How you get there

• Acts 7:55-60
• 1 Peter 2:2-10
• John 14:1-14
• Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

 “I am the way, the truth, and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me.”

This is one of those gospel verses that seems to give Christians an exclusive privilege, like, I don’t know, the right to issue religious ultimatums.  It’s a passage often read at funeral services, to give hope to the grieving, so it’s strange when you hear, as I did not long ago, a preacher use it to harangue a crowd of mourners, warning them against being insufficiently convinced of the exclusive privilege of the Christian, and thus disqualified from joining their departed loved one in heaven.  And when you do hear something like that, it makes you wonder--what did the author of the Gospel had in mind? 

I took the opportunity this week to really dig into this scripture, more than I have before, and so I packed a little more Bible interpretation into my sermon today than usual—I hope you won’t mind.  I’m not going to cite verse numbers, but if you want to keep your lectionary insert handy, and refer to the gospel lesson once in a while as I’m preaching, I won’t be offended.  And I’m going to go back a little bit into the 13^th Chapter of John, so if you’re so inclined and want to pull one of those black bibles out of the pew rack, go head.  

Because the most important thing I think we can do with a scripture like this is to put it into context.  In the story of the Gospel of John, Jesus speaks these words after supper on the night before the day of preparation for the Passover, after he had washed his disciples’ feet, after his betrayer had left the table and gone out into the night, after he had predicted that Peter would deny him three times.  And Thomas, that tactless disciple, asks him a question about how and where to follow him, now that he was about to die.  

And our reading today begins with Jesus telling his disciples that it’s going to be okay—“do not let your hearts be troubled.”  It’s going to be okay because his death will not mean the end of their relationship.  And it will not mean that the knowledge of God that they have received through him will be lost.  In fact, that relationship, and that knowledge, are about to shift into a higher gear.  Because Jesus is going away, but he is going to the one he calls “my Father”, to be in an even more intimate and equal relationship with God.   

And this will change the way that the disciples relate to Jesus, but it also will be a change toward greater equality and intimacy.  He has already shown them this change, that very evening, by getting down on his knees and washing their feet.  And when he finished inaugurating their new relationship of intimacy and equality with him, he told them that this was now how they were to relate to each other: “Where I am going” he said “you cannot come.  I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  Just as I have loved you, you should love one another.”

I don’t think we can over-emphasize the importance of the connection between this commandment and the scripture we are talking about today.  Before Jesus promised to go and prepare a place for us in the house of his Father; before he promised to come back for us, he told us that we cannot come where he is going.  Because we still have work to do.  We have a commandment to obey.  That’s why when Philip follows up on Thomas’ question by saying, “Show us the Father, and we will be satisfied,” Jesus gets a little testy: “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me?”  Because “No one comes to the Father except through me,” is not permission for us to be satisfied.  It is a reminder that we have seen all we need to see, in order to believe in Jesus and get to work.  We already know all we need to know, to keep his commandment, and love as he loves—that is how you come to the Father.

But don’t take my word for it; look at the Gospel, where Jesus goes on to talk about works.  “The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own, but The Father who dwells in me does his works.  Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves.”  It is the works of Jesus, even more than his words, that show us the Father in the Son.  And the greatest of his works is the one he is about to do as he speaks these words, which is the work of the cross.  

It is on the cross that Jesus manifests most clearly and unmistakably the love of the Father, love so great that he gave his only Son to an uncomprehending world, to the end that all who believe in him should have eternal life.  The way that leads to the Father is the way of the cross.  The truth that Jesus is, is the truth that Pilate scorned when he said, “What is truth?”  Eternal life is the life of the Good Shepherd, laid down for his sheep.  It is this kind of love that Jesus commands us to have for one another.  No one comes to the Father any other way. 

So now that we’ve seen the context of this saying, we understand.  Jesus has not given us an exclusive privilege, but an all-embracing responsibility.  Because it is our love that shows the way, the truth, and the life to those whom the Father loves in the world today: so that they might see his glory; so that they might believe that we were sent, as the Father sent the Son, and believing, have eternal life in his name.  Now for many in the world today these are just words, empty of any meaning.  But works—works they might just believe. 

“Very truly, I tell you,” says Jesus, “the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father.”  And we say to ourselves, “What?--You’ve got to be kidding!  Me…you…do the works of Jesus?  Do greater works than Jesus?  Greater than changing water into wine?  Greater than giving sight to a man born blind?  Greater than raising Lazarus from the dead?  Greater than dying on the cross?” 

I guess it all depends on what Jesus meant by greatness.  Is it the power to work miracles, or command armies? Is it charisma, or fame?  Or is Jesus talking about greatness of faith, greatness of hope, greatness of love?  Maybe we can do works greater than his because he, after all, was Jesus, and you and I are just you and me.  Jesus was the only-begotten Son, who shared his Father’s glory before the world was made; all we share are some old stories in an old book, and some bread and wine and water.  Jesus knew everything that was in the hearts of men and women.   All we know is that the rent is due on the first of the month, and that some people are just hard to love.  All that the Father has he gave to the Son.  All we got is our own modest gifts, precariously balanced against our deficits.    That, and the faith that Jesus is in the Father and will give us whatever we ask so that we can do our works. 

They may not be spectacular: raising an autistic child, or tending to a failing parent; planting a garden in waste ground, or organizing a rally for justice; surviving an addiction, perhaps, or a bereavement, and helping a neighbor to do the same; helping resettle a family of refugees from war.  Often they are works we didn’t choose, and we feel like Jesus at the wedding in Cana, when he said to his mother, “Woman, my hour is not is come.”  But it precisely because we do them out of love, in obedience to Christ, with no power but the strength that comes from God, in just the right measure at just the right time to get us a little further along the way—just because of this, these works manifest the very highest truth.  They are signs of the glory of Christ, and they point the way to the Father.

    

Guilty like me

Joel 2:23-32
Psalm 65
2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18
Luke 18:9-14

A few weeks ago, the church Stewardship Committee drafted a cover letter for the forms we pass around every year at this time, so that people who wish to can go on record about how much they hope to give to the church in the coming year, in time, and talent, and money.  And every year, because this letter goes out in the name, not only of the Stewardship Committee, but also of the vestry (which board of directors), a draft goes to the vestry for review.  In the past, the vestry has typically given the letter a quick once-over, and said, in essence, “looks fine to us—where do we sign?”  But this year was different.   Maybe it was because the letter talked about making changes to the Stewardship program in order to deepen the conversation, but in any case, this year your vestry took a hard look at it.  They made editorial suggestions to clarify its message, but more than that they raised substantive concerns about its contents, and questioned some of its basic assumptions.

The vestry’s comments were mainly concentrated on those parts of the letter that talked about giving money to the church in proportion to one’s income, and in particular the traditional norm of the tithe, that is, of giving one-tenth of it.  Now tithing is a biblical standard, with a solid weight of church behind it, so I was a little surprised at first when the vestry called it into question.  After all, the Stewardship Committee’s language in the letter about these things had been simply carried forward from last year’s letter, and last year’s from the year before, and no one raised an eyebrow about it then.  But, of course, maybe that’s just because no one was paying attention.  

However, one of the things that I value most about this congregation is that its’ members do notice, sooner or later, when we are doing things that don’t sit exactly right with them, even things that are “traditional,” and they aren’t afraid to question them.  And the truth is, we haven’t really taken the time before now in the vestry, or even in the stewardship committee, let alone the wider congregation, to look at why and whether tithing really is an expectation we have of ourselves and one another.   So I took the discussion about it in the vestry meeting as a sign that the Stewardship Committee is on the right track in saying it is time for us to open this topic up for a deeper conversation, and as a promising start in that direction.

The most telling moment in the discussion, for me personally, came when someone said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “I don’t tithe, so how can I tell the congregation that this is something they should be doing?”  Which would have been the perfect opportunity for me to lead by example, and to take a stand for the traditional norm, by saying, “well, I do.”  Except the truth is that I don’t.  Most of the time I feel guilty about this, like it makes me, on one level, a fraud, who is shirking his ordination vow to “pattern your life and that of your household in accordance with the teachings of Christ, so that you may be a wholesome example to your people.”  Somehow, though, when that vestry member spoke out in such a forthright way, I felt relieved.  I was even thankful that I have, as yet, failed to meet the standard of the tithe, because if I hadn’t I would have been sorely tempted in that moment to say so.  And there would have no way to do that without putting others in their place.  As it was, I had no leg of moral superiority to stand on.

I do know people, even some in this congregation, who can speak quite movingly about how committing to the tithe has helped them to grow spiritually.  But none of them talks about their satisfaction in setting a good example for others.  Nor do they mention a feeling of relief at having rid themselves of the guilt of not tithing.  They are more likely to talk about discovering a freedom and joy in giving that makes them want to do more.  And when you think about it, there is something arbitrary about the tithe--if the idea is to honor God and acknowledge our dependence on God’s providential goodness, why stop at ten percent?  It’s a norm that comes from the Jewish law, and without negating it, Jesus sets quite a different standard.  You can find it in the 18^th Chapter of the Gospel of Luke, a few verses after today’s reading: “One thing you still lack.  Sell all that you have and distribute to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.” 

There’s nothing in the Gospels to suggest that Jesus was against tithing, but teachings like the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector warn against thinking that tithing or not tithing makes a difference to God.  Jesus seems to assume that most of his audience don’t, or why else would the Pharisee imagine that his tithing sets him apart from other people?  Of course the tax collector thinks of himself as set apart also, for a different reason.  People despised tax collectors as treacherous and wicked because they collaborated with the pagan and idolatrous Roman overlords.  And for a person with a sensitive conscience that must have been a heavy burden to bear.  No doubt that is why this man is beating his breast and crying out “Lord, have mercy on me a sinner.”  But Jesus seems to think that this is an appropriate way of relating to God, not just for tax collectors, who were generally landless people, just doing what they had to do to survive, but for all of us—“Lord, have mercy on me a sinner.”    

We modern liberal Christians are wary of such lavish expressions of guilt and repentance, which we associate with an oppressive religion that is, thankfully, out of date.  And it is true that the church has used guilt to terrible effect, causing untold harm to countless persons.  But that is because its teaching has often implied, whether openly or not, that there are some people who are not guilty, saints or pastors or priests or popes who have made the grade with God and now stand in moral superiority over the rest of us. 

But if you look at the moral standards Jesus sets, they are so high that only God can meet them, and this has the effect of showing that we are all guilty.  Consequently, no one is in a position to condemn.  Any money we have is dirty money, as long as there are people who have none, and the tax-collector in the story is far more ready to admit this than the Pharisee.  Which makes him the kind of person God can work with, a potential member of the new, redeemed community that Christ is bringing to birth.

I think that Jesus has that community in mind when he comments at the end of his story--“for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."  To me, this is not a description of a system of rewards and punishments, but of what it will realistically take to arrive at a community where there are no longer superiors and inferiors, but where we can all look each other in the eye.  And the allure of that community is enough to exert a draw even on a greedy, bewildered, and cowardly person like me. 

For that reason, I value the tithe as a personal guidepost.  Jesus’ advice to sell all I have and distribute to the poor seems impossibly remote from where I currently stand, sinner that I am.  But giving away ten percent is a goal that is, at least imaginably, within range.  It is close enough to exert a gravitational pull on my generosity, stretching me to give a little more every year, not only to the church, but to other organizations that also do the work of exalting the humble.  I say this as someone who lives in security and comfort, in no danger of going without the necessities of life, at least for now.  What Jesus reminds me is that this is not a condition that I, any more than the poorest person in the world, can claim to deserve.    

The Gate

Acts 2:42-47
1 Peter 2:19-25
John 10:1-10
Psalm 23 

On Monday, I was going out the back door of my house for a morning’s work in the yard when I stepped wrongly in a hole and sprained my ankle—not the worst sprain I’ve ever suffered, but bad enough that I couldn’t walk on it without excruciating pain.  Since then I’ve hobbling around on crutches, and I’m still not really able to walk unaided.  Now, many of you have had this experience, some recently, and some of you have it every day, so I don’t need to tell you what it’s like not to be able to get around on two legs with your hands free—how it makes the simplest chores difficult, and vigorous physical activities, of the kind that are so important for physical and emotional well-being, nearly impossible.

And having my mobility restricted in this way has forced me to accept help from other people, when they’ve offered it, and even to ask for it when they have not.  My wife, Meg, has been my first and chief helper, coming to my aid when I was writhing and groaning in the back yard, setting me up on the couch with icepacks and pillows, and adding my share of the household chores to her own responsibilities.  But my daughter Risa has pitched in also, carrying my things out to the car when we leave the house in the morning, and cheerfully fetching me this or that.  And normally, I wouldn’t presume to ask the volunteer receptionists here in the church office to make me a cup of tea, but this week I have, and they’ve happily obliged.

As I said, I’ve sprained my ankle before, and when I was younger the emotional trial of depending so much on other people was almost worse than the physical pain.  As someone who thinks of himself as independent and self-reliant, who works hard and doesn’t complain, and does for others, I have not always been good at allowing others to do for me.  But maybe it’s a mark of maturity that this time it is a little easier.  I’ve been working this week at accepting my injury as a blessing in disguise, an opportunity to slow down and rest that I never would have taken otherwise.  And it’s also reminded me, in a way that is quite lovely and reassuring, of a truth that we can miss seeing when we are healthy and able-bodied—that all our lives are a joint venture.  More than a little of their richness and meaning comes from the consideration, help, and care we receive from others, in countless ways, every day.

The book of Acts says that at its beginning the church exemplified this kind of mutual aid, caring, and concern to a startling degree.  “All who believed were together,” it says, “and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.”  Now this may be an idealized picture, but as such its intent is as much prescriptive as descriptive.  “This is how we were,” it implies, “when the experience of the Lord’s resurrection was still fresh in our minds, when the unifying gift of the Spirit was palpably present among us, and potent, and new.  The way we shared everything was all the proof we needed that God’s promises were true, and it drew others to join us.  This is how we grew.  We were at our best when we were one—sharing equally, breaking bread together with glad and generous hearts.  And this is how we could be again.”

The Bible has an image for this kind of life-in-community, of the people of God as united and equal and organized for their mutual benefit.  It is the flock of sheep.  We’ve all heard of the lone wolf, but who ever heard of the lone sheep?  A lone sheep is a lost sheep, who must be found and returned to the fold, or it will not survive.    Sheep are meant to live together.

Now, as modern persons, this image makes us uneasy.  We idealize individual freedom, individual responsibility, and individual achievement.  When we say people are like sheep, we imply mediocrity, stupidity, and conformity—it is not a compliment.  And a flock of sheep requires a shepherd.  In the literature of the ancient Near East, shepherd was a standard image for the king.   Well, we have an instinctive distrust of kings.  We know from historical experience that we can’t be too sheep-like, too docile and obedient and trusting, or our shepherds will take advantage and abuse their power.

The Bible recognizes this.  The books of the prophets contain numerous passages that call out the rulers of Israel as false shepherds, who scatter and destroy God’s sheep, who take for themselves what they should be feeding to the flock.  And in the Hebrew Scriptures, scattering the flock is always a catastrophe.  The disintegration of society into isolated and competing individuals is anathema to the biblical mind.  Instead, the prophets give promises like the one God makes to Jeremiah, “I will give you shepherds after my own heart, who will feed you with knowledge and understanding.”  This kind of leader will tend the people the way God would, and will, as Isaiah says, “gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.” 

This kind of leadership—wise, compassionate and nurturing, not domineering and self-aggrandizing—is what people saw in Jesus.  They recognized his authority, but it was not the authority of aristocratic birth, or official position or state power.  It was the authority of the person who speaks the truth and backs it up with deeds.  It was nothing he sought for its own sake, but flowed naturally from his compassion for his people, from his desire that they should enjoy the fullness of life, and his courage to act for their liberation.  He instructed his disciples to lead others in the same spirit of humility and service, and he exemplified this teaching in his passion and death on the cross. 

These two traditions, the prophetic tradition about the shepherds of Israel, and the gospel tradition about the ministry of Jesus, are in the background of the Good Shepherd in the Gospel of John.  Jesus says, “ I am the Good Shepherd”, and we are meant to think of his compassion and wisdom and self-sacrifice, which make him so unlike the thieves and robbers who so often pass for leaders in this world. 

But Jesus’ relationship with us is about more than political liberation.  And that society envisioned in the book of Acts, of unity, equality, and mutual sharing, requires something more than a new kind of shepherd.  It demands a new kind of flock, one that moves together by the free choice of each sheep, in response to the inner shepherding of God.  The ordering of this new community begins with a new heart in each of its members.  Their unity comes from loving hearts, fundamentally re-oriented toward the well-being of others.  Their deep generosity doesn’t spring from a sense of obligation, but from hearts overflowing with gratitude for the abundance that comes when we share our gifts. There is no trade-off for these sheep between freedom and security, because they choose to have no enemies.     

This is a picture of the renovation of human nature, or, if you like, our resurrection.  I think that these texts about the Good Shepherd are traditionally read during Easter season, because Jesus is more than our righteous ruler.  He is the power of God’s love within to bring us from death to life.  He is, in the words of Julian of Norwich, and many other mystics and theologians of the High Middle Ages in the West, our mother, giving us new birth into a new world.  Or, as John the Evangelist has him say in today’s gospel, “I am the gate of the sheepfold.”

“I am the gate”—the birth passage from the cramped space where we huddle within our walls, where the ground is hard, and the grass is thin, out into a wide open space.  Jesus is the gate, opening out to the fresh, green pastures of a new world; opening in to the depths of the self, to safety and peace that surpass understanding.   Through him we may come and go, in and out, in freedom and joy.  Through him, the narrow straits of this world, even the dread gate of death, are entrances to wider spaces, to more perfect sharing, and more abundant life.  And the wall that divides the flock, that separates the future from the past, the living from the dead, this world from the next, has an opening—a gate—so all may come and go and may again be one.