Our Shepherd's Voice: A Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter

 

Preached at Prince of Peace, Wasaga Beach, and St. Luke’s, Creemore, Anglican Diocese of Toronto.  Sunday, April 30, 2023.  

Readings - Acts 2:42-47; Psalm 23; 1 Peter 2:19-25; John 10:1-10 

 

 

⁴When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice.  (Jn 10.4)

 

This Sunday in the life of the church is known as Good Shepherd Sunday because our lectionary readings all invite us to think of the shepherd as an image for Christ.    Jesus is the one who knows us, leads us, protects us, and dies for us, so the shepherd is a perfect way to think of our relationship to Jesus.   And, if Jesus is our shepherd, then we of course have to think of ourselves as sheep!

 

Shepherds have not always had an idealized image in the ancient world.  The Greek philosopher Aristotle thought shepherds were a lazy and idle bunch, because all they had to do was lead tame animals to a place where there was good grass, and the sheep would look after themselves. 

 

Fortunately for us, the ancient Hebrews, our spiritual ancestors, knew better.   Their most revered king, David, was of course a shepherd before he became a king.  We all remember the story of how he defeated the monstrous warrior Goliath with a simple sling and stone, the weapon that a poor shepherd would use to defend their flock from predators.   

 

As we also know, sheep, those most helpless animals, need protection from wolves and human thieves.     In the ancient world, kings were the worst predators, which is why the prophet Samuel tried to keep the Hebrews from wanting to set up kings like other nations.  Samuel warned them that kings would devour the people’s wealth in taxes, would take their sons for the army and their daughters as serving girls.    The Israelites did not listen and chose Saul as their king, as we also know, that did not end well.

 

David was special because he was a shepherd first and a king second, as a king he protected his people rather than exploited them.    David’s role as a shepherd king explains why it was so important for Jesus to be descended from the house of David via Joseph.   Where as other kings lorded it over their people and preyed upon them, Jesus would be the shepherd Messiah who saves his people and protects them, as we see clearly in John’s gospel.

 

Today’s gospel reading is the tail end of a long debate between Jesus and his opponents, the Pharisees, about the healing of the blind man on the sabbath.   The blind man was one of Jesus’ flock; Jesus  cures him (the blind man hears Jesus’ voice before he sees him) and when he has been thrown out of the synagogue by the Pharisees, Jesus seeks him out as a shepherd finds the lost sheep.  

 

This is what the good shepherd does.  He cares for the sheep, he seeks out the lost ones, and he places himself between the sheep and their enemies - in this case, the Pharisees - and he will pay with his life for this.   Psalm 23 takes on an extra layer of meaning if we understand it as describing what happens in John 9, and in our own lives.

 

We are Christ’s sheep.  We learn his voice from bible stories that we hear as children, and then as adults all through our faith lives.  We learn to follow Jesus in the good days of our lives and to trust him in the bad and sad days.   He is our shepherd, he watches over us and cares for us.  We need Christ our shepherd because, contrary to our society’s worship of autonomy and self-sufficiency, we know that we are helpless.

 

Let me finish by telling you a story about one of Jesus’ most helpless sheep.   Marion Fenwick was a longtime member of All Saints.   She was a small lady, not quite five feet tall, and she was 86 when she died at in September 2019.    

 

She died of complications from a broken hip after a young man on a bicycle knocked her down while stealing her purse.   Passers by heard her calling for help.  The young man on the bike did not stop and later claimed he was unaware that she was hurt.  Marion Fenwick knew Jesus and he knew her.  He heard her calls and took her home.    Marion is safe and in the Good Shepherd’s care.  

 

I mention Marion because last week her attacker was in court for his sentencing hearing.   He has pleaded guilty to criminal negligence causing death  and in the courtroom he asked forgiveness of Marion’s family.   He will receive his sentence next month.  It could be as long as eight years, less the three he’s already served in detention.

 

Jesus contrasted himself as the  Good Shepherd with “The thief [who] comes only to steal and kill and destroy” (Jn 10.10).   It’s tempting to see the young man who inadvertently killed Marion in this life.   It’s tempting to want them to lock him up and throw away the key.    It’s tempting to let our instinctual desire for vengeance to rule our hearts.

 

I wonder though if there’s another way to see the young man who knocked Marion down and thus hastened his death.  At the time of the attack he suffered with addiction and stole her purse to fuel his drug habit.  He’s had three years in prison to consider whether Marion’s life was worth forty dollars and some lottery tickets.   He’s had three years to wonder what the rest of his life is going to look like.

 

In the courtroom, he asked Marion’s family for forgiveness.  I wonder if anyone’s suggested that he ask Jesus for forgiveness?  Were he to ask Jesus for mercy, would we doubt that Jesus would grant it?   Surely we can imagine that God’s grace would show this young man ways to turn his life around?    Perhaps Jesus might even ask All Saints, as Marion’s church, to find ways to reach out to her attacker and help him repent and rebuild his life, even have the abundant life that he promises to his followers?

 

We shouldn’t be surprised if Jesus were to lead us in these directions.    After all, shepherds love sheep, white ones and black ones, and shepherds find lost sheep and bring them home.  And Jesus is, after all, our Good Shepherd.  May we listen to our shepherd, follow him, and trust him, now and at the hour of our deaths.  Amen.

 

Peace Be With You: A Homily for the First Sunday After Easter

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, 16 April, 2023, the Second Sunday of Easter.   Readings for this Sunday:  Readings - Acts 2:14a, 22-32; Psalm 16, 1 Peter 1:3-9; John 20:19-31 

²¹Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” (Jn 20:21)

In my homily for Maundy Thursday last week, I had a few kind words for Judas, who is usually seen as the great villain of our faith.  If I could find some kind thoughts for Judas then, well, today I’m sure not going to throw our friend Thomas under the bus.

Many sermons on this reading from John 20, which we usually hear on Low Sunday, the Sunday after Easter, urge us not to be like Thomas.   We are told not to be like Doubting Thomas, but rather to simply believe as Jesus tells the disciples they should.  This gospel thus becomes a kind of extra beatitude, “blessed are those who don’t need proof to be Christians”.

But Christianity doesn’t work that way.  Jesus isn’t content to be an abstraction.  Jesus doesn’t want to be some dogma that the faithful believe in.   No.  Jesus wants to show up in our lives.  And he does.   

Let me tell you one story about a time that the risen Jesus showed up.

This story was told by the late Uruguayan journalist, Eduardo Galeano, of a time of repression by the military dictatorship in Uruguay.   It was 1973 and some political prisoners had been rounded up and held in an army barracks.

A rotten night. Roar of trucks and machine-gun fire, prisoners facedown on the floor, hands behind their heads, a gun at every back, shouts, kicks, rifle blows, threats. …

 

In the morning, one of the prisoners who hadn’t yet lost track of the calendar recalled, “Today is Easter Sunday.”

 

Gatherings were not allowed.

But they pulled it off. In the middle of the yard, they came together.

 

The non-Christians helped. Several of them kept an eye on the barred gates and an ear out for the guards’ footsteps. Others walked about, forming a human ring around the celebrants.

 

Miguel Brun whispered a few words. He evoked the resurrection of Jesus, which promised redemption for all captives. Jesus had been persecuted, jailed, tormented, and murdered, but one Sunday, a Sunday like this one, he made the walls creak and crumble so there would be freedom in every prison and company in every solitude.

The prisoners had nothing. No bread, no wine, not even cups. It was a communion of empty hands.

Miguel made an offering to the one who had offered himself. “Eat,” he whispered. “This is his body.”

And the Christians raised their hands to their lips and ate the invisible bread.

“Drink. This is his blood.”

And they raised the nonexistent cup and drank the invisible wine.

What I love about this story is the reality of it.  This was not a pretend eucharist.  Jesus showed up. Jesus is so present in the moment that he doesn’t need bread or wine or chalice to be present.  What’s sacramental here is that Jesus’ love for the oppressed, his desire to shepherd his people and give them hope.  Jesus defeats the gate and the guards, just as Jesus defeated Pilate and the guards posted at his tomb.   Even the non-Christians see this and use their bodies to encircle and protect the moment.  Jesus in the moment is real to them as well.  Jesus brings them all the peace of his presence.

“Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you” (Jn 20.   Perhaps the most important word in today’s gospel is not “believe”, but “peace”.   Three times in our gospel Jesus says these “peace be with you" to his disciples. 

Jesus says “peace be with you” to friends have been traumatized by the violent death of their teacher.   They’re burdened by their deserting Jesus, perhaps Peter most of all.   They’re shaken by one of their own, Judas, betraying Jesus.    They’re fearful that they will be the next ones to be arrested and killed.  Despite the testimony of witnesses, one of them is sceptical.  

The traumatized, the fearful, the guilty, the doubting, the doubting, all receive the same words:  “Peace be with you”.  

Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ 

That Easter Sunday in Uruguay, Jesus said these words to friends who have been rounded up, brutalized, and locked in a prison courtyard.    He says these words to atheist revolutionaries and priests and parishioners hungry for justice.   All receive the same words:  “Peace be with you”.

Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’

Last Easter Sunday in Collingwood, Jesus said these words to 120 people gathered in this old church.  Some were faithful lifelong believers.  Some were polite non-believers obliging an older relative.   Some were grieving old losses, some were thinking of their lunch.   The point is that Jesus appeared before all of us and said “peace be with you”.   

And Jesus keeps doing appearing.  He appears in quiet homes during morning devotions and on on busy factory floors.  He appears in long term care homes and prisons and schools.  He appears to the bullied kid and the self-satisfied matrons at posh restaurants, to the homeless and to the old person far gone in dementia, and to the lonely soldier and the busy cop.   He appears in the long dark nights of the hospital ward and in the morning light of parks.   And always he appears with the same words, “peace be with you”.

So if Easter poses a question to us, it’s not “do you believe?”  Jesus is real and Jesus will show up in our lives, regardless of what we believe.   Rather, the question of Easter is simply, will we  accept the peace that the risen Christ offers us?   Will we let Jesus pass through the locked doors of our lives and of our hearts?    And if we let Jesus in, are we willing to let our lives transformed by this peace?

Jesus comes and stands among them and says, ‘Peace be with you.’

The Thirst of Christ: A Homily for Good Friday

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, 6 April, 2023.  Readings - Isaiah 52:13-53:12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 4:14-16, 5:7-9; John 18:1-19:42 

 

²⁸After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty” (Jn 19.28)

Just before he dies on the cross, Jesus says “I thirst” (Jn 19.28).   In the Christian tradition for Good Friday, we often consider and mediate on the so-called Seven Last Words of Jesus, and “I thirst”  are counted as the Sixth Word, coming shortly before the final “It is finished”.

Today I suggest we pause for a moment and consider what it means for Jesus to thirst.  Those of us who were in church almost a month ago, on the Third Sunday of Lent will recall another when Jesus was thirsty.  “Give me a drink”, he said to the Samaritan woman at the well, and that conversation led to Jesus revealing himself as the Messiah who brings “living water”:

“The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” (Jn 4.15)

The preacher Fleming Rutledge notes that Jesus can say that he is the water of life because he is the Son of the Father.  The Father created order out of the waters of creation, the Father sent Noah’s flood and parted the waters of the Red Sea, the Father allowed Moses to bring forth water from the rock in the Wilderness.    “The Lord sits enthroned above the flood” says the Psalmist (Ps 29.10).

When he spoke to the Samaritan women, Jesus used his thirst as a playful opening to a conversation and an invitation to the woman to come into the abundant life of God.   But now Jesus is serious.   The living water is stilled and dried up.  The abundant life is ebbing away on the cross.   The meaning of this, as Rutledge says, “is almost too staggering to absorb”.

What we can absorb at the foot of the cross is profoundly limited.   Perhaps all we can say is that here is death, in pain and shock and thirst.   The theologian Stanley Hauerwas notes that Good Friday tempts us to divide Jesus in two, to say that his last laboured words are spoken from his humanity, while part of him, his divine self, is somehow safe from the cross.

Hauerwas says no to our desire to somehow spare Jesus from this moment.  If the Incarnation of God is true, as we the church believe, then Jesus is one hundred percent man and one hundred percent God.  “The One who is the one God, very God and very man, is the one who thirsts”.

So it is not just Jesus the man who dies on the cross.   It is Jesus as God who dies.  The living water must dry up.   Jesus fully knew this in the Garden.  Again to quote Hauweras:  [Jesus] has a cup to drink, but it is the cup of death.  … the cup cannot be removed if we are to be saved from the dryness that is our lives” (Cross Shattered Christ 76).

Perhaps all we can say with certainty then is that the words “I thirst” signal the death of Jesus as God and as Man.   It must be this way so that Jesus as God and Man can go to the realm of the dead and there confront and defeat death.      It must be this way if the dry bones are to be knitted together and brought to life.  It must be this way if we are to be saved by the resurrection and by the living waters of baptism,  but that is a story best saved for tomorrow night.

Fleming Rutledge, The Seven Last Words From the Cross. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2005.

Stanley Hauerwas, Cross-Shattered Christ: Meditations on the Seven Last Words.  Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press, 2004.

Lent Madness 2023 Is a Wrap, Congrats Jonahan Daniels

Lent Madness is over for another year, and I’m happy to say that I called this one right, as I predicted Jonathan Daniels would be the winner, and I even picked his final opponent, Joanna.  

If you’ve been following my posts here, thanks for reading, and I pray that it was a fun and educational Lenten exercise for you.   Most of my parishioners seemed to be positive towards it. 

Cheers and blessing, MP+

 

Hope for Us, Hope for Judas. A Homily for Maundy Thursday

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto.    

Readings for tonight:  Exodus 12:1-14; Ps 116.1,10-17; 1 Cor 11.23-26; Jn 13.1-17,31b-35

 

 

Two weeks ago during our bible study, we looked ahead to the passion story from St. Matthew and someone remarked that they had never before noticed that Judas was present at the Last Supper.  We all took a moment to be still with the idea that betrayal was present at the table with Jesus’ love, that one heart was closed Our Lord’s compassion.  I found it emotional to think of that contrast.

 

Tonight, as we have heard St. John’s account of the Last Supper, the contrast seems even sharper.   Jesus washes all he disciples’ feet, including those of Judas, and even as he stoops before Judas with towel and basin, Jesus “knew who was to betray him” (Jn 13.11).

 

Betrayal of trust is one of the worst things that one human can do to another.   A parent, teacher, coach or clergy who abuses children, infidelity in marriage, selling secrets to the enemy, these are offences that most of us would struggle to forgive.   Abuse carries stiff prison terms, and treason sometimes carries the death penalty.   Even today, to call someone a “Judas” is to utter a profound insult.

 

To betray the Son of God, who has shown nothing but love, healing power, and forgiveness in his time with his chosen friends, seems altogether incomprehensible.   Of all the evangelists, John’s displeasure of Judas is sharpest.  John alone calls Judas a thief (12.6) and only John and Luke attribute his betrayal to the work of Satan (Jn 13.27; Lk 22.3).  In John’s gospel the fact that Judas leaves the Twelve to betray Jesus “at night” is significant, since from the very beginning of this gospel, darkness represents all the worldly forces that oppose Jesus, “the light [that] shines in the darkness” (Jn 1:5-10).  

 

So it’s easy for us to turn our backs on Judas. Our human nature and our abhorrence of betrayal thus prepare us to see Judas as the great villain of the piece.  This is especially true for those of us who aspire to piety, for after all, as I like to say on Sundays, are we not all saints of Collingwood?  

 

Before we scapegoat Judas, let’s go back a little bit in the story to another dinner, just a few days before Jesus’ last Passover.  We are at a house in Bethany, and Jesus is being anointed with expensive ointment by a devoted woman.  In some accounts she is simply a sinner (Lk 7.37), in others she is Jesus’ friend Mary (Jn 12.3).  

Despite the differences in the accounts, in all the gospels, she is the one person who seems to recognize that Jesus is going to Jerusalem to die.   Her actions are pure devotion, a simple, pitying, adoring love for Jesus, the same love we feel tonight as we look ahead to Good Friday knowing that the cross awaits our teacher and our Lord.

 

In John’s account, Judas who hypocritically objects to this costly devotion, saying the ointment could have been sold for the sake of the poor.  However, in Matthew’s version, it is “the disciples” who get angry and who object to the waste.    In this sense, Judas is not unique.  He is more like his fellow disciples than we might care to admit.   The disciples share his petty outrage at the woman’s lavish display of love.   They think in earthly terms, whereas she somehow recognizes with gratitude that Jesus will die for her and for all people.

 

Thus, when Jesus predicts his betrayal at the Last Supper, and the disciples “looked at one another, uncertain of whom he was speaking” (Jn 13.22), they really don’t know because they are all capable of betraying Jesus, and they do.  They fall asleep in the garden, they abandon their shepherd, Peter denies Jesus, and they leave the faithful women to keep their sad vigil at the cross.  They are like Judas in that they all betray Jesus, and the differences in their betrayals are only a matter of degrees.

 

We often think of the foot washing in John’s gospel as Jesus teaching the disciples humility and service, but what if it is all a necessary cleansing?  “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end” (Jn 13.1).    Here in his last hours with them, Jesus pours more than water into a basin.  As Mary did for him with her ointment, so Jesus now pours himself into his disciples in a final act of love and devotion.  The foot washing is an act of service, but it is also an act of cleansing.   

 

Jesus says to Peter, “Unless I was you, you will have no share with me” (13.9).   Pouring water into a basin, pouring himself into them, Jesus is saying to the disciples, “you belong to me”.  Jesus is saying “Death will not keep us apart”.  He is saying “Your sin will not keep us apart”.  And here is the wonderful thing about this story, that Peter needs the love of Jesus as much as Judas does, that we need the love of Jesus as much as Judas did.

 

In a wonderful and theologically brave passage, the theological Karl Barth allowed himself to wonder if Jesus’ love was sufficient to save even Judas, whose sins were less unique than we might care to think. No one this side of eternity can say for sure if Judas is forgiven.  In taking his own life, Judas judged and punished himself.  We cannot know what judgement the God of love and grace finally gave to Judas. 

 

 What we can say for certain is that we can never underestimate the love and compassion with which our Lord took basin and towel and knelt as a servant.   Maybe all we can say this night is what Barth said, that with basin and towel, Jesus showed his absolute care and love for a sinful world.   In the face of such love, all we can offer is our gratitude.    And maybe our gratitude can extend to this statement, that if there is grace and hope and love for us, then maybe there is grace and hope and love for Judas.

Lent Madness: Jonathan Daniels vs Chief Seattle

Good morning hagiophiles:

 

Today, when Jonathan Daniels faces off against Chief Seattle in the penultimate matchup of Lent Madness, also happens to also be the anniversary of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King.

 

Fifty five years ago today, Dr. King was murdered in Memphis, TN.  He died for the same cause that Jonathan Daniels willingly laid down his life, because they believed that all men and women bear the image of God and thus are deserving of dignity.    In that respect, Chief Seattle stands alongside them, for he saw in his people the same gifts of the Creator as were claimed by the colonists who dispossessed his people.

 

In all the tragedies of history, if we look hard enough, we can see what Dr. King saw, that the moral arc of the universe and of God’s purposes bends slowly but surely towards the good.

 

In that spirit, here is a small gift for Holy Week, some words of Dr. King on Easter:

 

Easter comes out ringing in terms that we all hear if we seek to hear it, that the soul of man is immortal. Through the resurrection of Jesus Christ we have fit testimony that this earthly life is not the end, that death is just something of a turn in the road, that life moves down a continual moving river, and that death is just a little turn in the river, that this earthly life is merely an embryonic prelude to a new awakening, that death is not a period which ends this great sentence of life but a comma that punctuates it to more loftier significance. That is what it says. That is the meaning of Easter. That is the question that Easter answers – that death is not the end.

Source: “Questions That Easter Answers,” sermon, Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, Montgomery, AL, April 21, 1957

- 

Blessed be their memories, and blessed be your voting today.

Vote here:   https://www.lentmadness.org/2023/04/chief-seattle-v-jonathan-myrick-daniels/

Michael

How We Got to Be the Daughter (and Son) of Zion: A Homily for Palm Sunday

How We Got to Be the Daughter (and Son) of Zion: A Homily for Palm Sunday  Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, 2 April, 2023.  

Readings:  Liturgy of the Palms Matthew 21.1-11, Isaiah 50:4-9A; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; Matthew 21:1-11 

 

 “Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you” (Mat 21.5)

 

Today is a day full of contrasts.  It’s a journey that begins in triumph and ends in seeming tragedy. We began our worship by reenacting the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem as a king.  It seemed like the old promises were coming true, that a royal rescuer descended from King David would return to save his people.   Matthew knew these old promises well.  He quotes the prophet Zechariah, that the king would return “humble and mounted on a donkey” (Zech 9.9), but Matthew was also thinking of another promise made by the prophet Isaiah.

Isaiah also predicted the return of the king, but he imagined it as a kind of mystical royal wedding.  The bing as bride would come to the desolate wasteland of Jerusalem, “the Daughter of Zion”, marry her, and rebuild her:  “as a young man marries a young woman, so shall your builder marry you” (Isa 61.4).  This marriage would be salvation for the inhabitants of Jerusalem:

“They shall be called ‘The Holy People, The Redeemed of the Lord” (Isa 62.11).

Which brings us to the question that I imagine every congregation asks on Palm Sunday:   what happened?  The crowds who greeted their king with shouts of “Hosanna” or "Save us!”, the cry itself an echo of the Psalms (Ps 118.25), soon turn on him.   Soon these crowds will cry “Crucify him”, “Give us Barrabas”, and “We have no king but Caesar!”   These are not the cries of a “Holy People”, but rather the opposite.

Almost everything that happens in the Passion Narrative is a betrayal of Jesus.   Judas betrays Jesus for money.  The religious leaders betray the promises of the prophets for an easy time under Roman rule.  Pilate betrays an innocent man for political reasons.  The disciples betray their teacher for fear.   The crowds betray every healing and teaching that Jesus has given them .. for what?  

The betrayal of the crowds is perhaps the hardest thing to understand in the passion stories.  How could they go from Hosanna to Crucify, from Hero to Zero?   Is it because of human fickleness?  Is it because mobs are easily manipulated yet?    Is it because they are wicked?

Isaiah prophesied that when the King marries the Daughter of Zion, her people “shall be called ‘The Holy People, The Redeemed of the Lord” (Isa 62.11).  Maybe the simple answer is that the people aren’t yet holy.   W all know that every betrayal and evil described by Matthew can and does happen today.  Non of this is news.   Humans, left to their own devices, tend to th wicked.   This is why Jesus must go to the cross, so he can take our sins with them.  Love must conquer hatred.  Words of forgiveness must be spoken.   The power of tyranny must be exposed when the stone is rolled back and the tomb stands empty in the light of Easter Sunday.  All these things must happen.

And what of us, we who have just spoken the words of the crowds, as congregations do on every Palm Sunday?  Why must we be made to also say “Crucify him!” and “Give us Barrabas”?  Is it because we are also wicked?  Or is it to remind us that we were wicked?

The old hymn says it well.

The Church's one foundation

is Jesus Christ, her Lord;

she is his new creation

by water and the Word.

From heav'n he came and sought her

to be his holy bride;

with his own blood he bought her,

and for her life he died.

 

Every Palm Sunday we speak the words of the crowd to remind us of who we were and how far we have come.   We know that we can fall away, that we can still betray Jesus in a thousand ways, through casual cruelties, through neglecting our faith, through putting our own needs first.   Yet, we remember our calling, we remember our new creation, and we remind ourselves that Christ went to the cross to save us and to make us new.

Every Palm Sunday, our cries of “Hosanna”, “Jesus save us”, are cries of need mixed with hope and joy, for we are the church.  We journey to the cross with Jesus, in gratitude and in sorrow, to remind ourselves of the price he paid so that we might call ourselves “The Holy People, the Redeemed of the Lord”.  Amen.