It takes a village to be the kingdom (from Sun, Sept 24, 2023)

 Reading: Matthew 20:1-16

Sometimes Jesus says the darnedest things. 

He says he has a story to help us understand the kingdom of heaven. He starts by describing a perfectly normal situation – a kind of situation that happens every day between people, where we think we know what the good outcome will be.  Then he throws us a curve ball, and has the whole story turn out very differently from what we expect.  Matthew 20:1-16 is one of those stories.

In this story, it’s helpful to remember that in the Bible a vineyard is never just a vineyard. For Jesus and those who listened to him, a vineyard with God as the vineyard owner calling people to work in it was an image of the kingdom of God come to be on Earth.  The vineyard was a time and place carved out and planted by God in the world where God’s good will for the well-being of all would flourish – like a new Garden of Eden, where God would call people – just ordinary people, to work together in faithfulness to God’s way, to make it happen.

“For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.  He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day [about 20 cents today, and the normal daily wage for a soldier or a day labourer in Jesus’ day] and sent them into his vineyard.

 

“About nine in the morning he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing. He told them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’   So they went.

 

“He went out again about noon and about three in the afternoon and did the same thing.  About five in the afternoon he went out and found still others standing around.  He asked them, ‘Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?’

 

“‘Because no one has hired us,’ they answered. 

 

“He said to them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard.’

 

“When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, ‘Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.’

 

“The workers who were hired about five in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. ‘These who were hired last worked only one hour,’ they said, ‘and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.’

 

“But he answered one of them, ‘I am not being unfair to you, friend. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you.  Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?’

 

“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

 

Reflection

 

Commenting on today’s parable of the gracious vineyard owner and the grumbling workers, Kate Lasso – a member of the 8^th Day Faith Community, a small ecumenical community in Washington, DC, writes this:

 

Riding the bus, I rejoice when a stranger squeezes on just as the doors close.  A victory that all bus riders can appreciate.  I’m likely to call out to the driver if I see someone trying to make it on, who is not quite there.  I mourn if someone comes up just as we pull away.  On board, we give no further thought about how we got there.  We all made it on the bus.

 

So why do I struggle with the parable of the Workers in the Vineyard? Richard Rohr, [she says] suggests it’s due to “living in a world of meritocracy, of quid-pro-quo thinking, of performance and behaviour that earns an award.” 

 

Given the age of this parable – it’s over two thousand years old, it seems this way of arranging the world, and deciding out who gets how big a slice of the pie, or any slice at all, is as old as the hills.  And it’s still strong today.  It’s deep in human nature as we know it.

 

And it shapes so much of our life.  It shapes social policy, in the way we distribute education and health and recreation resources around our cities.  It colours our charitable impulses and programs, whenever we start to sort out who is deserving or not of a community’s generosity.  It shows up in our politics and big-picture policies that give preference to the voice and the needs of some, and counts others as dispensable and not as important.  This ethic of meritocracy and of people being rewarded according to their performance and productivity also shows up in our own characters and personalities and personal behaviours.

 

Years ago when I studied theology and lived in Toronto, I helped out at a dying church just on the edge of downtown near Christie Pits, and one summer the tiny membership of the church decided that if they were going out, they wanted to go with a bang.  A party for the neighbourhood that was no longer white European, Protestant and United Church, but still their neoighbourhood.  We contacted neighbourhood artists and cultural groups, and arranged a day-long party of music, dancing and food.

 

One of the groups – a Ukrainian dance school required a stage to dance on, rather than just the church lawn.  So we arranged to borrow some used plywood and built a stage the day before the party.  Then the night of the party, after it was over – and it was a great day, all we could have hoped for, after the party was over we had to take the stage apart, load the plywood sheets into a truck and have them ready to return to their source the next morning.

 

It was a lot of work late into the night after a long and tiring day, and as I walked back and forth from lawn to truck with sheet after sheet of plywood, all I could think of was that it seemed the others helping out weren’t making as many trips back and forth as me.  And instead of being grateful for all the help that was there, and that these people stayed into the night to help out, I grew only increasingly resentful that they were not working as hard as me.

 

Or there was the time when I was ecumenical chaplain at McMaster and one year I sat down over coffee with the student leaders of the IVCF and Navigators groups, and one of the programs that came of the conversation was “Church at the John” – a brand-new venture that took off like hotcakes, which was a monthly Sunday-night praise service sponsored by IVCF in the campus pub which was called “The John.”  It was fantastic.

 

Except, every time it was mentioned by the IVCF staff person, she described it as the brainchild of the IVCF student leader, when I knew full well (at least in my own mind) that it was my idea and I even needed to convince him a little of its value.  Not only resentful of not getting credit, but jealous of it going to someone else who didn’t deserve it as much as me.

 

And of course, the knife-edge of this ethic of comparison cuts the other way as well, often convincing me that I’m not worth as much as the others.  That it’s me who offers less, produces less, achieves less, is less, and is therefore worth-less.  And maybe not even missed at all if I don’t even show up.

 

Oh, how the joy of something good and of unity in God’s good work are lost, when we worry as we do about credit, and reward.  When we insist that payment – even if it’s only in the currency of recognition and approval, be doled out according to performance and productivity.  We love to compare.  Or, even if we don’t love it, we find it hard to avoid it.

 

Which is why Jesus’ parable, and his version of a happy ending for the story of the differently engaged vineyard workers, is so challenging even now two thousand years after its first telling.

 

Because what Jesus proposes as the ethic of the kingdom of God, in contrast to an ethic of comparison of worth and accordingly different rewards, is an ethic of completion, and the equal reward and shared celebration by all of what has been achieved.

 

I can’t help but think of something I learned about being a village, when I lived and worked up in Paisley – a small town up north in Bruce County.  Prior to that time in my life I had lived, studied and worked only in big cities – Winnipeg and Toronto, and the ethic of comparison was what we all lived by.  If you worked hard, succeeded and did something good, you were rewarded; if you didn’t work hard, accomplished little, or even failed, you got less.  It seemed to make sense in those big-city settings.

 

But, as a member of one of the Paisley churches put it one day, a village is different.  Not because there are any fewer alcoholics, failures, or troubled souls in the village than in the big city.  But because here in the village they are our alcoholics, our failures, and our  troubled souls, and we will take care of them because they are part of us and we are part of them,  We are one community, and we belong to one another.

 

Which means we will not let them starve or be thrown out into the cold.  We will be sure they have what they need.  As much as we can we will be sure their children are fed and clothed, have an equal education with others, and have as good a chance at a good life as others.  We do not look down on them, and keep them down.  We look at them as our neighbours, and we are aware of all the ways we are the same in this boat we are in together, and we either swim together or we slowly sink one by one.

 

Now, I admit that I am over-idealizing the village life of Paisley.  This was, after all, what one church member in that town saw as the goal, and the way of the village at its best.  But I wonder if this comes close at all to what Jesus is saying in the parable about the way of God in the world, and what it means to live in the world with the heart and the mind of God no matter where we live, how big the community is, and what variety and diversity of people live in it.

 

 

Franciscan scholar Ilia Delio has written extensively about how compassion – a major part of any spiritual ethic, and a way of living God’s life on Earth – stems from knowing that we belong to one another.  He says,

 

We long to be for one another and to give ourselves nobly to another, but we fear the cost of love.  We long for oneness of heart, mind and soul, but we fear the demands of unity.  Sometimes I think we choose to be alone because it is safe….

 

Compassion overcomes isolation because the truly compassionate person recognizes the other as part of oneself in a way that is beyond explanation and rational understanding.  It is not a rational, reasoned-out caring for another but a deep identification with the other as brother or sister… Compassion, then, is realized when we know ourselves related to one another, despite the differences between us.

 

And as Kate Lasso concludes in her comments on the parable, in the unfolding of the kingdom of God in the affairs of the world and of own churches and communities,

 

it doesn’t matter if we got on the bus at the beginning of the route, close to the end, were waiting ten minutes ahead of time or had to sprint half a block.  What matters is that the bus came, and we got in.  What matters is that God invited us [each in our own time, as was possible and right] to be workers in the field [each in our own way as we were able], and we said yes.

 

Thanks be to God.

Tolerating is not the way? (Sun, Sept 17, 2023)

 Reading: Romans 14:1-12

 What do you when the good news is that “all are welcome,” and all kinds of people, with very different views about things, believe it?  In the reading today, Paul is trying to help the church find its way through a conflict that has emerged around eating meat.

On one side are members who interpret the Jewish law as commanding them to eat no meat at all.  To them, any believer who eats meat is disobeying God’s law.  And what makes things worse is that some of those who eat meat are buying it from pagan priests in the city, who sell the charred meat after it is used in religious sacrifices to the idols.  So, not only do these people eat meat, they consort with pagan priests as their suppliers.  It seems to this first group that they should be held to account for their choices.

On the other side, are members who believe that Christ has set them free from such rigid and punitive interpretations of the law.  Also, in their mind what they are doing in buying the meat where they do, is showing all the city that Jesus is so superior to the idols, and that the idols are so meaningless, that whatever meat is used in their superstitious rituals is still just meat, and nothing more.  They feel it is they, not the first group, that has the stronger faith in Jesus.

 

Paul tackles the issue in Romans 14:1-12, speaking first to the meat-buyers and meat-eaters in the church.  He says this:

 

Welcome and accept the one whose faith is “weak” (as you see it), but not for the purpose of quarreling over opinions.

 

One person’s faith allows them to eat anything, and another, whose faith is “weak” (as you see it) eats only vegetables. The one who eats everything must not treat with contempt the one who does not, and the one who does not eat everything must not judge the one who does, for God has welcomed and accepted them.

 

Who are you to judge someone else’s servant?  To their own master, servants stand or fall.  And they will stand, for the Lord is able to make them stand.

 

One person considers one day more sacred than another; another considers every day alike.  Each of them should be fully convinced in their own mind.  Whoever regards one day as special does so to the Lord. Whoever eats meat does so to the Lord, for they give thanks to God; and whoever abstains does so to the Lord and gives thanks to God.

 

For none of us lives for ourselves alone, and none of us dies for ourselves alone. If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord.  So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord. For this very reason, Christ died and returned to life so that he might be the Lord of both the dead and the living.

 

You, then, why do you judge your brother or sister? Or why do you treat them with contempt? For we will all stand before God’s judgment seat.  It is written:

“‘As surely as I live,’ says the Lord,
‘every knee will bow before me;
    every tongue will acknowledge God.’”

 

So then, each of us will give an account of ourselves to God.

 

Reflection

 

Paul is addressing a church in a tizzy about meat.  Some think eating meat is forbidden by God, and those who break the law should be chastised.  And what makes it worse is that some are even going to pagan priests to buy meat left-over from sacrifices to their idols.  We cannot eat any unclean thing.  Nor can we support idol worship. 

 

The other side, though, points out that Jesus has freed us from the futility of following the letter of the law as a way to make ourselves holy.  He invites us to live in the Spirit as he did, and focus only on living out God’s love for all in each situation.  They also argue that their buying the meat where they do, they are showing how meaningless these idol cults.  Jesus only is the Lord, and there is nothing to these idols to make us either fear them or ask favours of them.  Their rituals are so meaningless that any meat offered to them is still just that – charred meat.

 

To which Paul says, you’re both right; you both bring something good to the table.  And you’re both wrong when you think what you bring is the whole story, and you don’t see the other’s rightness as well.  What he sees is that both sides in this skirmish are serving the Lord as they know how within the perspective of their faith and life, because the Lord has different ways for each of us to serve him given who we are and what we bring to the table. 

 

Which means it’s not just a matter of simple tolerance, which is the way this passage is often mistakenly interpreted today.  It’s not just a matter of not really caring about what the other does, and brings to the table.  Of thinking it’s just a matter of personal opinion and taste.

 

Rather, it’s a matter of discerning what there is of God, of Jesus, and of honest faith and faithfulness in the one who is other and different from you.  Because Jesus gathers all kinds of servants into his household and makes them all part of his body not only in spite of their different ways of doing  things, but because of their different ways of doing things, so that the work of God’s kingdom can be done in the world in as many ways, and reach as many people, and have as wide an impact on the world, and change as many lives as possible.

 

This is a lesson with wide applications in the world today.  One commentator on this passage – I wish I could find his name, but I can’t, has written:

 

How many of us despise and judge others?  I know I despise those in the religious right.  Their views are wrong, immoral, un-Christ-like, and based on lies about the Bible and what it says.  Sorry for being so forthright.  That’s just my opinion.  My articles, including this one, support my views.

 

And I’m sure conservative Christians judge me, too.  I often hear from them, for example, that we who do not accept orthodoxy and “real truth” simply do not want to obey God.  They say we go against God’s laws.  That I and others like me make light of God’s commandments, and are not strong warriors for God.

 

Many Christians, he concludes [and he doesn’t say so, but by the tone of his own voice, he is also in this group], become angry if you even imply anything different from what they already believe.

 

Is that not a good description not only of the church at times, but of what all society has become today?  More and more don’t we lament that society has become an uneasy chaos of conflicting groups of people who find it harder and harder to accept one another, to talk about anything, let alone work together to do something good for all. 

 

And just to say we need to tolerate one another is not enough.  The message of “just let them be; live and let live; just go your own way, they’re just different and it’s their right to be so."  Like all those Facebook memes that tell us "life is too short for us to put up with people who bring us down"; and "if they don't bring you joy, just write them out of your life story, you go your way and let them go theirs" -- advice that has just enough that's right, that it hooks us, but so much that's wrong, that it leads us wrong.  As life advice it helps widens the gap between groups, and justifies us not really learning how to work together.

 

The way forward is not to choose not to care what the other does, and let go of them as brothers and sisters.  Rather, it’s to discern what there is of God, of truth, of Jesus, and of honest faithfulness in the one who is other and different from you.  Because, Paul reminds us, God gathers all kinds of servants into his service not in spite of their different ways of doing things (as though differences are a problem), but because of their different ways of doing things, so that the work of God’s kingdom can be done in the world in as many ways, and reach as many people, and have as wide an impact on the world, and change as many lives as possible.

 

This week I came across an old rabbinic story, that maybe you have heard before. 

 

The story is told of a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once it was a great order, but over the generations all its branch houses were lost and there were only five monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and four others, all over seventy in age. Clearly it was a dying order.

 

In the woods surrounding the monastery there was a little cabin that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used as a retreat. The old monks could always sense when the rabbi was visiting the cabin. "The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods again," they would whisper to each other. As he agonized over the imminent death of his order, the abbot decided to visit the rabbi and ask for any advice that might save the monastery.

 

The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of this visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. "Yes. I know how it is," he exclaimed. "The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore." So, the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of deep things. When the time came for the abbot to leave, they embraced one another. "It has been a wonderful thing that we have talked after all these years," the abbot said. "But is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?"

 

"No, I am sorry," the rabbi responded, "I have no advice to give you." But then the rabbi paused and said quietly to the abbot, "But, there is one thing I have to tell you: One of you is the Messiah."

 

When the abbot returned to the monastery his fellow monks gathered around him and asked, "Well, what did the rabbi say?"

 

"He couldn't help," the abbot answered. "We just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving—he said that one of us was the Messiah! Maybe it's something from Jewish mysticism. I don't know what he meant."

 

In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks began to think about this and wondered whether the rabbi's words could actually be true? The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? If that's the case, who is it?

 

Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone he probably meant Father Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation.

 

On the other hand, he might have meant that Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light.

 

Certainly he couldn't have meant Brother Jonathan! Jonathan gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people's sides, when you look back on it, Jonathan is virtually always right, often very right.

 

Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Jonathan, but surely not Brother Philip. Philip is so passive, a real nobody. But then almost mysteriously he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Could Philip be the Messiah?

 

Of course, the rabbi didn't mean me. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? Oh God, me?

 

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one of them might actually be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

 

Because the monastery was situated in a beautiful forest, it so happened that people occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate. And as they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it. Hardly knowing why, people began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends.

 

Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another. And it happened that within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi's gift, a vibrant center of light and spirit.

 

So how do we find our way?  How do we not trip and stumble and fall into disarray over the differences among us?

 

I wonder if learning to ask two simple sets of questions might be helpful that at least can guide us in our relationships within the church and other people of faith.  How they apply in the world at large may need to be adjusted a bit.  But I’ll end with them:

 

 ·        How do I show my faith in God, and my love for, and commitment to Jesus and the way of Jesus in my life?  In my home, my family, and my intimate relations?  With my friends and in the community?  At work, at play, in the way I live, and the way I will die?  And how do I nurture it?  Where and how do I go to be fed, to keep growing in faithfulness?  Do I know how really important my ways of serving God and following Jesus are? 

 ·        How do I see faith in God, and love for and commitment to Jesus and the way of Jesus in the lives of people who live differently from me?  With different kinds of home life, families and intimate relations?  With different sorts of friends and community involvements?  Different kinds of work and play, of living and of dying?  Do I know how important other peoples’ ways of serving God and following Jesus are?  And how can I help ensure they have places and resources to be nurtured and fed in their faith?  Can I even be of some help in supporting their faith and their way of faithfulness to God’s kingdom?

 

Because are we not meant to be able to help one another grow in our different lives of faith and of faithful service, no matter how different they are?

Church -- grammatically speaking, a word of God expressed always in the imperfect tense

Reading:  Matthew 26:17-29

 

Church is not perfect.  Never will be.  Never is.  Never was, right from the start.

 

The most “churchy” or religious thing the Gospels portray Jesus doing with his disciples is what we call the Last Supper.  For them, it was a celebration of the Passover – an annual ritual meal practiced by the Jews, in which they remembered and celebrated their liberation long ago from enslavement to the Egyptian imperial system, by God’s powerful love.

 

It's interesting that when Jesus and his disciples gather for this joyous ritual, what's on display is as much the imperfection of their little community, as is the good will of God for their well-being.

 

On the first day of the Festival of Unleavened Bread, the disciples came to Jesus and asked,“Where do you want us to make preparations for you to eat the Passover?”

 

He replied, “Go into the city to a certain man and tell him, ‘The Teacher says: My appointed time is near.  I am going to celebrate the Passover with my disciples at your house.’”

 

So the disciples did as Jesus had directed them and prepared the Passover. When evening came, Jesus was reclining at the table with the Twelve.  And while they were eating, he said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me.”

 

They were very sad and began to say to him one after the other, “Surely you don’t mean me, Lord?”

 

Jesus replied, “The one who has dipped his hand into the bowl with me will betray me.  The Son of Man will go just as it is written about him.  But woe to that man who betrays the Son of Man!  It would be better for him if he had not been born.”

 

Then Judas, the one who would betray him, said,“Surely you don’t mean me, Rabbi?”

 

Jesus answered, “You have said so.”

 

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.”

 

Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.  I tell you, I will not drink from this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.”

 

Reflection

I wonder if sometimes we don't see – or forget – or maybe don’t trust, the pure grace that both holy communion and human community are.

I’d like to share a few stories about communion with you – two about communion not realized, one about communion received. 

One story is about a man named Allen who was a member – though not officially, of one of the first congregations I ever served.   He was a good man -- soft-spoken, good-humoured, good husband and father, admired and well-liked by his neighbours.  He was faithful in church, in “his pew” with his wife every Sunday.  Except communion Sunday.  Every first Sunday of the month, he was absent.

I didn’t think about it much, at first.  People miss worship from time to time for all kinds of reasons. 

When I noticed the pattern and talked with Allen about it, he made light of it, told me about a few things that had come up, and we changed the subject to something else.  Later, though, in talking with his wife, I leaned that Allen didn’t come to communion because he didn’t think he was worthy of it.

Way back in his childhood his mother had latched on to what Paul says in I Corinthians, that “whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be answerable for the body and blood of the Lord.  Examine yourselves, and only then eat of the bread and drink of the cup … lest any of you eat and drink judgement against themselves.”

Whatever sins and unworthy behaviour his mother was trying to cure young Allen of, her misuse of those verses stuck and lodged deep in his conscience.  Never left him.  And never let him feel worthy to share communion with others.

Do you ever feel not worthy of communion?  If so, when?  And why?

Is worthiness an appropriate basis of communion together with God?  

If so, who judges?  And by what standard?

If not, what is the basis of communion together with God?

The second story is also about communion unrealized -- except this time not because of people feeling themselves unworthy, but because of what some people feel about the people they are invited to share communion with. 

Some years ago I was attending a national UCC conference on the church and poverty.  Some national church leaders were leading the event – lay and ordained persons active in a variety of social justice ministries and anti-poverty organizations and networks.  There were also some non-church folks who belonged to organizations the church worked with.  And there were people living in poverty, unemployed, at risk in different ways, who the church wanted to hear from, and involve in the conversation and planning.

The intentions were good.  The conference went well for a while.  Until the variety of lines that ran through the gathering began to show in different comments made, in different perspectives offered, in different attitudes unwittingly on display.

One line that appeared at some points was the one between privileged and non-privileged persons and groups.  Another, between insiders and outsiders to the church and church language.  Lines showed up at times between white European males and almost all women there.  Between dominant and minority classes and cultures.  And … what proved to be the biggest divide of all – the line between benefactors and the recipients of their charity, between those with power to make a difference in the world and those who were dependent on their good will and felt increasingly patronized rather than empowered.

The plan was to end the conference with communion, to celebrate our oneness in working together and with God to heal the world’s ills and divisions.  But as we tried to talk our way towards communion, some felt more and more patronized, and the conversation got testy.  Others felt more and more criticized, and the conversation got heated. 

It became clearer and clearer that those with power did not really know how to let go of it, and share it.  Which led to some angrily and loudly walking out of the hall we were in – refusing communion with people they no longer trusted to serve them and work with them as brothers and sisters, with people they now saw as part of the problem.  Leaving the rest who were left behind feeling deeply broken and confused.

It makes me wonder about the ways and places today where communion with God and community with other people is being refused.  Where some people or groups of people hive themselves off from the larger body, opt out of the general conversation, and  refuse to engage in the common process – either retreating to their own little world, or forming splinter groups of indignant and angry dislike of “the people in charge.” 

Who is your community?  Who are you in community with?  And not?

How is your community formed?  How do you know who’s in, or out?  What’s the purpose of the community you’re part of?

What is God’s idea of community?  Of how it’s formed?  Of who’s in, and who’s out?   And of what community is for?

A third story is that of the Last Supper. 

As an event – as a gathering and an experience of community, the Last Supper was as messy as any human gathering and community can be. 

For one thing, even though it was the annual Passover meal that all Jews celebrated, the disciples made no plans for it.  It fell to Jesus to make the arrangements and then at the last minute tell them what to do.

Then, when they got there and started sharing the ritual they all knew, what became most clear of all was not their deep and grateful unity as a people of God, but their dividedness, the fact that at least one of them would soon betray Jesus, questions about how faithful really any of them were, and deep disquiet all around within each of them.

Every disciple knew their own deep unworthiness and the capacity for betrayal they had tried to keep hidden, and it came out unbidden in their anguished little questions of “Surely not I?", Is it I, Lord?”,  “Is it I?”  And so on, all around the circle.

Every one also had reason now not to trust, to dislike, and not want to be in in communion with the others.  Someone here will betray him!  Maybe already has!  They really shouldn’t be here!  How can I sit at the same table with them?

Yet … what does Jesus do?  Aware of the brokenness each one now feels in themselves, and of the jagged edges now between them, he takes the bread, breaks it (what a great image!), says this is his body broken for them, and shares it with all of them, telling them do this in remembrance of him and his love for them all.  Then he takes a cup of wine, says this is his life poured out for each of them – a promise of God’s love for all of them, for "the forgiveness of sins" which is really just Bible-speak for the restoration of community, and he tells them all to drink of it.

The problems are not solved.  The brokenness, not healed.  But God’s love for each and all is revealed as the one and only sure basis of holy communion with God and human community with others in the world.

Holy communion is not something we earn by being good and worthy; it is a grace we are given in the midst of, and because of our unworthiness. 

Human community is not something we enjoy when we’re with people we feel good about; it is a gift we are given when we allow ourselves to be with all other people that God loves as much as he does us.

May we know and continue to grow in communion with God and in community with all, because of – and only because of, God’s love for us all.