Then Peter came and said to him, “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times. [Matthew’s Gospel 18:21-22]

It depends on your frame of mind, on the background you have, on the context in which you have lived, and live now. This shapes how you hear something and, thus, how you respond.

Is this a series about matters of compliance from Jesus, about the requirements of forgiveness and the consequences of disobedience, or is it something else?

Jesus’ compelling parable which follows this saying, – about the phenomenon of forgiveness, and the risk of withholding it – causes ripples all around.

The extraordinary character of Jesus, elevating children several times as exemplars of faith and discipleship is confounding for those who hear it first, and for many who follow in later generations. The story of a shepherd who will leave ninety-nine sheep to search for one hapless wether (probably the same sheep as last time) is an astonishing indication of the context in which these stories are first being told.

What if we read these stanzas from Jesus as some of the ways in which community can be grown, as an astonishing alternative to the world of self-interest and self-justification which thrived then and has never paused?

When Jesus spoke last week about meeting with one who has “sinned against us”, this was not primarily about confronting an aggressor, but about restoring relationship, and, thus, community. This is discipleship, not compliance, or a measure of punishment. 

This rabbi is steeped in the Jewish understanding that people can change, can be forgiven, and can be restored.  The unexpected moment is when Jesus exponentially moves the tradition of accountability being sought and forgiveness offered to seventy-seven instances – a slave’s immeasurable debt of a bazillion dollars being forgiven.

As always, in response to the generosity of God, we consider what we do with the gifts offered to us. We can hold them as property, avaricious for our own advancement and security. After a moment, gift becomes possession, and its value diminishes, alongside our discipleship. Eventually (and sooner than imagined), this experience of God’s mercy becomes only nostalgia, a shrunken trinket over which we reminisce.

The gift of God is for giving. It fs for offering to those we love, to our neighbour – and to our enemies.

We can become misdirected in the parable, looking at the monarch’s final punishment of the slave. The heart of the story is the monarch’s exceptional generosity, which the slave entirely – even wilfully – misunderstands.

Forgiveness is neither a game, nor a transaction, where one person holds power over another. It must never be whimsically considered, because harm caused can be crippling, as we have seen with domestic abuse, coercive control amongst our friends and family and, on the world stage, in the long enmity and violence of nations.

We are consistently offered the gift of forgiveness in Jesus Christ. When we receive this gift, we are responsible to offer it in turn. Sometimes this will be too hard for us to accomplish alone; we will need the company of those we trust, and the compassion of God’s Spirit to step this path out.

This has always arisen from the compassion of Christ. The wonder of being restored magnifies our hope for others’ renewal. It is this hope which upholds, enables and confirms us as we seek to be reconciled to those around us and to the world for which Christ died.

[Jesus said] Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.  Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.  For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”    [Matthew’s Gospel 18:18-20]

Wendell Berry died this week, in his early nineties, after a life of  reflection, adventure, farming, theology, poetry and engagement in the beauty of the creation of which he was an avid part. 

His poem, The Peace of Wild Things appears regularly on social media pages, and in the Christian environmental pages. Berry writes beautifully, with patience and attention to detail – in the world around him, in his relationships.

The poem below speaks for itself.

It seems appropriate for the readings we have been walking through in these weeks; in Paul’s Roman letter about how the gift of the Spirit enables us to bear witness to (even to bless!) those seek our harm; in Matthew’s Gospel we are confronted as Jesus speaks about the demands of community and discipleship.

This week  Jesus speaks about shaping community around relationships and reconciliation, being honest and facing difficult issues and people In next week’s gospel reading, Jesus will answer Peter’s enquiry about the budget of forgiveness and blow his bottom line, completely.

May Wendell Berry rest in peace and rise again in glory.

To My Mother |  Wendell Berry

I was your rebellious son,
do you remember? Sometimes
I wonder if you do remember,
so complete has your forgiveness been.

So complete has your forgiveness been
I wonder sometimes if it did not
precede my wrong, and I erred,
safe found, within your love,

prepared ahead of me, the way home,
or my bed at night, so that almost
I should forgive you, who perhaps
foresaw the worst that I might do,

and forgave before I could act,
causing me to smile now, looking back,
to see how paltry was my worst,
compared to your forgiveness of it

already given. And this, then,
is the vision of that Heaven of which
we have heard, where those who love
each other have forgiven each other,

where, for that, the leaves are green,
the light a music in the air,
and all is unentangled,
and all is undismayed.

“To My Mother” by Wendell Berry,

from Entries. © Pantheon Books, 1994.

No, “if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.” Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. [Paul’s Roman Letter 12:20-21]

We are invited, even commanded, to think differently. To reimagine what it means to be human, living with others, living in community, discipled to Christ.  

The inherent weakness of faith communities is when they identify themselves simply as social groups, reflected in their worship gatherings and community service, perhaps with some small group activities, which reflect their protected life.

This will be the flawed hallmark of their community: self-protection. In a world which seeks to ameliorate risk, even to avoid it altogether, a faith community can be precisely that: a place where we are immured from any possibility of being challenged, disturbed or, transformed. We will worship, witness and serve in ever decreasing circles, prophesying disaster if we imagine an alternative, or contemplate new ways. What if we lose our way, our sense of self, our resources?

There is something profoundly radical about the practice of passing the peace during worship. When we have prayed, seeking and receiving God’s forgiveness, we then share the peace which arises from that generous mercy. We deliberately offer – and receive – peace amongst those we love and those whom we find difficult to love. Sadly, many of us make light of it, chatting about our week. To share Christ’s peace only with those with whom we are comfortable is entirely contrary with the essential nature of God’s mercy.

Our community can never simply be comprised of people who think and speak and vote and worship and love just like me. The best-known psalm asserts “You prepare a table for me, in the presence of my enemies”, to remind each and all of us about the nature of community, especially in the hands of God.

In a public space riven with persecution and violence against the nascent followers of Christ, Paul tells them to bless those who would harm them, behaviour far in excess of either tolerance or avoidance; revenge is not even contemplated. Disciples at risk or torture are entreated to provide food and rink for those who would cause them that harm. Excessive, indeed.

This behaviour locates itself in Jesus Christ. In seeking to save our life, we will lose it. It is only in losing our life, for Christ’s sake, that we truly find it.

Every instinct (and our risk register) tells us to avoid any kind of risk, yet the coherent core of the gospel is a God who has risked everything for humanity and creation. The essence of this is that we serve and save those who would harm us. Those who oppose us and seek our diminishment are those we seek to overcome with blessing. It is for their renewal, their inherent worth, that we act.

We are Christ’s disciples, who served us in order to save us. The consequence of Christ’s excessive behaviour is that we are overcome with mercy, life and hope. A risk worth taking.

I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God – what is good and acceptable and perfect. [Pauk’s Letter to the Roman Church 12:1-2]

Compliance is simpler, really. Not rocking the boat.

We can observe our politics, both local and international, taking on a darker hue, reaching to polarise some, to accuse others, attacking with words and worse.

Recently, members of our Jewish (and therefore, our own) community are violently attacked. Another gathering, of our First Nations (and therefore, our own) people has a failed explosive device thrown amongst them – a weapon we are more accustomed to associating with the war in Afgahnsistan and not within our neighbourhoods. A group from our Muslim (and this, our own) community is praying near a protest, and are accosted by police and others, as if those on their knees in prayer are liable to incite harm.

Why can’t people just fit in?

There is another, coercive and corrosive form of compliance, when a government co-opts a belief system, like Christianity, nationalises it and declares that the faithful will support a certain notion of faith, of politics, of behaviour. This looks like the demand for the Ten Commandments in every school, coupled with the false association between a particular political brand and a corrupted understanding of the Gospel.

We are told: if you have true faith, it will look like this.

And then, Jesus. Jesus asking to believe and live and act and love and forgive in such a way that neighbours and enemies are not simply tolerated, or endured, but loved. Extra miles to walk, and our coats to sacrifice and forgiving four hundred and ninety times, when once certainly seems more than enough – to us. These are not astringent measures of compliance; rather, they are acts of extravagance we could not expect.  

As Jesus, so Paul.

Embroidered in the yoke of the stole presented to me at my Ordination are Paul’s words, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed…” How shall we determine this transformation?

Paul talks of our being drawn into community, how we are bound together, members of each other. We are woven by the very act of God in Christ, not simply by our decision, or our sense of self-improvement.

The word we translate as “conformed” leads to our words “scheme” and “schematics” where we are shaped into compliance with the way things are. In complete contrast, the word for “transformation” gives birth to our word “metamorphosis”, as we comprehend the world, and our lives and our faith are continually renewed by the mercies of God.

The only measure for our hope is Christ, and him crucified. The voices which demonise the weak, or the faithful, or those who are different, are simply sirens luring us to disaster. When we are unsure of our calling, or our direction, we find our bearings only in the cross, in our discipleship to the one whose call is to love, to serve and to forgive. And perhaps, to sacrifice everything.

This is where the shape of life is found; in Jesus Christ, the risen crucified One.  

Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, “Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.” He answered, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”⁵ But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.” [from Matthew’s Gospel 15:21-28]

There’s a social media meme commenting that each household has one member who stacks the dishwasher like a Scandinavian architect and another who loads it like a possum on meth.

We know these people, or perhaps we are them … I have ways I do certain things, which maintain a level of comfort for me. They might be idiosyncratic and inconsequential, like how I hang out the washing (or stack the dishwasher). They may, however, have more weight, such as how I view the world, how I approach my vocation, or understand other people.

The sequel to this is what may lead me to change my mind? As our community appears to become more polarised, we increasingly socialise with people of similar views, avoiding those with whom we might disagree. This is apparently true socially, poetically and theologically.

How will we grow and change? How will we hear those voices which will challenge and transform our thinking? How will we disagree, even have disputes, in ways which are appropriate and healthy?

How do we change the algorithm?

Jesus has a singular sense of his vocation: his community, the people of Israel. The wrong person has found their way to Jesus – foreign, woman, outside his mission plan – and he ignores her. The disciples want to be even more assertive and send her away.

Jesus’ niggardly response is that he has other priorities. When she kneels, begging for her daughter’s life, his response to this Palestinian woman is derisive at best and appalling at worst. Then, as now, casting any woman as an animal is destructive.  

We cannot know Jesus’ mind; what impairs his response, what cultural boundaries hinder his expected mercy. The honesty of the gospel writers is to include this least complimentary account of Jesus to someone in need.

So, what changes him?  She does. This unnamed, indefatigable mother, advocates for her child.  She will not let Jesus go.

How shall we attend to those voices that we need to hear, when we are accustomed to listen elsewhere? We are trained to hear only certain voices, those which fit our sense of self and society, while disregarding others, as if they do not even exist. These symptoms are international and personal, they are in our social circles and our communities of faith. We airbrush artists and silence writers and journalists because of the discomfort they cause, and yet real hope lies in listening, attending to, and addressing – with integrity – those voices as they speak. More especially when they speak from the fractured places, from the edges.

Jesus’ mercy arises from her courage and faith. Perhaps we need more courage and faith to listen to those we usually choose to ignore, or fail to notice. What courageous faith might we need to stand with those whose names, whose communities, whose children are at risk of being consigned to despair and destruction?

Where will Jesus be found?

Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” [from John’s Gospel 20.19-31]

Woven throughout the Jesus stories are moments of intimacy which move beyond words. Some of the most arresting images from art and film arise from Jesus’ encounters, or stories that he told.

The Pietà, rendered both in paint and stone, gives us cause to hold our breath; Rembrandt’s portrayal of The Prodigal Son has us hungering for such a restoration as this;  how often has the crucifixion’s depiction drawn us into silence, or weeping, or even despair at the malice of human hands?

We are wrapped within the mystery of Jesus’ resurrection at the moment. The moment of resurrection is neither witnessed nor recorded, so we are left with the blessing of wonder and confusion, doubt and fear.

The risen Jesus’ defiance of locked doors animates the conversation with  the frightened disciples, as he appears and offers the blessing of peace and the missional task of forgiveness. The intimacy of his blessing, followed by showing them the wounds he still carries is enough to contemplate for more than the short retelling. Jesus appears different, yet the same; he is alive, yet bears the wounds of his suffering and death.

It is Jesus’ encounter with Thomas which locates each of us within the resurrection story itself. Jesus exposes his wounds to Thomas and invites – risks – his touch. Is there any happening of greater intimacy than this? Any kiss, any tenderness, any dying moments, any death?

Thomas, called to step into the story of the risen, crucified Christ.

This gathering of cowards and betrayers is welcomed and forgiven. Can anyone doubt that, if Judas was still alive, Jesus would have equally invited him to touch his wounds and experience God’s rigorous mercy?

And thus, we find our place.

It is the invitation of Jesus to risk ourselves with him. Jesus asserts that, despite our fear and doubt, this is for us.

We are discipled in forgiveness, both to receive and to offer. What greater act, what more intimate word, could be spoken into our world, in this season of revenge and violence, of faith bastardised into nationalism or theocracy, when leaders threaten cultural extinction and pray for accurate missile strikes?

Mercy is not some gratuitous wave of the hand, or waiving of sin. It is the engagement of wounds shown (and perhaps touched), of acknowledgement of failure and harm, of forgiveness sought and offered, of relationship restored, of life discovered.

It is costly, and it is priceless. Jesus has invested himself in each and all of us.

The mystery and the wonder is that Jesus invites us. It is also the glory of God, crucified and risen.

… the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’ This is my message for you.” So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples.[Matthew’s Gospel 28:5-8]

Fear and great joy, worship and doubt accompany each other as faithful, fearful disciples attend the tomb of Jesus, who has been executed. As Matthew recounts, nothing makes much sense from that point forward.

Earthquakes, angels, fainting soldiers and stories of Jesus alive. And, as always, the angel says to those confronted by wonder, or mystery, “Do not be afraid.” Fine.

One of the weaknesses for the church in recounting this impossible event is that we talk about Jesus’ resurrection as if we have seen an old friend down the street. To honour the accounts of the gospel writers and the experience of these courageous women, we need to hold the event with respect, with fear and a scintilla of doubt.

There is chaos. How do we know? The four gospels differ in people and timing and angels and who was running where, and who was telling (and who believed) whom. And this is at it should be. An account of God upending the world should not agree word for word, but offer an honest reflection of Jesus being raised, defeating death and saving creation.

The heart of our faith resides here. That God in Christ was human, that Christ suffered and was executed, that Christ was raised from death, is the ground on which we locate ourselves.

This does not make believing straightforward, or easy. The wonder of this moment is not always comfortably held in our hands and hearts, because our experience of the world around us chips at our faith, whispering in our ears that death is the final word and that true power is found in the mandibles of armies and the tweeted tantrums of emperors.

We need each other for this journey, for this remembering of our faith in the risen, crucified Christ. We need the company of other disciples, who are frightened and faithful, who are doubting and courageous, and who carry this resurrection story as did those first women, and the men who followed.

We need bread and wine and water, to remind us of the event which defines us, and to replenish us for this journey through our lives.

We will remember that God in Christ is crucified and risen. We will proclaim that forgiveness and new life are inherent in this moment. We will assert that death is not the final word; that life is spoken with wonder and hope as God’s complete word.

We will accompany each other on the road before us, to bless each other when our faith is strong, and to rerly on each other when fear and doubt are present. And the risen Christ goes ahead of us, as he promised.

May the God who shakes heaven and earth,
whom death could not contain,
who lives to disturb and heal us,
bless you with power to go forth
and proclaim the gospel.
Amen.

The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting,
“Hosanna to the Son of David!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?” The crowds were saying, “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.” [Matthew’s Gospel 21:9-11]

The chaos as peace invades. We have so little language for it; we are barely articulate. A monarch, a prophet, a leader, who brokers peace in his living.

We watch and remember as monarchs and dictators, sociopaths and narcissists punctuate their rhetoric with missiles and the language of punishment. We are more accustomed to this than the other; we have learnt how to deflect bullies, or hide from them.

However, this one who comes, unarmed and disarming, is something entirely different. We are not sure how to respond, so amongst the crowd we cheer the theatre of his arrival, and assume he will survive as long as a tyrant’s whim, or social media post.

We listened as Jesus invited us to reimagine how we might live in our world. We watched as those outcast were gathered with love, and offered life.  We barely dared to hope that turning our cheek and forgiving and forgiving and forgiving might be the new way of offering – and celebrating – life.

We acknowledged that Jesus talked of the costs of bearing witness to such a life as this.

The bullies’ culture is addictive. We know it leads to despair and eventually destruction; we know that we cannot sustain the tyrant’s favour forever. The simple fact is that we know how this poison works because it has been present since Cain murdered his brother. The despots have taught us that their way is the only one.

Then this Jesus and the donkey. Confronting power with powerlessness. Conscious that this act will arouse all the violence of empire and corruption. Not just Pilate and Herod and the corrupted priests, but the system which cannot tolerate questions, or prophets, or alternatives.

If it was our decision, we would retire gracefully, or retreat politically, in order to choose a more suitable battleground. Jesus will have none of it. He reclaims the temple for worship and justice, offers his most powerful teachings, fully aware of the consequences.

We watch as those who call for peace and justice in Gaza and Ukraine and Iran and Lebanon are ridiculed, disappeared, or extinguished. The offspring of Herod’s corruption and Pilate’s political self-interest are present in every age.

Jesus elected a more suitable place to bear witness. It is only there that violence and injustice are both addressed and answered. The brokering of peace at Calvary accepts and defies the violence of every tyrant. In Christ’s final breaths, he offers them life as well.

The depths of this act of Jesus, to save entirely at cost to himself, is prophesied when Jesus of Nazareth rides a donkey’s colt into Jerusalem.  

When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” [John’s Gospel 11.32-38]

We are measuring out our lives in missile strikes. We are becoming accustomed to an appalling situation where war in Ukraine and Gaza are superseded by Venezuela, then Iran, Lebanon and now swathes of Arab nations. The obscene colonisation of language means that “taking someone out” now means execution of an opponent, as opposed to having a meal with a person we like.

Political agitators encourage us to focus on ourselves, to feel aggrieved about the economic burden of fuel (and consequent) prices, while certain individuals, communities and faiths are typecast as terrorists and tyrants, justifying our actions of death as the measure for their sins.

We need to be angry that this is the world we are offered, that we are called to shape our lives around powers and principalities offering death and naming it life, offering slaughter and naming it peace.  

This passage concerning Martha, Mary and Lazarus is one of the most revealing about Jesus’ emotional state. The death of his friend and his family’s accompanying grief affect him deeply.

Death is all around; it is not only his friend’s death, but the reality that Jesus’ own ending draws closer. The gospel writer notes that following the Lazarus miracle, the response of community leaders is not celebration, but them plotting to extinguish both Lazarus and Jesus.

Jesus weeps at what has happened and according to the reading is “greatly disturbed.” A more precise translation is “indignation”; it arises from the sound a horse makes when it is unwilling to comply. Jesus expresses this emotion at least twice, we are told; his friend is dead.

Jesus’ grief is not simply profound sadness, it is unwillingness to accept what is before him.  “Take away the stone.”.

As we draw nearer to the weekend which transforms history, the Lazarus story asserts to us how Jesus understands God’s economy, surrounded by death, yet insisting on life.

We cannot become accustomed to the world where might makes right. The powers that claim authority over life and death, wealth and poverty, faith and other faith must be named – and confronted. The saving of Lazarus, the healing of the blind man, the welcome of the Samaritan woman are not nice, neat gospel stories told to palliate the church, they are the assertion of a God who will not tolerate the powers that isolate and blame, marginalise and condemn.

This is the God of the cross, and the empty tomb.

We are citizens of God’s economy. We will proclaim – and live – the impossibility that death is defeated by resurrection. We will assert that love is offered to all, and mercy is not constrained by politics or geography. Or faith.

We will not be satisfied with the story of death on offer from the world around us. Take away the stone.

They brought to the Pharisees the man who had formerly been blind. Now it was a sabbath day when Jesus made the mud and opened his eyes. Then the Pharisees also began to ask him how he had received his sight. He said to them, “He put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see.” Some of the Pharisees said, “This man is not from God, for he does not observe the sabbath.” But others said, “How can a man who is a sinner perform such signs?” And they were divided. So they said again to the blind man, “What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened.” He said, “He is a prophet.” [John’s Gospel 9.13-18]

A few weeks ago, a church leader sat with Jesus in the dark, talking (spiritual) obstetrics. The Spirit breathes where it wants. Just last week, a foreign woman shared a midday drink with Jesus, talking about water which quenches thirst forever. The Spirit breathes where it wants.

A man, sitting always in his individual darkness, is suddenly able to see. The Spirit breathes … and people of faith erupt. This in the wrong day. What poor theology.  Something, everything is wrong – wrong day, wrong man, wrong act, wrong answer. There must be someone to blame, to punish, to banish, to deny.

We read this story, and watch it unfold. We wonder how anyone, any community, could act in this way. Then we walk past a mirror, and stumble. All too easily we can locate our face in the crowd, and perhaps even hear our voice.

A gift is given. A life enhanced. One translation uses the phrase, “The Spirit respires where it will”, as if the breathing, the respiration, of the receiver is eased by Jesus’ presence.

Yet, for an awful moment, all the air is sucked out of the room by the indignation of the community of faith. There are rules. The Sabbath is not for healing.

You can’t just feed someone because they are hungry.

There’s a queue, they have to start at the back.

What if she was asking for it?  

The risk of these gospel stories is finding ourselves within them. We hope to imagine ourselves as the one receiving life, and that may well be our experience. We may also find ourselves mingling with those offering judgement, not justice; blame, not blessing.

These narratives of respiration disrupt our faith and our lives. When someone is offered life, it is disturbing for everyone they meet. When a person is offered forgiveness, when people discover mercy, they become entirely different.

There is, however, a profound danger in forgetting. When we forget the wonder of our first respiration; when we misremember what mercy is all about; when we only recall the culture which constrains us and not the Spirit who breathes us life.

When we forget what it is to see again.

This church leader, this foreign woman, this formerly blind man are all offered mercy and life for the circumstances in which they find themselves. Perhaps they, or their families, are members of John’s community, to remind us so that we, in turn, are able to remember.

Our remembering is never solely for ourselves, but for the one who comes to us at midnight, or midday, or in their own personal darkness. Jesus never turns us away.

The Spirit breathes where it wants. May you hear the sound of it.