It Takes All Kinds

Sermon Study Guide is here.

Matthew 10:1-8

March 30, 2014 • Portage First UMC

Several years ago, journalist Tom Brokaw wrote a book called The Greatest Generation, in which he told the stories of those who grew up in the Great Depression and went on to fight the Second World War. That generation, more than any other maybe before and certainly since, knew the meaning of the word “sacrifice” as they fought economics and politics in the quest to build a new, good world out of the ashes of the old one. One of the things Brokaw wanted to convey was that the “greatest generation” wasn’t made up of supermen and superwomen. It wasn’t made up of elite people who had tremendous resources. It was a generation of ordinary men and women who simply answered the call that came to them in whatever way they could. They weren’t extraordinarily gifted, but they were willing to use what gifts and abilities they did have to fight evil and to rebuild a war-torn world. We owe them a debt we can never repay, and Brokaw hoped we would remember that as we move forward (cf. Wilkins, NIV Application Commentary: Matthew, pg. 402).

What seems to have happened instead is that we have become a self-centered, indulgent society, demanding our own rights and ways and preferences, and not caring all that much who gets hurt in our pursuit of pleasure and so-called “self-actualization.” We live in a world defined by the word “selfie.” That says a lot about who we have become as a people. “Personal technology” has not made us all that more personable. Facebook teaches us to broadcast the tiniest details of our lives, and Twitter causes us to assume that whatever is on our mind at the moment matters to anyone else. Instagram, Vine and Snapchat—and dozens of services and apps like them—only heighten and prove our attitude of self-centeredness. Is it any wonder, then, that when we come to the church and we talk about “mission” and “calling,” it often gets heard as “my mission to make myself better” or “my calling to live a healthy and wealthy life”? Here’s the problem: those self-centered missions don’t exist in the teachings and life of Jesus. He stands in direct opposition to our self-indulgence, which causes the world to look at him and ask, “Who is this man?” And what mission is it, exactly, he expects his followers to engage in?

You might think of the twelve disciples of Jesus as the “greatest generation” of the church, because from very, very humble beginnings, they literally turned the world upside down. They managed to defeat the Roman Empire, not with swords or military might, but with the power of the Gospel. But the way they came to their place in Jesus’ life is odd. He chose them, which was not the usual way a rabbi gathered students. It was customary for students to initiate the process, sort of like the way a high school senior will apply at a college, asking for admission. In first-century Jewish life, a young boy would start reading the Scripture at age 5. At ten years old, he could begin to learn the community’s interpretations of the Scripture, and by twelve or thirteen, he would have most of the Torah—the first five books of our Old Testament—memorized. At that point, many were done with school, and they would go on to learn their family’s trade. Some, however, would enroll in what we might call “high school” to learn from a particular rabbi, and if they were good enough, they might be invited into the rabbi’s inner circle. They would become lifelong disciples of this rabbi, eventually carrying his teaching on to the next generation when they became a rabbi themselves. But it began with the child saying to the rabbi, “May I follow you?” (Vanderlaan, In The Dust of the Rabbi, pg. 28).

Jesus, however, did things differently. He approached men and invited them to follow him, and in his day, that sounded a bit desperate, like no one really wanted to follow him, but maybe he could coerce a few to do so (cf. Ortberg, Who Is This Man?, pg. 128). And, beyond that, consider the people he approached. They weren’t the cream of the crop. They weren’t the best students in another rabbi’s school. They were the wash-outs. They were the ones who weren’t good enough to be in rabbi school. Either they quit at age twelve to learn the family trade or they hadn’t been accepted into the rabbi’s school. These are the “not good enoughs.” These are the rejects, the ones no one wanted. So why did Jesus choose them?

Well, the simple answer is that he wanted them, this mixed bag of man. There’s Simon Peter—always first on the list. He was a businessman, a fisherman, and he is regularly the leader of the group. He’s also usually willing to speak when no one else will. His brother, Andrew, seems to be sensitive to things of God. He originally was a follower of John the Baptist, but he followed John’s direction to go after Jesus. James and John, also brothers, also businessmen, also leave behind fishing to follow Jesus. James will be the first of these twelve to die as a martyr; John will be the last to die. Then Philip and Bartholomew, neither of which we know much about, though Philip once also followed John the Baptist and Bartholomew was called when he was praying under a fig tree. These two seem to always be in the background, quiet yet faithful. Thomas, we’ve heard of. Jesus gave him the nickname “The Twin,” and some suggest that’s because he looked a lot like Jesus. We know him better as “doubting Thomas,” though that’s a bit unfair, because all he wanted was some proof of the outrageous claim that Jesus was risen from the dead. He may be skeptical, but he’s also a deep believer. Matthew was a tax collector, considered a traitor to his own people, working for the Roman Government. James the less, probably the youngest among the disciples, and Thaddaeus, whom we also know very little about. Then there’s Simon the Zealot. At some point later in history, the “Zealots” become a political party, but at this point, Matthew’s probably just telling us that Simon was passionate about whatever he believed, and probably that he was willing to use force if necessary to get things accomplished. And then there’s Judas, always the last one listed, always with the description, “who betrayed him.” Judas doesn’t get a chance in any of the Gospels because we know how his story comes out before it begins. Yet he was trusted while he was part of their company, because they let him keep the money. You don’t give the treasury to someone you don’t trust (cf. Wilkins 405; Card, Matthew: The Gospel of Identity, pgs. 99-100; Kalas, The Thirteen Apostles). 

These twelve men were the ones Jesus “wanted” (cf. Mark 3:13), and if we notice nothing else about them this morning, I wants us to notice this: there’s nothing special about any of them. They are people from all walks of life, ordinary men with average intellect, who remind us that it really does take all kinds to make the world go around. But what sets these men apart is that they have hearts that are willing to do what Jesus asks them to do. These men, these twelve, changed the world because they chose to say “yes” when Jesus asked them to follow.

After they have spent some time with him, Jesus calls them together and sends them out to do mission. Now, this in many ways was a “trial run” so that, after he was gone, they would know what it is they were to do. But in this instance, Jesus sends them to a particular audience. He says, “Do not go among the Gentiles or enter any town of the Samaritans. Go rather to the lost sheep of Israel” (10:5-6). That’s a rather strange command, isn’t it, coming from a man whom we believe to be the savior of the world? And, granted, later in the Gospel, after his resurrection, he overturns that command and sends them to “all nations” (28:19). So why the restriction here? It’s partly because he wants them to go to familiar territory and speak to those who at least have a grounding in the story of Israel, but it’s also because he’s sending them on an immediate and urgent mission here. There are larger realities Jesus is aware of, particularly the fact that if he had gone to the Gentiles at this point, none of the Jews would have paid him any more attention. He could be written off at that point (Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part One, pg. 112). There will be time for the Gentile mission later, but Jesus sending them at this point reminds us that he calls us every day to be in mission to those right around us. Those who stay home are in mission every bit as much as those who go to foreign lands. Every disciple is in mission, and not every mission takes place overseas (cf. Wilkins 403-404).

It’s also important to note that in verse 1, these twelve men are called disciples—learners, students, followers. In verse 2, Matthew calls them “apostles,” which means “sent ones” (Wright 111). There’s a huge transition taking place here, one that has to take place in the life of each and every follower of Jesus. It’s a move from being a disciple, a learner, to being an apostle, one who is sent out in mission. Now, the apostles don’t stop being disciples; they don’t stop learning. But it does mean there comes a point where our primary identity changes, from one who simply is soaking it all in, learning as much as we can, to one who gives it away, to one who is sent by Jesus into the mission field. We symbolize that transition even in our building. The words above the pulpit say, “Love God, Love Others.” Those are disciple words, learning words. We come here to worship and to learn how better to follow Jesus in that greatest commandment to love God and love others (cf. Luke 10:27). But over the exit door are the words, “Offer Jesus.” That’s your commission and your calling every single week when you leave here. When you walk through that door into the world, you’re making the transition from disciple to apostle, from a learner to one who is in mission. We take the love we have learned here and offer it to the world. Jesus is helping these twelve make that transition by sending them out into their world to carry out mission. They are now apostles.

So what is their mission? What does Jesus send them to do? This whole chapter is full of his instructions, but we’re going to focus just on the first bit because it’s really a summary of everything that comes after. This is Jesus’ first commission to his apostles: “As you go, proclaim this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received; freely give” (10:7-8). In fact, in the first verse of this chapter, Matthew tells us Jesus gave them “authority” to do these things. The language used there means Jesus made them his authoritative representative. Wherever they go, whatever they do, they represent Jesus. Their actions, their words become his actions and his words (cf. Card 98). Think about that for a moment. If your words and actions are what people around you see of Jesus, if they understand that what you do and what you say is what Jesus is doing and saying—what does that tell them about him? This is a hard word, at least for me. Maybe the rest of you get it right more than I do. But I don’t always say the loving thing, and I don’t always do what Jesus would do, no matter how many times I repeat “WWJD” to myself. What would Jesus do? You see, the thing is, he tells us and the apostles here in this passage exactly what he would do if it were him. He tells them and us how to best represent him. Proclaim a message, be a healer and bring reconciliation. Let’s look at each of those just briefly.

First, he tells them to proclaim a singular message: “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” There would have been a lot of things people in Jesus’ day heard when that message was proclaimed. Some would have remembered the fiery preaching of Jesus’ relative John the Baptist, who preached the exact same message. Others may have thought even further back in time, because during Jesus’ lifetime there had been two Jewish revolutionaries who fought against Rome’s taxes and their census with similar words. Both of them were put down brutally, crucified, so perhaps those words proclaimed by Jesus even brought images of crucifixion to people’s minds. But for those who knew their Scriptures, many would have thought of Isaiah’s promises having to do with the coming of God’s kingdom. It would be a time, the ancient prophet said, when all of God’s promises would be fulfilled, when evil would be defeated once and for all, and when justice and peace would take over the world. It was to be a time when the world was turned right side up, the way God intended it from the very beginning (Wright, Simply Christian, pgs. 99-100). And now Jesus, and his apostles, are saying that time has come near. It’s “at hand;” we might say it’s “just around the corner.” Think of your greatest hope, your greatest desire, and imagine what you would feel if someone told you that was just about to happen. That’s the reaction that would be expected: “The kingdom of heaven has come near.”

Notice what Jesus doesn’t tell them to proclaim. You’ll find no place in the Gospels where Jesus tells the disciples to go out and say, “Tell people to accept me in their heart and they will live forever.” It’s simply not there, because Jesus’ message is bigger than that. Yes, we need a relationship with Jesus, but that’s implied in our being citizens in his kingdom. You can’t live in his kingdom if you don’t have a relationship with him. So that’s primary, but Jesus didn’t tell the disciples to preach that because he didn’t want it to stop there. That’s what we’ve done in American Christianity. We’ve made it all about “me and Jesus,” and “how I can get to heaven.” We ask the implied question, “What's the least I have to do to make it into the gates of heaven?” And we’ve boiled it down to this: just sincerely pray a prayer and you’re in. But that method and that message is not in the Gospels because Jesus’ mission is so much bigger. He’s not just about redeeming and rescuing just me, myself and I. Jesus is about redeeming and rescuing the world: “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Who is this man, who preaches such a radical and upsetting message?

So there’s the verbal component, and then that’s backed up by what the apostles do. Or, to put it another way, it’s not enough just to preach or to teach. The kingdom is also proclaimed in what we do. People are invited into the kingdom through our actions, and for those first apostles, Jesus gives four actions in two categories. The first category is being a healer, and the actions he lists are: “heal the sick, raise the dead” (10:8). Now, I have no doubt that those are literally things the apostles were given the ability to do, because those are the sorts of things Jesus did. Everywhere he went, he healed, and some places, he even brought the dead back to life. Lazarus was four days dead when Jesus told him to come forth from the grave. A widow was given back her dead son because he was her only means of support. Jesus himself conquered death and was raised to a new life.

In our day, though, those actions may take on different aspects. I believe in divine healing. I have experienced it on a couple of occasions, a healing which couldn’t be explained any other way. I’ve also been the recipient of healing through the hands of gifted medical professionals, most notably a heart doctor who gave me back my life fifteen years ago. I thank God for those people, many of you here, who have the gifts and the talents and the skills to be able to bring and encourage and nurture healing in the body. And I’m thankful for those who recognize that it’s not just the skill that brings healing. One of the things we pastors love to do, and something the Congregational Care Ministers are also sharing in, is praying with people before surgeries. And there have been several times when, just as they are getting ready to take the patient into surgery, that the medical personnel join us in prayer. I remember one nurse in particular. When I asked if we could pray quickly, she said yes, and we circled up and got ready to pray. Then she grabbed one of the hands and said, “You’re not going to leave me out! I need this prayer, too!” As I shared two weeks ago, Christians have often been founders of hospitals and hospice centers and other avenues of healing because Jesus sent us to do that. Healing is a sign that the kingdom is breaking in, that it has come near. Jesus didn’t heal just for the sake of healing. He healed so that people could see a glimpse of the kingdom of heaven.

I believe healing ministries go beyond just the physical body, though. Healing ministries also include emotional and spiritual healing. Maybe we can even see the image of “raising the dead” when a relationship that seems broken beyond repair begins to find new life. We take that seriously here, so much so that after Easter, we’re devoting several weeks to a series on marriage and relationships and the idea of covenant. I hope you’ll invite someone to join us for that. We also have trained Congregational Care Ministers who are about the business of bringing healing and hope into situations and relationships that seem broken. And to help in times when death invades, our Congregational Care Ministry is going to be offering a small group based on the book “Beyond the Broken Heart,” to help those whose lives are broken from grief. Healing—physical, spiritual, emotional—is a sign of the inbreaking of the kingdom of heaven.

The second category, then, is to be a reconciler, and the actions are these: “cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons” (10:8). Now, we sort of scoff at those actions and wonder what they have to do with reconciliation. But remember, the leper was a person who lived outside the community. They were not welcome because of their disease. If they were on the sidewalk and you were approaching, they had to yell out, “Unclean! Unclean!” They lived their lives in isolation. So did those who were considered possessed by demons. However we might want to label that today, they were outcasts. Mark tells us of a man who was so full of demons that he was forced to live among the tombs. No one wanted to be around him; most people were scared of him. But Jesus drove out the demons and sent the man back into the community so that he could tell the people how much God had done for him (Mark 5:1-20). You see, God has always called his people into community, and as long as there are those who are left outside, those who are outcasts, the kingdom of heaven cannot come fully. As I said a couple of weeks ago, Jesus welcomed everyone, and he removed the barriers that existed—like leprosy and demon possession—and welcomed all people being to the community. Everyone is welcome. Everyone is included. Where did that idea come from? It certainly wasn’t the case for the ancient world. The faith of Rome did not depend on community, but the kingdom of heaven does (Ortberg 131). So Jesus’ apostles are called to be reconcilers, removing the barriers and allowing all to come because it takes all kinds of people to make up the kingdom of heaven.

Underlying all of this is Jesus’ expectation that the apostles—and us—will not just go and preach. To bring healing and reconciliation means we have to get involved in people’s lives. We have to understand what’s going on if we’re going to be able to accomplish the full mission he calls us to. Too often, the history of the church, particularly in our culture, has been to throw Gospel bombs into a life or a community and hope that it makes a difference. Or we write a check and try to make a difference from a distance. We preach before we bother to understand a situation (cf. McHugh, Introverts in the Church, pg. 25). That’s why I love Eugene Peterson’s translation of John 1:14: “The Word [Jesus] became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood” (MSG). When Cathy and I worked on the west side of Chicago, it was imperative that our team live there. We could have lived somewhere safer, no doubt, and when our parents learned of the shootings and drug busts that took place just a block from our apartment, they wished we would have. But what kind of impact can you really make from a distance? Jesus calls us to do what he did—to move “into the neighborhood” and to bring healing, hope and reconciliation.

Jesus calls us on a mission, and I’ll tell you this: it wasn’t any easier to proclaim the message in Jesus’ day than it is in ours. The “neighborhood” of Jesus' day included many gods; in fact, Christians were often called “atheists” because they refused to buy into the whole pantheon of gods that Rome had. In the Empire, every town could have its own god, and this idea of one God who created everything was a strange idea. And yet, Rome was well-established. Rome was eternal. Rome was powerful. The Christians were not. They weren’t even considered a religion; rather, they were just a strange sub-group of the Jewish faith. They had no future; these apostles left behind had no education, no wealth, no power. As John Ortberg says, “If someone had asked you to place a bet on which group would still be around in two thousand years, all the smart money would have been placed on the Roman Empire” (136). And yet, Rome is gone and Christianity is still here. Why is that? It’s because of this teacher from Nazareth who called his followers to be on mission, and every one of them risked their lives in order to carry out that mission. Who is this man who can inspire such radical obedience from such unlikely people?

He’s the one who called me in 1977. While I sat in a Vacation Bible School class and listened to the teacher share about her faith, I heard and felt a call to follow Jesus on my own. I had grown up in the church, but I had never done much more than just sit in the pew and go to Sunday School. I can look back now and I describe it as relying on my parents’ faith. But that morning at Bible School, I made a commitment to follow Jesus on my own. Ten years later, I was sitting in a missions conference in Urbana, Illinois, when I felt a distinct call to ministry of some sort. I didn’t know then what it meant, but when Tony Campolo asked those who would make a commitment to some sort of full-time ministry, I found myself standing to my feet. For a couple of years, I thought I would be serving God most likely on a college campus with InterVarsity. I remember telling my mom, who asked if I had ever considered being a pastor, that I thought that would be way too boring. Yet, in 1989, God clearly called me to be a pastor and placed within me a deep desire to minister to the church, to do what Paul describes in his letter to the Ephesians: “to equip [God’s] people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up” (4:12). I went to seminary and there entered the process for becoming a United Methodist pastor. And here I am. I don’t always get it right. I am sometimes far too temperamental and easily upset. I wonder why in the world God called me, someone who struggles daily with sin and brokenness and pride. Some days I pray for a normal life, whatever that is, and I wonder aloud why in the world God called me. That’s why I tell you, when you send me a note of affirmation or encouragement, I eat that up because I don’t know why God continues to call me or use me, except that it takes all kinds, and I am one of the kinds. Who is this man? He’s one who has called me to mission.

And he’s one who has called you to mission, too, to proclaim the kingdom and to heal and reconcile. You are his modern-day apostles, and I’ve told some of you that you have a better chance of reaching people with the good news of Jesus than I ever will. In our culture, when people learn you’re a pastor, it opens some doors and closes many more. But you rub up against broken people each and every day, and those are the folks Jesus has sent you to reach, to heal, to reconcile. He’s sent you to feed the hungry—if it weren’t for the church, and this church in particular, this community would still have hungry kids on the weekend. But Lil Falk challenged our Disciple class to do something about it, to bring healing to a broken situation, and so, through the generosity of this church, we did. That sort of compassion does not come from the world; it comes from Jesus and his apostles—you, his sent ones. If it weren’t for the church, where would abused and neglected children hear the message that they are royalty, loved by an everlasting God? Because people like Leigh Huminsky and Jaymee Penrose and Phil Linoski and others brought us the need for Royal Family Kids Camp, we send a huge contingent each and every summer to share God’s love—the message of the kingdom—with kids who are so broken. We bring healing—because we are Jesus’ sent ones. How many other ministries wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for you? Smart Choice Food led by Kim Adkins, the Car Show led by Steve Massow that provides funds for various ministries of compassion, Mission Possible Kids led by Amy Kegley that took shoes to a ministry in Chicago for those who don’t have any—I could go on and on, and none of those things would exist if it weren’t for Jesus and your response to his call. Who is this man? He is the one who calls us all to mission: to proclaim the kingdom by being healers and reconcilers. Do we always get it right? Absolutely not. Sometimes we fail, and sometimes we fail spectacularly. Look at the history of the church and you can see that. G. K. Chesterton put it this way: “The Church is justified, not because her children do not sin, but because they do” (qtd. in Ortberg 135). Yet there is grace, and God continues to call us. We don’t always get it right, but we continue to seek to answer God’s call as best as we can.

So what about you? What is your call? What are your gifts? How will you respond to Jesus as an apostle, a “sent one”? He called the twelve and they answered, even when they didn’t understand it all. Their call and their response is hope-giving; it’s a reminder that it really does take all kinds. It takes all of us together to enable the kingdom of heaven to come near here. Howard was one who answered the call, but not easily. He had retired and his wife wasn’t sure what to do with him. All of his life had been wrapped up in his job. He was underfoot, and lost in many ways. And then, in a church service, he heard the call to mission, and for Howard that call looked like this: what can this church do to better welcome people? The pastor laid out a challenge of someone to provide something tangible to first-time guests, sort of like we try to do with our pies. Well, Howard heard a call, deep in his soul, and he knew he had a talent that could be used. He loved to bake bread, and so Howard volunteered, and from that time on, he used his gifts to reach out to newcomers. Every Sunday afternoon, he was in his shed, where he set up a bread kitchen, baking fresh bread and then on Sunday evening or Monday, he personally went and delivered the loaves. Howard was sort of a gruff person, one I wouldn’t have expected to answer such a call, but something in that call to mission softened him and God used him in wonderful ways. He may still be baking bread if his health has held up, I don’t know. But one thing Howard taught me is how we must respond when Jesus calls. So here’s the challenge for us: how will you respond to Jesus’ call to proclaim, heal and reconcile—to change the world?

Who is this man? He is the one who calls his followers to change the world. Let us pray.

Erasing the Lines

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Genesis 1:26-27; Luke 9:46-50

March 16, 2014 • Portage First UMC

It was supposed to be a nice afternoon outing to a movie, but things never quite go the way they are planned when you are the parent of an autistic son. Still, Emily Colson had taken 23-year-old Max to a movie before, and he had done quite well after he got adjusted. Into the packed theater they stepped, hopeful that it would be an enjoyable time. However, when the first preview came on, it was thunderously loud, and Max was surprised. “I want to go home!” he cried out. Emily assured him their movie would start soon, and then came the next preview featuring Kermit the Frog, one of Max’s favorites, which helped him settle down. That is, until the feature film came on, which once again startled him. “I want to go home!” he cried out again. And that was when the real drama began.

An older woman seated near them yelled at Emily, “Are you going to make him be quiet?” Emily started to explain to the woman that Max was autistic, and the woman interrupted her. “I know he is,” she said, “but why should the rest of us have to suffer?” Her husband chimed in, “If you don’t make him be quiet, I’m going to call the manager.” Emily found it difficult to breathe, but she decided it wasn’t worth fighting for their right to be there at that moment. She got up to leave with Max, and that’s when the applause began. It came from every patron in the theater, applauding their departure. As they made their way down the steps, one man angrily called out, “And don’t come back!” By this point, Emily had nearly lost it. Between the applause and the comments, she was astonished that people would still be treated this way, but the worst was still yet to come. As they walked in front of the seats, one man’s voice rose above all the others as he shouted two horrible words: “He’s retarded!” That made Emily stop, and turn ever so slowly toward the audience. Gathering her composure, she said, “There is a lesson here. A lesson that is so much more important than anything you will learn from this movie.” And, as they once again began to exit, the same voice from a moment ago called out, “Merry Christmas!” (Colson, “Darkness in a Theater,” http://specialneedsparenting.net/darkness-theater/).

Unfortunately, that is a true story, one that happened just last Christmas, 2013, in this age of tolerance for all. We think we have come so far. I wish it were an isolated incident, but despite our calls for understanding and tolerance and love and respect, our culture still gets it wrong far too often. The question that nags me as I read that story is this: how many of those people in those chairs claimed to be followers of Jesus? And the even deeper question that haunts me is: what would I have done had I been in that theater? I’d like to think I would have stuck up for Max and his mother, but when I’m honest, when any of us are honest, we have to admit it’s hard to take on the crowd. Yet that’s exactly what we’re called to do, to live a life that is different from the crowd, a life that is shaped by the way Jesus, the rabbi from Nazareth, treated people.

In the world Jesus lived in, there were lots of folks who were left out. There were very definite “classes” of people, the “haves” and the “have nots.” Generally, the “haves” lived in Jerusalem. They were the rich, the powerful, the religiously influential. The “have nots” lived in Galilee and other places. They were the poor, often the “working poor,” the ones who scraped by from day to day. People like Peter and James and John who fished for their daily bread. People like Jesus’ earthly father Joseph, who went from job to job. And they were the sick, because the religious leaders (Pharisees in particular) considered any defect or handicap to be a curse. They believed nothing malformed could reflect the perfect holiness of God. So lepers had to live outside the city, and so-called “defective” human beings weren’t allowed in the Temple courts (Ortberg, Who Is This Man?, pg. 37). There was an assumed ranking of the value of a human being, and the higher up in value you were, the more acceptable to God you were, or so it was believed.

The Romans, rulers of the land, had similar practices, only in their thinking, men were much more valuable than women from the get-go. All healthy male children were required to be raised, but only the firstborn female had to be raised. Any other girls that were born were considered disposable. According to the records, in one city where six hundred families lived, only six of them raised more than one daughter. Girls were devalued (Ortberg 47). And fathers had complete control, the power of life and death over a child. When a child was born, it was placed at the father's feet. If he picked it up, it would live. If he walked away, the child would be left out to die. Now, we like to think we’re far beyond that, but there is a growing concern, particularly in Asian countries, over what is being called “gender imbalance.” In certain places, it’s still true that boys are considered more valuable than girls. When it is learned that a child is a girl, she is more likely to be unwanted and aborted than a boy. According to some reports, there are 163 million more men than women in Asia today and it doesn’t take much to figure out why that’s a problem. It’s caused the sex trafficking business in that part of the world to boom, as men seek out a spouse or at least seek out sex. It’s also meant that some girls as young as twelve years old are married off to wealthy men (Ortberg 47-48).

When we place a higher value on certain people, when we label others as unwanted, imperfect, nobodies—we enter a different world than the one Jesus envisioned. Jesus valued all people. He ate with “sinners.” He touched unclean lepers. He spoke with women out in the open. He invited a tax collector—a collaborator with the Roman Empire, a traitor to his own people—to be one of his followers. And he also invited the first-century equivalent of a patriot and a terrorist. Imagine the conversations they had with each other! One of the objections to the “Son of God” film has to do with the portrayal of Mary Magdalene traveling with the disciples and Jesus, and yet Luke says that’s exactly what happened. Luke says Jesus went from town to town with the twelve, and “also some women.” Mary Magdalene is specifically mentioned, as are others who helped underwrite Jesus’ ministry financially (cf. Luke 8:1-3). Jesus would talk to Greeks and Romans and Jews and Herodians and Pharisees and Sadducees and rich and poor and women and men and anyone who wanted to know more about the kingdom of God. So you’ve got to ask, “Who is this man who welcomes everyone?”

Jesus’ expansive inclusivity makes it even more astonishing to me to find his disciples, his twelve closest followers, arguing repeatedly about which one of them was the greatest. This argument must have happened more than once; John tells us they were even arguing about this on the last night they shared dinner with Jesus, just before his arrest and crucifixion. Now, as Luke tells it here, they’re not arguing about their current state. He says they were arguing about who “would be” the greatest. It’s as if they know they have no status, no rank here right now; most of them are from Galilee and have been told throughout their lives they don’t matter. No, what they seem to be concerned about is when Jesus establishes his kingdom, who will be first in line? They never wonder if there will actually be rank and position in Jesus’ kingdom. They just want to make sure that when it’s set up, they get to enjoy having privilege that they’ve missed out on all their lives (cf. Liefeld, “Luke,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 931). The other thing that’s fascinating to me about this ongoing argument is that, every time it happens, they never ask Jesus about it. They’re always arguing it out among themselves. There’s only one time, when James and John comes to Jesus and directly ask to be first and second in the kingdom (Mark 10:35-40), but even then, it may not have been them who asked. When Matthew tells us about it, he says it’s their mom who is trying to get rank and privilege for her sons (cf. Matthew 20:20-23). Usually when they argue, though, they’re trying to figure it out for Jesus.

And so, Luke says, Jesus, “knowing their thoughts,” calls a child to stand beside him (9:47). A child, in that world, had absolutely no status. Children were not treasured or valued like today. Children were sometimes a nuisance and sometimes just a necessity. They had no place in society, and so Jesus has this child stand beside him and he says, “It is the one who is least among you who is the greatest” (9:48). You want argue about rank and status and privilege? You want to know who is the greatest? Become like this child, Jesus says. Become like someone who has absolutely no status, rank or privilege. That person is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

Now, I would have thought that vivid lesson would be enough to shut them up. And yet, in the very next verse, we find John doing an outrageous thing. He speaks up and tells Jesus that they saw someone driving out demons in his name, but because that other person was not part of their group, was not a card-carrying official disciple, they told him to stop. That’s an outrageous thing for John to say on a couple of levels. One, he’s completely missed the point Jesus just made about status and rank and privilege. The child is probably still standing there by Jesus and John is on to other things, “more important things” in his mind. But it’s also outrageous because if you back up in chapter 9 of Luke’s Gospel, you’ll find a couple of tidbits that shed light on John’s actions. First of all, in verse 1, Jesus sends the twelve out into the surrounding area and one of their specific missions is to “drive out demons” (9:1). Skim down a little more and you come to the story of the Transfiguration, which Pastor Deb preached on just a couple of weeks ago. And right after they have seen Jesus in his glory, Jesus with the awesome radiance of God leaking out, they come down the mountain and find a desperate father who has a demon-possessed boy, and he’s been asking the disciples to cure the boy, to drive out the demon. Now, remember, this is one of their jobs. Jesus sent them to do this. And yet, here at the foot of the mountain, they can’t. So Jesus, with what I imagine is more than a little frustration, says, “You unbelieving and perverse generation, how long shall I stay with you and put up with you?” (9:41). Now, back to John’s report to Jesus. He’s tattling on someone who is able to do what he couldn’t, what his lack of belief prevented him from doing. This isn’t a matter of orthodoxy, of right belief. Jesus insists that if the man isn’t working against them, he’s working for them. John is upset about having his rank and privilege and status threatened. He is, after all, an authentic disciple of Jesus. This other person is a poser, and has no business invading their territory. But Jesus says, in essence, they’re doing my work better than you are. Stop worrying about rank and status. Start focusing on the needs and the people around you (cf. Liefeld 931; Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pgs. 127-128).

You see, Jesus is operating out of a worldview that says from the very beginning, men and women were created equal, in God’s image. Where does he get such radical ideas? From creation. Genesis 1 tells us that the crowning achievement of creation was one creature made in God’s image. Nothing else in all of creation is said to have the image of God in it. Not the skies, not the land, not the animals, not the sun or the moon. Only humanity is said to be made in God’s image. Now, that doesn’t mean we look like God. It’s not a physical image Genesis is talking about. Rather, it means we alone were given the ability to choose good and evil, to make moral decisions, to be able to re-present God in this world. And more than that, Genesis poetically says even more: “So God created mankind in his own image; in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them” (1:27). All are made in God’s image, which means in turn that all are valuable, all are welcomed, and all are loved. When John says God so loved the world that he gave his son to bring the world eternal life (John 3:16), he doesn't say God loved part of the world, or God some of the world more than others. He says God loved the world—if you’re in the world, you’re loved by God. You have the image of God in you, and you are valued. You’re worth something. You have immeasurable value, no matter what anyone else tells you. You bear God’s image to the world. That’s the worldview Jesus is working from. Even the leper and the outcast and the Roman and the Pharisee and the enemy—all of them bear God’s image. And so those who follow Jesus have no right to turn anyone away. That’s why he says, in those closing chapters of Matthew’s Gospel, that those who care for and share with the least of these are actually caring for and sharing with him (cf. Matthew 25:31-46). Who is this man?

He is a man who upended society’s understanding of and valuing of humanity. He welcomed the sick and the lame. He increased the value of women in his day. And his followers are called to do the same. We’re called to be willing to associate with those who have no worldly status, to stop seeking status of our own and welcome all who will come to join us in this revolutionary kingdom (cf. Liefeld 931). Jesus calls us to erase the lines that divide us from each other—the lines of status, rank or privilege. Lines between us and other members of the human family have no place in a Christian’s life. So how have we done through the centuries? Early on, when the Roman Empire was wracked by plagues (probably smallpox), the church had a choice. Would they flee or would they follow? In many of those cities, the plague would affect 30-40% of the population. With overcrowding, sewage in the streets and no soap, those cities were a breeding ground for disease. And so when the plagues began, the wealthy and important people fled to the country. It didn’t matter to them what happened to those who were ill. Even those who couldn’t leave turned out their sick family members, and many of those gathered at the city fountain, the last place they could go to get water. Christians, rather than running away, chose to stay in the cities, to tend those who were sick without regard to their own welfare. An early church historian, Eusebius, wrote, “All day long some of [the Christians] tended to the dying and to their burial, countless numbers with no one to care for them.” Why did they do such a thing? Because they believed that those people were made in God’s image (Colson, The Faith, pgs. 15-18). Later on, in the midst of hammering out important doctrinal issues, firming up what the church believed, the church leadership declared that whenever a cathedral was built, a hospital must also be built. The early church was concerned about a person’s soul and their body because the people were made in the image of God, no matter what their social standing (Ortberg 40). Hospitals today still have names like “St. Anthony” and “St. Mary” and “Christ Advocate” because they began as places of healing in Jesus’ name, a place where the lines would be erased and everyone would be cared for.

We’ve already mentioned how Jesus valued women. In a culture where women were basically property and where her highest calling was to bear children, Jesus turned everything upside down. He welcomed Mary to sit at his feet and learn (Luke 10:38-42). He made a woman the first missionary to the Samaritans (John 4). And women were the first witnesses to the resurrection. For Jesus, the highest calling of men and women—all those made in God’s image—was to know and do the will of God (cf. Ortberg 52-53). Now, it’s possible—probable, actually—that the church has yet to catch up with Jesus. The church has often been a source of oppression for women, taking far too literally and out of context Paul’s words about women and ignoring the way Jesus treated them. I’m thankful to be part of a church that recognizes what women have to bring to all sort of ministry, and I’m blessed to serve alongside a great pastor who happens to be a woman. We have, in this church, women in all sorts of leadership positions, and they’re not there because they’re women. They’re there for the same reason men are: because they are made in the image of God and they have gifts to share. Paul put it this way: “In Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith…There is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:26, 28). Jesus turned the world upside down for men and women alike.

But, as I said, we haven’t always followed well in his footsteps. For how long did the church believe that certain races were inferior to others, forgetting again that all of humanity—the human race—is made in the image of God? One of the ugliest parts of our denomination’s history is when the church split over slavery, along north and south lines. If you travel in the southern part of our country, you’ll find many churches that were once “Methodist Episcopal South” churches. While these churches were helping propagate and prop up the institution of slavery, the northern churches were very involved in the Underground Railroad and helping slaves escape. Even though the Civil War ended in 1865, north and south churches didn’t come back together until 1939—74 years after the end of the war. (Interestingly for us, the conference at which they united again was held at First Church in Marion, Indiana.) We are still very much a divided church over racial issues, and I believe that still pains the heart of God and has us at cross purposes to Jesus, who declared all as children of God. More recently, the larger church has struggled with how to respond to issues like AIDS and immigration and health care and how we make room for those with special needs and how we care for homosexual persons. Not just our denomination, but the church in general. If we think we can label someone, put them into a category, then we treat them as perhaps less than human, less than the child of God they are. We can draw lines and remain comfortably within our bubble.

But Jesus, this man from Nazareth, calls us beyond our bubble, beyond our safety zone, to relate to, to love, to rub up against those we think are less than deserving. It’s not about being the greatest. It’s about reflecting the image of God and erasing the lines that we draw. The world still has trouble figuring out why a young woman would not only give herself to religious service but give up a comfortable position to travel to a poverty-stricken land. And yet that is just what Agnes Bernai did. We know her better as Mother Teresa, and while she was on a retreat she heard a clear call to move to India to serve the least, the last and the lost. Out of love for God, she did so, and in the first year, there were times when she had to beg for food and money to sustain herself and her work. She herself learned what it was like to be among the poorest of the poor. In those moments, she said, she was tempted to give up the call and return to the comfortable life of the abbey, but she could not deny God’s call on her life to take care of, in her words, “the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the lepers, all those people who feel unwanted, unloved, uncared for throughout society, people that have become a burden to the society and are shunned by everyone.” Eventually, she went on to found a house for the dying, because she believed everyone deserved to die with dignity. “A beautiful death,” she said, “is for people who lived like animals to die like angels—loved and wanted.” She did these things not for her own glory or recognition, but because she wanted to be a faithful follower of Jesus. When asked to describe her calling, Mother Teresa put it this way: “I see Jesus in every human being. I say to myself, this is hungry Jesus, I must feed him. This is sick Jesus. This one has leprosy or gangrene: I must wash him and tend to him. I serve because I love Jesus.” She chose to serve because she loved this man from Nazareth who erased the lines and called all people children of God.

This week, there was a great story in the news about erasing the lines and valuing all as children of God. I’m just going to let you see the story, and I’ve got to tell you that if it doesn’t make you smile, you might want to check and see if your heart is still beating.

VIDEO: “Harlem Globetrotters and KG3”

That may be the best thing you see all day, and it reminds me once again that the other person is a child of God, loved by God and welcomed by God, no matter what we think of them or how we judge them. God has a place and a mission for each and every person. That’s the revolution Jesus brought to humanity. That’s the revolution his followers are called to live out.

There’s one other area Jesus challenged us on, and even prayed for us in, and that’s the way we treat our brothers and sisters in Christ, our fellow believers. On the last night of his life here on earth, Jesus took a long walk with his followers, from the Upper Room, all the way along the Kidron Valley, to the Garden of Gethsemane where he would be arrested. Heavy things were on his mind during that walk, and John, the last living disciple, tells us more about the conversation during that walk than any other Gospel writer. Three chapters of his Gospel are devoted to that walk, and one of those three is entirely devoted to Jesus’ prayer for himself, his disciples, and those who would come after them. For us, for those who would come to believe in Jesus because of the message handed down to us, Jesus prayed this: “I pray…that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you…so that the world may believe that you have sent me” (John 17:20-21). I can’t help but think that one of the reasons the world still has not been won for Jesus is because his followers can’t get along. We argue and fight and disagree over the smallest things, and we discount our brothers and sisters in Christ by calling then “unChristian” and worse. Is it possible that we don’t have a corner on the whole truth? I believe one reason eternity will be so long is because God will have to straighten all of us out to some degree! Are we not able to put aside our differences, as important as we may think they are, and work together for the sake of Jesus Christ and his kingdom? That’s the revolution he prayed for, that he would be the one who brings us together. Instead, because we’re so overly concerned about being “right,” we allow Jesus to push us apart.

In the community we served in during seminary, the churches there—at least some of them—had a great tradition during Holy Week of putting on a Maundy Thursday play. For several years, we did a series of monologues featuring the twelve disciples. I was always cast as James, because he was the youngest and I was by far the youngest among the men who did the play. And after the monologues, the pastors would serve communion to that gathering. It was a beautiful display of unity, that around the table of Christ, we could gather as one body, no matter what the name was on the outside of our buildings. I’ve seen that happen one other time, in a community service when the pastors agreed to serve communion together, despite our theological differences. Jesus prayed that, on that last night, we would put aside our differences and be one. We would erase the lines long enough to notice our unity in him. And we can point our fingers at the institutional church, but folks, the problem starts with you and me. If we begin listening to this Jesus, this revolutionary, and we start erasing the lines, pretty soon the church will follow—and then, the world.

So what line will you erase this week? If we are going to follow this teacher from Nazareth faithfully, it’s important we include in our lives people who are different from us, people who are perhaps from another ethnic group, people who are from a different social status than we are. It’s only when we do that, when we take Jesus seriously that our status, rank and privilege no longer matter, that the world will sit up and take notice: “Hey, there’s something different about those Christians.” It might even cause them to take another look at Jesus and ask, “Who is this man, who even erases the lines we draw?” What line will you erase this week?

Today, as you leave, to help you remember your calling, we’re got a card to give you with the Mother Teresa quote on it. It’s wallet-sized, and I want to encourage you to put it next to the credit or debit card you use most frequently, or put it in with your cash, so that every time you go to pay for something, you’ll be reminded that the person you’re handing your payment to is a child of God. The person behind you in line is a child of God. The people you’re going home to, the people you live next to, the people who pass you on the street—all are children of God. Use this card to remind you to erase the lines and live the way this teacher called us to. Let’s pray.

An Unlikely Life

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Matthew 5:38-48; Acts 4:32-37

March 9, 2014 • Portage First UMC

It’s a bit like the way a song gets stuck in your head—do you ever have that happen to you? Usually, it’s a song you wish you didn’t know or really don’t want to find yourself humming along with. For instance, there’s that “Call Me Maybe” song. That’s a song that really annoys me and for a while you heard it everywhere. Then, it sort of disappeared, and just a week or so ago, I heard it playing on “Good Morning America.” Sure enough, later that day, I found myself humming the tune and singing the words in my head. It’s the kind of catchy song that gets stuck in your mind, whether you want it to or not. The song just won’t go away. So it’s a bit like that.

Or it’s a bit like going to the movies and you see an actor on the screen that you know you’ve seen somewhere else. You recognize the face or some of his or her mannerisms, but you can’t quite place where you’ve seen them before. How much of the movie is spoiled because you’re trying to figure out where you’ve seen that person before? The thought just won’t go away. It’s a bit like that.

But it’s more than that, because we’re talking about a man who won’t go away. He is history’s most familiar figure (Ortberg, Who Is This Man?, pg. 12). If you were to try to take history, culture, literature, medicine or most any other aspect of our world today and pull his influence out, it would mean leaving that area of life gutted. Today, 2,000 years after his death, he continues to be a source of controversy, speculation, worship and adoration. He is the man who won’t go away. Most recently, his life has been told yet again on the silver screen, and in its first weekend, the movie “Son of God” brought in $26 million, putting it in second place for that weekend. His story continues to inspire, motivate and move people to do outrageous things. Hospitals have been built in his name, schools and universities were founded by his followers, and his teachings have inspired such diverse people as Mohandas Ghandi, Desmund Tutu, Martin Luther King Jr., C. S. Lewis, Jimmy Carter and Mr. Rogers. His name is Jesus, and he is the man who won’t go away.

He should have, though. Logically, we should not continue to remember him today. He was born as what was known in his day as a mamzer, a child whose parents are unmarried. As John Ortberg comments, “All languages have a word for mamzer, and all of them are ugly” (21). And it was well known that he was considered “illegitimate” (cf. John 8:41); the religious leaders raised that very issue. He was born in poverty, raised as a carpenter’s son, and grew up in a village that wasn’t important enough to even be put on first century maps (Hamilton, The Journey, pg. 15). Nothing good ever came from that part of the world, people believed (cf. John 1:46), and yet he spent most of his life within a small radius of where he grew up. When he was thirty years old, he began to teach and gather a small group of followers around him, but he never wrote a book, never lectured in the great cultural centers of the time, never built a building. He left no monuments; in fact, what sometimes frustrates first-time visitors to his homeland is that there are very, very few places where today we can definitively say, “This happened here.” All of the monuments and memorials that are there today were established centuries after he walked in the dust of that land.

And then there’s his death. He seems to have intentionally put himself in opposition to the rulers of his day, and one thing, I think, the film “Son of God” depicts so well is that Jesus knew what he was doing. He knew he was going to die. And he died a painful, horrible, criminal’s death. The normal protocol for that kind of death would have been to either leave his body on the cross for the birds to eat, or take it down and throw it in a mass grave. Had it not been for Nicodemus, who asked to bury his body, that could have been Jesus’ fate. He was born without dignity, and he died without dignity. Yet, today, the cross is one of the world’s most recognized symbols, and the name of Jesus is still known around the world. Sometimes in reverence, and sometimes in cursing, his name is spoken every single day. And that ought to cause us to ask: who is this man? Why, 2,000 years later, does his single life continue to have such an inescapable impact on planet Earth?

People were asking that question even in Jesus’ own day, especially during those three years when he taught the people and healed the sick and raised the dead. The people asked in wonder, “Who is this man?” The religious leaders asked in fear, “Who is this man?” And the Romans asked in disgust, “Who is this man?” Everyone was asking the question, and everyone had an opinion, much like today. So for the next few weeks, during this Lenten season, we’re going to take a fresh look at Jesus. We’re going to ask who he was and why he continues to make a difference in our world. And, I hope, along the way, you’ll also begin to see ways he can make an even bigger difference in your life and how he might be able to change the lives of your friends who don’t yet know him. So we’re going to look at his life, because if you want to get to know someone, to really know what they are like, you need to study their life, see how they live, and listen to what they say. This morning, as we begin, we’re going to look at some of the outrageous things he taught, and how he calls us to live an unlikely life.

You don’t have to read very far in the Gospels to come across a story where Jesus is challenging the way we normally live. He says things like, “Unless you forgive each other, God the Father won’t forgive you” (cf. Matthew 6:14-15). He tells us not to judge others (cf. Matthew 7:1-5), and he also tells us if we have a problem with a brother or sister we should talk directly to them rather than simply unfriending them on Facebook (cf. Matthew 18:15). Okay, that may be my modern paraphrase! But you get the idea. He takes on greed, lust, those who think they are important, taxes, and he says the ones who are truly righteous are most often the ones who are least likely to believe they are (cf. Matthew 25:31-46). And folks, that’s just in Matthew’s Gospel. Elsewhere, he says his followers will be servants to others, that we should be people who tell others about him, and that he is the only way to God. But most of all, he says, we should learn to love one another.

That’s the message at the heart of the passage we read this morning. This brief section is part of a larger sermon or teaching commonly called the “Sermon on the Mount,” because in Matthew’s Gospel, we’re told he preached it or taught it on a “mountainside” or hillside by the shores of the Sea of Galilee (5:1). In many ways, this sermon sort of sums up all of Jesus’ teaching, and if there is a “summary of the summary,” it’s Matthew 5:48: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” Talk about a tall order! How could we ever hope to live up to that command? What is Jesus saying here? Is he just another crazy teacher, setting an impossible standard for those who listen to him? Or is he calling us instead to a deeper life? Who is this man, and what kind of life does he want for us? What does it mean to be “perfect”?

To answer that question, we have to back up a bit and look at the context, because our idea of “perfect” is a far cry from the life being described here. When we think of “perfect,” we think of something without fault, unblemished, or in the case of our behavior, never making a mistake. Everything we do has to be right, and so many of us live—or try to live—the Christian life that way. Or, at least, we expect others to live the Christian life that way. If they make a mistake, we’re quick to jump on them and cry foul. There was a branch of the ancient Christian faith that lived that way; it was called “Pelagianism,” named after its leader, Pelagius. Pelagius taught that you had to access your faith by doing something; in other words, Jesus will love you better if you do this or that. It’s Jesus plus. Jesus plus prayer. Jesus plus so much Bible reading. Jesus plus good works. Jesus plus church attendance. And so on. That idea still exists. Doing those things, we think, will make us more acceptable to God. Jesus plus will make us perfect, or so we think. And we buy into that because that’s the way the world works, right? If you work harder at your job, you get noticed more and you might get a pay increase or a promotion or a better job. If you do more volunteering, people will think better of you. Or, in the religious world, we say if you pray more, or get more people to pray for you, you’ll have a better chance of getting your wish. Or if you work harder for God, you’ll get an upgrade in eternity. That’s how we interpret “perfect;” we just take the world’s idea into the church. But is that what Jesus taught?

This whole chapter of Matthew’s Gospel has Jesus upending the normal way things were thought of, even the normal “religious” way of thinking. You think you’re okay with just not murdering someone? Jesus says murder begins when you call a brother or sister a “fool.” Good for you if you’ve avoided adultery, he says, but adultery really begins in the heart, when you begin to lust after someone. Divorce is a much more serious matter than the religious leaders had made it, and breaking your promise to anyone is a matter not just between you and them, but between you and God. In every situation, Jesus takes what is thought of as “normal” and deepens it, reaches down to the root or the heart of the matter. Then, in the section we read this morning, he pushes right into daily life as he addresses the matter of retaliation and of loving our neighbors.

What Jesus cites in verse 38 is what William Barclay calls “the oldest law in the world” (The Gospel of Matthew, Volume 1, pg. 163). “You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth’” (5:38). That’s not uniquely a Moses law, though Moses did say it. Similar laws and guidelines have been found in many ancient civilizations. It shows up in the oldest known code of law, the Code of Hammurabi, written by a king of Babylon in the 2200’s B.C. Now, one difference here is that Hammurabi distinguished between classes of people. In other words, in that Babylonian world, it was okay to harm certain individuals if they were “beneath” you socially; but those who were considered your peers, you could not hurt more than they had hurt you. You see that’s the point of this law, in whatever culture you find it. It’s not about vengeance or revenge. It’s not a bloodthirsty law. It’s a law that limits how much you can retaliate. It’s meant to curtail violence. In ancient times, and not-so-ancient times, it sometimes happens that say one person causes me to be hurt—to get a paper cut, for instance. And to “get them back,” I set out to cut off their hand. And then they gather their friends to kill me, and then my friends go to kill their entire family. A small thing can easily escalate into a huge feud. The most famous instance of this in our country were the Hatfields and McCoys, where one injury led to a generational feud between their families. The Moses law was meant to limit that sort of violence, not encourage it. If you are hurt, you are only allowed to hurt the other person up to the injury you yourself received (Barclay 164). If I got a paper cut, I can only give a paper cut back. I don’t have to, though, and that’s part of the point. The law really is: only an eye for an eye, and not more.

But Jesus, this teacher from Nazareth, says that if someone slaps you on the right cheek, let them slap your other cheek as well (5:39). Now, if a right-handed person (which would be assumed in this culture) wanted to slap you on the cheek, how would they have to do it? With the back of their hand, not the flat of their hand. And in Jewish understanding, that was a huge insult. And even moreso to let them hit you again. But that’s what Jesus says to do. Let them strike your other cheek, too. Without retaliation. Without response. Then he goes on to say that if someone takes your shirt, give them your coat also (5:40). The “shirt” is the long, inner garment all men wore, made of cotton or linen, while the “coat” was a heavier, outer garment that men wore as a robe during the day and used as a blanket at night. Most people in Jesus’ world would have had two shirts and one coat. It wasn’t like they could go to their closet and get a new one. If they lost their shirt, life would be very difficult. Losing the coat would make life even worse. In fact, Jewish law said that if you won someone’s coat in a bet, you could only keep it for the day. You had to return it at night so the man could cover up. A man’s coat could not be taken permanently. But Jesus says if someone takes your shirt, give them your coat as well. Don’t demand your rights. Give freely to everyone.

And then, to push the boundaries further, he says this: “If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles” (5:41). What’s that all about? The Romans had this law called “impressment,” which meant that a Roman soldier could require any person to carry his gear for one mile, but no more. We see this in the story of Jesus’ crucifixion, when they call upon Simon of Cyrene to carry Jesus’ cross because he’s no longer able to carry it by himself (cf. Card, Matthew: The Gospel of Identity, pg. 59). But Jesus says if the soldier requires you to carry his gear for a mile, go ahead without complaining and carry it two miles. Now, a soldier could get in trouble for that. His commander could discipline him for having a person carry his pack more than he was allowed. So, can you imagine a big burly Roman soldier trying to get a Christian to put his pack down so that he doesn’t get in trouble? Jesus is calling for extravagant service, for a heart that doesn’t worry about privilege or position, but is willing to give. So in these three brief illustrations, Jesus calls his followers to refuse to retaliate, to not demand their rights and to give up their position. Who is this man? And what kind of world is he calling for?

Just in case we didn’t get it yet, Jesus pushes even further: “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven” (5:43-45). Talk about meddling! Now he’s messing directly with the way we treat each other. You see, it was natural for people—and it still is today—to love those who love us and to hate those who hate us. Our neighbors, we think, are those who love us. Our enemies are those who hate us. It’s a clear and simple line; we don’t have to think too much about it, do we? We may not be so bold as to label people as “enemies,” but think about the people you avoid, the people you don’t want to be around, the folks who have hurt you or spoken ill of you or done something to someone you love. Enemies aren’t just the big, bad evil empire across the sea. Enemies are sometimes people you see every day. But you know what? Those enemies are children of God, just like you and me. They are made in God’s image just like we are. They are loved by the same God who loves us. And that’s why Jesus doesn’t say, “Put up with your enemies.” He says love your enemies and pray for those who hurt you, who persecute you, who say nasty things about you.

And the word he uses doesn’t just mean “like” or “tolerate,” which is the way we usually respond. The word is agape, which means love with no strings attached. It is usually described as the kind of love God has for us—love without conditions, love without limits. We tend to think of love as an emotion, as a feeling, but this kind of love is an act of the will, a choice we make. Jesus even says that to simply love those who are like us or whom we like is no big deal (5:46). In fact, as the late Dallas Willard put it, “Loving those who love us and lavishing care and honor on those of our own group is something that traitorous oppressors, the Mafia, and terrorists do. How, then, could that serve to distinguish the goodness of someone born into God’s family or the presence of a different kind of reality and life? Even those with no knowledge of God at all, ‘the gentiles,’ do it” (Willard, The Divine Conspiracy, pg. 182). Rather, this kind of love is best seen in Jesus, being nailed to the cross, who prays, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34). Who is this man? Doesn’t he know this is not the way the world works? Of course he does, and that’s just the point. The world works that way, but Jesus doesn’t, and “he does not call us to do what he did, but to be as he was, permeated with love” (Willard 183).

We certainly know Jesus’ way is not how the world works! We experience that every day. And while few of us are likely to be smacked on the cheek, we do deal with insults or at least perceived insults. How do we respond when those come our way, according to Jesus? We know how the world tends to respond. Revenge, get back at the other person, strike back and make sure people are on your side rather than theirs. Think about how negative toward others we are subtly taught to be. Politicians can’t seem to campaign these days on their own platform but rather spend all their time and energy and money tearing down the character and the ideas of their opponent. No one runs based on their own ideas anymore (cf. Hamilton, The Way, pg. 83). Advertisers do the same thing, spending more time telling you what’s wrong with the other product than they do telling you what’s right about theirs. So we learn, don't we? We learn that the approved way to handle others, to handle disagreements is to tear the other person down. The question we ask is whether or not we are doing what makes us look good. But the question Jesus puts before us is whether we’re doing the loving thing. I know, as Christians, we disguise it by saying we’re just pointing out the other person’s error. But are we really so concerned about that as we are about our own hurt feelings? Jesus, this crazy teacher from Nazareth, calls us to put aside retaliation and to put aside resentment. He calls us to choose love even in the face of hurt.

That’s why he can come to the end of this section and say such an unlikely thing: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (5:48). He doesn’t mean perfection in terms of doing every action 100% correctly. He doesn’t mean getting an A+ on everything. The word for “perfect” is teleios, and it was used to describe someone who had become complete. For instance, it would be used to describe a full-grown person. You know, a child at ten years old is not teleios, because they have growing to do yet. By the time we are 21, we’ve grown as much as we’re going to, and therefore we’re teleios, complete. Or think of it this way: someone who is just beginning to study a particular topic is not teleios, but a person who has studied that topic for many years, who perhaps has an advanced degree in that field, can be considered teleios in that they have what they need to work or serve or even just grasp that topic (cf. Barclay 177). So that means Jesus is calling us to become the person God intends us to be: complete, perfect in the sense of seeking to live this faith out in every area of life. It means, in terms of this passage, to resist taking revenge or retaliation, to not strike back, and to love the enemy. John Wesley talked about it in terms of Christian perfection, and that language, in his day and ours, causes a lot of misunderstanding. Wesley described it this way: “This it what it is to be perfect: to have a heart so all-flaming with the love of God that we offer every thought, word, and deed to God through Christ. In every thought of our hearts, in every word of our tongues, in every work of our hands we declare his praise, not our own. We lift up the one who has called us out of darkness into his marvelous light” (“A Plain Account of Christian Perfection,” my paraphrase). Then he added, “O that both we, and all who seek the Lord Jesus in sincerity, may thus be made perfect…” When we hear Jesus telling us to be perfect as the Father is perfect, we must hear it as a call to love without condition, to set our hearts on being so filled with God’s love that it just oozes out into the world around us. We envision a day when we approach every person and every situation with the love of God. That’s the kind of life Jesus is describing in all of his teaching, and especially here in the Sermon on the Mount.

What would the world be like if we lived this way? What if just Christians chose to live this way? What if this kind of spirit spread? Might we even dare to say the world would be more “perfect”? Yet we struggle to live this way, no matter how much we protest otherwise. I’ve been amazed at the Christian response to the film, “Son of God.” It’s not a perfect movie, by any stretch of the imagination, and it does take liberties with the text, but it never claimed to be a word-for-word representation of the Gospel. It’s a telling of the story of Jesus, and many Christians have turned out for it. But many others have launched hate-filled online campaigns against the film, condemning the producers and accusing them of unholy motives. Is that the way Jesus calls us to respond? Do we worry so much about having to be right that we fail to be loving? And this doesn't just happen on big projects like the movie. It happens every day in the way we treat others—those we know and those we don’t know. A good question for us at the end of the day would be this: did my choices today and the ways I treated others move me closer to or further away from Christian perfection? Did I treat the check-out attendant, the teachers at my child’s school, the people ahead of me on the road, the neighbor and the noisy child at the doctor’s office with love or with contempt? Was I so intent on being right that I failed to be loving today?

Wednesday evening, before our Ash Wednesday service, our poet-in-residence, Bud Gray, handed me his latest work, and he didn’t know I was going to be preaching this today, but I couldn’t help but notice how his words put in poetic form what God was already speaking to me for this service. Here’s what Bud handed me this week:

When evening shadows fall

And you feel the need to rest,

Do you review your day and wonder…

Did I give God my best?

Include Him in your conversation

And everything you do.

He wants to know you care

And want Him close to you.

If we try to live each day

According to His word,

The gates of heaven will open

As these loving words are heard…

“Well done, good and faithful servant.

Come and enter the place I have

prepared for you.”

So here’s the question: do I really want to live the way this Jesus calls me to live? Because he doesn’t present it’s as an option; it’s a command. And it's a radical one. As Biblical scholar Tom Wright points out, this is unique in the world. “No other god encourages people to behave in a way like this!” (Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part One, pg. 51). For many years, the nation of South Africa was torn in two by the official policy of apartheid, where the white minority ruled often in brutal ways over the black majority. Many people suffered in untold ways, and one of the leaders of the resistance in that awful time was an Anglican pastor named Desmond Tutu. Tutu, it is said, radiated joy even in the midst of suffering, and he was often invited to speak at rallies opposing apartheid. Those were dangerous settings, and the air was tense as those who came to the rally were surrounded by hostile “peace keepers.” At one such rally, Tutu looked up and saw the police officers surrounding the crowd, and as they scowled at him, he smiled back at them, saying, “Since the love of Christ will ultimately prevail, we invite you to join the winning team!” (Ortberg 97). The love of Christ brought about an eventual revolution in that country, as it has in so many places.

That same love inspired the earliest Christians to share what they had with each other. That’s a radical idea for us, who are all about what we own and what we don’t. But the book of Acts gives witness to the ways the believers were “one in heart and mind” and how they “shared everything they had” (4:32). And the observation? “God’s grace was so powerfully at work in them all that there were no needy persons among them” (4:33-34). Where does that kind of life come from? Where does the personal transformation come from that causes that kind of life, that kind of love, that kind of sharing? It comes from this traveling preacher who wandered the hills of a remote part of the Roman Empire, who never wrote down what he taught but who invested it into believers who would live it out. Who is this man? He is the one who calls for a radical change in our lives, who calls us to an unlikely way of living in this world.

As we begin this Lenten season, I wonder: what part of Jesus’ teaching most challenges the way you currently live? What meddles with your life? This week, what can you do that will bring your life more in line with his teaching? He says to love our enemies, and to pray for those who persecute us. If we’re honest, we likely have more than one person we might consider an “enemy,” and the thought of changing our ways to radically love them all at once is overwhelming. So start with one. Who is a person you find it hard to love? Remember, love is a choice. It’s a conscious decision. You’re not going to all of a sudden have warm, fuzzy feelings for that person. But you can make a choice to stop hating them, stop treating them as less than a child of God. You can speak a kind word to them, take them a bowl of soup, share a smile or simply choose to stop speaking ill of them. This is not the way the world works; that’s what makes it so unusual. But Jesus calls us to transform our lives, to be more like him, and this Lenten season is a perfect time to begin doing just that. Jesus calls us to love our enemies, to live an unlikely life in a world that often works against this teacher from Nazareth. What will be your first step during this first week of Lent? Let’s pray.