Pentecost 6: The Upside-Down Kingdom

1 Kings 3:5-12
Psalm 119:129-136
Romans 8:26-39
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Like any good teacher, any good rabbi, at the conclusion of his teaching, Jesus asks his disciples, “Have you understood all this?”. (Matthew 13:51a) And, of course, his disciples like good students answer “Yes”, (Matthew 13:51b) or as one of my favourite translations renders it: “Of course” But do they; do they really? How many of us have claimed to understand “x” or “y” in order to simply save embarrassment? How many times have we nodded or smiled ourselves into intellectual, philosophical and even emotional dead-ends because we were unwilling to expose our ignorance, even our stupidity? Or worse, how many times have we convinced ourselves we understood? Our agreement being a kind of intellectual sloth. After all, it is easier to say “yes”, than to ask “how” or to think “why”. From the gospel narratives as a whole it seems clear that Jesus’ disciples understand little of what he meant, and while they might nod, agree and even, like Peter, declare Jesus to be “the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” (Matthew 16:16) their understanding was ever so limited, and they bumbled along continually missing the point.

But why should they get it, really? What Jesus talks about goes so very much against the grain of the received “wisdom” – and I use the term in inverted commas; it goes so much against what makes conventional sense. They like Jesus, they love Jesus, they follow him, but they must have questioned the practicality and the reasonableness of his teaching. Why should anyone, how could anyone, sell everything he or she has and buy one pearl, for example? How can God’s reign be compared to a mustard weed, a shrub, when the cedars of Lebanon as described in the book of Ezekiel are so much more noble (cf. Ezekiel 17:22-23); or the apocalyptic tree descibed by Daniel is far more consonant with a powerful, towering kingdom: “there was a tree at the center of the earth, and its height was great. The tree grew great and strong, its top reached to heaven, and it was visible to the ends of the earth”? (Daniel 4:10b-11) How can God’s reign be compared to leaven, when every Jew knew that leaven, yeast, represents sin, evil, corruption, while the lack of leaven signifies that which is pure and holy? Yes, one can hardly blame them, because Jesus is not merely teaching the conventional wisdom, he is not even teaching the conventional wisdom in a new way, but he is asking of his followers something much more fundamental. He is challenging them with a new paradigm, a new world view. He is challenging them with what one New Testament scholar called ‘the upside-down kingdom”.

The values of Jesus, the values of the Kingdom he heralded, fly in the face of the received wisdom, they certainly fly in the face of social convention. At their most powerful they can offend and even disgust. The disciples may politely say “Yes, of course, we understand”, but as first century Jews they would more than likely be disgusted by some of the suggestions Jesus makes about the reign of God, by some of the actions he takes in proclaiming it. Jesus tells stories about collaborist tax collectors being justified before God, about heretical Samaritans being good and righteous, about financially and sexually profligate sons being received with joy into the bosom of their fathers. He speaks with women in public, touches the dead and lepers (who are as good as dead), and of course he sits down to eat with foreigners, whores and any number of dirty, unclean people. The disciples might say, “Yes, of course, we understand” but one would hardly be surprised if under their breath they just might utter “but we don’t believe it”. And, so, as I suggested earlier, they find themselves at an intellectual dead end because they cannot make that leap into a bigger vision, into a different paradigm.

Now Solomon does. The conventional wisdom of his age dictated that kings first and foremost be powerful – powerful over their subjects and over their enemies – and that that power resolve itself in conquest and wealth. They needed cunning skill and a healthy dose of mistrust. But when Solomon is asked by God directly what he should desire above all else to facilitate his reign, the new king asks for none of these, but rather “an understanding mind to govern your people, [and the ability] to discern between good and evil.” (1 Kings 3:9) He opts for the counter-intuitive request of wisdom. By this request he made his kingdom an “upside-down” kingdom, and thus inaugurateted a new understanding of monarchy, one which would influence the idea of monarchy well into the 18th and 19th centuries in Christian Europe, certainly. He was, perhaps, history’s first philosopher king. Nevertheless, without question, his request would have been seen as foolhardy, weak, unworthy of a real king, of a real man. His request might bring into question his prowess and willingness to fight; to his contemporaries it might signify an inversion of his maculinity, as digusting a prospect to the ancient world as it is among many less enlightened people today. And let’s face it, all his wisdom nothwithstanding, the kingdom of Israel did not surivive united after his death; and this reality makes us once again face the unconcventional wisdom of the “upside-down” kingdom, for example, that in it there is something more valuable than simply surviving intact: “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

In the twelfth chapter of the letter to the Romans St Paul writes: “Do not be conformed to this world [or, age], but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God – what is good and acceptable and perfect.” (Romans 12:2) There may be much to commend the wisdom of this age, the kind of wisdom that helps us get on in the world, the common-sense shrewdness that teaches us to hold on to what we have, and allows us to conventionally discern who are our friends, who our enemies, and who are beyond the pale altogether. Indeed an entire life can be lived – and by certain standards, successfully – saying yes when we are not really sure and agreeing when we do not really understand; a whole church life can be lived saying, “Yes, of course, I understand” while my un-renewed mind silently utters “but I don’t really believe it”. Like the disciples, we may like Jesus, we may love Jesus, we may follow Jesus, but there is not a person in this place who has not questioned the practicality and reasonableness of the teachings of Jesus: “If I give myself over to the varieties of life’s little deaths, will I really discover a life more full, authentic and meaningful? If I share even the little I have, will there really be enough for everyone? If I ask for wisdom rather than success, will everyhing really be alright even when they seem to be falling apart? If I embrace what seems disorientating chaos and social confusion, can I trust that a far more beautiful order – a divine order – will emerge that has nothing do with my control or manipulation?” It does not make sense. It is too much to ask. It requires an unqualified and frightening leap; a leap from the conventional and conventionally rational into something not altogether immediately discernable, but at its core trustworthy nevertheless. It is a leap into that place where we can stop pretending to understand, and simply say “I believe, Lord help my unbelief”. (cf. Mark 9:24) It is the leap into the “upside-down” kingdom in which leaven is holy, treasure is discovered in the most unlikely of places, shrubs become trees, and letting go is the only way to have everything.

“Have you understood all this?” Probably not. But then neither have I; and yet at moments I find myself almost coming to believe it. I hope you do to.

Pentecost 4: Hearing the Call and Doing

Isaiah 55:10-13
Psalm 65
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

In the prayer book of the Anglican Church in New Zealand, the lector ends the readings with the words, “Hear what the Spirit is saying to the Church”. Such an acclamation is certainly resonant with Jesus recurrent injunction throughout the gospels: “Let anyone with ears listen” (Matthew 13:9) and with the recurrent phrase in the Revelation to John: “Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.” (e.g. Revelation 2:29) Yet there is a difference in the New Zealand acclamation and those biblical verses: the first uses the word “hear” the other two the word “listen”, and so their relationship begs the question: What is the difference between “hear” and “listen”? Certainly, the Greek of the New Testament has two different words for “hear” and for “listen”; in fact, in some ancient copies of Matthew the verse reads, “Let anyone with ears to hear listen.” In a more recent modern translation the passage reads, “Anyone here with two ears had better listen”. Now the lectionary does rather a cheat with today’s Gospel in that it implies that throughout Jesus is speaking to the same group of people. But if you notice the citations, the passage is filleted; verses 10-17 are not included. The fact is that when Jesus tells the parable he is speaking to the crowds at large. That’s verses 1-9. But when Jesus is explaining the parable in verses 18-23 he is actually speaking only to his disciples. When Jesus speaks to the crowds generally he uses the word “listen”: “Listen. A sower went out to sow.” (Matthew 13:3b) When he explains the parable to his disciples, those who have already made a commitment to follow him, he uses the word “hear”: “Hear then the parable of the sower” (Mathew 13:8) And in explaining the parable he continues to use the word “hear”. The difference between “listening” and “hearing”. He calls the crowds to “listen”, he enjoins the disciples to “hear”.

Listening is fundamentally a passive, interior activity. So much so that the term “active listening” has had to be invented to demonstrate that – in counselling, for example – something is being done even when the counsellor is simply listening. Hearing on the other hand suggests or even demands some kind of action. In Jesus’ explanation of the Parable of the Sower each of the times he uses the word “hear” it is coupled with some action, even if the action is mis-understanding or despondency. The injunction to listen, it seems, is for the un-initiated, for those who are still processing the information in order make a decision. Listening is for those who are still trying to discern if there is truth in what is being spoken; for those who are still wondering if they can make or want to make a commitment. But those who have made a commitment – like the disciples, like you and me – then we are called to hear; hear with both ears; hear and do something. The call to hear is for the initiated for those who say that they have made a commitment, and it always carries with it the call to action.

If we are Christians then we have made the commitment. In one sense, we cannot fall back on simply listening, but we are hearers and that means acting, acting because God and God’s kingdom depend on us, depend on our work. Those of us who have heard the call of Christ know that we must respond. Those who have heard the word and invitation of God are ultimately called to bear fruit, and to offer back to God and the world something meaningful, a rich harvest: “my word…that goes forth from my mouth…shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.” (Isaiah 55:11)

If you are a hearer of the word, committed to the Way of the Christ, what are you doing? What are you offering back to God? What is your adherence to the word yielding in the world? The writer of the Epistle of James reminds us, “rid yourselves of all sordidness and rank growth of wickedness, and welcome with meekness the implanted word that has the power to save your souls. But be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves.” (James 1:21-22) Each of us have heard the word; in baptism each of us have had the living word of Christ implanted in us, but what have we done? Have we abandoned it to the rocky, inaccessible places of our lives? Have we let it wither through well-meaning but unfulfilled intentions? Have we choked it through negligence or warped priortities? Or have we been faithful to the what we have heard and yielded a return – thirty, sixty, perhaps a hundredfold? Only each of us can answer these questions for ourselves. But we must examine oursleves and make some kind of answer to those questions, lest we discover that the the word we have heard, the word implanted in us ultimately returns empty, yields nothing, and we miss altogether the divine partneriship into which we have been called, miss altogether the word of the kingdom.

Hear the parable of the sower. Hear the call. Hear the invitation. And as Jesus says to his followers, “What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops.” (Matthew 10:27) Do, act, proclaim by word and by deed the good news you have heard, the word that has been implanted in you so that God’s truth does not return to God empty but bears fruit in us and in our world, yielding a harvest of joy, peace and justice.

Pentecost 3: The Righteousness Game

Zechariah 9:9-12
Psalm 145:8-15
Romans 7:15-25a
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

“I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate….For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do”. (Romans 7:14, 19) As we read through this passage we encounter a confused and confusing thought process revealing an internal struggle within Paul which it is clear he himself cannot entirely comprehend. Indeed, he says as much: “I do not understand my own actions.” (Romans 7:15) Certainly things had changed for him with his conversion, but he does not yet completely know how to behave – what to do – in this new life. Old habits die hard, and as he writes we find him still caught up in a vicious and destructive cycle of trying to be good, trying to be righteous which has become for him a nightmare of subjective failure and worthlessness. He has even pitted his body against his mind – “I see in my members another law at work with the law of my mind” – and as such has set himself up for a no-win situation. He is still playing the game of righteousness which when internalised always resolves itself in feelings of shame, uselessness and worthlessness. For many this internalisation ends in suicide; the feelings become unbearable, as “winning” – whatever that may mean – becomes increasingly unattainable, impossible.

But there are other ways to play the game, whose rewards seem far more satisfying, that is the feelings attendant on being right, being superior; when, instead of placing ourselves in a no-win situation, we place others. Isn’t that really what Jesus is pointing out in the Gospel? “John came neither eating nor drinking and they say, ‘He has a demon’: the Son of Man came eating and drinking and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard.’ ” (Matthew 11:18-19a) The political and religious authorities, the cultural and social elite, all felt threatened by John and by Jesus; after all the two laid bare some pretty nasty truths about power and social control. Both John and Jesus took those groups down a notch or two, and for this neither were liked, and so their opponents played the righteousness game calling the one demon-possessed, the other a loose liver; and now they could look down their noses at them, and thus had a plausible rationale for ignoring their insight and accusations altogether. It may seem that they are winners in the righteousness game, but the externalisation of the game – like its internalisation – has its own vicious cycle, a cycle of demoralising one-upmanship. The name-calling moves to accusations which in turn become threats, and threats violence; and, like its internalised counterpart, the externalised version of the righteousness game ends in death. Both John and Jesus eventually are executed as the cycle comes to its gruesome apex.

In a sense the root of the game is always a feeling of unworthiness, a feeling of worthlessness and the attempt to achieve worthiness through our own efforts. At one extreme, internalisation, we cripple and demoralise ourselves; at the other, externalisation, we demonise and victimise others. At the one extreme feelings of unworthiness paralyse us into believing “I am not worthy enough. I must accomplish more, achieve more, attain worthiness by doing more, discern my worthiness according to others’ opinions of me.” At the other extreme, feelings of unworthiness resolve themselves in “I am more worthy than others. I have done all the right things, I live so much better than others, I do so much more than others, I think the right things and know the right people”. In both extremes what is created and perpetuated are, as I mentioned, vicious cycles of more and more action, more and more doing, more and more guilt, more and more victimising; escalating activity, escalating self-reproach, escalating victimisation, and eventual escalating violence, violence to ourselves and to others; until we can find ourselves saying with St Paul “[Wretch] that I am! Who will save me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:24) Who will save me from this unending game of self-loathing and self-righteousness? “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:25)

The Good News of God in Jesus Christ is that there is an alternative to this cycle of demoralisation and victimisation. We do not have to break our spirits and those of others to prove our worth. We can stop trying to win a mug’s game, simply by ceasing to play it. Ultimately, I cannot be right in any real and objective way, and so I must stop trying to achieve rightness by more and more activity. Ultimately, worthiness is not something I can achieve by my own efforts, certainly not by looking down on others, because worthiness is already inherent in my creation, and in the creation of every one. It is – to borrow a timely word – inalienable. My worthiness is not about me – your worthiness is not about you – it is about God, and thus it is about love; and it is only when we really allow ourselves to be loved, and to be loved well, that we can ever stop playing the righteousness game, whether it resolves itself for us in distorted inferiority or exaggerated superiority. When we know that we are loved, then and only then can we stop; stop the game, stop the need to prove our righteousness through agonising and soul-destroying activity or obsessive introspection, stop the one-upmanship, the looking down our noses at others, the victimising of the different. We can even stop with the need to be right. When we can accept our worthiness through love then we can rest. “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest”. And what can be a heavier burden than this un-ending cycle of righteousness? Still, laying that burden down and opening ourselves to love can perhaps be the heaviest work of all; and in comparison the vicious games of self-accusation or victimising superiority are easier to play, because whether we realise it or not in playing them we can continue to entertain the illusion that our worth can be achieved through something we can do. Ah, but to lay down that burden, to lay down the game, and to say “I don’t want to be – I don’t care about being – right or worthy or good anymore, I just want to love and be loved.” To say that and to live that is perhaps one of the most difficult changes to make. It will feel like a yoke placed up on our backs as we begin to walk into this new way of being. Jesus knows this because it is the same yoke which he bore himself, and he says to you right here and now “take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-29)

Let’s be honest, we all play the righteousness game, whether by self-deprecation or self-importance – sometimes both by turn. I am beginning to learn it is a mug’s game whose end is always violence and death in one way or another. But its antidote is love, the love of God and of others; not some narrow, romanticised version of love but real love that welcomes, accepts, redeems, transforms, and allows us to grow into the reality of our inherent worth. The antidote of the righteousness game, as Jesus suggests, is in gentleness and humility: gentleness to ourselves and humility in the face of others. The psalmist tells us the “the LORD is gracious and full of compassion, slow to anger and of great kindness; [that] the LORD is loving to everyone and his compassion is over all his works.” (Psalm 145:8-9) It is not anything we do but this attitude and love God has towards us that makes us acceptable and worthy. We can stop; stop with the game, and in God’s acceptance find rest for our souls and bodies. We can stop with the cycle of righteousness and in God’s acceptance lay down the burden of having to be right or good or better, and simply live the life of a beloved child of God – loved, redeemed and worthy – the only life God has ever wanted for you, and the only life in which you will find real meaning and joy.

Pentecost 2: The Discipline of Hospitality

Jeremiah 28:5-9
Psalm 89:1-4, 15-18
Romans 6:12-23
Matthew 10: 40-42

“Let all guests be received like Christ Himself, for He will say: ‘I was a stranger and ye took Me in.’ And let fitting honour be shown to all….At the arrival and departure of all guests, let Christ – who indeed is received in their persons – be adored in them, by bowing the head or even prostrating on the ground.” Thus wrote St. Benedict in the early part of the 6th century as he outlined a rule for monastic communities. In some ways he echoed words from the Letter to the Hebrews: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2) In both, we hear resonances of Jesus’ own words to his disciples recorded in the Gospel of Matthew: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” (Matthew 10:40) All of these passages point to what is an often forgotten spiritual discipline – hospitality; and its practice runs through the Judeao-Christian tradition. It is highlighted in the stories of Abraham’s meeting with the angels in the 18th chapter of Genesis, and in the following which details the destruction of Sodom. It is enshrined in the Mosaic law (Exodus 22:21); and both the prophets (Ezekiel 16:48:50) and Jesus condemn towns for inhospitality (Matthew 10:14-15). Indeed, just verses before today’s Gospel passage Jesus says to his disciples, “If anyone will not welcome you…shake off the dust from your feet as you leave that house or town. Truly I tell you, it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town.” (Matthew 10:14-15)

Why is hospitality so important? Certainly, there are sociological reasons. In a time and culture of few large cities – around the time of Abraham the largest city was located in the Indus Valley and boasted only about 40,000 people – as well as dangerous travel conditions, the presumption of friendly hospitality was essential for travelers. It was considered one’s social duty to offer hospitality, most especially to strangers; and this relationship between guest and host was sacrosanct, as is gruesomely demonstrated in the story of Sodom narrated in the book of Genesis, when Lot thinks it better to throw out his daughters to the violence of the mob, than to give up the guests who have come under the shelter of his roof. In a disturbing way, hospitality consisted of doing more for the stranger, than for one’s own kindred – a difficult concept for us today. This social custom of hospitality developed by a nomadic people was, as I mentioned, enshrined in their law code, and continued into the period of their civilization, influencing social thought and practice well into the time of Jesus.

It was, however, Christianity which developed a conscious theology of hospitality; and thus a relationship considered a sacred trust became a divine attribute. Hopsitality was understood as the context for God’s engaging with human beings, and the rest of creation. As such, it was a practice commended among Christians for a new and distinctive reason, because it imaged God’s own actions in the world, God’s hospitality of welcoming the stranger in Christ. If we can paraphrase Paul in the letter to the Romans: “God proves his love for us in that while we still were [strangers] Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8) Moreover, think how many of Jesus’ parables are centered round a party, a celebration, and banquet in which those invited are strangers and outsiders. Think about the times Jesus himself welcomes those on the margins, those considered beyond the pale of conventional hospitality. What could be more hospitable words than Christ’s own: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest”? (Matthew 11:28) or his own offer of nourishment: “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.” (John 6:54-56)

Hospitality is not just welcoming the stranger, but sacrificing for the stranger, giving up of one’s self for the stranger, the alien, the outcast, even the enemy. Christian hospitality is the willingness to see in the stranger the face of Christ – “whoever welcomes you welcomes me” = and to serve Christ in her or him. I know that lately I have mentioned our Soup Kitchen in a number of my sermons and discussion – and perhaps only because it has been on my mind with the remodeling of the facility or more recently the vandalism we experienced – but I see our Soup Kitchen as incarnating that reality of Christian hospitality. Everyone is welcome and no one is turned away. There are no litmus tests of worthiness or need. If you show up you are fed, and into our hall are welcomed day to day, the stranger, the outcast, the lonely, certainly the hungry; and I know from my own personal experience that our volunteers welcome each as Christ in their midst.

But welcoming the stranger is not easy. I am sure some of our neighbours would prefer the alley was not lined with “that sort of people” six days a week. I am sure – although it has never been mentioned to me - that our radical hospitality presents particular headaches for the local community and for the city more generally, perhaps even for law enforcement. We know that welcoming the stranger has not been easy for the Episcopal Church as through history she has drawn the net increasingly wider and welcomed Christ in native people, in ethnic minorities, in women, in GLBT people. The latter two particularly have cost us much; no one knows that better than this diocese. At the same time we must always return to that reality presented to us in the Church’s tradition that when we welcome the stranger, when we welcome the outcast and the disliked, we welcome Christ. Moreover, that hospitality is more than mere politeness to the stranger or conviviality with friends – after all we can, every one of us, throw a great party with “people like us”. No, hospitality is that spiritual discipline in which we sometimes must work to discern the face and presence of God in unexpected people and even in unexpected situations, and then welcome them into our midst in the knowledge that their presence brings with it a gift, something new, something important. Hospitality is not charity, it is most assuredly not condescension. Hospitality certainly entails giving of ourselves, but perhaps even more, it entails an opening up of ourselves to recognize and welcome the divine in those around us. Ultimately, it is something about the reality that perhaps God is chiefly encountered in the other – most especially in the stranger – and served chiefly in our responding to their needs: “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:40)