Some people get called down from a tree. Others get invited off their high horse. Whatever it takes. (sermon from Sun, Oct 30, 2022)

Opening Thought:

Yesterday, like every Saturday, I was at a coffee shop to finish up work on the sermon.  I was at my usual table in a corner where I can work in relative peace. 

Yesterday, though, a half-dozen people moved in at a cluster of tables near me, and within minutes I didn’t like them.  Their loud voices (they seemed loud to me), their expensive work-out outfits, their air of self-confidence, their talk about investments and property and capital and control, told me everything I needed to know about them.

I didn’t like them.  I felt put upon.  Maybe I was a little bit jealous of them – of what they had, that I didn’t.  And I wanted them to leave.

 

How much of life these days – on both big and little scale – from coffee shops to national politics, shapes up that way?  With group after group quickly and even angrily defining themselves and others as enemies, as good guys and bad guys, as totally right and totally wrong.  Group after group climbing up on their high horse to set the world -- and set others, right.  

 

And when we do that, who’s right?  Is anyone?

Reading:  Luke 19:1-10 

In the reading today, Jesus and his disciples are drawing near to Jerusalem.  They are attracting crowds along the way.  Many expect Jesus, once he reaches the Holy City, to establish the kingdom of God on earth.  Soon, they believe, the sinners in charge of the world will be thrown down, and the saints who suffer oppression will finally be able to enjoy all the good that God intends for them.

In the reading, mention is made of a chief tax collector whom Jesus meets along the way.  A tax collector was typically a Jewish citizen who chose to work for the Empire.  He collected the heavy taxes imposed by Rome to maintain its hold over the people, and Rome was happy enough to let the tax collectors add their own percentage as well on top of the tax, to line their own pockets.  No wonder the collectors were despised as betrayers of their own people.

And someone so good at it that he became a chief tax collector, would be the first one the people would like to see done away with in the kingdom of God.

[As Jesus drew near Jerusalem] he entered Jericho and was passing through town.  There was a man there named Zacchaeus, who was a chief tax collector, and was rich.  He was trying to see who Jesus was, but, being a short man, he couldn’t because of the crowd.  So, he ran ahead and climbed up a sycamore tree so he could see Jesus, who was about to pass that way. 

When Jesus came to that spot, he looked up and said, “Zacchaeus, come down at once.  I must stay in your home today.” So, Zacchaeus came down at once, happy to welcome Jesus.

Everyone who saw this grumbled, saying, “He has gone to be the guest of a sinner.”

Zacchaeus stopped and said to the Lord, “Look, Lord, I give half of my possessions to the poor.  And if I have cheated anyone, I repay them four times as much.”

Jesus said to him, “Today, salvation has come to this household because he too is a son of Abraham.  And the Son of Man – the Truly Human One, came to seek and save the lost.”

Reflection 

It’s such a simple story.

Jesus is coming to town.  A crowd of followers starts to gather along the route.  A crooked, little cheat of a man tries to join them and get close to the front, but they turn him away.   Zacchaeus runs on ahead, climbs into a tree overlooking the road.  And when Jesus gets there he looks up at the despised little man, and says, “Zacchaeus, come down.  I want to have lunch today at your place.”

People start grumbling.  But as Zacchaeus comes down, he tells Jesus he repents of his crookedness, that he will pay back what he’s stolen from people, and he will be a different man.  Jesus embraces him as a brother in the faith.  Zacchaeus is now in.  And the lesson is that the worst of sinners can be saved, and when they repent and become good like us, it’s up to us to welcome them into our circle.

Not a bad lesson, as far as it goes.

But there are three little details in the way the story is written, that suggest the point of the story may go even farther than that. 

One, which I learned only this week but which has been there all along to be known and taken note of, is that the name “Zacchaeus” means “pure” or “innocent.”

Really?  He’s a tax collector!  And throughout the Gospel the tax collector is presented as a stereotypical bad guy – a crook and a cheat – a willing agent of the empire in Rome – a colluder with the enemy and a betrayer of his own people – lowest of the low.  How can such a man be called Pure or Innocent?  Especially by Jesus, who’s supposed to be able to see not just the external appearance, but into the heart of each person?

Is Jesus using his name sarcastically, as a way of catching Zacchaeus’ attention, and goading him a little bit to consider how wrongly he’s living his life?  Or does he know something about Zacchaeus – does he see something in him, that others don’t? 

A second detail in the story maybe helps answer that question.  It’s a grammatical point, easily overlooked but critical.  I’m indebted to Rev. Anneke Oppewal, a minister in the Australian Uniting Church, and a more diligent Greek scholar than me, for this, and also for the third detail that follows. 

This second point has to do with what’s called the future present tense of a verb that when used of some action, suggests that the action is already happening in the present moment, and will continue to happen indefinitely into the future. 

It’s a very special use of a verb. It’s used in the story of Zacchaeus, and used only once – when Zacchaeus tells Jesus that half of his possessions he will give to the poor, and when he has defrauded anyone of anything, he will pay back four times as much.  A way of acting referred to in the future present tense. 

Which means, in response to the crowd grumbling about Jesus wanting to spend time with such a bad guy as they think Zacchaeus is, he may be saying, “Lord, look … I don’t know if you know this or not … I know they don’t … but half of my possessions I’ve begun giving to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I pay back four times as much.  I’ve been doing this for a while … and plan to keep on.”

Now, the way the story is written, Zacchaeus may already have known a bit about Jesus before he arrived in town, and wanted to take this opportunity to see him in real life.  Had he maybe heard of the way Jesus was changing people’s lives all around the province, and from the way it struck him he had begun to change his ways as well?  And was his desire to see Jesus as he passed through town, a desire to put a face to the name, and to find out more about the way of life he was already starting to act out without fanfare and under the radar of the townspeople around him?

And had Jesus maybe already heard about this tax collector in Jericho named Zacchaeus, who was starting to show signs of being changed in some way?  Who was helping out some of the poor in the town, and actually giving money back to people he had defrauded?  In other Gospel stories – like the ones about Jesus making arrangements with folks ahead of time for a donkey he could use to ride into Jerusalem, and a quiet, secret place to share the Passover, it seems there’s a pretty good network of contacts and a grapevine of underground kingdom-of-God info that Jesus has at his disposal.  So is it possible that he already had in his mind that while he was in Jericho, he wanted to meet this Zacchaeus, and help him grow – and maybe grow more open and public, in the new way of living he seemed to be embarked on?

Which brings me to the third point in the way the story is told.  In the Greek, Zacchaeus is described as “diminished in stature.”  We assume this means he was short.  Which explains why he had to climb the tree to see over other peoples’ heads.

But the word can also mean diminished in other ways – in reputation, in social standing, in public acceptance.  Does the word refer also to the way Zacchaeus was judged and ostracized, put down and kept out, a victim of prejudice and false assumptions based on his job – guilty by association and public image?

And that because Jesus knew something else and something deeper about him – about Zacchaeus’ deep-down, hidden heart, and about the pure desire and innocent longings he was starting to feel about doing the right and good thing for others, that Jesus was able to reach out to him as a beloved child of God, a faithful son of Abraham, and a dear and valued servant of the kingdom of God on earth?

And … and maybe this is the point of the story, to suddenly turn the tables on the supposedly and apparently good people crowded all round him?  To challenge them – in a way they never expected, to see things differently and see themselves differently, as they come to see Zacchaeus and their judgement of him, differently?

Which brings me to me.

Do you remember the group of people I mentioned before the reading of the Zacchaeus story?  The ones who moved into my space yesterday at the coffee whop, and who I wished weren’t there?  The easy judgement I formed of them?  How I so quickly saw them and me as living in different worlds?

The way things played out, as I couldn’t help but overhear bits and pieces of their conversation, is that I realized I was hearing them talking about preparing to run next Sunday in the Marathon of Hope.  That’s why they were in their work-out outfits.  And that's why they were at the coffee shop.  They had all come back from separate training runs.  And now they were talking about meeting and helping each other in the run next week.  Because, it turns out, they like to run for, and give to charities and causes that help make the world a better place, that do something good for others, that help raise the lot of the poor and the needy. 

\Which raises a few questions for me. 

One, is how (and how much) am I like the crowd around Jesus, judging others by appearance and how different they are from what I expect faithful living to look like?  Judging people guilty by association and stereotype and first impression, rather than really getting to know them.  Knowing their heart.  Knowing them as God does. 

Two, is whether – and how (and how much), I myself am like Zacchaeus?  A person with a heart that at its inner core is pure and innocent in its desire to be good and do good for others, but which is overlain with other stuff.  A person who is on the way – who has made a start towards living out the pure and innocent desire within, but still is only on the way.  Who really needs to see Jesus to put a face to the idea.  Who needs to welcome Jesus into his home to be helped to grow in the good way.  And who needs to be part – and be willing to take part in, a wider family of faith than I have known and taken a place in so far, to be encouraged and helped to grow more openly and publicly into the kind of person I can be, and most deeply want to be.

It's really quite amazing how tending to, and following up on the little details of the story – someone else’s as well as my own, and especially where I really am in any story that involves Jesus, can make all the difference in the world.

Reaching out ... as a companion, not a role model (sermon from Sun, Oct 23, 2022)

 

Opening Thought:

 

Last weekend there was a startling front-page headline and a heart-breaking story in The Hamilton Spectator:  “ ‘You’ll never be good enough’ – Grace McSweeney longed for acceptance that never came.  She died by suicide at age 12.  Her family is sharing her story in the hope it will make a difference.”

 

Grace was born in Hamilton, and through her 12 years she lived also in Paris and in Brantford.  Not far from us.  She was one of us.  She did not know peace in her life, in her self, among her peers.  And what she suffered and died from, many others do as well in their own way.

 

It makes me wonder, and want to know something more about the love of God for all.  Makes me onder what makes for peace, in response to that kind of agony and alienation in our neighbourhoods, our schools, our cities.

Reading:  Luke 18:9-14 

Jesus had a complicated relationship with Jerusalem as the city of God, with the Temple as the house of God, and with religious rules as the way of God. 

People around him put a lock of stock in these things, and as long as Jerusalem was still there, the Temple was in good shape and well-maintained, and the religious rules were being followed,people had confidence they were right with God.  Jesus saw things differently, though.  Jerusalem, the Temple, and the religious rules all meant something to him, but God and being right with God were also bigger than all of those things.

Jesus tells his followers a story about this. In this story, the Pharisee is an upstanding Jew who would have been doing his best to follow all the rules, and would have been respected and looked up to in the Temple.  The tax collector is a Jew who has sold out to Rome, to become a servant of the empire that is oppressing his people.  It would have seemed odd to Jesus’ listeners that such a person would even be in the Temple. 

Jesus also told this parable to people who were sure of their own goodness and despised everybody else.

“Once there were two men who went up to the Temple to pray: one was a Pharisee, the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood apart by himself and prayed, ‘I thank you, God, that I am not greedy, dishonest, or an adulterer, like everybody else. I thank you that I am not like that tax collector over there. I fast two days a week, and I give you one tenth of all my income.’ “But the tax collector stood at a distance and would not even raise his face to heaven, but beat on his breast and said, ‘God, have pity on me, a sinner!’

“I tell you,” said Jesus, “the tax collector, and not the Pharisee, was in the right with God when he went home.  For those who make themselves great will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be made great.”

Reflection 

At the start of worship I mentioned the tragic death of Grace McSweeney.  Five words, “You’ll never be good enough” were the headline of the story about her, and also the judgement under which she lived all her life. 

It reminds me of the story of Amanda Todd – the 15-year-old victim of cyber-bullying who also died by suicide in Port Coquitlam.  Of Reena Virk, a 14-year-old murdered by bullies in Saanich, B.C. because she didn’t fit in to their crowd.  Of Matthew Shepard – whom John reminded us of last week, a 22-year-old gay student at the University of Wyoming, killed because he didn’t fit in.  Or Devon Freeman, a 17-year-old First Nations young man in a group home on the edge of Hamilton, who died by suicide in part because he felt so isolated and cut off from any helpful or nurturing community.

On one side, some of these stories are about bullying and all the ways people find to do it.  On another side – the side of the victims, all these stories are about self-loathing, and believing in one way or another that you aren’t, and never will be good enough.  Self-loathing is a curse suffered by many of our friends and neighbours, maybe many of our own family, maybe many of us.  It can be deadly, and more often it’s just deadening.  As though “just” and “deadening” are two words that can ever stand together.

A colleague in ministry shared with me a story of a confirmation class she once led.  There were seven or eight teens in the class.  Almost all had grown up in the church, belonged to good church families, and were good friends.  One was not.  Her parents did not attend church, and she hadn’t either.  It was her grandmother who was the member, and who wanted her to have some connection with church, so she signed up for the confirmation class.

It soon became clear to her, though, that the other kids in the class did not accept her. She didn’t wear the right clothes.  She wasn’t as attractive as they were – or at least, not attractive in the way they valued.  She didn’t know the right answers.  And she saw the looks they exchanged among themselves.  Heard the little laughters.  And after a couple of weeks, she stopped coming.  And never went back.

And it doesn’t always take other people to lead us into self-loathing.  Some of us do a pretty good job of it to ourselves.

When I was in theology school, one of my classes was taking a guided field trip to a synagogue to observe and participate as much as we could in one of their high holy days.  When we met to go over there, one of our classmates was missing.  He didn’t show up, and I found out later that as he was preparing for the trip, he became unsure of what to wear.  He was anxious not to be inappropriate, and as he dithered and dithered, he became so anxious that he couldn’t bring himself to go.  He stayed home, and missed out.

We have so many kinds of standards, and tests, and ways of measuring our presentability in life, and of measuring others as well. 

We do it with our bodies.  The way we look.  How fit we are.  How well, or poorly we are dressed.  If we or someone else is able-bodied and healthy, or disabled in some way or weakened and diminished.

We measure minds and intellectual and emotional capacity.  How smart we are.  How educated.  How mentally and emotionally strong, or disabled, diseased, or challenged.

We measure ourselves by our job.  Where we live.  The value of our house.  Our investment portfolio.

And it happens from birth to death.  From that seemingly innocent question, “what percentile are your kids or your grandkids in, or how are they doing in school?” to “how instagram-able, really, is my life, what home renos can I afford, and how attractive and shareable are my retirement plans?”

This is not something new that our society has invented.  But we’ve developed it to the point we now have ways of measuring almost everything in life – and we’ve become addicted to it, as a way of who and how we are in comparison to others.

On one hand, being able to measure progress and achievement can help guide us in what we do, can inspire us to greatness, can encourage us to improve, and can help us identify people who have just what we need for particular role and jobs.

But on the other hand, this obsession to rank ourselves and others, to measure and test and give grades in one way or another, can also destroy self-esteem, make some people withdraw, and lead us to exclude or write off others.  We have so many ways of measuring and grading ourselves and others, that for some it’s probably a marvel they have the courage to get out of bed in the morning, or step outside the door.

Which is why I marvel at the courage of the tax collector in the story Jesus tells.

The tax collector knows he doesn’t measure up.  His job and his life are terrible.  He is colluding and working with the empire that’s oppressing his own people.  He collects taxes for Rome and adds his own take to it, so he can make a living.  Does he like being a tax collector?  Does he like betraying and working against his own people?  Probably not, but maybe it’s all he can do.  The only job around that lets him make a living.  Feed his family.  Keep a roof over their head.

So, when he comes to the Temple – itself a strange thing to do – most tax collectors wouldn’t be there because they know they’re not welcome, they don’t measure up, they’re the wrong kind of people to be there.  I mean, just look at the Pharisee over there.  Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be like? 

So, when he comes to the Temple he stands at a distance from everyone else.  He can’t even raise his head to God and to heaven.  All he can do is pray God might have mercy on him – be kind to him, a sinner, a failure, a man whose life is a total mess and at the bottom of every scale that he thinks matters.

But the point is, he does it.  He’s courageous enough, or desperate enough, or both, that he comes for a taste of mercy, for the feeling of holy kindness and acceptability that he so dearly needs.  And isn’t that what the Temple, what church, what Christian community, what any kind of faith community are supposed to be like, and supposed to be for? 

And not just for the tax collector, but also for the Pharisee.  Because yes, the Pharisee is actually a very upstanding man, honestly able to tick off a lot of boxes of good things in his life.  Pharisees are the best of the best, spiritually speaking, and he’s being honest when he lists off the good things he does, the good practices he maintains in his life, and the ways he is a good model and example for others.

But the problem is, this isolates him, too.  He thanks God for making his life morally superior to others who don’t measure up to the good things he is and does.  And in doing that he separates himself from real community and honest communion with others.  He becomes not a real, full-bodied human being but a caricature, a paint-by-number picture of perfection.  Somewhat removed both from other people around him and from his own inner self – his shadow, his own struggles, his moments of doubt and imperfection and failure that he doesn’t feel free to bring into the Temple and let other people see.

I heard a story recently of a gathering of ministers on mini-retreat.  I forget what the subject or theme of the retreat was, but somehow it led these eight or ten ministers to start sharing their stories with one another.  For one of them, the exercise soon became an agonizing litany of all the times and all the stages in his life when what he was told, what he learned, and what he internalized about himself is that he was not good enough.  Over and over that line, and that heavy burden came out – “I am not good enough.”

His colleagues at that point gathered round him.  They reached out to touch him, and lay their hands on his shoulders, on his back, and on his head.  And as he told his story, and uttered those terrible words, they uttered a different judgement, and they invited him to say it with them.  It was “you are loved, and you are enough.”

Can you imagine how redeeming, how liberating, and how transforming that was?  And not just for the one minister at the heart of that circle’s concern. But for every one of them in that circle, each struggling silently, no doubt, with their own inner failures and demons -- and maybe not always having a safe space to let them be seen and known.

And can you imagine church, the Temple, faith community of any mind always being like that?