Trinity 9
Sermon preached by the Reverend Anna Matthews
‘Glory to God in the highest’, we sing, echoing the song of the angels at Jesus’ birth. ‘And peace to his people on earth’. He shall be called the Prince of Peace, the prophets tell us; he will guide our feet in the way of peace. It’s peace he bestows on the sinful woman who comes to anoint his feet, and peace he breathes on the frightened disciples after he has been raised from the dead.
But, says this same Jesus, ‘from now on they will be divided: father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.’ And we acclaim this as the gospel, the good news, of the Lord.
In a world of polarisation and populism, of real wars and culture wars, of massive gaps between the rich and the poor, of strain on our climate, our politics, our finances and our communities, do we need Jesus throwing fire into the mix to add to the division? If he’s the Prince of Peace shouldn’t he be promoting us all getting along with one another?
Not if we understand what Jesus means by peace. Peace is not simply the avoidance of conflict, or a pursuit of compromise at all costs. When Jesus sees injustice he confronts it – whether through his acceptance and love of those others deem sinful and unclean, or his calling out of the Pharisees for their hypocrisy. We see, over and over again in his ministry, how this Prince of Peace provokes opposition. Peace is not about maintaining the status quo, and ignoring all those whose lives and dignity are diminished in pursuit of an illusory peace which does not include them.
The peace Jesus brings exalts the humble, feeds the hungry, scatters the proud. It’s a peace that heals a woman exhausted from long years of illness, that restores to community those isolated by sickness or sin, that forgives those others have written off and that draws into the embrace of God’s love all those who’d been told they didn’t belong. And when I talk about these people, I mean us – we who were far off from God, we whom sin or suffering have isolated, we who have been told we don’t belong, we who are forgiven and restored. For us and for all people Jesus comes to make peace, to reconcile us to God and to one another. But this peace will provoke conflict with those who have different aims because it’s rightly recognised as a challenge and a threat to the status quo, which builds a pretend peace on deathly violence. That’s why Jesus is crucified.
If we go back to the infancy narratives in Luke, we hear another voice raised in prophecy about who this child is. Old Simeon, in the temple, raises the baby in his arms and declares ‘this child is destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed’.
As Prince of Peace, not despite being Prince of Peace, Jesus is a sign that will be opposed. He is opposed by those whose inner thoughts do not match their outer actions, and who find his revealing light unbearable. He is opposed by those whose earthly power is threatened by his kingdom of justice and righteousness. He is opposed by those whose position is secured by trampling on the poor, the vulnerable, the lowly. He is opposed by those who are opposed to God, despite the fact that some of the fiercest opposition comes from those who parade their holiness and who wield significant religious authority.
Today’s Gospel reading is part of a longer section of teaching in Luke where Jesus is warning about the dangers of hypocrisy. And we’re used to thinking of hypocrisy as pretending to be one thing while being another – as we see when Jesus criticises the Pharisees for their ostentatious displays of religion, or their placing of heavy burdens on others, or their attempts to wriggle out of the spirit of the law. And this is definitely in view in today’s passage, as Jesus warns that he has come to bring fire to the earth. In the bible, fire is a mixed metaphor. It blazes in the burning bush as a sign of revelation and divine presence. As a pillar is guides the people of Israel in the wilderness as a sign of protection. In the prophets it is there to cleanse and refine, to burn away dross so that what is precious can shine. But it also consumes people in judgement and destroys cities. In the New Testament tongues of flame signal the presence of the Holy Spirt, while lakes of fire portend judgement.
The fire Jesus brings is to cleanse and refine, to disclose divine presence, and yes, to judge. The inner thoughts of many will be revealed. Commitments and loyalties will be laid bare. And while this is threatening for those who do not practise what they preach, there is another sort of hypocrisy in view here too, which is about those who do not preach what they practise: those who say they follow Jesus but don’t want to reckon with the costs of that discipleship. This is Peter in the courtyard of the high priest, when he denies he’s a disciple. It’s the others as they scatter and flee as the Roman soldiers draw near. It’s us when we keep quiet about our faith because it’s disruptive, or we’re scared of what being open about it will bring, or what others will think of us, or we just want an easy life.
Following Jesus, being drawn into his baptism – his death and resurrection – disrupts all our other commitments and belonging. It redraws the boundaries of kinship, drawing us into one family through the cross and therefore bringing challenge to our existing ideas and ideals of family life. This was true even for Jesus’ birth family, who are told that those who do the will of God are his brother and sister and mother. It makes us citizens of his kingdom ahead of our earthly allegiances to tribe or nation or culture. It draws us into Jesus’ life and character, meaning that there are some things we simply will not do – from corruption to gossip to oppression to silence in the face of wrong. It’s no wonder the early church was considered dangerously subversive, for it was rightly recognised that the gospel disrupts the normal operation of society. It brings men and women together as equals, and rich and poor. It turns strangers and foreigners into friends and family, and refuses to collude with a so-called peace built on violence.
Jesus does not come to leave the world – or us – unchanged. Following him will change our allegiances, and sometimes that will bring division. I think of some of the stories I heard over the last couple of weeks at the Lambeth Conference: the bishop who lives in exile and hasn’t seen his family for three years, because he spoke out against government corruption and will be killed if he goes home. The South Sudanese bishop who bears in the machete scars in his cheeks the marks of tribal division, who now ministers across tribal divides alongside brothers in Christ he had once been taught to see as his enemies. The partnered gay bishops who showed up despite repeatedly having been told they’re sinful and tearing apart the Church and that they don’t belong, because a peace secured at their expense, and at the expense of LGBTQ people more generally is not the peace of Christ but a temporary truce in a battle that is more about power than it is about the cross.
Jesus, the Prince of Peace, is a sign that will be opposed. And his disciples too will face opposition as we live his life and preach his kingdom by word and action. His fire, which is kindled in the hearts of all his disciples through the gift of the Holy Spirit, cleanses and refines, reveals and restores so that the image of God can shine more brightly and clearly in us. This is why we can acclaim Jesus’ words as good news: they are God’s commitment to all who are trodden down by the compromises that secure peace in the world. They are God’s refusal to leave us where we are and his promise to give everything to make us fully his. The question Jesus leaves the crowds with, the question he asks us, is what we’re willing to give to follow him.