So Little, So Much

Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on. (Mark12.43-44)

How We Give

The mention of money is all it takes for many Christians to break out in a cold sweat. And they have just cause for feeling squeamish. From the start, the Church has been a lucrative venue for charlatans and scam artists to exploit the faithful’s confidence that God rewards sacrificial giving. The teachings of Christ and the Apostles—which consistently emphasize the virtues of generosity—get twisted into all sorts of outlandish promises that have no basis in scriptural truth. Enormous cathedrals have arisen on the backs of poor people told they can buy their way into heaven. Vast televangelist empires have emerged from a steady flow of donations from people with little to spare. Purveyors of “prosperity gospel”—many of them every bit as criminal as the craftiest Ponzi schemers—point to their mansions and Mercedes and minks as proof positive that God makes people rich. (For the record, it is true that, as 2 Corinthians 9.7 says, “God loves a cheerful giver.” But when we read the statement in context, there’s no escaping its basic premise: God blesses givers so they have more to give. Verse 8: “God is able to provide every blessing in abundance, so that by always having enough of everything, you may share abundantly in every good work.”)

So we are justified in approaching Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 12.38-44) with caution. In this episode, Jesus favorably compares a poor widow who contributes all that she has with wealthier types who make a great show of their gifts—and there’s no mistaking the story is about money. As a result, this text has been a perennial favorite of get-rich-quick preachers and religious rainbow-riders down through the ages. “Be like the widow!” they say. “Give everything you have—even if it’s just a couple of coins, like she did. Jesus says you’ll be better than rich people if you do!” But this passage is about a great deal more than money and status. When we read it carefully, we realize the issue isn’t how much we give at all. It’s how we give. The questions it raises have nothing to do with the amount, but rather where our desire to give comes from.

A Sincere Heart

We don’t know what prompts the widow to give all she has. What’s most intriguing about her is that she comes and goes completely unaware that Jesus notices of her. There’s not a shred of ostentation in her giving, and its size is so insignificant that it’s unlikely to make a real difference. But that’s Jesus’s point: her unconcern about being seen is why He calls her to our attention. Before the widow shows up, Jesus also points out another group—although his assessment of them is hardly flattering. In verses 38-40, He says, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearances say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

It is against this background of self-aggrandizing religiosity that Jesus sets the widow in sharp relief. And Jesus makes very clear where both parties’ desire to give comes from. The widow gives from a sincere heart. Her sacrifice is worthy because its extent is not apparent. Meanwhile, the religious leaders’ gifts and piety are unacceptable because they’re offered hypocritically; every act comes with a “what’s in it for me” clause attached. What’s more, Jesus indicates that ill-gotten gains make their impressive contributions possible. “They devour widows’ houses,” He says, referring to their ruthless greed for wealth and status. These people aren’t givers at all. They’re takers. That’s why Jesus says, “This poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed to their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” (v43-44) This woman with so little gives so much that her gift is greater than all the others combined. It is she who deserves to be seen—and Jesus makes sure we recognize that.

Presentation Isn’t “Everything”

In terms of our giving—whether of finances, time, or compassion—size really doesn’t matter. Our contributions to God’s kingdom are measured with two criteria: degree of sincerity and unwillingness to exploit the honor of giving for selfish gain. When it comes to generosity of spirit, we quickly discover presentation most definitely isn’t “everything.” Regardless of one’s resources, anyone with sufficient cunning can put on a show. Regardless of one’s spiritual depth, anyone can learn how to recite eloquent prayers and stitch together long-flowing robes of self-righteousness. The instant we design acts of worship to impress onlookers is the instant our hypocrisy is revealed. What’s more, our need to impress often provokes speculation about the source of our largesse. Chances are—like the scribes and so many prosperity preachers—the wealth and status we try to flaunt has been obtained at someone else’s expense. We’re a far cry from blessings that God showers on cheerful givers. If we give with expectations of glory or recognition, we’re not giving at all. We’re taking.

So where does our desire to give come from? When we find that place and align it with Christ’s teaching, we’ll understand the amount and nature of what we give is irrelevant. Humility of gesture is the thing, as we seize every opportunity to give our all, despite how little that may seem in comparison to others. It tickles and amazes me that a poor lady passes through this story with no idea she’ll be remembered centuries later for the significance of her sacrifice. That’s the real lesson in this passage. How we give—not how much or the attention our gifts may receive—determines the true value of our offerings.

It’s not the size of the gift, but the sincerity that prompts our sacrifice.

Alive in Us

It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ Who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, Who loved me and gave Himself for me. (Galatians 2.20) 

Easter Faith

Before you go to Easter service—before you don your Easter finery and review your holiday plans—pack up your rational mind and set it aside. Logic and common sense will be of no use to you today. You’re about to have a sacred encounter of the most mysterious kind. It will require you to leap headlong into pure faith. Life as you know it will bear no resemblance to the life you’ll discover in the hymns and texts, prayers and sermons, in the electrifying proclamation that death has been defeated, justice has prevailed, and triumphant new life has burst forth from the dark bowels of a chilly tomb. None of what you hear, see, do, sing, or say will make any sense. Yet every fiber of your being will galvanize you with stubborn assurance that all of it is true.

Easter faith is unlike any other type of faith, in that its power solely resides in mystery. Every question it raises—and they are legion—resists explanation. The Gospel accounts, as well as subsequent references to Christ’s resurrection, insist we take its legitimacy at face value. Jesus died on Friday. The world went dark until early Sunday morning, when He got up and walked out of the grave. That’s it. How it happened, the changes Jesus underwent, exactly what transpired while He was dead, and every other question we may have goes unanswered. Either you believe it or you don’t. Which makes Easter faith the best kind of faith, because it expects us to stop making sense and start believing with boldness and clarity that transcend sense-making. Easter is life. That’s all there is to it. Life is. Easter is. The Easter equation worked out is 1+1 =1. Now you get what I mean when I say, “pack up your rational mind.”

Are We Alive?

Oddly enough, the Easter questions we need to consider don’t come from us. They’re put to us. And chief among them is “How do we make Easter come alive in us?” What that really asks is “Is Jesus truly alive in our lives?” Can we truthfully say, like Paul, in Galatians 2.20: “It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ Who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, Who loved me and gave Himself for me”? Does the resurrected Christ live and move and breathe through us?

This is a question each of us can only answer for ourselves, as the living Christ we embody collectively is expressed uniquely in our individualism. Not one of us is exactly the same, which means not one of us believes, behaves, or bears witness to the Resurrection in identical ways. The common attitudes and aspirations we share as followers of Jesus are stepping-off points for each of us to bring Christ to life in us—in our daily thoughts, actions, attempts, and responses. So we must ask ourselves, when we say, “Jesus lives in me,” what does that mean? Or better yet, what do we mean? Or even better, what does that mean to you? What does that mean to me? And that raises an ever bigger, tougher, and more confounding question that Easter invites us to ponder: Are we alive? Not in the biological sense as animate organisms—but in the spiritual sense of being alive to the resurrected possibilities Jesus makes available to us. 

Using Paul’s construct, how do we transform lives we “now live in the flesh” into ones lived “by faith in the Son of God,” Who loved us and gave Himself for us? The questions Easter puts to us are much more demanding and important than any we can ever ask about it. The Resurrection’s mechanics and historical accuracy fall by the wayside very quickly. Whether we interpret the empty tomb as a reality, metaphor, myth, legend, or folk tale—whether our literal-bound, rational minds accept Easter as an actual event or they reject it as naturally inconceivable—doesn’t matter. The Christ of Easter asks something far more compelling of us, something we must answer if we’re to follow Christ’s way. Are we alive? And in our living, do we bring life to those no longer alive—to people who’ve settled for survival rather than knowing the joy of life?

The Most Important Easter Question

Easter reverses death’s terrifying tide and launches Christ’s promise of everyday resurrection into a dying world. One need not be a theologian or Bible scholar to recognize Jesus’s central message is life. Jesus promises the woman at the well “living water.” (John 4.10) In John 6, He calls Himself “the Bread of Life,” and in the next chapter, He declares, “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.” (7.38) In John 10.10, He says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” All of Jesus’s teachings point to life. They instruct us how to love one another so that we’re not infected with hatred, resentment, anger, and so many other deadly diseases. They retrain our responses to threat, conflict, and confusion to ensure new life will grow out of despair. They enlighten our awareness of what’s truly vital so that we don’t succumb to life-defeating temptations and desires. The entire corpus of Jesus’s lessons and the power He exemplified come together in the dazzling display of life that we call Easter. This is life unlike any ever known—life that refutes death’s fears and disproves its formulas once and for all. Easter is life. Easter is. Life is. 1+1=1.

So in the midst of our rejoicing that Jesus would not submit to death, let us answer the questions Easter puts to us by doing the same. Let our resurrection anthems be manifestoes of defiance that echo Psalm 118.17: “I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD.” Let our questions about the Resurrection give way to bold certainty that Jesus lives in us. John 1.3-4 tells us, “What has come into being in Him was life, and the life was the light of all people.” Out of humiliating death, triumphant life. Out of entombed darkness, vibrant light. From One to all. Our rational minds will never get it. But every fiber in our being knows it to be true. Jesus is alive in us. It’s a truth of such overpowering magnitude that it raises the most important Easter question of all: How do we live with that?

Easter reverses death’s terrifying tide and launches Christ’s promise of everyday resurrection into a dying world.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/04/07/alive-in-us/.

Delayed Reaction

“Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (Mark 2.9-11)

Through the Roof

Mark’s Gospel tells a great story about a paralyzed man whose friends are so bent on helping him they destroy a house to do it. Many of us first heard this tale during childhood, when climbing on roofs and tearing stuff up sounds really exciting. When we return to the scene as adults, however, we’re not so sure.

Here’s what happens. Jesus returns to Capernaum from a ministry trip and when word leaks that He’s there, people rush the house and spill into the yard. Friends of a paralytic bring the man to Jesus, but they can’t reach the Lord because of the crowd. They get the bright idea to tear open the roof and lower the sick man into the house so Jesus can cure him. Maybe it would be okay if the house belonged to one of the friends. But we assume it doesn’t, since Mark doesn’t comment on who owns the place. So they’re taking a huge risk—and probably breaking the law—when they tear apart a neighbor’s roof. In fact, the whole thing is risky. Ancient Palestinian roofs are flimsy affairs, comprised of reed mats thrown over crossbeams, with a thin layer of mortar applied to protect against rain. That’s why the friends can take the roof apart quickly. But they also risk falling through, hurting themselves and/or Jesus in the process. What’s more, raising their friend to roof-level will require looking to others for help, which most of us would be hesitant to provide, given the liabilities we’d assume by pitching in. But, apparently, people do come to their assistance, because the disabled man makes it from ground level to the roof, and from the roof to Jesus.

Once Jesus Lifts the Stigma

Let’s go into the house for a minute. Jesus is talking and stops when He hears a lot of commotion outside. It sounds like it’s coming from the roof. Big chunks of ceiling start to fall. Everyone scrambles for cover. No doubt a disciple or close friend tries to pull Jesus out of danger. But Jesus sits tight and watches as the paralytic is lowered into the room. He looks up to see the friends who have taken great risks to make this happen and Mark 2.5 says, “When Jesus saw their faith, He said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

A bit of comedy ensues—one reminiscent to Monty Python’s send-up of the Sermon on the Mount in Life of Brian. Everyone settles down and someone asks, “What did He say?” Another replies, “’Your sins are forgiven.’” A nearby group of legalists hisses, “Who does He think He is? Only God can forgive sins!” Jesus senses their alarm and replies, “Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Stand up and take your mat and walk'? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins"—He said to the paralytic—"I say to you, stand up, take your mat and go to your home." (v9-11) The man steps into the yard to show everyone he’s been cured. Onlookers praise God and say, “We’ve never seen anything like this!” (v12)

Mark ends the story there, as if to say, “The rest you know.” So let’s play with that for a moment. What happens next? In all likelihood the man’s friends gather around. There’s a lot of joyful laughter, pats on the back, possibly even a happy jig from the healed man. Realizing they’ve just disassembled someone’s roof and interrupted Christ’s conversation, they may scoot off to celebrate out of earshot, saying, “We’ll come back and clean up later.” And as they walk off, the healed man stops, taking a moment to absorb everything that’s happened. “Wait a second!” he says. “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?”

Of course, they know. In their world, disability is linked to sinfulness. Living in a climate that dreads God’s wrath, it’s automatically assumed anyone felled by disease has angered God. So Jesus not only cures the man’s condition. He frees the man from shame. More than that, He refutes the notion that physical anomalies signify God’s displeasure. If that were the case, Jesus would tell the man what He tells others who subscribe to harmful thoughts and behaviors: “Go and sin no more.” But Jesus doesn’t say that. In two quick steps, He frees the man—from stigma and then disease. And since He addresses the sin question before the curing the illness, He leaves no doubt that erasing condemnation is His first priority. Healing comes once Jesus lifts the stigma.

Everything We Need

I imagine a lot of you, like me, have heard this story plenty of times, preached and taught in many ways. It’s a spectacular example of faith in action, a noble instance of high-risk compassion, and a telling portrayal of how easily we succumb to religious dogma and common myths that impede faith. But for those of us wending our way down Lent’s road there may be something more here that we can reach for.

Whether we come to Jesus on our own—as so many in the Gospels do—or, like the paralytic man, loved ones are instrumental in bringing us to Him, what we experience on arrival is multilayered and complex. What draws us to Him may actually be secondary to a deeper need. It’s unlikely the man or his friends ever consider that, without forgiveness, the healing is incomplete. Yet Jesus recognizes that and He takes care of first things first. In our little post-healing scenario—a midrash based on the story of the cured leper who returns to thank Jesus—the man’s acknowledgement of what’s happened is typical of delayed responses we often have. Repeatedly, awareness that Christ makes us whole sneaks up on us. We have to stop and exclaim, “I’m forgiven! Do you know what that means?” It means the stigmas that paralyze and make us sick have been removed. Misguided opinions of why we are as we are have been dispelled. Not only obvious limitations that cripple us—but also the unspoken ones that bore deep into our psyches—no longer confine us. We are free.

As we travel Lent’s desert, I pray we walk humbly, yet confidently, with songs of praise interrupting our prayers of repentance. May we see our journey to the cross as a return to the source of all that is good in us—the place where our forgiveness, healing, and most of all our freedom from shame and stigma are revealed in a Savior Who understands and provides us with everything we need.

However we come to Christ—whether on our knees or on a stretcher lowered through a torn-up roof—we leave the experience in astonishment that Jesus sees to our every need.

Postscript: Question 8

Can you share an example of delayed reaction in your own faith, when you realized there was more to what you received from Christ than you initially thought?

Lookers

She never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day. At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the Child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. (Luke 2.37-38)

Weighty Words

Just before Christmas I caught a “Primetime” rerun of Diane Sawyer’s report on cloistered nuns. Unlike sisters who dedicate their lives to charitable service, these saintly women heed a monastic calling to denounce all worldly obligations so they’re free to pray for the world. What Sawyer discovered in their fortitude, discipline, and self-sacrifice was astounding. Along with a perpetual intercessory vigil within their abbey walls, they answer a congregational call to prayer every three hours. Eight times a day they forego their communal and personal needs to lift our needs before God. Sawyer’s awe focused on the physical and emotional havoc that must result from such a grueling regimen. The nuns’ selflessness elicited a different response on my part, however. I couldn’t stop thinking, “Somewhere, someone is praying for me.” Think about that. Right now, regardless when you read this, people tucked away in abbeys and monasteries around the world are bowed in prayer for you—for us.

The manner in which the nuns discussed their vows took Sawyer aback. They spoke of their symbolic marriage to Christ as if it were an actual union and described their relationship in intimate terms—not merely loving Christ, but being in love with Christ. Although their passion was startling, their commitment defused any skepticism about their sincerity. Their lives gave weight to their words. In Sunday’s Gospel (Luke 2.22-40), we meet Anna, perhaps the New Testament’s finest example of a cloistered, intensely devout woman. Like the nuns that Sawyer interviewed, her integrity precedes her. On seeing the Infant, she rejoices and bears witness that He is Israel’s Promised Redeemer. And when Anna speaks, people listen. They may be taken aback but, still, they listen.

Substitution

Christmas’s majesty invites us to overlook a sad aspect of its tale. By necessity, it scuttles any dreams Mary and Joseph harbor about being newlyweds and first-time parents. What enthralls us surely disappoints them on many levels. Luke 2.19 suggests Mary comes to terms with it, saying when the shepherds depart, she “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” Eight days pass before things resemble anything Mary or Joseph may have dreamt about. Per custom, their Baby is circumcised and named “Jesus.” Like today, the bris is a private affair—a notable, yet not notably “big,” event. The big day that Joseph and Mary dream of comes 32 days later, when they go to Jerusalem, where Mary presents herself and Jesus to the Temple priests. That’s when Anna enters the picture, and grasping her importance requires fully understanding what’s going on.

Two essential rites are publicly observed. The first ends Mary’s purification—the 40-day period banning her contact with anyone outside her household. The second, designated for first-born sons, declares Jesus “holy to the Lord” (v23), with a sacrificial ritual that redeems Him just as Israel’s oldest males are saved when the Death Angel visited Egypt. The offering mirrors that of the first Passover: the blood of a lamb. But Mosaic Law makes exceptions for mothers who can’t afford a lamb. In its place, she offers a pair of turtledoves or young pigeons—one to seal her purification and the other a redemptive offering for her first-born son. Mary takes this option for many reasons. With pregnancy coming before her marriage is finalized, it’s doubtful her dowry has been transferred. Her 40-day confinement in Bethlehem has likely drained the couple’s resources. The costs of caring for a new mother and child have added to their burden. So we can assume they’re near penniless when they reach the Temple.

Putting practicalities aside, however, the presentation’s specifics are no less illuminating than the Nativity’s attention to detail. Once again, arbitrary factors combine to establish Jesus’s identification with the poor, uprooted, and those incapable of meeting the Law’s highest demands. More than that, it’s here that the substitution theme comes to the fore. The usual sacrifice is bypassed for a seemingly lower—nonetheless exceptional—offering that obtains astounding beauty in the nature of the exchange. It replaces an earthbound, dim-witted beast with a free and heavenly creature that lights on the ground yet lives in the sky.

Although we often call Jesus “the Lamb of God,” the avian substitution for His redemption more aptly presages His substitution for our redemption. The Lord of Heaven alights on Earth to save us. Our vantage from the far side of Calvary crystallizes the substitution’s meaning, but we can’t fathom anyone who witnesses the presentation perceiving its import. Yet two elderly prophets—Simeon and Anna—not only see it. They get it, because they’ve spent their lives looking for it. They glory in having the long-awaited Christ is in their midst.

All

Luke writes that the Spirit guides Simeon to the Temple, where he takes the month-old Child in his arms and praises God. He tells his Creator he’s ready to die, “for my eyes have seen Your salvation, which You have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” (v30-32) He prophesies to Mary, foretelling Jesus’s death by saying He’s destined “to be a Sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too.” (v34-35)

While Mary and Joseph marvel at Simeon’s words, Anna appears. Luke tells us she’s 84 and cloistered herself in the Temple after her husband of seven years died. Since women of her time marry in their teens, Anna has spent 60-plus years fasting, praying, and anticipating the Savior. To three generations of worshipers she’s a Temple fixture whose permanence and devotion endow her testimony with enduring truth. She enlarges on Simeon’s praise and prophecy by including everyone who wisely attends to her message. Verse 38 reads, “At that moment she came, and began to praise God and to speak about the Child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.”

A Breed Apart

No matter who, what, or where we are, trusting God’s Word transforms us from passive listeners into passionate lookers. Like Simeon, we live to see God’s pledges materialize before our eyes. Like Anna, we make great sacrifices to watch patiently for the joy and salvation promised to us. Like Mary and Joseph, we cope with the deferral of ordinary dreams and discover—to our amazement—God’s extraordinary purpose for our lives. As lookers, we’re a breed apart. We’re undaunted when what we observe conflicts with the vision God instills in our beings. We look for something better, purer, and truer than worldly favor or fortune—something so marvelous it can’t be mistaken as anything less than God’s handiwork. And we know it when we see it, because we know how God works. Material hardships result in spiritual windfalls. Periods of isolation bring us into the company of righteous prophets and people, fellow lookers one and all. When the best we can offer falls below traditional standards, faith magnifies our ability to see more than meets the eye. We view moments of inadequacy as new promises of greater things. Mary’s poor sacrifice activates Simeon and Anna’s vision to see the promise is bigger than they realized. The Christ Child’s symbolic redemption signals a New Order of inclusion God has “prepared in the presence of all peoples,” Simeon declares, “a revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.” That’s incredibly big, completely unexpected and unprecedented good news.

How serendipitous that this passage finds its way to us on New Year’s Day, just as midnight resolutions start losing their fizz. The challenge at hand isn’t about resolving to do better in the coming months. It’s about mustering resolve to look for promises God wants to reveal to, in, and through us. Time is immaterial. Tenacious faith is what counts. Marching into 2012, our eyes fixed on God’s pledges, we’ll inevitably stumble on blind spots and momentary impasses of doubt and impatience. We’ll mistake harsh realities for hard-set impossibilities. Dim-witted, earthbound logic will present every reason to stop believing, praying, and watching for God’s Word to come to pass. In those moments, we reach for Christ, the Lord of heaven and earth, the Promise of all promises, Who with infinite compassion and wisdom calls people we don’t know to pray us through hours when our vision falters. May Anna and Simeon’s examples light our way through the coming year and the remainder of our days.

Savior, Whose promises are ever true, we begin another year resolved to look for Your promises to be realized in us. Illuminate our understanding that each ordinary day brings us one day closer to Big Days, when we marvel at Your handiwork. Make us tenacious lookers. Endow us with trust to await the visions You instill in our beings. Amen.

When what we observe conflicts with the vision God instills in us, we look beyond what we see, viewing moments of inadequacy as new promises of greater things.

Postscript: New Venture for a New Year

For some time, Britt, a longtime S-F reader and friend, has urged me to podcast the posts in tandem with publishing them here. It took a while for me to grasp why she was so enthusiastic and confident about the idea. But I finally got it and I’m delighted to report today launches the audio version of Straight-Friendly. It’s not much—just me reading the post—but it’s a start. Currently, I’m posting the podcasts on S-F’s freshly minted podbean site. I’ve yet to solve the inevitable Apple mysteries embedded in making them available via iTunes. Hopefully, that will happen very soon. I ask your prayers for this new venture, invite you to listen, and pass the link along to others who might want to listen in too!

http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/01/lookers/

(Thank you so much, Britt, for your gentle insistence. It wasn’t as difficult as I imagined!)

Happy New Year, everyone! May God bless you richly!

The Great Contradiction

The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted. (Matthew 23.11-12)

Between Us

Last week’s Gospel looked at The Great Commandment: Love God entirely and neighbors unconditionally. This week’s passage illuminates what we might call “The Great Contradiction.” It launches a three-chapter sermon that, in many ways, serves as the bookend for the Sermon on the Mount that Jesus delivers at the outset of His mission. What starts out as high-flown ideals in the first lesson looks a bit battered and sounds a whole lot grittier this time around. After three-and-a-half years of itinerant ministry, Jesus and the disciples may be a little worse for wear. Yet experience has definitely made them wiser and bolder.

Matthew presents Jesus in full-blown Messianic mode this time. Shades remain of the Philosopher Prince, Whose gentle voice inspired the masses with divine imperatives. Yet, without question, the Preacher in chapters 23-25 stands His ground as authoritative King and Prophet. If we were to imagine both sermons as movie sequences, the Sermon on the Mount would be shot in long, fluid takes underscored by swelling strings and French horns to amplify the virtues Jesus extols. This sermon, however, would be rendered in tight close-ups, reaction shots, and jarring jump cuts set to staccato brass flares, dissonant winds, and agitated percussion. We’d also note differences in Jesus’s audience. Pharisees and other religious types spotted in the first sequence don’t appear in the second. (Jesus sent them packing after He issued The Great Commandment and blew the doors off their myth that Messiah belonged exclusively to them.) The sick and troubled are also reduced. Jesus hasn’t done much in the way of healing and miracles lately. He’s focused on putting things in order, calling out wrongs where He finds them and prepping His followers to carry on when He’s gone. The absence of adversaries and needy folks who’ve come for His touch, not His words, frees Jesus to speak His mind. A detectable “between us” element in this sermon—which we don’t find in the Sermon on the Mount—charges every statement with inescapable urgency.

Enemies Make Everything Happen

This is the last sermon Jesus preaches, and ironies abound. The opposition’s disappearance by no means indicates it’s moved on. He’s very much top of mind for them, just as they’re top of mind for Him. While He spews a volcano of rage against them—climaxed by wrathful predictions of their destruction—they’re putting final touches on their conspiracy to crush Him and His movement. Thus, in a sense, Jesus is talking in the wind, since His listeners aren’t guilty of the evils He rails against. (We’ll get to them momentarily.) But, in every sense, His adversaries are spitting in the wind. Like previous schemes to unmask Him as a charlatan and heretic, their plot will backfire, this time on a scale they can’t possibly imagine. Their hatred and intolerance become levers God uses to exalt Jesus as the definitive example of love and forgiveness for all time.

In the process, Jesus’s foes set the stage for His demonstration of The Great Contradiction that prefaces His diatribe against their hypocrisy, spiritual laziness, and moral mediocrity. Three days from now, as His followers watch Jesus being lifted on a cross—unjustly accused and tortured as though He were the scum of the earth—these words will echo in their ears: “The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.” (Matthew 23.11-12)

Jesus’s enemies make everything happen. By the time Matthew pens his Gospel (circa 70-80 CE, in the wake of Rome’s destruction of Jerusalem’s Temple), Jesus is widely proclaimed and worshiped as The Christ—God’s Anointed, the Promised Redeemer of humankind. The Great Contradiction is fervently taught and practiced as Christianity’s modus operandi. Prominent Pharisees like Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea, and Saul of Tarsus—along with thousands of rank-and-file members of the religious majority—have broken with tradition to follow Christ. Virtually every woe and prophecy Jesus declares in His final sermon is validated. At best, His adversaries are an afterthought. Their Roman allies will join other Jewish and pagan defectors; 200 years after Matthew writes his Gospel, Christianity will stand as the Roman Empire’s sanctioned faith. While many factors help bring this about, the Early Church arrives at its position for one reason. Ancient Christians—most never possessing and the rest surrendering any pretense to power and position—intuitively grasp The Great Contradiction’s core principle. In kneeling, we rise. In serving, we command. At our least, we are greatest.

Revolutionary Changes in Us

The Great Contradiction was never intended as a subversive, countercultural strategy. And it’s ludicrous to suggest otherwise, as nothing in apostolic or historical texts supports such an idea. Early Christians embrace the principle simply because Jesus told them to and showed them how to do it. No loss is ever too great—not even life itself—since greatness can only be found in loss. Paul’s sentiment in Ephesians 3.8 expresses their prevailing attitude: “I have suffered the loss of all things,” he writes, “and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.” The Great Contradiction changes them, and submitting to its demands permits them to change the world.

Thus, The Great Contradiction presents us with two equally important questions: Am I willing to lower myself so that Christ’s greatness may arise from my losses? And, do pure motives drive my methods? The faintest hint of “what’s in it for me” negates the entire principle. Lowering ourselves to get the upper hand will never work. True sacrifice asks no reward. Real forgiveness wants nothing in return. Genuine humility seeks not to achieve greatness; it strains to allow greatness to come forth. Of course it makes no sense. It’s a contradiction.

Jesus introduces His principle by citing its Pharisaical opposite. “Don’t be like them,” He says. “They put on a terrific show, but their behavior is too transparent to hide their actual motives.” To embrace The Great Contradiction is to invite revolutionary changes in us. If we genuinely humble ourselves, allowing those changes to take root in our hearts and minds, the greatness they bring forth can, and ultimately will, change the world.

We have heard Your words, O Christ, and grasp their contradictory truth. We kneel to rise. We surrender to be saved. We count all we have as loss so that Your greatness may come forth in us. Now we pray Your strength to steel our resolve long after The Great Contradiction’s romance dissipates and daily life tests our commitment to follow Your teaching and example. Amen.

Of course, The Great Contradiction makes no sense. Yet Jesus’s accomplishment on the cross and what the Early Church achieved by following His example prove its power to change us is what ultimately permits us to change the world.

Justice is Served

Taking the five loaves and the two fish, He looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. (Matthew 14.19)

What’s with the Food?

I’m always delighted to meet people who have a vague idea of Who Jesus is, but the details and depth of His life and ministry (which we take for granted) escape them. As I fill them in, I also find myself feeling a wee bit envious of their chance to hear about Jesus with fresh ears and watch His story unfold through new eyes. None of our jaded, oh-yeah-I-remember-that-from-Sunday-school nonsense gets in their way. And since today’s Gospel pulls out one of the all-time Sunday school favorites—the miraculous feeding of 5,000-plus people—let's try a little experiment. Let’s pretend we know very little about Jesus. After reading the Gospels with curious detachment, what might strike us as most unusual about what Jesus does and says?

Many aspects of Jesus’s story may take us by surprise. He’s very adept at staying below the radar; He doesn’t hide, but neither does He court controversy like His cousin, John the Baptist, does. He’s unintimidating, yet never intimidated. He’s the underdog’s ultimate champion. These traits jump out at us. But sooner or later we’re sure to ask, “What’s with the food?” Because it's nearly impossible to get through a chapter of the Gospels without food entering the picture in some form.

Jesus introduces His philosophy by talking about people who “hunger and thirst for righteousness” and teaches His disciples to pray for daily bread. He performs His first miracle at a banquet, turning water into wine. He routinely invites Himself to dinner and attends a lot of feasts. He defends His disciples when legalists criticize their table manners. What’s more He dismisses criticism that He eats with the wrong crowd, saying, “The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” (Matthew 11.19) Most of His stories revolve around growing food, raising livestock, or throwing parties. He says He’s the Bread of Life. The night before He’s executed He hosts a supper and asks His followers to remember Him whenever they break bread and drink wine. After His resurrection, He cooks breakfast for the disciples. Really. What’s with the food? The answer may surprise us more than any suspicion that Jesus—often imagined as a rail-thin, otherworldly ascetic—might very well be a foodie.

Tangible Reminders

Every time Jesus touches, tastes, or talks about food, He puts justice on the table. Teaching us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread,” sets the stage for our next request: “Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” God’s grace and mercy in meeting our daily needs obligates us to offer grace and mercy to those no more worthy of them than we are. Multiplying food and wine demonstrates that no one deserves to go without. Sitting at table with the shunned and disrespected—as well as the rich and powerful—proves that Jesus regards everyone equally. Concerns about His reputation never interfere with opportunities to redeem reputations of those who’ve been misjudged or denied. The farming and feasting parables inevitably come down to this: human judgment is flawed. Every story stresses how knee-jerk assumptions undermine justice. Pulling up the weeds will kill the crop; let them grow up together and the farmer will judge what’s good and bad. The safety of 99 sheep matters little when one is lost. If the smart crowd turns down your invitation, don’t cancel the party; open your doors to outcasts and irregulars. When the wayward son returns broke and broken, welcome him with a lavish feast; don’t penalize him for his foolishness.

During the three-and-half-years Jesus lives and teaches, food and justice become so inextricably wound together they’re inseparable. That’s why, at the Last Supper, He intuitively reaches for bread and wine, declaring them tangible reminders of the physical body and blood He will sacrifice. For what is Calvary, if not justice redefined? Mercy rendered for lawlessness. Grace extended for selfishness. Acceptance offered to defeat shame and prejudice. Hope provided to end despair. All that and more is in the bread and wine, because justice is in the bread and wine. And while that may not be readily apparent to us, it’s very obvious to the disciples. Because what Jesus does with the bread at the Last Supper is what He’s always done to provide for His followers.

The Means

Of course, the disciples recognize what Jesus is doing at the Last Supper. How could they ever forget what they witness in today’s Gospel? (Matthew 14.13-21) Having just heard John the Baptist has been beheaded, Jesus seeks out a lonely place to grieve privately. But the masses find Him and He sets His sorrow aside to heal them. A rough count puts the crowd at 5,000 men, along with untold women and children. As dusk sets in, the disciples advise Jesus to send the people back to their villages so they can eat. “There’s no need for them to leave,” Jesus replies. “Let’s feed them.” Evidently the disciples know to expect this, because they’ve polled the crowd for food and only come up with five loaves of bread and two fish. “Bring them to me,” Jesus instructs. He does exactly as He does at the Last Supper. He takes the bread, and after blessing it, breaks it into pieces, and gives it to the disciples. They pass through the crowd, pulling off enough for each one to eat, and return with more than when they started—12 baskets full, or one for each of them.

To send the crowd away hungry is unthinkable to Jesus, because it’s unjust. “How so?” we ask. Didn’t He ignore His own grief to relieve theirs? Why isn’t it fair to let them fend for themselves? They didn’t care enough about His feelings to give Him space. Let them get their own bread. If they want to hang around, so be it. Nobody ever died from skipping dinner. But here’s what we overlook. Jesus has the means to meet their need. Looking at hungry faces while having food on hand leaves Him no just reason for not feeding them.

Even so, isn’t ridiculous to try? There’s not enough to feed Jesus and the disciples. At the very least, shouldn’t He devise a plan to thin out the crowd—say, set criteria for who gets to eat for free and who doesn’t? Out of more than 5,000, surely there are plenty of hangers-on and fakers and leeches looking for a free meal. Now that we think about it, forget the whole lot. Why did they show up in the first place? Not to console Jesus. Not to learn from Him. They came for miracles. They got what they came for. Send ‘em home. As right as that may sound, Jesus will have none of it, because it’s unjust to deny anyone in need when we have something we can offer.

On the Spot and In the Moment

This miracle, the Last Supper, and the supreme miracle of Christ’s sacrifice teach us justice is served when we use everything we possess to meet the needs of those without means. It’s a stand-alone process impervious to human logic and limitations. Justice is always served here and now—on the spot and in the moment. Let’s assume everyone has cupboards overflowing with food. They’re not at home, though. They’re hungry now. Let’s assume the disciples will figure out what the crucifixion means. They’re confused now. They need answers now. Let’s assume humanity can come to its senses and correct its evil ways. We’re lost now. We need help now.

We don’t know how Jesus takes five paltry loaves, breaks them, and feeds a multitude, no more than we understand how there’s never a shortage of grace for our sins. All we know is when justice is served, there’s always more than enough. When called to serve justice, we take what little mercy we have on hand, bless it, break it, and give it to those hungering for it. We don’t worry if it’s enough or whether they deserve it. We don’t begrudge them because they’re insensitive to our feelings or their motives may be impure. It’s not about what they have or haven’t done, or how much we’ve already given. Justice is about recognizing their need and knowing we have the means to meet it now. The rest is useless speculation and counterintuitive to everything Jesus teaches and models.

Such grace You’ve given us, O God—grace that defies reason and exceeds measure. Such trust You’ve placed in us by offering Your Son, our Bread of Life, to show and teach us the true meaning of justice. Pry logic’s grip from our minds and doubt’s hold from our hearts so that we may serve justice as You do. Amen.

We take what’s available to us, bless it, break it, and offer it to those in need. Though it may look paltry, there’s always more than enough to ensure justice is served.

Rejuvenation

Now in Joppa there was a disciple whose name was Tabitha, which in Greek is Dorcas. She was devoted to good works and acts of charity. At that time she became ill and died. (Acts 9.36-37)

First Nature

The story of Dorcas offers a vital lesson for anyone striving to follow her example. She’s a disciple devoted to good works and charitable acts—which means she’s passionately committed to honoring Christ through active service to others. One senses she’s her faith community’s “go-to” person, the one who habitually sets aside personal concerns and desires when she's needed. Eagerness to help may be second nature to her. We all know uncommonly compassionate souls who draw great satisfaction from serving others. Their capacity to please seems bottomless and our certainty it springs from a healthy well comes from them seeking nothing in return for their goodness.

Dorcas very well could be that type of person. But even so, Acts attributes her behavior to discipline and devotion, clearly suggesting it’s driven by obedience to Christ rather than personal fulfillment as a do-gooder. Second nature or not, her generosity and kindness are now first nature to her, signifying the radical change of perspective that every believer undergoes when committing to Christ’s will and ways. The NFL legend Gale Sayers beautifully summarized the disciple’s calling as, “God first, others second, and I am third.” That’s what we see in Dorcas, whose preeminent desire to please her Maker is evidenced in tireless efforts on others’ behalf. In telling her story, Luke slips in a superb example, as grieving widows who gather with Peter around her corpse bring out “tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them.” (Acts 9.39)

Pragmatic and Unimaginable

When illness takes Dorcas from her community, she leaves a hole that sets off panic among its leaders. They call Peter from nearby Lydda for support and guidance. Assessing the situation, he discerns her invaluable service makes her irreplaceable. His response is both pragmatic and unimaginable. He sends everyone from the room and talks to God. Having just witnessed God’s power to rejuvenate the paralyzed limbs of a bedridden man in Lydda, Peter believes total rejuvenation is possible for Dorcas. According to verses 40-42, “He turned to the body and said, ‘Tabitha, get up.’ Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up. He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive. This became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord.”

If we’re to gain full benefit from this story, we need to quit our post as onlookers and reenter it through Dorcas’s newly opened eyes. Our first seconds of rejuvenation confuse us. Not only is our consciousness restored, we’ve regained strength lost to disease and fatigue. We’ve received a miraculous gift! Then no sooner do we realize what we’ve been given than the same people whose demands and expectations wore us down return. Yes, they love us and their excitement with our revival is genuine. But wound into their happiness is also a benignly selfish hope our work will resume. We wait for the inevitable: “How soon will you feel like helping out?” What do we do with that? Should we resent it? Or can we find strength to be gratified that our service is so essential? Human instinct veers toward the former. Faith-driven discipleship steers toward the latter.

Abiding Trust

We authenticate our discipleship through selfless devotion to good works and acts of love. James nails this principle when he writes, “What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.” (James 2.14-17) Wishing the best for those without is anathema to people of faith. Working to provide what’s best for them is how we best witness belief in Christ’s teaching and model. This applies to more than physical and financial needs. We respond in the same way when we detect emotional and spiritual deficiencies in others’ lives.

We master these challenges by tapping reserves of faith, love, and abundance. Since we’re surrounded with profoundly deprived souls, we often scrape the bottom of the barrel, offering our last ounces of energy, strength, and love along with material assets at our disposal. As people of faith, we don’t let fear of personal need hinder our discipleship and devotion, however. Following Christ transforms us from voluntarily kind and giving people into invaluable, irreplaceable individuals who habitually answer others’ needs with selfless generosity and compassion. We’re comfortable creating needs in our own lives in service to others because we trust God to rejuvenate us and replenish our store.

Isaiah 40.31 assures us, “Those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint.” The Hebrew word translated as “hope” conveys abiding trust that rejuvenation will come—waiting, not wishing, when, not if. Dorcas gave until, for all practical purposes, she could possibly give no more. But God said, “Not so!” At the Holy Spirit’s urging, Peter commanded her to get up. And she obeyed.

When invaluable service we render appears impractical or impossible, God says, “Not so!” Though we feel depleted past all recovery, the word of the Lord comes to us, saying, “Get up!” Our eyes reopen to unmet needs, unfinished work, and unrealized opportunities. We experience resurging strength and focus that renew our faith and devotion. Yes, we reenter the same battles and confront the same challenges as before. But rejuvenation instills in us fresh confidence. We’re stronger and surer, more certain than ever that, as Philippians 4.18 pledges, “God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.”

O God of boundless compassion and abundance, we confess our weariness and weakness—the total depletion we often feel in the face of needs and tasks You set before us. Yet even our weariest, weakest moments cannot steal our abiding trust in Your power to rejuvenate our spirits and replenish our store. In our hours of fatigue, we wait for Your word. Send it, and with renewed vision and vigor we will heed your command. We will get up to resume lives devoted to good works and acts of love. Amen.

Though devotion to good works and acts of love often depletes us, our abiding trust in God’s power to rejuvenate and replenish cannot be shaken.