May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of all of our hearts, be pleasing to you, Lord our God. Amen. God don’t make junk! How many people have heard that phrase before? 
 And how many people believe it? I suspect it’s actually quite difficult thing to believe. It’s one thing, when I’m feeling badly about myself, when what I do, what I see myself as having to offer the world, indeed even who I am as a person feels unimportant, without value, not worthwhile — in these moments it’s important and true (if not always helpful) to remind myself that it’s not actually about me. That I do not belong to myself, but to the God who created me. My value as a person is larger than my role, or my own perception of myself. The deepest truth of my existence is not that I am socially useful or well-respected by my peers. The deepest truth of my existence is that I was made by and for the loving care of God. That I am loved and desired by the Creator of the universe. I may be broken, I may be in need of repair and redemption. But I am not junk. You are not junk. Because God don’t make junk. *** Knowing that God didn’t make me (or you) junk is one thing. Believing that God don’t make junk at all is another. The saying is true beyond its therapeutic value. To believe that God don’t make junk, to really believe that — to affirm this truth in the face of a world that denies it constantly — is a difficult and even subversive thing to do. Let’s consider for a moment the ever growing pile of debris that our world is amassing before our eyes. Let’s consider the refuse, the useless junk, the collateral damage, that is growing skyward before us. And then consider how easy it is to claim that God don’t make junk. (1) Our tradition understands human beings to be the stewards of God’s creation. And yet we as a species have tended to dominate more than steward. And in our neglect and overconsumption we have created an excess of waste. We have taken the abundance of creation and made something entirely new: we have made junk — waste, synthetics, byproducts. In the broad and generous space of divine creation, our habits of consumption have created the need for ever new spaces of death and decay — for waste and for junk. (2) Consider, secondly, that the social and economic kingdom that we have established in the North Atlantic world has created enormous wealth, an enviable standard of living, and a flourishing culture industry. We are privileged, indeed, to be here in this place and in this time. But how do we know that we are privileged? We know because, now and again, our gaze catches the reality of those who do not share this privilege — even if they are necessary for its maintenance. We see the working and living condition of those who manufacture our clothing, and an ever increasing portion of our day-to-day consumer products. We hear of the corrupt government regimes that keep these conditions in place. These realities are necessary, however. Aren’t they? Doesn’t someone have to do the dirty work? Not everyone in the global economy can live like us — we need some to be poor, to make our clothing, to manufacture our toasters. We need there to be those that do not partake of our privilege — we need some to be cast out, refused, we need some to be junk. One final example. (3) Anyone paying attention to our world right now will be aware of the fact that people are being killed at an alarming rate. That children are being killed — Muslim children, Christian children, Jewish children. In Gaza, In Iraq, In Israel, in Fergeson, children are being killed. This is an unspeakable evil. But it gets worse: the killing of children is being called necessary, unavoidable, collateral. The dying children in these various conflicts have become the byproducts, the waste, the junk of war. God don’t make junk. But, it seems, we sure do. I go into this long and rather depressing preface in order to set the stage for today’s Gospel reading. I want us to move into this story very aware of how easy it is to forget that God don’t make junk. Today’s gospel is difficult. I won’t deny that. I won’t try to explain that away. I won’t try to defend the propriety of Jesus’ response to this Canaanite woman, or try to rescue Jesus’ divinity from this apparently very human moment; where Jesus at first appears dismissive of one of God’s children, then appears to change his mind because of the persuasive power of this woman — this foreign woman! What I’m more interested in is what it is that Jesus appears change his mind about. What it is that this woman has caused Jesus to realize. I don’t think he learns something new from her so much as he is reminded of something he already knows. He is reminded, in short, that God don’t make junk. But before looking at this story, let’s look to the Gospel reading from a couple of weeks ago. Jesus feeds a crowd of over 5000 people with five loaves and two fishes. Out of a seeming scarcity, Jesus proves that there is enough, indeed there is more than enough. There is an abundance. Here’s how Matthew puts it: Then [Jesus] ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. [Now here’s the important bit] And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, [which was] twelve baskets full. All ate and were filled. There was more food than was needed. Out of a seeming scarcity, there came an abundance. From what seemed to be not enough and an excuse to hoard – a mere five loaves and two fish – turned out to be more than enough – and reason to share. There was so much food, in fact, that there were leftovers. But these “leftovers,” these scraps of bread and fish were not abandoned to rot in the sun. Or left for the dogs. They were not treated as waste or as — junk. Instead they were gathered up and saved by the disciples – twelve baskets full. Now, why are these leftovers gathered up? Because they were saving it for later? Because it was consecrated bread and you can’t just leave consecrated bread lying around? - Because Jesus doesn’t like to leave a mess? Perhaps, but more importantly, they were gathered up because the banquet was over, and after the banquet there was nobody who was hungry. All ate and were filled. Everyone who came to the banquet received a meal. Not a snack, not scraps, not leftovers, but a meal. Jesus came, says John’s gospel, not simply that we might have life, but that we might have it in abundance. Jesus fed the 5000 not because they were grovelling for scraps, but because he knew there was enough for everyone to eat and to be filled. Let’s stay with John’s gospel for another moment. His version of this story of the feeding of the five thousand is revealing. After everyone had eaten and become full, Jesus commands his disciples to gather up the scraps, as he does in Matthew’s version, but with an interesting addition. "Gather up the fragments left over,[Jesus says] so that nothing may be lost." So that Nothing may be lost. No food goes to waste, but more importantly, no one begs for scraps, no one is left hungry, no one is left out. All ate and were filled. There was no waste. There was no junk. Jesus knows that God don’t make junk. Jesus knows that anyone who asks for bread or fish should not be given stones or snakes — or scraps. Jesus knows that God don’t make junk. Everything that the Father gives me will come to me,[he says in John’s Gospel] and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away; for I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. Jesus knows that nothing is to be lost; no one is to be driven away; Jesus knows that God don’t make junk. Jesus knows these things, and yet, for some reason… - Perhaps he’s tired from all of the miracles, healings, and exorcisms he’s been performing. - Perhaps he’s just trying to get away and doesn’t want to be interrupted. For some reason Jesus seems to loose sight of the fact that God don’t make junk. Today’s Gospel begins this way: Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. He seems to have finally found some peace, away from the Jewish crowds, finally had an opportunity to mourn the death of his dear friend John the Baptist. He gets away, finally. But, the story continues… …Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting How many of you have offered a terse and dismissive response to someone you didn’t really have the time or energy to speak to at that moment? Especially when they’re shouting at you. In any case, the Canaanite woman will not be so quickly dismissed. She knows who Jesus is, "Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David” And despite Jesus’ seemingly dismissive remark -- "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." -- she knows that God don’t make junk. Or, perhaps, more importantly, she knows that Jesus knows that God don’t make junk. "Yes, Lord, [she responds] yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." In this reply, I want to suggest, this woman reminds Jesus, - not only of the important place of outcasts, of women, of Gentiles in Jesus’ mission. - Not only that all creatures are all hungry creatures. But that nothing should be lost. That there is no waste, no junk, in God’s creation. Though it appears to be so, she is not content with scraps. She is not asking to eat from under the master’s table. She is asking to be included at the master’s banquet. - Because she knows, and she knows that Jesus knows, that anyone who comes to Jesus will not be driven away - Because she knows, And she knows that Jesus knows, That at God’s banquet table there are no scraps, there are no hungry. There are no leftovers, there is no junk. That at God’s banquet all eat and all are filled. By the end of this encounter it is clear that Jesus does know all of this to be true. We become aware of this, not only because Jesus commends the faith of this persistent woman and heals the daughter whose case she’d been pleading… “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” We know that Jesus knows this because after this encounter he goes on to host another banquet. A banquet where there are over 4000 who are fed. Just like the previous banquet… the myth of scarcity (there were only 7 loaves and a few fish) is overcome by the reality of abundance All ate and all were filled the leftovers were gathered up — there was no junk. What’s perhaps most interesting, however, is that this banquet seems to have been hosted in Gentile territory. This was a banquet not for the “lost sheep of Israel,” but for those who were seen to be outsiders to God’s people. This was a banquet where it would have been quite possible for the Canaanite woman to be in attendance. This was a banquet where the leftovers of bread and fish are gathered up. But more importantly, this is a banquet where the leftovers, the unelect, the collateral damage, the forgotten, the junk, those people who were seen to be outsiders to God’s people, are gathered up and fed. They are gathered up so that All could eat and All could be filled. They are gathered up so that none would be lost. They are gathered up, because God don’t make junk. Amen.

I’ve got to wondering. Did Jeremiah know Psalm 19? Raised in a priestly family, with trips to the Temple as part of the rhythm of life, it seems likely that Jeremiah would have known this psalm. Given how deeply rooted Jeremiah is in the Torah, one can easily imagine him singing along with the cantor extolling Torah as perfect, sure, right, clear, and true. This is God’s gracious covenantal word that revives the soul, makes wise the simple, rejoices the heart, enlightens the eyes, endures forever and makes righteous altogether. And if you pay attention to the rich creation theology in Jeremiah, you can see that he would also have had the ears to hear that word proclaimed from the firmament, an eloquent voice that speaks through all the earth without words, reflected in the daily rhythm of the sun rising and setting. Undoubtedly Jeremiah would have been able to sing with a quiet confidence: More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold. Sweeter also than honey, and drippings from the honeycomb. The word of God, the word that calls all of creation into being, the word that all creation bears witness to, the word graciously given in the Torah of Israel, is sweet and delightful. Yes, I can imagine this being at the heart of young Jeremiah’s faith. Until he becomes a prophet, that is. Until he receives a call of confrontation with the nations, with the priestly caste, with the Temple, with the royal court, and with the academic advisors of that court amongst his own prophetic colleagues. Until he receives a commission to pluck up and pull down, to destroy and overthrow. A commission of judgment and destruction before he can begin to build. A commission of tearing things up from their roots before he can begin to plant. Is this word sweeter than honey? Is this word a joy for this weeping prophet? No, for Jeremiah this word becomes a violation: O Lord, you have seduced me and I was seduced; you have raped me and you have prevailed, he laments in chapter 20. (20.7) For whenever I speak, I must cry out, I must shout, “Violence and destruction!” For the word of the Lord has become for me a reproach and a derision all day long, he continues. (20.8a) But silence is not an option. If I say, “I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,” then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot prevail. (20.9) You see, if the words of Jeremiah’s mouth and the meditations of this prophet’s heart are to be acceptable to Yahweh, his rock and redeemer, then they will be anathema, offense, sedition, blasphemy, and pernicious nonsense in the ears of the ruling elite in Israel. Gee, it’s a good thing that Jeremiah didn’t need to get ordained. It’s a good thing that he wasn’t subjected to psychological testing: I mean, how many manic depressive folks can we handle in leadership? It’s a good thing that he didn’t go to seminary: he would have failed homiletics, been a pain in the ass in systematic theology, totally disrupted the liturgics course, and his profs would have hated him. And it’s probably a good thing that he didn’t have to be examined by a bishop. I can just imagine the conversation. “So Jeremiah,” Bishop Poole asks, “tell me about your vision of ministry.” “Well, Bishop,” Jeremiah might reply, “I think that basically we’ve got to spend most of our time plucking up, pulling down, destroying and overthrowing the way things presently are before we can even begin to start worrying about church plants and any building projects. In fact, I don’t really envision hardly any building or planting in my ministry.” Did you and the Bishop have that kind of conversation, Jason? Have you and Sandra had that conversation? Is the Jeremiah community prepared to receive a priest who just might take on something of the mantle of your namesake? Are you prepared, my brother, my friend, my compatriot to be overpowered by the word of the Lord? For this word to not just be sweet, but also bitter? For this word to weigh on you as a reproach and a derision? For this word to burn within you in such a way that you will be unable to hold it in? My friend, when you know with the psalmist that the word of God revives the soul, makes wise the simple, rejoices the heart, enlightens the eyes, endures forever and makes righteous altogether, then the burden of that word is deeply experienced in the face of souls captivated by hipster consumerism, in the midst of a socio-economic world of fools, in day to day pastoral care of those for whom joy has reach its eventide, in a world blind to God’s shalom and deaf to a word proclaimed throughout all of creation, and in a culture of deceit, oppression and injustice. I don’t know, Jason, Bishop Poole, friends in the Jeremiah community, sisters and brothers gathered here this afternoon. What does it mean to take up the calling of Jeremiah in a post-Christendom church? What does it mean to take up the vision of Jeremiah in a post-modern culture? What does it mean to take up the commission of Jeremiah in a world of globalization on the brink of ecological, economic and geo-political collapse? What does it mean to be a community named after this prophet in a Parkdale in the midst of urban renewal and gentrification? Where do we start to pluck up and pull down? What practices and traditions do we need to destroy? What are the socio-cultural and ecclesial structures that need to be overthrown? What needs to be torn down before we can begin to build the church anew? What needs to be uprooted before a fresh planting of the church can proceed? Jeremiah was worried that he wouldn’t have the words to say, so God touched his mouth and gave him the words. But the words are so terrible. The words are so painful. The words cost so much. And so the words of Jeremiah come with tears. There is no prophetic ministry of any integrity without tears. There is no authentic vision of a missional church apart from pain. There the prophetic call to deconstruction is cheap and cavalier, if it is not suffused with weeping. There is no renewal of the church, no planting or building, apart from lament. And Jeremiah learns lament from creation. In the face of the ecological destruction of the land, the prophet cries out: Take up weeping and wailing for the mountains, and a lamenting for the pastures of the wilderness, because they are laid waste so that no one passes through, and the lowing of the cattle is not heard; both the birds of the air and the animals have fled and gone. (9.10) The one who knew with the psalmist that the heavens declare the word of God, now laments: I looked on the earth, and lo, it was waste and void; and to the heavens, and they had no light. (4.23) Heavens with no light do not proclaim the word of the Lord. A couple of weeks ago in this community, Jason preached that, “It is from creation that Israel must learn to lament. It is from creation that we too can learn to lament.” Our brother went on to say, “For, creation mourns, not with crying and wailing, but with a whisper — with scarcely more than ‘a sensuous breath.’ Creation mourns, we might say, ‘with sighs too deep for words.’” And this brings us, of course, to St. Paul. Paul knew Jeremiah, and he knew Psalm 19. And in Romans 8 he demonstrates that he knows how to bring together the confidence of a torah-infused creation with the tears of a Jeremiah proclaiming radical endings. St. Paul knows that when it comes down to giving voice to the deepest of suffering, and the deepest of our longings and hopes, there are very few words indeed. St. Paul who was so elegant and expansive in his own use of words, knows that when it comes right down to it, in the face of disappointment and failure, before the reality of betrayal and brokenness, grasping for some semblance of hope for the future, we find ourselves at a loss for words. And in Romans 8 the apostle tells us that these deep longings, this profound waiting, and this debilitating loss of words, is in tune with the very nature of creation. All of creation, Paul writes, waits with eager longing. All of creation is waiting for redemption. Creation knows all about being plucked up, pulled down, destroyed and overthrown. But now, all of creation is waiting for the restoration of all things, not least for humans to take up their call anew to build and to plant. All of creation waits. Waiting goes all the way down. And in that waiting, the once eloquent voice of creation is reduced to the inarticulate groans of childbirth. So we are not alone in our waiting. And we are not alone in our loss of words. We are in tune with the very nature of things. And the very nature of things, is in tune with the very heart of God. You see, God herself, God the Holy Spirit, groans with all of creation, and groans with all of humanity, in the travails of childbirth, in the labour pains of the new creation. Waiting goes all the way down, and all the way up, and all the way through, and around, and within. All of creation waits, and even God waits. We’re all in this together. But Paul also takes this a step further. Not only does God groan in the travails of childbirth with us, those groans are sighs too deep for words. You see, the Holy Spirit is just as much at a loss for words as we are. The brooding Spirit over the face of the deep, is still brooding, still about to give birth, but like all women in the throes of contractions, the Spirit isn’t all that articulate in her groanings. These are sighs too deep for words. But … God can interpret the groaning of the Spirit, God can understand the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit is groaning on behalf of us, and God knows those deepest longings, God knows what we wait for, because God shares those longings and God is waiting for the same thing as we are. And so my friend, we invite you this day to stand in the tradition of Jeremiah. We invite you to embrace the word as sweet, even when it will be bitter. We invite you to a ministry that will be bold enough to pluck up, pull down, destroy and overthrow, while being wise and gentle enough to build and to plant. Embrace this ministry, Jason, in hope and in patience. Embrace this ministry, my brother, in community and solidarity. Amen.

The Jewish tradition knows a practice of interpretation called “Midrash.” In order to help to clarify a moral or a legal point from the Bible, the Rabbis would often offer short stories or homilies on a bit of scripture. These stories often consisted of an expansion or embellishment on the scripture in question. What I offer you this evening is a Midrash, an expansion or embellishment of Luke chapters 1 and 2. *** The angel Gabriel returned into the presence of the Lord, pleased with the work that he had accomplished. As instructed, he had found a family who would bear and raise the Baptizer. John was to be his name. He would be the one to prepare the people of Israel for the coming of the Messiah, the Son of God. That long awaited figure who would be the light of Israel’s redemption and liberation amidst the darkness of Roman colonial occupation. But, Gabriel had had his work cut out for him. For, he needed to find not simply “suitable” candidates, but exemplary parents. These parents-to-be needed to have what it took to raise a very special child. As most any parent will tell you, it is one of the great hopes as well as one of the deepest fears of parenthood to have a “special” child. This was not a job for just anyone. Truth be told, Gabriel took the easy way. As for the worthiness of the family. He opted to enlist a priest and his wife. The Gospel of Luke tells us that Elizabeth and Zechariah were “righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord.” You see, Gabriel went to the place of recognized religious authority — to the temple — to find suitable candidates for this important task. As for the willingness of the family, Gabriel opted for an elderly couple who had never been able to have children. Not only, he thought, would the birth of a child to an elderly couple have the air of the miraculous to it, but it would also offer a profound gift to Elizabeth and Zechariah. “Joy and gladness,” is what the Archangel promised them. So, it is perhaps understandable why Gabriel became defensive with Zechariah when the priest questioned the biological possibility of having a child at such an old age. Angels, it seems, like visionaries of any stripe, do not like to have their well thought out plans questioned by those who don’t have a vision for the bigger picture. “Just keep quite for a while, Zechariah,” we can almost hear the angel say, “and let the experts manage this.” As Gabriel returned to the presence of Lord, these things came to pass. Elizabeth did conceive, and indeed, came to understand her pregnancy as a profound gift and source of joy. In the sixth month of the pregnancy Gabriel was summoned to the divine throne and assigned a new task. He had done well in finding a home for the John the Baptizer, but what of the Messiah himself? Gabriel trembled at the gravity of the task that was about to be set before him — to find a human dwelling for the Messiah? To find someone willing and capable of bearing the Son of God? In an effort to reassure the arch-angel that it was not actually his task to fulfill, that Gabriel was a messenger and not the author of this plan, the Lord offered some very specific instructions. Gabriel was sent to a particular region — called the Galilee; to a particular town — called Nazareth; and to a particular woman — called Mary. But this did not put Gabriel at ease: It was one thing to go to the region of Judea and to the Jerusalem temple, where Gabriel had found Zechariah — This, after all was the centre of urban life and the place of recognized religious authority. But to Nazareth? in Galilee? That was the hill country, that was the backwoods. For Gabriel it made good sense to approach a priest, with credentials and respectability. But an unknown and unmarried peasant girl from the countryside? As the dwelling of the Son of God? If a child born to an elderly couple would have had the air of the miraculous about it. A child born to an unwed Jewish peasant girl would have the air of scandal about it. And this is how the Messiah will make his entrance into the world?, Gabriel wondered Gabriel’s incredulity didn’t seem to be tempered when God informed him that Mary was the cousin of Elizabeth. But Gabriel didn’t get to become Arc-angel by questioning the wisdom of the Almighty. 
And so he went to Galilee, to Nazareth, to Mary. “Greetings, favoured one! The Lord is with you” are the words that Luke tells us Gabriel offered to Mary. But his greeting was met with a response that he was unaccustomed to — it was not fear on her face, or even surprise, but perplexity. She looked to the other side of the room for a moment, as though she was pondering both the strangeness and the grace of this encounter. She was somehow not taken in by the spectacle of it all. But seemed somehow able to grasp the truth of the moment. Gabriel was quite taken aback by this response. But, not knowing what else to do, he proceeded as he normally did in these situations — he offered comfort. He said: “Do not be afraid, Mary,” even though he knew that somehow that was not the right thing to say. He knew that it was not fear that she was demonstrating, but in that moment he did not know what else to say. Maybe the Lord was right, he thought to himself. Maybe there was something about her. Indeed, this poor teenaged girl proved to be much more receptive to her calling than the priest Zechariah had been to his. She responded with words of radical availability and openness — as well as tremendous depth. It was not naive curiosity or sheer submissiveness that inspired Mary to respond as she did: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” No, she responded with what seemed to be an intuitive awareness of both the risky and the sublime nature of what she was about to undertake. Gabriel returned to take his place in heaven, enamoured of the spirit and wisdom of this young girl. And word of Mary continued to spread among the heavenly host. Legend has it that, shortly after Gabriel’s return to heaven, something unprecedented took place. For ever so brief a moment, the angels of heaven ceased to sing their unending hymn to the Lord. They say that the words of Mary’s magnificat had reached their ears and all at once, the angels stopped singing in order to listen and weep at the beauty of Mary’s song. *** It wasn’t until after Jesus was born to Mary that Gabriel realized what it was about this girl that so captivated him. And that allowed her to respond to God as she did. This is how Luke puts it: 15 When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” 16 So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. 17 When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; 18 and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. 19 But Mary…Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. Gabriel became suddenly aware that Mary’s response to the shepherds words was identical to her response to his words to her. Mary treasured and pondered these words. Once again, she was not distracted by the spectacle, she allowed the truth of the moment to touch her soul. Mary, he realized, was a contemplative. This is what the Lord had seen in her all along. This young girl was able to embody grace so profoundly because she had learned to listen deeply and prayerfully, despite the scurry and anxiety of life. She had learned a posture of openness. The receptivity of Mary’s body — that the Son of God was allowed to abide in her womb — was preceded by the receptivity of her soul. And if we listen to the Christian mystical tradition, we will learn that such receptivity is not mere deference to power or thoughtlessness. It is a higher form of knowing, a knowing that surpass what the intellect is capable of. Mary treasured and pondered these things in her heart. In so doing she listened deeply and prayerfully. She was not distracted by the spectacle. It is not a coincidence that this same mystical tradition understands the virgin mother to be a paradigm of contemplation for all who would follow Christ. We can not all give birth to the Messiah, but we can all make room in ourselves for the Son of God to dwell. As I leave aside this Midrash that I have been spinning for you — hoping to have shed some new light on an old story — I invite you to treasure and ponder something in your hearts. Listen deeply and prayerfully to these words. Close your eyes if you like. Take this image to heart. You are a creature with a mystery in your heart that is bigger than yourself. You are built like a tabernacle around a most sacred mystery. When God’s word desires to live in you, you do not need first of all to take deliberate action to open up your innermost self. It is already there, its very nature is readiness and receptivity, the will to surrender to what is greater, to acknowledge the deeper truth, to cease hostilities in the face of a more constant love. Certainly, in the sinner, this sanctuary is neglected and forgotten, like an overgrown tomb or an attic choked with rubbish, and it needs an effort — the effort of contemplative prayer — to clean it up and make it habitable for the divine Guest. But the room itself does not need to be built: it is already there and always has been at the very centre of yourself. (Hans Urs von Balthasar, _Prayer_) On this day, let us make room for the Christ child. Amen.

On a few occasions recently I’ve had the strange, somewhat uncanny, experience of seeing someone I know on television. As you’re probably aware, there’s an incredible diversity of people who live in this neighbourhood. As it turn out, many work in the film and television industry. I happen to know a number of these people. But I tend not know them well enough to be aware of precisely which films or television shows they might be involved in. Occasionally, they show up on my screen unexpected. It’s becoming a strangely common experience for Sandra and I to be watching a show on television and then turn to one another and say, “Look, there’s Sarah,” or “Hey, that’s Elizabeth, I didn’t even know she was an actor.” Or, “did you know that Cheryl did a Home Hardware commercial?” In almost every case these neighbours of ours are playing minor roles. They are not the lead characters, but supporting actors; many of whom will not make more than a single appearance on the show. 
Many actors, I would imagine, “work their way up” from supporting to leading roles over the course of their careers. But there are others who are happy to remain in supporting roles. There are some, in fact, who have become famous precisely as supporting characters. They are often referred to as “character actors.” Character actors tend to be skilled at playing unusual or eccentric figures. Some of the more famous include Steve Buscemi, Christopher Walken, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Fances McDormand. All those I’ve mentioned — my neighbours and this venerable list of character actors — are clearly trained and talented at what they do — in some cases they are better actors than the leads that they support. Nonetheless, their singular function is to provide support for the primary characters — to only draw attention to themselves insofar as they are providing background for the development of the main dramatic action. They function as signs that point the viewer’s attention away from themselves and toward the main characters and action. As we move further away from the lead actors and the primary action there are also the countless “extras,” “assistants,” and “helpers” in film and television. All of whom, in some way, lend themselves to the task of signifying or pointing to the main character and the primary dramatic action. There is a deference that comes not from altruism, but from the job description. They are called, as it were, to dispossess or efface themselves and become transparent so that the central action and actors can be seen more clearly. *** In these times, at least speaking for my generation and the ones who have come after it, it seems an almost unthinkable that one would willingly choose to become a supporting actor — let alone an assistant or a helper. The traditional route of formal training, apprenticeships, and putting in one’s time, seem antiquated and overly-burdensome. Technologies and mediums of immediate celebrity proliferate — and encourage a culture of narcissism. Whether it’s YouTube, reality TV, or some other mechanism of exposure, it is immediate visibility and recognition that determines the goal and the good. Everything else is just consolation. Much as it might sound like it, this is not just a grumpy rant against the entitled “kids of today.” Although, now that I’ve turned forty, I believe I’m allowed to make such rants once in a while. Instead, I simply want to recognize that an important virtue is disappearing from our culture: the nobility of the assistant; the helper, the supporting actor who has the wisdom and strength of character to direct attention beyond him or herself and to the main action. *** let me come at this another way. Today’s scripture readings, and the spirit of this season of Advent in general, encourages a posture of anticipation. Anticipation is kind of “waiting” for what or who has not yet come. But anticipation is not quite so passive as waiting. Anticipation literally means “to take into possession ahead of time.” Anticipation is an active waiting. And today’s texts point to that very activity. Specifically, the activity of preparation. Today’s texts speak of those who “prepare the way” for the Lord. Today’s texts are about a series of supporting actors, assistants or helpers, all of whom have willingly and eagerly effaced themselves and pointed beyond themselves to the main action of the story. The biblical name for this self-effacing gesture of pointing beyond oneself is — prophecy. And all of the biblical characters we encounter today are caught up in this prophetic pointing — Malachi, Zecheriah, John the Baptist. Each in their own way point beyond themselves to the One who is coming. Each seeks, in their own way, to prepare a way — indeed to become a way or a channel through which others might encounter the coming Messiah. The prophet Malachi himself is barely audible in the Old Testament lesson, as he functions only as the mouthpiece of God’s promise-laden speech about a messenger who will prepare the way. Zechariah’s beautiful turn of phrase which speaks of “that dawn from on high which will break upon us” bears within it a tension. For, the eloquence of the words of this canticle would seem to compel us to seek out the poetic genius that lies behind them (such that Zechariah’s words would point to himself). But such a compulsion is matched only by the hopefulness of these same words that draws us beyond their author. Zechariah’s words are prophetic precisely because they represent a poetry of the future, a speech that points to something other than itself. These words point, most immediately, to John the Baptist. And the Baptist, also in keeping with the tradition of prophetic deference, does not let our gaze or our worship rest upon him. “One who is more powerful than I is coming;” he will say, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals.” Each of our biblical characters today are thus minor characters who have willingly effaced themselves in order that our gaze and our attention would be directed beyond them, to the One who was to come. The somewhat obvious conclusion to all of this would be to say that “prophetic speech points to Jesus, the Messiah”. And that would be a very appropriate way to end an Advent sermon. 
But I want to push this a little further. The minor characters we’ve encountered today (Malachi, Zechariah, John the Baptist) each defer to the main messianic character and the main dramatic action of salvation. But what kind of main character is Jesus? And what kind of action is salvation? What lies at the end of all this prophetic deference and self-effacing pointing? I want to suggest that such deference doesn’t end with Jesus, but it takes on a new, fuller reality. If you’ll permit me to use strange theological words for a minute — the salvation that God offers in Jesus necessarily takes a — a kenoetic and cruciform character. All I mean by that is that the kind of salvation (the main action) that God works in Jesus (the main character) comes by way of victory and triumph, but by way of obedience and death. The book of Philippians, for instance, speaks of Jesus as one who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross. Even in Jesus, the main character of the story, there is deference. There is a pointing beyond himself. There is an obedience to and a movement toward the Father by the Son. And so, as we anticipate the coming of the Messiah again and for the first time this Advent season, let us not imagine that we are anticipating a Messiah who comes in triumph and self-sufficiency. The deference of the minor characters that have come before and pointed to Jesus are not overcome, but intensified in Jesus. The prophets point us to Jesus, and Jesus points us, through he Spirit, to God the Father. So, as we seek to prepare the way for the Lord, let us not think that the raising up of valleys and the bringing low of mountains could ever be accomplished on our own strength or self-sufficiency. Instead let us prepare by being caught up, like grass in the wind, in that deferential movement of the Son toward the Father. Amen.

Over the past few weeks Stephen has been exploring a question in his sermons: What did Jesus say or do that got him killed? What was so troubling in Jesus’ words and actions that he had to be executed? This solemn season of Lent in which we find ourselves, will lead us, finally, to the great celebration of Easter, but not before it plunges us into the darkness of Good Friday; when we commemorate the betrayal and murder of the Son of God. But how do we get from here to there? What caused things to play out this way? What in Jesus’ words or actions was so disturbing to the religious and political establishment that he was executed by the state, with the sanction of the religious authorities, and the collusion of the masses? All of the particular answers that might be given to that question — some of which we’ve been hearing in Stephen’s sermons — fall under one overarching answer: Jesus was killed for proclaiming (with his words) and bringing into being (with his actions) — the Kingdom of God. Jesus was killed because: the Kingdom of God. But I think it’s worth taking a moment to try to free that notion of the Kingdom of God from it’s bondage to pious language, A language that tends to dull the subversive edge that this idea had when Jesus first proclaimed it. Where the radical proposal that was set forth by Jesus becomes domesticated and safe — or worse, it becomes meaningless to a world like ours. Indeed, I think that’s actually the worst part about the rampant secularization of culture: not that people have stopped believing in some kind of a divine being, but that people have lost the capacity to imagine the world any differently than it already is — except for maybe an environmental catastrophe of some kind. Most of us can imagine that kind of change. But what we’ve lost is the ability to imagine something new. That is, we’ve lost the capacity for hope. And, the Kingdom of God has no meaning for a world that cannot hope. You see, what Jesus was announcing and inaugurating was not a new concept, but a new world. This new world was good news for those who had been longing for something new. Those who were not benefiting from the world as it was — the world of foreign political rule and elitist religious authority. But the idea of a new world was not good news for those who were benefiting from the world as it was. And those who killed Jesus — the Roman state and the Temple establishment — were “doing quite well, thank you very much,” with the world as it was. The Kingdom of God is meaningless to a people without hope; and it is dangerous to a people with something to lose. The Kingdom of God is the promise (or the threat, depending on your perspective) of a new world coming to be within the shell of the old. 
 Since at least the time of the prophet Isaiah, this Kingdom has been indexed to newness — put in a different way: the Kingdom of God signifies or points to … the new thing, the unthinkable thing, the seemingly impossible thing that God is doing in the world. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. Declares the prophet. Or elsewhere… For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind. But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; This is the very new thing that Jesus was pronouncing and enacting. Not just a new teaching, not just a new idea. But the coming into existence of a new reality. And these words of newness from the prophet Isaiah are precisely the words that St. Paul is calling to mind in today’s reading from 2 Corinthians: So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new! *** So, the overarching answer to the question, what did Jesus do or say that got him killed? Is that Jesus dared to proclaim and enact the arrival of the new thing that God had promised through Isaiah — The Kingdom of God. We can therefore understand each word and action of Jesus in the Gospels to be a small disclosure of the shape and force of the emerging reality of the Kingdom of God. And as these small disclosures began to multiply in Jesus’ ministry, as this new reality made itself more and more visible, the threat it represented, for those who were benefiting from the old order, became more and more palpable — and Jesus’ execution became more and more inevitable. *** In today’s Gospel reading we find Jesus responding to the criticisms of the Pharisees and Scribes (those paradigmatic sustainers of the old order) for his practice of sharing meals with sinners. His response, is not a justification. And it is certainly not an apology. Because, if each of Jesus’ words and actions are in fact tiny revelations of what the Kingdom of God looks like, then this practice of promiscuous hospitality is not just a good deed, but a glimpse into the world as God intends it to be. What Jesus offers in response to the criticism of the religious leaders is a series of three parables about lost things. A lost sheep, a lost coin, and finally, a lost son. These stories are framed as common sense wisdom. The first two begin with rhetorical questions that prompt the hearer to agree. “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?” When we hear this, our initial reaction is to agree (of course! That’s what I would do!). But that’s only because we’ve been duped by the rhetoric. And because we’re not paying attention to what this parable is really about. Think about it, what kind of shepherd would actually do something like this? It would be completely irresponsible to leave ninety-nine sheep alone in the wilderness and totally naive to think that they’re going to be there when you get back. What’s going to prevent them from wandering off just like the one you’ve just left to chase down? We know it’s not above these sheep to do such a thing. What’s to stop a predator from devouring all of them the moment you turn your back? It’s an absurd and reckless idea to seek out one life to the potential detriment of ninety nine others. It’s absurd and reckless from one perspective at least — from the perspective of the world as it is. But from the perspective of the world as it is coming to be, the world as it is meant to be, from the perspective of the Kingdom of God…things look a little different. What Jesus is describing in these parables are not quaint agrarian scenes. They are not descriptions of the world as it is, but radical re-descriptions of the world as it is coming to be. They are glimpses into the new thing that is the Kingdom of God — From the perspective of the Kingdom, the calculus would never be so utilitarian and crude as comparing the value of the life of one sheep to the life of 99 sheep. From the perspective of the kingdom, every sheep is worth pursuing, every soul is worth seeking out. Why? because there is enough. There is enough safety There is enough love There is enough life… and the immeasurable worth of a singular sheep is never weighed against the worth of any other. *** In this light, let us acknowledge at once the absurdity and the necessity of a father’s reckless generosity and gratuitous love in the parable of the prodigal son. A wayward son, who abandons all allegiance to his family and squanders his inheritance in “dissolute living.” vs. a responsible and hardworking son who has dedicated himself to the family business. What’s the better investment here? The responsible son knows very well that he’s getting the short end of the stick. ‘Listen! For all these years [he says] 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. What he fails to see, what we all fail to see, when we lose sight the world as it is coming to be, as the Kingdom of God, is that there is enough. And this is precisely what the father tells his resentful son: He tells him that there is enough “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.” The gratuitous expenditure, the unconditional welcome that is lavished upon one so undeserving as the prodigal does not happen at anyone else’s expense. There is enough for all. There is enough food There is enough celebration There is enough love There is enough grace — there is more than enough grace! For all of his commendable virtues, the responsible son remains blind to a basic reality of the world as it is coming to be: that there is enough. That there is more than enough. And that in the perspective of the Kingdom of God, the immeasurable worth of a singular sheep (or son) is never weighed against the worth of any other. Conversely, for all of his condemnable failures, the prodigal son remains strangely aware of a basic reality of the world as it is coming to be: he remains aware that there is enough. And it is this very realization that finally draws him back home. 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! It was the realization that there was enough (bread in this case), that there was more than enough, this was the truth that brought him home, hat in hand. As it turns out he was right. There was enough… There was enough bread There was enough love There was enough grace and forgiveness It may not be this story in particular that got Jesus killed. But it was through parables just like this and practices, like sharing table fellowship with sinners, that Jesus was bringing a new world into existence. A world that was threatening to those who had something to lose. That is what got Jesus killed. He spoke of, and enacted, a reality where there was enough — more than enough. But there were those, there are those, who want the world to be a place of scarcity. Because scarcity can be managed and deployed. Because scarcity can be controlled. Whereas abundance… abundance only the saying yes to a gift that has already been offered. There is enough! Amen.

What was it that got Jesus killed? What did Jesus say or do that was such a threat to the political and religious establishment that it provoked these powers to act with such a decisive and public display of violence? Why would they crucify a poor itinerant preacher from the countryside and put this spectacle on display for all of the subjects of empire to witness? That’s the question we’ve been asking throughout the season of Lent. The 40 days before Holy Week in which we prepared ourselves for the great feast of Easter. We followed this humble preacher from the countryside of Galilee to the heart of Jerusalem. And now, finally, we recall his death and celebrate the mystery of his resurrection. *** Now let’s make one thing clear before moving on: It is not out of character for established power to have recourse to violence. Such displays were — and are — a basic principle of human society: the state exercises the exclusive right to violence so that private subjects or citizens do not. Our modern state is no less violent than the ancient Roman empire. It simply exercises a subtler and more efficient violence than its ancient forebearer. And yet, the crude injustice of legal violence is always there to see if you look for it. It shows itself even in our day. The imperial violence that was inflicted upon the Jewish body of Jesus on the cross is not, when you think about it, fundamentally different from the police violence that is directed at black bodies in our day. To ask the question, “why was Jesus killed?” is, by extension, also to ask why was Michael Brown killed? Why was Tamir Rice killed? Why were Walter Scott, Sandra Bland, or Freddie Gray killed by police in the United States? Why, finally, was Andrew Loku killed by police in our city? All legal violence, ancient and modern, needs to be subject to scrutiny and critique. No such violence should ever be excused or normalized. *** And yet, the focus of the question as we’ve been asking it — “why was Jesus killed?” — has been slightly different. We haven’t been asking: “what is it about established power that causes it to be violent?” It’s an important question. But ours has had a slightly different focus. What was it that Jesus said or did that got him caught in the cross hairs of the political and religious authority of his day? The short answer is that Jesus represented a threat to the established order. He represented a threat to the political authority of Rome and the religious authority of the Temple regime. The even shorter answer, and the one I gave a few weeks ago, is that Jesus was about the Kingdom of God. Jesus was killed, because: the Kingdom of God. *** And what is this Kingdom of God that Jesus was about? It’s not some airy theological concept, it does not concern, as the song says, some heaven light years away. It’s about a new reality that was straining to come to birth in Jesus’ words and actions; and it is a reality straining to come to birth in our midst — even today. Especially today. The Kingdom of God is a totally new order of human relations and divine rule. It is the new reality that Jesus both preached and enacted. Whether he was challenging the teachings of the Pharisees, or the legitimacy of Roman authority; whether he was telling tales of the limitlessness of God’s welcome or challenging the myth of scarcity with a affirmation of abundance; whether he was hosting a dinner party or inverting the social hierarchy by washing the feet of his followers… in all of these cases he was brining into existence a new reality. Jesus was bringing about a total upsetting and reordering of the world as it was. Jesus was proclaiming (with his words) and bringing into being (with his actions) — the Kingdom of God. And, as I mentioned a few weeks ago, we can therefore understand each word and action of Jesus in the Gospels to be a small disclosure of the shape and force of this emerging reality called the Kingdom of God. Let me say that again: each word and action of Jesus in the Gospels is a small disclosure of the shape and force of the Kingdom of God. They are like little windows into the world, not as it is, but as it is meant to be. *** With this in mind: what does today’s Gospel reading disclose about the shape and the force of the Kingdom of God? What does today’s somewhat strange and incredibly intimate dinner party reveal to us about this new world that is straining to come to birth in Jesus? I think it discloses a few things worth noting: First of all, Jesus, the host of this dinner party, is well aware of what’s really going on here. He knows that what is happening is not just a dinner party for his friends. He knows where this is all going — he knows where he is going. “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father,” as our Gospel puts it. And, more than that, he knows how he’s going to get there… by way of the betrayal of his closest friends, the condemnation of the religious authorities, and the violence of a Roman cross. But, more importantly, he knows that this is not about him. It’s not about an itinerant preacher from the countryside who has become a renowned teacher and miracle worker. He knows that what is unfolding here is not just his story, but it’s the beginning of a cosmic upheaval. He knew that God was up to something and that the world was about to turn. He only needed to act in obedience to be a part of that turning; that upheaval; that new reality that was straining to be born. He knew that the authority that had been given to him by God was to find it’s fullest expression not in an exercise of power, but in a surrender to death. He knew, in other words, that the kind of power he had been given was not a power he could wield (like a Roman sword, or a policeman’s gun). It was a power without force, without violence. A power that could not compete with the force of Rome or the Temple establishment — but a power that was, nonetheless, going to be the undoing of both of them. He knew, again as the Gospel puts it, “that the Father had given all things into his hands…that he had come from God and was going to God.” *** This Last Supper that Jesus shares with his disciples is a moment in the Gospel story that is almost bursting with potential, almost virile in character. Jesus, has not yet been betrayed, not yet been handed over and pacified. He is prepared to stare death in the face. He is aware of his power, he knows that “all things have been given over into his hands.” He knows that he is a part of what will become a cosmic upheaval. And yet, here he sits, surrounded by these simple folks who remain completely unaware of the gravity of what is about to take place. The stage is set for a dramatic display of masculine pathos. It would have been his right to stand up from his seat, call out and berate his betrayer, Judas, to chastise the cluelessness of his disciples, to dramatically turn over the tables, proclaim his own virtue, and slam the door on his way out to meet his fate. But that’s not what he does. Instead, he moves in just the opposite direction. He does not rise to assert his dominance, but stands only to bend in deference. He does not chastise and berate, but serves his fearful and unfaithful friends. He does not display his power with bravado, but assumes a domestic role — taking up a basin, some water, and a towel. “he got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him.” The role of the morally superior, masculine, and dominant figure is completely inverted. At the moment when such power seemed most rightfully his to display, he performs a reversal. Not power, but servanthood; not anger, but compassion; not self-righteousness, but self-forgetful love. “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” *** So now, as we take in this performance, we are not just witnessing a two-thousand year old story, but we are given a glimpse into the emerging reality of the Kingdom of God. We are privileged to know, unlike the disciples who were present at the meal, that what is taking place is an event of cosmic proportions. We, like Jesus himself, but unlike his dinner guests, know where this is going. 
 We know where Jesus is going. We know where the world is going. Both, having come from God, both now returning to God. A cosmic upheaval was underway, a new world was straining to come to birth. This was not just a dinner party — it was the birth pangs of a brand new reality. A reality too big, too strange, too unthinkable for the disciples to imagine. And yet, folded into the immensity of this cosmic transfiguration, right at the heart of this unimaginable new world that God was bringing into existence, lies the simplest of gestures — a foot washing. In this story, Jesus moves us from a cosmic immensity to a domestic intimacy. That is because in this strange reality that is straining to come to birth, these things are not opposed: immensity and intimacy are not foreign to one another. Power and servanthood do not compete with one another. Life is not a struggle against death, because both are taken up into a fuller, richer, and more beautiful reality. This simple act of self-giving love lies at the heart of the new world that is coming to birth. This moment of simple and repeatable intimacy is not a distraction from the immensity of the Kingdom — it is its very substance. As we repeat this gesture of Jesus’, we also become aware, that in this simple act of deference, God is up to something and that the world is about to turn. We only need to act in obedience to be a part of that turning; that upheaval; that new reality that is straining to be born. I give you a new commandment, Jesus said, that you love one another. Amen.

It doesn’t really matter if you believe that Jesus rose from the dead. Not exactly what you expected to hear as the opening line of an Easter Sunday sermon, is it? But, I’m going to stick with this. It doesn’t really matter if you believe that Jesus rose from the dead. Now, don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t hurt. It’s not a bad thing to believe that just over two thousand years ago a Jewish man from Galilee was buried in a tomb one day and left that tomb living and breathing three days later. Don’t worry, I’m not pulling a Greatta Vosper on you. It’s not bad to believe this, “fact” if you will, about Jesus. But, is that really what matters? Is that why you’re here today? Are you here today because some operation in your mind has you intellectually convinced that a particular event transpired in time and space? If that is why you are here — you are still most welcome. I have no intention of trying to dispute your intellectual belief. Or, maybe you believe that Jesus did not rise from the dead. You are welcome here, too. I am not here to try to relieve you of your historical scepticism. I am here to reflect on the way this strange story that we’ve heard — of an empty tomb — can be heard as good news; and to consider what this might mean for the life of faith. For, if a life of faith is to be sustained, if it is indeed to be a “life,” it will require more than intellectual belief in a historical event. Now, I can already anticipate some responses: “What about the Apostles’ Creed?” Don’t we say, among other things, that… “I believe in Jesus Christ, etc., etc., … On the third day he rose again, and ascended into heaven.” Or the Nicene Creed, “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, etc., etc., … On the third day he rose again.” Point taken. But let’s pause for a moment over that verb “believe.” Latin has a word that means “to believe.” The word is opinor, meaning basically, “opinion.” But historically, this was not used in religious contexts. Instead, the verb credo was used, which means “I set my heart upon” or “I give my loyalty to,”. In medieval English, the verb credo was translated as “believe.” But back then it meant roughly the same thing as its German cousin blieben, “to prize, treasure, or hold dear,” which comes from the root word Liebe, “love.” Thus, as Diana Butler Bass points out, in early English, to “believe” was to “be-love.” To believe was to be-love something or someone as an act of trust or loyalty. Belief was not an intellectual opinion. (Butler Bass, 117) So, when you hear the word “believe” in the Bible or in the creeds, it should be understood, in almost every case, to convey a general confession of trust or a specific disposition of trusting someone — it is a personal and relational action initiated by love. The same author points out that “in only 12 percent of scriptural cases does “to believe” appear as “I believe that…” or as an impersonal affirmation about something.” (Butler Bass, 118) Now, perhaps, it is becoming clearer why I began where I did. I said it doesn’t really matter if you believe that Jesus rose from the dead. Whereas, I think it matters a great deal if you believe in Jesus whom God raised from the dead. To believe that Jesus was raised from the dead is an intellectual opinion. To believe in Jesus as the one whom God raised, that is a disposition of trust, rooted in love. Intellectual opinion may have a bearing on the life of faith. But setting our heart upon…, or giving our loyalty to… the one whom God raised from the dead is the very substance of the life of faith. Think about the Creeds in this light. What do we say in the Apostles Creed? 
Do we say I believe that…on the third day Jesus rose again? No, we say I believe in Jesus Christ. Just as in the Nicene Creed we say “We believe in one Lord Jesus Christ.” *** So what does this have to do with our Gospel story about an empty tomb? First of all, I find it interesting that in today’s reading we do not find incontrovertible evidence of Jesus’ resurrection. We don’t even find Jesus. Instead, we find a tomb without a body and two men dressed in what the English translates as “dazzling” clothes, (perhaps blinged-out would be better translation), and the experience and testimony of a few women. The two luminous figures are able to convince the women who have come to the tomb that Jesus has, in fact, been raised from the dead. (But, that’s a bit of a misnomer, isn’t it. The women were not “convinced” by these men, in the sense that they came to believe that Jesus was raised from the dead — as an impersonal fact. Instead, [what does the text say?], “they remembered” Jesus’ words. That is, they recalled the trustworthiness of Jesus and what he had said to them. They believed in Jesus’ words — they found themselves returned to a relationship of trust, rooted in love). But, as these women — Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and an unknown number of other women — return to Jesus’ male followers with this story, they are met with scepticism: when they tell this story to the apostles, the text reads, “these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.” (Here too, we should pay attention to the words. When it says the apostles “did not believe them” it literally means that they did not have faith in them. This was not a scepticism about the impersonal fact of Jesus’ resurrection. It was a lack of faith in these women and in the testimony they offered.) The story concludes with Peter, who comes off as the hard nosed empiricist — he wants to see with his own eyes. He would seem to be the one most interested in the fact of the resurrection. He scurries to the tomb, sees the burial clothes without a body, and…what? does he become intellectually convinced one way or the other? No. He doesn’t uncover the hard facts. He is confronted, like the women, not with evidence, but with mystery and testimony. He is left marvelling. And what does his amazement inspire him to do? To run off and tell others like the women did? No. Dumbfounded, he goes home. There is an interesting contrast here: both the women and Peter are confronted with the same “facts.” The empty tomb and the testimony of someone else. This is enough for the women to “remember” what Jesus had said to them; to believe in the trustworthiness of Jesus. To proclaim the mystery of the resurrection to the rest of the disciples. These women were the very first proclaimers of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The very first Christian preachers! Peter, on the other hand, was one of little faith. Little faith in the women’s testimony. Little faith in the testimony of Jesus himself. Peter was forgetful. “Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again” These words, that triggered the memory and ignited the faith of the women at the tomb, were lost on Peter. *** We have a model, therefore, not in Peter, but in Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women. The appropriate response to the mystery of the resurrection is neither belief nor scepticism — which are two sides of the same intellectual coin. The appropriate response to mystery of the resurrection is — faith. Faith in the one whom God raised from the dead and faithful testimony to that mystery. At the heart of the Easter Gospel, therefore, lies not only the mystery of the resurrection, but the veracity of the testimony of a few women. In this light and on this day, I am compelled to offer one final word. On Thursday morning Ontario Court Judge William Horkins released his decision in the widely publicized case against former CBC host Jian Ghomeshi. Ghomeshi was acquitted of all the charges against him: four counts of sexual assault as well as one count of overcoming resistance by choking. The case against the accused depended largely upon the testimony of three women, all of whom claimed to have been violently assaulted by Ghomeshi. After the ruling, Horkins claimed that his decision rested entirely on the reliability and credibility of the these women’s testimony. Amen.

A couple of weeks ago our service took the form of an Instructional Eucharist. We paused at moments throughout the service to explain why it is that we do the things that we do on a Sunday — Why do we exchange the peace before the Communion? Why do we recite the Creeds? What is a Collect? etc. Fr. Stephen took the opportunity to explain to you his method of sermon preparation: the way that he studies the Sunday readings throughout the week. You’ll recall that as a demonstration of his method, he asked us to look at the Gospel reading and to identify words or phrases that were repeated. And then to draw some theological conclusions from that repetition. Now, much as I might benefit from such a disciplined approach, my method is somewhat different. I too read through the scriptures on Monday or Tuesday and let them percolate as I go about my week. But I do not put pen to paper — or, more accurately, I do not put finger to key — until I am compelled, until something moves me to write. I can rarely predict what it is that will compel me. Almost inevitably it’s a surprise. I would not recommend this method to anyone who is training for ministry in the church. As much as it can be a profoundly moving experience (there is something almost mystical about being compelled to write), it is equally a source of uncertainty and sometimes of anxiety. +++ On Tuesday morning I read through this week’s scriptures. I was drawn in particular to the reading from the prophet Isaiah. My first response on reading it was: hmmm! I can preach on this. You see, I have a deep respect for the Hebrew prophets. I love the poetry of Amos’ critique, of Jeremiah’s laments, of Isaiah’s evocative visions of new possibility. The motif of “old and new” in the latter half of Isaiah has always been compelling to me. When Sandra and I were married 13 years ago, we chose a text from Isaiah 43 to be read at the wedding: Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I still love that text. And so, today’s reading from Isaiah resonated with me. “For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.” On Tuesday morning I read Isaiah 65 and said to myself: hmmm… +++ I woke up on Wednesday morning feeling very different than I did on Tuesday morning. Perhaps you did too. I have a feeling that I am not the only one who did not sleep very well on Tuesday night. What happened on Tuesday night and into the wee hours of Wednesday morning was something that happens all the time in democratic societies around the globe — an election. But perhaps you felt, …like I did, like many in the United States and around the world did That this was something different. On Wednesday morning the world felt somehow askew, spiritually different, than it did on Tuesday morning. There seemed to be a palpable increase in the world’s supply of fear, anxiety, and resentment. I read Isaiah 65 on Wednesday morning and I said to myself, OOHHH! I read it, aware of the fact that Isaiah’s poetry of hope and expectation was composed for a people who had experienced defeat — defeat at the hands of Babylon under king Nebuchadnezzar. These words were composed for a people who had lost not only political control of their nation, but had lost virtually everything that identified them as a people at all. Isaiah 65 is a poem of possibility and hope for a people facing defeat and an uncertain future. And so, with this in mind, I read Isaiah 65 on Wednesday morning, and said to myself: OOOOHHH! Perhaps this is what I am to preach. +++ On Thursday morning I put finger to key, wondering if this synchronicity was the work of the Holy Spirit. I mean, here we are reading words of hope originally written for a defeated people and we’re doing so in the wake of an election that was experienced as a defeat for more than half of American voters and as a baffling and terrifying prospect for many in Canada and around the world. Could it be, I wondered, that Isaiah’s hopeful words written for Israel at the dusk of Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylon, would speak to us at the dawn of Trump’s America. But there was something a little too easy about this synchronicity. It is one thing to derive hope and encouragement from the scriptures. It’s another to feel like you’re being proven right to have your resentments confirmed. 
I would suggest that any time you read the scriptures and find yourself saying, “you see, I was right” If that is your response, it might be worth a prayerful second reading. Isaiah, you’ll notice, is not calling Israel out of defeat and into victory… but instead, out of sorrow into joy. for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight. In Isaiah’s vision of the future, there is no place for resentment. For in the this joy-filled time to come “the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.” This is not a vindication, where the losers of history become the winners and revel in the defeat of the enemy. It is redemption: it is the wake of a great storm of forgiveness, where all traces of misdeed are erased. They are not remembered. They do not come to mind. This is how Jerusalem will be created as a joy and it’s people as a delight. +++ And now, how do we, at the dawn of Trump’s America, but on the hither side of redemption, how do we move from sorrow into joy? I would suggest that there is a hint within Isaiah’s oracle. It is a call, not to anger or resentment, not even to speech — there have been so. many. words. over this election cycle: angry words, assaulting words, defensive words, sexist words, racist words, ridiculous, endless…words. What I hear in Isaiah is a call to listen. Not to all the words, but to the Word that has been resonating since creation. The words will come. The action will come. Redemption will come. But for now, i think we need to listen for that older, truer, and fuller word. +++ I’ll forgive you if you don’t remember. But several weeks back I spoke about prayer as listening. About how …all of our stammering is only [ever] an answer to God’s [prior] speaking to us. All of our prayerful speech — in thanksgiving, lament, intercession, or praise — is only ever a response to the Word that God has already spoken. Isaiah says as much today: Before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear. We don’t need to say it all. We don’t need to understand it all. We do need to listen. It is hard to hear that immemorial word amidst the cacophony of so many other words. But I think if we take some time to enter into the divine silence we’ll come to hear that word again: the word that says that we too are being created as a joy and as a delight. On Friday I read Isaiah 65 and I didn’t say anything at all. Amen.

Today we are observing the Reign of Christ, or as it is often called, The Feast of Christ the King. This feast always falls on the last Sunday of the Christian year. Next week, the first Sunday of Advent, is also the first Sunday of the new year. The Christian year, as you may know, roughly follows the life of Jesus — thus the year begins with Advent as we anticipate the birth of the Messiah. Then during Christmas we celebrate the incarnation, God with us in the person of Jesus. Then throughout the long season after Epiphany we follow one of the Gospel stories of Jesus adult life and ministry. We’re just finishing up a year of readings from the Gospel of Luke. Next year is a Matthew year. After the long season after Epiphany we move into Lent, which prepares us for Holy Week, the culmination of Jesus’ earthly ministry as his passion and death. Easter, of course, is the time to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and his post-resurrection appearances. His ascension then precedes the outpouring of the Holy Spirit upon the church at Pentecost, and we are just now finishing the extended season after Pentecost — the season which concludes the year. On this last Sunday in the season after Pentecost we observe the Reign of Christ. We affirm the Sovereignty of God in the strange authority of Jesus. We end the year with this affirmation, because it is an ultimate and (pardon all the syllables, but) eschatological claim — Jesus, executed, raised, and glorified, is now and forever the King of the Universe: the slaughtered lamb who sits upon the throne of heaven. As you might imagine, the placement of this feast was intentional. In 1969 Pope Paul the Sixth moved the observance of the Reign of Christ from late October, where it preceded All Saints Day, to the last Sunday in the year, precisely in order to emphasize the “eschatological” or ultimate significance of Christ’s Kingship. The final service of the year anticipates the final eschatological scene of redemption. +++ But in our tradition things of ultimate significance are also of present significance. Our claim today is not that Christ will reign, but that Christ does reign. This has been the claim of the church since its inception. It is an extraordinary claim to make and at times it has been an absurd or embarrassing claim to make. And yet, what other claim can the church make? it is perhaps the most concise statement of the Christian faith: Jesus is Lord. As it turns out, it is also one of the most radical claims that we make. Implicit in the claim that Christ reigns or Jesus is Lord is the relativizing of all other claims to Lordship and power. In light of the claim that Jesus is Lord, all other claims to earthly lordship are shown to be impotent or idolatrous. Jesus is Lord, the earliest Christians claimed, …Caesar is not. Jesus is Lord, The Confessing Church in Germany claimed, …Hitler is not. Indeed it was the historical context of European Fascism and state Communism that led to the institution of the feast of Christ the King in the first place. It was precisely in order to challenge and relativize the claims to authority of fascism and communism that Pope Pious the 11th instituted the feast in 1925. The church, he felt, was loosing sight of Christ’s Lordship under these emerging totalitarian regimes. Now, I’m not going to connect all the dots in order to point out the historical parallel to our moment, when the spectre of fascism is once again rearing its head. I only need to point out that the church’s fundamental claim has not changed. And the subversiveness of this claim has not changed. What the church in America faces in this political moment is only the most recent iteration of the question “whom will you serve, Christ or Caesar?” +++ The choice between Christ and Caesar, and its many iterations down through the centuries, has never been as abstract or as simple a choice as the one between two similar forms of authority. The authority of Christ looks nothing like the authority of Caesar. For Caesar, or Hitler, or Trump, or even Trudeau, power is always exercised as a means to an end — it is instrumental power is sustained by an image or air of authority (with regalia and finery, with weaponry and security details) — it is ornamental power, if it is not immediately violent, at least has violence at its disposal — it is coercive Finally, power is exercised in the interest of its own survival — it is self-serving The power of Caesar, and his historical surrogates, to summarize, is instrumental, ornamental, coercive, and self-serving. The authority of Christ on the other hand, is given to us in the image, in the book of revelation, of a lamb on a throne, Or, as in today’s gospel, as a seemingly powerless victim of a political execution. This is a different authority altogether. Let’s look a little more at the Gospel reading to discern what kind of power Jesus exercises. The power of Christ is weak and lowly — at his birth he was surrounded by animals, at his death, he is surrounded by criminals. The power of Jesus it is non-violent — instead of calling down a divine force upon the earth, and upon those who mocked his authority (“If you are the king of the Jews [they said to him], save yourself”) instead, he took upon himself the violence of the world. The power of Christ is self-giving — even in the moment of his death he offers forgiveness (“Father forgiven them, for they know not what they are doing”) and redemption (“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise”). Finally, the power of Jesus is an invitation — Jesus exercised his power (a weak, non-violent, and self-giving power) as a demonstration of another kingdom that all are invited to enter — but especially the poor, the meek, the persecuted. The reign of Christ is exercised not with a power that is instrumental, ornamental, coercive, and self-serving. But with a power that is weak, non-violent, self-giving, and invitational. 
And so, each time we utter those simple, but profound words — Jesus is Lord — let us remember what kind of power we are speaking of. Let us remember that in light of this weak, non-violent, self-giving power, all coercive power will be shown to be idolatrous and impotent. And though our prayer may be that of the criminal beside Jesus — Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom. Let us also remember that Jesus kingdom is among us here and now as a perpetual challenge to Caesar — and his surrogates. Amen.