What We Do Know

Matthew 25:31-46

So, how many of you felt a little uncomfortable with Jesus’s story this morning? About the sheep and the goats, and the going away into eternal punishment?

 

It’s possible that the extended sheep metaphors of our faith mean that this story goes just in one ear and out the other, but when we stop and listen, a lot of contemporary American Christians feel a bit uncomfortable with any images of “final” judgement and eternal devil fire. So if you felt a little squirmy – you’re in friendly company.

 

But there’s another important question in this story.

How many of you felt quite comfortable – even enthusiastic – at hearing Jesus’ story today?

How many of us liked Jesus firmly separating the “good flock” from the “bad flock”? Or condemning those who failed to feed the hungry, visit prisoners, or clothe the naked?

 

Because it’s possible that being enthusiastic about this scene was the original point. 

That Matthew re-tells this story of Jesus’s to comfort and encourage his community, his own possibly anxious and vulnerable church.

 

One idea that’s apparently been around for centuries, though it was new to me this week, is that this is a story about Jesus judging how non-Christian people treat Christians. Jesus, telling this story, is very clear that this is about judging “all the nations”; everyone on earth.  And in other parts of Matthew’s gospel, the followers of Jesus are linked with “the least” and the lowly…
So, this might be a story about how Jesus will respond to people who support or disregard the small, vulnerable, and not-very-respected Christian communities who first heard this story.

 

I’m not sure it would apply in the same way to Christian communities in a world like ours, with religious tax breaks, legislative and judicial support for “Christian” holidays and policies (uneven as that might be), and a history of having “Christian” hands on the reins of power for centuries.

But Jesus’ early poor, disrespected, followers could have been very encouraged to know that Jesus rewards those who care for the vulnerable – and condemns those who ignore and disrespect the “least” and “little”.

 

It’s also probable that Matthew’s telling his community – that Jesus wants us to hear – that when we do the hard work of generously, attentively, thoughtfully nurturing and supporting the “least of us” – the people no one wants to hang out with, we will be recognized for it; will be rewarded.
And possible that some of the folks in the first community to read this story (or in our community now) will be glad to hear that the folks who ignore the needs of the vulnerable are not going to get away with it, not going to get a free pass to the kingdom of heaven.

(I admit, when I feel like being a faithful Christian is hard work, I do like to think that Jesus sees through freeloaders and posers, and has no patience for that nonsense.)

 

So – do you feel a little encouraged by this story, today?

 

I certainly want to.

And…I’m still a little bit nervous.

 

Because I…well, I’m pretty aware that my track record on feeding the hungry, quenching thirst, visiting the sick and the prisoners, and clothing the naked is….mixed. (Though I did remember to bring a coat for the coat drive!)
I definitely do help some vulnerable people some of the time. But I also definitely miss people. Or just feel like I don’t have the time, or the money, or the energy this time – and someone’s need isn’t met.

So I can’t tell you for sure whether Jesus would line me up with the sheep or the goats.
And the story doesn’t have a third option.

 

And one thing the story does say is that every single person in Jesus’ story is surprised by being rewarded or blamed. Nobody had the answer key for “how to enter heaven”.  It’s the things we didn’t know were important that matter.

 

I really don’t know how this is going to work out.

But I do know Jesus.

We – you, and I, and the people Matthew first wrote this story down for – none of us know how things are going to work out at the end, but we do know Jesus.

 

We know – not just from this story, but from so, so, many Jesus stories, that Jesus definitely cares about the vulnerable: the hungry or thirsty, the sick and the oppressed. And we did all just hear this story. So neither you nor I are going to be surprised, eventually, that Jesus cares if we cared about the vulnerable, too.

We might wind up being surprised about just which vulnerable people Jesus wanted us to care for (some needs come across as annoyances, after all), but we do know that loving the people Jesus loves really matters.

 

We know this well enough that we make it part of our commitment in baptism. 

And many of us who find our spiritual home in the Episcopal Church subset of Jesus’ people find caring for the vulnerable, loving our neighbors, or respecting the dignity of every person to be more accessible than “proclaiming the gospel” with word and deed – another important thing that Jesus tells us to do!

 

So there is a lot to be encouraged about: encouraged that living our faith, in those hopefully accessible ways, is recognized by Jesus, when no one else is noticing. Is rewarded, is part of our invitation to eternal joy. Is bringing us closer to Jesus, all along. 

 

And that – well, that might be the other encouraging thing about this story.
The “closer to Jesus” part, I mean.

Because you may have noticed in this story that a big part of the surprise expressed by all the people being honored or condemned about feeding the hungry, connecting with the isolated, or sheltering the vulnerable, is that they all say “but we didn’t know it was you, Jesus”.

I think it’s probably quite true that you and I often won’t recognize Jesus in the people we meet, support, ignore, or enjoy day-by-day. Even though we promise in baptism (and will be invited to promise again, today) that we’ll seek and serve Christ in all persons. I suspect that a lot of the time we won’t recognize Jesus in traffic, in a classroom, at the grocery store, on the other end of that email. 

But we do know Jesus.

We know Jesus through the bible stories, the prayers, the communion we share, here.

We might not always recognize Jesus in those around us, but we know Jesus, who has reached out in love to every one of us when we were hungry or thirsty, in body or spirit; vulnerable or isolated or afraid.

We know Jesus as the one who loves us – loves us more than we can possibly imagine – and invites us to love God back.

 

And I think that’s the unspoken point of Jesus’ story. 

That we don’t know how God’s judgment will ultimately go. We don’t know, really, how God will judge us, or judge others. We can’t know. There will always be surprises.

But what we can know – no, who we can know – is Jesus.

And that’s another thing we promise in our baptism – that we will know Jesus. Turn to Jesus, trust Jesus – get to know, and keep knowing Jesus, even when we don’t understand Jesus (or ourselves). 

Know the Jesus who loves the most vulnerable, hungriest, loneliest parts of us, and demands that we love that, too – in others and in ourselves.

The Jesus who is fierce and uncompromising in that love – and makes that fierce love the standard we are called – and even promised – to share.

 

It’s not especially comfortable – that love, or this story.

But it is – it must be – encouraging.

Encouraging in reminding us that – whatever we do not know about what happens at the end of the story – we do know Jesus, who is there at the end of our story.

And encouraging us, today and always, to know Jesus more.

We Fail

 Joshua 24:1-3, 14-25; Matthew 25:1-13

“I don’t think you’re ready for this.”

Joshua seems skeptical as he addresses the gathered tribes of Israel:
“Can you really serve the Lord? I don’t know… are you really prepared to commit your undivided attention, your highest priority, in better and in worse, forever, to the God who chose our ancestor Abraham and brought us out of slavery?” 

 

There’s very good reason for the ancient tribes of Israel to choose the God who has already chosen them. Joshua reminds them, and then they remind themselves, of all the benefits God has already offered them: faithfulness, rescue, fulfilled promises, military victory and conquest.
Signing up to “serve” this God – to choose their people’s savior and guide instead of the local gods who just got defeated, or the old gods our ancestors left behind – seems like a no-brainer, an easy decision.

 

But Joshua does not want them – does not want us – to make the easy decision. The easy decision to sign up for more of these fantastic benefits.

 

Joshua wants them – us – to make the hard, serious, risky and faithful decision to commit our selves, our future, everything we have, to the God who chose us. To always – always – put the priorities of God above our own priorities. To put God and God’s plans, work, and commandments first, even before we consider our own personal, or our own families’, plans, hopes, and needs. 

 

And that is a risky proposition. 

Joshua warns his people that – if we make that commitment – failure is going to hurt. 

The benefits of committing to God are amazing. But failure once we have committed may very well destroy us.

 

And the people double down. 

Yes. This risk is worth it. We will commit our whole selves, our future, our hopes and plans and needs, to God. 

Yes, we mean it. We’ll hold ourselves to it.

We will serve the Lord.

 

It’s beautiful.

When you tap in to the emotion of the moment – in spite of the awkward translation and millennia of cultural gaps between us and Joshua and the tribes – and get connected to the heart of the story, it’s a moment of incredible power and romance and wonder. 

 

I want to be that wholehearted, that sure of my connection to God, that willing to take risks in committing my hopes and plans and needs and future to the work of God, to being God’s person, among God’s people.

 

I feel that same surge of joyful hope and wonder every time we baptize someone here, and make our own promises to follow Jesus, to put Christ first and to live in God’s work and will, as we support the person being baptized. 

 

And every other minute of the week, the year, I know that that’s hard. 

The “other gods” are right there, always at hand and ready to demand and reward my attention to advertising, to my phone, to success and power and recognition. Demands that seem little: buy this thing, finish all the email before you take time to pray, or rest, or help someone in need. Expectations that seem “normal”: to keep things running smoothly, to be “nice” or moderate instead of fierce about justice or love.

 

And I fail. 

 

I fail, like the ancient tribes of Israel, who found that they weren’t, after all, prepared to put God, and God’s vision for God’s people, ahead of their own needs and hopes and wants and plans every time, year after year after year.  

I fail, like half of the bridesmaids in Jesus’ story today, who were probably reasonably prepared for the work they thought they’d taken on, but ran out of fuel when the job took much longer than they’d expected. 

 

Those ancient tribes of Israel, like many of us here and now, probably found that serving God – following Jesus, for us – often isn’t what we expected. Turns out to go on and on and on well after the energy of joyful commitment runs into the mundane need to keep showing up for prayer and work that never seems to get finished. The need to keep choosing the unrewarding tasks of love, justice, generosity, peace, and holiness before the rewards of success, admiration, approval, and comfort.

 

So, they made this promise – this enthusiastic, joyful, hope-filled commitment to serve God.

And, eventually, they failed.

Like half of Jesus’ bridesmaids did.

Like many of us do.

 

I have been feeling that failure lately, when I hear news from Gaza and Israel – and Congress and across the world – and I’m sure that serving God, and following Jesus, demands more of me in response than I am offering. 

I‘ve been feeling that failure in the way that times of stress make it so much easier for me to love my neighbor less than myself.

 

And this week, I found myself in two different conversations about the ways that – even after we’ve received the salvation, forgiveness, and fulfilled promises of baptism, of God – we humans have a tendency to fail. To find ourselves selfish, or impatient, or greedy, or complicit in some complex web of war or oppression or injustice. To fall short of our promises and intentions to love God with all our heart, and love our neighbors as ourselves.

And how there is, often, a lot of grief and pain involved in that failure. Our own disappointment and the disappointment of others. A sense of being cut off, shut out, sometimes, from community or from love or from God, or from hope.  

 

The consequences of failure to love God first are real, even when we know – as we know – that God loves us in spite of ourselves, anyway. That’s why Joshua and Jesus don’t pull their punches, when they say that failure to serve God once we’ve promised, failure to be prepared for God changing the schedule, will hurt.
Not to threaten us, I think, but so that we know when we feel it that the pain of failure is part of the same story of promise and invitation, the same story of God showing up, that also promises us joy, victory, trust, and unbreakable connection with God.

 

All our failure – all our often predictable falling short – is part of the same story that also promises that God’s people succeed with God. That that deep desire to commit ourselves to God does lead to a generations-long, shining, holy closeness to the God who chooses us, to abundance and trust and joy. That our willingness to show up and take on a task for God does lead to celebration and fulfilled hope.

 

We tell these stories because they tell us the truth that a life of commitment and service to God, a life of following and expecting Jesus, is challenging and prone to failures. (A truth I find a little reassuring as well as disappointing when I myself fail to live up to my hope and faith and commitments.)

And we tell these stories to remind us that our potential for failure is part of the story of God’s salvation, and that we want to take the risk of showing up for Jesus, being committed to God. 

 

We retell these stories, and others, sometimes, to bring us back to the place where we want to commit again, want to renew the joyful energy of the promise to serve God, renew the enthusiasm with which we set out to welcome Jesus into our lives. 

Because – just as truly as we often fail – truly there are times when, with God’s help, we succeed. 

 

Sometimes, with God’s help, we find that the hope that inspired us in the first place is more than enough to keep us going, to keep the promises we make. And we find ourselves swept up unmistakably into the world, and the selves, that God has made for love and glory – into the very heart of God.

 

Maybe I’m still not ready, like those ancient tribes of Israel, still not prepared enough, to keep my promises without ever failing. But today, I’ll take that risk again.

I’ll promise – with you, perhaps? – with Joshua, with others – that I, and my house, will serve the Lord. 

Can't Do This Alone

Exodus 33:12-23; Matthew 22:15-22

I can’t do this alone.

 

That’s what we heard Moses saying to God this morning. 

Okay, God, you told me to lead this people to your land. But if you’re opting out of the journey with us, forget it.

They’re in a tough place, Moses and God. 

They’re just figuring out how to recover from Golden Calf Gate – the incident where God’s people felt rather lonely and abandoned in the wilderness, made an image to try to substitute for God’s presence with them, made God mad, then made Moses so furious he broke the whole covenant (or anyway, shattered the stone tablets that symbolize the relationship between God and God’s people) and shoved the ruins of the golden idol literally down the throats of the people.
(It’s a heck of a story – go read all of Exodus 32 some time).
There’s a battle, there’s a plague…. 

 

Now God tells Moses, “okay, get the people moving again, and take them to the land. I’ll keep my promises, but I can’t go along – these people are such a hot mess that just being with them will make me destroy them.”

 

And that’s when Moses says to God:

You know me; you chose me; you chose us.

Don’t opt out.

I can’t do this alone.

 

And God listens, and God says, “Yes.”

Yes, Moses, I will stay close to you.

 

And then Moses doubles down.

Not just me.

Us.

You’ve got to be unmistakably with your whole people.

If you aren’t with us, we won’t trust each other; we can’t hold on to our identity. No one will believe in us if you don’t stay with us.

We can’t do this alone. 

 

And again, God listens.
God says, “Yes.”

Yes, I will do exactly as you ask. I will be with the whole people, the community. 

Because God knows, as well as – no, better than Moses – that he can’t do this alone.

We can’t do this alone.

 

None of us, individually, can do the work God gives us to do, alone.  

None of us can really grow into the promise of our personal relationship with God alone, either.

 

We need God, and we need our community. 

We need God in and with and close to our community, while we are in and with that community.

Because as a community, we can’t do the work God gives us alone. 

We need God’s help, God’s presence, God’s guidance and love.  Without that, we can’t grow into the community – the people, the church – God wants us to be. On our own, we can’t grow into the promise God offers us. 

We need God’s close and constant support. Not just for Moses – not just for one of us, not just for a leader or two – but for the whole community. 

 

I’ve been thinking about that a lot this month, as we’ve talked in worship and committee meetings about our annual pledging, and in small groups and in Vestry meetings about the challenges we expect to face us as a church in 2024 and the near future.

 

We do our best, at Trinity – as individuals and as a congregation – to follow where God is leading us, year after year and day by day.

And from time to time – now, perhaps – we find ourselves in uncharted, or less-charted, territory. A wilderness, of sorts. Where the things that worked before don’t work so well. The ways we’re used to worshipping God, the ways we’ve organized ourselves as a community, don’t fit as well as they used to.

Eight/Ten a.m. on Sunday, and volunteering during the week, feel out of step with the realities we’re grappling with, personally or culturally. For many of us, things we’re used to do or have to support our faith feel harder, or less natural. 

 

That’s not just about a few of us, not just Trinity – that’s congregations all over the country these days.

 

And in those less-charted places, we don’t stop needing God.
We don’t stop needing each other.

It’s more and more and more true that we can’t do this alone.

 

So, if you’re Moses, and you recognize that truth, you demand the presence of God.

And get it.

And ask for more. 

For God not just at our side, but face-to-face.

 

God tells Moses no human can see the face of God and live. 

But you know, I can. 

Well, I sort of can.

 

I can see the face, the image of God, the way Jesus reminds us to see, today. When he points at the image of Caesar on a Roman coin, and tells us to give Caesar what bears Caesar’s image, and give God what bears God’s image: Us.

The whole great diversity of the human race, bearing the image of God.

The face of God that we can see, embrace, and live among.

 

I see, constantly and unmistakably, the face of God in the Trinity community. 

On the face of a child receiving communion. 

In the hands and mind of a volunteer lifting boxes, digging in the garden, cleaning up the kitchen, making sandwiches to feed hungry neighbors, teaching a Sunday School lesson, organizing a ministry, meeting late into the night to craft a sustainable plan for our congregation’s future.
In the shape of all of us gathered, in times of grief and of celebration.

 

I see the face and presence and promise of God,

and I know we are not doing this alone.

We never will be.

 

We affirm that promise to one another every time we baptize a new Christian. 

The face of God is here. We are not doing this alone. We never will be.

 

I discover the truth of that promise over and over every time I show up here on a Sunday morning.

Every time I sit down with the Vestry, or a committee, or someone coming to the church for comfort, assurance, and support in one of life’s crises or a slow stretch of wilderness. A promise I affirm every time I write a check to pay my annual pledge to Trinity, or fill out my own pledge card for the next year each fall.

 

When we show up for our community in many different ways, small and great, my actions, and yours, affirm that we are not alone. That we are here for one another, with one another, with God.
Never doing this alone, or just for ourselves.

 

This is the time every year when I tell you how important it is to me to invest in Trinity with my financial giving.
That I hope that for you, making a pledge commitment to support – to show up for – this community, and paying that pledge over time, is as joyful an action as it is for me.
That I find making and keeping – and regularly increasing – a commitment – financial, right now – time and talent too – to be life-giving, because each action I take to fulfill that commitment made in love means I’m part of God’s own presence and support and love for this community. 

 

I talk to you about it just once, or a few times, each year. 

But it’s true for me every day, year after year.

When I step up, I see the face and presence and promise of God in all and each of you, and I am assured all over again that I am not – that we are not – doing this alone. 

We never will be.

And I want that assurance for you, too.

 

We have a lot to do together, you and I. And God. 

We have some wilderness to navigate. 

We have a shining promise of God to claim. 

We have both work and rest that God has prepared for us. 

We have God’s path to follow, day after day.

 

And just as Moses insists on that mountain long ago, we can’t do it alone.

 

And we won’t have to.

God says yes to us, just like to Moses.

Yes, I will be with you.

All of you, together.

 

So listen with me to God, to Moses, to Trinity. 

Listen until our hearts as well as our ears hear the unshakable truth:

We’re not doing this alone.

We never will be.