Terrorism, or what?

 

I ad-libbed the children's talk which makes up the first part of the recording.

What an incredibly nasty Gospel passage was set for today! I don’t like it one little tiny bit. But it’s there, it’s in Matthew’s Gospel, and it’s our Gospel reading for today, so we had better look at it, I think.

A king is holding a wedding-feast for his son. And, one presumes, his daughter-in-law, but she isn’t mentioned! I believe even in Orthodox Jewish weddings to this day the bride and groom celebrate separately, so perhaps that’s not as surprising as it sounds.

What is surprising, though, is that people didn’t want to come. The King sent out his servants to call them in, and they refused. And then when they were asked a second time, they even beat up the servants and killed them. So the King, in retaliation, sent his soldiers to burn down the city, and gets the servants to invite a whole different set of people, “good and bad alike”, who all jump at the chance to visit the royal palace. Or who are too scared not to, by that stage. But then, there is one bloke who isn’t properly dressed, and doesn’t justify himself, and isn’t just asked to leave, as you might expect, but bound hand and foot and cast into outer darkness.

Well, what’s it all about? The thing is, people tend to see the King who throws the party as God inviting everybody in in place of the Jews who refused Jesus’ invitation, and then the ones who are invited later are the ones who, like us, have said “Yes” to Jesus. But all that violence in the middle? Doesn’t sound like the Jesus I know, does it you? And what of the guy who was thrown out for not wearing the right clothes? Maybe he’s the one who tried to get in on his own merits, without putting on “the garment of salvation”.

But this story, with blood and gore everywhere, with the King seeming to be happy to kill everybody and burn their towns, even while letting the feast get cold – what is that saying about God, if we look on the King as representing God? What does it say about the Kingdom of Heaven?

St Luke, and some of the non-canonical Gospels, the ones that didn’t make the cut, tell the story in a very different way, where the party-giver is definitely God, there are no reprisals for those who chose not to come, but then the gaps are filled with anybody and everybody, no matter who they are, no matter what their physical condition. All are welcome. Now, that version of the story is giving a very different picture of God. So what’s Matthew trying to say. Why is his version the kind of image of God that can really damage our mental health, leaving us worried and fearful of “doing it wrong” and being thrown out. Or which can make us justify hating groups of people who are not like us. Or can make us justify using violence in God’s name.

Ah, but think a minute. Matthew is Jewish, writing for Jewish believers. And what was their experience of kings? Not the King of Heaven that we associate with kings – but the puppet kings installed by the brutal Roman regime. Maybe this story can be read another way. The king is brutal, so violence and killing become the norm in that society. Maybe the one who refused to wear a wedding garment, and who refused to justify himself, and who was bound and violently cast out – could that, could that, do you think, be Jesus? That is, after all, what we are told happened to him. He was the one who stood silently in front of his accusers, refusing to justify himself, and who was bound and taken to the shameful death of the cross.

If you have ears to hear, said Jesus, then hear. Maybe many of his followers were unwilling to see such a story as anything other than a picture of God at his most vengeful; maybe they liked seeing God like that. Maybe you do, too? One trouble with seeing God like that is that it makes salvation be down to us, not down to God. If we get it wrong, we’ll be chucked out.

Although one way of seeing the wedding garment, is the salvation that comes from God. We need to acknowledge that we can do nothing of ourselves to save ourselves, and we need to put on the “wedding garment” that Christ provides for us. We can’t be, and won’t be, accepted on our own merits. Acceptance is through Christ, and is unlimited. We will, of course, receive due recognition, I am sure: “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” – but it is through Christ we gain admittance to God’s country.

You can look at the story either way, of course. But all that violence – isn’t there enough violence in the world these days without having to see the rather cartoonish violence in the story Jesus told. As so often, it’s over the top – Jesus spoke Aramaic, which is a very over-the-top language. The king wasn’t very likely to abandon his feast, go and kill those who had killed his messengers and burn their towns to the ground, and then come back and expect to find his feast just as he had left it, after all!

St Paul, in the part of the letter to the Philippians that we also read earlier, reminds us that we should be filling our minds with “those things that are good and that deserve praise: things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and honourable.” This doesn’t mean, of course, that we must close our eyes to the horrors that go on in this world – God forbid!

Even Paul is at his most practical at the start of the chapter, urging two of the stalwart women who run the church to get over themselves and sort out their differences, and he asks the bearer of the letter, and some of the other elders of the church, to help them do that. We’re not told what they were disagreeing about – whether it was an important point of doctrine, or just whose turn it was to arrange the flowers that week, or what was to be on the menu for the communal meal at Pentecost. Even the little things can assume undue importance at times!

But then he reminds us that we need to be joyful always in our union with Christ, and not to worry about anything. Well, that’s easier said than done, for a start! But the point is, Paul says, pray about it. Pray about the issues, bring them to God, being thankful that God is there to listen and to help. And you listen too, in case God wants you to be part of the answer to your prayer, as does often happen. And the more we can leave the issues with God, and focus on the good things, the more we will experience God’s peace.

Now, the word usually translated “peace” comes from the Hebrew word Shalom. And Shalom means far more than peace as in an absence of worry, although that too. It’s more than just an absence of war and quarrels, although them, too. It’s about wholeness. About things being the way they ought to be, but so seldom are.

The way things ought to be. Wholeness. Reconciliation, not just within families, within the church, between denominations, between nations, but reconciliation between people, God and nature. Wholeness. And it’s the wholeness of creation, the wholeness of ourselves within it. That is the sort of peace that Paul says will “keep our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus”.

Now, you know as well as I do that we live in a broken world. The horrendous conflict that has suddenly sprung up, yet again, between Hamas and Israel over the past few days is just one of the many conflicts going on around the world. The war between Russia and Ukraine is still ongoing, even though the latest conflict has knocked it off the front pages. Afghanistan is still refusing women basic rights over their own bodies, as are parts of the USA, but Afghanistan goes further and refuses them most of their rights as human beings.
There is still trouble in Syria… and so it goes on.

And then there is the brokenness of God’s creation: climate change, pollution, extinctions and so on.

Nevertheless, St Paul says to pray, to thank God, and then to fill our minds with “those things that are good and that deserve praise: things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and honourable.”

I’m not entirely sure that Jesus’ story in our Gospel reading comes under that heading! But if the person thrown out in chains for not wearing a wedding garment is Jesus, as there is a strong argument that he is, then that is something we can focus on.

The thing is, I think, that we need to be aware of the evil, bring it to God in prayer, and then put it aside for now. We need to listen to or read the news, of course we do, and pray as we read or listen, but we shouldn’t wallow in it! When our friends on social media post something that means they need our prayers, we should pray at once, so we don’t forget, and then move on. We need to be disciplined about the rabbit-holes we fall down on-line – some, of course, are wonderful, but others, not so much! And so it goes. Common-sense, really, but how many of us have any common sense? And we need to focus on peace, pray for peace, yet still aware that there will probably be no peace in our lifetimes.

And as for the story Jesus told – let’s not wallow in the bloodthirstiness and the nastiness, but let’s focus on the solitary figure, silent, bound, and cast out – for it is through him that we can know God as our heavenly Father, and experience his peace and wholeness. Amen.

With thanks to Nathan Nettleton of the South Yarra Community Baptist church in Melbourne, Australia, whose sermons, as published on Laughingbird.net, helped me enormously with this sermon.

Together in His name

“Where two or three are gathered together in My name,” said Jesus, “there am I with them.”

I expect you know that the Gospels were only written down about 50 or 60 years after Jesus’ death.
A lot of things happened during those years, of course,
and although we know how accurate oral transmission can be,
there are a few places where it looks as though an extraneous passage got inserted.
I don’t quite mean extraneous, I don’t think –
but a passage attributed to Jesus that perhaps wasn’t what he actually said,
but what the early Church thought he ought to have said.
And part of the passage we heard just now is, I think, one of those passages, mostly because it talks about the Church, a gathering of Christians –
and such a thing didn’t exist in Jesus’ day.
But whatever, it got into our Bibles, so we need to read it and learn from it.
And although my text is, as I said at the beginning, “Where two or three are gathered together in My name, there am I with them,” we do need to look at the whole passage, as “a text without a context is a pretext!”

The first part does seem, at first reading, extraordinary, though.
We know from elsewhere that Jesus tells us never to put limits on our forgiveness.
We know we must forgive, or it’s impossible for us to receive God’s forgiveness, we block ourselves off from it.

And we are told never to judge.
We’re told to sort out what’s wrong with ourselves first –
you remember how Jesus graphically told us to remove the very large log from our own eyes before we could possibly deal with the tiny speck that bothered us in someone else’s.

But we are human.
No matter how much we want to love our neighbours as ourselves, it’s difficult.
It’s easy enough to love suffering humanity en masse, to send a text to a certain number to give three pounds towards relieving some kind of community suffering somewhere else.
It’s easy enough to throw an extra box of tea-bags into the food bank box at the supermarket, or to donate to homeless charities.
It’s even relatively easy to do small things to lower your carbon footprint –
to take reusable produce bags to the supermarket, to be scrupulous about recycling, and so on.

Now, don’t get me wrong, all these are good and right and proper things to be doing, and we should probably all do them more than we actually do.
But they are all relatively easy –
the difficult bit comes when we have to start interacting with other people, and loving them.
“To love the world to me’s no chore.
My problem is that lot next door!”
That’s when we’re apt to forget to be loving, when we are apt to go our own way, when we’re apt to hurt people, most probably totally unintentionally.
The careless word, the accidental insult –
or even, sadly, the intentional one.

Now, obviously, if we realise we’ve hurt someone,
the thing to do is to apologise at once.
Sometimes there are times when we don’t really want to apologise –
they started it, it was their fault.
Well, even if it is, we are the ones who need to apologise, if only because it makes us bigger than them….
Well, perhaps not for that reason, but you know what I mean.

But what if it is they who hurt you?
The human thing to do is to hit out and hurt them back, but we’re not supposed to do that, and with God’s help we won’t.
This passage tells us what to do –
first, go and explain what has gone wrong,
and if they agree and apologise, all is well and no harm done.
Then you take a couple of friends along to witness that you had a problem and to try and help you be reconciled,
and then, finally, take it to the church.
The church, note –
not the world!
And then, the passage says, if they still won’t listen,
let them be to you as a tax gatherer or a gentile.
Which, on first reading, sounds as if you should shun them completely,
which was how Jewish people of the time behaved towards them.

But that’s not what Jesus did!
Remember the story of Levi, who was a tax collector, and Jesus called him to become one of the disciples.
Remember Zaccheus, who resolved to pay back anybody he had cheated after Jesus loved and forgave him and went to eat with him.
Remember how many times he talked with, and healed, Gentiles, non-Jews, people who observant Jews would have nothing to do with.

So what is the church to do with those who won’t see that they’ve hurt someone, or if they do see it, don’t care?
From Jesus’ example, it looks as though we have to go on loving them, trusting them, and caring for them.
Heaven, as one paraphrase puts it, will back us up.
Obviously, there are very rare occasions when steps have to be taken,
if a child or a vulnerable adult is at risk, for example,
but mostly things can be put right without that.
And even when steps do have to be taken –
and the Methodist church has systems in place to organise such steps,
so our safeguarding people know what to do –
we still have a duty to love and care for the perpetrator.

Now, the next part of the passage is really not easy to understand.
If, says Jesus, or the Church speaking in Jesus’ name, two or three agree on anything in prayer, it will be granted.
But we know that, with the best will in the world, this doesn’t always happen.
We have all seen times when our prayers, far from being answered,
appear to have gone no further than the ceiling.
But then again, were we only looking for one answer to our prayer?
Were we telling God what to do, as, I don’t know about you, but I find I’m rather apt to.
Were we just talking at God, and not trying to listen,
trying to be part of what God is doing in the world?
All too easily done, I’m afraid.

But the final sentence –
ah, now that brings hope.
“For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”

You see, in the Jewish faith, you need what’s called a minyan, a minimum of ten people –
in many traditions, ten men, not people.
If there are only nine of you, you can’t go ahead with the service.
But not for we Christians.
We know that even if there are only a couple of us,
Jesus will be there with us and enabling our worship.
I think I told you that last time I was with you, when the congregation was rather smaller than usual because of the Cup Final!
But Jesus was definitely with us.


“Where two or three are gathered together in My name,” said Jesus, “there am I with them.”

I don’t know about you, but I found that to be very true during the pandemic, during those long, weary months when we weren’t allowed to meet together, and when we could, there were huge restrictions.
Last time I preached on these passages, it was, I think, the first Sunday we had been allowed back to church in five long months.
We had to sign in, and in some churches we even had to book a seat!
We had to sit miles apart from anybody except our own families, we had to wear masks, we weren’t allowed to sing, or to take an offering (there was usually a box by the door for those who had brought one), or even share the Peace or make our Communions as we were accustomed to do.
But it was a lot better than not meeting at all, which had been the case for so many months, and was to be again the following winter.

Many of us lost loved ones during that hard time, either to Covid-19 or to other illnesses.
Many of us had Covid ourselves, and although some recovered quickly,
others, myself included, were still feeling the after-effects a good two years later.
Many of us had mental health issues during that time.
Many, if not most, of us wondered where on earth God was in all this.

But God was there.
There in the many different ways we struggled to be church together –
the recorded services, the Zoom services, eventually, the livestreams.
Some of those continue to this day –
we now have two Zoom services weekly in the Circuit, the Wednesday evening Compline and the Sunday evening service which, although it is Clapham who run it, welcomes any of us who care to log in.

But most of this is, we hope, ancient history.
There may or may not be another pandemic in our lifetimes –
I hope and pray there won’t be.
Eventually, there will be one, of course;
but I hope not for a long while yet!
But what is total, current, today’s news, is that Jesus is here with us, right now this minute.
We are gathered together in his name, and he has promised that where two or three –
or a dozen or so, in this case –
are gathered together, he is there with us.

We have been told what to do if we have a problem with someone else who refuses to acknowledge it, or to clear the air.
Although I’ll just remind you here that Jesus said that if you know someone has a problem with you, or you with them,
you really ought to make it right before you come to the Lord’s table together.
But that, as this passage points out, isn’t always practical.
All we can really do is pray for God’s grace.
It’s not as if church quarrels were anything new –
even St Paul has to tell two of the women in the church at Philippi to get over themselves and get their acts together!
They happen.
They have always happened.
And they probably always will happen.

But Jesus is there with us, no matter how many people’s backs we’ve put up.
Jesus is there with us because we are gathered in his name.
And this, of course, means we can’t actually exclude anyone!
How can we be gathered in Jesus’ name and exclude anybody from that gathering?
We can’t, of course.
Not even people like tax-gatherers or pagans!
Jesus would never have turned his back on such people unless they had made it very, very, very clear that they wanted nothing at all to do with him, and how can we do differently?

“Where two or three are gathered together in My name,” said Jesus, “there am I with them.”
And it doesn’t matter what we are doing in His name,
whether we’re attending public worship,
or visiting someone who is ill,
or helping at the food bank,
or any other form of community service.
Or even being at work or school, or at home.
If we do it in Jesus’ name, and if there are other people involved, he is there in the midst of it all!

Amen. 

Moses in the bulrushes

 

I think I remember first hearing the story of Moses in the bulrushes, which was our first reading today, when I was in primary school! I imagine you did, too, most probably. It’s one of the first Bible stories we ever learn.

It’s an important story, as Moses was an important person – so important, in fact, that he was one of those who visited the transfigured Jesus on the mountain-top, along with Elijah. God made it clear then that it was Jesus who we are to listen to, Jesus who has superseded both Moses and Elijah, Jesus who is God’s beloved son.
But Moses, like Jesus, wasn’t born to greatness. In fact, rather the reverse. The Israelites, at that time, were living in Egypt – you might recall how they moved down there at Pharaoh’s invitation, and that of his right-hand man Joseph. And at first they settled down, and built farms, and lived their lives according to God’s word as it was then understood, and all went swimmingly. They grew, and they prospered.

Meanwhile, however, the Pharaoh grew old, and died, and a few generations later a new Pharaoh ascended the throne, and this Pharaoh had never heard of Joseph, and didn’t really want to, either. He was concerned, because here was this enormous group of people who weren’t Egyptian at all, living in the middle of Egypt and it was possible – although not probable – that they could overturn his throne. Pharaoh wasn’t having that!

So he got together with his advisors, and they pretty much enslaved the Israelites, demanding – and getting – forced labour from them to build things and carry burdens, work in the fields, and so on. They didn’t build the pyramids – the pyramids existed long before Joseph went to Egypt – but they did build a couple of towns, Pithon and Rameses. But the harder the Egyptians forced them to work, the more children they had, and the more they prospered.

So the Hebrew midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, were told they must kill any boy baby that was born to an Israelite woman, although they could let the girls live. But the midwives were not about to do that, and ignored their instructions. And when summonsed to explain themselves, they said blandly that all that work in the fields meant that the women had a very easy time giving birth, and the babies in question had been born long before they got there! And the children of Israel became stronger and stronger and more and more numerous.

So Pharaoh got very cross indeed, and ordered that all baby boys must be thrown into the river, there either to drown or to be eaten by crocodiles, or both. But it still didn’t stop the Israelites.

The Bible doesn’t give the names of Moses’ parents; they are just referred to as a Levite man and a Levite woman. This means they were both descendants of Levi, one of Jacob’s sons. The Levites, traditionally, end up being the tribe that is responsible for Temple worship and so on – not the priests, but the worship leaders, if you like. I don’t know if they had that role back in Egypt, but it seems significant that Moses should be a Levite.

This couple had two other children that we know of; a girl called Miriam, and a boy called Aaron who was a few years older than Moses, so presumably born before the edict to kill the male babies was made. And then Moses arrives.

I wonder whether Moses’ mother knew what she was going to do if she had a boy. I expect she was praying and praying that it be a girl, and then it wasn’t. Disaster! What on earth was she going to do? How could she give up her beloved baby to be killed?

We aren’t told that she prayed, but I’m sure she did. And she was able to hide the baby for three months, but babies are not an easy thing to hide, and eventually she realised she simply couldn’t. But she had been plotting and preparing. Her baby must go in the river, okay. But she wasn’t going to let the authorities throw him in – instead, she would put him in herself, in a basket she had spent time weaving from rushes, and covering it with pitch so it would be waterproof.

And she took the basket, with Moses in it, down to the river herself. Her heart must have broken as she placed it tenderly in the reed-bed. She had done what she could, complying with the letter of the law, if not the spirit. Only God could help her baby now.

She didn’t dare hang about to see what would happen, but her daughter Miriam could lurk discreetly, pretending to be playing, perhaps.

And what does happen is that Pharaoh’s daughter comes down to the river to bathe, with all her attendants. And she hears the baby crying, and sends one of her women to go and see what the noise is. And the woman brings back the baby in his basket.

Pharaoh’s daughter – we don’t know her name, either; the Bible is so bad at giving women names – is entranced by the baby, and even though he’s obviously a Hebrew baby, she wants to keep him for her own, as though he were a stray puppy or kitten. But the baby is getting hungry now, and howling, and his sister, very bravely, comes up to the women and says “I know where there’s a wet-nurse, if you want one for the baby!”

The wet-nurse is, of course, her own mother, who has just that very day put the baby in the river. And Pharaoh’s daughter says “Ooh, yes please!” and so the family end up moving into the palace, albeit into servants’ quarters, and Moses is brought up as befits a royal child.

There are some obvious parallels with Jesus here, aren’t there? The humble parents, the oppressed people, the edict to kill the baby boys. Ironic, perhaps, that Mary and Joseph fled into Egypt to keep Jesus safe!

Meanwhile, Moses grew up as a child of the palace, although he obviously did know he had Hebrew roots, as we learn later in his story. But Jesus, we hope, had a happy and serene childhood in Nazareth, treated no differently from other boys his age, playing with his friends, going to school, and only very gradually learning that he was different and special as he grew up.

I’m not sure, by the way, whether he knew what Peter’s answer to the question “Who do you say that I am?” was going to be, as we heard in our Gospel reading. Did he already know he was the Messiah? He obviously knew he had a special calling from God, that he was God’s beloved son – but, the Messiah? Peter’s answer was very definitely God’s voice to him. Yes, you are the Messiah. But he asked the disciples not to say anything, as he didn’t want to be elevated to the status of a political leader, which is what they had always imagined the Messiah was going to be.

Moses, as we all know, led his people out of slavery and to the very boundaries of the Promised Land; Jesus wasn’t about overthrowing the occupying power, or really anything to do with politics; he brings us out of slavery in a totally different way – the slavery of sin, as the Bible calls it.

But Moses’ story has more to teach us than just the parallels with Jesus. It’s about God’s wonderful provision for his people.

It must have been so awful for Moses’ mother, mustn’t it? She knew she had to put her precious baby into the river; he could be – and probably would be – swept away and drowned, or eaten by crocodiles, or both. But she was also placing him into God’s hands, and God wasn’t going to let him be swept away or eaten. God saw to it that it was just at that precise moment that Pharaoh’s daughter and her attendants came down to bathe. And just at that precise moment that the baby woke up hungry.

And so Moses was saved from the crocodiles, and grew up a child of the palace.

Jesus, too, was saved from the edict that all baby boys be killed; his parents listened to the angel who warned them, and took him to Egypt, where they stayed until that Herod died, and then resettled in Nazareth, where Jesus grew up as a normal village child.

I wonder how God provides for you and me? We are probably not going to be leaders of our people, but we are still God’s beloved children. And St Paul reminds us that “God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus”.

We didn’t read the passage from Paul’s letters set for today, as it would have made the service too long, but it was that bit from the letter to the Romans where Paul reminds us that although we are one body in Christ, we are all different, and God has given us all different gifts, which we should not be shy about using.

I am sure that almost all of us, looking back, can see times when God provided for us – I know I can, several times, over the course of my life. Sometimes it was using decisions I made; other times it was the right person in the right place at the right time, and so on. And I expect – although I don’t actually know and don’t especially want to know – there have been times when I’ve been the right person in the right place at the right time. And I’m sure there have been times when you have, too.

Pharoah’s daughter was in the right place at the right time. So, of course, was Simon Peter, to tell Jesus that “You are the Messiah, the holy one of God!” I pray that all of us may be the right person in the right place at the right time – and I think I pray that we’ll never know it, as then we might think it was we who did it, not God! Amen.

Being Wrong, Putting it Right

 

Our Gospel reading this morning is a very odd sort of story, isn't it?
Here we have Jesus telling his disciples that what goes into your mouth doesn't matter, it's what comes out of it –
what you say, even, perhaps, what you think –
that matters.
And then he goes and says something that everybody, certainly today and, I suspect, throughout a great deal of history, finds incredibly offensive.

Well, the first bit is easy enough to understand.
Jews and Muslims both have very strict dietary rules, and believe that breaking them makes you unclean, and unfit to be in God's presence.
And they also have strict rules about washing yourself before worship,
being clean on the outside before, one hopes, being made clean within.

But Jesus was able to see, as his followers couldn't,
that what you eat doesn't actually matter.
Many of the rules –
about not eating pig, or shellfish, for instance –
made sense in an era where there was no way of refrigerating food.
Eating them might give you a tummy-upset,
but it wouldn't be the end of the world if you did.
What goes into your mouth, says Jesus, eventually passes through and comes out the other end, but what comes out –
well, that just shows what kind of a person you are!

And then a few days later –
we don't know the exact date, that wasn't the kind of thing that the first gospel-writers thought important –
a few days later he's off in a non-Jewish region, and he is so incredibly rude to the woman who comes begging for healing.
What is going on?

Of course, the traditional explanation is that he was testing her.
Well, that may or may not be the case, I don’t know, but it’s what people often say because it’s what they think Jesus is like.

The difficulty is, of course, that we can't hear the tone of voice he was speaking in.
Did he snap at her, which is a bit what it sounds like?
He had ignored her for some time until the disciples asked him to deal with her or send her away.
Was he trying to be funny?
I wonder how you “hear” him in your head when you read this passage, or one of its parallels.

I tend to hear him as being thoughtful, trying to work it out.
You see, in the time and place when he was brought up,
he would have learnt to assume that the Jews were God's chosen people, and nobody else mattered.
Some things, it would appear, given the situation in Gaza today, never change.
But the point is, Jesus didn't know any better,
which I think today's Israelis ought to.

It might sound strange to say “Jesus didn't know”, because after all, He is God, he is omnipotent and so on.
But we believe –
or at least we say we do –
that He is also fully human.
Unlike the various gods and goddesses of Greek myth,
he wasn't born already adult,
springing fully formed from his father's forehead, or something.
He was born as a baby.

Think about it a minute.
A baby.
Babies are so helpless when they are born; they rely on us, their parents, to do everything for them.
And they gradually grow and learn –
first to sit up,
then to begin to play with objects,
chewing them as well as fiddling with them.
And gradually to pull themselves to standing, and to walk, and so on.
And Jesus had to do the same.
He will probably have chewed on Mum's wooden spoon when his teeth were coming through, and when he was of the age to put everything in his mouth –
and later, he will have discovered that it makes a lovely noise when you bang it on the table,
and have to learn that not everybody enjoys that noise!

And so on.
He had to learn.
We are told he grew in learning and wisdom.
Remember the time when he was a teenager and got so engrossed in studying the Scriptures that he stayed behind in the Temple when everybody else had packed up and gone home –
and then, when his parents were understandably cross,
he said “Oh, you don't understand!”
Typical teenager –
and, of course, Jesus was learning the whole time about the Scriptures,
about who God is,
and, arguably, maybe a tiny bit about who He was.

And here, perhaps, he is learning again.
We can't rely on the Gospel-writers' timelines,
they tend to put episodes down when it suits their narrative.
And here is Jesus, perhaps having slipped away for a few days' break into Tyre and Sidon,
where he was less likely to be disturbed than in Galilee.
And then this woman comes and will not go away.

We don't know anything about her, other than that she was a foreigner –
Mark says she was Syro-Phoenician, Matthew, here, calls her a Canaanite.
Either way, she was basically Not Jewish.
An outsider.

You know, the Bible is full of stories about outsiders coming to know and trust Jesus!
Just off the top of my head you have the centurion whose servant was healed, the other centurion who Peter went to after his dream to tell him it was okay to do so,
and the Ethiopian treasury official.
Oh, and Onesimus, Philemon's slave.
Philemon himself, come to that, but I think by the time the letter was written, it was becoming more widely accepted that non-Jews could be Christians, as well as Jews.

But at the time, these people were outsiders.
No good Jew would have anything to do with them.
And Jesus ignores the woman, until his disciples ask him to get rid of her.
And even then, he doesn't heal her daughter.
Instead, “It's not right to take the children's meat and give it to the dogs!”

But I wonder.
Do you remember the wedding at Cana, which we are told is his first recorded miracle?
And his mother came to him and said “Disaster!
They've run out of wine!”
His first reaction was basically, “So what?
What's that got to do with me?”
but then he went and got the servants to fill those huge amphorae
and the water turned into wine.
He changed his mind.
His first reaction was not to do anything, but if there is one thing
he appears to have learnt, it is to listen to the promptings of the Spirit.

And in this case, too.
The woman, consciously or not, said exactly the right thing:
“But even the puppies are allowed the crumbs that fall from the children's table!”

And to Jesus, that was God's answer.
Yes, he could and should heal this woman's daughter.
So he did.
With the comment that right then, her faith was probably greater than his!

You know, the first time I heard this sort of interpretation of this story,
my immediate reaction was “No way!”
Jesus couldn't be like that –
he couldn't have got things wrong!
You may be thinking the exact same thing, and I really wouldn't blame you!

But, you know, it wouldn't go away.
Like a sore place in one’s mouth, or something,
I kept on thinking about it and thinking about it.
Why was this so totally alien to my mental image of Jesus?

Then I realised that, of course, it was because I was confusing “being perfect” with “never being wrong”.
There’s a difference between being mistaken and sinning!
And, as I said, Jesus had to be born as a human baby, to learn, to grow.
And he may well have learnt, consciously or unconsciously, that as a Jew,
he was one of the Chosen, and thus superior to everybody else.
But he had already learnt, as we found in the first part of our reading,
that keeping the Jewish Law wasn't what made you clean or unclean –
so perhaps it wasn't such a huge leap to discover that being Jewish or not didn't actually matter.
God still loved and cared for you, whoever you were.

And in the end, I found this thought very liberating.
It made Jesus far more human.
I realised that, while I had always paid lip-service to the belief that Jesus is both fully human and fully divine, in fact, I’d never really believed in his humanity!
For me, he had always been a plaster saint, absolutely perfect,
never making a mistake,
never even being tempted.
I realised I’d envisaged him overcoming those temptations the gospel-writers talk about with a wave of his hand, not really tempted at all.
But, of course, it wasn’t like that!
St Paul tells us that he was tempted “in every way that we are”,
and if that doesn’t include really, really, really wanting to do it,
then it wasn’t temptation!

But if Jesus could be mistaken,
if he sometimes had to change his mind,
if being perfect didn’t necessarily mean never being wrong,
then that changed everything!
Suddenly, Jesus became more human, more real than ever before.
The Incarnation wasn’t just something to pay lip-service to, it was real.
Jesus really had been a human being, with human frailties,
just like you and me.
He had had to learn, and to grow, and to change.
Suddenly, it was okay not to get everything right first time;
it was okay not to be very good at some things;
it was okay to make mistakes.

And, what’s more, it meant that the Jesus who had died on the cross for me wasn’t some remote, distant figure whom I could aim at but never emulate, but almost an ordinary person,
someone I might have liked had I known him in the flesh,
someone I could identify with.

As I have frequently said, these Sundays in Ordinary Time are when what we think we believe comes up against what we really believe.
Do we really believe that Jesus, as well as being divine, was also human?
Do we think of him as having had to learn, to grow, to change.
Do we think of him as having made mistakes,
having to change his mind, having to –
to repent, if you like, since that basically means changing one's mind
because one realises one is wrong?

And if that is so, if Jesus is not some remote plaster saint, but a human being just like us –
how does that change things?
How does that change our relationship with Him?
And how does it change things when we make a mistake?

Feeding the Five Thousand

 

Introduction

Poor Jesus was having a very bad day.

In fact, a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

He had just learnt that his cousin John had been killed by Herod, and he badly wanted to get away by himself to talk to God about it, and to begin to come to terms with it.

He did manage to get away a bit later, and when he was feeling more peaceful, he walked across the water to rejoin the disciples.

But right now, he hasn't had a chance to get away by himself,
He went across the lake in a boat, but the crowds walked round
and because Jesus was nice like that he gave up all thoughts of going off by himself for a bit, and he healed the sick people, and I expect he taught them a bit, too.

It was getting dark, and the disciples know that Jesus really needed to eat,
and they could use a break themselves,
so they try to get him to make everyone go away.
But they've all followed Jesus further away from town than they meant, and it would be rather a long way to go back without a breather first, and some food.
But there is no food –
and nowhere to buy any,
even if they could have afforded it.
Just five loaves and two fish.
In some of the other gospels, we learn that this belonged to a small boy, who had shyly come up to Andrew and offered to share his lunch with Jesus, although Matthew doesn’t mention this.
But it appears that this was all the food there was.

Of course, I don't suppose it was all the food there was, not really.
After all, there were mothers in the crowd,
mothers with small children.
They would have made sure they were well-provisioned for the day.
Probably many of the men had lunchboxes
or whatever they carried their food in;
certainly the children would have.
Mothers do tend to see to it that their families are provisioned,
and few people would go out for the day without some sort of arrangements for a meal!

But it was, so we are told, a small boy who was the catalyst,
who offers his lunch.
And Jesus takes it,
gives thanks,
breaks it,
and shares it.
And everyone has enough food,
and there are twelve basketsful left over.
Enough for each of the disciples to take a basket of food home to Mum.

Before we think about what this story means, and why it’s still important, I want us to listen to a video I found which tells this story through puppets.

Did you enjoy that?
I did!
But we need to look at the story, and what it tells us.
I think it tells us something about Jesus,
something about God the Father,
and something about ourselves.

2. Something About Jesus
So what does the story tell us about Jesus?
This sort of food-stretching isn't unique to him, you know!
It happens in the Old Testament, too.
Elijah goes to stay with the Widow of Zarephath during a famine and promises that her oil and flour won't run out if she will feed him, too.
Which she does,
and it doesn't.

Elisha, Elijah's successor,
performs a miracle very like Jesus',
making 20 barley loaves stretch to feed 100 people, with some left over.
Which mightn't sound too bad to us, but those loaves were only about the size of a hamburger bun –
and if you were only given 1/5 of a bun,
you might well want to complain that it wasn't quite enough!

So this kind of miracle was something that prophets did.
You might have noticed that John doesn't tend to record Jesus' miracles unless they teach us something about who Jesus is.
So on one level, in John’s gospel, the story shows that Jesus was not only a prophet like Elisha, but something greater.

And did you notice something else?
Jesus took the food,
gave thanks,
broke it
and shared it.
Doesn't that sound awfully familiar?
Doesn't that sound like something we do some Sundays,
those Sundays we have a Communion service?

So the story is saying something about who Jesus is;
it is showing us that Jesus is not only a prophet,
he is more than a prophet.

3. Something About God the Father
Then secondly, the story tells us something about God the Father.
You see, Jesus says elsewhere that he only does what he sees his Father doing.
And one of the things that always strikes me about this story,
when I read it,
is the amount left over.
Twelve basketsful.

As I said earlier, enough for each of the disciples to take a basket home to Mum!

It isn't that there was just enough food to keep everyone going until they got home.
It isn't that there was enough for everyone to have a decent meal.
There was enough for everyone to have a decent meal and still have masses left over!

That seems to be so typical of Jesus, though.
When he turned the water into wine at the wedding at Cana,
he made enough wine to stock a young off-licence,
never mind be enough for a few guests at the tag-end of a party.
And when people were healed,
they were healed!
He made a proper job of it,
even if it took him two goes.

It's typical of Jesus, and it's typical of God.
I mean, look at the sort of extravagance we see in the natural world –
all those desert flowers, for instance,
and nobody knew they were there.
All those stars,
all those universes.....

This story, with the twelve basketsful left over,
reminds us that God is generous to the point of extravagance.
And also, it was Jesus who broke the bread and shared it out.
He did the serving.
It was Jesus,
elsewhere in John's gospel,
who kneels with towel and basin,
washing the disciples' feet.
It was Jesus who said of himself,
"The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve."

So this story helps to remind us that God longs
and longs
and longs
to give us, his children,
more good things than we can possibly handle.
God wants to serve us,
to heal us,
to make us whole,
to give us what we need –
not just grudgingly,
barely enough,
but pressed down, shaken together and running over!

4. Something About Us
But the third thing that this story tells us is something about us.
And I'm afraid that it isn't very flattering.
All those thousands of people –
five thousand men,
and maybe up to four times that number when you include the women and children –
all those people, and one, just one, was willing to share what he had!
One little boy who came up to Andrew and whispered, shyly,
"Jesus can have my lunch if he'd like".
Nobody else was willing to share.

Yet most people probably had more than they needed that day.
We tend to take along more food than we'll need, just in case.
And if we make a packed lunch for our family,
if they're going on an outing,
there's usually enough that we could share it,
if we wanted to,
without going hungry ourselves.

But the people in the crowd weren't willing to risk going hungry.
They weren't willing to share their food,
not even with Jesus and his disciples.
That was too great a risk.
Perhaps they wouldn't have minded missing lunch, for once,
but what about their children?

Incidentally, I'm aware that I'm sounding as though the sole source of food was from the crowd,
rather than from Jesus.
I rather suspect it was a case of "both, and" –
I'm perfectly certain that if the small boy's five loaves and two fishes were really all the food there was,
Jesus both could have and would have produced
a delicious meal for everyone from just that.
However, I find it almost impossible to believe that nobody else at all had brought any supplies with them!
Like so much of Christianity,
the truth is probably somewhere in between;
a case of "both, and", rather than "either, or".

The crowd was selfish.
Either they had come out without any food, or,
if they had brought food,
they weren't willing to share it.
Either way,
they expected Jesus to do something about it.
They weren't going to do anything.
They were going to hedge their bets,
to wait and see,
to look out for Number One.

And are we like that?
Well, yes, we are, some of the time, aren't we.
We can be extraordinarily selfish.
Look how just a quarter of the world consumes about seventy-five percent of the planet’s resources.
And even in our country, there are those of us who have plenty, and those who are reliant on the food banks to feed their children because their benefits simply won’t stretch far enough.
And if you are one of the ones who have enough, have you given anything to the food bank lately?
It’s easy enough to buy an extra tin of tuna or packet of ramen noodles and drop it in the bins the supermarkets all provide for such purposes.

We can be extraordinarily selfish,

and we can be extraordinarily faithless.
We can't offer more than ourselves to Jesus,
but how often do we offer even that?
The small boy offered what he had –
five loaves, and two fishes.
It wasn't much, but he had the courage to offer it.
Nobody else seems to have had the nerve.
But why not?

Partly, of course, it was selfishness and fear –
if I give my lunch to Jesus,
maybe I won't get any.
Maybe my kids won't get any.
I'm not going to offer;
I need what I have for myself.

But partly it was a different sort of fear.
Fear of rejection.
And that is one of the most difficult of all fears to overcome.
Been there,
done that,
read the book
bought the T-shirt
You don't go to Jesus with your five loaves and two fish because you're afraid he'll shriek with laughter and say
"Who on earth do you think you are!"
You don't go to Jesus and say
"Use me as you will",
because you're afraid he'll either send you off to work somewhere highly disagreeable,
like somewhere with a seriously nasty climate
far away from all your friends and family.
Or else we're afraid that he won't!
That he will say "Oh, I couldn't possibly use you!”
and sort of throw you aside like a used tissue.

But, you know, that's not God!
We've just seen how God longs and longs to be far more generous to us than we can possibly imagine.
And when we say "Use me as you will",
he says "Great!
Now, here's this present,
and do take some of that,
and are you sure you won't have any more of the other,
and you really need some of this, and...."
until you practically have to say,
"Hey, hang on, give me a chance to breathe!"

Oh, but, you are saying,
I've offered and offered and nothing has happened.
God doesn't want me!
Well, I have to ask two questions, then.
The first is, did you really mean your offering,
or did you pull it back as soon as you'd made it.
And the second question is,
are you sure God isn't helping you do exactly what you're meant to be doing right now?
Not all of us are called to spectacular tasks, or to go and work somewhere with a disagreeable climate, and so on.
Some of us are asked to stay right where we are, and be salt and light in our own families and communities.

Students are probably meant to be studying hard and waiting to see where the road leads to next.
Parents are probably meant to be making a safe home for their children.
The elderly are often such enormous lights to the rest of us –
we need you so much in our churches,
just for who you are and
what you have learnt about our dear Lord as you have followed him!

In fact, it's always safest to assume that God will want you to stay where you are, doing what you're doing.
If that should change, you can be quite sure you will know about it totally unmistakeably!
But God can't use you unless you offer yourself to him,
and he will use you if you do!
And if you hold back, whether from fear, or from selfishness, or from any other motive,
then not only do you prevent the Kingdom of God from going forward in the way God would like,
but you also cut yourself off from all the good things God wanted to give you!

5.Conclusion
I've gone on quite long enough for one morning!
But this story,
this central story,
of how Jesus fed a huge crowd,
does teach us that Jesus is greater even than Elijah and Elisha,
and does foreshadow the taking, blessing, breaking and sharing of bread that is so important to us.
It reminds us of how extravagantly generous God can be,
and how much he longs and longs to share that generosity with you and with me.
And it reminds us that all too often we can be selfish and afraid,
and hold back from offering what we have and who we are to Jesus.
So lets make an effort this morning to conquer our fear and selfishness, and to offer ourselves anew to the God whose response is always so infinitely greater than our terrified offerings. Amen.

God's Country

Imagine, if you will, that there is a place you’ve always wanted to visit.
It sounds as though it’s really wonderful –
permanently great weather, fantastic scenery,
lots of great places to visit,
lots of walking, or swimming,
great bars and restaurants,
you name it, this place has it!
And you long and long to go there,
but you don’t know how to get there,
and what’s more, you don’t know anybody else who has been there.
All the things you’ve heard about it are rumour or hearsay.

And then one day someone comes along who very obviously has been there, and he starts to tell you all about it.
But –
oh dear –
it’s not at all what you thought!
Weeds everywhere, attracting masses of birds which could and did eat all the crops!
And the food, far from gourmet, is rotten bread made by women!
And then, he goes on to tell his special friends in private –
but you hear about it later –
the place is so infinitely desirable that people sell all they have to get tickets there!

Well, the place is, of course, the Kingdom of Heaven,
or God’s country,
which Jesus is telling people about.
Unfortunately it seems to be the kind of place that doesn’t go into words very well,
and the parables that Jesus uses to talk about it are,
although we don’t hear it much as we are so familiar with them,
really not what his listeners would have been expecting.

To start with, the mustard seeds –
well, you know mustard seeds.
I expect you use them in your cooking, as I sometimes do.
You can buy the seeds, or you can buy the ground seeds as a powder to make your own mustard –
lovely in salad dressings and cheese sauces –
or you can buy ready-made mustard with or without various flavourings.
I’m sure they used mustard as a seasoning back in Bible times, too –
but it was, and is, a terrific weed.
They do grow it, of course – very pretty flowers, a pale yellow, much nicer than the brash yellow of oilseed rape.
But in Bible times they tended to use the wild plant, because if you cultivated it –
well, it was like kudzu or rhododendrons, or even mint –
you’d never get rid of it!
Nobody would actually go and plant it,
any more than you or I would plant stinging-nettles in the fields.
And, of course, it doesn’t grow into a terrific tree,
never has and never will.
But it does attract birds –
and you don’t want birds eating all your other crops, either!
Yet in God’s country it seems as if you plant mustard and it does grow into a tree, and you actively want to encourage birds, rather than discourage them.

And then the second story is almost worse.
You see, for Jews, what was really holy and proper to eat was unleavened bread, which is what you had at Passover.
You threw out all your old leaven –
we’d call it a sourdough starter, today, which is basically what it is –
and started again.
I remember being told in primary school that this was a Good Idea because you need fresh starter occasionally.
But the thing is, leavened bread was considered slightly inferior –
and the leaven itself, the starter –
yuck!
It isn’t even the bread that is likened to God’s country, it is the leaven itself!
And did you notice –
it was a woman who took that leaven.
A woman!
That won’t do at all!
Again, for male Jews, women were slightly improper –
and who knew that she wouldn’t be bleeding and therefore unclean?
And she hid the starter in enough flour to make bread for 100 people!
She hid it.
It was concealed, hidden.
Not what people would expect from God’s country, is it?

And yet, in the stories Jesus told his disciples privately, a little later, it’s like treasure hidden in a field, and it’s worth selling everything you own just to get hold of that field, and its hidden treasure.
Or the one perfect pearl that the collector has been searching for, and he finds it worth selling the rest of his collection to buy it.
God’s country is worth all we have, and all we are.

It’s all very contradictory.
God’s country is totally not what we might expect.
It’s not a comfortable place –
when Jesus told the story of the lost son, he explained that the son was reduced to looking after pigs, a job which the Jews, then and now –
and Muslims, too, incidentally –
thought was really disgusting.
Perhaps we could think of him as working in a rat farm, or a sewage works.... not a pleasant job, anyway.
And yet the father went running to welcome him home –
and men in that day and age never ran.
The story is taking place in God’s country!

And if we want to be part of it, part of God’s country –
as, indeed, we probably do or we’d not be here this morning –
if we want to be part of the Kingdom of God,
then we need to expect the unexpected.
Someone once said that God comes to comfort the afflicted,
and to afflict the comfortable, and I think that’s very true.
Often we are called to do things we never expected.

What would you think if a group of refugees turned up here one Sunday morning, and asked if you could find a time for them to worship –
but they were Muslim, and had no idea of converting to Christianity.
They just wanted to find a sacred space in which they could pray.
Perhaps they couldn’t find a mosque where they would be welcome, for whatever reason –
maybe there wasn’t one where their own particular style of worship was practised,
or maybe they simply weren’t welcome there for one reason or another.
What if they wanted to join you on a Sunday morning because it was where the worship of God was taking place,
even if it wasn’t in a form they were used to?
Would you welcome them, or would you find their presence intolerably disruptive.

I understand that this very thing happened in a church in the Midlands a few years ago;
the refugees just wanted a place where they could pray, no matter what their faith was.
The minister of the church was all in favour –
of course, come in, be welcome!
But, sadly, the congregation was horrified, and many of them moved elsewhere.
They thought the minister should be there for them, not for these incomers who weren’t even Christians!
But surely the church should be the institution that cares more about those who are not yet its members, or even who never will be its members?
I’m sure that in God’s country we will find that to be the case.

Sadly, though, it’s not surprising that the congregation reacted like that.
Look what happened when the Empire Windrush came over
and the people on it turned up in Church their first Sunday,
only to be turned away.
Not everywhere, of course –
many churches made a point of welcoming immigrants;
Railton Road church, in this very circuit, had a big poster outside welcoming people, and I believe many others did, too.
But in some churches people were turned away, simply because they weren’t “like us”,
God used this for good, of course, and we saw the rise of the Black-led churches which did, and still do, so much good in our inner cities.
But all the same….
I feel ashamed on behalf of those who were turned away!

In God’s country, values are turned upside down.
It’s not the wealthy, the educated, the important who matter.
It’s the poor, the downtrodden, the refugee, the single mum on benefits.
It’s the people who come to the food bank for help,
not those who give out the bags and the coffee!
Remember how Jesus said that at the last day,
he will say to those who did nothing to help “You didn’t help me!”
and will commend those who did help for helping him.

Talking of single parents, do remember, won’t you,
that this can be a very hard time of year for many families –
they might just be able to cope in term time when the children get a meal at school,
but in the holidays they struggle and have need of our food banks,
so do give extra when you can.
As I’m sure you know by now, Brixton Hill now runs a food bank and advice hub every Wednesday,
and it’s also a bit of a social centre where people can sit down for a coffee and a chat.
And donations, in cash or in kind, are always very, very welcome.

I don’t know about you,
but I am not very good at recognising Jesus in the beggar outside Tesco,
or even the checkout operator inside the store.
And yet we know that in God’s country, we are all loved and valued, whoever we are and whatever our story is.
And, as we heard from St Paul earlier:
“Nothing can separate us from his love:
neither death nor life, neither angels nor other heavenly rulers or powers, neither the present nor the future,
neither the world above nor the world below –
there is nothing in all creation that will ever be able to separate us from the love of God which is ours through Christ Jesus our Lord.”

And however disconcerting we may find God’s country, we know that because of that love, it is worth all we have, and it is worth all we are.

Amen. 

Flowers, weeds, ladders and seeds

I have to admit that I do find today’s readings really rather difficult.

They are both familiar stories, and that almost makes it worse –
it’s not easy to see how they should influence our lives today.

Let’s look first at the story of Jacob’s ladder.
The joy of these very earliest stories in the Old Testament is that they do present their people warts and all.
They don’t sanitise them into saints!
And Jacob, it has to be said, was not a nice person.
In fact, he was one of the nastiest people in the Bible.
He is, of course, the younger of the twin sons of Isaac,
and a grandson of Abraham.
He is his mother’s favourite,
and spends his time indoors,
doing the cooking and generally keeping the encampment going,
while Esau does the outside work and looks after the flocks and herds.
You remember, of course, the infamous story of how Esau sold his birthright to Jacob for a bowl of lentil stew one cold day when he was hungry.
Lentil stew is good, but not that good!
Esau also married a couple of foreign wives,
and, according to Genesis 26:35,
“they made life bitter for Isaac and Rebecca”.

And it was partly because of that, I think, that Rebecca helped Jacob trick Esau out of his father’s blessing.
If you had the Old Testament reading here last week, you will have heard that story,
how Rebecca helps Jacob tie goatskin over his hands,
so that his father thinks it’s Esau.
Although I’m not sure quite how much Isaac was fooled:
“The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau”.
Anyway, Isaac goes along with it, and gives Jacob his blessing.
But, of course, Esau is furious, and plans to kill Jacob,
so Jacob has to flee.
And it’s while he’s on the run that our reading starts.

Jacob falls asleep,
just on the ground with nothing more than a stone for his pillow,
and dreams of the ladder, or staircase, between earth and heaven,
with the angels going up and down it.
And God, speaking directly to Jacob,
assuring him of his love and blessing,
reaffirming that God will be with him on his travels, and will bring him safely home.
And when Jacob wakes, he knows he’s been with God:
“Surely the Lord is in this place –
and I did not know it!
How awesome is this place!
This is none other than the house of God,
and this is the gate of heaven.”

I wish I could say that from that time on Jacob was a changed person.
But he wasn’t, of course.
For him, God was associated with places, not people.
Bethel, where he had his dream,
was a place where God lived,
and despite God’s promise of being with him all the time,
Jacob didn’t seem to want to know.
He goes on lying and cheating, as do the rest of his family;
his sons even plotted to murder their brother Joseph,
and were only just stopped from doing so.
Even though later on God encounters Jacob again,
and this time Jacob does seem to realise that God is more than just a local god, one would scarcely describe them as God-fearing people.
Yet God used them as an integral part of his plans for the nation of Israel.

And so we turn to our Gospel reading, which carries on from last week’s reading about the parable of the sower.

In this story, someone has been and gone and mixed weed seeds in with the wheat that they have kept so carefully since last year.
Now, a weed is basically a plant in the wrong place.
Many wild flowers are simply lovely –
I am never very good at knowing which is which, except for obvious ones like bluebells or primroses.
Robert and I were in the Hungarian countryside a few weeks ago, the puszta, they call it, and, as the land there isn’t very suitable for vast monocultures, there were acres and acres of beautiful wild flowers.
Poppies, vetches, ladies’ bedstraw, lavender, all sorts of other flowers.
Also things like burdock and wild barley –
barleygrass, we used to call it in my childhood –
that I hadn’t thought of for years!
It was wonderful.
But, although we deplore the monocultures that here in the UK can make vast tracts of our countryside look very dull indeed,
we do prefer to keep the wildflowers to the headlands and verges!
You do need the wildflowers there, to attract insects and butterflies, but you don’t want them messing up your crops.
It would be very difficult for even a modern weedkiller to target the right thing, especially if the weeds were things like barley-grass or wild oats –
you couldn’t destroy them without destroying the entire crop.
Imagine what that would do to a subsistence farmer in our day, for instance, perhaps in Africa!

But, apparently, back in Bible times, Jewish law didn’t allow you to grow two kinds of crop in the same field.
So the servants were really anxious to go and pull up the weeds,
it was all wrong to let them grow.
But the farmer knew that it would really damage the wheat, and jeopardize the harvest, if they were to do that,
so he tells his men not even to try.
Time enough, he says, to destroy the weeds when the crop is harvested ­
by then, they won’t damage the crop itself.
This must have been rather a shock to Jesus’ hearers, of course.
But then, I expect they were used to Jesus saying things that might appear shocking!

In this country today, of course, the barren weeds would be harvested along with the corn, and go through the combine harvester,
but back then, harvesting was done by hand with a scythe or sickle, and it was easier to separate them out before they were turned into sheaves.
I expect the same would apply in those areas where modern harvesting methods aren’t appropriate, in the developing world, too.

But what does it all mean?
Do these stories, familiar though they are,
have any real relevance to our lives today?

I think, perhaps, they do.
You see, the whole point about Jacob is that God didn’t give up on him!

Jacob was a thoroughly bad lot, he didn’t even try to live a godly and moral life, he was out for what he could get.
But God had serious plans for him, and for his descendants, and even though he couldn’t really get through to Jacob on the first time of asking, at Bethel, he tried again and again, until finally he was sort of successful.

So the first point is that God never gives up on us.
No matter how awful we are, no matter how far we walk away from God, the Good Shepherd still grabs his coat and wellies and goes to look for us.
Time and again God went to Jacob and his family, spoke to them in dreams and visions, tried to show them something of who He is.
Time and again he met with failure,
they said “Oh yes, there’s a god here, is there?”
and carried on with their lives.

Then the second point is that God has confidence in us.
When Jesus tells the parable of the weeds,
you see how confident the farmer is that the crop won’t be damaged by having the weeds grow among it.
There’s no way he’s going to risk damaging the crop by doing anything prematurely.
The weeds may take up space, but the quality of the seed will win through to a good harvest.
Doesn’t the same God who sows the seed in us have the same confidence?
That’s something to celebrate, I reckon.
Each of us, those of us who have said “Yes” to Jesus
and who are touched by His Spirit,
each of us has the most incredible God-given potential to grow and develop into the person God created us to be.
God has confidence that we will be part of building the Kingdom of Heaven.

And the third point is that we need to have confidence in God.
Sometimes we feel afraid when we look round and see that we’re surrounded by weeds.
It feels as though we must be overwhelmed,
that we must go under.
But God knows that we won’t.
God has confidence that we won’t.
It may be more than we can handle right now, but God will be with us every step of the way, even if it doesn’t always feel like that.
We don’t have to handle those weeds on our own!

We also need to trust God when he tells us to wait until the harvest.
Sometimes we want to rush in, like the servants in Jesus’ story, to Do Something About It.
Like them, it feels all wrong to us when wheat and weeds grow in the same field.
The mediaeval church reckoned the “weeds” were heresies;
we don’t fuss quite so much about heresies,
but sometimes we fuss more than we need to about other people’s spiritual status before God.
We fuss, too, when problems loom large in our lives, whether personal or as a church.
We fuss when things have gone wrong and God seems to be absolutely ignoring both us and the problem!
We reckon that if we did this or that, then things would become quite all right again.
Sadly, of course, it doesn’t work that way.
If we rushed in and did what we thought,
it probably would hurt only ourselves, and not have any effect on the problems we face.
Unlike God, we can’t see round corners.
We need to trust God that, in the words of Mother Julian,
“All will be well, and all manner of thing will be well.”