Ezekiel
34:11-24 presents pastoral (as in out in the fields!) images of
shepherding. Israel, along with other
Ancient Near Eastern cultures, often depicted their leaders as shepherds. We overdo the Oh, poor, humble shepherds
notion. In that culture, flocks could number
in the thousands, requiring immense administrative skill.
It is lovely to ponder the image that God,
Israel’s ultimate shepherd, “will search for my lost sheep” – the basis of one
of Jesus’ greatest parables. The
tenderness of this shepherd is evident: seeking good pasture, arranging for the
sheep to lie down and rest, binding up the crippled sheep (instead of just
leaving them) – all summarized by the homiletically pregnant “I will feed them
in justice.” Ah, justice, mishpat
in Hebrew, the kind of biblical justice that says everybody will be cared for;
that’s the just society. This is the kind of realm where Christ is king; he is this kind of King.
Sometimes I like, in preaching, to imagine
things we don’t know about. I try to
picture the shepherds in Bethlehem, the ones who heard the angelic choir – but a
month before Jesus was born. One more
dull night, then another, with no idea what was coming, or if anything was coming
at all. I wonder how much we live like
them, bored, stuck, and yet there is something marvelous on the horizon we can’t
predict or detect.
Then Ezekiel takes a harsher turn, with
sheep and goats (or fat and lean – even worse!) being differentiated, judged,
treated shabbily even if fairly. Of
course, our Gospel reading portrays the very same scenario. There is judgment.
Ezekiel’s other unanticipated turn is
questioned by Robert Jenson: “Does not Ezekiel contradict himself? He has made
much of how great it will be when the Lord himself takes over from the earthly
shepherds. But suddenly David is to be the shepherd.” Theologically, “the Good Shepherd must be at
once God and a descendent of David. And that is exactly what classical Christology
says of Jesus the Christ.” Lest you
think he is imposing a later Christian reading on an Israelite text, he
semi-snarky rejoinder: “Our reading is alien to the text only if the Christian
doctrines adduced are not true.” Vintage
Jenson. Preacher beware, though… Don’t
rob the OT of its specificity – or from our friends the Jews, for whom this is
their Scripture. The text can stand on
its own.
Turning to Ephesians 1:15-23. What a
dense, stunning, rich marvel this is; you could preach a long series on this
text. Turns out in Greek it is one very,
very long single sentence of 169 words!
The NRSV sticks 3 periods in, but it’s just one sentence. I dare you to diagram that sentence!
Gratitude is a dominant theme, fitting for
this week of Thanksgiving. Again, what
is the Christian to be grateful for? A
boatload of food and a comfy den? Cowboys’
football? Or what we hear of someone’s faith? And the love of the saints?
Paul is reporting on his praying. Do we have a gimme-list, a health update as
our praying? Paul prays for “wisdom and
revelation” – and that “the eyes of your heart will be enlightened.” You might turn to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince: “It is only with the heart that one can see
rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” I am more drawn to this: St. Francis of
Assisi came to be St. Francis because he prayed a single prayer, over and over,
day after day, while kneeling before a crucifix in the small, crumbling church
San Damiano:
Most
high, glorious God, enlighten
the darkness of my heart, and give
me, Lord, correct
faith, firm hope, perfect charity, wisdom and perception, that I
may do what is truly your most holy will.
We need enlightenment, and wisdom; and
Francis’s dream in this prayer was that he might not just know but actually do
God’s most holy will. In Eph. 1, Paul’s
purpose is “that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you.” Three things about hope. (1) It is not a shriveled up thing, but
something too grand for the mind to comprehend.
Allen Verhey and Joseph Harvard (in that Belief theological commentary seires), noting the primal theme of
hope in this overwhelming spillage of verbiage, suggest “This hope is
immeasurable – and almost unspeakable. But Paul speaks it anyway.”
(2) Hope, for Paul, isn’t a spiritual
attitude. Markus Barth, in his massive
and rich Anchor Bible commentary,
explains: “When Ephesians speaks of hope, the emphasis lies not so much on the
mood of the person hoping as on the substance or subject matter of
expectation. Hope is equated with the
thing hoped for.”
I love Christopher Lasch’s impeccable distinction between hope and optimism. “Hope doesn’t demand progress; it demands justice, a conviction that wrongs will be made right, that the underlying order of things is not flouted with impunity. Hope appears absurd to those who lack it. We can see why hope serves us better than optimism. Not that it prevents us from expecting the worst; the worst is what the hopeful are prepared for. A blind faith that things will somehow work out for the best furnishes a poor substitute for the disposition to see things through even when they don’t.”
I love Christopher Lasch’s impeccable distinction between hope and optimism. “Hope doesn’t demand progress; it demands justice, a conviction that wrongs will be made right, that the underlying order of things is not flouted with impunity. Hope appears absurd to those who lack it. We can see why hope serves us better than optimism. Not that it prevents us from expecting the worst; the worst is what the hopeful are prepared for. A blind faith that things will somehow work out for the best furnishes a poor substitute for the disposition to see things through even when they don’t.”
(3) And notice how Paul
deftly hinges hope to calling – almost as if calling comes first. The called are those who have hope. Because you’re called, you have hope. Getting it backwards leaves people trying to
figure God and their personal future out before listening to anything
vocational. That’s inverted, from Paul’s
point of view.
All preachers would be
wise to spend time with Walter Wink (Naming the Powers, Unmasking the Powers, and Engaging the Powers), or others who have probed this notion of “principalities
and powers.” We read the world too
thinly if we just see politicians and armies and social trends. There are cosmic powers behind it all, in it
all, and tugging on you, me and the church at every moment.
And speaking of the
church: clearly Paul has zero interest
in personal salvation. We have hope and
are called as members of Christ’s church.
What a beautiful, fitting and compelling image of our life
together! Paul explicates this more
fully in 1 Corinthians, of course. But
the Body is right here in Ephesians –
and we may humbly recall Martin Luther King’s eloquent assessment in his letter from the Birmingham jail: “I see the church as the body of Christ. But oh, how we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and fear of being nonconformist.”
and we may humbly recall Martin Luther King’s eloquent assessment in his letter from the Birmingham jail: “I see the church as the body of Christ. But oh, how we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and fear of being nonconformist.”
And then finally we come to Matthew 25:31-46. Jesus’ last sermon. Must be important. And clearly: salvation, for Jesus, evidently
is way more or even far different from responding emotionally at a revival, or
saying Yes at Confirmation, or declaring I was born again on June 18. There is doing, action, a whole lifestyle –
not of “goodness,” but the harder yet more joyful work of God’s kingdom.
To make religion into something else was
questioned by Martin Luther in #45 of his 95 theses that got so much attention
last month: “Christians should be taught
that those who see someone in need and pass by, and then give money for
indulgences, are not purchasing for themselves the Pope’s indulgences, but
rather God’s anger.”
Mother Teresa made a life out of taking
this passage seriously, and actually doing it.
I recall a minister I met when I was young: Gordon Weekley, once a prominent Baptist
pastor in Charlotte who succumbed to prescription medication abuse, then
amphetamines, wound up on the streets – but then was miraculously cured and
engaged in stunningly transformative ministry to the addicted and
homeless. He handed me a copy of an
anonymous piece I’ve seen many times since – but somehow, coming from him, I
was transfixed, and determined to lead churches that are different:
“I was hungry, and you formed a humanities
group to discuss my hunger; I was imprisoned, and you crept off quietly to your
chapel and prayed for my release; I was naked, and in your mind you debated the
morality of my appearance; I was sick, and you knelt and thanked God for your
health; I was homeless, and you preached to me of spiritual shelter and the
love of God; I was lonely, and you left me alone to pray for me. You seem so
holy, so close to God – but I am still very hungry, and lonely, and cold.”
I wonder, in preaching, if I could find
somebody near me who is doing each thing Jesus suggests. Whom do I know who visits the prison, and
does he have a story? Whom do I know who welcomes strangers? People need to see these things in
reality. I wonder if we have a set of
signups, real live opportunities: this
week, come with us to the local prison Tuesday at 4; this week, we are
delivering food to the women at the shelter; this week, we are carpooling to
the mosque for a hummus-making class with new Muslim friends. Something…..
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