The Bitter Pill of Grace (Sermon)

 “The Bitter Pill of Grace”
Luke 15:11-32

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/27/22

 

         Luke 15 begins with Pharisees and scribes grumbling about Jesus welcoming and eating with “sinners.”

         Standing face-to-face with those who know the law, and who abide by it with loveless resolve, Jesus tells a short parable: If a shepherd had a hundred sheep, and he lost one, wouldn’t he search for that one sheep until he found it? And when he did, wouldn’t he call his family and friends together to celebrate? And wouldn’t you?

         No response.

         Okay, says Jesus, suppose a woman loses one of the only ten coins she has. Won’t she sweep the entire house until she finds it? And won’t she rejoice when she does? And wouldn’t you?

         The Pharisees and scribes seem to feel nothing inside their cold, tombstone hearts. So, into the tension, Jesus tells another story.

 

         ¹¹ “‘There was a man who had two sons. ¹² The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’

“So he divided his property between them. ¹³ A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. ¹⁴ When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. ¹⁵ So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. ¹⁶ He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. ¹⁷ But when he came to himself he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! ¹⁸ I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; ¹⁹ I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.”’

²⁰ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. ²¹ Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’

²² “But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. ²³ And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; ²⁴ for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.

²⁵ “Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. ²⁶ He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. ²⁷ He replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.’

²⁸ Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. ²⁹ But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. ³⁰ But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’

³¹ “Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. ³² But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’”  (NRSV)

 

         Jesus leaves that story hanging the same way that Luke leaves Jesus’ confrontation with the Pharisees and scribes hanging. And that leaves us hanging, too. What does the elder son do? What effect do the father’s actions have in the family? In the community?

         The parable of the father and his two sons illustrates, memorably, that at the heart of all matters, human and divine, lies the foundation of relationship. And the Judeo-Christian tradition uses the language of covenant to describe those relationships that reflect our understanding of God’s purpose and desire for all Creation.

         Living in covenant relationship with God, other human beings, and the earth is difficult. It demands the agonizing death of human selfishness and pride. Last week, we talked about repentance as turning. Repentance also involves a kind of death.

         When the younger son recognizes his potentially-fatal selfishness, he rehearses a humbled plea to offer to his father. Dad, he says, I've made a mess of things. I insulted you personally and disgraced you publicly. Having broken a sacred trust—indeed, having effectively wished that you were dead—I know that you have every right to consider me dead to you. Because of what I’ve done, I’ve lost the right to be called your son. But would you take me on as a hired hand?

         The Pharisees and the scribes know what the father should do with his son. He should hold a qetsatsah ceremony. That involves filling a large jug with burned nuts and corn and smashing it into smithereens at the young man’s feet. He then shouts his former son’s name out loud so that everyone knows that he has been cut off from the family and the community—forever.¹

According to the law, that’s what the father should do. He should channel all the elder-brother disgust he can muster and disown that ungrateful son. Instead, the father embodies grace. He humbles himself—in fact, he humiliates himself. He runs out to welcome his son and orders up a celebration. You and I really can’t understand how awkward such a party would be for those who attend. The story, though, illustrates the profound difference between covenantal and contractual relationships.

         When I work with couples getting married, I make the point that marriage is a covenant, not a contract. People enter contracts to pursue their own interests. One says to the other, I’ll give this to you, but only under the condition that you give that to me. It’s a quantifiable exchange that doesn’t happen without the enforceable guarantee of getting as well as giving. And contracts have their place. We engage in contractual relationships every time we check out at a grocery store, or restaurant, or online.

         In contrast, when people enter a covenant, they do so with a willing and eager vow—for better or worse—to make the well-being of the other as an equal or greater priority than their own well-being.

         What makes covenant more challenging is that it necessarily implies forgiveness, which, paradoxically, becomes a kind of pre-condition to unconditional love. And that condition is placed on the one who loves. As Alexander Pope said: “To err is human, to forgive divine.”

         You’ve come home! says the forgiving father. That’s all that matters. You’re home!

         Isn’t that what God says, over and over, to prodigal Israel?

         Covenantal grace can be a bitter pill. It seldom seems fair. But rather than using the contractual language of merit, covenant speaks to that thread of eternity called grace that binds all things together. And not everyone gets it.

         With a sneer, the elder son says to his father, “This son of yours” has turned you into a sucker, a loser. Look at all I’ve done for you all my life! And you’ve done nothing for me!

         Who among us cannot relate to the contract-minded elder brother? And if to him, then to the Pharisees and scribes?

         The father in this parable, however, does something for the elder son that is no less scandalous, no less covenantal than what he does for the prodigal. He turns his back on his guests to go outside and “plead” with his angry son. No matter how faithful and hardworking a son might be, virtually no traditional, self-respecting, first-century father would plead with a son.

         Throughout the parable, the father does everything wrong—at least culturally. Nevertheless, Jesus holds him up as an example of God-bearing grace. Through this father, Jesus illustrates that forgiveness is the foundation of covenantal relationship. Forgiveness and love are certainly mutually-inclusive, and perhaps even synonymous. They are attributes of God that we cannot undo through our own fragile-egoed judgments. To forgive is to incarnate in our own bodies, minds, and spirits the Creator of the Universe, because God relates to all things through covenant, not contract.

         In his journal, Thomas Merton wrote, “I think I am beginning to understand something about the fifteenth chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel—the lost sheep, the lost drachma, the Prodigal Son. Our dearest Lord is showing that he means everything about the fatted calf and the rejoicing to be taken literally, and that He means to pour out every kind of happiness in rivers upon those who ran away from his mercy but could not escape it.”²

         Richard Rohr echoes Merton’s words when he says, “The great thing about God’s love is that it’s not determined by the object. God does not love us because we are good. God loves us because God is good.” That’s difficult for us to accept, says Rohr, because “We naturally live in what I call the meritocracy of quid pro quo.” That is, the meritocracy of contract. “We must,” says Rohr, “be taught by God…how to live in an economy of grace.”³

         It seems to me, that we are most truly our God-imaged human selves, when we—through Christ and in the strength of the Holy Spirit—intentionally live in ways that confound and even threaten the Pharisees and scribes within us and among us, because we say to them, We understand your concern, but honestly we’re not worried about what you think others deserve. Just watch what happens when we love them, anyway!

 

¹https://www.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_qetsatsah_ceremony

² A Year with Thomas Merton: Daily Meditations from His Journals. Selected and Edited by Jonathan Montaldo. Harper One, 2004. P. 85.

³Adapted from Following the Mystics Through the Narrow Gate…Seeing God in All Things [CD, DVD, MP3])

Good Soil (Sermon)

“Good Soil”

Luke 13:1-9

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/20/22

 

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. ²He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? ³No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. ⁴Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? ⁵No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

⁶Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. ⁷So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ ⁸He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. ⁹If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’” (NRSV)

 

         Before jumping into our text, let’s recall a deep-time story. Against God’s specific instructions, Adam and Eve tasted the forbidden fruit. Soon hiding behind scratchy fig leaves, the couple knew they’d been busted. Adam tried to blame it on both God and Eve.

Well look, he said “the woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave [it to] me.” 

But the devil made me do it! said Eve (Gen. 3:13)

Interesting. As soon as human beings had both language and community, people started blaming their failures on others.

It’s significant that the couple could not return to the garden after they ate the fruit. Once their eyes were opened, they could neither un-see what they’d seen nor un-taste what they’d tasted. They had entered a new reality, one they had to learn to both endure and enjoy. And here’s the good news in the story of Adam and Eve: The first gift is life itself. The second gift is companionship. And the third gift is the gracious, double-gift of repentance and forgiveness.

Whatever mistakes we try to hide behind our fig leaves, they don’t have to define us. That’s what makes repentance a gift and, therefore, Lent a season of hope and new life.

In today’s gospel text, some people are talking to Jesus about a particularly graphic atrocity when Pilate mingled the blood of executed Galileans with that of a Jewish animal sacrifice. While historians agree that Pilate was a violent authoritarian who was willing to use any means to maintain power, the blood-mingling incident has no historical confirmation outside of Luke’s gospel. Maybe that’s why, when the people ask about it, Jesus immediately turns the people’s attention away from the sins of others and toward the issue of repentance. He does so by mentioning a tragedy at the tower of Siloam, an event which also lacks corroborating evidence. In doing so, Jesus turns what are likely fabrications, or at least embellishments, into object lessons.

Maybe we can see some similarities in how Parson Weems’ thoroughly un-true account of George Washington cutting down his father’s cherry tree became a beloved national myth about, ironically, truth-telling.¹

Jesus’ point is to say, No, God is not some vengeful beast. And repentance is more than mere confession. It’s a way of life, and it’s for everyone, not just those whom you decide to call sinners.

Too much Christian teaching has declared, explicitly and implicitly, that God basically creates us for hell then sits back to let us decide for ourselves whether or not we want to go to heaven. That reduces our lives to non-stop efforts of trying to appease or, like Adam and Eve, to hide from an angry God. But any god of insatiable anger and eye-for-an-eye vengeance is a projection of our own fears and prejudices. Those small-g, made-in-our-image gods allow us not only to persecute enemies, but to treat neighbors, friends, and family with self-righteous disdain, spite, and even contempt. So, those gods are emphatically not the God revealed in Jesus. That’s the point of Jesus’ decisive “No” to those who wonder if Yahweh had used Pilate to kill sinners.

Jesus follows that No with a parable. In the story, a landowner gets impatient with a fruitless fig tree. Get rid of it, he tells his gardener. It’s just wasting space.

Well, let me work with it, says the gardener. I’ll tend it for another year. I’ll dig around it and fertilize it. Then you can decide what to do.

Now, I’m no gardener, but my wife is. And my way of helping her with either flowers or vegetables is to keep my distance. I can kill a rock garden, and she can make one grow. I’ve seen her restore plants that almost anyone else would throw away, because where some would see a lifeless twig, she’s able to feel just enough life stirring in just enough cells to send some new shoot reaching for sunlight.

Good gardeners know that caring for plants starts with caring for the soil. Remember Jesus’ parable of the sower. The seeds are not at fault for their failure to thrive in poor soil. If the earth is unwell, it won’t sustain life, much less produce good fruit. In order to provide a healthy environment for things to grow, the soil has to be nurtured.

Hiding behind the fig leaves of the tree in Jesus’ parable is, well, a fig tree! A tree with both the capacity and, given the tree’s DNA, the desire to produce figs. Hiding behind those fig leaves is a kind of prayer: “Help me to be a real fig tree!”

And that is a prayer of repentance.

Hiding behind our fig leaves of fear, guilt, and all that utterly useless shame is exactly what God has created and loves—human beings who crave belonging, purpose, and joy. And from the Christian perspective, we are most fully and fruitfully human when we are in community. As communities, then, we have much more in common with soil than with individual plants. Our shared calling is to create a fertile environment for holiness; and we don’t create holiness. That’s God’s doing. Repentance, then, is less a private act of regret than it is a public act of solidarity in, with, and for one’s community, and the entire Creation for that matter. Repentance is less a private act than it is a public act of communal restoration.

While there is an individual element to repentance, through repentance—which in Greek means “to turn”—we’re turning more than our own selves. We’re turning the very circumstances in which we all live. If the prayer of the fig tree is “Help me to be a real fig tree,” the prayer of good soil is “Not my will but yours.”

As good soil, we involve ourselves, as Jesus did, in the social, political, and economic realities around us for the sake of the Creation—and especially for the sake of all that suffers and cries out for love, acceptance, care, healing, or rest.

To reduce discipleship to church-going, or doctrine, or conspicuous morality is to live for ourselves. And that would make us rather lifeless soil. Aren’t we more than that? Aren’t we here to participate in God’s work of creating, nurturing, and celebrating life?

The Lenten discipline of repentance restores us to community. It also restores as community. It returns us to the soil-tilling, fertilizing work of discipleship. As Jesus’ disciples, we’re here to help God offer hope to the poor, food to the hungry, laughter to those who weep, and welcome to those who have no place to belong.

We are called to live as a community of good soil in which mysteries beyond our comprehension and control produce the healthy and healing fruits of compassion, justice, and reconciliation. These fruits nourish us with desire, strengthen us with courage, and inspire us with gratitude.

And they reveal the entire Creation as something saturated with the ever-fertile love and grace of God.

 

¹https://www.mountvernon.org/library/digitalhistory/digital-encyclopedia/article/parson-weems/

From Fox-Hearted to Christ-Hearted (Sermon)

 “From Fox-Hearted to Christ-Hearted”

Luke 13:31-35

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/13/22

 

³¹ At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”

³² He said to them, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. ³³ Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’

^34 “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! ³⁵ See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’”  (NRSV)

 

         Herod Antipas was the son of Herod the Great. And they were both kind of fox-hearted men, cold predators who feasted on their herds by binging on political executions. Remember, Herod Antipas had John the Baptist’s head served on a platter—literally.

         The image of a fox also reaches deep into the collective memory of the Jewish people. In the book of Judges, Samson uses a huge skulk of foxes to exact a violent but rather creative revenge against the Philistines.

         In the story, Samson marries a Philistine woman, but not for love. He uses her to infiltrate the enemy. During the week of his wedding, Samson deliberately creates a ruckus that allows him to separate from his bride before they can consummate their marriage.

         Eventually, Samson returns and demands his wife back. In a revealing display of “biblical marriage and family values,” his father-in-law says, and I quote, “I was sure that you had rejected her; so I gave her to your companion. Is not her younger sister prettier than she? Why not take her instead?”

         Having manipulated the desired offense, Samson says, “‘This time, when I do mischief to the Philistines, I will be without blame.’

         “^{So Samson went and caught three hundred foxes, and took some torches; and he tied the foxes tail to tail, and put a torch between each pair of tails. When he had set fire to the torches, he let the foxes go into the standing grain of the Philistines, and burned up the shocks and the standing grain, as well as the vineyards and olive groves.”}

         Now, when the Philistines learn who is responsible for the attack, and why, they round up Samson’s ex-wife and her father and burn them alive. (See Judges 14-15) The Word of the Lord? Thanks be to God?

         For such a memorable biblical story, it contains an awful lot of fox-heartedness and very little redemption.

         At issue in today’s gospel reading is the fact that the Pharisees, whom Luke consistently depicts as shallow, self-serving, and power-hungry, are acting kind of like foxes themselves—or at least like a bunch of border collies who have started smoking behind the gym with the rottweilers and chihuahuas. So, when they tell Jesus that he needs to leave immediately because Herod has a torch tied to his tail, and is coming to burn him out, I hear them exploit the situation to get rid of Jesus. Hey Jesus, they say. Herod’s after you! You should go away!

         And Jesus responds saying, Bless all-a-y’all’s hearts, but you can go and tell that fox that he can’t keep me from doing what God called me to do.

         After that, Jesus turns toward the holy city and rips open his heart in passionate lament.

         “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!” Then he grieves the blindness and deafness of the people with whom he is so helplessly in love.

Next, mixing metaphors, he says, in effect, The fox is in the chicken coop! And how I wish I could gather you beneath my wings like a mother hen, but the fox has charmed you. You have become his food, and some of you are even turning into foxes yourselves!

The coop is yours now, says Jesus. And I can’t wait until you recognize me as the one whom God has sent to you.

         The juxtaposition of fox versus hen is stark, isn’t it? The stories of people like Samson, Joshua, and Elijah remind us that even faith communities often tolerate, excuse, and, indeed, crave ruthless and predatory behavior in their heroes. But to embody such faithlessness, is to declare that, ultimately, we trust avenging violence more than we trust God’s reconciling grace and restorative justice.

That’s what the religious leaders tell themselves at Passover. Jesus has to die, and if we can’t kill him during the celebration, Pilate can. All we have to do is plant a seed of fear in his little canine heart. Tell him that Jesus is a dangerous heretic who doesn’t revere and serve the emperor.

Isn’t that the way of things? Everyone trying to cast everyone else as the fox—the threat who must be stopped. And when consumed with anxiety, when blinded by God-grieving, prophet-killing predation, we miss the signs of promise and hope that are right in front of us. 

Earlier in Luke, John the Baptist, who is in Herod’s jail, sends his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” And Jesus tells them to pay attention to all they’ve seen and heard. The blind, the lame, the lepers, the deaf, the dead, the poor—all of them are experiencing new life and new hope. (Luke 7:19-23) And if that’s happening, something good is afoot, something transforming, something holy. And God is calling all Creation to participate in it.

After saying this, Jesus, utters another lament. He grieves the duplicity of the critics who said that, because of his austere and sober ways, John must have a demon. For he “has come eating no bread and drinking no wine.”

But, says Jesus, when I keep company with people simply to love them, you condemn me for being a glutton and a drunkard.

Then Jesus says this: “Nevertheless, wisdom is vindicated by all her children.” (Luke 7:33-35)

Matthew’s Jesus says it this way: “You will know them by their fruits.” (Matthew 7:16 & 20)

Jesus reminds us that the life we live reveals what is truly important to us. The ways we interact with and care for others and the Creation reveal our hearts in ways that silver crosses around our necks and rubber WWJD bracelets cannot.

I think most of us are lamenting a world in which torch-tailed foxes seem to have their way unhindered. Every day we feel the weight of predatory rhetoric and violence, the degradation of the environment, and a suffocating scarcity of Christ-hearted justice, kindness, and humility.

When Jesus says “Nevertheless” to all of that, he makes us a neverthelesspeople. Easter will shout a reverberating Nevertheless into the fox-heartedness of the world. Easter reaffirms the great affirmation of Christmas—the affirmation that the Creation is God’s first incarnation and most concrete promise that “God is love, and all who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them.” (1John 3:16b)

Easter will affirm these things. Right now, though, it’s Lent. And Lent is our opportunity to acknowledge that even we, who claim to follow Jesus, not only recognize suffering in the world, we often aggravate it by participating in Herod’s predatory fear and greed.

Nevertheless, we know who we truly are. We know that God has created and called humankind to participate in God’s ways of Christ-hearted love.

Listen, we’re not foxes on the prowl. So, let’s file down our fangs and clip our claws. In all that we say and do, may it be obvious that we are the vindicating children of wisdom. We are incarnate signs of the household of God.

And wherever we go, let us all go there in the name of “the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

Neither Rats Nor Roaches (Sermon)

 “Neither Rats Nor Roaches”

Luke 4:1-13 

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/6/22

 

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, ² where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. ³ The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” ⁴ Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

⁵ Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. ⁶ And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. ⁷ If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” ⁸ Jesus answered him, “It is written,

‘Worship the Lord your God,
    and serve only him.’”

⁹ Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, ¹⁰ for it is written,

‘He will command his angels concerning you,
    to protect you,’

¹¹ and

‘On their hands they will bear you up,
    so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

¹² Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”

¹³ When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time. (NRSV)

 

         My college roommate, Charlie, grew up in Waynesville, NC. While Waynesville is hardly a metropolis, for Charlie’s father it was uptown. Raised in a holler near Barnardsville, NC, Charlie’s dad was country as a wash pot. That, combined with his experience as a district court judge, gave him some interesting stories to tell. I’ll never forget one thing he said, maybe because he said it more than once to us college boys who were sure we already knew everything.  

         “Boys,” he said, “people will do anything when they get hungry. Anything.” He neither elaborated nor needed to.

         Most of us know what it feels like to be ready for supper. And missing a meal on a busy day may give us a headache. But being truly famished can be like an evolutionary regression. It can awaken our reptilian brains and cause us to act like animals rather than human beings who are made and being continually refined in God’s image.

         Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell the story of Jesus’ fasting and temptation, and the story affirms the full, God-imaged humanity of Jesus. He feels what anyone would feel when dangerously hungry, and he remains faithful.

         Weakened by hunger, and facing the uphill climb of his vocation, Jesus becomes vulnerable. Recognizing that, Old Scratch tries to lure Jesus into making the kind of selfish and faithless decisions that you and I struggle with every day, decisions to survive by our own wits rather than by God’s gracious provision.

         We struggle because faith itself is a struggle. Faith is more than believing some doctrine. Faith means trusting where we have not seen and following where we have not gone. And because of that, we can find as many reasons to abandon faith as there are rocks in a desert.

Countless temptations lure us with the tangible and fragrant loaves of worldly wealth and power—the very things that tempt Jesus. And sure, when responsibly harnessed, temporal means and influence can encourage wonderful progress: Cures for illnesses. Discoveries at the heart of atoms and the outer reaches of space. Splendid art and music. Diverse cultures. Still, in and of themselves, wealth and power are kind of like Twinkies or Twizzlers. You can eat such things, but they neither nourish nor satisfy. And I genuinely trust that God intends us to experience more than “satisfaction.” I think God’s desire for the Creation is Shalom.

         While Jesus is famished and alone, Luke describes him as “filled with the Holy Spirit.” So, even with an empty belly, he is brimming with Shalom. Shalom is not the same as happiness or contentment. Shalom is more like joy. It’s the peace and the strength that come as gifts of union with God, even in the midst of struggle—especially when that struggle is with one’s own self. And isn’t that the nature of temptation? Even if someone else tempts us with selfish possibilities, the struggle to give in or to resist is ultimately with our own selves. Temptation forces us to decide whether or not we will live faithfully against all the selfish indulgences and all the lazy evasions we use to avoid demonstrating the grace and love of Christ. 

         Living faithfully in Christ is more than hard work. It’s a counter-cultural existence. Modern-day prophet Wendell Berry once wrote, “Rats and roaches live by competition under the law of supply and demand; it is the privilege of human beings to live under the laws of justice and mercy.”¹ While it may be our privilege to live faithfully, the pestilent temptations to live like “rats and roaches” are ever before us. They’re often saluted as strength by would-be leaders. They’re romanticized by entertainers. And, with embarrassing frequency, temptations are even preached from pulpits. But such things are not our truth. The image of God within us is our truth. The realm of God among us is our truth. Faith, hope, love, justice, and mercy are our truth because they are Christ’s truth.

         “If you’re the Son of God,” says the tempter to a fast-weakened Jesus, “turn these stones into bread.”

         We might ask, Well, why not turn stones into bread? It would be a private and harmless act, wouldn’t it? Maybe, but Jesus was raised in a storied faith, and this temptation re-enacts Moses telling the Hebrews that God, who is faithful, would provide for them as they wander in the desert. Moses also reminds them that their need for bread does not override their call to trust God. It seems that for Jesus, Sonship means trusting God and not taking matters into his own hands.

         Next, the tempter takes Jesus up on a high mountain and says, If you will worship me, then all the world is yours!

         Well, again, what if Jesus had assumed control of the nations? Wouldn’t we be better off? Maybe, but Jesus knows that Israel got into trouble when they demanded that Samuel find them a king so that they could be like all the other nations. And after getting what they asked for, they soon discovered that they got nothing they really wanted. The power they craved and thought would save them only delivered them deeper into worldly ways and turmoil. As the Son, Jesus becomes the wellspring of spiritual strength, not a wielder of political and military might.

         The final temptation dares Jesus to open up a can of seduction. From the top of the temple, Jesus can jump and let the people watch in horror as he plummets toward earth only to be caught at the last moment by God’s angels. Pull a sensational stunt like that and the world just might beat a path to your door. But real leaders lead through humility and wisdom, not through bombast and manipulation. Stunts don’t generate durable faith. Only living in and through Christ can do that.

During his temptation in the wilderness, Jesus embodies his Sonship not by posturing and bewildering, but by fulfilling the Shema of Deuteronomy 6. On behalf of the entire Creation, he loves God with all his famished heart, soul, mind, and strength. And if love is God’s aim for us, then God offers love through loving means. God creates opportunities for us to receive and share love through our own willing participation. Maybe that’s why, when we pray for patience, we shouldn’t be surprised when someone tries our patience. Or when we declare ourselves to be people of compassion and justice, we only become more aware of the world’s violence and injustice. It’s like God is saying, Don’t just say it. Live it!

         During these forty days of Lent, I pray that we all become more aware of the temptations that needle us with selfish desires, temptations that distract us from the call to love and serve God by loving and serving our neighbors and caring for the earth. The story of Jesus’ temptation reminds us that while it is a human thing to sin and fall short of God’s glory, it’s even more authentically human to live and love faithfully, because such living and loving is Christ-like. For more than any act of power, it is Jesus’ day-to-day faithful humanity that reveals his oneness with God.

         We struggle with temptation because within us, our true and false selves exist side-by-side. And in Christ, we, who are neither rats nor roaches, can be faithful sons and daughters of God.

 

¹https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/02/28/wendell-berrys-advice-for-a-cataclysmic-age?utm_source=nl&utm_brand=tny&utm_mailing=TNY_Magazine_Daily_022222&utm_campaign=aud-dev&utm_medium=email&bxid=5e9f0eaa20122e38c97f6254&cndid=29375765&hasha=64daf62b8795dc42020c184a3048b7cb&hashb=8202484a5237c41fda88296de509ef5d18f71149&hashc=1c22445b3bc551f5a7e4402011a22573398b5a6798ebdc16f1795e5b743ac2c1&esrc=Auto_Subs&utm_term=TNY_Daily

A Lenten Sacrifice (Ash Wednesday Homily)

 “A Lenten Sacrifice”
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

Ash Wednesday

3/2/22

“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.

² “So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. ³ But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, ⁴ so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. 

⁵ “And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. ⁶ But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

¹⁶ “And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. ¹⁷ But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, ¹⁸ so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

¹⁹ “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; ²⁰ but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. ²¹ For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.(NRSV)

 

          Lent. A time during which we focus on practices of personal and corporate devotion. When we reflect on our human frailties, on our brokenness. And we connect them to the events of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday.

One way to commit to a Lenten discipline is to offer it as a sacrifice that re-enacts the sacrifice of Jesus. And his sacrifice was not, as Richard Rohr likes to say, to change God’s mind about us so God could love us again. Any god who is so human as to be “unable” to love, is a god created in human image. The word for that kind of god is an idol.

The sacrifice of Jesus was about changing our minds about God, about confronting the fullness of God’s overwhelming grace and mercy. Jesus’ sacrifice began long before his arrest in Gethsemane. It began with his surrender to a life of such intimate and authentic union with God that he and God were truly one. Belonging so perfectly to God, Jesus never belonged to temple or governmental authorities. And in a world littered with so many temptations to and excuses for living wastefully, fearfully, violently, or in any other way selfishly, it is an exquisitely rare occurrence to encounter someone willing, on behalf of others, to lay all else aside in order to live as one through whom the Creator, Sustainer, and Redeemer of the universe is immediately present.

Jesus makes even aspiring to that kind of union difficult when he says that piety—including almsgiving, prayer, fasting, humility—is most effectively practiced under the radar. The reason that makes things difficult is that his teaching can allow some of us to hear him implying that one’s faith is a completely private matter. All one has to do, however, is read the gospels to know that Jesus’ own life and living reveals the very visible, communal, and even political nature of the Christian faith.

         And that’s the point of union, of relationship, with God. It is, at the same time, an interior discipline of and an outward witness to love. The trick is practicing one’s faith in such a way that it directs attention to God rather than calling attention to oneself. That, I think, is what Jesus is talking about.

Lent, then, is not a time of confessing all our shortcomings so much as it is a time of deliberate cooperation with the Spirit’s ongoing restoration our inner and outer selves. So, to repent doesn’t mean shamefully confessing our sins. It means gratefully turning ourselves toward God, toward neighbor, and toward all of Creation.

         In Matthew 6, Jesus is reminding his listeners that discretion is crucial to a healthy spiritual practice, because to “do religion” in a way that draws more attention to self than to God almost inevitably turns us into competitors.

Who gives more?

Who fasts more?

Who prays more?

Who loves God more?

         Wouldn’t a competitive and judgmental spirit be a proper thing to sacrifice for Lent?