Desert shrubs, chaff on the wind, and Christ's eternal kingdom
Homily for the Third Sunday before Lent
Readings: Jeremiah 17.5-10; Psalm 1; 1 Corinthians 15.12-20; Luke 6.17-26 (view here)
I wonder how much of the news you’ve been keeping up with this week? Or whether you’ve given up following it, either out of frustration or despair?
It certainly feels, in recent years, that the great vision of human progress — a vision which has energised our global society for the past fifty years at least — is now breaking down. That great optimism that things are constantly improving, that the economy is constantly growing, that we are shaping for ourselves a glorious future.
In its place, we now feel much more trepidation about the state of our world, the unpredictability of global events, and our human ability to discern right from wrong.
Today’s bible readings emphasise this contrast. A contrast between placing our trust in our own strength and judgement, and discerning God’s will for our lives.
The prophet Jeremiah warns against those who trust in themselves alone, prioritising personal gain over moral and spiritual growth.
They are like desert shrubs, he writes, destined to wither away in the scorching heat. Or, in the words of the first Psalm, like chaff. Chaff which will inevitably be blown away, on the changeable winds of power, prestige and popularity.
We need to hear these warnings, perhaps now more than ever.
The rise of populism. The cult of celebrity leaders. The breaking down of structures and conventions. All of these are perhaps symptomatic of an ever more desperate search for a trustworthy authority. Someone or something we can trust in, that will turn our world around and lead us back into the promised land of old.
Today’s scriptures invite us to place our trust somewhere entirely different. To trust, not in mere mortals, but in the God who made us. To devote our lives to prayerfully discerning God’s will, over and above our own hopes and fears.
Throughout Church history, in the lives of the Saints, we find people who have lived like this. People who have rooted themselves in prayer, lived lives of great compassion, great sacrifice and great hope, even in the most turbulent of times.
Dewi Sant, and the Celtic saints of old. St Francis of Assisi, and his concern for the poor. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who died resisting the Nazis. Martin Luther King Jr, who provided the spiritual vision for the Civil Rights Movement.
To live like this, both the Prophet and the Psalmist agree, is to be like a tree planted by the waters of life. Deeply rooted in God. Sustained and nourished by the one in whom we live, and move, and have our being.
So, how can we discern God’s will? How can we know God's plan for us, and for our world?
The detail can only be worked out through time spent in prayerful listening, and the careful discerning of God’s will together. But, in the scriptures, and in the teachings of Jesus, we can find the broad brushstrokes of the vision we should be living towards.
In the Lucan Beatitudes — less well-known, but so much more challenging than St Matthew’s equivalents — Jesus paints a picture of the eternal Kingdom of God. A kingdom, not centred on the ‘haves’, but on the ‘have nots’.
In Christ’s kingdom the poor inherit first. The hungry are filled. The brokenhearted are made whole again.
A kingdom, not of this world, where all have value, all are provided for and none are left behind. Where the unjust economics of our world are turned on their head, so that no one goes hungry or without shelter. Where all are welcomed and invited into equal citizenship.
Where there will be no more death or dying, abuse or exploitation, because Christ — our risen Lord — will be all and in all.
Now, more than ever, Christ is calling his Church to bear witness to this kingdom. An eternal, reliable authority which exists over and above the principalities and powers of our world.
To listen prayerfully to the voice of a greater authority. To proclaim the truth of a kingdom which is not of this world. To give our lives to the rule and reign of Christ, and the care of the last and the least.
Because, as we pray, as we submit our lives day by day to God’s will, we are being inwardly transformed by the Spirit’s power and the power of Christ’s resurrection. Our affections formed towards God, and God’s kingdom. Our desires turned away from ourselves, towards God and the good of others. Just like so many of the Saints in their time.
And we can take comfort, as they must also have done, in Christ’s words of consolation. ‘When you are hated, excluded, reviled, defamed,’ he counsels, ‘rejoice… for surely your reward is great in heaven.’
Or as one theologian writes, ‘the [true] blessedness is found right in the sacrifice.’1
As inspiring as this is, it is of course also an incredibly daunting prospect. As the political currents of our world become all the more volatile and unpredictable. As Christian values, previously taken for granted, are now increasingly contended and challenged.
And yet, as people of faith, we continue to place our trust in God — the God who transcends and transforms our human history. We dig our roots deeper into the saving, subverting, sustaining love that made us. We ask Christ to strengthen us as we walk, with him, the path of sacrifice.
Today, as we have already prayed, may we receive Christ’s grace afresh. That, among the many changes of this world, our hearts may surely be fixed on him and on his kingdom — where true joys are to be found.2
Amen.
Hans Urs von Balthasar, Light of the Word, p. 278
Words from the Collect for today, the Third Sunday before Lent.