Lift Up Our Heads to Balance Honour and Duty

Sermon, by Pastor Joel

Eighth Sunday After Pentecost

July 14, 2024

Amos 7:7-15

Psalm 85:8-13

Ephesians 1:3-14

Mark 6:14-29

(The context of this sermon is 100%

written by a human)

What is the line between duty and honour? It’s clearly a question that concerns us, since it’s been long-debated among humans. Indeed, it was the core question of last’s year Best Picture winner, Oppenheimer. The American scientist J. Robert Oppenheimer surely did his duty, building the atomic bomb – and quite likely saving the world from a much longer war. But was his decision honourable? That was a question Mr. Oppenheimer wrestled with all his life.

Throughout history, humans have tricked themselves to ignore honour for the sake of duty. But the space between duty and honour is similar to the distance between law and grace. We rarely live simply in one or the other.

Now John the Baptist, who is certainly, to my mind, one of the most honourable men of the Bible, was always getting himself into trouble. He told it like it was. And that made people not like him so much.

He wasn’t shy about laying down the line between duty and honour, and busting up a lot of rules people were all too happy to follow back then. Duty was fine – important even – to John. It is what laid out your obligation to one another.

But the gospel, and Jesus who was coming, were adding the better part of it -- the honour of doing the right thing -- not out of duty, but because it is the right thing. John made a lot of people uncomfortable – mostly the people enjoying the benefits of everyone else below them doing their duty.

This morning’s gospel has several examples of the conflict between duty and honour. First, we hear that there is tension between Herod and John because Herod’s wife, Herodias, doesn’t like John. She is perhaps understandably threatened by John because he is telling Herod that his marriage to Herodias is invalid. Herod has married his brother’s wife, while his brother was still alive. John, understandably, objected.

Herodias wants to make sure that John the Baptist stays out of her way. She waits for the appropriate time at a party where her daughter wins a good will gesture from Herod in front of all the guests. The daughter asks for the head of John the Baptist.

And suddenly Herod is caught in his promise – he is trapped by his oath. We are told, clearly, that he wasn’t happy about it: he was deeply grieved. But out of a sense of obligation – to his family and guests -- he acquiesces. This is where the line between duty and honour sometimes blurs – for while keeping a promise is honorable, surely keeping a bad promise is not.

But Herod made his choice, and John was beheaded in prison, and his head served on that now famous platter – giving us our saying. In an instant, John the Baptist becomes the scapegoat for disorder in Herod’s life.

How can we know the difference, and make the choice for ourselves? As we saw in the story, Herod, on his own, would have had trouble getting rid of John the Baptist even if he’d wanted to. But the voices around him helped push him along, gave him an out, an excuse. How often do we suffer those same voices – ones that confuse or distract us, tear down our self-esteem, make us hesitant to act? It may be our families, as in Herod’s case. But it is often the messages of society that work the same inside all of us.

How many of us have kept our heads down from the truth that lies in front of us? We would do well to listen to the Psalmist who invites us to “lift up our heads, so that the King of glory may come in.”

Duty without honour often becomes the mistake we most regret. It was that for Oppenheimer. And for Herod as well, who thought he had handled the problem with a simple command until he hears about the growing authority of Jesus among the masses. He says: “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.” His dishonourable act had solved nothing but, in fact, created more problems, beyond the weight on his own soul.

Herod had people to blame – his wife, his daughter, the pressure of his position. But be careful with scapegoating; in the end, it rarely assuages our own queasiness about the choices we have made.

And the problem with Herod’s story is that it is clear to us: of course, Herod should have broken his oath and refused to a do a dishonorable thing. (Let’s remember, he probably wasn’t all that sad to dispatch John, who was bound to cause trouble with the existing order.) Our choices may be less clear: we might say, just this one time won’t hurt; it’s not that big a deal. But like small lies, small dishonorable acts get easier the more they happen.

And so we have the choice, from Jesus, to walk in the space between duty and honour, law and grace – not bound to either, but with the free will to adapt our lives to the right choice in every minute. In this way we are able to live guided by duty defined by honour and shaped by law and balanced by grace. We can say, yes, I made a promise, which is law, but in this case, that promise has proven to be hurtful, which defies grace. I will follow the rules until the rules that favour law at the expense of grace. We can say my duty is to my family, to my community and to my church – but that duty itself must always meet the standard of honour.

May we choose this life of complexity that John revealed to us, and Jesus showed to us. That is the dutiful, honorable life, guided by law, but shaped by grace. Amen

Stripped of Honour, Ready to Heal

Sermon, by Pastor Joel

Seventh Sunday After Pentecost

July 7, 2024

Ezekiel 2:1-5

Psalm 123

2 Corinthians 12:2-10

Mark 6:1-13

(The context of this sermon is 100%

written by a human)

I recently visited the place I know as home -- the small town in Nova Scotia where I was born, baptized, and married. Where my brother, mother and all my family before me back to the 1700s are buried, and where one day I, too, will be laid to rest. This small town of Lunenburg that I hold so dear is where, as the gospel tells me, “I have no honor.” Going home definitely puts me in my place, for better and for worse, as any of you who come from small towns will understand. There memories are long, and gossip endures, and upon those tides one either falls or rises. Being home forces me to review: who am I now? Where have I been? Am I going in the right direction?

Certainly, this was Jesus’s experience – attempting to preach the gospel in his hometown. He was greeted with skepticism among those who knew him “way back when.” Is this not the little boy who ran around the neighborhood? Is this not the carpenter’s son? Who does he think he is, preaching to us?

Jesus felt no different than many of us do when we’re back among families and friends who knew us back when. As he says in the gospel this morning, “a person is not without honour except in his own home.” We might imagine this was a disappointing lesson for Jesus to learn – for who else would he want more to hear the gospel than those people who raised him, who gave him his first earthly roots? But aside from disappointment, what does this moment in the gospel teach us?

First, of all, what does the word “honour” mean? To be thought highly of, to be rewarded, to be respected. Indeed, this is an important ingredient of success, particularly among those who seek to improve the world and spread the gospel. But perhaps we are also being reminded that it is never a bad idea to go back, or to think back, to the places and families we come from. Those people know us one way, and understanding our past can help us have more understanding of our present. If we are lucky, they are constructive reminders not to get a big head, or to remember the lessons our parents taught us. Some of you, I know, may not feel looking back is particularly constructive – looking back is a reminder of unhelpful criticism and judgment, or being put in a box where you no longer see yourself fitting. I suspect that for most of us, it is a combination, and that great line from the second lesson reminds us that there is learning from both – for power is made perfect in weakness.

We are just beginning to understand, for instance, the enduring role that childhood trauma plays in our lives – and the long-term effects it has on our health and social lives. Maybe it was abuse, or a tragic death, or bullying, or a difficult sibling. But the negative experience of childhood that we carry with us does not easily leave us. Trauma in childhood, especially when it is unresolved, has been linked to illness, to addiction, to mental health problems. It is why many doctors believe that working through those histories, when they have been particularly damaging, is so essential to healing. They are the dark places where we may feel most stripped of honour, and most powerless - where we are weakest.

But in every case, there are lessons to be learned from the past, as any therapist will tell you. We learn good and bad lessons early and develop responses to those patterns. Perhaps our parents pressured us, even though well-meaning, and now we strive for unhealthy perfectionism. Or we felt expected to play a certain role in our family – joker, caregiver, rebel – and when we outgrew or rejected that role, we caused conflict in our family system.

The Apostle Paul reminds us in the second lesson that in understanding and accepting weakness – in coming to terms with the less rosy parts of ourselves – we also find power and strength. What happens when we confront those memories, when we put them in their proper places, when we try to understand why they happened, and what they mean? We find truth, the ultimate power. We can take who we are now and who we were then and see them as different but connected along a path. The power is that we choose this path, we put those memories in their proper places – a guide-post, perhaps, a point in time that informs but does not define the future – and we can go on, not burdened by them, not trapped, but seeing them more as a photo album we carry with us and open once in a while for reflection.

If we make a place where we are loved, where people wish the best for us, it does not matter that we are not “honoured” in the same way as outside our own home. We go home to understand, and to see more clearly who we are – not to others, but to ourselves.

Besides, honour is something bestowed, a value given. But self-worth is what we give ourselves. Our sense of self is far more important, and to truly find that, we must often go home, physically and metaphorically.

That is a difficult practice. For we don’t always like what we see. No wonder Jesus felt frustrated. But wasn’t it also true what they said about him? After all, he was that little boy, he was the carpenter’s son, he was raised by a loving mother who stood by him always. He was the Son of God. But he was also the son of these people. And while they could not listen to him as he had hoped, perhaps that was not the point: better that he listen.

Isn’t that the mistake we make, in going home – either at the end of the day, or to our families on vacation, or to the places where we grew up? We return changed, and we tend to be brash about it, to show it off, to try to make others see it. Or we hide our true selves to make things stay the same. Perhaps, we would do better to watch and listen to the lessons we might learn from ourselves, and the ways we might also support those who love us.

Power comes in those moments of weakness, when we humble ourselves enough to hear the wisdom of the past, and the words of those who care for us most deeply. But our personal narrative is the one we alone write.

Jesus had a strong sense of self. He had the inner power to choose the path that God had set before him. His narrative shows the truth of who and what he was for the sake of others. Jesus set forth from his home town and continued to preach the gospel, and people began to listen. Perhaps that is the reminder: in the end, it is not gaining honour that matters at all – if those who know us least well are the quickest to give it. The power comes from searching for the truth, and humbling ourselves for the sake of the gospel, and the path that God has set before us. Amen

PAY ATTENTION

Sermon, by Pastor Joel

Sixth Sunday After Pentecost

June 30, 2024

Lamentations 3:22-33

Psalm 30

2 Corinthians 8:7-15

Mark 5:21-43

What is a miracle? The trusty Oxford dictionary offers us this definition: “A miracle is a surprising and welcome event not explained by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency. A miracle is a highly improbable development that brings very welcome consequences. A miracle is an amazing achievement.”

We are arriving at the stage of Jesus’s life when his amazing achievements begin to make headlines. He has gathered the disciples from their fishing boats. His parables are beginning to spread like whispers through the villages. His defiance of the powers that be is filling people with awe. And now he is performing miracles. And not just any miracle. The very top tier of miracles.

A woman who has been ill for years touches the cloak of Jesus, and when he finds her, he declares her healed. A little girl has died. Her parents are weeping for her. They believe her lost. And yet Jesus says to them, “Why are you weeping? She is only sleeping.” And he calls to her: “Wake up, little one.” And she wakes up. To heal someone by a simple touch from a long illness that seemed to have no cure. To bring back a loved one from a place of death. Highly improbable developments. Welcome events. Amazing achievements.

I know there will be some among you who are a questioning audience of science, who might want to investigate a little further, peer behind the curtain, so to speak. How did Jesus really do this, we might ask. Perhaps Jesus, armed with the gospel, empowered by the Holy Spirit, and having gained the trust of the people, was an incredible healer – a man of wisdom ahead of his time. Certainly, he was ahead of his time in many other ways. Why not this one? Perhaps the stories are exaggerated. Maybe the woman wasn’t that sick, and the daughter truly just sleeping. Did it even happen at all?

But I would suggest we not spend our time trying to figure that out. I don’t know, and you don’t know, not with the certainty of science and reason. We were not there.

I have said before that these details do not matter, because the lessons appear when we look with eyes of faith. To be clear, there are stories in the gospel where the details matter very much. But this is one where we can blur around the edges and look for the story of wonder and love that is being told in the centre.

We have a troubled woman, suffering greatly, who makes her way into the crowd just to touch Jesus. “Who touched me?” Jesus asks. The disciples scoff: look at the crowd, how can we know? But Jesus doesn’t continue on; he seeks out the hand reached out to him, and he finds the woman. And he stops to treat her with kindness. Your faith has healed you, he tells her. But it was also his love for another person that did so.

We have a family grieving, and Jesus does not steer away from them, awkward in the presence of their pain. He goes to them, he consoles them. Do not weep, he says. He tends to their daughter and returns her to them.

These are the healing miracles. But they are the same stories of love and other-centeredness that have formed the journey of Jesus from the beginning. His parents who keep him safe against all odds – a miracle. The disciples who leave their boats to follow him – a miracle. A carpenter’s son who becomes the voice of equality and hope – a miracle. The presence of God and the Holy Spirit – a miracle. Awe-inspiring and wondrous.

I wonder: in this age of facts and figures, and fighting about who is right and who is wrong, have we lost our ability to feel awe? To sit and be transformed by wonder? All around us, miraculous things happen every day. The sun sets on the horizon and casts beauty across the sky – how awesome. The birds sing in a city of concrete – how wondrous. A vaccine is found – what an achievement. A hand is held, a hug is offered – how unexpected.

Are these not also miracles?

When do I experience moments of true awe? It happens when I am paying attention, just as Jesus did in the crowd that day. It happens when my mind is open and my heart is full, just like Jesus approaching that grieving family. I don’t know about you, but when I experience awe and wonder, I feel lifted from within. I feel close to God. It is usually a moment that defies full explanation – what is it about this sunset, or this piece of music, or this moment with another person – that feels somehow bigger than others? Does it matter?

The tragedy of humanity is that we grow up and get used to the world. What was awe-inspiring when we were little, becomes just another butterfly, just another sunset, just another Canada Day celebration. The moments that seem so big become routine. And yet, we can feel awe if we pay attention. We can see miracles if we look for them. And when we do, may we feel close to God. Amen