I’m going to do something a little risky today. It’s risky because I know we don’t all think the same way about this … but I want to raise some questions which are important for us to consider.

Let me begin by acknowledging that we gather for worship this morning on the traditional unceded territory of the Ktunaxa People. We are grateful for the opportunity to work and worship in this territory.

I want to begin by confessing to you, as James counsels us. I want to tell you how disappointed I am in myself. I’ve been learning some stuff over the last few years that has been staring me in the face my whole life long … and it never registered. There were hints of it throughout my life, but I never put it together.

I am deeply sorry for my ignorance, for my lack of knowledge.

But that also means that I get it. I understand how it is that we haven’t learned what is becoming increasingly clear, and so I try to be compassionate about that kind of stuff with others. We come at this stuff with different questions and different opinions. We don’t all agree.

I’m not sure what finally got through to me, but it did get through to me. And now, it has become an important part of the gospel word for me.

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been preaching about Jesus calling us to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow.

Today’s gospel tells us that we are to be salt … that we are to flavour life with God’s gospel purposes, and to live at peace with one another.

I want to ask some questions today, which are rooted in the gospel for me. My refrain will be “How can we flavour life with the gospel?”

Today is Orange Shirt Day. Why orange shirts? Listen to the story in her own words from Phyllis Webstad. She is an aboriginal person, from the Northern Secwpemc (sek we’ petch) First Nation, about an hour south of Williams Lake.

“I went to St. Joseph’s Mission Residential School for one school year in 1973–1974. I had just turned 6 years old. I lived with my grandmother on the Dog Creek reserve. We never had very much money, but somehow my granny managed to buy me a new outfit to go to the Mission school. I remember going to Robinson’s store and picking out a shiny orange shirt. It had string laced up in front, and was so bright and exciting—just like I felt to be going to school!

“When I got to the Mission, they stripped me, and took away my clothes, including the orange shirt! I never wore it again. I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t give it back to me, it was mine! I didn’t want to be at school anymore, but I had to stay there for 300 sleeps.

“The colour orange has always reminded me of that and how my feelings didn’t matter, how no one cared and how I felt like I was worth nothing. All of us little children were crying and no one cared.

“I was 13¾ years old and in grade 8 when my son Jeremy was born. Because my grandmother and mother both attended residential school for 10 years each, I never knew what a parent was supposed to be like. With the help of my aunt, Agness Jack, I was able to raise my son and have him know me as his mother.

“I went to a treatment center for healing when I was 27. I have been on this healing journey since then. I finally get it, that the feeling of worthlessness and insignificance, ingrained in me from my first day at the mission, affected the way I lived my life for many years. Even now, when I know nothing could be further than the truth, I still sometimes feel that I don’t matter.”

That’s why I’m wearing orange today.

That story is not unique. Many of our aboriginal brothers and sisters tell that kind of story. That’s partly why this has become such an important thing for me. It brings me to tears.

In the light of a story like that, how can we flavour life with the gospel? How will we be salt?

Part of the history behind this is what’s called the Doctrine of Discovery. Have you heard about it?

The Doctrine of Discovery was an edict issued by Pope Alexander VI in 1493. It stated that any lands not inhabited by Christians were empty, unowned, and available to be discovered, claimed, and exploited. The Pope called these lands “terra nullius” — “nobody’s land”, and it was applied to North America.

On the basis of the Doctrine of Discovery, the colonial powers—England, France, Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands—were able to exploit land which had been inhabited by Indigenous Peoples from time immemorial. These colonial powers accumulated massive wealth by extracting natural resources from the land.

The Doctrine of Discovery denied the essential humanity of our brothers and sisters who lived here. They weren’t “Christian” (as defined by church powers), and therefore the land was considered empty. The Doctrine said that there were no humans here.

The Doctrine of Discovery laid the groundwork for the racism and injustice that still exists.

In 2010, our General Synod repudiated the Doctrine of Discovery. We denied it had any validity, and we confessed our culpability. And now, we are working hard to reconcile with our aboriginal brothers and sisters.

In the light of our church’s repudiation of this doctrine and working towards reconciliation, how can we flavour life with the gospel? How will we be salt? How will we seek to be reconciled?

There are so many facets in this discussion—but I don’t want to overwhelm you. The main thing at this time, it seems to me, is that we begin to educate ourselves. As I said at the beginning, I don’t have many answers. But I do know that in the light of the gospel, these are important questions for us to talk about.

Our church has made some significant steps. But they are only first steps, baby steps, on a journey that will take generations.

We can get involved on that journey. Here are a couple of ways to start:

1. Let’s become more aware of what’s going on, what has happened, and what we can do now; there are some wonderful resources online, including https://www.anglican.ca/tr/reconciliation-toolkit/
2. Let’s begin a conversation with our Ktunaxa brothers and sisters so that we can begin the journey towards reconciliation and wholeness, and so I’m planning to begin a conversation with Chief Joe Pierre.

It’s a global problem but the solutions are local.

Survivors of residential schools will keep telling their stories. We will continue listening with open hearts. That’s why I’m wearing orange today, without alb or chasuble.

What I know with an absolute certainty is that, as Matthew tells this story, we are the salt of the earth and we are the light of the world. If we have lost our saltiness, how will life be flavoured with the gospel? If we have lost the light, how will others learn about God’s inclusive love?

Let me leave you with this question. How can we flavour life with the gospel? How will we be salt?

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

September 30, 2018 (19^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 26)

Mark 9: 38–50

James 5: 13–20

Esther 7: 1–10; 9: 20–22

What makes a person great?

It’s a hot topic these days, especially in politics, where politicians spend much of their time telling us just how great they are, and how wonderful their policies are.

Honestly, it often reminds me of kids in the sandbox …

… which isn’t such a bad thing, considering that Jesus takes a child as a model for greatness. Actually, Jesus goes further than that. Let’s look at this gospel reading carefully.

Last week, Jesus asked us, “Who do you say I am?” He invited us to follow the Christ in the way of the cross, to deny ourselves, and to take up our cross as we follow.

Today, we read the second time when Jesus says the same thing. “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days later he will rise again.”

Notice something about what Jesus says. He’s not going to Jerusalem to die. He’s going there knowing that he will be killed. He will be executed by the authorities, Judean and Roman leaders who have decided to execute Jesus because he’s a threat.

Mark never says that Jesus came to “die for us”. Many Christians say that Jesus came to be a substitute for us, that Jesus died in our place as the perfect sinless man to satisfy God’s demand of righteousness. The technical name for that is “substitutionary atonement”.

But Mark never says that. In Mark, Jesus invites us to participate in his mission, to walk the way of the cross with him, to deny ourselves, and to follow. And, as we follow, people may be hostile towards us. Let’s call it “participatory atonement”.

We take up our cross and follow Jesus faithfully. We do what is right and faithful, we live by God’s gospel purposes, and we participate in the work of Jesus in the world. We become co–workers with God in “God’s great cleanup project in the world”, to use Dom Crossan’s lovely phrase.

But the 12 “didn’t know what he was talking about, and they were afraid to ask him about it.”

They didn’t get it.

Honestly, neither do modern–day disciples. We don’t get it. We want to walk in the way of glory, not the way of the cross. We want victory, not suffering. We want holiness, but without a cost.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was executed for his faith near the end of World War 2, talks about “cheap grace”. We want God’s love without the hard work of following God’s lead. We want God’s forgiveness without the hard work of confession and reconciliation. We want God’s grace without working in God’s great cleanup project.

For all of us … for you and me … this way is hard. G.K. Chesterton once said, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult and left untried.” We want to avoid it … but we can’t.

We have made a commitment to live in such a way that we honour God’s gospel purposes.

Mother Teresa had the following words painted on the wall of the home for children she ran in Calcutta:

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies. Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you. Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight. Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous. Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow. Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough. Give the best you’ve got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis it is between you and God; it was never between you and them anyway.

It’s a difficult way.

But it’s not impossible. We work at it day by day. So, beside Chesterton and Mother Teresa, I want to put Leonard Cohen’s words:

“Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering; there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

We continue to work at God’s gospel purposes. We continue to walk in the way with Jesus. Faithfulness doesn’t mean being perfect. It means keeping on keeping on. One step after another.

That’s what we promise in our 1^st and 2^nd baptismal promises: “Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?” and we respond, “I will, with God’s help.” And then, “Will you persevere in resisting evil and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?” And again, we respond, “I will, with God’s help.”

The second promise is that when we mess up … and trust me, we will … we repent and return to God. Part of what that means is that we stop beating ourselves up. We let it go, and we return to God, who wraps us in an embrace, strengthens and encourages us, and sets us on the way again.

Repenting is not just feeling really really sorry. It’s about letting it go, giving it to God, and getting back to work at God’s mission in the world.

And then we find out that the 12 were discussing which one of them was the greatest. After all this teaching about denying ourselves and following Jesus … So Jesus repeats it: “the first will be last, and the last first.”

He takes a child in his arms — “when you welcome one of these, you welcome me; when you welcome me, you welcome God.”

These days, we think of children as being wonderful and innocent beings, full of energy, ready to try almost anything — well, except vegetables. And we think that Jesus says we should be like them.

But that’s not what Jesus is talking about here.

In those days, children had no rights at all. None. A father could put a newborn outside to starve to death if he had wanted a boy and got a girl, or if the baby seemed weak or handicapped. Children existed for the benefit of their fathers, and if they had no benefit, they could be thrown out or killed with impunity.

When Jesus says to us that when we welcome God when we welcome a child, it means that we see God in the most vulnerable. This is Mark’s way of saying that we see God in the least of these our brothers and sisters.

God comes to us in weakness and vulnerability, and we keep lifting our eyes to the high and mighty and powerful. And the high and mighty and powerful think they are great. And the 12 argue about which one of them is the greatest.

They’ve got it all wrong.

Being great is found in service. Being great is found in love. Being great is found in caring for those who are on the bottom. Being great is found in not competing and arguing about getting what we deserve.

Being great is found as we deny ourselves. Being great is found as we take up our cross. Being great is found as we follow Jesus on the way of the cross faithfully. Being great is learning to see God in the weakest and most vulnerable.

Part of the reason this was is so difficult is that it runs counter to all that we learn from society. Society tells us we’re great according to what we accomplish. Society tells us we’re great if we look gooooood. Society tells us we’re great if we’re wealthy and we’ve got lots of stuff.

And Jesus just says, “Oh no, no no. That’s not how it works.”

In the light of all this, my hope and prayer is that we at Christ Church learn to be great.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

September 23, 2018 (18^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 25)

Mark 9:30–37

James 3:13–4:3, 7–8a

Proverbs 31: 10–31

What does it mean to be a Christian?

I’ve heard all kinds of different answers to that.

Some say that to be a Christian means to go to church regularly.

Some say to be a Christian means to follow the 10 Commandments, or a different set of rules, such as not being able to dance or drink, or shop on Sundays, or engage in other fun things.

Some say it means to be against many of the things that our society accepts … like being gay, or being in favour of a woman’s right to choose. The unfortunate result of this is that many people see Christians as those people who are against things.

In the 70’s and 80’s, people said you had to follow the Four Spiritual Laws to be a Christian — in short, 1) God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life; 2) people are sinful and separated from God, so we can’t know God’s plan for us; 3) Jesus is God’s only provision for sin; and 4) we must receive Jesus as our personal Lord and Saviour to know God’s love.

Some say that to be a Christian means to be more conservative in your social attitudes and political leanings.

Some say that to be a Christian means to affirm a particular belief about Jesus — such as “Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Saviour?” or having a particular view about the work Jesus did on the cross.

I’m here to tell you this morning that none of that is true. It’s both more simple and more complex than that.

Mark’s gospel this morning says quite clearly and quite simply that the heart of what it means to be a Christian is to follow Jesus on the way to the cross.

Now following Jesus doesn’t mean clicking a button on facebook or twitter. It’s not just liking or sharing Jesus’ posts on a small screen.

Following Jesus … it’s going to change us. It will change our lives. It will change our priorities. It will change the way we think about things, the way we treat people, the way we live. It will change our hearts. The fancy word for this is transformation.

The story comes right in the middle of Mark’s gospel. This story is the heart of how Mark understands our identity as Christians.

Up until now, Jesus has been teaching that God’s kingdom is at hand. Everything he says and does shows the power and love of God for the world.

And now, Jesus and his disciples are in the area around Caesarea Philippi; it’s in the north of Israel, at the margins. He asks the disciples, “What are they saying about me? What’s the word on the street? What are you hearing?”

“Well … some say you’re John the Baptist … or Elijah returned from the dead … or one of the prophets.”

Then Jesus asks the key question: “What about you? Who do you say I am?” And something clicks for Peter, and he answers, “You’re the Messiah. You are the Christ. You are God’s anointed one.” That’s what “Messiah” means; it’s the Hebrew form of “Christ”, and both words mean “anointed”.

Peter has the right answer. But here’s the thing … you can have the right answer and still not understand what it means. That’s why Jesus warns the disciples not to tell anyone about him.

He begins to explain that God’s anointed one, the Messiah, the Christ, must suffer … be rejected … be killed … be raised.

It blows Peter’s mind. This can’t be right. That’s not what a Messiah is for. Jesus has it all wrong, so he pulls Jesus aside to tell him. What kind of Messiah is that? But Jesus cuts him off. “Get out of my way Satan! Get lost! You have no idea how God works!”

Jesus explains that following him means to deny yourself, take up your cross, and really follow.

Here’s the heart of what it means to be a Christian. Following Jesus is harder than clicking a facebook button. Following Jesus means to go where Jesus goes, to do what Jesus does in the way that he does it.

Back in that day, people thought that the Messiah would come and lead Israel to victory. The Messiah would kick the Romans out, and as the decisive figure in Israel’s history, the Messiah would usher in God’s future. The Messiah would ensure God’s power and victory in the world.

But that’s not how Jesus understands his mission.

It wasn’t just back then. There are still all kinds of Christians who think that being a Christian is about winning the victory. We hear that kind of language all the time. We want a saviour who is a winner, a savior who makes us winners, a saviour who will give us prosperity and power.

But that’s not how Jesus understands his mission.

“If you want to follow me, you must deny yourself, take up your cross and follow.”

Now when Jesus says to take up the cross, he’s not talking about the kind of suffering that is simply part of life in a broken world—like annoying neighbours, or serious illness, or natural disasters, or a difficult family situation, or anything like that. We call it “our cross to bear”. But that’s not what Jesus means.

Neither is Jesus calling us to seek suffering or martyrdom. Although this reading has been used this way, Jesus is not telling people to stay in abusive relationships, because that’s your cross to bear.

Denying yourself and taking up your cross means being willing to suffer the consequences of following Jesus faithfully, whatever those consequences might be:

• we do what is right and faithful, even if there are consequences;
• we help those who need help, even if it takes time and money;
• we stand up for the truth even if it is unpopular;
• we speak up for the environment, even when everyone else is yelling that we need to grow the economy;
• we reach out to invite and welcome;
• we live with compassion and grace, we speak words of hope and love.

Sometimes, that kind of witness succeeds. Other times, success comes only after a rock through a window, or an arrest, or dealing with a threat.

That’s what it means to deny yourself and bear the cross. It means putting God’s priorities and purposes ahead of our own comfort and security. It means being willing to lose our lives by spending them for others — using our time, resources, gifts, and energy so that others might experience God’s love made known in Jesus Christ.

In other words, Jesus calls for a complete reorientation of our lives. We make the gospel our highest priority — not family or security or wealth or popularity or how we look. The fancy word for this is transformation.

And that’s when Jesus says, “If you want to save your life, you’ll lose it; but if you lose your life for the sake of the gospel, you’ll save it.” The Greek word for “save” has to do with health, healing, wholeness. If you want a whole life, a life lived with integrity, a life which is a healing presence in the world, you’ll live this way.

And the wonder, the sheer wonder of it all, is that God meets us in vulnerability, suffering, and loss. God meets us in those moments when we really need God.

God meets us in those circumstances when all we had worked for, hoped for, and striven for fall apart and we realize that we are mortal, incapable of saving ourselves and desperately in need of a God who meets us where we are.

God meets us precisely where we least expect God to be.

At the beginning of worship this morning, we sang, “Be Thou my vision … naught be all else to me save that thou art. Riches I heed not, nor the world’s empty praise.” At the end of worship we’ll sing, “Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord?” Are we ready to sing those words … and mean them?

That’s what this is about. It’s about God being the very center of our lives, just as this story is the very center of Mark’s gospel.

Jesus asked them, “Who do you say that I am?”

Jesus asks us, “What about you? Who do you say I am?”

And the whole of our lives is about living out that question. Moment by moment. Day by day. Year by year.

What does it mean to you to be a Christian?

Where in your life are you showing the marks of God’s love for the world?

How are we living out our baptismal covenant?

How are we living the Marks of Mission?

With God’s strength, we live out that question, every single day.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

September 16, 2018 (17^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 24)

Mark 8: 27–38

Proverbs 1: 20–33

James 3: 1–12

Do you want to leave too?

It’s a heartbreaking question.

It comes at the end of John 6. The whole chapter has to do with food. It begins with the feeding of the 5,000, and continues with a declaration that Jesus is the Bread of Life. In John, earthly realities always point to spiritual realities. As Dorothy Day put it, “Food for the body is not enough. There must be food for the soul.”

When John proclaims that Jesus is “the bread which has come down from heaven”, we are dealing with Eucharistic imagery. We participate in this spiritual reality every week: “This is my body, this my blood … for you.” In this ritual meal, Jesus is truly and deeply present with us and in us. We eat and drink, and Jesus becomes part of us, and we become part of Jesus. We are fed spiritually. We are renewed and transformed to see the world from the new perspective of God’s gospel values.

The people don’t get it. Isn’t this Mary and Joe’s boy? What’s he talking about?

John continues, saying very clearly that if we want to know God, we must look to Jesus. If we want to know God’s character, watch what Jesus does. If we want to know the heart of God, look at Jesus’ compassion for the vulnerable ones in society. If we want to understand God’s passion for the world, watch how Jesus loves those around him.

But many of Jesus’ followers found this teaching too difficult. It was too much for them, and so John writes, “Therefore, many of his disciples turned away and no longer went about with him.”

Notice that John uses the word “disciples” for those who turn away. They weren’t just casual listeners, hangers–on. They weren’t the folks who come for Christmas and Easter services. They are the ones who are there every week, the Sunday School teachers, the Lay Ministers and priests. These disciples have journeyed faithfully with Jesus.

And now it’s too much. It’s too hard.

That’s when Jesus asks the Twelve, “Do you want to leave too?”

I wonder how Jesus asked the question. I wonder if there was an edge to it — was he issuing a challenge? I sometimes imagine that he asked it sadly. Maybe he asked it with a sigh, his shoulders sagging a little. It’s hard to watch those you counted on as followers leave.

Do you want to leave too?

And then I wonder how I would have answered that question. Because sometimes the answer is yes. Yes I want to quit. Yes, I want to be more comfortable. Yes, I’d like an easier, less demanding, less costly way of life.

Yes, sometimes I want to leave.

Notice that Peter doesn’t give a definite answer. He doesn’t shout a Spirit–filled “No!” Neither does he say “yeah, I’m done.”

He asks a question of his own, which becomes a statement of trust: “Where else would we go? What are the alternatives? Your teaching is hard … but it has life. You tell us you are life itself, abundant life. If you truly are who you say you are, why would we leave?”

It’s a pretty stunning statement. You are life. Why would we leave?

What about us? Could we say the same?

We live in a dark time. There is pain and hatred and suffering all around. It’s a challenging time to live. How do we face those challenges?

Well, there are all kinds of ways of coping with those challenges … retail therapy; a stiff drink; hiding in your own cave; living behind walls which will let no one else in; turning a blind eye to the suffering; making sure you and yours are doing ok above all else; making sure your retirement account is as strong as possible; hanging out only with your own tribe. There are all kinds of ways of coping in our society.

The trouble is that none of these are gospel ways.

The gospel invites us, calls us, to get involved with the world so that we can shine in this place as beacons of God’s light, God’s grace, God’s love. The gospel calls us to be light and to feed the world with the bread which we have received.

That’s why Ephesians advises us to put on the whole armour of God. I don’t much like this militaristic image … but it seems appropriate these days. It feels like a battle out there. We are waging war against forces of exclusion and hatred and division. There are people all around us who want to build walls instead of bridges. Some people are feeling empowered to express their racist rants. Some people speak more freely about their hatred and intolerance.

They’re waging war on women’s rights and marriage equality. They’re waging war against immigrants, and the poor and vulnerable among us. They’re waging war against aboriginal and indigenous peoples; They’re denying climate change and they claim that we are not ruining the earth. They’re fighting against a free press. They’re fighting against diversity.

That’s tough stuff. It’s tough to stand against those kinds of attitudes. And it’s also true that there are no easy answers. These are difficult questions, and there are reasonable differing attitudes about them.

But for us who follow Jesus, if it doesn’t show love, it’s not for us. If it doesn’t show compassion, it’s not for us. If it doesn’t seek to welcome and embrace those who are different, it’s not for us.

So Ephesian’s call seems timely: put on the whole armour of God and go into the world to live as followers of Jesus. Do not be afraid. We are held by God. We are a people who live by the power of God’s gospel values — compassion; grace; inclusion; welcome; hope; trust; and above all else, love.

There’s a wonderful story about Desmond Tutu. During the time of evil known as apartheid, a rally had been planned in protest. The government cancelled the rally, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu led a worship service in St. George’s Cathedral. Soldiers and riot police carrying guns and bayonets stood all around the walls of the cathedral, ready to shut it down.

Bishop Tutu began to speak about the evils of apartheid, and that the rulers and authorities that propped it up were doomed to fail. He pointed a finger at the police who were there to record his words: “You may be powerful — very powerful — but you are not God. God cannot be mocked. You have already lost.”

Then, in the middle of that moment of unbearable tension, Tutu seemed to soften. He came out from behind the pulpit, flashed that radiant smile and began to bounce up and down with glee. “Therefore, since you have already lost, we are inviting you to join the winning side.”

The crowd roared, the police melted away, and the people began to dance.

What about us? Do we want to leave too?

Or are we ready to share in the abundant life which Jesus gives to those who follow?

As for me, I will choose to speak out. I will choose to practice justice. I will choose to live with compassion. I will choose to walk in righteousness. I will choose to embody peace. I will choose to include all people, regardless of the colour of their skin, their sexual orientation, or their wealth. I will choose to remain loyal to God, the Source of abundant life.

What about us?

This is a question of our vocation. How will we live? How will we minister in the world as people who are part of the Jesus-movement? How will we show by our lives that we live the abundant life given to us by God?

As people in the Jesus-movement, I invite you to put on the armour of God, to learn to walk in compassion and grace, and to learn to dance. Don’t leave. I invite you to join the winning side.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

August 26, 2018 (14^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 21)

John 6: 56–69

Ephesians 6: 10–20

1 Kings 8: 22–30, 41–43

Once upon a time, there lived a young prince. When his father died, the prince took the throne God had planned for him. He married a beautiful princess from a neighbouring kingdom and settled down to govern his people.

Soon afterwards, God appeared to him in a dream, and promised to grant whatever his heart desired. Being a humble man, the new king didn’t ask for wealth, power, or long life. Instead he replied, “Give your servant an understanding mind to govern your people, and the ability to discern between good and evil.”

God was so pleased with the king’s request that he made the king the wisest human being in history, and also gave him untold wealth, matchless honour, and long life. He got it all.

The young king’s reputation for wisdom spread throughout the land. He was renowned for his pithy sayings and wise judgments. As a result, his wealth and power grew beyond measure. He made strategic political and economic alliances; maintained fleets of ships; built gorgeous temples and palaces; traded in luxuries such as gold, silver, and ivory; wrote the greatest wisdom literature of his time; presided over the Golden Age of his kingdom; and finally handed his throne to his son after a peaceable reign of forty years.

It’s a wonderful tale, isn’t it? I’m willing to bet that’s the story most of us know about Solomon.

But that’s only half the story. And half a story is always a fairy tale, a cartoon, a Sunday School story. When we read the whole story, we see that Solomon, like all of us, was a mixture of good and bad.

Here are some bits of the story we don’t know: Solomon came to the throne by murdering his older brother. His appetites were excessive and legendary, and to support his extravagant lifestyle, he taxed his subjects beyond what they could bear. He drafted thousands of people into forced labour for his lavish building projects. To satisfy his lust, he assembled a harem of 700 wives and 300 concubines. To quell his spiritual restlessness, he constructed pagan shrines and offered sacrifices to gods who demanded child sacrifice.

By the end of his reign, the people could no longer bear the crushing burdens of taxation and slavery he had placed on them. When his son came to replace him on the throne, they rebelled. The civil war lasted for decades, and the result was that the kingdom was broken up into two separate kingdoms.

When we tell the whole story, we see that it is a deeply ambiguous tale. Solomon was undoubtedly a great king, but he was also dangerously flawed. It’s like looking in the mirror, for here we see the brokenness we all share.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the Russian novelist, reminds us that we are all a mixture of good and evil. He writes, “If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”

It’s an important signal that the writer begins the story of Solomon with this story of his dream. We see how the new king imagines what his reign might be like. He may not live up to it, but it reflects the deep desire of his heart. There are all kinds of dreams out there—dreams of power and prestige and prominence. But Solomon shows that the dream of justice and compassion is the deep wisdom of gospel obedience.

God appears to Solomon in the dream and asks, “What do you want? What does your heart desire most of all?”

How would you answer? If you could wish for anything in the world, what would you wish for? It’s reminiscent of the story of Aladdin and the genie in the lamp. What would you like? What does your faith drive you to seek?

Solomon begins by praising God for God’s faithfulness to David. And then he asks. “Give me an understanding mind, and the ability to discern between good and evil.”

An understanding mind. In Hebrew, Solomon asks for a listening heart. He longs for the ability to listen as he begins his reign. Not to listen to polls, as today’s politicians do it. He seeks to listen to the deep needs of the people entrusted to his care. He wants to be attentive to the needs and hopes of others. Solomon asks to be a king whose primary concern is the welfare of his people.

You don’t need to be a ruler to ask for a listening heart. We all have the potential to influence the lives of others — our children; the poor people on the street; our elderly; the hurting person who needs our help; the addict who struggles with the very fact of staying alive; the person who is depressed and needs our heart to listen with compassion; people who are dealing with sorrow and pain in their lives; those who are lonely.

Give me, O God, a listening heart.

The opposite of a listening heart is a hard heart. When we ask for a listening heart, we are asking to be touched by the plight and needs of other people in our lives. We are asking for compassion and grace to be part of our lives. We are asking to live from a place of love for others.

It’s so easy for us to get wrapped up in our own lives, our own problems, our own struggling to make sense of life. But a listening heart opens us up. We ask for a heart which is touched by others, a heart which reaches out in grace and love, a heart which is open.

The second thing Solomon asks for is the ability to discern between good and evil. He asks for insight. He asks to see deeply, to look beneath the surface, to discern what is good, what is holy, what we need to live with a sense of abundance and joy.

It’s a prayer for wisdom. These days, we tend to equate wisdom with intellectual ability, with our IQ. But the Bible understands wisdom differently.

Wisdom begins in relationship. For us who are part of the Jesus–movement, our primary relationship is with God. Today’s Psalm reminds us that “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” The fear of the Lord doesn’t mean being afraid of God. The beginning of wisdom comes when we know that we live in relationship of awe and promise with God. Wisdom finds its soul in our relationship with God, and with the world God loves with a deep and abiding passion. We are in awe that God chooses to be in relationship with us. This kind of wisdom is hunger … yearning … longing.

That kind of relationship with God has an ethical component. Wise people live a certain way. Wisdom hates arrogance and pride. Wisdom seeks to live in harmony with others, with all of God’s creation. Wisdom is a way of life, a way of walking with justice, a way of loving compassion.

Solomon prayed for that kind of wisdom. Ephesians urges us to live with the same wisdom: “be careful how you live, not as unwise people, but as wise.” Ephesians urges us to seek to understand God’s purposes and to live by them. That kind of wisdom is grateful, giving thanks to God in all things. That kind of wisdom gives insight and helps us discern life in all its abundance and all its joy.

We may not live up to it. We are broken people. But this is the dream of God, and it is the dream which can give life to our lives.

So let’s tell the story one more time: Once upon a time there lived a king. He had big dreams, as most of us do. He had great faults, as most of us do. He yearned at times for the best of things — wisdom, discernment, and a sound mind — and lusted at other times for the worst. He lived a life marked by success and failure, nobility and disgrace. He loved God and he didn’t. He pleased God and he didn’t. He left a legacy that was neither perfect nor wretched, as most of us will.

But he was loved by God throughout — even when his foolish wisdom shattered God’s heart.

So are we, loved deeply by God, even when we don’t measure up to the ideals we might wish. Loved deeply by God.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

August 19, 2018 (13^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 20)

1 Kings 2: 10–12; 3: 3–14

Ephesians 5: 15–20

John 6: 51–58

I love bread. All kinds of bread. White bread, multi–grain, sourdough, kaiser buns, rye bread, French bread, raisin bread, the list goes on and on. While I was on vacation in Quebec, I had some thick slices of an amazing homemade bread which still makes my mouth water. Honestly, I love bread.

Bread’s an important part of every culture. Our language reflects it. Bread has become a synonym for food. “Bread is the staff of life” means we can’t survive without food. We need “our daily bread”.

But bread is about more than food. It’s a nickname for money. Something new is called “the best thing since sliced bread”. And this preaching gig? Well “it’s my bread and butter”. And when we live generously and long to do the right thing, we “cast our bread upon the waters.”

Our language shows how important bread is. Way back in our history, when we learned to make bread, it was a game–changer. We learned how to cultivate grains grasses and manage fields, how to harvest and mill and bake—and the result was that instead of having to chase herds of animals for meat, we could settle in communities to farm and have enough to eat.

In John 6, Jesus says, “I am the bread of life.”

I’ll get back to that in a minute. First, let me tell you some important things about John’s gospel.

It was written very late—about the year 110, some 80 years after the crucifixion. John paints a very different picture of Jesus than the other three gospels. None of the gospels is a biography of Jesus, but John is even less so. All the gospels are theological reflections on the life of Jesus, and what Jesus means for the world, and that’s particularly true of the 4^th Gospel. John is an extended meditation on what Jesus means for the world.

John does that by using metaphors: Jesus is light; Jesus is the good shepherd; Jesus is resurrection and life; Jesus is bread.

The second thing to know is that John was written in the midst of severe conflict with the synagogue. Like Jesus, the first Christians were all Jews. Christianity only became a separate religion about fifty years or so after Jesus’ death. These early Christians would worship on the Sabbath in the synagogue with fellow Jews, and the next day, on Sunday, the day of resurrection, they would gather to celebrate Eucharist.

But now, the synagogue leaders were kicking Jesus–followers out of the synagogues. It became a family fight … and you know what those are like. There is no fight nastier than a family fight. When the author of John’s gospel blames “the Jews” for everything, it comes in the context of this kind of family fight. One group of Jews is calling other Jewish leaders names. It’s kind of like “oh yeah? …. Well, pfffffttttttt to you” (with the thumb to the nose).

So keep those two things in mind when you read John. 1) It’s not a biography of Jesus, but rather a sustained reflection on what Jesus means for the world. And 2) while John’s gospel often appears to be anti–Semitic, and has been used that way, that’s not a legitimate way to read this gospel.

The community to which John writes came to understand that Jesus is the bread of life.

Bread is an important image in the Bible for abundance. God gives the gift of manna in the wilderness so that everyone could eat. The story of Joseph is, in part, a story of Egypt trying to control bread, creating a culture of scarcity so that the pharaoh could become richer and more powerful. That’s partly why Deuteronomy reminds us that we do not live by bread alone, but by the word of life which God speaks. That’s why Jesus quotes Deuteronomy in his own wilderness testing.

Bread is meant for all. it’s a sign of abundance, and we can’t dole it out so that it becomes a sign of scarcity.

When Jesus says “I am the bread of life,” he aligns himself with Israel’s story. Jesus is the gift of bread, the gift of abundance, the gift of grace in our wilderness. God sustains us. God provides for us. God cultivates a relationship with all God’s people. We see God’s abundance and love in Jesus.

Jesus is how we are in relationship with God. Jesus is God’s gift of grace. Jesus is bread for all who come, and no one can control this gift, no one can limit this gift, no one can withhold this gift.

And just as bread feeds our physical hungers, so Jesus feeds our deepest and most powerful hungers. Too often, we settle for so little when we feed our bodily appetites. So often, we are satisfied with so little.

Jesus, who is the bread of life, invites us to consider our deeper hungers. Jesus invites us to be nourished in spirit and heart by God’s love.

I am the bread of life. There are two realities here. This is about God’s gift of sustenance and provision as we pray to give us each day our daily bread. This is also about our deeper needs and being always aware of God’s presence in life.

Bread is the staff of life, both physical and spiritual. We need bread to feed our physical hunger. We need the bread of life to feed our spiritual hunger.

But it’s also important to note that bread is just plain, ordinary stuff. We don’t see Jesus in spectacular and magnificent spectacles. God’s love isn’t written in the stars in the night sky. God’s love touches us in all the ordinary moments of our lives, every day, every night, in every act of kindness and compassion and grace.

Jesus is part of our ordinary, everyday lives. John emphasizes that Jesus is the very presence of God with us in every moment of our lives. There is nowhere we can go where God is absent. There is no time when God is not present. Our whole lives are embraced within the love of God.

This is what Jesus means for the church. This is what Jesus means for the world.

I am the bread of life. Jesus is at the heart of the very stuff of life, the basic necessity of life. Jesus isn’t an option. Jesus isn’t a dinner roll on a side plate. Jesus is the basic bread of life, part of the very ordinary stuff of life.

In the power of Jesus’ love, we “break bread together”. We deepen relationships. We form community. We eat and drink together as friends—and Jesus calls us his friends. So we form community together around this table as we eat and drink. We remember here that Jesus is with us, that Jesus is part of the ordinary stuff of life.

When Jesus invites us, “This is my body. Take and eat”, Jesus says to us, “Let your simple bread become me.” Don’t let a single thing in your life, however ordinary, remain untouched by my love for you. Everything in your life is touched by my new life flowing in and through you. There is nothing ordinary in your life, for it is all changed by my life as it flows through you.

That’s what eternal life means in John. It’s not about life stretching out endlessly into the future, which begins after we die. Eternal life has to do with the kind of life we live in Christ here and now. “Eternal life” literally means “the life of the age to come”. It means that we live in this time and place according to the hope of the age to come.

It means living in relationship with God here, now, in every ordinary, grace–filled moment of our lives. It is a relationship with God which happens through seeing and trusting, through eating and drinking, and it fills our lives with hope and grace, with love and life and joy.

“I am the bread of life.” Just as bread is life, so our life in Christ is life in all its fullness, all its abundance, all its joy, all its hope. Bread is real food. Bread is also spiritual food, birthing the life of the age to come within us.

And when we live this life, then we will be filled. We will live life abundantly. We will live in deep joy. We will not be hungry. We will not be thirsty.

Come. Eat. Drink. Be filled with the life of God in Christ.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

August 12, 2018 (12^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 19)

John 6: 35, 41–51

Ephesians 5:25–5:2

2 Samuel 18: 5–9, 15, 31–33

Today’s gospel reading connects with us on many different levels. There are two stories here, one inside the other, each interpreting the other. We call it a Markan sandwich.

The middle story, the meat in the sandwich, is about a woman who has been bleeding for 12 years. She reaches out to touch Jesus’ robe and she is healed. Jesus feels the power going out of him and asks who touched him. The woman, trembling in fear, tells him what she has done, and he heals her, love shining from his eyes.

The other story, the bread, is about Jairus, a prominent man, a leader of the synagogue. In the first slice of bread, we learn that his daughter is dying. As a leader of the synagogue, he may well be suspicious of this Jesus. But he’s a father first, and so he’ll do whatever he has to do to make her well again. He begs Jesus to heal her.

With the second slice of bread, we hear that the girl has died. The people tell Jairus not to bug Jesus anymore; it’s too late. Jesus begs to differ. He goes to Jairus’ home, takes the little girl by the hand and tells her to “get up”. It’s the same word the early church used for Jesus’ resurrection. The little girl is risen … and Mark adds that she was 12 years old (there’s that number again).

There are lots of sermons in these little stories … but I want to focus on one tiny detail which we might otherwise miss. I want to take you on a journey which connects this story with who we are, and who we might be in danger of becoming as a nation.

It’s a heartbreaking story. She’s bleeding for 12 years. She’s a nobody. In a patriarchal society, she’s not even named, unlike the prominent man Jairus. And, in a patriarchal society, a woman who is bleeding is called ritually unclean. She’s dirty!

That’s what happens in a society which thinks that men are more important than women. Woman are marginalized because you bleed monthly. Men are afraid of that life force, and so men have called you unclean.

And when you are unclean, you are shunned. You are cut off from community. This poor woman has been unclean not just for a day, or a week, or a month, but indefinitely. She wasn’t allowed to enter the Temple, the heart and soul of her religious community. She couldn’t touch or be touched by anyone, because then they’d be unclean, too. By the time she came to Jesus, she had spent every penny she owned, and “endured much under many physicians” to find relief, but her bleeding had only worsened. The woman’s very body had become a source of isolation and disgrace. She was an outcast, an embarrassment, a pariah. Lonely beyond description.

If that doesn’t break your heart, I don’t know what will. It’s enough to make you quit.

But not this woman. She engages in a stunning act of civil disobedience. She defies the religious rules of the day just to reach Jesus. She’s unclean. She’s not supposed to be where other people are. But here she is in the crowd around Jesus, bumping into all those other people and making them ritually unclean, not caring about anything … but to touch this healer.

And she does.

She touches Jesus’ cloak. She knows that will be enough. “And immediately,” says Mark, “her hæmorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease.”

She is healed. More importantly, the Greek word means that she is made whole. Now she can be reunited with her community. She is no longer unclean, no longer dirty, no longer someone we push out of our lives to the margins of society.

And if the story ended there, it would be enough. We would rejoice with her in her healing. We would praise God.

But it doesn’t end there. Jesus invites more. Jesus insists on more. “Who touched me?” And the woman, “knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth.”

She told Jesus her whole truth. Trembling, stammering, she tells Jesus everything, and he listens. Jesus knew how desperately she needed someone to listen to her, to understand her, to bless her.

And so he does. He restores her to fellowship, to dignity, to humanity.  “Daughter,” he says when she falls silent at last.  Daughter. “Go in peace.”

Part of what this story is about is that people’s lives matter more than rules every single time. Jesus demands that legalism of any sort give way to compassion every single time. The gospel says that if it doesn’t look like love, it’s not Christian every single time.

Which got me thinking.

As we celebrate Canada Day today, we celebrate a country which we love, about which we boast. And there is much to be proud of as a Canadian.

But we also need to look at Canada through gospel eyes. Because we are Christians before we are Canadians.

As we consider our home and native land in the light of today’s gospel reading, we remember those whom we have named as unclean, as dirty. We confess our participation in a land which encouraged ripping aboriginal children from the arms of their mothers and sending them to residential schools. We confess our participation in a system which tried to “beat the Indian out of them” and make them like little white people.

In the light of the gospel, we ask, “Who have we named as unclean or dirty?” The list of people we marginalize is long—aboriginal people; immigrants; drug addicts and alcoholics; homeless people; those who seek asylum; migrants; poor people; the LGBTQ community; that guy from the Middle East who looks shifty and maybe even dangerous.

There are haters in Canada today. Some people vandalize mosques and synagogues. Rosanne Barr goes on a rant and says she’s not racist. A woman from Cranbrook goes on a racist rant at a Denny’s and claims she’s not racist. Skinheads hate Jews and Muslims. White supremacists hate anyone who isn’t white. The far right is so motivated by fear that they don’t know how to do anything but hate.

We like to think we’re not like that, but it’s becoming part of our society. I remember as a kid avoiding some other kids because I didn’t want to “catch cooties”. We are all touched by this, and we need to work against it.

And the really scary thing these days is the rise of populist leaders who appeal to our fear, who appeal to the worst in us, who espouse zero tolerance policies for anyone who isn’t “like us” and are proud of it. It’s happening in Austria. In Italy. In the Netherlands. In Turkey. In the USA.

Could it happen here?

We are Christians before we are Canadians. So we need to say “No!” The gospel word is that God’s love embraces every single one of us every single time.

If it doesn’t look like love, it’s not Christian.

If it doesn’t reach out in compassion, it’s not Christian.

What looks like love? It looks like the one whose heart melts at the cry of a desperate father. The one who visits a dying child and takes her limp hand in his. The one who risks defilement to touch the bloody and the broken. The one who insists on the whole truth, however falteringly told. The one who listens for as long as it takes. The one who brings life to dead places.  The one who restores hope. The one who turns mourning into dancing. The one who renames the outcast “Daughter,” and bids her go in peace. The one who cradles us when we are broken. The one who walks with us as we challenge any system that tries to exclude other people.

When Jesus touches the unclean woman, when Jesus touches the dead child, he challenges the very basis of any system which dares to say that someone is unclean, that someone is dirty. Jesus says “No” every time we say that someone is not worthy.

And when we listen to Jesus, when we have the courage to stand with him, then the whole world looks different. As we will sing in a moment, “Healer of our every ill, light of each tomorrow, give us peace beyond our fear, and hope beyond our sorrow.”

It’s not easy. In fact, to stand up like this makes it more difficult to be a Christian. But we do not shy away from that. We want to be the generous kind of people about whom Paul talks in 2 Corinthians … to reach out in generosity to all people, welcoming them as God in Christ has welcomed us.

After all, we are “Christ Church, a progressive, vibrant community which follows Jesus compassionately and faithfully. All are welcome!”

If it doesn’t look like love, it’s not Christian.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

July 1, 2018 (6^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 13)

Mark 5:21–43

2 Samuel 1: 1, 17–27

2 Corinthians 8: 7–15

About 30 years ago, when I was living in Edmonton, a massive storm ripped through the southeast part of the city. There were still large swaths of wooded areas there. The wind howled through the forest. Trees creaked from the pressure of the wind. Thunder and lightning cracked through the air. Huge trees snapped as if they were twigs; they crashed, breaking everything in their path as they thudded noisily onto the ground.

Even from where I lived a couple of miles away, you could hear the noise.

I went to see what had happened; it took my breath away. It looked like the woods had been killed by the storm — uprooted trees, rubble strewn everywhere, the whole place torn apart.

But then, so quietly we hardly notice it, the forest comes back to life. New saplings rise out of the denuded earth, amid all the debris. The fallen trees become soil for new growth. Birds sing again. Wildlife finds tender plants for food. The black and brown of the storm is dappled by the fresh green of new birth.

To paraphrase the song in Carousel, “life is bustin’ out all over.” It seems to just happen, all by itself. Miraculously. What was dead begins to flower with life, lush green life. The amazing and wonderful sights and sounds of new life and new song signals the new birth all around us.

That’s kinda what Jesus is saying in today’s gospel reading. “God’s kingdom’s bustin’ out all over!” That’s the heart of Jesus’ preaching. God’s kingdom is here. Watch it grow.

“Look,” says Jesus. “This is what God’s kingdom is like … a gardener scatters seed everywhere, and then takes a nap while the seed sprouts and grows willy–nilly, automatically.

“God’s kingdom is like this … the tiniest little seed is tossed into the ground and it grows to become a large shrub.”

God’s kingdom is like this … the most ordinary kinds of things are images for us of how God’s love grows in the world. All of you gardeners out there are signs of God’s kingdom being born. All of us who live out God’s love are signs of God’s kingdom being born. All of us who reach out in grace and compassion are signs of God’s kingdom being born.

Notice I said “you are.” Not “you should be” or “you ought to be”. You are.

Any seed we plant can come to beautiful flower. Any word of grace and healing becomes an instrument of healing in the life of the world. Any act of reaching out in love is a sign of God’s radical and inclusive welcome.

The amazing thing about this, if you think a little about these parables, is that we don’t even have to do the work well. We just have to do the work. Look at the gardener in this parable. He scatters the seed and goes off to sleep. No gardener I know does that. Most of you plan and prepare and hover. You lay out neat little rows in well–manicured beds. You keep an eye out on the weather. You protect your gardens from the birds and the deer. From early spring until harvest, you water and prune and weed and worry.

But not this gardener. He throws the seed around without a care in the world and goes to bed. He scatters and sleeps.

And the mustard seed? No gardener in her right mind would plant something like that. It’s a weed. It’s as if Jesus was talking about someone planting dandelions or knapweed  or thistles. It just doesn’t happen.

And this, says Jesus, this is what the kingdom of God is like.

So what might that mean?

The thing about parables is that they tease our imaginations. They’re open–ended. They never mean just one thing.

Partly, I think, Jesus is suggesting that the kingdom of God redefines what is beautiful and what is welcome. In God’s economy all are welcome — roses and ragweed, dahlias and dandelions, thistles and tulips.

The kingdom of God is about practicing radical inclusion, sheltering the unwanted, welcoming the unwelcome.

But there’s something more. These parables teach us to see differently. So often, we look for God in the large, the amazing, the miraculous. But Jesus says, God is present in unexpected places, in ordinary places. God is at work in ordinary people.

Look around you … all these ordinary people in this ordinary church in this ordinary little city amid these majestic mountains. Here is where God is at work … in us, in the person beside you, the one behind you, the one in front of you, the face in the mirror.

Here is the mystery of God’s kingdom. It’s growing in us! It’s very much like Jesus saying, “See me in the least of these my brothers and sisters.”

So let me challenge us all this week. Where, in our ordinary lives, can we see God? As you think about your life, where is God present? Where is God reaching out through you?

In a few moments, we’re going to say thanks to our Sunday School teachers. Ordinary people, doing ordinary stuff, with ordinary children … planting seeds of God’s love. The kingdom of God is growing.

There’s a group of people from Christ Church and beyond who reach out every day to people in nursing homes. They go to sing … and what’s happening is that God’s love is being shared.

There are people here who visit with those who are lonely, who help people go shopping, who mow their lawns. See the kingdom of God bustin’ out all over.

There are people here who work with groups to make life better for people all over the world, whether it be with Rotary or Lions, with local committees and groups. Watch the kingdom of God growing in our midst.

When we begin to see God in all those ordinary moments, we are paying attention to what lies beneath the surface of life. We look beyond the obvious, and we see God. In all the humble and unassuming realities of life, we see the love of God reaching out to make lives better.

That’s what Paul means when he says that “we walk by faith, not by sight”. We learn to see God in the ordinary moments of our days. We listen for the nudging of the Spirit. We learn to see more deeply into our lives and into our world. We exercise our holy imagination, and we become open to a deeper dimension of life. We are touched by grace–full levels of reality.

And when we open ourselves up like that … then we can dream. We can dream God’s dream. We become part of the Jesus movement, and we dream with God to change the world. We become part of the new creation that is born as we dare to dream God’s dream.

The kingdom of God is like this — a gardener tosses seed into a field, walks away, sleeps, gets up. Days come and go, and even though the farmer does nothing, the seeds grow.

All we need to do is toss the seeds out … and then watch as God’s kingdom starts bustin’ out all over!

Thanks be to God!

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

June 17, 2018 (4^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 11)

Mark 4: 26–34

1 Samuel 15:34 – 16:13

2 Corinthians 5: 6–17

This gospel reading is a hard one. I discovered that I never preached on this reading before. So here goes.

It’s hard for a couple of reasons.

Firstly, it mentions “the unforgivable sin”. What is beyond the reach of God’s forgiveness?

Secondly, Jesus has some harsh things to say about family. He disses his own family, and teaches a new understanding of family which challenges our thinking about family.

So let’s do something different today — we’ll do some group Bible Study to see what this hard reading has to say. I’ve printed the gospel reading in our bulletin. (printed at the end for those who are reading this)

First, let me set the context.

Mark 2 and 3 contain stories of conflict and confrontation. Jesus seems to spark that kind of conflict throughout his ministry, and the result is that the leaders decide to destroy him. He’s a troublemaker. He’s a threat. From the very beginning, Mark signals that this story won’t end happily.

Today’s reading comes at the end of chapter 3. Two stories are embedded in each other. The technical name for this technique is a “Markan sandwich”. I’ve printed it out with the two parts of the sandwich in different fonts. The “bread” is the conflict between Jesus and his family; the “meat” is the conflict with the scribes, the religious leaders of the day.

Let’s get to the meat first.

The scribes accuse Jesus of having an evil spirit. That’s how he does what he’s doing. He uses the power of evil to do his work. He is possessed by Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons. He’s in league with the devil.

Can’t you just hear how much Jesus threatens the religious establishment? He’s breaking all the rules. He’s upsetting the status quo. Even more dangerous, he’s popular with the people, and there’s no telling where that might end.

He’s a threat. We have to do away with him. Step 1: accuse him of being in league with the devil.

Jesus denies their charge. He points out just how foolish their thinking is. “How is that even possible? How can I be in league with the devil? That’s like Satan fighting against Satan! That’s just plain nuts! A divided kingdom will fall. A family which is constantly squabbling will disintegrate. A house divided against itself simply can’t stand.”

In a more positive way, Jesus is saying that this is God’s way. He’s healing people. He’s showing how the kingdom of God is breaking in and overturning the kingdoms of the world. He lives fully within God’s love, and he’s inviting everyone to live that kind of abundant life.

That’s when those words about the unforgivable sin come. Notice that these words are part of Jesus’ answer to the leaders who accused him of being in league with the devil. That context is important. These words come in the middle of a controversy. It’s not a general rule for all people for all time.

And what Jesus says to them is, “If you believe that I’m in league with the devil, then you’ve put yourself in a place where you can no longer hear what’s really happening. You put yourselves beyond the reach of love.”

I think Eugene Peterson’s translation in The Message is helpful [which is why I included it in brackets]: “you are sawing off the branch on which you’re sitting … you are severing by your own perversity all connection with the One who forgives.”

It’s a warning from Jesus. He’s not saying that there’s one particular sin which God cannot forgive, and we all better watch out just in case we commit it. Jesus is warning these leaders that even though they think they are on God’s side, they should be careful not to cut themselves off from what God is really doing.

When you cut yourself off from God, then there’s nowhere to turn. God is not going to force us to turn to God. We are free to disavow God — but when we do that, we disavow true, deep and abundant life. “So,” says Jesus, “stay connected with God … or run the danger of cutting yourself off from the Source of Life.

That’s the meat in this Markan sandwich. Jesus is in a controversy with the religious leaders, who are trying to get rid of him.

What about the bread?

The other story here is about a conflict with his family. Jesus has come home, and the crowd around him is so large that he can’t move. There’s not even enough room to eat. This is how popular Jesus was with the masses. That’s why he was such a threat.

Here’s Jesus inside the house with all these misfits, all these outsiders, the riff–raff. And outside are all the proper people.

His family come to restrain him. The word translated “restrain” is the word κρατέω (krateo). Mark uses the same word in the crucifixion story when the leaders came out to arrest him. Other translations use “take custody of him” or “lay hold of him”.

His family is not there to cheer Jesus on. Mary’s not out there saying, “That’s my boy. Y’all listen to him Now.” They’re not there to support him. They’re not there to be on his side. No, they’ve come to restrain him, to take Jesus home, because people were saying that he was crazy. Jesus has become an embarrassment to them, so his family has come to take him away. It seems they agree with these leaders.

That’s why Mark tells these two stories together. They’re about the same thing. They’re about the same kind of conflict. Like the leaders, the family are also on the outside. Like the leaders, Jesus’ own family doesn’t get it. These two stories interpret each other.

At the end of the reading, the second piece of bread in this sandwich, Jesus responds to them, and redefines what it means to be family. “This is what it means to be family,” says Jesus. “My family includes all those who do the will of God.”

It’s not about shared DNA. It’s about a shared commitment to the values of God.

It’s not about family values. It’s about God’s gospel values.

It’s not about being born into a particular group of people. It’s about sharing life with all those people who live within the kingdom of God.

“This is my family,” says Jesus. We are bound together not by blood, but by action and intention, by how we live and by how we share the good news of God’s love in all that we do. Family is not defined by birth, or by long relationships. God’s family is made up of those who live by God’s gospel values, who do God’s will, who seek to discern God’s purposes in our lives.

That’s hard for many of us to hear. Family is such an important thing. And it is! But Jesus says here that family is less important than God’s loving and compassionate reign among us.

Now comes the most important part of Bible study. So what? What does this have to do with us, with our lives, with how we live as God’s people in the world?

What happens when we redefine the family this way? We become a community of radical inclusion.

Think about it. When you’re part of a family, you’re part of a certain, closed group. You might marry into a family, but it’s not open to anyone else.

Jesus’ family, however, includes anyone who wants to be part of it. All we need to do is come with open hands and open hearts to receive the gift of God’s love, the gift of grace, the gift of joy. All we need to do is receive and act on God’s gracious invitation to be included.

We see that Christian faith is not at all about family values. Christian faith is about following Jesus in living God’s gospel values. As the church, we transcend all other relationships. We are a community where all of us are equally valued. We are all fully and deeply loved. We are all bound together in a community of radical inclusion.

A family is, by definition, a closed group. The family of Jesus, on the other hand, is wide open. Everyone is included. Everyone is equal. Everyone is loved. Everyone is valued.

To take it a step further, the family of Jesus works against the pervasive fear of the other that we are seeing in society these days. Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby reminds us that “churches working together can help to break down the walls that others seek to build. The Church crosses boundaries and frontiers as if they did not exist. By being in Christ, I am made one by God in a family that stretches around the world and crosses cultural, linguistic and ecumenical frontiers, driven by the Spirit who breaks down all the walls that we seek to erect.”

Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.

This kind of family doesn’t build walls to keep the other out; we tear those walls down.

This kind of family doesn’t huddle in our gated communities; we reach out to invite and welcome.

That’s what it means to be the church.

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. Yme Woensdregt

June 10, 2018 (3^rd Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 10)

Mark 3: 20–35

1 Samuel 8: 4–20

2 Corinthians 4:13–5:1

Mark 3: 20–35

Then Jesus went home, ²⁰and the crowd came together again, so that they could not even eat. ²¹When his family heard it, they went out to restrain him, for people were saying, ‘He has gone out of his mind.’

²²And the scribes who came down from Jerusalem said, ‘He has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the demons he casts out demons.’ ²³And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, ‘How can Satan cast out Satan? ²⁴If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. ²⁵And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand. ²⁶And if Satan has risen up against himself and is divided, he cannot stand, but his end has come. ²⁷But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.

²⁸‘Truly I tell you, people will be forgiven for their sins and whatever blasphemies they utter; ²⁹but whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit can never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin’— ³⁰for they had said, ‘He has an unclean spirit.’

[^28-30“Listen to this carefully. I’m warning you. There’s nothing done or said that can’t be forgiven. But if you persist in your slanders against God’s Holy Spirit, you are repudiating the very One who forgives, sawing off the branch on which you’re sitting, severing by your own perversity all connection with the One who forgives.” He gave this warning because they were accusing him of being in league with Evil. — The Message]

³¹Then his mother and his brothers came; and standing outside, they sent to him and called him. ³²A crowd was sitting around him; and they said to him, ‘Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside, asking for you.’ ³³And he replied, ‘Who are my mother and my brothers?’ ³⁴And looking at those who sat around him, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers! ³⁵Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

I still remember a sermon preached by my New Testament professor early in my studies at the Vancouver School of Theology. That was 40 years ago … so it must have been a humdinger of a sermon. He called it “You Don’t Gotta; You Getta”. His point was that the Christian life is not something you “gotta” do; it is a privilege in which we “getta” participate.

We getta be the people of God. We getta tell others about this good news which has touched our lives. We getta gather together to pray and worship and sing and grow and eat and drink. We getta experience God’s love in our lives, and we getta share God’s love with others.

For me, it was an “Aha moment”. It helped me understand in a whole new way what was important about Christian faith. It shaped the kind of preacher and priest I wanted to be, and the kind of work I wanted to do. It gave me a taste of the kind of freedom which we find in Jesus.

Part of the reason that sermon hit me so hard is that I grew up in a family and a church which was all about obligation. As a church member, this is what you gotta do. There were rules for everything. If you didn’t follow the rules, you’d make Dad mad, or God mad. You didn’t want to do that.

The refrain at home was, “Because I said so.” Life was made up of things you gotta do. Not surprisingly, I was always in trouble. I was the one who rebelled against the rules. I was the one who made Dad, and God, mad.

That sermon set me free to imagine faith from a completely different perspective. Faith isn’t something I gotta do. It’s something I getta do. This was exciting stuff!

It strikes me that there are lots of Christians out there for whom faith is a set of rules: you gotta do this, you gotta do that, and above all you gotta remember that you can’t ever do that.

My grandmother was like that. I think I’ve told you this story before. She visited us from Holland one year when I was 12 or so. She stayed for three weeks … and even now as I remember it as the longest… three … weeks … of my life. The worst day of each week was Sunday.

Oma was part of a very strict Dutch Reformed Church … so in order to keep the peace between Dad and his mother, we stayed in our church clothes all day long on Sundays — white shirts and dark pants. We couldn’t play games, or go outside and play. We couldn’t watch TV. We couldn’t do this or that or much of anything at all. We sat, uncomfortably, in the living room, resting on the sabbath and resenting every minute of it.

For her, that’s what it meant to remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.

She wasn’t the only one. In her generation, it was a fairly common attitude.

Tom Long, a Presbyterian professor of preaching writes, “My forebears were Scots Presbyterians and fierce sabbath rule keepers. My grandmother cooked her lavish sabbath feasts on Saturdays, so the stove would not be lit and no work done on the holy day. No sports, no games, no frivolities were allowed on Sunday—only worship, rest, and Bible study. (Although there is a nice family story of a strictly observant relative who spent his sabbath resting in his backyard, where he could easily overhear the radio broadcast of the Cubs baseball game coming through the window of a non–observant neighbor.)

Many people can tell that kind of story.

So it’s no wonder that I really like these two stories in Mark’s gospel about Jesus breaking the rules. I really like these stories we read today. After all, we read the gospel through the filter of our lives and our experience, so these stories are important for me.

In the first story, the disciples pluck some grain because they are hungry. In itself, that’s not a problem. After all, the Torah allows hungry people to pluck grain. The problem is that they do it on the sabbath. You’re not supposed to harvest on the sabbath. It’s supposed to be a day of rest, a day when no work is done.

So the religious leaders complain to Jesus. I can just see Jesus lifting his eyebrow at them as he reminds them about a time in the life of David to justify the behavior of his disciples. Hungry people are allowed to eat. That is the greater good. When the rules get in the way of a greater good, then the rules become a problem.

Then Jesus makes his point. “After all, the sabbath was made to serve us; we weren’t made to serve the sabbath.”

The second story happens a little later that day. As was his practice, Jesus goes to the synagogue. After all, it’s the sabbath. He sees a man with a withered hand. Mark notes that the leaders are watching him carefully to see what he would do.

Using the same principle about the greater good, Jesus heals the man. On the sabbath.

They were beside themselves. As a result, says Mark, “The Pharisees went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians against him, how to destroy him.” We see here a foreshadowing of Jesus’ end. His whole life will be a controversy with those who want to keep the rules, no matter what.

Jesus is a troublemaker. When he doesn’t keep the rules, he upsets the apple cart. There’s no telling what else might happen. We can’t allow this to continue.

Now be clear that there’s nothing wrong with rules per se. But when the rules get in the way of a full life for all people, they become a problem.

And let’s be clear about something else as well. This isn’t a Jewish problem. This isn’t about “bad Jews” and “good Christians”. It happens everywhere in life, in every church, in every organization, in every community.

These rule–keepers miss the point. My Oma missed the point. Tom Long’s family missed the point.

Sabbath wasn’t given to us as an onerous burden. God doesn’t give us in order to test us whether we can keep the rules or not. Sabbath is a gift.

It’s a theme that runs throughout Israel’s story.

After escaping from Egypt, Israel journeys through the wilderness. They were hungry, so God provided manna. Gather enough for each day … except the day before the sabbath, when you can gather enough for two days. The gift of sabbath was that they didn’t have to work, and yet they could eat. This is the gift of freedom, to be able to rest in God’s provision.

Deuteronomy reminds Israel that they were once slaves in Egypt; therefore remember the sabbath as a gift of rest given to you by God. You are no longer slaves. You are free now, and you can make your own choices about getting stuck in the rat race or keeping the freedom which God intends for all people.

Sabbath is a day to be re–created. We don’t re–create ourselves. It is given to us as a gift, if only we have eyes to see the gift, if only we will open our hands to receive it. Sabbath is a day to be set free from “should” and “have to” and “must”. It’s a day to lie back in God’s arms and see the glory of God’s goodness. It’s a foretaste of heaven.

Now I know that there are some people who have to work long hours, often at two or three jobs, just in order to make ends meet. But that just shows us how deformed our common life has become. It doesn’t say you don’t need a sabbath. It doesn’t say we can’t afford a sabbath. It says that there’s something wrong in our lives that some people are burdened this heavily.

Rather than having to work 24/7 to make a living, sabbath is a gift which allows us to make a life. We play. We are re-created. We focus on relationships. We have time to do something which makes life good and holy. On sabbath, we gather to receive the gift of community as we join together to pray and sing and eat and drink. Sabbath is a day of freedom from everything which binds us in the six days of our workaday week so that we can dream God’s dream of a world set right, a world of justice, a world of equality and enough for all.

It’s not something we gotta do. It’s something we getta do.

The problem with institutions is that we turn gifts into rules. And rules take on a life of their own. Sooner or later, they end up sucking the joy out of life. Rules begin to think they are important all by themselves, and they lose sight of the people whom they are meant to serve.

“The sabbath was made to serve us; we weren’t made to serve the sabbath.”

As we receive this good gift of sabbath, as we begin to practice this gift God gives us, we begin to participate in God’s rest and we begin to anticipate God’s justice for all.

It takes practice. After all, we run the rat race of life 16 hours a day for 6 days a week. I have found the incredible joy of learning and using this gift of sabbath. One day a week, I don’t gotta. I getta.

And I am grateful. I am deeply grateful … and so I say,

Thanks be to God.

Rev. Dr. YmeWoensdregt

June 3, 2018 (2^nd Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 9)

Mark 2:23–3:6

2 Corinthians 4: 5–12

1 Samuel 3: 1–10