Hebrews 3: 1-6

Between now and Advent we’re going to be returning to the book of Hebrews for a while, after looking at the first couple of chapters earlier this year.

So it’s probably good to do some revision before we begin. So there’s your first slide (SLIDE 1). And there’s your second. (SLIDE 2)

Right – moving on…..

(SLIDE 1). 10 most frequenly occurring words in Hebrews – gives you an idea of the kind of territory we’re in.  Unlike any other book in the Bible, Hebrews straddles the worlds of the Old and New Testament. It’s speaking particularly to folk who’ve been brought up within Judaism; people who understand the language of temple and sacrifice and the law, and who place a great value on Moses and Abraham as their forefathers.  That’s the world the writer starts in. But then he goes on to make a quantum leap. He tells them that in Jesus, the law is fulfilled, sacrifice is over, and one even greater than Moses or Abraham has been among them.

And in the first couple of chapters he outlines what we called the parabola of Salvation (SLIDE 2). With the Son of God, beginning in glory with the Father; descending to live among us, and die for us in Jesus, and then being raised from death and returning triumphant to his Father in heaven.

And reading between the lines, it looks like these folk have got it. They’ve realised that Jesus is the Messiah and have begun to respond to him. But now, things are getting tough. They’re being persecuted. They’ve been kicked out of the synagogue. Folk aren’t trading with them anymore. Family and neighbours are turning their backs on them because of this new faith in Jesus. Life is hard.

And the writer of Hebrews wants to reinforce their understanding and encourage them to stay faithful in the middle of this struggle.

So in chapter 1, he emphasise that God has spoken to us through his divine Son. Not just a man, not just a prophet. Not even an angel – Jesus is God amongst us. That’s why we need to listen to him.

But secondly, God’s son has come as one of us to set us free. He’s identified with our humanity in the most profound way by taking on flesh. And that means he can sympathise with us in our struggles - because he has been where we have been.

Opening chapters –writer’s keen to stress the divinity of Christ, but also his humanity.

And that’s where we pick up the story, in Chapter 3.

¹Therefore, holy brothers, who share in the heavenly calling, fix your thoughts on Jesus, the apostle and high priest whom we confess. ²He was faithful to the one who appointed him, just as Moses was faithful in all God’s house.

So first of all, let’s begin with that word THEREFORE.

There’s an old adage that says ‘when you see a THEREFORE you’ve got to ask what it’s there for.”

And it’s there to point the Hebrews back to the last few verses of chapter two, where the writer reminds us that that the Son of God, the second person of the Trinity, has shared our humanity in Jesus and knows what it is to be tempted and to suffer.

And these people especially needed to hear that, because they were having a hard time. “You’re not alone” the writer’s telling them. “In fact, you’re in the best possible company, because Jesus himself suffered these kind of things too. Don’t forget that” he’s saying.

Therefore, HOLY BROTHERS, he continues.

Now we tend to have a very rosy view of the early church. Everybody smiling and sharing nicely; everyone deeply Godly and faithful. Miracles happening at the drop of a handkerchief.

But any serious reading of the New Testament bursts that bubble in seconds. Almost every New Testament letter was written to respond to some difficult issue within a local congregation. The Apostle Paul was no fool – he knows that people are people, even when those people are gathered in congregation in the name of Christ.

So why does the writer use this lofty title – ‘Holy Brothers’ – as though they were already the complete article?

Well, in a sense, they already are the complete article. “If anyone in in Christ, they are a new creation. The old has gone, the new has come.” That’s what Paul says in 2^nd Corinthians. But the remainder of this life is about the process of becoming that new creation. As the band Talking Heads once put it, ‘the future is certain - give us time to work it out.’ Our future in Christ is certain, but for now we’re still working it out, changing slowly into the people God would have us be. The old word for that is sanctification.

So when the writer calls them ‘Holy Brothers’ he’s not saying they’ve arrived; they’re no more perfect than any other congregation. He’s reminding them of where they’re going, and the promise that God will finish the good work that he’s begun in them.

¹Therefore, holy brothers, who share in the heavenly calling,

Now we could take that phrase in a couple of ways. It could mean ‘those who are called to go to heaven after they die”, but it could also mean “those called by heaven to live in a particular way in the here and now”. Chances are the writer has both meanings in view, but it’s helpful to be reminded that faith isn’t a form of escapism or insurance for the afterlife. A genuine Christian faith has the present in view every bit as much as the future, and it has to be worked out in the bump and grind of our everyday living.

Here’s a good question to ponder on that one. It’s good that you’re here today. But think about what you’ll be doing this time tomorrow. And then ask yourself how your faith is going to affect how you are in that situation.

It’s a good question, isnt’ it? Gets you thinking. What am I called to be; how am I called to act in my regular, going about, every day life?

¹Therefore, holy brothers, who share in the heavenly calling, FIX YOUR THOUGHTS ON JESUS.

Not on your circumstances; not on your problems; not on your self; not on angels. not on Moses. On Jesus.

He keeps doing this, the writer. He keeps bringing it back to Jesus. Which is kind of annoying if you want to just talk about God in a vague, all roads lead to heaven kind of way; as many folk do these days. God-talk can be awfully wooly you know. Talk about Jesus is embarrassingly specific.

So why does he do it? Why this embarrassing particularity? Because he believes that in Jesus we are seeing uniquely the image of the invisible God. People have speculated and pondered about God for millennia, leading to all kinds of weird and wonderful conclusions; but Jesus trumps all of that because he shows us what God is like first hand. He is the APOSTLE – literally the one God has sent – and the HIGH PRIEST of our faith. The one APPOINTED from the foundation of the world to mediate between God and humanity, make atonement for our sin and bring lasting reconciliation.

And this is hard for the Hebrews to get their heads around. Up until now it was all about the Law and all about MOSES and the writer’s keen to help them see that lifting Jesus up doesn’t mean putting Moses down – Moses too was faithful in God’s household.

But there’s a key difference which is spelled out in VERSES 3 AND 4: Jesus is worthy of greater honour, even than Moses.  Why? Because Moses, like all things, belongs to creation. He’s a creature. But Jesus, along with the Father and the Spirit, is the Creator.  The builder of everything.

Paul puts it this way in the letter to the Colossians:

“¹⁵Jesus is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. ¹⁶For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him.”

And that’s why, even today, attempts to bracket Jesus with Mohammed or Moses, Abraham or Buddah, don’t hold water in Christianity. However enlightened they were, and whatever wisdom they brought us, they were men, and not God.

Moses and others like him were SERVANTS within the household of God, but Jesus Is God’s only begotten SON. God from God, light from light as the Christmas carols have it. That’s the difference.

And that’s where I want us to linger for a few moments as we draw to a close. Because if Jesus is the Son, and he calls us his brothers and sisters, then what does that make us? Not mere servants, but part of the family. Sons and daughters of God also. And that, for its time, was revolutionary thinking.

You see, in the ancient world, with all its gods, it was understood that human beings were basically there as servants. Slaves created to do the god’s will. That was the fundamental dynamic. Our only worth was in whatever service we could render to the gods.

Feeding them, appeasing them, sacrificing to them, building temples for them. You could earn a god’s favour, but only if you did the right things. And even then, they could be notoriously fickle with their affections. You never really knew where you stood with the Gods because life was a game of chess and the gods felt about as attached to human beings as we might do to a pawn or a knight on a chessboard.

The ancient world taught us that we are servants of the gods and nothing more.

And Judaism, of course, emerged in that same ancient world and spoke its cultural language; but from its earliest days it also tried to speak of its one God, YHWH, in different terms.

This God thinks of us not primarily as servants, but as sons and daughters.

In the story of creation, when Adam and Eve disobey and eat the apple, they’re driven naked from the garden. But what does God do for them then? He fashions clothes for them out of animal skins. He takes care of them like a Father would.

When the Israelites cry out for deliverance in Egypt God hears and rescues them. They become his people. But when, in future generations, they keep turning away and letting him down, you can hear the pain in his voice when he speaks to them through the prophet Hosea:

“When Israel was a child, I loved him,

    and out of Egypt I called my son.

²    But the more I called Israel,

    the further they went from me.

    They sacrificed to the Baals

    and they burned incense to images.

³    It was I who taught Ephraim to walk,

    taking them by the arms;

    but they did not realise

    it was I who healed them.

It’s the voice of a Father.

When Jesus taught his disciples to pray he taught them to call God ‘Abba’ - which means daddy – something unheard of in his day. And as he prepared to leave them on the night before the crucifixion he said “I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.”

Make no mistake, we’re here to serve God. But we’re more than servants. More than little chesspieces moved around the board by an unseen hand.

God loves us with a Father’s compassionate love. And God wants us to know in the depths of our being that we are his beloved children. His sons and his daughters.

And that’s the place I want you to stay in your thinking as you leave the church this morning. I want you to ask yourself how you feel about God. Do you know him as Father; or are you just trying to keep on the right side of him, or maybe even keep out of his way, as Lord?

We were made for more than that, you know.

An emaciated boy sits on a hillside, knees curled up to his chest, head resting on them like the weight of his life is just too much to bear.

He set out to find himself; but here he is six months later - more lost and lonely than ever. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. Disgust stalks his day dreams. Disgrace envelops him like the thin grey blanket he cowers under when the wind sweeps down to the lake.

All his reasons for leaving seem woefully arrogant and selfish in the cold light of this new morning. And as he’s thought and thought and thought about it, day after day, the pressure’s formed a hard diamond of regret within his mind. It’s there all the time now. A real presence he can only escape for a few hours at a time,  in fitful sleep.

But now that the last of his pride has leached out of him, he knows what he has to do. He has to walk towards the pain and make for home.

He knows things can never be the same, but he’s prepared for that. He has the words ready. “Father, I’ve sinned against God and against you. And I’m no longer fit to be called your son. Please take me on as one of your servants.”

This is the rhythm he breathes in and out as he slowly makes his way back home, the words he sobs out on his Father’s shoulder when the old man drags him off his knees and takes him joyfully and desperately in his arms.

A servant? No. My son, My son. Always my son. Even when I thought you were dead. Even though you wished I were dead.

Take him home, clean him up, and let’s feast. For this son of mine was as good as dead; but now he is alive; he was lost. But now he’s found.

Amen – thanks be to God for his word.

Power

A few years back our fridge used to be covered in fridge magnets. Now we’ve got one of those integrated fridge freezers, the magnets don’t stick anymore!

But I always remember one that said ‘do you want to speak to the man in charge, or the woman who knows what’s going on’? Fairly sure I didn’t buy that one!

There are different kinds of power, the fridge magnet is telling us. And the power of influence and knowledge always trumps the power that comes with mere rank.

Wesley Carr, a former dean of Westminster, used to remind his students that when they went out into their first charge they shouldn’t kid themselves that they had any authority, just because they’d finally been ordained. “You have exactly as much authority as your people vest in you.” he used to say. “It doesn’t come with the title. You have to earn it.”

And it’s the same for the freshly qualified engineer, straight out of Uni, walking into a room of grizzly guys twice his age and trying to tell them what the work schedule is for that day. Or the newly appointed teacher facing a class of kids she doesn’t know and wondering how tough she’ll have to be to let them know who’s in charge.

The politics of power. We’re all caught up in it, whatever stage in life we happen to be at. Whether we’re struggling to meet the imperious demands of a two year old or trying to stay independent as health begins to decline in our twilight years. The questions are always the same. What power do we have, and how should we use that power?

It’s a struggle – for every one of us.

And that struggle between healthy and unhealthy use of power is right there in our text for today as Jesus continues to be about the work his Father has given him, and jealous men make plans to stop him dead in his tracks. We see the power of God at work for good, but also the power of Man for evil

Peter, James and John have just come down from the mountain of transfiguration where they’ve seen Jesus revealed in all his glory.

But as is the way of things, now it’s back down to earth with a bump. They hear the commotion before they see it: down at the foot of the mountain the teachers of the Law are arguing with the rest of the disciples and a crowd’s gathered round to watch the fun.

And although we’re not told why they’re arguing, it’s not difficult to guess. The disciples have failed to cure this poor lad of his epilepsy, and the teachers of the Law are loving it: “There you go. We told you this was a lot of rubbish. These guys are charlatans. You can’t believe a word they say!”

And that’s where things are at, until Jesus comes on the scene. And Mark doesn’t pull any punches as he tells us about it. I can’t think of many other places in the gospels where Jesus sounds quite as exasperated, though I’m not sure whether he’s angry at the disciples, the teachers of the law, the crowds, or all of them!

“How unbelieving you people are! How long must I stay with you? How long do I have to put up with you? Bring the boy to me.”

So they do. And before Jesus even says a word to him, or lays a hand on him, the spirit convulses the boy and sends him into a seizure. And we get to see the effect this has not just on the boy, but on his distraught father. A dad, brought face to face with his powerlessness to help his son; but also – painfully -  his doubt that anything can be done to help him. “I believe, Lord. But help my unbelief.”

And that lame admission, rather wonderfully, seems to be enough for Jesus to work with.

God’s power flows through him and out from him. The boy is healed; and I think the father also finds a kind of healing when he realises that even the little faith he can offer is enough.

And so once again, we see the power of God at work through Jesus. Bringing life and healing.

But the passage ends with an ominous reference to the Power of Man. For all the compassion that he’s poured out, all the good he’s done, all the wisdom that he’s shared - “The Son of Man will be handed over to those who will kill him.” Jesus tells his disciples.

Why would  they kill him ? Because he was a threat to their Power.  We want to have things our way and we won’t let anyone get in our way, even if it’s God himself; God help us.

God uses his power to bring life and healing. But history shows us that all too often, Man’s power leads to death and destruction

As I was preparing for today I remembered something that happened to me many years ago, and it’s a story I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone before.

It happened in the mid 70’s when I was a kid, and all the local children spent our entire summer down at the local park. Out after breakfast, back for lunch, back for dinner, back for bedtime. No worried mothers, no mobile phones. It’s just how it was. And it was great.

And that park saw all the little dramas of our lives play out – the glorious goals, learning to ride a bike, the skinned knees, dares and kiss-catch; the fallings in and out that make up a childhood.

But this story took place before all of that. It would have been one of my earliest excursions to the park, I was maybe 5 or 6, and somehow I’d got my hands on one of those big plastic sweetie jars you used to get in the corner shops.  I’d thrown some grass into the bottom of the jar and was combing the park for ladybirds – and by that stage I’d probably collected several dozen.

And then a couple of older boys came along on their bikes, 8 or 9, saw what I was doing, and offered to help. This was great! So they started collecting them too.

And my memory tells me we must have collected a lot, because I vividly remember those boys taking the jar away from me, pouring all the ladybirds onto the tarmac pathway and then riding over them on their bikes again and again ‘til they reduced them to a puddle of red mush.

I imagine myself standing there, open mouthed, watching them do this. Too powerless to stop them; to shocked to find the words to protest.

Why did they do it? Quite simply, because they wanted to and because they could. The power of man to destroy. Don’t need much reminding of that; especially on the 11^th of September. 15 years ago today.

But of course destruction’s not the whole story. If you go to Manhattan today there’s a beautiful memorial garden in the footprints of the Twin Towers, and a stunning new glass skyscraper beside it called Freedom Tower. Man can destroy, but he can also build and create marvellous things as well.

Every trip to Ellon or into town on the A90 is a reminder of that these days. The very landscape of our parish is being reformed before our eyes. We’re good at this stuff.

But here’s the thing – whether we’re destroying or creating, man’s power tends to be external and coercive. It’s the power to move things around, for good or for ill. We push and pull and prod and manipulate but it’s only the outside of things that we really change. That’s where our power seems to end.

Chances are you know the story about the mum whose 6 year old decided he wanted to stand up in his chair at the dinner table.

“Johnny – get down”

“No”

“Johnny – get down”

“No”.

Finally she got up, plonked him down in his seat and pushed it right in against the table.

And scowled at her – “I may be sitting down on the outside, but I’m still standing up on the inside”.

Just because you have power over the external, it doesn’t follow that you’ve any power over the internal.

An army can crush another army, but it can’t destroy an ideal, or bomb a principle that’s worth fighting for.

A woman can command another woman’s service, but she can’t command that she likes it.

That’s the limitation of human power. Formidable though it is, It can only ever take us so far. It can change the outside, but it can’t change the inside.

And that’s where God’s power differs. He doesn’t use his power to bully and cajole on the outside. He uses it to draw us on and change us on the inside.

And that’s why I’ve always loved these words of Napoleon Bonaparte, a man who knew more than most about what could be achieved through human power:

“I tell you. Alexander, Caesar, Charlemagne, and myself have founded great empires. But our empires were founded on force. Jesus alone founded His empire on love, and to this day millions would die for Him. I think I understand something of human nature, and I tell you, all these were men, and I am a man. Jesus Christ was more than man.”

And we might add, his power was more than man’s power.

It was God’s power we saw working in him. In life, and – paradoxically - in death.

They gathered around him, those old pious men he’d enraged so much with his teaching. “He saved others – let him save himself” they cried as his lifeblood fell to the ground for the dogs to lick.

They thought he didn’t have the power to come down from the cross.

What they didn’t understand is that he was held there not by lack of power but excess of love. For God SO loved the world, he sent his one and only son. And God, more than anything, wants us to love him freely in return.

But in giving us the freedom to love him, God also made it possible for us not to love him. To resist him, deny him and even crucify him. And this is what we chose to do. We crucified the Lord of Glory, you and I. We turned him into red mush on the pavement.

It didn’t take much for the power of Man to triumph. Manipulation of the crowd, rigging a trial, painting Pilate into a corner.  And then a handful of soldiers, a handful of nails and a wooden cross to finish the job.

 But the great irony of the cross, exposed three days later in the resurrection, and in the centuries and generations since, is that the cross was a victory for God’s power, not man’s.

The cross exposes us at our worst and God at his best; we used our power to kill the best of men! He used his to breathe ‘Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.’

Our sin saw him murdered on a tree. But his self-offering broke the power of sin and death once and for all, so they no longer have the last word on our lives. Through Christ, we can overcome.

And his self-giving on the cross, choosing to lay down his power and let this happen for our sake, did what no amount of coercion could ever do. It made us come to love him of our own free will, because we’ve realised that what he did there, he did for us.

He did for me.

Where folk begin to grasp that in their inner being, and respond to it in faith and service, there we find the true church. And the power of man, and the gates of hell, shall not prevail against it.

Criticism

Cutting the grass around the manse is a three hour job. If you’re ever short of something to do on a sunny afternoon, just let me know!

But in all honesty I don’t really mind – it’s good exercise and I load up with podcasts on my iphone and the time usually goes in pretty quickly.

Sometimes it’s talks or sermons I listen to – and sometimes it’s comedy shows or movie reviews.

But last week I’d only got 15 minutes into the podcast I was listening to when I had to stop and take the headphones off because I was so fed up with it.

It was a comedy show hosted by Richard Herring, and Eddie Izzard was the guest; and the first 15 minutes of the chat was all about what a lot of nonsense faith is. Why doesn’t God come down? said Eddie. Why does he always send a lackey – the son of God, or the prophet of God, or the postman of God? Why doesn’t he just come down himself and settle all the arguments?

And if God wrote the Bible, how come it never says that the world’s round? He’d know that, wouldn’t he? But the Bible never says it!

And if he’s there at all, why didn’t he just flick off Hitler’s head in 1939 and put an end to all of that stuff before millions of people got murdered.

And on and on and on. With all the enthusiasm of the newly enlightened.

I had to switch off. Came in for a drink, left the headphones in the kitchen, and went back out to finish the job in quiet. But I wasn’t quiet in my heart. I was disturbed.

And something the next day made me pick up the iphone and start listening again because somehow, I knew that was the right thing to do.

And when I talked about that with a wise friend later in the week, she said – Paul, you need to try and understand why you reacted in those ways, because God might be saying something to you through them.

Why did you feel you had to turn that podcast off? And why did you feel you ought to turn it on again?

She’s the kind of friend who asks those sorts of awkward questions. Everyone should have one.

Food for thought. And food for a sermon too, methinks.

Why did I switch off?

Well, I’m tired, to be honest. I’m tired of swimming against the tide. It’s not the done thing to believe anymore, at least in any kind of conventional sense. Pick and mix religion is broadly tolerated in our part of the world, but poor old church is getting a right kicking these days from all quarters. And as a representative of the church, dare I say it, an employee of the church, I tend to feel those kicks more keenly than most. We’re all fools. We don’t live in the real world. We’re anti-science. We believe in a meddling sky-fairy who we think can kiss everything better.

And being the human creatures we are, there are two basic reactions to that kind of scorn – fight or flight. And I’ve done both in my time.

I’ve argued back. I could argue back quite easily to Eddie Izzard. I could tell him the story attributed to St Francis, that when a friend asked him to show him God, Francis took him outside and asked him to look full into the noonday sun. “I can’t do it” said his friend. “Well, if you can’t look one of God’s creatures full in the face, what makes you think you can look the Creator in the face?” said Francis. Maybe it’s necessary for God to come to us in another guise.

I could remind Eddie that the Bible’s a divine book, but also a human book; one that reflects the understandings and culture of its day. God seems to be prepared to work with the limits of our understanding, even as it grows and matures. That’s how people learn – slowly and progressively. You don’t jump into quantum physics in primary one. You learn how to count. You take people at the level they’re at and you help them take the next step in their learning. It took us 15 centuries after Christ to figure out that the sun’s at the centre of the solar system, not the earth, and even then people weren’t ready to hear it. Would they have been ready to hear it in Abraham’s day? Or Moses? Or Jesus’?

And I could ask him how he accounts for the hardness of heart and wilful ignorance that allows a man like Hitler to rise to power and do the things that he did. We have a term for that in the church – it’s called ‘sin’, which is really another way of talking about our innate selfishness.

When we turn from God and start placing ourselves, or our kind, first, all manner of things go wrong. Is that God’s fault?  Should we blame God for not magicking-up food for the starving when we live in world that’s already got enough food to go round? Isn’t the essential problem located in the human heart? What would Eddie say about that?

So I’ve made those arguments, and will continue to do so. I’ve fought. But you know what, sometimes it’s easier just to flee. Fight or flight. Sometimes the temptation is just to take off the headphones and stop listening. Or do an ostrich and bury your head in the sand simply because you’re tired making the arguments.

Who wants to live with constant criticism?

The American humourist Franklin Jones just about sums it up when he says “Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger.”

In other words, nobody likes criticism, wherever it comes from.

And so we’re tempted in the church, to stick our fingers in our ears and stop listening, or sing the hymns and choruses twice as loud to drown out the dissenting voices.

Fight or flight – those seem to be the only options available to us.

But what if there’s a third way to deal with criticism, corporately but also as individuals?

What if rather than fighting or fleeing, God wants us to stand our ground and stay engaged?

Don’t advance to attack; don’t retreat and avoid. Stand your ground and stay engaged.

I can think of several reasons why that might just be the right way to go.

Firstly – what if buried in the criticism that’s being levelled at you is a truth you need to hear?

It takes a man or woman of real maturity and faith to hold on to the criticisms that come their way and say ‘Lord – I’m not enjoying this, but is there something here I need to learn? Some grain of truth that can help me become a better person?’

There’s an old story about a monastery in Italy that had a sign in it, outlining the basic rules of the community.

First, if a stranger comes to this monastery, you will share with him what you have

Second, if he criticises – listen – He may be sent by the Lord

Third, if he becomes obstreperous, he shall be dismissed.

Fourth, if he refuses to go, four strong monks shall explain to him the will of God!

Real wisdom in that second point. If he criticises – listen – he may be sent by the Lord, bringing a truth you need to hear.

Secondly, we need to remember that the criticism is coming to us through a person whom God also loves.

We do not know what is going on in their lives. We do not know the full story. We do not know what forces have worked upon them to shape them into the people they presently are. But God knows. We are neither good enough nor wise enough to judge them. Only God is. The criticism may well have far more to do with them and where they’re at than anything you’ve done.

And when we see our critics not just as protagonists putting forward an argument, but as fully formed people living a life, we might well find ourselves wondering what lurks beneath the criticism? What wounds, losses, anger or disappointments are there, just below the surface?

Why is Eddie Izzard so incensed at the possibility of belief? What’s he actually railing against? Ignorance? Prejudice? Abuse of authority? What’s his story? What forces have worked on him to bring him to the place where he now stands?

God, I believe, sees people in the round because he loves them. Can we do any less?

And lastly, in terms of standing our ground and staying engaged, it’s good to remember that living well is the best argument of all.

The German writer and statesman Johann Wolfgang von Goethe says “Against criticism a man can neither protest nor defend himself; he must act in spite of it, and then it will gradually yield to him.”.

That’s the whole tenor of our passage from Romans this morning -

Bless those who persecute you, says Paul.  Bless and do not curse.

Don’t repay wrong with wrong. Do everything you can to live at peace with everybody.”

And then this strange conclusion, which is paraphrased in the GNB, but which literally reads

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him;

if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.

In doing this, you will heap burning coals upon his head.”

Hooray – being kind to my enemy is going to set his head on fire!

No – that would be very out of keeping with the rest of the passage! The commentaries say there are two ways of thinking about what that phrase means.

Apparently, there was an Egyptian ceremony around this time where someone would show penitence by carrying a bucket of coals on their head; it could be that Paul’s alluding to that.

But more likely, and in agreement with many of the early church fathers, it just seems that Paul’s saying ‘if you treat your enemy with kindness you’ll make him burn with shame for the way he has treated you.”

And that chimes with much of Jesus’ teaching elsewhere, doesn’t it? His brand of non-violent resistance.  Turn the other cheek; go the extra mile; love your enemies and remember to pray for them. It all sounds very insipid and weak until you remember that kind of thinking was at the heart of Ghandi’s resistance, and Luther King’s resistance, and Mandela’s resistance.

Don’t be overcome by evil, says Paul. But overcome evil with good.

I think, deep down, we all know that though that’s hard, it’s the best and most redemptive way to be. Avoiding the gut reaction to fight or take flight, and instead, standing our ground and staying engaged, even as the criticism comes.

I’m going to finish with a story from Donald Miller which I think illustrates that stance very well.

Don went to Reed College in Portland, known as one of the most hedonistic and irreligious colleges in the United States. But it’s also one of the smartest and most socially engaged. There are people there who have a genuine passion for issues around injustice, the environment and global inequality. But no time for what they see as the inward looking piety of the church.

Every year at Reed they have a festival called Ren Fayre, and things get really wild. There are a lot of drugs taken, a lot of parties, a lot of promiscuity. All actively encouraged on campus.

Over the years, the Christian students, who were a very small minority, tried to engage with the event in different ways, but nothing had worked very well because the students were so antagonistic to anything even remotely Christian.

Don’s group didn’t want to play the moral majority card and come out fighting. Picketing the campus with placards saying ‘down with this sort of thing’. But nor did they want to stick their heads in the sand for the weekend and pretend it wasn’t happening.

They wanted to stand their ground and stay engaged. And as they thought about it, one of their number, Tony, had a brilliant idea. They would build and staff a confessional that they’d place right in the middle of campus. They would dress up as monks and make themselves available on campus for confession all weekend.

“But here’s the catch” said Tony. “We are not actually going to accept confessions. We are going to confess to them. We are going to confess that as followers of Jesus, we have not been very loving; we have been bitter and for that we are sorry. We will apologise for the crusades, we will apologise for the televangelists, we will apologise for neglecting the poor and the lonely, we will ask them to forgive us, and we will tell them that in our selfishness we have misrepresented Jesus on this campus. We will tell people who come into the booth that Jesus loves them.”

All of us sat there in silence, says Don, because it was obvious that something beautiful and true had hit the table with a thud. They were terrified, but they felt it was the right thing to do.

And so they set about it. The confessional was built on-site and that piqued some curiosity. It opened by torchlight on the Friday night and the first couple of students rolled in for a laugh at first, assuming it was there so they could confess everything they’d been getting up to that weekend. But when they found out it was the Christians confessing to them, they were totally hooked. And it opened up all kinds of conversations.

“When the first guy left the booth” says Don “there was somebody

else ready to get in. It went on like that for a couple of hours. I talked to about 30 people and Tony took confessions on a picnic table outside the booth. Many people wanted to hug when we were done. All of the people who visited the booth were grateful and gracious. I was being changed through the process. I went in with doubts and came out believing so strongly in Jesus I was ready to die and be with him. I think that night was the beginning of change for a lot of us.

Out of those conversations came work with the homeless and the poor, and four different small groups where people who didn’t believe could start exploring what it means to be a follower of Jesus.

The antagonism at Reed college could so easily have provoked fight or flight among the Christians. But they stood their ground and stayed engaged, and found a third way.

May God help us, wherever we need to, to do the same.

Amen