YEAR C 2025 pentecost 16

Pentecost 16, 2025
Amos 6:1a,4-7
Psalm 146
1 Timothy 6:6-19
Luke 16:19-31

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

The theme running through all four readings today has to do with money and riches.  Money and riches are not evil in and of themselves; however, they distort our relationship with God and with one another.  In the first reading, I was personally particularly concerned when I heard the singling out of those who “improvise on instruments of music,” because, I do that all the time!  But the thing to notice in that list is the word “but.”  A whole list of things the well off might have, like ivory beds and wine in bowls, and the finest oils, BUT are not grieved.  The curse is against not about having, but rather in ignoring what happens to other people.  

And the Psalm picks this up as well, where we are called to put our trust in God rather than in riches.  And then Paul’s letter to Timothy gives us the familiar line, “The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil,” which is important to sort out:  Money isn’t the root of evil, rather, the LOVE of money is the root of many kinds of evil.  And then on to the gospel . . .

We have to guard against going with our immediate gut feeling, hearing this parable.  Because, our initial reading is probably something like this:  If you don’t help poor people, you will end up burning in hell. There are a whole bunch of signs that that’s not what Jesus is saying here.  We’ll go through this parable in a second, but I want to tell you from the start, the thing to focus on here is the great chasm.  The separation is the thing.  There is indeed a great chasm that has been fixed, because the rich man has fixed it himself.  But let’s start with Hades.

First thing to say, today’s gospel is not a proof for the existence of heaven or hell, because it is a parable.  It is a metaphor, an allegory, a story told for the purpose of telling us something else.  Whatever you get out of this gospel reading today, I implore you not to think that it somehow proves the existence of heaven or hell.  Because it doesn’t; it is a parable.  

Secondly, Hades is from Greek mythology, not the Jewish faith.  The unnamed rich man goes to Hades, which no one listening to Jesus considered to be a real place.  It’s like saying Dorothy and her companions went to the Emerald City.  Not a real place.  For Jesus to say the rich ruler is in Hades tells us that Jesus is not telling a true story about heaven and hell, or trying to describe what happens after death.  Point being: If someone asks you how you know whether heaven and hell exist, do not cite this parable as your proof text, because it is a made-up story, intended to make a completely different point.

So, is this parable a warning to us?  Seems like it, doesn’t it?  But it’s a warning that sounds more like karma than Christianity.  Especially so, given Abraham’s tone.  He blithely says, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.”  Sounds like karma, right?  Your actions during your lifetime determine what happens after you die?  But I want to point out the passive nature of both men.  Abraham says, “You received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things.”

Neither man has earned anything, which is significant.  The rich man did not earn his riches.  He just has them.  And, just as important, Lazarus did not earn his poverty.  As far as wealth, they have both lived their lives as life handed it to them.  And this is further cemented for Lazarus in the Greek.  The word used is ballw, which means to throw.  Lazarus is passively dumped at the gate of the rich man.  He is thrown there.  He lacks even the agency to determine where he will beg.  “You received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things.”

And notice the lack of the word “therefore” in what Abraham says.  He doesn’t say BECAUSE you received your good things and Lazarus received evil things, this is where you both ended up.  He doesn’t say as a result of receiving your good and bad things this is how things are.  He just says, “now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.”  Like Abraham is just observing the way things were, and the way things are now.

So the point Jesus is making in this parable is not that your actions in this life determine what happens to you after you die.  I’m not saying they don’t; I’m just saying that’s not what Jesus is saying here.  Because Hades is not a real place, and neither guy does anything in this parable.  One guy is rich by no effort of his own, and one guy is poor, through no fault of his own.  And now one is suffering and one is being comforted.  And Abraham just seems to sort of shrug it off, right?  Like, “what are ya’ gonna do?”

So to sum up so far, where these men end up is not the result of their actions.  Everything up to this point is just to get us to this point.  And the point is the great chasm.  Their lives on earth, rich and poor, are just there to set the scene for the point Jesus is making.  And it’s all about the chasm.

And now you’re asking, okay, so what is the chasm?  Thanks for asking.  The chasm in this parable is not one of distance.  It’s not a separation of space.  No, the chasm here is in disregarding the value and dignity of other human beings.  You notice, in the set up, Lazarus is thrown at the rich man’s gate, and—as far as we can tell—the rich man doesn’t even notice him.  Doesn’t ever acknowledge him.  The rich man just lives his rich life, and Lazarus lives his poor life.  Now the rich man is the only one who could do something about the situation, and he doesn’t.  Lazarus can do nothing except wish for the scraps; he cannot do anything except sit where he is thrown.  The rich man could make a difference—with even just his scraps—but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t see Lazarus.  There’s the chasm.  The great divide is between those who can see other people and those who cannot.

The rich man views Lazarus as a means to his own ends.  And even that happens only after he dies!  Notice, when he finally does see Lazarus—after they’re both dead—he wants to use him for his own purposes.  He says, “send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.”  He says, “Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father's house” so he can warn my brothers.  The rich man finally has one ounce of compassion, but it’s for his own family.  Lazarus is not a person to the rich man, and that’s the chasm.  Not a separation of distance, but a separation of understanding, which not even death can overcome.  Hades is a mythical place, the place where Lazarus only exists to serve the rich man’s needs.  It’s not a real place.  It is a fiction in the mind of the rich man.

The chasm is something that cannot be overcome by sending Lazarus around like an errand boy, which is how the rich man views the world.  The rich man is unable to change—even in death, living in his imaginary Hades.  He wants to keep on using actual human beings as pawns to his own ends. 

He would probably think nothing of putting asylum seekers on an airplane under false pretenses, and flying them to another country in order to serve his own agenda.  Because they’re not really people, you see; they’re just props.  Poor people are just a thing to be used to get what he wants out of them.  Lazarus only matters when the rich man can use him to get something for himself.  Otherwise, Lazarus is just a desperate man, dumped at the border of his extreme wealth, available to be used as needed for his own purposes.

And that is the great chasm that separates the rich man from Lazarus.  It is not what he did in his earthly life; it is about his continuing inability to see other people as God sees them.  As beloved children of God, made in the image of God.  In our own Baptismal Covenant, we promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, not to use them to dip their finger in water to cool our tongues.  Not to go warn our brothers about how tragic our indifference has made things.

There is the vague “a rich man,” and there is Lazarus.  Jesus tells this parable about some rich man who goes to his imaginary Hades, and about Lazarus who suffers through life and goes to be with Abraham.  But you know what’s really interesting about Lazarus?  Jesus knows his name.  Lazarus has a name, and Jesus knows it.  He is not a nameless poor guy who died.  He is Lazarus.  Jesus knows the name of the one who suffers.  Jesus knows the one who needs help.  Jesus does not know the name of the rich guy who ignores other people and has everything he needs.  But Jesus knows Lazarus, the one in need.

You have been claimed as God’s own in baptism, and sealed with the cross of Christ forever.  Like Lazarus, you have been thrown into the place where you are, whatever that means for you.  You can do nothing to earn salvation, other than rely on the one who can save you.  The one who will send angels to carry you into the arms of Abraham.  The one who knows your name.

And that same Jesus comes to meet us today in this meal of bread and wine.  And I know that Jesus will meet us here, because Jesus has promised to be here—every time we gather together—to give us strength for the journey, and healing for our souls, and to remove the chasm that separates us from one another.  You are invited to this meal, because Jesus knows your name.  You and I will be carried into the arms of angels, because Jesus knows our names.  Though there is suffering in this world, we need not be afraid.  Because Jesus knows our names.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 15

Pentecost 15, 2025
Amos 8:4-7
Psalm 79:1-9
1 Timothy 2:1-7
Luke 16:1-13

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I want to start by recapping a short story . . .

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Cinderella whose stepsisters teased her all the time.  One night, her fairy godmother sent her to a ball until midnight.  In her rush to leave, she left one of her glass slippers behind.  The next day, one of the king’s servants took the shoe to the local Goodwill store.  And Cinderella grew old and sad.

That is how we expect life to be.  And that’s why a story like that would not be memorable.  We wouldn’t tell this story to our kids, would we?  We want fairy tales to tell us how life could be, or how life should be, or even how life might one day be.  There’s a certain method to fairy tales.  They’re supposed to encourage honest hard work, and to discourage dishonest lazy cheaters.  Good stories are the place where innocent prisoners are set free, the poor become rich, and the dishonest get what is coming to them for breaking the rules.  

We want our stories to fit an idealized worldview.  A place where good is rewarded, and evil is punished.  Fairy tales get passed down to us because they work like this.  Bad children are eaten by wolves.  Good children are saved by lumberjacks who happen by.  A good story ends this way, with lazy animals starving and hard-working ones surviving, with cheaters getting cheated.  The cruel proud king marches through the city naked, and the ugly duckling grows into the most beautiful swan.  We’re so used to fairy tale endings, we think every kind of story should end that way.  Which leads us to the parables of Jesus . . .

Many of Jesus’ parables end exactly how we want them to end.  The lost son comes home, and the greedy man dies with his barns filled with grain.  The fruitless tree is cut down and burned, and the widow who searches long enough finds the coin she had lost.  On the surface, we don’t find these parables jarring precisely because they fit our fairy tale blueprint.  We can get by imagining that Jesus is telling fairy tales, reinforcing the beliefs we already have.  Good people get rewarded, and bad people get punished.  And then we can all tell our children to be sure they act like the good people, lest they get punished.

And Luke usually plays right into this way of thinking . . . usually.  Back at the very beginning of Luke’s Gospel we get the Magnificat—Mary’s song, where she sings that God has thrown down the rich and lifted the poor.  Luke’s gospel more than any other fits our thinking about justice.  God, like Don Quixote, will fight for the right, without question or pause, and be willing to march into Hell for a Heavenly cause.  

But then we get today’s reading from this same gospel of Luke.  Let me sum up for you:
A guy is so bad at his job that he is about to get fired.  Rather than humble himself digging ditches, he goes to the outstanding contracts owed to his boss and reduces them by some percentage, so these people will be grateful and take him in when he is out of work and homeless.  The guy’s boss says, hey, good thinking!  And THAT certainly surprises us!  But surely Jesus will set everybody straight by having the guy get hit by a bus or something, right?  I mean, Jesus is not going to condone this kind of cheating behavior, is he?  

Well . . . it’s hard to say WHAT Jesus is thinking here.  We get three different statements, and all of them are unsettling . . . 
First: Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into their eternal homes.  WHAT?
Second: If you have not been faithful with the dishonest wealth, who will entrust to you true riches?  HUH?
Third:  You cannot serve God and wealth.  Okay, THAT one we get.

And the temptation is to ignore the first two and go with the third one—the one that makes sense to us: You cannot serve God and wealth.  But what do we do with the first two?  Make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth, so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into their eternal homes?  And isn’t Jesus implying that this guy has done the right thing with the money owed to his boss?  What is going on here? 

Well, for starters, I will tell you what my professor said in seminary when we came to this passage from Luke.  I raised my hand in class and asked, “Um, is this the same Jesus we were just reading about in chapter 15?”  She smiled and said, in her British accent, “Well, George, the parables are morally ambiguous.”  That was meant to answer my question, but of course it didn’t.  So I said, “But this isn’t morally ambiguous; this is just plain wrong!”  She stared at me for a moment and said carefully, “The parables of Jesus are not fairy tales, George.”  

Not fairy tales.  So, okay, we shouldn’t expect the stories from Jesus to be simple little tales where everything turns out right and good and perfect.  But shouldn’t we at least expect them to make sense?  We don’t need a perfect little bow on top, but can’t we expect some, you know, ethics?

Well, let’s look at what might be going on in this story.  And, admittedly, the emphasis is on MIGHT.
Lots of commentators make the claim that the guy who’s about to be fired is only writing off the share of the debt that would’ve been his commission.  And that’s possible, but not certain; it’s kind of hopeful thinking, if you ask me.  I mean, it would make it easier for us to swallow, right?  

At the same time—and maybe more importantly—he is definitely taking a chance on hospitality instead of money.  What do I mean by that?  Well, even though it’s still a story about money, and self-interest, and possibly cheating, the guy who’s about to be fired is still putting his hope in people.  He’s still saying, “When it’s all said and done, my hope lies in my neighbor, rather than in my money.”

But, then, isn’t he trading money for hospitality?  Is he maybe, you know, buying friends?  Maybe, sure.  But, he’s turning them from debtors into peers.  He’s making them his equals in a way.  They’re no longer required to pay him back; a return favor is optional.  A financial debt is a contract, and must be repaid.  Hospitality is a choice they can make, one way or the other.  They don’t HAVE to pay him back or welcome him into their homes.  In a way, he has set them free.  In a way, the guy who is about to be fired has given what little he had coming to him in order to set the debtors free.  Maybe they’ll respond as he hopes; maybe they won’t.  Either way, he gave up all he had, and has lifted the poor, freed the oppressed, set the debtors free.  Hmmm . . . 

As I’ve said before, the way to look at parables is to look for Jesus in them.  Never assume that God or Jesus is the king, or the manager, or anyone in authority.  Look for Jesus in the one who sacrifices.  Look for Jesus in the one who gives up his life for another.  More importantly, don’t assume that you and I are somewhere in the parable.  The gospels are about Jesus.  The parables are about Jesus.  It really is all about Jesus, the one who saves us.  The one who writes off our debts and is commended for acting shrewdly.

And we, of course, expect certain things of a Savior.  We expect Jesus to be born in a palace.  We expect him to grow up to sit on a throne and rule the nations of earth.  We expect him to use his awesome Jedi powers to escape in the Garden of Gethsemane.  We expect him to take that wooden cross like a sword and smash his captors’ heads in.

We want Jesus to climb to the highest tower, and to bring the glass slipper to the least likely candidate.  We want him to slay the big bad wolf, and turn each ugly duckling into the most beautiful swan.

And instead, we get a conniving employee who cuts the master’s bills in half.  We get a Jesus who will stop at nothing to redeem those who don’t even know they owe a debt.  We get a Jesus who gives up everything in order to lift those who have debts they cannot pay.  

No debt is too small or too big for Jesus to take on.  All those fairy tales do in some way point to this same kind of Savior: one who will climb any mountain, take on any foe, even rewrite our debts owed to the manager.  But the parables also offer us a glimpse into the sacrifice of Jesus, his willingness to meet with debtors and forgive their debts.  And that same Jesus meets us faithfully at the Altar, in bread and wine.  You are welcome at this meal, because Jesus has made you acceptable.  Jesus has written off your debt, and has come to live with you in your house and in your life.  So, yes, it’s true:  The parables are not fairy tales, but they are good news.  Very.  Good.  News.
Amen

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 14

Pentecost 14, 2025
Exodus 32:7-14
Psalm 51:1-11
1 Timothy 1:12-17
Luke 15:1-10

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I have to tell you:  I LOVE this set of readings we heard today!  And you never hear me say that!  It is not often in the summer that I can say this, but yeah, I love them.  The opening hymn we sang is recommended in the manuals based on that reading from 1st Timothy, where Paul writes, “To the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever.”  But the reason I went with the suggestion is because of the stark contrast to the first reading.

And here’s what I mean.  In the reading from Exodus, God has had it with these chosen people, and God says to Moses, “Now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them.”  Remember that “let me alone” phrase, because we’ll come back to it.  But then Moses reminds God about all the promises of the past.  The promises made to Abraham, Isaac, and Israel.  Remember, God, how you promised to multiply their descendants and make a great nation of them.  And then as we heard, “the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on his people.”

The Lord changed his mind.  That hymn I mentioned earlier includes phrases like, “We blossom and flourish like leaves on the tree, then wither and perish but nought changeth thee.”  Nought changeth thee.  The claim is that God doesn’t change.  There are plenty of preachers who will insist to you that God is always solid, immovable, and unchanging.  But . . . after a conversation with Moses, "the Lord changed his mind."  And we see this quite often, especially in the Hebrew scriptures.  God’s mind is changed after the flood—most notably—and we get rainbows because of it.  And the reason that’s important is because of this: we do not have a real relationship with someone if we are not both changed by the relationship.  If having a conversation with another person doesn’t somehow change that other person, then you’re actually talking to a brick wall, not a living being.  The Lord changed his mind: changed it from death to life.

And then that portion of Psalm 51 today.  It’s just beautiful in every way.  Confessing sin before God, in the quiet confidence that God can do something about it.  Wash it away, blot it out, cleanse us of it.  Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. 

And, speaking of sin, then we heard from Paul’s first letter to Timothy, our patron saint.  Paul freely admits that he was unworthy to be of service to God.  And yet, God still finds a place for him, making Paul an example of the everlasting mercy of God.  And then that confident assertion: “The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.”  Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.  We sometimes forget that because we’re already in the church.  But we Episcopalians do not hold to an I-once-was-lost-but-now-am-found understanding of human nature.  We do not claim to be perfect, because we know we are not.  We are renewed daily by the power of God’s forgiveness, because we still need it!  We have a confession of sin in every service because we still need it.  Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, and I know that I am one, in thought, word, and deed.

And then there’s the gospel reading—Luke chapter 15.  There are three stories of lost and found in this chapter of Luke, and we heard two of them from Jesus today: the lost sheep and the lost coin—the lost son (sometimes called the prodigal son) is the third parable, but it isn’t included in today’s reading.

We tend to think of these stories the way I just described them: a lost sheep, a lost, coin, and a lost son.  But, quite clearly, these are stories about a faithful shepherd, a diligently seeking woman, and a waiting father.  And that distinction matters.  A lot!  Because, to be honest, the sheep coin and son are just sort of props to make the point that the parables make.  

First thing to notice is the setting.  This reading picks up right where last week’s reading stopped.  There is nothing mentioned about food, no one is described as eating anything, and out of nowhere the Pharisees and the scribes are grumbling and saying, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”  And let’s take note of this:  Just imagine a world where the chief complaint against the church is that we welcome sinners and eat with them.  Could be our new tag line:  St. Timothy’s Church, we welcome sinners and eat with them.  I gotta say, I’d join that church!

So Jesus asks them a question:  “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?”  The correct answer is, none of us!  Not one of us would leave the 99 and go find the one that was lost.  That’s not how we operate.  What would the stockbroker say?!?  But anyway, this unusual shepherd goes and finds the lost sheep, and what does the shepherd do upon returning home?  He calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, `Rejoice with me.”  Gathers together the community and says, “Rejoice with me.”

And then the woman who has lost a coin.  Rather than waiting until daylight, she lights a lamp (which is expensive in those days, by the way), she sweeps the house, and looks carefully in the darkness until she finds it.  And when she finds it, what does she do?  She calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, “Rejoice with me.”  Gathers together the community and says, “Rejoice with me.”  (As one commentator says, since she has already swept and cleaned the house, she might as well have people over.)  But in both cases, the one seeking the lost gathers together the community and says, “Rejoice with me!”

Contrast that with what God says to Moses back in that reading from Exodus: “Now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them.”  But Moses sticks around, and God changes.  God and Moses have a relationship.  God and Moses form a community, in a sense.  And rather than being let alone to smite everyone, God and Moses can rejoice together, because what was lost will be found.  Community and rejoicing go hand in hand.

But wait!  Remember how this reading started?  Tax collectors and sinners were gathering around Jesus to listen to him.  And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and making accusations against Jesus.  The Pharisees and scribes were also forming a community.  A community based on accusations, and grumbling, and driving fear into the hearts of those who were willing to pay attention to them.  It is not just rejoicing that forms communities; fear and hatred do as well.  This has never been more clear than in the past few days.  No matter your political persuasion in these crazy divided times, the e-mails always start the same:  Look at the scary things those people are doing!  Come and join our community.  (And also send us five bucks.)

Community can be formed around love and redemption, and community can also be formed around hatred and fear.  “Come rejoice with me” and “come grumble with me” both build community.  One brings life and salvation, and the other brings death and destruction.  And we can join either community any time we like, because they will both always be there.

And here’s the other thing about these two parables.  It is tempting to think of ourselves as the shepherd who seeks out the lost sheep.  Or to think of ourselves as the woman who diligently seeks out the coin.  Winning souls for Jesus!  Saving those who are on a highway to hell.  But look at the context of these parables.  The religious leaders are complaining that Jesus eats with sinners, and then he tells them these parables.  The shepherd who seeks and the woman who searches . . . these are explanations for why Jesus eats with sinners.  It is Jesus who seeks out the lost.  AND, it’s important to note:  The sheep was already in the shepherd’s fold.  The coin was already in the woman’s purse.

And when Jesus finds what was lost, or what has wandered off, he gathers the community together and says, “Rejoice with me!”  Some days, you and I are the sheep he tracks down.  And sometimes you and I are the coin that he finds.  But every day you and I are the friends and neighbors that Jesus calls together and says, “Rejoice with me!”  And then he spreads a meal before us on the altar.  And in that meal, we find once more that Jesus always welcomes sinners . . . and eats with us.  May God make us always grateful that Jesus never stops searching until every coin is found, and every sheep is returned to his heavenly fold, so that this rejoicing may go on through all eternity.

Amen.

September 11th CAK Airport

Sept. 11 Ceremony
CAK Airport 

Last week I visited my brother and sister in law in Stuyvesant Town, which is on the lower east side of Manhattan.  They have lived in New York City since the 70’s, and have lived in that Stuyvesant Town apartment since 1990.  From their living room and bedroom windows, you could see the Twin Towers at the World Trade Center.  Which means that on September 11th, they had a clear view of the towers burning.  Watching it all unfold for hours on end.  As for so many New Yorkers—and people around the world—that was a traumatic day in their lives.  

At the time, my brother was a Lutheran pastor, serving a church in Howard Beach, Queens.  A good number of his parishioners were cops and firefighters, and several of them died that day in the towers.  About a week after September 11th, my brother went to his Bishop and said he needed to leave the church—and stop being a pastor—because he had lost his faith.  And I get that; I really do.

But over time, with help, he stuck with it.  He ministered to the grieving families, and tended to the emotionally racked people of the parish.  He worked hard to do what he could to help people recover in the only way he knew how.  You could say he loved his way back into ministry, and back to loving the great city of New York.  He rediscovered the value of being in ministry in the midst of a violent and senseless world.  And he found hope, because he looked for hope.

When I visited them last week, I often looked out their window at the tallest building in the country: One World Trade Center, gleaming in the September sun, which sits where the twin towers once stood.  This building is beautiful, but it does not replace the Twin Towers.  It is filled with people, but it does not replace the lives that were lost that day.  It is a testament to heroism, but it does not replace the brave people who ran into the building trying to save the lives that were lost.

But that new building is a sign of hope.  It is a sign of rebirth.  A sign of resurrection.  It is a reminder that evil did not—and will not—have the last word.  Though we lost many of our fellow Americans that day, we live in hope.  Though the presence of evil around us makes us doubt, we live with faith.  And though hatred seeks to isolate us, we live by trusting and relying on one another.  We get through things together, because that is the only way through.  Together.

May God bless our country, and may God protect those who stand in harm’s way.  I pray that God will lead us into a world where friendship subdues hatred, where peace conquers anger, and where God’s love reigns above every tribe and nation.  For the benefit of us all, and those who will come after us.
 

Let us pray:        For the Human Family BCP 815
O God, you made us in your own image and redeemed us
through Jesus your Son: Look with compassion on the whole
human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which
infect our hearts; break down the walls that separate us;
unite us in bonds of love; and work through our struggle and
confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in
your good time, all nations and races may serve you in
harmony around your heavenly throne; through Jesus Christ
our Lord. Amen. 

YEAR C 2025 pentecost 13

Pentecost 13, 2025
Deuteronomy 30:15-20
Psalm 1
Philemon 1-21
Luke 14:25-33

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Okay.  Have you ever seen the Batman movie, “The Dark Knight Rises?”  There’s a scene where these prisoners are trying to climb out of a pit.  And each time someone tries it, they tie a rope to them, in case they fall while making the final jump.  But the rope prevents them from actually making that final jump, and so they always fall.  It’s not until the young character tries it without the rope that he is able to make the final jump to freedom.  So the thing that everyone thought was keeping them safe was actually the thing that prevented them from being free.  Keep that story in mind as we move forward here.

In today’s gospel reading, we have to look carefully at a couple of key words and phrases.  And the first of those is the word that gets translated as “hate.”  As we heard, Jesus says, “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.”  This is a case where the chosen word is too extreme for the original Greek word; but there isn’t an English substitute for it.  The Greek word misw’ in this context means something like, the one not chosen.  Like if you asked whether I wanted coffee or tea and I said, “I will have coffee and I hate tea, thanks.”  I don’t despise tea; I don’t even dislike it.  I am just choosing coffee.

So when Jesus says we must hate our families and even our own lives, he is not saying that we should despise them or wish them harm.  He is saying we have to be willing to give those up to become his disciples.  To choose Jesus over all else.  Or, to return to the Batman example, to jump without the rope.  We think the rope gives us security, but it also prevents our being free.

We can see this more clearly in the two examples he gives.  At first blush, these seem like practical advice when it comes to building towers and fighting wars.  Which is our first clue that they are not practical advice about building towers and fighting wars.  Jesus is using these two examples to show us how we normally act.  He’s saying, “Here is how business is usually conducted,” and Jesus is anything but business as usual! 

Both the examples he gives are answers to the question, “What’s in it for me?”  How will I maximize self preservation and avoid embarrassment?  How do I get the largest return on my building investments and retain the most land in a conflict with another nation?  What kind of rope should I tie to myself before I make the dangerous jump to freedom?  Jesus is saying, “You normally make this kind of careful calculation in order to save yourself, but I am telling you that you cannot save yourself.”

And then Jesus says, “So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions.”  It’s not a rule or a barrier to being his disciple.  He’s just stating the way things are.  He is not saying, give up all your possessions and then I will let you be my disciple.  No, what he’s saying is that your possessions will prevent you from being my disciple.  The possessions are like the rope in the Batman movie.  You cannot be free unless you “hate” the rope.  Leave it behind.  Disregard it.

And Paul’s letter to Philemon fits nicely with this whole idea.  But from the start, I just need to be clear that the slavery involved here is not necessarily the same as the slavery we imposed on people from Africa at our country’s founding.  We don’t know the details, but it is likely that Onesimus is more like an indentured servant than a kidnapped and abused person.  And that’s important to remember, because it’s not like Paul is sending him back to a cotton plantation in Georgia to be whipped and beaten.

So, Paul writes this letter to Philemon with a very strange tone to it.  It sounds a bit like the grade-school principal offering a kid the chance to admit to having done something wrong.  Like a school principal might say, “You know, George, I could get the other kids to rat you out for breaking the classroom window with a snowball during recess, but I’m giving you a chance to do the right thing, George.”  That’s just a totally hypothetical example from, say, Beech Avenue School in Niagara Falls, NY in the hypothetical year 1974.

Paul writes, “though I am bold enough in Christ to command you to do your duty, yet I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love.”  You know, I’m giving you the chance to do the right thing here, son.  But here’s what I find really interesting about this whole letter.  Paul could easily have just kept Onesimus with him, wherever Paul is.  He could have commanded Philemon to let Onesimus go by keeping him by his side.  And yet, Paul forsakes, gives up, or “hates” Onesimus so that he might be truly freed by someone else.  There’s the sure win of keeping him safely by Paul's side, but then Onesimus would never actually be truly free.  Only in risking his fate to Philemon can things be put right.  It’s a huge gamble, and yet it’s the only way.

What Paul does is like starting a tower without counting the costs.  It’s like going into battle against an army that will overwhelm you and take your land.  It’s like climbing up out of a pit without a rope.  THAT is the cost of discipleship.  Truly forsaking all and taking up your cross to follow Jesus.

And where does taking up our cross lead us?  Well . . . to death.  All of us face certain death.  Oh, we might subconsciously think we can work around it, by clinging to our youth.  We might obsess over eating better food, getting more exercise, plastic surgery, whatever.  Adopting good habits might help us live longer, sure, but eventually we’re all going to die.  And that’s where it all comes together for us.

 All the things we cling to in this life will be left behind when we die.  All the possessions we have collected, and all the people we love, and even our mortal bodies.  You can’t take any of it with you.  And all of those things we hold dear are like the rope in the Batman movie.  Like the careful planning before starting to build.  Like holding onto Onesimus rather than sending him back to Philemon.

Because at the grave, none of that stuff matters.  Only Jesus matters.  Only Jesus will reach down into each one of our graves on the last day and pull us up to freedom and resurrection.  All we have to do is let go of . . . everything.  And, well, in death we have no choice in the matter.  The great equalizer will ensure that we have nothing to hold onto but Jesus.  There is no rope.  We are holding onto Jesus.  And the best news of all is that Jesus is holding onto us.  We need not fear death because we are disciples of the one who has destroyed death.

We have Jesus, and Jesus has us.  And nothing else matters.

Amen