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The Prodigal Son is one of the most well-known of Jesus’ parables. The word prodigal has taken on a negative meaning because of this story. Think of the word prodigy- which we use to describe someone like a child prodigy, who has a special talent or gift. The gift was his share of the family fortune, but we might also say he had the gift of nerve. Can you imagine asking for your share of the estate, whatever would be left to you, before the parent died?

The younger son set off for the world beyond the farm, and squandered his inheritance on everything they write country songs about. Parties, intoxication, wild and dangerous living. I like the way this version of the Bible, the Message puts it, “undisciplined and dissipated, he wasted everything he had. After he had gone through all his money, there was a bad famine all through that country and he began to hurt. He signed on with a citizen there who assigned him to his fields to slop the pigs. He was so hungry he would have eaten the corncobs in the pig slop, but no one would give him any.”

This is when he saw how good he had it on the farm. He started the journey home, and on the way rehearsed how he would plead for forgiveness.  “Father, I’ve sinned against God, I’ve sinned before you; I don’t deserve to be called your son. Take me on as a hired hand.”

His father welcomed him back with joy and celebration. He did not listen to the rehearsed speech. He asked his servants to bring fresh clothes and sandals for his son, and to place the family ring on his finger. He called for a heifer to be slaughtered and roasted for a feast. A big party, and a good time, was planned for all. Those who were ready to have a good time, would have a good time. The older brother was not inclined to celebrate. He said to his dad:

 ‘Look how many years I’ve stayed here serving you, never giving you one moment of grief, but have you ever thrown a party for me and my friends? Then this son of yours who has thrown away your money on whores shows up and you go all out with a feast!’

^31-32 “His father said, ‘Son, you don’t understand. You’re with me all the time, and everything that is mine is yours—but this is a wonderful time, and we had to celebrate. This brother of yours was dead, and he’s alive! He was lost, and he’s found!’”

The older brother had a serious case of sibling rivalry. He resented his brother’s hold on their father’s heart. This theme of 2 brothers vying for their father’s affection appears in many stories Jesus and his audience would have heard around the synagogue.

Cain and Abel had a serious case of sibling rivalry- so much so that Cain actually killed his brother Abel. Cain was a farmer, and Abel was a shepherd. Cain was tied to one place, tending his crops, while Abel would wander with the flocks, going where they went to graze. One son stayed close to home, and the other who followed wild wandering paths. They were rivals in the way they lived, and in competition for their father’s favour.

Cain and Abel each prepared a meal for their father. Adam liked the mutton Abel served, but was less excited about the vegetables and grain Cain offered. Cain was disappointed by his failure, and in his anger, killed his brother. As punishment he was banished from his father’s lands, and could never be a farmer again. He became the wanderer. The story says that God placed a mark, the mark of Cain on him, so no one who found him would harm him, but he could still never go home.

The prodigal’s older brother may have wanted to be rid of his brother, but did not kill him. In this story the wanderer came home, and the father, and older brother had to find a way to live with him. The father seems open-hearted, and so relieved to see his son again that rose above any feelings he might have about being poorly used. The older brother seems less charitable, but we might hope things would improve with time.

Part of why there are many Bible stories about families, is we can relate to them. For good or not, we all come from families, and like Cain, bear the mark of our families. How we grow up shapes us. The strengths and the wounds of family life form our character. Our own experience of family might lead us to ask some questions of the story.

Why did the younger son, the prodigal, leave home in the first place? Was he raised in a way that led to him feeling privileged, but also babied? Did he feel he had to leave to actually stand on his own? Did he grow up feeling the resentment of his older brother, and get to the point where he just needed out?

How about the older brother? He seemed so hurt by his dad’s willingness to be generous and forgiving to the younger son. Did he grow up always wondering if he was really loved? Did he have this idea the younger one was always the favourite?

How about the father? We like what we see at the end of the story, when he welcomed the prodigal back with open arms and a party. But do we really agree with his decision at the beginning of the story- to give the boy his inheritance and set him free? Was that really the loving thing to do? He could probably have guessed that the prodigal would crash and burn.

I talked about this story at the Queens Avenue residence this week. The residents often help me figure out my sermons. One woman asked why we never hear anything from the mother in the story. What an excellent question! The Bible is a product of a male-dominated, patriarchal culture, and most often the main characters, and usually the ones with speaking parts, are men. Even in the Genesis story, the main characters are Adam, Cain and Abel. Eve bears the children, but has no voice in how they are raised. In the Parable of the Prodigal Son, we can’t even tell if the mother is still alive. We might imagine a different story, and a different kind of family, if the wife had a voice.

One way this story has been interpreted is to say the father represents God, who is always forgiving, and always ready to welcome us home. I like the forgiveness part of this picture of God. I am less sure about God as a parent who gives in to the child’s wishes, even when they know it won’t be good for them.

I think God is at work in the story, inside, and all around each of the characters. God is at work, constantly, actively, passionately loving each character in the story, even if they have trouble loving themselves. The spark of love provides the hope in the youngest son’s heart that he might dare come home, and receive mercy, even though he is having trouble feeling kind or forgiving towards himself. He still believes love, and life, might be possible beyond his time in the depths.

Love is at work in the heart of the father, who is grateful his child found his way back, but who is also pained at the rivalry and rift between his sons. Love points him towards the hope of family harmony, despite past problems.

Love is at work in the older brother, who is resentful of his brother, and quick to anger, but who is also protective of his father, and hated seeing him so poorly treated. He does not feel ready to join the big party, but he does not leave the farm. He has not given up either.

Love is always in the background, as a possibility in every human story. Love is there when we are hard on ourselves, and on others, gently pointing us to a better way. Love is there beyond the harshness of momentary anger, and beyond the judging words that come out. Love holds out the hope that we can get over ourselves.

Jesus ended his parable before getting to the happy ending we might imagine and hope for, with all the family members in a tearful embrace. Maybe he did that to remind us of our own broken lives, and challenging relationships, inside and outside of family. We all have need of love, and forgiveness and reconciliation. Our desire to see the prodigal’s family reunited in love is a powerful reminder to us of how important it is to let love work in our own lives. Amen

Action prayer, repeated 3 times in silence

Fists clenched tight. (we hold on so tightly to what we think we need)

Hands open palms up. (it is so freeing to let go, and allow God in.)

Arms crossed over heart. (we begin to sense again, that God is with us, within us.)

In Hinduism, a sannyasi is a kind of religious ascetic, who renounces ties with all worldly things, and gives their life to prayer and devotion, in pursuit of spiritual liberation.

One evening a sannyasi was just getting ready to sleep under a tree.  A man from a nearby village came running up to him, and asked that he give him a precious stone.

“What stone” the sannyasi asked?

“Lord Shiva appeared to me in a dream last night and told me that if I came to this place at dusk tonight a sannyasi would give me a precious stone that would make me unbelievably rich. “

The sannyasi rummaged in his bag for a moment and, smiling, said, Lord Shiva probably meant this one. I found it in the forest today and you can certainly have it.

The villager gazed at the precious stone in wonder. It was as large as his fist and, even in the fading light, it dazzled with luminosity. He took it and walked away.

That night the villager couldn’t sleep. He was deeply troubled. The next morning at dawn he rushed back to the sannyasi, and thrust the diamond back into his hands. “I don’t want it,” he said.

“What I want is whatever you have that makes it possible for you to give it away so easily.”

What makes for such an open heart, and willingness to let go? When a baby is in the womb, it has no worries. Their every need is met, even before they know they need something. They are warm, and fed, and safely held. They are open-hearted, and open-handed. No need to hold on tight to anything.

When we emerge from the womb, the first sign we are alive and healthy is that we cry out. Perhaps we cry out for the warmth, the feeding, the sense of safety we have known, which was  interrupted by the journey through the birth canal. We come through an uncomfortable passage, and are now in a strange place. Where will we get what we need? Maybe we cry because we are confused. Maybe we cry because we are frightened.

Most often the freshly-born baby is picked up, and held close to the warm body of a care giver. When possible, the baby is placed in their mother’s arms. There is a familiar smell, an embracing warmth, a heartbeat that has been heard before. The child reconnects with its source, and calm reassurance overcomes anxiety. Love overcomes fear.

Mystics like the sannyasi make it a daily, hourly, minute by minute practice to let go of reliance upon things, upon status, upon people, and give themselves over as completely as possible to God’s loving provision. It is as if they begin to experience the whole of reality as something like the womb of God.. They are embraced and filled by love, and you can see it in them. They often glow with a more powerful luminosity than the most precious gem.

Most of us are not called to such a life of total renunciation. We see that as an extreme. We live in Canada, and for much of the year, would find the womb of the world to be fairly chilly, if we tried to live without a home, or possessions. Even so, mystics like the sannyasi offer us an important corrective to what can happen when we settle for less than real life, and real love.

We heard a story this morning about the Israelites. For generations they were slaves in Egypt. A prophet and leader named Moses roused them up, and led them out of captivity. He believed God was calling them to a new place, a promised land where they and their children could thrive in freedom.

A new nation was being born. Being born is challenging. I wonder if the baby ever feels it would be better to not come out. They might not choose to go from a safe and warm place where its needs are met, out into an unknown reality. But they need to be born, to grow to maturity.

Moses had a disquieting habit of leaving every once in a while, to climb a mountain to talk to God. The Israelites got nervous when their leader was away. They wanted something to hold on to, to soothe their fears, to provide them with a sense of safety and security. They were in those ways, not that different from newborns, or from us. The story says:

When the people realized that Moses was taking forever in coming down off the mountain, they rallied around Aaron and said, “Do something. Make gods for us who will lead us. That Moses, the man who got us out of Egypt—who knows what’s happened to him?”

 

^2-4 So Aaron told them, “Take off the gold rings from the ears of your wives and sons and daughters and bring them to me.” They all did it; they removed the gold rings from their ears and brought them to Aaron. He took the gold from their hands and cast it in the form of a calf, shaping it with an engraving tool.

The people responded with enthusiasm: “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up from Egypt!”

 

⁵ Aaron, taking in the situation, built an altar before the calf. Aaron then announced, “Tomorrow is a feast day to God!”

 

⁶ Early the next morning, the people got up and offered Whole-Burnt-Offerings and brought Peace-Offerings. The people sat down to eat and drink and then began to party. It turned into a wild party!

The Israelites did what people often do when worried and afraid. They turned to things of the world to distract them from their pain and anxiety. They placed their trust in gold, a symbol of material wealth. They gorged themselves on food and drank themselves into confusion, and then reached out to each other for physical comfort, and sexual release. It really was a wild party.

This story depicts an extreme response, but we can see this dynamic at work in our own lives, and in the lives of people around us. The lure of the new and shiny thing. The desire for the bigger house, the more powerful car, the trip to an exotic vacation place.  Advertising that plays on loneliness, insecurity, fear of death to get us to buy things that we know, if we are honest, will not actually make our lives better. The way that sex is used to manipulate and dehumanize people. The solace people seek in alcohol, in gambling, in over-consumption.

God spoke to Moses, “Go! Get down there! Your people whom you brought up from the land of Egypt have fallen to pieces. In no time at all they’ve turned away from the way I commanded them: They made a molten calf and worshiped it.”

Moses may have over-estimated the spiritual maturity of his people. Maybe he thought they were more ready to place their hope and trust in God. Maybe they needed him to remind them of how to live, to stay connected to the real source of love and security in their lives, so they would not grasp so tightly the distractions available to them.

Moses may have wished that they could have seen the glory of a desert sunrise, felt the fresh air fill their lungs with every breath, heard the music of the voices of their children, and been grateful for the gifts of life in God’s world.

If the Israelites had practiced gratitude, and rejoiced in the blessings God offered them, they might have felt the warmth of God’s  loving embrace. They might have been able to relax their grip, and open their hearts. They might have been more aware of living in the womb of God’s love. They might have been more like the sannyasi in the story, who could so easily give away a diamond the size of his fist.

Our reading from the letter to the Phillippians offers us advice about how to grow spiritually, and to keep the connection to God open:

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! ⁵ Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. ⁶ Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. ⁷ And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Take a moment now to think of 2 or 3 of the blessings in your life. What beauty, wonder, joy, love have you witnessed? You may notice that even as you think of these, gratitude arises within you. Thank God for these blessings.

Do the same each night before you go to sleep.  You may want to begin a gratitude journal, to track how your awareness of God’s provision grows, and how your sense of gratitude deepens.

Practicing gratitude is an essential part of our spiritual lives. Everything we have comes to us as a gift of God – every breath, every ability, every opportunity, every moment of life. The practice of gratitude can help us relax our greedy, selfish hold on the stuff of the world, and make more room in our hearts for God.

Action prayer

Fists clenched tight.

Hands open palms up.

Arms crossed over heart.

Amen. Thanks be to God

World Communion Sunday, also celebrating Saint Francis with a Blessing of Animals

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I took my kids to an observatory this summer. A young astronomer was our guide that night. He spoke with great knowledge and enthusiasm about our solar system, the Milky Way galaxy, other galaxies, the whole universe. He described the life stages of stars. He talked about places where stars are born, the breath-takingly beautiful nebulae.  In these vast star-nurseries, cosmic forces draw together the basic elements that make up everything. The atoms that form matter are compressed together to release the energy that makes the stars shine, and lights and heats everything around them.

Our sun is made of those elements. So is our planet. Everything in and on and around our planet, including all that lives and moves, and shares in this state of being, everything is made of the same stuff as the stars. We are all made of stardust.

Puppies and guppies, ants and leaves of grass, big blue whales and Honda civics, the silicon and carbon of computers and smart phones. The fine polished wood of this podium, the bread and juice on our communion table. Everything is made of the same stuff. You and me, and the people I met yesterday from Liberia and Sierra Leone.  Your neighbours- even the ones you don’t know, and even the ones you don’t like. The universe is a womb from which we are all born. We all come from the same cosmic mother. We are all related.

The first Sunday in October has traditionally been Worldwide Communion Sunday, now called World Communion Sunday.  For decades this has been an occasion for Christian communities around the globe to gather, to break the bread and pour the cup, and remember the life and death and resurrection of Jesus. It has been a celebration of unity. We might recognize very little else in a Russian Orthodox liturgy beyond the raising of the bread and the pouring of the wine, but we can at least understand that! That holy sharing crosses boundaries of culture, language, custom, and reminds us that we are connected.

Today we are also remembering Saint Francis of Assisi. In the calendar of the Roman Catholic Church, yesterday, October 4 was his feast day. Francis was the son of a wealthy Italian family who left behind all the trappings of worldly, material success, and lived a life of radical poverty, of dependence on God for all things, and of deep identification with nature, and all living things. His first official biographer, Saint Bonaventure, said “Francis called all creatures, no matter how small by the name of brother and sister; because he knew they had the same source as himself. “

One way Francis is honoured around the world is with services that feature the blessing of animals. This fits with his sense of family connection to all living things. Anyone who has known and cherished a family pet can tell you the way love creates a bond, and joins at least a part of our hearts to a being that is radically different from us. Love helps us see past the differences, and instinctively see the worth, the value, in another created being.

What a good idea that is! Love can help us overcome the things that separate us. Love can help us see that despite our differences, we are actually all made of the same stuff. We are stardust, given breath and life by God. There is great hope in this awareness. Amen

When I was a volunteer at Koinonia Farm in Georgia, they had a small vineyard. The farm supervisor hired local workers to pick grapes. The work was hard, and would begin early in the day, to get as much picking done before the heat and humidity really set in.

There was another reason to begin early. As the day warmed up, there was a greater possibility that twined in among the vines there might be a snake. They liked to wrap themselves around the cross-beams of the vine-stands, and sun themselves. The local folks were very afraid of snakes, and with good reason. In that part of Sumter County there were several varieties of venomous rattlesnakes. Their bite might not kill you, but from what I heard, they hurt like crazy. If like, most people there, you had no health insurance, a trip to the doctor or the hospital emergency ward could be an expensive inconvenience. Many families who lived near the farm had no grass in their yards. They preferred to keep the rich red soil around their houses bare of any vegetation, for fear of the proverbial snake in the grass.

The farm supervisor during my time was a retired Baptist preacher from Erie, Pennsylvania named Ray Rockwell. Ray was an ornery, crotchety old guy.  He was in his mid 70’s when I knew him, and could still out-work people half or even a third his age. On grape picking days he patrolled the rows of vines with a sharpened hoe, which he was not afraid to use, to quickly dispatch a rattlesnake if needed. He didn’t like guns, so the hoe was a preferred option.

The day labourers in Jesus’ audience did not contend with rattlesnakes, but they faced other daily challenges and threats. Many would have identified with the workers in the story, who each day looked for a place to earn a day’s wage, hopefully be enough to feed themselves and their family. Under the Roman rule of Palestine, most agricultural land was owned and controlled by a small wealthy class. There was a huge population of landless peasants. Some came from families that used to have their own farms, but had long ago had lost them. because they could not keep up with the heavy Roman taxes.

The Roman appointed tax collectors, with the help of the local government, and Roman soldiers, would seize the land to cover the tax bills, and then the land would be turned over to a wealthy family to manage, as long as they guaranteed the Emperor would get his share.

The day-labourers were at the bottom of the economic and social ladder. They might live on plots of rented farm land, and still have to look for work to supplement their income. The return on what they grew did not always cover the costs of working the land. So they would get up with the sun, and look for a day’s work, at the end of which they would be paid a denarius.

The story would sound very familiar to Jesus’ audience. They knew about hard work, and the precarious nature of life in Roman-ruled Palestine. Now that Jesus has drawn in his listeners with a story to which they can relate, he brings in the twists, the surprises that make this a parable.

The audience is already listening. They have already let the story get in past their defenses. Now the story is going to get under their skin. Jesus says that the landowner went out several times during the day and recruited more workers. These would be workers who had not been successful in finding work earlier in the day, and who likely expected to go home hungry that evening. The landowner goes out at nine, and noon, and at three in the afternoon, and at again at five. That may sound like quitting time to us, but in those days it might be more like 6 in the evening, depending on the time of year.

When the end of the day does finally come, which would be a tremendous relief to those who’d laboured since sunrise, the landowner instructed his foreman to pay each worker a denarius. This did not sit well with those who had been there all day.

I was out with the Sunday school when you heard this story, but I put questions in the bulletin for you to consider:

How do you feel about this story?

How would it feel to be the first one hired?

How would it feel to be the last one hired?

Jesus challenges us with contrasting versions of reality. There is the world we are used to, in which you only get what you deserve, or what someone else decides you deserve. This is also the world in which even if I have all that I need for today, I am still likely to want more, and also likely to be envious and indignant, if I feel like someone else got a better deal than me.

Then there is the world as God might have it be, in which a generous landowner might exercise the freedom to make sure all his workers went home with enough to feed their families. He did not make them rich, but they would have enough.

It would be like the manna that appeared for the Israelites on their trek across the desert. Enough appeared to meet everyone’s actual hunger, but no more. No ziploc bags, no freezers, no retirement plans. No extra for those who put in longer hours. Just enough for the day.

Can we even imagine living that way? Actually, that is how we live. We may go to bed at night with the knowledge that there is food in the pantry for tomorrow, but what we don’t know for sure is what tomorrow will bring, or whether we will live to see the next day. None of us knows what might happen. Our lives are literally out of our control. If we don’t control even our own life, how is it that we become convinced that we are in charge of, or own or control anything? Everything we need to live, including life itself, is on loan to us. We only have it for a while.

That, I think is one of the deep symbolic and spiritual meanings of the manna story, and of Jesus’ parable. We are not in charge. We do not really own anything. We are utterly dependent on the generous provision of God.

We resist this truth, in the same way that some of the Israelites tried to horde more manna than they needed for the day. In the same way that some of the vineyard workers wanted more than they really needed to feed their families. They wanted more. We want more. Human greed, which is rooted in fear, is the snake in the grass in this story. The owner of this vineyard does not use a sharpened hoe to strike this snake down. He uses something even more powerful. He uses open-hearted generosity. He rejects the worldly way of seeing things, that would have us wrap ourselves in the false security that comes from having more than we need.

We want that illusion of security. But in our hearts, we know that having more, hoarding more, gathering it all up so that we have more than our neighbours still does nothing to give us power over life and death. We are still captives.

The person who is the most free in the story is the landowner. We might look at this cynically and say that he could afford to be generous, because he was rich. But it is not the amount that he has, but what he is doing with it. It is his generosity that makes him free.

As Christian people, we do our best to follow Jesus. With his tricky stories, and with the example of how he lived, Jesus is leading us into God’s vision of how the world could be, and away from the way the world is. Jesus is leading us away from greed, and desperation, and fear, and the illusion of security. Jesus is leading us towards freedom, and generosity, and joy. Amen

Last week I mentioned I returned this summer to Koinonia, a farm near Plains, Georgia. I lived and worked there as a volunteer almost 30 years ago. One of the founders of this Christian intentional community was Clarence Jordan. He was a Southern Baptist preacher, but was eventually removed from membership in that denomination because he could not accept their teachings about the separation of the races. He had an undergraduate degree in agriculture, as well as a Ph.D. in New Testament Greek. Koinonia Farm is a “test plot”: an ongoing experiment in life lived in the light of God’s love.

Jordan created an interpretation of the New Testament, called the Cotton Patch Gospel. He used the colloquial language of the American South he grew up in, and the geography and settings familiar to his neighbours in rural Georgia. He had a fondness for the parables, which he saw Jesus using to challenge the status quo. Parables often begin with familiar characters and situations, but then unexpected changes or twists throw the listener off guard. Jesus did not always take on difficult topics directly. He used story as a way to bait people into listening.

Jordan compared Jesus’ parables to the Trojan Horse from Ancient Greece. The gift of the horse, or the story, gets in past the defenses, and then releases its message on the unsuspecting. Before they realize it, the listener is caught up in the story, and is forced to look at contrasting realities- the world they live in, that has values and ideas that must be challenged, and the world as God would have it be.

Here is the Cotton Patch version of Matthew 18:21-35. It is often called the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant. In this version, Jesus’ name for Peter is “Rock”:

Then Rock sidled up and asked, “Sir, how often should I forgive my brother when he keeps doing me wrong? Seven times?” “I wouldn’t say seven times,” Jesus replied, “but seventy times seven!

 That’s why the God Movement is like a big businessman who wanted to settle the accounts of his customers. As he started to do so, one customer came in who owed a bill of more than ten thousand dollars. He had nothing to pay on the account, so the businessman told the sheriff to put up for sale everything the guy had and apply it to the debt. But the fellow did a song and dance. ‘Please give me some more time and I’ll pay every cent!’ he begged.

 The businessman was touched by the guy’s pitiful pleas, so he let him go and marked off the debt. Then that same guy went out and found a man who owed him a hundred dollars. Grabbing him around the neck, he choked him and said, ‘Pay me that money you owe.’

 ‘Please give me a little more time,’ the man begged, ‘and I’ll pay every cent.’ But he refused and, instead, he swore out a warrant for him. When the little man’s friends found out about it, they were really upset, so they went and told the big businessman all that had happened.

 Then the big businessman sent for the guy who had owed him the huge debt and said to him, ‘You low-down bum! I marked off all that debt for you because you begged me to. Shouldn’t you, then, have been kind to that little man just as I was kind to you?’

 Still hot under the collar, he turned the fellow over to the law to be thrown into the clink until every last dime of the debt had been paid. And my spiritual Father will treat you along the same lines unless every single one of you forgives your brother from your heart.”

(Cotton Patch Gospel: Matthew and John (Clarence Jordan’s Cotton Patch Gospel) Smyth & Helwys Publishing. Kindle Edition)

Many hearing Jesus’ story would relate to owing money to someone rich and powerful. Many would have been tenant farmers, in debt to the land-owner, trying to pay their rent on the land, cover the cost of seed, and feed their families.

This summer my son Joel and I visited a coal mine museum in Scranton, Pennsylvania. We went 300 feet underground, to learn how it was for the miners. There were about 20 of us crammed into a covered rail car. As the car rolled down its tracks into the shaft, we could feel it getting colder and colder, while it got very dark, and then pitch black, until we rolled towards the spotlit tunnel where they let us out. The tunnel was damp. We looked down side tunnels in which miners would have to slide on their backs, pushing with their feet, to get to the coal seam. In other tunnels they could stand, but would always be a bit bent over because of the low ceilings. It must have been brutal, awful work.

They lived in rented company houses, bought all their basic needs from their employer, and usually ended their weeks of hard labour even further in debt, caught in a downward cycle more grim than the tunnels of the mine itself. The tour guide even quoted the song about how they owed their souls to the company store. After Joel and I had been down in the dark, cold depths of the mine, the bright shining sun of a summer afternoon was a bit overwhelming, almost unbelievable.

The person in the parable owed ten thousand dollars. In the original version, it was ten thousand talents. A talent was the equivalent of 15-20 years of daily wages. This is an insane amount of money for a person to owe, exaggerated to show the person was relieved of a huge burden, when his debt was forgiven. It highlights the harshness of the way he treated the one who owed him a comparatively small amount. How could he be so petty, when he had been given such a gift of mercy?

This person was shown a glimpse of a possible new way to live. It was like they had left the darkness behind. In that moment the power of the sun radiated into his life. He felt the warmth, was blinded by a glorious light, and then it all changed. He was overcome by shadows. When he met the person who owed him money, it was as if the vision of a new way, with the light and warmth of love had faded. He was back in the murky world of business is business, and you have to get ahead, even if it hurts others. He forgot the mercy he had been shown, and he bought even more darkness down on the one who owed him a pittance, compared to what he himself had owed. He failed to pass on the forgiveness he had been shown.

People in Jesus’ audience undersood the world being a hard and harsh place. Like us, part of them might want the man in the story to be taught a lesson. The one who forgave the huge debt heard about the way this man treated his own debtor, and changed his mind. The man would be put in jail until he paid what he owed. Never mind that if you are in jail you probably can’t earn anything to pay anyone.

At this point those who heard Jesus’ story might realize nobody came out a winner. They are all back to playing by the rules of the cold, cruel world. No one gets forgiven, no one actually gets paid back, and no one finds any real peace. Jesus has drawn us into a story that shows us how the world works, and would keep on working, without love, and without the power of forgiveness. We can see how things work, and how they could work, with a little more light and warmth.

Forgiveness is a complicated thing. Sometimes people get hurt by the cruelty of another person, and then hurt again, when the idea of forgiveness gets mis-used. I have heard too many stories about people, usually women, who were being abused, emotionally, or physically, or both, and told they should go home and forgive the abuser. People need to do what they need to do, to get to a safe place, out of the reach of the abuser.

Forgiving a person does not mean accepting their bad behaviour. Forgiveness should be part of correcting what is wrong, not overlooking the offence. I am not an expert on forgiveness. It is as hard for me as for anybody here, to get over being hurt. It is something we work at day by day, step by step, just like anyone else. It is soul work.

There is soul work, and “sole work”. (Open running shoe box.) It might surprise you to learn the idea of forgiveness shows up consistently in reviews of new running shoes. I own many pairs of runners, and I read reviews before I buy them.

An important aspect of running shoes is their cushioning. The sole is designed as a platform for the foot. If you are a runner who lands hard on the heel with each step, you may need shoes that have heavier heel cushioning, to soften your landing, and minimize the jarring damage done to your joints.

If, with each step, each stride you take, you tend to land more on the outer edge of your foot, and then kind of roll to flatness, that is called over-pronation. There are shoes that correct for that. Same thing if you tend to land on the inside edge of your foot, and roll outwards, which is called supination. The cushioning of the sole compensates for our natural tendencies, and frees us to keep on going, doing the best we can.

The built-in capacity of a shoe to compensate for, to correct our faulty, imperfect running style is called forgiveness. Running coaches work with athletes to alter their stride, to correct it to what they call neutral, which would mean landing on the forefoot, and not the heel, and not rolling the foot either too much inward or outward. But in running, like in life, no one is perfect. We make mis-steps. We all need help. We all need forgiveness. Sometimes with every step we take.

Poor running form only harms you. Excessive rolling can stretch or tear ligaments, and cause a lot of pain. Landing hard on your heel sends a shock up through your leg, your knee, and ultimately your spine, and can lead to joint problems all the way up. But again, it only hurts you, and your ability to run, or walk.

But in the rest of life our mis-steps, conscious or not, cause pain and harm to others. The mis-steps, the mistakes of other people can cause us great harm. It can be hard to get past the pain, the harm done to us. As I said earlier, I am no expert on this, but it seems to me that one thing we can see in the parable is that if we forget that we ourselves need forgiveness, we are less likely to be forgiving of others. If we remember that we do things that hurt ourselves and others all the time, we may also remember how much we are like the person who needs our forgiveness.

This reminds me of what has sometimes been called a Cherokee prayer: O Great Spirit, grant that I may never find fault with my neighbor until I have walked the trail of life in his moccasins.

When we remember how we are all equally in need of forgiveness, it can be like coming out from a dark place, and back into the light of God’s love. Amen

One enormous privilege of my recent sabbatical was the opportunity to travel, especially when it meant returning to places that have been important in my formation as a person of faith. In late June I was about 90 minutes south of Atlanta, on a farm near Plains, Georgia. I lived and worked there as a volunteer during a break from my seminary training, almost 30 years ago. It is called Koinonia, and is an ongoing experiment of intentional Christian community. People commit to living as a kind of village, sharing at least one meal a day together, praying together, and working to earn a living as farmers, and offering ministries of compassion, and justice, and service to the neighbours around them.

I hadn’t been back for 25 years. Many who were in the community in my time have long since moved on, or died. I walked around the farm with my daughter Naomi, telling stories about people I knew, work we did together, and fun we had. It seemed to all come to life in my heart, and my imagination as we wandered. I showed her the garden where we picked tomatoes at sunrise, before the heat of the day. I described how an over-ripe tomato could burst, and explode a hot red mess in your hands when you tried to pick it. I told her about the flies that would circle, drawn to the red stickiness. I don’t think I sold her on farm labour as a future vocation.

I was sad to see the house I shared with 3 other volunteers had been demolished to make room for a playground. I’d wanted to show her the places in the wall that bore bullet holes. When this community was founded as a colour-blind, equal opportunity place of inter-racial harmony in the early 1940’s, there were death threats from some local folks. This was, after all, the deep south. That old farmhouse protected Clarence and Florence Jordan, who helped found Koinonia, and their children, but they never repaired the bullet holes. They were battle scars, or marks of the struggle, reminders of how serious it can be, to follow your faith.

I was consoled to find the library much as I remembered it. It is a two room building only a little bigger than the average Oakville backyard garden shed. It now bears a sign naming it in memory of Fran Warren. Fran was the gentle-spirited Quaker woman who served as librarian for many years. I spent a lot of time in the library, partly because it was one of the few buildings on the farm with a window air-conditioner, to protect the books from the high humidity. It was also where my volunteer group met for bible study, and where we taught English as a second language to migrant workers from Mexico and El Salvador.

Librarian Fran led a small group in Quaker worship early on Sunday mornings. We gathered under the shade of a big pecan tree, and sat in silence, to open ourselves to the presence of God. Fran’s tree is still there. It is not far from the commercial kitchen where I learned to can tomatoes, and pears, and peaches, preserves put up in the late summer, to add colour and sweetness to meals all winter.

Naomi and I had just walked by the big old pecan tree, and I was telling her about Fran, and Quaker worship. Naomi mentioned she needed to use a bathroom. The closest was at one end of the commercial kitchen. I led her to the door, and helped her find the bathroom. As we entered the building, I realised with a thrill of wonder and joy, that the screen door I had just pulled open is actually one I made in the woodshop, when I was a volunteer. In those days, and probably still today, when they could fix something on the farm rather than buying new, they would. When given the task of repairing a very beat-up screen door, I decided to just build one. I was amazed it was still there.

I told Naomi about the door. I think she took a picture. Naomi thought I should write my name on it. I decided my autograph would just look like graffiti to the people who now live and work at Koinonia. It is enough the door is still there. That is all the mark I felt I needed to make on this special place. More important to me is the mark the place, and the experience has left on me. I learned so much about faith, and prayer, and community while I was there. Lessons I am still pondering, and trying to live out. How can we work together, where we are, to share God’s love with a hurting world, and leave our mark, in the here and now?

In our Old Testament story we heard about an ancient tradition, of using blood from a sacrificed lamb to mark the door posts and lintel of every house containing a Hebrew family. For those of you, like me, who have never framed a house, the lintel is the horizontal beam above a doorway, supported by the posts or timbers on either side. The practice was to mark the top beam, and the two side posts of the front door with the blood from a freshly sacrificed lamb. This was in the time Moses led a struggle for the freedom of Hebrew people. They were being used as slave labour under the rule of the Pharaoh, the king of Egypt. Some may remember this from Sunday School.

Moses, born a Hebrew but adopted and raised as Egyptian royalty, had access to the court of Pharaoh. Moses went to Pharaoh, and asked him to set his people free. Not surprisingly, the Pharaoh was reluctant to give up his hold on a cheap labour supply, and refused. As the story unfolds, Moses tells the king that he is speaking for the God of the Hebrews. They have a series of conversations on the topic, and each time Pharaoh refuses to free the Hebrew slaves, God tells Moses to tell the king that plagues will be visited upon Egypt. The plagues get ever more gruesome, beginning with all the water in the land turning the colour of blood, moving on to an infestation of frogs, and progressing to a thick unnatural darkness that fell over the land, so thick it could be felt. The very last, and worst of the plagues was the death of the firstborn of all families of Egypt.

The story says Hebrew families were to each sacrifice a lamb, and mark the doorway of their home. When the Angel of Death flew over all the dwelling places of Egypt, those marked by the blood sign would be spared. They would be passed over, without harm. This may be the origin of the name Passover for the festival that celebrates the liberation of the Hebrews from slavery. After this, Pharaoh allowed Moses to lead his people out into the wilderness.

In all the centuries since, Jewish people have commemorated these events with the Passover Festival. They no longer practice animal sacrifice, but they do repeat the story, and remember the marking of the doorways with blood. The story got me thinking about the outward signs of our faith. Can people tell when they pass by our homes, or first meet us, what we believe, and how we might be living it out? What are the visible signs of our faith?

I heard someone say if baptism left a permanent mark, like a cross tattoo on our foreheads, perhaps less people would bring their children to church to be christened. When I heard that, I immediately thought about faith groups that are recognizable, simply by their appearance. Old Order Mennonites we see at St. Jacob’s who dress very plainly. There are the Sikhs who wear turbans. There are Hindu women who daily put on the bindi, the little circle of colour on their forehead, between their eyes. There are Muslim women who choose to wear the hijab, although I have heard that this is as much a cultural symbol as it is a religious one.

Apparently in ancient Rome, when Christians were still being persecuted, the symbol of a fish was used as a kind of secret code that allowed one believer to reveal themselves to another. We might think wearing a cross would work in the same way today, but I’m not sure. I think some who wear a cross do so for decorative, or dramatic, or even ironic purposes.

So for me at least, the question remains. When people look at us, or as they get to know us, can they tell we are followers of Jesus? Hopefully they could see it if they came to worship with us today. We will break bread and pour the cup, and we have been singing hymns and making prayers, and reading from the Bible. We will ask for God’s blessing, and we also make our offerings, our own kind of sacrifices. These are all activities of our organized religion. But when we leave here today, will these things leave a mark on us? How will we each be living signs of God’s love? Amen

There is a rhythm to community life here at Westminster. For those living in the college, the day begins with breakfast at 8 am, followed by morning prayers at 8:30. Many of the students are busy preparing for exams, but still take turns leading worship. Most mornings there are faculty, students, and sabbatical guests like myself, gathered for prayer. (There is also a chapel service after lunch.)

The worship space reminds me of the chapel at Appleby College in Oakville, and also the chapel at Mepkin Abbey, a Cistercian monastery in South Carolina. The traditional “choir” design means that members of the community face each other for hymns and prayers. There is something very good about that. The faces and voices of other people praying are for me, as important a message as the content of the readings, and the words of reflection offered. In community we are witnesses to each other, of the reality of prayer in our lives, and of our faith in the “larger other” that is the focus and direction of our praying.

I knew as I was preparing for this part of my sabbatical adventure that I would need to apply a discipline to my days. It could be so easy to fritter the time away. It can be so easy to pass through the time we are given, without noticing, relishing, loving, learning, feeling gratitude. These times of prayer with people, in the chapel serve to frame the days, and draw my attention to what is within the frame.

The student who led prayers this morning is Nick, whose life before preparation for ministry in the United Reformed Church included achieving a Ph.D. in Welsh and English Literature. He read to us from Exodus 3, which is the story of Moses’ encounter with the burning bush. That story reminds us of the potential that each place we sit or stand can be holy ground for us. Nick also shared a poem from one of his favourite writers, the Welsh poet and priest R.S. Thomas:

The Bright Field

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

R.S. Thomas (1913-2000)

My last post was about St. Peter’s, a tiny and ancient church a few steps away from Westminster College. On Friday I spent a few hours at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. There has been a church on that site for hundreds of years longer than the little Cambridge church, but the current cathedral is a relative new-comer, as it is “only” about 300 years old. Coming from Canada, where the age of most buildings can be measured in decades rather than centuries, it is mind-stretching to consider time, and continuity of presence, in this way. For someone who is accustomed to worship in a sanctuary that holds at most 140 people it is also a challenge to hear the still small voice of God, within a space where you could comfortably hold several tennis (or cricket) matches that would never interfere with each other.

This is a view of the approach to the cathedral. I wish I could have taken photos inside, but it is, after all, what they call “a working church”.

Outside of scheduled worship times, if you wish to go to the cathedral to pray, there is a side-chapel which can be entered without paying for admission. To access everything else, you need a ticket.

I cannot imagine all that is involved in the management and maintenance of such a huge physical plant. I have no idea how much money flows through this place. I read that in 2011 when an Occupy London emcampment was set up in front of the cathedral it was claimed St. Paul’s was losing 20,000 pounds a day.

There were hundreds of visitors while I was there, and a huge staff to guide them and see to their needs. I saw two priests in long black cassocks (very high Anglican!) and wondered if they just hung around, ready to chat with people. I realized later they were waiting for a group to arrive for a wedding rehearsal. I watched them go through the particulars of the service in the Order of the British Empire Chapel in the crypt, below the main sanctuary. (While researching this entry I learned that someone in the wedding party must either be a member of the OBE, or related to someone who is, to be able to use the chapel.)

This is a place built to the glory of God. It is also, it seems to me, a concrete and visual representation of a stratified and privileged-based society. This is where Prince Charles and Lady Diana were married, and where they held the funeral for Margaret Thatcher.

Inset in the walls and the floor of the crypt, in the lower level of the cathedral, are memorials to bishops and viscounts, painters, poets, politicians, and other prominent people. I confess I do not know who most of them are. The only “person” I was interested in “visiting” was William Blake, the artist and mystic, and I was not able to find his spot. I was overwhelmed by the statuary and engravings, and could not really take it all in.

In the photo above, near the ticket to St. Paul’s, you can see a diagram of the galleries above and around the dome of the cathedral. I climbed the 257 steps up to the Whispering Gallery, which is like an interior balcony, that rings around the inside of the dome at a height of 30 metres above the main floor. Another 119 steps took me up the outdoor Stone Gallery, which offered a view of the streets below, from a height 53 metres above the main level. This was also a good place to take in some fresh air, and catch my breath before ascending another 152 steps, to the Golden Gallery, which is up 85 metres, and affords amazing views of the surrounding city.

As I ascended I was remembering the times I have climbed the steps of another iconic structure, the CN Tower. The journey up to the Golden Gallery was in some ways more challenging, even though it is not nearly as high. The staircase winds very tightly in some places, and there are some very narrow passages on the way up (and down). Later, as I was walking the Millenium Bridge across the Thames to the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, I stopped several times to gaze back at the dome, and marvel a bit that I had just been up there.

Standing on Ludgate Hill, the highest point in London, St. Paul’s Cathedral was until 1962 the tallest building in the city. The dome is still prominent and distinctive, in a skyline that offers a lot of competition.

My journey from St. Peter’s to St. Paul’s has left me pondering. I am doing a lot of reading and thinking these days about the future of the Christian church as an institution. I tend to think of the church as a movement. An organization with a lot of history, and a lot of subsets and groupings- but basically a people. As my Sunday School training taught me:

“The church is not a building..
The church is not a steeple..
The church is not a resting place..
The church is a people…”

Does the Christian movement need cathedrals, blessed “CN towers” that draw the eye’s attention, and silently proclaim, “Here we are”?

This is the spire of St. Peter’s. the smallest church in Cambridge. It dates from the 11th century. The building is no longer in regular service, but it is open daily for people to drop in. It is a quiet, peaceful, prayer-soaked place just a few steps away from a busy intersection.

St. Peter’s is just a short walk from Westminster College. I visited today after lunch, with three Westminster students- new friends. Henriette, originally from the Netherlands, is a church youth worker who is preparing for ordained ministry. Morna and her family moved from Pakistan. Her husband is a minister, and she has an M.Div, but was not able to live out her call to ministry in her home country. She is now updating her qualifications, in preparation to be ordained. Bruno is also preparing for ministry. He grew up in Italy, but has been in Great Britain for many years.

It was Bruno that first mentioned St. Peter’s.
He likes to walk over from the college to pray in this ancient sanctuary.
He led us through the door, and it felt like stepping back in time,
or at least into a timeless place.

Here are Bruno, Henriette and Morna standing near the altar.
My photo does not do justice to the stained glass window behind them.

Here are Morna, Henriette and I at baptismal font that has stood in this place for 10 centuries. Behind the display of information about the church there is a pull-rope for the bell. We were there around 2 o’clock, so we took turns ringing out the hour. We assumed that historical trust that preserves the site would not leave the rope in place, if they did not want us to ring the bell!

The four of us pilgrims, from Italy, the Netherlands, Pakistan, and Canada, sat in this ancient church, and prayed together in a silence weighty with the prayers of a millennia’s worth of fellow travellers. In their own ways, all those seekers were looking for what we look for- signs of God’s loving presence, and a sense of how to live in response to that love.

(exterior of Westminster College, Cambridge,
photographed carefully to exclude signs of construction work!)

I have been making a point of getting out for a walk each day, in addition to my daily runs. Partly because I need the fresh air and exercise, but also because walking is a great way to get out and see, and hear, and smell, and experience where we live. Yesterday I went out in search of a barber shop. Not a fancy (and over-priced) styling salon/spa! There are several of those in Cambridge City Centre, which seems to be the touristy, upscale part of town.

I headed “up the hill” on Castle Street, and walked until I felt I was some distance away from the more preserved and historic area, and into more of a “working class” neighbourhood. I found an actual barber shop, owned by a friendly man who lives in a nearby village, and whose accent and way of being spoke more of “town” than “gown”.

The shop, and the haircut itself were very much like what I am used to getting on Kerr Street in Oakville. The conversation was friendly, and down to earth. Leaving the shop, I wandered a little further away from the college-y area, and began to see more people that did not look like students, or staff, or faculty of the many institutions of higher learning. At one point I was stopped on the street by a man asking for pocket change. I had none, and apologized for that, and resolved that I would start carrying some with me. (I should also spend some time figuring out what each of these strange coins are worth!)

There are homeless people in Cambridge, just as there are in Oakville, and other very prosperous communities. Cambridge, according to the barber, is one of the wealthiest cities in the UK. There is a lot of scientific research and development here, and Cambridge is a bedroom community for people who take the train into London each day for work. (Again, just like Oakville!)

If I was not already aware of, and grateful for, the tremendous privilege of being here, my momentary encounter with the man who asked for change is a reminder that I am a very fortunate person. I have been given the gift of time to be away, and of a comfortable and welcoming place to be.

I should learn more about the Cheshunt Foundation, which has funded this sabbatical time at Westminster College. I have no idea where the funds derive from, that are being used to pay for my lodging and meals, and access to libraries and resources of Cambridge University.

My younger self would have rankled at the idea of some wealthy family giving a portion of their fortune to a college, but still retaining enough to live well. I still struggle philosophically with how wealth is shared (or not) in our world. But these days, in this time and place, my primary response is not one of judgement, but of gratitude for all that I am receiving.