The Invitation
Text: Luke 13:1-9.
I may be an ordained Methodist minister today, but I grew up in the Baptist Church. That means I have heard a lot of altar calls. I’ve heard soft and gentle ones that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes. I’ve heard harsh and scolding ones that shamed me. I’ve heard fire and brimstone ones that terrified me. I’ve heard pleading ones that disgusted me. I’ve heard promising ones that thrilled me. And I’ve heard inspiring ones that challenged me. Whatever kind of altar call you might name, I assure you, I have heard it.
There is one, though, that I always dread hearing. It’s possible you’ve heard it too. Picture the scene with me. The preacher has been preaching hard. Sweat glistens on his brow. It’s revival time, and he has just announced the closing hymn. The organist begins to play softly, “Ju-u-st as I am withou-u-t one plea.”
It’s then the preacher steps away from the pulpit, and moves down to the level of the congregation. His Bible is in his hand. He begins to speak—softly at first—he issues the invitation to come. But then, as he goes on, his voice begins to rise as the urgency of the moment overwhelms him.
“Come, come now,” says the preacher, “this could be your last chance. You may never have another opportunity to come, if you don’t come right now. For you have no guarantee of tomorrow. You could die this very night. You may not even make it home. You can’t be sure you will live beyond this very moment. So, come—come, right now!”
And sprinkled among these words, he paints images of the various horrific ways death might snatch you away before you can respond to his invitation. “Come, come,” the preacher probably says today, “while the window of opportunity is still open.”
Now, I’m not mocking altar calls—not even this one, for it is indeed true that life is precarious, life is fragile. No, I am not mocking. With all my heart I believe that the personal call of the gospel of Jesus Christ must be made to every child, and every woman and every man. (And I personally don’t think we Methodists do enough of it—but that’s fodder, I guess, for another sermon.)
What I do question, most of the time, is how that call is made. And I must confess that when I first looked at today’s text, I had to question whether or not Jesus himself was not capitalizing on the memory of recent horrors to stress the suddenness of death, and the unpredictability of life, in order to win converts. You could say that I have been made wary by the fear mongering that unashamed evangelists whip up after every natural and unnatural disaster.
But then, then, I had a second look at the text, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. And gradually, this text began to take on life—new life—and I changed my mind. I began to see things in a new way, and I became persuaded to adopt a different perspective. What Jesus is calling for in the text is what was happening to me. I was repenting.
For, you see, that is what repentance is: it is a changed mind, it is a new way of seeing things, it is being persuaded to adopt a different perspective. And I began to see that Jesus is not exploiting tragedy at all. He is, instead, calling us to stop thinking and seeing like the powers of this world, and begin thinking and seeing in kingdom terms.
In this text, Jesus challenges the way we think about the tragedies that occur in this present time—tragedies that snuff out peoples’ lives with little or no warning, and for no clearly apparent reason. Jesus makes it plain that we must not equate such tragedies with divine punishment. He does not blame the victims of such atrocities, whether or not, the calamity is one of state-sanctioned terror like Pilate’s act, or a random accident like the falling of a tower.
But, Jesus also makes it plain that we, who have, thus far, survived the hazards of the universe and human society, should not mistake our good fortune as evidence of God’s special blessing. When disasters come, those who die are no better or worse than those who escape death, and those who escape death are no better or worse than those who die.
Perhaps, in light of the recent catastrophes in Haiti and Chile, this text appearing in our lectionary right now is indeed timely. For these events themselves certainly impress upon us, better than any preacher’s words, the perils of our existence. And the sudden recognition of life’s fragility does give our lives an urgency they might not otherwise have.
But, Jesus wants to talk to us about repentance. He wants us to understand that the need for a change of mind, a new way of seeing, a different perspective, is a universal condition. It is a need that is shared by all, victims and survivors alike. And that need is urgent.
For when Jesus says twice, “unless you repent you will all perish,” he is not promising that the godless will be struck by an asteroid. Jesus is instead pointing us to the future, to the time of the coming rule of God over his creation, when this same creator God will set the world right once and for all. And he wants us to be a part of it.
Jesus’ words about repentance may sound scary at first, but Jesus’ outlook on repentance arcs toward joy. For, as he points us to the future, he is, at the same time, inviting us to share in God’s kingdom, and he is showing us the way.
We may be vulnerable creatures in this present time. And we definitely are. We can presume little, and we can do little to preserve ourselves from sudden tragedy or hardship. But that is not so when it comes to the future. We can preserve our lives against death in the future, for we can decide for life in God’s kingdom.
Jesus comes to us just as Joshua came to the Israelites.
“Choose you this day whom you will serve,” says the new Joshua, “whether the gods of this world who cannot give you life, or the God of grace—the God whose greatest joy it is to welcome you into his kingdom—the God who delights in raising the dead from their tombs. Choose death, or choose life. It is your decision. But I invite you to choose life.”
You see, that is the great mystery of the parable Jesus tells.
There was a man who had the right to decide for his own fig tree. No one else could make that decision for him. The vinedresser can only put the choice before him. The owner has to decide for himself whether he will choose death, or choose life, for his own fig tree. The owner has already decided on death, but the vinedresser invites him to consider another possibility. And now that he sees this other possibility, he must decide again. Death will it be, or life? Now, we are not told what the owner decides. The story ends there. Jesus leaves the story unfinished.
The story remains open as it remains open for all of us who hear Jesus’ invitation—his invitation to share in the joys of life in the Kingdom of God. It is left to each one of us to write our own ending.
Amen.
I may be an ordained Methodist minister today, but I grew up in the Baptist Church. That means I have heard a lot of altar calls. I’ve heard soft and gentle ones that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes. I’ve heard harsh and scolding ones that shamed me. I’ve heard fire and brimstone ones that terrified me. I’ve heard pleading ones that disgusted me. I’ve heard promising ones that thrilled me. And I’ve heard inspiring ones that challenged me. Whatever kind of altar call you might name, I assure you, I have heard it.
There is one, though, that I always dread hearing. It’s possible you’ve heard it too. Picture the scene with me. The preacher has been preaching hard. Sweat glistens on his brow. It’s revival time, and he has just announced the closing hymn. The organist begins to play softly, “Ju-u-st as I am withou-u-t one plea.”
It’s then the preacher steps away from the pulpit, and moves down to the level of the congregation. His Bible is in his hand. He begins to speak—softly at first—he issues the invitation to come. But then, as he goes on, his voice begins to rise as the urgency of the moment overwhelms him.
“Come, come now,” says the preacher, “this could be your last chance. You may never have another opportunity to come, if you don’t come right now. For you have no guarantee of tomorrow. You could die this very night. You may not even make it home. You can’t be sure you will live beyond this very moment. So, come—come, right now!”
And sprinkled among these words, he paints images of the various horrific ways death might snatch you away before you can respond to his invitation. “Come, come,” the preacher probably says today, “while the window of opportunity is still open.”
Now, I’m not mocking altar calls—not even this one, for it is indeed true that life is precarious, life is fragile. No, I am not mocking. With all my heart I believe that the personal call of the gospel of Jesus Christ must be made to every child, and every woman and every man. (And I personally don’t think we Methodists do enough of it—but that’s fodder, I guess, for another sermon.)
What I do question, most of the time, is how that call is made. And I must confess that when I first looked at today’s text, I had to question whether or not Jesus himself was not capitalizing on the memory of recent horrors to stress the suddenness of death, and the unpredictability of life, in order to win converts. You could say that I have been made wary by the fear mongering that unashamed evangelists whip up after every natural and unnatural disaster.
But then, then, I had a second look at the text, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. And gradually, this text began to take on life—new life—and I changed my mind. I began to see things in a new way, and I became persuaded to adopt a different perspective. What Jesus is calling for in the text is what was happening to me. I was repenting.
For, you see, that is what repentance is: it is a changed mind, it is a new way of seeing things, it is being persuaded to adopt a different perspective. And I began to see that Jesus is not exploiting tragedy at all. He is, instead, calling us to stop thinking and seeing like the powers of this world, and begin thinking and seeing in kingdom terms.
In this text, Jesus challenges the way we think about the tragedies that occur in this present time—tragedies that snuff out peoples’ lives with little or no warning, and for no clearly apparent reason. Jesus makes it plain that we must not equate such tragedies with divine punishment. He does not blame the victims of such atrocities, whether or not, the calamity is one of state-sanctioned terror like Pilate’s act, or a random accident like the falling of a tower.
But, Jesus also makes it plain that we, who have, thus far, survived the hazards of the universe and human society, should not mistake our good fortune as evidence of God’s special blessing. When disasters come, those who die are no better or worse than those who escape death, and those who escape death are no better or worse than those who die.
Perhaps, in light of the recent catastrophes in Haiti and Chile, this text appearing in our lectionary right now is indeed timely. For these events themselves certainly impress upon us, better than any preacher’s words, the perils of our existence. And the sudden recognition of life’s fragility does give our lives an urgency they might not otherwise have.
But, Jesus wants to talk to us about repentance. He wants us to understand that the need for a change of mind, a new way of seeing, a different perspective, is a universal condition. It is a need that is shared by all, victims and survivors alike. And that need is urgent.
For when Jesus says twice, “unless you repent you will all perish,” he is not promising that the godless will be struck by an asteroid. Jesus is instead pointing us to the future, to the time of the coming rule of God over his creation, when this same creator God will set the world right once and for all. And he wants us to be a part of it.
Jesus’ words about repentance may sound scary at first, but Jesus’ outlook on repentance arcs toward joy. For, as he points us to the future, he is, at the same time, inviting us to share in God’s kingdom, and he is showing us the way.
We may be vulnerable creatures in this present time. And we definitely are. We can presume little, and we can do little to preserve ourselves from sudden tragedy or hardship. But that is not so when it comes to the future. We can preserve our lives against death in the future, for we can decide for life in God’s kingdom.
Jesus comes to us just as Joshua came to the Israelites.
“Choose you this day whom you will serve,” says the new Joshua, “whether the gods of this world who cannot give you life, or the God of grace—the God whose greatest joy it is to welcome you into his kingdom—the God who delights in raising the dead from their tombs. Choose death, or choose life. It is your decision. But I invite you to choose life.”
You see, that is the great mystery of the parable Jesus tells.
There was a man who had the right to decide for his own fig tree. No one else could make that decision for him. The vinedresser can only put the choice before him. The owner has to decide for himself whether he will choose death, or choose life, for his own fig tree. The owner has already decided on death, but the vinedresser invites him to consider another possibility. And now that he sees this other possibility, he must decide again. Death will it be, or life? Now, we are not told what the owner decides. The story ends there. Jesus leaves the story unfinished.
The story remains open as it remains open for all of us who hear Jesus’ invitation—his invitation to share in the joys of life in the Kingdom of God. It is left to each one of us to write our own ending.
Amen.
posted by Rev. Jo | 3:11 PM
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