming to rest on each one of them.  They were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them the words to say.   The wind from heaven fills them and the Spirit manifests himself as flame and then they start to speak in other languages.  Again, the big story tells us why the Spirit came this way.  Genesis explains the origin of different languages and people groups with the story of Babel.  It's the low point in human history.  Adam and Eve sin in Chapter 3, Cain murders his brother in Chapter 4, and humanity goes downhill from there until, in Chapter11, we've lost all knowledge of God.  In their hubris, the men of Babel built a tower to reach heaven and in response, the Lord confused their languages and scattered them.  It's a bit like Psalm 2 and Daniel 7 that I mentioned last week.  The nations rage, but God laughs.  But all the while he has a plan to set us to rights.  In Psalm 2 it's the son of David who will reign as king.  In Daniel 7 it's the son of man who will be enthroned by the Ancient of Days.  And here at Pentecost, the son of David who is also the son of man takes his throne and sends the Spirit who creates a people ready to undo Babel. Luke goes on in verse 5: There were devout Jews from every nation under heaven staying in Jerusalem at that time.  [Remember, because it was Pentecost.]  When they heard this noise they came together in a crowd.  They were deeply puzzled, because every single one of them could hear them speaking in his or her own native language.  They were astonished and amazed.  “These men who are doing the speaking are all Galileans, aren't they?” they said.  “So how is it that each of us can hear them in our own mother tongues?   Luke goes on to list people from countries across the whole Roman empire and some from even beyond that.  And the men hearing this go on with the most important detail, “We can hear them telling us about the mighty things God has done—in our own languages.”   What does it mean?  Brothers and Sisters, this gift of tongues to the disciples was a sign.  It was a sign that Jesus truly had ascended to his throne and he now rules over a global dominion.  And it means that through his people, through his church, Jesus has inaugurated God's new creation and has begun the work of setting everything to rights—starting with the confusion of Babel. And that's where today's Epistle ends, which is a bit disappointing.  I wish we had a Pentecost season where we could at least work through the next couple of chapters.  “What does all this mean?” they ask, and in response Peter begins to preach and he explains to the gathered men how this was all in fulfilment of God's promises.  These first eleven verses will have to be enough for today. Brothers and Sisters, Pentecost reminds us who we are.  Again, think of Israel, rescued from Egypt and then formed as a people in the wilderness—a people defined by the law and by God dwelling in their midst.  Pentecost is a reminder to us that in Jesus, God has delivered us from our bondage to sin and death and that he has made us a people defined by his new law: the life of the Spirit.  And we don't just have God in our midst; we are indwelt by God himself in the Spirit.  Pentecost is a reminder that in making us this Spirit-filled people, God has made us his temple.  We are the place where the world meets God.  But our calling isn't simply to sit here like the temple on Mount Zion and wait for people to come.  Our calling is to be a temple on the move and a temple dispersed—a temple that goes out and meets the world with God and with the gospel—with the good news that Jesus, crucified and risen, is the world's true Lord.  You and I have been entrusted with the story.  Go out and proclaim the mighty deeds of God and the Spirit will use that proclamation to change hearts and to grow the kingdom.  And, finally, Pentecost is a reminder that as God's temple, we are also the firstfruits of God's new creation.  We as a people are called to live out the life of God—not just to steward his word and to proclaim his gospel, but to truly be light in the darkness: living out and working for mercy and love and justice, showing the world the value of goodness, truth, and beauty, teaching reconciliation, bringing healing.  In other words, Brothers and Sisters, pulling God's future into the present.  Not just praying “on earth as in heaven”, but living out that prayer so that all the world will see and doing so in trusting hope that God's promise is true.  One day, when the church has done her job declaring the mighty deeds of God, the earth will be filled with the knowledge of his glory as the waters cover the sea.  That is what it means to be a “Pentecostal” people. Let's pray: O GOD, who on this day taught the hearts of your faithful people by sending to them the light of your Holy Spirit: Grant us by the same Spirit to have a right judgment in all things, and evermore to rejoice in his holy comfort; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for Ascension Sunday Acts 1:1-11 by William Klock The King came to Canada this week and I can help but reflect on how providential this event has been—the King of Canada coming to take his throne in the Senate chamber in Ottawa—in the same week that we remember and celebrate the ascension of Jesus.  I might be tempted to title my sermon: A Tale of Two Kings. So a new Parliament needed to be opened.  A throne speech had to be read.  That's normally done by the Governor General, but these are not normal times.  The new President next door, in what has always been Canada's best friend and ally, is now making economic war and daily challenging the country's sovereignty.  It was time for the Sovereign to come and save the day.  And so the King came, and he ascended to his throne in Parliament, and he read a speech.  The last time the Sovereign did this was almost fifty years ago, so this is no small thing.  And yet the King was here for all of about twenty-four hours.  The speech he read was written by government speech-writers, not by the King.  And even then, it's vitally important in our constitutional monarchy that the King avoid any openly political speech—and so the big concern of the day, the big thing that threatens the nation's economic well-being and sovereignty—was only hinted at obliquely.  And everyone applauded.  And then the King got back into his jet and flew home.  And maybe it's just because I'm an American, but it doesn't seem to me that all the pomp and circumstance and expense really accomplished anything.  The King didn't go to Washington to negotiate peace with the belligerent bully or to rough him up a bit or even to give him a good talking to.  Instead, he came here, he sat in the Senate chamber, and recited back to the government the talking points it gave him.  Again, I mean no disrespect to the King or to Canada's constitutional monarchy, but watching and listening to this week's events as an American—although I suspect even the staunches of Christian monarchists can't help but notice it too—that there's a big—an enormous—difference between the ascension of King Charles III in Ottawa this week and the ascension of Jesus that we read about today in both our Epistle and Gospel. I listened to the throne speech and even though I know that the King can't actually do anything, when it was over I still felt like: What now?  The King flies all this way, he ascends to his throne with great pomp and circumstance, he reads a speech intended to stir patriotic feelings—and even as an American, watching and listening I felt pride for Canada—but then he got back into his airplane and went home.  He didn't do anything about the current crisis.  The enemy is still there.  In fact, the King's talk of Canadian sovereignty just seemed to provoke a new round of fifty-first state talk.  It's kind of a let down.  I don't know what I expect the King should do, but he's a king after all and I sort of have a mental image of him taking off his pinstripe jacket, putting on a shining suit of armour, going to Washington, and popping the President in the nose.  In real life that probably wouldn't solve anything.  It's just that kings are supposed to deliver their subjects in times of trouble and cast down their enemies.  Right?  That's what kings are for. This is why the disciples were so discouraged when Jesus was crucified.  They thought he was the Messiah, the anointed king, and then he got himself killed—and that's not what was supposed to happen to the king.  He was supposed to defeat his enemies and take his throne.  And then Jesus rose from death and he met them and they were so excited to go declare the good news to Jerusalem that Jesus actually had to calm them down and tell them to wait.  Enthusiasm isn't enough.  They also needed the power of God's Spirit—but that's for next week.  But for forty days Jesus has been teaching them.  He's been walking them through the scriptures and showing them how it was there along: the Messiah had to die in order to defeat his enemies and take his throne.  Like I said a couple of weeks ago, those forty days must have been the most thrilling days in all of history as Jesus taught them and as it all came together.  And yet, even then, the disciples were still stuck on the wrong things.  But now I'm getting ahead of myself for today.  Keep this all in mind and let's look at our Epistle again.  The first chapter of Acts.  Luke writes: Dear Theophilus, the previous book which I wrote had to do with everything Jesus began to do and teach.  I took the story as far as the day when he was taken up, once he had given instructions through the Holy Spirit to his apostles.   Luke is talking about his Gospel.  He goes on in verse 3: He showed himself to them alive, after his suffering, by many proofs.  He was seen by them for forty days, during which he spoke about God's kingdom.  As they were having a meal together, he told them not to go away from Jerusalem, but to wait, as he put it, “for the Father's promise, which I was telling you about earlier.  John baptised with water, you see, but in a few days from now you will be baptised with the Holy Spirit.”   So good so far.  Forty days of Bible teaching with Jesus.  All about the kingdom.  He thinks they're ready to do the proclamation part of their new ministry, they just need to wait a minute so he can ascend to this throne and send the Spirit who will empower that proclamation.  Jesus thinks their ready to be set loose on the world.  But have you ever taught something to someone, explaining it to them, and they're nodding and you think they understand.  You're ready to turn them loose.  And then they ask you a question and you realise that they still don't understand the central point of what you've been trying to teach them? I took calculus as a freshman in college.  Twice.  The only class I ever failed.  I understood the instructions.  But no matter how hard I tried and no matter how long the professor explained it to me—I had the benefit of sitting next to him in the church choir—I never understood what it was all about.  I didn't get it.  I thought that at least I could just follow the instructions to solve the equations.  I found that usually worked pretty well with math.  But it didn't with calculus.  So he—or my friends who understood calculus—would explain it to me and I'd say, “Right.  I do this, then this, then this, and so on.”  And they'd smile and say, “Yes!”  Like it was finally sinking in for me.  And then I'd do what I thought were the steps and it wouldn't work and they'd ask me to explain it, and I couldn't, because I never could wrap my head around the concept at the heart of it all. Brothers and Sisters, the kingdom was the heart of everything Jesus was teaching and doing.  And the disciples knew this.  That's, again, why they were so discouraged when he died.  Dead kings don't establish kingdoms.  But now Jesus is alive again and they're excited and especially so because for forty days Jesus has been teaching them even more about the kingdom.  And then they ask, “Master, is this the time when you are going to restore the kingdom to Israel.”   I remember the look on my calculus professor's face when he through I'd finally got it through my thick skull and how his smile faded away when he realised I didn't get it at all and I can picture the same look on Jesus' face.  Disappointment and exasperation.  I don't know.  Maybe Jesus knew that no amount of talk would get them straight on this and that it would only fall into place once they saw him ascend and once they'd received the Spirit.  But it's clear: despite all the teaching, the disciples still didn't get it. See, this idea of the “kingdom of God”, for the Jews it had become shorthand for the idea that one day the Lord would fulfil his promises, come back to Israel, take up his throne.  He'd defeat Isreal's enemies and he'd set Israel to rights—and then they'd all live happily ever after with God as their king and the pagans under their feet.  They sang songs, like Psalm 2, about the nations raging and the kings of the earth getting together to plot against the Lord and his people.  And in the middle of the song the Lord bursts out in laughter, mocking the nations and their feeble kings.  And then the Lord lets loose his wrath and announces, “I have set my king on Zion, my holy hill.”  And then the king speaks: “The Lord said to me, ‘You are my son; today I have begotten you.  Ask of me, and I will make the nations your heritage, and the ends of the earth your possession.  You shall break them with a rod of iron and dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel.”  And then the Psalmist can announce to the nations: “Now, O kings, be wise; be warned, O rulers of the earth.  Serve the Lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling.  Kiss the son, lest he be angry and you perish in the way, for his wrath is quickly kindled.”  It's the king in shining armour come to crush his enemies and set his people to rights. They sang songs like the one in Isaiah 52 about the beautiful feet of the one who brings good news and who announces to Zion, “Your God reigns.”  “The Lord has bared his holy arm before the eyes of the nations, and all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of God.”  This was the same song in which they sang about the suffering servant who would be exalted only after he had borne their griefs and sorrows, only after he'd been stricken and afflicted.”  This was the hope of Israel and this is why the disciples had followed Jesus.  They believed he was the Messiah, the king who would rescue his people and defeat their enemies.  Again, for those three days he was in the tomb it looked like they'd been wrong, but now Jesus was alive again.  They knew with absolute certainty that he really is the Messiah.  And so now they're asking him: “Your resurrection put the story back on track, Jesus.  So when are you going to fulfil those old promises, defeat the nations and their kings, and set Isreal on the top of the heap?” And Jesus says to them in verse 7: “It's not your business to know about times and dates.  The Father has placed all that under his own direct authority.  What will happen, though, is that you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you.  Then you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judaea and Samaria, and to the very ends of the earth.”   I've noticed a lot of people read this and think that Jesus is saying something like, “No.  It's not time to restore the kingdom.  I'll do that sometime in the future and only the Father knows the date.”  But that's not what Jesus is saying at all.  Think of the pair Jesus met on the road to Emmaus.  They were saying that they'd hoped Jesus was the one who would redeem Israel, but well, he'd been crucified so scratch that idea.  And that's the point when Jesus explains to them that it was actually through his crucifixion that he would accomplish God's long-promised redemption.  Even though it was there all along in songs like Isaiah 52, it doesn't seem to have occurred to anyone that the Messiah would usher in God's kingdom by his suffering and death.  And yet when Jesus says this, suddenly a lot of other things he said and did finally make sense.  Think of the stories—the parables—he told.  Over and over: The kingdom is coming—yes!—but it's not coming like you think.  Instead, the kingdom is coming like seed planted in the ground.  The kingdom is coming like leaven in a lump of dough.  The kingdom is like a man who had two sons.  Or when Jesus and the disciples were approaching Jerusalem and they asked this same question: Is the kingdom finally coming now?  And Jesus said that the kingdom is like a nobleman coming back to see if his servants have been faithful with their stewardship.  Over and over Jesus has been saying, “Yes, the kingdom is coming right now, but you keep missing it because it doesn't look like what you expected. At that last Passover meal Jesus ate with his friends, he told them that he would not drink with them again until the kingdom had arrived. And here they are, these forty days after the resurrection eating and drinking with Jesus as he teaches them.  The kingdom has come, Brothers and Sisters.  Too many Christians live as if the mission of the church is to prepare for Jesus to become king, when the church's mission is, in fact, really all about announcing and living out the reality that Jesus is the king even if his kingdom isn't quite what a lot of people expected. And then, just to make all of this absolutely clear, Luke says in verse 9: As Jesus said this, he was lifted up while they were watching and a cloud took him out of their sight.   We're prone to missing the significance of this image because we're not steeped in the Old Testament the way they were.  The disciples, however, understood exactly what was happening: Jesus was acting out the prophecy of Daniel 7.  That's the chapter were Daniel has this nightmare full of beasts coming up out of the ocean.  It's a vision of the nations and their kings raging against God's people.  But then “one like a son of man” is taken up and exalted on the clouds to sit beside the Ancient of Days.  He's given a kingdom, power, and authority so that all people, nations, and languages should serve and obey him.  It's a vision of the kingdom being restored to Israel.  And now, all through Jesus' ministry, we've heard him talking about himself as this son of man, as Israel's representative, and now—in answer to the disciples' question about the coming of the kingdom—Jesus literally acts out Daniel's vision.  He fulfils it.  In fact, in Matthew's telling of the ascension, Jesus even says—echoing the words of the Ancient of Days in Daniel—“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.  So you must go and make all the nations into disciples.” The ascension proclaims: Jesus is king and his kingdom is here.  One day Jesus will return to finish what he's begun, but never forget that it has begun.  As Paul says in Romans 15, “He has to go on ruling until he has put all his enemies under his feet.” So the disciples were thinking that Jesus was going to lead a revolution—like Judas Maccabeus or Simon bar Kochba—except this time it wouldn't fizzle out.  This time it would be successful and it would be forever.  And Jesus is saying (and acting out) that no, the kingdom has been inaugurated and it's going to take shape and grow—the nations will be put under Jesus' feet—not as the disciples take up arms, but as they go out into the world as witnesses of Jesus: as they go out and proclaim the good news that Jesus crucified and risen, is the world's true Lord and as they live out the reality of his kingdom.  Like Jesus did, the disciples would work miracles—miracles that underscored that in the kingdom all the sad thing are beginning to become untrue; and they would live lives transformed by the Spirit's fruit, but maybe more than anything else, they would confront the kings of the present evil age with the reality of Jesus' lordship.  And through their witness, the world would begin to change. It's not a linear, always progressing, always upward change.  That was the idea of theological liberalism a century ago, but two world wars and nuclear bombs and fascism and Communism blew that idea up.  But through the witness of the church, the world is changing.  I've mentioned before Tom Holland's remarkable book Dominion and how, in that book, he writes about the profound changes that the gospel brought to Western Civilisation.  Each generation lives in its own brief age and so, if we don't know anything about history, we're prone to not even noticing the changes that have happened, but happen they have.  Christians began taking in the unwanted girl babies of the Greeks and Romans, left to die of exposure, and we taught the world the value of life.  The influence of the gospel put an end to gladiatorial games and slavery.  The gospel has taught the world mercy and grace, the value of life, the dignity of each person.  And on and on.  The church, when we are faithful witnesses of Jesus and living the new creation life the Spirit gives, builds and spreads the kingdom and someday, when the work is done, Jesus will return—not to take us away, but to restore heaven and earth, God and human beings, and to put an end to death and sin once and for all.  To consummate his new creation. But there's work to do in the meantime.  He created us in the beginning to be his stewards—to cultivate his garden.  That's why, when it came time to set us back on that track, God called and created a special people for himself: to be his representative, to be his stewards, to be his living kingdom in the midst of the old.  And so Luke says, They were gazing into heaven as he disappeared.  Then, lo and behold, two men appeared, dressed in white, standing beside them.  “Men of Galilee,” they said, “why are you standing here staring into heaven?  This Jesus, who has been taken away from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you saw him go into heaven.”   Brothers and Sisters, there's work to do.  Like Jesus said, they needed to wait a few days before going out, so that when they did go out, they would go out in the power of the Spirit.  The kingdom doesn't happen in our power.  But it does happen as we go out to faithfully fulfil the mission we've been given to witness Jesus.  Our task is to go out in faith, to till the soil, to steward the garden.  It's an overwhelming task.  That's why it takes faith to go out and do it.  But we go out in faith knowing that God has given us his Spirit who infuses what we do with divine power.  We go out in faith knowing that in Jesus—at the cross and in the resurrection—God has already done the impossible part.  Now, as Paul wrote, all he has to do is go on ruling until all his enemies have been put under his feet.  There's no “if”.  It's just “until”.  It's a sure thing.  And so is the witness of his church. It doesn't always seem that way.  Sometimes it seems like we're going backwards and things are getting worse.  People won't listen or won't take us seriously.  Sometimes we're tempted to give up.  Sometimes we act like all Jesus did was come to earth to give us a rousing pep talk, then he went back home to heaven.  But read the Gospels and that's not it at all.  He hasn't just gone back to heaven and left us alone.  He's ascended to his throne, where he rules and reigns over his kingdom, which—remember—is like seed planted in the soil and like leaven in a lump of dough and like a man who had two sons.  And one day, through his people—through us—the work of his word and the work of his Spirit will be done.  The world will know his death and resurrection, it will know the forgiveness of sins, it will know the end of death, it will know mercy and grace.  The knowledge of his glory will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea and every knee will bow and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord.  Because Jesus died and rose again, because the Lord's word does not return void, and because he does not give his Spirit in vain. Let's pray: O God, the King of glory, you have exalted your only Son Jesus the Messiah with great triumph to your right hand in heaven: Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to strengthen us for the task you have given, and that we might look forward in hope to the day when every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord.  Amen.

A Sermon for Rogation Sunday St. James 1:22-27 by William Klock I was out on my gravel bike this week, riding the trails through Merville and Black Creek and down to Williams Beach.  At one point I had to stop to take a picture.  I was riding down this narrow corridor with walls of little yellow flowers on both sides.  It was really beautiful.  But just a short way down the trail I ran into a big group of people cutting it all down.  I had a stop and wait for a minute so they could get their cart off the trail.  One of the women asked how my ride was going.  I said I was having a great ride.  It was a beautiful day.  I pulled out my phone and showed her the picture I'd just taken of the trail.  I thought it was beautiful, but she scowled at it.  “We'll get there tomorrow morning,” she said, “Ugh!  Vile stuff, but we'll get it!”  (And, sure enough, when I rode through again a few days later the walls of scotch broom were gone.)  I was kind of disappointed, but I'm sure the “broom busters” were happy, because they really, really, really hate scotch broom. The funny thing is—I notice this most places they cut it down—is that when they're done, there's usually still scotch broom as far as the eye can see—on the other side of a fence.  It's like that where I was riding my bike.  They cut it all down on Regional District property, but they can't touch the private property on the other side of the fence.  And later in the summer, I'll be riding my bike down the trail and in the heat of the day I'll hear the seed pods popping open and scattering their seed on both sides of the fence.  And next year the scotch broom will be back.  To me the whole thing seems pointless, but these folks envision an island scoured clean of scotch broom and so they come back year after year after year to cut it down wherever they can get to it.  Even though that island scoured clean of broom will never be. As I rode later in the week and saw the trailsides devoid of broom, but acres and acres of yellow flowers on the other side of the fence it got me thinking about the theme of our Eastertide scripture readings.  (I know, you think I'm just out there riding my bike, but I'm out there praying and meditating on scripture and putting sermons together in my head.)  We began Easter with the theme of hope.  Jesus' resurrection meant something to the disciples.  It wasn't just a miracle.  It was the evidence, the proof that God's new creation had begun and that Jesus is king.  That's what lit a fire under them to go out and announce the good news to Jerusalem, to Judaea, Samaria, and to the whole world—even though it eventually got them all killed.  This theme of resurrection life carries all through Eastertide and we meet it here again today.  We could run with either the Gospel or the Epistle, but I'm going to go with the Epistle—this lesson from St. James that begins with those familiar words: Be people who do the word, not merely people who heart it and deceive themselves.   Brothers and Sisters, the good news of Jesus' resurrection from the dead ought to give us a vision of the world set to rights—of sin and death defeated and cast forever into hell, of no more trials and no more tears, and of new life with nothing to separate us from the presence of God.  When we look at the mess and the darkness around us that hope might sound crazy—like an island scoured clean of scotch broom—but the fact is that God has done the hard part already.  He gave his son to take up our flesh, to die, and to rise to life again.  The rest is just his people—us—going out to preach and to do that good news and to let his word and his Spirit spread and grow his new creation.  So don't just hear the word.  Go out and do it.  Don't just long for God's kingdom, go out and be it. It also helps to understand that for the Jews, speaking Hebrew, to hear and to obey were inextricably linked together.  The Hebrew word for “hear” is a call not just to the ears, but to the heart, and to hear is to respond, whether it's for the Lord to hear the cries of his people in their bondage and to come to their deliverance or for Israel to hear the word of the Lord and to take it to heart and do it.  When Moses and the Prophets announced, “Hear the word of the Lord!” it wasn't just a call to listen, but to obey—to do.  We have a word in English that we don't use anymore that is very similar: hearken.  Don't just hear, but take note, take what you hear to heart.  Do it. Brothers and Sisters, words are important—and the word of God especially so.  As I've said so many times, God's word brings life.  By his word he created life in the beginning and when we were mired in sin and in slavery to death, he heard our cries for deliverance and sent his word again, this time in human flesh, in Jesus, to die and to rise from death so that we might know life again.  This is at the core of Easter and so, these last two Sundays of Eastertide we read from St. James' epistle about the power of God's word to bring us life and to transform us.  But first he contrasts God's word with our words, which are so often spoken in anger or spoken, not to heal or to give life, but to hurt.  This is in the first chapter of James.  Our Epistle begins at verse 22, but I want to back up a bit into last week's Epistle, to verse 19.  Here's what James writes: So, my dear brothers [and sisters], get this straight.  Every person should be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.  Human anger, you see, doesn't produce God's justice.  (James 1:19-20) “Be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.”  How many times would that have saved you a world of hurt if you'd only heard and obeyed? Now, there can be a place for anger.  So often we get angry because the world isn't what we know it should be.  Sometimes—a lot of the time—that's just our pride being hurt or our selfishness being tweaked, but when we see real wrongs being done, when we see real injustice in the world, there is a place for just and righteous anger.  Godly anger over sin and injustice is often precisely what we need to get us up and out into the world to help the needy or the hurt, to stand up for the defenceless, or otherwise to speak out and to work for wrongs to be righted.  St. Paul writes in Ephesians 4:26, “Be angry” but then there's an “and”, a big “and”: “and do not sin.”  Deal with what needs dealing with and “do not let the sun go down on your anger,” because that “gives opportunity to the devil”.  If you're angry because your pride has been hurt, put a stop to it right there.  Swallow your pride and move on.  If you're angry because something is truly wrong, use that anger productively to set things right, but do not sin in the process.  Two wrongs won't make things right.  And righteous or not, don't let your anger fester.  Deal with it one way or another, because simmering anger is fodder for the devil and for all sorts of sin.  We all know that from experience.  Let your anger simmer and before too long you're thinking about payback and revenge and neither of those things have any place in the Christian life.  That was our lesson two Sunday's ago: As he has vindicated Jesus, so the Father will one day vindicate us.  We don't need to vindicate ourselves. In short, James says, “Human anger doesn't produce God's justice.”  In other words, your anger is not what will set this broken world to rights.  I know it always seems like it will at the time, but it won't.  Just consider: You think your anger will set things right so you lash out at that other person.  And now what are they thinking?  They're thinking the same thing: All the situation needs is a little bit of their anger to fix it so they lash out at you.  And all it all does is make everything worse.  Brother and Sisters, James reminds us to instead be quick to hear, slow to speak, and slow to anger.  God is the one who will bring justice to the world and right the wrongs.  If we have been wronged, God will vindicate us.  The best thing we can do is to respond with the gospel and the Spirit.  Where the world is broken, where relationships are broken, we should be asking ourselves how we can bring to bear the things that God's Spirit gives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.  Our anger won't help God make things right.  And so James warns: So put away everything that is sordid, all that overflowing malice, and humbly receive the word which has been planted within you and which has the power to save your lives.   Do you see what he did there?  More often than not, when we get angry, it's because our pride has been hurt and that kind of anger tempts us to lash out—it tempts us to respond to a hurt or a wrong with some kind of sin.  Insults, brawling, that sort of thing.  In contrast, James says that when our pride is threatening to take control of us, we need instead to meekly receive—to hearken to—the word that God has implanted in us.  If this were St. Paul, he'd be reminding us to put off the old man and to put on the new.  The pride and anger are the old man talking, but in Jesus and the Spirit God has made us new.  James puts it in terms of the word by which God has forgiven us and made us a new creation.  I think James had Isaiah 55:10-11 in mind when he was writing this.  That's where the Lord, through the Prophet, says: For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven          and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout,          giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;          it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,          and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.   This is one of my favourite passages in all of Scripture.  When I get frustrated with my own sin and my own shortcomings and my own failures to be faithful to God, I remember what he says about his word here.  And as a pastor, when I'm discouraged with ministry and when it seems like nothing is happening or people aren't maturing or when I see sin and shortcomings and failures to be faithful in the church, again, I come back to what the Lord says about his word here and I go back to the word, because God's word is the source of life.  Nothing I can do will bring the life of God to myself or to other people—only his word can do that—and he promises through Isaiah that his word always accomplishes what he purposes and it always succeeds in that for which he sends it forth.  So I preach his word to myself and I preach his word to you and trust him to cause it to bear fruit in me and in you, because he says that that is what he will do.  God's word is life. So, Brothers and Sisters, don't let God's word go in one ear and out the other.  James writes, “Be people who do the word, not merely people who hear it and deceive themselves.”  Don't just listen to the word.  Don't just read it.  Hear it, Brothers and Sisters.  Hearken to it.  Do it.  If it helps, read your Bible with your finger in your ear to remind you not to let it go in one ear and out the other.  These are God's words and they are life!  Too often we come to church and hear the word or we sit down at home and read the word, but we don't actually hear it, we don't let it sink in, we don't let it take root like a seed, and so we don't become doers of the word, letting it make a difference and transform us.  If we just let the word go in one ear and out the other we're in danger of deceiving ourselves.  We think, “I've read the Bible or I've listened to it in church and I've done my duty,” but Friends, if the word doesn't take root in our hearts and minds, if it doesn't make a difference, we miss out on the life of God.  He promises that his word will accomplish what he purposes—that it will make a difference, that it will bring new life—but first we have to hear it, not just listen, but hear it, take it in, obey it, and let it change us. James uses an illustration here.  Look at verses 23-25: Someone who hears the word but does not do it, you see, is like a man who looks at his natural face in a mirror.  He notices himself, but then he goes away and quickly forgets what he looked like.  But the person who looks into the perfect law of freedom, and goes on with it, not being a hearer who forgets but a doer who does the deed—such a person is blessed in their doing.   You walk past a mirror, have a look, then walk away and forget.  In one ear and out the other.  That's not how we should approach God's word.  And how do we know if we're really letting God's word take root and grow in us?  We know it's growing in us when we go from being mere hearers to being actual doers of that word.  When we don't just know in our heads that truth is important, but when we stop telling lies, when we stop misrepresenting people, and speak the truth.  When “love your enemies and do good to them” goes from being something in your head to something you actually live out.  When love your wife or submit to your husband translates into loving your wife or submitting to your husband in real and practical ways.  When the Lord's Supper goes from being something you eat to something you live out in your interactions with your brothers and sisters in the Lord, showing love and living in the unity Jesus has given us.  When we confront the injustices of the world, not with anger, but with the gospel and the life of the Spirit. And notice how James makes this point.  He takes us back to his own roots.  He was a Jew.  He was circumcised into the Lord's covenant people when he was eight days old.  He grew up living torah, because he was one of the covenant people and that's what covenant people did.  That's how they were faithful to the Lord in return for his faithfulness to them.  And they learned the torah, the law, by reading and studying God's word.  And as much as Jesus changed everything, he didn't change the fact that the Lord continues to live in covenant with his people.  Jesus established a new covenant, but it's still a covenant.  And the Spirit has given a new law, but it's still a law.  God's people are still called to be different from the world.  As he marked out the Jews with circumcision and called them to live according to the torah, so he marks out the people of Jesus with baptism and calls us to live the law of the Spirit—what James calls the “perfect law, the law of liberty”.  Faithful Jews were doers—keeping the sabbath, eating clean foods and not eating unclean foods, all of that.  Some people think that Jesus has freed us from all of the doing, but it's really just the opposite.  Jesus calls us to even more and better doing, the difference is that instead of pointing to a list of laws written on stone and saying “Do that”, he fills us with God's own Spirit, gives us his own example of love at the cross, rises from the dead and gives us a foretaste of his new creation and says “Do that in the power of the Spirit”.  And this new law, instead of burdening us, actually ends up freeing us from all those things that used to weigh us down: anger and filthiness and wickedness and replaces it all with the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control as the Spirit and the word work in us to redirect the affections of our hearts from sin and from self to love for God and love for each other. And so James sums it up in verses 26 and 27, writing: If anyone supposes that he is devout, and does not control his tongue, but rather deceives his heart—such a person's religion is futile.  As far as God the Father is concerned, pure, unsullied religion works like this: you should visit orphans and widows in their sorrow, and prevent the world leaving its dirty smudge on you.   God's word and God's Spirit will transform us.  It doesn't happen in an instant, so we have to be careful here.  Our expectations for a new Christian aren't the same as they are for a mature Christian, but still, a Christian will show the transforming work of God's life-giving word in his life.  And so James says that if you think you're religious—note that “religion” isn't the bad word some people make it out to be today.  Religion is our service to God.  There's good religion and there's bad religion as we'll see in a bit.  So if you think you're serving God but you don't have a bridle on your tongue—that's not the only thing that might show this, but since James has been talking about anger and sinful words, this is the example he uses here—if you speak hateful and hurtful and untrue things, you've deceived yourself.  You've been letting God's word go in one ear and out the other.  You haven't actually heard it and so it hasn't taken root and it's not growing in your heart.  It calls into question your profession of faith and your place in the covenant.  We enter the covenant through faith in Jesus.  And we show our membership in the covenant by doing the word, by living the law of the Spirit.  And if you aren't living the law of the Spirit, well, it begs the question: Are you really a member of the covenant?  Is your faith in Jesus real?  Because a Christian without the fruit of the Spirit, a Christian who is worldly and doesn't bridle his tongue, well he's like a Jew who isn't circumcised and who labours on the sabbath.  He's a contradiction. In contrast, true religion, real service to God looks like this: visiting orphans and widows and keeping yourself unstained by the filthiness of the world.  James could have listed any number of things here, but he's certainly practical and these are things that stood out in the First Century and made people take note of Christians and the Church.  It was a dog-eat-dog world, but the Christians took care of each other and they took care of the poor and vulnerable, because that's what love in action looks like and because that's what new creation looks like.  And in a world of filth, where culture was crude and vulgar and religion often involved ritual drug use and prostitution, God's people stood apart—much as the Jews of the old covenant had stood apart.  Jesus' people, transformed by word and Spirit, should stand as beacons of his new creation, by our lives and by our proclamation, lifting the veil on what God has in store for this broken world. So Brother and Sisters, be Easter people.  If you have believed that Jesus died and rose from the dead to forgive our sins and to make us part of his new creation, prove it.  Really be Easter people.  Immerse yourselves in God's word and hear what he has to say.  Don't let it go in one ear and out the other.  Let it sink in and take root and grow.  And then be the new creation that God's word will make us if we give it the chance.  As he promised, he will make us the firstfruits of his new creation—and that, Brothers and Sisters, is how he is setting the wrongs of this world to right.  Not by our anger, but by his word and by his Spirit. Let's pray: O Lord, from whom all good things come: Grant to us, your humble servants, that by your holy inspiration we may think those things that are good, and by your merciful guidance put them into practice; through our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Easter Psalm 82, St. James 1:17-21, St. John 16:5-15 by William Klock How'd your week go?  Several times—actually, a bunch of times—I found myself thinking about what I preached last Sunday—thinking about the hope that lies before us.  Thinking about how Jesus, risen from the dead, is the beginning of God's new creation and how he—and his gift of the Holy Spirit—give me assurance that what God began that first Easter morning he will one day complete.  Thinking that because I am by faith in Jesus the Messiah, I will one day know that new creation in all its fullness.  And I was thinking about that because—a bunch of times this week—I was looking forward to that day when God will set everything to rights.  Because I hope that in God's new world there will be no broken spokes or being chased by dogs on the River Trail, no need to change timing belts or ball joints, and maybe the best part: no arguments started by random strangers on the Internet and no relationships with old friends strained by current events.  Because all those things did happen to me this week.  None of them were earth-shatteringly horrible—and I'm glad of that—but they remind me that the world is not as it should be.  And then I read the news and I learned about a man stuck in bureaucratic immigration limbo with seemingly no hope of getting out of it.  Having been through that process, his story resonated with me.  And I read about a farmer in Vermont stuck with a bill for thousands of dollars assessed on his cattle feed from Canada because of tariffs.  His business profits for the year gone.  And there's absolutely nothing he can do.  And reading about people stuck in the middle of wars.  And a friend shared an article about the persecuted church in China.  And all I can do is pray, which feels like it's not enough and some people say it's a waste of time.  But I know it's not, because Jesus has risen and I know that means that God's new world has begun and one day he'll set everything to rights.  And so I hope and I pray that it may be “on earth as it is in heaven”. And then I started looking at this week's scripture lessons.  And there's the Old Testament lesson from Job and that verse we read in the procession at funerals: I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though this body be destroyed, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.  Brothers and Sisters, there's that same hope.  Job had faith that the Lord would vindicate him. And the Psalm.  Psalm 82 has been with me, running around in my head all week. God has stood up in the council of heaven:          in the midst of the gods he gives judgement. How long will you judge unjustly:          and favour the cause of the wicked? Judge for the poor and needy:          and save them from the hands of the wicked. They do not know, they do not understand, they walk about in darkness:          all the foundations of the earth are shaken. Therefore I say, “Though you are gods:          and all of you sons of the Most High, Nevertheless you shall die like man:          and fall like one of the princes.” Arise, O God, and judge the earth:          for you shall take all the nations as your possession.   Psalm 82 is from a group of psalms written by Asaph.  Asaph was Samuel's grandson and he and his sons were commissioned by King David to worship the Lord.  That was their job.  They were court worshippers.  And in Psalm 82, Asaph cries out with the whole people of Israel at the injustices of the world.  The gods of this age favour the wicked.  They will not come to the aid of the poor and needy.  In other words, Asaph knew that the world is not as it should be.  And yet Asaph knew what the Lord had done for Israel and he knew his promises and so he could sing out about the Lord, the God of Isreal, as the great judge in heaven.  Asaph had hope that the Lord would hold the powers of this present age accountable.  Asaph closes with that confident prayer: Arise, O God, and judge the earth: For you shall take the nations as your possession.  This was how Israel prayed “on earth as in heaven”.   Things were going well for Israel under King David, but even then, Asaph, with the people of Israel, still had a profound sense of the brokenness and the fallenness of the world.  It was the Lord's plan, as he called and created a people for himself, that this people would know the crushing weight of sin and death.  He allowed them to become slaves in Egypt.  And he delivered them that they might know his grace and his faithfulness—so that they might know that he is the God who keeps his promises and that he is the judge who will vindicate the cause of the poor and the oppressed.  And this became Israel's story and Israel's identity.  Over and over she would find herself being crushed under the heel of this or that pagan king, and she would cry out to the Lord, and he would come as the great judge to vindicate Israel and to defeat her enemies and to rescue her.  And as this was the identity and story of Israel, so it would be the identity and story of the Messiah, and then the story and identity of the Messiah's people, of the church. But the disciples weren't expecting this.  No one—or almost no one—in Israel was expecting this.  The Messiah was supposed to come and break this cycle.  In him God's new world would come, they would all be raised, and they would reign forever in a world set to rights—once and for all.  And they were sort of right, but they got the timeline wrong.  And that's because they'd forgotten the promises and the part of the story where God calls and sets apart this special people for himself in order to bring the nations to him in faith.  Only a people who knows suffering, who knows the crushing weight of sin and injustice, can carry God's forgiveness and justice to the world.  That's why the Messiah had to die.  Sin and death had to do their worst, so that Jesus could rise triumphant over them.  Deliverance comes through suffering.  Forgiveness and new life require sacrifice.  But they'd forgotten this and this is what Jesus has been trying to explain to the disciples through the lessons we've had from John's gospel these past weeks.  And so he says in John 16:1: I've said these things to you to stop you from being tripped up.  They will put you out of the synagogues.  In fact, the time is coming when anyone who kills you will suppose that they are in that way offering worship to God.  They will do these things because they haven't known the Father or me.  But I have been talking to you about these things so that, when their time comes, you will remember that I told you about them.   Jesus by this point has already explained to them that very soon he's going to be leaving them.  That was bad news enough.  But now he tells them that after he's gone, persecution is coming.  Their unbelieving Jewish brethren will throw them out of the synagogues—which means cutting them off from the Jewish community, from family, friends.  They will become outsiders in their own community.  Some of them, Jesus warns, will even die for their faith in him.  And when that happens, Jesus knew, it will be really tempting to give up.  They thought that the Messiah was going to put an end to all the suffering and tears, but now Jesus is warning: you're going to know suffering and tears the likes of which you've never known before—and all for my sake. I didn't say these things to you from the start, Jesus goes on, because I was with you.  In other words, as long as Jesus was with them they were still pretty sure of how all this Messiah stuff was going to work out.  Again, the Messiah would usher in God's new world and everything would be great.  And then, with Jesus gone, they're going to be tempted to give up—just like we saw them hiding behind locked doors.  If Jesus goes away without setting everything to rights, well, he must not have been the Messiah after all.  That would be the logical conclusion.  And they'd do their best to go back to their old pre-Jesus lives.  So now Jesus is getting them ready.  He goes on: But now I'm going to the one who sent me.  None of you asks me, “Where are you going?”  But because I've said these things to you, sorrow has filled your heart.   Well, yes.  If Jesus is leaving, how's he ever going to accomplish his messianic mission?  But this is what Jesus wants to stress to them—even though they won't understand right away.  This is his messianic mission: Truly, truly I say to you: It's better for you that I should go away.  If I don't go away, you see, the Helper won't come to you.  But if I go away, I will send him to you.   Just in case it isn't clear, what Jesus is talking about here is his ascension and the sending of the Holy Spirit.  The risen Jesus couldn't stay here forever.  When his own people cried out for Jesus' crucifixion they declared, “We have no king but Caesar.”  It was the ultimate rejection of both their God and their Messiah.  It was blasphemy and until that moment, if you'd asked anyone in Jerusalem if they considered Caesar their king, they'd have laughed at you.  The Lord was their king.  But they became so outraged by Jesus' messianic claims, so outrage with the things he said about the temple, that they shouted the unthinkable to Pilate: “Crucify him!  We have no king but Caesar.”  And then to spite them, Pilate posted those mocking words on the cross: “This is the King of the Jews”.  But when God raised Jesus from the dead, he vindicated him.  It was a divine declaration that Jesus really is the Messiah and that he really is Israel's (and the whole world's) king.  And kings have to take their thrones.  And since God's work of new creation has only just begun and Jesus' throne is in heaven, that's where he had to go to begin his rule.  The king couldn't stay here forever.  But—the second thing Jesus is saying here—if he goes, he will send the Helper—God's own Spirit—and God's Spirit will make the reality of Jesus resurrection and of God's new creation real to us.  The end goal is for heaven and earth and God and human beings to be reunited.  Jesus, the God man, is the embodiment of that hope.  But consider, Brothers and Sisters, that the gift of the Holy Spirit is too. The title John uses is parakletos.  In Greek it literally means “called alongside”, which is a powerful image of who and what the Spirit is for us.  He comes alongside as our helper, our intercessor, and our advocate.  And this is essential.  Like I stressed last week, as the disciples began to realise the significance of Jesus' resurrection, they got excited.  They were ready to go out and shout it from the rooftops of Jerusalem.  But Jesus stressed to them: “Wait.  Wait until I send the Helper.”  Because enthusiasm will only get us so far.  Jesus has given his people a mission, but enthusiasm and excitement alone won't fulfil it.  We need the help of the Holy Spirit.  So Jesus goes on here in verse 8: When he comes, he will prove the world to be in the wrong on three counts: sin, justice, and judgement.  In relation to sin, because they don't believe in me.  In relation to justice—because I'm going to the Father, and you won't see me anymore.  In relation to judgement, because the ruler of this world is judged.   God's people had longed for their day in court and for the Lord to vindicate them—just like we read in Psalm 82.  And Jesus' point here is that it's finally going to happen.  Except it's going to be his people—this new Israel—who will finally get their day before the judge.  And as Jesus' people bring their case before the great Judge, the Spirit will be there to help them—to be their advocate.  The Spirit will present the evidence for the world's sin.  But there's no reason for the Spirit to bring exhibit after exhibit showing the world's—and that's not just the pagan nations, but also unbelieving Israel—it's not necessary for the Spirit to put every last sin on display to prove the world's rebellion against God.  All the Spirit has to do is present as evidence the world's rejection of Jesus.  Either you stand with Jesus and on the side of God's new creation and are part of the world set right, or you stand in solidarity with sin. And, second, Jesus says, the Spirit will convict the world in relation to justice.  If you're following along, some of your translations might say “righteousness”.  These are the same word in Greek.  “Justice” fits the context better here.  Jesus' point is that the world thinks it has justice on its side.  Like he told them earlier: They will kill you and in doing so they'll think that they're offering true worship to God.  But Jesus' resurrection from the dead and his ascension to his throne are the evidence of his vindication by the Father.  At the cross the world issued its verdict against Jesus, but when he raised Jesus from the dead and enthroned him in heaven, God overturned the false verdict of the world and declared his son to be the Messiah and the world's true lord.  If you want justice, look to Jesus, because everyone who trusts in Jesus and gives him their allegiance as king shares in that verdict. And, third, Jesus says that the Spirit will give evidence that the world is wrong in relation to judgement.  The world was about to pass judgement on Jesus and condemn him to death as a false messiah, but his resurrection and ascension would prove the world wrong.  And not long after that the world would pass the same judgement on Jesus' people, on the church, but Jesus promises that the Spirit will stand with them and continue to prove the world's judgement wrong.  The Spirit will continue to present the evidence of Jesus resurrection and ascension as proof that the devil has been defeated and that death itself no longer has the final say. Brothers and Sisters, the Holy Spirit isn't just our advocate before the judge, he is our comforter amidst the trials Jesus promised we will face as we take up our crosses to follow him.  Jesus promised his disciples and he promises us that we will face hatred and even persecution—sometimes martyrdom—for the sake of his name.  But because we know he is faithful, because he has vindicated Jesus, we can trust that the judge of all the earth will do what is right.  Even as we face death itself, we know that death has been defeated.  As the Father raised Jesus from death, so he will raise us if we are in him. And the Spirit comes alongside us not so we can hunker down inside our churches like the disciples hunkered down and hiding in the dark that first Easter weekend.  The Spirit comes alongside us to empower us as we go out.  As we take our message of hope and forgiveness, of the world set to rights and tears wiped away, as we take that good news of Jesus, crucified and risen and Lord to the world.  This is the point of our Epistle today from St. James. Every good gift, every perfect gift, comes down from above, from the Father of lights.  His steady light doesn't vary.  It doesn't change and produce shadows.   I have to think that when James talks about the good and perfect gift coming down from the Father of lights he's talking about the Holy Spirit.  Yes, everything good we have is a gift from him, but the Spirit is the gift above all others.  For Jesus in John's gospel, the Spirit was the one who would come alongside to help and advocate for us.  For James, the Spirit shows us the constancy and faithfulness of the Father.  The gift of the Spirit is proof for James that God keeps his promises, because the life of the Spirit is the thing he'd been promising to his people all along: his own presence with them to give them a new heart and set them to rights. James goes on in 1:19. So, my dear brothers [and sisters], get this straight.  Every person should be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.  Human anger, you see, doesn't produce God's justice.  So put away everything that is sordid, all that overflowing malice, and humbly receive the word which has been planted within you and which has the power to save our lives.   In other words, let the Spirit transform you.  Let the Spirit make you—or maybe better to align you with—God's new creation.  The example James uses is anger.  Anger is what wells up from the fallen human heart in response to injustice, but responding to injustice with anger—and James isn't talking about righteous or just anger, but about malice and pride—responding with anger just compounds the problem.  Sin can never make another sin right.  Instead, God's word has been planted within you.  Let the Spirit cause that world to take root and grow.  That gospel word is what has saved your life.  But if you let the Spirit grow that word in you, if you let God's word shape you, if you let the Spirt make you a truly gospel person, that life-saving combination of word and Spirit will overflow from you and you will be a gospel light in the darkness of the world, you will be a beacon of God's new creation in the midst of the old.  Word and Spirit working through us will make us a people ready to endure suffering and persecution so that we can, even if it's just in small ways, so that we can bring God's justice into the world, so that we can wipe away the tears and proclaim the good news that Jesus is Lord. Brothers and Sisters, this is how God's new creation comes.  This is how he wipes away the tears and set things to rights.  Jesus started it when he rose from the grave, but God's word and God's Spirit, working through the church—through us—as we go out into the world, not only bring God's salvation to individuals, but as we are transformed one by one, the gospel, the word, the Spirit create a whole new culture with Jesus and the gospel at its core.  One day Jesus will come back for the final act, to cast down death and to fully bring heaven and earth back together once and for all.  But that day will come because his people, empowered by his word and by his Spirit have been faithful in being his new creation right here in the midst of the old.  So, Brothers and Sisters, go out in peace to love and serve the Lord.  Alleluia! Let's pray: Father, as we asked in the Collect we ask again: fix our hearts on the good things you have promised.  Keep the hope of your salvation and of your justice ever before us, that we might go out full of your Spirit, to live and to proclaim the good news of Jesus and his kingdom.  Through him we pray.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday after Easter St. John 16:16-22 by William Klock On Easter morning we heard St. John's account of the empty tomb.  How Mary Magdalene had come running to the house where he and Peter and the others were hiding.  How she sobbed out that someone had taken Jesus' body.  How he and Peter ran to the tomb as dawn was breaking and how they found it empty, with the linen graveclothes lying there neatly.  And we heard John say that “he believed”.  Somehow…inexplicably…Jesus had risen from the dead.  John believed in the resurrection of the dead.  They all did.  It was their hope.  But it wasn't supposed to happen like this.  Maybe it was fear, maybe it was confusion, maybe he just wanted to be more certain, but he didn't say anything.  They went back to the house where the other disciples were.  They went back into hiding.  Doors locked, windows shuttered, no lights, no fire.  When things blew over, they could sneak out of Jerusalem, slink back to Galilee.  Maybe they could go back to their old lives and everyone would forget that they'd been followers of Jesus. But then the next week we read from John's first epistle.  We read those words: Everything that is fathered by God conquers the world.  This is the victory that conquers the world: our faith!  That doesn't sound like the same John afraid to even tell his friends that he believed Jesus had been raised from death.  And last week we read from Peter's first epistle and he exhorted us to bear patiently with suffering.  Peter went from hiding behind locked doors on Easter to boldly preaching the risen Jesus in the temple court just fifty days later.  He would eventually find himself proclaiming that gospel in Rome itself, where he would be martyred for that holy boldness.  What happened? Brothers and Sisters, hope happened.  Jesus, the risen Messiah, appeared to them in that locked room.  They saw him, resurrected and renewed and yet still the same Jesus with the scars of the cross in his hands and feet.  They saw Jesus risen from the dead.  Not a ghost, not a spirt, but Jesus bodily raised.  It wasn't supposed to happen that way.  It was supposed to be everybody all at once, not just one person even if he was the Messiah.  But there he was, proving the old doctrine of the Pharisees and the Prophets and their fathers true—just not the way they expected.  But even that's not so much what motivated them to leave their hiding places and to proclaim the risen Jesus to the world.  It's what Jesus' resurrection meant.  Because Jesus' resurrection was more than just an astounding miracle.  Jesus' resurrection was the proof that God's new world had been born, that new creation had begun, that the promises he made through the prophets and the hopes of God's people were being fulfilled.  Jesus' resurrection meant that the hopes of God's people were finally becoming reality.  Jesus had kindled God's light in the midst of the darkness and they knew the darkness would never overcome it.  But as they worked this out, they also realised that while Jesus had inaugurated this new creation, it would be they—Peter, John, Mary, the others, you and I—who would carry and announce God's new creation to the world.  Again, this hope, made real, made manifest in the resurrection of Jesus, is what sent the disciples out, not just to announce that God had performed a miracle in raising Jesus, but to announce the God's new creation had been born and that Jesus is its king—and if that proclamation cost them everything, even if it got them killed—they knew that God would raise them and that he would vindicate them, just as he had Jesus. Nothing else changed.  They were hiding in that locked and darkened house because—usually—when the authorities crucified a rebel or a revolutionary, they would also round up and crucify his followers.  As it turned out, it doesn't seem that anyone was seriously interested in doing that to Jesus' disciples.  But they didn't know that.  The real danger came when they went out and began proclaiming the good news about Jesus—as they challenged the false gods and the pretend kings of the darkness with the light of the Lord Jesus, as they confronted this fallen world and its systems with God's new creation.  That's when they were mocked, beaten, arrested, and martyred. Think of Paul.  He was one of the one's breathing threats against Jesus' disciples.  He was there looking on while Stephen was stoned, holding coats so people could better throw stones at him.  And then as Paul was on his way to round up Christians to bring them before the Jewish authorities, he was met by the risen Jesus.  And, again, it wasn't just an amazing miracle that inspired Paul to take up his own cross and to follow Jesus—to follow Jesus and to be beaten, stoned, imprisoned, and eventually murdered for the sake of the gospel.  It was hope.  It was what the resurrection of Jesus meant.  Jesus, risen from the dead, was proof of God's faithfulness and proof that his promises of forgiveness and new life and new creation and of humanity and creation set to rights—everything the Jews (and Paul!) had hoped and longed for—it was proof that it was all true and that it was coming true in Jesus.  The light has come into the darkness and the darkness has not and never will overcome it.  It was proof that if we are in Jesus the Messiah, we have a share in God's new creation and that no amount of suffering and not even death can take that away.  People aren't going to risk their lives to report a miracle.  What drove Peter, John, Paul—and all our brothers and sisters since—what drove them to risk everything to proclaim the good news was the knowledge, the assurance, the hope that through that proclamation God's promised new creation would overcome the darkness, the sadness, the tears—that it would make all the sad things of this broken world come untrue—for them and eventually for everyone who believes.  The kingdom would spread and grow until heaven and earth, God and humanity are at one again. All of this is what Jesus is getting at in our Gospel today from John 16.  It's from the middle of the long teaching that Jesus gave to his disciples when they were in the Garden of Gethsemane, after they ate that last Passover meal with Jesus.  Over and over Jesus exhorts them saying things like, Don't let your hearts be troubled…trust God and trust me, too.  And: I chose you, and I appointed you to go and bear fruit that will last…If the world hates you, know that it hated me before it hated you.  If you were from the world, the world would be fond of its own.  But the world hates you because you're not from the world.  No, I chose you out of the world.  And at the beginning of Chapter 16 he says to them: I've said these things to you to stop you from being tripped up.  They will put you out of the synagogues.  In fact, the time is coming when anyone who kills you will suppose that they are in that way offering worship to God…I have told you these things so that when their time comes, you will remember that I told you about them.   I expect the disciples were remembering that part of what Jesus said very well when they were hiding.  “Jesus said they'd come to kill us,” they whispered in the dark.  What they didn't remember—or at least what they didn't understand were the words we read today.  In verse 16 Jesus says: “Not long from now, you won't see me anymore.  Then again, not long after that, you will see me.”   They expected—like pretty much everyone else—that the Messiah would bring some kind of revolt or revolution.  He would overthrow the pagans and take the throne of Israel and, ruling over Israel, he would restore God's people to their rightful place and status in the world.  So it's no wonder that when they heard this, they started murmuring amongst themselves.  John goes on: “What's he talking about?” some of his disciples asked each other.  “What's this business about ‘not long from now, you won't see me, and again not long after that you will see me'?  And what's this about ‘going to the Father'?”   Maybe Jesus was going to finally do what the Messiah was supposed to do.  Maybe he was going to go gather his army and come back to battle the Romans.  John writes: They kept on saying it.  “What is this ‘not long'?”  “What's it all about?”  “We don't know what he means!”  Jesus was doing that thing again where he would say cryptic things or tell a confusing story.  It got their interest and then he could fill them in.  Jesus knew that they wanted to ask him, John says. “You're discussing with each other what I meant, aren't you?” he said.  “You want to know what I meant by saying, ‘Not long from now, you won't see me; and then again, not long after that you will see me.'  That's it, isn't it?  Well, I'm going to tell you the solemn truth.”   I can see them all stopping the whispers and leaning forward.  “Yes, Teacher.  Tell us what you mean!”  So Jesus goes on in the silence:  “You will weep and wail, but the world will celebrate.  You will be overcome with sorrow, but your sorrow will turn into joy.”  I can picture the confused looks coming back to their faces.  The Messiah was supposed to make everything all better.  He was supposed to set everything to rights and to wipe away all the tears.  The Messiah was supposed to bring an end to weeping and wailing!  So Jesus gives them an illustration they could understand: “When a woman is giving birth she is in anguish, because her moment has come.  But when the child is born, she no longer remembers the suffering, because of the joy that a human being has been born into the world.”  And then he adds in verse 22: In the same way, you have sorrow now.  But I shall see you again, and your hearts will celebrate, and nobody will take your joy from you.”   Even with the childbirth illustration, it was still pretty cryptic.  Even with what follows—which we'll come to in our Gospel for Rogation Sunday in two more weeks—even with that, the disciples really didn't understand—yet.  It was all there in the Prophets and it was all there in the things Jesus had been teaching.  The son of man must suffer many things, and be rejected by the elders, and the chief priests, and the legal experts.  He must be killed and raised up on the third day,” Jesus had said at one point.  It doesn't get much clearer than that.  And yet the events of that first Good Friday and Easter Day came as a complete surprise to them.  But then when they met the risen Jesus it all started to come back to them and it started to fall into place.  The wheels started turning.  Mental light bulbs started turning on.  The one thing left that they needed was the Holy Spirit—but I don't want to get ahead of the story.  We're still in that fifty days between Easter and Pentecost. And I think those fifty days must have been some of the most exciting days in the history of the world.  The disciples sat with Jesus—risen and glorified, the first bit of God's new creation real and tangible and true right there with them—and he taught them.  He went back over the scriptures—no doubt saying things he'd said a hundred times before—but now, in light of the resurrection, it all started to make sense.  And I can imagine their excitement growing between being there with Jesus in all his resurrected glory and as they connected the scriptural dots and as they saw how the story they had grown up with, the story they lived every year at Passover, the story that defined who they were, the story they knew so, so, so well began to unfold in a new way.  They'd always known it was a great story about the mighty and saving deeds of the Lord, but over those forty days in the presence of Jesus and hearing him teach and explain the story turned into something more glorious than they ever could have imagined.  The God they'd known became so much bigger and more glorious than they ever thought he could be.  And then it was time for Jesus to ascend and he had to tell them, “Wait.”  They were ready and eager and excited to go out into Jerusalem and Judea to start telling everyone the story—the story everyone knew, but now seen in a new and glorious light through the lens of Jesus' resurrection—and about this new hope they knew.  God's new creation had finally come and they'd spent the last forty days living in his presence.  But Jesus said, “Wait.  Your excitement about what God has done is only part of what you need.  Wait.  Just a little bit—ten more days—so I can send God's Spirit.  Couple this good news with the power of the Spirit and not even the gates of hell will stop you!” And, Lord knows, the gates of hell have tried, but the gates of hell had already done their worst at the cross, and Jesus rose victorious.  And that's how and that's why those first disciples took up their crosses and followed Jesus.  Peter was crucified at Rome, Andrew was crucified in Greece, Thomas was speared by soldiers in India, Philip was martyred at Carthage, Matthew was martyred in Ethiopia, Bartholomew in Armenia, James was stoned to death in Jerusalem, Simon was martyred in Persia, and Matthias in Syria.  Only John survived, after being exiled to Patmos.  You see, in the risen Jesus they saw the proof that sin and death have been decisively defeated, that the false gods and kings of the old evil age have been exposed, and most of all they saw that God's promised and long-hoped for new creation has been born.  The resurrection gave them hope and that hope sent them out to proclaim the good news even though it meant following in the suffering of Jesus.  And their stories have been the stories of countless Christians through the ages—of the Christians who died in the Roman persecutions, who died at the hands of the Sassanids, the Goths, the Vikings, the Caliphs, the Turks, the Kahns, the French revolutionaries, the Communists, the Islamists.  It's been the stories of countless missionaries who marched into hostile territory for the sake of the gospel, knowing they very well might die for it, but also knowing that the way of the cross is the path into God's new creation. Brothers and Sisters, too often these days we've lost sight of this.  Maybe it's the prosperity gospel, maybe it's that we haven't known any meaningful persecution for so long, but we Christians in the modern west seem to have forgotten this.  There's no room for suffering and the way of the cross in our theology.  We gloss over what look like “failures” in church history.  I was listening to a sermon this past week.  The preacher was telling the story of a missionary named Peter Milne.  Milne was a Scottish minister and part of a group that called themselves “one-way” missionaries.  When they shipped out to far off lands to proclaim the gospel, they packed their worldly goods in a coffin.  It was symbolic.  They were going out as missionaries with no expectation of ever returning home.  They would die—one way or another—in the land they went to evangelise.  Peter Milne went to the New Hebrides in the South Pacific.  It was a land of head-hunting cannibals.  Milne wasn't the first to go.  Others had gone before and were killed by the natives.  Milne was the first to go and to survive and to have a thriving gospel ministry.  When he died fifty-some years later in 1924, he was buried in his coffin with the epitaph: “When he came, there was no light.  When he left, there was no darkness.”  When he'd arrived there wasn't a single Christian on the island.  When he died, there wasn't a single person who wasn't a Christian. But here's the thing—and the preacher I was listening to completely missed it: Following Jesus means first taking up a cross.  It's not about the glory of “successful” ministry.  It's about dying to self, and living for the hope of God's glory and the spread of his kingdom.  The preacher I listened to said nothing of the others who had gone before Milne to the New Hebrides and been martyred.  They don't fit in with our prosperity and business model theology.  We admire their willingness to give their lives for the sake of the gospel, but they sort of get chalked up as failures.  But to do that is to miss what it means to follow Jesus, to know the pangs of childbirth, but to also experience the joy that makes the pain and the sorrow pale in comparison. As Tertullian said, the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church, but so are all the other good-faith “failures”.  There was a week when we were church-planting in Portland that I found myself all alone.  Veronica's mom was sick and she and Alexandra had travelled up to Kelowna.  The other family that was helping us to get things off the ground had to be away that weekend.  It was just me.  But The Oregonian newspaper had just run a story on us.  I'd had several contacts that week.  The show had to go on.  We were meeting at a Lutheran Church on Sunday evenings, so I asked the pastor there if one of their organists could come and play that evening.  She came and she and I sat there waiting.  And 7pm came and went.  And 7:05, and 7:15 and we knew no one was coming.  I was discouraged and it was obvious.  She and I said Evening Prayer together and then she told me her story.  She and her husband, a pastor, had been Lutheran church planters in Jamaica for almost ten years.  They had a very small group that had asked them to come to help them plant a church and for ten years they tried and nothing ever happened.  When they finally decided to quit there were no more people than when they started.  She said that she and her husband found the whole thing utterly discouraging.  They had made significant sacrifices to be there and nothing had happened.  It was tempting to be angry with God.  They returned home thinking they were failures and wondering why.  They'd been faithful in proclaiming Jesus.  They'd spent hours every week in prayer with that little group of people.  And then several years later they received a letter.  It was from a pastor in Kingston.  Not long after they'd left, he'd arrived to plant a church.  His group moved into the building left behind by the Lutherans and quickly began to grow and thrive.  And he wrote to thank them.  “You soaked this place in prayer and you cast gospel seed all through the neighbourhood,” he wrote.  He didn't know why it never grew for them, but he knew they'd been faithful and he was now reaping a harvest he hadn't planted and he wanted to thank them for their faithfulness.  That elderly Lutheran organist told me that story with tears in her eyes and said, “Be faithful and don't be discouraged.  Whatever happens, if you are faithful, the Lord is at work.  Some of us plant, some of us water, some of us reap, but it's all the Lord's work.”  She reminded me of the hope that lies before me—and that lies before all of us—and that Jesus doesn't just call us to follow him; he first calls us to take up our crosses.  Just it was necessary for Jesus to give his life that he might be raised from death, so must we die to ourselves that we might live.  Brothers and Sisters, fix your eyes on Jesus.  He knew the joy that was set before him and so he endured the cross.  He scorned its shame.  And because of that the Father raised him from the dead and has seated him at his right hand.  His kingdom has been born.  Now the joy of the kingdom, of new creation, of God's life is before us.  May it be the reason that we take up our crosses and follow our Lord. Let's pray: Gracious Father, as we come to your Table this morning, give us a taste of your great kingdom feast; let us see Jesus, risen from the dead; and make us especially aware of your indwelling Spirit that we might be filled with the joy of your salvation and the joy of your new creation.  Strengthen us with joy, so that we will not fear to take up our crosses and follow Jesus.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Second Sunday after Easter 1 St. Peter 2:18-25 & St. John 10:11-16 by William Klock Let slaves obey their masters with all respect, not only the good and kind ones but also the unkind ones.   Those are jarring words, aren't they?  They have been abused at times in history, shouted by masters at their slaves: “God says you're supposed to obey me and you don't want to disobey God, do you?”  True words, but showing that sometimes true words, when spoken by the wrong person and in the wrong context, turn everything upside-down. Jarring words written by St. Peter in his First Epistle—chapter 2, verse 18.  The verse that leads into today's Epistle.  Originally the Epistle started a few verses later.  At the Reformation Archbishop Cranmer extended the Epistle to verse 19, but to really understand what Peter's saying we need to go back at least to verse 18 to those words about slaves obeying their masters. It also helps to know that slaves were what made the Greco-Roman world go round.  Ten to twenty per cent of the Roman population was slaves and without them life in Rome Empire would have ground to a halt.  When we think about slavery, we probably think about race-based slavery in the United States or maybe in Latin America in the colonial era.  Slavery in Rome wasn't quite the same.  It wasn't based on race.  Slaves were often prisoners of war or debtors or, of course, the children of slaves.  They did have certain rights.  They could own property and even buy their own freedom.  But at its core all slavery is rooted in the idea that you are not your own; you belong to someone else.  You're not a person; you're property.  That slavery exists, whether in Rome or in the Americas or in other parts of the world today, that slavery exists is a stark and profound reminder that the world is not as it should be.  Slaves, as much if not more than anyone else, know the pain and the tears of the present evil age.  And I think that's why Peter singles them out here. But what does slavery have to do with Easter?  Well, think back.  On Easter Day the Epistle, from Paul, reminded us to look up and keep our eyes fixed on the age to come, on the new creation inaugurated by Jesus.  Last Sunday we heard St. John exhorting us to overcome the world—to be stewards and heralds of God's new creation.  This is all what it means to let the reality of Easter—of Jesus' resurrection—work out practically in our lives—to be Easter people.  And today it's St. Peter who speaks to us on this same theme. All through Chapter 2 of his letter Peter has been writing about who and what Jesus and the Spirit have made us: living stones, a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation.  And he writes that God's purpose in all this is that we will “announce the virtuous deed of the one who called [us] out of darkness into his amazing light”.  That's our duty, Brothers and Sisters, to proclaim the mighty and saving deeds of God in Jesus.  To make the good news known to the world. But, Peter warns, don't undermine that Easter proclamation with worldly living.  Here's what he writes beginning at 2:11: My beloved ones, I beg you—strangers and aliens as you are…   Remember that when we are born again in Jesus and the Spirit, we're reborn as part of God's new creation and, even though we still await its consummation, that makes us in a very real sense strangers and aliens in the world we once knew.  The old evil age has been defeated, but it still trundles on even as the new age is breaking in, but that old age no longer has a claim on us.  We belong to Jesus.  We belong to God's new world.  And it is this new world and it's king, Jesus that we proclaim.  But we also need to live this new world too and that's what Peter's getting at.  So he goes on: I beg you to hold back from the fleshly desires that wage war against your true lives.  Keep up good conduct amongst the pagans, so that when they speak against you as evildoers they will observe your good deeds and praise God on the day of his royal arrival.  (1 Peter 2:11-12) Brothers and Sisters, our walk needs to match our talk.  We have been delivered from sin's slavery, but the old temptations are still there.  That's why we vowed in our baptism to fight the world, the flesh, and the devil.  You and I belong to a royal priesthood and a holy nation.  We ought to live holy lives, putting our sinful desires to death.  And we do that not just because it's the right thing to do, but because it is part of our Gospel witness.  This is what it means to be light in the darkness. Peter knew the world needed gospel light.  As bad as we think our world might be, the ancient world was worse.  Unspeakable sin was everywhere.  The sexual immorality of our world doesn't hold a candle to the sexual immorality of ancient Greece and Rome.  And idolatry was woven through every bit of life.  To become a Christians meant withdrawing from all of that, which meant the pagans looked on Christians as impious traitors.  The pagans called Christians atheists, because to worship only one god was pretty much as good as atheism.  They accused Christians of being unpatriotic, because Christians refused to worship the emperor.  If disaster befell a city, the pagans would blame the Christians for angering the gods.  And yet Peter reminds these brothers and sisters that the pagans would also notice how different they were.  In a dog-eat-dog word, these Christians treated each other as equals and they loved each other.  They even pooled their resources to care for widows and orphans—the cast-offs of Greco-Roman society.  In a world of sexual filth, the Christians lived lives of purity.  The Christians became known for adopting the infants—especially the newborn girls—left to die of exposure by the pagans.  The Christians treated women and slaves as equals of free men.  In other words, the Christians were living out as best they could God's new creation in the midst of the old.  They were lifting the veil on God's future, on the day when everything is set to rights, and giving the pagans a glimpse of it.  And the pagans couldn't help but take note, even as they threw all their accusations at the Christians.  Some of the pagans—especially those deeply invested in the evils of this world—they lashed out, they fought back and Christians were thrown into prison and martyred.  But even then, their witness had an impact and a few at first, but then more and more and more were drawn to Jesus through their holy witness—not just the proclamation, but by the lives of these Christians—by faith in Jesus put into practice.  And the world began to change.  New creation spread. So Peter goes on in verses 13-17: Be subject to every human institution, for the sake of the Lord: whether to the emperor as supreme, or to the governors as sent by him to punish evildoers and praise those who do good.  This, you see, is the will of God.  He wants you to behave well and so to silence foolish and ignorant people.  Live as free people (though don't use your freedom as a veil to hide evil!), but as slaves of God.  Do honour to all people; love the family; reverence God; honour the emperor.   So, Brothers and Sisters, so much as we are able—without compromising our gospel principles—we are to keep the peace.  Peter knew that God is sovereign and that he establishes human rulers in this world to keep the peace, to punish evil, and to promote the good.  He knew that those rulers are often far from perfect.  Peter even knew that those rulers are often evil.  However much you may have thought that Justin Trudeau was the worst Prime Minister ever, however much you may think Donald Trump is totally unworthy of the Presidency, the Roman Emperors were worse—far, far, far worse.  Our governments in the West, for all their flaws and even as they forsake the gospel, have been profoundly shaped by that gospel.  That could not be said of Caesar.  And yet even as Nero would light up his garden parties by setting Christians on fire, Peter acknowledged that—generally speaking—God has appointed such men—as we pray—to administer justice, restrain wickedness and vice, and uphold integrity and truth.  So Peter warns Christians to be subject to our earthly rulers.  Jesus has not called us to be violent revolutionaries bent on overthrowing Caesar so that we can impose a theocracy.  Instead, God wants us to “behave well” and in that to silence the accusations of the pagans.  Show honour to all, love our family (he means the church), and honour the emperor.  You don't have to get into idolatry or offer incense to Caesar to be submissive to his God-given authority. You can see how this actually did work if you look at the history of the early church.  Those early Christians lived peaceably.  They refused to comprise.  They refused to participate in idolatry and in sexual immorality and it cost them, but they lived as truly gospel people.  Many of them were martyred for doing so.  And you might think that killing people would put an end to a movement. But this quiet, peaceful, holy living worked.  It gradually silenced the accusations of the pagans, who gradually and increasing numbers were drawn to the good news and to Jesus. Here's the thing.  We know that the world is not as it should be.  In our anger we often want to lash out ourselves, if not to make it right, at least to make it right for ourselves or to get some kind of revenge.  And that only makes things worse.  But as those first Christians lived peaceable and godly lives, as the pagans came to Jesus in faith, the world began to change through their influence.  Gradually the gross sexual immorality disappeared, infanticide and abortion stopped, the brutality of the gladiatorial games ended, the status of women and children rose, and slavery came to an end. Brothers and Sisters, the gospel changes the world through humble, peaceable, and holy Christians as it quietly works its way through a nation until that people or nation itself becomes a witness to Jesus and gospel.  We really need to hear this lesson today.  Those first Christians had no other choice.  They were a minority.  They had no political power.  We, however, living in a world that was once Christian and where Christianity is now in decline and out of fashion, we keep trying to regain it all through political power—forgetting, I think, that the gospel doesn't work that way.  It rises up from below, from the ranks of peaceable, humble, and godly people who proclaim and live it.  We will never overcome the accusations and rejection of the pagans by trying to force the gospel on them.  Rather, they will be drawn to the gospel through our gospel proclamation backed up by our gospel living. And this is where Peter says those startling words: Let slaves obey their masters with all respect, not only the good and kind ones but also the unkind ones.   Did Peter know that one day the influence of the gospel would put an end to slavery?  I don't know.  Slavery was a given in his world.  But Peter knew that slavery was not God's plan for human beings.  He knew that it had no place in God's new creation.  And yet he tells slaves—and it's not like he was just writing this to slaves he didn't know in far away churches, there were surely slaves in Peter's home church, brothers and sisters he loved dearly to whom he said the same thing face to face—Peter tells slaves to obey their masters—even the evil ones.  And I think that's hard for us to hear, because in our world, this sounds like Peter is colluding with injustice.  One of the slogans of our post-modern age is “Silence is violence”.  You have to speak out against evil and injustice.  But Peter was perfectly aware that slavery was an injustice, so let's bear with him. Consider that Peter lived the gospel story very literally.  He was one of the fist Jesus called.  He spent three years being discipled by Jesus.  He was there when Jesus was arrested.  Remember, he was the one who lashed out, drawing his sword, cutting of one of the soldier's ears, putting up a fight for Jesus.  He heard Jesus telling him to put his sword away and he saw Jesus heal that soldier.  And he was there when Jesus was on trial and he was the one who denied knowing Jesus three times.  He was there when they crucified him.  And he was there with John on Easter morning to see the empty tomb and later that day to meet the risen Jesus.  Peter knew that story.  It was as much his story as it was Jesus's story, even if Jesus was the centre of it.  Peter knew what it looked like to bear with injustice and suffering.  He'd seen Jesus do it.  And because Jesus bore with it, because Jesus refused to respond with violence, because Jesus had submitted to death on a cross, everything had changed.  If Jesus hadn't submitted to death, he never would have risen victorious over it and God's new creation would never have been born. Brothers and Sisters, that's how God's new creation, how his redemption works: Sin and death did their worst, and Jesus and the gospel rose triumphant.  And what Peter is saying is that we, as Jesus' people, need to inhabit that same story, make it our own, be willing to suffer and even to die if it comes to that, so that the world can know the power of the gospel—of the good new of Jesus crucified and risen. That's why Peter goes on like he does in verse 21, where he says: This, after all, is what came with the terms of your call.   In other words, this is what you're going to be called to do, this is the life you're going to be called to live when you take up with Jesus in faith.  You're going to have to inhabit his story.  And to make sure we understand what that story is Peter writes what was probably a hymn sung in those early churches. The Messiah, too, suffered on your behalf, leaving behind a pattern for you so that you should follow the way he walked.  He committed no sin, nor was there deceit in his mouth.  When he was insulted, he did not insult in return, when he suffered, he did not threaten, but he gave himself up to the one who judges justly.  He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might be free from sins and live for righteousness.  It is by his wounds that you are healed.  For you were going astray like sheep, but now you have returned to the shepherd and guardian of your true lives.  (1 Peter 2:21-25) The crucifixion of Jesus was the most evil and unjust act in history.  Jesus was the one man who deserved nothing but praise and honour and glory, but his own people rejected him, mocked him, beat him, and crucified him.  In Jesus, Peter saw the fulfilment of God's promises through the Prophet Isaiah.  God's royal servant  would fulfil his purposes to save the world, but he would do so by submitting to injustice.  The servant would be insulted, without responding with insults of his own.  He would suffer without casting curses on his torturers.  “He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross” and “we were going astray like sheep” writes Peter, drawing from Isaiah 53.  Jesus took on himself the punishment his people deserved.  Because he was Israel's Messiah, the king and the world's true Lord, he could represent Israel and the rest of us in a way no one else ever could. So with that in mind—with this idea that each of us is called to inhabit the gospel story of the cross and the resurrection—I think we can understand what Peter is getting at when he tells slaves to submit to their masters and for everyone to be subject to earthly rulers.  He's not just saying that we should passively accept suffering and violence and injustice.  What he's saying is that when you and I suffer for the sake of gospel, for the sake of goodness, truth, and beauty, that Jesus' suffering is somehow extended through us, and the saving and life-giving power of his death and resurrection meets this present evil age and its people with transforming power.  It's not an easy thing to do.  Knowing Peter and how impetuous he was, I expect he struggled with this, but he knew.  The flesh cries out “No!”.  The flesh wants to push back—to return insult for insult, to get revenge on those who wrong us.  The flesh doesn't want to wait for the gospel to act like yeast in a lump of dough—slowly working its way through.  We want justice now!  We dismiss the way of suffering, saying that it fails to confront evil, insisting that only power, force, and violence can right the world's wrongs—or at least the wrongs perpetrated against us personally.  And this is precisely why we need to keep our eyes on Jesus and his cross, remembering that his death and resurrection are at the centre of everything.  Remembering that the unjust suffering of God's people is caught up in the suffering of Jesus his son and all part of the same redeeming story. Brothers and Sisters, this is how the world is set to rights.  We think revolution comes by taking up arms and by fighting back, but all that does is replace one evil with another.  The real revolution took place at the cross and it spreads as you and I take up our crosses and follow Jesus.  It's hard.  We want vindication.  We want justice.  We want the world set to rights.  But there is no better way to remember that God has promised us all these things than to live out that future in the here and now. Let's pray: Almighty God, who gave your only Son to be for us both a sacrifice for sin and an example of godly life: Give us grace that we may always receive with thankfulness the immeasurable benefit of his sacrifice, and daily endeavour to follow in the blessed steps of his most holy life, who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, on God, for evermore.  Amen.

A Sermon for the First Sunday after Easter 1 St. John 5:4-12 & St. John 20:19-23 by William Klock In the ancient church this was the Sunday when the men and women baptised on Easter would take off their white baptismal robes after a long week of celebrating their baptism.  Now it was time for the church to go out into the world to be the new people Jesus and the Spirit had made them.  At Rome, in those ancient days, the newly baptised would do this at the church of St. Pancras—a church named after a young Roman martyr.  Because of his faithfulness he would become a patron of oaths and vows.  Now it was time to live out their baptismal vows, like that young martyr.  They'd given their allegiance in faith to Jesus.  Now it was time to march out into the world, to proclaim him as the crucified and risen king, and to fight the world, the flesh, and the devil—not matter the cost. Brothers and Sisters, as the Easter story continues, we're reminded that Jesus didn't die and rise from death just to zap us to heaven the moment we believe.  He didn't die and rise again to create an escape hatch out of the world or even out of persecution and martyrdom.  He died and rose again so that we might live for him and carry the good news—like royal heralds of the king—out to the far reaches of God's creation.  This has been the mission of the people of God all along, going all the way back to Abraham.  He and then his family were called and set apart by the Lord to be a light in the darkness.  They were the people who lived with the living God in their midst.  Through them, God revealed himself to the nations. Or, at any rate, that's how the plan had started.  Abraham's family, Israel, largely failed in her mission.  That was part of the plan too.  It showed that it would take more than calling and creating and sending a special people to be light in the darkness.  The human race has a heart problem.  Instead of desiring God, we desire everything else.  Instead of worshipping him, we make idols.  And Israel had that same heart problem.  And so that story of calling and sending and failure leads us to Jesus.  It was meant to from the very beginning.  He came to set his people to rights—at least those who would follow him, who would trust him, who would give their allegiance to him as messiah—as God's king.  And in his death and resurrection Jesus defeated the powers of the old age and inaugurated God's new creation.  But John stresses, this time something was different.  This new people isn't just called and sent.  This time they're also transformed and equipped.  And that's really the theme of this Sunday after Easter.  Every week we're sent out with those words: “Go forth in pace to love and serve the Lord.”  Friends, that dismissal is a call to go out and swim in our baptism, to go our and to proclaim the risen Lord, to go out and do battle with the world, the flesh, and the devil.  I suspect that a lot of the time we respond, “Thanks be to God” without even thinking about any of that.  But those times when we do think about what those words mean, it's easy to feel overwhelmed—especially when the scriptures or the liturgy or the sermon has really spoken to us that day and we have a clear sense of why God has called us and saved us—it's easy to feel overwhelmed. So Brothers and Sisters, as we stand overwhelmed by the task before us, John assures us that if we are in Jesus by faith, there are two vitally important new realities for us.  The first is that we have been made part of his new creation.  We have a share in Jesus' resurrection from death.  Yes, there's more to come.  We haven't been resurrected yet.  That will come some day at the end of the age when the gospel, through the Church, has accomplished its purpose and brought the world to Jesus. But in the meantime, Jesus' resurrection has freed us from our bondage to sin and death and given us new life.  And, second, that if we are in Jesus, he has given us God's own Spirit.  He's made us his temple, the place where he dwells.  The Spirit's not something to be earned when we've become holy enough.  He's not some later experience or second blessing, as if we can be in Jesus, but not have a share in the Spirit.  Jesus' gift of the Spirit is the very thing that fulfils God's promise through the prophets and that defines us as his new covenant people.  And as Jesus forgives and frees us by his death and resurrection, the indwelling Spirit empowers and equips us to live the new life Jesus has given.  The Spirit's life in us is a foretaste and a down payment on the resurrection and the life of the age to come—and most importantly in light of today's theme, the indwelling Spirit is the one who makes the task set before us by Jesus possible.  He's the one who equips us to fulfil those impossible vows we made in our baptism. In our Gospel, again John 20 beginning at verse 19, John tells us: On the evening of that day, the first day of the week, the doors were shut where the disciples were, for fear of the Judeans.  Jesus came and stood in the middle of them.  “Peace be with you,” he said.   We shouldn't pass over these words too quickly.  It's the first day of the week.  It's still the same day that Mary went to the tomb to anoint Jesus' body and found it empty.  It's the same day she went running to tell Peter and John.  The same day they went running to the tomb to see for themselves.  The same day when John says none of them—except, it seems, for him—understood what had happed.  John says he “believed” and I think that means he believed Jesus had risen, but that was crazy and he was still working it through so he hadn't said anything to the others yet.  This is that same day.  Now it's evening.  And the disciples have locked themselves into someone's house.  The doors are locked.  I expect the windows tightly shuttered.  There was no cooking fire.  Nothing that might make the house look occupied—nothing to give them away.  Maybe one little lamp, just so they could barely see each other in the darkness.  They were afraid.  Four days before, the Jewish authorities had arrested Jesus.  Three days before he's been crucified as a dangerous revolutionary.  Soon, they figured, the authorities would come for the rest of them.  Best to lay low until things blew over.  Maybe in a few days they could sneak out of the city.  And so they sat there in the darkness, some silently pondering what all this meant, some still weeping for their dead friend, maybe a couple of them arguing in low tones about what had happened to Jesus' body and what they'd do next.  But whatever they were doing, a palpable sense of fear filled that dark room.  John's telling of the story of new creation reverberates with echoes of the story of the first creation: Darkness was over the face of the deep. And then Jesus is suddenly there.  John wrote about the Incarnation back in his prologue saying that in Jesus the light had come into the darkness and the darkness could not overcome it.  That was an echo of Genesis.  The first day of the week God called light into being, driving away the darkness.  And now the Light Incarnate appears in that dark, fear-filled house and I have to think that somehow and in some way it was filled with light—a light that drove away every last vestige of darkness.  And to these frightened men, Jesus announces, “Peace be with you!” Imagine their surprise.  And there must have been some disbelief or some doubts.  Or maybe, like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, they simply didn't recognise him.  Something about his resurrection had brought a transformation.  Same Jesus, same body, but in some way just different enough in appearance that they didn't recognise him.  Of course, it wouldn't have helped that they simply didn't expect to see him again either.  So Jesus holds out his hands for them to see.  One at a time he lifts a foot out so that they can see.  There were the marks left by the nails.  And he lifted his tunic to show them the wound left by the spear that had been plunged into his side, the wound that had gushed forth blood and water, evidence to the soldiers that he was genuinely dead.  And here he stood alive.  They were shocked.  How could it be?  I've said before, the reason resurrection wasn't on anyone's mind was because this wasn't how it was supposed to happen.  This wasn't a story Jews would have made up, because all the Jews who believed in the resurrection of the dead knew how it would work—and it wasn't supposed to work this way.  At the end of the age the Lord would raise all the faithful at once.  There was plenty of disagreement about some of the specifics, but they all knew one thing for sure: It would be everybody all at once, not just one person, even if that one person was the Messiah.  This just wasn't on their radar.  Not at all.  But now it is and they're confused and, it seems, even though John says they were glad, they were still more than a little afraid.  And so Jesus says to them again, “Peace be with you!” And Jesus doesn't waste any time as John tells it.  “Peace be with you,” he says, calming their fears.  Jesus is alive.  And immediately he gets down to the very practical aspects, the real-world implications of his resurrection.  Jesus doesn't waste any time.  He says in verse 21: “As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.”   Think about that.  Here they are, hunkered down for fear of being rounded up and executed.  Here they are, afraid to even show their faces in Jerusalem.  Here they are, giving it a few days before they try to sneak out of town without being noticed.  And Jesus says to them, “I'm sending you.  As the Father sent me to you, I'm now sending you: to Jerusalem, to Judea, to Samaria…to the ends of the earth.”  In other words, “You're not going to go slinking out of the city under cover of darkness.  No, you're going out into Jerusalem with boldness—the same way I went out into Galilee, through Judea, and eventually to Jerusalem at the head of a parade, hailed by the people.  You're going to go with the same boldness out into this city and you are going to declare what God has done.  Everyone is going to know who you are.  You're going to declare to Jerusalem that this Jesus whom they crucified died and has been raised from the dead, that he really is the Messiah, God's King, and that his kingdom, God's new creation has come.” Think again of John, just beginning to wrap his head around the idea that Jesus had been raised from death—but still hunkered down with the others, afraid.  John couldn't even tell his friends what he thought had happened.  The last thing on his mind was telling it to Jerusalem—and Jesus isn't talking about mere “telling”—you know, whispering it to a few people who might be safe to tell.  No, he's talking about proclaiming this news—to everybody.  Brothers and Sisters, think about that for a minute.  Most of us are hesitant to proclaim the good news about Jesus.  We have no reason to fear for our lives like Jesus' disciples did.  The worst thing that happens to us is we offend someone, make them think we're weird.  They faced martyrdom—and all but John were, indeed, martyred for their proclamation.  We have so little to fear, but we're afraid anyway.  We've even stopped speaking in terms of proclamation—the Bible's way of speaking about evangelism.  Instead we talk about “sharing” our faith—watering it down, as if it's just another option on the religious smorgasbord that someone might want to try out for themselves.  We've lost our confidence in the good news and in the God who raised Jesus from the dead who stands behind it.  No, Jesus calls us to declare the good news like royal heralds, sent out into the world to declare the mighty deeds of God, that he has raised Jesus from the dead, and made him Lord of all. But, again, consider John.  Confused, afraid, just beginning to understand.  And then consider the confidence of his words, written decades later in our Epistle: Everyone who believes that Jesus is the Messiah has been fathered by God…because everything that has been fathered by God conquers the world.  This is the victory that conquers the world: our faith.  Who is the one who conquers the world?  Surely the one who believes that Jesus is the son of God!  (1 John 5:1, 4-5) Everyone who believes that Jesus is the Messiah—God's king—has been reborn as part of the people of God.  And that belief changes everything.  That belief transforms the fearful John hesitant to even tell his friends about the dawning realization that Jesus had been raised from death, it turns him into the courageous apostle, exiled for his proclamation of that truth, and writing boldly to the churches to stand firm in that same faith even though great tribulation was about to hit them like a storm.  There is everything to be feared out in the world: rejection, mockery, persecution, even martyrdom, but by faith the people of God overcome and stand firm in our witness.  It's not because faith changes reality.  It's because this faith recognizes the new reality born that first Easter when Jesus rose from the grave, the new reality that he is victor over sin and death, the new reality that new creation has begun in him, and the new reality that he is Lord of that creation.  By faith we are united with him.  By faith we share in his inheritance.  And by faith we share in his calling and ministry—his Church, taking up the mantle of prophet, priest, and king. Like John, we are called to boldly testify about Jesus. It was he who came by means of water and blood, Jesus the Messiah, not by water only but by the water and the blood.  The Spirit is the one who bears witness, because the Spirit is truth.  There are three that bear witness—the Spirit, the water, and the blood—and these three agree together.  If we have received the witness of men, God's witness is greater.  This is the witness of God, the testimony he has borne concerning his son.  (1 John 5:6-9)   John points back to Jesus' ministry.  He came by water.  That was the start of it.  He went to John and was baptised in the Jordan and as he walked up out of the river, the heavens opened, the Spirit descended like a dove, and his Father spoke, “This is my Son in whom I am well-pleased.”  That was Jesus' initiation into his messianic ministry.  And that ministry—at least in its earthly phase—ended in blood, at the cross, where he died to conquer death and to provide forgiveness of sins.  Jesus' baptism testifies to his being the Messiah.  Jesus' blood, shed on the cross, testifies to his being the Messiah.  And, too, John writes, so does the Spirit.  And, he says, consider all the things we believe, in which we trust, based on the testimony of mere men.  How much more, Brothers and Sisters, ought we to trust this testimony about Jesus backed up by God himself?  And not so much just receiving and believing ourselves, but in light of the fact that this is the truth, this is the good news that literally changes the world, that is changing the world, oughtn't we to be proclaiming it to that world?  Through Jesus and the Spirit God has given us the light.  The light that will transform the darkness that sin and death have cast on the world.  The light that the darkness cannot and will not ever overcome.  Dear Friends, don't hide it under a basket.  Hold it high.  Proclaim it.  Show it to everyone.  Don't be afraid.  God has spoken: “Let there be light!”  And as John wrote in his Gospel: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has no overcome it.”  He goes on in verse 10: All those who believe in the son of God have the witness in themselves.   But that's not where John leaves us in the Gospel.  Jesus doesn't just send his disciples out into the world.  That would be an impossible task.  Jesus also equips them.  Look at verses 22-23 of John 20: With that, he breathed on them.  “Receive the Holy Spirit,” he said.  “If you forgive anyone's sins, they are forgiven.  If you retain anyone's sins, they are retained.”   As the Lord breathed life into Adam in the original creation, Jesus now breathes on his disciples.  “Receive the Holy Spirit,” he says.  Was the Spirit literally imparted by Jesus' breath?  Luke tells this part differently in his Gospel and in Acts—that whole event with the dramatic coming of the Spirit at Pentecost as they gathered at the temple to hear Peter preach and to be baptised.  But notice there, too, that the Spirit comes with a wind—in both Hebrew and Greek, wind, breath, and spirit are all the same word.  Jesus was good at acted-out prophecy and I think that's what he's doing in this case in John's Gospel.  He is—or he soon will be—imparting God's Spirit to this new people of God, to those who believe, and he illustrates just what this gift is by an act that they couldn't help but connect to God's giving life to Adam.  But this is new life.  And this is what will equip them to go out, despite the threat of death, to proclaim with boldness the good news.  Brothers and Sisters, the Spirit does a lot for us, but here Jesus makes sure we know what his primary purpose is.  It's not to give us radical experiences, although that certainly might happen.  It's not to make us holy, although he certainly does that as he turns our hearts and our affections away from self and sin and points them towards God.  But, the primary purpose of the Spirit is to equip us to do the impossible: to do for the world, what Jesus did for Israel.  To go out in the world in his name and to proclaim what God has done through him.  “As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.” And then those words that have so often been misunderstood and abused: “If you forgive anyone's sins, they are forgiven.  If you retain anyone's sins, they are retained.”  Remember I said that by faith we have a share in Jesus' inheritance and ministry.  By faith the Father adopts us and makes us his sons and daughters, so we share in what belongs to Jesus.  And that means that as he is King and Prophet and Priest, so are we as his Church, his people.  And Jesus gets here at two of those things.  Here he reminds his friends and he reminds us that when we go out into the world to proclaim his Lordship, to proclaim the good news of his death and resurrection, to proclaim that new creation has come, we do so as both prophets and as priests. Our message is two-fold.  I think the priestly role comes most naturally to us.  This is the part of our proclamation where we announce the forgiveness of sins.  Think of the priests of the Old Testament, offering sacrifices.  That was one of their main duties: to facilitate and to mediate God's forgiveness to the people.  Think of Jesus.  He is both priest and sacrificial lamb.  He offers and presents himself to the Father as a sacrifice for our sins.  And, as priests, we proclaim to the world the forgiveness he offers through that sacrifice.  But that is not our only role.  We also share in Jesus' prophetic office—and that's the part that doesn't come as naturally to us, at least not as things currently are.  But consider what the prophets did.  Consider what Jesus did in his role as a prophet.  He called out the sins of his people, he summoned them to repentance, and he announced the judgement to come on those who remained unrepentant in their sin, unbelief, and faithlessness.  In contrast, much of the Church today is afraid to take on this prophetic role, to name sin, to even use the word.  Some parts of the Church have given up altogether and have embraced sin and called it virtue—leaving folks nothing to repent of and with nothing for which they need forgiveness.  They've gutted the gospel.  But these two things, the priestly and the prophetic go hand in hand.  Our prophetic office, announcing judgement, is without hope if we do not also fulfil our priestly role of announcing forgiveness.  But our priestly office, our message of forgiveness lacks any real meaning if it is not also accompanied by the prophetic announcement that sin is sin and that God will judge it.  Brothers and Sisters, this is the good news: that we are sinners, that our holy God judges sin and that the penalty is death, but also that Jesus has died as a perfect sacrifice for sins, and has risen, victor over death, inaugurating God's new creation and giving a sure and certain hope that what he has begun he will finish.  One day all things will be made new, every bit of sin and evil will be swept from creation, and all will be set to rights.  And by faith in Jesus we have a share in that new world. Brothers and Sisters, do we believe that?  I trust that we do.  We affirm this belief every week as we come to the Lord's Table.  We recall the story.  We confess our sins in repentance.  And we come to the Table in renewed faith to participate again in those events that set us free from sin and death, in the death and resurrection of Jesus.  But maybe we've forgotten the real power behind what we confess here at the Table.  Friends, think this morning on what the cross and the empty tomb mean.  Think on what the blood of Jesus means.  Think on what his gift of the Spirit to you means.  And then take seriously those words of dismissal: “Go forth in peace to love and serve the Lord.”  Consider that in those words Jesus is saying to us, to you and to me, “As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you.” Let's pray: Almighty Father, you gave your only Son to die for our sins and to rise again for our justification: Grant that we may put away the leaven of malice and wickedness, and always serve you in purity and truth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for Easter Day Colossians 2:20-3:4 & St. John 20:1-10 by William Klock Sometimes there's a way that seems right, you try to follow it, and you just get yourself into trouble.  I parked at the Big Qualicum fish hatchery and went for a ride on my gravel bike on the Horne Lake-Cook Creek Forest Service Road loop.  It's a beautiful ride, but it's not the easiest.  There's a hill at one point that's so steep the logging trucks actually have to be towed to the top by one of those giant trucks with eight-foot tall wheels.  It's too steep to ride and even walking it while pushing your bike is hard, because your shoes just slip out from under you in the dry sand and gravel.  I saw that 20% grade in my mapping app and thought I'd be smart.  There's another logging road on the map that bypasses that big hill.  It would also cut the loop down from 90km to about 75km. So off I went down the mountain on that other logging road.  I should have known better.  My mapping app shows how heavily travelled various routes are.  I could see that everyone took the main road and went up the giant hill.  I could see that no one went the way I was going.  I thought I was smart and had found a secret no one knew about.  And then that shortcut suddenly ended at ravine.  There was a cliff on both sides and Nile Creek babbling away sixty feet below.  The logging company had decommissioned the road and removed the bridge.  I climbed about thirty feet down the cliff with my bike over my shoulder, sure I'd find a way.  I didn't.  And I had to climb back up and then ride back up the mountain, back to the main road with scraped knees and elbows to show for my folly.  I got to climb two big hills that day. We're always looking for the easy way, no one wants to take the hard and difficult way even if it's the right way to go.  Jesus' words were looping in my head as I rode back up that hill to the main road: The gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many.  I was picturing myself barreling down that road, happy I found the easy way, not paying attention, and riding right off that cliff.   This is what St. Paul's getting at in our Epistle today from Colossians when he writes, Think about the things that are above, not the things of earth.   Here's what was happening in Colossae—or, at any rate, what Paul feared would happen if the church there didn't get on the right track.  Just as in Galatia, the Christians were being tempted to fall back into a form of Judaism—to start finding their identity in things like circumcision, sabbath-keeping, and diet.  They were facing the same sort of persecution the Galatians were and it was very tempting to avoid it by backing away from their identity in Jesus and to instead identify themselves as Jews.  Jews were exempt from all the requirements of Roman religion.  But that wasn't the only thing that made Judaism tempting.  Even before Jesus came on the scene, there had been gentiles who were attracted to Judaism for its ethics and morality.  The ancient pagan world was grossly immoral and barbaric in ways that we—living in a world shaped for two thousand years by the gospel—it was filthy in ways we struggle to imagine.  And some of the pagans got sick of it.  Yes, the torah made heavy demands, but it also offered a way of life along very clearly delineated lines of holiness and purity.  That was attractive to some people.  This is what Paul is getting at, at the end of Colossians 2—which I think really needs to be part of today's Epistle if we're going to get a sense of the context.  Staring in Colossians 2:20 Paul writes: If you died with the Messiah, coming out from the rule of the worldly elements, what's the point of laying down laws as though your life was still merely worldly?  “Don't handle!  Don't taste!  Don't touch!”  Rules like that all have to do with things that disappear as you use them.  They are the sort of regulations and teaching that mere humans invent.  They may give an appearance of wisdom, since they promote a do-it-yourself religion, a kind of humility, and severe treatment of the body.  But they are of no use when it comes to dealing with the indulgence of the flesh.   Paul had in mind these gentiles who were thinking that the laws and regulations of the torah would give them a sense of wisdom and religion and humility, but it's not hard to see our own culture in his warning.  Everyone it seems is looking for some way to feel better about themselves.  Sometimes it's just a sort of generic do-gooderism.  Some people get this way with life-style and fitness routines, disciplining themselves in ways that become a sort of religion.  Some people pursue conservation and environmentalism with the fervency of religion.  Things like recycling or cutting down Scotch broom or driving an EV become almost sacramental.  These things atone—or at least begin to atone—for our sins and the sins of our ancestors.  And then there's the full-on Post-moderns who have bought into various critical theories and the whole dichotomy of oppressor and oppressed.  In that system, if you find yourself in the oppressor category—usually because you're white or male or heterosexual or—God forbid—all three—there is no atonement, there is no forgiveness.  You must simply spend the rest of your life genuflecting at the woke altar and confessing your sins and those of your ancestors.  There is no forgiveness, but at least you can feel better for constantly signaling your virtue and for being an “ally”.  You can even feel holier-than-thou and look down your nose—a Post-modern Pharisee—when you see your fellow oppressors who aren't kowtowing at the woke altar.  These are all just modern expressions of Paul's “do-it-yourself religion”.  They may make us feel better or feel like we're doing something or even that we're working to heal creation and make the world a better place, but to put it in his words, They are of no use when it comes to dealing with the indulgence of the flesh.  None of these things address our real problem.  None of these things will make us genuinely holy.  In the end, they turn out to be indulgences of the flesh themselves. They're shortcuts.  Instead, we need to take that hard and narrow way.  We need to take the road that climbs that giant hill, even though it means pushing the bike while your feet slip out from under you in the sand and gravel.  Because the hard way is the only way that will get us to the end goal.  Every other way will eventually turn into a dead end—with the emphasis on dead.  There is only one way that leads to life.  Brothers and Sisters, we have to die and be raised back to life.  That's the only way to get out of this worldly sphere and to escape the “worldly elements”—the powers and gods of the present evil age, the powers and gods that keep us perpetuating our sins and our rebellion against God.  Because no matter what we do, no matter how many good works we think we've done, as long as we're enslaved to those false gods and systems, we're just feeding, we're just perpetuating the fallenness of the world and this present evil age. Something has to change.  We have to leave behind the present age—it's days are numbered anyway and as Christians we should know that—and we need to take our place in the age to come, in God's new creation.  We all know that the world is not as it should be.  God didn't create us for pain and tears and it's good that we instinctively want to fix that.  But we can't.  Not on our own.  Our sin and rebellion have broken God's creation and there's no fixing it with the broken tools it offers.  To get back to where we should be—to get back to that place of fellowship with God, of living in his presence, of being the stewards of his world—means leaving behind the old and joining in the new. This is what drew people to Jesus during his ministry.  He was preaching good news, yes, but he was also wiping away the tears and giving people a taste of new creation.  He healed the blind and the deaf and the lame.  He cast out demons.  He even overturned death on a few occasions.  In Jesus, God's new world, Gods' new age was breaking in.  And then there's that first Easter morning that we read about in John's Gospel. We see Mary standing at the tomb and weeping.  Sin and death, all the powers of this evil age had risen up at once and killed Jesus.  If there was a time for tears, that was it.  The most evil of evil things evil has ever done.  Mary represents us all as we cry in the midst of this broken and fallen world full of evil.  She was so overcome with the sadness of it all that she doesn't seem to have been moved even by the presence of the two angels.  “Why are you crying?” they asked.  And she just kept sobbing.  “They've taken away my lord and I don't know where they've put him!”  And then Jesus walks up and asks her again, “Why are you crying?”  And she turns around and asks him, “Sir, if you've carried him off somewhere, tell me where you've put him.”  John says she thought he was the gardener.  We pass over that little detail without much thought.  At least I did for years and years.  But then I started noticing how so many artists in history depict Jesus that Easter morning with a shovel or a hoe in his hands.  There's something to that bit of detail.  John mentions it for a reason.  Mary mistook him for the gardener because he must have been doing gardener things.  So there was Mary crying at the tomb and talking to angels, while Jesus knelt nearby pulling up weeds or tending to a fallen plant.  The second Adam was alive.  God had raised him from the dead and rolled away the great, heavy stone from the tomb.  That was the greatest event on the greatest day in the history of the world.  When Jesus burst forth from the tomb, I like to say that he sent a shockwave of life through a dead world.  Nothing would ever be the same.  And yet what does he do?  He walks out of the tomb and starts tending to the garden.  My first thought is something like, “Doesn't he have bigger and better things to do?”  But it shouldn't really be surprising.  This is the same Jesus, God incarnate, who humbly took on our flesh and who humbly went to the cross for the sake of his enemies.  Why shouldn't he act the part of a humble gardener first thing after his resurrection?  But, too, it shouldn't be surprising, because this is what he came to do: to set his creation, broken by our sin and rebellion, he came to set it to rights.  Why not start with those weeds just outside the tomb and then that rosebush starting to fall over.  Mary keeps weeping uncontrollably.  And then he says her name and suddenly she knew, suddenly she recognised him.  “Rabbi!”she said.  And the tears stopped—or maybe they turned into tears of joy.  John doesn't say.  But the weeds, the rosebush, Mary's tears—Jesus didn't just burst out of the tomb to be some highfalutin and abstract doctrine of resurrection to be studied and discussed by theologians in ivory towers.  No, he came out of the tomb, resurrected indeed, but immediately working out that resurrection for his beloved creation and for his beloved people.  First the garden and then Mary, and pretty soon everyone. One by one Jesus has come to each of us as we've been confronted with the good news of the gospel.  He's spoken our names.  He's wiped away our tears.  We've believed.  We've been baptised.  And coming out of those baptismal waters, we've been filled with God's own Spirit and made new.  We still wait for the day when we will be resurrected as Jesus was, but the Spirit is a down-payment, an earnest on that day.  In our baptism we have died and been raised up with Jesus to a new life.  Like Israel delivered from Egypt at the Red Sea, we've been delivered from our slavery to sin and death as we've passed through the waters of baptism and now Jesus sends us out.  Now we're the gardeners, sent out into the world to proclaim and to live the good news.  To tend to the weeds and the falling rosebushes and the tears.  To do the things we knew all along needed to be done, the things maybe we tried to do, but that we could never really accomplish on our own or with the world's broken tools.  But now they get done, because the power of the Lord goes with us in the gospel and the Spirit. We are—again—like Israel.  Consider.  Israel passed through the Red Sea and then the Lord sent her to conquer Canaan.  And yet it wasn't Israel who won the victory, but the Lord.  Yes, Israel had to march and Israel had to fight, but it was always the Lord who won the battle.  And just so with us.  Jesus has brought us through the waters of baptism and now he sends us out into the world to reclaim what rightly belongs to him.  And it won't happen if we don't go, but at the same time, it is not we, but he who wins the victory.  The kingdom of God fills the earth because of the power of the gospel and the Spirit.  But, again, Paul's warning to the Colossians: We are so prone to forgetting all of this and we fall back into do-it-yourself religion.  And so he says in verse 1 of Chapter 3: So if you were raised to life with the Messiah, search for the things that are above, where the Messiah is seated at God's right hand.  Think about the things that are above, not the things of earth.  Don't you see: you died, and your life has been hidden with the Messiah, in God!  When the Messiah is revealed (and he is your life, remember), then you too will be revealed with him in glory.   Here's the good news.  Throw away all the do-it-yourself religion.  Get off those dead-end trails and get back on the main road.  Because if you belong to the Messiah, you're also already part of his new creation.  This is one of the greatest themes all through Paul's epistles.  Paul wants us to understand that what is true of Jesus is already true of us because we are “in him”—or as he puts it “en Christos”, “in the Messiah”.  It may not always feel like it, but this is one of the fundamental things about the life of faith that Paul wanted these new believers to understand.  It's often hard, but we need to learn to believe that this is true even if it doesn't always feel that way.  Because it's in those time when we're not feeling it—feeling like our prayers are bouncing off the ceiling, feeling like we're far from God, feeling like there's no escape from sin, feeling like the world will never change—it's in those times that we're most prone to falling back into do-it-yourself religion. And there are two true things that Paul wants us to understand above everything else.  If we can remember these two things, everything else is going to fall into place.  Jesus has died and he's been raised from death.  And that means that if we are “in the Messiah”, then we have died with him.  You have died with him.  You are no longer a part of the old evil age.  You are no longer a slave to sin and death.  You don't need any do-it-yourself religion to get close to God or to make the world a better place.  You just need Jesus.  You have been raised with Messiah.  Even though we wait for the resurrection of the dead at the end of time, through the indwelling of God's Spirit, we have in part—here and now—the life of the age to come.  Jesus has made us part of his new creation. Our hope—and the hope of the world—lies with him as he sits at God's right hand.  In his incarnation, in his ministry, in his death, and in his resurrection, Jesus began the process of uniting heaven and earth, of bringing God and man back together.  One day that task will be finished, heaven and earth will be rejoined and we will be resurrected and—as Adam and Eve once did—we'll live in the full presence of God.  But in the meantime, we—his church—have been given the task of proclaiming the good news about Jesus and by our life together, giving a dark world a taste of God's light, of his new creation—of giving the world a taste of heaven. Brothers and Sisters, that's how the kingdom spread.  That's how Christendom came to be.  As Jesus' people set their minds on God's new creation and, as the church, lived it out in the midst of the darkness.  And just as the God of Isreal who gave his son for their sake was unlike any god they'd ever known as pagans.  This church, this community of people who identified with the Messiah and who gave their lives humbly for the sake of the world, who lived as one people regardless of whether they were rich or poor, slave or free, Jew or gentile, this people who taught the world what love and mercy and grace and justice are, this people showed the world the holiness it had been looking for, it showed the people how this broken world really can be set to rights—when we set aside our do-it-yourself ways and let the Messiah wash us clean and let his Spirit make us new. Brothers and Sisters, keep your eyes fixed on the things that are above.  Keep praying with Jesus: Thy kingdom come.  Thy will be done, one earth as it is heaven.  One day heaven and earth will be fully rejoined, but only because the church, in the power of the Spirit, has proclaimed the gospel to the whole world.  In his book Surprised by Hope, Tom Wright wrote this, “People who believe in the resurrection, in God making a whole new world in which everything will be set right at last, are unstoppably motivated to work for that new world in the present.”  May that be true of us.  While we wait for God's new world to come in all its fullness, let us never tire of being that new world here and now: as we, empowered by the Spirit, proclaim the good news that Jesus has died, that Jesus has risen, and that Jesus is Lord, as we pull the weeds, and as we wipe away the tears. Let's pray: Almighty God, who through your only-begotten Son Jesus Christ overcame death and opened to us the gate of everlasting life: Grant us by your grace to set our minds on things above; that by your continual help our lives may be transformed; through the same, Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for Good Friday St. John 19 by William Klock Every year, reading the passion narratives over the course of Holy Week, I always find myself at some point, at least for a little while, pondering Pontius Pilate.  If we read the Jewish historians Philo and Josephus, they leave us with the impression that Pilate held the Jews and their religion in disdain and relished any opportunity they gave him to exercise his military authority.  But then we read about him in the Gospels and we see a tired and exasperated government official who seems to just want to keep the peace.  These people for whom he has no great love and even less patience have arrested Jesus.  They can't legally execute him themselves, so they drag him before Pilate.  On the one hand Pilate has no interest in crucifying Jesus.  He doesn't like these people and he doesn't want to do their dirty work.  But he's also finding the whole situation a pain in the neck.  He was there to keep Caesar's peace and the Jews weren't making it easy for him.  And so he had Jesus brought to him and he asked, “Are you the King of the Jews?”  And Jesus responded, “Are you asking because you're interested or because that's what you've heard people say about me?”  And Pilate responds, “Am I a Jew?  Why should I care if you're King of the Jews or not?  It's your skin on the line.  Your own people—your own priests!—arrested you and handed you over to me.  I'm giving you a chance to explain yourself.  So what do you have to say?” Jesus goes on to explain in those well-known (and often misunderstood words), “My kingdom is not from this world.  If it were, my disciples would have taken up arms to save me from the soldiers of the high priest.”  And Pilate, confused and getting annoyed asks, “So are you a king or not?”  And Jesus responded, “You're the one calling me a king.  I was born for this.  I have come into the world to bear witness to the truth.  Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”  And we can hear the annoyance and the exasperation in Pilate's famous answer, “What is truth?”  And with that he went back out to address the Judeans.  He didn't understand what Jesus was saying, but that didn't mean Jesus was guilty.  Pilate went out and told them as much.  It was usual for the governor to free a Jewish prisoner at Passover, so Pilate offered them a choice: Jesus or Barabbas.  Barabbas was a monster.  Surely they'd choose Jesus, because they certainly didn't want Barabbas out of prison.  For that matter, Pilate didn't want Barabbas out of prison!  But, no, to Pilates' great surprise, they shouted out for the release of Barabbas and the crucifixion of Jesus.  Pilate gave up.  He symbolically washed his hands and declared to the people, this is on you, not me.  And they took Jesus off to die. Just like Pilate, people have been stumbling over these words of Jesus for two thousand years.  People hear him say that his kingdom is not from or not of this world and they then say to us, “Well, then leave me alone.  Go worship in your church and leave the rest of us be.  Enjoy your pie in the sky when you die.”  Even Christians have misunderstood this to mean that we should disengage from the world.  But that's not it at all.  Jesus' kingdom may not be from this world, but it is most certainly for this world.  It's the only hope this world has.  It's what Jesus means when he tells us to pray “on earth as it is in heaven”—to look forward to, to hope for, and to pray for that day when God has set his creation to rights, when earth and heaven and God and man are back together as they—as we—should be.  As he created it all and us in the beginning.  This is what Jesus bore witness to and it's what we, forgiven and washed and filled with his Spirit are called not only to pray for but to witness to the world and the people around us.  It's that kingdom that comes not by the sword—which is the only kind of kingdom Pilate could think of.  Instead, it's the kingdom that comes by the love we saw last night as Jesus shared bread and wine with his disciples and then washed their feet.  It's the kingdom that we see coming today, on Good Friday, as Jesus goes to the cross. On Good Friday, at the cross, all the great stories of the love of God come together in one place.  As John tells us the story of Good Friday, he brings all these other stories together.  There's Psalm 22 and Psalm 69 and there's Isaiah and Zechariah, and there's the Passover lamb whose bones were not broken and it all points us to the big story of the God of Israel and his people and his love for them—a love that was meant to be, through them, for everyone and for all of creation.  They were his agents for challenging the power of evil in the world, for being light in the darkness.  And, of course, as we read the Old Testament, we see that their story—not very surprisingly—their story got stuck in the very problem for which it was supposed to be an answer—the great problem of rebellion and sin.  And yet, Israel's failure was God's opportunity to announce his love once again.  He would be faithful to his people.  He would send his Messiah and his Messiah would fulfil his purposes for the world. Think of that bigger story.  Going back almost to the beginning we're told about the men of Babel and their tower.  They'd lost all knowledge of their creator.  They grasped at divinity themselves, reaching towards heaven.  God confused their languages.  There's that “What is truth?” question all the way back there!  And there, in the midst of deep darkness, just as the human race seems well and truly and utterly lost, God shows up to make himself known to Abraham and to announce that through Abraham and his family, he will make himself known to the world.  A glimmer of light in the darkness.  And then that family winds up enslaved in Egypt, so the Lord sends Moses to confront Pharaoh and to lead his people out of bondage—and Passover happens.  There are centuries of ups and downs for Israel, but each time things go bad, the Lord sends a deliverer.  And then finally he gives Israel a king—Saul—and the Philistines kill him.  So the Lord raises up the lowly shepherd, David, who establishes a great kingdom and the Lord promises him a future heir who will be God's own son and who will rule forever and ever.  And then more centuries of ups and downs, of faithfulness and failure—mostly failure—until Babylon brings Israel down in shame and takes her off into exile.  And when Israel is at her lowest, shamed and disgraced, that's when the Lord points to her through the Prophet and declares: Behold, my servant.  And he gives the Prophet Daniel, sitting in the shame of exile, a vision: the great empires rise from the sea, but over them all the Lord exalts the son of man as their judge. And, Brothers and Sisters, this story echoes all through our Good Friday Gospel today.  We see Rome, another of those imperial monsters rising from the sea.  And Rome does what Rome did best, brutally killing a rebel king.  John shows us Pilate as he brings Jesus out to the people the day before Passover and announced, “Behold your king!”  But those Sadducee priests didn't want a Messiah any more than they wanted a resurrection.  In fact, they didn't want a Messiah so much that they shouted out the unthinkable, “We have no king but Caesar!”  John shows us Babel and Egypt and Philistia and Babylon at their worst and then he shows us the seed of Abraham, the one greater than Moses, the son of David, the servant of the Lord and declares, “Behold the man!  Behold your king!” And yet, for all it seems that Rome and the Sadducees are out of control, they never really are.  As in Daniel's vision, the beasts rise from the sea and they rage, but the God of Israel never ceases to be sovereign.  Even in their evil, the beasts of empire serve his purpose.  So, ironically, it's Pilate the Roman governor, the man cynical of the very idea of truth, who in God's providence, declares the truth to the people as he announces to them, “Here is your king!”  Even as the priests protest his placard on the cross, Pilate again stands firm on the truth, insisting, “What I have written, I have written.”  John powerfully reminds us that even this cynical, self-serving servant of Caesar will serve the Lord's purposes.  Jesus had said to Pilate, “You have no authority over me unless it is given to you from above.”  So Rome does what Rome does best.  It mocks and it kills and yet, in doing that, it providentially serves God's purposes and proves the point that the God of Abraham and Moses and David does not fight the battle against evil with the weapons of the world, but with love.  Everyone that day thought that Caesar had won.  The devils were dancing with joy that Friday.  And yet Caesar and the priests and the devils all played right into God's hand.  As evil rose to its full height, as it was concentrated all in one place, God won the victory against it on Good Friday. At the cross, God's project to set his creation to rights is finally accomplished.  This why John opens his Gospel with those powerful echoes of Genesis.  In Genesis we read that in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  John echoes those words as he tells us that in the beginning was the word and the word became flesh and dwelt amongst us—bringing heaven and earth back together.  All through John there are these creation themes.  There's light and darkness.  There's the seed that will bear fruit and multiply.  And now on Friday, the sixth day of the week, the day when God crowned his work of creation with the creation of man to rule his new world, John shows us Pilate bringing out Jesus, robed in purple and wearing a crown of thorns, and he declares to the people, “Behold the man!”  Jesus is the true image of God and the world is so mired in rebellion and sin that God's own people, confronted with the image of God in Jesus can only shout out, “Crucify him!”  The people who prayed for the return of the Lord to his temple, turned their eyes away when he did return and demanded his death.  They were so mired in darkness that they couldn't bear the light. And yet the love of God marched sovereignly on—to the cross.  At the end of the sixth day in Genesis, God finished his work and now on this sixth day in John's Gospel we hear Jesus announce that “It is finished” as he takes his last breath.  It was finished.  His work was accomplished.  Humanity was forgiven and creation was healed.  Evil had risen to its full height, giving the love of God the opportunity to rise even higher on the cross.  Of course, no one understood that on Friday.  It would take the resurrection, in which Jesus was vindicated by his Father, in which his victory was brought out into the light for everyone to see, it would take that before they would know and understand and believe.  But on the cross, as Jesus breathed his last and slumped, hanging on those nails, it was finished.  Once and for all.  A full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice for the sins of Israel, for the sins of all of the nations—for the sins of the whole world.  A sacrifice that would finally heal the breach and bring an answer to our prayer: on earth as it is in heaven. And now, Brothers and Sisters, you and I stand gathered at the foot of the cross, confronted by the very image of God and by his amazing love.  Here is the man who represents what we were created to be in the beginning and what, if we will only commit ourselves to him, God will make us to be.  Here is our King, who has inaugurated his kingdom—this new creation, this world set to rights, a world founded on love—and not the world's idea of love, but the love defined by the story of God and his people and by Jesus' sacrificed for us on the cross.  Here we're confronted by the King and his kingdom and by a vision of the world set to rights.  What will we do?  We are so often stuck in the kingdom of Caesar.  We put our trust in Caesar's sword and in Caesar's coins—even in Caesar's gods.  Like those Sadducee priests who were so dead set on holding on to what they had, that they declared the unthinkable, that they declared the very thing they knew so well was false: “We have no king but Caesar.”  And John reminds us today that whatever power Caesar may have, has been given to him by God and to fulfil his purposes, not Caesar's.  Brothers and Sisters, let go of Caesar and take hold of Jesus.  Let go everything else and take hold of the love of God made manifest at the cross. Good Friday reminds us.  We look up to the cross and we see Jesus.  Behold the man.  Behold the king.  He is the image of God and as we look in his face we see the God who loved his people, who loved the world so much, that he gave his own son that we might be forgiven and set to rights and welcomed back into his fellowship—who sent his son not to condemn, but to save.  Here is the good shepherd who lays down his own life for his sheep out of love.  Here is the one who shows the greatest love we can ever know as he lays down his life for his friends.  Jesus, having loved his own who were in the world, loved them to the uttermost.  This love we see at the cross is the very love that shone so brightly out of the darkness at the very moment when we thought the light had been overcome.  This is the love that redeems and renews us, but even more important than that, this is the love that glorifies the God who is love. And so, Brothers and Sisters, this Good Friday, be transformed by this love.  Our brother and our king has given his life and by that love he gives us life and hope and a lens through which we should, more and more each day, see every part of our lives and every part of the world.  This is the love that forgives our sins and heals our hurts.  This is the love that is making creation new and that, one day, will wipe away our tears.  This is the love that we, as Jesus' people, manifest to the world.  This is the truth we witness for the sake of the world and to the glory of God.

A Sermon for Maundy Thursday 1 Corinthians 11:17-34 by William Klock In our Epistle today we hear Paul's description of what took place in the upper room, as the Passover meal came to a close.  This little paragraph is at the core of our liturgy of the Lord's Supper.  Paul tells how Jesus took the bread, gave thanks, broke it, and gave it to his disciples with those familiar but often misunderstood words: “This is my body.  It's for you.  Do this as a memorial of me.”  And similarly with the cup saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood.  Whenever you drink it, do this as a memorial of me.”  The Christians in Corinth, hearing those words read out would remember the stories told by the disciples about that night.  Just like we do, they'd mentally fill in the whole setting from Jesus washing their feet, to the Passover meal, to Jesus taking the Passover bread and one of the Passover cups and linking it with himself and what he was about to do.  They'd be thinking about this new covenant.  A mystery to the disciples, but the Corinthians knew the story of the cross, too.  They knew that the body of Jesus, broken, and his blood poured out at the cross established something new.  The Jewish Christians there new especially that when they shared in this meal that Paul described, it was like the Passover meal they'd known all their lives, but now in Jesus it meant something new and something better.  Not just an exodus from Egypt, but an exodus from sin and death.  Not just being led by God into a land of milk and honey, but being led by Jesus and the Spirit into God's new creation.  As Passover reminded the Jews year after year after of the Lord's deliverance and how he'd established a covenant with them, how he'd made them his people, and how he'd given them a hope for the future, so the Lord's Supper, every Sunday, reminded them how Jesus had delivered them from sin and death, how he'd marked them as his people in their baptism—not just in water this time, but by pouring his Spirit into them, and it pointed forward to God's promises of world to be conquered by his people.  But not Canaan.  Now it would be the whole world as this new people went out, proclaiming the gospel and living the life of the Spirit.  This community shaped by the Lord's Supper, by this new Passover, was God's future right here in the present, God's new creation in the midst of the old, God's light in the middle of the darkness.  Not perfectly, of course, but still God's future here and now. We forget.  That's why God gave Israel the Passover.  That's why Jesus gave us his supper.  So we don't forget what he's done.  So we don't forget who we are.  So we don't forget the task we've been given to do.  And so we don't forget our future hope.  But still we forget.  And that's why Paul wrote this to the Corinthians.  If we back up to the previous paragraph, to 11:17, he writes to them, What I have to say now isn't a matter for praise.  That means he's about to rebuke them for something they've been doing wrong.  He goes on: When you meet together, you make things worse, not better.  Stop and think about that.  I tend to think that when Christians meet together to worship, even if we don't get everything right, it's still a good thing.  We're better off for it.  On the whole God is pleased.  And yet Paul's saying that when the Corinthian church gets together, what they're doing is so wrong, that on the whole, it's a bad thing, not a good thing. So what are they doing?  He writes, To begin with, I hear that when you come together in the assembly there are divisions among you…  So when you gather together into one meeting, it isn't he Lord's Supper that you eat.  Everyone brings their own food to eat, and one person goes hungry while another gets drunk.  Haven't you got houses to eat and drink in?  Or do you despise God's assembly, and shame those who have nothing?  What shall I say to you?  Shall I praise you?  No, in this matter I shall not!   That doesn't sound very much like the Lord's Supper, does it?   Remember that in the very early church, the Lord's Supper was probably connected to a fellowship meal.  It hadn't yet become the symbolic meal that it would, where we eat a little piece of bread and take a sip from the chalice.  But in Corinth this had ceased to be a truly shared meal.  It sounds like the rich were separating themselves from the poor.  While they ate like gluttons and got drunk, the poor members of the church went hungry.  The rich people probably thought they were doing well.  After all, it was very gracious of them to let the poor—many of them slaves—have anything to do with their meals.  If they were still pagans, knowing nothing of the grace of God, the poor wouldn't be here at all.  Another case of the Corinthians getting everything horribly wrong, but patting themselves on the back for how gracious they were. And Paul rebukes them.  Back in Chapter 5 he wrote, “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.  Therefore let us keep the feast!”  But if this is how they're doing it, it may be a feast, but it's not the feast.  It's not the Lord's Supper.  Brothers and Sisters, if we don't come to the Lord's Table as one, we don't come at all.  Again, Paul warns the Corinthians: If this is how you keep the feast, it's better if you don't—because this isn't the feast.  In fact, if we jump down to verse 27, Paul writes: It follows from this that anyone who eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord.  Everyone should test themselves.  That's how you should eat the bread and drink the cup.  Now, we should stop there and make sure we hear him.  “Test yourself before you eat and drink.  Test yourself how?  He goes on:  You see, if you eat and drink without recognising the body, you eat and drink judgement on yourself.   The flow of Paul's logic here is so simple there really shouldn't be any question about it.  What's the context of this rebuke?  The Corinthians weren't united when they came to the Lord's Supper.  They were letting worldly divisions and distinctions divide them up.  To put it in terms of our Epistle this past Sunday from Philippians 2: They didn't share this mind amongst themselves.  They weren't being humble as Jesus is humble.  And so Paul reminds them that the Supper was instituted by Jesus to remind us of him and to remind us who and what we are in him.  And now he warns them that if you eat and drink of the Supper without recognising the body, you eat and drink judgement on yourselves.  What's the body?  That's one of Paul's ways of talking about the church—especially when he wants to stress our unity and interdependence. So what he's saying is that central to coming to the Lord's Table is doing so as one people.  The cross has overcome all our differences.  There is no longer rich nor poor, slave nor free, Jew nor gentile, man nor woman.  It doesn't mean those markers are gone.  It's that in the pre-gospel world, those differences divided us all up, but the cross now makes us one.  That's part of how the church puts God's future, his new creation on display here and now.  It's one of the ways we show the world the beauty of the gospel.  Without this unity, the Lord's Supper is just another meal—like any other worldly meal, where you invite the people who are like you or the people you want to score points with.  Ironically, it's become common for Christians to flip Paul's warning on its head and to fence off the Table from other Christians who have different views of how the Lord's Supper works.  To “recognise the body” is taken to have something to do with Jesus being present in some way with the bread and wine, and we'll only let people come to the Table if they agree with us on how exactly that works.  Which is just the sort of thing Paul is warning against.  Jesus instituted the Supper to be a powerful symbol of our unity in him, but we keep it to ourselves and keep others away who disagree over what exactly that means. I have to think that this is one reason the church in the West is in such decline.  Our churches are too often divided between rich and poor, or divided along political lines or ethnic lines, and while there's certainly a place for division over serious theological error, most of our division are over matters that should never be a source of division.  Paul certainly thought that lack of unity was a problem.  He goes on in verse 30: That's why several of you are weak and sick and some have died.  But if we learned how to judge ourselves, we would not incur judgement.  But when we are judged by the Lord, we are punished so that we won't be condemned along with the world.  So, my brothers [and sisters], when you come together to eat, treat one another as honoured guests by waiting for each other.  If anyone is hungry, they should eat at home, so that you don't come together and find yourselves facing judgement.   When we think about the Lord's Supper, we so easily get distracted and hung up on other things.  The idea of “real presence” seems to dominate the discussion in Anglican circles these days.  When Veronica and I were married, before the service began the priest warned the congregation that only those who believe that Jesus is “really present” in the bread and wine were allowed to come to the Table.  I was livid—in part because there wasn't really anything we could do about it at the time, but mostly because that's not what Anglicans believe.  Or at least what we're supposed to believe.  It may all be an interesting theological discussion, but if we pay attention to Paul, that's not how the Lord's Supper works.  It's not about what might or might not happen to the bread and wine.  Brothers and Sisters, it's about eating and drinking in memory of what Jesus has done for us.  It's about participating in him and in his death and resurrection—this new exodus by which he has delivered us from sin and death and made us a new creation.  And in light of that, it is vital that we come to the Table as one.  Not rich or poor, not slave or free, not Jew or gentile, not man or woman, but as the people redeemed by Jesus, a people filled with God's Spirit, a people who have been made a new temple where Jesus, the Spirit, and the good news of his death and resurrection—where his salvation—is mediated to a dying world.   Let's pray: Almighty Father, whose dear Son, on the night before he suffered, instituted the Sacrament of his Body and Blood: Mercifully grant that we may receive it thankfully in remembrance of Jesus Christ our Lord, who in these holy mysteries gives us a pledge of eternal life; and who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.    Amen.

A Sermon for Palm Sunday Philippians 2:1-11, St. Matthew 21:1-17, and St. Matthew 27:1-54 by William Klock The Pantheon in Rome is famous for being one of the architectural and engineering wonders of the ancient world.  It was one of the buildings we studied when I took Architectural History and I remember our professor stressing that the photos in our book could never do it justice.  It's a great round building covered by the largest vaulted concrete dome in the world.  It looks big.  It is big.  The dome is 43 metres high.  But you don't realise just how big that is until you add people into the photos.  It's about twenty-five times higher than the average person is tall.  And it was built by the Romans two millennia ago.  It's survived all these years, even after builders scavenged the bronze off its roof and left the concrete exposed.  It is, again, known for being an architectural and engineering marvel. But Brothers and Sisters, the Pantheon is important for another reason that's hardly ever discussed.  It was, again, built almost two thousand years ago—in the early second century.  Begun under the Emperor Trajan and finished during the reign of Hadrian.  It stood on the Field of Mars and replaced an earlier temple dedicated to Mars, the god of war, and built by Agrippa during the reign of Augustus.  But the Pantheon, fairly quickly it seems, became an unusual temple.  The Romans usually dedicated a temple to a single god.  The gods were jealous.  They didn't like sharing.  And if a temple were, say, struck by lightning, you'd know that it was the god of that temple who was angry.  But the Pantheon became a temple for all the gods—or, at least, many of them.  That's what the name means: pan…theon.  It was one of the greatest temples of pagan Rome.  But in the Year of Our Lord Six-hundred-and-nine, at the instruction of the Christian Emperor Phocas and the Bishop of Rome, Boniface IV, the Pantheon was stripped of its pagan idols and its pagan altars.  Twenty-eight cartloads containing the bones of Christian martyrs were exhumed from the catacombs and reburied there, a Christian altar was placed in the building, and it was established as a church in honour of the memory of those martyrs whom the pagan Romans had killed in the name of their gods.  To this day, over fourteen-hundred years later, the Church of St. Mary and the Martyrs remains there, a faithful witness to conquest of Rome by the gospel and of the Lordship of Jesus.  A testimony to the power of the cross and the blood of Jesus not only to purify us from our sins and to make us a dwelling fit for God's Spirit, but to wash creation clean from our sins as well. We began Lent, listening as St. Matthew told us the story of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness.  The devil took him off to a very high mountain and showed him all the magnificent kingdoms of the world.  Off on the horizon was Rome.  “I'll give the whole lot to you,” the devil said, “if you will fall down and worship me.” It was, after all what Jesus had come for.  He was creation's true Lord.  Caesar and all the other kings were pretenders, shams, parodies of who and what Jesus really is.  All of it, from Jerusalem to Rome and beyond belongs to him.  “There is not one square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!” to quote Abraham Kuyper.  But this was not the way.  Jesus will not reclaim his creation without also setting it to rights, without dealing with the problems of sin and death.  Without purifying it from our idolatry.  To do that requires more. And so today we hear Matthew again as he tells us of Jesus' triumphal procession into Jerusalem.  When they came near to Jerusalem, and arrived at Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two of the disciples on ahead.  Go into the village over there and at once you'll find a donkey tied and a foal beside it.  Untie them and bring them to me and if anyone says anything to you, say, “The Lord needs them and he'll send them back right away.”  He sent them off at once.   Jesus was about to act out another one of his prophecies.  This time it was to show and to remind the people what sort of king the Messiah was to be.  They did want a king who would set all to rights, but in their heads, to their way of thinking, that meant leading a revolt against the Romans.  He would be like David, who defeated the Jebusites to take their city Jerusalem as his capital.  He would be like Judas Maccabeus, who defeated the Greeks and established an independent Jewish kingdom under the high priest.  The Messiah would be like that, only better, greater, more powerful, and his kingdom would be forever.  He would raise up Israel and put the gentile kings in their place.  The day before or maybe even that same day, as Jesus came to Jerusalem from Bethphage, Caesar's governor, Pontius Pilate, was marching into the city from the opposite direction, from his base in Caesarea, at the front of a column of Roman soldiers.  They were there to represent Caesar's might and to keep the peace during Passover.  If Jesus was the Messiah, now was his time—or so a lot of people thought—now was Jesus' time to finally and really be the Messiah, raise up his army, and cast down Pilate and the Romans and take his throne. But that wasn't the way to the throne any more than bowing down to the devil was.  Matthew says that Jesus did it his way to remind the people of what the Lord had said about the Messiah through the Prophet Zechariah: Tell this to Zion's daughter: Look now! Here comes your King.  He's humble, mounted on a donkey, yes, on a foal, it's young. The king they expected was going to ride into Jerusalem on a chariot or at least on a great warhorse.  But God's king is different.  A great warrior might take care of the Romans and even take his throne.  He could set things to rights in the way of earthly kings, but the world would still be subject to sin and death.  So Jesus acted out the prophecy.  The disciples brought the donkey and Jesus humbly rode it into the city.  And the people cheered all along the way.  They spread their cloaks on the road.  Others cut branches form the trees and scattered them on the road.  The crowds who went ahead of him, and those who were following behind shouted, “Hosanna to the son of David!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!  Hosanna in the highest!”  And the whole city was gripped with excitement when they came into Jerusalem.  “Who is this!” they were saying.  And the crowds replied, “This is the prophet, Jesus from Nazareth of Galilee.   With that prophetic reminder, at least some of the people seemed to get it even if it wasn't what they expected.  Jesus was fulfilling Zechariah's prophecy.  The long-awaiting king had come.  But not everyone got it.  Jesus wasn't finished with his acted out prophesies.  Matthew says that he went straight to the temple and when he got there he threw out the people who were buying and selling in the temple.  He upturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of the dove-sellers.  It is written, he said to them, “My house will be called a house of prayer, but you have made it a brigand's lair!”  The blind and lame came to him in the temple and he healed them.  But when the chief priests and the scribes saw the remarkable things he was doing, and the children shouting, “Hosanna to the son of David!” they were very angry.   The king was fulfilling the words of the prophets.  He came in humility.  And he came announcing that he really was going to set the world to rights.  He was going to set the world to rights in a way that would make the temple obsolete.  All through his ministry he'd been showing how he was the new bridge between God and sinful humans and that last week he spent in the temple—starting with this acted out prophecy and continuing as he healed and preached, he made it clear.  So clear that the people invested in the temple and the priesthood and that whole system took it all for blasphemy and had him arrested. Our long Palm Sunday Gospel today—Matthew 27—vividly depicts the Messiah's humble way to his throne.  Betrayed by his friends, rejected by his people.  Standing humbly before the Roman governor so many people expected him to slay.  Facing trumped up charges made by lying men.  Left condemned to death as the people chose instead that Pilate should free a brutal, violent revolutionary—a man truly guilty of the trumped of charges against Jesus.  Standing humbly as the very people he came to save cried out to Pilate, “Crucify him!”  Standing humbly as he, the king, was rejected by his own people who cried out, “We have no king but Caesar!”  Standing humbly as Roman soldiers mocked him, beat him senseless and scourged him, ripping the skin from his body.  Humbly dragging the very cross on which he would be crucified through the city.  The king, nailed to a cross and hoisted to die between two violent thieves as his own people shouted blasphemies at him, as the chief priests and scribes mocked him shouting, “He rescued others, but he cannot rescue himself.  If he's the king of Israel, let him come down from the cross!  He trusts in God; let God deliver him now if he's really God's son!” For hours it went on.  Jesus, pulling on those nails driven through is wrists, pushing on the nails driven through his feet, lifting himself to gasp for breath through the pain, while the people gathered around: Jews, Romans, even the pastors, the shepherds of his people who claimed to speak for God mocked him and shouted blasphemies.  Luke writes that Jesus prayed for them: Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.  And eventually his body could take no more and Jesus breathed his last breath.  And, Matthew says, the earth shook.  The great veil that guarded the holy of holies in the temple was torn in two.  And the Roman centurions standing guard were scared out of their wits and announced the very thing Jesus' own people would not: He really was the son of God!   Brothers and Sisters, there can be no Easter without Good Friday.  To set the world to rights—to really set to rights—not just to take a throne, not just to defeat the Romans—but to defeat sin and death and to reconcile sinful men and women to God required a king willing to let evil rise up to its full height, to let evil concentrate itself all in one place, and to let it do its worst, crashing down on him all at once.  It required a king willing to throw himself into the gears of this fallen, broken, and sinful world to bring them to a stop.  It required a king willing to give his life for his own people even as they mocked and blasphemed him, so that he could rise from that humiliating death to overturn the verdict against him, rise victorious over sin and death and the absolute worst that they could do.  Only that humble king could defeat death and bring life—real and true life—back to God's creation and gather a people forgiven, cleaned by his blood, and filled with his Spirit to become a new temple, a new holy of holies where the nations would—where the nations now—enter the presence of God. It was in that humble king that those Roman centurions saw something they had never seen before.  Their Caesar called himself the son of God, but in Jesus they saw the God of Israel at work in all his glory, in all his love, in all his mercy, in all his faithfulness—like no god they'd ever known—completely unlike any god or goddess honoured in the Pantheon.  Whether they knew it or not, those centurions that first Good Friday announced the defeat of Jupiter and Mars, of Hera and Diana, of Neptune and Vesta and all the others.  And they announced the defeat of Caesar, too.  In less than three centuries, the Emperor of Rome himself would be captivated by the good news about Jesus, the son of God, the great King who was setting the world to rights. But Brothers and Sisters, the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen, didn't go out through the empire and to the nations all on its own.  It was carried, it was stewarded by a people—by a church—that, itself, took on the humility of the Saviour.  The bones of those martyrs buried in the Pantheon are a testimony to the faithful and humble witness of Jesus' people in those early centuries.  They didn't just proclaim a message.  They lived it out as a community—as the vanguard of God's new creation born that first Easter morning.  In the midst of a world of darkness, of false gods and idolatry, of brutality and immorality hard for us to imagine today, they gave the pagans a glimpse of God's future.  By the way they lived, they lifted the veil and showed the world God's new creation.  It was not only the proclamation of the church, but the very life of the church that showed the world a better way, a way no one before had ever known. Here's the truth of it: The people of the humble king must be humble too or it's all for nought.  This is why Paul, writing to the Philippians, says to them, If our shared life in the king brings any comfort; if love still has the power to make you cheerful; if we really do have a partnership in the Spirit; if your hearts are at all moved with affection and sympathy—then make my joy complete!  Bring your thinking into line with one another.  In other words, if you're going to be a gospel community for all the world to see  Have this mind amongst yourselves!  Here's how to do it.  Hold on to the same love; bring your innermost lives into harmony; fix your minds on the same object.  Never act out of selfish ambition or vanity; instead, regard everyone else as your superior.  Look after each other's best interests, not your own.   But it's so hard to do that, Paul!  So, so hard!  And Paul knew that.  And so he takes them back to the cross.  Brothers and Sisters, everything goes back to Jesus and the cross!  This is how you should think amongst yourselves, Paul goes on—with the mind that you have because you belong to Jesus the Messiah.  And now he doesn't quote from the passion narratives because they weren't written yet, although I think that would have worked just as well.  Every Holy Week we immerse ourselves in the passion narratives and Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John remind us of the very thing Paul writes here.  But instead Paul breaks out into song.  He reminds them of a hymn they presumably all knew and he copies it out for them: Who, though in God's form, did not regard his equality with God as something he ought to exploit.  Instead, he emptied himself, and received the form of a slave, being born in the likeness of men.  And then, having human appearance, he humbled himself, and became obedient even to death, yes, even death on a cross.  And so God has greatly exalted him, and to him in his favour has given the name which is over all names.  That now at the name of Jesus every knee within heaven shall bow—on earth, too, and under the earth.  And every tongue shall confess that Messiah Jesus is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.   Paul reminds them of the humble king, the son of God who not only took on our flesh, but who gave his life in the most painful and humiliating way possible so that on his way to his throne he might take us with him. Brothers and Sisters, the only way we will ever be faithful in being the people Jesus has called us to be, the only way we will ever be faithful in being the new creation people the Spirit has made us, the only way will ever be faithful stewards of the gospel is to keep the cross of Jesus always before us.  There's a reason why we confess our sins before we come to the Lord's Table.  There is a reason that we repeatedly recall our unworthiness to enter the presence of God on our own merit.  There is a reason why, as we rise in the morning and as we go to bed at night, we confess our sins.  It's so that as we hear the absolution and as we come to the Table, we will remember just how gracious and merciful and loving God has been to us.  It's why we sing songs like “Amazing Grace”.  Amazing grace is such a sweet, sweet sounds, because apart from grace we are such sinful wretches.  And it is inevitable that when we forget this, when we start to think of ourselves as deserving of the gifts God has poured out on us, when we forget the heinousness and offensiveness of our sins and our rebellion against God, dear Friends, that's when we forget the true power of the gospel and the true mercy of the cross and the great depth of the love of God for sinners.  When we forget the sinfulness of our sin, we lose sight of the amazingness of God's grace.  Eventually we lose the mind of Jesus the Messiah and we cease to be the community of humble servants that he has made us.  And our light grows dim.  Our witness fails. We see it happening all around us in the West.  We've stopped talking about sin and we've thought more highly of ourselves than we ought.  We preach a doctrine of cheap grace.  And our light has gone dim.  Our churches have emptied and the culture has claimed them for its own.  In some they preach false gospels of prosperity or the divinity of man or the goodness of sexual perversion.  We setup idols to politics and earth power in them.  Some are literally gutted, becoming theatres or bars.  Others are little more than tourist attractions: testimonies to the power of the gospel in the days we proclaimed it, but now empty, dead shells.  The culture removes the cross and sets up altars to its idols.  Brothers and Sisters, before it is too late, let us knee before the cross of Jesus and look up.  Let it fill our vision.  Let us remember that he—the sinless son of God—died the death we deserve.  And let us meditate on the depth and power of his grace that we might share the humble mind of our humble king, that we might be the people he has called us to be, the people he has given his Spirit to make us, the people who will steward the gospel until every knee bows and every tongues confesses that Jesus the Messiah is Lord and gives glory to God the Father. Let's pray: Almighty and everliving God, in your tender love for mankind you sent your Son our Saviour Jesus Christ to take upon him our nature, and to suffer death upon the cross, giving us the example of his great humility:  Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for Passion Sunday Hebrews 9:11-15 by William Klock William Coffin Coleman.  He was a travelling salesman.  He was in his dark hotel room one night and looked out the window.  This was before the days of electrification.  He saw a blindingly bright lamp in a window across the street and had to know what it was.  He walked across the street, knocked on the door, and found out that the lamp—one that ran on pressurized gasoline—was made by a small local company.  Within days he'd tracked down that little company and bought it.  That company would become the Coleman Lamp Company and pretty soon those blindingly bright lamps—the “Sunshine of the Night” as they called it—would be selling across North America and the technology would be adapted to lanterns you could carry with you.  With a Coleman lamp there was no more fumbling around or straining your eyes in the dim light of a wick lantern.  In fact, it'd be crazy to go back to those old kerosene wick lanterns.  A Coleman was not only brighter, it was also safer.  Back in the 20s and 30s displays would show a table lamp mounted on a rotating arm.  Around and around it would turn and it would never go out and it would never start a fire.  You couldn't do that with a kerosene wick lantern. With that in mind, think of our Epistle from the book of Hebrews.  Hebrews is sort of like a biblical Coleman lamp display, except here the writer of Hebrews holds up the New Covenant for his fellow Jews and turns it around and around to show all the ways it's better than the Old and how you'd be a fool to want to go back to the Old.  Matt talked about this in his sermon last week—although without the Coleman illustration.  Last week's Epistle from Galatians highlighted just how tempting it was for Jewish Christians to fall back into the old way—the old covenant way—of doing things.  Some of this was that it was simply the life they knew.  When they became Christians they didn't stop being Jewish.  But there were also Gentiles now coming into this messianic movement.  The unbelieving Jews didn't like that.  As far as they were concerned Gentiles were unclean.  And so these Jewish Christians were shunned by their friends and family and even kicked out of their synagogues for associating with Gentiles.  It got worse as the Jews began to actively persecute the Church.  Jesus had given these new Jewish believers so much more than they'd had in the old covenant, but it was easy to think only about living for the day.  For Jewish Christians it was tempting and it would have been easy to simply drift away from the church and fall back into old covenant Judaism.  And so the writer of Hebrews urges them not to do that.  Despite the persecution, what they have now in Jesus is so much better than what they had before.  The old covenant gave a promise of a new world and a new life in the Messiah.  In Jesus, the Messiah has finally come and he's fulfilled that old promise.  He's inaugurated the new world and the new life.  In Jesus we take part in the fulfilment of God's promises and that's worth it, no matter the cost. To make this point the writer of Hebrews takes us back to the tabernacle, the precursor to the temple in Jerusalem.  Look at Hebrews 9:11-14.   But when the Messiah arrived as a high priest of the good things that were coming, he entered the greater and more perfect tabernacle, not made with hands (that is, not of this present creation), and not with the blood of goats and calves but with his own blood.  He entered, once and for all, into the holy place, accomplishing a redemption that lasts forever.  For if the blood of bulls and goats and the sprinkled ashes of a heifer, make people holy (in the sense of purifying their bodies) when they had been unclean, how much more will the blood of the Messiah, who offered himself to God through the eternal Spirit as a spotless sacrifice, cleanse our consciences from dead works to serve the living God!   The tabernacle.  Think back to the book of Exodus.  The Lord rescued his people from their bondage in Egypt and at Mt. Sinai, in the wilderness, he gave him the law, written on stone tablets.  At the same time he also gave Moses very detailed instructions for building the tabernacle—the tent complex where the people would worship the Lord and present their offerings and sacrifices. That tent, the tabernacle, was built to mimic Eden as we see it in the first chapters of Genesis.  The imagery used to decorate the tabernacle was meant to invoke the idea of a garden.  At the core of the tabernacle, as you progressed from the camp of the Israelites into the outer court of the tabernacle and then into the centre of it was the holy place, where only the priests went, and then beyond that was the most holy place.  That was where the ark of the covenant was kept.  It was God's throne room.  That was where the cloud representing the glory of the Lord rested—God in the midst of his people.  But no one was permitted into the most holy place.  Sin and uncleanness cannot enter the presence of the Lord.  Only once a year did the high priest enter the Lord's presence to offer expiation for the sins of the people. Sinners cannot enter the presence of our holy God.  This is why Adam and Eve were cast out of the garden.  But there in the wilderness, as God's plan of redemption began to move forward, he instructed his people to build this tabernacle so that they could once again know him, so that they could live with him in their midst.  It was a partial undoing of the consequences of sin.  Adam and Eve had once lived in the most holy place, in God's presence.  That's what Eden was about.  They were to live and to serve in God's presence, cultivating his garden.  And as they were fruitful and multiplied, the garden, that holy place would grow—until it filled the whole earth.  Because of their rebellion, Adam and Eve were driven out from God's presence.  But in the wilderness the Lord helped Israel to build a model of that most holy place, he took up his residence in it, and he gave the people a law by which they could live on the periphery of that manifestation of his glory.  They couldn't enter directly into his presence, but whereas Adam and Eve were driven away, in the tabernacle, the Lord now drew his people near.  It was the beginning of something good.  The beginning of renewal.  The tabernacle, the law, the whole old covenant were good things.  They reminded God's people of his promise to one day set all of creation to rights and to restore his people fully to his presence.  It was a light in the darkness. The problem for Israel was that in the day-in and day-out activity of living around the tabernacle, of living the law, and of routinely making sacrifices and offerings, it became very easy to forget that all of this pointed to a greater reality and a greater fulfilment.  These things were like the dim light of a wick lamp.  The tabernacle, the sacrifices, the law were never meant to be a permanent arrangement.  The point was never for God's people merely to camp out around the place of his presence, merely to be able to get close to the Holy of Holies.  The goal was to return to Eden itself, to return to a life in the presence of the Lord.  God and humanity brought back together; heaven and earth rejoined.  A far greater light was coming.  As Christians we're, too, often guilty of forgetting God's end goal.  We come to the Lord's Table on Sundays, we gather with our brothers and sisters for worship, and we make it very routine and hum-drum, forgetting that what we have here is a down-payment on the full inheritance that Jesus will be bringing with him when he returns—of resurrection and new life and of living fully in the presence of the Father. This is what the writer of Hebrews is getting at when he talks about Jesus as our great high priest of the good things to come.  The tabernacle was a good thing, but it pointed to better things, just as the Lord's Supper is a good thing, but points to something even better.  And Hebrews says, as our high priest, Jesus entered not in to the most holy place of the tabernacle.  No.  At the cross Jesus entered into the true, the real holy of holies—the one of which the holy of holies in the tabernacle was only a representation and only a shadow.  In his death, Jesus entered the real, the actual presence of his Father.  The good news is that because Jesus has entered the Father's presence as our great high priest, since he has made purification for us, we're now ourselves welcomed into the Father's presence as well. Again, in the face of hostility and persecution, many Jewish Christians were tempted to just go back to the old way of doing things.  In their day the temple, the great building of stone on the mountain above Jerusalem, had replaced the tabernacle, but it was laid out on the same plan and served the same purpose.  The temple and the sacrifices were good things.  Why not just do things the old way?  The Lord had commanded them, after all.  Why risk persecution by joining with Gentiles to worship Jesus?  And so Hebrews reminds them: as good as the temple was, Jesus went to the real place the temple represents.  The temple was a model that pointed to the heavenly reality.  When Jesus takes us into the heavenly reality, how can we possibly justify going back to the model? Jesus as our great high priest entering the most holy place naturally leads us to the second point Hebrews makes here about the new covenant and how it's better than the old.  The priests of the old covenant entered the most holy place of the tabernacle once every year.  We're told here that Jesus entered once and for all time.  The old sacrifices were good until the next time you sinned.  The sacrifice that Jesus made at the cross is good forever.  Why?  Because when the old priests went into the holy of holies they took with them the blood of goats and calves.  Jesus entered the presence of the Father with his own blood. This was hard for many Jews to understand.  The Messiah was supposed to triumph over Israel's enemies and reign forever.  He wasn't supposed to die, let alone die the most humiliating death imaginable at the hands of their pagan overlords.  Maybe the Messiah would be their great high priest, but priests make sacrifices.  They aren't supposed to be sacrifices themselves.  That's what bulls and goats were for.  And yet, it's all there in Israel's scriptures—if you know how to look at it.  And that's what Hebrews is about. So, first, the Old Testament sacrifices taught the people to trust the Lord.  To offer a sacrifice is to give up something valuable.  This is a principle throughout the law.  The sabbath, for example, taught people to give one day a week to the Lord.  The gentiles scrambled for a living six days a week, but not God's people.  The sabbath taught them to trust in the Lord's provision.  Think of the manna in the wilderness.  Five days they gathered what they needed, but on the sixth day the Lord provide an extra measure to see them through the Sabbath.  The Sabbath was an act of faith.  And so was the tithe.  The gentiles held on to everything they got, but God's people gave him the first tenth—not the last, not what was left over—but the first tenth of everything.  It was an act of faith and he provided. But the animals sacrificed for the people in the temple took things a step further.  They reminded the people of the cost of sin.  Because of their sin, Adam and Eve were cast out of the garden, cut off from the tree of life.  Brothers and Sisters, sin puts us outside the presence of our holy God. Sin separates us from the source of life.  Sinners die.  The only way back into the presence of our holy God is by the shedding of blood.  And that's the second point made about sacrifice here.  Redemption from sin requires the death of another in our place.  The animals sacrificed in the temple were costly sacrifices, but they were also imperfect sacrifices.  They were dumb and unwilling.  They served only until the next sin was committed.  And they brought the people only into the tabernacle or the temple.  For the people to be truly cleansed from sin, for the people to enter into the Holy of Holies would require an even costlier sacrifice. Those sacrifices pointed to Jesus.  In Jesus, God himself took up our flesh—he became one of his own people.  He did that so that he could represent them.  He became like a second Adam.  And so Jesus obediently and willingly gave his life for them—and for us.  He was the costly sacrifice—the spotless lamb, the best of the flock.  As our representative, he took on himself the death that we deserve.  This is why we can say, as we do in the Lord's Supper, that by his one oblation of himself once offered, a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice for the sins of the whole world has been made.  This is why we can pray that by his flesh and by his blood our sinful bodies may be made clean by his body and our souls washed through his most precious blood.  The blood of animal sacrifices gave a superficial cleanness to people who had been defiled by their sin, but Jesus' blood doesn't just make us superficially clean.  It purifies us from the inside out.  And so we can also pray that as his body and blood make us clean, we may evermore dwell in him and he in us.  By his blood we can finally enter the Holy of Holies, we can finally be restored to the presence of our holy Creator. And that gets at the third point made here—the third way in which Jesus' sacrifice is better than the old sacrifices and the new covenant is better than the old.  The sacrifices of the old covenant were shadows pointing to the real sacrifice.  The holy of holies in the temple was a shadow of the real holy of holies, not just the heavenly presence of the Father, but it looked forward to the day when Creation will finally be set to rights, when heaven and earth will finally be joined together and humanity can once again live in God's presence, just as Adam and Eve did before they sinned.  The cleanness and atonement offered by those old sacrifices was a shadow of the atonement and the cleanness offered by Jesus.  Jesus didn't just enter the central room of the temple in Jerusalem to offer the blood of an animal on our behalf.  Jesus, who is both God himself and our perfect human representative, entered into the actual presence of his Father with his own blood shed at the cross.  In doing that he offers a sacrifice that washes us clean from sin to the very core of our being. Somehow the perfect sacrifice of Jesus, Hebrews says, purifies our conscience from dead works so that we can serve the living God.  Brothers and Sisters, through Jesus we are transformed.  Chapter 6 introduced this language of “dead works”, but it refers to our repentance from our old pagan and sinful ways and also, for the Jewish Christians, from the obligations of the old covenant and its temple and sacrificial system.  As good as those things were, as God-given as they were, Jesus now offers something better.  Jesus' sacrifice undoes our sin once and for all.  Through him we have access to the presence of God.  What we lost when Adam sinned we now have back—or at least we have the down payment of it and hope for its fullness in the future.  Jesus washes us clean with his blood and having purified us for the presence of God, he makes us his dwelling place, his tabernacle, as he fills us with the Holy Spirit.  And the Spirit then sanctifies our hearts and our minds, making them holy again so that we can serve the living God just as Adam did in the garden.  Jesus, by his sacrifice, not only leads us into the holy of holies to know God's presence, but in giving us the Spirit he also makes us—you and me and, collectively his Church—the holy of holies: God's presence in us. Verse 15 stresses again that this is all and only through Jesus: For this reason, Jesus is the mediator of the new covenant.  The purpose was that those who are called should receive the promised inheritance of the age to come, since a death has occurred which provides redemption from transgressions committed under the first covenant.   Jesus is the mediator.  There's no other way.  Even the old way—the way of the tabernacle and the sacrifices—that God once gave is now defunct.  It's been fulfilled.  The thing to which it pointed, the thing for which it was preparing the people, the new thing has finally come in Jesus. Imagine a frozen river.  The first time Veronica and I went to Montréal the St. Lawrence and Ottawa Rivers were frozen.  We were driving across the bridge from the west end of the island where the two rivers meet and we saw a Jeep cruising over the ice back towards Montréal.  The ice was that thick.  You can do that in the middle of a cold Québec winter, but when Spring comes the bridge is the only way across.  Try driving your car on thin ice—or try driving on water—and you'll die. In Jesus, Spring has come to the world.  In Jesus a bridge has been provided across the water.  The law was perfectly good in its time, just as the ice was safe to drive on if you wanted to cross the river in January, but the time has passed for that.  If you want to cross the river now the bridge Jesus provides is the only way.  Hebrews was written to people who feared persecution for following Jesus.  They were used to driving on the ice and despite the fact that it was now melting and thin, they were still tempted to keep driving on it.  Last week in our Epistle from Galatians we read about the Judaisers.  They were insisting that to follow Jesus the Gentiles had to be circumcised, follow the right dietary rules, and observe the Sabbath.  They still said they were following Jesus, but it doesn't work that way.  That's like telling everyone how perfectly good the bridge is while trying to drive your car across the thawing river.  The ice is melting.  The time for those old ways has passed.  Jesus offers something better and his way is now the only way. Brothers and Sisters, do our lives demonstrate faith in Jesus as our sole mediator?  While you and I may not be tempted to go back to the law or the temple or the old covenant sacrifices, we have our own pasts to which we often hold more tightly than we may realise.  We profess faith in Jesus, but we still haven't repented of all of our old loyalties, all of our old ways of doing things, all of our old sources of security.  We profess Jesus, but we still find satisfaction in sin and in self.  We say we trust Jesus, but we still look for security in work and in money.  We say we trust Jesus, but we often evaluate ourselves not based on what he has done for us, but on what we think we've done for him.  Friends, it's like giving people directions to the bridge, while we ourselves are sitting in our cars with the engine running, nosing our wheels into the water and thinking we'll somehow get across the river.  Lent is a time for us to look around, to take stock, and to evaluate our situation.  Easter is only two weeks away.  It's a reminder that in Jesus Spring has arrived.  The river isn't frozen anymore.  We need to let go of the old ways of life and follow Jesus across the bridge. Yes, to follow Jesus means challenge and sacrifice, but Jesus is better in every way.  He and he alone has redeemed up from death to serve the living God. Let us pray: Gracious Father, we thank you this morning for the sacrifice you have made in the death of your Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ.  In Jesus the price of our sin has been paid once and for all.  By his blood we are washed clean through and through.  Strengthen our faith, Father, that we might trust fully in Jesus as our only mediator.  Open our eyes to the areas of life in which we've failed to repent, and give us the faith to entrust those things to you.  We ask this through him, our Saviour and Lord.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent Galatians 4:21-31 by the Rev'd Dr. Matthew Colvin Our epistle lesson this morning comes from Galatians 4. I know that Pastor Bill preached on it just recently, but I would like to look at it too, from a different angle. It is one of the most controversial chapters in the NT, both for its view of Judaism and for its hermeneutical maneuvers. Paul is concerned for Christians in Galatia. The Judaizers were taunting Gentile Christians with the manifest visible superiority of Judaism: its splendid temple; its priesthood; its Torah; all the society's esteem and honor. And against this, what did Christians have to show? They were hiding for fear of the Jews; they were subjected to persecution and arrest; they had been kicked out of the synagogue and subjected to the ban, excommunication. Above all, there was the disgrace of worshipping a criminal who had been killed by the most shameful sort of execution, crucifixion by the Romans. All this was exploited by Paul's enemies in Galatia, the Judaizers or the circumcision party. Their strategy was to exalt themselves by trying to get the Gentiles to envy them - “They zealously court you, but for no good; yes, they want to exclude you, that you may be zealous for them.” – The verb zeloō means both to be zealous and to be jealous. Paul's enemies are behaving like spiteful middle school girls — not like the righteous women of this church, but like the ones I knew when I was in school — trying to exclude a hated rival by social shunning, in order to magnify their own status. To stop them and shut them down, Paul needs to do more than just answer their case logically. He also needs to undermine their ethos; he needs to subvert the system of value that makes their case so plausible at first glance. They are counting on Paul's readers sharing their value system. Paul wants to make sure his readers do not share it. It is a task that he undertakes in many of his letters. In Romans he addresses the Jews as those who “rest on the law, and make your boast in God, and know His will, and approve the things that are excellent, being instructed out of the law, and are confident that you yourself are a guide to the blind, a light to those who are in darkness, an instructor of the foolish, a teacher of babes, having the form of knowledge and truth in the law.” He is setting forth the Jewish system of value, the grounds of their boasting. And it was a very good grounds for boasting. The longest book in the Bible, Psalm 119, is one continuing paean of praise to the Law, the Torah. It is full of statements like, “I love thy commandments above gold and precious stones” and “The law of thy mouth is dearer unto me than thousands of gold and silver.” But Paul rips this point of boasting away by asking, “Yes, the Law is wonderful — but do you actually obey it?” In Philippians 3, Paul gathers together all the things that he could have been proud of as a Jew: “If anyone else thinks he may have confidence in the flesh, I more so: circumcised the eighth day, of the stock of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of the Hebrews; concerning the law, a Pharisee; concerning zeal, persecuting the church; concerning the righteousness which is in the law, blameless. But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ. Yet indeed I also count all things loss for the excellence of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which is from God by faith;” That stuff that the Jews think is so valuable? Their circumcision, their membership in one of the two faithful tribes (Benjamin and Judah)? Their zeal, their lawkeeping? It's all worthless. In fact, it's so worthless that I threw it all away. I have something of real value that none of that stuff can give you. In the book of Hebrews, Paul or someone from his circles who thought an awful lot like him has the difficult task of undermining Jewish boasting about the Temple, the priesthood, and the sacrifices — a task that might seem impossible, since these things were instituted by God and everybody knew it. The temple was imposing, gleaming with gold. Paul calls it a “tent”, the sort of makeshift, flimsy structure that you go camping in, and you lie down in it, and there's nothing but a thin layer of cloth between you and the outside, and if it's too windy, the thing is in danger of collapsing; and anyway, it's that way because you're going to take it down and pack it up anyway. That's what he thinks of your fancy temple. Besides, the real temple is in heaven. Your tent is made by human hands; the only Temple worthy of the name is made by God. The priests' ministry was observable; they were dressed in robes; everyone could see their work, and that they had been instituted by God. Paul says, “They keep on dying, which is proof that their work isn't much good. And they have to offer sacrifices for their own sins, not just the people's.” The sacrifices were there for all to see: they had been commanded by God himself. The blood of the sacrifices flowed continually at the temple, on a daily basis. Paul says, “See how they have to do it over and over again? That's because it doesn't really work. They need Jesus. That's the only sacrifice that works, and that's why Jesus only needed to be sacrificed once.” Yes, Paul is a genius at overthrowing his opponents' strongest arguments. He loves to take their most powerful evidence and use it against them. He is a master of rhetorical jujitsu, throwing his opponents to the mat by using the momentum and force of their own attacks. He is like Elijah in the contest with the prophets of Baal, one man against 450, “And he put the wood in order, cut the bull in pieces, and laid it on the wood, and said, “Fill four waterpots with water, and pour it on the burnt sacrifice and on the wood.” Then he said, “Do it a second time,” and they did it a second time; and he said, “Do it a third time,” and they did it a third time. So the water ran all around the altar; and he also filled the trench with water.” In Galatians 4, it is a terribly difficult rhetorical task that Paul faces: his opponents appear to have the Torah, the OT, on their side. It does, after all, command circumcision; it does prohibit the eating of unclean foods; it does tell the stories of Ishmael, Moab, and Ben-Ammi, the ancestors of the rival nations surrounding Israel, all of whom are deprecated as the offspring of incest, slave marriage, or concubinage. These stories account for the origins of the Gentiles around Israel. Israel itself, however, was descended from Isaac, the legitimate son and heir of Abraham. These stories underscore the chosenness of Israel, and the fact that these other nations were not chosen. “Jacob have I loved, and Esau have I hated” was not just a statement about two sons. It was a statement about two nations: the Edomites and Israel. It says that Israel is the covenant people that God loves, and Edom is not. So it is Paul's opponents, not Paul, who have the easier case to make here: Jewish people are (most of them) descended from Jacob (Israel) and Gentiles are not. And they might have made this case most plainly from the story of Isaac, Abraham's son miraculously conceived by the power of God in Abraham's old age. This is strong rhetorical ground for the circumcision advocates in Galatia. Circumcision is commanded in the Torah for God's people. It is breathtakingly audacious for Paul to argue that a proper understanding of the Torah will lead you to the conclusion that circumcision doesn't matter. Paul calls the Torah a yoke of bondage. I'm not sure we appreciate how bold a move this is. The exodus was Israel's independence day. It's when they came out of slavery in Egypt and became a free nation. Paul says that the circumcizers advocating Torah-obedience in Galatia are like those who wanted to go back to Egypt. It would be like an American saying that the Declaration of Independence is the document in American history that made everyone slaves. But that is what Paul says about the Torah, given on Mount Sinai: that covenant has led to the present state of affairs: Jerusalem that now is, and is in bondage with her children. Now, we know from elsewhere in Paul's letters, especially Romans, that he considered the Law a good gift of God and the reason why the Law was now leading to slavery was because Israel was using it wrongly, not because the Law was bad. The slavery results from Israel's sinfulness, not something wrong with the Law. But here, he doesn't go into that, because he is focused not on the Law as it was given by God, but on the Law as it was used rhetorically by his opponents. You have heard the expression, “He is wrapping himself in the flag”? That is what the Judaizers in Galatia are doing with the Torah: using it as a uniform to distinguish true, Jewish Christians from second-rate, Gentile Christians. And Paul says: You think that you look cool with your bling; but it's really chains to keep you enslaved. Above all, Paul takes the bull by the horns and uses an audacious maneuver to deal with the Judaizers' most powerful weapon: the taunt of illegitimacy. That is the point of the Ishmael story as used by Jews: the Ishmaelites, the Arabs, are illegitimate offspring of Abraham, just as the Moabites and Ammonites were stigmatized as the offspring of Lot's daughters after the destruction of Sodom. Only Jews were the children of Isaac; they had been called into existence by the power of YHWH himself. They were not the product of an ill-conceived attempt at surrogate pregnancy, and with a slave wife. Be aware that the Judaizers have centuries and centuries of social and legal precedent for their view. That line that Paul quotes from Sarah — “Cast out the bondwoman and her son, for the son of the bondwoman shall not be heir with the son of the freewoman” — that was a line that Paul's opponents loved to quote. When Sarah said it to Abraham, she wasn't just being mean. The lawcodes of Ur-Nammu and Lipit-Ishtar, from around the same time as Abraham, contained rules about exactly this sort of situation, and they are formulated with exactly the same sort of phrasing: “If a man has a wife a free woman who has born children to him, and he takes a slave wife and she also bears children to him, the children of the slave wife shall not share in the inheritance with the children of the free wife.” Sarah is saying, “Husband, you know the law from when we lived in Ur. This is what we have to do.” And the heretics in Galatia were taking up this two-thousand year tradition of legal and social stigma against children of slavery, and applying it to Gentile Christians. It's a powerful tool of shaming and social marginalization, and it is based on a very foundational text of the covenant: the story of the birth of Isaac. Both the Judaizers and their Galatian Gentile victims believed this text was the word of God. Both believed that the Jews were descendants of Isaac. Paul knows all this. He has chosen to fight them on their strongest ground; he gives them home field advantage. He pours water so that it fills up the trench. And then he incinerates their whole argument like Elijah. The stigma of illegitimacy? He turns it back on the Judaizers. They are the bastards now, the “children of the flesh”; they are “in bondage” with their slave-mother. The Gentile Galatian Christians? They are “children of the promise.” And just as it was back then, the child of the slave woman is persecuting the child of the promise. The two sons are marked not by their circumcised or uncircumcised status but by the slave/free polarity that distinguishes their mothers. Paul has to reach a little bit here. The LXX Greek translation that Paul used here doesn't actually say, “persecuting”. What the LXX says is that Sarah “saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian who had been born to Abraham playing with her son Isaac (paizonta meta Isaac tou huiou autes).” That's the most straightforward way to take it. But the word “playing” can also mean “mocking”. And that's probably how Paul took it. And then he magnifies it into the sibling rivalry from hell by glossing “mocking” as “persecuting”. Where did he get this from? It is transferred from the situation between the Judaizers and the Gentile Christians in Galatia. By casting the rivalry as a conflict between the flesh and the promise, Paul undercuts the Judaizers' use of the Torah. That is why he says, “These are two covenants” — the boldest piece of clever interpretation in the Bible. It is all part of his rhetorical strategy concerning the Torah that he has laid in the previous chapter, Galatians 3. The two covenants are NOT the Old and the New. They are the Torah covenant and the covenant with Abraham (which turns out to find its fulfillment in Christ). And the covenant with Abraham is more original, more foundational, more important, more primary. The law was added 430 years later. The Torah was a stop-gap measure to keep things under control until the fulfillment of the covenant with Abraham. And for Paul, Gentile Christians are that fulfillment: “in you, all the nations — the ethnê — shall be blessed.” This aligns the Gentile Christians with the whole purpose of the Covenant with Abraham, and means that Paul can cast them as the true children of the promise. They are citizens of the only Jerusalem that counts, the “Jerusalem above”. And by citing the line of Sarah, “cast out the bondwoman and her son, for the son of the bondwoman shall not be heir with the son of the free woman”, Paul makes clear what the stakes are here: the Judaizers and those who trust in the Torah to be their badge of membership in the covenant are not merely mistaken. They are Ishmaels and they will not inherit. They will be cast out. The Gentile Christians — and faithful Jewish Christians who did not pressure them to get circumcized — will be counted as true members of the covenant with Abraham, and the Judaizing circumcision-pushers will not. Who are the bastards now? Paul revels in what God has done. It is perfectly in accordance with his way of working: "He catches the wise in their own craftiness, and the counsel of the cunning is brought to a quick end.” (Job 5). The Judaizers have fallen into the pit that they have dug: their taunts of illegitimacy rebound on their own heads; the glory of the title of “true children of Abraham” is wrapped around the Gentile believers whom they had stigmatized. Paul's jujitsu victory is complete and total, because it is the victory of Christ, who led captivity captive and triumphed by being crucified. In the end, Paul's fierce warfare over the Galatians has to do with vindicating the honor of Christ, with proving that He has really accomplished all that Paul says he has; with showing that the covenant with Abraham is truly fulfilled in Jesus, because he is the yes and amen. To go back to the Torah is to turn the clock back and engage in historical reenactment; to live a life of live-action-role-playing instead of reality. It is a costly and foolish attempt to gain privilege and honor by denying the completeness and finality of Jesus' work, and attempting to supplement it with another identity in terms of the Torah. The true Exodus is via Christ, not via the Torah. That is part of the meaning of our gospel lesson this morning from John 6. Here the true bread from heaven, Jesus, works a miraculous feeding like the manna of old. But he does it not in order to cause the crowd to envy his disciples; he has no desire for his followers to act like the Judaizers, zealous courting others to provoke them envy. No, his disciples are to be the means by which the bread of life is given to the multitudes — and the two small fish, symbol of Gentiles and of fishing for men, of the fulfillment of Jeremiah 16:16: “Behold, I am sending for many fishers, declares the Lord, and they shall catch them.” In the end, the nations are to be blessed through the disobedience of Israel. Our time is short, so I will not try to prove this exhaustively, but I want you to see the pattern: Joseph's brothers disobey and sell him into slavery, so that he is carried off to a Gentile land, Egypt, and becomes assimilated to Egyptian ways. But God works it all out so that Joseph's imprisonment in an Egyptian prison works out for the salvation of Joseph's brothers and all Egypt, “to save many alive.” When Jesus touches dead bodies, a woman with a 12 year flow of bleeding that made her unclean, or a leper, what happens? The usual laws of uncleanness work backward: rather than becoming unclean, Jesus makes these people clean. That is the way God has designed the exile of Israel to work: rather than the exiled members of Israel becoming lost and destroyed, they have mingled with the nations and thereby brought it about that in order to keep His promises to Israel, God will save the Gentiles as well. As a result, “In Abraham's seed, all the nations shall be blessed.” Isn't it funny how Satan's schemes always backfire? He is truly the Wile E. Coyote of the Bible. He will have his church be Israel for the sake of the world; thus we are to be true heirs of Abraham, fulfilling the purpose for which He was called. Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent by the Rev'd Dr. Matthew Colvin In Dante's Inferno, the Italian poet's lurid imagination has created a special circle of hell as a punishment for thieves: because they are sinners who did not distinguish between what was their own and what belonged to someone else, they are punished (in Dante's imagination) by a blurring of the lines distinguishing their own bodies and nature from those of something else: monstrous lizards chase them down as they run in terror, and when they catch up with them, they jump onto them, clasp them with their four legs, and fuse their lizard bodies together with their human bodies, producing a horrific human-lizard hybrid. It is one of the creepiest and most disgusting punishments in the Inferno, and when I read it, my skin crawls. A similar revulsion is evoked by parasites. My fellow American missionaries in the Philippines used to joke, whenever they came back to the United States and got a stomachache, that it was caused by their Philippine parasites becoming unhappy with American food. My wife has seen a pregnant woman cough up a five inch worm, still twitching. I could multiply examples, but you get the point: parasites are uniquely disgusting because they violate our bodies and live inside us against our will. Demon-possession is like this, except that the violation is even more severe: a malevolent and powerful spiritual entity dwelling within a human being, controlling his speech and actions, his mind and body, against his will. This sort of parasitism is subtly implied in an oddity of the language in Luke 11 :14: “And he was casting out a demon, and it was mute.” Who was mute? The gender of “it” is neutered, which matches the word for demon, daimonion. Yet the very next sentence says, “So it was, when the demon had gone out, that the mute spoke.” Do you see how the properties of the demon are the properties of the man it possesses? This should make your skin crawl. It's very evil. The sorts of frightful scenes of violence depicted in the movie The Exorcist are not actually far fetched in comparison with the actions of demon-possessed persons in the Bible: cutting themselves, breaking chains, attacking people and “prevailing against them so that they flee naked and wounded”, speaking with other voices, throwing the possessed person into fire or water. No wonder the Jews wanted to get rid of demons. One of the marks of a great rabbi was that his teachings were authenticated by miracles, including the exorcism of demons. This was a popular piece of Jewish wonder-working. Acts chapter 19 speaks of “vagabond Jewish exorcists”. The historian Josephus tells how such people operated: “I have seen a certain man of my own country, whose name was Eleazar, releasing people that were demoniacal in the presence of Vespasian, and his sons, and his captains, and the whole multitude of his soldiers. The manner of the cure was this: He put a ring that had a Foot of one of those sorts mentioned by Solomon to the nostrils of the demoniac, after which he drew out the demon through his nostrils; and when the man fell down immediately, he abjured him to return into him no more, making still mention of Solomon, and reciting the incantations which he composed. And when Eleazar would persuade and demonstrate to the spectators that he had such a power, he set a little way off a cup or basin full of water, and commanded the demon, as he went out of the man, to overturn it, and thereby to let the spectators know that he had left the man.” – Flavius Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews. By contrast with this, Jesus simply commands the unclean spirits, and they come out. There is no struggle; when demons see that Jesus has arrived, rhey normally beg for mercy before he even says anything. And it is interesting to hear the language they use. In Luke 4, “Now in the synagogue there was a man who had a spirit of an unclean demon. And he cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Let us alone! What have we to do with You, Jesus of Nazareth? Did You come to destroy us? I know who You are— the Holy One of God!”” (Luke 4:33-34) and again, in Matthew 8: “And suddenly they cried out, saying, “What have we to do with You, Jesus, You Son of God? Have You come here to torment us before the time?”” (Matthew 8:29) Before the time. These demons know that they are doomed (so their wickedness is also deliberate sin against knowledge), and what's more, they know there is a scheduled day in history when they are to be destroyed. What's surprising to them is to discover that that day has suddenly come forward and is upon them already in the person of Jesus. It is very much like the exchange between Martha of Bethany and Jesus when he comes to raise Lazarus in John 11:23: “Your brother will rise again.” “Martha said to Him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.” The expected future resurrection — that event “at the last day” — turns out to have a human face, and he is here now, in 33 AD. So with the demons: they think that they can continue to possess people until the resurrection and judgment, unaware that in the person of Jesus, the judgment is upon them now. 33 AD. Anno Domini. Jesus, from the moment of his baptism in the Jordan river, began to announce that He was himself the fulfillment of the OT's prophecies of the coming kingdom of God. His healings and driving out demons; his parables and commandments; His baptism and transfiguration — everything spoke of His office as the Messiah, “a savior, who is Christ the Lord”. When John's disciples ask Jesus, “Are you the coming one, or do we wait for another?”, He had no need to plead his own cause and use persuasive arguments to convince them of His messiahship. His answer is “Go and tell John the things that you see and hear: “The blind see and the lame walk; the lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear; the dead are raised up and the poor have the gospel preached to them.” That is to say, His actions already matched the job description that Israel knew from the prophets, especially Isaiah. His vanquishing of demons was a sign with the same meaning as the others: behold, your King. And yet we are told by the fourth gospel that Jesus “came unto His own, and His own did not receive Him.” So we are confronted with the question: Why did they refuse to believe in him? 15 But some of them said, “He casts out demons by Beelzebub, the ruler of the demons.” This is why the ascribing of Jesus' miracles to the devil is unforgiveable — not that it is especially worse in seriousness than, say, blaspheming against the Father, but that it removes the possibility of salvation. If you mistake the fireman for a bad guy, you're not going to let him remove you from a burning house. 16 Others, testing Him, sought from Him a sign from heaven. These people are “testing him” – the same verb used of Satan's temptation of Jesus in the wilderness, and indeed, their request for a “sign from heaven” is a renewal of Satan's suggestions that Jesus should perform a gratuitous miracle to force people to believe in Him. Let's remember that He has just cast out a demon. So they are asking for another miracle to authenticate the first miracle. What end will there be of such doubt? If miracles could compel faith, these people would have believed already. Jesus' reply has three parts. His first response is to point out how illogical it is to imagine that Satan, whose goal is to oppress human beings and subject them to demonic power, would sabotage his own work by freeing anyone from demonic power. His second argument is even more pointed, and to understand its full force we must recognize the echo of the OT and the narrative situation that echo calls up. He asks them, “If I cast out demons by Beelzebub, by whom do your sons cast them out? Therefore they will be your judges. But if I cast out demons with the finger of God (ἐν δακτύλῳ θεοῦ), surely the kingdom of God has come upon you.” This is a very direct reference to a prominent Old Testament passage, Exodus 8:17-19. It is near the beginning of the ten plagues. Already Moses has inflicted two plagues on Egypt: he has turned the water to blood, and he has brought forth frogs on the land. Amusingly enough, Pharaoh's magicians did so with their enchantments — with the result that there was even more water turned to blood, and even more slimy frogs hopping around Egypt. Pharaoh's administration kept the Israelites in bondage not only by physical whips and brutal oppression, but also by projecting a spurious aura of competence and knowledge, so that they have a wise ability to control events. We see this in our own day, when the Federal Government has so thoroughly persuaded everyone that it can save us, that when a hurricane strikes a coastal city, there are people who blame the Federal disaster relief agencies and the government for not doing more; when evil people shoot schoolchildren, the government must “do something about it”; and our diets must be dictated to us with a food pyramid based on scientific research; synthetic pharmaceuticals must be prescribed for every ailment according to the wisdom of scientists. These wonder-workers are able to put a man on tbe moon; how, then, can we doubt their wisdom. Do not even imagine that there is another way, or another truth. So it is in Egypt bedore the Exodus. As in our day, so in Egypt there was a “ fascination with wisdom, which, in addition to imitating the great regimes, represented an effort to rationalize reality, that is, to package it in manageable portions”. In our day, this wisdom is technological, statistical, scientific. In ancient Egypt it was priestly and magical. And so, even though it means more water turned to blood, and more frogs on the land, Pharaoh's magicians must by all means show that they can replicate the miracles of Moses. The wizard's duel is crucial to maintaining the supremacy of Pharaoh's regime. He has the best magicians. Anything Moses can do, they can do too. But then, something happens: Aaron stretched out his hand with his rod and struck the dust of the earth, and it became lice on man and beast…Now the magicians so worked with their enchantments to bring forth lice, but they could not. So there were lice on man and beast. Then the magicians said to Pharaoh, “This is the finger of God.” As one writer (W. Brueggemann) comments: “The Egyptian empire could not! The gods of Egypt could not! The scientists of the regime could not! The imperial religion was dead! The politics of oppression had failed! That is the ultimate criticism, that the assured and alleged power of the dominant culture is now shown to be fraudulent. Criticism is not carping and denouncing. It is asserting that false claims to authority and power cannot keep their promises, which they could not in the face of the free God, [the God of Moses]. It is only a matter of time until they are dead on the seashore.” Jesus' words, “The finger of God” call up in his listeners' minds the contest between Moses and the magicians of Pharaoh. Jesus' accusers are failing to recognize that He is in the position of Moses and Aaron. They and their “sons” — that is, their disciples — are in the place of the magicians of Pharaoh. By whom do they cast out demons? Oh, that's right, they don't. They cannot do what Jesus has done, so they are discredited as judges — and this in the Biblical sense of the word (think Samson, Deborah, Barak). They cannot save. By connecting his actions to Moses' miracles in the Exodus, Jesus is implying that He is the agent of a new Exodus; that the time of salvation has come. Those who oppose that salvation and ascribe His work to the devil are in the position of Pharaoh and Pharaoh's magicians: not only are they powerless to do what He does, but they are actually opposing God's salvation. Jesus' deliverance of the mute, demon-possessed man is actually an instance of that basic conflict, and a preliminary step to the ultimate conquest and final defeat of Satan. He compares himself to a violent house-robber who has defeated the strong man guarding the house; and he contrasts that image with the ineffectual efforts of others before him. A friend of mine once had bats and squirrels living in his attic. By careful use of humane traps, he eventually got rid of them, and raccoons moved in. Once that happened, he decided the time for gentleness was past, and he got his .22 and a dog. Just like that, Jesus suggests that the house of Israel has been cleansed of its idolatry, but it is now suffering something far worse: nowhere in the OT do we hear of anyone possessed by a demon. But demons are seemingly lurking everywhere in the gospels. Past cleansings of Israel have been ineffective, like a situation where seven worse demons move into a man who used to have one. Jesus' intention — for those whom he drove demons out of; for his people Israel; and ultimately for the world, is a permanent and effectual pest-removal. But notice the scenario that Jesus describes: When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own palace, his goods are in peace. 22 But when a stronger than he comes upon him and overcomes him, he takes from him all his armor in which he trusted, and divides his spoils. 23 He who is not with Me is against Me, and he who does not gather with Me scatters. This is the prelude to a thorough plundering of all of Satan's dominion over this fallen world. Remember when Satan tempted Jesus? He took him up on a mountain and offered him all the kingdoms of the world if he would bow down and worship him. It is a real estate transaction: that is the significance of taking Jesus up on a mountain and showing him all the kingdoms. God does a similar thing with Abraham, telling him to look at the land of Canaan, “for all the land which you see I give to you and your descendants forever.” (Genesis 13:15) Satan was offering to trade Jesus the kingdoms of the world. Jesus refused, because he does not make bargains with Satan. His intention is to defeat him, and disarm him, and take away his dominion. And the Bible shows us how that happened: “Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, having the key to the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand. He laid hold of the dragon, that serpent of old, who is the Devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years; and he cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal on him, so that he should deceive the nations no more till the thousand years were finished. But after these things he must be released for a little while.” (Revelation 20:1-3) The Gentiles are no longer under the domination of demons. No one is worshipping Thor or Zeus or Baal anymore. And when Satan is released one last time, it is only so that he can be thrown into the lake of fire after he shows how unrepentant he is. So, with the house cleansed, what happens now? God has got rid of the demons, and He intends to dwell in this house Himself. Our gospel lesson closes with Jesus' response to a woman in the crowd who calls his mother blessed: “Blessed is the womb that bore You and the breasts which nursed you!” Mary is certainly blessed. But that blessedness was not merely a matter of giving birth to Jesus. Remember that Mary responded to the angel, “Behold the maidservant of the Lord! Let it be to me according to your word.” Mary, as a symbol of faithful Israel, submits herself to God and to His purposes. The result is that God honors her obedience by coming to dwell within her. So too with us. “Blessed are those who hear the word of God and obey it,” for God dwells with them. Now that raises one last issue. I have a number of different quotations I'm going to share with you concerning the relationship of obedience and bodily resurrection and our individuality. Some of you have read CS Lewis' Screwtape Letters? They are a series of fictitious letters in which Lewis pretends that one demon, a senior demon who has a lot of experience, is writing to a junior demon all kinds advice about how to tempt a man and lead him to Hell. C.S. Lewis said this was the most difficult of all his works to write. There was something oppressive and depressing about channeling an evil voice and writing in this style for so many pages. Well, here's what Uncle Screw tape advises his junior devil Wormword about human beings:what God wants to do with human beings. He says, “But the obedience which the Enemy demands of men is quite a different thing. One must face the fact that all the talk about His love for men, and His service being perfect freedom, is not (as one would gladly believe) mere propaganda, but an appalling truth. He really does want to fill the universe with a lot of loathsome little replicas of Himself--creatures, whose life, on its miniature scale, will be qualitatively like His own, not because He has absorbed them but because their wills freely conform to His. We want cattle who can finally become food; He wants servants who can finally become sons. We want to suck in, He wants to give out. We are empty and would be filled; He is full and flows over. Our war aim is a world in which Our Father Below has drawn all other beings into himself: the Enemy wants a world full of beings united to Him but still distinct.” Still distinct! Remember what was so creepy about that demon possessed man in our gospel reading this morning was that he didn't seem to be himself. And the demon speaks out of him. The demon is mute, and he is mute. He's lost his distinctiveness. It's like that Dante lizard people, fused with the demon. The Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius was a Stoic philosopher, not a Christian. In fact, he was a persecutor of Christians, even though he has a reputation as a wise emperor. We happen to have his private journal Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, everything he was thinking about his spiritual life. Even though he's the wealthiest man in the world, the most powerful man in the world, the emperor of Rome, we can tell from reading what he writes in his meditations. He was terrified of dying. He was not looking forward to it, and he was desperate for any philosophical help that could give him some comfort, some assurance in the face of this terrifying fact of death that seemed inevitable. His solution to the problem was to cling to the hope that his rational soul, his rationality, his sense of reason, was divine. The body, it's going to rot; it's going to disappear. It's going to become collrupt, but the soul, the rational soul, when you die, it's going to be caught up into the divine fire and become one with God. In Stoicism, they thought that the sun is God, the divine fire that everything else that's rational in the universe is a little bit of the divine fire. It's in your soul. And so when your body dies, whoosh! — Up your soul goes and joins God. If I were to take two flames and join them together, there'd be one flame. That's the way they think about it. And so Marcus Aurelius says,  “That's not the person your mother gave birth to. And that divine fire is not part of your body that your mother gest stated and gave birth to. Then he asked his question, the mask slips for a minute and he says, “But what if you're inextricably linked to it through your sense of individuality” — meaning, what if you're really tied to your body by being an individual human being? What if that's what makes you an individual human being is that you have a body that is the center of your consciousness and your agency and you look out of your eyes from your body and you interact with other people and shake hands with them and embrace them and speak to them face to face and see them, and they see you because you have a body and they have a body. And that's what it means for you to be an individual. So if that's what it means for you to be you, is that you have a body, then it's not much comfort to think that your soul is going to be absorbed into the bigger fire of God. Then where are you? There's God, but where are you? So he says, “What if you're inextricably linked to the body through your sense of individuality?” And he he can't answer the question, so he immediately says, “That's not what we're talking about here.” “I don't want to think about that.” It's so scary. It really would feel like standing on the edge of a deep abyss. if when you die, you lose your individuality and you're not you more. Because you'll have body anymore, and you've been absorbed into God. That's not that different from what Screwtape was talking about: the demons would like to absorb you. Marcus Aurelius shies away from the full force of his own pantheism and from the horrible consequences that it has for individuality. Two more quotations. In Job chapter 19, we have those famous words of Job about resurrection. He says, “I know that my Redeemer lives and that the last he will stand upon the earth, and after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God, whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold him. I, and not another! My heart faints within me.” Job says he's going to see God. Job in his individuality and his identity is going to see God because he's going to have a body and eyeballs that look at him. One last business. On the day of Pentecost, we have some fire, but it isn't individual souls getting absorbed into God. Rather it's tongues of fire coming down from God and resting on individuals who are filled with God's Spirit, and when they are filled, do they lose their individuality? No, they start speaking, respectively, all their different languages that their hearers know from where they grew up. So when God fills us with His spirit, he doesn't rob us of our identity. He doesn't absorb us into himself, but he fills us with himself and makes us more who we are, and that is why the resurrection of the body that we confess in our creed is a great comfort because it assures us that we, each of you individually, who you are when you are raised from the dead, you “and not another” will see God and be in relationship with him. Let's pray. Heavenly Father we thank you that you've given us victory over Satan and his demons, that you have assured us that you have called us to yourself. You have given us your spirit and you desire to dwell within us and make us into a holy temple fit for your dwelling. Help us by faith to cling to Christ in whose service is perfect freedom. We pray in his name. Amen.

A Sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent St. Matthew 15:21-28 & 1 Thessalonians 4:1-8 by William Klock In today's Gospel St. Matthew tells us that Jesus and his disciples left Jewish Galilee for the district of Tyre and Sidon.  While there were plenty of Jews living in the district of Tyre and Sidon, this was Canaanite country—pagan country—outside the bounds of Israel.  I expect they kept themselves to the countryside and away from the cities crowded with unclean gentiles.  That, and Mark's telling of this story suggests Jesus was taking a little bit of a holiday from the crowds that followed him everywhere in Galilee.  So Jesus and the disciples found a quiet place to stay, but there's no peace and quiet for Jesus.  Last week the devil found him on his forty-day retreat in the wilderness.  Now a local Canaanite woman hears he's in the neighbourhood and tracks him down to the place where they were staying.  As Matthew remembers it, he writes that: A Canaanite woman from those parts came out and shouted, “Have pity on me, Lord, son of David!  My daughter is in a bad way…she's demon-possessed!”   Remembering what happened that day and how Jesus and how he and the other disciples responded to her, Matthew tells us that Jesus said nothing at all to her.  And for their part, the disciples prodded Jesus saying, Send her away!  She's shouting after us.   These are the same disciples that shooed away the little children when they approached Jesus, so their reaction doesn't seem very surprising or out of character.  After all, they were here to get away from all the people and here's this pagan, gentile woman shouting at them.  It probably does seem a little odd, however, that Jesus would ignore the woman.  But writing decades later about what happened that day, if we listen closely, we do get a sense of how the gospel had softened Matthew's heart.  Back then she was just an annoying gentile disturbing their day.  But looking back, Matthew describes her plight with compassion.  Her daughter was in a bad way, he says.  That's how he usually describes the hurting people who came to Jesus for mercy.  Her daughter, the woman cried out, was demon-possessed.  A terrible thing.  And yet the key to the story is in Matthew's detail that she was a Canaanite. That's the problem.  Think about how we often struggle to feel compassion for people who put themselves in bad situations or do dumb and irresponsible things and then suffer the consequence.  Play with fireworks and you might blow your fingers off.  Do drugs and you'll end up a junkie strung out on the street.  Sleep around and you'll end up with an STD.  Lie with the dogs and you'll get up with fleas.  We have various ways of describing this.  “Play stupid games; win stupid prizes” comes to mind.  The Bible has a saying too: You reap what you sow.  Most Jews would look at this Canaanite woman with a demon-possessed daughter with that kind of attitude.  If you worship false gods—remember that Paul says those false gods are just demons in disguise—if you worship false gods, it's your own fault if you or your children end up possessed by demons.  You reap what you sow. One of the patron gods of Sidon was Eshmun, a Phoenician god of healing.  He had a great temple in the city.  I expect that this woman had taken her daughter there many times to pray to the idol there and to offer it sacrifices in the hope that it would heal her daughter.  Little did she know that her worship of this demonic false god was just the sort of thing that brought demonic possession on her daughter.  No wonder she didn't get better.  But now she's heard about Jesus.  Even people in her pagan country were talking about him.  She heard her Jewish neighbours tell how he had delivered people from demons.  She also heard them say that Jesus was the Messiah, the son of David, that somehow, through him or in him or something like that, the God of Israel had come to visit and deliver his people.  She'd never prayed to the God of Israel before.  That would be dumb.  She was a Canaanite.  She wasn't his problem.  She had her own gods.  Plus, from her perspective, the God of Israel couldn't be any better than her gods.  His people hadn't heard him speak for hundreds of years.  And he allowed them to be oppressed by the Romans.  He didn't sound very powerful—or even very present.  Gentiles like her mocked the faith that the Jews put in him.  “Where's your God?” they jeered.  But as she listened to the stories about Jesus, it sounded like the God of Israel was finally waking up.  Through this “son of David”, through this “Messiah”, the promises he had made centuries before were starting to come true.  If her gods wouldn't help her, maybe she should go and find this Jesus.  Yahweh wasn't her god or even the god of her people, but maybe in Jesus he would show her mercy.  And so she went looking for Jesus and when she found him, there he was talking with his friends.  She decided it was best to be respectful.  Jews—especially rabbis—avoided contact with gentiles.  They thought people like her were unclean.  Plus she was a woman and it wasn't appropriate for a woman to be too forward with a man who wasn't family.  And so she called out from a distance.  Again, Matthew writes: Have pity on me, Lord, son of David!   And to her dismay—although I doubt she was surprised—Jesus ignored her.  But that wasn't going to stop her.  Maybe if she could annoy him enough, he'd just giver her what she wanted.  That's more or less how the pagans thought it worked with the gods.  Think of our Ash Wednesday gospel and Jesus' warning about heaping up words with long prayers.  That's what the gentiles do, he warns.  So she cries out some more at which point the disciples, who had been ignoring her so far, turn to Jesus and plead with him: Send her away!  She's shouting after us.  And finally Jesus responds—but to them, not to her.  Matthew says that Jesus answered, I was only sent to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.   Ouch.  Where's all that “For God so loved the world that he sent his only-begotten son” stuff that Jesus says in John's Gospel?  Well, we'll come back to that.  But first, now that Jesus has acknowledged her presence if not actually spoken directly to her, the woman feels comfortable drawing nearer and speaking to Jesus.  Matthew says that she came and threw herself down at his feet.  “Lord, she said, “please help me.”  And Jesus answered, “It isn't right to take the children's bread and throw it to the dogs.”   Wait.  Did Jesus just call her a dog?  But Jesus is just making a point.  He's reiterating what was the normal, common view that Jews had of gentiles.  They were “dogs”.  There were two types of people in the world: Jews.  And everyone else who wished they were a Jew.  At least that's sort of how the Jews saw things.  The Jews were God's people: chosen, called, especially loved.  They were the people who lived with the living God in their midst.  Or, at any rate, they used to be…and they were sure they would be once again.  That was the difference.  The gentiles, they were unchosen, unclean, and unloved.  They worshipped idols and they did evil things.  They were dogs.  And when they talked about dogs, the weren't talking about cute little lap dogs or friendly pets.  They were talking about feral dogs that roamed the streets at night eating garbage.  That's how Jews saw gentiles.  In contrast, they we're the Lord's beloved children. And the woman understands all of this.  She already knew she had no right to be there.  She had no claim on the God of Israel or his Messiah.  I know, Lord, she says to Jesus, but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master's table.   I expect Jesus finally smiled when he heard that.  He wasn't really a jerk.  He said and did all of this for a reason.  It was another one of his acted prophecies that said more about his mission and his ministry than words ever could.  So having made his point, Jesus replied, “O woman, great is your faith!  Let it be as you wish.  And Matthew adds, And her daughter was healed from that moment.  Maybe Matthew just knew that this is what happened because this is what always happened, but I suspect that the report got back to Jesus and the disciples.  Maybe the woman brought her healed daughter to meet Jesus.  Who knows.  The point is that this woman saw the God of Israel at work in Jesus, she came in faith, and even though she had no claim on him, the God of Israel healed her daughter. But back the question: Why would Jesus treat this woman this way?  Why would he call her a dog?  What's with all this about not giving the children's bread to the dogs?  Didn't God so love the world that he sent his son?  He did.  But here's the thing: remember that Matthew wrote his Gospel for a Jewish audience and a big part of his agenda was to show them that Jesus really was their Messiah and that he'd come in fulfilment of their prophecies.  In doing that, Matthew reminds us that Jesus didn't jump into history to save humanity and the world at any old random time and place.  There's been a tendency in the Church to abstract Jesus' ministry, to separate theology and story, doctrine and history.  He is the Saviour of the world after all, and so we start thinking that if he'd wanted to he could have come at any time and any place and any people to do his saving work, but in doing that we forget that—no—he came and he had to come where and when and to whom he did because Jesus is part of a bigger story.  Jesus of Montréal couldn't have saved the word.  Jesus of Nazareth—because he was Jesus of Nazareth—could. This is why I say that this was sort of an acted-out prophecy.  I expect Jesus planned to help this woman from the start, but what he says and does here stresses a point that will be vital to his own people and that, ultimately, will be vital as the gospel goes out from Judea to the whole world.  And that point is that Jesus reveals the faithfulness of the God of Israel.  He does that by first ignoring this gentile woman, then he refuses her request and calls her a dog.  But maybe the most remarkable thing—and it highlights that he really was a prophet—is that his refusal of her request ends up prompting her to speak that vital truth when she says, “But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master's table.”  Take note: The dogs don't eat until the master's children have eaten.  And, Brothers and Sisters, just so with the gospel.  The gentiles can't eat until the children of Israel have first been fed.  The Lord must fulfil his promises to his people before those gospel crumbs can fall to the gentiles.  The amazing thing—and what this Canaanite woman couldn't have realised at the time—was that those crumbs that fell under the table would, in time, become a great feast for the nations.  But what has drawn the nations to the table was seeing the faithfulness of the Lord to feed his own children, just as the household dogs only came to the table, because they saw the master feeding his beloved children and hoped to eat what was dropped. We too often forget this.  It's true that “God so loved the world”.  But we've forgotten the bigger story of which this is just one part: the story of the people of God that runs from Genesis to Revelation.  We tend to lift Jesus out of his historical and Jewish context, out of his First Century context, which means lifting him out of the story of Israel—which again means lifting him out of the Genesis to Revelation story.  And when we do that, we lose the very thing brought—that still brings—the nations to Jesus: the great theme of the faithfulness, the righteousness of God.  But  Matthew won't let us do that.  Today he shows us Jesus right in the middle of the big story. So it's true what Jesus says to the woman here: He did not come to the gentiles.  Jesus came to Israel.  Jesus is Israel's Messiah.  “But again,” we protest, “God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son…”  Jesus said it.  Yes.  Jesus brings salvation for all, but we need to first understand that he does so as Israel's Messiah.  Jesus stresses it right here: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” Jesus came to bring the kingdom that had been promised to Israel through Abraham and through David and he did it to fulfil the Lord's promises—to show his faithfulness.  There were aspects of that kingdom that were new and different, but Jesus' kingdom is built firmly and immovably on the covenant and the promises the Lord had made with Israel down through the ages from Abraham's time.  He had called Israel to be his people.  He had promised to be their God.  He had rescued Israel and set her apart so that he might show her his blessings and give her his word and he did it all so that the world, the nations, the gentiles would see God in the midst of his people and be moved to come and give him glory.  And that's exactly what Matthew wants us to see happening in our Gospel today. We don't know exactly what this Canaanite woman hard heard or what she knew.  There were enough Jews living in her part of the world that she might very well have known their stories and have heard about their prophets.  Knowing those things made it all the easier to mock the faith of the Jews.  They told these stories of past greatness.  They told stories about Abraham being led across the desert by their God.  They told stories about their deliverance from slavery in Egypt—about the plagues and the Red Sea—about the law given to Moses on Mt. Sinai.  They told stories about how the Lord had conquered the land of Canaan for them.  And the Canaanites laughed: “Where's your God now?”  Because the God of Israel wasn't in the temple anymore.  He hadn't spoken in centuries—if he had ever really spoken at all.  The stories were probably all made up anyway.  Consider that these pagans had their own stories about their own gods.  And, yes, the God of Israel was so much better in Israel's stories.  He was just and righteous and loving.  Their gods were fickle and capricious and subject to all their passions.  You couldn't trust them, which is why they heaped up long prayers.  But their gods didn't speak and, as far as they could tell, neither did the God of Israel. But then, he did speak and he did act.  The first gentiles to notice were the wise men from the East.  The God of Israel placed a star in the sky that guided them to his king, to his Messiah.  And as Jesus travelled around Galilee healing the sick, the lame, the blind, the deaf, and the demon possessed.  As Jesus preached good news and coming judgement, it got the attention of some of the gentiles.  There was that Roman centurion in Capernaum who went to Jesus to plead for the life of his son.  There was the demoniac in the Decapolis.  Jesus had cast his demons into a heard of pigs and now he was healed, sane, and proclaiming what the God of Israel had done.  And now this Canaanite woman.  She'd heard what the God of Israel was doing through Jesus.  In a world of idolatrous and demon-filled darkness, she had a glimpse of the light, and so she came to Jesus in faith—faith that this foreign God whom she'd once mocked, just might actually be for real and unlike any of the other gods her people had ever known.  And through Jesus the God of Israel healed her daughter, drove the darkness away, and sent her home with her faith confirmed. Brothers and Sisters, the Canaanite woman, responding to that little glimpse of God's light in the midst of the darkness, prefigures what God knew would happen with the gentiles once the light of his righteousness, his faithfulness began to blaze out from the cross and from the empty tomb.  This was his plan all along.  Because he loved the whole world, he sent his son take up the identity and mission of his people, Israel.  Through Jesus—and especially in his death and resurrection and through the judgement that Jesus brought to Judea—the God of Israel fulfilled the promises that he had made to his people.  And in those events, he made his glory known to the gentiles.  In Jesus, the gentiles saw a God unlike any god they had ever known: a God who speaks, a God who acts, a God who is present with his people, and most of all a God who is faithful and just.  And they abandoned their false gods, their demonic idols and through Jesus they bowed down, they submitted in faith, they gave their allegiance to the God of Israel.  And in that, God gathered the dogs and made them his children.  He took what was unclean, and washed it pure.  As Paul writes in our Epistle today: God did not call us to uncleanness, but to holiness.  By putting his glory on full display in Jesus, he has taken us away from our idols and our idolatry and made us holy.  Brothers and Sisters, the Canaanite woman is us—or the vast majority of us, at any rate.  An unclean, gentile dog now washed clean and made holy by Jesus, because we have seen the glory of God shining forth from him—from his cross, from his empty tomb, and from his ascension.  Our ancestors believed and we believe, because the good news about Jesus outshines every god, every demon, every philosophy, every ism, every idol.  And, Brothers and Sisters, my prayer is that—particularly during this season of Lenten fasting—that God by his word and by his Spirit would hold his glory before us and drive away all the distractions that we've let creep back into our view, that his glory would drive away every idol, whether that be worldly thinking, selfishness, politics, money, sex, entertainment—whatever our distractions might be and that we would fix our gaze and our grip solely on Jesus, the glory of his Father, and the life of his Spirit and that we would remember that he has delivered us from uncleanness and called us to holiness. Let's pray: Gracious Father, as you revealed your righteous glory to the Canaanite woman through Jesus, let your glory blaze forth as we recall the good news of Jesus' death, resurrection, and ascension.  Keep the gospel ever before us so that as we see your great glory, everything else, every idol, every false source of hope and security pales in comparison.  Cause us to let go of everything that we might hold tightly to you and you alone.  Through Jesus we pray.  Amen.

A Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent St. Matthew 4:1-11 by William Klock Our Gospel today from Matthew picks up right after Jesus' baptism by John.  Matthew tells us: Then Jesus was led out into the wilderness by the Spirit to be tested by the devil.   Picture the desert.  It was hot and dry and dusty as Jesus made his way from that fertile strip of land along the Jordan up into the Judean wilderness, into the place that the Old Testament calls Yeshiymon.  It means “devastation”.  It's a land of sand and broken limestone and shingle.  Ridges of stratified rock twist here and turn there and everything in between them is filled with dust, jagged rocks, and broken stone shingles that can easily slide out from under foot.  Into that hot and desolate wilderness Jesus walked at the Spirit's prompting.  I expect that when he first set out he found beauty in the desert.  I know from experience: There's a lot of beauty in the desert when you first start out.  Look at that formation over there.  Look at those colours.  Look at the amazing sunset.  And then the clear night sky and the stars.  But eventually the heat gets to you.  Last summer Veronica and I rode the KVR from Penticton to Oliver and back.  On the way out we were admiring the lake and the wildflowers and the wonderful smells all around.  But it was over 100° that day and even after a stop for ice cream, the ride back to Penticton became a real slog.  We just wanted to get back and out of the heat.  We've had similar days on foot hiking down in the Anza-Borrego Desert.  Everything's a wonder on the way out, but by the time you're on the way back, it's hot and your sweaty and your exhausted.  Your feet hurt from walking over rocks, and you're tired and hungry and you just want to get back to the car.  I expect Jesus felt something like that the further he walked into that wilderness of devastation.  But as he put one foot in front of another, as he wiped the sweat from his face, he thought about his forefathers and their wilderness trek from the Red Sea to the promised land.   The Lord, the God of Israel, was about to do something very much like that again.  A new exodus.  And Jesus was at the centre of it.  Why did Jesus do this?  Why did he put himself in such a harsh and difficult space.  Why did he starve himself?  He did it to put himself in the place of his people who so badly needed and who so longed for deliverance.  Even if no one saw him in the wilderness, he was acting out a prophecy, repeating the life and story of his people and putting himself in their place. Eventually Jesus found a spot in the middle of that wasteland, maybe with a little spring of water in the shade of one of those twisting ridges, maybe with a few bushes or even a palm tree for a bit of shade.  He arranged some rocks and scrub to make a (somewhat) comfortable place to sit or lie or to kneel in prayer.  And he communed with God, meditated on the scriptures, pondered the nature of his ministry which was just beginning, and prayed for wisdom to follow the path his Father had set before him.  And, I expect most of all, he prayed for the strength and grace to follow that path to its end.  He was preparing to take the role of Israel up himself, to be and to embody the people of God.  Where they had failed to be what the Lord had called them to be, Jesus would be faithful.  For years he had meditated on his own miraculous birth, he'd heard how people like Simeon and Anna, even is own mother, had seen in him the fulfilment of the Lord's promises.  He meditated on the Scriptures and there he found his messianic calling and worked out what he was to do and even how it would end—and how that end would really be the beginning.  And if there was any doubt in his mind, it was driven away in his baptism.  Even though he had no need of repentance, he identified himself with his people as he waded into the Jordan to be baptised by John, and when he came up out of the river heaven had opened, the Spirit had descended upon him, and the Lord had spoken, “You are my beloved Son.”  That confirmed everything.  “My beloved son”: that was Israel's title, given by the Lord in the exodus.  It's what he'd called his people when he demanded that Pharoah let them go.  It's what he called them later after they'd crossed the Red Sea and arrived at Mount Sinai.  Israel was the Lord's beloved son.  So, now, like Moses, Jesus seeks the solitude of the wilderness for forty days and nights, waiting for the Lord to speak again to his son.  But instead, the devil comes to him.  I doubt Jesus was surprised by this.  After all, if Israel was tempted in the wilderness, he had to be tempted in the wilderness too.  Matthew writes: He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and at the end of it he was famished.  Then the tempter approached him.  “If you really are God's son,” he said, “command these stones to become bread.” (St. Matthew 4:2-3) Again, Jesus is prophetically reenacting the story of his people, so this is what we should expect would happen.  They were tempted in the wilderness and so is he.  The devil leverages his hunger.  “The Lord has declared you to be his Son.  If you believe that's who you really are, satisfy yourself and turn these stones into bread.”  No doubt, Jesus had spent much of those forty days and nights contemplating what it meant to be the Son of God—and probably also pondering why the Spirit wanted the Son of God to be so hungry.  But Jesus was obedient.  To embody his people and to follow in their footsteps, being faithful at every step where they had failed, that was the Lord's plan for him.  That was how he would redeem his people. The devil's temptation here is subtle.  He doesn't tempt Jesus to disobey the Spirit overtly by leaving the desert.  He tempts Jesus to turn the rocks into bread—in other words, he tempts him to remake the wilderness itself.  There was that one rock—over there—that looked just like a loaf of bread.  Jesus had been eyeing it for days in his hunger.  Just turn it into real bread.  But Jesus knew that the Spirit had brought him to the wilderness for a reason and to undermine that, however it was done, was to be unfaithful, to be disobedient.  It was to reject his Father's plan.  So he rebukes the devil with the words of Deuteronomy 8:3. Jesus answered, “It is written,  “‘Man shall not live by bread alone,          but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.'” Jesus reminds the devil of the sermon that Moses preached to the Israelites as they were preparing to march into Canaan.  Moses said: Remember how the Lord your God led you through the wilderness for these forty years, humbling you and testing you to prove your character, and to find out whether or not you would obey his commands.  Yes, he humbled you by letting you go hungry and then feeding you with manna, a food previously unknown to you and your ancestors.  He did it to teach you that people do not live by bread alone; rather, we live by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. (Deuteronomy 8:2-3) There was a reason why the Lord allowed the Israelites to be hungry: it demonstrated their faith in his provision.  Were they willing to trust him even when it meant hardship?  The Lord taught them that there's more to life than bread.  What good is living today if you miss out on the life of the age to come?  Remember that the Israelites had failed that test, grumbling against Moses and wanting to go back to the fleshpots of Egypt.  But now, where Israel failed, Jesus passes the test.  He trusts his Father to provide where he has led and shows that he knows that obedience to God's call is more important than physical comforts and even life itself.  If he can't endure fasting, how will he endure the cross?  And Brothers and Sisters, if we can't endure fasting, how can we expect to live sacrificially as Jesus calls us to live, giving up everything that is not him in faith as we look forward ourselves to the age to come?   Back to Matthew: The devil tries a second time, taking a different tack.  Verses 5-6: Then the devil took him to the holy city and stood him on the pinnacle of the temple.  “If you really are the God's son,” he said, “throw yourself down.  It is written,  “‘He will command his angels concerning you,' and  “‘On their hands they will bear you up,          lest you strike your foot against a stone.'” (Matthew 4:5-6) Now the devil tempts him to jump from the highest point in Jerusalem, to force God's hand.  Angels would deliver him and all of Israel would recognise him as Messiah.  What a temptation this must have been.  During those forty days of fasting and prayer, Jesus contemplated that rejection was going to be a significant factor in his ministry.  A few would follow, but Jesus would largely be rejected by Israel—and eventually that rejection would culminate in his death.  But what if he could prove to all of Israel that he really was the Messiah?  What if he could side-step the rejection and go straight to the throne?  This was his chance.  But Jesus knew that this was not his Father's plan.  If he became King that way, he'd be no better than David.  There would be no means of redemption for his people.  There would be no Spirit poured out on them to renew their hearts.  He would be King, but the Lord's promises to Abraham, to Moses, to the Prophets would go unfulfilled.  Without the cross, Jesus might put Israel's earthly enemies under his feet, but they would still be slaves to sin and death.  And without the cross, the nations would know that Israel had a king who worked miracles, but that would never be enough to draw the gentiles to Israel's God in awe.  No, the gentiles and their nations were to be drawn to the God of Israel as they saw his faithfulness manifest in the death and resurrection of Jesus. The devil throws two bits of Psalm 91 at Jesus.  It's a psalm about the Lord's protection.  It sounds good, but it's not the whole psalm.  Other parts of the psalm qualify God's provision for his people.  The first two verses read: He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” The shelter of the Most High is a wonderful place to find yourself, but to live under his protection requires that we first abide in his shadow.  He is our “refuge and fortress”, but we put ourselves in his care as we trust in him.  In verse 14 the Lord says, Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him; I will protect him, because he knows my name. The devil loves to plucked portions of Scripture out of context in order to twist their meaning, reminding us of God's promises of blessing and care, while neglecting to remind us of the need for faith, for holiness, and for obedience.  God's people show their love for him through obedience.  Jesus later said, “If you love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).  The same goes for Jesus' relationship with his Father.  The Lord's blessings would come only as Jesus walked in faithful obedience. So Jesus rebukes the devil with the words of Deuteronomy 6:16. Jesus said to him, “Again it is written, ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.'”   Where Israel had failed, Jesus is again obedient.  Israel had tested the Lord.  Jesus, instead, expresses his trust in the Lord's plan, knowing that only through his rejection would the Lord's promises be fulfilled. Now, the devil makes one last attempt at dragging Jesus away from the path to the cross.  Look at verses 8 and 9: The devil took him off again to a very high mountain.  There he showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory.  And he said to him, “I will give the whole lot to you, if you will fall down and worship me.” Israel, too, was tempted to idolatry in the wilderness and failed—and failed and failed and failed throughout her history.  Jesus is tempted just as his people were.  “All the kingdoms of the world will be yours,” the devil says, “just submit to me.”  Jesus and the devil both knew that if the Lord's promises through the prophets were true, Jesus' lordship would extend beyond Israel to all of Creation.  Gabriel had announced to Mary: “He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end” (Luke 1:33).  When the Father had spoken at Jesus' baptism, he had spoken words from Psalm 2 where we also read of the great King: Ask of me, and I will make the nations your heritage, and the ends of the earth your possessions.  (Psalm 2:8) The devil again offers Jesus a shortcut to his throne—a shortcut that would bypass the heart of his messianic ministry.  Again, Jesus knew that what would bring the nations to his throne was the redemption of Israel through his death and resurrection and the display of the Spirit's power in the hearts of his people.  In these events the nations would see the greatness and the faithfulness of the God of Israel and they would be drawn to give him glory and to submit themselves in faith to the Lord Jesus.  That was to be God's means of welcoming the gentiles into his presence and into his kingdom.  And yet, if Jesus followed the devil's shortcut, there would be no kingdom—at least not the sort of eternal kingdom in which all was set to rights, in which God himself was king, the sort of kingdom that Israel had always looked forward to as the “age to come”. No, the Lord had charged his people in the wilderness, saying: Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one.  You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might…. It is the Lord your God you shall fear.  Him you shall serve and by his name you shall swear.  You shall not go after other gods, the gods of the peoples who are around you—for the Lord your God in your midst is a jealous God. (Deuteronomy 4-5, 13-15a) Israel had failed.  Even in the wilderness, while Moses was on the mountain receiving the Ten Commandments, Aaron had led the people as they made and worshiped a golden calf.  Most of Israel's history was marked by the worship of foreign gods.  But Jesus responds to the devil's temptation with the command God had given through Moses: “Be gone, Satan! For it is written,  “‘Worship the Lord your God          and serve him alone.'” (Matthew 4:10) Where Israel failed, Jesus is faithful.  He chooses the hard path of obedience that will bring not only kingship, but also redemption.  Jesus was destined not only to be King of the Jews, but Lord of all Creation and conqueror of sin and death.  For that to happen, evil had to be concentrated all in one place, to rise up to its full height, to do its worst to Jesus, the Son of God, the Messiah—so that God could raise him from death, overturn the false verdict the people had announced, and vindicate his Son.  Jesus knew that to restore the life of God to his people, the way to inaugurate the age to come in which all would be set to rights, he must first let evil do its worst—he had to walk the path of rejection, suffering, and death.  By his faithfulness, Jesus redeemed those in Israel who were faithful to him.  By his faithfulness, Jesus created a new people of God in whom God poured out his Spirit.  By his faithfulness, Jesus was declared Lord with power and authority.  And because of his faithfulness, the nations have seen the faithfulness of Israel's God and now give him glory as they—as we—submit ourselves to him in faith. And now we, you and I, walk—or, at least, we should be walking, in faithfulness to the glory of God.  As Lent puts before us the suffering of Jesus and reminds us that God's life for us came through his submission to death, it reminds us that we, too, must die to self and walk the narrow path, the way that leads to suffering and rejection, in order to know the life of God and the age to come.  We take our first steps down that narrow path as we repent and turn aside from everything that is not Jesus, as stop grasping everything that is not Jesus, and then take hold of him with both hands in faith, trusting in him for the forgiveness of sins, for the life of the Spirit, and for the hope of God's world set to rights.  Lent calls us to set aside our distractions and our idols so that we might fix our gaze on Jesus, taking up our crosses and following him. St. Paul warned the Corinthians in our Epistle “not to receive the grace of God in vain”.  What a splash of cold water that must have been.  They thought they were doing so well, but Paul rebukes them for tolerating sins that horrified even the pagans; for abusing spiritual gifts, using them selfishly rather than to edify the church; for allowing the values of pagan culture to twist their understanding of the gospel; for abusing the Lord's Supper—the list is long and troubling.  Brothers and Sisters, fast and pray these next forty days that the gospel might permeate ever deeper into our hearts and minds, and let us submit ourselves to the renewing and regenerating work of the Spirit.  Let us not receive the gospel in vain.  Instead, may we each day die to self that we might emerge the other side of death into the life of God and know his glory. Let's pray: Lord Jesus Christ, for our sake you fasted forty days and forty nights: give us grace so to discipline ourselves that our flesh being subdued to the Spirit, we may always obey your will in righteousness and true holiness, to the honour and glory of your name; for you live and reign with the Father and Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for Ash Wednesday St. Matthew 6:16-21 by William Klock   “When you fast, don't be gloomy like the hypocrites,” Jesus said.  “They make their faces quite unrecognisable, so that everyone can see they're fasting.  I'm telling you the truth: thy have received their reward in full.” As I think about this, I have to admit that this probably isn't our problem.  I'm sure there must be some people who, when they fast, do make sure everyone knows about it, but I don't remember ever meeting anyone like that.  (Unless, of course, it was someone doing it as some kind of health-nut thing.)  People in our culture, people in the modern Western church don't fast.  Even when it's Lent, what do we do?  We give up chocolate.  We give up Coke.  I saw a post on Facebook that encouraged people to eat one normal meal and then to eat less for their two other meals so that those two other meals equal one normal meal.  A friend who was a missionary commented that the people he ministered to in Zambia ate less than that all the time, so it wasn't really much of a fast.  And that may be why we're so often spiritually impoverished in our part of the world.  We have too much and when you have too much, when you don't know what it means to fast, well, we never really learn to trust God.  And so to fast is to voluntarily put ourselves in a place of poverty, of need, of exile—a spiritual exercise to remind us what it means to trust in God. Brother and Sisters, that's the point of Lent.  It's not to look good in front of others.  It's to remind us to look to the Lord.  So Jesus goes on and says, “No: when you fast, comb your hair and beard the way you normally do, and wash your face, so that others won't notice you're fasting—except your Father, privately.  Then your Father, who sees in private, will repay you.” Jesus says the same thing about prayer immediately before this: “When you pray, you mustn't be like the hypocrites.  They love to pray standing in the synagogues and on street corners, so that people will notice them.  I'm telling you the truth: they have received their reward in full.  No: when you pray, go into your own room, shut the door, and pray to your Father who is there in secret.  And your Father, who sees in secret, will repay you.”  But why?  This is where we really need to hear what Jesus says. He says: “When you pray, don't pile up a heap of words!  That's what the gentiles do.”  Remember the gentiles worshipped fickle, capricious, unfaithful gods who never spoke—gods who weren't worthy of any trust.  Jesus says, “The gentiles think that the more they say, the more likely they are to be heard.  So don't be like them.  Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.  So this is how you should pray.”  Now, listen closely to what Jesus says.  We pray the Lord's Prayer so often that we don't even think about it.  So listen.  “This is how you should pray: ‘Our Father in heaven; may your name be honoured; may your kingdom come; may your will be done; as in heaven, so on earth.  Give us today the bread we need now; and forgive us the things we owe, as we too have forgiven what was owed to us.  And do not bring us into the great trial, but rescue us from evil.” Notice how Jesus' vision of God's kingdom—of heaven coming down to earth—how it's at the heart of everything he says.  But that's the heart of our prayer.  On one hand prayer, like fasting, is simple, but there's also a mystery to it.  Sometimes when I pray I feel like my prayers are bouncing off the ceiling, but then I remember what Jesus says here: You're heavenly Father is with you in that secret place.  My prayers don't have to get any further than the ceiling, because the Father is right there—right here—with me.  He sees and he hears and he knows what's in my heart.  He hears the things I say and he hears the things I want to lay before him but struggle to put into words. Over the years I've read quite a lot of books about prayer as I've tried to unravel the mystery, but none of them has every really helped.  Instead, what has helped is simply to remember what Jesus says here.  And to pray the psalms.  To let Jesus and the inspired scriptures remind me that to pray is to remember that in him heaven and earth have come together and to pray is to recognise this reality, to put myself at the intersection of heaven and earth. And if prayer is about heaven and earth overlapping in the here and now, it's also about them coming together in the stuff of the world—and in the clay from which God has made us.  To pray is to claim—now think about how amazing this is—to pray is to claim that the living God, enthroned in heaven, is making his home with us—even in us.  And this is why Jesus says that to make a point of this, go into your room in secret and pray there.  By all means pray in church, pray with other people, pray when you're out in nature, pray in the temple, but sometimes it helps to take God seriously and to shut yourself up in your room, here on earth, and know that heaven—that the Spirit, and Jesus, and his Father are here with and in you. And if we do this.  When we pray and when we recall that in us, by the power of Jesus and the Spirit, that heaven and earth are meeting together—and if they're meeting together in this little lump of clay that is me—or that is you—it's going to transform me and it's going to transform you.  It's going to change us in a lot of ways, but Jesus stresses first and foremost that it's going to make me and it's going to make you forgivers.  This is where the kingdom begins.  With the cross of Jesus.  With the forgiveness of sinners.  And as Jesus forgives us, that forgiveness spills out of us.  We've all been hurt and wounded and sinned against by other people.  How much more have we done that to God.  But he hears us because, in Jesus he has poured out his grace on us, he has forgiven us, because in Jesus he has invited us into his presence where heaven and earth meet.  The privilege of prayer is a constant reminder that because we have been forgiven, we ought to forgive others—to let God's grace pour from us as it has been poured from Jesus.  That's the kingdom.  That's “on earth as it is in heaven”. And in that Jesus' great prayer comes together.  So simple, but so powerful.  So simple we can pray it as children, but so powerful that we never stop—not even the holiest and wisest of saints stops praying these simple worlds.  Because we know that heaven isn't far away; it's where we meet the God whom we can address as “our Father”.  To whom we can bring our needs, knowing that if he has given his son for our sakes, he will surely give us the bread we need for today and rescue us from evil. Brothers and Sisters, prayer reminds us not only that God is trustworthy, it reminds us to trust in him.  That's why, after Jesus warns us about hypocrisy and reminds us what real prayer and fasting are all about, he says, “Nobody can serve two masters.  Otherwise, they will either hate the first and love the second, or be devoted to the first and despise the second.  You can't serve both God and wealth.”  The kingdom demands our all.  If we're going to pray “on earth as in heaven”, we'd better remember what that means: that the things of the old, evil age are passing away and that the new age, God's new creation, his kingdom is being borne today through the power of the gospel and the Spirit and that we would be fools to divide our loyalty between the two. Think on that as we begin another season of Lent: that when we fast and when we pray, when we say “on earth as in heaven” we're not just saying empty words, but we're actually in the place where heaven and earth already meet, that we're already in the presence of God, because we've been forgiven by Jesus' death, raised to new life by his resurrection, and been plunged into the Spirit to be made his temple.  And then let us go out from our prayer and fasting to really be the heaven on earth people who fully trust in God, ready to carry his gracious mercy to everyone around us.  Amen.

A Sermon for Quinquagesima 1 Corinthians 13:1-13 by William Klock The other night I was trying to read while Veronica was practising in the other room.  She has a concert with the Symphony next week.  I was finding her practising more distracting than usual, because the piano part of this one piece is really quite unpleasant all on its own.  There's no melody, just sort of periodic backup for the rest of the orchestra.  Lots of rests and then a few notes that seem almost random if you don't know the piece.  It was very disracting to listen to.  But bring all the instruments together, let them all play their parts and you've got a wonderful piece of music.  The Bible is very much like that.  There are all sorts of themes and sometimes we put all our attention on just one and it ruins the music.  But the better we know and understand the Bible and the big story of God and his people, the better able we are to hear all of those themes, each playing at the right time, each balanced with the others, so that we're able to hear the grand music that God has—not only for us to hear, but for us to participate in. So if I were to tell a parable the way Jesus did, I might say, “The kingdom of God is like…a symphony.”  When Jesus came he introduced a new piece of music to his people.  The thing was that it wasn't really new; it's that everyone had forgotten it.  The Lord had taught it long before to Adam and to Eve.  When their children lost the tune the Lord came and taught it again to Abraham and then to Moses and to the Israelites.  It wasn't an easy tune—mostly because sinful human beings lacked the full ability to play it.  And so the tune God taught Abraham and Moses was a bit like a simple melody line played on the piano with one hand.  But it was still true to the original.  But even as simple as it was, Israel struggled to play it.  And then when Jesus came he amazed everyone by sitting down at the piano and playing the full harmony with both hands.  The music took on new life.  It was fuller and richer and more beautiful than anything anyone had heard since Adam's day.  Some people didn't like it.  Some people flat-out refused to learn it or even listen to it.  But Jesus taught it to a few and each of them taught it to a few and each of those to a few and pretty soon thousands were playing and the music was spreading all over the world.  At some point someone taught it to each of us and now you and I are playing that tune. And yet, even still, we know—or at least we should know—that there's more yet to come.  What Jesus has taught us to play isn't the full piece of music.  It's like the piano solo leading into the great orchestral piece.  It gives a taste of what's to come, but to hear the full symphony we have to wait for Jesus to return—for Jesus to come back from heaven, bringing the kingdom with him in all its majesty and eternal glory.  In the meantime, we play the piece he's taught us, the piece he's specially equipped us to play.  And as we see in our Epistle this morning from First Corinthians, at the heart of this music Jesus has taught us—the melody of it that holds it all together and that will lead into something so much greater one day—the heart, the theme of that music is love. So let's look again at 1 Corinthians 13.  We often call it the “Love Chapter”.  But think about the context.  Paul sticks this love chapter in the middle of a discussion about the Church, about living together as the body of Christ, about spiritual gifts, and about worship.  A lot of times we take this chapter out of context and we think of it in terms of, say, romantic love.  We read it at weddings.  (Not that that's bad!)  There is a sense in which what Paul describes here is about the love of husband and wife, but only because it is first and foremost about love amongst Christian brothers and sisters, love in the Church, that spills over into every aspect of life and into every relationship in light of Jesus and what he's accomplished. During Epiphanytide we were reading in Romans where Paul describes the Church as being like a body, everyone gifted and equipped for a certain task, not for their own benefit, but for the benefit of the whole Church and our kingdom mission.  And at the beginning of the season, we were reading about the Church as a temple, each of us a stone, shaped and carved and cut very carefully by the Lord and all purposefully fitted together as the dwelling place of the Holy Spirit.  Last Sunday we read Paul's second letter to the Corinthians.  They were boasting to each other about their gifts and achievements and they'd started following teachers who boasted in their achievements—boasting as Greeks and Romans typically boasted.  It was how people climbed to the top of the heap and demanded respect and honour.  But in contrast Paul describes his own accomplishments: he'd been arrested, beaten, whipped, scourged, shipwrecked, cold, hungry, naked, shamed and run out of town in dishonour—all for the sake of his brothers and sisters, the very ones, in fact, who rejected him.  And we think: How is this all possible?  How do we live for the sake of others?  How do we die to self for the sake of others?  How do we sacrifice for the sake of others?  The last two Sundays pointed us toward discipline and humility.  Today the lessons point us to love.  Love is the theme that ties the whole symphony of the kingdom together.  And so after describing the way the Church acts as a body with each using his or her gifts for the sake of others and, ultimately, for the sake of Jesus and his kingdom Paul writes: I will show you a still more excellent way. If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.  And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.  If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. (1 Corinthians 12:31b-13:4) It's not just about having and using gifts or about doing things in the Church.  The Corinthian Church had no lack of gifts.  It had no lack of activity.  It had no lack of people wanting to contribute money to this cause or that cause.  (One of the reasons Paul wrote to them was to raise money to support the struggling Christians in Jerusalem.)  The problem in Corinth was a lack of love.  Without love all the amazing things they were doing might as well have been nothing. Back in Chapter 3 Paul used the illustration of building a temple.  Like the temple in Jerusalem, it was built of carefully hewn wood, cut stones, gold, and precious jewels.  Jesus is the foundation and others, like Paul and the Corinthians, were building on that foundation, but not everyone was building with stone or with gems and precious metals.  Some were building with hay and straw.  At the end, he says, it'll all be tested with fire.  The hay and straw will go up in smoke.  This is an image here that gives us a sense of what lies in store.  Other passages talk of the old heaven and earth passing away and a new world being ushered in.  I'm sure much of the language is figurative—the reality is at this point beyond our understanding.  However it happens, though, that which is unworthy, that which is the product of sinfulness and selfishness, that which does not honour God will be consumed and will pass away, leaving a new world in which only the holy and the God-honouring remains.  Only the work in which people truly invested—the stone, the gold, the silver, the precious jewels—will remain.  Some people will make a good show of building, but if love is not their motive, it's not going to last—it will be exposed and consumed by God's judgement.  If love isn't the motive, when Jesus comes and draws our music into his own great symphony, those who have been playing their own tune will have nothing to contribute. Paul goes on in verses 5-7: Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.  Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.   This is what will be left.  This is the melody that Jesus will take up into his great symphony.  And it stands in stark contrast with the ways and values of the present age, but it stands in contrast, too, with the ways and values of many people in the Church.  What Paul does is to hold up Jesus as our model for love. Jesus is patient and kind.  Remember, he came to condemned sinners, not to heap up more condemnation, but to redeem.  We have dishonoured God and made a mess of this creation he so lovingly created.  He would be within his rights to simply hit control+alt+smite and reboot everything—to wipe us out and start over from the beginning.  God has every right to leave us dead in our sins, but because he loves us, he is patient and has given himself—the life of his Son—to restore us to life and to his presence.  To make us his people once again.  Again, love is patient and kind. And, Paul writes, love is not envious or boastful.  Think again of Jesus.  He who is God humbled himself in the incarnation—again, for our sake—becoming one of us.  And he came not as a great king or warrior, but as the son of a humble girl and her very ordinary husband, raised in a poor backwater, and finally dying—for our sake—the humiliating and painful death of a criminal—a death we deserve, but that he did not.  He had more right to boast than anyone who has ever lived, but as they pressed the crown of thorns on his head and beat him, mocking his sovereignty, he chose not to revile them in return.  Instead, as he was dying he prayed for the very men who were standing there gloating and jeering at him. Love is not irritable or resentful.  Again, God is patient and long-suffering.  Rather than resenting us for our sins, the Lord has given himself to redeem us from them.  Love does not rejoice at wrongs.  Just the opposite.  The angels in heaven rejoice with the Lord whenever a sinner repents.  Again, think of Jesus: Love bears all things…believes all things…hopes all things…endures all things.  Has anyone borne more or endured more than Jesus? And with that image in our heads we need to think of ourselves.  Are we patient and kind?  And we need to be honest.  It's easy to be patient and kind some of the time and with the people we like, but what about the people we don't like?  What about those difficult situations we find ourselves in?  Are we really patient and kind?  Are we envious and boastful or, like Jesus, are we humble and willing to give up our honour for the sake of others—even for the sake of people who hurt us and wrong us.  Are we willing to admit when we are wrong and when we have sinned?  Are we irritable and resentful?  These are sins that Christians can be very tolerant of.  Sometimes we even turn irritability and resentment into virtues when the right people and situations come our way.  What's my reaction when Mormon missionaries knock on my door or when a telemarketer calls?  I admit that I can be pretty irritable and most people would say that that's just fine when it comes to telemarketers and cult members.  People of Jesus' day were often like that when it came to tax collectors and prostitutes and gentiles, but Jesus instead forgave these people, made them new, and welcomed them into his family. Again, where and how do we fall short of Jesus' model of love?  In our families?  In our workplaces?  In our schools?  In our church?  And imagine the difference it would make around us if love were the driving force, the motive behind everything we do.  Imagine what it would be like if we gave of ourselves, our rights, our honour, our glory the way that Jesus did. And it sounds good, but I know it also sounds impossible.  How can we ever give of ourselves the way Jesus did?  Sometimes it's hard enough giving this way to people we love.  What about people who aren't close to us, people who have hurt us, people who are our enemies?  This is why we need to have the example of Jesus always before us.  We need to remember that we were his enemies.  We need to remember that he owed us nothing but judgement, and yet he became incarnate and died for us.  We need to think and meditate on the depth of love that God manifested towards us in Jesus.  Brothers and Sisters, the love of God in Jesus should motivate and transform us. But that's not all.  Love is impossible, and for that reason Jesus has done more than give us an example.  He's washed us of our sin and he's given us God's own Spirit.  Think back to John the Baptist.  He told the people, “I've plunged you into the water, but one is coming who will plunge you into the Holy Spirit.”  Jesus doesn't forgive our sins and leave us in some kind of neutral state.  He forgives our sins and then pours his own life into us.  Remember: The Lord didn't rescue the Israelites from slavery in Egypt just to leave them wandering in the wilderness.  No.  He freed them from Egypt, he made them his people, and he took up his dwelling in their midst as he led them into a new home and new way of life.  And just so with Jesus, but on an even grander scale.  Jesus rescues us and frees us from sin and death, he makes us his people—more specifically, Paul talks about Jesus making us his own body—and he comes and dwells, not just in our midst, but actually inside us.  He makes us his temple as he pours his Spirit into us.  But his ultimate plan isn't just to save us, but to redeem his entire creation—to set us back on the track that Adam and Eve abandoned when they sinned, to make us his stewards and his priests.  And so as Israel's destination was the promised land, our destination is the New Jerusalem, the kingdom that Jesus has promised to bring in all its fullness.  That's the future, but in Jesus that future has burst into our present.  In the Holy Spirit Jesus gives us a foretaste of what is to come.  He invites us to play the music of the kingdom and the music of the kingdom is love. Again: If it's not driven by love, it won't last.  And Paul drives this point home in the rest of the passage.  It's not just that the things we do without love will go up in smoke when the kingdom finally comes in all its fullness, but even many of the good things Jesus calls us to do will be overwhelmed by the great theme of love.  Look at verses 8-13: Love never ends.  As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away.  For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.  When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.  When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.  For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.   First Corinthians gives us the distinct sense that the church in that city was fixated on certain miraculous gifts, especially prophecy and tongues, not only elevating those who had these gifts above others, but emphasizing to everyone that these gifts were sort of the end-all-be-all of Christianity.  Forget everything else—put it all aside—and pursue prophecy and tongues!  But Paul is warning them and saying, “No.  These gifts are great and they're useful, but there's something far more important: cultivate love.  Real love.  The kind of love manifest by Jesus at the cross.  If you want to build the kingdom, don't pursue gifts.  If you've got them, use them—lovingly—but pursue love above all else.  When the kingdom is here and we're all living in God's presence, there will no longer be any need of prophecy, but there will be a need for love.  The same goes for tongues.  Who needs tongues when the curse of Babel is done away with?  But we'll still need love. Paul describes it in terms of growing from a child into an adult.  I had a Big Wheel when I was a little kid, but now I ride a real bicycle.  The Big Wheel taught me how to pedal and steer and not run people over.  At one point I had training wheels on my bike that kept me from falling over.  But they did their work and now I'm a grown-up and I don't need those childish things.  In the present age our view of God is dim.  Paul describes it in terms of an ancient mirror made of polished metal.  The reflection was imperfect and dark.  And so is our view of God.  Even as redeemed men and women, there's a veil, a gulf between us and God.  Our sin has split apart heaven and earth, but Jesus has begun the work of bringing us back together.  One day we will stand before God face to face.  We'll know him not only through the mediating words of Scripture or through the mediating work of the Holy Spirit, but we'll stand before him and know him face-to-face. And it's on that day that our music will be taken up into God's great symphony and all that will remain is love.  Faith, hope, and love remain, he says—they're essential to our life as the Church, as the people of God today—but above all we need to learn to love.  It's not that faith and hope aren't important.  They're vital, but without love they'll be out of tune with God's symphony.  We live by faith.  We take hold of Jesus, the forgiveness of sin and the promise of life, and we take hold of him by faith as we trust in him.  We submit to his lordship by faith.  And we live in hope—living for a kingdom and a world for which we have only a down payment.  But on the great day when Jesus returns and the kingdom is consummated, faith will vanish into sight, hope will be fulfilled, but love will only intensify, growing greater and more profound as we see our Lord face to face and the weight of sin and death is finally and fully lifted from us—as the blurry image of the mirror is replaced by the real thing—as our simple one-handed song of love on the piano is taken up as part of the Lord's grand symphony of love. Brothers and Sisters, think of the words of the Lord's Prayer: “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”  We pray these words so often and know them so well that we easily forget what they really mean.  This is a prayer that looks forward in faith and hope to the day when we will see him face to face; this is a prayer that looks forward to the day when we have grown from little children into adults; this is a prayer that looks forward to that day when love becomes Creation's all-consuming theme.  The Lord's Prayer looks forward to that day in hope and faith, but what it asks for is that this theme of love be manifested here today.  It asks in faith for love to be made known today in the midst of sin and of fear and of hate and of death.  And, Brothers and Sisters, that means that it's a prayer for our own hearts and minds to be transformed by the Holy Spirit, because if anyone is to manifest love in this present age, it is us, the only people in this world who know first-hand the love of Jesus.  So pray, “thy will be done, on earth as in heaven” and pray those words in hope of the coming kingdom and pray those words in faith, trusting and seeking for the Lord to give you his loving heart so that you can show his love in your church, in your family, in your workplace, in your school, in your community, and in your world. Let us pray: O Lord, you have taught us that whatever we do without love is worth nothing: send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts that most excellent gift of love, the true bond of peace and of all virtues; without which whoever lives is counted dead before you.  Grant this for the sake of your only Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for Septuagesima 1 Corinthians 9:24-27 & St. Matthew 20:1-16 by William Klock   Over and over Jesus would say to the people, “The kingdom of heaven is like…this.  And then he'd go on to tell them a story.  In today's Gospel he says, “It's like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire labourer for his vineyard.”  Jesus draws this imagery straight from the Prophets, so he doesn't have to explain very much.  In the Prophets the vineyard owner is always the Lord.  The vineyard or the people working in it were always Israel.  So as Jesus tells his story, Matthew and John and Peter and the rest can easily imagine themselves getting up that morning, leaving their wives and children, and going to the town square in the hopes someone will have work for them.  Day labourers were pretty much at the bottom of society.  In some ways slaves were better off.  At least a slave's owner was obligated to clothe and feed him and his family.  A day labourer lived a meagre hand to mouth existence.  If there was no work, he didn't eat.  If there was work, he did it, earned just enough to buy food for his family, and got up the next morning already tired, but ready to do it all over again.  If there wasn't work, he either begged or he and his family went hungry.  So Jesus' hearers imagine themselves arriving at the town square just before sunrise with their tools in hand and are glad to see this man who offers them a denarius and sends them down the road to harvest his grapes.  A denarius was the going rate for a day's common labour.  Again, it wasn't much, but their families would eat tonight and then tomorrow it'd start all over again. The labourers had been labouring hard for a good three hours by mid-morning.  The wind changed.  Rain was coming.  Maybe tonight; definitely tomorrow.  The harvest had to come in before the rain, so the vineyard owner went back to town.  There were still plenty of men waiting to be hired for the day, so he tapped as many as he thought he needed, promised, “I'll pay you what's right,” and sent them to harvest his grapes. By noon the clouds started rolling in over the mountains.  Rain was coming sooner than expected so off he went to town again.  The sun was hot now.  Everyone could imagine themselves labouring away in the vineyard.  Maybe the day Jesus told them the story was a hot one and they could feel the heat pressing in on them.  Thank goodness they were sitting in the shade of a tree, not carrying heavy baskets of grapes out under the hot sun, kicking up dust as they shuffled under heavy loads.  But they could imagine.  They were in the story on that sweltering day.  They were certainly earning their denarius!  Even those men who started at noon would be exhausted when the day was done.  And in the backs of their minds they were thinking, “Okay…the men working so hard, they're Israel, they're us. Where is this going?” By mid-afternoon the dark rainclouds were almost on them, but there was still too much work to be done.  The man hurried back to town.  Still there were men waiting for work.  They were probably expecting to go home empty-handed, going to bed hungry.  Their children would cry.  But if they left the town square they'd miss out on even that small chance that someone might come late in the day with a job.  “Get to my vineyard and pick like the wind,” the man said, “and I'll pay you what's right.”  So off they ran, not wasting a moment.  And the work wasn't so bad now that the sky was dark and the wind was blowing. But still, an hour til quitting time, there was work to do and then the first raindrops began to fall.  The man ran back to town and rounded up the last few men left…the ones just about ready to go home empty-handed or maybe ready to beg some bread from someone.  An hour's pay was better than no pay at all, so off they went to help the others finish. And finish they did.  And here's where Jesus gets to the heart of that bit about “The kingdom of God is like…”  As the thunder began and the rain started pouring, the foreman gathered the men in the barn and pulling the foreman aside, the man said to him, “Pay them their wages, but start with those men who came last and end with the guys who have been here all day.”  Imagine being one of those men who worked only an hour, who, even if they could buy a little food, would still go to bed hungry.  Imagine their reaction as the foreman put a whole denarius in each of their hands.  Again, it wasn't much, but it was a whole day's wage.  And imagine the men who had been working since sun-up and mid-morning.  Maybe they'd heard wrong.  They looked at each other.  Some of them said, “No.  A denarius for the day.  That was the deal.  That's always the deal.”  But if he was paying these guys who'd only worked an hour a whole denarius, maybe they'd get twelve!  Or at least more than one.  But their excitement faded as the foremen went down the line and gave a denarius to everyone: to the men who had worked since mid-afternoon, to the men who'd worked since noon, to the men who'd worked since mid-morning, and even to the men who had been there all day. They grumbled.  I can just hear impetuous Peter interrupting Jesus: “What a jerk!  That's not fair!  Jesus, I think you meant to say, ‘The kingdom is not like…'”  So first the men grumbled to each other and finally one of them got worked up enough to grumble directly to the vineyard owner.  “What gives, Boss?  Those guys over there only worked an hour and you've paid them exactly the same thing that you paid us.  We've worn ourselves out working all day…and, man, it was a scorcher.  You've done us wrong!” The men were angry, but the vineyard owner responded gently.  “Friend, I've done you no wrong.  I offered to pay you a denarius for a day's work and you agreed.  That's the going rate after all.  I've given you exactly what we agreed on.  Take your pay and go home to your family.  Be happy that you can feed them tonight.  And be happy for these other men.  They can go home and feed their families tonight too.  You know what it's like to go home empty-handed.  How can you be angry that their children will eat tonight?  Don't be angry at my generosity.”  And then, no longer telling a parable, Jesus says to his disciples, “So the last will be first, and the first last.” And with that Matthew and John and Peter and all the rest of the twelve and all the people gathered scratched their heads and looked at Jesus, more than a little confused.  “The last will be first and the first will be last?”  Just four verses later we read that James and John got their mother to put in a good word for them with Jesus.  “Declare that these two sons of mine will sit, one at your right hand one at your left, in your kingdom.”  I have to wonder if this was in response to the whole thing about the last being first and the first being last.  James and John (and their mother) were worried about their place in the kingdom.  And, of course, when the others heard about this they were angry with James and John, because…of course…they all wanted to sit in those places of honour.  But that was most decidedly not what the kingdom of God is like.  Hardly anyone understood and that's because almost everyone had forgotten about grace.  James and John were afraid that one of the other disciples might do something extra special and earn greater favour from Jesus.  Imagine the jealousy they had when Peter confessed to Jesus, “You are the Messiah, the son of the living God” and Jesus said, “Blessed are you, Simon bar Jonah…on this rock I will build my church.”  Uh oh.  Just when John, who could smugly tell people that he was Jesus' best friend, just when he thought that Jesus was going to make him Pope!  They're all vying for a special place in the kingdom.  They're all worried that Jesus is going to give something special to one of the other disciples and not to them. No one…or almost no one…understood, because almost everyone had forgotten about grace.  The Jewish people, of all people, should have understood the grace of God.  They lived it every day and they had for more than a thousand years.  God's grace was exemplified by the manna in the wilderness.  It was new every morning.  There was always just enough for the day.  God even miraculously provided a little extra for those days—the sabbaths—when you couldn't go out and gather it.  But otherwise, if you tried to store it up, if you tried to take more than you needed, if you tried to outdo your neighbours, do you remember what happened to the manna?  It rotted and stank and grew worms.  Brothers and Sisters, God's grace is always just enough to meet our needs and to see us through today.  I think that's why Jesus chose to tell his parable about those poor day-labourers.  A denarius was just enough for the day.  After you fed your family there was nothing left to save.  You went back to the town square in the morning and hoped someone would hire you for another day and another denarius.  The only difference being that God's grace is not a wage that we earn.  It's not a reward for good service.  It's not a sign of special status.  It's simply life in his presence, sustained by his goodness.  And it comes not by negotiating with him.  It comes as we enter into his covenant.  You don't get more because Jesus called you early nor do you get less because he called you late.  You get enough, just because he called you.  He promises his all for us and in return we promise our all to him.  In his gracious love he has given his Son for us and made us his covenant people.  In loving gratitude we give our all to him and to his kingdom.  We believed in the first place because we saw his goodness and his faithfulness manifest in Jesus and in his death and resurrection, and we continue to believe because, every day we put out our hands and he pours his grace into them, always just what we need for today.  Always what we need to accomplish the work he has set before us. I think that, too, is a key to the parable.  The men were summoned to work in the vineyard.  So was Israel and so are we.  Think way back to the beginning.  The Lord called Abraham for a reason.  He and his children were to be light in the darkness, they were to make the Lord known to a world that had forgotten him.  Israel was to be the people who lived with the living God in her midst so that the nations would see and know him.  When she failed in that mission, the Lord gave his Son to die on the cross and to rise from the grave in order to set his people to rights and to establish a new covenant and a new people.  And so we carry on the mission.  We proclaim the good news that Jesus is Lord and we live the life of the Spirit before the eyes of the watching world and they see the faithfulness of God on full display—a faithfulness that none of the gods or kings of this age can compare with—and they come, and they believe, and the Lord pours his grace into their hands just as he has ours and the mission goes on until the earth is filled with the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.  This is what Jesus meant when he said, “Seek first the kingdom of God and all these things will be given to you.”  That wasn't a promise of wealth or of power or of a position of privilege at his right hand over and above everyone else.  Brothers and Sisters, it was a promise of his grace—like the manna in the wilderness.  Always enough for today, for life and for work and for ministry and for whatever struggles we face and always enough to share with the people around us.  Always enough to do the kingdom work he has given us to do today. And that's where our Epistle today dovetails into the Gospel.  The Gospel speaks of grace, but because we are so prone to forgetting that grace requires discipline, the lectionary today give us this passage from Paul's first letter to the church in Corinth.  Let's look at those four verses again.  1 Corinthians 9:24-27. Don't you know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize?  So run in such a way that you'll win it.  Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to gain a crown that perishes; we do it for an imperishable one.  So then, I don't run aimlessly; I don't box like someone punching the air.  No, I discipline my body and make it my slave, lest after preaching to others, I myself should end up being disqualified. If you haven't read 1 Corinthians in a while, it's helpful to recall the context.  Paul knew the people there were believers.  They'd stretched out their hands and God had poured his grace into them.  But they weren't putting that grace to work for the sake of the kingdom.  They were using their Spirit-given gifts to build themselves up rather than each other and they were abusing God's grace to justify sins that, Paul writes, even made the pagans blush.  They were not seeking first the kingdom. Brothers and Sisters, the Christian life isn't aimless.  In calling us to himself, the Lord has given us a mission and a future hope.  St. Paul likens the Christian life to running a race and boxing in a match.  Serious athletes train.  Serious athletes discipline themselves.  They get up early, they eat healthy, and they work hard.  Paul first uses the illustration of a runner in a footrace.  If he's willing to discipline himself and put in that effort for a laurel crown, how much more ought we to discipline ourselves to run this race that ends with the resurrection of the dead and new creation and life in the presence of God?  But how often do we dink around instead?  How much do we invest in things that don't ultimately matter instead of pursuing Jesus and his kingdom with everything we've got?  Paul compares this to a poorly trained boxer throwing punches at the air instead of his opponent.  Aimlessly throwing punches won't win the prize.  Instead, it'll probably end with your opponent landing a knockout punch on you.  So Paul stresses the need to discipline ourselves—especially reigning in our sinful appetites.  He even talks about being disqualified in the end because of failure.  What's that about?  If we're saved by grace, how can we fail? Think of the grand biblical narrative of God and his people.  Too often we reduce things like God's salvation and his grace to abstract theological terms, but it's important we remember their place in the big story of God and his people.  Think again of Israel, delivered from Egypt by the Lord.  I mentioned this before, but let's expand on it. The people of Israel were slaves to Pharaoh.  They cried out to the Lord and he rescued them.  And yet he didn't just strike down Pharaoh and his army and set the Israelites free to go do whatever they wanted.  “Love you guys.  I'll see you in heaven someday.  Now go have fun.”  No, Israel was his people.  He'd called and claimed this people for himself in Abraham.  In delivering Israel from Pharaoh the Lord was claiming back what was rightly his.  And so he declared to Israel: You are my firstborn son.  I will be your God and you will be my people.  He led Israel through the Red Sea and through the wilderness, met them at Mt. Sinai, and there he entered into a covenant with them.  He gave them the law.  For his part, he would be their God with all that entailed.  Their part of the covenant—their obligation—was to fulfil the calling he gave them, to be the people who lived with him in their midst and, in doing that, to be a light in the midst of the nations.  The Lord had work to do.  He's going to set his fallen creation to rights and his plan all along has been to do that work through his people.  Adam was created to be the high priest and steward of his temple, his Creation.  And when the Lord called Abraham in his grace, when he saved Abraham's children from Egypt in his grace, it was to create a holy nation, a nation of priests, a people of grace to once again be his stewards on earth—as Adam once had been.  So the law was the means by which they maintained the holiness necessary to live in the Lord's presence and to be his witnesses.  So notice that the Lord's calling of Israel and his deliverance of her from Egypt were all of grace, and yet to live as his people meant devotion and discipline.  Because they had a job to do.  God made them stewards of his grace. And as we read through the Old Testament, Israel repeatedly failed in her disciplined devotion to the Lord and to the covenant he had established with them.  As the Prophets said, it was a heart problem.  And to fix that heart problem, Jesus brought forgiveness to his people—to those who put their faith in him and became part of the renewed people of God, and he gave them God's own Spirit to fix that heart problem, to turn their hearts towards the Lord.  Brothers and Sisters, you and I are part of that new covenant community, the people who belong to God through Jesus, the people whom he has redeemed from sin's bondage that we might be bound to him and to the service of his kingdom.  Jesus does not set us free so that we can go do whatever we want, so that we can serve the Lord half-heartedly, so that we can live with divided loyalties any more than the Lord delivered Israel from Egypt so that they could worship other gods or serve foreign kings.  Through Jesus, we have been redeemed so that we can be faithful stewards of the Lord in this world, to do what we were created to do in the first place, to be the people who live with the Lord himself in our midst and in that, to be light in the darkness, to be witnesses of God's grace and goodness and love and to declare the royal summons: Jesus is Lord.  To lift the veil on God's future, on his new creation so that the people around us can have a taste of what's to come. And it's hard work.  Hard enough that Jesus has given us his own Spirit, knowing that only by his Spirit can we ever labour through the heat of the day and accomplish our task.  The world, the flesh, and the devil compete for our loyalties.  The gods and kings of the present age fight back and oppose us.  Too often we try to live with one foot in the age to come and one still in the present age.  Our loyalties are still often divided between Jesus and the gods of the present age.  And even in the Church, we often put too much of our energy into things that don't ultimately matter.  Some of us might as well be sitting on the sidelines of the race.  Others of us are like the boxer wildly throwing punches, working up a sweat, but none of them ever landing where they'll do any good.  Brothers and Sisters, we owe the Lord our all in return for the grace he has poured out on us. The season of Lent is a time for us to focus on the grace that the Lord has poured out on us in Jesus.  But these three Sunday with the funny Latin names: Septuagesima, Sexagesima, and Quinquagesima…that means seventieth, sixtieth, and fiftieth as we count down to Easter…these three Sundays of preparation remind us that grace in action must be coupled with discipline, with humility, and with love.  If we are to be faithful stewards of the Lord's grace, we first need to dedicate ourselves to the Lord's grace.  We have to know it ourselves, before we can share it with others.  Brothers and Sisters, commit yourself to the Lord.  Give him your full allegiance as King.  Get up each morning and renounce the world, the flesh, and the devil, then go out to collect the manna for today.  Steep yourselves in the means of grace that he has given.  Be disciplined in immersing yourself in his word and in prayer and do not neglect to meet together, but exhort one another to love and to good works.  And receive the Lord's invitation to his Supper.  Here at his Table he reminds us of the sacrifice he made at the cross, giving his all…even his life…for our sake, to forgive our sins and to defeat even death itself, to make his enemies his friends.  Don't decline his invitation.  Put out your hands and take the bread, open your mouth and drink the wine, God's grace poured out for you in Jesus.  Be strengthened to work in the Lord's vineyard and remember that no matter how hard the work, his grace is always enough.   Let us pray: Father, in today's Collect we acknowledge that we who ought to be justly punished for offences have been mercifully delivered by your goodness and for the glory of your name.  We pray that we never forget the reason that you have delivered us and that our priority in all things will be the glory of your name as we share your grace with others and proclaim the good news about your kingdom and about the Lord Jesus.  Teach us to be faithful steward of your grace, O Lord.  Amen.  

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Epiphany St. Matthew 13:1-43 by William Klock   Seeds.  Matthew 13—most of it at least—is all about seeds.  Well, sort of.  It's about the kingdom of God.  But Jesus told the people about the kingdom using the imagery of seeds, because it was something familiar to them.  Obviously, they lived in an agrarian society, but more than that, the God of Israel had been using this imagery of seeds going all the way back to the Prophets and even back to Abraham.  Remember his promise all the way back at the beginning: he promised to bless the nations through Abraham's seed.  In other words, to set the world to rights through Abraham's descendants, through his family.  This image carries on through the prophets.  The seed grew and became a tree—or in other places it became a vine—but it failed to bear fruit.  The Lord warned that he would come to prune the dead wood—or even to cut the whole tree down.  And yet there was reason to hope.  The Lord keeps his promises.  Even if the tree were to be cut down, the seed would remain—and it would put forth a new shoot.  No matter how bad things might get, there was always reason to hope in the Lord. And so, as Chapter 13 begins, St. Matthew tells us that Jesus sat in a boat on the Sea of Galilee, just off from shore, to preach to a crowd on the beach.  “He had much to say to them, and he said it all in parables,” writes Matthew in verse 3.  And so Jesus begins: “Look!,” he said, “Once there was a sower who went out to sow.  As he sowed, some seed fell beside the path, and the birds came and ate it up.  Some seed fell on rocky soil, where it didn't have much earth.  It sprang up at once because it didn't have depth of soil.  But when the sun was high it got scorched, and it withered because it didn't have any root.  Other seed fell in among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it.  And other seed fell in good soil, and produced a crop, some a hundred times over, some sixty, and some thirty times over.  If you've got ears, listen!” The people had seen the Messiah things that Jesus was doing throughout Galilee.  Blind eyes and deaf ears opened, lepers cleansed and the dead raised.  Demons ran at his command.  In Jesus, God was on the move.  It was obvious.  The long winter was coming to an end.  Everywhere Jesus went the ground thawed and flowers began to spring up.  At the same time, it wasn't what they expected.  They knew the prophecies.  They knew the word of the Lord.  They knew his promises and they knew he was faithful.  And so they knew he would come to their rescue.  Like a sower sowing his seed, the Lord would one day sow Israel in her own land.  And so when Jesus began to tell a story of a sower going out to sow, they listened.  But it wasn't quite the story they were expecting.  The story Jesus told was a story of failure after failure after failure before—eventually—success!  Jesus was telling the story of Israel.  Over and over God had spoken.  Over and over he had sent his emissaries: priests, judges, kings, and prophets to speak his word and to set things to rights.  But the people wouldn't listen.  But now something was changing.  Jesus had their attention.  “If you've got ears, listen!” Jesus says.  In other words, “I get it.  This isn't what you expected.  It's hard to understand.  But things are different this time.  Really!  Stick with me.  Keep watching.  Keep listening.  And you'll figure it out.  You'll see that God is faithful.”  Eventually they would understand—at least some of them would—but for now thy were just confused. So were the disciples.  So, Matthew says, they “came to him.  ‘Why are you speaking to them in parables?” they asked.  So Jesus answered: “You have been given the gift of knowing the secrets of the kingdom of heaven.  But they haven't.  Anyone who already has something will be given more, and they will have plenty.  But anyone who has nothing—even what they have will be taken away!  That's why I speak to them in parables, so that they may look but not see, and hear but not understand or take it in.” Well, that doesn't seem very helpful, does it?  Every once in a while I hear someone claim that there are secret codes hidden in the Bible.  So far I have yet to discover that any of these secret codes is actually there.  The idea itself runs against the purpose of scripture.  God speaks because he wants us to hear him and to know him.  If scripture is hard to understand, that's on us, not on him.  But if that's true, why would Jesus speak in riddles.  That's how the disciples saw it.  And they knew: in Jesus the most important thing that had ever happened was happening.  Everyone needed to know about it.  So why not just say it plainly?  The thing is that it was the same for them as it is for us.  Jesus was speaking plainly.  Everyone knew that when he told a story about a sower planting seed, he was talking about the Lord sowing his promises for Israel.  They knew their story.  They knew the prophets.  The problem wasn't with Jesus.  The problem was with the people who thought they had it all figured out already.  The problem was with the people who thought the Messiah should come, for example, to take up a sword and establish his kingdom the way other kings established theirs.  And because they thought they had it all figured out, they weren't hearing what Jesus was plainly and simply saying. So Jesus says to the disciples (verse 14): “Isaiah's prophecy is coming true in them [in the people].”  And he quotes from Isaiah 6:9-10.  This was the Lord's commissioning and sending of Isaiah.  He was to go and say to the people, “You will listen but won't understand, you will look but not see.  This people's heart has gone flabby and fat, their ears are muffled and dull, their eyes are darkened and shut; in order that they won't see with their eyes or hear with their ears, or know in their heart, or turn back again for me to restore them.” Imagine being called as a prophet and the first message you're to declare is that no one will understand you.  What the Lord had promised to Isaiah was now being fulfilled in Jesus.  Like Isaiah, he would speak plainly, but the muffled ears of the people would be unable to hear.  Jesus goes on and says to his disciples: “But there's great news for your eyes: they can see!  And for your ears: they can hear!  I'm telling you the truth: many prophets and holy people longed to see what you see and didn't see it, and to hear what you hear and didn't hear it.” Now, the disciples knew their Bible.  They knew that in that same passage of Isaiah—in verse 13—they knew that was when the Lord spoke of judging the tree that was Israel.  All that would be left was a stump, and yet, says the Lord, “That stump is the holy seed.”  It was a prophecy of judgement followed by restoration.  So this is what would be in their heads as Jesus explains the parable to them. “This is what the sower story is all about,” Jesus went on.  “When someone hears the word of the kingdom and doesn't understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what was sown in the heart.  This corresponds to what was sown beside the path.  What was sown on rocky ground is the person who hears the word and immediately receives it with delight, but doesn't have any root of their own.  Someone like that only lasts a short time; as soon as there's any trouble or persecution because of the word, they trip up at once.  The one sown among thorns is the one who hears the word, but the world's worries and the seduction of wealth choke the word and it doesn't bear fruit.  But the one sown on good soil is the one who hears the word and understands it.  Someone like that will bear fruit: one will produce a hundred times over, another sixty, and another thirty times over.” So God's kingdom is coming.  That's the point of Jesus' parable.  But his point is also that it's not coming the way people expected.  Most people expected the kingdom to come in a blaze of glory.  The Lord would return to his people and defeat their enemies.  He would set everything to rights.  He would bring justice and peace and righteousness, beginning in Jerusalem and then extend his righteous rule throughout the earth.  But Jesus' parable says that, no, that's not how God's kingdom will come.  In fact, instead of coming with a blaze of glory, it's instead going to be like seed sown on the ground.  It's going to start quietly, many won't listen at first, but it will slowly and surely grow.  Because this is how the Lord works.  The story is as much about the history of Israel as it is about the people of First Century Judah or people today. This is how the Lord works and there's a good reason for it.  The world is not as it should be.  We long for the Lord to set it to rights.  But for him to come back in a blaze of glory to deal justly with the world's sin problem would mean that every last one of us would stand condemned.  This is why, along with his promises to set the world to rights, the Lord also spoke through the Prophets to say that he is patient and merciful and because of that, his judgement will be delayed so that (1) he can provide a means of salvation for us and so that (2) people will have time to hear this good news and believe.  The word—the seed—has to be sown and it needs time to germinate and grow. This is what the people of Jesus' day needed to understand.  Not only did they need this gospel seed in order to know God's mercy in the face of coming judgement, but so did the nations.  They thought the Lord would come, congratulate them for their faithfulness, set them on top of the heap, and then rain down fire and brimstone on the gentile nations, but the truth of the matter was, that they needed to be set right just as much as the gentiles did and it would be through the Lord's faithfulness to his people on display in the Messiah, that a new people would be born, that judgment would come on unfaithful Israel—and all of this before the eyes of the watching gentiles who would stand in awe of the God of Israel and be drawn to him in faith.  The Lord will set Israel and the world to rights, not only by judging sin, but even more so through his grace and mercy to those who believe.  This is how God would make good on his promises. Now, as I've been pondering this parable, one caution came to mind.  The parable was Jesus' way of telling the story of Israel.  God had sown the seed of his word over and over and people—or most of them—didn't listen.  The seed didn't take root.  And Jesus' point is that in him, this time, God was doing something new.  In him, the seed, the word had become flesh.  This time, through Jesus, the Lord would do something he'd never done before: he would pour out his Spirit.  And because of Jesus and the Spirit, the seed would finally grow and flourish—thirty, sixty, a hundred times over. Brothers and Sisters, Jesus and the Spirit have changed everything.  So I think we need to be at least a little cautious in how we think of this parable, because what we usually do when we hear about the seed on the path or the steed on the rocky soil, or the seed choked by thorns, what we usually do is say something like, “Don't be that kind of soil.  Don't let the birds take away the seeds.  Don't let the thorns choke it out.  Be the good soil.  Let the seed grow and put down deep roots.”  And there is something to be said for that.  People do let the cares of the world choke out gospel seed planted in them.  Some people are rocky soil and the seed looks like it's going to grow and then it withers and dies.  But here's the point—and never forget—that because of Jesus and because of the Spirit, everything is different.  They make the soil fertile and that's why God's word, ever since, has done what it has done.  That's why the church exists.  That's why this good news about the God of Israel has gone out and conquered the nations.  Because Jesus and the Spirit have made the soil fertile.  Without them the gospel seed will never take root and grow.  That's something else to remember in our ministry and evangelism.  We are stewards.  We're called to plant the seed.  But it is Jesus and the Spirit who cause it to grow. That doesn't mean we should just be passive hearers of the word.  Do the work.  Get rid of the rocks in the soil.  Pull the weeds that might choke it out.  But there's a promise here that if we will faithfully steep ourselves in God's gospel word, Jesus and the Spirit will cause it to take root and grow.  And if we will proclaim it, Jesus and the Spirit will grow the kingdom. Now, Matthew continues, Jesus put another parable to them.  Verse 24: “The kingdom of heaven is like this.  Once upon a time a man sowed good seed in his field.  While the workers were asleep, his enemy came and sowed weeds in among the wheat, and went away.  When the crop came up and produced wheat, then the weeds appeared as well.  So the farmer's servants came to him.  “Master,” they said, “didn't you sow good seed in your field?  Where have the weeds come from?”  “This is the work of an enemy,” he replied.  “So,” the servants said to him, “do you want us to go and pull them up?”  “No,” he replied.  “If you do that you'll probably pull up the wheat as well while you're collecting the weeds.  Let them both grow together until the harvest.  Then, when it's time for the harvest, I will give the reapers this instruction: First gather the weeds and tie them up in bundles to burn them, but gather the wheat into my barn.” Again, it's in our nature to want God to act right now.  We're tired of the pain and the tears.  We're tired of sin and death.  Why does God allow evil to continue?  In the next breath, Jesus tells the disciples that “the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed.  It's the smallest of all the seeds, btu when it grows it turns into the biggest of the shrubs.  It becomes a tree, and the birds in the sky can then come and nest in its branches.”  But, of course, the tree doesn't grow all at once.  That takes many, many years.  And then he talks about a different kind of “seed”: “The kingdom of heaven is like leaven, which a woman took and hid inside three measures of flour, until the whole thing was leavened.” Just the other day I saw a video in which a woman went on an angry rant about how her first attempt at bread went horribly wrong.  She turned her bread pan upside down and the loaf fell out and hit the floor with a loud “thud”.  She picked it up and banged it on the counter: “Clunk, clunk!”  “I followed the recipe exactly!” she yelled.  “Why didn't it work?”  And then in the comments she revealed that, yes, she'd mixed all the ingredients correctly, but she never let the dough rise.  She said she didn't have time for that. And sometimes we feel like we don't have time—or we shouldn't have to wait for God's word to do its work.  I have to remind myself all the time as a pastor to be patient.  God's word doesn't grow people (or the kingdom) overnight.  You probably—or you should—have to remind yourselves that God's word doesn't grow pastors overnight either.  It takes time.  That's why the Lord uses this imagery of God's word as seed all through scripture. But this also means we need to be patient and to wait for the Lord to do his thing.  The disciples weren't sure they understood this and they asked Jesus what the parable of the wheat and the weeds meant and Jesus said, “The one who sows the seed is the son of man.  The field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom.  The weeds are the children of the evil one; the enemy who sowed them is the devil.  The harvest is the close of the age, and the reapers are the angels.  So when the weeds are gathered and burned in the fire, that's what it will be like at the close of the age.  The son of man will send out his angels, and they will collect together out of his kingdom everything that causes offense, and everyone who acts wickedly.  They will throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father.  If you have ears, listen!” God's word will do its work.  The kingdom will grow.  The enemy will sow weeds in its midst, but nothing can stop God's word from bringing the life he sent it out to bring.  As surely as the mustard seed will grow into a giant tree.  As surely as the little lump of dough will rise and fill the bowl, God's kingdom will do the same.  If you ever doubt that, just remember what Jesus says here: “The one who sows the seed is the son of man”—is Jesus himself.  Jesus (and the Spirit) will grow the kingdom and nothing the devil can do will stop that.  And we can trust that one day God's justice will confront our old enemies, sin and death, and put an end to them forever.  I think that what Jesus had in mind here was the judgement soon to come on Judah, Jerusalem, and the temple but as that judgement showed God's faithfulness to his promises, it also points forward to that time at the end of history, that time when the seed has grown into the great tree, when the leaven has worked its way through the whole loaf, when the gospel has gone out and the glory of the Lord covers the earth as the waters cover the sea, we can trust that God will deal with the wicked and with sin and death once and for all and the righteous will shine like the sun.  That's an image of resurrection that Jesus takes from the Prophet Daniel. When something doesn't seem right or when it doesn't seem like it's going to work, the experts love to say “trust the process”.  And, Brothers and Sisters, that's exactly what Jesus is asking us to do.  He's planted the seed himself.  He's shed his own blood to water the soil.  He's given God's Spirit to make the soil of human hearts fertile.  And he's done none of that in vain.  His gospel seed will surely grow and if it seems like it's taking too long, remember that it's all for the sake of his grace and mercy—grace and mercy you and I already know, but grace and mercy that the rest of the world still needs to know for themselves.  Grace and mercy that, like the death and resurrection of Jesus, reveal the God who is worthy of glory, honour, and praise. Let's pray: Heavenly Father, keep your household the Church continually in your true religion; that those who lean only on the hope of your heavenly grace may always be defended by your mighty power, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany St. Matthew 8:1-13 by William Klock   Have you ever met someone with leprosy?  Probably not.  Today it's extremely rare.  We hardly give it a thought.  But in the ancient world it was one of the most dreaded diseases.  It began with the loss of feeling in your extremities and nodules that would turn into ulcers.  The loss of feeling spread.  The ulcers never healed.  Your hair would fall out and your eyes would go blind.  Ulcers would form on your vocal cords, leaving your voice hoarse and rasping.  Gangrene would set in.  Eventually you would lose fingers and toes and sometimes whole limbs.  Sometimes it led to madness.  Eventually it would lead to death, but not quickly.  Some forms of leprosy would take a decade to run their course and others twenty or thirty years. But as bad, if not worse than the physical misery was the fact that it was contagious.  That made lepers outcasts.  The Jewish historian Josephus tells us that lepers were treated “as if they were, in effect, dead men”.  When a person was diagnosed with leprosy, they were immediately banished from family and community.  In Leviticus 13:46 the Lord had commanded, “He shall remain unclean as long as he has the disease. He is unclean. He shall live alone. His dwelling shall be outside the camp.”  And people didn't get better from leprosy.  That's why it was a miracle when the Lord intervened to heal Naaman the Syrian of his leprosy.  Consider that in medieval Europe, before he was cast out, a leper was brought to the church one last time so the priest could read the burial service over him.  So to be a leper was, for all intents and purposes, to be dead.  Not, of course, to yourself, but dead to your family, your friends, and your community.  In Israel lepers were barred from Jerusalem and from any walled town or city.  The law described over sixty types of contact that would render a person unclean and contact with a leper was second only to contact with a dead body.  If a leper so much as poked his head through the door of your house, your house would be rendered unclean.  One rabbi boasted that he threw stones at lepers to keep them at a distance, because that's where they belonged.  Keep that in mind as we look again at today's Gospel.  Look with me at Matthew 8:1-4. When Jesus came down from the mountain, large crowds followed him.  Suddenly a leper came to him and knelt down in front of him.  “Lord,” he said, “if you want, you can make me clean!”  Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him.  “I do want to,” he said.  “Be clean!”  And at once his leprosy was cleansed.  “Take care,” Jesus said to him, “that you don't say anything to anyone.  Instead, go and show yourself to the priest, and make the offering which Moses commanded.  That will be the proof to them.”   For the last three chapters Jesus has been preaching the Sermon on the Mount.  So he's been preaching to the crowds about the kingdom of God—what it's going to be like and who's going to be part of it.  And I can imagine the people in the crowd nodding in approval as they listened—but the real weight of it not really sinking in.  It's often like that when he hear God's word.  Something like “Love your neighbour.”  We agree.  We think, “Oh, that's good.”  But the real radicalness of it doesn't sink in.  And then something happens—we're faced with a choice, we encounter a person—and the Spirit brings that lesson to mind and we realise just how much God and the gospel expect of us.  Sometimes we fail the test.  Imagine the crowd that had been listening to Jesus preach, now following him into town and this leper approaches Jesus.  And everything Jesus has been saying about the kingdom is forgotten.  People are thinking, “Stupid leper!  Doesn't he know he shouldn't be here!  How dare he come so close to the rabbi!”  They've just heard Jesus preaching at length about the kingdom, but I expect at least some of them saw the leper and were thinking to themselves that if Jesus were a good rabbi, he would tell this man to take a hike—to obey torah and get out of town—maybe even throw rocks at him. Imagine their surprise when instead of quoting Leviticus at the man and telling him to get lost, Jesus stops as the man kneels at his feet.  That says something right there.  When this leper saw Jesus he saw the Messiah.  Jews didn't prostrate themselves before any old person.  This posture was reserved for the Lord.  In some way, shape, or form he saw in Jesus the God of Israel.  And with his hoarse and damaged voice he rasps out, “Lord, if you want, you can make me clean!  Please make me clean.”  And to their horror, Jesus reaches out and touches the man.  The law said that a leper could come no closer to a healthy person than a cubit and Matthew makes a point describing Jesus reaching out, stretching out his arm to its full length across that distance to bridge the gap between himself and the leper, so that he could make contact with him, to touch the untouchable, to draw in the outcast.  And Jesus says to him, “I want just that.  Be clean.” Uncleanness should have passed from the leper to Jesus.  Obviously you couldn't see something like that, but everyone knew that that was the law, ever since the Lord had spoken it through Moses.  Touch a leper and you become unclean.  So imagine their surprise when they did see something happen.  They saw cleanness pass from Jesus to the leper.  As they watched the man was healed.  His sores healed and disappeared.  His sight cleared.  His voice became whole again.  Maybe fingers and toes even grew back before their watching eyes.  The leprosy was gone.  The man was restored.  His death sentence was lifted. Now, the sermon on the mount wasn't just an abstract ethical manifesto that Jesus delivered to a group of people who could have been from anywhere or any time.  It was a declaration that the kingdom of God had come in fulfilment of the prophets, a declaration that the Messiah had finally come to set God's people to rights.  They desperately need and longed for that.  Ever since they had been called in Abraham, ever since they had, as a nation, been adopted by the Lord as his covenant people, they had in one way or another failed him and failed to be the people he had called and delivered them to be.  They gave their hearts to idols.  They gave their hearts to kings.  They put their trust in horses and chariots.  They oppressed the widow and the orphan and took advantage of the poor and the stranger.  Their rabbis threw stones at lepers who dared get too close.  The nation had repeatedly known the Lord's discipline.  The faithful remnant amongst the people had cried out for centuries to the Lord for help and through the prophets he had promised that he would come, that he would deliver, that he would forgive, that he would put his own Spirit in the hearts of his people and turn them away from sin and self and fill them with love for him and for their neighbours. And now, here it is.  There's a reason we read this Gospel during this season in which we recall and celebrate Jesus' epiphany, his manifestation.  Jesus has just preached about the restoration of fallen Israel, the adulterous bride, to her Lord and the first person he meets as he heads down the mountain and into town is this poor man, cut off from his people, for all intents and purposes dead.  He has lost his covenant status.  He has lost his family—not just his biological family, but his covenant family.  He hasn't known the temple or the Passover for who knows how many years.  In the Lord's providence this man is symbolic of the whole nation of Israel.  Israel hadn't heard the Lord's voice or known his presence in the temple for almost six hundred years.  She was governed and oppressed by pagans.  But as he has humbled himself so far as to take on human flesh, to be born of a Jewish woman, to become one of his own rebellious people, to reach out to them, just so Jesus stretches out his hand across the distance between himself and this believing leper and makes him whole.  This lost son who was dead is alive again. And Jesus doesn't leave it at that.  He sends this man—in accordance with the law—to see the priest so that the priest can see that he has been healed and so that he can restore him to the covenant family.  There are other times in the Gospels that Jesus bypassed the temple and the priests to make a point, but early here in his ministry he instead sends this man to the priests.  It backs up the message he had just preached when he said that he had come not to abolish the law and the prophets, but to fulfil them.  And, too, it sent a message to the priests of Israel.  Like I said, people didn't recover form leprosy.  If they got better and the diagnosis was lifted by a priest, it was probably because it wasn't leprosy in the first place.  I doubt this priest had ever seen a bona fide healing from leprosy.  They might talk about Naaman the Syrian, but no one had ever seen a healing like that for themselves.  And now this man shows up at the home of the local priest—maybe even the priest who had diagnosed him and declared him unclean—and he served as a message from Jesus: the kingdom is at hand.  Israel was about to be set to rights and restored.  And it was all centred in Jesus the Messiah.  The people—and their priests—had a choice before them: Repent and believe in Jesus or find yourself weeping and gnashing your teeth in the darkness when judgement comes—on the outside of the covenant family as this leper had been for so many years.  Repent and believe that in Jesus the Lord was finally here to visit his people, to answer their prayer, and these lost sons and daughters would be invited into their Father's great banquet.  Jesus had come to set Israel to rights. Many of the people in the crowd watched this with joy.  The Messiah really had come.  That great feast Israel had been waiting for was being prepared.  According to one Jewish tradition the main courses at that feast would be Behemoth, the great mythical land monster, and Leviathan, the great sea monster.  Some in the crowd, having heard Jesus preach and having seen the leper healed could already smell the great beasts roasting in the oven like Thanksgiving turkeys.  And then as they reach Capernaum a Roman centurion approaches Jesus.  If the Lord's great banquet was being prepared, this man certainly didn't belong there! Centurions were the backbone of the Roman army and a reminder to the Jews that they were a conquered people.  Matthew doesn't tell us if this centurion was a kind man or a cruel one or how he used his authority.  None of that really matters.  He could have been the kindest man in the world, but he was still a local representative of Rome and a gentile.  He didn't belong in that joyful messianic throng.  But down the main street of the town he came.  Look at Matthew 8:5-9. When he had entered Capernaum, a centurion came up and pleaded with him, “Lord,” he said, “my son is lying paralyzed at home, suffering terribly.”  And Jesus said to him, “I will come and heal him.”  But the centurion replied, “Lord, I don't deserve to have you come under my roof!  Just say the word, and my servant will be healed.  I know what authority is all about, you know—I've got soldiers answering to me, and I can say to one of them, “Go!” and he goes, and to another “Come here!” and he comes, and I can say, “Do this,” to my slave, and he does it.”   The centurion appeals to Jesus.  Matthew's word choices stress the man's desperation.  He addresses Jesus as “Lord”.  He'd surely heard the talk about Jesus being the Jewish Messiah—the Lord—but being a Roman he probably didn't care about that.  He simply knew that Jesus could heal, that he could fix his desperate situation.  He'd heard the stories.  Maybe he'd even seen the leper, running into town to show himself to the priest.  Exactly who or what Jesus was, that wasn't really his concern.  He simply saw in Jesus a man with power and authority.  A man who could, as Tolkien once put it, make the sad things of this world come untrue, and such a man, Jewish or not, Messiah or not, was worthy of respect.  “Lord, my son is at home, paralysed, sick, and suffering.”  As Luke and John tell this story, the young boy was near death.  But if Jesus could heal others, he could heal this man's son. And Jesus said, “I will come and heal him.”  At this point everyone—the Centurion, the Jewish crowd following Jesus, everyone—they stopped and gasped.  They shouldn't have, but I'm sure they did, because that would have been the natural response of anyone when an upright and godly Jew—a rabbi no less—went to the house of a gentile.  The Mishnah declared in no uncertain terms, “The dwelling places of gentiles are unclean,” and even though it came centuries later, we know the Jews of Jesus day thought no differently.  Gentiles were ritually unclean, but everyone present should have known that this wasn't a problem for Jesus.  Jesus touched the leper and instead of contracting his impurity, passed purity to the leper, restoring him to the community of the people of God.  Jesus could enter the home of a gentile and do the same thing. So the Centurion was shocked by Jesus' offer to come to his house.  He refuses with those words so often misused in celebrations of the Lord's Supper: “No.  Don't come to my house.  I'm not worthy that you should come under my roof.”  It's not that the Centurion thought he was personally unworthy, but that he knew the Jewish customs.  His job was to maintain order and the last thing he wanted was a ruckus resulting from a popular rabbi entering his house.  That would just stir up trouble and that was the last thing a Centurion wanted.  His job was to the keep the peace.  And so he says to Jesus, “You don't need to come to my house.  You and I are alike.  We both have authority.  I know how it works.  I have authority over the men in my command.  I send orders for this man to come and he comes.  I send orders for this man to go and he goes.  If you truly have the authority over sickness and demons that I think you have, then you can do the same.  If you order this disease to go, it will go.  If you order that demon to come, it will come.  Give the orders and my little boy will be healed.” Now it was Jesus' turn to be surprised.  Matthew says he marvelled.  He was amazed by what he'd just heard.  Look at verse 10: When Jesus heard this, he marvelled and said to the people who following him, “I'm telling you the truth.  I haven't found faith like this—not even in Israel!  Let me tell you this: lots of people will come from east and west and join the great feast with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven.  But the children of the kingdom will be thrown into outer darkness, where people will weep and gnash their teeth.”  Then to the Centurion he said, “Go home.  Let it be for you as you believed.”  And his son was healed at that very moment.   Notice how Jesus turns to the crowd, to his fellow Jews.  Here they are, following Jesus down the mountain, ready for him to lead them into the age to come when everything is set to rights, ready to sit in his presence at that great banquet and feast on behemoth and leviathan.  And the parade is stopped by this dog of a gentile who has no place in that feast.  When the day comes, they're thinking, the Lord will take care of men like him.  He may strut around Capernaum, in charge of the place today, but one day he would be out in the darkness, weeping and gnashing his teeth.  Some probably thought—maybe even expected—Jesus to give him a little foretaste of that right now.  But instead, Jesus turns and commends the man's faith to everyone.  (This is why people didn't like Jesus!)  He contrasts the faith of this gentile—a pagan they considered the enemy—Jesus uses it to expose the lack of faith he has seen in Israel.  And he quotes from the Old Testament.  Psalm 107:3 and Isaiah 43:5 (and Baruch 4:37) all speak of the Lord's promises to restore scattered Israel, bringing her lost sons and daughters from east and west.  But here Jesus puts a twist on those prophecies and promises.  “When Israel is restored,” he's saying, “When you sit at the Lord's great feast with your fathers, with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and feast on behemoth and leviathan and celebrate your restoration and the great faithfulness of the Lord, your brothers and sisters from east and west will be there, and this man represents them.  Yes, the Lord will bring Jews from east and west, but he will bring others and they, too, will have a share in the Lord's new covenant and in the age to come.  And many of those who think that by birth alone they have a right to be in that banquet…well…they will find themselves out in the dark, weeping and gnashing their teeth.” Jesus knew that it wasn't yet the time for gentiles to come flooding into the kingdom, taking hold of the robes of Jews, as Zechariah had prophesied, and saying, “Let us go with you, for we have heard that God is with you.”  But in this centurion he saw a foretaste of that day not so far off.  It was a promise most of his fellow Jews had forgotten—or deliberately ignored—in favour of the promises of the great banquet, the setting things to rights, the restoration of Israel.  But this was the reason for Israel's existence as a people, even if few remembered it.  Simeon was one of those who remembered and having met the infant Jesus at his presentation in the temple he sang those familiar words: Lord, now lettest thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word.  For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou has prepared before the face of all people; to be a light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of thy people Israel.  (Luke 2:29-32) Jesus would be the glory of Israel in that he would fulfil their mission to be a light to the nations—bringing them to the God of Israel.  In that he would fulfil the law and the prophets and manifest the faithfulness of God.  Again that great theme of epiphany. Jesus commended the centurion's faith and sent him home to his healed little boy, the firstfruits—after a fashion at any rate—of the nations who would see the faithfulness of the God of Israel manifest in Jesus, come to him in faith to give him glory, and would themselves not only be healed and set to rights, but incorporated into this covenant family as sons and daughters of God, seated at the great banquet to feast on behemoth and leviathan. So, Brothers and Sisters, come to the Lord's Table this morning.  In the bread and wine we recall and participate in the great exodus that Jesus wrought at the cross, here we remember and are assured that we belong to him.  Here we take hold of his blood-stained robe and say, “Take us with you, for we have heard that God is with you.”  And here the veil is lifted on the age to come as Jesus gives us a foretaste of the great banquet that awaits us on the day when he will, finally and once and for all, set us and all of his creation to rights.  In the meantime, Friends, take the grace you have found at his Table out into the world and live it for all to see.  Take the good news of Jesus, crucified and risen, with you and proclaim it to all.  As sons and daughters of God, you are stewards of the gospel.  Let every day be Epiphany.  Make the Gospel, make the life of Jesus and the Spirit manifest in what you do and what you say so that the people around you will say, “Take us with you, for we have heard that God is with you.” Let's pray: O God, you know us to be set in the midst of so many and great dangers, that by reason of the frailty of our nature we cannot always stand upright: grant to us such strength and protection as may support us in all dangers and carry us through all temptations; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday after the Epiphany St. John 2:1-11 by William Klock On the third day there was a wedding at Cana in Galilee.  Jesus' mother was there, and Jesus and his disciples were also invited to the wedding.   “On the third day.”  All through the first week of John's Gospel he tells us, “On the next day…on the next day,” but now it's not just the next day, but the third day.  That should resonate with us.  John knew that a Christian can't—or shouldn't be able to—hear “the third day” and not think of the resurrection of Jesus from the dead.  John's Gospel is a story of the birth of God's new creation and it culminates on the third day after Jesus was crucified, the day when Jesus burst from the tomb, triumphant over sin and death to inaugurate God's new world.  Already here at the beginning of the story John wants us to anticipate, to be looking forward to Jesus' resurrection.  God, in Jesus the Messiah, is going to do something amazing this day—something will show a bit of his new creation and reveal his glory. So Mary and Jesus are invited to a wedding in Cana and Jesus' disciples along with him.  Cana was small village just a few kilometres from Nazareth.  The people of one town would have known the people of the other.  Many of them would have been related, which explains why Mary and Jesus were invited.  One Second Century extra-biblical source says that Mary and the groom's mother were sisters.  Another fairly early source claims that the groom's mother was Mary's sister, Salome—which would make the groom none other than John.  It's hard to say how reliable these traditions are.  They're not inspired scripture.  But if they're true they certainly make sense of the details in the story.  John tells it as someone who was an eyewitness. Weddings in that world were a big deal.  Way more of a big deal than even the biggest weddings are in our culture.  The whole thing would begin with a feast.  The actual ceremony would follow later in the evening.  Once married, the guests, carrying torches, would parade the couple to their new home.  They would wind their way through the town, taking the longest route possible so that the guests could wish them well for as long as possible.  But that wasn't the end of it.  The bride and groom didn't go away on a honeymoon.  Instead, they would keep an open house for the rest of the week.  They'd dress like a king and queen while they entertained their guests.  You can imagine how big a deal and what a time of celebration and happiness this would be in a time and place when people were poor and spent their lives in hard work. Picture the festivities.  People eating and drinking, celebrating the bride and groom, and enjoying themselves.  It was a reminder for them of what the Lord had promised it would be like on the day when he would finally return to set his world to rights.  The Prophet Isaiah had written: On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all the peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear. And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever. (Isaiah 25:6-8) The world was not as it was supposed to be, but a wedding gave the people an opportunity to look forward to the day when the Lord would visit them, wipe away their tears, and defeat their enemies—even, somehow, death itself. Now as we're picturing this great celebration, John writes that the wine ran out. This was bad.  Really, really bad.  There was no such thing as teetotaling in Jesus' day.  The rabbis said that without wine there is no joy.  You couldn't have a feast without it.  That doesn't mean they were all drunk.  The Bible condemns drunkenness and so did Jewish society, but they nevertheless enjoyed their wine as one of God's great gifts.  So to run out of wine at a wedding was a party killer.  More than that, it was a disgrace to the groom.  Hospitality was a big deal and the groom was responsible for being hospitable to his guests.  But where did all the wine come from?  The groom's family provided some, but so did the guests.  Depending on their relation with the groom and whether or not they were married or unmarried, there was an expectation amongst the male guests of reciprocal gifts.  An unmarried relative might bring ten dinars worth of wine to the feast with the expectation that when it was his wedding day, the groom would return the favour with ten dinars of wine himself.  For others, the groom's generous hospitality at this wedding was in return for the hospitality they had once shown to him.  If the wine ran out, it wasn't just a social disgrace for the groom—it could heap financial obligations on him that would be hard to repay.  Remember, these weren't wealthy people.  Cana was a small country village. So the wine ran out.  Maybe it was even Jesus' fault.  It's hard to say whether or not he would have been expected to bring his own gifts of wine.  That sort of thing was probably beyond his means.  But regardless of that, he shows up at the wedding with his disciples.  How many is also hard to say.  Up to this point, John has only told us of four, but John tells the story out of order, so that doesn't mean all twelve—or even more—weren't there with Jesus.  In a situation where people would have taken great pains to make sure there was enough wine for everyone, the presence of Jesus and his disciples may explain why it ran out. The worried servants went to the hostess, the groom's mother to tell her disaster had struck.  Mary—possible her sister—was there with her.  Maybe—again, I'm speculating—but maybe that's why they went to her first: “Your son and his friends were guzzling away despite having brought no wine themselves!”  And so, John writes, “Mary, Jesus' mother, said to him, “They have no wine!”  Whatever the case, it's clear that Mary told Jesus because she expected him to do something about it.  And by do something about it, I don't mean ducking out for a quick stop at the Cana liquor store to grab a case of wine.  Getting more wine wasn't nearly that easy.  I think it's pretty clear that Mary was expecting some kind of miracle even though, by all accounts, this would be Jesus' first.  But Mary knew who he was, she knew that he'd finally begun his ministry, she knew he'd been baptised by John and had heard all about that whole scene with the heaven's being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove.  She'd met these men he'd been calling as his disciples.  Mary knew: it was time for the Messiah to start doing Messiah things and what better opportunity—and especially so if Jesus and his disciples were the reason why the groom was in this awful spot. And yet, John writes, Jesus replied, “Oh woman!  What's that got to do with you and me?  My time hasn't yet come.” What does Jesus mean?  He responds to Mary with a phrase that's found quite a few times through the Old Testament.  Specifically, though, I think Jesus is deliberately recalling an episode from the ministry of the Prophet Elisha.  In 2 Kings 3 we read about the kings of Israel, Judah, and Edom.  They were on their way to do battle with Moab.  Their armies had been travelling for a week and had run out of water.  They were thirst—just like the wedding guests were about to be thirsty.  The King of Israel was wailing that the Lord had sent them out only to be defeated by the Moabites, but King Jehoshaphat—the King of Judah—told them that the Prophet Elisha was nearby and they should go to him and inquire of the Lord.  Elisha wasn't keen on Jehoshaphat's request.  “What's that got to do with you and me?” he asks the King.  (Those are the same words Jesus says to Mary.)  But Jehoshaphat insists.  The Lord had sent them to battle Moab, but without water Moab would defeat them.  So Elisha finally relents to the King's request and the Lord speaks through him: “You shall see no wind or rain, but the streambed will be filled with water…and he will also give the Moabites into your hand.”  And, sure thing, the next morning a nearby stream was filled with water.  Not only that, they defeated the Moabites just as the Lord had promised. That Jesus adds that it wasn't yet his time, I think highlights that what Mary is asking of him runs a very good chance of getting him into trouble.  Jesus hadn't yet officially launched his public ministry, but doing what Mary was asking him to do would get him noticed and being exposed as Messiah—well—it was bound to spark opposition.  But I have to think that Mary knew her Bible and recognised Jesus' echo of Elisha.  She knew he would do something and so she turns to the servants—again, this suggests that she was an insider to this family and was involved with the preparations for the feast—she turns to the servants and she tells them what to do with her own quote echoing the Bible: “Do whatever he tells you to do.” Those were the words of Pharaoh to the Egyptians when he put Joseph in charge of Egypt.  Remember Pharoah's dreams about the grain and the cows and how Joseph interpreted them to mean that Egypt was about to experience seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine.  Pharaoh was impressed with Joseph's wisdom and put him in charge of Egypt.  For seven years the crown would store up as much grain as possible for the famine to come.  Pharaoh presented Joseph to the people and said, “Do whatever he tells you to do.”  And Joseph, because the Lord was with him, saved Egypt.  And now Jesus, because the Lord is with him, will save the wedding.  Like Joseph saving the Egyptians.  Like the Lord causing that dry streambed to run with water. So, John writes, “Six stone water-jars were standing there, ready for use in the Jewish purification rites.  Each held about twenty or thirty gallons.” Big stone jars.  This was the water used to wash people's feet when they came in from the streets and it was the water they used to wash their hands before a meal and between courses, so that they would be ritually pure.  The jars were big and there were so many of them, because the water was usually poured into a mikvah—like a big bath that could be used for immersion.  Presumably these had already been emptied into the mikvah and were standing empty.  John writes: “‘Fill the jars with water,' said Jesus to the servants.  And they filled them, right up to the brim.”  This was no small thing for them to do.  Did they have to carry the water to the jars or the jars to the water?  Whichever it was, there would have been a lot of heaving and grunting and it would have taken time to fill those six big, heavy jars.  But they obeyed.  Then Jesus said, “‘Now draw some out and take it to the chief steward.'  They did so,” writes John. Surely they could see and smell the wine as they drew it out and you can imagine them running excitedly to the chief steward.  He was sort of the ancient Jewish equivalent of a wedding planner and head waiter for the wedding.  He had no idea that the wine had run out.  He was just wondering what had taken the servants so long to bring more.  John goes on, “When the chief steward tasted the water that had turned into wine (he didn't know where it had come from, but the servants who had drawn the water knew), he called the bride-groom.” The chief steward is confused.  This wine was good.  Really good.  Better than anything they'd served so far.  I'll go so far as to say that since Jesus made it, it was probably the best wine anyone has ever tasted in the history of the human race before or since.  And so the steward went to the groom.  It was too late now, but he had to say it: “What everybody normally does,” he said, “is to serve the good wine first, and then the worse stuff when people have had plenty to drink.  But you've kept the good wine until now!” I can only imagine the groom's confusion?  What's this guy talking about?  We did serve the best wine first.  And then he took a sip and was even more confused.  The steward was right.  This was the best.  In fact, it was better than any wine he'd ever had—certainly better than any wine he could afford, better than any wine made in Cana or even the whole of Galilee.  And what they'd find before too long wasn't just that it was the best wine ever, but that there was no danger of it running out.  If you do the math, those six stone jars full to the brim with wine work out to about 900 modern bottles of wine.  Jesus never skimped, because God's new creation is all about abundance.  Like the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand, there was always plenty left over.  It pointed to the new thing God was doing in Jesus.  These miracles reminded people of God's provision of manna in the wilderness, but whereas there was ever only enough manna for the day and anything left over would spoil, in Jesus God's abundant provision was a good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over.  Brothers and Sisters, that's God's amazing grace. John then wraps up his telling of the wedding saying, “This event, in Cana of Galilee, was the first of Jesus' signs.  He displayed his glory, and his disciples believed in him.” He displayed his glory—that's kind of the theme of John's whole Gospel.  And seeing his glory, the disciples believed.  I have to think others at that feast believed too.  The quality and the abundance of the wine—imagine the people of that little village scrambling for skins to hold all that wine so it didn't go to waste—they saw the promises of God, the words of the prophets beginning to come true.  As it turns out, it was indeed Jesus' time.  In the very next episode John tells, Jesus goes to the temple in Jerusalem and throws out the money-changers and the merchants and announces the coming destruction of the temple and a new one that he will build in three days.  There's John reminding us about those three days again. But the disciples.  Jesus had just been calling them.  First, Andrew and Peter, who had been disciples of John the Baptist, and then Philip and Nathanael.  And here, John says, they believed.  Just the day before Nathanael had said to Jesus, “You're the son of God.  You're the king of Israel.”  “Wait a minute,” Jesus said back to him, “Are you telling me that you believe just because I told you I saw you under the fig tree?  You'll see a lot more than that!  In fact, I'm telling you the solemn truth.  You'll see heaven opened, and God's angels ascending and descending on the son of man.”  And see he did.  I wonder if Nathanael had any idea he'd see such great things so soon.  Again, John says that the disciples saw the sign and they believed. That was the purpose of Jesus' signs.  With each one he planted another signpost pointing his people towards God's new creation.  This time the wine was the signpost, pointing to that feast for all the peoples, the feast of rich food, the feast of well-aged wines the prophet had foretold.  In Jesus the God of Israel was on the move—turning famine into feast, sparing his people from disaster, saving the day—leading the people towards God's new creation. Again, when John gives us details, they're always rich with symbolism.  Those six stone jars for the rites of purification are one of those symbols.  The stone jars are symbolic of the law and of the old covenant.  Jesus doesn't ignore them or smash them.  They served a good purpose.  Just as the old covenant was God's way of preparing his people for the new, Jesus fills those jars with his wine.  He made them useless for their original purpose in order to serve a new and better one—to usher in a feast where no one would ever again have to worry about being unclean, because the son of God has shed his own blood to make us clean once and for all. That's the final sign in John's Gospel. At the end—after Thomas has examined Jesus' wounds—on the third day—John writes that “Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which aren't written in this book.  But these are written so that you may believe that the Messiah, the son of God, is none other than Jesus; and that, with faith, you may have life in his name.”  Jesus' resurrection was the final and ultimate signpost.  Follow it in faith and you become part of God's new creation yourself, washed clean by Jesus and filled with God's Spirit. And that brings us to a final point.  Those words of Mary, quoting Joseph: “Do whatever he tells you to do.”  Brothers and Sisters, believing—faith—produces obedience.  Obedience isn't always easy.  Think of those servants and the big stone jars and 120 gallons of water.  It was through the faithful obedience of those servants that Jesus manifested God's new creation at the wedding.  And so it is with us.  Brothers and Sisters, we have seen his glory.  Now we follow—we obey—in faith.  Kingdom work is hard work, but it is joyful work.  It's work that wipes away the tears of the people around us.  It's work that brings God's abundant grace to the lost.  It's work that reinforces our hope.  God will surely set this broken world to rights as the good news of Jesus, crucified and risen, goes out—light spreading in the darkness.  But remember, it doesn't go out by itself and more than that wine made it to the steward and the guests all by itself.  That's why God's called us—just as he called John to tell his story.  He's forgiven us by the blood of Jesus and made us his own; he's equipped us by filling us with his own Spirit, and he's given us—he's made us stewards of—the story, of the gospel, of the good news.  We're the servants joyfully carrying Jesus' wine to the wedding guests that might rejoice and be glad and see his glory. So come to Jesus' Table this morning.  The Lord's Supper is another of his signposts pointing to his kingdom.  Come and feast.  Eat his bread and drink his wine, then go out in faith to do whatever he tells you.  Go out to live and to proclaim the good news of Jesus the Messiah that all the world might see God's glory. Let's pray: Heavenly Father, in Jesus you have shown us your glory.  Strengthen us now that might be faithful stewards of your good news, going out in faith to make your gospel of glory known to the world.  Through Jesus our Lord we pray.  Amen.  

A Sermon for the Second Sunday after the Epiphany Romans 12:6-16 & St. Mark 1:1-11 by William Klock The beginning of the good news about Jesus the Messiah, God's son.   With those words, Mark launches into telling the story of Jesus.  It's gospel.  It's good news.  Good news as in “Ding, dong, the witch is dead!”  Good news as in “Aslan is on the move.”  Good news as in the war is over and now we'll know peace.  Good news as in the old tyrant has been run out and a new, good king has taken his place.  That's what good news means.  Everything has changed because of it and life will never be the same.  Good news stand in contrast to good advice.  Try the new burrito place.  Go for a walk on the new trail.  Buy a Honda.  Maybe.  Probably.  But none of the burrito place, the trail, the Honda won't change your life, let alone the world.  Good advice?  You can take it or leave it.  Good news?  Good news can't be ignored. And this good news, says Mark, isn't any old good news.  It's bigger than “the war is over”.  It's bigger than Caesar has defeated his rivals.  This is the good news that in Jesus the promised and long-awaited Messiah has come.  And, Mark adds, that he's the son of God.  To Jews that meant something different than it does to most of us.  To us it sounds like a statement of Jesus divinity.  But for Jews—well—“son of God” was Israel's title—one the Lord had given them when he demanded Pharaoh let them go, one that he'd given them again at Mount Sinai.  So Mark's announcement is that Jesus has come to represent his people.  That's what king's do.  And Jesus is the Messiah—God's anointed King. So right at the outset Mark tells us that this good news is the story of the Messiah, the King, who has come defeat the enemies of his people and to set everything wrong to right.  This good news is that the King has come and so has his kingdom and because of that, everything has changed.  And because of that both Israel and the gentile nations face a choice: Will they come in faith to the king and give him their allegiance or will they stand as enemies of his kingdom? Centuries before, the prophet Isaiah declared, “How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who announces peace…happiness…salvation…who announces…“Your God reigns.”  When St. Mark thought of those beautiful feet he thought of John the Baptist.  He quotes another passage from Isaiah—one about the Lord sending a messenger to prepare his way.  And he quotes the Prophet Micah, too: “A shout goes up in the desert.  Make way for the Lord!  Prepare the way for him!” That was John.  John had been sent to prepare Israel.  The Lord had heard their cries, as he'd heard them crying out from Egypt and from Babylon.  And he was coming to visit and to deliver again—this time once and for all.  The world was going to change forever.  And so, says Mark, John led the people out into the desert, to the banks of the Jordan River, and summoned them to be baptised as an act of repentance and a sign of forgiveness.  Picture  John, out in the desert, on the banks of the Jordan with all those people.  It was a prophetic reenactment of the crossing of the Red Sea.  And as so many people do when they're sure the Lord is drawing near, the people confessed their sins.  And John baptised them.  Because they knew the God of Israel was about to do something amazing.  He was about to fulfil his promises. The new exodus had begun.  And lest the people think that it was John who would lead them in this new exodus, he also announced: After me comes one who is greater than I.  I'm not worthy to kneel down to untie his sandals.  I've plunged you into the water.  He's going to plunge you into the Holy Spirit. And there it is.  That, Brothers and Sisters, changes everything.  Picture Israel again in the desert, their tents pitched in neat formation around the tabernacle.  Picture the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night at the centre of the camp.  Picture the cloud of his glory resting on the ark in the holy of holies.  God in the midst of his people.  But now John points to something even greater.  Instead of God living in our midst, but living over there in the tabernacle—and, more particularly, in the holy of holies where none of us can actually go because we're not holy enough, God is now coming to live not just in our midst, but inside us.  As St. Peter writes, he's building a new temple for himself and we ourselves are the blocks of stone he's carefully cut and carefully fitted together.  In the first Exodus, the Lord took his people through the water, he gave them a law written on stone tablets, and he gave them priests to tell them to do it.  And most of the time they weren't particularly good at living out that law.  But in this new exodus, Jesus leads us not only through the water, but in doing so he plunges us into his own Holy Spirit.  Instead of giving us the law on tablets of stone the Spirit writes God's law on our hearts so that it's not only internal, but so that we'll actually be in love with it and motivated by it and want to do it—that's the significance of it being written on our hearts.  And so we don't anymore need priests urging us to do it, because we'll have the Lord's Spirit himself in us, making his desires our desires as we steep ourselves in his word. This was the baptism Israel so desperately needed.  And so it was a surprise to John when Jesus came to him and asked to be baptised.  Jesus didn't need to repent.  But as the King, as the representative of his people, he did need to go before his people—to lead where they would follow.  And so John agreed and Mark then writes in verses 10-11: Immediately, as [Jesus] was getting out of the water, he saw the heavens open, and the Spirit coming down like a dove onto him.  Then there came a voice, out of the heavens, “You are my son!  You are the one I love!  I am pleased with you!”   Another epiphany!  For Jesus this was divine confirmation that he was who he'd come to believe he was.  It confirmed the words of the angel to Mary and to Joseph, it confirmed the song the angels sang to the shepherds, it confirmed the prophetic words of Simeon and Anna, and it confirmed the worship and the gifts of the magi.  It was an epiphany for John, too.  Jesus really was the Messiah he'd been sent to announce.  And it was an epiphany for the crowd, for the people of Israel.  In Jesus, the God of Israel was truly visiting his people.  As surely as John had plunged them into the water, this Jesus would plunge them into God's Spirit—and when that happened, nothing would ever be the same again. For that brief moment, Mark says, the heavens were torn open and Jesus, John, and everyone else there had a glimpse of what was to come—of the kingdom, of God's new age, of new creation.  It was like getting a glimpse into the closest where your mom had all the Christmas presents stored away—and you catch your breath and you get excited to think of what's to come when the time is right to bring it all out.  Like Christmas morning—but Christmas morning is just a dim comparison—this was a glimpse of God's coming kingdom—heaven come to earth—finally! Brothers and Sisters, consider that the church—redeemed by Jesus and plunged into the Spirit—the church is now—or it should be—we are now that vision into heaven, we're now that little pocket of God's new age, his new creation—his future right here in the present.  We're God's new age in the midst of the old.  That, I think, is why the men who selected our lessons for the Epistles and Gospels put today's Gospel from Mark with our Epistle from Romans 12.  Paul doesn't put it quite this way, but what he describes in the Epistle is what it means to be on-earth-as-in-heaven people. Today's Epistle begins at verse 6, but I want to back up a few verses.  (We would have read verses 1-5 last week if we hadn't shifted our observance of the Epiphany to Sunday.)  Paul starts out appealing to the Christians in Rome to offer their bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God.  Why?  Because that kind of worship, he writes, is what line's our minds up with God's.  It's a commitment to live as light in the midst of darkness.  It's a commitment to live as the people of God's new age in the midst of the old.  So he goes on in verse 3: “What's more, don't let yourselves be squeezed into the shape dictated by the present age.  Instead, be transformed by the renewing or your minds, so that you can work out what God's will is—what is good, acceptable, and perfect.” Brothers and Sisters, be the people of heaven who have been plunged into the Holy Spirit.  Be the people who embody God's new world in the middle of the old one—because it glorifies God and because it witnesses his goodness and his faithfulness to everyone around us.  And what does that look like?  It's going to be different in different circumstances.  This is something we have to work out for ourselves, but Paul shows us that we're to work it out in light of what Jesus has done for us.  The Romans were struggling to be united.  Jewish and Gentile believers were turning away from each other and in doing that they were living like people of the old age, not the new.  So Paul writes to them: “As in one body we have many limbs and organs, you see, and all the parts have different functions, so we, many as we are, are one body in the Messiah, and individually we belong to one another.”  We can't be the church Jesus has called us to be if we don't offer ourselves humbly to each other.  Brothers and Sisters, what Jesus has done for us, we do for each other.  So, for example, think of the gifts that the Spirit gives us.  Paul writes starting in verse 6: We have gifts that differ in accordance with the grace that has been given to us, and we must us them appropriately.  If it is prophecy, we must prophesy according to the pattern of faith.  If it is serving, we must work at our serving; if teaching, at our teaching; if exhortation, at our exhortation; if giving, with generosity; if leading, with energy; if doing acts of kindness, with cheerfulness. The list could go on and on and on, but this is enough for Paul to make his point.  The Spirit has worked in us—sometimes working with our natural gifts and abilities and sometimes giving us gifts we don't naturally have—and he's brought us together like a body.  Each of us has an essential part to play.  Arms and legs, hands and feet, eyes and ears, hearts and voice all working together towards one gospel purpose.  Think of Peter's illustration again of the temple not made with hands, a temple with each stone carefully cut by the Spirit for a unique spot, and all of them—all of us—assembled together with Jesus as our cornerstone.  If we don't all do the part we've been given and equipped to do, the body can't function, the temple falls apart. The prophet must prophesy and the teacher must teach.  The server must serve and the exhorter must exhort.  The leader must lead, the giver must give, and the doer must do—with cheerfulness and everything according to the pattern of faith.  In other words, remember that it's all gospel work rooted in Jesus and the Spirit and the amazing, loving, gracious, and merciful work he has done in us.  Sometimes we forget the gospel as we work and the work becomes a chore and a burden.  There are all sorts of things in ministry that can be discouraging and we can be tempted to give up.  And so Paul reminds us to keep our eyes on the gospel—on the good news that the king has come, that he has made us part of his kingdom, and that we have the joyful privilege of being his stewards and heralds. But there's more to life together than spiritual gifts.  Elsewhere Paul writes about the fruit that the Spirit causes to grow in us.  In other places he talks about being conformed to the mind of the Messiah.  There are lots of ways we can describe the Christian life as we live it out together, but ultimately what we need to recognise is that being in Jesus and the Spirit changes us and living as changed people is part of being kingdom people.  Think again about being a little kid and getting a glimpse into the closet where the presents are stored until Christmas morning.  When the world looks at us—as individual Christians but even more important, as the church, as a group of Christians living together—it should be like seeing that closet full of Christmas presents.  Except in our case, it's not a bunch of nicely wrapped packages; it's a glimpse of God's new creation—of his world set to rights.  Seeing the church ought to make people eager to be part of God's new age.  Seeing us should make them long for Jesus and the Spirit too.  So Paul goes on in verse 9: Love must be real.  Hate what is evil; stick fast to what is good.  Be truly affectionate in showing love for one another; compete with each other in giving mutual respect.  Don't get tired of working hard.  Be on fire with the Spirit.  Work as slaves for the Lord.  Celebrate your hope; be patient in suffering; give constant energy to prayer; contribute to the needs of God's people; make sure you are hospitable to strangers.   Bless those who persecute you; bless them, don't curse them.  Celebrate with those who are celebrating; Mourn with the mourners.  Come to the same mind with one another.  Don't give yourselves airs, but associate with the humble.  Don't be wise in your own sight.   We don't have time to cover each of these in detail, but again think of them in terms of giving the world a glimpse of Jesus and the kingdom.  We've seen real love in Jesus.  In him we've seen what it looks like to abhor evil and hold fast to good.  In him we get a sense of what it looks like to show honour to others rather than grabbing it all for ourselves.  We see in him what humility and lowliness toward others look like.  We—especially Gentile believers—have seen what Jesus' hospitality looks like as he welcomes us in to Abraham's family.  In Jesus we've seen the greatest example ever of what it looks like to bless those who persecute us.  And Paul ends this list in verse 21, writing, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Brothers and Sisters, this is what it looks like to be faithful stewards of the grace of God and heralds of the gospel.  This is what it looks like to live the life Jesus has given us.  This is what it looks like to be people who have been plunged into the Holy Spirit.  This is what it looks like to be the new Israel, rescued from our bondage to sin and death and given hope for a new life.  We love each other as Jesus has loved us and as he specially equipped us to love, and as we do so we show our love for him, because in loving each other we are loving the people whom Jesus loves.  But it's not just the Church we love.  Jesus was sent to redeem because “God so loved the world”.  We witness what love looks like as we love each other, but we also witness the love of God as we give ourselves for the sake of the world, as we give ourselves to be light in the darkness—even when the darkness is hostile and seeks to snuff us out.  In Jesus, God overcame evil with good and we are called to be his witnesses by doing the same.  And so let us proclaim the good news: Repent, for the kingdom of God has come.  But let's also show the world that this is good news, not just good advice.  Let's ourselves live in light of the knowledge that Jesus and the Spirit have changed everything.  Let us be heaven-on-earth people so that when the world looks at the church, it sees heaven torn open, so that it has a glimpse of God's new creation.  May the life of the church, redeemed by Jesus and filled with the Spirit, cause everyone around us to give glory to God. Let us pray: Heavenly Father, in the baptism of Jesus you revealed him to be your Son and you anointed him with the Holy Spirit.  May we who are born again of that same water and Spirit, we ask, be faithful to our calling as your children by grace, living and manifesting in our lives the love and mercy you have shown to us as we proclaim your kingdom.  We ask this through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Epiphany Ephesians 3:1-12 & St. Matthew 2:1-12 by William Klock   Imagine the magi, the wisemen, on their long trek from “the East”—from Persia—to Judah.  They followed the trade routes through deserts and through cities, through mountains and across rivers for weeks.  Oasis to oasis, city to city, village to village to make their way to Jerusalem, to King Herod's palace, and eventually to Bethlehem.  And they carried those expensive gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  They were astrologers and they had seen a star.  They knew all the stars, but this one was different.  I wish we knew what made it so different, but we'll have to wait to find that out.  However they worked it out, that star told them the King of the Jews had been born, and so they made this long trek, not just to visit this new king, but to worship him. Now, consider that Jesus was hardly the first King of the Jews, but as far as we know, no Persian magi ever visited those others when they were born.  Something extraordinary had happened this time.  Maybe these men had studied the Israelite prophets.  It's not a stretch to think that they'd met Jews and heard of their scriptures.  However they knew it, these men knew—again—that something extraordinary had happened, so they came to pay homage to this foreign king.  In the ancient Near East that meant that they worshipped the king's god.  Maybe they knew, maybe the star was heralding the birth of Israel's God in human flesh.  They had to know something, otherwise it makes no sense.  Judah was a conquered nation.  The King of the Jews was a loser—and so was his god.  That's how people in that world thought.  But somehow these men knew—I wish Matthew had been more specific—but somehow these men knew that this was no ordinary king.  And so they made this long trek to honour him and to give glory to his god.  It was an epiphany: God made manifest in Jesus.  First to his own people, represented by the shepherds we read about on Christmas, and now made manifest to the gentiles, represented by these kings from the East. We'll come back to magi and to our Gospel, but first, listen again to St. Paul in our Epistle, Ephesians 3, as he writes to his brothers and sisters in Ephesus:   It is because of all of this that I, Paul, a prisoner of Messiah Jesus on behalf of you Gentiles…   Ephesus was a predominantly gentile church that Paul had started when he visited the city on his second missionary journey.  Now he's writing to them some years later as he sits in prison, having been arrested for proclaiming the good news about Jesus.  He goes on:   —assuming that you have heard of the stewardship of God's grace that was given to me to pass on to you, how the secret purpose of God was made know to me, as I wrote briefly just now. Anyway…  When you read this, you'll be able to understand the special insight I have into the Messiah's secret.  This wasn't made known to human beings in previous generations, but now it has been revealed by the Spirit to God's holy apostles and prophets.  The secret is this: that through the gospel, the gentiles are to share Israel's inheritance.  They are to become fellow members of the body, along with them, and fellow sharers of the promise in Jesus the Messiah.   This was, as we say, Paul's “thing”.  This was for him the great secret or mystery—the great, earth-shattering revelation that changes everything.  We might say an “epiphany”.  For Paul the great secret was first the revelation that Jesus really was the Messiah, but then when he'd had the chance to work through all the implications of that great truth he was confronted with this one: “the gentiles are to share Israel's inheritance.  They are to become fellow members of the body, along with them, and fellow sharers of the promise in Jesus the Messiah.”  Most people would have thought this was a thoroughly un-Jewish thing to say.  Even that it was blasphemy that gentiles—unclean dogs!—were coheirs with the people of God.  A few of them, sure, but only after they'd been purified and circumcised and committed to observing torah.  And then they weren't really gentiles anymore.  But Paul's realised that, in fact, once you get the story of God and Israel straight, it would be hard to come up with anything more Jewish than this conclusion that the gentiles are, in Jesus, fellow heirs, members of the same body, and part of Abraham's family.  This is what the story was working towards all along, even though hardly anyone realised it anymore.  As he says as he continues, ministering this truth was his calling: This is the gospel that I was appointed to serve, in line with the free gift of God's grace that was given to me.  It was backed up with the power through which God accomplishes his work.  I am the very least of all God's people.  However, he gave me this task as a gift: that I should be the one to tell the gentiles the good news of the Messiah's riches, riches no one could begin to count.  My job is to make clear to everyone just what the secret plan is, the purpose that's been hidden from the very beginning of the world in God who created all things.  This is it: that God's wisdom, in all its rich variety, was to be made known to rulers and authorities in the heavenly places—through the church!  This was God's eternal purpose, and he's accomplished it in Jesus the Messiah, our Lord.  We have confidence, and access to God, in full assurance, through his faithfulness.   The Jews of Paul's day had got their own story wrong and no longer had any sense that “salvation is for the Gentiles”.  As far as they were concerned, they were God's people, God cared about them, God would deliver them from their oppressors and put them on top, and one day he would rain down destruction on all the unclean people of the word.  Salvation was for the Jews, they might have said.  Even those first Jewish Christians were still thinking in this vein.  Jesus was their Messiah.  There were a few gentiles who believed, but they had to first become Jews.  And there were the Samaritans who believed.  That was a challenge to this kind of thinking, but until Paul, no one seemed to have this vision of the deliverance, of the salvation of the Gentiles—at least not on a large scale. The irony is that today we've made the opposite mistake.  We've so dehistoricised, flattened out, and universalised the story that we've all but forgotten that “Salvation is from the Jews.”  “Salvation is from the Jews.”  That's what Jesus said to the Samaritan woman and it ought to ring in our ears too.  Those words ought to remind us of the great story of the God of Israel and his people.  St. Paul writes in today's Epistle to explain his unique apostolic ministry to proclaim the good news about Jesus to the Gentiles.  It has been my experience that many Christians have never stopped to consider just how odd Paul's ministry would have seemed at the time.  They've never stopped to think, because we have largely removed the gospel from its narrative and historical context and we've unnecessarily flattened it out to communicate its universal nature.  Sometime we need to stop and remember that, even though “God so loved the world,” it is also true that “salvation is from the Jews”.  That might not seem important, but think again of the big story.  Out of a world that had lost all knowledge of him, the Lord chose and called Abraham and from him created a people whom he made holy and in whose midst he lived.  He gave this people his law and his presence and made them unique amongst the nations.  And he promised that through them he would save his whole creation.  So Jesus was born a Jew—one of those special people.  He was the Jewish Messiah.  He fulfilled the Jewish law and the words of the Jewish prophets.  He proclaimed good news about a coming kingdom and a coming judgement to Jews and for Jews.  And while gentiles were welcomed when they came to him, he made it clear that his ministry was to his own people.  The evangelists lay the blame for Jesus' death with Jews.  The gentiles had their part in it—hinting that they would eventually also have a share in his salvation—but it was Jesus' own people who betrayed him and demanded his death.  Even in his death by crucifixion, Jesus foreshadowed the means of execution that the unrepentant Jewish rebels would face when judgement came a generation later.  Jesus literally took the death of his people on himself in that sense.  It cannot be stressed enough that Jesus, the Jewish Messiah, lived and died for the sake of the Jews and to bring their story to its climax in fulfilment of God's promises. We can't just skip all that to get to John's announcement that God so loved the world that he gave his Son, because when we do that, we short-circuit the story, we leave out most or all of the bits that show us how God, in Jesus, has been faithful to his promises made under the old covenant.  And in that, we cast a veil over his glory.  It was necessary for Jesus to fulfil the story of his own people, because only then would the Gentiles see the faithfulness of Israel's God, be drawn to what they saw, give him glory, and in the process be incorporated into the new people of God by faith.  In this, too, we see that the means by which the Gentiles are incorporated into the new Israel fulfils the message of Israel's prophets and glorifies the Lord.  While it is certainly true that a dehistoricised and flattened gospel has brought millions to the Lord Jesus, it is also true that communicating the gospel within its context better communicates the faithfulness of God as the basis for our own faith with a greater depth and builds upon a firm foundation.  In contrast, our evangelism today, rather than centring on proclaiming the faithfulness of God, is centred on our needs and wants.  Our culture is obsessed with the therapeutic, with feeling good and so we've tailored our gospel.  And it's not wrong to talk about what God, in Jesus, does for us, but if that's the focus, we end up with a small and truncated gospel.  Brothers and Sisters, when we get the gospel the right way round; when we make the gospel about the faithfulness of God revealed in Jesus, the gospel is so much bigger, so much greater—so much more powerful.  What we see in Paul's ministry—and what we see especially in Revelation—is the gentile nations being drawn to the God of Israel by the revelation of his glory in Jesus the Messiah.  In the New Testament, the gentiles come to Jesus, because in him they see a God who is faithful and worthy of glory—a God unlike anything or anyone known in the pagan world.  Again, Christians today need to understand just how weird Paul's ministry would have seemed in his day—even, at first, to the other apostles.  Again, most believed that the good news about the Jewish Messiah was for other Jews, and of little interest (or even relevance) to gentiles.  Jesus radically changed what it meant to be the people of God, but in many respects, it was not until St. Paul emerged from his wilderness sojourn that this dramatic change was really grasped by the fledgling Church. Of course, Israel's ministry to the Gentiles was there all along.  The Lord set Israel apart before the watching nations.  She was to be his witness.  Through her he would restore and reconcile humanity to himself.  But as Paul points out in our Epistle, this “mystery” was largely lost on Israel.  And yet there it was from the beginning, all the way back in Abraham's day—if anyone was paying really close attention—that the Lord's intent was to one day bring the Gentiles into his family and to make them fellow heirs with those who were children by birth rather than adoption.  This truth had been revealed by the Spirit to the prophets of old and, in the same way, had been revealed to the apostles—who took some time to parse it out—and to Paul it was a personal commission: to proclaim the good news about Jesus to the Gentiles.  Paul adds here that this mission is not simply to ordinary people, nor is it a matter of personal piety.  As Gentile believers come into their inheritance in the Messiah, the Church becomes both a witness and a challenge to the rulers of the Gentile world.  This diverse body of Jews and Gentiles of every sort, living in unity the inheritance given them by Jesus, announces that he is Lord and that a new age is breaking in.  Just as was the case with Israel, the lords of the earth can submit in faith to the lordship of Jesus or face the judgement to come. Now, let's go back to today's Gospel, Matthew 2:1-12, which dovetails with what Paul has written in the Epistle.  Here's the truth that Paul writes, manifest in the story of Jesus.  Matthew writes:   When Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea, at the time when Herod was king, some wise men came to Jerusalem from the East.  Where is the one,” they asked, “who has been born to be king of the Jews?  We have seen his star rising in the east and we have come to worship him.”  When King Herod heard this, he was very disturbed and the whole of Jerusalem was as well.  He called together all the chief priests and scribes of the people and inquired from them where the Messiah was to be born. “In Bethlehem of Judaea,” they replied.  “That's what it says in the prophet: ‘You, Bethlehem, in Judah's land Are not the least of Judah's princes; From out of you will come the ruler Who will shepherd Israel my people.' Then Herod called the wise men to him in secret.  He found out from them precisely when the star had appeared.  Then he sent them to Bethlehem.  “Go,” he said, “and make a thorough search for the child.  When you find him, report back to me so that I can come and worship him. When they heard what the king said, they set off.  There was the star, the one they had seen rising in the east, going ahead of them.  It went and stood still over the place where the child was.  When they saw the star, they were beside themselves with joy and excitement.  They went into the house and saw the child, with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshipped him.  They opened their treasure chests and gave him presents: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  And being warned in a dream not to go back to Herod, they returned to their own country by a different way.   While St. Luke recalls the events of the night Jesus was born and shows us the shepherds visiting one of their own, one who will follow in the footsteps of David as both king and shepherd, St. Matthew tells of Jesus' birth in passing and puts all the emphasis on Jesus as King.  Wise men, these astrologers from the East, have seen a heavenly sign that heralds the birth of a king in Israel.  They desire to worship him and to give him gifts.  As I said earlier, they knew that this was no ordinary king.  There had been no star heralding Herod's birth. So naturally, they looked for the King of the Jews in Jerusalem.  Herod knew nothing of the birth of a king, but was politically astute enough to recognise the political nature of the magi's claim and paranoid enough to take action.  Matthew makes it clear that if Jesus is indeed the King, then Herod was not.  Again, Matthew emphasises the kingship of Jesus in the report of the priests to Herod.  They cite Micah 5:2—and it's not clear if this is their paraphrase or Matthew's—but they point Herod to Bethlehem.  And yet, in the paraphrase we see again an important bit of context.  Micah speaks, not of a universal king per se, but of one who will be king over Israel.  This king will shepherd the Lord's flock—a bit from verse 4 that the priests add to their paraphrase of verse 2.  The Messiah is the King of Israel.  It is only once Micah has established that the Messiah will be King over Israel that he goes on to tell us that this King “shall be great to the ends of the earth” (5:4).  Both the Magi and the priests highlight Jesus' kingship specifically over Israel.  Again, “salvation is from the Jews”.  It is because Jesus is King of Israel, in fulfilment of the Lord's promises through the prophets, that the good news about him goes out to the Gentiles.  The magi are the first, who foreshadow the future.  Matthew bookends his Gospel with Gentiles.  Here the magi come at Jesus' birth, Gentiles come to worship a very uniquely Jewish king and to give him glory.  And at the end of the Gospel, Matthew records the commissioning of the disciples to “go and make disciples of all nations”.  The good news is only good news to the Gentiles because it reveals that the God of Israel is unlike the gods of the nations: he does what he says he will do and he fulfils his promises to his own.  Think again of Revelation and how the nations there, the nations that worshiped the beast and frolicked with the great prostitute, discovered in the downfall of the beast that the kings and gods of this world can't hold a candle to the God of Israel revealed in Jesus, to his power and might, and most importantly, to his faithfulness.  Specifically, he fulfils his promises to his people in Jesus.  It is this faithfulness just as much as the amazing report of Jesus risen from the dead and the defeat of his enemies that draws the Gentiles to give glory to the God of Israel and to submit in faith and to give their allegiance to Jesus, the King of the Jews.  Of course, this carries the same ramifications for Caesar and the other rulers and gods of this age as it did for Herod.  This is what Paul stresses in the final verses of our Epistle.  Their days are numbered, for as the royal summons to the King goes out, Jesus “shall be great to the ends of the earth”. Brothers and Sisters, the gospel about Jesus is good news, because it reveals the faithfulness of God.  He does what he says he will do.  He fulfils his promises.  He does so like no other.  And that's reason for us to trust him, to give him our allegiance, to worship him and to give him glory.  And to proclaim his good news to the world. I want to close with the Collect for today, because it offers a wonderful comparison between the magi and ourselves.  They were drawn to Jesus by sight and we by faith, and so we look forward in hope to the day on which we, too, will see his majesty on full display.  It's the prayer of Gentiles who have seen the glory of the God of Israel revealed in the life, the death, and the resurrection of Jesus the Messiah.  It is a thanksgiving for what God has done in Jesus, creating a new Israel in which the Gentiles are fellow heirs, and it looks forward in hope to the day in which Jesus will set the cosmos to rights and will be revealed in all his glory as both King and God.   Let's pray: O God, who by the leading of a star manifested your only Son to the peoples of the earth: mercifully grant that we, who know you now by faith, may at last behold your glory face to face; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who is alive and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Second Sunday after Christmas St. Matthew 2:13-23 by William Klock For us, a week has passed since we heard Matthew's account of Jesus' birth in Bethlehem and the visit by the shepherds.  But as we come to today's Gospel, roughly two years have passed in the story of Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.  For now, we'll skip over Matthew's account of the visit of the wisemen.  (That's for this coming week as we celebrate the Epiphany.)  So today we pick up the story at Matthew 2:13, Matthew tells us that after the wisemen had gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream.  “Get up,” said the angel, “and take the child and his mother and hurry off to Egypt.” I can only imagine what Joseph was thinking.  This is the second time an angel has come to him to tell him what to do.  Remember from last Sunday's Gospel, Jospeh was thinking through how best to extricate himself from his upcoming marriage to Mary after he found out she was already pregnant.  The angel came to him in a dream.  “Don't be afraid!”  The famous first words of every angel.  “Don't be afraid.  Mary didn't cheat on you.  She's pregnant by the Holy Spirit and she's going to have a son and you need to name him ‘Jesus'—which means 'Yahweh saves'—because he will save his people from their sins.” So it's not like Joseph didn't know there was something special about Jesus.  Ditto for Mary.  Matthew tells the story from Joseph's perspective.  Luke tells it from Mary's.  Luke tells us about the visit she had from the angel and how the angel told her—also—to name the baby “Jesus”.  Why?  “Because he will be called the son of the Most High.  The Lord,” the angel said to her, “will give him the throne of David his father, and he shall reign over the house of Jacob forever.  His kingdom will never come to an end.”  That was all familiar messianic language to Mary.  There's that song that popular Christmas song that asks over and over, “Mary did you know?”  Yes.  She did.  She even composed a song about it that she shared with her cousin Elizabeth—who, you remember—was pregnant with John, who would prepare the way for Jesus.  Mary knew what her baby meant.  Think of the words she sang out in praise: My soul doth magnify the Lord… He hath shewed strength with his arm, he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the might from their seat, and hath exalted the humble and meek. He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he hath send empty away. He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel, as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, for ever.   That night that Jesus was born in Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph both knew with absolute certainty that in him the God of Israel was about to act and that the world would never be the sme.  And not that he was about to act in some unforeseen way that exploded into history totally unexpectedly.  No.  This was the fulfilment of prophecy.  This was the fulfilment of the Lord's promises to his people.  The fact that shepherds came, having been told by angels; the fact that wisemen came, having been guided by a star—these were no mysteries to Mary and Joseph.  They knew from the beginning who Jesus was.  I'm sure they had lots of other questions: Why us?  How is this going to work?  But they knew from the beginning that this child would one day cast down the powers, the gods, the kings of the present evil age and set their world to rights.  That's what Mary's song is all about. So they knew that Mary's baby was a challenge to everything and everyone that stood in the way of God's new age.  As much as scripture gives us every reason to think that they trusted the Lord, I have to think that if they're anything like us, they still had their worries.  At the top of the list had to be King Herod.  And so, I suspect, Mary and Joseph probably didn't go around town announcing any of this.  Surely word got around at least a bit.  There were, of course, the shepherds.  But I expect Mary and Jospeh kept what the angel had told them on the low down as much as they were able.  And then the magi—the wisemen from far away—no one could mistake them riding into town with their camels.  And to hear that they'd been to see Herod, to ask about the new-born King of the Jews.  That was not good news.  Not at all.  Because now Herod knew about Jesus and Herod was what people today might call a “psycho”. Herod was an Idumean—today we'd call him an “Arab”.  His ancestors had been absorbed into Judaea, were circumcised and converted to Judaism—at least nominally.  Most people saw Herod as a pretender.  His decadent lifestyle was out of step with Judaism, but most of all, people hated him for the way he cozied up to the Romans and betrayed his people.  He had no right to call himself King of the Jews.  The Roman Senate had given him that title.  He was no descendant of David.  And all this made Herod more than a little insecure.  Deep down he knew he had no right to Israel's throne and it made him paranoid.  He murdered his own family members—even his wife—because he thought they were scheming against him.  Just before he died, he ordered the leading citizens of Jericho to be killed so that the people would be weeping as his funeral procession passed through the city. So Joseph and Mary had to be worried to hear that Herod had been told about this young “King of the Jews” in Bethlehem.  If Herod would murder his own family at a hint of sedition, what would he do to a new-born rival?  I expect Jospeh was already trying to think through their best course of action.  And then the angel came and said, “Get up and take the child and his mother and hurry off to Egypt.  Stay there until I tell you.  Herod is going to hunt for the child to kill him.” Matthew says that Joseph wasted no time: “He got up and took the child and his mother by night, and went off to Egypt.  He stayed there until the death of Herod.”  And then Matthew adds a quote—just as we saw him do in Chapter One, last week, with that quote from the Prophet Isaiah about the virgin conceiving and bearing a son whose name means “God with us”.  Matthew does it again.  He does this all through is Gospel, but we have to know our Jewish scriptures to know who he's quoting.  In this case it's Hosea 11:1.  Matthew's Jewish audience would have recognised it instantly and it's an indictment against our poor knowledge of the Bible that we need a footnote in our Bibles to tell us.  Anyway, Matthew writes, “This happened to fulfil what the Lord said through the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I called my son.'”  We'll come back to this in a bit. Matthew then continues with the story.  You'll remember that instead of reporting back to Herod about the child as he'd asked them to do, the wisemen—because of their own visit from the angel—they bypassed Herod on their way home.  So Matthew tells us that when Herod realised that he'd been tricked by the wisemen, he flew into a towering rage.  He dispatched men and killed all the boys in Bethlehem and in all its surrounding districts, from two years old and under, according to the time the wisemen had told him.”  And then another quote from the Prophets, this time from Jeremiah 31:15: “That was when the word that came through Jeremiah the prophet was fulfilled:  There was heard a voice in Rama, crying and loud lamentation.  Rachel is weeping for her children, and will not let anyone comfort her, because they are no more.” And then another visit by an angel.  Matthew writes in verse 19: “After the death of Herod, suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt. ‘Get up,' he said, ‘and take the child and his mother and go to the land of Israel.  Those who wanted to kill the child are dead.'  So he got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel.  But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling Judaea instead of his father Herod, he was afraid to go back there.  After being advised in a dream'—again—he went off to the region of Galilee.  When he got there, he settled in a town called Nazareth.  This was to fulfil what the prophet had spoken: ‘He shall be called a Nazarene.'” Again, we sort of have this idyllic scene of Christmas in our heads: Jesus in a manger.  No crying he makes, of course.  The shepherds kneel adoringly.  Mary and Joseph sit there peacefully with their halos glowing.  Even the animals stifle all their natural noises and gather around to adore the baby.  “Silent night…all is calm…sleep in heavenly peace,” loops in our heads. But when you read the actual story as Matthew tells it things aren't nearly so peaceful.  Matthew tells us of the birth of Jesus at a time and a place of trouble, of violence, and of fear.  Jesus was born in a world of darkness, into a world controlled by powers and gods and kings who stood opposed to him.  Before he had learned to walk or to talk, the wrath of a psychotic king forced his family to flee to Egypt.  The shadow of the cross lies dead across the Christmas story.  And yet all this is in keeping with what Matthew told us last week.  If Jesus is the fulfilment of Isaiah's prophecy of Immanuel—of God with us—we'd expect this.  God's people longed for his presence, they longed for his deliverance, because the world was not as they knew it should be.  And so God came to them in the midst of the darkness, the brokenness, the evil, the pain—the violence and injustice—the sin and death.  God entered the world of a king who would murder dozens of innocent children just to keep his investment in the present evil age secure.  Think about the fact that on the three days after Christmas Day the Church commemorates St. Stephen, St. John, and the Holy Innocents.  John was exiled to the island of Patmos for preaching the good news about Jesus.  Stephen—the first martyr—was stoned to death outside Jerusalem for preaching to the people that Jesus was the fulfilment of Israel's story.  And the Holy Innocents—the collateral damage of the first attempt on Jesus' life.  It's a reminder that, yes, the light has come into the darkness, but that there are those who love the dark and there are those invested in it. Brothers and Sisters, as much as the light has shined in the darkness and as much as the darkness has not overcome it—as St. John writes in the opening of his Gospel—the darkness still remains and the darkness still fights back.  Herod's murder of the innocents of Bethlehem—probably a few dozen baby boys—pales in comparison to the millions of unborn children murdered in modern times in our once Christian nations.  The wars and violence of Herod's or of Caesar's day pale in comparison to the wars and violence of the last century—all too often perpetrated by supposedly Christian nations, kings, presidents, and prime ministers.  We see the light around us too often subverted by the darkness.  First by Modernists and now by Postmodernists, the gospel virtues that once transformed the West are plucked from the gospel tree, left to go feral, and fed back to our culture, twisted and abused—darkness masquerading as light. It's easy to get discouraged, isn't it.  Last year I read historian Tom Holland's book Dominion.  It's about how Christianity transformed the West.  The Gospel came into a world of Herods and Caesars and taught us things like mercy and grace that hadn't been known before.  It transformed sexual ethics.  It gave status to women and children and to the poor.  It ended slavery.  And now you look at the world around us and everythings reverting back into the darkness.  Large segments of the church have or are selling out.  I look at the alumni page for my seminary on Facebook and it seems everyone is “deconstructing”—and it always ends the same way—with denying the exclusivity of Jesus and an embracing of Postmodernism and the twisted sexual ethics of our post-Christian culture.  I've listened to local pastors who spend their time apologising for the Bible, blurring the lines it makes clear, and walking their people through deconstructing their faith.  Others have sold out to the materialism of our secular culture and are preaching a crossless gospel of health and wealth.  The gospel—the real gospel—is the answer, but it seems like it falls on deaf ears these days and that the people lost in today's darkness have become resistant to it.  It's easy to lose hope. But Brothers and Sisters, that's when I think of Matthew as he drops his quotes from the Prophets through his telling of the good news.  Remember that I said last week that Matthew saw God's promises down through the ages as lights in the darkness.  Last summer Veronica I did some railgrade riding on our bikes.  We rode through some tunnels—some of them long and windy enough that there was no light at the end—at least not at first—and so there were small lights at intervals, guiding the way, until you finally came around that final corner and daylight blazed into the tunnel.  I didn't appreciate those lights until I rode through the Adra Tunnel in the mountains between Kelowna and Penticton.  It's one of the longest rail tunnels in BC and it's been closed since the 80s.  Volunteers have spent the last few years making repairs and it's just about ready to be reopened.  At present the trail bypasses it and there are fences across the old railgrade to keep people out of the tunnel.  But when I got there, the fences were off to the side.  I took the turn and pretty soon found myself inside the tunnel.  It goes through something like a 270° turn and pretty soon I was in pitch dark, riding slowly, cold water dripping on me.  There are no little lights to light the way.  And I almost ran—smack!—into a grader that was parked in the dark.  I could just as easily have run off the grade and into a ditch or a wall. Like the lights in those tunnels, God's promises led his people through the darkness—around the corners, keeping them out of the ditch, keeping them from running—smack!—into obstacles sitting in the darkness—so that he could lead them out into the light.  At the time those little lights seemed like really big deals—those little lights like Passover and the Exodus, like the torah and the tabernacle, like King David and like the return from Exile.  They gave the people some bearings.  The lights gave them hope.  But what many didn't realise at the time was that those lights were leading the people—preparing them—to understand how God works, to understand that he is faithful, so that when they finally came out into the bright light of Jesus, into the bright light of the gospel—they'd understand that this is where the story had been taking them all along.  This is what Matthew's up to all through his Gospel.  Like we saw last Sunday with that bit of Isaiah and the baby, Immanuel, who served as the sign to accompany the Lord's promise to deliver his people from Israel and Syria.  And here, Matthew quotes Hosea 11:1, “Out of Egypt I called my son.”  At first it looks like Matthew is ignoring what that passage means in Hosea.  It's not looking forward.  It's looking back.  Israel was the Lord's son whom he had called out of Egypt.  That meant—at the time, back in the dark days of Hosea—that the Lord would not abandon the people: Israel was his beloved son and he'd gone to great lengths to deliver Israel from Egypt.  And Matthew saw that little light back there in the darkness of Hosea's day and it led him towards the light that had come in Jesus.  Jesus brings Israel's story to completion.  He's not just “God's son” in the sense that he's divine.  He's “God's son” in the sense that he is the embodiment of Israel.  Remember what I've said before: the King represents his people.  And so Jesus came to represent his people, to finally accomplish what they'd failed at all those centuries, and then to die on their behalf the death that they deserved. Matthew does something similar with the prophecy spoken by Jeremiah.  He holds up Rachel weeping for her children as a backdrop to Herod's murder of the baby boys of Bethlehem.  But when Jeremiah spoke those words, he was drawing on the imagery of Rachel to describe the pain of Israel's exile to Babylon and to proclaim the hope of God's promise to renew his covenant and to restore his people—to bring Israel back from her long exile.  The long darkness is full of weeping and mourning, but at the end is the Lord's deliverance. And then that bit of Isaiah 11 that Matthew quotes about Jesus being a Nazarene.  Isaiah uses the Hebrew word nazir.  It means “branch” and through Isaiah the Lord promises that he will be faithful to the promises he'd made to David and his descendants.  A branch will grow out of the stump of Jesse.  It's about a new beginning for the royal line of David.  Matthew hinted at this already in Joseph's genealogy.  The fact that the Old Testament nowhere mentions Nazareth, the fact that the Isaiah passage about the branch has nothing to do with Nazareth, that's okay.  Matthew knew that the lights along the tunnel—even if it doesn't look like it—they all lead to the same place.  Everything in Israel's story was leading to Jesus and so he takes Isaiah's prophecy of the nazir, the branch, and ties it to Jesus' hometown of Nazareth.  Matthew's sort of saying that we know Jesus is the promised branch because he came from “Branchville”.  Maybe it's a more “creative” way of using the Old Testament than we're comfortable with, but for Matthew it worked—again—because he knew that everything God said and everything God did—the whole story of the God of Israel and his people—was leading them through the darkness to Jesus and to the light of this new age, this new world, this new creation. And Brothers and Sisters, that's why as much as it's tempting to lose hope as we look at the surrounding darkness and even as the darkness creeps in and takes ground that was once won by the gospel, I don't lose hope.  Because the scriptures assure me of the faithfulness of God to his promises.  Because I know he has, in the birth, in the death, in the resurrection of Jesus done the hard part already.  Because he has poured out his Spirit.  And as surely as he called Abraham and his family and led them through the darkness—through slavery and through exile and everything in between—and then brought them finally out into the blazing glory of Jesus and the gospel, I know that God, who has established his church and has equipped us with his own Spirit to proclaim the good news—to carry his light into the darkness—will not fail to bring us eventually to that day when his glory covers the earth as the waters cover the sea, when every last enemy has been put under his feet, even death itself, when every tear is wiped away, and everything is once-and-for-all set to rights. Matthew saw God's promises fulfilled all through the story—even at its darkest.  As Jesus was arrested in Gethsemane he said, himself, “All this has taken place that the writings of the prophets might be fulfilled.”  God is sovereign and God is faithful, Brothers and Sisters.  Even as the darkness mustered its forces and rose to its full height to deal a death blow to Jesus, it was doing so as part of a plan orchestrated by the Lord.  Darkness, unwittingly, concentrating itself all in one place so that, through Jesus, it could be defeated when he rose, triumphant over sin and death.  And that is why I remain full of hope.  God's faithfulness to his promises did not end in the First Century.  He remains faithful today.  If we will only walk with him in faith, his light—his gospel promises, his Spirit indwelling us—will lead us through today's darkness. Let's pray: Almighty God, you have poured upon us the new light of your incarnate Word:  Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas Isaiah 7-9 & St. Matthew 1:18-25 by William Klock The Prophet Isaiah made his way along the dusty track across the Kidron Valley outside Jerusalem.  His young son walked beside him as they followed the Siloam Channel that carried water from an ancient rock-cut pool into to the city.  That's where the Lord had told Isaiah he would meet the King, Ahaz.  He was to go there to declare the word of the Lord to the King and he was to take his young son with him, whom the Lord had told him to name Shear-jashub.  The name means “a remnant shall return”.  A way of saying that God would not let his people be obliterated by their enemies.  Isaiah's son was, himself, part of the prophetic message.  And there was the King.  Ahaz was looking over the great stones, carved and set a thousand years before by the Canaanites who had founded Jerusalem.  It was the city's water supply and Isaiah could see the concern on the King's face.  Those were dark days.  Seven-hundred-and-thirty years before Jesus was born.  The Assyrian Empire to the east was the great power of the day and claimed the small western powers like Judah, Israel, and Syria as its own.  The King of Israel, in particular, was in a tough spot.  To pay the tribute he owed to the Assyrians he levied an enormous tax on the rich.  Rich people don't like being heavily taxed and they were on the verge of revolt.  At the moment, the King of Assyria was busy fighting in the north, so the King of Israel made an alliance with the King of Syria and the two of them approached Ahaz.  They wanted Judah to join their alliance.  Together, maybe, they could throw off the heavy Assyrian yoke.  They'd done it a hundred years before.  Together, maybe, they could do it again. But Ahaz was afraid.  He knew what would happen if they lost.  And so he refused to join the alliance.  But Israel and Syria wouldn't take no for an answer.  They laid siege to Jerusalem.  If Ahaz wouldn't join up with them, they would defeat him and put their own puppet king on the throne of Judah.  And so, that day, King Ahaz was out surveying Jerusalem's water supply.  Would it survive the siege?  He was worried.  And that's where Isaiah and Shear-jashub met him.  Isaiah was afraid, too.  Ahaz had a reputation.  Both 2 Kings and 2 Chronicles tell us that he did not do what was right in the eyes of the Lord.  Instead of following in the footsteps of his “father” David, he walked in the ways of the evil kings of Israel.  He was a weak, fearful, and vacillating king.  Instead of trusting the Lord to deal with Israel and Syria, he aligned himself with Assyria.  A few years later, after visiting the temples of the Assyrian capital, he would remove various furnishings from the temple in Jerusalem in order to make room for a pagan altar like the ones he'd seen there.  He was a wicked king who would lead God's people into idolatry.  Confronting a king with the word of the Lord is never an easy thing to do, but confronting an ungodly king with the word of the Lord was even more difficult.  Think of John the Baptist, seven hundred years later, landing in Herod's prison for declaring the word of the Lord.  But unlike the King who trusted in horses and chariots and in foreign gods and kings more than he trusted in the Lord, Isaiah's faith was unwavering.  And he met the King and, nervous as he surely was, he declared the word of the Lord with power and authority.  “Do not be afraid”.  This alliance of Israel and Syria and their siege, the Lord said: “It shall not stand”.  The Lord was urging the king to trust in him.  He also said, through Isaiah, “If you do not stand firm in faith, you shall not stand at all.” And to guarantee his promise to the King, the Lord gave Ahaz a sign.  Through Isaiah he said to him: Behold, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.  He shall eat curds and honey by the time he knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good.  For before the child knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good, the land before whose two kings you are in dread will be deserted.   What the Lord was saying to Ahaz was, “Look.  Trust in me.  Don't trust in horses, don't trust in chariots, don't trust in pagan kings and pagan gods.  Trust in me and I will take care of you.  I am your God and you are my people.  I promised David that his descendants would sit on Judah's throne forever and neither Israel, nor Syria, nor the Assyrians will undermine my promise.”  The Lord had Isaiah mention a young woman, a maiden.  We don't know who this girl was, but it had to be someone known to the king.  Maybe the queen or one of the princesses in the court.  Whoever it was, Isaiah tells the king that she's going to have a child and he is to be named Immanuel.  Immanuel means “God is with us”.  And the Lord tells the king that by the time this child is eating solid food, by the time he's old enough to know the difference between good and evil, he, the Lord himself, will put an end to the threat posed by the kings of Israel and Syria.  Again: Don't trust in horses.  Don't trust in chariots.  Don't trust in pagan kings and pagan gods.  Trust in the Lord and walk with him.  He is with you. But that wasn't the end of it.  The Lord later sent Isaiah back to the king.  This time a woman referred to as “the prophetess”—probably Isaiah's wife—had borne a son named Maher-shalal-hash-baz, which means “the spoil speeds, the prey hastens”.  The Lord's message was again for Ahaz to trust in him.  Before this child was old enough to say the words “father” and “mother” the Lord would deal with the threat of Israel and Syria.  Again, don't trust in pagan kings and pagan gods, trust in the Lord.  “God is with us,” declared Isaiah.  “The Lord of hosts, him you shall regard as holy; let him be your fear, and let him be your dread.  He will become a sanctuary, a stone one strikes against; for both houses of Israel he will become a rock one stumbles over—a trap and a snare for the inhabitants of Jerusalem.” Now, is the Lord faithful?  Does he do what he promises?  Of course.  What the Lord promised was exactly what happened.  In a short time the king of Assyria crushed Syria and Israel.  The northern Jewish kingdom was destroyed and the people scattered.  The Lord delivered the people of Judah.  Ahaz, not surprisingly being the wicked king he was, made an alliance with Assyria anyway and brought the worship of the Assyrian gods to Israel.  But his son, Hezekiah, saw what the Lord had done.  Hezekiah, when he succeeded his father, trusted the Lord and spent his reign trying to undo the evil his father had done.  When the Assyrians laid siege to Jerusalem thirty years later and the enemy soldiers taunted the Judahites to give up on their God and the enemy commander delivered a letter demanding Hezekiah's surrender, Hezekiah took that letter to the temple and knelt in prayer before the Lord.  He entrusted himself and his people to the God he knew to be faithful.  And that night the Lord unleashed a plague on the Assyrian army that wiped them out. More often than not, when the New Testament writers wanted to recall the Lord's faithfulness or the Lord's deliverance, they drew on the story of the Exodus.  It makes sense.  The Exodus was the great story of the Lord's faithfulness to his promises and of his deliverance of his people.  It set the pattern.  But it wasn't the only story in Israel's history that puts the Lord's faithfulness and deliverance on display.  As St. Matthew tells us about the birth of Jesus in today's Gospel, he quotes from Isaiah's prophesy to Ahaz in order to put Jesus in perspective.  Remember that Matthew was writing his Gospel for the benefit of his fellow Jews and so he regularly recalls their scriptures and their story to show that what the God of Israel was doing in Jesus was part of their story—in fact, that what God was doing in and through Jesus was the culmination of the story of Israel. And so Matthew reminds the people that when Jesus was born, his people were living in dark days—not all that unlike the dark days of Isaiah and Ahaz.  They'd returned from exile in Babylon, but they were still ruled by foreign, pagan kings.  It was like the exile had never really ended.  Most notably, the Lord's presence had never returned to the temple.  God was absent and the people longed for his return, not just because he would set everything to rights, but so that they could again live in his presence.  And so it should be no wonder that Matthew pulls this story about the baby, Immanuel, “God with us”, that he pulls it out from Israel's past and into the present day. So Matthew begins his Gospel with the genealogy of Joseph.  I used to read that genealogy as a kid, stumbling through all the names, and wondered why it was so important.  In part, Matthew wanted to show the kingly lineage of Joseph.  Even though he wasn't an important man, he was a descendant of Abraham and of David.  But at least as important as that is the way Matthew selectively structures his genealogy.  As he says in verse 17: fourteen generations from Abraham to David, fourteen generations from David to the Exile, and fourteen generations from the Exile to the Messiah.  Seven symbolised completion, so six times seven and now, as the seventh seven is about to begin, Jesus is born—the climax of the whole list, the one whom Israel had awaited for two thousand years.  As Paul puts it in our Epistle from Galatians: “When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son.” The Old Testament, Israel's scriptures, over and over and over and over—above everything else—highlights the faithfulness of God to his promises.  There are all sorts of themes that run through the Old Testament, but above them all, pulling them all together, is the faithfulness of God.  Humans are fickle—the story also makes that clear—but God is faithful and worthy of our trust, worthy of our worship, worthy of our loyalty and allegiance.  And, after setting out Joseph's divinely orchestrated genealogy, Matthew launches into the story itself in verse 18: This was how the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place.  His mother, Mary, was engaged to Jospeh; but before they came together she turned out to be pregnant—by the Holy Spirit.  Joseph, her husband-to-be— was an upright man.  He didn't want to make a public example of her, so he decided to set the marriage aside privately. It's not hard to imagine the disappointment, the embarrassment, even the shame that Joseph felt.  “It's not another man,” Mary told him.  “I'm pregnant by the Holy Spirit.  That's what the angel told me.  I don't understand how it can be, but he told me that this child is the Messiah.” Joseph knew where babies come from.  This was going to bring shame on him and so, Matthew says, Joseph made plans to quietly separate from Mary—to break off the engagement.  Hopefully he could distance himself from the whole fiasco, save some face, move on with life, and maybe find someone more respectable to marry. But then the angel appeared to Joseph.  “Joseph, son of David!” the angel greeted him.  Joseph was a descendant of King David, but so were a lot of people.  This was the first time anyone had ever addressed Joseph as if he were a prince.  But the angel's making a point: Joseph is part of the royal family—the family from which the Messiah would come.  “Joseph, don't be afraid to follow through with this marriage to Mary.  She wasn't lying when she told you she was pregnant by the Holy Spirit.  She's not crazy.  A miracle has really happened.  She's going to have a son.  And, listen, when he's born, you are to name him ‘Jesus'.  Why?  Because he's the one who will save his people from their sins.” If we're paying really close attention, we might notice that the way Matthew tells the story parallels the story of Isaiah going to meet King Ahaz—to declare the word of the Lord.  Matthew reminds us that Joseph is a descendant of that same royal family.  “Don't be afraid” he declares.  A child is about to be born and you're going to name him Jesus.  You're going to name him “Yahweh saves”.  Maybe we miss the parallels.  As we say, “Explain it to me like I'm five years old.”  And so Matthew makes it very plain in verse 22: All this happened so that what the Lord said through the prophet might be fulfilled: “Behold, the virgin is pregnant, and will have a son, and they shall give him the name Immanuel,” which means, in translation, “God with us”.   He makes this connection explicitly clear, because as best we can tell, no one before Matthew had ever thought of Isaiah's prophecy being fulfilled in the birth of the coming Messiah.  No one had ever made that connection, because everyone knew that Isaiah's prophecy was fulfilled in the days of King Ahaz.  Everyone knew that.  It was actually Matthew, knowing what Isaiah had said and the history that surrounded that prophecy, it was Matthew who saw there a sort of prefiguring of Jesus.  Paul wasn't the only Jew who, when confronted with the risen Jesus, went back and rethought all of Israel's story with him in mind.  Matthew did it too. When people said to Matthew, “You fool!  Don't you know where babies come from?  The Lord doesn't work this way!”  Matthew pointed back to Isaiah and said, “You wanna bet?  The Lord does work this way.  In fact, he's been working this way all through the history of our people.  Our story and all the little details that God has been working out were pointing to this, like little lights along a tunnel, and now those little lights have led us out in the blinding light of the sun—except the light is God and those little glimpses he's given of himself have finally led us to this place where—in Jesus—we see his glory blazing forth in all its brightness.  I can imagine Matthew, talking with his fellow Jews, and pointing them back to the characters and the stories they knew so well and showing how they were little lights, little bits of God's glory revealed, leading them through the darkness to the glorious day of Jesus.  This story of Ahaz and Isaiah and the baby Immanuel pointing forward to the day when “God with us” wouldn't just be the prophetic name of a royal baby boy, but when a royal baby boy would be born who would literally be “God with us”.  How the story of Abraham taking Isaac up the mountain to sacrifice him and the Lord providing a ram in Isaac's place, how that story prefigured and prepared the people for the cross, where the Lord gave his only and beloved Son to die in the place of his sinful people.  How the giving of the law and the building of the tabernacle were but lights pointing forward to the day when the Lord would pour out his Spirit on his people.  How even the Exodus and the Passover—the great and defining events of Israel's story—are now, in the light of Jesus, but little candles along the way, preparing the people for the day when the once-for-all sacrifice of Jesus would deliver the people, not just from the oppression of a pagan king, but from the dominion of sin and death. So Matthew's point is this: We need to understand the story of Jesus—his birth, his life, his death, his resurrection, his ascension, his lordship—everything we sum up in that acclamation during the Lord's Supper when we say, “Christ has died.  Christ is risen.  Christ will come again.”—Matthew wants us to know that this isn't some new story that stands all by itself.  He wants us to know that it's the continuation of the great story of the God of Israel and his people, the long story that goes all the way back to Abraham.  And not just that, but that it's the culmination of that story.  Remember I said that the great overarching theme of that big story is the faithfulness of God.  Ever since Abraham, God has been calling people to trust him.  We live in a world broken by sin and death.  We all know it's not supposed to be this way.  And so we try to fix it.  And there are all sorts of ideas out there about how to do that.  Pray to this god.  Follow that philosophy.  And into the midst of the darkness and the chaos the Lord reveals himself and says: Leave your idols and follow me. But why would we?  What could ever inspire a person to abandon Zeus or Baal for the God of Israel?  What could ever inspire a person to give up the philosophy of Plato or Epicurus for the God of Israel?  What would inspire our ancestors to stop worshipping oak trees or ancestors?  Brothers and Sisters, it's the story—the story that reminds us over and over and over and over that this Lord is faithful—that he does what he says.  And we see it first and foremost as it all comes together in Jesus.  In him we see the loving character of God as he gives himself to fulfil his promises for the sake of his people.  And in Jesus we see the Lord setting this word to rights.  The very thing that all the other gods and philosophies promise, but can never deliver—a new age, a new creation—Brothers and Sisters, the Lord has delivered it in the death and resurrection of Jesus: the defeat of sin and death and new life.  Immanuel—“God with us”.  For real.  Fulfilling his promises as he plunges us into the life of his Spirit in our baptism.  Showing he is worthy of our faith, our trust, our loyalty, our allegiance, our worship.  When Jesus says, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me,” he's pointing back to that story of God's faithfulness, back to all those lights along the way in the darkness that have led us to him—to the full brightness of God's blazing glory and saying, “Trust me.” Let us pray: Almighty God, you have given your only-begotten Son to take our nature upon him, and to be born of a pure virgin:  Grant that we, who have been born again and made your children by adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by your Holy Spirit; through our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom with you and the same Spirit be honour and glory, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Advent Philippians 4:4-7 & St. John 1:19-28 by William Klock The days are short and the clouds are heavy.  I was walking home for lunch yesterday and thinking that it felt more like dusk than noon.  It seemed very appropriate for Advent.  These dark and dreary days build anticipation for Christmas, for the birth of Jesus—they're very fitting.  Think of Israel two thousand years ago—in those days of Mary and Joseph, Elizabeth and Zechariah, and King Herod.  The world was dark.  The nations were enslaved to false gods and pagan kings.  Even little Israel, called to be the light of the world, lay in darkness.  The candlestick in the temple was kept lit, but the cloud of glory that had once filled the holy of holies, the very presence of God, had been absent for five-hundred years.  God's people were ruled by pagans and pretenders.  But the people knew the words of the prophets, the promises of their God.  It would not be this way forever.  That's the setting for today's Gospel, which begins at John 1:19.  Here's what John writes: This is the testimony John [the Baptist] gave when the Jews sent priests and Levites to ask him, “Who are you?”  He confessed, and did not deny, but confessed, “I am not the Messiah.”  “What then?” they asked him, “Are you Elijah?” “I am not,” he replied.  “Are you the Prophet?” And he answered, “No.”  “Well, then who are you?” they said.  “We've got to take an answer back to those who sent us.  Who do you claim to be?”  He said, “I am ‘a voice calling in the wilderness, Make straight the way of the Lord,' just as the prophet Isaiah said.”  (John 1:19-28) The priests were the spiritual gatekeepers of Israel and when they heard of this prophet, John, preaching and baptising, they sent their people to ask him what he was about—to see if he was legit.  People were talking about John like he was the Messiah.  You have to understand that everyone was eagerly waiting for the Messiah.  He would come to drive away the darkness and to set things to rights.  He would deal with the pagans and then sit on the throne of David to usher in a new age.  Was John the one? So they ask, “Who are you?  Who do you claim to be? Elijah?”  Some people thought Elijah would come back as Messiah, kind of like King Arthur coming back in Britain's darkest hour of need to save the nation.  Remember that Elijah never died.  He, the greatest of Israel's prophets, was carried up to heaven in a fiery chariot.  Malachi had prophesied that he would return, writing: Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes.  (Malachi 4:5) But John says, “No.  I'm not Elijah.”  He hadn't come to earth in a fiery chariot.  He was the son of Zechariah the priest and his wife, Elizabeth. “Are you the prophet?” they asked.  In Deuteronomy 18 the Lord had promised that he would one day raise up a prophet like Moses, who would declare his words.  Many people thought this prophet would be the Messiah.  But again John answers, “No, I'm not the prophet either.”  We get a sense of the longing and expectation of the Jews in those dark days.  They were in an Advent season of their own.  Like a kid waking up every morning in December and asking his parents, “Is it Christmas yet?”  So the Jews waited expectantly for the Messiah to come and drive away the darkness: to vindicate their faithfulness, to end their long exile, to restore the presence of the Lord to his temple.  They knew the Lord had promised all of this long before and they knew from their own history that the Lord is faithful to fulfil his promises.  He would surely come and rescue them just as he'd rescued them from Egypt and just as he'd rescued them from Babylon.  So for five hundred years, they woke up each morning eagerly asking, “Is it today?  Will the Messiah finally come today?” John says “No”, but in Matthew and Mark, Jesus affirms that John was fulfilling the prophecy of the return of Elijah.  I think John denied these things because he knew people associated the prophecies of Elijah and the Prophet with the Messiah.  John knew he wasn't the Messiah; he was the Messiah's herald.  And so when the priests finally let him speak for himself, he quotes Isaiah 40:3, and says, “I am ‘a voice calling in the wilderness, make straight the way of the Lord.'”  In other words, John was indeed fulfilling prophecy—not as the Messiah, but as the one sent to prepare Israel to receive the Messiah. They were surprised.  People in the past had claimed to be the Messiah.  No one claimed to be his herald.  That was weird.  So they dig deeper.  Look at 25-27: They continued to question him, “So why are you baptising, if you aren't the Messiah, or Elijah, or the Prophet?” John answered them, “I'm baptising with water, but there is one sanding among you whom you do not know—someone who is to come after me.  I'm not worthy to untie his sandal straps.” Baptism was a symbol of cleansing and of ritual purity.  At this point the other gospel-writers are helpful as they expand on John's answer.  Mark tells us that John's baptism was a baptism of repentance—it was a preparatory act in light of the coming judgement the Messiah would bring.  And Matthew and Luke also report John continuing about this one who will come, this one greater than John: “He will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and with fire” (Matthew 3:11, Luke 3:16).  In other words, John is calling Israel to repentance in anticipation of the Messiah, who will fulfil the Lord's promises to set Israel to rights by filling his people with his own Spirit.  The law written on stone tablets would be inscribed on the hearts of God's people so that they could finally fulfil his law of love.  But the Messiah was also coming in judgement.  He would baptise the repentant with God's own Spirit, but he would baptise unrepentant Israel with fire. These are the two sides of the gospel coin.  You can't have one without the other.  Jesus' advent, on the one hand, brought mercy to the repentant, but on the other it also brought judgement on the unrepentant within Israel.  What's important for us here, Brothers and Sisters, is that this exchange between John and the priests reminds us of the Messiah's place in Israel's story and of the faithfulness of God to his promises.  It is this manifestation of the Lord's faithfulness (and of his goodness, mercy, grace, and wisdom) to Israel—something we see brought to its climax in the birth, the death, the resurrection, and the ascension of Jesus, that has drawn us—you and I—to the God of Israel and that, by faith, has incorporated us into the people of God.  Through our union with Jesus, through our incorporation into this people, through our being made adopted sons and daughters of Abraham, you and I have come to know God's mercy and the life of the Spirit, too.  Because of the faithfulness of God, revealed in Jesus and in the power of the gospel, the darkness that Mary and Joseph, Elizabeth and Zechariah, John the Baptist and Jesus knew, that deep, deep darkness full of false gods and wicked kings and demonic power has been driven away by the light.  The light has come into the darkness, his gospel has thrown those powers down and lit up the world.  And you and I have seen—we live in—the glory of that light.  And this is where our Epistle today takes off.  Brothers and Sisters, it means something that you and I have been incorporated into the people of God.  God has a purpose and a mission for his people—for us.  This is where our Epistle takes off. Paul writes those wonderful and challenging words in Philippians 4:4: Rejoice in the Lord always; I say again, rejoice. What prompted Paul to write this?  Well, just two verses earlier, Paul exhorted two women, Euodia and Syntyche, to agree with each other.  They had once been fellow labourers with Paul, but they'd had some kind of falling out.  There's something providential in the fact that Paul doesn't give us the details, because with no details I think we all end up thinking of the fallings out we've had with our own brothers and sisters in the Lord.  This isn't just about two women in Philippi.  It's about each of us.  In response to that falling out, Paul calls the Philippian Christian to rejoice in the Lord.  Instead of a public display of disunity or resentment or anger—whatever it was that was going on between these two women, the Church was to put joy on display, to celebrate the life of God.  They were people of the light, but they were living in the dark.  It was imperative that they come back into the light.  Brothers and Sisters, the devils and the evil powers of this age want nothing more than to undermine our gospel witness in the world, to flip the switch and turn off our gospel light.  Don't let that happen.  Jesus and the gospel should overcome and drown out the darkness whenever it tries to creep into our church family.  Here's how it works.  Paul writes: Let everyone know how gentle and gracious you are.  (Philippians 4:5a) Gentle and gracious.  Paul uses the same description in 2 Corinthians 10 to describe the meekness of Jesus as a model for Christians.  This is gospel light lived out.  What Paul's getting at is that Jesus is the King, but in him we see this amazing display of gracious gentleness.  This is the gentleness we see revealed as Jesus, the one to whom heaven and earth belong, humbled himself to be born one of us, to die on the cross, and to show mercy to his enemies.  This kind of meekness or gentleness is unique to Jesus, and yet Paul stresses that as his people, as stewards of the gospel, we're called to witness this same gentleness amongst ourselves.  As it should be the resolution to so many disputes in the Church, it was the resolution to whatever had driven Euodia and Syntyche apart. Brothers and Sisters, when we demand our rights, when we grasp for power, when we nurse grudges, we undermine our gospel witness—we put on display the very darkness from which we've been delivered by the one who is light.  In contrast Paul calls us to rejoice in the Lord and to manifest Jesus-like gentleness in our relationships.  Jesus' gracious gentleness has forgiven and restored us and that same gracious gentleness ought to shine through us and through the life of the church.  Consider that every time we hold a grudge, allow a relationship to break down, or follow the world's advice to cut those problem or negative people out of our lives, we undermine the Church's witness to the world.  But that's not all. Paul goes on: The Lord is near.  Do not be anxious about anything.  Rather in everything let your requests be made known to God, by prayer, supplication, and with thanksgiving.   There's that Advent theme again: Jesus has given us a job to do.  He's given us a gospel treasure to steward in his absence.  In the meantime, rather than being anxious, we should take our needs to God.  Jesus made the same point in the Sermon on the Mount.  The pagans worry about what they'll eat, what they'll wear, and where they'll sleep.  God's people should know better than to worry unduly about these things.  God will provide just as he always has.  He is faithful to his promises.  The story of his dealings with Israel is the proof and even more so, so is his gift of Jesus, who died and rose again to set us free from sin and death.  So go to the Lord with your needs and ask.  And while you're at it, give thanks, because you know his faithfulness and his love. This is part of the witness of the people of God—it's how we are light in the darkness—and it ties back into rejoicing.  When Paul talks about rejoicing, at least part of what he's got in mind is a public display or a public witness.  The pagan Greeks in Philippi regularly held public celebrations to honour their gods.  And yet the pagans, as Jesus said, were always anxious.  Why?  Because their gods never delivered.  Pagan religion was a non-stop game of trial and error, trying to guess what the gods wanted, trying to guess what you may have done wrong to offend them, and then guessing at what you might offer to appease their anger or to ingratiate them to you in order to get what you needed or wanted.  The pagan gods were silent and they were notoriously capricious and unreliable.  And in this context Paul exhorts the Philippian Christians: Rejoice yourselves.  Let the pagans see you celebrating the fact that the Creator of the universe has, through Jesus, made you his own and lives in your midst by his own Holy Spirit.  Let the pagans, who know only mean and capricious gods and who live in a dog-eat-dog world, let them see the gracious gentleness of God in you.  Live in such a way that they see in you the God who humbles himself to die for the sake of his enemies.  And let the pagans see you living in faith, praying in confident thankfulness to the God whose story reveals an unfailing pattern of promise and fulfilment.  Shine the light of Jesus into the darkness of the world.  And the result of all this?  Look at verse 7: And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in King Jesus.   I think we tend to look at Paul's exhortation here as something we should do in order to experience the peace of God ourselves, but given the context in Philippians, I think Paul's point is actually more about our witness.  If we truly live as stewards of the good news about Jesus, if we truly live as people who know the faithfulness of God revealed in Jesus and particularly in his death and resurrection, if we truly know the life of the Spirit, the peace of God—rather than the strife and anxiety of the world—will guard our hearts and minds in a way that will astound the pagans around us. I said last Sunday that we are called both to proclaim and to live the gospel.  This is how we live it.  Put together with our proclamation, to truly live in light of Jesus and what he reveals about God, should cause the world to stand up and take note.  This is our way of being John the Baptist in our own age.  And as it did for John, for us—if we are faithful—it will result in many giving glory to God for his faithfulness and then coming to him in faith as we have.  But it will also threaten many who are invested in the pagan and sinful systems of the world.  Brothers and Sisters, we are now the voice calling in the wilderness: “Make straight the way of the Lord!” So we need to ask: Does the world see our joy?  Are we the voice crying in the wilderness?  Are we the royal heralds the Lord has called us to be, summoning the word to let go of its false gods and to come to the Lord Jesus, calling the world away from sin and self and to come to the cross?  And we need to ask how the world is responding to us.  If we're faithfully proclaiming the good news about Jesus, if we're faithfully calling people to repent and to believe, if we're faithfully proclaiming that Jesus is Lord and that his kingdom has come—well—people will respond in one of two ways.  Either they'll believe or they'll get angry—as Herod got angry with John.  There's some of both out there in the world, but overwhelmingly, when I look at how people respond to or think of the church these days in our part of the world, it's often just indifference.  Why? Because we have not been the witnesses God calls us to be.  We have been mealy-mouthed and, quite often, just plain silent in our proclamation, because we have too often sought to please people rather than God, and because we have been half-hearted and unfaithful in our gospel living.  Like old Israel, we pray to God, but we've failed to tear down the old altars to Baal and Asherah—or Mammon or Aphrodite or Caesar.  We name Jesus, but we deal dishonestly in business, we sell our souls to the commercialism that surrounds us, we look to politics or to science as our saviours, and we dabble in the sexual immorality of the age.  We've failed to proclaim the gospel and we justify it, saying that we'll preach it with our lives.  But if we stop to ask what the world sees in our lives, is it really very different?  Does the world see us rejoicing in the Lord?  Does the world see us manifesting the gracious gentleness of Jesus?  Does the world see us living in faithful prayer and trusting in God, or does it see people just as anxious as everyone else?  Does it see enmity and strife and broken relationships or does it see a gospel people living out the healing and reconciling love of Jesus?  Does the world see the peace of God ruling our hearts and minds?  Does the world see us, holding high the gospel, as a challenge to its gods and its kings and its sins?  It should.  But sadly, I think that for the Western Church at large, the answer is often “no”. And, all too often, when we do proclaim the gospel, we do so without power or authority.  Think of John boldly declaring the coming judgement and calling Israel to repentance.  It was urgent and powerful.  In contrast we tend to hold the gospel out as good advice, rather than as the good news that it is.  Friends, the gospel is the royal summons to submit in faith to Jesus, the world's true Lord—the Lord who has come with mercy so that the repentant will escape when he comes one day in judgement.  This was the power behind John the Baptist' preaching.  But all too often we present the gospel as just another option on the religious smorgasbord—something you might want to try. See if you like it.  See if it works for you.  If not…oh well.  Brothers and Sisters, that's not the gospel.  The gospel is good news to the people living in the midst of darkness: the king who will set the world to rights has come.  And that means the gospel, when preached as it should be, will challenge and upset the Herods and Caesars of our age and all those invested in the false gods of the world. The Advent message is to be prepared.  Jesus has given us a gospel mission to take the good news of his death, his resurrection, and his lordship into the world.  Brothers and Sisters, pray that we will be faithful to our mission—faithful enough to provoke persecution, because that's the kind of faithfulness that also reaps a harvest for the kingdom.  Pray for the holy boldness of John the Baptist and the gracious gentleness of Jesus.  Pray that we will be the salt of the earth and the light of the world.  Pray that the joy of the Lord will overcome us.  Brothers and Sisters, Rejoice!  Rejoice in the Lord always.  Again, I say rejoice. Let's pray: O Lord, come among us, we pray, with your power and strengthen us with your great might; that whereas, through our sins and wickedness we are grievously hindered in running the race that is set before us, your bountiful grace and mercy may speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, to whom with you and the Holy Spirit, be honour and glory, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Third Sunday in Advent 1 Corinthians 4:1-5 & St. Matthew 11:2-10 by William Klock Imagine a little church.  Most of the people in it are converts from paganism.  They used to worship false gods: sex, money, war, power, government.  They all had their favourite sins: lying, cheating, anger, pornography, drunkenness, drugs, adultery.  You name it, they'd done it—often as part of their worship.  But then this funny Jewish man showed up preaching a bizarre message about the God of Israel and his son, the Messiah—the anointed king—who had been crucified and then raised from death.  And this man, Paul, he'd been abused, beaten, stoned, left for dead so many times for the sake of this message, this “good news” he was so earnest about.  He was a little frightening to look at, because he  literally bore the marks of this gospel, the marks of Jesus on his own body.  But this good news was unlike any news they'd ever heard before.  This God, this Jesus, was unlike any god they'd ever worshiped.  He brought love, mercy, grace, and hope into a world of darkness, greed, selfishness, and brutality.  They were won over.  They were baptised into this God who is Father, Son, and Spirit and the new creation begun by Jesus was born in them.  Paul stayed and he taught them and they grew in Jesus and the Spirit.  And then Paul moved on.  And they started to struggle.  The temptations of their old pagan ways came back—as so often happens.  The new life of Jesus and the Spirit—so thrilling at first—became hum-drum and they started seeking after new experiences and new excitements.  That resulted in factions in the church: this group became a fan of that preacher and that group became fans of this preacher.  In the name of Christian liberty they became tolerant of sin—even some that were unspeakable to the pagans.  And that led to further divisions.  And when Paul heard what was happening and wrote to them.  Think of Advent.  He wrote to them: “Hey, you're living like you're still part of the old evil age, subject to the old false gods that Jesus defeated at the cross.  You're supposed to be living as heralds of God's new creation!”  And they wrote back a nasty letter telling him they were done with him—they didn't want to hear his “correction” anymore.  They had grown beyond his teaching and they were doing well on their own, thank you very much!  This was the church in Corinth. And this is what's behind our Epistle today, 1 Corinthians 4:1-5.  Let's read: This is how we should be thought of, as servants of the Messiah and stewards of the mysteries of God.  And this is what follows: it is required of stewards that they be found faithful.  Having said that, I regard it a matter of small concern to think that I should be judged by you or by any human court.  In fact, I don't even judge myself.  I don't actually know of anything that stands against me, but that isn't what vindicates me. It is the Lord who judges me.  Therefore, do not pass judgment before the time when the Lord comes.  He will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will lay bare the intentions of the heart.  Then everyone will receive his commendation from God.   I've always wondered how hard it was for Paul to write this, especially the bit about “This is how we should be thought of: I'm a servant of the Messiah and a steward of God's mysteries.”  Good clergymen tend to err on the side of humility, even to a fault.  The only guys I've ever known to say things like this have been egotists who never should have been in ministry in the first place.  But Paul had one advantage that only the apostles had and that was that they had known Jesus in the flesh and had been commissioned by him personally.  I can't say that and neither can anyone else alive today.  That said, there is a place for God's stewards to assert their calling in the face of unjust judgement.  Most pastors, when faced with unjust criticism just nod humbly, say nothing, and take it to God, but Paul reminds us that there is a time to speak up against these kinds of judgements.  And not just “pastors”.  This goes for every Christian.  We're all ministers of the gospel.  And we live in an age that is becoming increasingly hostile to the gospel and to gospel people.  Sometimes the criticisms we receive can be justified.  Sometimes Christians and sometimes churches have failed and done awful things.  But those are the outliers.  Most of the criticism we face comes from people who hate Jesus and the message of the cross, who don't want to hear about sin and don't want to repent, who have their own ideas of what the world should be like and only want new creation on their terms, not God's.  Jesus warned us this would happen, but most of us still aren't prepared for the attacks.  And so even though we're ministers of the gospel and stewards of the mysteries of God, all too often we let the false judgements and accusations of pagans back us out of the room.  We go silently and sit facing the corner like scolded children—and I think a lot of the time we actually feel guilty when we hear these accusations, even though we know better. Brothers and Sisters, Paul stresses that ministers are to be found faithful.  That goes for apostles and for pastors and for all of us.  Yes, we need to weigh criticism.  We need to ask if there's anything to it.  Sometimes there may be.  Maybe we're not being faithful to Jesus' instructions and we need to hear it.  But Jesus' instructions aren't hard to understand or discern.  As a minister, I'm called to preach the word, especially the gospel about Jesus, and to administer the sacraments.  It's not quite that simple, but that is the core.  And for all of us, we're called to proclaim the gospel about Jesus to the world around us and to live in a way that accords with being the people of God.  We proclaim Jesus and we live the life—the fruit—of the Spirit. We need to reflect on our lives in light of that and ask if we're being faithful.  This is one of the reasons we need to steep ourselves in God's word.  If we don't know what God expects, how will we be faithful?  It's a bit like a bread recipe.  Bread is one of the simplest things in the world to make.  But as simple as it is, you still have to read the recipe and follow it.  Start changing things up and you spoil the bread.  But that's what we all too often do.  It's not that we're not well-intentioned.  We want to see things happen, but sometime we get impatient.  We take shortcuts, because we don't want to wait.  Sometimes we get bored with plain old bread.  We remember the time we had cinnamon-swirl bread—or chocolate cake!—so we try to change up the recipe or add exciting things to it.  People out there don't like to hear about sin, so we'll tone that part of our preaching down.  People out there don't like commitment, so we'll make the gospel commitment-free.  People out there don't like liturgy and sermons, so we'll have a rock concert and cut the sermon to a few minutes of feel-good self-help.  People don't feel like getting up on Sunday mornings and driving to church, so we'll broadcast it to their TVs and computers instead.  Maybe we're just not confident that people will want to eat our bread.  We're not confident in the power of the gospel and the Spirit to change hearts and to bring them to Jesus, so we instead build churches around programmes and activities that people do want or we use manipulative techniques to get them to believe.  We make the gospel about them and not so much about Jesus and the glory of God.  These things can and often do bring short-term gains, but in the long-term they've been a disaster.  We wonder why people won't commit, why they're still worldly, why we're losing our children, and why we're seen as increasingly irrelevant.  It's like we've tried to bake bread by replacing the flour with glitter.  The end product might look exciting, but in the end it's not only unable to nourish, it's slowly poisoning us.  In contrast, the real work of the gospel is rarely flashy.  Sometimes it brings persecution and even martyrdom.  It means relying on God, not ourselves.  And it means being in it for the long-haul.  Consider Israel.  God called Abraham and it was two thousand years before Israel's story culminated with Jesus.  And the in-between was as full of hardship, slavery, judgement, and exile as it was prosperity and growth.  And that was God working with a single, small people.  Brothers and Sisters, our mission is the world. We need to follow the simple recipe: Be faithful to the gospel, build churches around word and sacrament, pray and fellowship together, raise covenant children who know Jesus.  And live as the people of God's new creation in the midst of the old so that the people around us will see what Jesus has done in his death and resurrection.  Make them constructively curious about what makes us different, then explain it to them—proclaim Jesus and the gospel.  Let your neighbours see you live it—when it's a joy to follow Jesus and when you struggle to bear that cross.  And as we do that, remember that the judgement that matters is not the judgement of other people or the world, but of God.  That doesn't mean we shouldn't have an ear to the ground.  That doesn't mean we shouldn't listen to the world's judgements.  Sometimes we need to know how the world sees us—even if it's false—so that we can better know what we're up against.  So that we can better respond with the gospel.  And, sometimes, the world's rebukes may have some truth to them.  Jesus promised that his people would be persecuted for his sake, but we need to make sure that we're actually being persecuted for his sake and for our faithfulness to his word.  I know some Christians who claim they're being persecuted, but when you get down to it, it's just that people don't like them because they're jerks, not because they're preaching Jesus.  People will still hate us for preaching Jesus, but Friends, we do need to be sure that as we preach Jesus and as we stand firmly on the Scriptures that the world rejects, we remain committed to being a godly people in every respect.  We need to live the gospel as much as we preach the gospel.  We're to announce God's judgement on sin, yes, but we're also to announce God's mercy to repentant sinners. It's simple—it may be difficult, but it's nothing if not simple: stick to the bread recipe: A church of word and sacrament, a church of koinonia—of gospel life lived together.  Just be faithful in that.  This is the bread that feeds us and the bread that will give life to the world.  And, who knows, every once in a while the Spirit has been known to sprinkle in some raisins or some cinnamon or to drizzle some honey into the recipe—but that's his prerogative, not ours. So that's the Epistle.  Let's turn over to today's Gospel in Matthew 11 as we continue with this theme.  Again, what does it look like to be gospel ministers who are prepared.  Well, John the Baptist.  In the Gospel, John has gone from announcing the coming kingdom and baptising people in the Jordan to being locked up in prison.  He got there by way of criticizing Herod.  It wasn't just some off-the-wall criticism.  Tied up with his announcement of the kingdom was John's denouncement of Herod for marrying his former sister-in-law.  Herod couldn't help but draw a connection between John's fiery preaching and himself.  If John was saying that the King was soon to come, it meant John was saying that Herod wasn't really the king.  So poor John is now in Herod's dungeon and he's frustrated and confused.  He'd been faithful in his divine calling to herald the coming Messiah—his cousin, Jesus—and he's landed in prison.  No big surprise there.  He wasn't the first prophet to offend a king and end up in prison.  But Jesus—the Messiah—was on the outside, preaching, teaching, healing, forgiving, having dinner with tax collectors and sinners…and leaving John to rot.  Something was wrong or so John was beginning to think.  These things happen to faithful ministry and it's easy to get frustrated.  We're preaching the gospel!  Why are we being opposed?  We're faithfully being what the church is supposed to be.  Why aren't we growing and why is that other group preaching a false gospel and making glitter bread doing so well?  We'll pick up from there: Meanwhile, John, who was in prison, heard about the deeds of the Messiah.  He sent word through his disciples and asked him, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we be looking for someone else?”  (St. Matthew 11:2-10) I don't think John was really doubting whether Jesus was the Messiah.  I think this was his way of saying, “Um…Jesus.  Shouldn't the Messiah be getting his faithful herald out prison?”  Of course, that also meant all the other things to go along with it.  A simple jailbreak wouldn't do.  The jailbreak would have to be part of a wholesale overthrow of Herod and the Romans—which, of course, is what most people expected the Messiah to do.  Here's what Jesus says to John's men in return:  “Go and tell John what you hear and see: Blind people are seeing!  Lame people are walking!  Lepers are being cleansed!  The dead are being raised to life!  And the poor are hearing the good news!  And God bless you if you're not offended by what I'm doing.”  (Matthew 11:5-6) You see, John expected the Messiah to be like Elijah, confronting the prophets of Baal and calling down fire from heaven.  John wanted to see fire and brimstone.  There is a place for that.  In a sense John wasn't wrong.  Jesus is the Judge and, you can be sure, he will judge the world and everyone in it.  There will be a time for fire and brimstone and judgement.  I suspect that being a fire-and-brimstone sort of prophet—and that is what John was called to be so there's nothing wrong with that—I suspect that being that kind of guy means that you get a little fixated on judgement.  And Jesus responds by saying something like, “You expected Elijah…and you've got Elijah…but before I come in judgement, there are a lot of people…people like the widow of Zeraphath…people who need to know God's mercy.”  As Jesus says in John's Gospel: “I came not to condemn, but to redeem.”  Brothers and Sisters, remember: Sinners already stand condemned.  Judgement is coming.  Announcing that judgement and calling people to repentance was John's mission.  But before the judgement comes, what Israel needed most was to know God's mercy, to know his salvation.  This is why Jesus' road to the throne had to be by way of the cross. So Jesus corrects John.  He sets him straight about the Messiah.  But he then turns to the crowd and praises John: As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John: “What were you expecting to see when you went out to the wilderness?  A reed shaken by the wind?  No? Well, then, what were you expecting to see?  A man dressed in silks and satins?  If you wanted to see a man like that you'd have gone to the king's palace.  All right, so what were you expecting to see?  A prophet?  Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet.  This is he of whom it is written, “‘Behold, I send my messenger before your face,          who will prepare your way before you.' (Matthew 11:7-10) Even though Jesus' mission was one of humility and of mercy, Jesus praises the faithfulness of John to his ministry as the fiery herald of judgement.  Again, John was expecting the Messiah to come like Elijah, bringing confrontation and fire from heaven, but what Jesus says—albeit a little obliquely for reasons that get beyond our lesson today—what Jesus says here is that John is the prophet like Elijah.  John is the fire-and-brimstone preacher.  John is the herald announcing judgement and calling the people to repentance.  Jesus quotes from Malachi 3 and confirms two things: John is truly the one sent to herald the Messiah and, two, that means that Jesus truly is the Messiah—the one whom Malachi said would come both to refine Israel and to make her offerings pleasing to the Lord and to judge the unrepentant. Now, in the short-term this was bad news for John.  It was bad news for Jesus, too.  Both the Messiah and his herald would be put to death.  But death was not the end.  As it turns out, we know, it was by the death of Jesus that deliverance was bought and in his resurrection he was vindicated and the unjust verdict on him overturned.  In his resurrection and his ascension, Jesus was confirmed as the Messiah, as Lord.  In that we see the faithfulness of God to his promises and knowing God's faithfulness, we have hope.  As St. Paul wrote to the Romans: “If we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall surely be united with him in a resurrection like his” (Romans 6:5).  This is one of those parts of the gospel that we often prefer to ignore or to leave out of our preaching, because it offends.  We've sort of got the opposite problem John had.  John was fixated on judgement and on fire from heaven.  Like so many Jews, he wanted to see God vanquish Israel's enemies and he nearly forgot about God's mercy.  Our problem is the opposite.  We've become so afraid of preaching about sin and about judgement, that we can't even preach mercy and grace anymore—because mercy isn't mercy and grace isn't grace if we're not guilty of anything and if there is no judgement headed this way.  And if we gut our preaching of mercy and grace, we can talk all day about the love of God, but there will be no depth to it.  We will make the cross of Jesus pointless.  Why?  Because we can only begin to plumb the great depths of God's love when we see that he gave his Son to die for our sake—for the sake of sinners who would otherwise stand condemned to destruction. And that brings us back to the recipe for bread.  Brothers and Sisters, bread is simple and often kind of boring.  But if you make it right, it nourishes.  It keeps us alive.  There's a reason why Jesus used it as a metaphor for himself when he said, “I am the bread of life.”  There's a reason why it's a symbol over and over in the story of God's people for his faithful care and sustenance.  And it points to the way God works and the way his gospel and his word work in the world.  It's hardly ever flashy.  And you have to be patient, because it takes time to rise and it takes time to bake.  But like the Messiah, who humbled himself to take on lowly human flesh, who humbled himself to be born of a lowly virgin, and who humbly went to death on a cross, the simple bread of the gospel, the good news that Jesus died, that he rose, and that he is Lord, brings life to the world.  To preach it faithfully means to preach it whole and to preach it pure.  Friends, be faithful stewards.  Stick to the recipe.  Preach the Lord Jesus, crucified and risen to give forgiveness and life to sinners.  Pursue holiness.  Build churches centred on the faithful preaching of God's word and the administration of the sacraments, where, knowing God's faithfulness, God's people sing and pray together, where they raise covenant, gospel children, where we live as people who know the hope of God's life in the age to come. Let's pray: O Lord Jesus Christ, who at your first coming sent your messenger to prepare your way before you: grant that the ministers and stewards of your mysteries may likewise so prepare and make ready your way by turning the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, that at your second coming to judge the world we may be found an acceptable people in your sight; who lives and reigns with the Father in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Except in the Cross of Jesus Galatians 6:1-18 by William Klock Everyone who knows me, I think, knows that I am no fan of Sportzball—of any kind.  That goes for Sportzpuck, too.  I have poor depth perception, so I've always been absolutely no good in any sport that involves flying or otherwise fast-moving objects.  I joined the swim team instead and—to this day—thorough enjoy it.  As a kid my favourite was to swim in the medley relay swimming backstroke.  I was really good at that it was fun to contribute that effort to a relay team.  You might not think it, but even on the swim team, as much as it might seem like everyone's competing individually—except for the handful of relay events—even on the swim team, we all had to pull our own weight, we all had to look out for each other to win.  I struggled with backstroke for a long time, but in high school one of the upperclassmen who would go on to the US Olympic team, not only encouraged me, but took me aside and worked with me to better my stroke.  Because that's what you do when you're on a team. But here's the thing.  We all know this.  It's a no-brainer.  A team won't win if it doesn't work together, if people don't show up, if everyone doesn't pull his own weight.  It's a no-brainer in sports.  But then there's the church.  In the average church about twenty per cent do eighty per cent of the work.  Compare the membership to average Sunday attendance and in the average church there's a significant difference between those two numbers.  I've been in churches where average Sunday attendance was less than a third of the actual membership.  And, it's been my experience, that instead of coming alongside to help each other when we see problems, too many of us stand on the sidelines and complain amongst ourselves.  We've seen a version of this in Galatians.  The team was being pulled apart: Jewish believers here, gentile believers there.  They were, as Paul puts it, biting and devouring each other and on the verge of blowing the whole thing up, when they should have been bearing with each other in love.  We're supposed to be focused on Jesus and walking by the Spirit, but all too often we end up focused on ourselves and walking according to the flesh.  So as we come to Chapter 6, the closing chapter of Paul's letter, he's made his arguments, but before he sums it up in closing, he visits a couple of relevant points about the unity of the church and what life—what teamwork—in a church characterised by the fruit of the Spirit looks like.  So, first, Galatians 6:1-5. Brothers [and Sisters], if someone is found out in some trespass, then you—the spiritual ones—should set such a person right, in a spirit of gentleness.  Watch out for yourselves: you too may be tested.  Carry each other's burdens; that's the way to fulfil the Messiah's law.  For if you think you're something when you're not, you deceive yourself.  Every one of you should test your own work, and then you will have a reason to boast of yourself, not of somebody else.  Each of you, you see, will have to carry your own load.   This is what it looks like to build a community around the fruit of the Spirit instead of the works of the flesh.  This is what it looks like to live in love and humility, instead of rivalry and jealousy.  Stuff will go wrong.  We may be walking by the Spirit, but we're not perfect.  And Paul says that when that happens, we need to set each other right in a spirit of gentleness.  You who are spiritual, he writes.  He might be saying that this is what spiritually mature believers do, but I really think he's writing this as a rebuke to the Galatians.  They think they're spiritual, but instead of dealing with each other in gentleness, instead of setting each other right, they're biting and devouring each other.  I really don't think this is Paul's instruction to the spiritually mature; it's his instruction to everyone to whom Jesus has given his Spirit—and that's all of us—everyone who is in Jesus the Messiah.  Brothers and Sisters, when Paul, in Chapter 5, says to walk by the Spirit, I think out tendency is to picture ourselves walking—each of us alone, each of us doing our own thing in line with the Spirit—but Paul's point here is that we don't do this as individuals.  The Spirit joins us into Jesus' one body and we walk by the Spirit together, as a community.  That means helping each other when we struggle or fall or stray.  And helping means being gentle in the sense that the end goal is restoration and the wholeness and unity of the community.  Remember, we follow Jesus who, as Paul put it earlier, “loved me and gave himself for me”.  We ought to feel the same way towards each other. It's easy to become prideful.  It's easy to look down on a brother or a sister who stumbles—as if it could never happen to us—so Paul warns: Watch out.  Someday you might be tested.  Instead, we need to be carrying each other's burdens.  And now he comes back full circle to this whole debate about the place of the law.  He says that it's as we bear with each other in love, gentleness, and humility, it's in this that we actually fulfil the law.  We can never fulfil the law through circumcision or diet or keeping the Sabbath, but by being this community that bears and that lives out the fruit of the Spirit—for each other and for the world. Then, on the other side of the scale, Paul stresses our work, our vocation within this community.  He's been warning about these circumcision people who want to “boast” in their circumcision.  What he's getting at is that when persecution comes, they'll point out that they're circumcised and can therefore claim the Jewish exemption from pagan worship.  Paul says, no!  God's given you gospel work to do and he's given you his Spirit to make it possible.  “Boast” in that.  When your neighbours or the civic officials come to arrest you for being anti-social or anti-patriotic or anti-religious appeal not to your circumcision, but to the gospel, to the kingdom work you and your brothers and sisters have done.  In other words, be the “on earth as in heaven” people Jesus and the Spirit have made you and leave the pagans nothing bad to say about you.  Don't glorify your flesh; let God be glorified.  And with that in mind he tells them—and us—to get to work.  Carry your load.  In other words, do the work of the kingdom that God has called and equipped you to do.  Don't sit around waiting for that committed twenty per cent to do it; do what God has called you to do.  Is there something that needs to be done?  Are you equipped to do it?  Then don't complain about it.  Go do it.  Visit that brother or sister in hospital.  Mop the kitchen floor.  Find an opportunity to talk to your neighbour or your co-worker or your grandchild about Jesus and the gospel.  “Each of you,” Paul writes, “have to carry your own [part of] the load.” And then, speaking of the loads we each bear within this Messiah community, Paul writes in verse 6: If someone is being taught the word, they should share with the teacher all the good things they have.  Don't be misled; God is not mocked.  What you sow is what you'll reap.  Yes: if you sow in the field of your flesh you will harvest decay from your flesh, but if you sow in the field of the Spirit you will harvest eternal life from the Spirit.   So speaking of everyone doing their part of the work…  I'm always impressed by Paul's ability to talk about money without mentioning money.  But here it is.  There is one job in the church that needs to be paid and I suspect this is Paul's way of saying to the Galatians, “If you'd been doing this, you probably would have avoided the situation you're in.”  Brothers and Sisters, those who preach and teach in the church need material support so that they can devote themselves to their work.  We see this in Acts.  There were a lot of things that needed to be done in the Jerusalem church.  Good things.  Godly things.  But the apostles realised that they needed to devote themselves to preaching and to prayer, so they appointed deacons to do those other things.  And this means a lot coming from Paul.  Paul supported himself making tents.  He didn't take money for himself from the churches he served, and yet he's always clear that that's not the norm.  He knew that the ministry of the word is absolutely essential to the church and he knew that it's time-consuming work and the church needs to do its best to make sure those who preach and teach actually have to time to minister the word well. Brothers and Sisters, you want to see revival?  Revival is always preceded—whether we look at the history of Israel or the history of the church—revival is always preceded by a passion for the teaching and preaching of God's word—by preachers who are passionate about proclaiming it and by people who are desperately hungry to hear it.  And that same history shows that when the church is at its lowest, there is a famine of the word.  Many of us left Mainline churches that were preaching heresy and people wonder how it happened.  Brothers and Sisters, it happened because the expositional preaching and the confidence in the inspired word of God that were our heritage, gifted to us by the Reformation, were lost.  As John Stott once said, “Sermonettes make Christianettes”.  It happens in theology liberal churches.  It happens in sacramentalist churches.  It happens anywhere the glory of God's word has been eclipsed by other priorities.  Poorly taught people who don't know their Bibles are prey to heresy and immaturity and that's precisely what's happened.  It's what happened in Galatia.  And so Paul warns them that they need to support the ministry of men in their churches to give the word of God its due, so that they preach it faithfully and powerfully, so that the churches will grow in the Spirit, know the truth, and recognise error when they see it. And Paul is then clear: If you think you can do without serious Bible teaching in your church and still steer your way through the false teachers and heresies of the day unscathed, you are fooling yourself.  God is not mocked.  He has spoken.  He has given his word because he loves us, because he wants us to know him, because he wants us to know his promises and his faithfulness so that we can live in hope, so that we can each go out to proclaim the gospel faithfully and so that the church can be what he wants it to be.  Brothers and Sisters, faithful Christians should have a natural hunger for that word and to hear it proclaimed fully and faithfully.  Our forebearers back in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, after a millennium-long famine of the word, were eager to hear it.  They'd listen to an hour-long sermon Sunday morning, then come back in the afternoon to hear another two or sometimes three preachers proclaim the word—not pop-psychology, not self-help, not sermons where a verse is just a springboard for the preacher to jump into his own ideas, but to hear God's word explained and applied.  Because they were hungry to hear God speak. Paul says: You reap what you sow.  There are exceptions.  Sometimes you pay a preacher and he turns out to be useless and there are some underpaid preachers who are brilliant, but as a general rule—and one borne out in the history of the church—if you don't take preaching seriously and if you don't invest your church's resources in good preaching, you will end up with a shallow and half-baked pulpit ministry, a famine of the word, and ultimately all sorts of false teaching and heresy. And still talking about money—again without actually using the word—Paul carries on in verses 9 and 10 with this image of sowing and reaping. Don't lose your enthusiasm for doing good.  At the proper time you'll bring the harvest in, if you don't give up.  So then, while we have the chance, let's do good to everyone and particularly to the household of the faith.   If we have crucified the flesh and its works and have put on Jesus and are bearing the fruit of the Spirit, good works should naturally follow, but I think Paul has something more specific in mind here, because I can't see any reason he would be concerned that we'd lose our enthusiasm—literally he writes don't weary—of bearing the fruit of the Spirit.  What we are prone to losing our enthusiasm for is the sort of works that we do to build up the church or to carry the gospel and the kingdom to the community around us.  That can get very tiring sometimes—especially when you give and give or work and work and nothing seems to come of it or no one seems to appreciate it.  I think that's what Paul has in mind.  There was a culture of benefaction in the ancient world.  Wealthy people would often try to outdo each other in gifts and investments in their towns and cities.  They did it for selfish reasons.  They wanted to make names for themselves.  And I think given that context, Paul's idea here is that Christians need not only to be benefactors within their own churches and supporting their own ministries, but that Christians should also be known as benefactors in their own communities—not for their own sakes, but in order to make the name of Jesus known and as a natural outflowing of the grace of the gospel.  We witness God's generosity with us by being generous to others.  It's one of the ways we lift the veil on God's new creation.  The pagans will accuse Christians falsely in all sorts of ways.  Don't weasel out of it by trying to be Jews, exempt from pagan worship.  Instead, use your generosity to display the love and grace of mercy of the gospel. And that then brings Paul full circle, back to this issue of circumcision and torah.  In verse 11 he gives us a sense of just how passionately he feels about all of this.  Letters were normally dictated to a scribe, but here Paul takes the pen in his own hand and writes, Look at the large-size letters I'm writing to you in my own hand.  This is personal.  Papyrus was expensive and maybe he wanted to stress how important this all was by showing how willing he was to use more of it.  Maybe he wanted someone to be able to hold the page up and for the congregation to be able to read it for themselves at a distance.  Whatever the case, he comes back to the main issue and stresses how vital it is to their lives as a Christians and as a church.  He writes: It's the people who want to make a fine showing in the flesh who are trying to force you into getting circumcised—for this purpose only, that they may avoid persecution for the Messiah's cross.  You see, even the circumcised ones don't keep the law; rather, they want you to be circumcised, so that they may boast in your flesh.   The circumcision people are afraid.  As long as the church was just Jews everything was fine, but now these formerly pagan gentiles have heard the good news about Jesus and have believed and when they did, they stopped going to the temples, they stopped making offerings to the gods, they smashed their home altars and threw out their household gods, they've stopped offering that pinch of incense to Caesar that he demanded.  In doing that, these gentiles converts have angered their friends, families, neighbours, and the civic authorities and so they claimed the exemption that Caesar had granted to the Jews.  Except these gentile Jesus-believers, they weren't Jews.  They weren't circumcised, they weren't fussy about what they ate, they didn't even keep the Sabbath.  And so now the Jews were mad.  And they were afraid: What if the authorities revoke our special status and force us to worship pagan gods?  That's what all this talk about a show in the flesh and boasting is all about.  They wanted to avoid being persecuted for the sake of Jesus and the gospel by putting on a show—a sham of being Jewish.  But that sham meant denying the power of the cross.  That sham meant denying that in Jesus, God's new world has been born.  And so Paul goes on in verses 14 to 16: As for me, God forbid that I should boast—except in the cross of our Lord Jesus the Messiah, through whom the world has been crucified to me and I to the world.  Circumcision, you see, is nothing; neither is uncircumcision.  What matters is new creation.  Peace and mercy on everyone who lines up by that standard—yes, on God's Israel.   Brothers and Sisters, the cross should be our everything.  It was for Paul.  When the authorities came for these circumcision people, they were going to “boast”—meaning they were going to appeal to their circumcision, to being under the law.  But Paul's saying, when they come for me, God forbid that I should boast in anything other than the cross of our Lord Jesus the Messiah.  Think of Philippians 3, where Paul lists all the things he had a right to boast in.  If anyone had been faithful to the law, he had.  And yet there he swept it all aside as trash because of the Messiah, knowing him, gaining him, being found in him, knowing him and his power, and sharing in the companionship of his sufferings.  For Paul, to be persecuted for the sake of Jesus was confirmation of his union with and of his life in the Messiah.  Jesus had swept him off his feet and given him a new identity and called him into this cross-shaped life that was the fulfilment of Israel's hope and at the same time the overturning of all his earlier expectations and aspirations.  This is what Paul means when he says that he has been crucified to the world.  Everything about who he had been as a Jew, a Pharisee, none of it mattered anymore.  His old self was dead and buried—crucified with Jesus the Messiah who had fulfilled it all and then launched God's new world.  That new life, that new world, Jesus and the Spirit—that's all that mattered to Paul anymore.  The cross of Jesus fulfilled and changed everything.  And so he sums up everything he's written so far: Circumcision and uncircumcision are nothing—they don't matter—because Jesus has inaugurated God's new creation. Think of Paul's statement in 2 Corinthians 5:17, where he says that if anyone is in the Messiah…new creation!  New creation.  He just blurts it out.  If you're in Jesus the Messiah.  If you have trusted him and given him your allegiance.  New Creation!  God has begun to set us and to set his world to rights and that's what we need to line up with.  God's given us his Spirit to get us there.  Like a compass, the Spirit draws the line on the map and that line ends in our resurrection and the restoration of all things.  But, Brothers and Sisters, you've got to walk that line by the Spirit.  Don't stray left or right.  Don't let the flesh back.  Walk by the Spirit, because God's new creation is all that matters.  So peace and mercy, Paul says, to everyone who lines up by that standard—yes, he says, on God's Israel.  Again, he stresses, circumcision isn't the answer.  You can't go back to the old Israel of the torah.  The way forward, is in Jesus and the Spirit—those who are in the Messiah, who walk by the Spirit, they're God's Israel, they are now God's people. And then finally, verses 17 and 18: For the rest, let nobody make trouble for me.  You see, I carry the marks of Jesus on my body.  The grace of our Lord Jesus the Messiah be with your spirit, my brothers [and sisters].  Amen.   They wanted to mark out their flesh with circumcision.  Far more important for Paul were the marks of persecution that he bore on his body for the sake of the Lord Jesus.  He wrote earlier of each of us bearing our own loads.  This was his.  Eventually it may have been the load borne by some of those Christians in Galatia when persecution came.  Paul likens those marks to the branding of a slave.  Those cuts and bruises and broken bones marked him out as belonging to Jesus as assuredly as his baptism did.  He belonged to Jesus and he would serve Jesus to death and one day he would be raised to new life in God's new creation and there those marks will be badges of glory.  And so Paul closes: Grace to you.  The grace of our Lord Jesus the Messiah.  Because nothing else matters.  May the grace of our Lord Jesus be with your spirit—not your flesh he stresses even as he writes the last words, not your flesh, but with your spirit.  It's interesting the way Paul puts it: “your” is plural but “spirit” is singular as if to stress again the importance of the life of the Spirit as the cornerstone of these little communities of Jesus-followers.  If you are in Jesus the Messiah, walk by the Spirit.  Give no quarter to the flesh.  Don't be afraid of the Jews or the pagans.  Just be faithful to Jesus.  Walk the path the Spirit has set for you and he will not only lead you to God's new creation, but along the way he will make you a witness of that new creation to the world. Brothers and Sisters, that's it.  Cut through all the issues with torah and circumcision and the problems between Jews and gentiles that we see in Galatians, cut through all that and at the heart of it all is Paul's firm belief that the death and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah was the turning point in the history of the world—of the history of whole cosmos.  I was talking with the woman cutting my hair this week and she asked me, “It's been a long time.  When will they write a New New Testament?”  I said they won't.  Because there's no need.  Because Jesus, once and for all changed everything.  It won't happen again because it can't happen again.  It's done.  We're just waiting—and working towards—the fulfilment of what he started.  I don't think she really understood.  And I think a big reason for that—and a big reason why so many people out there (and sometimes even in the church!) don't understand is because we're often so bad at living as new creation people.  Our problems aren't the problems of the Galatians, but the results are often the same.  In our disunity we undermine the unity that Jesus established for his church, for his family.  Some Christians even use the Lord's Supper, which Jesus gave to bring us together, some use it as a means of emphasising our divisions and of excluding fellow Jesus-followers.  Instead of walking by the Spirit, we have our contemporary ways of using our freedom in Jesus as a base of operations for the flesh.  Like the Galatians we, too, often allow our fear to undermine our gospel witness.  Out of fear of opposition or in hopes of winning over the pagans of our own day, we water down and compromise the gospel or we weave into it the secular philosophies of our own day.  We end up proclaiming a message without any power because we've stripped it of the offense of the cross, of Jesus, of the life of the Spirit, of God's new creation.  This is epitomised by the website of a local church I was looking at recently.  They stripped out any references to A.D.—anno domini, the year of our Lord—replacing them with C.E., the “common era”—I guess, lest the world be offended by the announcement that Jesus is Lord and that he has changed history and the world. Brothers and Sisters, we need to take a lesson from Paul.  We need to keep Jesus at the centre of who we are.  Jesus defined everything for Paul.  Jesus called him in the first place.  Jesus' cross defined who Paul became and it shaped the good news he proclaimed.  Jesus was the fulfilment of everything that had come before and the one who had set his people free from sin and death.  Jesus is the Son whose being sent defines even what we mean by the word “God”.  And it's now Jesus' Spirit who has caused God's new creation to be born in us so that we can live as renewed human beings and so that we can live as the beachhead, the advance guard of that new creation as it breaks into the old.  Jesus' death and resurrection marked the end of the old world and the birth of the new.  Jesus is the one “who loved me and gave himself for me.”  And, Friends, if we are to be faithful, we will be a church with this Jesus at our centre—not just in our theology, but also in our teaching and preaching and in our shared life together.  We have been called by love.  May we be a church shaped by love and that does everything it can to live by love—the love shown to us by Jesus. Let's pray again our Collect: Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armour of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Walk by the Spirit Galatians 5:13-26 by William Klock Freedom is a funny thing.  We often think of freedom as being able to do whatever we want, but people who find themselves free to do whatever they want—and who follow through on it—pretty universally end up being the most miserable people on the planet—because that kind of selfish freedom is nothing more than the sinful human heart gone wild.  It's rebellion unchained.  Think of the tycoon or movie stars who look like they've got everything, but end up miserable, friendless, and addicted to drugs having found out their freedom has only made them and the people and world around them worse.  The sinful human heart, the flesh as Paul puts it, can simply never be truly free on its own. Paul understood this all too well himself.  The Lord had delivered his people from slavery and set them free, but he also gave them his law in order to guard that freedom.  Even then, they became enslaved all over again and were no better off than the pagans enslaved to idols and evil powers.  And that's because, as Paul has said, the law was given by God to magnify sin—to concentrate it, to pile it up all in one place so that God, in Jesus the Messiah, could deal with it once and for all.  But that's just it.  Jesus has dealt with sin.  So Paul's been warning the Galatian believers: You can't go back to the law.  You've got to keep moving forward in the Messiah towards God's new world.  To do anything else—even to go back to the good, God-given law—to do anything else is to abandon the new life of the Spirit and to go back to the flesh.  This is where Paul starts in the second half of Galatians 5.  Look with me at Chapter 5, verse 13: When you were called, Brothers [and Sisters], you were called to freedom.   You were called to freedom.  Paul's deliberate evoking the memory of Israel being called by the Lord out of Egypt—taken from “slavery” to the “free slavery” of the gospel as he puts it in Romans 6.  Because, he goes on: You mustn't use that freedom as an opportunity for the flesh.  Rather, you must become each other's servants through love.   As Paul puts it in 1 Corinthians, “all things are lawful, but not all things are helpful”.  At the heart of the human problem are idolatry and selfishness.  We've become enslaved to them and Jesus has set us free.  In fact, Jesus has come to set creation itself free from its slavery to our idolatry and selfishness.  That's where God's plan has been headed from the beginning.  What does God's new world look like when everything has been set to rights?  Well, it looks like the cross of Jesus.  It looks like this Messiah-shaped love that gives of itself for the sake of others.  The Galatian believers knew this once.  It's what drew them to the gospel in the first place, but now they're starting to turn on each other, so Paul reminds them: “you've got to become each other's servants through love.”  They're thinking about going back to torah, to the law, so Paul reminds them in verse 14: For the whole law is summed up in one word, namely this: “Love your neighbour as yourself.”   Israel longed for the day when the covenant curses of Deuteronomy would be lifted and the promise would be fulfilled—that day when God's people would finally be able to really and truly “do the law”.  Think of that rabbinic saying that if all Israel would keep the law in full for just a single day the Messiah would come and set everything right.  Think of Paul and the Pharisees trying and trying and trying so hard to keep the law and no matter how hard they tried, they failed.  Now, in Jesus and the Spirit it's finally happened.  In Jesus and the Spirit the Lord has renewed his covenant with his people.  The Spirit has transformed their hearts, causing love for God and for each other to well up like it never had before.  Paradoxically, as they've been set free from the law, they're suddenly finding that they're keeping it.  Or they were until this controversy over circumcision came up.  In turning back to the law, all the old evils of the flesh were coming back.  So verse 15 comes like a slap in the face: But if you bite each other and devour each other, watch out!  You may end up being destroyed by each other.   Paul knew that the divisions making their way into the Galatian churches as a result of these false teachers, weren't just leading to anger and resentment.  It was going to—if it hadn't already—turn into actual violence.  We don't know exactly what was going on in these churches, but for Paul to talk about them biting and devouring each other means that this had escalated way beyond these folks just giving each other angry looks when they passed in the street.  It makes sense.  We who have never faced persecution and who live two thousand years distant from the pagan world of the Greeks and Romans and of Caesar's “Jewish exemption”—we don't really have any idea how high the stakes were for these people.  The Jews and the circumcision folks could very well have been on the verge of bringing it to blows if they thought the gentile believers were going to bring the Roman officials down on them.  The danger was real.  When you consider the things that cause church fights and even splits today, it's hard to blame the Galatians.  I've seen church fights and people leave over really petty things like the colour of the carpet, chairs versus pews, hymns versus choruses, modern language versus traditional language, masks versus no masks.  They were facing real, actual danger. It happens.  Some pressure is applied to the church and we forget the Spirit and let the flesh take control and pretty soon we're biting and devouring each other.  Brothers and Sisters, when we do that we destroy our unified, Messiah-shaped gospel witness to the watching world.  Instead of displaying the sacrificing and reconciling love of Jesus, we simply hold up a mirror and show the world it's fallen, sinful, selfish self—and why would anyone be attracted to that?  Remember what we're about.  The church is called to live the gospel, to live the life of the Spirit so that the watching world can see God's glory and his new creation in us. But how do we do it?  We fail often enough that we have to ask.  How do we live this Messiah-shaped love, because it obviously takes more than just a head knowledge of the gospel.  Paul is clear that we can't go back to the law.  Going back to living by rules might seem like the easy answer, but as he's been saying, that's just another form of slavery.  It was good for the old evil age, but Jesus has inaugurated the age to come and everything has changed.  And we know that freedom isn't just doing whatever we want or whatever feels good, because that just makes us slaves to the very flesh that has corrupted creation.  Here's what Paul writes in verse 16: Let me say this to you: Walk by the Spirit, and you won't do what the flesh wants you to.  For the flesh wants to go against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh.  They are opposed to each other, so that you can't do what you want.  But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law.   You can almost hear Paul taking a deep breath as he gets ready to give us this fresh imperative.  This is what he's been building towards: Walk by the Spirit.  Don't just live by the Spirit.  That kind of sounds like something you could do by osmosis.  No, walk by the Spirit.  Make a choice with every step you take, with every distraction, with every possible turn that presents itself to you, make the choice to walk by the Spirit and not by the flesh.  At this point we might get into trouble if we misunderstand and think that by “flesh” Paul is talking about the material world or our physical bodies and that by “Spirit” he means our “souls” or some kind of “spiritual” existence apart from the flesh.  The Greeks thought this way.  The material world and the physical body, they thought, were evil—dead weight keeping us down—and so they aspired to a spiritual existence free from the material world and the physical body.  Brothers and Sisters, that's pagan thinking, not Christian (or, for that matter, Jewish) thinking.  God created the world and our bodies and he called them good.  They don't need to be done away with.  In our rebellion against God, we have corrupted ourselves and the world.  What the world and our selves need is his redemption, his renewal.  That's what this biblical language of new creation and resurrection look forward to.  What God has done for Jesus in raising him from the dead, he will one day do for us—and for the whole world.  The gift of his Spirit is the down payment on that hope.  One day God will raise us as he raised Jesus, to the kind of life he intended for us in the beginning, but in the meantime, he's poured out his Spirit on us and his Spirit “fixes”—at least in part—what our rebellion once broke.  And so, Paul would say, on the one hand is our flesh, which represents our rebellion against God, our sin, our self-centred and dehumanising way of life, and on the other stands the Spirit who, if we will only walk with him, will lead us into God's new creation. I think Paul had in mind Moses' exhortation to Israel as they were ready to enter the promised land: I set before you death and life; choose life!  But that's impossible to do, Paul warns, if you turn back to the law.  To turn back to the law is to turn aside from the gospel, to turn aside from the crucified and risen Messiah, and that means that to turn back to the law is to reject the very Spirit given to lead us into God's new creation.  You can't walk backwards into the kingdom of God, Brothers and Sisters.  But, he says, if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law.  I think Paul's being deliberately provocative, because he's using the imagery of the Israelites being led through the wilderness by the pillar of cloud and fire—what many would say was a manifestation of God's Spirit all the way back in the exodus.  And here he says, if you are led by that same Spirit who led Israel back then—remember how Jesus has changed everything—if you are led by that Spirit today, he will not lead you back to the law. At this point Paul contrasts what these two sorts of lives look like, the flesh on the one hand and the Spirit on the other.  Look at verses 19-21: Now the works of the flesh are obvious.   In other words, everyone knows these things—not just Jews, who have the law as a standard of good behaviour—but even the pagans know these things aren't good.  Everyone knows the world is not the way it should be and everyone knows that these are the sorts of “works” that have made it the way it is, the sorts of “works” that hurt others, that destroy our relationships—even that destroy ourselves.  And so Paul launches into a litany of human evils: They are such things as fornication, uncleanness, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, hostilities, strife, jealousy, bursts of rage, selfish ambition, factiousness, divisions, moods of envy, drunkenness, wild partying, and similar things.   Paul starts with a trio of words for sexual sins, maybe because sexual sins are so often the worst when it comes to the selfish use and harm of others for our own pleasure or maybe because they're so often bound up with idolatry, which is what he mentions next: idolatry—the root of all of our sin—and sorcery—which is often the way pagans try to set the world to rights by the invocation of false gods and powers instead of turning to the living God.  From there, Paul gives us a list of eight words that pretty well cover the whole gamut of antisocial behaviour and they do it so densely that it's actually hard to differentiate between some of them: hostilities, strife, jealousy, bursts of rage, selfish ambition, factiousness, divisions, and moods of envy.  Paul could easily have summed it all up in two or three, but he wanted to emphasise just how wrong the situation in Galatia was.  They'd become focused on the flesh and it was playing out in a whole host of fleshly evils that were threatening to tear the churches apart as they demonised each other. And then there are two final fleshy works.  There's drunkenness, to which today we could easily add all sorts of drug use—both legal and illegal—that deaden our senses, dull our intellect, and that make it impossible to follow the leading of the Spirit.  And, finally, wild partying—orgies—that were common throughout the pagan world and were often the places where the other works of the flesh were celebrated and cultivated.  And Paul says in verse 21: I told you before and I tell you again: people who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God.   “People who do such things” is in the present tense, which is Paul's way of stressing that he's talking about people who make these things a way of life, not necessarily people who occasionally lapse into sin and repent.  His point is that if these are the things that characterise your life, if you make a habit of selfishness, of idolatry, and of using and abusing others for your own pleasure or ambition, you will not inherit the kingdom of God.  Why?  Because these are the sorts of behaviours, the sorts of sins, that have made the world the mess it is.  The gospel is about God, through Jesus, setting this broken world to rights and about his people having a part in that setting to rights.  It's simply impossible for those who are set on defacing God's creation to have a place in the age to come.  When the day comes for God to finally bring to completion what Jesus has begun, to finally bring that life of which the Spirit is the down-payment and foretaste, the works of the flesh and all those who practise them will be destroyed, will be purged from creation as part of its finally being set to rights.  That doesn't mean there's no chance for repentance in the meantime.  That, of course, is a major part of the good news about Jesus.  Trust in him and your past is forgiven and his Spirit is poured into you so that you can bear his fruit and be part of God's new creation, which Paul describes in verses 22-23: But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.  There is no law that opposes things like that!   The two lists speak for themselves.  Imagine two communities, one characterized by the works of the flesh and the other by the fruit of the Spirit and you know right away which one you want to live in.  Where the works of the flesh are all about “me”, the fruit of the Spirit are all about others.  Most of these virtues require another person as an object in order for them to be lived out.  And that's the way of the kingdom.  To love others is the way of a Messiah-shaped people.  And he writes: Against such things there is no law.   Whether it's the people wanting to go back to torah or the local Roman officials or pagan neighbours angry that these new believers in Jesus have abandoned the pagan temples and rites, Paul's saying: If you walk by the Spirit and bear this kind of fruit, no one's going to be able to complain about you.  In fact, you might just make them constructively curious about the gospel!  But now, in verse 24, here's the really crucial point: And those who belong to the Messiah, Jesus, crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.   Through faith and baptism into the Messiah, the flesh—and all its disordered passions and desires—has been crucified.  As surely as Jesus was dead and buried, so has your old self and my old self.  And as surely as Jesus was raised to new life, God has poured his Spirit into us and set us walking straight into his new creation.  The factionalism and divisions, the biting and devouring had no place in those Galatian churches.  It was nailed to the cross with Jesus.  The same goes for any works of the flesh that threaten the witness and unity of the church today.  If we belong to the Messiah, we have crucified the flesh—past tense, done deal—and we're now filled with God's own Spirit.  So…verse 25: If we live by the Spirit, let's line up with the Spirit.  We shouldn't be conceited, vying with one another, and jealous of each other.   Back in Chapter 3 Paul asked, “Are you who began with the Spirit going to end with the flesh?”  No.  If we live by the Spirit, we need to line up with the Spirit.  When he says “live”, Paul doesn't just mean to go on existing; he means that through the Spirit, we who were dead in sin are now alive to God.  Again, the life of the Spirit is the anticipation of the day when God will raise us to new life as he did Jesus.  Brothers and Sisters, God has given us his Spirit to lead us through the wilderness and into the promised land, into God's new world set to rights.  That's why Paul says that to live by the Spirit is to line-up with the Spirit—like using your compass to draw a line on a map to your destination.  Follow the line—follow the Spirit, and he will see you through to God's future.  Don't stray into conceit or jealousy or factions, just make the conscious decision to follow the Spirit. What does that mean for us?  Well, I think in our highly individualistic culture we tend to read this as little more than pursuing personal holiness.  But when I read this familiar passage in context, what really jumps out at me is that Paul's main focus here is on the unity of the church and the witness to Jesus and the gospel that grow out of that loving unity.  The fruit of the Spirit, again, are virtues that shape a whole community into the image of Jesus and that show the world what God's new age is going to look like.  Paul's overarching theme in Galatians is the unity of the church as a witness to the power of the gospel and the age to come.  Even if the specifics have changed, the problems remain.  I think, actually, that the Jew-gentile problem of the Galatian churches pales in comparison to the failures of the modern church.  There have been times in history when Christians have been forced to separate from one another over serious matters of doctrine and practice—following Paul when he says to cast out the false teachers.  But in the last couple of hundred years we've begun to divide over increasingly trivial issues.  And then, for the last fifty or sixty years, as our culture has become obsessed with commercialism, we've carried that same consumer mindset into the church.  Pair that with our tendency to separate over trivialities and it's been a disaster.  Christians flit from place to place, hardly ever thinking of what they bring or what they might contribute, but always looking for what they can take or what new experience they can have and, in return, churches have begun treating not only our fellowship and worship, but even the gospel itself as a commodity to be marketed, not to family members, not to brothers and sisters, but to religious and spiritual consumers—churches competing with each other for members who are themselves self-absorbed—the very opposite of the sort of communities Paul envisioned being shaped by the Spirit. A Spirit-filled church is made up of brothers and sisters who give and who forgive.  It's a church full of diversity as people who ordinarily would have nothing in common are drawn together by the good news about Jesus, people who have made Jesus—not their interests or ethnicities or social class—their identity.  A Spirit-filled church is a community that models not the old age of every man for himself, not the old age of divisions and factions, but that models God's new creation in the midst of and for the sake of the old.  A Spirit-filled church, bearing fruit, will offend as in its light the works of the flesh—idolatry, sexual immorality, drunkenness, and strife—are exposed for what they are, but at the same time a Spirit-fill church, bearing fruit, is the community of light and love everyone in this dark world is looking for.  They ought to see it in us.  Our life together ought to make the world constructively curious.  People ought to be asking what makes us different.  And then, Brothers and Sisters, we have our chance to tell them about Jesus and about the love of God for sinners.  But we don't have this community—not the way we should.  So what do we do instead?  We market our programs or the production values of our worship experience or our preaching or our politics.  One church advertises, “We ain't your grandma's church!” and on the other side we traditionalists advertise, “We are literally your grandma's church”.  And, Brothers and Sisters, all the world sees are factions and divisions.  Thanks be to God that in his grace, that's not entirely true.  Even with our failures and disunity, the world still sees the gospel in us—but not the way it should. Think again of those Christians in Galatia.  Their trust in Jesus and the gospel brought them into this new community of the Spirit and they turned away from, they withdrew from the pagan rituals and the false gods that permeated their society.  Their neighbours, their families, the officials—Caesar—didn't like it.  Suspicion turned to opposition turned to persecution and eventually martyrdom.  And yet little communities like this conquered that pagan empire with the gospel even as that empire did its best to stomp them out.  Why?  Because they lined up with the Spirit and bore his fruit, because that loving, self-giving fruit—particularly as it came under fire—bore witness to the glory of the cross and the love of a God unlike any god the pagans had ever known.  Because those little Spirit-filled communities were full of a gospel hope in the world set to rights by a God who loves so much that he will give his own life.  That hope drew them close together, it concentrated the light they bore, and that lit up the darkness.  I pray, Brothers and Sisters, that that same light would shine from us to lighten the darkness as we, by God's grace, walk by his Spirit. Let's pray: Stir up, O Lord, the wills of your faithful people; that we may produce abundantly the fruit of good works, and receive your abundant reward, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Cut! Galatians 5:2-12 by William Klock Back in 1998, just after we were married, Veronica and I travelled to Montreal for her interview with the US immigration folks.  While we were there, we took a day to drive to Ottawa to do some sight-seeing.  It was March and still very much winter in Montreal and as we left the island, driving over the bridge on the Trans-Canada Highway where the Ottawa and St. Lawrence rivers converge, we were surprised to see a Jeep speeding across the frozen river, going in the opposite direction back towards Montreal, driving on the ice.  Having lived my whole life on the West Coast I'd never seen anything like that myself.  I have no idea about the history of bridges to and from Montreal Island, but I would guess that at one point riding a horse or driving a wagon across the frozen river was the usual way to get across during Winter.  But then Spring would come, the ice would melt, and all that would change.  I expect there were ferries that carried people across the rest of the year, until the river froze again. Now, for Paul writing to the Galatians, Jesus is like that spring thaw.  Ever since they'd left Egypt, the identity of the people of God had been tied up in their observance of the law.  Circumcision was the beginning of it—eight days after a boy was born.  That marked him out as one of God's people, as a member of God's covenant and an heir of his promises.  But through life, that identity was lived out by keeping the law: by celebrating the Passover every year, by keeping the Sabbath, by offering sacrifices at the temple, by eating only clean foods and by avoiding unclean things and people.  The law was the way to righteousness, the way to fellowship with God.  But that was like driving across the river on the ice.  It was all right and good—and in the case of torah it was God-given—but it was for a time.  Things changed.  Jesus changed them.  Jesus changed everything.  In Jesus Spring has sprung.  God's new creation has begun.  The old world is starting to thaw.  Think of the wonderful image that Lewis used in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, with Narnia frozen by the witch—always winter, but never Christmas.  But when Aslan arrived, the whole country began to thaw and the new life of Spring began break through the snow and the ice.  Jesus has changed everything and in Jesus' new world, the law no longer counts—it'll no longer get you across the river, because the river's thawed.  Try to get across with the law now and you'll just be caught up in the current and lost downstream.  In Galatians 5:2 Paul puts it this way: Look here: I, Paul, am telling you that if you get circumcised, the Messiah will be of no use to you.   So over the last four chapters Paul has made his argument to the Galatians and, we saw last week, he's finished it with the command to cast out the false teachers—to cast them out the way Sarah cast out Hagar and Ishmael—because there's only one family that has inherited God's promises.  Cast them out.  They're undermining the gospel.  Don't let their heresy fester; cast them out.  But I expect Paul knew they would need more to persuade them to do that, so now he turns back to the circumcision issue.  Actually, this is the first time that he mentions circumcision outright in the letter.  So he sort of pulls himself up to his full height and says, “Look here!  I, Paul—you know, the apostle who met Jesus personally and who told you the good news about Jesus in the first place—I want to be very clear that if you follow the advice of these circumcision folks, if you get circumcised, Jesus the Messiah will be of no use to you.” Those are some powerful words.  These pagan gentiles had been completely captivated by the good news about Jesus: this man in whom God became incarnate, who died for the sake of his people, who rose from death and then ascended to his throne.  They were captivated by the good news about this Lord who was unlike any lord or god they'd ever known.  And they believed, they'd been baptised, and God had plunged them into his Spirit and they'd been transformed.  They knew the power of the gospel.  They knew the power of Jesus and the Spirit.  And Paul's saying, “If you get circumcised, all of that is gone.   The good news here is that if Paul's putting this way, it means the Galatian believers haven't yet caved into the pressure from the circumcision agitators.  Reading between the lines, it sounds like the agitators have split up the church with the ethnic Jews—the circumcised—on the inside, while the gentile believers are being forced to sort of participate or to watch from the sidelines—just as things were in the temple in Jerusalem with Jews in the inner court making their offerings and sacrifices at the altar while the gentiles were stuck in the outer court imagining what was going on inside.  Maybe the agitators had got them eating kosher and observing the Jewish calendar, but none of the gentiles had actually gone all the way to circumcision yet.  And Paul's trying to get to them, to persuade them before they do.  Because if they do, it's like driving your car onto that thin, melting ice.  Jesus has made a better way.  So he goes on in verse 3: I testify once more, against every person who gets circumcised, that he is thereby under obligation to perform the entire law.   Paul reminds them what it really means to be under the law.  Even the agitators seem to have forgotten that.  They wanted these gentile believers to do just enough so that they could pass for Jews with the authorities: get circumcised, stop buying pork in the market, observe the Sabbath and other Jewish holy days.  They were motivated by fear.  These new gentile believers were abandoning the gods and the religious customs of the Greeks and Romans and to avoid getting into trouble they were claiming the Jewish exemption—except they weren't Jews—and if the authorities caught on, it might bring persecution on the whole Jewish community.  So the agitators wanted these gentile believers to take on some of the obvious Jewish externals.  And Paul reminds them of what they should have known already: that's not how the law works.  The law is all or nothing.  They've accused Paul of only teaching part of the gospel and now Paul turns around and accuses them of teaching only part of the law.  If the gentile believers go the way of circumcision, they'll end up neither genuine Messiah people nor genuine torah-observing Jews. Back in 2:15-21 Paul said that “through the law [I] died to the law” and that “if righteousness is through the law, the Messiah died to no purpose.”  Now in verse 4 he says the same thing another way: You are split off from the Messiah, you people who want to be justified by the law.  You have dropped out of grace.   To look for justification—which means to show you're a member of God's covenant people—to look for that through torah, is to reject the grace of the gospel.  He's been stressing that God's covenant people are now those marked out by baptism into the death and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah.  That faith in Jesus—and nothing else—is what marks us out as God's people.  The moment you add to that—whether torah or anything else—you lose the gospel and when you lose the gospel you lose God's grace.  In this case, if circumcision is what marks out God's people, then there was no reason for the Messiah to die and to take that old mark in your flesh as a means of justifying your place in the covenant is to reject Jesus and the gospel. But why?  Well, Paul explains in verses 5 and 6: For we are waiting eagerly, by the Spirit and by faith, for the hope of righteousness.  For in the Messiah, Jesus, neither circumcision nor uncircumcision has any power.  What matters is faith, working through love.   Do you remember last week when I was closing and talked about how seriously Paul took false gospels?  We tend to dither around and make excuses when it comes to false teaching.  We often struggle to know where to draw the line.  It's not always easy to tell where the line is—where something that's just poor teaching crosses into bona fide heresy.  In contrast, Paul was really clear: Cast them out.  Get rid of them.  Don't let the false teachers influence the church.  And the way to tell when something crossed the line was to ask if this teaching was still pointing forward into the age to come or if it was something that would drag us back into the old evil age.  Paul gets at that again here when he says that we're waiting eagerly, by the Spirit and by faith, for the hope of righteousness.  In other words, true Christians will always be looking forward in hope to the day when God will vindicate our faith in Jesus, that day when he will finally judge sin and evil and wipe it all from his creation, when death will be no more, when everything will finally be set to rights, and we—his people through faith in Jesus—will live in his presence forever.  Does our theology, does our practise honour the saving work of Jesus and the Spirit and does it look forward to the day when the work of Jesus and the Spirit will finally be fulfilled—or—is our theology or our practise dragging us back into the old age, into the things that once held us captive—whether the law for Jews or the powers of this evil age for the gentiles.  In this case, in terms of practical outworking, does our theology and practise bring us together as one people in Jesus, or does it separate us.  Again, think of the temple with Jews on the inside and gentiles on the out—and how these circumcision folks were trying to impose that kind of template on the Galatian churches all over again. In contrast, in Jesus it no longer matters whether you're circumcised or not.  That was part of the old covenant, the old way, but the ice has melted and that old way won't get you anywhere anymore.  No, someday, before the watching eyes of the whole world, God will call us his own and it won't because of any marks we bear in our flesh or because of anything we've done, it will because we have been baptised into, because by faith we have put on the Messiah as our identity and because God has poured his Spirit into us.  Jesus and the Spirit are the ticket that will give us passage on the ferry across the river.  What matters, he says, is faith working through love.  Faith is the only way to get the ticket—and here Paul hints at what he'll have to say later in the chapter—faith is more than just a thinking thing; it's more than just giving our intellectual assent to the propositions of the creed.  Faith means trust.  Faith means loyalty.  Faith means allegiance.  Faith means committing ourselves to God's new creation made manifest in the risen Jesus and the gift of the Spirit—a new creation made possible by love—and so faith, true, real faith in God's love and that returns God's love and that manifests God's love to the world, that kind of faith is what matters.  That kind of faith is what marks out the people of God and that kind of faith is what will see us through—through hardships and opposition and persecution and maybe even martyrdom—that is the faith that will bring us through to the day when all God's promises will finally be fulfilled. And Paul thought they knew all this, which is why he's so shocked and frustrated with them.  It's why he wants to know how they could have gone so wrong so quickly.  See how he continues in verse 7: You were running so well.  Who cut in on you and stopped you being persuaded by the truth?  This persuasion didn't come from the one who called you.    When Paul left them they were well on their way, running for the prize—running into God's new creation—but now they've gone off course.  “Who's cut in on you?” Paul asks.  It's not the normal word we might expect him to use for someone interrupting the runners, slowing them down or setting them on the wrong course, but Paul is making a harsh accusation here and so he tempers it with some wordplay.  They want to be circumcised, they want to be cut in their flesh.  That was never part of the plan for this race, so he asks, “You who want to be cut, who's cut in on you?”  They were set on the truth of the gospel, but these other folks showed up and have cut in on all that with a false gospel.  He reminds them that it was God who called them to this in the beginning—through the good news about Jesus—but this new persuasion, this new “truth” they're going after, that came from somewhere else—not from God.  They're playing a dangerous game and Paul reminds them of an old Jewish proverb in verse 9: A little yeast works its way through the whole lump.   I think what he's trying to say is that once you start going astray from the gospel, it's not long before you've lost the gospel entirely.  We see this a lot down through church history.  Add something to Jesus as a marker of covenant membership and pretty soon you've lost the whole gospel.  Paul might also be warning them that once you start listening to one false teacher, pretty soon you start listening to anyone.  That happens a lot too.  And so Paul exhorts them: I am persuaded in the Lord that you won't differ from me on this.  But the one who is troubling you will bear the blame, whoever he may be.   They were originally persuaded by God to pursue the truth of the gospel, but these other folks have persuaded them to pursue something else, so Paul stresses that the Lord has persuaded him.  Persuaded him of what?  That, in the end, they'll come back to the gospel truth.  He says literally “you will think nothing else”.  When Paul says that he is “persuaded in the Lord”—something he doesn't say often—it means that he's been praying about something and that the Lord has given him a clear conviction.  It would be dangerous for us talk this way, but Paul was in that unique position of having the authority of an apostle.  The point seems to be that the Lord has revealed to Paul that the Galatians will come back to the truth, but that it will be Paul's Spirit-inspired words that will be the means of bringing them back. By the same token, this false teacher who has been trying to lead them astray will “bear the blame”.  Paul might be referring to the way that the Galatians will cast him out—as he told them to do at the end of Chapter 4 or it might even be more serious than that.  He might be talking about God's judgement and condemnation of this false teacher.  Paul just calls him “whoever he may be” and I don't think that's because Paul didn't know who this man was.  The church in those first decades was small and everyone knew everyone.  Whoever it was, Paul's point is that they can't dither on this false teaching.  They can't treat it as something of secondary importance.  There are lots of things on which Christians can differ.  Someone's wrong and someone's right, but there are some issues on which we can disagree while still holding tightly to the truth of the gospel.  This was not one of those things.  This was one of those things on which the gospel stands or falls and Paul wants them to know—it's a bit of a threat—that this false teacher will without a doubt be held accountable—and the quiet part he doesn't say out loud is that anyone who goes along with him will also go down with him.  He's headed out onto thin ice with his car and anyone who goes along for the ride will end up at the bottom of the river with him.  Brothers and Sisters, false teaching is no joke. Then verse 11.  Paul seems to be addressing an accusation against him. As for me, my dear brothers [and sisters], if I am still announcing circumcision, why are people still persecuting me?  If I were, the scandal of the cross would have been neutralised.   It sounds like these agitators, knowing Paul's history as a Pharisee, back in the days before Jesus met him on the road to Damascus, it sounds like they've been telling the Galatians that Paul was still preaching circumcision—just not to them.  Saying that Paul's a hypocrite.  And so Paul appeals to his own suffering and persecution.  They knew what had happened to him.  It sounds like when he first showed up in Galatia, he was beaten and bloody and weak because of persecution in some nearby town or city.  Paul appeals to that.  This is a strand that runs all through Galatians that I'd never noticed until I started this series of sermons, but it's there.  For Paul, suffering for the sake of the gospel was often proof of its truth.  It goes back to the cross.  Jesus' crucifixion set the pattern so that to follow him wasn't just a new way to be religious—as so many people treat it today: it's good for me, but if you don't like it that's okay too.  The gospel isn't just another option on the religious smorgasbord.  For Paul, the good news about Jesus is the truth that had already begun to change the world.  It is the truth that Jesus has already overthrown the powers and kings of the present age and inaugurated the age to come.  And, in light of that, Paul didn't see the churches as little religious clubs, but as a network of communities where people, filled with God's own Spirit, were living out God's new creation in the midst of the old, declaring that Jesus is Lord right under the nose of Caesar, who made that claim for himself—for example.  Living as one people in the midst of ferocious ethnic and religious divides.  Living as a people of grace and mercy in the midst of a dog-eat-dog world.  As Paul wrote to the Corinthians, this made the gospel a scandal and a stumbling block.  Even this early in his career as an apostle and mission Paul can say it.  His calling is to proclaim the good news of Jesus, crucified and risen and the world's true Lord.  The Spirit works in the hearts of those who hear that good news.  In some the Spirit uses that message to bring about faith, hope, and love, but for others the scandal of the crucified God causes them to cast stones at the messenger who dares announce this anti-religious, anti-social, and unpatriotic message.  If all Paul had been announcing was that pagans could get circumcised and join the Jews in their synagogues in order to become exempt from pagan worship, why no one would have been persecuting him. No, if Paul had been doing that, the scandal of the cross would have been neutralised—something I think every generation finds its own way of doing as we trim the culturally offensive bits of the gospel.  And so Paul says, closing off the paragraph in verse 12: I wish those who are making trouble for you would cut the whole lot off.   Paul comes back to his wordplay with circumcision and cutting off.  Don't stop at circumcision, just cut the whole thing off.  Of course, under torah, that sort of mutilation would have cut them off from covenant.  But, too, the goddess Cybele was popular in Galatia and it wasn't uncommon for her devotees to work themselves up in a manic ritual that ended with them castrating themselves.  I suspect Paul has that in mind, because as he's said, whether it was the Jews under the law or the gentiles under their pagan powers, humanity before Jesus was enslaved and to undermine the cross through circumcision, going back to the law, well, these gentiles might as well just go back to their old pagan gods and their old pagan worship.  Either way, they'll end up “cut off” from God and from his people. That's as far as we'll go this week.  As much as the Galatian problem may seem distant and irrelevant to us, since circumcision and keeping the Jewish law aren't likely to be our problem, what I hope you can see is the underlying issue.  There are things in every age that we do, by which we undercut the good news of Jesus' death and resurrection.  The Galatians were motivated by fear of persecution—and that's often the driver.  We're afraid, whether it's that we might lose our lives or just offend friends or family, for the sake of the gospel and so we compromise, we water things down, we shave the sharp corners off the message where it confronts our culture and the powers of our day.  We end up with a false gospel powerless to save and we run the risk ourselves of losing our way—of running off the race course, of trying to cross the river on the melting spring ice…and putting ourselves in a position where we have forsaken God's grace and made the Messiah of no use to us.  Paul reminds us here that suffering, that persecution for the sake of gospel truth is part of the formula, because we trust in and follow and proclaim the crucified and risen Messiah—a stumbling block to Jews and a scandal to gentiles.  Brothers and Sisters, take hold of that gospel truth and run—run the course that leads straight to God's new age, straight to his new creation and let no one cut in on you, take no short cut.  There is only one way.  It begins with trusting Jesus and the Spirit, but it also means continuing to trust Jesus and the Spirit along the way, trusting that God will bring us through suffering—just as he did Jesus—to that day when we ourselves will be raised from death and everything is made new. Let's pray: O God, you know us to be set in the midst of so many and great dangers, that by reason of the frailty of our nature we cannot always stand upright: grant to us such strength and protection as may support us in all dangers and carry us through all temptations; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Cast Out the Slave-girl and her Son Galatians 4:12-5:1 by William Klock I have a non-Christian—or it would be better to say, anti-Christian—relative who, I've observed, is very uncomfortable with me being a preacher.  At one point she just came out and said it: As far as she's concerned, preachers are just moralising, kill-joy demagogues who glory in lording their authority over people and pontificating to them what they can and cannot do.  People like this think of God as a kill-joy in the sky and the preacher as his sour and spiteful earthly representative.  She has no clue that the preacher is the intermediary between the loving God who has given his word to make himself known and his people, filled with his Spirit, who desire to hear his word that they might know him and love him in return.  They have no idea that both the Bible and preaching sit at the intersection of God's love for his people and his people's love for him.  But it's not just non-Christians.  Even people in the church forget that God speaks—and he tells us what he expects of us—out of love and they forget that the preacher preaches that word out of love, too.  And so they get angry when they hear things they don't like.  Sometimes they get angry with God and leave the church entirely.  Sometimes they just shoot the messenger—the preacher.  And that's where Paul is at as we come to the middle of Galatians 4.  Paul knew the people in the Galatian churches well.  He loved them as brothers and sisters in the Lord.  And he's deeply troubled by what he's heard has been going on there ever since these agitators had arrived.  This is why he's writing to them.  And so far he's mostly been talking theology—explaining why these people urging them back into torah are undermining the gospel, the good news about Jesus.  And he's been building this argument as he's walked them through the biblical story, walked them through God's covenants with his people, walked them through the significance of what Jesus did when he died and rose again.  And he's about to finally make the point he's been working toward.  He's about to tell them what they need to do in light of all this.  But in verses 11-20 he pauses and he takes a breath and he reminds them who he is.  He reminds that he's not only their friend, but that he's their brother in the Lord who loves them—and that that's why he's taking the trouble to say all of this.  Look at Chapter 4, beginning at verse 12. Brothers [and Sisters], become like me!  Because I became like you.  You did me no wrong.  No, you know that it was through bodily weakness that I announced the gospel to you in the first place.  You didn't despise or scorn me, even though my condition was quite a test for you, but you welcomed me as if I were God's angel, as if I were Messiah Jesus!  What's happened to the blessing you had then?  Yes, I can testify that you would have torn out your eyes, if you'd been able to, and given them to me.  So have I become your enemy by telling you the truth?   Become like me, because I became like you.  These Christians were mostly gentiles.  Paul was a Jew.  But as he would later write to the Corinthians, he has become like all things to everyone.  Knowing that the gospel unified them as one in Jesus and the Spirit, Paul came and fellowshipped with them—he prayed and sang and worshipped and ate with them, despite their ethnic differences—which is something that can't be said of these false teachers.  And Paul reminds them of when he first arrived.  We don't know exactly what the problem was, but it sounds very much like he arrived in Galatia bloody and beaten after preaching the good news in some neighbouring city.  This might be what he was referring to when he said the brutality of the cross had been shown to them.  He'd stumbled into their fellowship having very nearly shared Jesus' crucifixion—and they welcomed him.  That would have been a dangerous thing to do.  Harbouring a man who had been in trouble another town over could have brought the local authorities down on them.  It sure wouldn't have looked good to the community around them.  But they welcomed Paul and took care of him as he regained his strength.  In the meantime, he proclaimed Jesus and the good news in his weakness.  And they received Paul and his message as if he were an angel, a messenger from God—practically as if he'd been Jesus himself. “So now,” Paul asks, “what's happened to that welcome?  Back then you knew my love for you and you would have plucked out your own eyes and given them to me if you'd thought it would help.  But now I've told you the truth—because I love you—and you're treating me like an enemy.”  Now he goes on in verse 17: Those other folks are zealous for you, but it's not in a good cause. False teachers are often full of zeal.  Enough so that they con good Christians into thinking that they've got the truth.  And then those conned Christians lash out when the pastor who loves them comes along to show them how the false teachers are wrong.  It happens over and over and over.  Paul says: They want to shut you out, so that you will then be zealous for them. Paul has the temple in mind, with its segregated courts.  Jews could go into the temple court, but gentiles were stuck outside.  They couldn't go in.  And these agitators, these false teachers are trying to make the Galatian churches like that.  The Jewish believers can come into church, they can eat at the Lord's Table, but the gentiles are stuck outside until they get circumcised and start living according to torah.  So Paul says, Well, it's always good to be zealous in a good cause, and not only when I'm there with you.  My children, I seem to be in labour with you all over again, until the Messiah is fully formed in you.  I wish I were there with you right now, and could change me tone of voice.  I really am at a loss about you.   Paul knew all about being zealous.  He'd been zealous for torah and he'd been zealous for persecuting Christians.  And then he'd met the risen Jesus and now he's zealous for the gospel.  Zeal isn't the point.  You can be zealous for anything.  So don't be taken in by the zealousness of false teachers and a false gospel.  And we get a sense of how Paul loves these people and, because of that, how he's so exasperated.  He thought they knew all of this.  He'd laboured over the gospel with them before, but now it feels like he's got to labour with them over the gospel all over again, because it's obvious they weren't as mature in the gospel—in the Messiah—as he had thought. It happens.  Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses knock on the door and they've got carefully worked out arguments that fool far too many Christians.  Prosperity hucksters will tell you they've got the “full gospel” and they'll back it up with great zeal.  In our own day we've got various Messianic groups or the Adventists with a false gospel rooted in the same errors Paul confronted in Galatia.  They dupe Christians into their false teaching and, apart from praying for such people, all we can really do is confront false teaching with gospel truth.  That's what Paul does here.  Look at verse 21: So you want to live under the law, do you?  All right, tell me this: are you prepared to hear what the law says?  For it is written that Abraham had two sons, one by the slave-girl and one by the free woman.  Now the child of the slave-girl was born according to the flesh, while the child of the free woman was born according to promise.   Do you recognise the story Paul's talking about?  He's going back to Genesis 16.  This is after God's promise to Abraham, but before the birth of Isaac.  Abraham and Sarah trusted the Lord.  They believed he would provide a son to inherit the promise, but from their perspective a natural heir was impossible.  Sarah was an elderly woman and elderly women past their child-bearing years don't bear children.  So they followed the custom of the day.  Abraham took Sarah's slave-girl, Hagar, as his concubine and had a child by her.  Because she was Sarah's slave, the child was legally hers. But, if you know the story, you know the plan backfired.  When Hagar became pregnant, she lorded it over Sarah.  In their culture, for a woman to be barren was a great shame and Hagar made sure that Sarah felt that shame.  Sarah, of course, wasn't going to stand for that, so she mistreated Hagar.  Hagar ran away, but in the wilderness the Lord met her and sent her back and she gave birth to Ishmael.  Years later—as if the Lord was really, really wanting to make a point to Abraham and Sarah that with him anything was possible—years later, when Sarah was even more elderly, she became pregnant and gave birth to Isaac.  Sarah became jealous of Ishmael and we have a cryptic text about Ishmael abusing Isaac, so Sarah banished Hagar and her son from the camp.  Ishmael would become the father of the Arabian tribes and Isaac would became the father of Jacob, who became the father of the Hebrew tribes—of Israel. It's possible Paul brings this up because the false teachers might have been telling this story in their own way, as if to say, “See…Abraham has two families.  You gentiles might have believed the gospel, but since the Jews are the free children of Abraham, you're like Ishmael and his sons.  If you want to really be part of Abraham's family, you're going to have to get circumcised and become a Jew.  Paul has heard this before and says, “No.  You've got it backwards and here's why.  Let's suppose that Abraham does have two families.  How can you tell which one is the slave family and which one is the free family?  Well, look at the story.  Ishmael was born according to the flesh.  He was the result of Abraham taking matters into his own hands.  Isacc, on the other hand, was born miraculously and in fulfilment of the Lord's promise. And now we see why Paul has been talking so much about covenants and inheritances and heirs all this time.  This is where he's been going with it.  In verse 24 he goes on: Think of this allegorically—as picture-language.  These two women stand for two covenants: one comes from Mount Sinai and gives birth to slave children—that's Hagar.  (Sinai, you see, is a mountain in Arabia, and it corresponds, in the picture, to the present Jerusalem, since she is in slavery with her children.)  But the Jerusalem which is above is free—and she is our mother.   All you have to do is follow the theme of promise through the story.  Well, that and you have to recognise that the story is ongoing.  The false teachers were telling the story as if it stopped with Abraham—or maybe with Moses—but Paul has been showing how the Abraham story, the story of a promise and a family and an inheritance that encompasses the whole world—Paul has been showing how that story is still going on.  So they were right to see the promise back in the story of the birth of Isaac, but now Paul's sort of urging them on: Yes, yes.  You've got that part right, but keep following the promise through the rest of the story.  Because Jesus changes everything.  And so, sure, Isaac was the child of God's promise and so were his children and their children and eventually the whole people of Israel.  But before his little break to remind them that he's not their enemy, Paul was also pointing out how the law, how torah was only meant to serve the promise family for a time—between Moses and the Messiah.  Remember, the human race is sick.  Israel had the same sickness, but the law held the sickness at bay until the promise could be fulfilled.  Or, Paul used the illustration of a babysitter, keeping the promise family out of trouble until the promise to them could be fulfilled.  And, that means, Paul has said, that as much as the law was a good thing given by God for a time, it kept the Israelites as slaves until the Messiah came.  So the law, he's saying here, the law if left to itself can never set people free.  The law, ironically, makes Ishmael children, not Isaac children. And then Paul adds this sort of parenthetical statement: For Sinai is a mountain in Arabia.  And his point is that—using this allegorical or picture language—the law of Moses, which was given on Mount Sinai, now represents the people, the family on the outside in the original picture.  As much as the Lord's promise once led his people to Mount Sinai where he gave them his law, the story has moved on in Jesus the Messiah and so Hagar—the mother of Abraham's son according to the flesh—Hagar now corresponds to Mount Sinai and Mount Sinai represents the law, torah, that the false teachers are saying the gentile believers have to keep. So Isaac represents the promise and freedom.  Ishmael represents the flesh, slavery…none of which would have been controversial, but now Paul has also shown that Ishmael also represents Mount Sinai and the law.  Again, we've got to follow the promise all the way through the story to Jesus and then to the present.  The law was part of God's provision for his people during the present evil age, but the Messiah has inaugurated the age to come.  So Paul's now ready to bring the false teachers into this.  They've been appealing to some authority figures in Jerusalem—maybe James, but we really don't know—just that they're in Jerusalem.  And Paul, in verses 25 and 26 is saying, “Okay, but they're talking about the present Jerusalem, not the heavenly Jerusalem, not the “Jerusalem above”, which is the home of all real believers and the true people of the promise.  To make his point he quotes Isaiah 54:1 which is addressed to Jerusalem herself: For it is written: Celebrate, childless one, who never gave birth! Go wild and shout, girl that never had pains! The barren woman has many more children Than the one who has a husband!   In Isaiah's day, Jerusalem was laid waste, but through the prophet the Lord gave hope to his people.  One day Jerusalem would be restored.  He put it in terms of a barren woman—like Sarah—finally knowing the joy of bearing children and having a family.  By Paul's day this had become an image of the age to come, when the Lord would return to his people and the heavenly city would come with him, heaven and earth would be rejoined, and his new age would dawn.  So the Jerusalem above—the promise of God's new age—it was barren, but now through the Messiah it's bearing children.  The promises are being fulfilled.  In contrast, the present Jerusalem—the city the false teachers are appealing to as their authority—it's got children, yes, but they're in slavery.  In fact, the earthly Jerusalem is slated for judgement and destruction.  So now Paul goes on in verse 28: Now you, my brothers [and sisters], are children of promise, in the line of Isaac. Follow the promise.  It has passed from Isaac to Jesus and now to these people—even though they're gentiles—because they have trusted in the Messiah.  Jesus-believers, uncircumcised as they may be, are Sarah-children, new-Jerusalem people, Isaac-people, promise-people.  But, Paul goes on: But things now are like they were then.  The one who was born according to the flesh persecuted the one born according to the spirit.   Genesis doesn't elaborate on what Ishmael did to Isaac, only that he abused him in some way, and Paul's point here is that this is how the children of the flesh are always liable to treat the children of the promise.  It sounds as though the unbelieving Jews were actively persecuting the Christians in Galatia—angry at them because they claimed the “Jewish exemption” from pagan worship, but didn't live as Jews.  But Paul lumps the false teachers, these people who say they believe in Jesus the Messiah, but also insist on the gentiles being circumcised—Paul lumps that in with the abuse of the unbelieving Jewish community.  The false teachers stand in sharp contrast to Paul.  Even though Paul has had some sometimes harsh words for the Galatians, he loves them like a father.  He's speaking gospel truth.  The false teachers, for all their zeal, don't really love the Galatians—not if they're trying to drag them back into slavery under the law.  And with that, Paul's ready to drive his point home, he's ready to tell them what they have to do.  Look at verse 30: But what does scripture say?  “Throw out the slave-girl and her son!  For the son of the slave-girl will not inherit with the son of the free.”  So my brothers [and sisters], we are not children of the slave-girl, but of the free.   Do what Sarah did: cast out the slave girl and her son.  In other words, cast out the false teachers before they drag you away from Jesus and the promise and back into slavery.  At this point there's a chapter break, but I really think Paul meant for verse 1 of Chapter 5 to be the close of this paragraph, because it's not easy to cast out false teachers.  And so Paul continues there: The Messiah set us free so that we could enjoy freedom!  So stand firm, and don't get yourselves tied down by the chains of slavery.   Stand firm and don't let anyone take you back into slavery with a false gospel, because Brothers and Sisters, Jesus has set us free.  Paul doesn't mess around with false teachers.  Jesus died and he rose again, he is Lord, and he has fulfilled all of God's promises.  Paul saw the promise fulfilled as the gentiles were forgiven, filled with the Spirit, and swept up into this great story of God and his people and he was outraged at the idea that anyone might come along and drag these people back into slavery. In contrast, how often is our tendency to be wishy-washing about false teaching.  People come in the name of Jesus, but end up proclaiming false gospels—or things that undermine the gospel.  They'll say, for example, that there are other ways to God and other ways to be good and other ways to enter the age to come and in doing that they undermine the work of Jesus and the Spirit no less than the false teaching in Galatia did by trying to add torah to the gospel.  Others come into the church and tell us that Jesus isn't enough and that we've got to do something extra to receive the Spirit.  Others these days come preaching post-modern ideas of identity that undermine our identity in the Messiah and our unity in him.  And we equivocate on what to do about them.  Instead of dealing with the false teachers we quibble with each other over whether or not the false teachers are truly believers or not—as if we need to treat them differently if the false teaching isn't so bad as to rule them out as real Christians.  Paul does the opposite here.  The false teachers in Galatia believed in Jesus.  They believed in his death and resurrection.  But they added something that ultimately undermined that good news.  And so Paul says to cast them out.  Get them out of the church.  Just as he did with the man sleeping with his step-mother in Corinth.  Get them out.  Maybe that will get them thinking hard about what they've done or what they're teaching and they'll repent and come back, but that's not the first priority.  Get them out, because their teaching undermines the gospel itself and if it's allowed to fester, the church will cease to be the church.  The promise will be lost.  The false teaching will make us slaves again.  If the Anglican Communion had cast out the false teachers a hundred years ago, our generation wouldn't have had to face the difficulties we have.  The church can't fool around with false teachers and false gospel.  But the flip side of this imperative is that we as Jesus' people need to work hard for unity with our brothers and sisters who do believe the good news about Jesus.  This was the vision of Bp. Cummins when he called together the men and women who would found the Reformed Episcopal Church.  All baptised and believing Jesus-followers are, in fact, one family and we need to do our best, despite our various differences on other things, to live as the one family that Jesus has made us.  I think Galatians has something to say about how we distinguish which of our differences are demand separation and which don't.  Does the message being preaching point forward to the age to come, or like the Galatian heresy, does it drag us back to the darkness of the old evil age?  If it undermines or undoes what has been accomplished by God in Jesus and the Spirit, we must cast it out.  Standing firm against false gospels while standing just as firm for the unity of God's gospel people is no easy task—especially as things are today—but Brothers and Sisters it is our calling.  It is what honours God, it is what honours Jesus and the Spirit, and it is what witnesses to the world the new creation that has been born in us. Let's pray: Heavenly Father, make us mature in the Messiah so that we will be able to discern truth from error, and fill us with zeal for your gospel truth, so that we will stand firm—not afraid to cast out false teachers and false teaching, but also zealous for the unity that Jesus and the Spirit bring to your church, that we might be effective witnesses of the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen, and of his kingdom, the new Jerusalem.  Through him we pray.  Amen.

No Longer a Slave Galatians 4.1-11 by William Klock We didn't go to the theatre to see very many movies when I was a kid, so when Star Wars came out, it seemed like all my friends saw it before I did.  I had Luke Skywalker and C3PO action figures before I'd even seen the movie.  My best friend, Derigan, tried to fill me in and gave me a sort of point by point run-down of the plot leading up to Luke shooting his torpedo into the thermal exhaust port and blowing up the Death Star.  He got all excited at that point, jumping up, throwing up his hands, and making a big explosion sound.  His plot summary didn't really do anything to get me excited—probably because he was five and it wasn't a very good plot summary.  I was just excited to see Star Wars because everyone who saw it was so excited about it.  But when I finally did get to see it, oh wow!  People in the theatre cheered when the Death Star blew up.  Actually watching the story unfold was thrilling in a way a point-by-point plot summary never could be. The creed we just recited is—a bit—like my friend Derigan's point by point plot summary of Star Wars.  The bishops and other important people of the church got together in AD 325 and hammered out these key points.  They obviously did a better job than a council of five-year-olds could ever have done and it has served the church well for seventeen hundred years as a statement of biblical faith and a bulwark against heresy.  But it's not very exciting.  I've never heard of anyone hearing the Creed and getting so excited about it that they decided then and there to become a Christian.  And that's because the story has been filtered out of it.  The really exciting part is there: The son of God became man, was crucified for our sake, rose again on the third day, and ascended into heaven.  Those words “in accordance with the scriptures” hint that there's more to the story.  But boy, “I believe in the Holy Spirit…who proceeds from the Father and Son…who spoke through the prophets”.  As much as all the points are true, it's not even a plot summary—they stripped the story right out.  It's all true, but it's not like seeing the actual movie—or in this case hearing that great, ages-spanning story hinted at by those five little words “in accordance with the scriptures”.  Because we've often left the creed to stand by itself, some people have even got the idea that these key plot points, like the Trinity and the divinity of Jesus, and the sending of the Holy Spirit, were all later doctrines made up by the church fathers. We'll be looking at the first half of Galatians 4 this morning, and Brothers and Sisters, it's all here—in the first of Paul's letters, which makes it very likely the very earliest part of the New Testament to be written.  And it's all here: God's son, born of Mary who died and rose again and the Holy Spirit, too.  It's stated just as clearly as it was by later men like Athanasius or Basil the Great.  But here it's part of the great story Paul is always telling, always drawing on, that's always there underlying, supporting, and giving shape to his arguments.  The story that makes sense of it all.  Without it Jesus' death and resurrection are an awesome special effect like the Death Star exploding, but we won't know why it's important.  Without the story there's no reason to stand up and cheer. So Paul closed Galatians 3, telling us that if we've been baptised into the Messiah, we've put him on.  He's now our identity.  There's no longer Jew or Greek or slave or free or man or woman—God, through Jesus the Messiah, has just one and only one people.  And he said, “If you belong to the Messiah, you are Abraham's family.  You stand to inherit the promise.”  These agitators who had infiltrated the Galatian churches were saying that you basically had to first become a Jew to become a Christian and Paul's saying, “No.  Jesus has fulfilled the promises made to Abraham and to his family.  If, by faith, you belong to him you are part of that family and an heir of God's promise.  There's nothing you can add to it.”  So now Paul continues in Chapter 4 running along with this metaphor of the heir and the inheritance: Let me put it like this.  As long as the heir—remember how Paul's been talking about promises and wills and inheritances—As long as the heir is a child, he is no different from a slave—even if, in fact, he is master of everything.  He is kept under guardians and stewards until the time set by his father.   “As long as the heir is a slave…”  That's the cue—especially that word “slave”—that's the cue that Paul is telling an exodus story.  We might miss it, but people in Paul's world were shaped by Passover and the other Jewish festivals that came out of their exodus from Egypt.  And hearing Paul talk of slaves, they knew he was now moving from the story of Abraham to the story of Israel's exodus and exile and their hope of rescue. It's really important that we understand the story the Jews of Paul's day saw themselves in.  In Deuteronomy—the last book of the torah—the Lord had promise that if his people were unfaithful, that if they worshipped other gods, he would exile them—that they would find themselves slaves—as they had been in Egypt—slaves to the pagans and their gods of wood and stone.  And that's just what happened.  The people were unfaithful, they were idolatrous, their kings were evil and the Lord raised up Babylon to conquer them and to carry them off into exile.  Eventually the Babylonians were, in turn, conquered by the Persians and the Persians allowed the Jews to return to Judea, but nothing was ever the same as it had been.  They rebuilt the temple, but the Lord's presence never returned to it.  They continued to live under the rule of foreign pagans and their gods.  In Paul's day Rome just the latest in that long line.  And so, they concluded, the exile had never really ended.  Israel was still living under the curses of Deuteronomy 27.  But that also meant they had hope, because Deuteronomy 30—and the prophets like Jeremiah and Ezekiel and Daniel—promised a new exodus, a return from exile—when God would set everything to rights.  This is what inspired the zeal of the Pharisees.  They tried to bring the holiness of the temple and priesthood into the home and into everyday life.  If all Israel would keep the law in full for just a single day, one later rabbi wrote, the Lord would finally come to deliver his people. Paul puts this story of exile and exodus in terms of a child with a great promised inheritance.  His father has appointed a time when his son will receive his inheritance, but until then he lives under guardians and stewards—remember the “babysitter” in Chapter 3?—which leaves him no better off than a slave—even though he is, as Paul puts it, “master of everything”.  This is exactly how many of Paul's fellow Jews saw things.  It's how the author of the Wisdom of Solomon, it's how the Jewish philosopher Philo saw Israel's situation in their own day.  Abraham's children had been promised the world, but they were slaves of Caesar and it was Caesar who was instead and to their great consternations “master of everything”.  They awaited their inheritance. So Paul goes on in verse 3: It's like this with us.  When we were children, we were kept in “slavery” under the “elements of the world”.   Paul says “we”—that means he and his fellow Jews—were promised the world, but they were still children.  Paul set this up in Chapter 3 when he wrote about torah being like a babysitter given to keep Israel out of trouble until God was ready to reveal his faithfulness in the Messiah.  Paul now takes that metaphor and turns it into another.  Being a child under torah is like being a slave.  The Jews knew what that meant all too well.  Paul says, slaves “under the elements of the world”. Now this phrase “under the elements of the world” is really difficult to parse out if we aren't familiar with how people thought in Paul's day.  I think Paul is deliberately using language that works on two levels at the same time.  First, the Greek word Paul uses for “elements” usually refers to the elements that make up creation.  Think of the periodic table we learned in chemistry.  Everything in creation is made up, in one way or another, of those 103 elements.  For the ancients it was much simpler, albeit a bit more mystical.  They had four elements: earth, air, water, and fire.  The Jews knew that these elements were created by God and subject to him, but the pagans worshipped them and made idols out of them and Deuteronomy had promised that if Israel were unfaithful they would be scattered amongst the people and forced to serve those gods of wood and stone.  That's exactly what had happened and it was exactly what was still happening.  The covenant curses of torah had subjected them to “the elements of the world”. But I think Paul is also comparing Israel's situation under torah—under the law—to a sort of medical diagnosis.  People, too, were thought to be composed of these elements—earth, air, fire, and water—and if you were sick—and that could be physically or morally sick—it was because these elements were out of balance.  You'd see a doctor, he'd determine how your elements were out of balance, and he'd give you some course of treatment.  Interestingly enough, the Greek word for that treatment is the same as the word for law—nomos—and this law would then serve as a paidagogos—the “babysitter” Paul mentioned in Chapter 3—to lead you back to health.  So disordered elements are treated by a law that takes on the role of a babysitter.  In other words, what Paul is saying is that people—the whole human race—is sick, morally sick.  These false teachers that showed up in Galatia have been acting like quack doctors, telling the people that to get themselves in order they need to follow the Jewish law and, like a babysitter it will nurse them back to health.  And Paul's saying that, no, it won't work.  It never did.  We've been trying it for centuries and the best the law, the best that torah can do is hold the sickness at bay.  Becuase, in fact, that's all it was ever intended to do. Even then—like a virus slipping through the masks and social distancing—Israel was still sick, incurred the curses of the covenant, and found herself subject to the pagans and their gods of wood and stone.  And the gentiles, those pagans, they didn't even have the law.  They openly and shamelessly worshipped the elements and in abusing the stuff of creation they threw creation out of whack.  Torah promised life, but it could not bring it on its own and these false teachers were wrong to turn back to it.  Paul's been stressing: God has done what torah never could.  He's given his Son and sent his Spirit.  Torah, the law, was a thing of the old evil age—a good thing given by God for that time, but still something for the old evil age—but in Jesus and the Spirit God has inaugurated the age to come.  Look at verse 4: But when the fullness of time arrived, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, so that he might redeem those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.   Paul's been reminding us of the original exodus from Egypt, when God rescued his people from a land full of idols so that they could live with him in their midst, so that they could worship and serve him.  And he's been telling that story so that here, as he tells us about the new exodus, we hear the old one echoing behind it.  When the fullness of time arrived, he writes.  It's a reminder that Jesus is part of this bigger story—as the creed reminds us when it says “in accordance with the scriptures”.  God was moving history and the world and his people to this one point in time.  We saw last time, this is what the law, torah, was meant to do: to bring Israel to the point where the Messiah could do his work.  But now that that work is done, we have to move forward into the messianic age.  There's no going back. And so, Paul says, God sent his Son.  In the Jewish thought world the king—especially the promised and long-awaited Davidic king—was the son of God.  In the Wisdom of Solomon, which Paul probably would have been familiar with, King Solomon uses this kind of language to pray for God to send forth his wisdom “that she may labour at my side, and that I may learn what is pleasing to you”.  The idea was that the king wasn't just working using God's instructions, but that the King actually embodied, in his thought and action, the personal presence and power of the creator God—like David, a man after God's own heart.  For Paul to refer to the Messiah as the Son of God is to declare him to be both the promised King—that's what “Messiah” means—and the embodiment of God's wisdom—sort of God's second self through whom the world was made.  In other words two things are happening in Jesus.  First, he is the prophecy-fulfilling King and, second, in him the God of Israel has finally returned to rescue his people. Too, in saying that God's sent his Son, Paul wants to underscore that Jesus is God himself.  He wasn't simply a Jew born to Mary whom God adopted and called his son.  That's a perennial heresy as old as the creed that was written to combat it.  No, the Son was sent and that means he existed before he took on human flesh to be born of Mary. And God did all this so that he might redeem—deliver, rescue—his people living under the law.  In other words, to give them the divine medicine for the disease the law had been holding at bay and, in doing so, to fulfil his promises and show his faithfulness and to shine forth his glory—so that—we might receive adoption as sons.  Paul's been talking about “we” and “us” so far meaning “we Jews”, but here I think he now opens it up.  “We” is now the whole church, Jewish and gentiles believers united as one people in the Messiah. Here's how it works.  God's Son is born under the law, in solidarity with and as the representative of his people so that he can give his life, dying the death that they deserved, in order to fulfil the covenant promises that God had made to them.  So that God's sons can truly be God's sons.  The cross and the empty tomb are the supreme display of the faithfulness and glory of the God of Israel and it happens before the eyes of the watching gentiles who have never seen anything like it.  They worship gods of wood and stone, gods who are deaf and dumb, and then in the gospel they are confronted with the living God who not only hears and speaks, but loves, and who fulfils his promises—even going so far as to take on our flesh and to die.  And the gentiles hear this gospel and fall to their knees in faith before the Son, before the Messiah, and the unbelievable happens: God adopts them, and welcomes them into his presence, calls them his sons and daughters, and makes them full members of this royal priesthood.  And even in that he shines forth his glory again as his promise to Abraham to make the nations his inheritance is fulfilled. But it doesn't stop there.  Look at verses 6 and 7: And because you are sons, God sent out the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, calling out “Abba, Father!”  So you are no longer a slave, but a son!  And, if you are a son, you are an heir, through God.   The point of the exodus was always for God to live in the midst of his people.  He did that in the tabernacle and then the temple under the old covenant, but that was just a signpost pointing to how he would fulfil his promises in the new covenant.  Our being sons of God isn't just a legal status.  It's real.  Just as God sent his Son to lead us, like a new Moses, in this new exodus, he's also sent his Spirit into our hearts and his Spirit now cries out from within us, “Abba—Papa—Father!”  The church as a whole and every individual Christian is made a tabernacle, a temple in which God himself has come to dwell.  Paul's been using the plural “you” so far, but here he drives his point home switching to the singular “you”.  If you are a son, if you are a daughter, you are an heir.  This is the new life to which all of God's promises to Israel and to which the whole story was working.  It can be tempting to think of the Trinity as some dry and technical doctrine, but Paul shows us the Trinity here in three dimensions, in Technicolor, with THX surround sound as he tells the great story.  What that thrilling explosion of the Death Star is to the Star War story when everyone in the theatre cheers, God's sending of his Son and Spirit to make us his sons and daughters is to the great story of God and his people.  It's the climax of the story when everything finally pays off.  The old evil age is finished and God's new creation is born.  We might forget all this when we recite the creed.  I'm not suggesting you all cheer in the middle of the creed, but maybe in your head.  The Trinity, the Incarnation, the Spirit, they're not just dry technical doctrines, they're the culmination of this amazing story of God's love and of his faithfulness and they show forth his great glory.  And they're all right here in Paul's letter, in the very earliest part of the New Testament. We've been set free.  The Spirit, says Paul, crying out in our hearts to God as Father, is the proof that we are no longer slaves to the elements of the world.  This is the medicine that he's given to finally set us to rights.  It's the proof that we are his sons and daughters and heirs of his promise—because in Jesus and the Spirit the inheritance has been dumped right in our laps by God himself.  And yet, somehow, bewilderingly, we forget all of this.  That's what was happening in Galatia.  Paul goes on in verses 8-11: However, at that stage you didn't know God, and so you were enslaved to beings that, in their proper nature, are not gods.  But now that you've come to know God—or, better, to be known by God—how can you turn your back again to that weak and poverty-stricken line-up of elements that you want to serve all over again?  You are observing days, and months, and seasons, and years!  I am afraid for you.  Maybe my hard work with you is going to be wasted.   They're like the Israelites in the wilderness, grumbling to Moses and complaining that they want to go back to Egypt.  Well, sort of.  It's actually worse than that, because to demand the gentile believers be circumcised and start observing the old calendar of the torah—well—that's not so much wanting to go back to Egypt, it's like denying they'd ever been delivered from Egypt in the first place.  Do that, and you're turning away from the living God who gave his Son and sent his Spirit so that you can go back to the “elements”—to the false gods of wood and stone, back into slavery. “No,” he says, “you've come to know God.”  And then Paul pauses and says, “No, better—more accurate—to say ‘to be known by God'.”  To know God is the desire of people everywhere.  To hear God cut through the silence to speak, even if it's just to tell us what he wants of us.  There's a prayer from ancient pagan Sumer that was written on a clay tablet and survived the millennia.  In it a man cried out to the gods to speak.  He was miserable.  Everything in his life was going wrong.  And so he cried out in desperation.  He didn't know what he'd done to offend the gods.  The poor man didn't even know which god he'd offended, which god to cry out to.  His pitiful prayer is the cry of every human heart.  To know God and to find mercy.  And so we do everything we can think of from ascetic disciplines to mystical practises.  We study sacred texts and we pray long and desperate prayers.  And Paul reminds us that none of this leads us to God.  Instead, God has taken the initiative sending his Son and his Spirit.  This is the gospel, this is the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen.  In believing this good news and in knowing the presence and power of God's Spirit, Paul is saying that they (and we) can now say for certain that God knows us and that we know God.  There is no desperate cry to unknown gods.  God's own Spirit cries out within us to our loving and merciful Father.  Just as the nations watched in awe as God delivered Israel from Egypt in the original exodus, so in this new exodus as God sends his Son and his Spirit, the living God has—to quote Isaiah—“bared his holy arm before the eyes of all the nations.”  He has made himself known in all his great glory. Brothers and Sisters, trust in this good news.  Don't try to add anything to it.  To add anything to it is to deny its power and to go back to the slavery of the old gods.  Trust in Jesus.  Know the Spirit.  And know you are God's son, you are God's daughter, his new creation is born in you, and as we live this life he's given by faith, we witness and proclaim his glory—the power of his holy arm—to the watching world around us. Let us pray: Almighty God, you have fulfilled your promises in knitting your people together into one communion through the death and resurrection of your Son and the gift of your Spirit.  Give us grace that we might be faithful stewards of this good news, holding fast to you by faith alone and showing forth your glory as we live the life of your Spirit.  Amen.

One in the Messiah Galatians 3:15-29 by William Klock When my grandmother died there was a will.  It spelled out everything in black and white.  Not just the financial stuff, but even her car, the furniture in her house, down to the tchotchkes on the end tables.  Still, one of my twenty-one cousins decided to argue about it.  He was going to take the estate to court and dispute the will.  One of my uncles shut him down.  Not only was he getting a fair share just like everyone else, Grandma made sure her wishes for everything were in black and white. This is Paul's appeal as we move on to the second half of Galatians 3.  Paul's going to say, it's all here—plain as day, in black and white.  There's nothing to argue about.  But these agitators in Galatia, these “people from James” in Antioch—they're like that cousin, unhappy with the will, and trying to get what he wants by saying, “No, no.  That can't be right.  That's not what Grandma would have wanted.”  And what they want is circumcision.  Remember the situation.  Most of the believers in Galatia were gentiles.  They had been pagans.  They took part in all the pagan practices that were woven all through daily life in the Greco-Roman world.  But then they heard the good news about Jesus, they believed, and that meant withdrawing from all those pagan practices.  They threw out their household gods.  They stopped taking part in the pagan festivals.  They stopped visiting the temples and worshipping Caesar.  And now their neighbours and coworkers and even the city officials think they're irreligious and unpatriotic.  If something bad happens, everyone will come after them for angering the gods.  So these gentiles Christians have claimed the Jewish exemption.  Jews were exempt from all those pagan aspects of daily life and since following Jesus was a new way of following the God of Israel, it was an easy out.  But the local Jews got angry.  If you're not circumcised and don't live by torah, you have no business calling yourself a Jew!  And then these agitators who were preaching a false gospel of Jesus plus torah—or at least Jesus plus circumcision—they showed up and took this as an opportunity to convert the Galatian believers over to their way of thinking.  The end result was that they were dividing the church.  Instead of Jewish and gentile believers worshipping and praying and fellowshipping and gathering around the Lord's Table together, they were dividing up—as if instead of one body, Jesus now had two. So Paul continues on in Galatians 3:15.  Here's what he writes: Brothers and Sisters, let me use a human illustration: When someone makes a covenanted will, nobody sets it aside or adds to it.   It's there, like Grandma's wishes, all in black and white with her signature at the bottom.  You can't dispute it saying, “No, but Grandma wanted this instead.”  Here the really important thing is who the beneficiary is. Well [Paul goes on] the promises were made “to Abraham and his seed”—that is, his family.  It doesn't say “his seeds,” as though referring to several families, but indicates a single family by saying “and to your seed,” meaning the Messiah.   Remember the promise made to Abraham.  Even though he was a childless old man, he would have a family with children as numerous as the stars, a family that would bless and eventually inherit the nations.  And what Paul is stressing here is that there's only one family that inherits that promise.  Quoting the Greek version of Genesis 15:18, Paul uses the word “seed”.  The promises were made to Abraham and his seed—to his offspring, to his descendants who were yet to be born.  Don't think of “seed” as a single seed you might plant in the ground.  Think of it in terms of the family that grows from that seed.  God's promises were made to that single family, but Paul also stresses what even the circumcision people would have known: that family has come to be represented by the Messiah.  Remember, too, that the king represents his people.  So Jesus the Messiah and his people are the inheritors of God's promises to Abraham.  Now, Paul goes on in verse 17: This is what I mean: God made this covenanted will; torah—the law—which came four hundred and thirty years later, can't undermine it and make the promises null and void.  If the inheritance came through the law, it would no longer be by promise; but God gave it to Abraham by promise.   The circumcision people have been saying that if you want to be a real Christian, you have to at least get circumcised.  They probably wanted people to live by other parts of torah too, but it starts with circumcision.  And Paul's saying, “Look, God established a covenant with Abraham on the basis of faith.  Circumcision came years later.  And torah?  The Lord gave that to Israel four hundred and thirty years later after he delivered them from Egypt.  And when the Lord gave them torah, remember that they were already becoming the great family he had promised to Abraham in the beginning.”  Torah was a big deal, but even something as important as torah couldn't rewrite the covenant that the Lord had made with Abraham on the basis of faith.  When the Lord appeared as a smoking pot and burning torch that night to Abraham, when he passed back and forth down the pathway Abraham had made between the halved carcasses of those sacrificial animals, the Lord had—so to speak—put it all down in black and white and signed it at the bottom.  Whatever else would come later, none of it could or would—nothing on earth or in heaven—could change the terms of his covenant with Abraham and his family.  So torah—the law—cannot be the thing that defines the people of the Messiah.  Like Abraham, their faith is what defines them, what includes them in the covenant family and marks them out as different from the rest of the human race. But what about the law then?  If Christians down through history have struggled with what to do with torah we can only imagine how those first Jewish believers would struggle with it.  It's not hard to see how Jewish believers would go down this path of Jesus plus torah.  Because torah is what set apart the Jewish people from all the other peoples.  Torah is why the pagans thought the Jews were weird and torah was why the Jews thought they were better than everyone else.  God had given it to them and God had commanded them to live by it.  He'd even promised blessing if they did and cursing if they didn't.  So Paul anticipates their question: If faith is the basis of the covenant, not torah, not the law, then where does torah fit into all of this?  Is Paul saying that torah is bad?  Look at verse 19: Why then the law? Why indeed?  And Paul writes: It was added because of transgressions, until the family should come to whom it had been promised.  It was laid down by angels, at the hand of a mediator.  He, however, is not the mediator of the “one”—but God is one!   God's purpose in calling Abraham and his purpose in giving him a family was to save the world from sin.  Remember that the story that comes just before the calling of Abraham is the Tower of Babel.  The point of the Tower of Babel story is to show how the whole human race had lost the knowledge of God and was lost in darkness.  God then speaks to Abraham, calls him out of darkness and idolatry and thus begins the long story of redemption.  Through Abraham's family, God would save the human race.  But there was a problem.  Abraham's family, Israel, was infected by the same disease of sin as everyone else, so God had to do something to preserve this special family until his promises were fulfilled through them.  Torah—the law—was that something.  It wasn't a bad thing at all—which is what some people might have thought Paul was saying.  Instead, torah was a good thing.  In fact, Paul stresses, it was laid down by angels at the hand of a mediator.  The mediator is Moses and he didn't make it up.  It came to him by angels, which is Paul's somewhat roundabout way of saying that it ultimately came from God.  So torah wasn't bad.  It was wonderful and holy.  Think about Moses, coming down Mt. Sinai carrying the law carved on stone and his face literally glowing with the glory of God that he'd seen.  Torah was good.  But neither this mediator—that means Moses—not the law he delivered could bring the “one”—that one family promised to Abraham.  Moses and the torah had a different job to do—a vitally important job, but still a temporary job—until the time was right for God to fulfil his promises in that one family of the Messiah. So what was the job of torah?  Paul says it was added because of transgressions.  What does that mean?  Well, “transgression” means to break the law.  It's more specific than “sin”.  “Sin” is general.  It means to fall short.  So while the rest of humanity stumbled around in its rebellion against God, God gave Israel a law so that the people's sins could be turned into trespass—so that they could see that they weren't just stumbling around in the dark.  Torah showed them that their sin was really deadly disobedience.  Torah prepared the people who carried the promise for the day when the Messiah would bring that promise to fulfilment by dealing with sin on the cross.  Through torah, God deliberately created a logjam in the river of blessing.  Torah exposed sin for what it really is so that the Messiah could then deal with it. Think of a rocket being shot off into space.  It has to have an incredible amount of force to push against earth's gravity and that means it has to have a massive booster rocket full of fuel to create that force.  That giant booster lifts the rocket into space, but once the rocket is in space, the astronauts flip a switch and they let go of the booster so it can fall back to earth.  The space capsule doesn't jettison the booster rocket because it was bad.  Without it, they'd never have got into space.  They jettison it because it's no longer needed.  It's a good thing and its job is now done.  Torah is like that. So, Paul asks in verse 21: Is torah—the law— against God's promises?  Of course not!  No, if a law had been given that could have given life, then covenant membership really would have been by the law.  But the scriptures shut up everything together under the power of sin, so that the promise—which comes by the faithfulness of Jesus the Messiah—should be given to those who believe.   So Paul's saying, “Okay.  If—and the stress is on if—a law had been given that could give life, if that had happened, then being part of that covenant would indeed have been by that law.”  Life is the goal.  God wants to set the human race to rights.  But that's not what torah did.  Again, what torah did was expose sin for what it really is: deadly rebellion against God.  Torah didn't give life.  Just the opposite.  It showed that humanity is enslaved to sin and that apart from God's reconciling grace we stand condemned.  Life, Paul stresses, comes through the faithfulness of Jesus the Messiah.  Paul rams the point home here: If you go back to torah, you're going to end up back in jail.  The way forward is through faith in the Messiah. If this isn't clear enough, Paul puts it another way starting in verses 23: Before this faithfulness arrived [that's the faithfulness of the Messiah he just mentioned] we were kept under guard by torah, in close confinement until the coming faithfulness should be revealed.  Thus torah was like a babysitter for us, looking after us until the coming of the Messiah, so that we might be given covenant membership on the basis of faithfulness.   Before Jesus, Israel was like a child and torah was the babysitter.  In Paul's world rich people would have slaves who looked after their children, taking them to and from school and generally keeping them out of trouble.  So between Moses and Jesus, this is what torah did for Israel.  But at some point kids grow up and they don't need a babysitter anymore.  The sign that Israel had grown up was “faithfulness”.  Specifically, the faithfulness of Jesus the Messiah.  He came and did what Israel had struggled and failed to do all through their history.  Jesus is finally the one faithful Israelite.  That makes him the fulfilment of God's promises to Abraham.  But there are two sides to his faithfulness.  Believers answer the faithfulness of Jesus with faith of our own and it is this faith—not torah—it is this faith in response to Jesus' faithfulness, that marks out the mature family of God.  Jesus plus nothing.  Jesus, as the faithful Israelites, opens up Abraham's family to everyone regardless of ethnicity or language or sex or class or anything else.  He writes in verse 25: But now that the faithfulness has come, we are no longer under the rule of the babysitter.  For you are all sons of God, through faith, in the Messiah, Jesus.   “Sons of God”.  That's language—that's a title—right out of the exodus story.  In Exodus 4, when the Lord tells Moses to go to Pharaoh, he calls Israel his “firstborn son”.  What Paul is doing here is shifting the frame of reference.  He's been talking about Israel between Moses and Jesus as a time when Israel was a child, guarded by a babysitter, and waiting for the promises of Abraham to be fulfilled.  Now, when he talks about being sons of God through faith in the Messiah, what he's saying is that that time from Moses to Jesus was really like the years that Israel spent as slaves in Egypt.  In Jesus the time of rescue has come.  Paul is saying to the circumcision people: Do you want to go back to being a child, when you could be a grown-up?  Do you want to go back to being a slave, when you could be free?  If you want to be grown-up Israel, the thing that marks you out is faith, is trust in the Messiah. But Paul doesn't leave it there.  In verses 27-29 he hammers home this point of inclusion in the Messiah.  Five times he uses this word Messiah with relation to our identity.  If you're following along, most of your translations probably say “Christ”.  Christos is the Greek word and for reasons I don't fully understand, Christians have usually left it untranslated.  The result is that “Christ” has lost its punch.  We say it like it's Jesus last name.  Some people even think it is Jesus' last name.  In fact, “Christ” is just Greek for “Messiah”.  It's not a name; it's Jesus' title.  He's God's anointed King.  And so some years ago I decided that unless there was good reason to do otherwise, I was going to translate Christos as “Messiah” in my preaching.  It's vitally important we understand who Jesus is.  Paul doesn't talk about being “in Jesus”.  He talks all the time about being “in the Messiah” and that's because it's Jesus' messiahship that makes him able to represent us as the people of God.  So here, Paul hammers it home writing: You see, every one of you who has been baptised into the Messiah has put on the Messiah.  There is no longer Jew or Greek; there is no longer slave or free; there is no longer “male and female”.  You are all one in the Messiah, Jesus.  And, if you belong to the Messiah, you are Abraham's family.  You stand to inherit the promise.   The Messiah embodies faithful, grown-up Israel.  The Messiah embodies the fulfilment of God's promise to Abraham.  So what's important, Paul says, is that we are “in” the Messiah.  But what does that mean?  Modern people often seem to think of it as some kind of experience, but for Paul and his readers in the First Century, it meant being part of this royal family of which Jesus is the King—the Messiah.  And, Paul says, as much as faith in Jesus is the thing that marks this family out as being in the Messiah, baptism is the entrance. This is another thing we might misunderstand.  A lot of modern people, especially in our Protestant tradition, will say, “But isn't baptism a ‘work' and if we enter into the Messiah by a ‘work', how is it by faith?”  Again, like everything else, we need to see baptism in light of the story.  Paul doesn't elaborate here, because it was a given believers back then would think of it this way.  Think of the exodus and think of Israel at the Red Sea as the Lord parted the waters and made a pathway through to a new life of freedom and a new life in his presence.  On one side of the parted sea was a life of slavery and on the other side was a promise of life with God—the fulfilment of his promises.  But to get from one side to the other meant passing through the water.  Passing through meant faith, it meant trusting the Lord and his offer of rescue from slavery.  Brothers and Sisters, baptism is like that.  On one side we are slaves to sin and on the other is the Spirit-filled life of the Messiah's family.  The font stands between like the Red Sea.  In the waters God makes his promise and leads us through to life on the other side. So to pass through the waters of baptism is take the first step of faith in the faithfulness of Jesus the Messiah.  To pass through the waters of baptism is to put off the old self and to put on the Messiah.  And when we do that, his identity becomes ours.  That's not to say that everything about our previous identity becomes completely irrelevant, but it does mean that nothing about our old selves has to do with our standing in the Messiah's family.  Jew or gentile, slave or free, man or woman, we all stand on equal footing if we are in the Messiah's family.  We come to one Table.  We eat one bread.  We drink of one cup.  Because, as Paul hammers home his last blow: “If you belong to the Messiah, you are Abraham's family and you stand to inherit the promise. There's no reason to look for anything else to enhance that status, because there is nothing else that can.  We are one in Jesus because God has been faithful to his promises.  He put it in black and white, he affixed his signature that night when he met Abraham as the smoking pot and burning torch and he fulfilled that promise when Jesus was born of Mary, when Jesus was crucified under Pontius Pilate, when Jesus rose again on the third day—and he continues to fulfil his promises in us.  Every time someone is baptised into the Messiah's family, every time God pours out his Spirit, every time he brings us together at his Table on the basis of the faithfulness of Jesus, he fulfils his promises. Brothers and Sisters, if we are passionate about Jesus and if we're passionate about the gospel, we should be just as passionate about the unity of the family—the church.  This is one of the reasons I am a Reformed Episcopalian.  Bishop Cummins understood this and that's why—unlike other Anglicans of his day who required episcopal confirmation in order to come to the Lord's Table—we welcome everyone who is baptised into Jesus the Messiah.  Because we know that all who are in the Messiah are part of the one family of Abraham.  Because we know that our unity is a testimony to the faithfulness of the Father, revealed in Jesus and the Spirit.  Because our being brought together in the Messiah—Jew and gentile, slave and free, men and women—is a powerful witness of the life and light of God's new age that needs to be shined into this dark and divided world. Let's pray: Gracious Father, through faith in the faithfulness of your Son, you have made us your people.  Remind us always that faith in Jesus makes us one, so that we might be as passionate about our unity as you are and so that our unity in Jesus might be a bright gospel light in the midst of the darkness.  Amen.

Children of Abraham Galatians 3:1-14 by William Klock Have you ever heard of Charles Blondin?  He was a French acrobat, daredevil, and tight-rope walker in the middle of the Nineteenth Century.  He is most famous for crossing the Niagara Gorge, just above the falls, walking a tight-rope in 1859.  He was the first person to do so.  And it drew a crowd, so he did it again and again and again.  But to keep the crowds coming back he had to keep finding new and more impressive ways to walk the tight-rope across the gorge.  He crossed walking backwards.  He crossed while blindfolded.  He crossed pushing a loaded wheelbarrow.  He crossed while walking the tight-rope on stilts.  He once carried a chair with him, balanced the chair on a single leg on the rope, then stood on the chair.  Another time he stopped mid-rope, cooked himself an omelet (Yes, I'm also struggling to figure out how he did that), ate the omelet, and then continued to the other side.  But, I think, his most impressive feat was crossing Niagara Gorge on a tight-rope while carrying his manager.  I mean, in terms of physical challenges, that was probably one of the easier things Blondin did.  The impressive bit is that his manager trusted him enough to be part of the stunt. So picture Charles Blondin on a tight-rope, crossing Niagara Gorge with his manager—his name was Harry Colcord—on his back.  But then imagine, Harry, halfway across, telling Blondin to stop and put him down.  “This has been nice, and I know you told me not to look down, but I did.  And the water is churning away way down there as it gets ready to go over the falls and, well, I think I'd feel better if I got off your back and got myself across the tight-rope alone.”  Imagine what Blondin would have said to him.  “You witless fool!” Well, that's what Paul writes to the churches in Galatia, having heard that they're talking about getting circumcised.  Look at Galatians 3:1-5. You witless Galatians!  Who as bewitched you?  Messiah Jesus was portrayed on the cross before your very eyes!  There's just one thing I want to know from you.  Did you receive the Spirit by doing the works of torah, or by hearing and believing?  You are so witless!  You began with the Spirit, and now you're ending with the flesh?  Did you really suffer so much for nothing—if indeed it is going to be for nothing?  The one who gives you the Spirit and performs powerful deeds among you—does he do this through your performance of torah, or through hearing and believing?   So chapter 2 ended with Paul writing about the faithful son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.  He's reminded them of the cross and now Paul launches into his main argument with that violent image of the cross at the forefront.  “Messiah Jesus was portrayed on the cross before your very eyes!”  It's hard to say exactly what Paul means by that.  When he was there, did he give them a graphic description of Jesus' crucifixion?  Maybe.  But everyone in the Roman world knew about crucifixion.  I think it's safe to say that pretty much everyone had seen a crucifixion at some point.  They knew how awful it was.  Whatever it means that the cross was displayed to them, Paul's point is that the Galatians knew all about Jesus and the cross and they should have understood how it had changed everything.  They should have understood how it turned everything Jews thought about their identity and everything about the rule of torah upside-down.  Jesus' death changed everything.  Paul had taught them that.  When he'd left them, they understood all of this—or so he thought.  But now—they're talking about getting circumcised.  He's utterly flabbergasted.  How could this be, so he practically shouts at them, “You witless Galatians!”  I thought I knew you, but now this?  Has someone cast a stupid spell on you?  Jesus and the Spirit got them halfway across the tightrope, but now they're looking down at the long drop and the churning waters and thinking that maybe they should play it safe and go the rest of the way with torah instead.  And Paul's point: Torah never would have got you this far.  Don't be stupid.  Let Jesus and the Spirit take you all the way. He's got one question for them, but it spills out as six.  Who has bewitched you?  Did you receive the Spirit through the torah or through hearing and believing the gospel?  Again, are you really this dumb?  Having begun in the Spirit, are you going to end in the flesh?  Have you suffered so much for nothing?  And, did God give you his Spirit and has he done powerful things amongst you because you obeyed torah or because you heard and believed?  It all boils down to one question.  Paul asks them to consider everything that's happened to them since he first visited them and proclaimed the good news about Jesus the Messiah.  He asks them: “Did all that happen because you were keeping the Jewish law?”  Of course, the answer is a resounding “No!”  Everything that had happened to them had happened through the power of the gospel and the giving of the Spirit as they listened and believed. And when Paul says that, he makes sure to put all the stress on the gospel and on the Spirit and none on them.  The gospel was proclaimed, they believed—and then they discovered that it was actually all along the Spirit already at work amongst them.  That's the point here.  Their lives had been transformed by the Spirit and the Spirit was doing amazing things in their churches, not because of anything they had done—and certainly not because they'd decided to start living according to the Jewish law.  Up til now, they hadn't even considered doing that.  So, no, none of this had happened because of their works.  Just the opposite, their works were actually the work of God's Spirit in them—a gift they'd received, a new life into which they'd been plunged when they believed the good news and were baptised in the Messiah.  Their new life had begun with the Spirit.  So why, O why, Paul wants to know, are they now turning back to the flesh? Now, we should pause here and ask what Paul means when he writes about Spirit and flesh.  The Spirit is God's Spirit, but for Paul it sort of becomes a shorthand for new life and new creation.  The Spirit is the down payment on the resurrection life of the new world that God has promised.  The life of the Spirit is a preview of what life will one day be like when God finally sets his creation (and us!) fully to rights.  The Spirit is a preview in the sense that we now have a taste of that life, but the Spirit, through his work in us, also gives the world a preview of what God's new world will be like.  Think about that.  The Church is—or it should be—a preview of the age to come, of God's new creation.  On the other hand, the “flesh” for Paul is shorthand for the corruption, decay, and death of the old age—it's shorthand for life without the redeeming work of Jesus and the renewing work of the Spirit.  But, too, Paul also writes about the Jewish people “according to the flesh”—Abraham's biological descendants marked out with the sign of circumcision in their flesh.  To be clear, though, when Paul talks about flesh and Spirit, he is absolutely not using these works in the sense of the Greek philosophers—whose ideas persist today—who thought the physical word or the physical body (the flesh) was some bad thing and that the spirit was some good, non-material essence—the real us—that needs to be set free.  For Paul, we can think of “flesh” as representing the old age dominated by sin and death and “Spirit” as representing the life of god's new creation. So obviously the Spirit is important.  The Spirit shows that the promises made to Abraham have finally come true through the death and resurrection of Jesus.  The Spirit is the evidence of the gospel doing its work.  This is why, for example, the Pentecostal and Charismatic idea that separated the gift of the Spirit from belief in the gospel is such a problem.  (If Paul had been alive in the early Twentieth Century he would, I expect, have written an equally sternly worded epistle to them.)  The Spirit is not an add-on to life in Jesus—as if you can believe in Jesus now and receive the Spirit at some later time—or even not at all.  To believe the gospel is to trust in Jesus the Messiah, not just for the forgiveness of sins—as if that's all there is to gospel.  To believe in the gospel is to become part of God's promised new creation, to be plunged into the Spirit so that the very life of God himself makes us new.  To be in the Messiah is to have the Spirit in you.  You cannot separate the two.  Anything less than that is, as Paul would put it, “flesh” and, Brothers and Sisters, the gospel which begins with the Spirit ends in the Spirit.  It will never leave us stuck in the flesh.  The Lord does not deliver you from bondage in Egypt only to leave you stuck in Egypt.  He leads you through the Red Sea and into the promised land. So, to sum up so far: We live the life of the Spirit not because of anything we've done, but because we have heard and believed the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen.  Even then, the fact that we have “heard” it, is because the Spirit was already at work in us.  Now, lets move on to verse 6.  Paul writes: It's like Abraham.  “He believed God, and it was counted to him for righteousness.”  So you know that it's people of faith who are children of Abraham.   Remember what I talked about last week.  Why was Abraham so important to Paul?  Because the story of redemption begins with him.  He's the model for all of God's people thereafter.  The Lord spoke into a world completely lost in the darkness of paganism and he called Abraham: “Go to the land I will show you and I will give you a family and an inheritance.”  It was a crazy promise made by a strange God, but Abraham believed—he trusted—and the Lord established a covenant with him and with his children.  Through them, the Lord would, one day, drive away the darkness and set the world to rights.  I said last week, that's what “righteousness” is about for Paul.  It's about membership in this covenant family of God.  For the Jews in Paul's day the human race was divided into two groups: the Jews were the “righteous”, the “sinners” were everyone else.  It began with Abraham—long before there was ever a torah or, for that matter, even before circumcision.  The Lord established a covenant with Abraham because of faith and—here's the key point for Paul here that stands like a mountain over this whole passage—it is this faith, this trust in the Lord that marks out Abraham's family.  It's the faith people, not the circumcision people who will inherit God's promises.  Imagine Paul pointing his finger at the Galatians—most of whom were gentiles—as he says this.  He's saying, “This means you.”  They—gentile believers renewd by God's Spirit— they were the sign that God's promises to Abraham were finally coming true.  He goes on in verse 8: The scriptures foresaw that God would justify the nations by faith, so it announced the gospel to Abraham in advance, when it declared that ‘the nations will be blessed in you.'  So you see, the people of faith are blessed along with faithful Abraham.   God's promises were a lot bigger than Abraham.  Again, God began a project with Abraham, through which he intended to bring the whole world—the nations—out of the darkness of sin and death.  And Paul could point to these gentile believers in Galatia and say, “See!  You are living proof of the faithfulness of the God of Israel.  In you, the blessing promised to Abraham has begun to reach the nations.  Brothers and Sisters, the same goes for us.  Some of my ancestors were Jews, but most of them were pagans who worshipped oak trees.  They heard the good news about Jesus, the Spirit got hold of them, they believed, and the Spirit led them out of the darkness and made them sons and daughters of Abraham and inheritors of his promise.  You and I are proof that God is faithful to do what he promised. And that's Paul's next point.  It's God who is faithful.  The promises weren't fulfilled because Abraham's family was faithful.  Some of them were, but on the whole, Israel failed miserably.  Look at verses 10-12: Because, you see, those who belong to the “works-of-the-law” camp are under a curse.  For it is written, “Cursed is everyone who does not stick fast by everything written in the book of the law, to perform it.”  But because nobody is justified before God in the law, it's clear that “the righteous shall live by faith.”  The law, however, is not by faith; rather “the one who does them shall live by them.”   We know that the “faith people” are justified—that means they're the ones counted as “righteous”, as God's people—because those who put their stock in doing the Jewish law, well, they're under a curse.  Paul quotes Deuteronomy 27:26, “Cursed is everyone who does not stick fast by everything written in the book of the law, to perform it.”  Now, Paul's point isn't that it's impossible to keep the law, so don't bother trying.  What he's saying is that if—like the agitators in Galatia or the people from James in Antioch—if you decide to go down the road of circumcision, well, that's just the first step.  There are 612 other commandments you'll have to follow and not even the agitators, not even these “circumcision people” were doing all of that.  Torah is all or nothing. Here's where Paul is going with this.  He's telling the story again.  I think we miss that because we've been trained to think in terms of abstract doctrinal propositions, but for Paul it was all about the story of God and his people.  It began with Abraham and the family that the Lord miraculously gave him to carry forward his promises to the nations, but along the way the story shows that Abraham's family was infected with the same sin problem as the rest of the human race—the very same problem God's promises were meant to heal. This is the lens through which the Jews of Paul's day saw themselves.  The Essenes at Qumran—the people responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls—they're a great example of this.  They saw that Israel was broken and fallen, disloyal and incapable of carrying forward the Lord's promises.  They believed that the Lord was, secretly through them, launching his new covenant to set everything right.  Their scroll on torah (4QMMT) sums it all up.  First there was a time of blessing under David and Solomon, but King Jeroboam sinned and his successors down the line through Zedekiah kept sinning and that brought the curse of Deuteronomy 27 on the nation.  Deuteronomy—Moses reiteration of the law before the Israelites crossed into the promised land, it promised blessing if the people trusted the Lord and a curse if they were unfaithful.  So the Lord did what he promised.  He caused them to be carried way into exile and, even though the people had returned from exile to the promised land, the curse continued—for another five hundred years.  Being ruled over by godless gentiles like the Romans was the proof.  What Israel needed was a new covenant.  Now, the Qumran community was unique in thinking that they were the people of that new covenant, but most other Jews would have agreed with the basic outline of the story.  The angry Pharisees who wrote the Palms of Solomon and the Maccabean martyrs would have agreed.  Ezra and Nehemiah and Daniel said the same thing: God's people, even after some of them had returned to Jerusalem, they were still sinful, still in “exile”, still “slaves in our own land”.  The promises of Deuteronomy 30, the promises that would come true if Israel were faithful, they had never happened.  Isaiah's promises of everything set to rights was only a dream.  Deuteronomy warned of that if Israel was unfaithful she would fall under a curse and Paul and his fellow Jews saw that curse happening in their own day.  Oppression by the pagan Romans was the current iteration in a long line back to Babylon. So Paul sums up the problem in verse 11 when he says that nobody is justified before God in the law, so “the righteous shall live by faith”.  He's quoting Habakkuk there.  But that was the big question for Paul and his fellow Jews.  There were these big promises.  Habakkuk said the righteous shall live by faith, but how were they supposed to get there?  No matter what Israel did, no matter how many reform movements came along, Israel was stuck in unfaithfulness and living under the curse.  Buckling down, like the Pharisees, and doing the law even harder wasn't working.  That's why Paul quotes Leviticus 18:5: “You shall therefore keep my statues and my rules; if a person does them, he shall live by them: I am the Lord”.  There's a promise there, but pretty much everyone by Paul's day had lost hope.  Yes, if we keep the Lord's statues we will live, but no matter what we do and no matter how hard we try, we fail.  So Paul throws up his hands in despair and, I think, most other thoughtful Jews of his day would have thought the same way.  What more can we do? But as discouraging as this story might seem, if you really believed that all of Israel's woes were the curse promised in Deuteronomy 27, there was hope that one day, somehow the blessing of Deuteronomy 30 would happen—including God's renewal of his people by his Spirit.  And so, while his fellow Jews felt the weight of Leviticus 18:5, Paul saw the beginnings of hope there.  This was the Lord's promise and the Lord is faithful.  Paul saw it pointing to a new covenant and a new way of keeping the law—one that would finally work.  This—this new thing—is what Paul saw had happened—was happening—through Jesus the Messiah.  He goes on in verses 13 and 14: The Messiah redeemed us from the curse of the law, by becoming a curse on our behalf, as it is written, “Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree.”  This was so that the blessing of Abraham could flow through to the nations in Messiah Jesus—and so that we might receive the promise of the Spirit, through faith. Paul saying, “It seemed hopeless, but look what God has done!  The curse that Deuteronomy promised has been borne by the Messiah.  Jesus can do that, because—remember—the king represents his people.  That's why I stressed last week that it's not just the promise to Abraham that's important, but that we also remember how David, the King, was incorporated into the promise as well.  So Jesus the Messiah, the King came to the place where the pagans, agents of the curse, were oppressing his people and he took the curse on himself.  And he didn't do it in some abstract way.  It was obvious.  It was unmistakable.  The cross was the great symbol of Roman oppression and brutality.  Jesus literally took Israel's curse on himself when he died on the cross. Israel, through her unfaithfulness, had become like a logjam in the river of God's blessing, so Jesus the King became, himself, a literal son of Abraham and bore Israel's curse himself, thereby becoming the conduit for God to pour out his Spirit.  He cleared the logjam.  This is what Paul means in verse 14 when he writes that the blessing of Abraham could flow through to the nations in Messiah Jesus”.  That's the first result of Jesus' death on the cross.  The second thing he did was to renew God's covenant.  This is what the prophets had promised.  The Lord wasn't just going to let Israel rot away as a logjam in the river or even bypass Israel.  Through Jesus, God poured out his Spirit on Israel, giving them a new way to keep his law, so that they could, again and as he intended, be the river carrying his blessings to the nations.  That's why Paul says we, meaning he and his fellow Jews who believed the good news about Jesus, we “might receive the promise of the Spirit through faith”.  God has dealt with the logjam created by the law and the unfaithfulness of Israel and he's done so through Jesus' death and through the pouring out of his Spirit.  And now Paul and his fellow Jewish missionaries are like the river, freed of the logjam, rushing out to carry the light and life of God to the nations.  For Paul, the mission to the gentiles and the fact that in Jesus, the gentile and Jewish believers were worshiping and eating and gathering around the Lord's Table together as one family, this was proof that God is faithful to do what he has promised. That's as far as we'll go today with Chapter 3.  These verses have a reputation for being notoriously difficult, but a lot of that is because for a very long time we've tried to read what Paul says here as abstract doctrinal propositions, when what Paul is really doing is telling the story of God and his people.  Paul does it that way in part because it puts the faithfulness of God to his promises front and centre and gives us reason to believe him and to trust him, but Paul also puts this all in terms of this great story of redemption, because it shows us our place in the story.  When we look at this in terms of the story, what stands out in the middle of it is that we are, by faith in the Messiah, members of Abraham's promised family.  By faith in Jesus the Messiah, not by circumcision or torah or anything else.  By faith in Jesus the Messiah.  Getting that right was the solution to the problems in Galatia.  Think about that.  When we think about Christian identity, how often do we think of in terms of being sons and daughters of Abraham?  This was a really, really big deal for Paul.  And as much as we sang the song about Father Abrahamwhen we were kids in Sunday School—I am one of them, and so are you—this theme is almost entirely ignored down through the history of the church.  We even have a whole school of recent evangelical theology committed to the idea that only ethnic Jews are children of Abraham.  But this truth, that we are children of Abraham and heirs of God's promises to him, it's absolutely essential to Paul.  So much so, that for him the gospel stands or falls on this truth.  It means that we're part of the story and it means that as God pours his Spirit into us and makes us his temple, we see his faithfulness to his promises. Think on that as you come to the Lord's Table this morning.  We eat the bread and drink the wine as one family in fulfilment of the promises that the Lord made so long ago to Abraham.  We are brothers and sisters, because Jesus has, by his grace, grafted us into this family.  The simple fact that we are here together and that God has poured his Spirit into us, is proof of his faithfulness.  So eat the bread and drink the wine, look around at your brothers and sisters, remember our place in this story, and have faith, believe, trust.  We live in difficult days and like, Charles Blondin's manager, sitting on his shoulders and looking down at the long drop and the churning waters, we might be tempted to get down and walk the tightrope ourselves.  Brothers and Sisters, keep the faith, keep trusting in the God who has proved himself faithful.  Jesus and the Spirit have brought us this far and Jesus and the Spirit will see us through to the end. Let's pray: Gracious Father, who keep us steadfast in faith, we pray.  We are fickle, but you have proved yourself faithful.  Remind us always of the great story into which you have grafted us so that we live in your faithfulness, redeemed by your Son and renewed by your Spirit.  Give us grace to trust and obey you and to be your river of gospel life flowing to the nations.  Through Jesus we pray.  Amen.

Interlude: Why was Abraham so Important to Paul? Genesis 15 & Psalm 2 by William Klock As I was preparing to preach on the central part of Paul's letter to the Galatians, beginning with Chapter 3, it occurred to me that it would be an understatement to say that Paul spends a lot of time talking about Abraham.  A lot.  Not just about Abraham himself, but about a whole host of themes that go back to Abraham's story.  Themes like faith and faithfulness, seed and inheritance, and of course righteousness.  And as I was thinking about that and especially about the reason why Paul spends so much time talking about Abraham, it occurred to me that today would be a good time for an interlude before we launch into Paul's grand argument.  That's what I'd like to do this morning. So why does Paul talk so much about Abraham?  The way some commentators talk, you might think that Paul was doing nothing more than proof-texting.  He needed an example of faith over works from the Hebrew scriptures and, voila, there was Genesis 15.  Or, it's possible that the agitators in Galatia were appealing to Genesis 17, the passage where the Lord gave the covenantal sign of circumcision to Abraham.  So, naturally, Paul goes two chapters back to show that well before circumcision was a thing, there was faith.  But Paul had a greater reason than any of that.  Paul never engages in shallow proof-texting.  And Paul never talked about theology or doctrine in the abstract the way people often do today.  Paul told a story and Abraham was important to Paul, because Paul saw the gospel as the culmination of the great story of the God of Israel and his people and of his promises and of his faithfulness and how it all comes to fulfilment in Jesus the Messiah.  Everything for Paul rides on that great story and it begins with Abraham, because God's calling of Abraham was the answer—or, at any rate, the beginning of the answer—to the mess into which the human race and the whole word have fallen.  Right from the get go, Adam went wrong.  Because of his rebellion against God Adam was cast out of the garden temple he'd been created to steward, and he was cut off from the life of God.  And from there his descendants went from bad to worse.  Even wiping out the whole human race in a flood, while saving the one righteous man left, even that didn't fix the problem.  From righteous Noah it's only a turn of the page to the Tower of Babel.  All of humanity had lost the knowledge of God.  The world was lost in darkness.  And then out of the darkness the Lord called Abram: “Go forth from your land and your birthplace and your father's house to the land I will show you.  And I will make you a great nation and I will bless you and make your name great, and you shall be a blessing…all the clans of the earth through you shall be blessed.”  And, the storyteller records, “Abram went forth as the Lord had spoken.” For years Abram believed and trusted this strange God who had called him to Canaan and made him an outrageous promise.  And the Lord blessed Abram with sheep and cattle and camels, he blessed him with a great reputation, he defeated king for him, but the central part of that promise—the land and especially the family never came to pass.  And so, in Genesis 15, the Lord speaks to Abram again:   After these things the word of the Lord came to Abram in a vision, saying, “Fear not, Abram, I am your shield.  Your reward shall be very great.”  And Abram said, “O my Lord, God, what can you give me when I am going to my end childless, and the steward of my household is Eliezer of Damascus?”  And Abram said, “Look, to me you have given no seed, and here a member of my household is to be my heir.”    Seed.  A family.  Children.  At least one single son to be his heir.  The promise required at least that in order to be fulfilled.  But Abram was an old man.  His wife was long past her child-bearing years.  It looked like everything would soon pass to Abram's servant, Eliezer, and the promise would be dead.  As I read Abram's protest here, I can't help but think of the father of the possessed boy in Mark's gospel.  He cried out to Jesus, “I believe, but help my unbelief.”  Abram knew this strange God was real.  Of all the gods, this was the only who had ever spoken.  And Abram had followed him to Canaan, and there this God provided And now, years later, Lord was no longer a stranger.  The Lord was real, but would he prove to be truly faithful to his promise?  The story goes on:   And now the word of the Lord came to him, saying, “This one will not be your heir, but he who issues from your loins will be your heir.”  And he took him outside and he said, “Look up to the heavens and count the stars, if you can count them.”  And he said, “So shall be your seed.”  And he [Abram] trusted in the Lord, and he [the Lord] reckoned it to him as righteousness.   The Lord reiterated his promise to Abram: a promise of seed and a promise of an inheritance.  And Abram, looking back on the Lord's faithfulness so far…this God who had started out a stranger to him, but was now a faithful friend…Abram had faith.  Some translations say he “trusted” and others he “believed”.  The Hebrew word has a pretty clear sense of trusting in someone or something who has proved himself trustworthy, reliable, faithful.  Despite that, I've noticed that we often struggle to get this part of the story right.  A lot of us hear those words, “Abram believed…”  or “Abram had faith…” and we think of this as something Abram did with only his brain.  Knowing what he did of the Lord, he gave his intellectual assent to this promise.  For a lot of us “belief” or “faith” is mainly a thinking word and in large part that's because in our Protestant tradition we've tended to drive a wedge, to set up a wall between faith and works.  The Reformers were right when they said that salvation is by faith alone, but that doesn't mean that faith is just something we do in our heads.  Faith is organically intertwined with trust and trust is organically intertwined with obedience.  Faith in a God whom we know to be faithful naturally works itself out in how we live.  Abram followed where the Lord led him, because that's the nature of faith. It's worth taking note of how the later Jews translated this into Greek.  Greek has a word group for belief that puts the emphasis on our brains and on thinking.  Dokeo.  It's the dox in orthodox, which means to believe or to think the right thing.  But instead, the translators of the Old Testament chose the word pisteuo.  Sometimes this pistis word group can get into the brainy, the thinking aspects of belief, but most of the time it's more like that Hebrew word.  It's not just intellectual assent, it's not just thinking the right things, it means to trust, to give yourself over to someone or something proved to be faithful.  In the Greco-Roman world, pistis was the sort of loyalty, allegiance, and trust around which communities were built. This language of trust was how the Jews thought and it's how the early Christians thought.  It's a sad part of our history that over the centuries we've tended more and more towards the idea of faith as primarily a thinking thing.  Consider how we think of the creeds.  We usually think of them as a set of theological propositions.  I believe in God the Father.  I believe in Jesus Christ, his only son our lord.  I believe in the Holy Spirit, who proceeds from the Father and the Son.  We think of these as bits of abstract doctrine that define right belief—again, that's what “orthodoxy” means.  We learn the creeds and we give them our intellectual assent.  It's something we do with our brains.  And that's good so far as it goes, but consider that the creed started out in the early church as a baptismal affirmation.  People—pagans—encountered the good news about Jesus and the faithfulness of the God of Israel, they heard the story that went back all the way to Abraham—of this God who gave promises and then kept them, of a God unlike anything they knew in the pagan pantheon, of a God who reveals himself in Jesus, his incarnate son, of a God who gives his life for the sake of his people—and they believed.  They put their trust in this God who made heaven and earth; in this God who revealed himself in his son, born of Mary, crucified under Pontius Pilate, and who rose three days later; in this God who now gives his own Spirit to quicken, to enliven his people.  Like Abraham, they were leaving behind their countries and their families, and stepping out in trusting faith into a new world and into a new life in which they were risking persecution and even martyrdom.  Their faith wasn't just an intellectual exercise; they were entrusting their whole selves to this God whose story they confessed in the creed, a story that was now their story. I've been reading Teresa Morgan's newish book on the language of faith in early Christianity and she very helpfully puts it this way, “The translators [of the Greek Old Testament] regularly chose pistis language at moments of change and decision-making, when the relationship between God and his people is portrayed as entering a new phase, or a covenant is made which will create or shape Israel in the future.”[1]  It's language of trust, and of loyalty, and of obedience—not just something that happens in the brain.  God is doing something new, maybe even strange or bewildering, and this is the language of his people committing themselves to him in this new thing, because they know him to be faithful. And I think that now moves us from the “Abram trusted” part of Genesis 15:6 right to the “and the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness” part.  What does that mean?  Well, how we read this—probably for most of us, whether we realise it or not—has been shaped by Martin Luther and the Reformers.  Luther confronted the medieval church, which was falsely teaching a theology of merit, a gospel in which our works and the works of the saints earn us a place in God's presence—one we could even buy with money.  Luther believed—actually this is a good example of that idea of trust, because this wasn't just a thinking exercise for Luther, he put his life on the line for the gospel—but Luther believed that salvation is by grace alone through faith.  He was right.  And this was one of the key passages he drew on.  The problem was that Luther was reading Sixteenth Century problems back into Paul's First Century letter to the Galatians and back into Abraham's story in Genesis.  And that meant that Luther was sort of looking for the right answer in the wrong place—or maybe, better, asking the wrong question of the right text.  And so, in light of the works-righteousness he was arguing against, Luther took “righteousness” to mean a moral quality—one that we sinners lack and one that Jesus has.  So for Luther, when Paul cites the story of Abram and how Abram believed and it was reckoned to him as righteousness, that meant that when we put our faith in Jesus, a sort of legal transaction takes place in the heaven courtroom, and Jesus' righteousness becomes our righteousness and we become acceptable to God.  And I think if Paul were alive to hear that, he'd give us a bit of a funny look and say, “Well, if righteous did mean some kind of moral status, then I guess you'd be right, but that's not what righteous means.  Righteousness is about our God's covenants.”  Because for Paul, to be reckoned as “righteous” was first and foremost about being part of God's covenant people—about living in his promises—because that's what Genesis 15 is about.  Let's look back at the rest of Genesis 15, beginning at verse 7.  We've been told that Abram trust in the Lord's promise and that the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness.  The rest of the chapter tells us what that means.   And he said to him, “I am the Lord who brought you out of Ur of the Chaldees to give you this land to inherit.”  And he said, “O my Lord, God, how shall I know that I shall inherit it?”  And he said to him, “Take me a three-year-old heifer and a three-year-old she-goat and a three-year-old ram and a turtledove and a young pigeon.”  And he took all of these and clove them through the middle, and each set his part opposite the other, but the birds he did not cleave.  And carrion birds came down on the carcasses and Abram drove them off.  And as the sun was about to set, a deep slumber fell upon Abram and now a great dark dread came falling upon him.  And he said to Abram, “Know well that your seed shall be strangers in a land not theirs and they shall be enslaved and afflicted four hundred years.  But upon the nation for whom they slave I will bring judgement, and afterward they shall come forth with great substance.  As for you, you shall go to your fathers in peace, you shall be buried in ripe old age.  And in the fourth generation they shall return here, for the iniquity of the Amorites is not yet full.”  And just as the sun set, there was a thick gloom and, look, a smoking brazier with a flaming torch that passed between those parts.  On that day the Lord made a covenant with Abram, saying, “To your seed I have given this land from the river of Egypt to the great river, the river Euphrates.   So in response to Abrams' faith, the Lord establishes a covenant with him.  In Abram's culture this is how binding agreements were made.  Two parties would work out the details of the agreement.  Maybe it was two kings pledging military support to each other.  It might be two rich men established a boundary between their lands.  It might be a king and his vassal, the vassal pledging a tribute and the king pledging to defend his vassal with his army.  They would clearly state the conditions of the covenant and then they would make a sacrifice.  They might slit the throat of a bull, saying in other words, may this be done to me if I am not faithful to what I have promised.  And this is what happens here in Genesis 15.  In response to Abram's faith, the Lord comes to Abram in this sombre ceremony to ratify his covenant promises.  He passes through this pathway between the halved carcasses of the animals Abram has slaughtered, as if to say, “May this happen to me if I am faithless.”  This is, I think, one of the most profound passages in the Bible with regard to the Lord's faithfulness.  And this is what Paul is retrieving in his argument with the Galatians.  It's why he talks about things like “seed” and “inheritance” and it's why he talks about faith and faithfulness and righteousness.  He's saying that in the gospel, in the good news about Jesus, the crucified and risen Messiah, we see the ultimate example of the faithfulness of God to his promises and that through faith in Jesus we become part of this covenant community in which God has pledged himself to us. So this is why Abraham was so important for Paul.  This is why he talks about Abraham's seed and Abraham's inheritance to the Galatians.  But it might not be so obvious how he connects it to Jesus.  So…there's more to the story of God and Israel than Abraham.  As the story goes on other actors walk on stage and eventually one of those will be Israel's king.  And so Paul also recalls Psalm 2, which is one of the “royal psalms”.  It begins with the nations raging.  The kings of the earth plot together against the God of Israel, but the Psalmist sings: He who sits in the heavens laughs;          the Lord holds them in derision. Then he will speak to them in his wrath,          and terrify them in his fury, saying, “As for me, I have set my King          on Zion, my holy hill.” I will tell of the decree:          The Lord said to me, “You are my Son;          today I have begotten you. Ask of me, and I will make the nations your heritage,          and the ends of the earth your possession.   In Genesis the Lord promised the land as an inheritance to Abraham, and in Psalm 2 that promised inheritance is given to the coming Davidic king, but it's expanded—from the land of Canaan to the ends of the earth.  And Paul brings these two promises, these two covenants together in Galatians.  It's not just the Lord's promise to Abraham that is fulfilled in Jesus, but his promises to the king, too.  And that's important.  Remember what I said last week about the king and his people.  The king represents his people.  What's true of him is true of them.  And that means that the inheritance promised to Abraham now belongs to King Jesus and his people. This was vitally important to Paul, because for Paul the most important thing about the gospel is that in it God reveals, he proves his faithfulness and, in response, we give him glory.  I think we often miss this.  For Paul the gospel was centred on God, but we often centre the gospel on us.  Brothers and Sisters, the gospel is for us, but it's not about us.  I can't really say it any better than Tom Wright does.  He makes the point that “Paul understood…[his]…mission not simply as a way of ‘getting people converted…”  because that would be a human-centred gospel…“but as the symbolic as well as actual means of extending and displaying the reign of Israel's God, and of his ‘Son,' to the ends of the earth.”[2]  In other words, the gospel—and the proclamation and spread of the gospel out into the pagan world—was the fulfilment of God's promises, proving his faithfulness, and ultimately to bring the nations before him in glory and praise. Now, if we have any lingering doubts about this covenantal meaning of “reckoning it to him as righteousness”, I think there's one more passage that clears it up.  Psalm 106:30-31 praises Aaron's grandson Phinehas.  You might remember that I mentioned him a few weeks ago.  The Psalm says: Then Phinehas stood up and intervened,          and the plague was stayed. And that was counted to him as righteousness          from generation to generation forever.   Phinehas intervened.  Specifically, he speared one of the Israelites along with his Moabite mistress as they were, so to speak, in the act.  And for that act of faithfulness, the Lord appointed Phinehas and his descendants to a special role in Israel's priesthood.  Or as the Psalmist says, his act was counted to him as righteousness from generation to generation forever.  In response to Phinehas' faith, the Lord established a covenant with him—he made a promise to him.  In this case, it's clear that “reckon as righteousness” doesn't mean that the Lord credited Phinehas with a moral surplus and it doesn't mean that for Abraham either.  It's about God's covenant, which he established with Abraham and his “seed”.  And this is what Paul's picking up on in Galatians when he makes his argument that the gentiles are just as much a part of God's family in Jesus as the Jews are—that these formerly unclean pagans are as much and as really Abraham's descendants as he, a “Hebrew of Hebrews” is.  “If you belong to the Messiah,” Paul writes in 3:29, “you are Abraham's family (his seed) and you stand to inherit the promise.” But family and land weren't the only things the Lord promised in his covenant to Abram.  The Lord also promised that Abraham's family would become slaves in Egypt, but that he would ultimately rescue them.  This is as much a part of what Abraham's family will be as all the other things the Lord promises.  From the beginning, the Lord establishes this family as a rescued-from-slavery people.  It's in their covenantal DNA.  It literally comes to pass just as the Lord said, but since this is in their DNA, it's the lens through which the Jews would forever see themselves.  That's why in Paul's day saw this as their ongoing story.  It was a story of blessing followed by the curse of exile, but one day—because it's who God had made them as a people—one day their God would come and rescue them again and live in their midst. So Paul shows how the gospel embodies and fulfils this promise of seed and inheritance to Abraham, he shows how it embodies and fulfils the promise of slavery and rescue, and that means that, third and finally, the gospel also embodies and fulfils the exodus promise of God to dwell in the midst of his people.  The prophets sometimes explained God's presence in the temple in terms of his Spirit and this, I think, explains how Ezekiel and Joel could promise that God would renew his people by means of his Spirit.  This was the future that Israel's story looked towards: an end of exile and God's presence through his renewing Spirit.  And this is why Paul, as part of his argument in Galatians, points to the present indwelling of the Holy Spirit in the people of God, as the earnest or the down payment, of the foretaste or firstfruits of the ultimate fulfilment of the Lord's promised inheritance to Abraham. And that brings us back to the creed.  My point has been that Paul, rather than talking about abstract theological propositions, tells a story—the story of God and his people, of his promises and their fulfilment—and our place in that story.  The people from James and the agitators in Galatia, they knew that story, but they were leaving important parts out, so Paul goes back to the beginning and tells it all again, to show them the bits they missed—or maybe the bits they remembered, but hadn't yet learned to see in light of Jesus' death and resurrection.  It is kind of remarkable how, as Paul tells us the story of the one, true God, the God of Israel, what emerges is a story of the God who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—there all along, but finally and fully known through this new covenant, this new promise ratified by the blood of Jesus.  I know my first point this morning has been to help you understand why Abraham was so important to Paul, so that as we get into his main argument we'll understand why he says the things he does, but I also want to encourage you to think—or maybe I should say to trust—in the story.  The next time you recite the creed, don't just think of it as a set of theological propositions that need to be affirmed to be orthodox.  Think of it as the great story of God and his people, the great story of his promises and his faithfulness, the great story that reveals the redeeming grace of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the great story that ultimately ends with the world finally set to rights and proclaiming his glory—the great story into which we have been baptised—the great story in which we live. Let's pray: Almighty God, our gracious Father, who called Abraham out of the darkness and promised to make his family a light to the nations, we pray that as we recall the great story of your faithfulness, and especially how you have fulfilled your promises in Jesus and the Spirit, teach us to trust in and to find our assurance in you, not just in our heads and with our brains, but as we commit our whole selves to you and become, ourselves, part of the great story of your faithfulness.  Amen. [1] Roman Faith and Christian Faith (Oxford, 2015), 188. [2] Galatians (Eerdmans, 2021), epub edition.

In the Messiah Galatians 2:11-21 by William Klock We're all familiar with the image of the two masks, side-by-side, representing tragedy and comedy—one face frowning and the other smiling.  The image represents the theatre, whether it's on playbills, or carved on the outside of a building, or use to mark the location of a theatre on a map.  That image is something that goes all the way back to ancient Greece.  Back then all the actors were men, there was no makeup, and many people sat far enough away that it was hard to see who was who.  So that the audience would know who was on stage and what they were about, the actors held masks in front of their faces—a bit larger than life and with exaggerated features and expressions.  The Greeks had a name for this sort of acting and it's come straight into English: hypocrites—hypocrite, hypocrisy.  By St. Paul's day the word had evolved beyond describing actual actors in a play.  It still did, but it commonly referred to someone who was playing a deceitful game of false pretences and pretending to be someone they really weren't. As we move on in Galatians 2, Paul levels this charge at Peter.  Not very long before Paul got word of what was going on in the Galatian churches and wrote this letter, Peter had travelled up to Antioch from Jerusalem.  This was a church of both Jews and gentiles and hat may be why Peter visited.  As we saw last week, Peter and Paul had agreed that Peter had been sent to the Jews and Paul to the gentiles, so here's Peter going to visit the Jews in Antioch. You would think after what had happened when Paul visited Jerusalem, after he stood firm against the “circumcision party” and found that he and Peter were ultimately in agreement with each other, you would think this visit to Antioch by Peter would have gone smoothly, but it did not.  Look at what Paul write in Galatians 2:11-14. But when Cephas [again, that's Peter's Greek name just like Paul is Saul's Greek name] came to Antioch, I stood up to him face to face.  He was in the wrong.  Before certain persons came from James, Peter was eating with the gentiles.  But when they came, he drew back and separated himself, because he was afraid of the circumcision people.  The rest of the Jews did the same, joining him in this play-acting.  Even Barnabas was carried along by their sham.  But when I saw that they weren't walking straight down the line of gospel truth, I said to Cephas in front of them all: “If you're a Jew, but you've been living like a gentile, how can you force gentiles to become Jews?”   This issue of Jews and gentiles just wouldn't go away.  Paul thought it was settled after his visit to Jerusalem, but then it happened again when Peter came to visit in Antioch, and now, like a cancer, it's spread to the churches in Galatia.  No doubt, the agitators in Galatia had already told the churches there their version of what had happened in Antioch, so now Paul tells them what really happened. Before all this, Jewish and gentile believers in Antioch—and Galatia, for that matter—gathered as one people to worship, to pray, and maybe most importantly, to eat the Lord's Supper.  It helps to remember that in those early days, the Lord's Supper was part of or at least attached to an actual meal where the people would fellowship with each other.  This gathering together, this eating together was a profound living out of the power of the gospel.  When Jesus died and rose again, he dealt with sin and that put everyone, Jew and gentile alike, on an even footing.  There was no longer clean and unclean, just and sinner: all in Jesus were clean and just.  And this bringing together of the two peoples, it was God's new creation made visible in the life of the early church—a powerful witness of the gospel itself. We might not think much of it, but it was a big deal.  Jews had been raised, steeped in observance of the law.  Gentiles were sinners and their food was unclean—even their fellowship was unclean.  Think of Peter and his vision in Acts of the sheet let down from heaven full of unclean animals and the Lord telling him to eat.  Revulsion had been instilled in Peter from his birth.  There was a massive “ick” factor.  Our culture, in contrast, has become so accepting of everything that there's not much left we can compare it to, but maybe you can think of the current conspiracy theories about Klaus Schwab telling everyone to “Eat ze bugs”.  It gets people worked up, because of the deeply ingrained revulsion we have in our culture to eating bugs.  It would have been something like that for Jews to fellowship with, to eat with gentiles. On the other end of things, the gentiles knew full well about those Jewish weirdos and their over-the-top purity laws.  Jews were everywhere spread through the Greco-Roman world, so the pagans encountered them regularly in daily life and in business and were well aware of the revulsion they had to eating with them.  So, that the early Jesus people were not only gathering together to worship and pray, but also gathering together around the same table to share bread and wine.  It was a really big deal.  It got everyone's attention. And so Peter came to visit Antioch and, Paul says, he worshipped and he prayed and he came to the Lord's Table with his gentile brothers and sisters.  Everything was fine.  And then the cancer that Paul thought had been stomped out in Jerusalem, the cancer came to Antioch.  Certain people from James came.  Paul doesn't elaborate on what that means, since the Galatians probably knew who those people were.  Maybe they were sent by James.  Probably they came and claimed authority from James that they didn't really have.  Whatever the case, they carried the cancer with them.  Paul calls them “circumcision people”.  They had some connection with the pseudo-family members who had been smuggled into the meeting in Jerusalem and who had insisted that Titus be circumcised.  And Peter caved into their pressure.  He “drew back” and “separated himself” and then when the other Jews in Antioch saw Peter do that, they followed suit.  Even Barnabas.  We get a sense of Paul's shock and dismay that even his partner Barnabas whom he knew knew better, even he went along with this sham.  This is where Paul uses that play-acting term.  Peter and Barnabas and the other Jews acted like hypocrites.  They knew better.  But under pressure from these agitators they withdrew and gathered separately.  They put up masks to placate the agitators and in doing that—not realising what they'd done—they become the people-pleasers so despised by their tradition.  They were gospel people, but to keep the peace they held up anti-gospel masks in front of their faces. Paul knew that this wasn't the real Peter—or the real Barnabas for that matter. They knew better.  Peter had known this for years before Paul had.  The real Peter behind the mask, the real Peter knew in his bones that the good news of Jesus' death and resurrection created one family in which Jews and gentiles stood on equal footing in the Messiah.  This new reality wasn't easy for Jews steeped for a lifetime in torah to adjust to.  There was a massive “ick” factor to overcome.  But the gospel is a powerful thing and so is God's Spirit and adjust they had.  And now, inexplicably to Paul, Peter and the others were dividing what Jesus had made one. Paul says that they weren't walking the straight line of gospel truth.  The word is orthopodeo—where we get our word “orthodpaedic”.  The gospel draws a straight line and they should have been walking it, but they weren't.  So Paul says to Peter, “Look here, you're a Jew, but you've been living like a gentile.”  He means that Peter's been eating with gentile believers and that almost certainly also means that Peter's been eating gentile food that was off-limits to Jews.  “So then,” Paul asks, “How can you force gentiles to become Jews.” Peter probably would have answered that, no, he wasn't trying to force anyone to be a Jew.  They could each just do their own thing.  But that brings up images of the temple, where Jews could enter the temple court, while gentiles were stuck outside in the Court of the Gentiles—they weren't really members of the community, of God's people.  That's why Paul is so insistent here.  There is one people—and Peter knew this and Paul knew—there is one people in Jesus the Messiah, not two.  In the Messiah.  This new community is defined not by ethnicity or ethnic markers but messianically by faith in Jesus and nothing else.  If we're going to divide it up again, well, what's the point?  To do so undermines the gospel itself and we might as well just throw in the towel. So beginning at verse 15 Paul lays out the argument he gave Peter, because it's this same gospel-killing cancer that has infected the Galatian churches.  They need to hear it too.  So Paul writes in verse 15: We are Jews by birth, not “gentile sinners”. For Jews there were two groups of people on this earth: the just or righteous—the Greek word carries both those meanings—and sinners.  Jews were the just, the righteous, chosen by God and marked out by obedience to the torah.  Everyone else was a sinner and this is why they kept themselves separate.  But, Paul goes on: But we know that a person is not declared “righteous” by works of the [Jewish] law, but through the faithfulness of Jesus the Messiah.   So God had chosen the Jewish people and then gave them his law so that be living it, they'd be set apart.  It's what marked them out as different from gentile sinners.  And they expected that one day, the Lord would send his Messiah and the Messiah would vanquish the gentile sinners and lead the righteous into God's new age.  But instead—and this was what Paul had to work through after meeting the risen Jesus—instead, the Messiah came and sinners crucified him.  That wasn't how anyone thought the whole Messiah thing would go.  Ordinarily, being crucified would mean Jesus wasn't really the Messiah.  Other men claimed to be the Messiah, they were killed, and that was the end of their messianic claims.  But then God raised Jesus from death.  In doing that he overturned the charge of false messiah laid against him and proved that Jesus was, in fact, the real deal, the Messiah.  Jesus did, in fact, inaugurate God's new age, his new creation.  So why did he have to die?  That's when Paul—and the others—realised that as much as torah provided both a righteous way of living and a means of atonement when they failed to be 100% obedient—there was more to righteousness that torah could never provide.  The very fact that torah was necessary to set apart God's people, highlights that both Jew and gentile alike are subject to the slavery of sin and death.  So Jesus the Messiah let sin rise up and do its worst at the cross, then rose triumphant over it.  Jesus did something that torah could never but do, but in light of Jesus Paul realised, it was something torah had been pointing to all along. Now, there's an unspoken subtext going on here that we need to understand.  Remember that Messiah mean's God's anointed king—the king.  And for Jews, a king represented his people.  So what was true of a king is also true of his people.  This is why godly kings brought blessing on Israel and wicked kings brought curses and ultimately exile.  A king represents his people.  Paul likes to talk about being “in the Messiah” and when he says that, this is what he's getting at.  We'll need to know this as Paul goes on. So as much as Paul and his fellow Jews had always thought that righteousness came through the law, it turns out that God had something greater in store.  A greater righteousness, true righteousness comes through the faithfulness—through the faithfulness of the Messiah.  Jews had been faithful to torah and to the Lord's covenant and that faithfulness marked them out as the “righteous”, but their faithfulness to God was but a shadow of the loving, gracious, self-giving faithfulness to God that Jesus displayed on the cross.  That's the faithfulness that has created a new people of God, a new and “righteous” or “just” people defined by faith in Jesus.  So Paul goes on: That is why we too believed in the Messiah, Jesus: so that we might be declared “righteous” on the basis of the Messiah's faithfulness, and not on the basis of works of the [Jewish] law.  On that basis, you see, no creature will be declared “righteous”.   Peter and now the Galatians had forgotten what it was all about.  Peter seems just to have wanted to avoid conflict—which we see is a problem in other places in Peter's story, not least at Jesus' trial.  For the Galatians it was likely fear of persecution.  Remember that in the ancient word, “religion” wasn't some nice box you opened up on Sunday, and then closed up the rest of the week.  It wasn't something you did in private.  The gods were everywhere and a part of every aspect of life.  The fastest growing cult of the time was the cult of Caesar and if you weren't part of that, well, you were disloyal and unpatriotic.  Jews had a special exemption from all this pagan stuff, but these gentile converts to Christianity were in a tough spot.  When they became Christians they withdrew from all this paganism.  They stopped going to the temples and offering incense to Caesar and doing all the other little things people did throughout daily life and that got them into trouble.  So since Jesus was the Jewish Messiah and following him was sort of a new way of being Jewish, they claimed the Jewish exemption and pretty soon the “real” Jews were insisting that if they were going to call themselves Jews, they'd better at least by circumcised.  But once they did that and strayed off the straight line of gospel truth, they started to forget what the gospel was all about. So Paul reminds Peter and he reminds the agitators in Galatia: this greater righteousness found in the faithfulness of the Messiah, remember, this is why we believed in him!  In light of Jesus death for sins on the cross—remember?—we realised that in the end, torah won't cut it.  Righteousness is found in the faithfulness of King Jesus.  He goes on in verses 17 and 18: Well, then, if in seeking to be declared righteous in the Messiah, we ourselves are found to be sinners, does that make the Messiah an agent of sin?   This is the accusation of the agitators and of the “people from James”.  As part of living out the life of the gospel, Paul and Peter have been eating and fellowshipping with gentiles.  The agitators, stuck in the old, pre-Jesus and pre-gospel way of Jewish thinking, for them that makes Peter and Paul and all the others to be “sinners”—because they're disregarding torah and the boundary markers that have always been there.  If eating with gentile believers for the sake of the Messiah makes them sinners, then that would make the Messiah an agent of sin.  Paul's trying to show them how absurd their accusations are.  No, he's saying:   Certainly not!  If I build up once more the things which I tore down, I demonstrate that I am a lawbreaker. They've forgotten that Jesus has changed everything.  Jesus' death has dealt with sin—for both Jew and gentile.  Gentile believers are no longer sinners.  They're clean.  Paul's reminding them that the boundary markers of God's people have changed because of that.  What now counts is being “in the Messiah”.  They're trying to rebuild what the old walls and in doing so they're undermining the very saving gospel in which they've trusted.  It's a senseless thing to do.  It's like calling the police chief to help you bury the body of the guy you just killed.  It's not going to end well for you. So now, finally, we get to Paul's familiar and glorious text about incorporation into Jesus the Messiah.  Look at verse 19: Let me explain it like this: Through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God.  I have been crucified with the Messiah.  I am, however, alive—but it is no longer I; it's the Messiah who lives in me.  And the life I do still live in the flesh, I live within the faithfulness of the son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.   I think the best way to see this is as Paul telling the story of the Messiah's death and resurrection as his own story.  This is what it means to be “in the Messiah”. Notice how Paul doesn't just dismiss the law, torah.  One of the first heresies—and one that pops up perennially in church history—was the teaching of Marcion who dismissed the law and the whole Old Testament as irrelevant.  For Paul, though, you can't have the new covenant without the old.  Torah was building towards Jesus and the cross and the giving of the Spirit all along.  So Paul doesn't just say he died to law—which we might think means the law doesn't matter.  He says that through the law, he died to the law.  In Jesus the law fulfilled its purpose and so in Jesus, Paul is now fully alive to God.  How does that work.  Well, Jesus was crucified and in that he dealt with sin.  Remember, again, that the king represents his people.  So Paul says, he has been—in Greek it's literally—"co-crucified” with the Messiah.  Through faith in Jesus, through identification with the Messiah, Paul has died to sin.  And then he says, “I am—however—alive.”  Of course he is.  If he is in the Messiah, if he has been co-crucified with the Messiah, then he has also been co-raised with the Messiah.  I am alive—but—it is no longer I; it's the Messiah who lives in me. Brothers and Sisters, notice how Jesus has changed Paul's identity.  That's what he's getting at here.  By faith he has been incorporated into the Messiah so that even though he still lives in the flesh—that final day when we will be made completely new still awaits us—but even though Paul still lives in the flesh, because he is in the Messiah, he now lives within the faithfulness of the Messiah—the son of God—and now Paul makes it more personal—not just that the son of God died, but that he loved me and gave himself for me.  This isn't just abstract theology.  Jesus, the son of God, was faithful to fulfil torah, and gave himself not just generally for humanity (although that is true), but he gave himself for Paul—for me—for you—out of love, again for you, for me.  Sometimes we need that reminder.  All the theology, all the explanation, all the argumentation to bring false teaching and false gospels to heel is necessary, but in the midst of all that, never forget that Jesus died for you, for me, because  he loves us—not just that he loves humanity as a whole in some general sense, but that he knows and loves each one of us.  He died for you.  He rose for you.  And he's baptised you into his own Holy Spirit so that you can share in his resurrection life. Paul drives home this very personal aspect of the gospel.  Peter knew this.  The Galatians new this.  And that makes it all the more powerful when he ends his argument saying in verse 21: I don't set aside God's grace.  If “righteousness” comes through the law, then the Messiah died for nothing.”   He's reminded them that in his grace, God sent his son to die for you.  But if you start rebuilding that old wall, if you start acting like “righteousness”—he means membership in the community of God's people—if you start acting like “righteousness” comes through the law and the old boundary markers, then what you're really saying is that Jesus died for nothing.  Whether Jews and gentile would eat together might seem like a small thing, but it wasn't.  Eat separately undercut the very foundation of the gospel.  That's not really an issue for us today—although there are some modern-day groups that do add torah to Jesus.  But Paul would have the same thing to say to anyone today who would divide up the people of God or who would exclude these people or those people based on something added to the gospel.  Our identity, Brothers and Sisters, whatever it was in the past or whoever the world around us tell us we are, our real identity, the identity that matters is in Jesus the Messiah and nothing else.  We have died and now live in Jesus. This is especially relevant to us today in the mist of our post-modern culture.  Our world is rapidly tribalizing over identity: things like race and sex and sexual orientation.  The new thing is creating our own identities contrary to those that God had given us.  In other cases we've turned our sins into identities.  And we find these identities so powerfully defining that we bring them into the church and we hyphenate ourselves.  We're black-Christians or we're white-Christians.  There's an ongoing controversy about those who call themselves gay-Christians.  But Paul reminds us that if we are by faith in the Messiah, we have but one identity.  We have died with the Messiah and while we still live, it is no longer we—whatever our colour or language or sex or past sin—it is the Messiah who lives in us—because he loves each of us so dearly that he gave himself for us.  Brothers and Sisters, that's the straight line of the gospel.  Come to the Tablet this morning.  Eat the bread and drink the wine and be reminded that Jesus died and rose again for you and that in him, you have died and been raised.  His life, his faithfulness, his love and grace and mercy are now your identity.  No more masks, no more play-acting, just Jesus the Messiah. Let's pray again our Collect: Lord, give your people grace to withstand the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil, and with pure hearts and minds to follow you, the only God; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Entrusted with the Gospel Galatians 1:18-2:10 by William Klock I will never forget the first day I wore my letterman jacket to school.  High school is full of tribes.  There were the jocks and the nerds, there were the art kids and the shop kids, there were the cool girls and the stoners and the geeks.  And it was obvious which tribe everyone belonged to.  I was always carrying around a book by the likes of Tolkien or Asimov.  And my friends and I avoided the cafeteria at all costs.  Instead, we played Dungeons & Dragons in the library.  I had both feet firmly planted in the nerd tribe.  But I was also on the swim team.  The swim team was one of those sports no one paid attention to.  The only people who knew you were on the swim team were other people on the swim team.  So I remember walking into school that day with my letterman jacket on and everybody stopped and looked, because there I was, one of the nerds dressed like a jock.  But once the surprise wore off, everything fell into place.  Suddenly people who had never been friendly to me were friendly.  No questions asked.  That jacket marked me out as part of a new tribe.  I didn't hang out with the jocks.  I still wouldn't go anywhere near the cafeteria.  I still carried around my sci-fi novels and played D&D at lunch with the nerds, but to the other jocks it didn't matter.  I had a letterman jacket and that was all that mattered. It was something like that for Jews, except the thing that marked you out wasn't a letterman jacket; it was circumcision.  There were other things a good Jew was supposed to do that would also mark them out, because there was more to the torah than circumcision.  You kept the sabbath, you ate only clean foods, you avoided contact with gentiles.  Those were the big ones.  But circumcision was the marker.  You could fail at all those other things.  You could eat shrimp, you could do business on the sabbath, you could hang out with gentiles, but as long as you were circumcised you were still a Jew.  Maybe a bad Jew.  Maybe a people-pleasing Jew.  But still a Jew, because you bore the mark of God's covenant. With that in mind, it's not hard to imagine how this would present a problem for the first Christians.  Remember what I said last week.  They didn't see becoming a Christian as switching religions as we might think of it.  They were still Jews.  Jesus was the Jewish Messiah and he was the fulfilment of everything that Judaism stood for.  When gentiles believed in Jesus, they were joining up with a movement that was very much Jewish.  But what did that involve?  The Lord had cleared this up for Peter in Acts 10, when he sent him to the home of a Roman centurion named Cornelius.  Jews didn't visit or eat with gentiles, but in a vision the Lord made it clear to Peter that through faith in Jesus, even gentiles were made clean.  And this was absolutely earth-shaking.  Gentiles were unclean because they were idolaters.  They were sinners.  In those few instances where gentiles were attracted to Judaism, converting meant being purified and then being circumcised so that they were no longer sinful, unclean gentiles.  Only then could they associate with Jews and be accepted into the community.  But Paul is stressing—against these agitators in the Galatian churches and their false gospel—Paul is stressing that this new Israel, this new ekklesia or assembly of God, is marked out solely by faith in Jesus and that since Jesus dealt with sin in his death and resurrection, those who believe in him are no longer sinners, no longer unclean, and in need of nothing else in order to be part of the community.  In fact, going further, Paul stresses that the implication of this—and it goes against the grain of everything in Judaism of the day—the implication is that there is only one people of God.  Jew and gentile together—it doesn't matter, because the thing that always separated the two—sin—has been dealt with by Jesus.  This is why any “gospel” that adds anything to Jesus is false.  We saw in the first part of Chapter 1 that Paul actually calls down a curse on such teaching.  The gospel is Jesus plus nothing. So with this in mind, let's finish our look at Chapter 1 and then carry on to the first part of Chapter 2.  In the first part of Chapter 1 Paul has asserted first that his apostleship—his being called and sent—came directly from Jesus.  He's not the representative of any men.  He wasn't sent out by men—not even by other apostles.  He's been sent by Jesus.  And having established that, he's also stressed that his gospel came directly from Jesus, too.  He wasn't brought to faith in Jesus by Peter or James or anyone else.  Jesus met him on the road to Damascus, risen from the dead, and that changed everything for Paul.  Even then, he said, he didn't go to Jerusalem to consult with the other apostles.  Instead, like the prophet Elijah, he went to Mount Sinai to wrestle this through with the God of Israel.  There he worked through the implications of Jesus risen from the dead.  Only then did he go back to Antioch.  Now we'll pick up at 1:18.  Paul writes: Then, after three years, I went up to Jerusalem to visit Cephas [that's Peter's Greek name…Cephas and Peter both mean “rock”].  I stayed with him for fifteen days.  I didn't see any of the other apostles, except James the Lord's brother.  And then Paul adds to stress his point, Look, I'm not lying!  The things I'm writing to you are written in God's presence. Paul uses this neat word here to describe his visit to Peter.  This is the only place we ever see it in the New Testament: historesai.  It's related to the word historia, which means “an account” or “a personal story”.  By Paul's day it usually just had the sense of visiting someone, but it could still carry the meaning of “to hear another person's story” and I think it's clear that's what Paul wants to stress here.  He could have said that he went to Peter to be taught, but hewants it to be clear that he didn't go to Peter for lessons on the gospel or on theology.  He'd wrestled that out with God after his encounter with the risen Messiah.  Paul's gospel was Jesus plus nothing.  Gentiles didn't need to be circumcised or to live by torah.  Paul had worked this out as the natural and inevitable implication of Jesus' death and resurrection.  So this visit was about getting to know his fellow apostle, Peter, to hear his story and to bring him up to date on Paul's own story and apostolic ministry—and hopefully they'd be in agreement about it all.  Again, Paul was sent by Jesus himself and his gospel came directly from Jesus, not from men.  Paul goes on in verses 21-24: Then I went to the regions of Syria and Cilicia.  I remained unknown by sight to the messianic assemblies in Judaea.  They simply heard that the one who had been persecuting them was now announcing the good news of the faith he once tried to destroy.  And they glorified God because of me.   So Paul and Peter met, they brought each other up to speed on their ministries and they got to know each other—lining this up with the book of Acts, this would have been Paul's first visit to Jerusalem, about A.D. 36—and then Paul went back to Syria to continue preaching the good news of faith in Jesus the Messiah.  The Jesus followers in Judaea knew who he was and they rejoiced that the man who had once tried to stamp them out was now one of them, but Paul's point here is that if they'd seen him on the street, they wouldn't have known who he was.  Again, apart from being a fellow apostle of Jesus, he had no connection with the apostles in Jerusalem.  He worked for Jesus, not for Peter or James.  And, he stresses, no one had a problem with this.  In fact, the people down in Judaea glorified God to hear of Paul's gospel ministry.  There's an echo of Isaiah there, where the Lord says, “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” There is one thing that I think needs attention here before we move on and that's Paul's way of describing his ministry.  He describes himself as “announcing the good news of the faith”.  To put it literally, he's “gospelling the faith”.  It's an unusual way of putting things, but I think Paul does this here to stress what's going to be his main point in the rest of the letter: This faith—faith in Jesus the crucified and risen Messiah—is the thing that binds Jesus' people together.  It's the one thing that marks them out as his—not circumcision or anything else.  Faith in Jesus makes you part of the family. So there's about a decade of Paul's life that passes that we know nothing about other than that he was apparently ministering in Antioch and the surrounding area.  He picks up his story in 2:1, saying: After fourteen years [this would be from the time he met Jesus], I went up again to Jerusalem.  I took Barnabas with me, and Titus.  I went up because of a revelation.   Not everyone agrees on the timeline, but this seems to align with what we read in Acts 11, where a prophet named Agabus, told the churches that there would be a great famine.  This was in the middle of the 40s.  The church in Antioch—and that included Paul—responded by sending help to their brothers and sisters in Jerusalem.  This is why Paul says he went to Jerusalem because of a revelation. Now, Paul taking money from his church to help other churches might seem incidental, but it really isn't.  In fact, it's very much part of the theme of Galatians.  I think there's a tendency in conservative circles to ignore the way these early churches cared for each other in response to people on the left making claims that the early church was Socialist.  There's no reason for conservatives to avoid this.  Karl Marx was two millennia away.  There was no “socialism” in the First Century.  What there was, was Christians doing their best to live out who they knew themselves to be in Jesus.  They were a family.  That's why we call each other “Brother” and “Sister”.  And families take care of each other.  When the brothers and sisters in Damascus heard that their cousins in Jerusalem were struggling, they sent help.  This was a very Jewish way of life.  This was how Jewish communities worked and I think what's really remarkable here—and something we probably miss in our reading of passages like this—it's remarkable that the early church was living this way.  The Jews were literally a family, but these new churches, they were different, especially once you got out of Judaea.  There were people of different races and nationalities, there were freemen and slaves, there were men and women and they quickly realised that just like the old Israel, they were a family.  So what's going on here is them trying to live that out in their communities.  I think this is something modern Christians in the West need to be thinking about, especially as the world around us becomes more hostile towards us.  Our culture is all about “me” and it's materialistic and commercialistic and we bring that thinking into the church.  We make it all about what the church can offer me.  When we don't get what we want or when we have a dispute with someone, we leave and go somewhere else.  We go “church shopping”, looking for the right experience or the right combination of “features”.  That's the polar opposite of what a family is. For Paul, this unity across all these differences of language, ethnicity, class, and sex, it wasn't some secondary thing.  It was central to the gospel.  Jesus has one people.  Gentiles who believed were no longer to be seen as “sinners” or as “unclean”, because Jesus dealt with sin on the cross.  Anyone who believes becomes a full member of the one family. So Paul went up to Jerusalem carrying the money raised in Antioch.  While he was there—because he was already there anyway—he met with some of the other apostles to talk about his ministry.  Continuing with verse 2: I laid before them the gospel which I announce among the gentiles (I did this privately, in the presence of key people), in case somehow I might be running, or might have run, to no good effect.   So did Paul do this because he thought he might have got things wrong and wanted Peter and the others to weigh in one way or the other?  I don't think that's it at all.  For ten years Paul had been proclaiming the gospel and he'd seen its power.  He had no doubts that he had the gospel right.  He'd got it straight from Jesus, after all.  His purpose, I think, seems to have been a desire to make sure that he and the others in Jerusalem were really on the same page.  Things had come up.  Maybe things lost in translation between Jerusalem and Antioch, and I think Paul trusted Peter and the others and that the problems were elsewhere, but he wanted to make sure.  If nothing else, we get the sense that Paul really loved Isaiah 49 and that he saw himself in the figure of Isaiah's “servant”.  He quoted from Isaiah 49:3 back in 1:24 and now he alludes to Isaiah 49:4, “I have laboured in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; yet surely my cause is with the Lord, and my reward is with God.”  Paul was worried that he might be wasting his time.  If the apostles in Jerusalem were preaching something different, especially something that added torah to Jesus, well then, Paul was kind of doing all this for nothing, because that kind of teaching was going to tear the church apart.  Paul saw this united messianic community representing, unveiling God's new creation in the midst of the present evil age.  The fact that this new people existed as one despite all their differences, meant that Jesus had defeated the evil powers of this age on the cross.  And if the folks in Jerusalem were going to undermine that…well…why was Paul wasting his time? So Paul says: But even the Greek, Titus, who was with me, was not forced to get circumcised.   Not so much because Peter and the others were on the same page with Paul, but because Paul stood firmly on the gospel he'd received from Jesus himself and refused to move from it.  It turns out that not everyone at that meeting was well-meaning.  He goes on: But because of some pseudo-family members who had been secretly smuggled in, who came in on the side to spy on the freedom which we have in the Messiah, Jesus, so that they might bring us into slavery… I didn't yield authority to them, not for a moment, so that the truth of the gospel might be maintained for you.   Someone—Paul doesn't seem to be clear who—but someone smuggled some folks into that meeting who shouldn't have been there.  He says literally “pseudo-brothers”.  They pretended—even claimed—to be members of the church family, but in reality they weren't.  This highlights just how serious Paul thinks it is to mess with the content of the gospel.  No doubt these pseudo-family members claimed to believe in Jesus, but when they realised that Titus, a Greek, was with Paul and uncircumcised, they insisted he be circumcised.  He was unclean—or so they thought.  This was no small thing.  To turn the gospel into a message of Jesus plus circumcision meant that they didn't really understand the gospel.  They were gutting Jesus' death and resurrection of their significance.  They were fake family members.  Paul knew that the gospel stands or falls on this.  Either the death and resurrection of Jesus and the gift of the Spirit defeated the evil powers of the present age, delivered people from their power, and made them new…or it didn't.  This was the same thing that was happening in Galatia and Paul took a stand even if Peter and the others wouldn't.  And, he says, he took his stand “so that the truth of the gospel might be maintained for” them—for his brothers and sisters in Galatia. We'll finish with verses 6-10.  Paul summarises the end result of his meeting with the other apostles: And those who seemed to be something—what sort of “thing” they were makes no difference to me; God shows no partiality—those of reputation added nothing extra to me.  On the contrary, they saw that I had been entrusted with the gospel for the uncircumcision, just as Peter had been with the gospel for the circumcision (for the one who gave Peter the power to be an apostle to the circumcision gave me the power of the gospel to the gentiles).  They knew, moreover, the grace that had been given to me.  So James, Cephas, and John, who were reputed to be “pillars”, gave to Barnabas and me the right hand of fellowship, that we should go to the gentiles, and they to the circumcision.  The only extra thing they asked was that we should continue to remember the poor—the very thing I was eager to do.   Paul went into this meeting knowing what people in Judaea thought of Peter, James, and the other original apostles.  The Christians there accorded them a lot of respect.  They were “something” Paul says.  But what Paul didn't know was how Peter and the others thought of themselves.  Were they basking in that respect and acclaim?  Or were they humble ministers of the gospel?  You see, what Paul stresses here is something that every gospel minister needs to take to heart—all of us, but especially, I think, pastors.  Paul talks about the “power to be an apostle”.  Energeo he calls it—where we get our word “energy”.  But he's not talking about some kind of tangible energy for the task, but the divine power behind the gospel call.  Paul knew that the gospel wasn't something that belonged to him.  It was a message he was entrusted with and the power in it lay not with him, but with God himself.  This is why Paul was fearless in his proclamation, this is why he could stand up in a synagogue and preach to hostile Jews and this is why he could stand in the agora in Athens and preach to hostile gentiles.  Because he knew that the power in gospel proclamation lies with God.  If it were just him, his ministry would never have gone anywhere.  But since the power was God's, Paul could confidently proclaim the good news of the Messiah anywhere and to anyone.  And to Paul's relief, even though there were some mixed up people in the church in Jerusalem, Peter and the other apostles believed the same thing—they were, after all, all on the same page.  Peter had been given the same calling as Paul.  The only difference was that Peter had been sent to the Jews and Paul to the gentiles—or as he puts it in verse 7, the circumcision and the uncircumcision.  Paul makes sure we don't forget the matter in Galatia. In the middle of this, Paul's description of Peter, James, and John as “pillars” jumps out at me, especially in light of why Paul was there.  Remember, he didn't go there to hash things out with Peter.  He went to Jerusalem to take the relief money that had been raised in Antioch to help the poor in Judaea.  To talk about “pillars” in this context calls up images of the temple and I think that's exactly why Paul calls Peter and the others “pillars”.  Because God was building a new temple, as Peter would later write in one of his own epistles.  This time not a temple of bricks and mortar, but a temple made of people—men and women with faith in the Messiah and filled with God's Spirit.  Peter and the others had been the start of it and, as eyewitnesses to Jesus himself and having been entrusted with the powerful message of Jesus, crucified and risen, they were its pillars—holding up the roof and inviting in the world.  But that temple imagery explains Paul's concern for the relief money he'd brought from Antioch.  That relief money from Antioch was a real, a tangible manifestation of this idea of new creation.  The temple didn't just stand by itself.  It stood—and it stand here today right now—as a symbol of God's intention to make the whole world new and to fill it with his glory.  We see this, on the one hand, as these believers—this new family brought together in Jesus—cared for each other.  But the nature of this family, it's unity across language, ethnicity, class, and status was underscored for Paul in that these Jewish believers in Jerusalem were willing to receive a gift from the believers in Antioch.  Unbelieving Jews probably would have turned it down.  At least they would have asked questions about its origin.  Did this money pass through the hands of unclean gentiles?  Unbelieving Jews would have looked at this motley group of people in Antioch as an abomination and the Jews there as people-pleasers.  But Peter and his people in Jerusalem saw the gospel, they saw Jesus and the Spirit at work in Antioch and knew the church there to be family, to be their brothers and sisters, even though many of them were gentiles.  Again, all because and only because of Jesus. So that's our text for today.  We'll pick up next week with 2:11, one of the most significant passages in the New Testament.  But what's the takeaway here?  I've touched on a few things already, but I want to close with two points that are closely tied together.  First, notice that when Paul was confronted with this problem of a mixed church of Jews and gentiles, he knew that there was one thing and nothing else that resolved this old problem.  That one thing was Jesus, specifically his death and resurrection.  He knew that Jesus' death dealt with sin and that those who have faith in him have been set free from their—from our—bondage to sin.  We are no longer sinners.  In other places Paul will say things like “once you were” and then he'll go into a list of a bunch of sins, but then he'll say, “but now you are in Jesus the Messiah”.  You've been freed from sin.  It no longer defines you.  What defines you now, through faith, is Jesus and this new family in which he's given you a place.  This means that there's one family.  The cross deals with the Jew-gentile divide, just as it deals with all the things that divide us today.  There is one family and our life as the church should reflect that reality.  It's one of the key ways we inhabit the gospel and lift the veil on God's new creation. Now, finally, closely tied to that is Paul's insistence on the power and authority of the gospel.  People were dismissing Paul, saying that he was working for other people or that he got his gospel from other people.  In response, Paul has insisted over and over that his calling and his authority lay with Jesus himself.  Neither the power that was revealed in his ministry nor the authority he had came from him—that is, from Paul.  It was all from Jesus.  Brothers and Sisters, we're too often afraid to proclaim the good news because we forget that the power of the gospel lies not with us, but with God.  We too often get discouraged when our proclamation of the good news doesn't produce the results we hoped for, because we forget that the power lies not with us, but with God.  Paul will write in 2 Corinthians that the power that raised Jesus from the dead is the power that continues to work through our proclamation to change hearts, to change lives, to change whole communities, and to tear down the fortresses of the powers that once governed this evil age.  Just as the gospel is about Jesus plus nothing, its power lies in Jesus himself.  He sends us out to proclaim it, but when things happen, it's not us—it's all him.  We must never forget that. So Brothers and Sisters, come to the Lord's Table this morning and be reminded of what Jesus has done for us.  Eat the bread and drink the wine together and remember that by faith in Jesus, we are one family no matter our past.  The things that once separated us fade to nothing in light of our union with Jesus the Messiah.  But come, too, this morning and remember that Jesus not only died, he also rose from the grave.  Remember that in him God's new creation has begun and that we are part of it.  Remember that his resurrection has changed everything and that it's now both the lens through which we, his people, see ourselves, see each other, and see the world, but it's also the authoritative root of our gospel proclamation.  Brothers and Sisters, the same God who raised Jesus from the dead now sends us out, just like Paul, to proclaim the good news of Jesus' death and resurrection.  Never forget that the same power that raised Jesus from the dead is present in our gospel proclamation and gospel witness. Let's pray: Almighty God, who on third day raised your Son from the grave, keep us ever mindful, we pray, that you have invested your gospel with the same power.  Remind us that you send us out, not to proclaim ourselves or our own message, but to proclaim with your authority the life-giving power of your gospel.  Make us faithful to live out that gospel in our life together as your church and make us fearless to proclaim it to the world around us, knowing again that it's authority and power lie not with us, but with you.  Through our Lord Jesus we pray.  Amen.

The Son Unveiled in Me Galatians 1:10-17 by William Klock As I was digging around in our crawlspace this week, I found my 1970s Tupperware lunchbox full of my old Star Wars action figures.  Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan and Darth Vader have these neat little light sabres hidden in their arms that slide out when it's time for them to duel.  At one point I had Luke's X-wing fighter and I was remembering putting him in the cockpit and flying around the house, looking for the Death Star's thermal exhaust port.  Luke might have been in the cockpit, but I was going to destroy the Death Star and save the galaxy.  As the week went on I was thinking about our text from Galatians 1and particularly Paul's background.  I started wondering what sort of games and role-playing young Paul would have engaged in?  Who were his heroes?  Based on what he tells us about himself and from what we know of First Century Judaism and of the Pharisees, it isn't too hard to imagine Paul playing with his brothers or his neighbourhood friends and taking on the part of, say, Phinehas, Aaron's grandson.  When the men of Israel were enticed into sexual sin and idolatry by the pagan women of Peor, Phinehas, in an act of holy zeal, ran the ringleader through with a spear, pinning him to the ground along with his Midianite paramour.  Or maybe Elijah.  Even though it seemed that everyone in Israel had turned to pagan idols, Elijah dared to confront the prophets of Baal.  On them mountain top, Elijah taunted them and made fun of their god, then—again with holy zeal—called down fire from heaven.  Or Mattathias, the zealous priest who sparked the Maccabean Revolt.  Antiochus Epiphanes offered him the title “Friend of the King” if he would offer a sacrifice to the Greek gods.  Matthias refuse, but another priest offered to make the sacrifice in his place.  Matthias slaughtered that people-pleasing priest on the altar and called on everyone who was zealous for torah and the covenant to join him. These were the heroes of the Pharisees and all the other faithful in Israel in the days of Paul.  In light of that, it's ironic that the people in Galatia have accused him of being a “people pleaser”, because that's exactly what Paul—in his old days—would have called any Jews who weren't as zealous as him in keeping torah.  Of course, it's the false teachers in Galatia who are being the real people pleasers, but Paul won't say that until the end of the letter. So let's start where we left off last Sunday, with verse 10 of Galatians 1.  Paul has written some pretty scathing words to the Galatians.  He's outlined the essentials of his gospel and he's pronounced a curse on anyone who teaches anything else.  And now he writes: Well now, does that sound as though I'm trying to make up to people—or to God?  Or that I'm trying to curry favour with people?  If I were still pleasing people, I wouldn't be a slave of the Messiah.   It's a safe bet that when you hear someone warning about false gospels and pronouncing curses on those who teach such things, you're not dealing with a people pleaser.  Paul makes that clear.  And then he turns the accusation back on them.  “If I were still pleasing people,” he writes.  As much as Paul the Pharisee had devoted his life to going after the people pleasers who compromised torah in order to curry the favour of the gentiles, well now, from the perspective of life in Jesus and the Spirit, that old life of his turns out—ironically—to have been a life of people pleasing.  He was a slave to them even though it didn't seem that way at the time, but now he's a slave to the Messiah and his only interest is in faithfully proclaiming his message and pleasing the God who sent him. But Paul needs to explain himself a good bit more, so he does something that he doesn't do very often: he tells them—and us—about himself.  Whenever Paul does tell one of these before and after stories, it's always to end with Jesus.  He does this in Philippians 3 to make the point that for the sake of Jesus and the gospel he's given up his privileges.  What he says here comes to a climax later in Chapter 2 as he passionately declares that “I am crucified with the Messiah” so that “I through the law died to the law” because “the Son of God loved me and gave himself for me.”  In the end, none of this is about Paul.  It's about Jesus and the only reason Paul writes any of this is to defend against the charge that his gospel is of human origin and, therefore, in some way deficient.  So he begins in verses 11 and 12: You see, Brothers, let me make it clear to you: the gospel announced by me is not a mere human invention.  I did not receive it from a human being, not was I taught it; it came through an unveiling of Jesus the Messiah.   Literally, “I would have you know, Brothers”.  This is important.  Paul first defended his apostleship.  He was commissioned directly by Jesus himself and he speaks for Jesus and no one else.  Now he defends his gospel.  It's not something he cooked up himself, nor is it something he got second-hand from others. This is worth spending a little time parsing out.  The gospel that you and I know and preach came to us from others.  It was passed down from our parents and grandparents, from our Sunday school teachers and pastors, maybe from a preacher we watched on TV or a book we read.  But somehow all of us here are believers in Jesus the Messiah because someone else proclaimed the good news about him to us and now we—I hope—proclaim it to others.  Even if we first encountered the gospel through the pages of scripture, it came from some other person.  Maybe from Matthew or John or even Paul, but from someone.  Part of the work of the Spirit has been to see that this gospel has been preserved and passed down from one person to the next faithfully.  Even if you or I get it wrong, the Spirit-inspired scriptures are there to set it right again.  But Paul's point is that he didn't get the gospel from another human being.  If he'd got his gospel from someone else—even from Peter or James—it's always possible he got something confused or wrong in the transmission.  If he'd got it from another human, then it's possible their accusation could stick.  So Paul stresses: “I didn't get it from anyone else.  It wasn't taught to me by anyone else.  The gospel came to me directly through an unveiling—he uses that word apocalypse, the same one John uses to describe his “revelation” of Jesus—the gospel came to Paul through an unveiling of Jesus the Messiah.  In other words, Jesus, who was raised from the dead and now enthroned in heaven, suddenly and unexpectedly became visible to Paul.  God's future was revealed to Paul in the present and it changed everything, because Paul now can't help but see everything in light of this Jesus whom he knew to be crucified and now knows with absolute certainty, has risen from the dead.  Brothers and Sisters, the reality that Jesus rose from the dead changes everything.  It changed everything for Paul.  It should change everything for us.  It's the lens through which we should see everything. Paul surely must have told the Galatians the story of his encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus.  They already knew the details so he doesn't recount them all here.  It's that they've forgotten why that day was so important to Paul, so in the next five verses he explains why that event was so important.  He writes in verse 13: You've heard the way I behaved when I was still within “Judaism”.  I persecuted the church of God violently and ravaged it.  I advanced in Judaism beyond many of my own age and people.  I was extremely zealous for my ancestral traditions.   Paul's giving them a before and after portrait of himself.  This is the “before”.  Think of Paul when Stephen was stoned to death for proclaiming the good news about Jesus.  He held people's coats so they could throw stones.  A few years later he sought out authorisation from the Jewish officials so that he could actually hunt down these Christians and bring them in for “justice”.  Paul wasn't fooling around.  It helps us understand why and it helps us understand what Saul of Tarsus was all about if we understand what he means here by “Judaism”.  To us “Judaism” means a religion the same way we think of “Christianity” or “Islam” or Buddhism” as religions.  But in the First Century no one thought that way.  Paul certainly didn't think of “Judaism” over against “Christianity”.  Paul uses this uncommon word Judaismos that seems to have been coined by the author of 2 Maccabees.  It doesn't just refer to a set of beliefs and practises in the sense that modern people think about a “religion”.  Instead, it describes the Judeans who were loyal to Jewish faith and practise, who actively promoted and advocated these traditional ways of Jewish life, and who actively defended it against the Pagans and, especially, defended it against those Jews who would compromise it for the sake of the pagans—people pleasers. As he says, he was “zealous” for those ancestral traditions.  He was out to purify the Jewish people: to fend off pagan influences, to get his fellow Jews to take a stand for the covenant, and to bring compromisers and people-pleasers to heel.  Paul had grown up with these values.  His heroes were the men of the past who were also zealous for the Lord and for his law.  There are various writings from that time period that give us a sense of how Paul would have thought.  One of the best is the opening chapters of 1 Maccabees, where we read about Mattathias and his rebellion against the Greek king Antiochus Epiphanes.  As I said before, Mattathias was a priest, and when the Greeks tried to entice him to offer a sacrifice to their gods, he refused.  When another of his fellow priests agreed to offer the sacrifice, Mattathias had had enough.  He killed that priest right there on the altar, along with the Greek official.  His rebellion went up not just against their pagan Greek rulers, but against any of their fellow Jews who were compromising the ancestral traditions in order to get along with the pagans.  Mattathias' speech meant to rouse his fellow Jews to action, focuses on the long line of Jewish heroes who were loyal to the Lord's covenant, from Abraham right down to what was the present day.  Mattathias emphasised especially Phinehas and Elijah.  The later rabbis did the same.  Phinehas had run a spear right through the compromising Zimri and his pagan paramour.  Elijah taunted the prophets of Baal before he slaughtered them and called on the people of Israel to purge pagan influence from the land.  The Maccabees called on that same tradition about two centuries before Jesus, when they went up against the Greeks and against their own people who would compromise with the pagans.  This is what Paul is talking about when he says he was zealous for the ancestral traditions.  I ran around the backyard with Luke Skywalker in his X-wing to destroy the Death Star.  If Paul had grown up with action figures, he'd have had a Phinehas with “real spear action” and an Elijah playset where he could build an altar and call down fire from heaven on the prophets of Baal.  He might have had a little Mattathias, a sword in one hand to take on the Greeks and a knife in the other to circumcise the Jewish people pleasers.  This is the zealous background that drove him to persecute the church.  Paul knew that Jesus had claimed to be the Messiah.  He knew that Jesus had been crucified.  And he didn't believe the tales for one second that Jesus had been raised from the dead.  As far as he was concerned, Jesus was dead and that meant he couldn't be the Messiah and all these Jews claiming to follow a dead Messiah, well, they were going to undermine the faith and practise of God's people. It's also worth noting how Paul refers to the “church of God”.  It's literally “assembly of God”.  Paul likes to use this phrase to distinguish the church from the Jews and from the Greeks.  He borrows it from the Greek version of the Old Testament, which talks about Israel as the “assembly of Israel”, “assembly of the Lord”, or “assembly of God”.  And Paul's point in using it to refer to the church is that now this multiethnic body of Jews and gentiles—now it is the assembly of God.  And not just the local assemblies, but it makes the point that they're all part of this bigger thing, this bigger assembly. So Paul looks back to his past life and reminds the Galatians who he was.  He was zealous for the traditions of his ancestors.  Not just that, but he was no novice.  He was a diaspora Jew, but he wasn't like some others who knew just enough of the ancestral customs to get by.  He was steeped in it all and he was utterly devoted to it—again, to the point that he actually sought out permission from the Jewish officials to hunt down Christians in Damascus.  And, of course, that's when everything changed for Paul. He goes on in verses 15-17: But when God, who set me apart from my mother's womb, and called me by his grace, was pleased to unveil his son in me, so that I might announce the good news about him among the nations—immediately I did not confer with flesh and blood.  Nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were apostles before me.  No, I went away to Arabia, and afterward returned to Damascus.   This is another point in Paul's story where we have to be careful.  As modern people we read this and we think about it in terms of Paul “converting” from Judaism to Christianity.  Again, that's a very modern understanding of “religion” that didn't exist in Paul's day.  Paul never stopped being zealous for the God of Abraham, for the law and the prophets, and the promises of God.  He was a faithful Jew and as a faithful Jew he longed for the coming of the Messiah.  He prayed for the coming of the Messiah, for the Lord to come and rescue his people and set the world to rights.  It's just that when it came to Jesus—well—the idea of a crucified Messiah was blasphemous.  That's why he hated Christians and persecuted them.  But then the risen Jesus met him on the road to Damascus and it changed everything.  Because suddenly Paul knew that all the stories about Jesus having been raised from the dead were true.  He'd been wrong.  The impossible had happened.  The Jews and the Romans had killed Jesus, they—just as Paul had been doing—ruled him a false Messiah, but then God raised him from the dead and, in doing that, God vindicated his son.  That meant that Jesus really was the Messiah.  The God of Israel proved it.  And for Paul this meant that all the stories he'd grown up with, all the promises of God he'd longed to see fulfilled, all of it, all of them were fulfilled in Jesus. Again, Paul uses that word “unveiled” again.  This same God who had set him apart in his mother's womb, this same God who had called Paul by his grace—think of that as Paul personalizing what Jews thought of themselves as a people chosen and called by God's grace to be his people—this same God of Israel had now unveiled his son. And as Paul writes this, if you know the Hebrew scriptures, it's really obvious that he's telling his story in a way that will make people think of the old prophets, especially Jeremiah and Isaiah.  Jeremiah wrote about the Lord knowing him and calling him before he was even formed in his mother's womb.  And when Isaiah writes about the servant—the one who in some places embodies Israel and in other places stands over against the people of Israel—Isaiah writes about the Lord forming him in the womb—calling him and naming him, giving him his prophetic vocation—before he's even born.  I think Paul calls back to the calling of Jeremiah and to Isaiah's servant, because when Jesus met him on the road to Damascus he gave him just this sort of divine calling…like the servant, the Lord “formed me in the womb to be his servant, to bring Jacob back to him”.  And as the Lord said to Jeremiah, “I appoint you a prophet to the nations” and to Isaiah, “I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” So these people in Galatia are claiming that Paul has forsaken the faith and traditions of his people, but what Paul is saying in response is that, one, it was Jesus himself who called him to this work and, two, that he has in no way forsaken the faith and traditions of his people.  To the contrary, he knows those traditions well and in light of this revelation that Jesus really is Israel's Messiah, then this good news isn't just for Israel…it's for everyone.  They think that Paul, in going to the gentiles—or maybe better in the way he's going to the gentiles—they see him as a people pleaser who is disloyal to the faith and Paul's saying that, no, it's just the opposite.  His message to the gentiles is the fulfilment of that faith—the fulfilment of Israel's calling and of the law and the prophets.  Paul had thought that being zealous for the law meant opposing Jesus, when in fact, in light of Jesus having risen from the dead, being zealous for the law means being zealous for Jesus and even taking this good news to the gentiles. This transformation in Paul and in his thinking points to another thing we might miss—or, in some cases, that's obscured by some translations—but Paul says that God unveiled his son in me.  We might expect him to say to me, but that's not how he puts it.  It's in me and I think Paul chose his words—as always—very carefully.  It's not just that God commissioned Paul to proclaim the good news about Jesus to the nations, as if it was just about what he said.  It is that, but I think Paul's key point here is that Paul himself has become a sort of embodiment of the gospel.  This Pharisee who was zealous for God, but in such a way that it made him zealous in his hatred for the gentiles and any Jews who might compromise with them, this Pharisee has been so transformed by the unveiling of God's son in Jesus, that his zeal for God has been turned upside-down—or maybe we should say, right-side-up—and now that zeal is taking him to the nations with that good news. Now, it took Paul a good while to work this out.  Meeting the risen Jesus forced him into a massive paradigm shift in his thinking and even his identity.  He had questions.  Big questions.  But he stresses he didn't go to “flesh and blood” to ask his questions or to get help sorting it all out.  Again, people were accusing him of having a human-made gospel and Paul reiterates that it not only came directly from Jesus, but even in sorting it all out for himself, he went to the Lord, not to other people.  Specifically, he says, he didn't go up to Jerusalem.  That's what most people probably would have expected him to do.  That's what I would have done, if I were in Paul's shoes.  That's where Peter and James were.  They were the chief apostles and the leaders of the church.  They'd been wrestling with all this good news stuff for a while already.  They were the ones who had spent years with Jesus himself.  They had the answers. But instead, Paul says he went to Arabia—in First Century geography, that meant Mount Sinai.  Why did Paul do that?  Because, again, he knew the prophets.  This time Paul echoes the story of Elijah.  If you're a First Century man of zeal, it makes sense to follow in the footsteps of Elijah—one of the greatest heroes of zeal. Think of the story of Elijah.  After the events on Mount Carmel and Elijah's slaughter of the prophets of Baal, King Ahab was angry.  Elijah was forced to run and hide, so he ran to Mount Sinai.  It made sense.  That was the place where the Lord had made his promises to Israel.  So Elijah went there.  He was tired.  He was depressed.  Despite all the Lord had done through him, Elijah was done.  He'd lost hope.  He went there to tell God as much.  He'd done everything he was supposed to do and—he thought—he'd failed.  He declares to the Lord, “I have been very zealous for the Lord of Hosts.”  (Notice how much that sounds like Paul.)  But the Lord wouldn't let go of Elijah.  He wouldn't accept his resignation.  Instead, he sent him to the wilderness of Damascus (again, sound familiar?) and there Elijah would be given the task to anoint a new king and a new prophet. So Saul of Tarsus, zealous for the Lord, on his way to Damascus, is met by the risen Jesus.  It was the most natural thing in the world, for Paul, to go from there to Mount Sinai, to take his zeal to the Lord, and to wrestle with the God of Abraham—to work it out until it all made sense again in light of Jesus the Messiah.  And from Mount Sinai, Paul says, the Lord sent him back to Damascus (just like Elijah) to announce the new king: Jesus the Messiah. So Paul's point is that after he met Jesus, he didn't go to Jerusalem—as his enemies seem to think he did.  He didn't go to work this all out with the original apostles.  He went, as Bishop Wright puts it so well, “he went off to do business with God, and he came to do business for God.”  And this business was to announce to the whole world that this Jesus, who was crucified and risen, Israel's Messiah, is the world's true Lord.  Paul includes these echoes of the old prophets to show how rather than being a betrayer of Israel, he's actually smack in the middle of God's Israel-shaped promises.  In calling back to Elijah, Jeremiah, and Isaiah, he's making the point that if anyone is being disloyal to the God of Israel or to the covenant—well—it's definitely not him.  The real betrayers are those who reject God's calling of Paul and his commission to take the good news of Jesus to the nations. That's as far as I'll go today.  There's a bit more to Paul's introduction and his telling of his own story, but we'll look at that next week.  So what does this mean for us?  Brothers and Sisters, notice again how everything for Paul is about Jesus the Messiah and how Jesus's resurrection from the dead is the lens through which he sees everything.  It ought to be the same way for us.  We need to be clear about what the gospel is and then we need to live in that gospel, live in this story with Jesus as its centre.  The gospel is the good news that this Jesus who was crucified has been raised from the dead and that he's the world's true Lord.  His death for sins has won the victory over sin and death and inaugurated God's new creation.  Brothers and Sisters, that's the story, that's the reality we need to live with and to live in.  Consider how it reshaped Paul.  He was zealous for the Lord, he was zealous for the covenant, he was zealous for the scriptures—for all the right things, but in the wrong way.  Meeting the risen Messiah didn't mean throwing it all away; it meant refocusing that zeal through a different lens—through Jesus.  For others—I'm thinking of those who came from a zealously pagan background—inhabiting the gospel was different in that it meant throwing everything away.  Or maybe it meant seeing the world, seeing life, seeing others through the new lens of Jesus rather than the lens of the old pagan gods or their old sinful ways of life or through the corrupt systems of the present evil age.  Inhabiting the gospel and reorienting ourselves and our lives around Jesus isn't an easy thing to do.  Even Paul had to go to Sinai for three years to wrestle with the reality of the risen Jesus.  But however hard it is and however long it may take, Brothers and Sisters, it's essential that we do this—we personally and we the church.  Part of being gospel people—of being slaves of the Messiah, as Paul puts it—means taking every thought captive to Jesus the Messiah and filtering it through this gospel lens.  Every thought, every value, every priority, every act, every bit of our zeal and turning it over and turning it inside-out, deciding whether we keep it or throw it away or rethink it in light of the good news about Jesus the Messiah. Let's pray: Heavenly Father, as you've unveiled your Son in Paul, you have also unveiled him in each of us.  We pray now for the grace to be faithful to this gospel calling and this gospel life—that your Son, Jesus, would truly be unveiled to everyone around us by the gospel work you are working in us by the power of your Spirit.  Keep Jesus, his cross, and his resurrection always before us, keep our eyes focused on him, and by your Spirit, help us to truly live in your good news.  Through Jesus we pray.  Amen.

People Pleasers or Slaves of the Messiah? Galatians 1:1-10 by William Klock The other day the phone rang.  I answered it and a stranger on the other end asked for Veronica.  I passed the phone to her.  I wondered who it was, but I didn't get much help from Veronica's end of the conversation.  It was all “Mmhmm” and “Yes” and “Okay”.  I had no idea who it was or what it was about.  In contrast, while walking to the church I ended up following a woman who was having a very loud conversation with someone on her cell phone.  I couldn't hear the other person, but I had a pretty good idea what he or she was saying based on the responses this woman was angrily yelling into her phone.  Things like, “Oh!  So I'm being dramatic?” and other things I probably shouldn't repeat in polite company.  We do this reading between the lines when we read St. Paul's epistles.  In them we have one side of a conversation and, thankfully, it's a lot more than “Mmhmm” and “Yes” and “Okay”.  In fact, it's a lot more like “Oh!  So I'm being dramatic?”  And it's not too hard, if we go slowly and think about the context, to piece most of the conversation together.  And so Paul begins his letter to the churches in Galatia writing, “Paul, an apostle…”  And then before he's even begun, he breaks off right there, because he has to defend himself against their attacks on his apostleship.  “My apostleship,” he writes, “doesn't derive from human sources, nor did it come through a human being.  It came through Jesus the Messiah, and God the Father who raised him from the dead.”  We know at the get-go that someone in Galatia is challenging Paul's credentials.  I think we get an even better sense of what's going on if we jump ahead to verse 10 of Galatians 1.  What Paul writes there doesn't get enough attention.  We'll come back and fill things in, but in verse 10 Paul writes to them: Well now…does that sound as though I'm trying to make up to people—or to God?  Or that I'm trying to curry favour with people?  If I were still pleasing people, I wouldn't be a slave of the Messiah.   Three times he says the same thing: Am I trying to make up to people.  Am I trying to curry favour with people?  Am I trying to please people?  So we know someone in Galatian is accusing Paul of abandoning the divine message of the gospel and, instead, preaching a merely human message that will tickle people's ears and win him friends.  Anyone who knew Paul should have known better, of course, but this is how it is.  Now there's actually a text—one that would have been well-known in the Jewish word of the First Century—there's a text that really sharpens the focus of this whole “people pleasing” accusation and that gives us some context for this whole dispute.  It stands out, because this Greek phrase Paul uses for “people pleasing” is essentially the same as another word that pops up in the Greek version of Psalm 52:6 and in the fourth of the Psalms of Solomon.  Psalms of Solomon is a little collection of eighteen psalms from the First Century B.C. and the First Century A.D., probably written by Pharisees or by people very much like the Pharisees.  And there's this Greek word that isn't actually Greek—anthropareskos—that was made up by Greek-speaking Jews and outside of Paul's writings, shows up only in those two other texts.  That fourth “Psalm of Solomon” is titled “A Psalm about the People Pleasers” and it's about people who compromised God's law, cutting corners here and there, in order to suck up to their pagan neighbours.  It speaks of men who would even enter the homes of pagans and fraternise with them.  That might not seem like a problem to us, but it was something faithful Jews did not do.  But once you got out into the real world, out of Judaea, a lot of Jews found it hard to get by in life while completely avoiding contact and fraternisation with gentiles.  In the Psalms of Solomon, the finger seems to be pointed at the corrupt Jewish rulers—people like the Sadducees, the Hasmoneans, and the Herodians.  To the faithful in Israel, these people were selling out the covenant by compromising God's law in order to ingratiate themselves with the pagans. And, we need to be clear, people like the Pharisees weren't angry about the compromise of the people pleasers because they were legalists who were trying to earn their way into heaven through good works.  There's been long tendency to read Galatians in that kind of light ever since Martin Luther.  Luther read the works-righteousness of the medieval church into Paul's adversaries.  And Luther was doing much what St. Augustine had done, when he read his own disputes with the heretic Pelagius into Galatians.  Pelagius, too, taught a sort of works righteousness.  As much as Pelagius and the medieval church did pose real problems, that sort of works righteousness wasn't at issue in these First Century disputes. The reason faithful Jews were obsessed with keeping the law was because they knew that God had chosen them, delivered them from Egypt, put them in the promised land, and called them to be holy—and that this was all for a greater purpose that would somehow involve God, one day, setting this fallen world to rights.  They were trying to be, in Jesus' way of putting it, the “on earth as in heaven” people.  There was a later rabbi who said that if all Israel would keep the torah for a single day, the Messiah would come.  The Pharisees had very similar ideas.  They also believed very firmly—because they knew the story of the Lord and Israel—that if Israel failed to keep the torah, if Israel flirted with pagans and their idolatry the way Deuteronomy warned them not to, the Messiah would not come and God would not establish his kingdom.  Not only that, but the very pagans with whom Israel compromised would destroy Israel and carry the people off into exile, just as the Babylonians had done six hundred years before.  I hope that helps us to understand what's behind this accusation made against Paul that he's a “people pleaser”.  It's not just that he's risking the salvation of some gentile believers in Galatia, but that he's putting in jeopardy the whole destiny of Israel—and probably even the world. In the First Century, Jews were faced with a crisis, and it was important to know who was “in” and who was “out”.  Who were your allies and who were the wicked risking another disaster.  The “people pleasers” were most definitely on the side of the wicked.  They pretended to be on God's side, but their compromises proved otherwise.  It's important for us to remember, too, that this was the mindset in which Paul had been steeped as a Pharisee.  This is the mindset that drove him to persecute the first Christians.  And now Paul is being accused of being one of those very people pleasers. So why would anyone accuse Paul of being a people pleaser?  Well, wherever Paul went, he was preaching that anyone who believed in this Jesus, who was crucified, died, and rose again…that anyone who believed that he is Israel's Messiah and, therefore God's King, this faith is the sign that that person is part of the people of God.  It didn't matter what their ethnic background was.  That was it.  Faith in Jesus the Messiah.  Period.  This is what Paul's epistle to the Galatians is all about.  Faith in Jesus the Messiah.  If a gentile believed, he was as much a member of the family as a Jew who believed.  He didn't need to be circumcised or to have any of the other signs that marked out Jews—not diet or Sabbath, not rules about who you could or couldn't eat with.  But to a lot of people this marked Paul out as a people pleaser.  He was compromising the law and the covenant.  That made him a traitor. I've begun with this, because I think it helps us understand where the focus of Galatians lies.  Ever since Luther, our tendency, at least in our Protestant circles, has been to read Galatians as a letter about how we are saved and as a warning about the dangers of legalism or of mixing works with faith.  The theology in that is right, but the perspective isn't where it should be and I think when we put Galatians back in the proper context and get a look at it from the proper angle, what we discover it's really about is community—about who the people of God are and what marks us out.  And in that light, the problem isn't just “legalism”.  Paul reminds us that what marks out the people of God is faith in Jesus the Messiah and that trying to define the community by any other means is to make it about something other than Jesus—to set up a false gospel. So the accusation against Paul, in a nutshell, is that he's got a gospel of human origin—that he got from someone else or that he made up himself—but a gospel that they think has been watered down to make it more palatable to the gentiles, that makes it too easy for the pagans to call themselves people of God.  If we understand that, then we'll understand these first verses.  This is why Paul breaks off after writing, “Paul, an apostle…”  Remember how be breaks off suddenly and adds: (My apostleship doesn't derive from human sources, nor did it come through a human being; it came through Jesus the Messiah, and God the Father who raised him from the dead.)   Some teachers had arrived in Galatia from Jerusalem and they've told the people there not to listen to Paul.  He's not a real apostle.  He wasn't there in the beginning with Jesus.  He never knew Jesus.  Instead, they should listen to them, because they got their gospel—at least so they claim—from the men who walked with Jesus for three years, real apostles like James and Peter.  And so Paul reminds them that he, too, had an encounter with the risen Messiah.  Paul would still be a Pharisee if it hadn't been for that miraculous encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus.  And it was in that encounter that Jesus himself commissioned Paul to take this good news to the gentiles.  In fact, it was seeing Jesus risen from the dead that convinced Paul of the truth of the gospel.  So he goes on: Paul, an apostle…[verse 2]and the family who are with me; to the churches in Galatia.  Grace to you and peace from God our Father and Jesus the Messiah, our Lord, who gave himself for our sins, to rescue us from the present evil age, according to the will of God our Father, to whom be glory to the ages of ages.  Amen.   Paul…and the family who are with me.  That's the church in Antioch.  First Paul stresses that his apostleship is as from Jesus as that of any other apostle and now he stresses the relationship that he and the church in Antioch have with these churches in Galatia.  They were accusing him of being a people pleaser, of being a traitor, of being a false brother and here he reaches out with verbal arms and embraces them and reminds them that in Jesus they're all family, all brothers and sisters. “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and Jesus the Messiah our Lord.”  Paul has this amazing way of making everything about Jesus and the gospel.  In the Greek world they greeted each other with the word chairein, which meant “to rejoice”, but in a letter basically just means “greetings” or “salutations”.  This is, for example, how James opens his epistle.  But Paul exchanges chairein for charis, the word for “grace”—from God the Father and from Jesus the Messiah—grace to you.  He adds the Jewish greeting of shalom as well: that means “peace”.  But even his word order here in his greeting sets the tone for the whole letter.  It's not grace and peace to you; it's grace to you and then peace.  Because the sum total of God's position towards humanity is grace and this is manifest uniquely and finally in Jesus the Messiah.  Everything begins with God's grace poured out in and through Jesus.  Even the peace we know and the peace we look forward to in the age to come, even that comes as a result first of God's grace. Paul then follows this up with a four-faceted summary of the good news.  First, Jesus gave himself for our sins, (second) to rescue us from the present evil age, (third) according to the will of God our Father, (four) to whom be glory to the ages of ages.  Amen. Jesus has rescued us from the present evil age.  What does that mean?  Well, when the Jews looked at history, they divided it into two ages.  There was the present evil age dominated by sin and death and full of pain and tears and then there was the age to come when God would fulfil his promises to set the world to rights and where his people would live in his presence forever.  The present evil age is dominated by dark powers that enslave humanity through idolatry and sin.  We worship idols, giving to them the glory we were created to give to God, and we rebel against him—that's sin—and our sin tightens the chains those idols have on us and on creation.  While we were bound up in the present evil age, Jesus came to our rescue, writes Paul.  He seems to have Isaiah's song of the suffering servant in mind as he writes this, because it's this suffering servant who represents Israel and who gives his life to break the chains the idols have cast around God's people.  He dies for their sins and breaks sin's power and he leads the people in a new exodus—into the age to come.  I like the way Tom Wright often reminds us that Jesus' resurrection isn't an odd or one-off event within the old world, but rather it's a launching and defining event of God's new world.  Paul's gospel, his good news, is that Jesus has dealt with the sins that chained us as slaves in the dark and bloody temples of the idols, and he now leads us out into the sunlight, into the beginnings of God's new world. Now, here's why this is so important in Paul's letter to the Galatians.  Remember that for Jews, the problem with gentiles was that they were idolaters.  There was one true God, the God of Israel, but the gentiles instead worshipped idols and they lived and behaved sinfully, as idolaters do.  This is what made them unclean and so offensive to the Jews.  This why good Jews wouldn't go into their homes or eat with them.  There were some gentiles who saw the Jews and were attracted to their purity of life and joined up.  But to do that, they had to be circumcised.  It was a dramatic (and painful) sign that they were leaving behind the idolatrous pagan world and becoming part of Abraham's family.  But—and this is vital to understanding Galatians—Paul's point is that the gospel tells us that on the cross Jesus defeated those evil powers when he dealt with the sin that put us in their chains.  This is how there can now be one family.  This is how the gentiles can be welcomed into this new Israel.  Again, If God has defeated the idols, the dark powers of the evil age, then the gentiles, the pagans can trust in the God of Israel and become part of Jesus the Messiah's family.  And, second, because Jesus's death has dealt with sin, then those who believe in him and who become part of his family, they are no longer “sinners” or idolaters.  The thing that separated Jews and gentiles has been dealt with by Jesus at the cross, and so membership in his family is by faith in him alone and nothing else.  To add anything else to that—like circumcision or any of those other things that marked out the Jews—to add anything else is to detract from Jesus and to lose the gospel itself. And then points three and four of Paul's gospel summary: The cross wasn't some accident of history.  This was God's plan all along.  What Jesus has done reveals the faithfulness of God and that, in turn, brings the gospel back to the glorification of God.  We often make the gospel about us, but for Paul the gospel is always and only about God.  God has redeemed us and in that he shows his glory and this is why we give him glory and praise.  The gospel begins and ends in with God. So that's the gospel in all its magnificent glory.  We can hear the shock and the disappointment as Paul goes on in verse 6 and following, rebuking the Galatians.  He writes: I'm astonished that you are turning away so quickly from the one who called you by the grace of the Messiah, and going after another gospel—not that it is another gospel, it's just that there are some people stirring up trouble for you and wanting to pervert the gospel of the Messiah.  But even if we—or an angel from heaven!—should announce a gospel other than the one we announced to you, let such a person be accursed.  I said it before and I now say it again, if anyone offers you a gospel other than the one you received, let that person be accursed.   It's not just that these churches have gone astray.  That would be bad enough, but it's how quickly after he left them that they've turned away.  The language suggests that Paul might be comparing his own astonishment to the astonishment of Moses at how quickly the Israelites went from praising the Lord for his miraculous deliverance at the Red Sea to creating and worshipping a golden calf.  As dumbfounding as it was to Moses to find his people dancing around an idol, Paul is dumbfounded at how quickly and how easily the Galatians have been led astray to another gospel.  And Paul quickly amends that, because, really, there is no other gospel.  There's the gospel.  Everything else is just is a lie. Also, the language Paul uses to write of them “turning”, that has its own shameful undertones.  The word he uses is one used in the Greek Old Testament to describe desertion.  In 2 Maccabees there's the poignant story of seven brothers whom Antiochus tried to force to eat pork, killing them one after the other when they refused.  When it's down to the youngest of them, the text says that Antiochus tried to entice the boy to “turn form his ancestral ways”.  (Or course, the boy refused and became a martyr.)  This is the same language Paul uses here and I think just to stress his point.  This probably corresponds to what we read in Acts about “certain persons from James” who arrived in Galatia not long after Paul and Barnabas had returned from their mission there.  Paul had seen these people devoted to Jesus and to the gospel, he'd seen them transformed by it, and now he's shocked that they've turned from the gospel—and so quickly and easily.  If they're going to accuse him of being disloyal to Israel's traditions, he turns that accusation right back around on them.  They've been disloyal to, they've deserted Jesus. He's not into the details of their corrupted gospel yet, but he says here that they've turned from the one who called them by grace.  They've turned from God himself.  Paul puts the emphasis on grace as manifest in Jesus the Messiah.  God's call is an act of pure grace.  His sending of Jesus is a pure act of grace.  The God of Israel has finally sent his Messiah as a gift of pure grace—and Paul now points his finger at these people and says—And you've turned away from him! So what was their “other gospel”?  We have to do more reading between the lines and it won't be fully fleshed out until we get through the rest of the letter, but the best way to look at it may be to see these new teachers not so much preaching a different Jesus, but preaching Jesus as the culmination of a different story.  Paul was preaching Jesus as the fulfilment a story in which the God of Israel defeats the powers of sin and death to rescue his people from the present evil age, but these folks seemed to be preaching Jesus as an add-on to Jewish life as it already was—maybe Jesus as the fulfilment of some Jewish nationalist hope or agenda: maybe a message that fired up zeal against the gentiles, for example, instead of announcing to them the grace made available in Jesus. And I think it's likely that Paul had in mind what “gospel” meant in the Roman world.  To the Greeks and Romans, “gospel” was the good news announced about the accession or the birthday of Caesar.  Caesar's new cult was spreading like wildfire through Asia and that included Galatia.  It's not that the Christian there were in danger of worshiping Caesar.  The danger was that they would embrace torah to save themselves from persecution for not worshiping Caesar.  To refuse to worship Caesar—not to mention all the other gods—would be a bit like marching the wrong way, carrying the flag upside-down, and saying unpatriotic things in the middle of a Canada Day parade.  But in that culture, not only was it disloyal, if and when calamity struck the city or the country, you'd be the one to get the blame for it, because you'd angered the gods.  But the Jews, they were uniquely exempt.  The Jews would rather die than worship an idol, so after all the trouble they'd caused him, Caesar had granted them an exemption.  And those first Christians started claiming that exemption for themselves.  They were, after all, Jews.  Even the gentile converts claimed it.  But then to claim to be Jews, well there was pressure to start acting like Jews, too—and that became a problem. And so Paul announces: Anathema!  A curse.  The real gospel, the true gospel is about how, in Jesus and his death and resurrection, God has dealt with sin and inaugurated a new age.  That's why it's good news.  But these new teachers, they're not just veering off course a little.  They're completely wrong.  They're telling a different story.  They're not announcing the good news that God's new creation has started.  No, they're just giving advice about how to live and get along in the present evil age.  There's no good news there.  As my New Testament prof, Gordon Fee, used to put it, they'd gone backwards from AD to BC—going from the bright sunlight of God's new day, back into the darkness of the old.  No, Paul says, if any—even if an angel from heaven—proclaims anything other than the good news that I've proclaimed, let that person be accursed. Brothers and Sisters, it's really very simple.  It's about Jesus and Jesus alone and it's faith in him that defines the people of God.  There is an organic relationship between faith and works such that real faith will always show itself in our lives.  We know good trees because they bear good fruit.  But as much as good works borne of faith mark us out, the thing that makes, the thing that defines us as the people of God is faith in Jesus.  That's it.  Nothing else.  Whenever we add something else—whether it's circumcision as in Galatia or some other thing or set of rules, when we establish some ethnic or cultural criteria, when we set up some kind of personal or ecstatic or emotional experience that stands alongside Jesus—we diminish Jesus and we rob God of his glory and we lose the gospel.  The solution, I think, if we listen to Paul, is to keep our eyes focused on Jesus and the cross.  Over and over Paul comes back to Jesus, declaring things like “who loved me and gave himself for me”.  We need to do the same.  Every week the Lord offers us a reset when he invites us to his Table.  Here we recall and participate anew in those events by which Jesus the Messiah gave himself for our sins, to rescue us from the present evil age, according to the will of God our Father.  Here we're reminded of grace, to go into another week with our eyes focused on Jesus that we might live to the glory of our gracious God and for the sake of his kingdom.  Here we're reminded again that it's all about God's grace poured out in Jesus.  It's not about us, it's not about who we are, it's not about what we've done or will do, it's all about and only about Jesus. Let's pray: Heavenly Father, you have poured out your amazing grace on us, giving your Son as a sacrifice for our sin and rescuing us from the bondage of the present evil age.  We should be overwhelmed by your grace and by your Son, but we confess that we too often lose our focus on him.  By your grace, set our eyes again and always on Jesus, that we might perpetually be amazed by your grace, so that we are never tempted to diminish your glory by adding anything else to the gospel.  In his name we pray.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Fourteenth Sunday after Trinity St. Luke 17:11-19 & Galatians 5:16-24 by William Klock Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem, St. Luke tells us.  Making his way there from Galilee for the last time.  And along the way, he passed through the borderlands between Samaria and Galilee.  Galilee was up in the north.  And as much as everyone talked about going “up to Jerusalem”, that was because it was up in the mountains.  Jerusalem, in the territory of Judah, was way down south.  In between was Samaria.  No self-respecting Jew cut through Samaria.  They went around.  Because the Samaritans were filth.  As I said last week, they were the Jews who went wrong to begin with way back when they broke from Judah and established their own illicit temple at Shechem, on Mount Gerizim.  But they'd gone from bad to worse when they intermarried with the pagans then compromised torah with various pagan influences.  The Jews despised the Samaritans (and the Samaritans didn't feel very kindly towards the Jews in return).  So Jesus and his disciples skirted through the borderlands.  Still, being so close, there was no telling who you might meet along the way. But, says Luke, as Jesus was going into one particular village he was met by ten men far worse than any Samaritan.  Ten men with leprosy.  They knew the rules.  They stayed some distance away, but they approached as close as they dared.  They were unclean and they were outcasts.  Leprosy in the Bible could be any one of a multitude of contagious skin diseases, and according to the torah, if a priest certified you had such a disease, you were cut off from everyone: from your family, from your friends, from the community.  They had to go off and live in their own little colonies on the fringes of civilisation.  If they were lucky, their friends and family might bring them food and leave it at a distance.  But maybe worse still, they were cut off from the covenant community—from the people of God.  They were unwelcome in the synagogues.  They were cut off from the temple because they were unclean.  That meant they were excluded from the Lord's presence and from the sacrificial system that provided forgiveness of sins.  And they were cut off from the Passover.  You had to be ritually pure to participate in that too.  To put it in our terms: they were cut off from the church and the sacraments. And there wasn't much sympathy for them.  Do you remember the blind man who Jesus and the disciples encountered in John 9?  The first question from the disciples was, “Who sinned?  This man or his parents?”  That's the lens through which people looked at lepers and cripples and the destitute.  They wouldn't be in such a state if they hadn't done something to offend the Lord.  Leprosy was sort of a sign that God's judgement had fallen on you early.  I hope that gives you a sense of just how hopeless these men would have felt. But for the first time in a long time they had a glimmer of hope.  They heard that Jesus was passing through town.  The good news that Jesus was preaching, the stories about him healing the sick and even raising the dead, they'd spread far and wide—even to the leper colonies.  Wherever he went, Jesus was making sad things come untrue and wiping away tears, and so they went to him.  Maybe he'd make their sad things come untrue, too.  And so they stood at a distance.  Again, they weren't allowed to get close.  I'd bet they'd probably been taught lessons in the past about getting too close to healthy people, to good people—who had cursed at them and thrown rocks at them.  Knowing how Jesus' disciples could be sometimes, it's not hard to imagine some of the having already picked up some nice, heavy, pointy rocks to throw—just in case.  So they stand at a distance and they call out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” That got Jesus' attention.  That title “Master”, that they used.  That's usually what his disciples called him, but he didn't hear it very often from other people.  People called him “rabbi” or “teacher”, but this “Master”—it had the sense of rabbi or teacher, too, but it was something you called someone whom you knew also had authority.  Again, they'd heard about the things Jesus had done.  They knew that somehow and in some way he had authority over sickness, disease—even over death itself.  And so they call out to him in faith: “Master!  Have mercy on us!  Show us compassion!  Wipe away our tears.  Make our sad things come untrue!  We know you can, because you have mastery over sickness and death.” And in response, Jesus said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”  He doesn't heal them.  Instead he sends them to the priest.  But it makes sense if you understand that it was the priests who were trained according to the torah to evaluate these diseases and to determine whether someone was healed or not.  Eventually, they'd have to go to see the local priest one way or another if they wanted to be admitted back into the community.  So Jesus sends them to do the very thing they would have to do if they were healed. The way Luke tells the story draws a pretty unmistakable parallel with the story of Naaman in 2 Kings 5.  Naaman was the commander of the Syrian army back in the days of the Prophet Elisha.  Naaman was also a leper.  But he had a young Jewish slave girl in his house who told of this prophet.  Naaman eventually went to see Elisha, but Elisha refused to see him.  Instead, the prophet sent Naaman a messenger, who told the commander to go and wash in the Jordan River.  Naaman was furious.  He was mad that Elisha wouldn't see him and he was mad at being told to wash in a dirty Jewish river, as if it were somehow better than the rivers of his own country.  But eventually, in faith, Naaman went and washed in the Jordan.  He went down into the waters and rose up healed of his leprosy. In the same way Elisha told Naaman to take a step of faith, Jesus tells these men to do the same.  Go to the local priest.  It seemed like a waste of time.  He'd just have them hold out their hands and feet, their arms and legs, have them uncover their heads—and there would be all the sores and the priest would tell them they were still unclean.  But because of what they'd heard about Jesus, they went on off in faith to see the priest anyway. I think Luke—a gentile—frames the story this way, drawing the parallel with Naaman, for a reason.  Earlier in Luke, Jesus had rebuked the people of Nazareth by reminding them of Naaman and Elisha.  He said to them, “There were many lepers in Israel in the time of the Prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian” (Luke 4:27).  In other words, because of their lack of faith, Israel was missing out on the Lord's deliverance.  Instead, it was the outsiders who were hearing and receiving the good news: the tax collectors and sinners, Samaritans and gentiles—even lepers.  It's as if Jesus knew how each of these men would respond. They came to Jesus in faith and in faith all ten of them go off to see the priest.  And Luke writes that “as they went, they were healed.”  What they asked for in faith, Jesus gives.  Think of what that meant.  Once the priest had given them the all clear, they could return to their families and to their community.  They could go to the synagogue.  Once again, they could know God's forgiveness of sin at the temple.  They could eat the Passover and know they belonged to the Lord.  And yet, Luke writes, one of them—only one—seeing that he'd been healed, turned back and gave glory to God at the top of his voice.  He fell on his face at Jesus' feet and thanked him.  And, Luke adds, he was a Samaritan. Jesus' miracle highlights who he is and what he's come to do.  Jesus' miracle highlights the faithfulness of the God of Israel to his promises.  The healing of the ten lepers, like all of Jesus' miracles, proclaims the coming of the promised and long-awaited kingdom.  In Jesus the Messiah, the God of Israel is doing what he promised and beginning to set the world to rights.  This is astounding.  And yet these nine men seem to take it for granted.  We're not privy to their motives and neither was Luke.  Maybe they were just so overwhelmed by excitement and joy that they forgot.  Maybe they were afraid to go back lest the miracle be undone.  Maybe they planned to go back later, but then they saw the priest and he warned them.  By this point Jesus was a marked man.  Maybe they were afraid to be associated with him.  But whatever their motive, they highlight the plight of Israel.  Like the people of Nazareth, they took Jesus for granted.  They wanted their own personal messiah to do tricks for them.  At least these men didn't reject Jesus, but in the end they seem to take the mighty works of God for granted.  There's no thanksgiving.  They don't glorify him for what he's done.  They just take his blessings and run.  Which is ironic, because they were Jews, named after Jacob's son, Judah, whose name in Hebrew means “praise”. And then there's that one Samaritan in the lot.  We don't know his motives either.  Samaritans weren't particularly interested in Jewish messiahs.  He went with the others to see Jesus just because he was desperate and ready to give anything a try.  And this Jewish Messiah healed him—an outcast and an outsider—and he was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude.  Jesus owed him nothing, but gave him everything.  And so he can't not go back.  He falls at the feet of Jesus and gives him thanks.  And I think this is the reason only Luke tells us this story, because he too was an outsider—not a leper, but a gentile.  The God of Israel owed him nothing.  The people of the God of Israel treated him like trash.  But in Jesus the Messiah, the God of Israel had given him everything. We get a sense of this as Luke finishes the story.  Jesus asks the man, “There were ten of you healed, weren't there?  Where are the nine?  Is it really the case that the only one who had the decency to give God the glory was this foreigner?”  We get the sense that Jesus wasn't just talking to the Samaritan man, but to a larger crowd.  The gratitude of this foreigner became a rebuke on Israel.  The people whose name means “praise” are just standing around watching a miracle, while this Samaritan glorifies their God.  Jesus had warned them before that God could raise up children for Abraham from the stones and now, here, one of those stones cries out in praise and thanksgiving. And then, turning back to the man, he said to him, “Get up and be on your way.  Your faith has saved you.”  All through the story, Luke describes these lepers as being cleansed.  Their diseases made them unclean and now they've been healed, cleansed, and restored.  But in those final words to the Samaritan, Jesus says, “Your faith has saved you.”  Maybe the change from cleansed to saved is because he's a Samaritan.  No amount of healing would make him an Israelite or permit him into the temple, but he's still been delivered from his disease.  But I think that there's something more to the choice of words.  Maybe it's Luke emphasising, as he records in Greek what Jesus would have said in Aramaic, maybe it's Luke emphasising that this man had experienced the same thing he had—that through faith in Jesus, this man who was an outsider and who was despised not just for his disease, but for who he was, this man who could never be part of the old people of Israel, had nevertheless been given a place in the age to come, in the future world of the God of Israel, in that place where our tears are wiped away and everything is set to rights and where the people sing forever and always the glory of God.  This no good Samaritan hated by everyone who mattered, suddenly found himself that day a child of Abraham and of the God of Israel. He was transformed.  The promises made to Abraham were fulfilled, even if in a small way with just one person, the promises made to Abraham were fulfilled that day as that Samaritan man knelt as Jesus' feet and glorified God.  He went back to Samaria a different person.  I fully expect he went back to Samaria proclaiming the glories of God, all because of gratitude for what Jesus had done for him.  In that, he showed up Israel and, I think, he shows us up. Brothers and Sisters, you and I have been confronted with the same saving mercies of God.  We have known his forgiveness and his deliverance through Jesus, who gave his life for us and then rose from the grave.  We not only know his common graces every day in the air we breathe and the food we eat, but we know the life of God's kingdom through the gift of his indwelling Spirit.  Every Sunday he invites us to his Table to participate once again in this great exodus from sin and death that Jesus has led us through in our baptism.  And too often we take it all for granted.  He invites us to his Table, but we don't come.  He incorporates us into his family, but we neglect our brothers and sisters or we treat them poorly.  He gifts us with the fruit of his Spirit, but we instead cultivate what Paul, in our Epistle from Galatians 5, calls the works of the flesh.  Paul knew this is what happens when we lose our focus on Jesus and Jesus alone.  The Galatians were adding to Jesus.  Jesus plus torah was their gospel, but in the end it took their eyes off Jesus and they stumbled spiritually.  Their problem probably isn't our problem, but there are a  thousand other things that can distract us from Jesus and from what God has done for us in him.  As I said last week, sometimes we just become so focused looking at the path beneath our feet that we forget to look up.  We let ourselves become consumed with the things of this old age that is passing away, with the troubles and difficulties of life, with what we should eat or what we should wear, that we stop seeking after the kingdom of God and his righteousness.  And before we know it, we've lost our gratitude.  We stop singing the glories of God.  We stop living the life of the Spirit. So Paul wrote to the Galatians and exhorted them in 5:16, “Let me say this to you: live by the Spirit, and you won't do what the flesh wants you to.  For the flesh wants to go against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh.  They're opposed to each other, so that you can't do what you want.  But if you are led by the Spirit, you're not under the law.” Again, their problem was Jesus plus torah.  We might be trying to do some other variation of Jesus plus works or Jesus plus love of money or Jesus plus worry over inflation or Jesus plus my worldly activities—again, there are a thousand things that can pull us away from Jesus.  Whatever our combination is, losing sight of Jesus, compromising our loyalty to Jesus, is going to work out in losing the life of the Spirit and the warning sign is when we start living the old life of the flesh.  Paul goes on and says, “Now the works of the flesh are obvious.  They are such things as fornication, uncleanness, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, hostilities, strife, jealousy, bursts of rage, selfish ambition, factiousness, divisions, moods of envy, drunkenness, wild partying, and similar things.  I told you before, and I tell you again: people who do such things will not inherit God's kingdom.” Brothers and Sisters, the people who will inherit the kingdom are the people who already value it today—the people who have been made new already by Jesus and given the life of the Spirit, because it's Jesus and the Spirit who will—and are presently—making us fit for God's new world.  And those people, Paul writes, are characterised by the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control….And those who belong to Jesus the Messiah, they crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.”   But we need to go one verse further with the Epistle.  Paul writes to them, “If we live by the Spirit, let's line up with the Spirit.”  You can't claim to have the life of the Spirit while living out the works of the flesh.  And the way we do that—this is the heart of Galatians, which Lord willing we'll start working through next Sunday—the heart of Galatians is this message of Jesus and Jesus alone.  We need to set our eyes on him and as we set our eyes on him, our hearts and minds will follow.  We need to be like the Samaritan leper in the Gospel, with our focus intent on the amazing things that God has done for us in Jesus.  We need to have his incarnation, his cross, his shed blood and his resurrection and his ascension always before us.  We need always to remember that we who had no share in his inheritance, have through Jesus been made sons and daughters of God. Brothers and Sisters, this why we immerse ourselves in his word, that we might always be reminded of his great mercy towards us.  And this is why we come to his Table every Sunday.  Like the Israelites celebrating the Passover every year to participate for themselves in that great saving act by which he delivered them from Pharoah's bondage and made them his people, so we come every week and participate in the death and resurrection of Jesus, we participate in this great exodus in which, by his shed blood and his rising again, he has delivered us from our bondage to sin and death and made us his sons and daughters.  Come to the Table and remember the mighty, saving works of God.  Come to the Table and be refreshed by Jesus and the Spirit.  Look up to Jesus and the cross, then go out in the power of the Spirit to proclaim is glories. Let's pray: Almighty and everlasting God, increase in us the gifts of faith, hope, and love; and, that we may obtain what you promise, make us love what you command; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

A Sermon for the Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity St. Luke 10:23-37 & Galatians 3:16-22 by William Klock Jesus had commissioned seventy disciples to preach the good news throughout the cities and towns of Israel and when they came back to him they were excited.  Wherever the good news went, amazing things happened.  Above everything else, the seventy rejoiced that at the name of Jesus, even demons obeyed.  And Jesus rejoiced with them.  “I know,” he said.  This is what the prophets foretold.  Isaiah and Ezekiel told of their visions in which the Satan fell like lightning from heaven.  It's happening now.  God's kingdom is breaking in, God's light is driving away the darkness, and it is toppling the rulers of this present evil age—and you're a part of it.  And with that in mind Jesus said to them, “Don't rejoice that spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” Having your name written in heaven—that meant being written in God's great book that you belong to him, that you are one of his people.  And Jesus draws a connection here that I don't think we really emphasises often enough and that's that God's people are marked out in the present by their kingdom priorities and their kingdom life. Jesus is hinting here—actually, I think it's more than just a hint—that in him, the God of Israel was renewing Israel and creating a new people.  Because the Jews already believed their names were written in heaven, but Jesus hints that something is changing.  That it's not just about being the biological children of Abraham or about keeping torah, but that it's now connected with this good news and with him—with the Messiah.  The long-awaited age to come, the age when the Lord would judge the wicked and set the world to rights, in Jesus the Messiah it was breaking in as the prophets had foretold.  And so Jesus—and these are the first words of our Gospel today beginning at Luke 10:23—Jesus turns from the crowd to his disciples and says to them, “Blessed are the eyes that see what you see.  Let me tell you, many prophets and kings wanted to see what you see, and they didn't see it; and to hear what you hear, and they didn't hear it.” But then, Luke says, a lawyer got up and put Jesus on the spot.  He knew what Jesus was saying and it really bothered him.  Because everyone knew that God's people are marked out in the present by their keeping of the law: by things like circumcision, sabbath-keeping, and diet.  Maybe Jesus was the Messiah, maybe God's kingdom was breaking in, but this suggestion that Jesus' disciples had their names written in heaven because they were somehow connected with Jesus—that they were “in”—well, that meant that others were “out”.  So the lawyer stood up and shouted at Jesus, “Rabbi, what should I do to inherit the life of the age to come?”  He was sure his name was written in heaven, but if Jesus was calling that into question, he wants to know what criteria Jesus thinks mark God's people out in the present.  Was Jesus really excluding good, torah-observing Jews like him? And Jesus, as is the way with rabbis, responded with another question: “What is written in the law?”  And it's easy to imagine the exasperation on the lawyer's face as he answered the question they'd all learned the answer to as little children: “You shall love the Lord your with all your heart, all your soul, all your strength, and all your understanding; and your neighbour as yourself.” And Jesus responded, “Well said!  Do that and you will live.”  The lawyer frowned and grit his teeth.  No, no, no.  If that's what it's about, then we're all on the same page, but Jesus is clearly saying that his disciples will see the age to come and that others might not.  The lawyer wants to know how or where Jesus is drawing the line.  Who's in and who's out?  More than that, he knows Jesus is wrong and he wants to get his error, his heresy out into the open for everyone to see.  So he throws out another question, “Ah!  But who is my neighbour?” “And Jesus rose to the challenge.  ‘Once upon a time,' he said, ‘a man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and was set upon by brigands.  They stripped him and beat him and ran off leaving him half-dead.'” Everyone knew the road.  Very soon Jesus would be travelling it himself, going the other direction, up to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover—and to become the new Passover himself.  That road was steep and windy and notorious for the brigands hiding in wait for unwary travellers.  The wise travelled in groups or well-armed.  Travelling it alone, like this man did, was foolish.  This lawyer, listening to Jesus, would be shaking his head and thinking to himself that anyone dumb enough to travel that road alone was a candidate for a Darwin Award. But Jesus goes on.  “‘A priest happened to be going down that road, and when he saw him he went past on the opposite side.'”  Now, you and I shake our heads and think, “What a horrible priest!  How could he not stop to help the man.”  But we only think that way because we've been shaped by the gospel and by Jesus and the Spirit.  The cross of Jesus has taught us mercy.  That God would not only humble himself, but would shed his blood on behalf of his rebellious children has taught us mercy in a way never understood before the gospel.  But that lawyer—and the crowd and maybe even Jesus' disciples—they lived in the dark world on the other side of the good news of the cross.  They saw nothing wrong with this priest passing by the man.  The priests kept themselves ritually pure.  They had to in order to enter the temple.  Even though this priest is going in the opposite direction—probably on his way home from serving his rotation in the temple—he still kept himself pure.  He couldn't tell if the man was dead or alive and if went over, rolled him over, and found him dead, well, then he'd be impure.  That was okay for normal people, but not for a priest.  And everyone knew this.  And, again, no one had a problem with it. “Then,” said Jesus, “a Levite came by the place.  He saw him too and went past on the opposite side.”  He might not be a priest, but being a Levite, he too served in the temple.  Again, he's going the opposite way—like the priest, he's probably on his way home from serving in the temple.  But, still, being a Levite, he can't chance becoming impure.  And, again, this was all normal and good and right as far as most people were concerned. “But then,” said Jesus, “a travelling Samaritan came to where he was.”  Everyone frowned at this.  Samaritans were filth.  They were the Jews who intermarried with the native Canaanite peoples when the people of Judah were in exile.  They worshiped at their own illicit temple at Shechem and they compromised torah with pagan practises and pagan philosophy.  They were traitors of the worst kind.  Just being on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho meant he was fouling the promised land with his impure Samaritan feet.  And yet, Jesus said, “He came over to the man and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine.  Then he put him on his own beast, took him to an inn, and looked after him.  The next morning, as he was going on his way, he gave the inn-keeper two dinars. ‘Take care of him,' he said, ‘and on my way back I'll pay you whatever else you need to spend on him.'” “Where's Jesus going with this?”  Everyone was thinking.  “What's his point?”  There's no way this would happen in real life.  But that's kind of the point.  Jesus looks the lawyer in the eye and asks, “Which of these three do you think turned out to be the neighbour of the man who was set upon by the brigands?”  Jesus is going make the lawyer come out and say it.  And the lawyer does, because there's no escape for him.  “The one who showed mercy on him,” he said. “Well,” Jesus said to him, “you go and do the same.” So what just happened?  Jesus brilliantly turned the prophecy of Isaiah 6:1-11 into a parable.  I don't think anyone figured that out until the lawyer answered the final question and said “The one who showed him…mercy.”  And as soon as that word “mercy” was out of his mouth, I expect it sank in.  Hosea 6 is where the Lord, through the Prophet, rebukes the people of Israel because their love for God is “like a morning cloud, like the dew that goes early away.”  It's the prophecy in which Hosea accuses the priests of acting violently against the helpless saying, “As robbers lie in wait for a man, so the priests band together; they murder on the way to Shechem; they commit villainy” (6:9).  The Prophet denounces the “evil deeds of Samaria” (7.1).  And that's why Jesus puts a Samaritan in the centre of his story.  It flips everything around.  As Jesus tells it, it's now the people of Judah, and especially the priests and Levites who are acting violently against the people.  This is why, when Jesus cleanses the temple he condemns the priests for having made it a “den of robbers”.  As the unfaithful northern kingdom of Israel had been judged by the Lord, so judgement is now barrelling towards Judah and Jerusalem and the temple and its priests.  The Lord is indeed, in Jesus, preparing to judge the wicked and to set the world to rights.  The long-awaiting age to come is breaking in.  As the Lord promised through Hosea, he will come to heal his people, to bind up their wounds, to revive them after two days, and to raise them up on the third day (6:1-2).  But whom will he heal and revive and raise up?  Whom will he take with him into the age to come?  The answer: Only those who share his values and his priorities and the values and priorities of the age to come.  In Hoses 6:6 the Lord declares those well-known words, “I want mercy and not sacrifice, and knowledge of God rather than whole burnt offerings.”  I want mercy.  And I think those well-known words of the Prophet came crashing down on that lawyer like a metaphorical ton of bricks as he gave his answer and said, “The one who showed him mercy.” There was no mercy in the heart of the priest and no mercy in the heart of the Levite—and there was no mercy in the hearts of the people of Judah who saw nothing wrong with the priest and the Levite leaving the man to die.  For that matter there was no mercy in the hearts of people who saw the Samaritans as unredeemable, reprobate scum.  And that was the heart of the problem.  And that was the problem that Jesus came to fix.  Because the only people who will have a share in the age to come—in the kingdom of God—are the people who share the values and priorities of God.  The people who are poor in spirit, who mourn the state of the world, the meek, the people who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the pure in heart, the peacemakers—and the merciful. Everyone wants to see evil judged and removed from the earth and everyone wants to be part of the age to come when God has set everything to rights, but very few want—or even recognise their need—to first be transformed by the life of that kingdom.  Like so many in Judah, we want to enter the age to come as we are.  We don't want to change.  As much as we want to see everything made right, we still hold tightly to the very things, the very values, the very systems, the very sins, the very gods that have made the world the mess it is.  And we can be relentlessly unmerciful in our condemnation of everyone else we don't think meets our standards.  We can be relentlessly unmerciful to everyone we think is the problem.  All while forgetting that we're all the problem.  We've all contributed to the mess the world is in and if God were to set the world to rights and then transplant us into it as we are, well, we'd just ruin it all over again—because we're the problem—every last one of us. But when we let go of it all.  When we take hold of Jesus in faith as Messiah, as the one who died and rose again triumphant over sin and death, he not only washes our sinful past away, he also plunges us into the Spirit, into the very life of God.  And in doing that, Jesus makes us fit for the life of the age to come.  Not instantly, of course.  It's a process.  But through word and Spirit he makes us new bit by bit, just as he does the same with this world as he sends us out with his good news to spread his kingdom bit by bit until one day the knowledge of the glory of the Lord covers the earth as the waters cover the sea.  One day that glory will fill us to—like the blood that courses through us from head to toe—and we'll be fit for the kingdom. And because of that, Jesus' people should be known for having a wide view of God's mercy.  That's what the people of the northern kingdom lacked when the Lord warned them through Hosea that he desired mercy above sacrifice.  And it's what the people of Judah lacked when Jesus told his parable about the good Samaritan.  Maybe instead of calling the it the “Parable of the Good Samaritan” we should really call it the “Parable of the Unmerciful Priest and Levite”.  In both cases, the people of Israel and the people of Judah, they of all people, should have had a sense of the Lord's mercy.  This is where our Epistle today, beginning at Galatians 3:16, can help us understand.  St. Paul stresses God's promise to Abraham and how it was fulfilled in the family of the Messiah—this people made up of both Jews and gentiles. Paul writes in Galatians 3:16, “The promises were made to Abraham and his seed”—that is, his family.  It doesn't say ‘his seeds,' as though referring to several families, but indicates a single family by saying ‘and to your seed,' meaning the Messiah.”  There was a group of Jewish Christians in the Galatian churches that were pushing for Gentile believers to be circumcised and, at least superficially, to keep the torah and Paul's letter to them is a rebuke and an exhortation.  On the one hand he rebukes them for falling backwards into torah and on the other hand he exhorts them to press forward by faith in Jesus the Messiah, because it's faith, not observance of the law that marks out the people of God.  Abraham had no torah.  He just had faith in the promises of God.  Torah, the law, that came hundreds of years later.  The law, Paul writes, was a good thing, but temporary—like a babysitter meant to keep the Jewish people out of trouble until God's promises were fulfilled through them in Jesus.  Why?  Because they were the unique people, called and set apart by God—by faith, Paul stresses—to carry God's promises to the nations.  In light of that, they should have remembered all along that God's plan was to redeem not just Israel, but all of humanity.  And knowing that, they should have been a people with a heart for the lost and a people of mercy. Brothers and Sisters, it is an awful thing when people who have themselves experience and known the amazing mercy of God become unmerciful.  The Lord rebuked Israel and Judah for their lack of mercy, but it's even more awful when we who have known God's mercy through Jesus fall into unmerciful patterns.  Maybe we become self-righteous.  Maybe we become jaded and cynical.  But whatever form it takes, we sinners who have known the amazing mercy of God through the blood of Jesus poured out at the cross, we outsiders who have known the amazing mercy of God by being grafted into the vine of Israel, we who were dead who have been filled with God's own Spirit, we have no business being unmerciful.  To the contrary, because of the great mercy we have known ourselves, rivers of mercy ought to be flowing from us to the world. But, somehow, our eyes fall.  Instead of looking up, we look down.  Instead of keeping our eyes focused on Jesus, we're distracted by the things around us.  Like the guests in another of Jesus' parables, we're invited to his great feast, but we have excuses: I've bought this parcel of land and I need to go have a look at it; I've bought a yoke of oxen, and I need to go collect them; I've just got married, and well…I can't come.  The systems, the philosophies, the values, the gods of the old age that is passing away—the things we once forsook for Jesus—entice us back.  Maybe it's the troubles and trials of life that cause us to lose perspective and doubt Jesus and to doubt God's faithfulness.  Whatever it is, we take our eyes off of Jesus and we begin to stray and we begin to lose hope—like someone shuffling along a mountain trail with his eyes on his shoes, missing the glory to be seen all around.  And to us Paul practically shouts, “Look up!”  (That's Colossians, not Galatians, but it doesn't matter.)  Look up!  You've been raised with the Messiah, so set your sights on things above, where Jesus sits at the right hand of God.  That's what should mark out the people of God.  And as we look up, as we find our hope in Jesus, as we find our identity in Jesus, mercy flows.  The Spirit's fruit grows.  And we don't just pray “on earth as in heaven”, but we become the “on earth as in heaven” people.  That's what the people of Israel should have been in Hosea's day.  That's the Priest and the Levite and the lawyer and all those other people in Judah should have been in Jesus day.  Thanks be to God that he gave his son to set them to rights and to make it possible for us, by faith, to be grafted into that family.  And so that's what we ought to be too.  On earth as in heaven people.  Brothers and Sisters, the Lord invites us to his Table this morning, once again to participate in the great exodus in which Jesus, by his blood, has led us out of our bondage to sin and death.  Come to the Table and know again his mercy.  Eat the bread and drink the wine and know the goodness, the graciousness, the lovingkindness, the faithfulness of our God.  Then, renewed with a send of his glory, go out and take heaven, take his glory with you to the world. Let's pray: Almighty and merciful God, by whose gift alone your faithful people offer you true and laudable service: Grant that we may run without stumbling to obtain your heavenly promises; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Twelfth Sunday after Trinity 2 Corinthians 3:1-11 by William Klock One morning back in my Macintosh technician days my boss walked up and put a resume on my bench.  “Does this look suspicious or is it just me?” he asked.  He pointed to the guy's work history.  Every one of his previous employers was defunct, but somehow he had the personal email address of every one of his old bosses.  If that wasn't odd enough, all of them had Yahoo and Hotmail email addresses using similar formats.  It was pretty obvious.  Every one of those email addresses was made up and would just go back to him and he could write his own references. Of course, the whole point of a reference is that someone—who is either known personally or known by reputation—someone else is vouching for you.  They did this in Paul's world just like we do today.  Jews, especially in the diaspora, would carry letters of recommendation indicating that other Jews could trust them.  In the pagan Greco-Roman world it was common for your patron to supply you with a letter of recommendation.  But writing your own recommendation, well, that kind of misses the whole point.  But that seems to be what the Corinthians are accusing Paul of doing in today's Epistle.  They read parts of his first epistle to them—parts like Chapter 9 where he defends himself as an apostle—and they took it as inflated self-commendation.  But now, people in Corinth have been making false accusations against him too, so he's going to have to do the same thing all over again.  We can hear his frustration as he writes to them, beginning Chapter 3 of Second Corinthians:   So, we're starting to “recommend ourselves” again, are we?  Or perhaps we need—as some do—official references to give to you?  Or perhaps even from you?   Maybe he should get one of his other churches—maybe the brothers and sisters in Ephesus—to write him a letter, vouching for him.  But Paul shouldn't have to do that.   Paul had a difficult relationship with the Corinthians.  When he left them in ad 50, the church was very supportive of him and his mission, but over the next several years their attitude towards him soured.  The church grew, new preachers arrived, attitudes changed.  Paul wrote to intervene in their struggles over leadership and to rebuke them for allowing pagan idolatry and immorality to get a foothold in the congregation.  They patted themselves on the back for being free in the Messiah and Paul rebuked them saying that this isn't what freedom in the Messiah means.  Of course, they didn't appreciate Paul's rebukes and so he became persona non grata in Corinth.  He wrote to them and they responded with a “Thanks, but no thanks, Paul.” So Paul responds sort of facetiously: “Am I going to need a recommendation before you'll listen to me?”  That would be a bit like telling our bishop that he needs a recommendation from some other church before we'll let him visit or preach here.  Others might have shaken the dust from their shoes at that point and left the ingrates in Corinth to themselves, but not Paul.  He has a pastor's heart.  He cares too much for them.  And he answers not to them, but to Jesus.  I don't think they actually asked for a letter of recommendation, but he offers one anyway—but not like any other—because Paul knew that the gospel commends itself.  So he writes to them: You yourselves are our letter… They rejected him.  They've told him not to come around and not to write to them anymore to give advice.  They've disrespected and insulted him.  And Paul writes: I don't need a letter of recommendation to prove my credentials as an apostle and servant of Jesus.  I don't.  Because you people yourselves are my letter of recommendation.  You people, even though you've rejected me, you're the proof of my gospel credentials. You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, to be known and read by all.  It's quite plain that you are a letter from the Messiah, delivered by us, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of beating hearts.   Brothers and Sisters, if that's not grace I don't know what is.  Paul doesn't need a letter written in ink on paper.  These messed up, confused, infuriating people are nevertheless filled with the life of the Spirit promised in the gospel.  For all their faults and for all their inability to see how they've been shaped by their culture in their rejection of him, their joy in the Lord and their hope in the good news is the result of Paul's ministry to them and that says everything about Paul that needs to be said.  Despite their imperfections and immaturity, their transformation by and their life in Jesus and the Spirit, make them his credentials. That's pretty astounding and it says something about the power of the gospel and Paul's expectation of its power to transform people, even when they looked hopeless and even when they're still far from perfect.  These were people he rebuked for putting the wisdom of the Greeks over the truth of the gospel.  These were people he rebuked for tolerating a church member who was sleeping with his step-mother.  These were people he rebuked for dragging each other through the courts, for divorce, for not treating each other as equals, for abusing spiritual gifts, for abusing the Lord's Supper, for having crazy, disordered worship.  The list is a long one.  And yet despite their multitude of failings, he says, “You want to see my credentials as a gospel minister, as an apostle?  You're it.”  Paul could see the gospel at work in them.  For all their faults, they were not the people they had once been.  As he had written to them in his first epistle, no one affirms that Jesus is Lord apart from the transforming work of the Spirit.  Paul could see through the flaws and immaturity and knew that they believed, that they loved Jesus, that they were full of the Spirit.  He had proclaimed the good news about Jesus to them and it had done its work, it was continuing to do its work, and he was confident, it would in time complete its work.  This is important.  Sometimes we look at other Christians or other churches and they're a mess and we're tempted to write them off completely.  Brothers and Sisters, be careful.  Is Jesus being proclaimed as Lord?  If he is, that means that the gospel and the Spirit are at work there.  Maybe the gospel and the Spirit have a lot of work yet to do.  The Corinthians needed correction—a lot of it.  But Paul didn't write them off.  They had the gospel.  These aren't the other folks Paul warns about who were preaching another, a different gospel.  That's a whole other problem.  But the Corinthians received the gospel and the gospel is a powerful thing.  It is the power of God to save.  Now, word of caution.  Their context was different from ours.  This was a first-generation church living in the days when these things were still being worked out.  We don't have that excuse today.  But still, no one, no church is perfect, but if the gospel is there, we should be confident that Jesus and the Spirit will be with a church to correct and to bring maturity. But how could Paul look at these messed up people in a messed up church and be so sure?  He could, because he knew that God is faithful.  Because he knew the story and because he knew the promises of God.  And so Paul reminds the Corinthians of Jeremiah 31 and of God's promise to Israel there.   In those days Israel was in exile.  Israel had been unfaithful to God.  She had been unfaithful to her covenant obligations.  She had refused to trust in his goodness and she had prostituted herself to foreign kings and to foreign Gods.  So the Lord had judged her and allowed the Babylonians to conquer her, to destroy Jerusalem, to tear the temple down to the ground, and to carry the people off into captivity, away from the land they'd been promised—and most importantly, away from his presence. But that was not the end.  Through the prophet Jeremiah, the Lord promised the people that he would redeem them.  They may be covenant-breakers—like a cheating spouse—but he was not.  He would always be faithful to his promises.  And so one day he would restore Israel by establishing a new covenant.  There would be a new agreement between the Lord and his people.  There would be a new marriage between Israel and her Lord.  He had established the old covenant through Moses when he gave Israel his law, written on stone tablets.  But that law carved on stone did not have the power to give the people the real life they needed and that the Lord desired for them.  And so the Lord promised a new covenant that would restore Israel.  The new covenant would deal fully with the sins of the people—that's what the cross of Jesus is about.  And the new covenant would give the people the new life they needed in order to truly be the renewed people the Lord wanted them to be—to remake humanity into what we were meant to be—God giving his people his own life, transforming their hearts and minds in a way that the law written on stone was never able to do.  In this new covenant, the Lord promised through Jeremiah, he would write the law on their hearts—he would give his people his own Spirit. That was the story and that was the promise.  And when Paul looked at the Christians in Corinth, even though they were confused and muddled and had rejected him, he could write to them and say that they were his letter, they were his credentials, because the life of God's Spirit was evident in their life as a church.  They themselves were a letter from Jesus the Messiah.  The powerful work promised through Jeremiah and the other prophets was manifest in the amazing work that the Spirit had accomplished in them.  Think about that.  Some of them had been Jews—the same sort of Jews that Paul himself had been when he persecuted Jesus' people.  Some of them had been Greek pagans, worshipping idols, offering incense to Caesar, deeply involved in a degenerate culture.  But Paul had brought them the good news that Jesus is Lord.  He preached Jesus' death and resurrection.  And they had been transformed.  The Spirit had moved them to repentance and given them a totally new life.  The living God had written something powerful on their hearts and they would never be the same people again.  And the pagan world around them could see it even if these people couldn't see it themselves anymore.  Again, think about that.  Think about your own stories.  Think of the way you were once met with the good news.  Think of the forgiveness you have found at the cross.  Think of the new life Jesus has given you.  Just like the Corinthians, each of us has a long road ahead of us as we grow into a mature faithfulness to Jesus and his lordship, but Jesus has poured his Spirit into us. In our baptism he has plunged us into the Holy Spirit and we are not the people we once were—and neither were the Corinthians. And so Paul goes on, getting back to his credentials, writing in verses 4-6: That's the kind of confidence we have towards God, through the Messiah.  It's not as though we are qualified in ourselves to reckon that we have anything to offer on our own account.  Our qualification comes from God.  God has qualified us to be stewards of a new covenant, not of the letter but of the Spirit.  The letter kills, you see, but the Spirit gives life.   All the proof of Paul's faithfulness as a minister of the gospel, as a minister of God's new covenant is right there in the work accomplished in the Corinthians by Jesus and the Spirit.  It's not that Paul is competent himself.  He merely showed up in Corinth and preached the good news as he'd been called to do by Jesus himself.  But as a result of Paul preaching the good news of Jesus and the kingdom, God's new creation had unfolded right there in a powerful and very visible way.  The “letter”—the old law written on stone—brought death, but the Spirit now poured into these people had given them life.  In his resurrection Jesus unleashed life into the world.  All Paul did was preach that good news and where he did that the Spirit brought transformation—the Spirit brough the life promised by God all those centuries before. As frustrated as Paul was with the Corinthian Christians, the fact that they were Christians—well, Paul knew it was by the grace of God.  They'd been transformed and in that Paul saw the glory of God, the glory of the cross, the glory of gospel, the glory of Jesus and the Spirit.  Paul has been absolutely swept up and away by it all.  God's amazing faithfulness and his glory revealed in the cross and the empty tomb and in Jesus and the Spirit have captivated Paul.  It drives him on and it's the lens through which he sees literally everything.  But the Corinthians just aren't seeing it anymore.  They've been distracted by worldly things and by their petty disputes.  And so having declared how they themselves are the proof of God's faithfulness and the power of the gospel, in verse 7 he now goes on, trying to get them to look up again.  To forget the cheap and dingy things that have distracted them and to get them captivated again by the glory of what God has done in Jesus and the Spirit.  He says to them: Think about it: If the ministry of death, carved in letters on stone, came in glory, so glorious in fact that the children of Israel couldn't look at Moses because of the glory of his face—a glory that was to be abolished, how much more will the ministry of the Spirit come in glory?   From waxing eloquent about the glory of the new covenant, Paul takes them back to the dark days of the old.  And yet, as much as we might (and they) might think of the old covenant times, the time before Jesus and the Spirit, as dark, Paul reminds them of Moses face when he came down from Mt. Sinai with the law.  Moses had been in the presence of the Lord and he came down the mountain with his face radiating the Lord's glory.  It was so bright, so brilliant, so radiant of the holiness of God that the people pleaded with Moses to cover his face.  As glorious as it was, it was just too much for them to look upon. And Paul's point is this: If the law carved on stone came down from the mountain in such amazing glory, if the old covenant carried that much glory, how much more glorious is the ministry of the Spirit and God's new covenant with his people?  He goes on in verses 9-11: For if the ministry of condemnation was glorious, how much more does the ministry of justification abound in glory?  In fact, what used to be glorious has come in this respect to have no glory at all, because of the new glory which goes so far beyond it.  For if the thing which was to be abolished came with glory, how much more glory will there be for the thing that lasts?   Like the Christians of Ephesus who, in Revelation, are described as having lost their first love, the Corinthians had lost sight of the glory of the Holy Spirit's ministry.  It wasn't that they'd lost the Holy Spirit.  That's impossible.  It's the Spirit who binds us to Jesus, he's the one who unites us to his life, he's the one who renews our minds and regenerates our hearts, turning us from everything that is not Jesus and giving us the desire and the faith to take hold of Jesus with both hands.  You cannot be a Christian without the Holy Spirit.  But somehow they'd lost perspective.  The Spirit had empowered these people remarkably, they had no shortage of gifts, but they'd lost sight of the gospel, Jesus was no longer their centre, and they misused and abused those gifts.  And they'd slowly let the values of Greek culture creep in to displace a gospel-centred life.  Somehow they'd lost sight of the glory of God revealed in Jesus and the Spirit.  Does that sound familiar? Brothers and Sisters, we can all too easily fall prey to the same sorts of things.  Our own culture infiltrates the church in many, many ways.  It compromises our call to holiness and we become worldly in our living.  It creeps into our churches, too.  Our culture is overwhelmingly commercialistic, materialistic, and individualistic and too often, without even realizing it's happened, we start building our churches around these things.  We treat the gospel like a commodity to sell.  We displace it with programs and we tailor our preaching to appeal to our culture's self-centred individualism.  Programs can be good and useful in accomplishing the work of the church, but most of the time these days they're treated as sales tools.  But God doesn't give us programs.  He gives us his word.  Through the ministry of the Spirit he caused his word to be written by prophets, apostles, and evangelists so that we can know him and proclaim him to the world.  And in Jesus he sent his word to become flesh—not to give us programs or gimmicks or to tickle the itching ears of sinners—but to die for our sins and to rise again to unleash life into the world.  A church should never have its identity tied up with anything other than the gospel.  A church is a place where the word is faithfully preached and the sacraments faithfully administered.  That was the definition the Protestant reformers developed.  What constitutes a church?  A church is a body of believers that preaches the word and administers the sacraments.  But today it seems many preach everything but the word and the sacraments are often side-lined or even sometimes considered optional.  As ministers of the gospel, we—and that's both you and I—are not called to be flashy, we're not called to preach the pop-psychology and self-help that our culture obsesses over, we're not called to be motivational speakers, we're not called to preach health and wealth.  We're called to proclaim that Jesus has died and risen and that he is Lord.  We're called to summon the world to repentance before the throne of Jesus the Messiah.  And we're called to leave behind and to sacrifice everything that is not Jesus, everything that is not of his kingdom.  We're called to back-up our proclamation by living the life of the Spirit, by manifesting the love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control that the Spirit bears in our lives.  We're called to live justly and to do mercy.  We're called to use the giftings of the Spirit not for our own ends, but for the sake of the gospel and for the well-being of the Church.  We're called to be gloriously counter-cultural: being poor in spirit, mourning sin, living in meekness, hungering and thirsting for righteousness, being merciful, and making peace—even when it means rejection and persecution.  As people filled with God's own Spirit, we are the earnest of God's promise and work of new creation.  By our preaching and by our lives, we're called to lift the veil on God's new creation, to pull God's future into the present so that the world can have a taste of it—and see the goodness and faithfulness of the Lord.  Brothers and Sisters, it's this Jesus-centred and Spirit-empowered life that manifests the glory of God to the world, that makes us the light of the world and the salt of the earth—that marks us out as the people of God. Let us pray:  Almighty and everlasting God, you are always more ready to hear than we to pray, and to give more than we either desire or deserve:  Pour upon us the abundance of your mercy, forgiving us those things of which our conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things for which we are not worthy to ask, except through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ our Saviour; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Trinity 1 Corinthians 15:1-11 & St. Luke 18:9-14 by William Klock “Two men went up to the temple to pray,” Jesus said.  The temple was the place where heaven and earth met.  The place where men and women could go to be in the presence of God.  Twice a day the priests would lead the people in prayers, at nine in the morning and at three in the afternoon, but people could go any time to pray and they did.  They still do.  Jews today gather at the Western Wall, not technically the temple, but part of the foundation of the temple complex and all that was left after the Romans brought it all crashing down.  Jews still go there to pray.  Two men climbed the steps to the temple courts to pray.  “One of them,” Jesus said, “was a Pharisee.”  It was perfectly fine to pray at home, but if anyone was going to go and pray at the temple, it would be a Pharisee.  Their “thing” was to live their lives as if they served in the temple.  They weren't Levites and they weren't priests, but they took great pains to always remain ritually pure like the Levites did.  They would have been some of the most regular men to say their prayers in the temple instead of just at home. But there were two men, Jesus said, who went up to the temple.  “The other was a tax collector.”  You could almost hear the boos and the hisses and “Eew, gross!”.  Tax collectors didn't belong in the temple.  Jews had a whole category for people who had forsaken God's law.  They called them “sinners”.  These weren't people who slipped up and did bad things occasionally.  Everyone did that—even the Pharisees—but they still loved God, they still loved his covenant and his law, and the law made provision for atonement and they availed themselves of it.  “Sinners”, on the other hand, they were people who had no regard for God's law.  If they sinned, they didn't care and they didn't seek atonement.  They were Jews—ethnically speaking, at least—but they basically rejected or, at least, had no respect for the covenant.  But in those days there was one special class of “sinner” that was singled out because of just how awful they were: tax collectors.  So people would talk about “sinners and tax collectors”.  Tax collectors didn't just sin—they got rich stealing from and swindling their own people.  They were collaborators with the evil, unclean Romans. So Jesus went on with his story: “Standing, the Pharisee prayed to himself like this, ‘God, I give thanks to you that I am not like other men—like the greedy, like the unjust, like adulterers—or like this tax collector.  I fast twice a week.  I give a tenth of everything I earn.”  Everyone pictured the Pharisee, confidently making his way up the steps to the temple complex, confidently walking across the outer court—the place they called the Court of the Gentiles, because that's as close to the temple as the Gentiles could go.  And they pictured him confidently passing through the gate into the Court of the Women and then, still confidently, striding across that outer court and into the inner Court of Israel—the place where the great altar was, where the priests offered their sacrifices.  And he boldly went and stood at the base of the steps leading up into the temple itself and he lifted up his hands and he prayed.  And it was normal to pray out loud in those days, but he made a point of raising his voice so that everyone could hear his prayer, and he thanked the God of Israel that he was not like other men.  His prayer of thanksgiving becomes a thinly veiled boast of his own faithfulness to God's law—especially as he turns his head and looks back to the tax collector who just barley dared to pass through the gate and was practically hiding behind a column. In stark contrast, “The tax collector,” Jesus said, “standing far off, didn't even want to lift his eyes to heaven.  Instead, he beat his breast, saying ‘God, have mercy on me a sinner.'” While the Pharisee strode proudly into the temple, the poor tax collector kneels—or maybe he even prostrates himself on the ground—off on the fringes, hiding in the shadows or behind a column and quietly utters his humble prayer for mercy.  The Pharisee—at least as far as he was concerned—he belonged there.  But the tax collector.  He was a sinner and he knew it.  He did not belong in the presence of the holy.  Other people made that clear and he probably believed it himself.  But he was desperate for God's mercy and this was the place to ask for it.  What happened to the tax collector that brought him to the temple?  Jesus doesn't say. For all we know, Jesus could be telling Matthew's story here.  Maybe he was one of those people to whom Jesus had pronounced, “Your sins are forgiven.  Go and sin no more.”  And so he followed it up the only way he knew how, by turning over a new leaf, by ritually purifying himself, and by going to the temple to fall on the mercy of the Lord. “This one—the tax collector,” said Jesus, “he went down to his house justified, not the other one.”  Why?  “Because everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.” Now, there's an interesting twist in the tale.  If you were following along in Luke 18 or if you were paying careful attention when the Gospel was read earlier, you might have noticed that I left out Luke's introduction.  At the beginning, Luke introduces the parable, writing, “Jesus told this parable to some who were confident in themselves, because they were righteous and looked down on others.”  In Greek, “righteous” and “just” are the same word, so Luke plays with that here.  Jesus told this parable to some who were confident in themselves, because they were righteous (or just).  The point is that they knew—they were certain they were “in”.  Whenever the Lord came to judge the wicked and to deliver his people and to set the world to rights, they knew they'd be on God's side.  They knew they had a place in his presence in the age to come.  But then in the end, who is it who goes home justified or in the right?  It's not the righteous Pharisee, but the tax collector who prayed for God's mercy. It's not that the Pharisee—whether the one in the parable or the ones Jesus was telling the parable to—it's not that they weren't righteous.  By all accounts they were.  They were obedient to the law.  They weren't perfect, but if they made a mistake, they offered the appropriate sacrifices.  That was part of being faithful to the law, too.  They took part in the atonement for sins offered through the temple.  They were righteous.  And they were the opposite of the tax collector.  The tax collector had no regard for God, for his law, or for his covenant.  The Pharisee loved God's law; the tax collector trampled all over it.  And I think it's important to add that it wasn't just the Pharisees.  When Luke says that Jesus told this to people who were confident in themselves because they were righteous, that included most of the people.  The Pharisees may have set the bar higher than it needed to be, but the majority, most people who say themselves as good and upstanding Jews had this same problem.  They were confident of their position before the Lord because they knew they kept his law: they were circumcised, they kept the sabbath, they ate only clean food, and they avoided gentiles. And yet, at the end of the story, Jesus says, it's not the righteous or the just man who goes away justified—meaning declared by God to be in the right.  It's the scummy, unrighteous tax collector.  Why?  Well, to answer that we need to ask what Jesus meant that he went home justified.  To be justified is to be found or to be declared to be “in the right”. Think of a courtroom.  Plaintiff and a defendant bring their case before a judge, they explain the circumstances and present their evidence, and the judge makes a ruling.  The judge declares one of them to be in the right.  The judge vindicates one of them.  Maybe it's the defendant, who proves his innocence to the judge.  Or maybe it's the plaintiff, who proves to the judge that he is truly the victim.  One of them goes home vindicated by the judge.  He goes home declared to be in the right.  He goes home justified.  But what's the judge's basis for determining who is in the right? We really have to do is go back to the Old Testament and to the beginning of Israel's story.  Think about Abraham in Genesis 15.  That's where this got started.  The Lord made a promise to Abraham—to give him a land and to give him a son and to make him a great nation.  And it was absurd.  Abraham went to the promised land and lived there—but he was just one man and even as rich as he was, with flocks and herds and servants, he only ever occupied the smallest corner of that land.  And there he was, almost one hundred and his wife ninety—long past child-bearing years.  How could he, a childless man ever become a great nation?  But the Lord made a promise to him and Abraham believed.  And, we're told, the Lord counted that belief, that faith, as righteousness.  Because Abraham believed that the Lord not only could, but somehow would pull off this crazy promise, he was counted as being in the right.  There was no way any of it could happen, but Abraham trusted in the faithfulness of the Lord anyway.  And in that, Abraham set the standard by which the Lord recognised his people: faith.  Later the torah would mark out this people of faith as a special people, visibly different from everyone else, but long before the torah there was faith, and faith was ultimately what it always was and always would be that marks out the people of God—faith in the God who promises crazy things and then never fails to do them. And this theme echoes all the way through Israel's story.  It was the message of the Prophet Habakkuk who lived during the last decades of the kingdom of Judah, in the years before Jerusalem was defeated and destroyed by the Babylonians and the people taken off into exile.  Habakkuk looked around him and saw the wickedness and idolatry of his own people and, very much like the psalmists, he cried out to the Lord.  This is the opening of his lament. O Lord, how long shall I cry for help,          and you will not hear? Or cry to you “Violence!”          and you will not save? Why do you make me see iniquity,          and why do you idly look at wrong? Destruction and violence are before me;          strife and contention arise. So the law is paralyzed,          and justice never goes forth. For the wicked surround the righteous;          so justice goes forth perverted. (Habakkuk 1:1-4) Habakkuk knew that things weren't the way they were supposed to be and he knew the promises of the Lord to his people and he and so many others had cried out and cried out—for centuries—and things only got worse.  Wickedness and idolatry multiplied and from their perspective it seemed like the Lord wasn't listening and that he was refusing to act.  Judah's situation seemed as hopeless to Habakkuk as Abraham's situation must have once seemed to him.  But that was just it.  Habakkuk knew that the Lord is faithful and so he continued to cry out.  He trusted the Lord.  He had faith, that one characteristic that defines the people of God above all else. But then the Lord responds.  He tells Habakkuk that he has seen the state of his people and that he is going to visit them, but that he will be dealing with their problem by sending the Babylonians to defeat them.  That wasn't what Habakkuk wanted to hear.  He argues with the Lord.  The Babylonians are even more wicked and idolatrous than the people of Judah.  How can defeat by them possibly be the Lord's solution?  And the Lord responds and assures Habakkuk that while Babylon may be his instrument of justice against Judah, Babylon herself—and all the nations—will be held accountable and will one day be judged.  The cycle of violence will be broken and everything will be set to rights.  One day, he says, the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.  It's another one of those impossible promises—maybe even more impossible than the promise he made to Abraham.  But what do the Lord's people do in the meantime? Here's the Lord's answer—and Jesus' parable points us right back to these words.  The Lord says to Habakkuk in 2:4: Look at the proud!          His spirit is presumptuous and is not right But the righteous shall live by faith.   The world is falling apart.  Everything is wrong.  The wicked prosper and are proud and presume on the Lord's faithfulness and the righteous are oppressed.  By all human appearances it doesn't sound like the Lord is even listening.  But those who continue to live by faith in the midst of tribulation, those who remember the Lord's promises in the midst of persecution, those who steep themselves in the story of the Lord and his people and remember his faithfulness, those who continue to trust in him, they are the ones who will be vindicated by the Lord when he does come in judgement on the wicked.  They are the ones who will remain faithful to the Lord and to his covenant, even when all the proud people around them do evil and bow to idols, they will remain faithful, because they know and because they trust that the Lord is always faithful.  I hope that's an encouraging word for you already, but first we need to go back to Jesus' story about the two men in the temple. There's the proud Pharisee.  By the standard of the law, he is in the right.  And there's the scummy tax collector.  By the standard of the law, he's in the wrong.  And yet in the end, it's the tax collector who goes home and is found to be in the right.  If this were one of Jesus' “kingdom stories” it would be the tax collector who is welcomed into the kingdom, while the Pharisee is left in the outer darkness, weeping and gnashing his teeth.  The tax collector would escape the coming judgement and know the life of the kingdom, while the coming judgement would fall on the Pharisee right along with all the other wicked in Israel.  Why?  Because below, underlying the law—it's foundation—was faith in the Lord.  A faith that humbly trusted in his promises.  A faith that humbly trusted in his grace.  A faith in the sufficiency of the Lord, instead of the sufficiency of self.  A faith that would rejoice in the presence of the Messiah and a faith that rejoice over the repentance of sinners. Over and over Jesus was clear.  He came not to the righteous, but to seek out the lost sheep of the house of Israel.  At least in theory, the righteous were fine.  They should have been expecting this all along.  They were the ones who knew the scriptures so well, after all.  But, ironically, they got angry when Jesus went to the lost sheep.  And so Jesus told them stories to explain the joy in heaven over sinners who repent.  The Lord is like the widow who seeks and eventually finds her lost coin.  He's like the shepherd who goes to great lengths to find his lost sheep.  He's like the father, rejoicing and throwing a party when his prodigal son returns home.  But so many in Israel were like the proud and resentful older brother.  They'd been doing the right thing all along.  Why wasn't Jesus throwing a party for them?  And so, in their pride, they refused to enter the house and were left out in the darkness gnashing their teeth.  And it would be like that, only much, much worse when judgement came.  Because the law was not enough.  Because in Jesus, the Lord was doing something new.  In Jesus he was fulfilling his promises.  In Jesus he was making a new people who would be finally and truly fit for the kingdom, a people forgiven once and for all and a people filled with God's own Spirit, a people with his law of love written on their hearts—a people fit for God's new creation.  When Jesus told people they needed a righteousness greater than the Pharisees if they wanted to take part in the kingdom, that's what he was getting at.  The Lord was finally giving something better than the law written on stone tablets.  He was about to make a people with his law of love written on their hearts.  But that people was centred in Jesus.  So only those who trusted in this Messiah—this Messiah who was so different from their expectations—only those humble enough to recognise the new thing the Lord was doing in Jesus and to live by faith, trusting that Jesus really is the Lord's answer to all the problems of the world, only they will go home justified.  Only they will be able to be part of the kingdom—forgiven and filled with the Spirit, because of their faith in Jesus. This is what St. Paul is getting at in our Epistle from 1 Corinthians 15.  He declares once again the good news about Jesus the Messiah who died and was buried and who rose again according to the scriptures.  And he talks about the twelve who saw him and believed and about the five hundred who saw him and believed.  And then there was Paul.  He heard the message, but he was one of those proud Pharisees, confident that he already had the right answers, confident that he knew how the Lord was going to deliver his people—and, most of all, confident that it wasn't through Jesus.  The gospel was blasphemy as far as he was concerned.  And so, he writes, he persecuted the church.  And yet there's hope.  Paul was stuck.  He had a mountain of faith, but it wasn't in Jesus.  The torah had been preparing Israel for Jesus all those centuries, but Paul and so many others just couldn't see it, couldn't make the leap.  But even as he persecuted the church, the Lord was at work to transform Paul.  “But by the grace of God I am what I am,” he writes, “and his grace toward me was not in vain. On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me.” Brothers and Sisters, there's that righteousness greater than that of the Pharisees.  There's the faith that humbles the proud and brings even the greatest sinner into the kingdom.  Not because the faith is so great, but because it's in Jesus the Messiah.  It's a faith that brings forgiveness and the life of the Spirit.  Habakkuk wrote that the just shall live by faith and that's precisely what Jesus' people do.  He gives us the very life of God, because we trust in him.  And that life he gives—the law of love written on our hearts, the experience of God's love and faithfulness revealed so dramatically in our Saviour—that life fills our hearts with a faith that overflows.  And that, Brothers and Sisters, is how we live in this in-between time.  It's how those first Christians lived through the devastation of Jerusalem's destruction.  It's how the next generation lived through Rome's persecution.  It's how the saints lived, even as they were thrown to the lions.  It's how the saints still live in many parts of the world, imprisoned because they live by faith, tortured because they live by faith, martyred because they live by faith.  And it's how the saints have lived in the midst of a world that still isn't right, that still anticipates the final consummation of the Lord's new creation.  We live by faith as we struggle in our work..  We live by faith as we struggle with illness or frailty or cancer.  We live by faith as we struggle to bring justice and mercy to a world that is so unmerciful and lacking in justice.  We live by faith as we face droughts and floods and forest fires.  We live by faith in the midst of difficult and broken relationships.  And we live by faith as we live out our calling to proclaim the good news about Jesus in a world that thinks us fools; faithful to our calling to holiness in a world filled with idolatry and sin.  It's how we live in hope, like Habakkuk, like the Apostles, like they martyrs, looking past this broken world and the evils of our time, and knowing that the Lord is faithful to his promises, that he will set this world to rights, and that in Jesus, he will surely finish what he has begun—we know he will, because he always has. Let's pray: Lord God, you declare your almighty power most chiefly in showing mercy and pity: mercifully grant to us such a measure of your grace, that we, running the way of your commandments, may receive your gracious promises, and be made partakers of your heavenly treasure; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

A Sermon for the Tenth Sunday after Trinity 1 Corinthians 12:1-11 & St. Luke 19:41-47 by William Klock Imagine being in the crowds that surrounded Jesus as he made his way through the towns and cities to Jerusalem for the last time.  By now, everyone knew who he was—or, at any rate, who he claimed to be.  There were sceptics.  There were believers.  A lot of people weren't sure what to believe.  He wasn't what people expect of the Messiah, but he was doing Messiah things.  He was healing the sick and the blind and the lame.  He cast out demons.  He raised the dead.  He preached good news to the poor.  Think of the crowds in Jericho, the last city before Jesus climbed the mountain to Jerusalem.  The crowds swarmed the road to see him, he'd healed blind Bartimaeus, and that thing with Zacchaeus!  That little twerp had spent his traitorous life selling out to the Romans and ripping everyone off, but since he'd met Jesus he was a new man—even paying everyone back what he'd stolen.  Everywhere that Jesus went, the promises of the Prophets of old were finally being fulfilled.  Despite all the questions people had about him, there was definitely something about Jesus.  That, and Passover was just days away.  Jesus plus Jerusalem plus Passover!  Surely something big was about to happen!  Maybe the day of the Lord really was just around the corner and that got everyone out and lining the road as Jesus came through town. And then, on his way out of town, Jesus stopped and looked around.  The crowd went silent.  He was about to say something.  “There was once a nobleman,” Jesus said, “who went to a far country to be given royal authority and then return.  He summoned ten of his slaves and gave them ten silver coins.  ‘Do business with these,' he said, ‘until I come back.'  His subjects, however, hated him, and sent a delegation after him to say, ‘We don't want this man to be our king.' “So it happened that when he received the kingship and came back again, he gave orders to summon these slaves who had received the money, so that he could find out how they had got on with their business efforts.  The first came forward and said, ‘Master, your money has made ten times its value!” “ ‘Well done, good and faithful servant!” he said.   ‘You've been faithful with something small; now you can take command of ten cities.' “The second came and said, ‘Master, your money has made five times its value!' “ ‘You too—you can take charge of five cities.' “The other came and said, ‘Master, here is your money.  I kept it safe, hidden away in this handkerchief.  I was afraid of you, knowing that you are a hard man.  You profit where you made no investment and you harvest where you did not sow.' “ ‘I'll condemn you out of your own mouth, you wicked servant!  You knew that I'm a hard man, profiting where I haven't invested and harvesting where I haven't sown, so why didn't you at least put my money in the bank?  Then, at least, I'd have earned some interest when I got back!” “ ‘Take the money from him,' he said to the bystanders, ‘and give it to the man who turned my one coin into ten!' (‘Master,' they said to him, ‘he's got ten coins already!') And then paused and he looked around at the crowd and his face was sombre and the people could tell, he wasn't just telling a story anymore.  Now he was the king from the story talking directly to them “ ‘Let me be clear,” he said, “To everyone who has will be given more; but if someone has nothing, even what he has will be taken away from him.  But as for these enemies of mine, who didn't want me to be king over them—bring them here and slaughter them in front of me.” And with that, Luke says that Jesus went on his way, setting out on that winding road up to Jerusalem.  No further interactions with the crowd.  No further commentary.  Did the people understand?  I think they must have.  Of course, the problem was—as so often seems to be the case—everyone was pointing fingers at everyone else.  Jesus the Messiah had come to judge—to bring God's justice—but it was the other guys who were the problem.  The Pharisees looked down on everyone who wasn't a Pharisee.  The Essenes looked down on everyone who wasn't an Essene.  The am ha'artez—the regular Joes—they looked down in return on those other folks because they were always looking down on everyone else.  And the Sadducees?  Pfft.  Judgement.  It'll never happen—just like the resurrection of the dead will never happen.  But everyone understood what Jesus was saying.  He was the king finally coming back to see what his servants have been up to in his absence.  The crowds already saw Jesus as part of the story of Israel.  If he was the Messiah, then he was the rightful king returning to Zion to take his throne—just like the king in the parable.  And that—if Jesus really was the Messiah—that meant the day of the Lord—the day when God would judge the wicked and vindicate the righteous—that meant it was coming—almost here—just like in the parable. So this was the day the prophets had spoken of.  The Jewish exiles had returned to Jerusalem from Babylon hundreds of years before, they'd rebuilt the city and the temple, but the Lord's presence had never returned.  The temple, as glorious as it was—especially after Solomon's recent renovations—the temple sat empty.  The priests went about their business of offerings and sacrifices, but the cloud of glory that had once rested on the ark of the covenant, the presence of the God of Israel, had never returned and, because of that, the people questioned whether their exile had really ever ended.  They were back in the promised land, but the most important part of the promised land—the presence of the Lord—was still missing.  The prophet Malachi had announced that the “the Lord whom you seek” would come to the temple, but that he would come in fiery judgement.  Zechariah, too, spoke of the Lord, one day, finally, returning to Zion.  Again, everyone would have understood Jesus' story.  He was saying that in him, the Lord was finally returning to Jerusalem as he had promised through the Prophets.  And Jesus has left them with that big question: Who will stand before the Lord's judgement. And the part of the story about the talents entrusted to the servants made perfect sense to the people.  That was them.  They knew that the Lord had given them a purpose.  They knew that the Lord had called Abraham, that he had delivered their ancestors from Pharoah's bondage, that he had led them to the promised land to be a light in the midst of the nations—a witness to what it looks like to be the people who live with the Creator God in their midst.  They knew that their ancestors had gone off into exile in judgement for their faithlessness and idolatry.  And that judgement still hung over them.  The people of Israel were called to be stewards of God's covenant, his law, his grace and when he returned he would judge them.  Had they been faithful stewards?  All along the way, as Jesus made his way from Galilee to Jerusalem, he was warning the people that if they did not listen to him, if they did not repent, if they continued to treat the Lord's covenant with disdain, the Lord's judgement would fall on them: on the nation, on Jerusalem, and especially on the temple.  Jesus is saying that in him, the God of Israel is coming and on that day of judgement, you don't want to be that faithless servant who has been a poor steward of God's grace and hidden away his master's treasure in a handkerchief. Jesus reminds the people that God's kingdom was about to come and that as much as it was good news for many, it also meant horrible judgement for a lot of them.  Some of the crowd cheered, some wept happy tears, but there were some—the people invested in the status quo, the people with their own firmly entrenched ideas of what the Messiah would be like and how the Lord's return was supposed to go down—there were some who were angry.  Like those in the parable, they didn't want this man to be their king.  They couldn't bear the thought that somehow this Jesus was actually the Messiah, let alone the Lord, the God of Israel returned to Zion. And I expect that parable raced ahead of Jesus, up the long and winding road from Jericho to Jerusalem—passed from mouth to mouth down the long line of pilgrims on their way to Passover.  The parable prepared the way for Jesus to enter Jerusalem.  Luke leaves out the long and tiring journey up the road from Jericho—the road where we meet the Good Samaritan in another of Jesus' stories.  From Jericho Luke takes us straight to the top of the mountains, to Bethany, as Jesus sends his friends to find the prophesied donkey.  (That's the Palm Sunday Gospel we know so well.)  As Jesus rode through the crowd into Jerusalem, the people cheered him and sang messianic chants.  They knew what was happening.  The Lord was returning to Zion.  But just like at Jericho, there were those who were angry.  How dare Jesus do this!  And Jesus knew, despite the crowds who welcomed him, Jesus knew that judgement was inevitable.  The Pharisees were sure to remind him.  There he was, riding through the crowd to their messianic chants and the Pharisees pushed their way through and they said, “Rabbi, tell your disciples to cut it out.”  As far as they were concerned, this was blasphemy.  Jesus wasn't the Messiah, let alone the Lord returning to his people.  That, at this kingly display was probably going to cause problems with the Romans.  And with their rebuke ringing in his ears, Luke says in verse 41, that as Jerusalem came into view, Jesus stopped and wept. “If only you'd known this day—even you,” Jesus said, “the things that make for peace!  But now they are hidden from your eyes.  For the days are coming upon you, when your enemies will build up earthworks around you and surround you and hem you in on every side and bring you crashing down to the ground, you and your children within you. And they will not leave one stone on another, because you did not know the moment when God was visiting you.”   Jesus' tears remind us what's at the heart of the gospel.  For three years, Jesus had warned the people of Galilee that judgement was coming to the nation, to Jerusalem, and to the temple.  Over and over he called his people to repent.  His message hadn't gone over any better than it had for the prophets of old, like Jeremiah, who was known for the tears he wept over his people.  Jerusalem would be no different than Galilee and Jesus knew it.  He'd been rejected there—they even tried to stone him once.  His reception in Jerusalem was going to be even worse.  And as much as he knew rejection meant his own death, that's not why he wept.  He wept for their sake.  “Unless you repent, you will all likewise perish,” he had said a few chapters earlier.  And now he looks across the valley to Jerusalem where Pilate had just recently killed a bunch of Galileans and where the tower of Siloam had fallen, crushing people alive, and it was all just a foretaste of another, greater catastrophe soon to come.  A few decades later and the hills around the city would be covered with Roman crosses, bearing executed Jews and the city and the temple would be brought crumbling down. The people had heard the warning, but they would not listen and Jesus wept.  Again, not for himself or for his own coming death.  And not with any sense of, “I told you so!”  Jesus wept, because discipline and justice do not come from the cold heart of a distant God, but from the God who loves so deeply that he was willing to give his own life to summon his beloved to repentance, from a love that is faithful and that will set things to rights, in order to bring what's best.  A love that wept over a rebellious people intent on their own agendas and their own interests, who refused to be stewards of his goodness and grace. And the temple—the temple was at the heart of it all.  There's a reason why Jesus went straight to the temple when he entered Jerusalem.  That was what the Messiah was supposed to do.  And so Luke goes on in verses 45-48: He went into the temple and began to throw out the traders, saying to them, “It is written, ‘My house shall be a house of prayer,' but you have made it a den of robbers.”   And he was teaching daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the leading men of the people were trying to destroy him.  They couldn't find any way to do it, because all the people were hanging on his words.   If all we take away from this is that it was Jesus' angry protest of the commercialisation of the temple, we'll have missed the point.  This is another of his acted-out prophecies.  It's a warning—in the vein of Jeremiah—that if the temple becomes the hide-out of a bunch of robbers, it will fall under the Lord's judgement.  And, of course, that's just what had happened.  But the robbers weren't necessarily who we might at first think.  The money-changers and the folks selling animals for sacrifice had to be there.  Roman coinage wasn't allowed in the temple.  People needed animals for their sacrifices and not everyone could bring one from home.  Maybe the exchange rates and the prices were gouging the people, but the real robbers were the priests and leaders of Israel, who were robbing God in far more important ways. The temple stood at the heart of Jewish identity.  It represented the covenant between the Lord and his people.  And even though the cloud of his glory had never returned to it after the exile, it was still seen as that one place on earth where heaven and earth, where God and human beings met.  And so it was the symbol of the Lord's faithfulness to Israel, of the sureness of his covenant promises.  But in return the leaders of Israel used the temple to put on a show of faithfulness.  The overt idolatry, the altars to Baal and Asherah that sent Israel into exile were long gone, but the leaders of Israel had found other ways to be unfaithful to the Lord.  They lived as if a mere outward façade of faithfulness would bring his blessings and Jesus has been reminding them over and over and over, that the only real response to the Lord's covenant faithfulness is faithfulness and obedience in return.  Disobedience to the Lord's covenant doesn't just result in a lack of blessing.  No, if you're in covenant with the Lord, disobedience eventually calls down judgement.  The Lord will set this world to rights and if the people he has called to be stewards of his grace for the sake of the world will not be true to their calling, he will remove them from that stewardship and give it to another—just as in the parable.  The leaders of Israel had done nothing with their talent but bury it in the ground.  Soon it would be time to take it and give it to another. Again, this wasn't unexpected.  Throughout his ministry Jesus had pointed—sometimes subtly and other times not-so-subtly—to the fact that the temple's days were numbered and that, in him, the Lord was doing something new.  Maybe the greatest hints were those times when he announced the forgiveness of sins, without people having to go to the trouble of offering a sacrifice.  Repeatedly, Jesus bypassed the priests and the temple and offered, himself, what the temple had offered the people.  Later, he would announce that he would tear down the temple and rebuild it in three days.  All of this was blasphemy to the priests and to the scribes and the Pharisees.  And they never did grasp what he meant when he said he would rebuild the temple in three days, but those who saw him raised from the dead did.  Jesus was the new temple.  Heaven and earth, God and man no longer meeting in a building on the mountaintop, but now meeting in Jesus himself.  In him we meet the God of Israel.  In him we know his justice, but in him we also know his grace and his mercy and his love as he weeps for those about to face God's wrath, as he prays for the very people who crucified him.  In him, most of all, we see the profound faithfulness of God and his worthiness to receive glory and praise. And then the amazing thing.  As the Lord judged the old Israel for her unfaithfulness to her calling, in Jesus he creates a new people, a new Israel, and establishes a new covenant—a covenant this time ratified with his blood shed at the cross and in the pouring out of his own Spirit on his people.  We go from Jesus, in whom God and man, heaven and earth intersect, to his church—to a people—in whom the Lord himself dwells.  The old Israel looked to a law written on stone tablets, while the new—while we—live with the law written by the Spirit of God on our own hearts.  And in the same way, the old Israel looked to a temple of bricks and mortar on the mountaintop above Jerusalem, but by his Spirit, Jesus has made us the new temple.  He incorporates us into his ministry.  As we saw a couple of weeks ago.  We have been adopted we share in his inheritance.  And so, because our Lord is prophet, priest, and king, we too as a people share in his prophetic, priestly, and ruling ministry. In our Epistle today, 1 Corinthians 12:1-11, St. Paul reminded the Christians in Corinth of their calling—of the riches the Lord had entrusted to them.  The Spirit had empowered them with amazing gifts, but like the old Israel, they'd forgotten their calling and were using those gifts for their own agendas—again, burying the king's wealth in the ground—turning the Lord's temple into a den of robbers.  Paul writes: There are different types of spiritual gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are different kinds of service, but the same Lord; and there are different types of activities, but it is the same God who operates them all in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.  (1 Corinthians 12:4-7) This leads Paul into Chapter 13, where he writes about the nature and supremacy of love.  “Love never ends,” he says.  These other gifts are temporary, but they're meant to build up love.  They're meant to create a community of people who will be stewards of God's grace—a community of people redeemed and made new by his own blood, shed at the cross, a people who, by his grace, have a share in his new creation, a priestly and prophetic people called to go out as the Messiah's royal heralds to proclaim that he has died, that he has risen, and that he is the world's true Lord.  A people who live with the Lord in their midst and who show the world his faithfulness, to show the world that he is worthy of glory and praise. Brothers and Sisters, that's us.  Like Israel in Jesus's day, we live in an in-between time.  One day the Lord will return again to judge the earth, when the gospel has done its work, when every last one of his enemies has been put under his feet, when he comes to remove every last vestige of sin and rebellion and to set everything to rights, to wipe away every tear, and bring his new creation in all its fulness.  But in anticipation of that day, we are his stewards, empowered by his Spirit and entrusted with the gospel, with the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen. And as Christendom wanes—at least in our part of the world—and as the darkness creeps back in, there's a powerful sense in which we, the church, are coming to know exile as the old Israel once did.  Brothers and Sisters, that exile is a call to faithfulness, a call to remember that Jesus is king, and call to remember that his gospel and his Spirit will accomplish what he's sent them to do.  And that means that as stewards of his gospel and his Spirit, we will accomplish what he has chosen and called us to do—to be stewards of his grace, to be his royal heralds proclaiming his death and resurrection and his lordship until he comes again.  No matter how dark it gets, no matter how hated and despised we may be, the Lord is always faithful to his promises.  He is our hope and he never fails.  May we be faithful with the treasures of the gospel and the Spirit he has entrusted to us, that one day he may say, “Well done, good and faithful servants.” Let's pray: Let your merciful ears, O Lord, be open to the prayers of your humble servants; and, that we may obtain what we ask of you, teach us to ask for those things that please you, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.  

A Sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Trinity St. Luke 16:1-9 by William Klock The Pharisees and the legal experts were grumbling.  They'd come to meet with Jesus, but as Luke tells us, the tax-collectors and the sinners were coming close to Jesus and listening to him.  The Pharisees didn't associate with people like that and neither should Jesus, if he really was the Messiah.  You can practically hear their teeth grinding as that one Pharisee spits out with disdain and disgust, “This fellow welcomes sinners!  He even eats with them!”  If the kingdom of God was ever going to come, it certainly wasn't going to come that way! But Jesus, oh so patiently, sat down in response and told them a series of three stories.  We know them well.  He started with a story about a shepherd hunting high and low for a lost sheep.  And then he told a second story about a poor old widow hunting high and low for a precious lost coin.  And he told—you could see the joy on his face as he said it—he told how the shepherd rejoiced when he found his lost sheep and how the widow rejoiced when she found her lost coin.  And he looked at the Pharisees with that look that only Jesus could give and asked, “Wouldn't you rejoice, too, if that were you?  The heavenly court rejoices like that when a sinner repents?  Why can't you?”  And then the third story, the one about the presumptuous ne'er-do-well son who demanded an early inheritance from his father, then went off to live like a reprobate in a foreign, pagan land and only wised up when he squandered his last penny.  The lost son went home to his father, who rejoiced, just like the shepherd and the widow.  What was lost had been found.  But the boy's older brother refused to join in the celebration.  He got angry and raged at his father: “This son of yours squandered your livelihood with his whores, and now you've killed the fattened calf for him!”  Like the Pharisees, he sat out in the darkness grumbling over repentant sinners.  They were the longsuffering faithful ones.  When the Messiah comes, he was supposed to throw a party for them! That third story, the Parable of the Prodigal Son, is supposed to be our Gospel today, but it wasn't always.  Back in the late 1920s the men who revised the Prayer Book—in the US and in Scotland—they changed it.  Before that—and still in Prayer Books in other countries—the Gospel for today is the bit of Luke that comes next, right after the story of the prodigal son.  It was that way for well over a thousand years.  In part they changed the Gospel for today because of the rise of theological liberalism.  They had a watered down doctrine of the inspiration of the Bible and they came to think that some parts of the Bible weren't appropriate for public reading in the church.  But, I think, their main reason is that the traditional Gospel for today is really, really difficult.  Not necessarily difficult in the sense of being especially demanding on those of us who hear it (although it may be), but just plain difficult to understand.  What did Jesus mean?  It's not easy to say.  And so, when the Prayer Book was being revised, the folks in charge of the lectionary took the opportunity to take out a hard passage and to slip in an easy and familiar one.  And I've always preached on that easy and familiar story of the prodigal son, but today—maybe despite my better judgement—I'd like to look at that other Gospel, the one Christians were reading on this day going back maybe as far as fifteen-hundred years. Like I said, Jesus was telling those stories to the grumbling Pharisees in the fifteenth chapter of Luke, but then we turn the page to the sixteenth chapter and Luke said that “Jesus also said to his disciples…”  As Luke tells the story, there's no break.  Maybe we can grant that the Pharisees, offended by Jesus' parables, are walking away and it's now just the disciples.  There's a connection, somehow, between these two scenes.  Jesus was talking to the Pharisees and now he turns to his disciples and he also says: Once there was a rich man [a tycoon] who had a steward, and charges were laid against him that he was squandering his property.  So he called him in and said to him, “What's all this I hear bout you?  Present an account of your stewardship, because you cannot be my manager any longer.” He's fired—and for cause. So he [the now former manager] said to himself, “What am I going to do?  My master is taking my stewardship from me!  I can't do manual labour and I'm ashamed to beg… Ha!  I know what I'll do—so that people will welcome me into their houses after I'm fired from being steward.” So he called his master's debtors to him, one by one.  “How much,” he asked the first, “do you owe my master?” “A hundred measure of olive oil,” he replied “Take your bill,” he said, “sit down quickly, and make it fifty.” “To another he said, “And how much do you owe?” “A hundred measure of wheat,” he replied “Take your bill,” he said, “and make it eighty.” And the master praised the dishonest steward because he had acted wisely.  The children of this world, you see, are wiser than the children of light when it comes to dealing with their own generation. So I tell you this: use unrighteous wealth to make friends for yourselves.  Then when it gives out, they will welcome you into eternal dwellings.   So what's going on and what's Jesus getting at.  The first part of that isn't has hard as the second.  This man had a very desirable job.  Some men were known to sell themselves into slavery to be this kind of manger for a rich estate.  Think of Joseph in Egypt managing all of Potiphar's affairs.  It was prestigious and the pay was very good, but it also obviously required a high level of trust.  The manager managed while the rich man was off in the world enjoying his profits.  But in this case something went wrong.  When Jesus talks about this man squandering the business, he uses the same word he used to describe the prodigal son squandering his inheritance.  While the cats away, the mouse gets to playing and suddenly the cheques going out to the rich man are getting smaller.  So the rich man comes home to fire his manager and to find someone who will keep the profits rolling in consistently. But since they didn't keep records the way we do, the rich man demands his manager—as his last duty—provide him with an accounting of the business that he can give to whomever he hires as his new manager.  But when the manager leaves the meeting, he's not thinking about his accounting.  He's desperately thinking how he can maintain the good life he's become accustomed to.  He's not going to go out and dig ditches and he's too proud to beg.  But then that account.  He gets a brilliant idea. He starts calling in the rich man's debtors.  In each of them comes with the receipt for his loan.  The first man owes a hundred measures of oil.  The second one owes a hundred measures of wheat.  These are not small sums.  This is sort of the First Century equivalent of a military contract for feeding the army.  And he says to the first man, “Cross out one hundred and make it fifty.  To the second he says, “Cross out one hundred and make it eighty.”  You can imagine how happy the debtors were when they left those meetings.  They had a new best friend, which was exactly what the manager was going for. But what's he doing?  Because to us, at face value, it looks like he's taking advantage of his master not knowing the business and now he's ripping him off to ingratiate himself with these other men.  He was dishonest in his earlier management, but for what he does here, he gets praise from both the rich man and Jesus—and that doesn't make sense if he's just compounding his dishonestly and driving the business further into a hole.  This is why preachers avoid this parable and Prayer Book revisers drop it from the lectionary. If, however, we dig up the cultural and historical background to a text like this, it clears a lot up.[1]  When we do that we find that even though the torah forbade charging interest, it was still a common practise.  They had ways to keep it off the books.  Maybe the manager would call it his “commission” or they'd pad the receipt. You couldn't loan someone 10 denarii and write them a receipt for 10 denarii that also demanded an additional denarii each month or a penalty for late payment.  That was against the law.  But what you could do is loan someone 10 denarii and write them a receipt for 20.  They only borrowed ten.  You knew and they knew that the other 10 denarii were interest, but since the receipt simply indicated a debt of 20 denarii there was nothing anyone could do about it. So we figure out that on top of squandering the rich man's profits, the manager has also been charging interest or a “commission”.  That's what he writing off when he tells these men to write down their receipts.  Over and over he does this with each of his master's debtors.  Imagine how happy they are to have their debts cut so dramatically. When he left the meeting with his master he was out of work and knew that no one would hire him.  Word would get around about his dishonesty.  But now he's countered that.  He isn't really being honest—he's still motivated by self-preservation—but others might think that he's turned over a new leaf and that he's going to start doing business honestly.  Ultimately his goal is to ingratiate himself into their hospitality.  In verse 4 he thinks to himself that if he does this, these people will “receive” him into their houses.  In Greek he uses this same word when he tells each of his master's debtors to “take”—literally to “receive”—their bills.  He's expecting some quid pro quo, some tit for tat.  As they receive their reduced bills, with any luck he'll receive their gratitude and hospitality. And, as we read, in verse 8, the rich man, when he hears about all this, he commends him. The master praised the dishonest steward because he had acted wisely.   To be clear, Jesus isn't calling him the “dishonest steward” because he wrote off the interest.  That—even if the motive was selfish—that was actually an honest thing to do.  He was dishonest in his management—and, knowing how such people are, he's probably still dishonest—but the point now is that he has acted wisely to preserve himself in a difficult situation. That's the parable itself.  Knowing the background behind first century management and lending practises helps us sort out the difficulties of the story.  But understanding what the manager was up to is only half the reason this parable is so difficult.  We still have to ask what Jesus' point was in telling it. Jesus says to his disciples: The master praised the dishonest steward because he had acted wisely.  The children of this world, you see, are wiser than the children of light when it comes to dealing with their own generation. So I tell you this: use unrighteous wealth to make friends for yourselves.  Then when it gives out, they will welcome you into eternal dwellings.   I can't help but think that even though Luke presents this as a parable, that it was probably a real story and that Jesus opened it saying something like, “You remember that guy—the guy who managed that huge estate over in Capernaum—the guy who got fired when he lost a whole year's profit in a shady business scheme and then got fired—remember that guy?”  Just maybe the rich man in the story was one of those grumbling Pharisees.  I say that, because Jesus' point is that people really do these kinds of things to save themselves from trouble.  They lie and they cheat and then when they get caught and trouble comes, like the dishonest manager, they scramble to fix things to stave off disaster.  And Jesus compares these shrewd or prudent “sons of this world” with the “sons of light”.  This is where the story becomes difficult again.  Who are the “sons of light”?  I've read some pretty good commentary that argues that the sons of light are Jesus' followers.  Jesus has been preaching that judgement is coming and here he's saying that they'd better use their worldly goods to find some way to escape it or find a way through it.  The problem is that if the sons of light are Jesus' disciples too many parts of the story don't add up.  It's a good idea, but it comes from a common way of approaching the gospels that ignores the real historical setting in which Jesus was living and preaching and, instead, spiritualises or tries to universalise his message as if he could be preaching to anyone anywhere. But Jesus didn't come to just anyone and he didn't come at some random time or some random place.  Jesus came at a strategic point in history and, more specifically, he came as the culmination and fulfilment of Israel's story.  Israel's mission was to carry the Lord's blessing to the nations, but she failed.  And so Jesus came, not just as the Messiah—not just as the long-expected king in the line of David.  He also came as Daniel's “Son of Man”—he came as Israel's representative.  He took up her mission and where she had failed, he succeeded.  Where the Lord's letter of redemption and restoration of creation had stalled out in Israel's post office, Jesus delivered it to the entire world. So at the core of Jesus' ministry was the proclamation that in him the kingdom had arrived and that in him God is now king.  And for these three years he spent proclaiming that message and travelling throughout Galilee and Judea, what he was really doing was calling Israel—the children of light—to follow him.  He was picking up where she had failed, but she could still take part in his mission if she would only cast aside her wrong ideas about God and his plan and follow Jesus as he manifested his lordship to the world, by seeking out the lost and by conquering sin and death as he died on the cross and rose from the grave. Jesus is preaching to Israel here.  He's giving commentary on her history and calling her to repentance.  And that means that the rich man in the story is the Lord.  He is rich.  He created the cosmos and he created humanity so that he could share his riches of love and grace with us.  And when we rebelled and rejected him, he called Abraham to carry his message of grace to the nations.  Abraham and then Israel, the nation descended from him, were called to be the Lord's managers in this world.  But just as the manager in the parable squandered his master's riches, Israel squandered the Lord's riches of grace.  And now judgement is coming.  The manager in the story saw judgement coming and had the sense to act decisively and to do something even though it meant giving up his riches.  But in contrast, as Israel faced the Lord's judgement for squandering his riches, most of the people were going about their lives as if they had nothing to worry about.  The Sadducees were firm in their denial of any need to change the status quo.  Of all the people in Israel, the Pharisees knew that something had to change and that the people had to turn to God.  But the solution of the Pharisees was to turn the light they had been given into darkness.  Instead of using the law God had given Israel as a means of carrying light into the darkness, the Pharisees kept the light to themselves and condemned everyone left in the dark.  Instead of seeking out the lost, they condemned them.  The law wasn't enough; they had to add to it, making it burdensome, not unlike the dishonest manager who had padded his debtor's bills with heavy interest loads. So in the parable, Jesus is warning Israel.  It's not just that judgement is coming, but to escape judgment, God's people had to act and they had to act now.  They had to repent and they had to repent now.  And that meant letting go and potentially giving up all the things they held dear.  We've seen Jesus pointing this direction throughout his ministry.  A new age and a new kingdom were coming in which blood ties with Abraham wouldn't matter anymore—what will matter is allegiance to Jesus the King.  He is Israel himself and true Israelites, true sons and daughters of Abraham, will be those who find their identity in him.  They also had to let go of the land, because this new kingdom isn't about a place—again, it's about Jesus himself.  And they had to let go of the temple.  In this new kingdom the Lord's presence is no longer found in temples of stone, but in hearts of flesh—in the hearts of those who are in Jesus and filled with the Spirit. Jesus says, “Use unrighteous wealth to make friends for yourselves.  Then when it gives out, they will welcome you into eternal dwellings.”  These aren't easy words to translate and it's hard to say exactly what Jesus meant, but it seems that like the manager in the story, they—and we—need to be ready to give up the things of the kingdom that is passing away in order to be welcomed into the kingdom that is being inaugurated by Jesus.  This was Jesus' word of warning to his disciples, to the Pharisees, and to the people of Israel. And again, we need to remember the real history that surrounds and weaves its way through the New Testament.  Jesus wasn't warning the Jews of some far off spiritual day of reckoning; he was warning of imminent destruction coming in a very tangible and earthly way—before this generation passes away, he said.  Interestingly enough, the Jerusalem Church escaped when the judgement Jesus warned about came to Jerusalem.  Josephus in his Jewish War and Eusebius in his History of the Church both tell us that the Christians received a divine warning and fled to Pella, in what it now Jordan.  They took the decisive action Jesus talks about in the parable, they left everything behind, and they were spared when the Romans destroyed the city and the temple. Brothers and sisters, the fulfilment of Jesus' promise of judgement in the First Century serves as a warning to us that his promise of final judgement will also be fulfilled.  And so we now need to ask if we've been good and honest stewards of God's grace.  Have we been good and honest stewards of the Good News?  Have we lived it?  Have we proclaimed it?  Or have we kept it to ourselves?  Have we become self-righteous and used our kingdom status to condemn the lost rather than to seek them out?  Have we added heavy burdens to the Good News?  The heart of the Good News is that Jesus is Lord, but like the dishonest manager, are we trying to get our cut too—lining our pockets or feeding our spiritual pride?  Or are we preaching the unfettered Good News that Jesus is Lord and that at the cross and at the grave he conquered sin and death. And to what do we hold too closely?  Is our priority in life the wealth that Jesus talks about in the story?  Whether rich or poor, we have a powerful tendency to hold on to money and possessions for security.  But brothers and sisters, money and possessions are part of the kingdom that is passing away.  Even the dishonest manager understood that.  All his profit would do him no good when judgement came, and so he let it go that he might find a way to survive in what was for him a new age.  The same goes for us.  Are we clinging to the things of this fading kingdom—to things that will not last or that will be of no value in the kingdom of God—or are we using them as tools to further God's kingdom and God's plans and to ensure that we have a place in his kingdom? Let us pray: Grant us, Lord, we pray, the spirit always to think and do those things that are right; that we who cannot do anything good without you, may in your strength live according to your will; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen. [1] See J. Duncan M. Derrett, “Fresh Light on St Luke xvi.1. The Parable of the Unjust Steward,” in New Testament Studies 7 (1960-61), pp. 198-219 and Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “The Story of the Dishonest Manager (Lk 16:1-13),” in Theological Studies 25 (1964), pp. 23-42.

A Sermon for the Eighth Sunday after Trinity Romans 8:12-17 & St. Matthew 7:15-21 by William Klock Jesus sat on the mountainside with a great crowd of people spread out all around.  They hung on his every word as he announced the coming of God's kingdom.  This is what Israel had been waiting for years—for centuries.  Here was the prophet like Moses, promised all the way back in Deuteronomy.  Here he was, like Moses, on the mountain.  But this time, instead of stone tablets with God's law written on them, Jesus was describing a kingdom in which God's law of love is inscribed on the hearts of its people—transforming them, setting them right from the inside out.  Just as the law given by Moses described the things that separated the people of God from everyone else—who was in and who was out—Jesus described what the people of God's new kingdom were to be like—this new people, filled with the very Spirit of God.  But then, knowing how people are and knowing how Israel had fallen so many times in the past, Jesus ended his “Sermon on the Mount” with a series of warnings.  First he warned against going with the flow.  Repentance is hard and really changing is even harder.  Jesus was at odds with the leaders of the Jews—most of all because of the things he said about the temple.  Its days were coming to an end.  God would build a new one—but this one would be made, not of stone, but of people—men and women indwelt by God himself.  Jesus knew it would be easy for people to just stick with the old way of doing things and so he warned: “Go in by the narrow gate.  It's a tight squeeze and not many will find their way through, but that's the way to life.”  And then—this where today's Gospel picks up—Jesus warns, “Watch out for false prophets!”  Oh, they knew all about that.  Everybody knew how, back in the days leading up the Exile, the real prophets had declared the word of the Lord and called Israel and her leaders to repentance, but that the kings and the priests, and most everybody else instead listened to the false prophets who assured them that, in fact, everything was fine just as it was and that they had nothing to worry about.  The false prophets led the people straight into judgement.  Nobody wanted a repeat of that!  But, of course, the problem with false prophets is that no one ever thinks their favourite prophet could possibly be false.  Jesus knew that in the coming years, spokesmen for the status quo—for the wide and easy way—would arise from amongst the scribes and the Pharisees and the Sadducees, and the Zealots and the Essenes and they would preach passionately that their way was the real way, the true way—God's way.  Missiologist Ed Stetzer likes to say, “If you want people to like you, don't become a pastor; sell ice cream.”  There's an even better way: Assure people that God's cool with them just the way they are and with the things they're already doing.  People will love you to death.  That's precisely what Jesus was warning the people about that day. Let's look again at our Gospel, beginning with Matthew 7:15.  Jesus said, Watch out for false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inside they are ravenous wolves!  You'll be able to tell them by the fruit they bear: you don't find grapes growing on thorn bushes, do you, or figs on thistles?  Well, in the same way, good trees produce good fruit, and bad trees produce bad fruit.  Good trees can't produce bad fruit, nor can bad ones produce good fruit!  Every tree that doesn't produce good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.  So, you must recognise them by their fruits.   And then, in verse 21, Jesus gets even sharper with his warning: Not everyone who says to me, “Lord, Lord,” will enter the kingdom of heaven; only people who do the will of my Father in heaven.  [That's the fruit we should be looking for.]  On that day lots of people will say to me, “Lord, Lord, we prophesied in your name, didn't we?  We cast out demons in your name!  We performed lots of powerful deeds in your name!”  Then I will say to them, “I never knew you!  You're a bunch of evildoers.  Go away from me!”   Judgement was coming to Israel.  We have a bad tendency to pull Jesus' words and especially his warnings out of context, to pull them out of history, and to push them into some point far in the future and when we do that, we strip out the urgency.  One day there will be a judgement that comes to the whole earth, but Jesus' horizon was the judgement that would come on Judah and on Jerusalem and the temple in about forty years—a judgement that would put an end to all the things and ways of the past and that would vindicate him and his people and this whole “new covenant”.  It would bring an end to the first act in the story and draw back the curtains on the second. In light of that, I think it's good to recap the story.  God's creation was a disaster and it all went wrong because human beings rebelled against him.  Even wiping out the entire human race and starting over with the one, last righteous man and his family didn't solve the problem.  So in that dark world the Lord called Abraham out of the nations.  He made himself known to Abraham and most of all he showed Abraham his goodness and his faithfulness so that Abraham could be a witness to that goodness and faithfulness.  And the Lord made Abraham into a people, a nation, and he did the same with them.  Over and over he showed them his goodness and his faithfulness.  He made them promises and then he did what he said.  When they were slaves in Egypt, he rescued them, he cared for them in the wilderness, and he led them into the promised land and gave them wells they hadn't dug and cities they hadn't built.  He gave them his law, he gave them a king, and most importantly he lived in their midst.  The other nations had temples and in those temples were idols of wood or gold or stone that were blind, deaf, dumb, and powerless.  But in the midst of Israel was the tabernacle where the glory of the Lord rested on the ark of the covenant.  A real, living God who was good and who was faithful and proved it to his own people before the watching eyes of the world. Again, Israel was to be a witness to the nations.  The nations were supposed to see the goodness and faithfulness of the Lord reflected in the corporate life of his people.  As they lived in his presence and as they trusted in him and were obedient to his law.  They were also supposed to be the righteous benchmark by which the Lord would one day judge the nations when he came to put an end to their wickedness and to set his world to rights. But over and over Israel failed to be that witness and to be that benchmark.  The Lord sent prophets to call his people to repentance, but they rejected his prophets.  Sometimes they even killed them.  Instead, they listened to false prophets who told them everything was fine.  The Lord even sent his people into exile.  The promised land was his.  It was holy.  And if they weren't going to be holy too, then they could not live in his land or in his presence.  First the northern tribes were conquered and scattered by the Assyrians and then the southern tribes were conquered by the Babylonians.  Jerusalem and the temple were destroyed and the people were taken off in captivity to live in a foreign, pagan land.  The Lord was faithful to his promises when he disciplined his people, and, again, he was faithful to his promises when he returned them to the land.  But the people were still fickle.  They still served him with divided loyalties. And so, after a long string of prophets whom the people rejected, the Lord finally sent his own son.  He sent his son to proclaim his soon-to-come judgement on Israel and to call his people to repentance.  But he also sent his son to be the faithful Israelite, the Israelite who would single-mindedly serve him, the Israelite who would obey the law, the Israelite who would be that holy and righteous benchmark, the Israelite who would ultimately die the death that his sinful people deserved and become a sacrifice for their sins. The key point here with regard to today's Gospel is that Jesus came to announce that the Lord was about to judge his people and to call them to repentance.  Those who refused to repent—those who listened to the false prophets, who carried on down the easy, wide way, would face death and destruction in a generation.  And with that announcement came a call to repentance.  There was a narrow way that would lead through that judgement to life.  It wasn't an easy way.  Just as Jesus was mocked and rejected and eventually put to death, so those who repented and followed him would walk a similar path.  At the beginning of this same Sermon on the Mount, Jesus had said to them, “Blessed are you when people slander you and persecute you, and say all kinds of wicked things about you falsely because of me.  Celebrate and rejoice: there's a great reward for you in heaven.  That's how they persecuted the prophets who went before you.”  On the other side of that rejection was life—life in a new people of God who would be filled with his own Spirit and who, because of that, would have a righteousness greater than the Pharisees.  They would finally be the people who would be faithful to the Lord and, most of all, in whom the nations would see the goodness and faithfulness of the Lord, so that they, in turn, would come in faith to bring him glory.  The nations would see reflected in this new Israel the glory of a god unlike any of the gods they had ever known and so God's glory would spread and his new creation would grow.  And all those who found themselves in Jesus the Messiah would find this gift of the Spirit a foretaste, a down-payment on that day when the gospel has done its work, when the glory of the Lord covers the earth as the waters cover the sea, and when death itself is finally defeated.  On that day God will raise them all to new life, just as he has raised Jesus, and they will live forever in his presence in a world set to rights once and for all. But that narrow way in the meantime was going to be hard.  If it wasn't slander and persecution, false prophets would try to lure them down the easy way—to go with the flow—straight into judgement.  And so Jesus warned them: Look for good fruit.  It's not their zeal or even the miracles they might perform; pay attention to their fruit.  Do you see God's new creation unveiled in them?   Do they show the life of the Spirit?  Or are they still invested in the ways and things that are passing away?  Are they still focused on a law written on stone or have their hearts been transformed by Jesus and the Spirit?  The prophets reflected the state of the nation.  In a few short years judgement would fall on Jerusalem and people would be crying out to the Lord for deliverance.  But the Lord knows his own by their fruit and these had borne none, because they'd rejected Jesus and instead listened to fruitless prophets.  In contrast, Jesus says, “Those who do the will of my Father in heaven”—those who have found their identity in me and have been filled with my Spirit—they're the ones who will fulfil the law and, because of that, because of the fruit the Spirit causes them to bear, they'll be known by the Father. Now, to change gears just a little bit, this is where Paul picks up in our Epistle from Romans 8.  Jesus knew that his people would face rejection and opposition and persecution—even martyrdom—for the sake of following him.  He knew they would be confronted by false prophets who would tell them that everything was fine and that they were foolish for following Jesus.  And Paul was shepherding people in very similar situations.  He saw fellow Jewish believers, even out in the gentile world, being hassled and harassed by their fellow Jews for the sake of their faith in Jesus.  Sometimes their fellow Jews would even be so angry with them that they'd rat them out to the Roman authorities for being disloyal citizens of the empire.  But, too, the people in these churches in places like Rome or Asia Minor faced harassment from their pagan neighbours and even from the civil and religious authorities.  At the time Paul wrote this in the 50s, there wasn't any official persecution of Christians by the Romans, but Paul could see that it was eventually going to come.  People don't like it when you expose their sin and warn of coming judgement.  The Jews didn't like it when Jesus did it.  And Paul, seeing it on a small scale already, knew that the gentiles wouldn't like it when it was their turn.  Caesar definitely wouldn't like it, because of course, to proclaim that Jesus is Lord is, at the same time, to proclaim that Caesar is not.  When persecution came, it would be easy for believers to turn away from Jesus because of their fear.  And there would be false prophets proclaiming to the churches that everything was fine, that compromise was okay—like the Judaisers in Galatians or the Nicolaitans in Revelation. So Paul exhorts the Christians in Rome to stand firm.  The Lord has called them and made them his witnesses and they have no reason to fear.  Look again at Romans 8:12-21: So then, brothers, debtors we are, but not to human flesh, to live our life in that way.  If you live in accordance with the flesh, you will die; but if, by the Spirit, you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live.  For all who are led by the Spirit of God, you see, are God's children.  You didn't receive a spirit of slavery, did you, to go back again into a state of fear?  But you received the spirit of sonship, in whom we call out “Abba, Father!”  When that happens, it is the Spirit himself giving supporting witness to what our own spirit is saying: that we are God's children.  And if we are children, we are also heirs: heirs of God, and fellow heirs with the Messiah, as long as we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.   “Look,” Paul is saying, “Israel was captive to the flesh.  They had God's good law to live by, but it was written on tablets of stone and their hearts were full of the same poison as the hearts of the rest of the human race.  The Lord poured out his love on them and they should have loved him wholeheartedly in return, but their hearts were broken, set on sin and on self—and so they could never return the Lord's love.  Not truly.  They had—and their descendants still have –reason to fear.  The Lord will judge their unfaithfulness.”  But, says Paul, “You are different.  Not only have you been forgiven through the atoning sacrifice of Jesus on the cross, but God has poured his own Spirit into you and that makes all the difference.  The Spirit renews your minds and regenerates your heart.  The law that was once written on stone—the law that we sum up in those words about loving the Lord with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength and your neighbour as yourself—the Spirit writes that law on our hearts.  If we are in Jesus the Messiah, the law is no longer a stone tablet we look at and say, ‘I wish I could do that.'  Now it's written on our hearts.  It's our desire.  It's what we value, because of the Spirit.”  Paul says that we still have to put to death our old ways, but it's this gift of God's own Spirit that makes it possible.  And it's always good to remember that the Lord does not give his gifts in vain. Brothers and Sisters, it's good at this point to pause and let this sink in.  I think we often forget that there's a bigger purpose behind all of this.  We know that sin is wrong.  We know that through Jesus our sins are forgiven.  We know that the Spirit turns our hearts away from sin to righteousness.  We know that we're supposed to put away the old man and put on the new and live in the Spirit.  But I think we sometimes forget that forgiveness and righteousness aren't ends in themselves.  Again, remember the story.  Remember why God created a people for himself in the first place.  Think of Abraham in the midst of that big, dark world lost in sin and with no knowledge of the Lord.  Abraham and his family were to be witnesses to the Lord—to make him known, to be light in the darkness, to show that the Lord is good and faithful, different from the gods of the pagans, and worthy of the worship of the nations.  And this people, too, was to be the benchmark by which the nations were one day to be judged.  The old Israel failed and so God gave Jesus and the Spirit to create a new Israel—a new people to be both a light to the nations and the righteous benchmark by which they will one day be judged.  God's people have always had this dual ministry to the world—to be both a priestly and prophetic people.  As priests we mediate the presence and knowledge of God to the nations and as prophets we stand as—or we should stand—as God's benchmark of righteousness, calling the nations to repentance and showing forth his standard—showing the world what humanity was created to be. If that seems like a lot.  If it seems like an impossibly high calling, Paul goes on saying that we were once slaves to sin, but through Jesus and the Spirit we have been set free and adopted as sons of God.  Brothers and Sisters, by the Spirit we are incorporated into the story of Jesus the Messiah.  Because we have the Spirit, we belong to him.  We are, as Paul so often likes to say, “in the Messiah”.  And if we go back a few verses, Paul tells us that the God who “raised Jesus the Messiah from the dead will also give life to [our] mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in [us].”  I think this part of Romans is usually read as if Paul is talking about conversion, but it's really much deeper than that.  Paul is talking about how believers are taken up into the story of Jesus and participate in his suffering and resurrection.  To be filled with the Spirit is to be absolutely and completely assured that one day the Lord will raise our mortal (and in some cases martyred) bodies from the dead, just as he raised Jesus from the dead.  This is the root of faith.  This is what those Christians in Rome needed to remember and believe with all their hearts when persecution and tribulation came. And if they'll do that—in the power of the Spirit—Paul says they will become “sons of God”.  It's about participation in the story and life in Jesus as adopted sons of God—it's especially powerful when we let Paul's words stand without changing it to sons and daughters or to children of God.  He writes “sons of God” for a reason, just as he writes about crying out “Abba, Father” for a reason.  Both make it clear he's talking about our being incorporated into Jesus the Messiah and into his story.  Think back to Jesus crying out to his Father in Gethsemane the night before he was crucified.  Jesus' people cry with him, “Abba, Father”.  The Lord is no distant god.  Brothers and Sisters, because we are in his Son by faith, we too are his sons and daughters and have the privilege to cry out to him as Father just as Jesus did.  And Paul recalls that prayer in the garden for a reason.  That was Jesus' prayer to his Father, his prayer as he was about to face his own death, it was his prayer that his Father would take that horrible cup from him.  But it was also a prayer of faith as he submitted himself to his Father's plan.  We know that Paul is saying to the Romans that when that same cup of persecution and maybe even martyrdom comes to them, they can cry out to their Father with the same confidence that Jesus did, they can submit in faith to his plan the same way Jesus did, and they can know that the Father holds them in his hands the same way he held Jesus.  And, I think most important, they can expect that the Father will vindicate them the same way he vindicated Jesus.  They can know that one day the Father will raise them from the dead to share in the life of his new creation. If they will let themselves be taken up in the story of Jesus the Messiah—something they can't do on their own power, but they can in the power of the Spirit—if they suffer with the Messiah and walk his narrow and difficult path, they will be heirs with him—and his inheritance, his glory will be theirs. Brothers and Sisters, those first Christians, whether they were in Jerusalem and facing the wrath of their fellow Jews or whether they were in Rome facing the wrath of the pagans—in a few years facing the wrath of the Emperor Nero who would throw them to lions or burn them alive—Paul reminds them who they are in Jesus and the Spirit.  They are the people of God, a people washed clean by the blood of Jesus and a people made righteous by the Spirit, a people called to be prophets and priests.  Their calling was to stand before the tsunami of the world's wrath calling sinful men and women to repentance, while mediating the loving grace of God—proclaiming the good news that Jesus has died, that he is risen, and that life, that participation in God's new creation can be known through him. Brothers and Sisters, judgement fell on Jerusalem and the Lord proved himself faithful to his promises as he delivered the church there from destruction.  And the gospel went out to the Greeks and Romans and the Lord showed himself faithful again.  Through the gospel and through the faithful witness of his people, an entire empire believed.  With the biblical witness itself and with that history behind us, we have every reason to trust Jesus and the Spirit ourselves.  We now live on the other side of Christendom.  We don't know what will happen.  The gospel marches on in other parts of the world, but in ours, darkness is creeping back in.  I doubt that we will know martyrdom the way Paul and so many of those First Century believers did, but we will know in some way the wrath of the world as we stand as prophets and priests, confronting a rebellious world.  Stand firm.  Do not listen to the false prophets who call for compromise and for the easy way.  Do not fear the wrath of the world, for we are in Jesus the Messiah and bear the life of God's Spirit.  We are sons and daughters of the Father and no matter how bad things get, we can cry out with Jesus, “Abba, Father!” and know that he hears us.  He gave his Son for our sake, why would we think he would abandon us now?  And because we are united with the risen Jesus, because we are sons and daughters of God, we know that on the other side of all our troubles and sorrows lies our inheritance—as we confess in the Creed, the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. Let's pray: Father, through the redeeming death and resurrection of your Son and through the regenerating work of your Spirit, you have made us your people.  You have given us the task to stand as both prophets and priests, confronting this rebellious world and mediating your grace.  Strengthen us, we pray, that we might stand firm in this calling no matter what trials and tribulations we may face.  Make us new by your Spirit, fill us with your grace, and remind us that we share in the inheritance of your Son, who has been raised from the dead, that we might confront temptation and fear with a faith confident in your faithfulness.  Through Jesus we pray.  Amen

A Sermon for the Seventh Sunday after Trinity Hosea 14:1-9, Romans 6:19-23, & St. Mark 8:1-9 by William Klock The Prophet Hosea lived in the midst of a wicked and idolatrous people.  God's people had been split since the death of Solomon, the kingdom of Judah in the South and the Kingdom of Israel in the north.  Judah had its own problems with wickedness and idolatry, but compared to Israel Judah was a downright goody-two-shoes.  Hosea lived in the northern kingdom of Israel.  He could walk through the cities of Israel and see it all: drunkenness and sexual impurity of all kinds.  People mutilated their bodies and took their own sisters as wives.  Everywhere there was a general disregard for God's law.  And the King.  Those were politically turbulent days, but instead of trusting in the Lord, the King made forbidden alliances with pagan nations and played the game of international politics and intrigue.  But worst of all was the idolatry.  There was a temple to the Lord at Bethel and another at Dan (and that was a problem in itself), but all over Israel, whether in the towns and cities or at the “high places” out in the country, there were temples and altars to Baal and to his consort, Asherah.  The Levites at Bethel and Dan went through the motions of worshipping the Lord, but as Hosea looked around him it seemed most people had devoted themselves to this pagan sky god and his fertility goddess wife.  Sacred prostitutes spilled out of the temples and into the streets, enticing the Lord's people to what should have been unthinkable.  To Hosea it seemed like just about everyone in Israel, from the King down to the labourer in the market, had forgotten who they were and to whom they belonged.  They were the people who lived with the Lord in their midst.  They were the people chosen and called to show the nations the greatness of the God of Israel.  But no one cared about that anymore.  There was little difference anymore between an Israelite and an Assyrian or a Phoenician.  And to those pagans, the God of Israel was a joke—powerless, jilted by his own people, no one to be feared. And then the Lord spoke to Hosea.  And the Lord told him to go and find one of those prostitutes spilling out of the pagan temples and to marry her.  He wasn't just going to give Hosea a sermon to preach.  He did that too.  But, no, he was going to make Hosea himself a prophetic object lesson.  “Go, take to yourself a wife of whoredom and have children of whoredom,” said the Lord, “for the land commits great whoredom by forsaking the Lord” (Hosea 1:2). Hosea's life was to become a graphic reminder to the people of Israel that when the Lord had rescued them from Egypt, he had made her his people, the way a husband takes a bride.  He had loved her.  He had cared for her.  He had lavished good gifts on her.  And in return she had prostituted herself to other gods and forsaken his house.  In the same way, Hosea loved his wife, Gomer.  But repeatedly she abandoned him for other men and for her former life of prostitution.  Repeatedly Hosea went after her, buying her out of her bondage, restoring her to his house and to his loving care.  And in between he preached to Israel, reminding them of the Lord's love and the Lord's care and of the Lord's faithfulness.  In between he preached to Israel and called her to repentance—to turn aside from the Baals and the Asherahs and to return to her first love, to return to the Lord.  To remember who she was and to whom she belonged. Through Hosea the Lord warned the people that their betrayal would be costly, but he also reminded them of his love for them and of his faithfulness.  And he made them a promise.  We read part of that call and promise as our Old Testament lesson this morning.  Hosea 14:1-9. Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God,        for you have stumbled because of your iniquity. Take with you words        and return to the Lord; say to him,        “Take away all iniquity; accept what is good,        and we will pay with bulls        the vows of our lips. Assyria shall not save us;        we will not ride on horses; and we will say no more, ‘Our God,'        to the work of our hands. In you the orphan finds mercy.” I will heal their apostasy;        I will love them freely,        for my anger has turned from them. I will be like the dew to Israel;        he shall blossom like the lily;        he shall take root like the trees of Lebanon; his shoots shall spread out;        his beauty shall be like the olive,        and his fragrance like Lebanon. They shall return and dwell beneath my shadow;        they shall flourish like the grain; they shall blossom like the vine;        their fame shall be like the wine of Lebanon. O Ephraim, what have I to do with idols?        It is I who answer and look after you. I am like an evergreen cypress;        from me comes your fruit. Whoever is wise, let him understand these things;        whoever is discerning, let him know them; for the ways of the Lord are right,        and the upright walk in them,        but transgressors stumble in them.   The Lord called his people to repent, to turn aside from their idolatry, but he also promised that one way or another, he would heal their apostasy.  He will make them the people he chose and called them to be—his witnesses to the nations. I brought home a pile of antique camp stoves this weekend along with a large box of paint cans for when I get around to restoring them.  It had me thinking of the last camp stove I restored.  I had trouble finding a green paint that matched the original colour.  When I did find a good match, it was expensive automotive paint.  It was a unique stove, so I splurged on the paint.  And it started out okay.  I sprayed the paint and the colour was pretty much perfect, but the colour itself was pretty thin.  I thought maybe the cans had been sitting on the shelf a long time and all the pigment was settled in the bottom.  They say to shake the can for one minute after the little mixing ball rattles.  I warmed the can a bit and shook it for ten minutes.  No change.  What I managed to paint looked great, but it took a lot more paint than expected, so I ran out.  I went back to the store for another expensive can, got home, shook it like crazy for ten minutes just to be sure.  And I started spraying.  And this can was full of colour.  But the first thing I noticed was that it wasn't quite the same colour.  And then I noticed that it wasn't laying down smoothly.  No matter what I did, it left a rough and blotchy texture on the surface.  And, of course, to get the colours to match, I had to spray the new paint over everything I'd already painted with the old paint. And as I sat there looking at this mess of a project, I got discouraged and frustrated.  I'd invested a lot in that paint and had high hopes for what it would look like and in the end it failed me.  It didn't do what it was supposed to do.  And it got me thinking about Hosea and Gomer and the Lord and Israel—and about the church and about me.  I invested in some cans of paint.  The Lord invested in a whole people.  I expected that paint to make an antique stove look good and to show off my handiwork.  The Lord expected Israel to show his goodness and glory to the nations.  I thought about giving up on that paint—throwing the stove back into the electrolysis tank and stripping it back to metal and starting over.  But that's not what the Lord did with his people and it wasn't what I was going to do with that paint.  I sent photos to a friend who used to work painting cars and he said, “Clear coat covers a multitude of sins.”  He was right.  So I sat down with those stove parts and some water and some fine-grit sandpaper, and I spent hours wet-sanding.  I sanded and sanded until the paint was smooth and my hands were stained green.  And when I was done it looked awful.  It was smooth, but it was cloudy and swirly and covered in fine scratches.  But it was ready.  All it took was one can of clear coat and a few minutes of spraying.  Clear coat covers a multitude of sins.  It fills in the fine scratches and imperfections and somehow it always comes out with a smooth, glossy finish.  It never fails.  The next evening I put everything together on the workbench and it looked great.  You'd never know what a mess it had been except for all the green under my fingernails. And because I'm a preacher and the story of the God of Israel and his people is always on my brain, I thought about my friend's joke about clear coat covering a multitude of sins and then I went for a bike ride and the whole time I was thinking about the ways that clear coat is like Jesus and the Spirit.  I know on some level there's a heresy in there, but that's the problem with every analogy and I wasn't taking it that deep.  That expensive green automotive paint was Israel.  The Lord bought her out of Egypt, delivered her from Pharoah, and displayed to her and to the rest of the world his goodness and generosity in—at least a little bit—the same way I bought those cans of paint and showed the people, or at least the cashier at Lordco, the depth of my pockets.  And as the Lord set Israel to work to be a witness to his glory, I started spraying that paint to be a witness to my own handiwork—to photograph and post to the lantern and stove collectors' forum on the Internet and on YouTube—to the great acclaim of my fellow collectors.  And just like Israel, that paint failed to perform.  It didn't meet my expectations.  It made me look incompetent.  If I'd posted photos on the Internet without explanation, people would have mocked me for the sake of that paint that wouldn't do what it was supposed to do.  Not so unlike the nations that mocked the Lord, the God of Israel, because of the faithlessness of his people—although certainly with far greater consequences.  And the sanding.  The hours and hours of sanding, scuffing up, knocking down, smoothing out that paint that just would not behave.  And not unlike Israel, even when I was done and everything was ready, it still looked awful—not at all what I expected.  The Internet would have mocked me even more if they'd seen it and thought that was the finished project.  But then the clear coat that covers a multitude of sins—at least in my own mind, so much like Jesus the Messiah, God himself, sent to be the faithful Israelite.  To give his life for the sake of their sins, his shed blood—dare I say—like the clear coat, filling in all the scuffs and scratches to the point you'd never know just how unfaithful that paint—or Israel—had been to its purpose and mission.  And then that gloss it leaves behind.  Even if that expensive paint had done everything it was supposed to do, even if it went down flawlessly, it would never have look as perfect and as glossy as that damaged, roughed-up paint looked after it was clear-coated.  Kind of like the people of God.  Even if she'd kept the torah, a people with the divinely given law carved on stone tablets will never show forth the glory of the Lord the way a people filled with his own Spirit will show forth his glory. And so I took some photos and I posted them in the lantern and stove collectors' forum and the likes and the comments with glowing praise started rolling in.  Brothers and Sisters, that what's supposed to happen with the nations, when the world sees the handiwork of the God of Israel, the work of Jesus and the Spirit, in his people.  That's why you and I are here today.  Because God disciplined and renewed his people by his Son and by his Spirit and that new people became witnesses of his glory.  In their story the nations saw the faithfulness of God and through their proclamation they heard how it was done through Jesus the Messiah and through God's own Spirit.  And they came and gave him glory and believed in Jesus and that divine clear coat covered them just the way it had Israel, and they became—and eventually you and I became—part of the people of God and part of that community meant to continually witness his glory. And yet somehow, despite all that the Lord has done for us, we still need to be reminded who we are, to whom we belong, and what he's called us to do and to be.  Last week we heard Paul's words from Romans 6, reminding us of our baptism.  In the waters of baptism, he writes, we have died and risen with the Messiah.  We're like Israel, passing through the Red Sea.  When she went in, she belonged to Pharoah, slaves to the Egyptians, but when she came out the other side she belonged to the Lord, free to serve him in his goodness, his bride and a beloved member of his household.  In today's Epistle, Paul carries on a few verses later, again, Romans 6:19-23. For just as you once presented your members as slaves to impurity and to lawlessness leading to more lawlessness, so now present your members as slaves to righteousness leading to sanctification.    For when you were slaves of sin, you were free in regard to righteousness.   But what fruit were you getting at that time from the things of which you are now ashamed?  For the end of those things is death.  But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the fruit you get leads to sanctification and its end, eternal life.   Remember that Paul was writing to an audience that was mostly Jewish or at least steeped in the Jewish scriptures and in the Jewish identity.  When Paul wrote about slavery and freedom, the first thing that came to mind was the Lord's deliverance of Israel from her slavery in Egypt.  There had been a time when their ancestors had no choice but to obey the will of Pharaoh.  But as Moses led them through the Red Sea and delivered them from that bondage, so Jesus has led us through the waters of baptism and delivered us from our bondage to sin. That doesn't mean that the life we have in Jesus is always easy.  The Lord led Israel through the wilderness before taking her into the promised land and Jesus leads us through a wilderness of our own on our way to the age to come.  He promised that his disciples would be rejected—some would even die—on account of him.  We live in the overlap of the ages, but the Lord has a purpose in that.  We, his church, are his means of proclaiming the good news about Jesus and we are witnesses of his glory to the world so that the nations will believe and give him glory.  When it was finished, I posted photos of my stove project to the Internet and everyone liked the photos and posted comments giving me praise for what I'd done.  Do you ever stop to think that the Lord is, right now, doing the same sort of thing with us?  He's bought us with the blood of his Son, he's washed away our sins, and he's filled us with his Spirit, regenerating our hearts and renewing our minds.  He's made us new creations and he's sent us out into the world and the world is supposed to see his new creation in us and glorify him and believe.  When the world looks at the Church, it's supposed to see, to have a foretaste, of God's new creation and of the age to come in which all the pain and sorrow and sin and tears—even death itself—have been wiped away and everything set to rights. Before Jesus washed us clean and filled us with the Spirit we were slaves to sin and sin leads to death and we see it all around us.  It's the way of this fallen world.  But in Jesus and the Spirit the Lord has set us free, in Jesus and the Spirit he is sanctifying us—that means he's making us holy, making us into the people he intends for us to be—stripping away the old, worn paint and the rust, cleaning off the grime, sanding and prepping, painting and sanding and painting and sanding and clear-coating and all of that until his handiwork is perfect and holy and fully witnesses his glory—and causes the whole world to take note and not just to like and comment, but to come to him in faith to worship and to praise.  And one day the Church will be everything he's working to make it and one day we will have proclaimed the good news about Jesus everywhere, and then every enemy will be defeated and this in between time will finally come to an end as the age to come finally arrives in all its fullness—like Christmas when all the decorations are finally up and the tree is in the living room and the presents are ready to be opened and the turkey's on the table. In the meantime, in this overlap of the ages, Brothers and Sisters, we need to remember who we are and to whom we belong.  We need to remember the hope that lies before us.  Even having been washed by Jesus and filled with the Spirit, the false gods of the world and the lusts of the flesh can be tempting.  Like Gomer, leaving her loving husband and returning to her old life of prostitution.  Like the Israelites in the wilderness.  We grumble.  And our bellies grumble and we think back with longing to the fleshpots of Egypt, forgetting that in Egypt we were slaves to sin and subject to death.  Brothers and Sisters, look around—or as Paul wrote in last week's Epistle, “consider”, “reckon”, look around you, look where you've come from and look at what God had done in Jesus and do the math.  The presents may still be in the attic and the turkey may still be in the oven, but thanks to Jesus and the Spirit all the signs are there.  The Christmas lights are up, there are ornaments on the tree, and we can smell the turkey roasting.  Trust him.  Everything about the story shouts at us that the Lord is faithful and fulfils his promises and so we know that Jesus will finish what he has started.  And if the Gospel lesson today tells us anything, it's that the Lord will always look after his people in the wilderness.  He fed Israel with manna from heaven.  He fed the multitude with seven loaves and a few small fish.  Brothers and Sisters, come to his Table this morning, eat the bread and drink the wine, and remember that he will feed us too.  Here he reminds us what he's done for us through the death of his Son and the gift of his Spirit.  Here he reminds us who we are, of the family to which we belong, and of our hope—where we're headed.  Here he lovingly feeds and clothes us, so that the world might see his faithfulness and give him glory. Let's pray: Lord of all power and might, the author and giver of all good things:  Graft in our hearts the love of your Name; increase in us true religion; nourish us with all goodness; and bring forth in us the fruit of good works; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.