Living Words

The Rev'd William Klock
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Living Word Reformed Episcopal Church, Courtenay, British Columbia

Episodes

  1. 4d ago

    An Inheritance in Jesus

    An Inheritance in Jesus Acts 8:26-40 by William Klock   Have you ever had one of those occasions when you had an overwhelming sense that God was telling you to go to this or that place, to go talk to this or that person?  On a few occasions I thought I was in the middle of one of those moments.  One Sunday evening in Portland I was alone and on my way home from church and, driving down the street had this overwhelming sense—again, like God was telling me—go into that Burgerville restaurant.  So I did.  And except for the people working there—none of whom had any interest in talking to me beyond taking my order—the place was completely empty.  I wasn’t hungry, but I thought, “Well, if God wants me here, maybe I need to wait.”  So I ordered dinner.  And I sat there for an hour and a half, eating my dinner v…e…r…y slowly with my Prayer Book and Bible in front of me.  And the place stayed as empty as it had been when I walked in.  That, in itself, is pretty odd for a Burgerville in Northeast Portland.  Was that overwhelming sense God?  I don’t know.  I thought maybe there was someone there who needed a minister.  But there was no one there at all.   I hear people tell stories of their overwhelming senses that God was telling them to do something and then something really amazing happened.  But I’ve never had that happen.  Not like that anyway.  When those moments have come, I’ve never had an overwhelming sense of anything; they just happen.   But Philip.  Last week, in the first half of Acts 8, we saw Philip driven to Samaria because men like Saul were rounding up the Christians in Jerusalem and putting them in prison.  And while he was there he told the Samaritans about Jesus.  And God did something amazing.  The church, God’s new temple, this people purified by Jesus and filled with the Holy Spirit, it grew, it jumped the border, it crossed the divide of animosity between the Jews and the Samaritans, it healed and restored.  Jews and Samaritans went on hating each other—but not in the church.  What the fall had divided, the gospel reunited.  It was the first step toward God’s renewed humanity, back on track with their vocation to steward his presence, filling the earth with the knowledge of God’s glory as the church lived out God’s future in the present.   And it’s as if God is saying to Philip: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”  Philip has proved his faithfulness and now, Luke writes in Acts 8:26, “An angel of the Lord spoke to Philip: ‘Get up and go south,” he said. “Go to the desert road that runs down from Jerusalem to Gaza.”   That’s quite a hike.  Fifty to sixty kilometres back to Jerusalem—and hope Saul of Tarsus doesn’t catch you on your way through—and then Gaza was another fifty to sixty kilometres.  That’s two bike rides for me, but it’s a long way to walk.  And Luke kind of stresses that this isn’t an easy journey.  It’s not just the road down to Gaza, it’s the desert road down to Gaza.  It’s hot, it’s dusty, it’s barren and ugly—it’s lifeless.  It’s a stark contrast with the new gospel life suddenly flourishing in Samaria.  But that’s what Jesus calls his people to do: To take the gospel, to take the life of the kingdom into the desert of the world.  It’s tempting to sit in the church, to enjoy gospel life with our brothers and sisters, and to forget about the desert outside and the people perishing out there.  Brothers and Sisters, get up and go to the desert.  You and I are the streams of living waters that take the life of God to the world.  Don’t dam it up here.  Luke goes on in verse 27:   “So he got up and went.”  Luke uses very biblical way of stressing obedience.  God said, “Get up and go” and Philip “Got up and went”.  And it’s not for nought.  “Lo and behold, there was an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of the Kandake (queen of Ethiopia), who was in charge of her whole treasury.  He had come to Jerusalem to worship, and was on his way back home.  He was sitting in his chariot and reading the prophet Isaiah.”   So who is this guy in the chariot?  Luke says he’s Ethiopian and an official—the head of the treasury—for the Kandake—sometimes in English we say “Candace”—the Queen of Ethiopia.  For people like Luke (or Philip) in the Roman Empire, “Ethiopia” was a catch-all for everything south of Egypt, “Black Africa”.  “Kandake” was part name and part title, incorporated into the names of many of the Ethiopia’s Queen.  But this wasn’t the modern nation of Ethiopia.  It was what’s now the northern part of Sudan.  It was a trade centre between Egypt and the rest of Africa further south along the Nile and it was very wealthy because of that.  And a eunuch in charge of the Queen’s treasury made perfect sense.  That’s the sort of thing eunuchs did in the ancient world.  No one had to worry about a eunuch trying to build a dynasty for his children using someone else’s wealth.  The reward was that this man, himself, would have been fabulously wealthy too.   So when Luke says he was riding in a chariot and reading an Isaiah scroll, don’t picture so much a small war chariot.  This would have probably been more like a small carriage.  And don’t picture him with some little scroll unrolled in his lap the way you might sit with your Bible.  Scrolls like this were big.  And an Isaiah scroll was really big.  One of the longest books in the Bible.  So there’s a good chance this man has at least a servant or two to help him.  Maybe one as driver.  Maybe another as a personal assistant, helping him with that big Isaiah scroll.  That he—a foreigner—even has an Isaiah scroll says that he’s very wealthy.  Normally you’d only find something like this in a synagogue for public reading.   But the bigger question is: Why would an Ethiopian eunuch, the Queen’s treasurer be reading Isaiah?  There’s a near-zero chance that this man was actually Jewish.  Not absolutely zero, but it was highly unlikely.  Neither is he a proselyte—a convert—to Judaism.  Because he’s a eunuch.  It was right there in Deuteronomy 23:1, “No one who’s testicles are crushed or male organ is cut off shall enter the assembly of the Lord.”  There was a way for gentiles to be circumcised, submit to torah, go through the rites of purification, and to enter the Jewish covenant community.  It was rare, but it was possible and not unheard of.  But not for eunuchs.  They were explicitly excluded.  Not a chance.  And yet this man was drawn to Israel and to Israel’s God.  That was not such an odd thing in those days.  Pagan society was mean and ugly, it was merciless and perverted and brutal.  And the pagan gods were no better.  For all her failures, Israel, her way of life, and her God really did stand out and people took note.  The Israelites looked after each other—however imperfectly.  The Israelites cared about purity.  They didn’t practise infanticide or homosexuality.  They took marriage seriously.  They believed in the dignity of human life.  Pagans, tired of their own brutal and morally filthy world, were drawn to it.  There was a whole category of people that the Jews called “God fearers”.  They weren’t circumcised, they weren’t actually part of the covenant, they couldn’t observe Passover or go to the temple, but they clung to Israel.  They came to the synagogue and listened to the teaching.  They read the Bible.  And this man may have been one of those sorts of people—or, at least, something like that.  And maybe that’s why he’s got the Isaiah scroll.  He’d come to Jerusalem to worship.  And he was leaving disappointed.  As gentile he was barred from the temple.  As a eunuch he has no hope of that changing.  Luke says he was reading Isaiah 53 when Philip caught up with him, but just a few chapters later, in Isaiah 56, the Lord says through the Prophet, “Let not the eunuch say, ‘Behold, I am a dry tree.” For thus says the LORD: ‘To the eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give in my house and within my walls a monument and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off.’” (Isaiah 56:3-5)   This man longs to be part of this people.  This man longs for the presence of the God of Israel.  And he’s been there.  Maybe he sat in a synagogue and he heard this passage read and his heart skipped a beat.  There’s hope.  But when he asked, how can I join you, they quoted Moses at him and sent him away.  That’s not to disparage Moses.  There was a reason God wanted things this way.  Remember, God is working through a story that slowly unfolds to reveal him.  But in response, somehow this man bought an Isaiah scroll for himself.  He wants to read more.  He wants to know how to get from Moses’ “No” to Isaiah’s “Yes”.  And now he’s reading the part, just a few chapter before as Philip, out of nowhere, is suddenly jogging along next to his little carriage.   And the Lord now speaks to Philip again as he sees this chariot on the road.  Verse 29: “‘Go up and join his chariot,’ said the Spirit to Philip.  So Philip ran up, and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah. ‘Do you understand what you’re reading?’ he asked. ‘How can I,’ he replied, ‘unless someone gives me some help?’   So he invited Philip to get up and sit beside him. The scripture passage he was reading was this one: ‘He was led like a sheep to the slaughter and as a lamb is silent before its shearers, so he does not open his mouth. In his humiliation, judgment was taken away from him. Who can explain his generation? For his life was taken away from the earth.’” This is Isaiah 53:7-8

  2. Aug 9

    The Temple Comes to Samaria

    The Temple Comes to Samaria Acts 8:4-25 by William Klock   Remember back in Chapter 5, when Peter and John were arrested and brought before the priests and elders, and Gamaliel, one of the leading Pharisees, told his fellow council members: “Leave them alone.  If what they’re doing is of human origin, it will come to ruin.  But if it’s from God, you won’t be able to stop them.  You might even be found to be fighting against God.”  They let Peter and John go that day, but since then they haven’t been heeding Gamaliel’s advice.  They stoned Stephen.  And at the end of last week’s text Luke told us that Saul of Tarsus was going house to house, dragging men and women to prison and that, while the apostles remained in Jerusalem, everyone else was scattered through Jerusalem and Samaria.  And it turns out Gamaliel was right.  Neither Saul nor anyone else could stop what God was doing.  This new temple, not made with hands, not made of bricks and mortar, but instead of people, purified by the blood of Jesus and indwelt themselves by God’s Spirit, this temple was going to fill the earth.  Persecution won’t stop it.  Just the opposite, in fact.  Luke writes in Acts 8:4 [Page 1089 in the pew Bibles]:   “Those who were scattered went all over the place announcing the word.”  These were people who knew, first hand, the transforming power of the gospel.  Many of them had been eyewitnesses to the risen Jesus.  They had seen signs and wonders, done by Jesus and then done by the apostles.  They knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that God was at work and Israel’s hopes were being fulfilled.  There was no stopping them.  If they had to flee Jerusalem, so much the better.  Now the good news about Jesus would be proclaimed all over the place.  Think back to Stephen’s speech before the Sanhedrin and how he’d highlighted how God works through rejection and persecution.  Joseph’s brothers had sold him as a slave, but through their evil God delivered his people.  Ditto with Moses.  Pharaoh wanted all the baby boys of the Hebrews drowned, so Moses’ mother put him in a basket and Providence floated him down the river right to Pharaoh’s daughter.  And Jesus, the supreme example: The forces of evil and death rose up to do their worst in killing Jesus, but in doing so they played right into God’s hands.  They concentrated themselves all in one place, in one great act, allowing Jesus to rise from death to conquer them.  So Saul of Tarsus, threatening the church?  God’s going to use that to—to get the gospel out of Jerusalem, to all of Judaea—and even to Samaria.   So Philip.  You remember Philip?  He was one of the seven in Chapter 6, whom the church chose and laid hands on to do the work that was taking the apostles away from their prayer and preaching.  Stephen was another of them.  When the church calls people and lays hands on them and commissions them to be servants of the gospel, there’s no telling where that may lead.  So “Philip,” says Luke in verse 5, “went off to a town in Samaria and announced the Messiah to them.”   I suspect no one would have thought—or wanted—to take the gospel to Samaria—at least not for a long time—even though Jesus had said that his church would take the gospel there.  But in the context of Acts, I think Luke wants to stress that even more than taking the gospel to Samaria, what Philip is doing is taking the temple there.  And that’s pretty significant.  Samaria was the piece of land between the two Jewish territories, between Judaea in the south and Galilee in the north.  The Samaritans were the people who had lived there while the Jews were off in exile in Babylon.  We don’t really know for certain the origins of the Samaritans.  They claimed—and they still claim, as they’re still there to this day—that they’re the descendants of what was left of the northern Israelite tribes after the nation was destroyed by the Assyrians.  The Jews claimed that the Samaritans were the people resettled in the land by the Babylonians after they’d sent the Jewish people into exile.  There’s probably some truth to both.  Whatever the case, the Samaritans followed their own form of Judaism.  They had their own version of the torah, of the first five books of the Old Testament.  They rejected the Prophets and other books.  They looked forward to their own version of the Messiah.  They called him the Ta’eb or “The Returner”—the prophet Moses promised would come.  But maybe what’s most important in the context of Acts, was that the Samaritans had their own temple on Mt. Gerizim.  The Jews would never let them anywhere near the temple in Jerusalem—they weren’t real Jews and they had corrupted Israelite religion—but even if the Jews allowed them into the temple, the Samaritans would never go there.  As far as they were concerned, theirs was the real temple.  The Samaritans were a people utterly without God’s presence.   And now Philip finds his way there and carries the for real real temple to a people who didn’t even know the old one.  And when God’s temple arrives in Samaria, the people can’t help but notice.  Verse 6: “The crowds, acting as one, clung to what Philip was saying, as they heard him and saw the signs he performed.  For unclean spirits came out of many of them, and several who were paralyzed or lame were cured.  So there was great joy in that town.”   “But there was a man named Simon, who had lived in the town for some while and who practiced magic. He used to astonish the Samaritan people, giving out that he was some great personage.  Everyone, small and great alike, paid attention to him, and said, “This man is the one called ‘God’s Great Power’!”  [Luke might be hinting that the people thought of Simon as maybe being the Ta’eb, the Samaritan “Messiah”.] They had been under his spell for some time, since they were amazed at the magic he could perform.  But when they believed Philip as he was announcing to them the message about God’s kingdom and the name of Jesus the Messiah, they were baptized, men and women alike.  Simon too believed and was baptized, paying close attention to Philip.  When he saw signs, and great and powerful deeds, it was his turn to be astonished.”   The devil was doing one thing in Judaea in a futile attempt to quash the gospel.  He was doing something else to the same end in Samaria.  He’d been doing it for a long time, leading the Samaritans away from God’s torah and God’s temple.  Now there’s this man, Simon, who has enchanted these Samaritans with his magic.  Maybe it was just sleight of hand magic, but the way Luke, throughout Acts, contrasts magic with the power of the Holy Spirit, it seems like Simon actually did have some kind of power and if that power wasn’t from God, it was coming from demonic forces of some kind.  That’s just the sort of thing the devil would do to lead people astray.  But Philip, empowered by God’s Spirit, it’s obvious to everyone—even to Simon—his power was different and it was far superior.  Seeing it, these people believed the good news about Jesus that Philip was proclaiming.  And they did what believers do: they were baptised.  Like Israel following God through the Red Sea and into the promised land, in faith these Samaritan followed Jesus through the waters of baptism and into God’s new creation.   Samaritans embracing and giving their allegiance to Jesus may not seem like a big deal to us, but it was a really big deal to everyone involved.  Again, Samaritans and Jews didn’t mix.  Even though Jesus had said that his disciples would take the good news to Samaria, they had no plan to go there—and probably little or no desire to.  But God had a plan to get them there, and when Philip does end up in Samaria, he doesn’t let that hold him back.  It’s pretty clear that these early believers thought of the gospel as something for Jews, but—hey—if gentiles came to them and wanted in, if Samaritans heard and believed, that was great.  They saw God at work in these people, even if these people weren’t their evangelistic priority.   And yet, something odd happens.  These Samaritans hear the gospel, see God at work, they believe, they’re baptised, but there’s something missing.  I suspect Philip noticed it immediately and sent word back to Jerusalem—excited on one hand, but concerned on the other.  Verse 14: “When the apostles in Jerusalem heard that Samaria had received God’s word, they sent Peter and John to them.  When they arrived, they prayed for them, asking that they would receive the Holy Spirit, since up to that point the Spirit had come upon none of them; they had simply been baptized into the name of the Lord Jesus.  Then they laid their hands on them, and they received the Holy Spirit.”   Like I said, something was missing.  The Spirit was clearly at work.  Faith in Jesus is a gift of the Spirit and no one comes to Jesus without the Spirit first moving in the heart.  But so far in Acts, when people believed and were baptised, they all had some kind of experience of being transformed by the Spirit  They were obviously different.  The Spirit did a work of new creation in them.  And they typically—and immediately—displayed supernatural gifts.  Some prophesied, some healed, some spoke in other languages, and so on.  Whenever we see God doing something new in the story of redemption, it’s usually got miracles clustered all around it and we see this no less in the early days of the church.  Bringing Samaritans to Jesus was very much something new.  But this time the miracles didn’t happen.  I expect Philip was surprised.  What was wrong?  So he sent word to Jerusalem and Peter and John decided to go see for themselves.  And, sure enough, something was missin

  3. Aug 2

    Telling the Story: Part 4

    Telling the Story: Part 4 Acts 7:35-53 by William Klock   Not very long ago I got into an online discussion with someone about evangelism.  The people I was interacting with were telling me things like, “I don’t confront, I just plant seeds” and “We’re suppose to share the gospel, not tell the gospel” or “If people are getting mad at you, you’re doing it wrong” and “Jesus just loved people.  He wasn’t confrontational”.  I found myself wondering if these people read the same Bible I read.  And I was thinking about that whole conversation off and on these last few weeks as I’ve been working through Stephen’s address—his very confrontational address—before the Sanhedrin.   Because there’s nothing namby-pamby or wishy-washy—or uh, I mean, “non-confrontational”—about Stephen’s address.  I expect that if you set Stephen down in our context today and let him do what he did, a lot of modern Christians would be misquoting Matthew 7:1 at him.  You know, “Judge not lest ye be judged.”  But, of course, being confrontational, calling people to repent, proclaiming the good news about Jesus and the truth that he is Lord as something more than just another choice on the religious smorgasbord has nothing to be with being judgemental.  It has everything to do with knowing and having experienced the reality of God’s goodness in Jesus and the Spirit and it’s about having a vision, a hope of this broken creation—and of humanity—set to rights and God coming to dwell with us forever.   We’ve made our way through Stephen’s address over the last three Sundays.  They accused him of blaspheming the torah and the temple and Moses and instead of defending himself, Stephen instead told the story they all knew so well.  But going back to Abraham and working through it all the way to their present day, he showed how the law and the prophets, the torah and the temple had been signposts pointing the people to Jesus the Messiah.  And so it wasn’t Stephen who was blaspheming torah and temple—it was them—because they’d rejected Jesus.  The Christians were the true followers of the law and the prophets, the true children of Abraham and Moses, because they recognised that that’s what the story was working toward all this time.  But that wasn’t what they wanted to hear.  But if we’ve heard the story that Stephen told, we ought to be prepared.  Rejection is how God often works.  Joseph had been rejected, but God worked something amazing from it.  Moses was rejected, but God worked something amazing from it.  Jesus was rejected, but God worked something amazing from it.  So if Stephen is rejected, we can be confident God will work something amazing from it.  I think they understood, which made them all the more angry, because they understand: if they reject Stephen, they’re actually playing right into his narrative.  But they do it anyway.   We’ll pick up with Acts 7:54.  [Page 1088 in the pew Bibles.]  Luke tells us: “What Stephen said was a blow right to the heart. When they heard it, they gnashed their teeth against him.” Picture them, sitting in their dignified counsel, the priests and leaders of Israel.  But there’s no response they can give that won’t condemn them, so they just sit there glaring at him as they gnash their teeth.   To us that’s probably just a picture of rage, but Luke is pulling this image of gnashing teeth from the Old Testament—particularly from the Psalms—where it’s always the wicked who gnash their teeth at the righteous or the wicked who gnash their teeth in frustration, aguish, and rage at God after finding themselves on the wrong end of his judgement.  Luke wants to make it clear that these are the leaders of Israel—the men who were supposed to know and to represent God—but instead they’ve rejected his Messiah and are revealing their wickedness.  Think of Jesus in John 8, addressing a crowd of angry scribes and Pharisees.  “We’ve got one father and that’s God,” they yelled at him.  And he said back, “If God were really your father, you would love me, because I come from God…No, you are from your father, but your father is the devil.”   And then, in stark contrast, Luke describes Stephen in verse 55: “He, however, was filled with the holy spirit, and looked steadily up into heaven. There he saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at God’s right hand. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘I can see heaven opened, and the son of man standing at God’s right hand!’   They’ve rejected Jesus.  They sit there, almost demonically gnashing their teeth at him—the posture of the wicked who stand condemned before God.  And Stephen stands before them full of the Spirit and with the very vision of heaven those men had longed for.  Luke said at the beginning of all this that as they looked at Stephen his face was like the face of an angel.  And Stephen shouts out to them, “Look!”  I can imagine them looking around, wondering what he’s insisting they look at, because of course, no one else is seeing what he sees.  But the fact that his own face had been transformed—or even transfigured—says that he must have been seeing something and they knew it.  And he goes on, “I can see heaven opened and the son of man standing at God’s right hand!”   I think that whenever I’ve read this, I’ve tended to picture Stephen looking up, pointing past the ceiling of the room they were in, as if he’s been given a glimpse into—you know—heaven—up there.  But the more I think about the imagery and context here, I don’t think that’s it.  I think we should be thinking back to episodes like the one in 2 Kings 6.  Israel was under attack by the Arameans.  The Prophet Elisha and his servant, Gehazi, were staying in the city of Dothan when it was surrounded by the Aramean army.  They woke up in the morning to see the huge army surrounding the city and Gehazi began to worry.  “What shall we do?” he asked Elisha.  And Elisha calmly told him, “Don’t be afraid, for those who are with us are great than those who are with them.”  I picture Gehazi standing there wringing his hands.  And so Elisha prays, and as he prays, Gehazi’s eyes are opened and on the hills all around he sees horses and chariots of fire surrounded the Aramean army.  And that heavenly army didn’t arrive when Elisha prayed, like heaven, it was there all along.  The miracle was simply God’s gracious allowance to open the eyes of Elisha’s servant to see it.   It’s a reminder that heaven isn’t up there, some far away place.  Heaven is here.  God created earth and heaven to overlap, for us to live in his presence.  Our sin has driven a wedge between the two.  But God and his realm are never far away.  As Gehazi was reassured that day as he saw a glimpse of heaven, so Stephen was reassured as the stood before the Sanhedrin.  As the highest court of the Jew was about to render a judgement against him and condemn him to death, I think we should understand what he saw as a sudden revelation of the heavenly court.  And there stood Jesus, the son of man.  The son of man was the character in Daniel’s vision who rose to take his throne at God’s right hand and from there to quelled the angry kings and nations that raged against God.  And now Stephen sees the ascended Jesus, not now sitting on his throne as Lord, but standing at the right hand of God, the great judge, to act as his advocate and witness.  The court of Israel was condemning him to death, but the heavenly court, the heavenly judge was ruling in his favour.   What’s interesting about this comparison between the chariots of fire and Stephen’s vision of the heavenly court, is the result, the aftermath, the response of God’s man.  Because the chariots of fire didn’t swoop down to crush the Aramean army.  Instead, Elisha prayed again and God blinded the Arameans.  And Elisha then went out and convinced the blinded Arameans to follow him to Samaria, where Elisha prayed again and the Lord opened their eyes.  The king wanted to slaughter Elisha’s “prisoners”, but Elisha warned the king.  It wasn’t the king who defeated and captured them, God had done that.  So instead the king prepared a feast for them and then sent them on their way home.  This was Israel in one of her finer moments, obeying God, being light to nations, making known the grace and glory of God.  And I’ll come back to it shortly.   I think Luke’s main point in telling us about this heavenly vision of Stephen’s ties in closely with the theme of Jesus and the church being the new temple—something that comes up over and over through Acts.  Remember that for the Jews the temple was the supposed to be the place, not just where heaven and earth overlapped, but the thin place between them where God’s people could meet him.  Not fully, of course.  His presence was in the holy of holies where no one could go.  But if they offered the sacrifices that would purify them from the stain of sin and death, they could draw near.  The irony was that God’s presence had been gone from the temple for hundreds of years.  They’d rebuilt it when they returned from their exile in Babylon, but God’s presence had never come back.  As if God was hinting to them there was something new and better to come.  And Stephen’s been preaching on that theme.  The old temple was a signpost pointing to Jesus and to a new temple, not this time made with hands, but established by God himself and filled with is Spirit.  And in as much as I expect this miracle vision of the heavenly court was a gift to Stephen to encourage him—even though he doesn’t seem to have needed much of that kind of encouragement—the gospel was enough—it highlighted to everyone present that day the thing that Isreal so longed for in the temple—the

  4. Jul 26

    Telling the Story: Part 3

    Telling the Story: Part 3 Acts 7:35-53 by William Klock   “Made by hand.”  When we see that, it usually means something good, doesn’t it?  Someone careful hand crafted this thing.  Carefully stitched it together.  Put care into baking it.  You can probably trust it, because it was well made.  And, of course, it was made with love.   But if we went all the way back to ancient Israel, “Made by hand” had a very different meaning and connotation.  For us it (usually) signals something good; for them it signalled idolatry.  “Made by hand” said that this thing was not made by God or that God had not commanded it to be made, but wicked humans made it anyway.  And when it came to things involved in worship, it meant idolatry.   This idea has come into our language too.  You’ll sometimes hear Christians—usually on the Puritan end of the spectrum—talk about this or that thing in worship or this or that doctrine being “man-made”.  The Puritans called it the “Regulative Principle” and the idea was that everything Christians do in worship should either be something God explicitly commanded (like reading the Bible or singing or preaching) or something that good and necessary consequence demands.   We Anglicans follow what’s called the “Normative Principle”, which means that we have freedom in our worship, as long as what we do is not forbidden by scripture or goes against biblical principles.  But you’ll often hear folks who follow the Regulative Principle say things like, “Your liturgy or your hymns are ‘man-made’” or “Your traditions of using musical instruments or observing Easter, Christmas, and other holy days are ‘man-made’” and by that they mean that they’re unbiblical and wrong.  Some would go so far as to call these things “idolatry”.   The “RP” isn’t our tradition, I think more than anything else in Protestantism it has led to sinful, ungodly, and unwarranted schisms, but I do respect the fact that it grew out of a commitment to take worship very seriously.  People who follow it understand that how we worship God is serious business, not something frivolous.  I think most Christians today err in taking zero care in how they worship God.  But you can’t read the New Testament and you certainly can’t read the Old Testament without realising that how we worship is serious business.  God takes it seriously and so should we.  I’ll come back to this, but keep it in the back of your mind as we work through the end of Stephen’s speech.   I want to pick up where we left off in Acts 7.  We’ve been making our way through Stephen’s speech before the Sanhedrin—the body of Jewish elders.  He’s been accused of blasphemy and of speaking against torah and the temple and Moses.  And instead of defending himself, what he’s done is to tell the story of Israel and Israel’s God.  He’s telling it in a such way that they should—hopefully—see that he’s not speaking against any of those things that defined them as Jews.  He’s telling the story in such a way that they’ll see—hopefully—that the gospel is not a departure from Israel’s story, but rather the very culmination of it—the very thing that torah and temple and Moses were pointing toward all along.  And so he began with Abraham and the call of Israel, and then Joseph, and then Moses.  And as he’s telling not just the story, but their story, he’s highlighting its themes of forgiveness and grace and also that when God acts, when God does new things, it’s almost never what anyone expected—but afterward you can always see that, in fact, the signposts had always been pointing to that new thing.  Like I said last week, the figure of Moses towers over the story of Israel and Stephen knew that.  But he also knew, as Moses towered over the story, he did so like a signpost, with his arm outstretched, pointing the people straight to Jesus.  He knew, you can’t use Moses to argue against the gospel.   So let’s pick up at Acts 7:35 where we left off. [Page 1087 in the pew Bibles, way down in the very bottom right corner of the page.] “So,” Stephen continued, “this same Moses—the one they rejected, saying, ‘Who made you a ruler or judge?’—this is the man God sent as ruler and redeemer, by the hand of the angel who had appeared to him in the bush.  He did signs and wonders in the land of Egypt, and led them out, through the Red Sea and for forty years in the wilderness.  This is the Moses who said to the sons of Israel, ‘God will raise up a prophet like me from among your brothers.’  And this is the one who was in the assembly in the desert with the angel who had spoken to him on Mount Sinai, and with our ancestors; and he received living words to give to us.”   Stephen’s continuing the story of Moses he began in last week’s text.  Moses was rejected by his own people—at least at first.  And there was nothing controversial in telling this part of the story.  And there’s nothing controversial in his reminding the Sanhedrin that despite that early rejection, Moses was indeed the ruler and redeemer the Lord had sent to his people.  Moses did signs and wonders in both Egypt and in the wilderness.  He’s the one who parted the Red Sea.  He’s the one who met God on the mountain and came down with God’s living words, with the torah and with the instructions for the tabernacle.  And—Stephen makes a really important point here—Moses was also the one who told the Israelites that he was not the end-all-be-all of rulers, redeemers, or messiahs, because one day the Lord would raise up a “prophet” from amongst them—a prophet in comparison to whom Moses would pale.   The Sanhedrin knew he was talking about Jesus.  The people had already suspect that Jesus was this greater prophet whom Moses had prophesied.  More than once he was asked, “Are you the prophet who is to come?”  So Stephen’s making it clear, just as Moses had been rejected by the Israelites of his day, so Jesus was rejected by the Israelites of his.  We’ve touched on this last week.   But now Stephen takes it a step further.  Look at verse 39.  It’s not just that Moses was rejected by his people in the days before he was actually called by God.  The more embarrassing thing for Israel was that they’d rejected Moses after he’d been called, after they’d been through the Red Sea, after they’d seen the signs and wonders and had the torah and the tabernacle.  Stephen goes on:   “This is the one whom our fathers had not wanted to obey, but instead rejected him and turned back in their hearts to Egypt, by saying to Aaron, ‘Make us gods who will go before us; for this Moses, who brought us out of the land of Egypt—we don’t know what has become of him!’  They made a calf in those days, and offered sacrifice to an idol. They celebrated things their own hands had made.”   Remember what happened in Exodus?  Moses went up the mountain to meet God.  And he was up there for forty days and nights receiving the law.  And the people became afraid.  They thought that Moses surely must have died on the mountain, so they gave Aaron their gold and implored him to make a golden calf, an idol, so that they could have a god who would protect them.  It was a shameful moment for Israel.  They’d just received the Ten Commandments.  They’d just been told by God: You shall have no other gods.  You shall not make a carved image.  And Moses had asked them, “Will you do all these things?  Will you give yourself to the worship and service of the God of your fathers, the God who has saved you from Egypt?  The God who has decalared, ‘I will be your God and you will be my people?”  And the people had enthusiastically declared, “We will!  All this we will do!”  And just days later, they didn’t.   As eating the forbidden fruit was the primal sin of the human race, idolatry was the primal sin of Israel: worshipping something as if it were God when it wasn’t.  Aaron had tried to explain to Moses that he’d merely thrown the gold into the fire and that the calf had formed and jumped out of its own accord, but everyone knew that’s not how it works.  Idols are made by human hands and the prophets drove that point home over and over down through Israel’s history.  To worship an idol was absurd.  The pagans were fools for doing so.  First, you create a god with your own hands and then you worship it.  “How stupid is that?” the prophets asked.  And yet the golden calf wasn’t the last time Israel would worship an idol.  That primal sin came back over and over and over.  When Jeroboam rebelled and led ten of the tribes of Israel to form their own nation, he set up two golden calves, one at Bethel and one at Dan to discourage his people from going to the temple in Jerusalem.  No matter how devoutly Israel worshipped the Lord, idolatry was never far off.   Look at verse 42:   “Then God turned and handed them over to worship the host of heaven, as it stands written in the book of the prophets: ‘Did you bring sacrifices and offerings to me in those forty years in the wilderness, O house of Israel?  You took up the tent of Moloch, and the star of your god Rhephan, the carved images you made to worship! I will remove you beyond Babylon!’”   Stephen quotes Amos 5.  Even during Israel’s honeymoon period with the Lord, Amos condemned them.  Even then, while they brought their sacrifices to the Lord, they were worshiping pagan gods like Moloch and Rhephan and all the “host of heaven”.   So the Jewish priests and rulers have charged Stephen with blasphemy and now he turns the tables.  He never actually defends himself.  Instead, he retells the story of Israel from the beginning and shows how it leads straight to Jesus and now, again, he turns the tables on th

  5. Jul 19

    Telling the Story: Part 2

    Telling the Story: Part 2 Acts 7:1-16 by William Klock   When I was an American school kid in the 70s and 80s I learned that the defining events in the history of the United States were was the founding of Jamestown in 1607; the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth in 1620; and, of course, the Revolutionary War that began in 1775 and the signing of the Declaration of Independence—well—almost exactly 250 years ago.  There were plenty of other events that shaped the story, but those were the events that set the United States on its trajectory: a heritage from Britain with a good dose of religious freedom and Protestant work ethic coming together in a grand expression of the rights of man shaped by the Enlightenment.  Were there flaws?  Yep.  Slavery was a big one.  But the way I learned the story, the British mainland colonies of North America were on the fringe of the slave trade.  We received a tiny fraction of it.  The real slavery problem was in the Caribbean and Latin America.  Plus, we dealt with it.  The whole Civil War thing—a tragedy.  But it was a story to be proud of.   But in 2019, the New York Times began a new publishing project.  They called it The 1619 Project.  It was subtitled, “A New Origin Story”.  Why 1619?  That was the year the first African slaves were brought to Virginia.  Before the Pilgrims.  Before the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.  It was a deliberate attempt to reframe the story of the United States.  Instead of a story rooted in a proud English heritage and religious liberty and Enlightenment ideals of freedom and liberty, the 1619 Project told the story of the United States as one rooted in racism and slavery and oppression.  Instead of a story that makes you stand proud, it’s a story meant to instil shame and guilt. The 1619 Project didn’t come out of nowhere.  It made public a story that many people had already been telling, especially to younger generations.   And, as you would expect, this resulted in a great cultural clash.  Both sides shouting at the other, basically saying, “How dare you tell our story wrong!”  It wasn’t so much a matter of the events themselves.  Both versions of the story involved the same events, the same people, and all of that.  But it highlights how much how you frame a story, how much you stress certain events and people and ideas over others, that you can end up with stories that are essentially the same, while dramatically different.  One instils national pride; the other instils national shame.  That doesn’t mean there’s no right or wrong.  Framing the American story as if slavery and racism are its fundamental core is dishonest.  But at the same time, telling a story that glosses over those evils for the sake of instilling pride, well, that’s a problem too.   And as much as this Postmodern metanarrative dilemma was nowhere on the radar of First Century Jews, I think it’s a good way to understand what was going with Jews in those days and it’s a good illustration of what Stephen is doing in his speech before the Sanhedrin in Ats 7.  [It’s page 1087 in the Pew Bibles.]  There were different “parties” competing for influence and control in First Century Judaea and as much as they all told the same story of Israel, reaching back to Abraham and Moses and David, to the law and the Prophets, all rooted in the same exodus and exile and the same promises, how they told the story produced very different results, different feelings about Israel’s present situation, different ideas about the future and how to get there—just as how I learned American history makes you smile when you see the Stars and Stripes, but others, having learned The 1619 Project story, feel shame.   For Pharisees, unfaithfulness to the law resulted in exile—one that was still effectively ongoing—and only national faithfulness to the law would get them out of it.  For the Sadducees, that was all in the past.  God had restored them from their exile, and the temple and its priests were the proof.  All was well.  For the Zealots, the story said that armed revolution was the only way out of their oppression.  For the Essenes, the group responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls, the story said that the everyone and everything had been defiled by unfaithfulness, even the temple itself.  God would wage holy war on the unfaithful, so they—the only truly righteous ones—retreated to the desert to wait and to keep pure.  And there was the historian Josephus.  A generation later, he told the story—after the disaster had happened—to say that the Jewish revolutionaries had brought God’s wrath on themselves and that God had raised up the Romans to act as his instrument of judgement.  Same story, but the different ways they told it, the different parts they emphasised, the way they interpreted certain events like the Babylonian Exile, landed them in very different places.  Like I said last week, the story got them to the airport, but they were all waiting at different gates—and none of them the right gate for the God’s real homecoming.  That said, all of them held the same markers of Jewish identity dear: the torah, the temple, the promised land, their circumcision.  They disagreed on a lot, but attack any of those things and they’d all join in stoning you after charging you with blasphemy.   So what Stephen is doing before the Sanhedrin, backing up all the way to Abraham and telling the story yet again, was in good keeping with what was going on in First Century Judaea.  So—in case you missed last week or have forgotten—in the first sixteen verses, Stephen began telling the story of Jesus and the Spirit by going back to Abraham.  This was the moment when the God of glory—Stephen wants to stress that he’s here to glorify the God of Israel, not blaspheme him or his holy things—Abraham was the moment when God stepped into the darkness and misery of his broken, fallen, corrupted creation and called to Abraham.  In Abraham, God was launching his project to restore rebellious humanity to himself and to set to rights the creation that we broke.  Now, there was more to it than this—it’s online if you missed or forgot it—but Stephen’s main point is that the gospel is not a departure from the story of Israel.  It’s not something new that has no roots in what happened before.  He’s saying to the Jewish elders: When the God of glory, the God of Israel called Abraham out of Ur and settled him in the promised land and established his covenant with him to make him a nation, that was the beginning of the story that brings us to Jesus, to the cross and the empty tomb, to the ascension and to Pentecost.  The story of Abraham is the story of the gospel and vice versa.   Remember, they accused him of blaspheming torah and temple and Stephen’s saying, “No way!  Torah and temple are good.  They’re glorious.  They’re how God prepared us and brought us to Jesus.”  Like I said last week, when you leave your car and board the ferry, you are in no way saying your car was bad.  It got you to the ferry.  But you can’t drive on water.  Now it’s time do something new—to do the very thing your car brought you to do.   And then from Abraham to Joseph.  Stephen tells Isreal’s story in such a way to highlight that when the God of Israel acts to bless and to save his people, it’s often in unexpected ways.  Abraham was promised the land of Canaan, but never had any more of it than a little burial plot.  And Jacob and his sons were forced to flee the land of Canaan in order to survive a famine.  And Jacob’s sons were wicked men who sold their brother, Joseph into slavery after nearly choosing to murder him.  And Joseph went from slavery to prison.  How was God going to work anything good from any of that?  But he did.  The sovereign God was at work all along.  Slavery and prison led Joseph to the premiership of Egypt just in time deliver his family when they arrived.  None of them had ever expected any of that.  But God delivered them.  And Stephen’s telling of the Joseph story also highlights that gracious forgiveness has always been at the heart of the story of God and his people.  There was Joseph, hated, abused, sold into slavery by his brothers, but instead of taking revenge, he welcomes them and throw a party.   This is what Jesus had been doing as the lost sheep of Israel, the tax collectors and sinners, came to him in repentance and faith. And this is the sort of rejoicing that would take place in heaven were the Sanhedrin to see how the story leads to Jesus and repent.  God was waiting for them with open arms and a promise of blessing, and they should know that, because that’s how God’s great story has always worked.  It’s the key in which this great symphony is written.   So now, Moses.  As important as Abraham and Joseph were, Moses stands like a colossus over the story of Israel.  Moses was the deliverer who led Israel out of Egypt and parted the sea.  It was Moses who went up Mt. Sinai and saw God for himself.  It was Moses who came down and delivered the torah to Israel.  It was under Moses that God made a nation out of Abraham’s family.  And this is where they’ve accused Stephen of blasphemy.  They’ve accused him of speaking against the torah and temple and Moses.  So look at Acts 7, beginning at verse 17.  Stephen highlights three things about Moses.  The first thing he stresses is how Moses was raised up by God to be the right man at the right place at the right time—even though no one would have guessed at the beginning that Moses was God’s man for the hour. Stephen says:   “God had sworn an oath to Abraham.  [Remember the promise to make him a great nation and to give his descendants the land of Canaan?] When the time drew near for this promise to be fulfilled, the pe

  6. Jul 12

    Telling the Story: Part 1

    Telling the Story: Part 1 Acts 7:1-16 by William Klock   Last Sunday, in Acts 6, we saw Stephen confronted as he preached in the synagogue.  We don’t know exactly what he was preaching, but from the accusations that were made against him, he was—of course—preaching that Jesus is the Messiah, but must also have been talking about the way in which Jesus and the Spirit fulfil God’s promises to Israel, the law and the prophets, the torah and the temple.  We can surmise that, because what they accuse him of is saying blasphemous things against God in general and specifically against Moses.  They accuse him of saying that Jesus will destroy the temple and change the customs that Moses had handed down to them.  We can surmise this, too, because this is what we’ve been hearing Peter preach in the earlier parts of Acts.  Never in the early church do we see the apostles or anyone else just launching into a sermon about Jesus.  They always and consistently preach Jesus as part of the story of the God of Israel and his people.  That’s important.  In fact, it’s critical; it’s essential.  Leave out the story that leads to Jesus and you just may lose Jesus himself.  That’s what happened with Marcion of Sinope back in the Second Century.  His was one of the very first heresies the church had to confront.  He threw away the Old Testament.  He believed the God of the Old Testament was an evil, sadistic god and not the same God we see in the New.  So he just unhitched the Old Testament and left it behind.  And that heresy has been cropping up throughout church history in one form or another ever since.  A few years ago, ex-evangelical pastor, Andy Stanley, caused a big stir when he preached that the church has to unhitch itself from the Old Testament.  Even if we don’t cut out the Old Testament from our Bibles, even if we cherish the Old Testament, if we lose the story it contains, we’re going to get ourselves into trouble.  Men like Tertullian and Justin Martyr addressed Marcion and he was eventually excommunicated.  The church would always hold tenaciously to the Old Testament.  But it wasn’t even a hundred and fifty year later that we started to undermine its story-telling.  As the church became increasingly dominated by gentiles, we started to read the Old Testament (and the New), not as the story of the God of Isreal and his people, but as a book of moral allegories and of types that pointed to Jesus.  We flattened it out and made it abstract.  We “spiritualised” it.  We knew the story of the God of Isreal and his people was there, but we denigrated it.  That was the simplest, the least important, the least “spiritual” way to read the Bible.  And by the grace of God we didn’t lose the gospel, but gradually we started putting the em-PHA-sis in the wrong places.   What we see in the Bible, in the Gospels, in the teaching of Jesus, and in the teaching of the apostles in their epistles, and in the examples we see through Acts, is that the good news about Jesus is deeply rooted in the Old Testament and in Israel’s story.  You cannot separate the old and the new.  The story tells us the problem of human sin and rebellion and of the corruption of Gods’ good creation.  The story shows us how God has stepped into the world to set it to rights.  The story shows—long before we ever get to Jesus—the goodness and faithfulness of God.  The story shows why the Israelites could and should trust the God who spoke through Moses and the Prophets—and eventually through Jesus and the apostles.  The story prepared them—and it prepares us—for Jesus, for his death and his resurrection and his ascension and his kingdom and it prepares us to know the Spirit and to be the temple, purified by the blood of Jesus and made a dwelling place for God, to be a the truly heaven-on-earth people God had promised to make Israel; to be the beginnings, the firstfruits of his new creation, his new age, his kingdom.   That’s what Stephen was getting at when he reminded his fellow Jews about the day when Jesus had said that he would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days.  It wasn’t about the end of Moses or torah or temple; it was about fulfilling them.  They were signposts point into God’s future—a future in which God would live with his people, not in a building, but actually in them, and a future in which the law would no longer be carved on stone tablets, but written on human hearts.  But they refused to hear.  They drummed up false witnesses and they dragged Stephen before the Sanhedrin, the governing body of the Jews.  Look at Acts 7.  [Page 1086 in the pew Bibles.]  Having been dragged before the Sanhedrin, “The high priest addressed Stephen.  ‘Are these things true?’ he said.  ‘Brothers and fathers, hear me,’ replied Stephen.  ‘The God of glory appeared to our father Abraham when he was in Mesopotamia, before he moved to live in Haran.’”   Let me pause there.  Notice how Stephen is going all the way back to the beginning.  He speaks first of the God of glory, which might not seem very important to us, but it’s noteworthy that “God of glory” is not a common way to speak of God in the Old Testament.  In fact, Psalm 29:3 is the only place this title is used.  On the one hand, I suspect Stephen uses it to make the point that he has no interest in denigrating or blaspheming the God of Irael.  Stephen is invested in proclaiming the glory of God, and that’s exactly what he’s about to do by reminding them of their own story—and, most importantly, how it ends with Jesus and the Spirit.  But Stephen is also invoking Psalm 29 as it ascribes glory to the God of creation, the God who is enthroned, sovereign over the seas and over the forests, sovereign over the nations, the God who blesses his people as they cry out in his temple, “Glory!”.  This is the God of creation.  And then to mention Abraham in the next breath is to set the opening scene.  God created the heavens and earth.  God created human beings to serve as his stewards and his priests in this creation.  And we rebelled.  We broke it.  We corrupted it.  We introduced darkness where there was supposed to be light.  We drove a great wedge between heaven and earth, between God and man as we claimed his creation for ourselves, to do with as we pleased, to try to rule it as if we are gods ourselves.  To write our own stories instead of living in the one he’s given us.   And it was into that darkness, into that void in which men and women had lost all knowledge of their creator and had turned to idols, God spoke.  And he called to Abraham.  That call was the beginning of a new story—a story to set creation and to set humanity to rights.  A story that would, one day, culminate in God returning to dwell with his people.  It’s the story that everyone in Israel new, inside-out, backwards and forwards, top to bottom.  And yet something had gone wrong in the telling.  Because when God returned, Israel had rejected him.  Because when Stephen proclaimed Jesus and the Spirit, the people accused him of blasphemy.   Because as faithful as they were to the story, they hadn’t got it quite right.  Remember last week I talked about how you might take a trip to the other side of the country.  You drive your car to Nanaimo, then you leave it there and take a ferry to Horseshoe Bay, then you get off the ferry and take a bus downtown, and then you get off the bus to get on Skytrain to the airport, and then fly in airplane to your final destination.  That journey might break down at any number of points.  We might really, really like to drive our car and we can’t bear to think of leaving it parked at the ferry terminal and taking a ferry instead.  And so we refuse to stop driving.  When our friend tells us you can’t drive on water, we get angry.  We accuse him of being a car-hater.  We accuse him of saying that cars are bad and evil and no good.  And we wait for the ferry to leave and then we drive full-speed down the ramp and crash into the water and drown.  Not because cars are bad, but because cars were simply never designed to drive across water.  That’s what’s going on with Stephen’s accusers.  Stephen never said that torah or temple were bad things.  They were good things.  They were wonderful, spectacular, glorious gifts of God’s great grace.  They were signposts leading Israel to Jesus.  It’s just that in this new age, God’s given something even better.  There’s a new law and a new temple.  Those things were the promise, but now the fulfilment of the promise is here.  But they don’t want to hear that.   But let’s image you managed to transition from car to ferry to bus to Skytrain and you get to the airport, but instead of looking at the departures board to find your gate, you just walked down the concourse.  And you looked for the gate you liked best.  You stopped at one and you looked out the window and on the horizon, across the Strait, you could see Vancouver Island.  And it was comforting and you decided this was the right gate.  You could sit and wait for your plane to Montreal and never lose sight of the Island.  And you waited and waited, but no plane came.  And eventually you asked a gate agent, and she said, “Oh, you’re at the wrong gate.  Your flight’s leaving from such-and-such gate.”  But you didn’t listen.  You liked this gate with the view of home.  And a while later they announced your flight—and the gate—but you ignored it.  Eventually you even heard them page you: “Passenger So-and-so, this is your last call for boarding at gate such-and-such.”  But you just sat there.  This gate was nice.  Everyone else was wrong.  Eventually the plane will come.  And that’s what most of Isreal did.  The Messiah came to fulfil the law and the prophets, but p

  7. Jul 5

    The Face of an Angel

    The Face of an Angel Acts 6 by William Klock   I hate doing administration stuff.  I’m really glad that John handles our finances so well and makes sure all our bills get paid.  I don’t like filling out annual parish reports and get annoyed when I have fill out one for ACNA and another for the REC.  Why can’t they just ask the same questions and share the information?  Our church register is stuffed with Post-It notes going back five or six years so I know what to enter in it whenever I eventually get around to sitting down to make all the entries for baptisms, deaths, weddings, membership, and all of that.  And I wonder if Peter had his own First Century Post-It note system for dealing with the dreaded admin work that was perpetually threatening to cut in on his preaching and praying.  Because that’s what we come to in Acts 6.  The church has been growing quickly.  There’s something like 5,000 Christians in Jerusalem.  We don’t know how they were organised.  We know that the apostles and presumable some others regularly spent time in the temple.  But they met together in their homes.  Were they divided into what we might think of as “churches” or “parishes” with an apostle or two overseeing each—or maybe each apostle overseeing two or three groups?  We don’t know.  But what we do know is that the twelve apostles were overseeing everything.  They were preaching, they were teaching, they were praying, they were pastoring, they were making sure everyone’s needs were met.  And it got to be too much, even for twelve of them.  I get that.  I have a friend who pastors a Baptist church of about 950.  They figured out thirty years ago that they need one elder to every hundred people or so in order to pastor well.  In Acts we’re talking at least 500 church members per apostle.  People started falling through the cracks and complaining.  Look at Acts 6.  [Page 1086 in the pew Bibles.]   “Now, in those days when the disciples were increasing in number, the ‘Hellenists’ raised a dispute with the ‘Hebrews’ because their widows were being overlooked in the daily distribution of food.”   As we’ve seen in Chapters 2 and 4, these first Christians were very aware that they belonged to a new family and they lived accordingly.  They were the beginnings of Gods new Israel.  The Spirit had filled them with love for each other—the kind of love that torah had always envisioned for the people of Israel—and so they began to live it out.  They fellowshipped with each other.  They shared meals together as Jesus’ family and they shared with their brothers and sisters who were in need.  They weren’t just overflowing with the love and mercy of Jesus; despite most of them having little, as a people they were overflowing with generosity and abundance.   And there were plenty who were truly in need.  Widows would normally be looked after by their own family, but when people joined the church—just as in some parts of the world today—it meant being cut off from their families and the support they once had.  The church suddenly found itself providing for a large number of widows.  Maybe it was a language barrier or maybe it has something to do with social connections, but the Hellenists—the Greek-speaking widows—the ones who had come to Jerusalem from the great Jewish diaspora—they were falling through the cracks.  It surely wasn’t deliberate.  It was growing pains.  The sheer scope of the church’s charity work had become too much for the twelve to handle efficiently.  So the Greek-speaking members of the church take up their cause with the apostles.  The fact that their fellow “Hellenist’ believers take up their cause with the apostles, suggests it was a language problem.  Maybe these widows didn’t know how or when to ask for food or where to get it and there were simply so church members, that the apostles were no longer able to know the personal needs of everyone.  Whatever the case, the apostles realise they have to do something.  Luke goes on:   “So the twelve called the full number of disciples together.  ‘Listen,’ they said, ‘It wouldn’t be right for us to leave the word of God to serve tables. So Brothers, choose seven men from amongst yourselves who are well spoken of and filled with the Spirit and wisdom.  We will put them in charge of what needs to be done in this matter.  We will continue to pay attention to prayer and to the ministry of the word.”   The apostles knew what their primary calling was.  It was to study and to teach and to preach the word and to pray.  Sure, they could do some other things.  But when those other things became so big that it meant taking significant time away from their ministry of the word and their time in prayer, well, it was time for the church as a whole to pick up the slack.  To sort of quote Paul: God gave some to be apostles and other to—well—to fill the other multitude of roles that need filling in the church.  Some are eyes and ears and mouths, others are hands and feet and finger and toes.  The body needs them all.  And this was common sense.  But it also—and I think Luke deliberately frames it this way—it had precedent in Israel’s own story.  Think of Israel in the beginning, in the wilderness, just delivered from Egypt, and Moses trying to rule over a thousand and thousands of people and feeling totally overwhelmed.  Luke wants us to see the fledgling church as the new Israel and so he shows us the apostles in the position of Moses.  It’s time to choose some well-respected men from amongst the people to help.  Verse 5: “The whole gathering was pleased with what they said.  They chose Stephen, a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit, and Philip, Prochorus, Nicanor, Timon, Parmenas, and Nicolaus (a proselyte from Antioch).  They presented them before the apostles, and having prayed, they laid their hands on them.”   It’s worth noting: the seven names are Greek names.  One of these men was even a proselyte, meaning he was a gentile who had converted to Judaism and was now a Christian.  Presumably the seven were meant to serve the whole church, but the church chose seven men who were especially able to help with the problem at hand: the Greek-speaking widows.  So the church elects these men, brings them before the apostles for their approval, prays for them, and then it’s the church that lays hands on them.  Now, almost every English translation says that it was the apostles that laid hands on these seven, but the Greek text doesn’t really bear that out.  It says they, the church, elected the men and brought them to the apostles and there’s absolutely nothing in the text that indicates a change of subject before Luke says that “they” laid hands on the men.  The church—probably a representative few—laid hands on the seven, not the apostles.   And when we look at what was involved, it suggests even more that it was the church doing the laying on of hands.  There are several words in Hebrew that, in English, all get sort of generically translated as “to lay hands”, but the Hebrew behind the idea here, has the sense of pressing down on something—as if you’re sharing or transferring something of yourself to another: your sins to a the scape goat, or the people of Irael “pressing down on” the Levites who will represent them and fill in for their firstborn sons, or Moses pressing his hands down on Joshua and making him his representative and successor.  Remember, the whole point of this is that the apostles knew “serving tables” wasn’t their job.  Their job was word and prayer.  It was the job of the wider church to look after the welfare of each other and so it’s appropriate that the church not only elects these seven men, but also “ordains” them, if you will.   And what were the seven?  Traditionally we’ve called them deacons.  Deacon comes from the Greek word to serve—in this case to serve (διακονεῖν) tables, which is symbolic of making sure the widows get their charity.  But otherwise, what we see these men doing doesn’t look all that much like what we see deacons doing later in the New Testament.  In fact, when the apostles talk about “serving tables”, there’s a probably a word play there—“tables” is a banking or accounting term, not just a word for a literal table—that suggests that what these men were really doing was overseeing, administering the distribution of food and, more broadly, the resources of the church.  And if that was the case, they look a lot more like bishops.  I could be wrong, but what I would tentatively suggest, is that these seven men were the first men to be appointed to pastoral office in the church, before that role had split into bishops on the one hand and deacons on the other.  I think these guys were, more or less, both proto-deacons and proto-bishops.  And while their primary duty was to oversee the church’s charity, the church chose them because they were full of the Spirit.  And in Acts, what that means is that they were bold and unafraid proclaimers of the good news about Jesus.   So, writes Luke in verse 7, because of the apostles could now be devoted to the word to prayer and because these seven men were now ordained to ensure the church was being what the church is supposed to be, “The word of God increased and the number of disciples in Jerusalem multiplied greatly.  This included a large crowd of priests who became obedient to the faith.”  Brothers and Sisters, when the church—the people and the leaders—are boldly proclaiming the word of God and are diligent in prayer, God will multiply it.  We might miss it, but Luke makes the point: It’s not us.  We don’t grow the church.  It’s God.  The power lies with him.  We need to trust his word and we need to proclaim it.

  8. Jun 28

    But if it’s from God…

    But if it’s from God… Acts 5 by William Klock   There was a package slip from Canada Post below the mail slot when I got here last Friday.  I was kind of annoyed, because not only did I have no idea where the package was from, for some reason I had to go all the way over to the post office in Comox to pick it up.  And when they handed it to me I was perplexed.  The sender was just some distribution company.  The box was large and heavy.  A mystery.  And when I got it home and opened it up, it was still a mystery.  A boxed set of about fifteen books from a ministry called Be United in Christ.  Nice looking hardcovers.  The set looks expensive.  A few of them were reprints of books by Jonathan Edwards, Jeremiah Burroughs, and Charles Spurgeon, but frustratingly none of the others say a word about their authors and I couldn’t find much online about the ministry itself or who’s behind it.  The books are a generous gift.  But do I just put them out for you all to take home and read?  Edwards, Burroughs, Spurgeon are okay.  Puritans, not Anglicans, but still part of the same general theological tradition—for the most part.  But are they there just to get me to trust the other anonymous books?  I don’t know.  This is the shepherd’s dilemma.  I don’t have time to read them or really even to meaningfully skim them.  The problem would be solved if I knew something about who sent them.   And I think that illustrates well what St. Luke is getting at in our text today.  We’ll be looking at Acts 5.  [Page 1084 in the pew Bibles.]  And at first Acts 5 might seem like a series stories or events that are related only because they happened in the order Luke presents them, but are kind of otherwise “random”.  But the more I thought about the Chapter, the more a common theme started to take shape.  So far, Luke has shown us the birth of the church through the preaching of Peter and the work of the Spirit.  And then he’s shown us the church taking shape, not just as some new religion—which I think is how we’re often (wrongly!) prone to seeing it—but as the fulfilment of God’s promises to Israel.  Luke shows us the church as the new temple.  God has returned to his people as he promised, but not to the bricks-and-mortar temple on the mountaintop above Jerusalem. Instead, he’s come to indwell the people whom Jesus has purified with his blood.  This is a human temple meant to one day fill the whole earth and with it God’s presence.  And Luke has shown us the church not just as a family, but as the family that Israel was always supposed to be, but failed to be; the family in which God is fulfilling his promises through Jesus and the Spirit; the family in which his kingdom, his new creation, his renewed humanity is being born.  It’s a community meant to take up the vocation of Jesus and to be prophets, priests and kings, proclaiming the good news about the lordship of Jesus to Jerusalem and Judah—and eventually to the whole world.   But as we’ve seen, it’s not just the proclamation.  It’s not just the preaching.  That’s absolutely necessary.  But it’s the lived community—the “family-ness”—of the church that backs up the message and says that this is the real deal.  Because Israel had been talking the talk for a thousand years.  But Israel ended up in exile in Babylon because she failed over and over to walk the walk.  You can’t preach light while living in darkness.  You can’t claim to be God’s people while you worship idols.  You can’t proclaim new creation while living like the old.  That’s why, at the end of Chapter 4, which we saw last week, Luke talked for a second time about the way the church in Jerusalem became a family and took care of those in need.  They were actively living out the bounty and generosity of God and his new creation.  As the new Israel, they were a little land of milk and honey.  And Luke held up Jospeh the Levite as particularly exemplary, because he unselfishly sold some land and brought the proceeds to the apostles to help their ministry.   It wasn’t a requirement for church membership.  It sounds like Joseph was wealthy and so he used his wealth to build up the church and it was his way of living out new creation.  And it was obviously unique—not something everyone did—because they nicknamed him Barnabas, which means “son of encouragement”.  And that leads straight into Acts 5 and the story of Ananias and Sapphira.  This couple wanted the same sort of attention Barnabas was getting.  Luke writes, “There was, however, a man named Ananias with his wife, Sapphira.  He sold some property and, with his wife’s knowledge, kept back part of the price.  He brought the rest and laid it at the apostle’s feet.  ‘Ananias!’ said Peter.  ‘Why did the Satan fill your heart to make you tell a lie to the Holy Spirit and to keep back part of the price of the land?  While it was still yours, it belonged to you, didn’t it?  And, when you sold it, it was still in your power.  Why did you get such an idea in your heart?  It isn’t men that you’ve lied to; it’s God!’  When Ananias heard these words he fell down and died.  Everyone who heard about it was scared out of their wits.  The young men got up, took him away, wrapped up his body and buried him.  After an interval of about three hours, his wife came in, not knowing what had happened.  Peter spoke to her.  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you sell the land for this much?’  ‘Yes,” she replied, ‘that was the price.’  ‘So why,’ Peter answered, ‘did you agree together to put the Holy Spirit to the test?  Look, the feet of those who have buried your husband are at the door and they will carry you out too!’  At once she fell down at his feet and died.  The young men were just coming in and they found her dead, so they took her out and buried her beside her husband.  Great fear came upon the whole gathering and on all who heard about these things.”   Great fear!  No kidding.  Now, growing up—and for years afterward—I thought this was a story about “tithing”.  In Sunday school we would sing a song about how Ananias and Sapphira got together to conspire a plot to cheat the church and get ahead.  They knew God’s power but did not fear it, tried to cheat the Holy Spirit.  Peter prophesied it and they both dropped dead. Uh!  (That “Uh!” was the good part—one of the few times you could be rowdy in church.) And the chorus of the song went on to sing about how God loves a cheerful giver, give him all you’ve got.  It had me terrified as a kid.  I didn’t have any income, but I knew that someday when I did, I’d better give God his due or I might drop dead.  No one ever talked about the part where they lied about what they were giving.  And no one ever paid attention to the context of the story.   It is a terrifying story.  Even the people in the church who saw it and heard about, Luke writes, were pretty terrified.  But the way we usually hear about Ananias and Sapphira, I think, gets us worried about the wrong thing.  Because, Brothers and Sisters, this is isn’t a story about tithing; it’s a story about the need for holiness.  It’s a story that reminds us that if we’re going to be God’s temple, if we’re going to be the place where he dwells in the person of his Spirit, if we’re going to be the place where the world meets God, we need to take holiness seriously.   The first thing that ought to tip us off here is the way these first chapters of Acts are all centred on the temple.  More specifically, they’re focused on how the church has become the new temple and how it—particularly through Peter and John spending their days in the old temple—how the church is confronting and challenging the old: the old temple, the old Israel, and the priests and elders associated with both.  The second thing that ought to tip us off is the nature of the story.  It’s not a common thing, even in the Bible, for God to just suddenly strike someone dead.  But the few times we do see that happen, what’s it associated with?  Think Nadab and Abihu, Aaron’s sons, playing around with the holy things of God and offering “strange fire” on the altar.  Zap.  Dead.  Instantly.  And poor Uzzah when David’s men were rescuing the ark of the covenant from the Philistines.  They didn’t carry it the way God had told them to.  Instead, they put it on a cart.  And the cart started to tip and Uzzah—well meaning, but horribly wrong—reached out to steady it.  And zap!  Uzzah was struck dead on the spot.  I can think of a few other slightly less dramatic.  There was Achan who, in the ruins of Jericho, stole some of the treasure that belonged to the Lord.  His sin had consequences for the whole community of Israel in their next battle, but maybe most importantly, it was the Lord who revealed the guilty to Joshua.  And Achan and his family died.  Or King Uzziah who arrogantly entered the temple to burn incense and was immediately struck with leprosy.   The point is this, Brothers and Sisters, if you’re going to walk with God, holiness is not an option.  The wages of sin is death.  For the vast majority of us, living and then dying is just so normal that sometimes we need a reminder that life is God’s gift, that sin separates us from God, and that we die because of that separation.  Sometimes the reminders are instantaneous, dramatic, and terrifying.  Other times they play out over generations.  Like Israel herself: generation after generation of faithlessness and idolatry that eventually led, for the northern kingdom, to annihilation—national death—and for the southern kingdom exile.  St. Paul warns the Corinthians that some of them are sick and dying because they’ve abused the Lord’s Supper.  In John’s revelation, J

  9. Jun 21

    They Boldly Spoke the Word of God

    They Boldly Spoke the Word of God Acts 4 by William Klock   Chapter and verse breaks in the Bible are not part of the original text.  Chapter breaks were added about eight hundred years ago and verses about five hundred.  There’s an old biblical studies urban legend that Robert Estienne, the French printer who published one of the early New Testaments with verse division, marked them out while riding on horseback from Paris to Lyon, explaining the often frustrating way they cut through thoughts and sentences.  Chapter breaks can be just as annoying.  I say this because last week we left off our study of Acts at the end of Chapter 3, but the end of Chapter 3 isn’t where this story ends.  You’ll remember that this story about Peter and John and the lame man followed right on the heels of Pentecost.  Peter and John were on their way to the temple to pray when they met a lame man begging at the temple gate.  “Silver and gold have I none,” said Peter, “but such as I have I give.  In the name of the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth, get up and walk!”  And he lifted up the man the man began to jump up and down and to praise God.  And as everyone began to gather around, Peter began to preach.  He reminded them of their own story, of God’s promises going all the way back to Abraham, and how all those promises were fulfilled and how the story was brought to its climax in the death and resurrection and ascension of Jesus. I won’t repeat everything I said last Sunday, but needless to say—and even if you aren’t familiar with the story—you probably knew that trouble was coming.  But that pesky chapter break.  It saved you from an hour-long sermon, but it also cut the story in half.  So we’ll pick up after the break, with Chapter 4, now.  [It’s page 1083 in the pew Bibles.]   Luke continues: “As they were speaking to the people, along came the priests, the chief of the temple guard, and the Sadducees.  They were greatly annoyed that they were teaching the people and proclaiming that the resurrection of the dead had begun to happen in Jesus.  They seized them and put them under guard until the next day, since it was already evening.  But a large number of the people who had heard the message believed it and the number of men grew to five thousand.”   The idea of the resurrection of the dead was a big deal for the Jews and you’d think that announcing that it had somehow begun in Jesus would be good news.  And obviously it was for the thousands who believed.  Not so much for the Sadducees.  They were sad, you see, because they didn’t believe in the resurrection of the dead.  Okay, not really.  Their name goes back to Zadok, the high priest in the days of David and Solomon.  That name, Zadok, is also related to the Hebrew word for righteousness.  So the Sadducees thought of themselves not only as the sons of Zadok, but also as the righteous ones.  And in the First Century, they controlled the priesthood.  They were aristocratic and they were in power and people like that don’t usually like revolutionary ideas, and if there was there was a great revolutionary idea alive in Judah, it was the idea of the resurrection of the dead.  Resurrection means that things are broken and that God will, one day, come to set things to rights—and that implied that the Sadducees were part of the problem needing to be set right.  So they’re upset at Peter’s preaching.  The Pharisees didn’t like this talk either.  As far as they—and everyone else who hoped for resurrection—were concerned, all God’s people would be raised from the dead at the end of the age.  The idea that Jesus was raised all by himself was like heresy.  And, of course, if Jesus had been raised, it meant he was the Messiah and they refused to accept that idea.  So no matter how many eyewitnesses there were to the risen Jesus, it had never happened, so far as they were concerned.   But back to the Sadducees.  They controlled the priesthood and the priests were the gatekeepers of Israel.  And this talk about Jesus as Messiah and his being resurrected, which means he’d initiated the age to come already, that was the sort of talk that might spark a revolution.  And, of course, a revolution was what was already happening as the gospel and the Spirit were beginning to do their work.  But just as they hadn’t recognised it in Jesus, the leaders of Israel refuse to recognise it now and they have Peter and John locked up for the night.  Even still, Luke goes to the trouble to make the point that thousands believed anyway.  The gospel cannot and will not be stopped!   Verse 5: “On the next day their rulers, the elders, and the scribes gathered in Jerusalem, along with Annas the high priest, Caiaphas, John, Alexander, and all the members of the high-priestly family.  When they’d stood them in the midst, they asked, ‘How did you do this?  What power did you use?  What name did you invoke?’  Peter was filled with the Holy Spirit.  ‘Rulers of the people and elders,’ he said, ‘if the question we’re being asked today is about a good deed done for a sick man, and whose power it was that rescued him, let it be known to all of you and to all the people of Israel, that this man stands before you fit and well because of the name of the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth, whom you crucified, but whom God raised from the dead.  He is the stone which you builders rejected, but which has become the head cornerstone.  Rescue won’t come from anyone else.  There is no other name given under heaven and among men by which we must be rescued.’”   Do you remember that scene in Luke 11 where Jesus is confronted after casting out a demon?  “You can only cast them out, because you’re one of them,” they accused him.  The same thing is happening again.  I think Luke wants to highlight that what’s happening here might be an “act” happening through the apostles, but it’s still ultimately Jesus acting.  Or the Spirit, which amounts to the same thing.  Luke makes a point of saying that Peter was full of the Spirit when he answered the accusation.  So just like Jesus, when the council asks them in whose name they healed the lame man, not only is Peter bold to announce that it’s Jesus of Nazareth, they boldly assert that he is the Messiah—the one they crucified, but whom God raised from the dead.  So Peter is reasserting everything: It’s Jesus.  Yes the one they crucified.  And this isn’t just about a lame man walking again, this is about the resurrection of the dead.  It’s about the fact that Jesus is Lord and that the revolution has begun.  The age to come, new creation, the kingdom of God is here.  In fact, they quote Psalm 118 at the council to explain it all.  Psalm 118 is a psalm of the temple.  It’s about people going up to the temple to celebrate God’s new day to claim his rescue, his salvation.  It’s a psalm about God’s life-giving power and it’s about God bringing his people through trouble and rescuing them from danger. It’s a psalm about trusting in God’s mercy and it’s a psalm about God’s victory over the powers of the world.  “It is better trust in the Lord, than to put confidence in man…than to put confidence in princes,” says the Psalmist (vv. 8-9).   So they’re saying, “It’s Jesus.  He really is the Messiah and he really has inaugurated God's new age.  But then it’s like they’re deliberately poking a stick in these folks’ eye.  The Sadducees (and the Pharisees, too, and most people) were all about the temple.  It was the embodiment of Israel’s hopes for God’s rescue and for the fulfilment of his promises to one day come again to dwell with his people.  And so this whole episode started with a man who’d been sitting in the temple gate for years, hoping for a rescue, yet never healed, and now suddenly healed by Peter and John—in the power of Jesus.  So that’s the first thing.  It says that God has, in fact, returned to dwell with is people, but instead of being in the holy of holies, he’s indwelling the disciples of Jesus.  And then, in case they hadn’t made the connection, Peter, inspired by the Spirit, quotes Psalm 118 at them.  Yes, the hope of God’s return is happening—in Jesus.  Yes, God is now present in his temple—but that temple isn’t made of stone, it’s these Jesus people.  And yes, God has come to rescue us just as he promised, to set this broken world to rights, to wipe away the tears—through Jesus.  And at the same time, it would be hard for the council to miss the hint that the mortal princes, the people from whom God’s people need to be rescued are not the pagan nations, but the Sadducees and elders and scribes who are rejecting Jesus.  (Yes, the pagan nations, too, but first, God’s got to deal with the corrupt leaders of his own people.)   It’s the same thing Peter has been preaching, first on Pentecost, then to the crowd who gathered around the lame man when they saw him jumping up and down.  Every time, Peter grounds God’s salvation in Jesus as the fulfilment of his promises and of Israel’s story.  Every time, it’s the announcement that Jesus is Lord; that he’s come to rescue his people; and every time, it’s a call to repentance and faith.  This sort of situational astuteness and gospel boldness is what it looks like to be full of God’s Spirit.  And the council recognised this, even if they didn’t want to admit what (or who) it was.  Verse 13: “When they saw how boldly Peter and John were speaking and realised that they were untrained, ordinary men, they were astonished and they recognised them as men who had been with Jesus.  And when they saw the man who had been healed standing with them, they had nothing to say in reply.  They ordered them to be put out of the assembly while they conferred amongst themselves.

  10. Jun 14

    Excuses, excuses: The Parable of the Banquet

    Excuses, excuses: The Parable of the Banquet St. Luke 14:16-24 & Deuteronomy 20:1-9 by The Rev'd Dr. Matthew Colvin I am often asked about “application” in sermons. “I enjoy a good sermon,” someone will say, “but I need to have application so I know what to do with it.” Well, you will notice that neither Fr. Bill nor I, his understudy, do very much with “application.” The pulpit is not the place to give you “ten steps to a better marriage” or “key principles of childrearing” or “the blueprints to build a Christian business.” Rather, we are concerned with the Biblical story, and we want to apply you to it, so that you read the Bible as your story. When Paul says, “These things happened as examples for us, upon whom the ends of the ages have come,” he means that to follow Jesus, we need to understand ourselves as being part of the story of the people of God. That is why Hebrews 11 gives us the “hall of faith”; it is why Stephen’s sermon in Acts 7 sums up the entire history of Israel; it is why, when Peter is telling Christian wives to respect their husbands, he calls them “daughters of Sarah.” We are consistently told to inscribe ourselves into the story of God’s people Israel. There is nothing more practical. Indeed, if we do not get this right, no amount of “application” will work. Our lectionary for this morning pairs Deuteronomy’s laws about exemption from military service with Jesus’ parable of the banquet and the excuses made by those who were invited. It is, if we think about it, a very odd transposition, rather as though military language had found its way into a wedding or some similar occasion: “WILT thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” “Yes, sir, corporal, SIR. Hoo-ah!” So what is going on here? To understand the parable, we need to think about the nature of banquets and the nature of the excuses. Let’s start with the excuses. Verse 20’s excuse, “I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come” is an allusion to Deuteronomy 24:5. That passage gives the grounds for the exemption of any newly married bridegroom from military service for a year: “that he may bring happiness to his wife whom he has taken.” There is here something of the logic of the law against boiling a kid in its mother’s milk: in both cases, one must not mix up life and death, joy and sorrow. In verse 18, we should understand “I have bought a field and must go out and see it” to mean that the transaction needs to be complete. It is the “closing” of a real estate purchase, not an inspection at leisure that could just as easily be postponed for another day. Legally, socially, this is a very good excuse. Verse 19’s excuse about needing to test “five yoke of oxen” recalls the calling of Elisha by Elijah in 1 Kings 19:19. There, Elisha is actually in the middle of plowing when Elijah throws his mantle over him: “Tag, you’re it!” This is an act of sudden investiture. Elisha responds to it with alacrity: “he left the oxen and ran after Elijah” and said, “Please let me kiss my father and my mother, and then I will follow you.” The excuses are such powerful ones that they actually have statutory warrant in Biblical law. Legally, socially, by all the etiquette of ancient Israel, these excuses are golden, unimpeachable, valid. But in the parable, they are not good excuses in the eyes of the host. Who is he? He is introduced as ἄνθρωπός τις, “a certain man.” Immediately, we recall other parables: “A certain man planted a vineyard, leased it to vinedressers, and went in a far country for a long time.” (Mt 21:33) “A certain man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it, and found none.” (Lk. 13:6) “A certain man had two sons.” (Lk. 15:11) “A certain rich man had a steward, and an accusation was brought to him that this man was wasting his goods.” (Lk. 16:1) There are other instances where “a certain man” is someone else, but this is a pretty good sample of instances where “a certain man” is instantly known to stand for God. The parable, then, shows us God’s response to the excuse-makers. Note that the “certain man” operates through servants. God is frequently depicted this way, sending his angels and human prophets to do his bidding and deliver his messages. God’s reaction to the refusal of his invitations is anger (ὀργισθείς). This requires some explanation. In Matthew’s gospel, the banquet is a wedding feast for a king’s son, and the invited guests behave much like the wicked vinedressers: they “lay hold of his servants and treat them violently and kill them.” But Luke’s version has a different emphasis. It is less allegorized and is designed rather to highlight the reversal of fortune and the approaching deadline. “Go out quickly into the streets and alleys of the city and bring here the poor and crippled and blind and lame.” — all of them likely to be beggars, likely to smell bad, likely to be shabbily dressed. Precisely the sort of unsightly people one does not want at a banquet, any sort of banquet. They would never have been invited had not the originally invited guests refused. Just as Esau rejected his birthright and Jacob received it; just as the majority of the Jews rejected the Messiah so that the gospel might be preached to the gentiles, so here, as Paul puts it in 1 Corinthians 1:28, “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no flesh might boast in the presence of God.” This is someting God did in history. Unlike every other religion on earth, the Bible makes public claims about events that took place at particular times: “In the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah, Sennacherib king of Assyria came up against the fortified cities of Judah and took them.” “In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria.” Or even in our Nicene Creed, where week after week, we make mention of the name of a corrupt Roman official named Pontius Pilate. Contrast the claims of other religions: that Mohammad was out there in the desert and an angel appeared to him and dictated the Quran. That Joseph Smith was guided by an angel named Moroni and found gold plates inscribed with “Reformed Hieroglyphics” which he translated into King James English. That Siddartha Gautama was meditating under a fig tree and became enlightened. The Mary Baker Eddy or L. Ron Hubbard or some other guru has discovered the secrets of the universe. Even in antiquity, the Stoic sage or Epicurus or the philosopher in Plato’s Republic is never about history. It is always private revelation or special understanding of timeless truths or the realm of forms or deep insight into nature. By contrast, the assumption of Jesus’ parables is that God deals with Israel in time. The invitation to the banquet and the host’s angry reaction to the invited guests refusal, and the verdict at the end of the story that “none of those men who were invited shall taste my banquet” — all presuppose that Israel is facing a decisive crisis in its history. The invitation to the banquet is the gospel summons to follow the Messiah — and this is appropriate, since Jesus is so frequently shown feasting during his earthly ministry. He feasts so much that he incurs the charge of being a glutton and a winebibber. Everywhere he goes, he feasts. He feasts in the house of the Pharisee named Simon; in the house of a tax collector named Zacchaeus; at a wedding at Cana; in company with immoral women, and with “tax collectors and sinners.” This was unusual even by Jewish standards, so that some come to Jesus and ask him, “The Pharisees and the disciples of John fast a lot, but your disciples do not fast.” Jesus explains that the disciples of Jesus do not fast because the bridegroom is with them. What is the appropriate response to the invitation? What do etiquette and emotional rightness and social expectation dictate? Jesus’ words about John’s ministry and the Jews’ reaction to it, in Luke 7:32, are couched in similar terms: “We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; We mourned to you, and you did not weep.” The refusal to recognize Jesus as the one Israel has been waiting for is like the refusal of the invitation to the feast. It is a rejection of the good ending of the story, a refusal to take part in the consummation. It is as if all the actors walked off the stage of a Shakespeare play after act 4. There are times when we want to describe a process has failed to produce its intended fulfillment and consummation — say, when I am talking to my Greek students who are struggling with Greek grammar and vocabulary. If they never go on to actually read Greek literature, I say it is like “a courtship without a marriage.” This is not about timeless truths or Buddhist spiritual enlightenment. A marriage is a historical event. That is the language that God uses about his relationship with his people. The coming of Jesus is the climax of Israel’s story. And to everyone, the invitation poses the stark alternative: either enter into the banquet, or be excluded. Remember the older brother of the Prodigal Son in Luke 15: Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. And he

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About

Living Word Reformed Episcopal Church, Courtenay, British Columbia

Information

  • Creator
    The Rev'd William Klock
  • Years Active
    2008 - 2026
  • Episodes
    10
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Show Website
    Living Words