“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” As they hear these words, Christians around the world will embark again upon another Lent. That season in the church year focused on the repentance of sins and the pursuit of holiness that begins with a cross of ashes smudged on our foreheads, and continues in fasting of some sort or other for forty days. Although there is no hard rule about what pleasure is to be set aside, its absence, like the presence of the ashes reminds us to consider what it means to follow a crucified Lord. What it means to be a disciple of Jesus.

Coming to understand, own, and practice the claims of the Gospel—that is what discipleship is—occurs between two poles. The negative pole is called “mortification.” It is that “putting to death” of those parts of our selves that don’t conform to the righteousness of God revealed in Gospel and Law. Discipleship (in part) is a lifetime of unlearning those attitudes and habits that come all too naturally to fallen human beings, that appear so natural and wholesome, that are so enslaving.

According to the Christian tradition, seven such vices are the sources of all other moral evil. They are pride, envy, gluttony, lust, anger, greed and sloth: the seven deadly sins. Of course, this is neither the only, nor a full list. No list—whether found in Scripture or tradition—is final. And this, I think, is deliberate. Listing sins, after all, is a particularly seductive sin for the pious. We quite naturally and accurately spot the sins of others so that we may continue to overlook them in ourselves. Mortification is for individuals. It is not my task or yours to sniff out the sins of others. Tending to our own is hard enough.

Although it is a necessary part of discipleship, mortification is not its sum. The positive pole is “vivification.” The slow process of being “made alive” in Christ, the Spirit-enabled and directed embracing and practicing of those habits and virtues through which our minds are renewed, our bodies controlled, our selves transformed. Think of the duties laid upon believers by God’s law: to love one’s neighbors and to love God. Because the weight of these two commands—if seriously considered—can be overwhelming, we remember that they are not standards demanding perfection as much as destinations requiring progress. “No one will travel so badly as not daily to make some degree of progress,” wrote John Calvin. Let us “not despair because of the slender measure of our success . . . . [Our] labor is not lost when today is better than yesterday. . . .”[1] Good advice.

Vivification is also about learning to receive the comforts of life as gifts from God. It is a process in which our consciences become guided by principles like moderation, patience, and generosity as we learn to rightly to enjoy the gifts of creation: good food, good friends, good conversation, among the most important. And even here, even learning how to enjoy the Christian life, requires “no small progress in the school of Christ.”[2]

Christian discipleship is about dying and living. It is to be on the journey with Jesus to Jerusalem, to the cross and the resurrection. With Jesus, we will prepare to die; with him we will walk into the valley of the shadow of death; and with him, we will begin to live. The journey is intensely personal. But personal isn’t private. Only individuals can live and die, whether physically or spiritually. Christians, at least, need do neither alone.

This journey is one undertaken with others, one begun and ended in community. Dying and living with Christ begins and ends with sisters and brothers alongside us, struggling with us, bearing our burdens as we bear theirs, forgiving and being forgiven, praying with us, for us, and perhaps instead of us. It is a journey undertaken in and with the Church as the Church hears in Word and sees in Sacrament, God’s promise and command.

It seems to me that it locates us in two ways. First, it reminds us that God’s grace is not contingent upon our piety, prayer, or position in life. This is perhaps the most difficult lesson of Lent to learn, given its quite natural focus on sanctification—that putting to death of our old habits, attitudes and actions coupled with the careful nurture of virtuous frames of mind and patterns of behavior. The appropriation of a Lenten discipline may lead us (mistakenly) to conclude that we are, in fact, engaged in an attempt to stake a claim for the gift of God’s favor and the result is either one of two of the deadliest sins.

One is despair. The focus on discipline may well lead some of us to conclude that we are not sufficiently disciplined, that we have not been sufficiently disciplined, that we will never be sufficiently disciplined. And in despair, some of us may conclude that grace is for us, undisciplined bodies and souls, and leave the repentance of Lent for others. And in so doing, we will have missed the point: repentance is not the foundation for grace. Rather, grace is the ground of repentance. Why should we repent? Why should we engage in those disciplines that remind us of our mortality, that expose our sins, that remind us of how far we have to go to attain the full measure of Christ? For no other reason than this: God has already chosen us to be the objects of his love. God has already chosen to lavish his favor on us. It cannot be earned, only received. For the words of the angel to Mary, in her ordinariness, are in fact words to us all: Greetings, Favored One! The Lord is with you! And if, like Mary we can, caught up in confusion, only utter, How can the be? We have the angel’s assurance: With God, nothing is impossible. No one can escape the grace that comes unbidden. And because grace has wholly to with God’s decision to be gracious, no one need despair.

But not all of us despair during Lent. It may be that, having accepted the mistaken notion that repentance is the ground of grace, we commit despair’s equal and opposite sin, pride. That is, we may come to the conclusion that we are, in fact, good enough, disciplined enough, repentant enough. It may be that deep in our heart of hearts, we really do believe that God owes us for our piety, our prayers, our positions of religious respectability. Like another character in Luke’s Gospel, we may, from our position of super-spirituality, look at our struggling brothers and sisters, and say, “I thank you God that I am not like them!” So Jesus reminds us that we are all like the tax collector in that same parable. He who prayed, “God be merciful to me a sinner.” We are all alike on the margins. We are all alike in our ordinariness, in our frailty, and in our sin.

And so lent comes to us again as that occasion where we fast and pray and give in secret; as that time when God might set us free form the sins of despair and pride; as that time when, even as we remember our own frailty, our own mortality, our own sin, we might also remember the grace that has embraced us, redeemed us, and called us to new life in Christ. The grace that grounds our repentance and grants our faith. The grace that reminds us that, even if we are returning to the dust, that dust is beloved by God.

The True King

This is the last Sunday of the season of Epiphany. It is that season of the year that follows Christmas, when we celebrate the appearance of Christ. It is also that season of the Church year that precedes Lent, when we prepare ourselves for the events of Holy Week and Easter, when we remember the climax of Jesus’ ministry, grieve his death on the cross and celebrate his glorious resurrection.

Epiphany is that time of year, in other words, that is devoted to reflecting on the identity of he who came at Christmas, of he who died on Good Friday and rose again on Easter Sunday. It is a time for asking just who this man from Nazareth is. And of course, this is a theme that has run through the various Gospel passages that we have looked at over the last few weeks. “Who is this man that he teaches with authority?” asked the amazed crowd on several occasions. “I know who you are: The Holy One of God.” said the demon in the synagogue.

In the story of the raising of the paralytic, which concludes the cycle of miracle stories that we have been looking at, Jesus declares, “So that you may know that the Son of Man has authority to forgive sins, rise, take up your mat and go.”

Now this theme that has lurked throughout the last few Sundays comes in this final passage to the fore. Now we need to put ourselves in the place of the disciples, and the crowds. Now we need to ask again, “Who is this man?”

Who is this man who calls seekers and sitters and skeptics? Who is this man who calls fishermen to fish for people? Who is this man who declares himself to be the enemies of all God’s enemies? Who is this man who claims to forgive sins?

He is the Son of Man—so Jesus himself says when he raises the paralyzed man. Rooted in Daniel 7, it’s a title for a heavenly figure who would in the end time receive from God an everlasting kingdom and the authority to rule it. When Jesus comes preaching that the time is fulfilled, that the kingdom of God is here, that it is time to repent and believe all the while taking for himself the title Son of Man, he is in other words, talking about himself. The Son of Man has come—the time is fulfilled. The Son of Man is reigning—the kingdom of God is here. The Son of Man will judge and forgive and heal and restore. Repent and believe the good news!

Now we must ask, in the glorious light of the transfiguration, what are we going to do with the Son of Man. For now, we have come to the climax to our epiphany journey. With Jesus, Peter, James and John we have climbed the mountain. We have just seen Jesus disclosed, revealed, made known in his glory. The glory of the heavenly Son of Man attested to by both the embodiment of the Law—Moses and the Prophets—Elijah. We have heard again God’s heavenly voice claiming Jesus’ as his Son, authorizing his words, and commanding our assent. Are you ready to make up your mind yet?

And now to say something surprising: It’s okay to be unsure. It’s okay to be just a little worried about this man and the demands he places on your life. Who among us, whether we would class ourselves as Christians of long-standing, or short-standing, or not at all, cannot say that the Gospels have presented a picture of a man that is at once compelling and off-putting. Compelling because he is so attractive, so compassionate, so driven himself by compassion for the everyday needs of everyday people. And off-putting for the sheer power embedded in the words “Be quiet. Come out of him.” Or “I will it. Be Made Clean.”

Which brings us to the second context that we need to be aware of. The first context was our context as contemporary readers of Mark’s Gospel during Epiphany. The second context is the literary context of the transfiguration story in Luke’s Gospel. And once that context is made plain, second and even third thoughts will be seen to be appropriate. Let me explain.

The story of Jesus’ transfiguration in front of Peter, James and John comes just after the turning point of  Luke’’s Gospel. A point at which readers move a series of stories recounting victory after victory to a second series recounting what appears to be defeat after defeat.

In the first eight chapters of Mark, Jesus confounds his enemies. He dispatches demons with a word. He heals the sick, cleanses lepers, he even raises the dead. He bests his critics in debate, leaving them looking foolish. He even displays uncanny powers over the natural world itself, calming storms and multiplying food.

They end with Jesus taking his disciples north to Caesarea Phillipi, to ask them some pointed questions. Who do people say that I am? Who do you say that I am? And Peter, well, Peter gets it right. You are the Messiah, he says to Jesus. You are the Son of the living God.

And precisely at that point, the tone then changes. Then, says the text, Jesus began to teach them that he must suffer. That he would be rejected. That he would be killed and that after three days, he would rise again. The situation has just become very serious, indeed. Yes he is the Messiah. Yes he is the Son of Man. Yes he is the Holy One of God as the demons recognized. But he was going to fulfill this role in a way that nobody expected. His way will be the way of the cross. The way of suffering and death.

The rest of Jesus’ ministry, as it is recounted in the Gospel of Luke, will be so frustrating, so disappointing that we will need assurance that, indeed, we’re not wrong about Jesus. That our decision to follow Jesus was the right one.

So, it’s ok to be unsure as we move to the third context—the story itself. It’s ok to have doubts as we climb the mountain with Peter and James and John. And with them we see Jesus transfigured and revealed in the glory of his father. And with them we see him receiving the endorsement of Moses and Elijah. And once again, we hear God’s voice claiming Jesus as his Son.

The story is designed to show the uniqueness of Jesus as God’s agent. This is made plain at two points. First, having been taken up the mountain by Jesus and seen his glorious transfiguration with Moses and Elijah, Peter is overcome and begins to babble: “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here. Let us make three tabernacles—one for Moses, one for Elijah. . .”  and before he can finish his remarks, he is interrupted by the presence of the cloud and God’s voice saying, “This is my beloved Son. Hear him.”  In other words, do not be distracted by Moses and Elijah. Pay attention to Jesus. He is God’s son.

Second, once the cloud disappears, along with Moses and Elijah, the point made by the heavenly voice is underscored. The disciples are to look for direction only to Jesus. Only Jesus, not the great prophet Elijah and not the great lawgiver, Moses, can accomplish God’s plan. At their best, they attest to the One who surpasses them. To Jesus, the heavenly Son of Man.

An altogether haunting passage. Jesus’ transfiguration has given the disciples a glimpse of the glory of Jesus when he comes n the full power of the kingdom of God. But they have been told that Jesus must first undergo the passion before this dream can be realized.

And we find ourselves this morning much in the same place as the disciples did back then. These  past weeks, we have been nearly overwhelmed by the power of Jesus’ words and deeds.

We have seen Jesus’ identity disclosed: he is the heavenly Son of Man, who has been given a kingdom by God, who has been authorized to rule that kingdom by God, and whose reign will never end. The climax of that disclosure is the story of the transfiguration itself. Where Jesus is seen in his glory.

But that picture would be one-sided if we did not go on to stress that Jesus’ way to that glory is not a way of glory. It is a way of suffering. It is a way of the cross. It is a hard way. It’s like the eye of a needle. It’s like a narrow door opening on to a rough path. Few there be, says Jesus, that find it.

You have glimpsed Jesus in his glory. Now, will you follow Jesus to the cross?

I am not yet done the book, Where the Conflict Really Lies (Oxford, 2012) but there are some real gems there! I’ll write something more substantial later. For now, here are a couple of points that I would like a little help with.

(1) I undestand Plantinga to be saying that “soft methodological naturalism” (i.e., empirical sciences exclude God from hypotheses not as a metaphysic or theological presupposition, but as a matter of empirical practice) is not inimical to theism in general or Christian faith in particular. Hard methodological naturalism (which does presuppose atheism) is opposed to religious belief. All you need to be a scientist is the former; the latter is a metaphysical claim that is itself unscientific because empirically unprovable.  Do I have him right?

(2)I understand Plantinga’s Argument To Design as continuing his classic position in Reformed Epistemology: Design is something you have to be argued out of–not simply because it is there, but because our brains are structured in such a way as to see that it is there. I understand him also to say that such a position is actually stronger than how Paley and Behe are typically understood. Again, am I reading him correctly?

Plantinga is always a challenge to read–all the logic chopping can be really dry–but I am really enjoying this one!

This past weekend, it was my pleasure to preach at the ordination of my former student, Joey Royal, in Yellowknife. I thank +Andrew for his kind welcome to his Diocese and +Stephen for permitting me to go. My sermon is reproduced here with Joey’s permission.

Identity, Community, Task and Content: Reflections on the Call

Well, Joey, here we are. God has brought us both along different paths to a place where neither of us thought we would go when we first met. Do you remember when we first met? At Providence? I don’t remember our first conversation, but I do remember that one of our first ones had to do with Karl Barth and whether or not he was actually a Christian. Well, maybe he was a Christian. But you wanted to question me over whether he was orthodox. Over whether he was a trustworthy transmitter of the faith once delivered to the saints.

You were coming from a Brethren background and I, though by then an Anglican, was happily serving as a lay theologian. And our paths crossed at a non-denominational, evangelical Protestant college in Southern Manitoba. A College which, though it welcomed all sorts of Christians, was simply because of the demographics of its location, basically Baptist in orientation.

From that place—and I know that our walks with God did not begin there—but from that place, from that intersecting of paths, God has brought our paths together again. Here. In Yellowknife. On this wonderful occasion.

God called you to Huron College in London, then he called you to the North. Most of all, God called you to Orders. That call has been recognized and affirmed by the community of faith. And tonight, you will receive the symbols of your office in the first step of that external recognition. Bishop Andrew will lay his hands on your head and commission you to proclaim God’s wordand to care for God’s people. You will come even more closely under Bishop Andrew’s authority. You will be ordained a deacon.

God’s call has been recognized as part of your identity—to be a deacon is not simply to do certain things. It is to be a particular person. God’s call will now admit you to a particular community—a community of brother and sisters. Fellow servants called to care for God’s people in and through the ministry of proclamation and service. God has called you to particular tasks—to do certain things.  And God in that Call, God has given you what you need to be this person, to take your place in this community, to do these things.

I would like for the next few moments to reflect with you on each of these points.

First, Joey, you have been called to a particular identity. “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you;” these words, first uttered to the prophet Jeremiah as God commissioned him to his ministry to proclamation, are tonight given to you. And they are weighty with reality.

These are not flowery sentiments given to make us or you feel good; nor do they promise an always bright and smooth future. Certainly, if the subsequent ministry of Jeremiah is any indication, if the ministries of those whom God has called give us any clue, we cannot take these words as a sign that you will have an easy life and ministry.

We may certainly pray for those things and thank God if and as they occur. But the call of God does not guarantee those things.

No, the call of God, this passage tells us, has to do in a profound and real way, with who you are. Something prior to actions and events. It has to do in a basic way with your identity. “Before you were in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I consecrated you.” Tonight, the Church recognizes that these words—even as they apply in our text to the prophet Jeremiah, tonight the Church recognizes that they apply to you. That the call of God defines your identity Joey, in a fundamental and foundational way.

God’s call comes before your nationality and race. God’s call comes before your family and personal history. God’s call comes before the clothes you wear, the money you do or don’t have in the bank. It even comes before your love for Jen and her love for you. None of those things are bad things! None of those things are to be despised. All of those things flow into the man you are and the man you are becoming. But none of them is basic. None of them is primary. None of them gets behind God’s call.

God’s call comes to you, Joey, before you were born. It comes even before you were in the womb. The call of God uniquely constitutes who you are and who you are becoming. It comes before everything else—however good and wonderful and enjoyable those other things are.

The call of God defines you, Joey, like nothing else can. Tonight, we are not giving you anything new as much as we are recognizing just whom you have always been. Whatever spiritual gifts you receive tonight—and you will!—they will not be call of God. They will be the tools you need to do what God has already called you to do.

Now why does that matter?

It matters because all the other things we use to construct ourselves—all the other things I’ve mentioned . . . things like race and place and spouse and family—all those other things can and will be taken away from us at some point or other. God may even have to strip you of something that you hold most dear—he has done that with me—to remind you that the call tells you who you are.

There may even be a time when you find yourself in a position similar to the prophet Jeremiah, cast into the pit of Malchiah, up to his neck in filth having been abandoned by all but the God who called him. Even then, and then more than any other time, rest in your call.

The call came before you were. It defines you. It makes you, you and shapes whom you will become. Rest in that call when times are good; rest in that call when they are not. The call of God is who you are.

Even if there are times when it seems like the call of God is all you have, however, because of the call, you will never be entirely alone. The call of God rests on others with whom you share that call.

There is a sense, of course, in which this is true of every Christian. When the writer to the Hebrews penned the words that we read this evening, he wasn’t talking to the clergy. He was talking to every believer. “Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so easily, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us. . . .”

All of us who have been baptized are part of this community of faith that extends from Abel to the end of time, that encompasses the church militant here on earth and triumphant in heaven.

But, it seems to me that it is particularly true for those of us who have been called to ordained ministry, who have been called in a unique way to serve this community of faith, that we form a community, too. A community within the community, so to speak.

As of tonight, you become part of the community that includes many of the Church’s great saints—Athanasius and Bishop Isaac Stringer and John Stott.

More than that, you will become part of that community within the community made up of individuals who, throughout the last two millennia, opened the book anonymously. Who visited the faithful, who evangelized and bore witness to the world, and did so without ever earning a name in any of the history books. People like Barney Wood whom no one but a very few remember, but whose faithful ministry led to the discernment of well over a dozen vocations, including my own.

I do not know how your call will unfold Joey. In the mercy and timing of our Lord, you may well become a Stott—you certainly have the intellectual gifts for it; or you may well become a Barney Wood—faithful, anonymous, with a huge if indirect impact for the kingdom. Either way, you are part of a community. You are not and will never be entirely alone.

I trust that you will rest in your call to this community if you ever find yourself like Jeremiah in the pit.

More than that, though, I trust that when the invitations to clericus come at the worst possible time, or when a Deanery event feels like just one more thing on an already too-long-to-do list, that you’ll remember that you’re part of a community. And in clericus and in Deanery functions, we build that community. We—ideally anyway—use these get togethers to encourage each other to lay aside besetting sins, to persevere in the race before us, to keep our eyes on Jesus.

You belong to the community of the called. It is a community with quirks. It is a community with saints. It is a community with sinners. It is a community full of men and women who are somewhere in between. It is a community that surrounds us and prays for us and upholds us.

So, the call of God is who you are and at the same time, the call of God admits to you a group of men and women who share that vocation. The call is indeed about your personal and corporate identity and their intersection.

And within that intertwining of personal and public personae, you are called to certain tasks. And that brings us round to the Gospel lesson for this evening. You might like to think of this passage as Our Lord’s first dress rehearsal for what would follow, first in the sending of the seventy in the next chapter, and then in the book of Acts, with the commission to take the Good News to Jerusalem, to Judea and Samaria, and eventually to the entire world.

In our passage the 12 are given authority over demons and disease. They are commissioned and authorized, in other words, to be healers of both souls and bodies. They are sent out to proclaim the kingdom and to heal.

Tonight, as you are ordained, you are being authorized and commissioned to do the same thing: you stand in the tradition of the apostles to bring healing to minds and bodies, and to do so through the unique gifts and tools that are yours as a deacon.

I would like to think that you remember one of my lectures on parish organization in Geneva, and on how John Calvin understood the office of the pastor. For it seems to me that it is applicable here.

Calvin believed that the pastor was called primarily to be an exegete of Scripture. And he believed it was to be done in two places and in two ways. It was to be done publicly and generally in the pulpit as, week in and week out, a pastor would bring the gracious words of Law and Gospel to bear on the lives of the people he (they were only men at that time) had been charged to serve. And, it was to be done privately and particularly in the homes of believers as the pastor visited his parishioners, to bring the gracious words of Law and Gospel to bear on individuals.

In pulpit and in living room and in hospital room and in jail cell Joey, as you bring the Word to your people, never forget that the Gospel is Good News for the healing of the nations; that what you have been called to proclaim is the good news of salvation, of healing, of the restoration to wholeness for God’s people and for the world.

Bring the Word to people and let it do its healing work. Allow the grace of God—the grace that comes to our ears in the Word proclaimed—to be seen and touched and tasted, too as you help serve the sacrament.

And that brings me finally to the content of the Call. Of that content, St. Paul in our lesson wrote, “I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”

Paul—who, as he told us earlier in the epistle to the Philippians—had more reason than most to boast now considered it all rubbish—the Greek word is, you will recall, more earthy than that!—he considered it all rubbish in order to gain Christ.

The content of your call, Joey, is a person. He is the one you are to give to others through Word and service. He is the one given for the healing of the nations and the healing of our souls.

And that means you will stand between your people and Jesus. You are called to be transparent to his glory. You are called to be a channel employed by the Spirit to bring Christ to his people. You are called to give your people Christ.

You will bring Christ into places of light and happiness and into places of darkness and loss. You will bring Christ to people who will receive you; you will bring Christ to people who will not.

But you will bring Christ.

Not the glories of the prayer book, or Anglicanism, or a particular expression of Christianity. You will bring Christ. Everything—no matter how good those things they may be, no matter how boastworthy or beautiful—everything set next to him counts as loss.

He is the one who is the content of your call. He is the one whom you have been charged to give away. He is the one who has chosen you to be a vehicle for his grace. Know him, and the power of his resurrection, and whether your ministry is popular or not, whether it is well-known or anonymous, it will be fruitful.

Joey, you have sensed the call of God to ordained ministry as a priest in God’s Church. That call from here on will be the definer of who you are. That call is shared by many many brothers and sisters. Don’t be afraid to lean on us; let us, from time to time, lean on you. That call is to bring the healing of the Gospel through Word and Sacrament to people who need it whether they know it or not. And the content of that call is Christ himself. You will serve him by serving others. You will serve him by giving him away.

Because before he formed you in the womb, he knew you; before you were born, he consecrated you. Before you took your first breath, he had placed his hand on you and said to you, “This one belongs to me.”

I caught the last sentence (or thereabouts) on Quirks and Quarks, the CBC radio science programme, this past Saturday morning. The physicist Bob MacDonald interviewed was (as far as I could tell) talking about the various theories about the origins of the universe. His last sentence was something like, “And none of them require a Creator in order to be true.” Which left me thinking, well, St. Thomas Aquinas would agree.

This fellow, who was far smarter than I, seemed to have come to a conclusion that Christian theologians (should) already accept–namely, the natural world can and and even should be explained without recourse to the divine. “God” is not a stopgap in human ignorance. So, welcome to this particular ledge of the mountain. We’ve been here since, oh about 1200AD or so. We’re waiting for others–both believers and not–to join us.

My friend and former colleague, Terrance L. Tiessen has launched his own blog, Thoughts Theological. There’s a permanent link on the left hand side of my own site.  You should visit Terry’s site often!

I have been trumpeting Red Toryism as a legitimate alternative to liberal libertarianism and liberal statism. I think, at bottom, what makes it different from both are three commitments. First is  its commitment to the Catholic social principle of subsidiarity–that government should be no bigger than the challenge it seeks to take on. (This makes Red Toryism look like socialism or libertarianism depending on the social issue being discussed, and therefore confusing the heck out of lots of people on both sides). Second, its commitment to slow, incremental change through inherited institutions. The cost of sweeping social experiments–I hope the 20th century teaches us–is always too high. Third, its commitment to personal responsibility and virtue. There can be no public square, no polis, without a recognition that the public man or woman needs to be formed to be a virtuous man or woman. And government, while it can and must defend those pre-political institutions that inculcate virtue, cannot in fact teach it itself. Anway, a major 20th century figure who expresses these themes far better than I is Vaclav Havel. A recent essay on him by George Weigel can be found here. Let me know what you think!

Audio is available here.

Jesus Calls

Last Sunday was the first Sunday of the Season of Epiphany. Translated into English, the word, “Epiphany” means simply, “to show” or “to make known.” And in the gifts of the Magi and the baptism by John, Jesus’ identity is disclosed. The gold, frankincense and myrrh, the water and the dove and the divine voice tell us that Jesus is Lord and King. And it is as such that he is made known to us.

During Epiphany, Christians are invited to ask just what difference the disclosure of Jesus makes. What has changed with his coming? What is being changed while we await his return? These are the questions we are invited to ask during Epiphany.

With that in mind, let us turn from an overview to the Gospel lesson for this morning. It is the story of the calling of Philip and Nathaniel, the conclusion to the first chapter of the Gospel of John.

As our story opens, Andrew and another disciple have just found Jesus. Jesus is so compelling, so convincing, so absolutely spell-binding that Andrew’s first action is to search out his brother, Simon to tell him about Jesus, the Messiah, the King of Israel and the Lord of God’s people.

Our Gospel lesson follows on.

While heading for the Galilee region, Jesus “finds” Philip. A small verb, “finds.”  But one worth stopping and thinking about. Andrew and his companion were, because of the preaching of John, searching for Jesus. And they found him. And he called them.

Philip, on the other hand, was not a follower of John nor was he searching for the Messiah. The text does not tell us that Philip found the Messiah; the text says, rather, that the Messiah found him. That’s an important point to observe. When Jesus is made known, people are called, but the call is never cookie cutter. It’s never identical to the last one. Sometimes, people who are seeking find Jesus. At others, people are like Philip—Jesus finds them.

Although the manner of his call is different from Andrew’s, the result is the same. Just as Andrew ran to find Simon, so Philip ran to find Nathanael to tell him about the one who had found him. Nathanael, however, is unconvinced. “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” he asks. It’s a fair question. Nazareth was so small a town that it simply isn’t mentioned in any literature outside the New Testament before the 9^th century! But Philip will not be dissuaded. “Come and see for yourself.” He replies.

And Jesus, setting his eyes on Nathanael says: “Here’s an Israelite in whom there is no guile.” It’s a seeming validation of Nathanael’s previous comment. Nathanael’s unbelief is not cynical. It is not jaded. And he isn’t about to fawn over someone about whom he’s not convinced. Nathanael is the kind of unbeliever Jesus loves. He’s open about his unbelief. In it there is no shred of deceit or hypocrisy.

Nathanael, understandably, is put off by this kind of greeting. “Do you know me?” And Jesus answers, “Before Philip called you, while you were still sitting under the fig tree, I saw you.” And with those words, Nathanael’s straightforward scepticism melts. Nathanael too becomes a believer. And Jesus promises that Nathanael will see even greater things. Just what things? The seven signs—the turning of water into wine, the healing of the nobleman’s son, the healing of the paralytic, the feeding of the five thousand, Jesus walking on water, the healing of the blind man and the raising of Lazarus. The signs that each in their unique way would reaffirm what Nathanael has already confessed: that Jesus is the Son of God and the King of Israel.

And all of these are wrapped up in and underscored by Jesus application of the imagery of Jacob’s dream to himself. He is the ladder that unites heaven and earth. He is the link that brings God’s blessings to God’s world.

Andrew is called and his first response is to bear witness to his brother. Philip is called and his first response is to bear witness to Nathanael.

And so it is appropriate here, to unpack just how the biblical motif of bearing witness works itself out here. In our time, and in our place. Three points suggest themselves.

First, Jesus calls. Jesus, in other words, is not only the object of Gospel proclamation. He is also the subject. He calls. Philip says to Nathanael, “ We have found Him whom Moses wrote about.” But it is Jesus who calls. It is Jesus who says, “Before Philip called, I saw you.” What makes disciples disciples is Jesus’ call.

What would change if we systematically went through every programme offered in our church bodies and asked, “Does this activity, does this programme, introduce people to Jesus? Does it point away from us and toward the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world? Does it bring people to Jesus and then, crucially, get out of the way?”

What might happen when we let Jesus do the calling? If the first chapter of John is any indication, things will get a little difficult. After all, the downside of letting Jesus  call people is the fact that we surrender control. And Jesus just may start calling people that we don’t particularly like.

For, and this is the second point, Jesus calls all kinds of different people. Andrew and his unnamed companion were spiritual seekers. They had heard God’s word in the preaching of John and when John sent them on to Jesus, they went. They were searching. They were eager. And, eventually, they found what they were looking for. Philip wasn’t looking for a Messiah. He wasn’t looking for anyone. He seemed simply to have been minding his own business until Jesus called him. Nathanael was not a believer. Nathanael’s scepticism was open and honest. If there is a messiah, he said, then he certainly didn’t come from that irrelevant little place called Nazareth. But Jesus saw him. Jesus chose him even before he met him. And he became a disciple, too.

Seekers and sitters and sceptics and Jesus called them all. There was no ideal disciple profile that he followed. He didn’t wonder whether Andrew lived in the right neighbourhood or if Philip’s kids went to the right schools. He didn’t ask if Simon would vote for the right political party. And the Jesus who called indiscriminately in the first century does so today.

When we read the Gospels, when we read about the kinds of people Jesus called and the uproar that his associations caused among good religious folks like you and me, maybe we should pause and ask ourselves whether we really are ready to let Jesus do the calling. Who would come through those doors? Who are the Larch Street equivalents of Roman soldiers and tax-collectors, of sinners and the demon-possessed, the blind and the lame? Are you ready for them to come through the doors? Would they be welcome here?

While your thinking about that, I want finally to mention the third point about Christian witness. And it is this: you don’t really have a choice. You don’t get to choose whether Jesus will call and whom Jesus will call. Because called people bring people to Jesus. When John saw Jesus, he sent Andrew and his friend to him. After Andrew met Jesus, he ran for his brother so that he could meet him, too. Philip’s response to Jesus’ words, “Follow me” was to search out Nathanael and bring him. No deliberation is mentioned. No extensive evangelistic training exercises (again, there’s nothing wrong with those). They simply pointed people to Jesus because they couldn’t help it. It’s what called people do. Called people bring people.

Does that mean Jesus wants us all to be street preachers? No. Does it mean he wants us all to try to be a Billy or a Franklin Graham? No. But clearly, the encounters that John and Andrew and Philip had with Jesus were so profound, so powerful, so life changing that they couldn’t not tell anyone.

Maybe on this second Sunday of Epiphany, Jesus is calling here. Now. Perhaps he’s calling someone who, like Andrew, has been spiritually searching for a long time. Perhaps he’s calling someone like Phillip, who hasn’t been searching at all. Perhaps he’s calling a good-hearted, honest skeptic like Nathanael. Jesus’ call will be different for each of you. There’s no cookie cutter Christianising prayer in the Gospels. Jesus comes in different ways to different folks. And that’s ok.  But if Jesus is calling you—however he is doing it, whether it has been a long process or not, whether it has taken a conventional religious route, or not—if Jesus is calling you, it’s time to start following him.

How many of you can remember when you were baptized?

That’s not surprising, is it? Most of us who are baptized were likely baptized as infants or young children. It’s the way we do things.

But let me tell you a secret. I can remember when I was baptized. Let me tell you another one—so can Rachel. She was 15 and I—if you can believe it—was 27. I’ll let Rachel tell her own story. Mine is long and a little complicated. Too complicated for a sermon. But I do want you to know that while I was raised in a Christian home and was raised a Christian, I was not baptized until I was almost 30.

Why do those stories matter?

They matter because they’re an important reminder that what we call “believers’ baptism” is—even for Anglicans—the normal way of being baptized.

Normal in two ways. It is, first of all, normal historically. The first followers of Jesus were baptized as adults. Our New Testament lesson gives us a good example. Here, we see Paul baptizing new believers in the name of Jesus because they had come to believe in Jesus.

The word had come, the people had responded in faith, and were baptized with water. (Let’s leave aside the fact that they were baptized twice—that’s a story for another sermon). For now, simply notice the pattern: preaching; response; baptism. That’s the way—always the way—that it happens in the book of Acts. It is normal.

Second it’s also normal theologically. The Church, Jesus tells us at the conclusion of Matthew’s Gospel will grow as his disciples go into the world and make disciples by teaching and baptising converts. In other words, the Christian Church’s normal way of growing is by conversion not by believers having kids.

Preaching; response; Baptism. That is the normal way of things. It is how the church started. It is how the church is supposed to continue.

I know what some of you are thinking: “We’ve hired a closet Baptist!”

You haven’t, actually. Aren’t you relieved?

All three of my children were baptized as infants. The only baptisms I have celebrated have been of infants. The one baptism I celebrated here was of William Sarvas—a fabulous little lad, son of Colleen and Curtis, whom most of you know.

No, I believe in infant baptism. So strongly, in fact, that while in Winnipeg, I was once accused of wanting not a font but a hydrant at the West end of my parish sot that I could send the grace of God indiscriminately throughout the neighbourhood.

The accusation, by the way, was valid. The contractors are coming to the Epiphany next week to look at the pipes.

But even I have to admit that when it comes to the Bible, the baptism of infants—while biblical and therefore permissible—is not the usual way.

Christian believers who were themselves baptized as believers began having children and it was not long before the church realized that these children were in some way related to the church—and that way required that they be baptized.

So, the Anglican Church (like Roman Catholics, Orthodox, and most Protestant denominations) recognizes that there are two ways to be baptized—the normal way, as believers and the not-quite-as-normal way, as the children of believers.

Now, let me tell you another secret. All of what I have just said is true. At the same time, it is also true that every baptism is an infant baptism. Every baptism—whether it follows a confession of faith or follows promises made by parents and godparents—every single one is an infant baptism.

What on earth does that mean?

To begin to sketch an answer, we need to move from the book of Acts to our Gospel lesson.

“In those days,” we read, “Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.”

Have you ever wondered why?

The baptism of John was a baptism of repentance. Why would Jesus—the embodiment of the glory, righteousness, and truth of the heavenly Father—Why would Jesus submit to a baptism of repentance?

It certainly was not a matter of need. Jesus himself gives us a clue in St. Matthew’s version of the story. There he says, “it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

Jesus does not need to be baptized. He freely undergoes baptism. He does so to fulfill all righteousness.

What does that curious phrase “fulfill all righteousness” mean? It means first of all, that in submitting to baptism, Jesus fully and completely identifies with us.

We talked about this last week. Do you remember?

God comes to us fully and freely as fully and freely human. He was—we read last week—named and circumcised on the eighth day. He came—we read last week—born of a woman, born under the law.

He came as one of us.

He stands with us.

Not aloof. Not over against. Not other. Not from a distance. Right here. Living, breathing, eating, sleeping. Right here walking into chilly Jordan.

He does not merely appear to be human. He is fully human. He is the Son of Mary. As one of us, he is baptized by John. As one of us, he will teach. As one of us, he will suffer. As one of us, he will die and be buried.

But it is not simply a matter of identifying with us. It is so much more.

Jesus was baptized not simply with us. He was baptized for us.

When he stepped into chilly Jordan’s water, he stepped in to fulfill all righteousness. When he did that, he did the one thing we could not do. On our own we cannot fulfill all righteousness. On our own, we are—to use the New Testament’s language—enslaved to sin. On our own, were we to go under the waters of baptism, to go under the watery chaos from which God called forth his creation at the beginning, we would never come up. We would be utterly and completely undone.

And that’s why every baptism is an infant baptism.

Every baptism is an infant baptism because all of us come to the font completely and utterly helpless. Whether we are 8 days old or 8 years old or 18 or 80 or somewhere in between or before or after, when we come to the font, we come completely helpless.

We come to the font completely unable to fulfill all righteousness.

We come to the font completely incapable of restoring our relationship with God.

We come to the font completely incapable of setting ourselves free from sin, death and the devil.

We come to the font completely incapable of cleansing ourselves.

We come—whether we are coming for our children or as newly confessed Christians—knowing that the waters symbolise that which is our final end. Knowing that we will die. Knowing that, if God does not intervene, we and the little ones we carry will be overwhelmed.

If God does not intervene.

The Gospel for this morning is, simply, God has intervened.

And that is the good news of the Gospel for infants—for all of us who are helpless.

The Gospel is that Jesus, who does not need to fulfill all righteousness, freely fulfills all righteousness. He freely stands with us, and is baptized for us.

He does not merely go down in to the water, he does not merely descend to the grave. He comes up again out of the water. He comes up again from the dead. He turns the chaotic waters that hover at the edges of God’s creation into the bath of regeneration. Into the very water of life.

The Gospel is that through baptism we are united to him and if we are united to him, sin death and the devil have no hold on us any longer.

Now, it’s time to make things practical. It might be that it’s time for some of you to be baptized. It might be that it’s time for others of your to bring your children to be baptized. It might also be time for still others of you either to renew or to confirm and own your baptismal vows.

Remember how I was accused of wanting a hydrant instead of a font? Well, I don’t really. But what I do want is a crowd at that old stone font at the Easter Vigil and, if we need to, on Easter Sunday. Do you want to be a part of that crowd? If you do, I can’t wait to see you there. Speak with me after service and I’ll tell you how we can make the arrangements.

We’ll make those arrangements because, “In those days, Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the river Jordan.”

The Gospel of John is a different kettle of fish altogether, isn’t it? Most of us this morning know that. John is different from Matthew, Mark, and Luke. The first three tell roughly the same story, accentuating different parts, rewriting different bits and pieces, here and there. But they are very similar.

This is why they are called the Synoptic Gospels. They see things “with the same eyes,” which is roughly what the word “synoptic” means. And of course, John sees with his own eyes. He has a different geography. He focuses on Cana and Jerusalem, not Galilee. He has a different timeline. His Gospel runs for three or perhaps four years. He has different miracles and sayings—the seven signs and the the fourteen I am sayings. He even has a different beginning—a beginning which is the Gospel lesson for this morning.

In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.

It’s hard to not to be impressed by the loftiness of the Gospel’s prologue when compared to the nativity stories of Matthew and Luke. There are no stories of sexual scandal that might cause the righteous to blush. There are no implausible angelic visitations to poke our inner Christopher Hitchens. There is no massacre of the innocents to dismay us.

We are given, rather, a theology of creation that includes Christ from the outset.  It somehow seems more fitting to a Christmas celebration—at least to me. We can leave the messiness, chaos, and even evil described by Matthew and Luke behind and contemplate John’s wonderful re-writing of the opening verses of Genesis. “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”

It may be that you find yourself this morning actually preferring the quiet contemplation of the deep eternal truths of the opening verses of John to the hustle-bustle noise that seems to dominate both Matthew’s and Luke’s accounts of Jesus origins. It’s understandable after all. We’ve had enough noise. (I think of Boris Karloff’s rendering of the Grinch with some sympathy. When he says, “All the noise, Noise, Noise NOISE!” he speaks for me). So let’s even set the noise of Matthew and Luke to one side and look at things from a higher perspective, contemplating the eternal truths that John compresses into the first four verses.

And it may be that it’s not just a matter of perspective. John’s account of the incarnation is so different from that of Matthew and Luke that some theologians—Wolfhart Pannenberg is the most significant—have concluded that they are, in fact, contradictory. And we should, therefore, choose between them. At best, Matthew and Luke convey in crude, clearly legendary language what John more precisely and pristinely sets forth in his account of the Word. John frees us from their crudities which did not, of course, actually happen.

And yet. . . .

However much I might want, especially after the rush and rudeness, meanness and messiness that defines Christmas for so many of us. . . .

However much I might want to  leave this world behind to contemplate the incarnation as an idea, not even John will let me. For he does not leave “the Word” as God with God in the beginning. He does not leave the Word as the one through whom all that is came to be. He does not even leave the word as the light that enlightens every one.

No. John goes further. And that “further” is the Gospel.

John says that, the Word became flesh.

With those four words, we have taken leave of philosophy and the universal truths of reason. We have started to talk about the particular truths of history.

Withh those four words, we have taken leave of the incarnation as an idea. We have left behind the incarnation as some lofty eternal principle.  Whether we like it or not, we have turned again to the earthy language of Mattew and Luke, who spoke crudely in the legendary language of a virgin conception and birth.

The Word became flesh. These words speak of an act. Theirs  is the language of event. Something happened. That very Word says John, became flesh. In the womb of Mary, The Word of God who was God and with God from before creation assumed all that it means to be human.

The web of family and social relations—John will tell us later of his mother and father, and of his brothers—that are common to all of us were common to him.

The everyday trajedies of life—from having to deal with brothers who did not believe to standing grief-stricken before the grave of Lazarus. All the messiness that makes us us, made him, him.

The full range of human emotions—from the love for his Beloved Disciple to the anger at the money changers at the temple—were common to him.

He even embraced the simple human desire not to end the party too soon—the water was, after all, turned into the very best wine. Why?

Because, says John, the Word became flesh. The writer to the Hebrews puts it even more evocatively: He was not ashamed to call us—to call you, to call me—his brothers and sisters. He became flesh.

And so the messiness of life that is starkly narrated in Luke’s account of a family forced to return to the family home for the sake of government regulation. The messiness of life that includes the hint of sexual scandal. The scandal that, for Matthew, confronts the righteous Joseph as he weighs what to do with his pregnant betrothed, intrudes here, in John’s four words.

The word became flesh. Once we say that, we are no longer dealing with what the theologians call the logos asarkos. The word without the flesh. We are dealing with flesh. We are dealing with a body. And not just singular. A body. We are dealing with bodies. For if the Word becomes flesh, then Mary—the one in whom the Word became flesh—walks into our imaginations, too.

And if we let Mary in, we may as well let the shepherds in their fields and the magi with their gifts, and the angels, and even the wily old Herod in too. For our world, as theirs, is a world of people who talk too much, a world of grace-touched pagans, and evil kings. And if there is that much intercourse between their world and ours, maybe, just maybe, it goes both ways. Maybe, just maybe, there are angels who, if we listen, will still bring to us the glad tidings of great joy that unto us a Savior has been given. If we can nod sublimely at John’s insistence that God can become a human being, why scoff at the rest?

So it won’t do to let John rescue us from the more mundane renderings of Jesus’ entry into human history. He doesn’t want to do that. What he does want to do is announce at the outset the identity of the One whose Gospel he is about to proclaim. The one who confronts us as Jesus of Nazareth is none other than the Word that was with God, indeed is God, from all eternity. He is the one in and through whom creation is and hangs together. And in his becoming flesh, he does not cease to be that Word. Rather, because he has become flesh, he has become available to our eyes to see and to our hands to touch. He is the glory of God living and breathing and looking right at us.

That’s the mystery and miracle we confront at Christmas. The Word became flesh. Without ceasing to be “God of God, Light of Light, Very God of Very God, Begotten of the Father before all worlds,” he nevertheless “came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary.”

God’s has entered our world. God’s word has embraced our  humanity. He has taken it into himself. And in doing so, he has healed it. All of it. There is no mess from which he is foreign. No sin he will not forgive. No life that is without dignity or value.

And the life he lives in the flesh—for he has not left his humanity behind—he now gives to us by the power of his Spirit at this, his table. That we might live in Him and He in us.

So that our flesh—with his—might one day be taken into the very life of God.