Eleventh Sunday after Trinity, 1st September 2019

Lectionary readings: Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 and Luke 14:1, 7-14

Our readings today are concerned with table manners.

I remember, from my childhood, all manner of table manners. Don’t put your elbows on the table. The proper and highly improper way to hold and use a fork. That kind of thing.

Our Gospel reading recounts one occasion when Jesus went to eat at the house of a leading Pharisee. This is not the first time, in Luke’s Gospel, that Jesus has been a dinner guest in the home of a Pharisee. Moreover, we’ve encountered Pharisees among a large gathering in the home where Jesus was resident. But we’ve also seen Jesus eating in the homes of various other people—tax collectors; two adult and yet unmarried sisters—at least some of whom at least some Pharisees felt uncomfortable with.

The Pharisees were a grass-roots social movement that resisted the influence of Greco-Roman culture on Judaism, and emphasised the importance of interpreting the Torah—the Law given through Moses—for everyday Jewish life in their own day, prioritising that over the rituals of the temple in Jerusalem. They were sincere people, mature in faith. And they were of mixed opinion, in relation to Jesus. Some saw in him a natural ally, one of them even. Others saw him as a threat, a fifth columnist, as it were. Almost certainly, some Pharisees were, initially, supportive of Jesus, but later distanced themselves and even opposed him outright, both openly and clandestinely. In the passage immediately prior to today’s reading, a group of Pharisees seek to save Jesus’ life. In our passage today, Jesus encounters both invitation and close, critical examination. We need to resist viewing this group in simplistic and negative terms. Their motives are, for the most part, good; but good people can do terrible things; and they have yet to move from devout lives to lives totally surrendered to the will of God. Like many good people, they enjoy the rewards of goodness—they take their compensation for goodness—in material comfort and social standing.

Jesus goes to the house of a leading Pharisee, and observes how the guests chose the places of honour. A formal meal like this would have involved reclining at three couches around a table, one side kept open for serving from, with the host on the left-hand couch and guests arranged on the other couches in a strict order from most-to-least important. As Luke tells it, Jesus is watching a deliberate act of picking out the best positions at the table, perhaps even arguing over them. Ordinarily, the host would set the seating plan. This would suggest that either the host had chosen not to take part in this social convention, or that several of his guests were choosing to snub their host. Either would be shocking.

Jesus first addresses the other guests, telling them a parable of comedic exaggeration. Rather than fight over the best seat, he advises, head straight for the lowest place. At first, this sounds like a magnificent manipulation, to guarantee not only a better seat but a public commendation by the host, to boot. But on reflection, it exposes the whole system by throwing it into anxiety. To sit in the place not chosen for you is to dishonour your host, exposes them (and you) to shame, whether one sits up or down (hence the host must intervene to restore right social order). And those who buy-into the honour-shame economy experience a perpetual rising and falling, taking great pride in their humility: it is a classic Catch-22 situation.

Leaving the other guests trying to square the circle, Jesus turns to his host, with advice on how to conduct future dinner parties. Don’t invite the usual suspects, those guests whose presence will either cement your social standing or facilitate your social climbing. Instead, invite those who have no means to reciprocate, no means to repay a social debt. It is worth noting that, if this host has indeed chosen not to set out a seating plan, he is already well on the journey of renouncing worldly values in favour of the kingdom of heaven.

But Jesus’ instruction to him is not simply, ‘use your table as a means of social justice, not social status.’ The Pharisees were deeply committed to living according to the Torah. They were already deeply committed to social justice. Jesus has no doubt that his host is a righteous man, and will share in the resurrection of the righteous: nonetheless, Jesus invites him into a deeper-still experience of God’s reordered society. It is entirely possible to pursue social justice without compassion; to do what is right because it is right, while still lacking what Jesus elsewhere calls the perfection of compassion. Jesus is not rebuking his host—as he rebuked his fellow-guests—but inviting him to move beyond being good to being perfect*.

The only way to be exalted in the kingdom of heaven is at the freely given recommendation of the poor, who are the disguised messengers of God. In view of this status conferred upon them, we are wise to honour the humble, we are wise to hear the exhortation written to the Hebrews, those geographically-dispersed, culturally-Jewish converts to Christianity: do not neglect searching out the strangers in your community, ensuring that their needs are met; remember those in prison and those being tortured; honour the sanctity of your neighbours’ marriages; do not neglect doing good and sharing what you have. And yet, the moment we do these things without compassion, out of duty but lacking love, in hope of gain, Jesus takes us aside and points us to the lower place, which is a higher place.

Whenever we welcome Jesus to our table, we discover, sooner or later, that he is in fact the one who has welcomed us into the home of the Father, to our Father’s table. And if we are genuinely desirous of pleasing God, he will draw us aside and re-orientate us to love. To love of those who are not there—and to the love that does not draw back from the poverty and woundedness of those who are there with us, but reaches out to make each one whole.

We may, indeed, have known people who live such lives; and we do well to imitate their faith until, after much rehearsal and many performances, it may become second nature to us also.

Today, where are you in the story? Are you one of the guests, whose fault Jesus graciously exposes, in order to set you free from sin? Are you the host, whose desire to please God Jesus rewards with the invitation to experience and enjoy greater freedom yet? Are you the poor, the crippled, lame and blind, called to the banquet, to taste very God? Wherever you are in the story today, this story is for you; and it is good news. So come to the table, eat and drink.

*As Ronald Rolheiser points out in Sacred Fire, the Greek notion of perfection is one of flawless ideal which is unobtainable in reality, whereas the Hebrew understanding of perfection is robust compassion, to which we are called. Generally, we recoil from Jesus’ words because we have the Greek notion in mind—though, if we are honest, we might recoil further still if we held the Hebrew understanding instead.

Tenth Sunday after Trinity 2019

Lectionary reading: Luke 13:10-17

In our Gospel reading today we meet a woman who had a physical condition, a long-term infirmity, that was the result of a spiritual malaise.

A word of caution: not every physical infirmity is caused by a spiritual malaise; and not every spiritual malaise causes physical infirmity. Nonetheless, the Bible presents us with a world in which the spiritual and the physical are both alike created, and compromised; are equally disordered, and liberated; and in which the two are integrally entwined.

There is an old, old story in which the Lord God took dust from the earth and fashioned from it a man, and breathed the breath of life into the man’s nostrils, God’s breath, in our lungs. We are, according to this story, dust and wind, flesh and spirit, held together in God’s hand. We are animated earth. We are created to participate in the life of the Creator. Every breath God gives us, as pure gift, we in turn give back to him: in, out, in, out. From dust you were taken, and to dust you shall return.

In our Gospel reading today we hear a new story, of a woman. Like all the daughters of Eve, she is animated by the breath of God. That is a given. But that life-giving spirit has, for the past eighteen years, been cancelled-out by another spirit, a spirit that, according to the literal sense of the Greek words Luke chose to tell the story, cancelled-out her strength. As a result, she is bowed down, pressed towards the earth, back to dust as yet awaiting wind.

When Jesus sets her free, what Luke presents us with is nothing short of a new creation story.

The leader of the synagogue is indignant. He, too, draws on an old, old story, one that comes even before the story of the Lord God animating the dust. No, he cites the story of God liberating the cosmos from chaos, in six great liberating acts. Those acts were followed by the sabbath, a day for joy, for rejoicing at all that God had done. Six days for work, and one for rejoicing. Had Jesus healed the woman on any of the previous six days, we would be rejoicing at that today...

Jesus has something to say in response; but at this point in the story, Luke does not refer to him as ‘Jesus’ but as ‘the Lord’: ‘But the Lord answered him and said...’

This is not coincidental. This is not junior school English, where the teacher presents you with a thesaurus and pushes you to use a more varied vocabulary. This is making a deliberate theological point. These are the very words of God, set in a story about God.

Jesus calls the woman, ‘a daughter of Abraham.’ Abraham, the friend of God, who was bold enough to contend with God on behalf of others. Abraham, the father of all who walk by faith rather than by sight. Abraham, who lived before the giving of the law. The law, of course, was given to those who had been set free from captivity in Egypt, to instruct them in how to live out their freedom.

Don’t cite the law over this woman who was still a captive, bound by the Satan, the Accuser. Don’t be the Satan, the voice of accusation.

When Jesus sets her free, what Luke presents us with is nothing short of a new exodus story (which is, itself, a new creation story).

When God speaks, his opponents are put to shame. Note this: Jesus always sides with those who are ashamed, with those who know shame, whether as a result of their own actions or as a result of the accusations of others. So, when, at the end of this story, Jesus’ opponents are put to shame, Jesus has triumphed over them by turning enemies into friends, or at least, potential friends. It is the best place they can be, for now; and a necessary step on their journey.

When God breathes life, and contrary to the fear of the leader of the synagogue, there is a great multiplication of rejoicing. This is not just sabbath, this is abundant sabbath.

Jesus calls the indignant ones ‘hypocrites,’ actors. He says they are play-acting sabbath, not living it. They know the stories, but they don’t know them to be their story. So, what about us? Are we play-acting church, play-acting Eucharist? Or is Jesus setting people free in our midst, causing us to rejoice at all the wonderful things he is doing? Is today’s Gospel an old story fashioned on a couple of really, really old stories; or is it our story, the good news for us, today?

In short, what spiritual malaise is crippling you, crippling me, today? What unseen spiritual reality is pushing us to our knees? And if we are pushed to our knees, might we find ourselves at the feet of the one who can set us free?

It may be the recurring temptation to pleasure, to gratify our self, to avoid pain through subtle distractions or hidden addictions;

it may be loneliness, that taunts us for our embodied limitations, our inability to be enough for everyone, for anyone for ever, for ourselves;

it may be resentment of those closest to us, resentment of duty to those we profess to love, resentment that steals our joy and stokes anger in its place;

it may be the workaholism that cuts us off from relationship, at first as an escape, eventually as a prison;

it may be that depression for which there is no apparent cause;

it may be the ongoing struggle to forgive someone, or to forgive ourselves, for pains inflicted long ago.

And like the leader of the synagogue, we can justify our position, indignantly if pushed.

It is unlikely that you have never wrestled with such demons, unlikely that you are unscathed by any of these, as they are temptations that are common to humanity.

It may be that you have known Jesus set you free from one or other, or even all, of these spirits that come against the life-giving Spirit. But the wonderful thing with Jesus is that he sets us free by degrees, as much freedom as we are able to take hold of for now, a step on our journey. And the stories warn us that freedom given can be lost, ground taken can be surrendered to a future assault; yet Jesus is still teaching in our midst and setting us free.

Today, be the woman in the story. Today, feel Jesus’ hands laid upon you, gentle, sure, affirming. Today, stand up straight and begin praising God. And keep praising, in the face of indignation, until the entire crowd joins in.

Ninth Sunday after Trinity, 18 August 2019

Lectionary readings: Jeremiah 23:23-29 and Hebrews 11:29-12:2 and Luke 12:49-56

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.”

So great a crowd of witnesses. What manner of witnesses are they, and to what do they bear witness? They are those who saw the kingdom of God, albeit at a distance, and who bear witness to the nature of that kingdom that has now been brought into being in and through the person of Jesus.

There is the Song of Moses, and the song of his sister Miriam, declaring the triumph of God over the army of Egypt (Exodus 15). Moses, the man who grew up in Pharaoh’s household and lost it all in a moment of madness, becoming a fugitive so broken in the middle of nowhere that he could not speak without a stammer (Exodus 2-4), singing. Miriam, the fearless, outrageously brilliant saviour (Exodus 2:1-10), who became jealous of her younger brother and bore the shame of exclusion from the people for seven days (Numbers 12).

There is Rahab, living in Jericho (Joshua 2, and 6). Jericho was, at that time, little more than a military outpost, and where there are army bases you will always find women supporting their children by selling their body for sex. Rahab, the prostitute, whom Jesus is unashamed to name as his ancestor, a mother in the faith (Matthew 1, where she is named along with Tamar, who is forced, by patriarchal injustice, to catch her father-in-law in a sex-trap; Ruth, a foreigner belonging to a hated neighbouring people; ‘the wife of Uriah’—that is, Bathsheba, not even named, with whom David committed adultery; and Mary, whose pregnancy had the potential to expose her to shame).

There is Gideon, a man we meet hiding in a hole in the ground; whom the Lord raised up as an unlikely saviour; whose latter days were marked with self-importance (Judges 6-8). There is Barak, a man who is called to lead the people to victory but who won’t go unless Deborah—the woman raised up by God to speak the words of God to the people of God—goes with him, to hold his hand; and whose glory is therefore given by God to another woman, Jael (Judges 4-5). There is Samson, set apart by God from before birth, who comes to believe himself entitled; follows a trajectory of self-destruction; and dies a prisoner to the very people he was supposed to liberate his people from, in chains, his eyes gouged out (Judges 13-16). There is Jephthah, driven away by his half-brothers, an outlaw, turned to only when all other options are exhausted; a hothead who has his daughter executed rather than lose face (Judges 11).

There is David, the boy whose heart longed to be true to God’s heart, yet who abandoned his wife Michal after she saved his life, and later shamed her when she called-out his inappropriate behaviour; David, who took the wife of one of his most loyal friends for his own gratification, and then, when she was found to be pregnant as a consequence, had that loyal friend killed in a staged tragic accident of battle; David, whose own children warred against each other, one son raping his half-sister, to be killed by her brother, who later also died, having tried to usurp his father’s throne, forcing David to flee before him (the whole book of 2 Samuel).

There is Samuel, a son longed for by a childless woman shamed by her childlessness and the many sons and daughters of her husband’s other wife; a woman deeply distressed, and in this state wrongly accused of drunkenness by Eli the priest; Samuel, the answer to prayer, given back to the Lord, growing up to become to greatest prophet-judge in living memory, yet knowing the shame of greedy, dishonest, sons who perverted justice for gain (the whole book of 1 Samuel).

Still others are alluded to, as those who conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions. Men, such as Daniel, carried away into exile. Women, such as Deborah and Jael, Naomi and Ruth, Hannah, Huldah, Esther, Mary, Martha and Mary. And others. Jesus is not the first man in this story to be publicly executed in the most humiliating manner imaginable; Mary and the women at the cross, not the first to be made to look on.

What do these witnesses have in common? They bear witness to a kingdom in which shame is washed away. Shame, that weighs us down and trips us up. They bear witness to a king who is glorified, who is honoured by God, in the very act of being shamed by the world, hanging naked from an execution scaffold.

In our rather strange and difficult Gospel reading, Jesus declares that he has not come to bring peace but division within households. What are we to make of that, of this divisive figure in our midst?

There is a false peace that is imposed by the world, through the honour-shame structure. To behave in the ‘right’ way results in honour; while to behave in the ‘wrong’ way brings shame. We see this in the hierarchies of the world Jesus entered. At first, the Pharisees, who were genuinely concerned with helping ordinary people to live lives acceptable to God, saw Jesus as an ally. But he kept insisting on associating with the wrong sort of people, disreputable women and men, notorious sinners. He brought shame upon himself, and, by extension, on those pharisees who had hosted him. These hierarchies existed in Jewish culture, and in Greco-Roman culture, and were broken down in the church where the barriers between Jews and Gentiles, citizens and slaves, men and women, were removed in the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who disregarded worldly honour and shame. And who calls us to do likewise. And who brings a great cloud of witnesses to bear witness to the claim.

This is utterly counter-cultural in our own context too. We are steeped in honour-shame culture, expending huge amounts of energy to keep ourselves from shame, and, often, to shame others. If you are of the opinion that it is a mistake to leave the EU, you are a Remoaner. If you believe it is the right thing to do, you are a Little Englander, and a racist. According to many, it is a matter of national shame that Boris Johnson (‘buffoon’) is Prime Minister; while according to many others, the deeper shame would be to see Jeremy Corbyn (‘repulsive little man’) in Number 10.

Greta Thunberg speaks out on the urgent need to address climate change…and is shamed, for being a child, and for being on the Autism Spectrum; for speaking out of turn about things she is ‘too young’ and ‘too autistic’ ‘to possibly understand.’

If you take a stand for equality, you will be targeted by trolls wanting to know when we will see an International Men’s Day (it already exists) or a Straight Pride. If, on the other hand, you have any reservations about any part of the sprawling LGBTQIA+ umbrella, you will increasingly likely fear being publicly shamed as Homophobic. But note this: extremists expertly exploit shame to nurture anger; and, tragically, where more liberal-minded people employ shame as a corrective, this plays into the extremists’ hands. You cannot fight shame with shame.

And it is not just in the contentious issues that honour-shame is at rampant play. The most common lie in our culture is “Fine, thanks.” in response to the question, “How are you?” Women will sometimes use lipstick as a mask, to put their face on. Men tend not to wear lipstick, but are no strangers to wearing a mask in public: it is a shameful thing to let slip any vulnerability in public; an honourable thing to be strong. And suicide is the number one cause of death for men under the age of 50—a cause of action that, ironically, brings shame upon surviving family and friends.

Or, if we dare to put our head above the parapet and admit to struggling with life, you can guarantee that friends will rush to tell us how wonderful we are, and that we must not be so hard on ourselves. It sounds well-meaning, but it betrays a fear that if one person breaks rank, stops playing the “I’m fine” game, we will all lose our hard-fought position of honour as those who are Winning at Life. So, we shut that down, hard.

Wherever we have known shame, Jesus chooses to stand alongside us, to own us as members of his family. Whether it is shame we have brought upon ourselves, and others, or shame that others have poured on us.

You were not made for shame. If you want proof, consider this: that we were all born doubly incontinent, totally dependent on the care of another to feed us and attend to every need; and this is also how we will likely end our life. Yet, dependent on love, we are honoured, by love, in our dependency. We are not made for shame, nor for honour based on our competency, but for love, and for honour based on God’s gracious initiative towards us all. Yet shame has entered-into the universal human experience. It is insidious. It weighs heavy on us, ties us in knots. Slowly, slowly, it makes us forget our God-given dignity.

And yet, Jesus. The author and perfecter of our faith. The one who has disarmed the power shame has over us. The one who calls us his family, now; his mother and sisters and brothers. The one who calls us to sit with him at the right hand of the throne of God. Today, will you hear his voice? Follow his example? Run with perseverance? Today, will you let him set you free, again?