I
don’t often wear my kilt to preside at Holy Communion, but today is both the
Festival of Andrew the apostle (St Andrew’s Day, 30 November) and the tenth
anniversary (St Andrew’s Day, 30 November 2013) of my being licensed to serve
as a priest in Durham Diocese, having previously served in the Diocese of Liverpool—a Durham decade!
Advent is the necessary precursor to Christmas,
because Christmas is the joyful announcement of the birth of a Saviour, and
Advent must first address the question of why on earth we need a saviour,
or, of why a saviour is good news of great joy.
I believe that I am a good person. I believe that you
are, too. In fact, I do not believe that there is any such thing as an evil
person; for every person is made—created—by God, and in the image of God. God
is good, and nothing that God has made is evil. Yet we wrestle with evil, every
day of our lives. There is something about evil that is attractive to us—this is
why temptation is tempting—and there is something about us that bends away from
love towards it—this is sometimes called our ‘fallen nature.’ Good people
choose to act in less-than-loving ways, even towards those we desire to love
fully and for always, because it is easier, at times, or because we want to—“we
have wounded your love and marred your image in us, through negligence, through
weakness, through our own deliberate fault,” as the Confession puts it—and to
justify our actions. It is good people whose relationships break down. And it
is possible to choose evil so frequently that it becomes habitual, until it
becomes all-but-impossible for us to choose love at all: and this is to find
ourselves in hell—and drag others there with us. Imagine how bad the state of
things would be if there were such a thing as evil people.
So good people find themselves incapable of doing good—of
loving their neighbour—at least consistently and permanently. And this is
unacceptable to God, for God made us good and for good, and knows that good is
good for us. So God sent his Son into the world, to be our Saviour, to be the
one who will judge the living and the dead. The nature of that judgement is entirely
without condemnation, or punishment. Rather, it is the perfect insight, to know
rightly the evil we have done, and to destroy all evil, without destroying us,
the good creature, the object of God’s love. For God, possessing by divine
nature perfect judgement in all matters, has determined that love is how evil
will be destroyed. The warmth of God’s love will, in time, melt the evil that
lies heavy upon us, without harming us in any way, as the warmth of the sun eventually
melts the ice without damaging the ground beneath. Indeed, as the warmth of the
sun transforms the snow, that impairs our movement, into life-giving water, so
the warmth of God’s love ultimately transforms even evil, for good.
When we look at the world around us, we might ask, if
God is good, and sovereign, then why does evil exist, and so prevalently? And
the Church responds, yes, the world is not as it should be; and God has passed
judgement, that judgement being transforming love. Were we God, we might choose
destruction, to deal with evil by sweeping away evil-doers; but that would
include me, you, us all; and, in any case, you cannot deal with the problem of
evil using evil as the solution, for that simply perpetuates the problem. Love is
slower, painfully slow, for to love is to be present and attentive to pain.
Yet, love is what God has chosen, for God is love.
So, Jesus came, long ago, fully human—utterly dependent
on love—and fully-God—the source of love. Loving us to the end, even our
putting him to death could not banish love: love simply extended its reach to encompass
the dead as well as the living. And this Jesus will come again, as love, when
love has—finally—won. Then every eye shall see him, and adore him, as he is.
God has acted, is acting, and will complete what has
been set in unstoppable motion. This is why Christmas is good news, and not
merely a momentary distraction from the darkness. But to welcome the Saviour,
we must first recognise our need for salvation—to be transformed, by love, for
love.
On Monday, I went into a shop, picked up what I
needed, and approached the till. The sales assistant asked me if I had found
everything I had been looking for? which I had. I asked them, How are you
today? and they were clearly taken aback. Good, thanks; they replied, and then,
after a slightest of pauses, But thank you for asking.
I spent the middle of the week at a residential
training event, held at a hotel. One morning, as I walked along the corridor
from my room, heading down for breakfast, I passed a member of the housekeeping
team. They said, Good morning, and I responded. Again, I asked, How are you
today? Again, they were taken aback that a guest would interact with them in
such a way.
On the last morning of the residential, I went to
the administrator who had put together the training event to thank them. They
had had a difficult job, needing to deal with several challenges. I wanted them
to know that their work was appreciated, that they were appreciated. They just
about fought back the tears, and asked if they could give me a hug.
Most of the time, it costs very little to be kind.
Perhaps that is why we value it less than we ought? Of course, there are times
when it is costly, even a higher price than we are prepared to pay. But there
are few things that have such a disproportionally large impact, and return,
that return potentially having a positive impact on whoever happens to come
across the person shown kindness in the wake of the act.
If you can, be kind. And when being kind is a
stretch too far, may you be on the receiving end of kindness.
I wonder whether you remember a big event (global
politics, sporting, royal) that took place when you were eleven or twelve years
old?
Jesus was most likely born in 6 BCE (Before Common
Era) (Obviously, Jesus could not be born BC, but those who first calculated
that date got it wrong). At some point, this came to the attention of Herod I
(the Great) and Joseph, Mary, and Jesus fly by night, seeking refuge among the
Jewish diaspora community in Alexandria. In 4 BCE, Herod I died. At this point,
it is time to return home; but Joseph hears that Herod Archelaus is now ruling
in Jerusalem, and is afraid; so, they go to Galilee instead.
Galilee is under another of son of Herod I, Herod
Antipas. But Antipas is not as dangerous a prospect as Archelaus. Archelaus has
a reputation for bloodshed and provoking bloodshed; moreover, his position on
his throne is contested by his own brothers. Though the emperor is persuaded to
back him, his position as ethnarch is contested for most of his reign, from 4
BCE to 4 CE. He then reigns, less contested, for a further two years, before
the emperor himself deposes him and imposes direct Roman rule over the Province
of Judea from 6 CE.
Jesus is around twelve years old when the emperor
deposes Archelaus, who goes into exile in Gaul. Twelve is old enough to be
aware. Twelve is old enough to be apprenticed, as a house builder, to his
adoptive father, Joseph. Twelve is old enough for conversations between Jesus
and Joseph, as they walked back and forth between Nazareth and Sephoris, a new
town being built, where there was work to be found: Dad, tell me again why
you were so afraid of Archelaus?
Later, when Jesus is around forty (33 CE) (the
Gospel According to John is full of irony; John records some opponents of
Jesus stating that he is not even forty years old: I would bet against them.)
his disciples ask him about big geo-political events. When will the Romans be
pushed out? When will there be a king in Jerusalem who was not a client of
Rome?
Jesus tells a story about a man (the emperor) who
distributes his property between three slaves (Archelaus, Antipas, Philip)
before occupying himself overseas; who returns, dispossesses one of his slaves,
and redistributes his property (this happened when Jesus was twelve; it will
happen again, when Herod Agrippa, a grandson of Herod I, successfully petitions
the emperor to remove his uncle Herod Antipas, in favour of Agrippa). This is
how Rome works.
Of course, Jesus will triumph over Rome. Not by
raising an army, or inspiring a rebellion, but by a revolution of the heart; by
men, women, and children, mostly slaves, coming to trust that Jesus (not the
emperor) was Lord, and serving their neighbours; and in the submission of the
Roman emperor (however murky his own motives) to the risen Christ who had
defeated death.
The first disciples will not be around to see it,
but it will happen, nonetheless.
Yesterday,
I wrote a long post on the Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25:14-30). In it, I
contested against the common interpretation of the parable, that is, that God has given to each person talents, abilities,
opportunity, as he sees fit, and expects a return on his investment. I offered
a way to understand the parable in its historical context, and its context
within Matthew’s Gospel, and the contrast between Roman rule and the kingdom of
heaven (or, how we experience God’s reign). In this shorter post, I want to go
on to offer some observations on how we relate to God.
[1] You cannot earn God’s favour through what you do
for God. You cannot earn your place in heaven by being a good person, or your
years of service to the church or your neighbours. You cannot earn God’s favour
because, in Jesus, God has already and freely given that favour.
[2] Moreover, you cannot lose God’s favour through
failure to follow God’s commands or meet God’s expectations. Your place in
heaven – that is, being in relationship with God, starting in this life and
continuing beyond death – is not jeopardised by doing the wrong thing or by not
doing the right thing. You cannot lose God’s favour because, through the death
and resurrection of Jesus, God has triumphed over everything that has tried to
separate us from that freely given favour.
[3] You can neither earn nor lose God’s favour. You
can only live with, or without, an awareness of that favour. There are many
people – those who would claim to believe in Jesus, as much as those who do not
believe in God – who live their lives unaware of God’s favour, upon them and
upon their neighbour, and this is the very definition of hell.
The Gospel reading set for this coming Sunday is Matthew 25:14-30, in which Jesus tells a parable about a man who entrusts his property
to his slaves before departing abroad. To one slave he entrusts five ‘talents,’
a weight of money commonly equivalent to 6,000 denarii (one denarius being the
daily wage of a labourer), to another, two talents, and to yet another, one
talent. Sometime later, the man returns. The first two slaves have doubled the weight
given them, while the third, fearful of a master who reaps where he did not
sow, had buried his hoard, and returned it in full. The first two slaves are rewarded
with additional responsibility and invited to ‘enter into the joy of’ their
master, that is, to experience his favour. For not even depositing his talent
with the bankers to accrue interest, the third slave is deemed ‘worthless’ and
thrown ‘into the outer darkness where there will be weeping and gnashing of
teeth.’
This parable is commonly interpreted in this way: God
has given to each person talents, abilities, opportunity, as he sees fit, and expects
a return on his investment. But this is to misunderstand the text.
It comes within a larger context, a lengthy
conversation (chapters 24 and 25) between Jesus and his disciples, concerning
the destruction of the temple. The disciples have come to believe that Jesus is
the Son of David – a recurring title for Jesus in Matthew’s Gospel – that is,
the rightful heir to the throne in Jerusalem. It is obvious that tension is
rising, and that, sooner or later, there will be a crisis moment, in which Roman
rule will be overthrown, along with their vassals and collaborators. In the
aftermath of this, the disciples expect Jesus to ascend to the throne; but when
will this take place?
In
fact, the crisis they anticipate will come about in the First Jewish-Roman War
(66-74 CE) with widespread destruction of Jewish cities, and the siege of
Jerusalem and destruction of the temple in 70 CE. From the perspective of Jesus,
some forty years earlier, this is both inevitable in the broad sense and
unknowable in its particulars. And his purpose is to prepare his followers to
live through this existential crisis.
The
Parable of the Talents comes immediately after the Parable of the Ten
Bridesmaids and immediately before the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats, or
the Judgement of the Nations. What Jesus is seeking to get across is that the
Day of the Lord – which would mark the end of the present age or geo-political reality
– for which his disciples, in keeping with their peers, were hoping for would result
in judgement first for the Jewish people (the bridesmaids, who are divided, and
half of them locked out from the new age) and (only) then for the gentile
nations (who are also divided, some being included in, and some excluded from,
the new age).
In
the Parable of the Talents, it makes most sense to see the man, who entrusts
his property to his slaves before disappearing abroad, but returns to claim his
profit, as the Roman emperor; and the three slaves as the sons of Herod the
Great.
Augustus
(emperor 27 BCE – 14 CE; succeeded by Tiberius, who ruled 14-37 CE) had appointed
Herod I (Herod the Great) as a Jewish Roman client king. On Herod’s death,
Augustus initially honoured Herod’s will, which divided his territory between his
three sons (and his sister). Herod Archelaus was appointed ethnarch of Judea, Samaria,
and Idumea. Herod Antipas was appointed tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea. Philip
was appointed tetrarch of Iturea, Trachonitis, Batanea, Gaulanitits, Auranitis
and Paneas. (Salome I was appointed toparch of Jamnia, Azotus and Phasaelis.) But
only nine years later, in 6 CE, Augustus, having judged Herod Archalaus incompetent,
removed him, combining his three provinces into one Province of Iudaea, ruled
by a Roman prefect. The fifth of these, serving 26-36 CE, was Pontius Pilate.
Parables,
of course, are not histories. They do not have one-to-one correlations with
historical figures. It could just as well point forward to 39 CE, when emperor
Caligula removed Herod Antipas and gave his tetrarchy to another Herod,
Agrippa. This parable is not so much a retelling of events that took place in
Jesus’ childhood, as a depiction of how things work, under Roman rule. The population
of this Province is ruled over, by delegation to client kings or Roman
governors, at the emperor’s pleasure. Tiberius gives, and Tiberius takes away.
And there will surely come a point when the emperor turns his attention back on
this troublesome corner of his empire. Strangely enough, one of the key events
that precipitated the Jewish revolt of 66 CE was the emperor – by this time,
Nero – ordering the Roman governor – by this time, Gessius Florus – to take seventeen
talents from the temple treasury as unpaid tax.
(Emperors
didn’t always get their own way. The inevitable Jewish Roman War could have
erupted fifteen years earlier than it eventually did. Caligula ordered that a
statue of himself be erected in the temple in Jerusalem; fearing war, his
governor stalled for a year, before his friend, Herod Agrippa, persuaded him to
overturn the order. Jesus anticipates this as a likely event, Matthew 24:15ff.)
This
parable serves as the transition between the judgement of the Jewish people and
the judgement of the Gentile nations. It is, in itself, a profound warning:
there will be no miraculous intervention, in the machinations and rise and fall
of earthly empires. There is the in-crowd, who enjoy things, for now, and the
in-crowd who will fall from favour and be cast into the outermost darkness,
consigned to the scrap heap of history, forgotten. Their tears all the more
bitter for having previously enjoyed favour.
In
the light of this bleak synopsis of the signs of the times – as convoluted, power-hungry,
and precarious as our own day – Jesus instructs his disciples to hold fast. Don’t
get caught up in trying to force events, over which you have no influence, nor any
right to influence (as John records in his Gospel, Jesus sees the disciples as remaining
in this world, but not of it – not playing its games by its rules). Simply trust
that I have chosen you and will keep you; that not even death can derail that
promise.
But
what has any of this to do with us, who live almost 2,000 years later, long
after the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem? I think it stands as a
warning not to take up the ways of this world to shape it to our gain, or
exercise rule over the lives of others. Which is not to say that we should not
campaign for a more just society; but that even godly ends do not justify
ungodly means.
There
are many who claim to follow Christ who need to rediscover this parable today.
