Lent 4

Joshua 5.9-12, Psalm 32, 2^nd Corinthians 5.16-21, Luke 15.1-2, 11b-32
 

Gilgal was the most rock and roll place in ancient Israel—it’s all in the name, which has more than one possible etymology. For Joshua, the name could hardly have been as important as the events that took place there. The first (coyly left out of the lectionary) makes for uncomfortable reading, and involves a renewal of the covenant; the second is the cessation of the manna. It must have been a bit like coming off emergency rations and beginning to eat real food. It might also be seen as the completion of a rite of passage. The ordeal is over, and full responsibility for an independent life has begun.

The story of the lost son in Luke 15 is, in some ways, a reprise of Israel’s wandering in the wilderness. His return to his father’s house involves an honest admission of his own responsibility for his life, and the renewal of at least two relationships. Brilliantly, the story finishes before things are all sorted out, so that we’re given a snapshot of a situation that carries hope, but no certainty. It’s a fictional story, but completely true to life.

St. Paul claimed that ’if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new’. It sounds good, but sometimes seems distant from everyday experience. How new and Christ-like do you feel just now? The point is that none of these situations represents ‘destination reached’. We may at different times identify more strongly with one or other son, or the father, or the mother—an unseen player in this story. The only certainty is the possibility of grace.

Lent 3

Isaiah 55.1-9, Psalm 63.1-8, 1^st Corinthians 10.1-13, Luke 13.1-9

Today’s reading from Isaiah contains a couple of contrasting thoughts to ponder in Lent. One sounds quite familiar: ‘Let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the LORD, that he may have mercy on them, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.’

The other seems a little out of place: ‘Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food.’ It’s part of a prophecy about the way in which people work like mad but remain unsatisfied by what they have to live on. The suggestion is that a satisfying, enjoyable diet is far less effort than we might think. I can’t imagine that the prophet was talking only about good cooking, but I’m sure he meant to include it.

So what’s the connection between the good life that the prophecy offers, and the forsaking of wicked ways that leads to it? Simply that it’s all to easy to set our sights too low: God’s thoughts and ways are higher than ours, and our thoughts and ways can easily obscure them.

St. Paul, characteristically, comes up with a list of sins to forswear or avoid. If he’s not the patron saint of Victorian morality, he should be. He’s easy to criticise, and we should criticise him, but here, as so often, there’s something  vital we mustn’t miss: a common theme, perhaps, in the sins that Paul mentions: a persistent refusal to relate honestly to God and to other people, and to accept the sheer given-ness of life.

Isaiah 55 begins with a celebration of the gift: ‘You that have no money, come, buy and eat! As a Lenten discipline, we might practice noticing and accepting life’s gifts.

Lent 2: Genesis 15.1-12, 17-18 Psalm 27 Philippians 3.17 – 4.1 Luke 13.31-35

Genesis 15 is one of those strange chapters in the Bible that reminds us of what a very different world we are hearing from. It starts, immediately after the Battle of the Kings, with a simple statement that Abraham will receive a great reward from God. The continuation focuses on Abraham’s lack of an heir, the implication being that reward is pointless, as he has no offspring to inherit his wealth.

The real strangeness sets in, not with the story of Abraham’s children, but with the obscure ritual through which God’s covenant is communicated to him. Presumably, the writer (or earlier links in the oral tradition) felt that the whole thing was a completely obvious way into the presence of God, which he experienced during a deep and terrifying darkness while he was asleep.

The covenant is preceded by a prophecy about the coming slavery of Israel, perhaps inserted after the event, and excised from the lectionary reading. It’s worth noticing, though, in the context of our reading from Philippians 3. St. Paul assures his readers that their citizenship is in heaven, but it is at least implied that there is something equivalent to a period of slavery to be endured before they can fully realise it. It’s also interesting, in this connection, that Paul was so ready to bring his other citizenship into play when, a little later, he was seeking justice.

Jesus’ own take on his dual citizenship, after some friendly Pharisees warn him of the danger he faces, seems to be one of defiance. The one thing he won’t do, when there seems to be a tension between heaven and earth, is act as if this world is of no importance.