1 CORINTHIANS 15:12-20
1 CORINTHIANS 15:12-20
1 CORINTHIANS 15:1-11
In aviation—especially military—aviators are given a nickname that's used as a substitute for their given name. But it’s not just a random name, and it’s not chosen by the pilot. It’s conferred on them by others and says something unique about them or something (usually stupid) they’ve done.
I have a friend, last name Mouw, known as “Chairman”. Another friend’s is “Brick”. That’s a really good story.
This week’s readings contain stories involving two people with vivid nicknames that said something unique about them…or at least who they would become.
1 CORINTHIANS 14:12-25
In this week’s Gospel reading, Jesus tells two brief stories that make the people of his hometown fly into a rage.
In fact, they try to throw him off a cliff.
But to understand why they’re so angry, you have to go back to the beginning—in fact, way before it.
1 CORINTHIANS 12:12-27
That God would speak to us is a witness to his love for us. He needs nothing we can give him, yet he freely gives himself to us.
1 CORINTHIANS 12:1-11
Under the best of circumstances, weddings are accidents waiting to happen.
To varying degrees, something almost always goes wrong at a service of holy matrimony, but something is going seriously sideways at a wedding in Cana. The mother of all wedding faux pas.
In a culture where a couple celebrated their wedding not with a honeymoon but with a seven-day wedding feast, it was simply unthinkable to run out of wine before running out of party. But this one did.
And though initially seeming reluctant, it became an opportunity for Jesus to provide a sign—the first of seven in the Gospel of John—of God’s abundant transforming grace.
The commemoration of the Magi’s visit to Bethlehem occurs every year on the 12th Day of Christmas. And just as Christmas, it’s observed on a specific date rather than day; always January 6th.
Epiphany’s Gospel lesson affords us an opportunity to rescue the Magi from their places in the annual Christmas pageant (having "traversed afar”, they arrived in Bethlehem much later than, say, the shepherds), and restore them to their biblical roles as key witnesses to both the promise and threat of Christ.
Matthew paints a vivid picture, not only of the welcome of God to the whole world, but also of some foundational truths and risks of true worship.
Whatever else John is going to tell us in his Gospel, his stunning prologue sets the scene for the story of God and the world, not just the story of one character in one place and time.
It’s about the creator God acting in a new way within his much-loved creation.
It's about the way in which the long story that began in Genesis is reaching the climax the creator has always intended.
And it will all come about through the Word.
What would it take to make you celebrate wildly, without inhibition? Whatever it is, you’d probably do things you normally wouldn’t.
You might dance. You throw a party. You might sing a song. You might even make one up as you went along—probably out of bits of poems and songs you already knew, or maybe by adding your own new words to a great old tune.
Read Mary’s Song like that. (It’s most often called Magnificat, because that’s its first word in Latin.) It’s one of the most famous songs in Christianity. It’s been whispered in monasteries, chanted in cathedrals, recited in small churches by evening candlelight, and set to glorious music by Bach.
It’s the gospel before the gospel, a fierce shout of celebration thirty weeks before Bethlehem, and thirty-three years before Calvary and Easter.
I do so wish Christmas was magic, for with a prayer and a wave of my hand the world could be made new. Yet Christmas is a miracle, the miracle of a God who would love us and be amongst us. The miracle of a savior who will endure the rejection of those he came to save. The miracle of a new life which will outgrow all that is entrapping us.
1 CORINTHIANS 4:1-21
There were few paved roads in the ancient Near East. Regular people travelled on little more than worn paths in the baked earth. There were no significant bridges or tunnels. You walked around rocks, over hills, and around gullies.
But not the king. When he planned a visit, the first to show up were heralds and engineers to prepare the way. To make crooked places straight and rough places smooth, to fill “valleys” and level “hills”.
Tearing down and building up to create a “King’s Highway”.
This is the image John the Baptist uses when he tells those in his day—and us by extension—to “prepare the way of the Lord” as we do in Advent.
It’s also a pattern embedded in the Scriptures and in the Gospel itself.
1 THESSALONIANS 3:1-13
DANIEL 7:9-10, 13-14
On the feast of Christ the King in 2015, I was confirmed by the Bishop of St Albans, Alan Gregory Clayton Smith. What I did not know, nor could I was how profoundly it would change my life to have the Holy Spirit poured out on me in this unique way.
Most of us do most of our work sitting down. As I write this now, I’m sitting. Generally when I stand up, my work is finished…or I’ve seen something shiny (and just between you and me, it’s generally the latter). Except maybe for the something shiny, the same’s likely true for you.
It wasn’t necessarily this way in the ancient Near East. Mostly, people stood to work and sat down when their work was finished.
In this week’s Epistle, the writer of Hebrews juxtaposes standing and sitting to communicate something profound about work ongoing and work completed. And in light of that reality, our proper response.
1 KINGS 17:8-16
A friend from the 80s, now a successful executive mentor, had a refrain: "Until you answer the why question, the cost is always too high.”
Simply put, why makes what meaningful.
Nearly anyone who reads this week’s Gospel lesson (The Widow’s Mite) can pretty quickly come up with the what (spoiler alert: sacrificial giving). That’s simple.
But what’s the why? Well, that’s the vital question, isn’t it?
Things we hear all the time—even important things—can become so familiar we stop really paying attention. Think about the last time you were absorbed in what the flight attendant said just before takeoff.
There’s a vital part of Christian liturgy—28 words so important that Jesus said every other word in the Bible hangs from them—the church has repeated week after week almost without exception. Year after year. Decade after decade. For millennia.
Cue the Charlie Brown adult sound.
This week, though, we’re gonna pay attention.
Our Gospel Lessons this month have given us the sad story of a rich man who walks away from Jesus sad, and the strange story of James and John asking Jesus whether they can sit at his right and left hand. In these stories something is asked of Jesus which they, for some reason, cannot receive.
But this week Jesus will be asked a question which he can finally answer in the affirmative.
Yet the work he does for this person is not the end of Jesus’ ministry.
I suppose I have often thought that my needs ought to be met, but I do not consider how the answers to my prayers might fit with Jesus’ purpose for the salvation of all the world. Might it be that what I believe about what I need would change, if I kept in mind the direction I am headed?
When Oliver Cromwell was presented with his official portrait in 1656, he angrily rejected it. Thinking it would please him, the court painter had omitted Cromwell’s unsightly facial warts.
“Take it away”, he demanded, “and paint me as I am, warts and all.”
In this week’s Gospel, Mark unabashedly paints Jesus’ disciples warts and all…bent by ambition and jealousy.
Why’d he do this? Mark had a very ancient (and biblical) way of understanding human nature, which actually aligns seamlessly with what Jesus went on to tell them about the upside-down nature of true greatness.
AMOS 5:6-7, 10-15
The practical definition of a blind spot is simply, “something you don’t see.”
It’s often quite painful when a blind spot is exposed to us. In fact, it can be grievous. But once it’s been exposed and dealt with, the result can be quite life changing.
In this week’s Gospel reading, Jesus lovingly exposes a blind spot in an exceptionally successful, powerful, and moral young man—just one thing that’s holding him back (though admittedly, it’s a big one).
But sadly, while its exposure grieves him, it doesn’t quite change him.
HEBREWS 1:1-4; 2:5-12
Just last Sunday I was telling a visitor why I value preaching through the lectionary. I said something super cheery like, “I never have to dream up a topic or a passage, because they’re determined by the Church calendar and the cycle we’re in (“Year B” this year). I actually really like that.”
May have spoken too soon. Monday morning I read this week’s Gospel.
So, besides the level ground at the foot of the cross, you and I may have other common ground this week:
I don’t really want to preach this sermon...and I’m betting you don’t really want to hear it.
NUMBERS 11:4-6, 10-16, 24-29
In this week’s Gospel reading, Jesus seemingly offers a fairly extreme way to avoid wrongdoing.
Apparently, if you sufficiently dismember yourself, you won’t be able to take any wrong action. This is, at least, the logic by which Jesus reduces the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees to the absurd.
In their view, the law could be satisfied, and thus goodness attained, if you simply avoided sinning. You’re “right” if you’ve done nothing “wrong.” You could keep from sinning if you simply eliminated the bodily parts that make sinful actions possible. You’d stay out of hell, but you’d roll into heaven a mutilated stump.