Twelfth Sunday after Trinity 2020

The Gospel reading set for this coming Sunday is Matthew 16:21-28

To recap: in the verses immediately prior to these (Matthew 16:13-20), Simon Peter has declared that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the living God; and Jesus, in response, has declared, “You are Petros, and on this petra (rock) I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.”

‘From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling-block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”’

Wow. That is quite a reversal. And that is the necessary point.

And here, I want to note two observations on stumbling-blocks. First, hear the prophet Isaiah:

‘But the Lord of hosts, him you shall regard as holy; let him be your fear, and let him be your dread. He will become a sanctuary, a stone one strikes against; for both houses of Israel he will become a rock one stumbles over—a trap and a snare for the inhabitants of Jerusalem. And many among them shall stumble; they shall fall and be broken; they shall be snared and taken.’

(Isaiah 8:13-15)

Second, hear Peter himself, writing towards the end of his life:

‘Come to him, a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight, and like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. For it stands in scripture: ‘See, I am laying in Zion a stone, a cornerstone chosen and precious; and whoever believes in him will not be put to shame.’ To you then who believe, he is precious; but for those who do not believe, ‘The stone that the builders rejected has become the very head of the corner’, and ‘A stone that makes them stumble, and a rock that makes them fall.’ They stumble because they disobey the word, as they were destined to do. But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvellous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.

(1 Peter 2:4-10)

God is the rock of sanctuary and the rock of stumbling. Jesus declares that Peter—and by extension, the Church—is a rock of sanctuary and a rock of stumbling. Peter comes to see this as a participation in the life of Jesus, the rock of sanctuary and rock of stumbling.

A word of warning: Jesus is elsewhere outspoken (as are the writers of the New Testament who follow him) against anyone who places a stumbling-block in the way of the young and/or young-in-the-faith. But stumbling itself appears to play a necessary role in growing in faith. That is a recurring theme in Scripture. We do not set out beyond the familiar, without falling into it. This is true even of Jesus: in Mark’s Gospel, he is driven into the wilderness by the Holy Spirit; in Luke’s Gospel, he is driven out of Nazareth by his neighbours; in John’s Gospel, he is thrust into public ministry before he is ready (no one is ever ready) by his mother, Mary; and here in Matthew’s Gospel, he must stumble over Peter in order to set out for Jerusalem, and all that he knows awaits him there.

The arc is this: undergo great suffering, be killed, be raised. This is the invitation Jesus holds out to all who would follow him. This is the secret of life: formation (being formed in the likeness of Christ, by sharing in his sufferings) leading to transformation (sharing in his resurrection, in a life that is at once in genuine continuity with its earlier stages and yet as different as a butterfly from its caterpillar). In the Greek, this is morphoo and metamorphoo.

And the ego will throw every resource at our disposal into resisting this call. Which is why it needs to be broken before we can receive mercy.

I am a runner. The very first time Jo and I went along to the running club, I tripped over an uneven paving slab, was thrown through the air to land sprawling on the pavement, later discovering that I had cracked a couple of ribs which would take six to eight weeks to heal. We had only set off minutes before; were still on the warm-up run, not even the session itself. To add to my humiliation, the whole pack we were running with stopped, and gathered around. There was no escaping attention. Then one of them insisted on walking me back to the clubhouse, getting me a drink, and waiting with me until the others returned, sacrificing her run so that Jo did not have to abandon hers.

That was the night I knew that I wanted to belong to the club. I have had one other fall since, so jarring that my body still carries the trauma, still physically shudders when I recall it to mind. And all I can say is that you are a different runner after you have stumbled and fallen. Not, in fact, a more cautious runner; but freer; more fully present in the act of running; more appreciative of, and closer-knit with, those you go running with.

It is not possible to grow beyond the point you have already reached without stumbling; and only those who have known what it is to stumble can truly offer sanctuary to anyone else. That is the lesson Peter had to learn; and, with him, the Church.

 

Eleventh Sunday after Trinity 2020

 

Lectionary Gospel reading: Matthew 16:13-20

Once upon a time there was a man named Jonah. Not the Old Testament prophet who was swallowed by a whale. Our Jonah lived some seven hundred years later. This Jonah was a fisherman. He had a business partner, Zebedee. Business was doing well. Jonah’s sons, Simon and Andrew, and Zebedee’s sons, James and John, were all in the family business, and there were hired men as well. The boys were already taking on more of the responsibility, and, of course, one day Simon and James would take over from Jonah and Zebedee, and carry on the tradition. Except that, well, it hadn’t quite worked out like that. First, Andrew had gone off to be a disciple of John ‘the Baptiser’—who, by the way, had ended up losing his head. Literally. Don’t get me wrong, Jonah was proud of his boy; the lad had an aptitude for learning, and opportunity his old man never had. And yet, well, he did worry at times. And then, to make matters, not worse exactly but certainly more complicated, Andrew had got involved with this new rabbi, and caught Simon up in it all too. Both boys—and Zebedee’s sons. All the rabbi’s disciples now. Proud as punch, the families were. And yet. It’s a hard thing to put down your expectations, of the life your children are going to lead, and of the life you envisaged for your own old age. Family around you. Daughters-in-law and grand kids. The business in safe hands, doing well. The way things looked to be going, he wouldn’t be entirely surprised if the boys ended up killed, dead before their time, like the Baptiser had been.

Jesus, meanwhile, had taken the boys off somewhere. Caesarea Philippi, where the immigrants lived, with their strange ways. They call it the Gates of Hell. And there he says, Simon, what have you heard? It’s a play on words. Simon, or in Hebrew Shimon, from Shema, to hear: Hear, O Israel, the Lord your one God: you shall love the Lord your God with all of your heart and all of your mind and all of your strength, with your whole being, and you shall love your neighbour as yourself. What have you heard about me, Shimon? And what Simon has heard, Jesus declares, you have heard from God.

And in this moment, Simon is able to hear from God again, this time about himself: your middle name, Petros, rock? On this rock, I will build my church, my community, and the gates of hell—the portal for all the fears that would overwhelm you—will not prevail against you.

Like Jonah, like Simon Peter, who we are, who we think we are and the life we anticipate, gets shaken to the core, several times over in life. Anything we might ground that in—career, family, a nice house, nationality, money in the bank—will need to laid down, sooner or later, before the one person who can give us our true identity in any moment, regardless of circumstances around us, and in the very face of our fears.

So, where are you coming undone? Or, where are you resisting becoming undone? What imagined fear terrorises your sense of self? In the place where that fear yawns open like the mouth of a big, black cave, the very gate of hell, may our eyes and ears be opened to perceive Jesus stripping us back to the rock, in order to build anew.

In the words of the song Build My Life, by the band Housefires,

“And I will build my life upon Your love

It is a firm foundation

I will put my trust in You alone

And I will not be shaken”

 

Tenth Sunday after Trinity 2020

Lectionary Gospel reading: Matthew 15:21-28

Again and again, Matthew’s Gospel presents us with a stark contrast between those who recognise Jesus and those who reject Jesus, between those who submit their lives to him and those who set their lives against him. Here is one presented as being sent by God, by the god of the Jewish people, to call them back to living faithfully as a chosen people, the descendants of Abraham through whom all peoples will be blessed. And what we see is that those with power and influence, from Herod the Great at the time of Jesus’ birth to the Pharisees and Sadducees throughout his years of activity, seek to kill him, to silence him; while most unexpected people recognise him as the one sent by God, with authority. Magi travel from the east, from the empires who had carried Jesus’ ancestors off into exile, to pay homage. A Roman centurion, official of an occupying empire, appeals to Jesus to heal his servant. Two demoniacs in Gentile territory recognise him as Son of God. Crowds in Gentile territory bring their sick from across the whole region to be healed. And here in chapter 15, a Canaanite woman appeals to Jesus to deliver her daughter of demonic torment.

And so we find ourselves confronted by this strange exchange:

‘But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.” He answered, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” She said, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” Then Jesus answered her, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done to you as you wish.” And her daughter was healed instantly.’

What is going on here? I would suggest that Jesus is engaging this woman, and his disciples, in active learning. And there are four things we might also reflect on: what is, or is not, fair; who are the children; the food of those children; and who are the dogs.

First, what is or is not fair. The word Jesus uses here (kalos) conveys the sense of being beautiful, praiseworthy, of good that inspires others to do good. And he sets out the proposition that it isn’t praiseworthy or inspiring to give the children’s food to the dogs. It is an observation in search of a response.

Second, who are the children? The word Jesus uses here (teknon) refers to little children, dependent children, and is used to convey anyone—of any age—who lives in utter dependence on God. Not, automatically, every descendent of Abraham.

Third, the food of those children. The word Jesus uses here (artos) refers to bread, but conveys the sense of God’s provision for his dependent people. And crucially in the biblical narrative, God’s provision—whether manna in the wilderness or the feeding of 5,000 families having started with only five small loaves and two fish—God’s provision never runs short; there is always enough for everyone to eat and be satisfied, with excess left over.

Fourth, who are the dogs. The word Jesus uses here (kunarion) refers to a puppy, that is a dependent dog, in parallel with the dependent children. But a dog, nonetheless. And whereas the British consider themselves to be a nation of dog lovers, for whom there is little that is more adorable than a litter of puppies, for the Israelites dogs have an unhappy connotation. In three of the Psalms, David uses the imagery of a pack of dogs to describe those who attack him without cause, his enemies. But in the following generations this image is subverted, with dogs coming to symbolise agents of divine judgement. In particular, in the histories of successive idolatrous dynasties recorded in 1 Kings & 2 Kings, prophets declare that those who put their hope in wicked kings will die and their bodies be eaten by dogs, while in the very place of their wickedness the dogs will lick the blood of the wicked rulers. In Matthew’s Gospel, the Pharisees and Sadducees harass Jesus as the dogs harassed king David. But, also in Matthew’s Gospel, it is the Pharisees and Sadducees who are leading the people astray, and the Gentile dogs—the centurion, this woman—whose dependence on Jesus passes divine judgement on God’s own unfaithful people. Just like the parables, this account is working at multiple levels.

What, then, do we make of this contention that “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs”? The Canaanite woman rejects it, saying, yes, it is fair: there is enough. Jesus agrees.

On social media and in the news in recent days we have witnessed, yet again, the demonisation of desperate asylum seekers trying to cross the Channel in flimsy dinghies. They are, apparently, an invading army who are over-running us. It is not praiseworthy that we should have any empathy for their plight. It is not praiseworthy to suggest we might share our resources with them, because there is not enough to go round, and charity begins at home. We need to think about our own families first, for a change.

What would Jesus say in response to such a stance? In particular, what would Jesus say to those in this nation who call themselves Christian, who might agree with such nationalism?

No, you will not be praised for having empathy for asylum seekers. You will be unlikely to inspire too many others to join you. But, where do you want to invest your hope? With the rich, who warn that the immigrants want to steal your crumbs, while keeping the bread for themselves while others queue at food banks? Or with those who are utterly dependent on God’s faithful provision? With the powerful, who warn that immigrant whelps grow up to be vicious curs, while themselves devouring the flesh of the poor? Or with those sent by God to pass judgement on our indifference to the plight of our fellow humans? Will we share our bread, extend the bounds of God’s mercy? Will we live as those sent by God to preserve life, in a world in prolonged crisis?

Matthew’s Gospel presents us with a stark contrast between those who recognise Jesus and those who reject Jesus, between those who submit their lives to him and those who set their lives against him. Which choice will we make today?