Higher Ground (Luke 15:1-32)

Last week, we talked a little about the nature of repentance . . . remember? We saw that the Greek was literally “meta-noia,” higher mind, so that to repent is to come to a “higher mind.” And one of the things about the ancient world-view is that mindwas considered to be localized in the heart.So yet anotherway to translate the Greek word normally rendered repent might be “change of heart,” as in “she wanted to turn her in, but she had a change of heart.”

So with this in mind let’s look at the parable of the Prodigal Son, which is ostensibly about repentance and forgiveness. The setting here is crucial: Jesus is being criticized for associating with the wrong kind of people, tax collectors and sinners, who were coming to him in droves, or at least in great enough numbers that it became noticeable to the religious authorities—personified by scribes and Pharisees—who had rulesabout who good Jews could associate with, especially those who would be teachers. And tax-collectors and other assorted sinners—here the word sinners should be taken in its broad sense of “ritually unclean”—tax-collectors and sinners were definitely not on that list. And the scribes and Pharisees were muttering to themselves and saying ”Thisguy is eating with sinners, who does he think heis?. How can he presume to teach if he can’t follow the rules/‘

And as a response, Jesus launches into some stories, which were one of his preferred methods of teaching. He’s saying: “You think that’sbreaking the rules? Which one of you having a hundred sheep, if he loses just onedoesn’t break all the rules of farming and economics and good hygiene and leave the ninety-nine to the ravages of wolves and sheep-rustlers and go to find that one measly, lost sheep? And what woman, having ten coins, and losing one doesn’t leave the other nine unprotected and turn her whole houseinside and out, looking for it? I’m telling you, just as that shepherd and that housewife rejoice over finding’s what was lost, so there will be joy in heaven over the one sinner, the one outcast, who repents, i.e.,who has a change of heart.

So now onto the main attraction, “The Parable of the Prodigal, His Brother and Their Forgiving Father,” aka “The Prodigal Son.” Remembering that this is a parable, and thus fiction,we shouldn’t be surprised that Jesus sets it up masterfully: he gives us two sons, two choices, the better to compare and contrast with. One, the younger, asks for his part of his inheritance which, given that he was the second son, would have amounted to a third. And the father gives it to him, and he goes off and squanders it living large, maybe on wine and fast Gentile women. (We know he goes to Gentile lands, where they have pigs, ‘cause he ends up slopping them.) 

Anyway, the second son was entitled to a third of his father’s stuff, and it wasn’t unheard of that a younger son would take his inheritance early and establish his own household, and if the second son had done that,if he’d established his own household on his third of the land, adjacent to his father and brother’s portion, it wouldn’t have been that big a deal. Farming families tended to live in multi-household compounds, and the father would have still had use of the land. And that was importantin that desperate, hardscrabble country because you needed all the land you could get to graze and water your sheep just to survive.

Still: if the second son had done the right thing and set up his own household, it wouldn’t have been a good story—this is a parable,remember—and Jesus lays it on thick: the boy sells his inherited land and heads for Vegas, and this not only hurts his father but his brother as well, whose family also depends on the production of that land. And Jesus wants us to know that this isn’ta good guy, he’s weak, he’s dissolute, he doesn’t respect his family, and he pays the price by starving, which is a delicious irony because he has set his father and brother and their households up for starvation should the climate go South. And when itdoes,he’s hungry and nobody will even give him pigfood, much less sit him down to supper. And slopping the hogs is the ultimate humiliation for a good Jewish boy; in fact, what Jesus is saying is that he’s nota good Jewish boy. He’s not just a sinner,not just unclean, but reallyunclean, so unclean an observantJew couldn’t get within five counties of him. And have you ever tried to get the stench of pig out your clothes? Can’t. Be. Done.

So the second son has gone about as low as you can go, and he decides he’d better cut his losses, and it’s important to note that the word “repent” is not used in this parable, as it is in the two previous parables, And if you read carefully, the second son doesn’trepent, he doesn’tcome to a higher mind, Luke says he comes to himself.And we knowwhat thatis, don’t we? It’s a rogue, a bounder, as they said in the old days. In other words, a one-hundred-percent pure, no-gettng-around-it jerk. o we should read what he says with a heaping tablespoon of salt: he realizes that even his fathers hired hands—who he no doubt used to lord over—eat really well, and here he is starving! And there’s not a hintthat he realizes his own actions brought this on, not a bit of a sign he’s had a change of heart. Instead, he comes up with a scheme to get back in the old man’s graces: I’ll tell him I’ve sinned against him and God and no longer worthy to be his son! Treat me like a hired hand! The old guy always didlike groveling . . .

It reminds me of Jimmy Swaggart, the TV evangelist caught cheating on his wife, who blubbered into the camera “I have sinned,” and who may have been truly sorry, but was also trying to save a million dollar media empire. And it worked, sort of: while Swaggart’s TV empire isn’t what it was, he still has a ministry, you can find his sermons on Youtube . . . and I think it’s fine, giving a guy a second chance, because after all, isn’t forgiveness baked into our faith? Isn’t it all about God’s grace, who forgives us no matter what?

Anyway, our un-repentant, un-higher-minded son heads back home, no doubt rehearsing in his head what he’s going to say, but his father sees him coming, is ‘filled with compassion,” and kisses him and hugs his neck. And his son launches into his prepared speech exactly as he’s rehearsed it, with one exception: he doesn’t offer to be treated like he was one of the hired hands. Maybe, as one commentator put it, when he’s faced with his father’s overwhelming love, he begins to trulyrepent. Could be . . . but—cynic that I am—Ithink it’s because his father’s given him what he wants and he doesn’t haveto go any further. Indeed, his father gives him his best robe—doubtless his own—and a ring and sandals, and he sends for a calf, and not just anycalf, but the fattedcalf, the one kept on hand for special occasions and special guests and the like. And the wayward son thinks “Why enter life-long servitude if I don’t have to?”

Speaking of servitude, or at least hard work, here comes the elder son out of the field, where he’s been doing what he should, working to ensure the survival of the clan, and he hears the thrum of lutes and the tinkling of ankle-bells as people dance, and he wonders just what in Sam Hill is going on? Is there a special visitor? Has some regional politician, some toady of the governor, shown up? Or is it some random visitor, who his father was bound, by the rules of hospitality to entertain? When he finds out it’s none of those things, that it’s his reprobate brother, come slinking back with his tail between his legs, he just loses it: “for all these years I’ve been working like a slave for you, I’ve never disobeyed your command, not even once, and you’ve never even given me one, measly little goat!”

And who among us hasn’t felt that way? Who here hasn’t seen someone who hasn’t done the work, who slips by on cleverness and charm, get all the goodies, or at least as any goodies as we’ve gotten, who’s studied for the test, who’s followed all the rules? Who here hasn’t felt irritated as all get-out by a line hopper or a cheat who’s come out smelling like a rose? I know Ihave . . . I am the oldest of five, and I remember my father sitting me down one time and explaining why my sister Kathy seemed to be treated better, saying “the squeaky wheel gets all the grease, you know, and implying that I was the bigger person. And I remember thinking “Right, a likely story, what a crock . . . “ and I might be wrong, but I don’t think that by telling this parable Jesus is interested in family dynamics. I think he has bigger fish to fry. 

Recall that he’s spinning this yarn to a bunch of Pharisees and scribes, avatars of the Israelite political elite (remember there was no difference between religion and politics in those days). As such, they have a vested interest in the status quo, which is that you play by the rules, you work for a living, you do things decently and in good order. You obey your father as the head of the household, you work for the good of the family, and that way you serve the social order. You do notsquander money away on dissolute living—which is whatever society says it is—you play by the rules. You work for a living and open a savings account, diversifying your portfolio so you can weather the storms of economic adversity and make bankers and financial consultants’ boat payments. You get a 30-year mortgage and 2.4 children and thereby the whole societal structure remains stable, which, of course, includes the scribes and Pharisees, who’s position depends on people—especially those downstream in the social order—doing their part.

And so, for Jesus’ audience, the elder son has a point. You don’t reward someone for not working, do you? You don’t just give someone something for nothing, do you? What about teaching someone a lesson, what about teaching someone to fish,for Pete’s sake? This . . . second-son person comes waltzing back to a family whose herds and land are two-thirds of what they once were because of himexpecting to be fed and clothed and not payfor what he’s done, well we know what we’ddo. Oops . . . I mean they know what they’ddo . . .

But the father does just the oppositeof what is expected, he overturns societal expectations, and really ticks-off the oldest son. He says: what’s the problem? What I do or do not do doesn’t affect you . . . you’re still getting all I have to give . . . be happyfor your brother, and if you can’t do that, at least be happy for me.Because we hadto celebrate and rejoice, it’s what families do.Your brother was dead and has come to life, he was lost and has been found.”

And this is why it’s important to at least acknowledge the two preceding parables: they both have heaven rejoicing more over one sinner who has repented, who has changed her heart,than ninety-ninewho have no need, who believe the right things, or do the right things or who’s hearts are already in the right place. But in this story, the “sinner,” the wayward second son, has not had such an epiphany, he’s not reformed his heart, and there is still rejoicing.The forgiveness of the father is given without the son having to do a darn thing. It’s just given.

This parable can be taken on at least two levels. As a morality tale, as instruction on how weshould behave, it fits ourcontext—Lent is a time to meditate on how we can donbetter,how to come to a higher understanding of our ownshortcomings, and what we can do to ameliorate them. Anger and resentment aren’t helpful, either to ourselves or the community in which we live. They can tear societies apart—look at our own divided land—and break open and tear down our own lives, our own well-being.

But there’s another, allegorical level, and it’s equally relevant, equally apt: we can view the unconditional love of the father as an analogof God’s own love, as the way God behaves toward God’s children. As Buddhist might say, the loving father of Jesus’ story is a pointer to the moon, not the moon itself, but an impression of it, one that shows an aspect of an otherwise unimaginable reality. And in this case, it’s a pretty awesome aspect: it’s a winter to the other side of Lent, to the resurrection, which is itself a pointer to the overwhelming, love of God, who conquers death and forgives us not only for what we have done, but for what we have left undone.Amen.

Crime and Punishment? (Luke 13:1-9)

A few years ago, on National Public Radio, Scott Simon interviewed James Martin, a priest of the Society of Jesus, better known as the Jesuits. Father Martin is Editor at Large of the Jesuit magazine America, and author of numerous books, including The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything. The two discussed simplicity and poverty, two vows the Jesuits keep, and Martin was witty and funny, but when Simon asked his final question, the talk turned serious.  “I’ve saved the hardest question for last,” he said.  “If there is a God, why do little children suffer?”

“That isthe hardest question,” Martin said.  “And I think the answer is ‘we don’t know.’”  Which is an honest answer, at least … he didn’t trot out the latest Christ-o-babble, he didn’t give his pet theories, or Aristotle’s pet theories, he just answered quite simply “we don’t know.”

The ancients, in Jesus’ day and before, thought they knew.  They thought that bad things were God’s punishment for sins. God visited punishment upon people for doing things God didn’t like.  Things such as, oh, invading countries for their natural resources . . . keeping a vast segment of their population in poverty to support the upper class . . . dating foreigners.  Stuff like that.  And for these offences, God would visit plagues and famines and invasions, and visits from your in-laws.  And bad things for seemingly-innocent people like the “little children” of the radio host’s question were explained away by this as well: you see, the ancients didn’t have the same concepts of individuality that we do.  (Which is why those of us in modern Western societies need to take care in interpreting stuff in the Bible, much of which applies to groups of people—nations, peoples or tribes many times—we need to be careful how we take concepts in scripture and apply them whole-hog to the faith and spirituality of the individual.  They often just don’t fit.)

Anyway, the ancients had an answer for the question of why bad things happen to little, seemingly innocent children, and that was that they weren’t really innocent.  Remembering they had no concept of the individual, the sins of the group they belonged to—the peoples, the nation, the tribe, whatever—were thought to be imputed onto all of its members. Thus, they could say “the sins of the fathers are visited upon the sons,” etc., etc.,never thinking at the time how that let womenoff the hook.

Of course, this idea of God punishing one’s sins by doing bad things to one hasn’t completely died—witness the our brothers and sisters that blamed Katrina on the gay community—and come on, admit it: we all, from time to time, ask: why me?  And this idea of calamity as punishment for sin, at least a is coherent, straightforward answer for Scott Simon’s question to Father Martin, and it informs the first part of this rather difficult passage.  Jesus is teaching a crowd of people, as he was wont to do, and somebody tells him about some Galileans that Pilate had—apparently—slaughtered.  They said Pilate—who was notoriously brutal—had mingled the blood of these Galileans with their own sacrifices.  And Jesus says: “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?” Then he answers his own question: “No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.” And now I bet they were sorry they brought it up, because he goes right on: “And what about those eighteen others killed when the Tower of Siloam fell—bang!—right on their heads?  Do think they were worse than anybody else living in Jerusalem?”  And again, the answer is “not on your life … and unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

We need to stop right here and acknowledge that all this talk of sin and repentance makes a lot of us modern Christians—myself included, if you must know—really nervous.  What do you mean, repent, we want to ask Jesus.  What do you mean, we’re gonna perish just like they did if we don’t turn our lives around?  Where’s the grace?  Where’s the forgiveness?  For that matter, where’s the God-is-love business that we all like to quote? Seems a little harsh to me, and a little un-politically-correct as well.  How we gonna pack ‘em into the pews if we keep reading about stuff like this?

Good question.  Almost as good as the one about why bad things happen to little children.  And notice that Jesus doesn’t debunk the notion of suffering as a consequence of sin—though he doesn’t support it, either—he simply tells us that the ones who died in those sudden slaughters—some by accident, and some by cruelest murder—the ones who died in those incidents aren’t any more sinful than anyone else in Galilee or Jerusalem.  They were sudden, unexpected, and maybe that’s the key: maybe Jesus is saying the same thing he says elsewhere.  Don’t wait to repent, don’t wait to come to a higher mind, which is the literal meaning of the Greek word, because death can come at any time, whether by the knives of bloody Pilate or the simple cracking of a tower stone.  It’s consistent with his teaching, and that of his follower Paul, who warns us to keep awake, lest we be caught napping when the end times come.

And so, the force of Jesus’ argument seems to be not that his listeners will perish without repentance, but that they’ll perish, as he says, “just as those Galileans and Jerusalemites they did.”  That is, in the same, unrepentant state, without having experienced the fullness of life on earth of those who have turned theirs around, or come to that higher understanding.  Be careful, Jesus says, to do this while you can, because if a tower falls on you, or a homicidal maniac like Pilate gets hold of you, it’ll be too late.

Now I know that, as in most places we see it in Scripture, we tend to read “perish” as “go to hell,” where the fire will lick your bones, crackle, crackle, crackle, and ol’ Scratch will stick you in the behind with a pointy fork, but that’s not what Jesus is talking about here … he’s not talking about heaven or hell, but plain old death—really perishing—and living life fulfilled and to our greatest potential before we do.  But if we turn our lives around,  if we come to a higher knowledge, literally a “higher mind,” we can live that life here on earth, we can live in God’s kingdom without going anywhere else.  And I think that that’s what this repentance is of which Jesus speaks.  We are called to that higher mind, that living out of our calling here on earth, regardless of what happens after we die.

And now, he launches into another parable, and it’s not much more promising than the pronouncements about repent or perish.  The owner of the vineyard has a fig tree planted in his vineyard, but when he came looking for fruit, there wasn’t any . . . which is understandable: room in a first-century vineyard is limited, and if a plant doesn’t produce, the  livelihood of the farmer dictates that it be gotten rid of replaced by one that will produce.  Only natural, only right.  Gotta be productive if you’re a fig plant, or else you’ll get ripped out.

And he tells the gardener—the one who planted the tree in the first place—he tells him “Cut that puppy down!  I’ve come here for three years running, and no fruit!  Why waste the soil?  Cut it down!” But the gardener sticks up for the poor little plant, saying let it alone for just one more year and let me tend it, let me aerate the roots and pack a little manure around the base, and if it doesn’t bear fruit in a year, then by all means: cut it down!”

And our tendency is to try to treat this allegorically, like we’re used to doing with parables: our tendency is to assign identities to each player. Let’s see now: the owner represents God, the fig tree is a recalcitrant nation, or is it an individual, or a tribe. But if God’s the owner, then who’s the gardener, who is it supposed to be who intercedes for the poor little plant? Jesus?  The Holy Spirit?  And notice that it isn’t a plant’s fault that it doesn’t bear fruit . . . even the most ignorant farmer of the day would know that some will produce, some won’t, them’s the breaks, Jake.

And I wish I could tell you exactly what it means—that’s kind of my job, you know—but it’s just a little too . . . irregular for that, a little too out of round.  On the surface, it’s the same: the plant better turn it’s life around before it’s too late, silly plant, but then what’s all this about the gardener?  What about this entity who helps and nourishes the plant in its efforts at sanctification?  Well . . . maybe Jesus is allowing as how in this, we will not be alone.

On NPR, after Scott Simon asks Father Martin that embarrassing question, why do bad things happen to innocent little children, and Martin admits he does not know the answer, he says this:  “for the Christian, there is the person of Christ, who has gone through suffering himself, and who understands our suffering.”  Christ, he is saying, is with us, along for the ride, and he’s been there, and thus . . . gets it.  He understands. He has suffered about as badly as any human can, and understands, deeply and fully.

But more than that: we are nurtured along the way, in our Christian life, we are helped and taught and supported . . . our roots are aerated and we’re watered, and manure is spread around our base.  Paul put it this way: “the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.”  We are not alone on our journey of repentance, on our travels toward Christ.  This turning-around business, this coming to a new mind, as daunting as it may seem, is not up to us.  It is under the direction and guidance of God the Holy Spirit, and we are accompanied along the way by our brother through adoption, Jesus Christ. And to that I say, Thanks be to God! Amen.

Crazy Like a Fox (Luke 13:31-35; Lent 2C)

Have you ever noticed that movies and TV shows love to construct a snappy ending to one scene—called in the biz a “button?” Many times, the button not only ends first scene but sets up the next, like when in a sitcom the couple is sitting around the living room, talking about the guy’s ex, and the doorbell rings, and whaddya know: the ex is standing on the other side. Or in an action flick the heroes are talking about how quiet things are, and the next thing you hear is the whistling of an incoming missile . . .Well, that’s kind of what Luke is doing here. The last line of the scene previous to this one is “. . . some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last,” one of Jesus’ favorite sayings. Then the very next line,the first of our passage, describes some Pharisees, come to warn Jesus the Herod is out to get him. And Luke makes sure we get the connection by the way he phrases it: he said they deliver their warning at that very hour.That is, at the very time he was pronouncing that the first will be last and the last will be first, the Pharisees appear.

So it’s clear we’re supposed to associate the first who will be last in the kingdom of God with the action of Herod wanting to kill him. And there’s little doubt what Herod’s motive is: he’s definitely among the first, definitely among the powers that be, and he’s worried about somebody running around his “kingdom” saying things like he’s gonna be last. After all, Jesus had been a follower—however briefly—of John the Baptist, the lastrabble-rouser to gain popular support, and Herod had felt threatened enough to imprison John and execute him at the whim of a child. So there’s that.

Then again, Herod wasn’t noted for being the most stable of rulers: this was Antipas, the son of Herod the Great, perhaps the most paranoid man who’d ever lived, and the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree. To make things worse, at his death, the current Herod had inherited only a quarter of his realm. That’s the excuse the Romans used for calling him a “tetrarch,” or ruler of a fourth. They wouldn’t let him call himself “king,” doubtless to keep him in his place, but perhaps also because they didn’t trust him. At any rate, Antipas was insecure and paranoid, and constantly on the lookout for threats, perceived or real, and he'd found one in Jesus of Nazareth.

That explains Herod’s being out to get him but what about the Pharisees? Up until this point in Luke’s gospel they’d been portrayed as exclusively antithetic to Jesus and his ministry, as opponents and constant critics of Jesus and his band of disciples. And now they’re shown to be helping him, warning him about Herod’s plan. And that points to a common misconception about Pharisees, that they were implacable enemies of Jesus, out to get him, that they were by and large bad people. This impression isn’t helped by the fact that the Gospels—especially John—tended to emphasize the contentious side of their relationship. But the fact is that Pharisees were among the best of the Jewish people, men you definitely wouldn’t mind your daughter bringing home. And we knowthat there weresome on Jesus’ side, notably Nicodemus, who nevertheless had to sneak around to see Jesus in the dark. Finally, some of the scenes we interpret as life-and-death arguments between Pharisees and Jesus were in actuality scenes of rabbinic back-and-forth; give and take argument was how rabbis often interacted. They learned from one another that way.

That said, it’s also possible that Luke wants us to understand that these Pharisees were part of the problem, that he considers them the powers-that-be amongst those first who would be last. Jesus himself indicates that this might be the case, that he assumes Herod sentthem. After all, he tells them to “go tell that fox” for him, as if they werecoming from him . . . but whatever the case, it’s clear that Jesus is no a-political bumpkin here, he has a keen grasp of the politics of the situation. And he calls him a name that Herod would certainly not appreciate: though like today, the fox was considered wily, it was also a symbol of sneaky destruction, of underhanded down-and-dirtiness. And he makes it clear that Herod isn’t going to deter him from his mission: “ell that fox Listen—and isn’t thatan insolent thing to say to someone in power—“Listen up! I’m casting out demons and performing cures ” And it’s in the same vein of what he told the followers of John the Baptist when they came to question him whether he’s the “one who is to come.” He’s doing the things that one is supposed to do, so who does he think he is? If it walkslike a messianic duck and talkslike a messianic duck . . . he wants Herod to know in no uncertain terms that the time has been fulfilled, the Jubilee—which we’ve seenis a motif in Luke—has finally arrived.

He says he’s performing cures that day and the next, but that on the third day he must finish up, but he’s not talking about ending his ministry three days from that time—we know, in fact, that he didn’t. What he isdoing is pointing to his resurrection, which happens, of course, on the third day after his death. And so here in Luke, unlike, say, Mark, the important thing is the resurrection, and in fact, the whole thing about going to Jerusalem is that he can’t conceive of a prophet being killed outsidethat benighted city. So he knows fully what’s coming when he gets there, but his eyes are on the resurrection, and he has to get himself killed, and it has to be in Jerusalem, ‘cause where else would it be? Jerusalem is the city that kills the prophets who go there, the city that stones them to death. It’s the city that’s the center of a religion that murders those sent there from its god. Jerusalem is the city that eats its own young.

Not unlike anotherpower center in anothertime and place . . . or maybe Einstein and the Buddha were right and it’s the sameone, perhaps Jerusalem and Washington are avatars, eternal echoes of all the power-places around the globe, all the places where the powers-that-be congregate, down through the millennia, around the globe. Babylon, Moscow, Athens . . . Los Angeles, Beijing, Caracas . . . all places where prophets go to be killed, and their dreams along with them. Legislators go to Washington, idealistic and ready to effect meaningful, positive change, and end up dying—sometimes literally—but most times, these days at least, only their dreams and good intentions . . .

And Jesus is going to Jerusalem on his own dime, of his own free will, because of what he knows hasto happen, he has to be killed so he can be resurrected on that third day. And far from turning away from that seat of power, where Herod awaits like some petty, malignant spider, he heads straight into its maw. And though he lays a prophetic pronouncement on them—your house is leftto you—his main thrust is compassion: he likens himself to a mother hen, who longs to shelter Jerusalem’s children under her wings. Far from condemning the city where he will meet his fate, he laments over it, he criesover it, and the episode ends with anticipation of his glorious arrival there, where jubilant crowds throw cloaks and palms in the road to cushion his way. 

So on this second Sunday of Lent, we see a Jesus whose eyes are on the prize, but it’s not his death, it’s what happens three days after that. His ministry includes healing and curing and feeding—the blind willgain sight and the oppressed will be set free—but it doesn’t end there. Nor does it end hanging on a tree in the city that eats its young. It doesn’t end with his crucifixion, but what happens after, and thatis no less than conquering death itself. 

And here, Jesus has sent a message to that embodiment of death, that avatar of the powers that be: “You telldeath (that old fox!) that my mission—to heal and liberate, to restore and deliver—cannot be denied. They’ll arrest and abuse me, they’ll kill and bury me, but I must be on my way. For on the third day, I will rise, and thenwhat will you do? Death and hate and violence will be vanquished, and that Great Jubilee, that New Exodus, that new day of redemption will arrive.”

The contrast is stunning: the powers that be, bent on domination and subjugation, contrasted with the powers of life,embodied in the one we follow, Jesus of Nazareth. As Paul writes, “O death, where is thy sting, O grave where thy victory,” so it is that here in Lent, while we ponder its primal sadness, while we contemplate our role in the mechanisms of pain and denial, we also look forward to that wonderful resurrection morning, three days later. Amen. 

Who’s Leading Whom? (Luke 4:1-13)

So here comes Jesus, up out of the Jordan River, still wet behind the ears, and the Spirit – the same one that came lightly on him, as a dove at his baptism – that same Spirit leads him into the wilderness.  I can’t imagine what he was thinking, can you?  A voice from heaven had just got finished telling him “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased,” and here he was, in the wilderness, not eating anything,stomach shrunk to the size of a pea,and was he thinking “fine way, God, to treat your only Son?”  I know I would be, but then, I’m not Jesus . . .

It’s not hisidea that to be out there, it’s not hischoice to be forty days without food or drink or must-see-TV, he’s been led out there by the Spirit of God—and where the Spirit of God leads, the Son of God had better go.  Mark, in his Gospel, puts it even more starkly: he says the Spirit droveJesus into the wilderness, like a hunter drives his prey into a trap . . . but in our version the spirit leads him, and for me it brings up one of the enduring questions of our faith, namely how much did Jesus know of his fate?  How much of a master of his own story, his own life was he?  For those of us on the other side of the Council of Chalcedon, where our Western conception of the Trinity was forged, this can be a real poser.  The Spirit led him into the wilderness?  Isn’t Jesus both the Son and the Spirit, not to mention God to boot?  You mean he led himself into the trackless desert?

It’s the old question of how much human Jesus was and how much God . . . of the balance between his humanity and his God-hood.  It’s a question that was wrangled over and negotiated over for about four-hundred years, until that aforementioned Council of Chalcedon in 451 AD. There were extremists on either side . . . the Ebionites believed he was completely human, with no divinity, just an ordinary man, son of Joseph and Mary.  The Docetists believed he was fully God, with no humanity whatsoever, and that his human appearance was just a disguise, and his suffering just an illusion. Both of these extremes were early-on declared to be heresy, that is, against the true teaching of the church.  But there were intermediates between the two that weren’t so easily disposed of.  On the more-God side, Apollinarius preached that Jesus’ bodywas human, but that his mind and soul had been replaced by a divine mind and soul.  On the more-humanside, Arius taught that the Son was created by God, just like you and me, but that he was firstof all created beings.

Our story would perhaps be ammunition for the more-human side of Arius . . . Jesus was led into the wilderness, and he suffered there and hungered there just like any other human being, and that’s the way that wily ol’ devil findshim, out there in the wilderness, and didn’t they make a fine picture?  Ol’ scratch all dapperin his three-piece Armani, with snakeskin boots and a big old white Stetson hat, set rakishly upon his head . . . like he’d been watching too many Dallas reruns . . . and then there was Jesus, all bedraggled and sweat-stained, gaunt from hunger and bone-tired.  After all he had been out there for forty days and forty nights, and here the devil stands before him all manicured and well-coiffed, and he was looking amused with his one-raised eyebrow, and his gaze traveled slowly up and down the forlorn figure before him, from ragged sandals to tattered robe to matted hair, and he says “Well, well, well . . . what do we have here?  If you are indeed the son of God(and personally, I doubt it), command this stone right here to change into a loaf of bread.”

And of course, old Beelzebub knewhe was the son of God, he was just messing with him, he was just testinghim, and it’s important for us to notice that the whole thing reeks of the Israelites in the wilderness . . . remember?  They were there for forty years,and God provided bread, provided mannafor them, and the scripture that Jesus uses by way of reply – it’s from Deuteronomy – actually uses the word “manna,”  and Jesus says it is written that human beings do not live by manna alone,” and it’s clear that Jesus is challenged to repeat that sign of God’s providing bread in the wilderness, that he is challenged to somehow provehe’s God’s Son, almost a second Moses, but if he makes bread for himself, he abuses his relationship with God, his sonship if you will, by doing it himself rather than relying on his heavenly parent.

And this is the temptation of the ages, isn’t it?  It’s certainly a temptation that the Israelites, throughout their history, failed time and again, starting back at that time in the wilderness, when God gave them the bread, saying don’t try to gather more than a day’s worth, don’t try to save some back for the next day, ‘cause it won’t work, trust in God, live in the moment, but they didn’t listen, some gathered more, and some gathered less, they tried to hold some back for the next day, but it became foul and bred worms . . . but Jesus resists that temptation, he passes the test that the Israelites failed, he refuses to provide for himself, relying instead on God.

Well. Fire shoots from the Devils fingertips, he’s so angry, it scorches his leather briefcase and burns a hole in his hundred-dollar pants.  When he finally gets himself under control, he leads Jesus up to this high mountain—lots of things happen on mountains—and he can see all the nations spread out below, not just Israel, but allthe nations, past, present and future, nations that had come and gone—yes, there really wasan Atlantis—and nations yet to come, with their cell towers and space stations, and Jesus’ eyes widen and a look of wonder comes over him, and the Devil gives a little smirk and says “Now that I’ve got your attention, how ‘bout it?  Wanna rule it all?  Well you can . . . all you gotta do is fall down on your knees and worship me.  You see, all the kingdoms of the world have been given to me to rule, and I can give it all over to anyone I want.”  They didn’t call him the Father of Lies for nothing . . .

And this must have been quite a temptation, ‘cause Jesus could do a lot of good as ruler of the world . . . even as they speak, the Romans rule large swaths of it, including his beloved Palestine.  Surely Jesus would be a more just and fair ruler, surely they could use a regime change . . . and for that matter, what about the first temptation, the first test?  If Jesus could turn those stones by his feet into bread, he could surely do the same to all those otherslittering the rocky ground, and feed the hungry people in a land often wracked by famine.

But Jesus isn’t buying any of it.  Once again he quotes Deuteronomy, this time from the Sh’ma, one of his Israelite sisters and brothers’ most beloved passages, one observant Jews to this daynail to their doorposts: “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.”  And to have authority over all the nations, he’d have to both worship someone other than God and serve him as the overseer of all his domain. And besides: it’s hardly ol’ Scratch’s world to give, is it?

And now the Devil’s mad . . . so mad that he can hardly hold it together, he can hardly keep his Texas oil man look in place.  It keeps flickering in and out, like a TV-picture on the fritz, revealing something enormously dark, enormously direunderneath.  And the whole world rumbles under his feet, and cracks appear in the sides of the buildings, and people on the Jerusalem streets cower in fear, but Ol’ Scratch gets his act together and smooths down his suit and reseats his hat, and suddenly they’re standing on the pinnacle of the Temple, the highest place in town, and he can see all the priests scurrying around down below, he can smell the greasy smoke from the sacrificial fires, and he says “If you’re the Son of God, throw yourself off!  For it’s written:  God will command his angels to save you; on their hands they will bear you up, and you’ll not be dashed against the rocks!”  And the Devil chuckles to himself, he’s thinking “This’llget him, he won’t be able to resist declaring who he is to those Jewish yokels . . .”  And maybe he’s right maybe it’s the toughest temptation of them all . . . the Israelite religion, centered around the Temple apparatus, around priests and law and sacrifice, had become increasingly corrupt, increasingly beholden to the Roman overlords, increasingly jealous of their power, and a little reform certainly couldn’t hurt any . . . and by taking over the religion, he could put a stop to all of that, he could redeem it from its collusion with the oppressors, he could help take the wealth of the establishment and re-distribute it to his countrymen in need.

And once again, the temptation, the testis not just for Jesus to help himself.  In the first instance, true: he could feed himself, but also his country-people, all too often the victims of bad weather and avaricious tax-men.  In the second instance, he could become the leader his people deserved, a beneficent ruler, a kindruler, who sat in the gates and led with justice and righteousness.  And now, the temptation to take over the Temple, to declare himself to all that he isGod’s Son, and in him God iswell pleased.

And that’s really what this is all about . . . it’s about what it means to be God’s Son, God’s child. . . does it mean to use it to do things as youwant to do them, on your time schedule, and under your own steam, or does it mean to rely on God’s grace, God’s time-schedule, God’s way? It’s important to remember what comes afterthis episode as well as before.  After he gets back from the wilderness he strides into his home-town synagogue, takes up the scroll and lays out his mission statement, which is to do much of what Ol’ Scratch has tempted him to do.  And after he resists the final temptation—don’t be testing the Lord God—when the Devil departs ‘til a more opportune time, he does those things he was tempted to do—feed the people, declare the just reign of God, reform the religion—only in God’stime, using God’smethods, nestled in the arms of God’s will.

And so, on tis first Sunday of Lent, it’s traditional to read this passage, just as it’s traditional to wonder the same thing:  what does it mean to be a child of God?  And in a sense, our temptations today haven’t changed all that much.  We’re always trying to do it all under our owns steam: feeding the hungry, bringing about a more Christ-like government, reforming our faith—we Presbyterians are good at that always doing that—but is God always in it? When that ol’ Devil urges us to do it all ourselves, do we resist the temptation?  Amen.

Baptized in Water (Baptism; Luke 3:21-22)

So, here we are.  Gathered to dedicate and baptize little Gus Ngong.  And I think it’s a good excuse to remind us all about what’s what when it comes to the sacrament of baptism.  And the first thing to remember is that in our Presbyterian tradition, baptism includesdedication.  When we baptize a child, she or he is dedicated to the service of the Lord.  Notice the passive construction:  she or he is dedicated bysomeone, and that someone includes his or her parents.  They agree to “be responsible for nurturing their child in the faith and life of the Christian community.”   But the parents are not the only ones doing the promising: if Godparents are invited, they promise the same thing.  And finally, the church itself promise the same thing, to nurture the child in the faith and life of the Christian community as a whole and that particular expression of it.  In our case, Greenhills Community Church, Presbyterian.

 It is important that the congregation be included in the promise, because it is ultimately that particular church that is doing the baptism, on the behalf of God. Another way to put it is that the church—not the parents, not even the pastor—is the vessel for God’s action.  One way to think of it is to use the Apostle Paul’s metaphor of the church as the “body of Christ,” and asthat body, we come complete with Christ’s hands, which is a good thing in the case of baptism: without hands the baby would slip right through.  And so it is in our capacity as Christ’s body that we perform baptism on behalf of the divine. Without the hands of Christ—aka ourhands—the thing would not get done.

But here’s a question: just what is it that is being done?  In our Presbyterian tradition, Baptism is one of two sacraments, the other being Communion.  In other traditions, notably Baptists, these are not sacraments.  They perform them because they’ve been commanded to.  Thus, Jesus tells us to baptize people in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and we do it, and that’s it. But that’s not what we Presbyterians believe, or not allof it, anyway.  Sure, we believe that Jesus is Lord, that if he says jump we say how high, but that’s not all there is to baptism, or communion, for that matter.  We believe that when we do it, God does something throughthat action; John Calvin, through whom we get much of our distinctive beliefs, taught that a sacrament has two parts: that done by us and that done by God.  The first part, the action done by us, signifies or points to the second part, what God is doing in the sacrament.  Thus, what we do is a visible signof an invisible grace. Note that in linguistic terms, the dunking or sprinkling is the signifierand the action of God is the signified.  In the case of baptism, the signifier is a threefold washing of the forehead, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit as Jesus commanded, and the what is signified is God’s grace, marking him or her as God’s own child.

But wait . . . there’s more!  We believe that Jesus’ ownbaptism is a model for ours.  And that’s why I read the brief passage from Luke describing it.  “and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’”  Here’s the two parts: the pointer or signifier is John the Baptist washing him in the Jordan river (it was almost certainly notfull immersion).  And what is pointed to, the signified, the action of God, is the Holy Spirit coming down from heaven and by that action declaring Jesus to be God’s Son, the beloved, and that with him, God is well pleased.

Part one, the human action; part two, God’s action.  Part one, washing; part two, declaring God’s son. And note that it’s not necessarily coterminous, it doesn’t necessarily happen at the same moment.  Jesus was God’s son in the beginning,as John tells us; here he is declaredto be that, or as Calvin put it, markedas such. 

So in a few moments, as we baptize little Gus, remember what it all means.  In the same way as Jesus, and through the action of the Holy Spirit, Gus will be declared God’s Son, God’s beloved, in whom God is wellpleased.  Amen.