Lent 2: Take Up

Mark 8:31-38      

You don’t usually want to lead with the bad news.  When you’re reporting to your boss or a client about the big project you’re working on. When you’re giving a patient their test results. When you call your aunt, the one who assumes the worst every time the phone rings; who says “Hello. What’s wrong?”

In general, I think it’s best to start with the good news. But not always.

In the church we have a tendency to lead with the bad news most of the time, don’t we? You barely get settled in your seats on a Sunday morning and we say, “Let’s confess our sins.” It’s like we want to make sure you’re not too happy. When you think about it, it’s a wonder anyone sticks around. It’s amazing that people come back for more. Especially in the season of Lent, when we like to give you an extra-large helping of bad news.

We could all really use some good news right about now. But sometimes the gospel makes it challenging. A passage like this one we read today seems like it’s all bad news. Suffering, rejection, crucifixion. There is also the part about rising again on the third day, but the way he tucked that in at the end of that list of calamities, I doubt anyone was able to hear it.

I can only imagine what Peter said to Jesus when he drew him aside. Hey, Jesus, lighten up. This is not what being the Messiah is all about. Things have been going well so far. We’re riding a good wave, with all the healing and the feeding and the casting out demons from innocent children, you’re doing good work. So why bring up death and suffering and denial now?

I don’t really know what Peter said to him, but whatever he said was the wrong thing. Jesus drew away from him and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

And everyone heard him say it. Now they’re all listening. So Jesus says more.

If you want to be my follower, then deny yourself; take up your cross. For any who want to save their life will lose it and those who lose their life for my sake, for the sake of the gospel, will save it.

This all sounds like bad news.

Maybe that is why we, the church, are pretty good at handling it – the bad news. We’ve been doing it for a long time.

One of the things we do every Sunday when we come together for worship is to share our joys and concerns. Right before the prayers of the people, with the understanding that all these joys and concerns that we share will be taken up by everyone to hold in their prayers. Sometimes I will say, we share our joys so that we all may be in celebration together for the good things in our lives, and we share our concerns so that we all may share in bearing the burden, the weight of our sorrows. It’s a weekly reminder that we are all in it together.

And, as I said, I like to start with the good news – the joys – before going into the concerns. But, as you have probably noticed, the concerns always outnumber the joys – by a lot. And I don’t believe that is because we are a bunch of miserable wretches. I think it is because we all have the sense that in our greatest needs we can turn to the church and have our burdens lifted.

I think it is because we know that, somehow, at the cross we can find healing.

It’s a weird notion, that must be said. When Jesus announced to his followers that they would need to take up their crosses and follow him, I don’t doubt for a second that they were alarmed by this. They all knew too well what the cross was about. They lived with it, crosses lining the roads where they had to walk past them daily, crosses with suffering and dead bodies hanging from them. It was an instrument of torture and terror, which the empire used effectively. It was a daily reminder to the people of just what awaited them should they revolt against the empire. Should they resist the power of Rome, the cross was the threat.

Yet the mystery of the cross is that Jesus took what was an ugly instrument of death and turned it into a symbol of life, because that is where he chose to be. He took this pain into his body, and he brought healing. And hope.

Jesus says to us, take up your cross and follow me; follow me into the midst of the hardship and pain. Go where Jesus is already; stand at the intersection of suffering and divine presence.

As I spent some time with this passage this week, I could not help but think about Alexei Navalny, whose life ended in a Russian prison cell on February 16. He was a man who clearly had decided he was willing to give up his life for the sake of something bigger. And something I learned just this morning is that in recent years, Navalny converted from atheism to Christianity. During his trial a few years ago, he spoke about his faith. One of the things he said was that when he became a believer, everything became much simpler for him. There were fewer dilemmas for him because it was much clearer to him what needed to be done. It was not necessarily easier. But it was clear what he needed to try to do. And he also knew that he was not alone in it. And all this was well beyond anything he could have imagined before he became a Christian.

God has created each of us for a life that goes beyond anything we can imagine, if only we can let go of the bumper pads we like to wrap ourselves in; if only we would take off the training wheels and ride into the reality of joy and sorrow, intertwined. See how powerful it is.

If you want to see this at work in a lovely, delightful way, find a bunch of young children to share joys and concerns with. I used to do this with a church preschool. We would bring the children into the sanctuary and sit down in a circle. We lit a candle, sang a song, and then invited the children to share their joys and concerns. Just like we do here.

As we went around the circle, I would ask each one if they had any joys or concerns to share and they often would tell me they had both. Then I would ask them which they would like to start with, and they usually wanted to start with their concern. I think, like most of us, the concern is what feels most urgent.

The things they shared ran the gamut. It could be a joy like, “I have candy in my room!” or it could be a concern like, “Daddy moved away,” or “Mommy had to go to the hospital.” Little people have big concerns.

Sometimes they seemed kind of unclear, though, about just what would constitute a joy or a concern. One day there was a girl who said to me, “I have a joy! Elena is my best friend.” I said how glad I was that she had Elena. Then she said, “I have a concern, too! Tony is my best friend.” So, I don’t know what that meant. Maybe she didn’t really know either. And that’s okay, because I think we are all a little hazy sometimes on what qualifies as good news and bad news.

But one day I asked a child if he had a joy or a concern to share and he told me he had a conjoy. And I think that is a brilliant word.

There might not really be that much of a difference between a joy and a concern. They are the warp and the weft of life. And if we think that we can cut a wide path around the pain of life and just have joy, joy, joy all the time, we are lying to ourselves. The way to joy is very often right through the pain. The way to the good news is through the bad news. The way to light is through the darkness.

The way to Jesus is through the cross. And the way is full of conjoys.

May you live this life of conjoy, in its fullness. 

Lent 1: Come Up

Mark 1:9-15

A question that sometimes comes up when we consider Jesus’ baptism is “why.” Why did he get baptized; God’s own son, fully human and fully divine, without sin. Why?

Whenever we baptize a person in the church, we always ask one question: Trusting in the gracious mercy of God, do you turn from the ways of sin and renounce evil and its power in the world? This is the first question that must be answered by anyone presenting themselves or a child for baptism. This is the first affirmation we make in the church. We stand at the church door, so to speak, and we renounce the ways of sin and the power of evil before we step over the threshold. From this point on, we are saying, this is who we are. We are the ones who renounce the power of evil in the world.

It’s quite possible you have forgotten that. Many of us did not actually make that promise when we were baptized, because someone did it for us. But all of us have had other opportunities to do it since then. Whenever the congregation baptizes someone, we are all invited to remember our own baptism and think about these affirmations that were made for us. Affirmations that were made for everyone who comes into the church through the sacrament of baptism. Some form of this question has been asked of everyone who ever came for baptism, ever since the very first days of the church.

We are all in this together. This land of sin and forces of evil, we are all in it together.

Even Jesus.

The really interesting thing, though, is that, unlike us, Jesus didn’t have to. He did not have to be in this mess with us, but he came willingly. To be in solidarity with us.

He came down to earth, took on skin and bones and blood, he became fully human in all its vulnerability and weakness. And then he took on baptism, to repent right along with us. He come up out of the water, and took on the wilderness, that place where Satan roamed free, undisguised, unhindered by any restraints.

After that, he took on the world. Took it all on to himself, all the suffering, the sadness, the anger, and the fear. He didn’t have to, but he took on everything that plagues us.

And for all of us who are living in this world, who listen to the news about the most recent mass shootings and government failures, it is tempting sometimes to wonder if there was a point to it. He took it all on, but what for? Did he win the fight? All that stuff is still with us, so was any of it worthwhile? Did it make a difference that Jesus decided we are all in this together?

In the late 1970s in Argentina a few mothers suddenly began gathering in the Plaza in front of the president’s house. They were there to protest the disappearance of their sons and daughters. Political dissidents at that time would just disappear, never to be seen again, very convenient for the regime that was in power. These women came to the plaza. Then there were more, and more. They were just mothers, housewives, all of whom were moved to stand up and do something in the face of such evil.

They continued their public protests and their numbers swelled. They all dressed the same, so they made a sea of white-clad women all demanding to know what happened to their children. One was not more important than another, they were all in it together.

It happens all over the world when a community is subjected to oppression, violence, persecution by another group – that is to say, whenever the power of evil is at work, you may see individuals coming together to call it out, to renounce its power in the world. All the mothers crying out, “That is my son; let him go.” Men and women standing together in the face of injustice, of suffering, and saying, “We are one.”

When Jesus stepped into the water and surrendered his body to the baptism of John, this is what he did. He showed everyone who was watching that we are all in it together. That all of the pain and suffering – all the broken spirits, broken hearts, broken bodies – belong to all of us. Jesus went down into the water to be one with us. He went down into all the suffering of humankind to be one with us.

and yet, you might still ask, what was the point of it? It’s a fair question. When you look around at the state of the world, it seems fair to ask if there was really any point in it, his suffering on our behalf. Let us, then, remember the baptism question:

Trusting in the gracious mercy of God, do you turn from the ways of sin and renounce evil and its power in the world?

Do you renounce evil and its power in the world?

To come up out of the water, you have to first go down into it. To come up out of the depths of sin and despair, you have to first go down into it. To rise up into new life, you have to first descend into a place of death. And the truth is, we already have; we are already down there.

The truth is we are down in the mess of all kinds of distractions that try to tell us what we really want, which are all the things that are not good for us. We are down in the place where the powers of evil tell us we are not good enough, that we are in competition with one another for love and survival. These powers tell us we have to fight, we have to hoard, we have to bring others down in order to lift ourselves up.

The truth is we are down in the depths. But we can only see that when we begin to free ourselves from the powers of evil. When we see it for what it is, and take the first step to renounce evil and its power in the world.

This, right here, is the point of it.

Jesus came down to lift us up. And if we decide to follow him, this is what we will do too – go down to lift others up. The question we must face every day is, will we?

Will we follow him? Will we choose to do this too?

When we see news about another school shooting – will we say, “Those are my children?” When we see news about another community celebrating in some way – Kansas City, the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, destroyed in another mass shooting – will we say, “This is my community?” Will we understand that we are all in it together?

Where will we find the courage to do this?

After Jesus came up out of the water, he went into the wilderness. This is where God sent him, to be in the midst of the powers of unhindered evil. There, Mark tells us, the angels waited on him.

He was not alone there.

When we were baptized, we were welcomed into a new life, a life where we see the suffering around us and name it for what it is: the power of evil in the world. And instead of rationalizing it, we renounce it. Instead of saying, that is the price you pay for a free society, we renounce it. Instead of saying, it is their own fault, we renounce it.

When we come up out of the water, with Jesus, we are on the road to understanding that we are all in this together. We will go where God will lead us, but we need not be afraid, for the angels will be with us, too. 

Photo by Amritanshu Sikdar on Unsplash

Ash Wednesday - Store Up

 

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

The poet, Mary Oliver, wrote a poem called “The Summer Day.” It begins with a question: who made the world?

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?

Big questions for a lazy summer day, I would think, but then it becomes apparent that she is no longer thinking grand thoughts, head in the clouds, because she is distracted by this grasshopper in her hand. Whatever she was thinking about before, she is now completely and utterly engrossed in this singular grasshopper.

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open and floats away.

In only a few seconds, the writer has noticed, and has told me, more than I ever knew about a grasshopper all my life. She is focused, she is attentive, she is open. Have you ever given this much of your attention to such a small and seemingly insignificant part of God’s creation?

What kinds of things get your time and attention? Where are your treasures?

Every year on Ash Wednesday, we hear these words that Jesus said about practicing your piety, about prayer, fasting, and acts of charity. How do you do what you do, he asks us.

When you give alms, when you fast, when you pray, don’t give yourself a trumpet fanfare and a pat on the back, so others will praise you. Is this the treasure you seek?

What are you seeking? What is it that really matters to you?

People often say that you can always tell what someone cares about by looking at their checkbook. See where they spend their money then you will know what they value. And perhaps many of us would blush in embarrassment if our lives were put under that kind of scrutiny. We find there is so much pressure to have the things one is supposed to have, to do things the way one is supposed to do them. We see commercials on TV for the new model cars, the latest electronic gadgets. We discover ways that we are inadequate that we never knew before, because now we can buy whole-body deodorant, make-up and hair-care products that seem to have been invented for problems we never before knew existed. And so we must buy these things too.

My bathroom cabinet is full of treasures like this, many past their expiration date. And my junk drawer is full of outdated electronics and their chargers – treasures that will be consumed by rust.

What are we seeking? What really matters to us?

If I sat in a meadow on a summer day and found a grasshopper in my palm, would I be able to give it such complete attention for even a second? I would, surely, have a hundred other things I needed to do, had to get to, because others were depending on me. Because I am indispensable. Irreplaceable.

Is that the treasure I choose to store up? The delusion that I am so important? Is this what the Lord wants from me?

The words of Psalm 51 tell us the sacrifice that is acceptable to God is a broken spirit, a broken and contrite heart. 

A heart broken open to receive all that God would give to us.

In her poem, Mary Oliver goes on to wonder about prayer.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Just as she began, she ends with a question: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Rest in the beauty of God’s creation? Experience the wonder of it all? Be still and know God?

During this season of Lent, may you find moments of stillness. May you wonder at the small things, the ephemeral things. May you let your heart be broken open to receive the blessings of God. In these things you will store up treasures that last.

Photo by Mariana Restrepo Londoño on Unsplash

Letters of Love, Part 4: Glimpses of Glory

Psalm 50

2 Corinthians 4:3-6

Have you ever looked at one of those optical illusions where, when you first look at it you see one thing and maybe someone else sees a different thing? And then if you keep looking at it, you will probably eventually see that other thing too? 

But sometimes you don’t. People are saying to you, “Look, don’t you see it?” and you try all kinds of tricks with your eyes – you squint, you look at it sideways, you try the soft-focus – but you still cannot see the image other people see. You just don’t have a clue. It is somehow, in the words of the Apostle, veiled to you.

In 2nd Corinthians we can see the contours of a relationship between the Apostle Paul and the church in Corinth. And if it seems a bit muddy to the reader, that is partially because this epistle is actually a composite of several letters Paul sent over a period of time – probably some years. There are hints that he made a return visit to Corinth which was contentious and very painful. Some suggestion that there was a third visit as well, which may have gone badly. And so Paul resolved not to visit Corinth any more but to pursue reconciliation through writing letters.

And then, at some point in compiling the writings that would become the New Testament, several of his letters were put together into what we call 2nd Corinthians. It’s a bit of a mess, really. Scholars have worked hard to figure it all out, and it seems like pieces of one letter have been inserted smack dab in the middle of another train of thought. This seems to happen more than once, which makes 2nd Corinthians a rather hard read. I won’t fault you if you haven’t tried.

Still, there are so many beautiful nuggets of wisdom and love in it that are worth lifting up. Again and again, it seems that the church in Corinth was failing to see the heart of the gospel, to understand what it was really about. Paul tried so hard to show them, but there was still strong resistance. 

He writes that the gospel was veiled to some of them. The “god of this world” has blinded them. The values of this world, the conventional wisdom of this world, have blinded some to the light of Christ, the glory of God.

In the previous chapter, Paul used the illustration from the book of Exodus, where it is told that Moses wore a literal veil when he came down from his conversations with God, because the unearthly light in his face was more than the Israelites could bear. In a similar way, Paul suggests, there is a figurative veil over the light of Christ for those who are not able, or not ready, to see it in its glory.

It’s an image worthy of our time, our thought, because the resistance is real. The gods of this world are still alive and kicking. 

Even within the community of the church, and this is who Paul is addressing, there is the problem of not really getting it, not seeing it, not embracing it. To be clear, it is not the case that there are some people who don’t get it while others do; it is really the case that all of us, every one, are works in progress, sometimes confused, sometimes misled. Sometimes willfully ignorant of the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ. Blind to this road toward greater, wider, more inclusive love.

This is to be expected. There are always growing pains on the journey toward Christlikeness. And the journey is made more difficult by the reality that, even within the church, it is not universally accepted that this is our calling.

It is a battle we wage within ourselves and amongst ourselves. There are many of us in the church who see ourselves as God’s understudy. We are waiting for the day when God develops a bad case of laryngitis or sprains an ankle. Then we will need to step in and take over, doing all the smiting and the judging and the condemning to hell and damnation – which, we think we would be good at. In the meantime we stand in the wings, watching with a critical eye, knowing just how we would do it if we were in charge.

We know, in fact, that we could do it pretty well, because we have a taste for judging others, a flair for gossip and criticism. Over coffee cups in the kitchen or beers in the backyard, we have practiced sorting the sheep and the goats of the world into various categories of goodness and badness. So, yes, we are good at it. Why shouldn’t we do it?

Why shouldn’t we?

There was a priest named Simon Bailey, who served as vicar of a small parish in Dinnington, in the north of England. He arrived there in 1985 and embraced the work. And as he taught them God’s deep, wide, inclusive love, the people developed a deep love for him. 

Simon was a gay man at a time when it wasn’t talked about too much. A time when he was, as a rule, not permitted to be a priest in the Church of England. A time when I would not be permitted to be a priest in the Church of England either. Around the time he started in Dinnington, Simon was diagnosed with HIV. He began medical treatment and, for a number of years, kept it to himself.

But after several years it developed into AIDS and he began showing signs of sickness. It was growing apparent that he could no longer keep it to himself. And so, with the help of some close friends and his bishop, around 1993 Simon began the work of telling the members of the church, personally, one by one. Not a big announcement or an email blast. He told the church members the same way we would tell our nearest loved ones that we have a fatal disease. 

By that time, Simon had laid the groundwork they needed to be able to respond with love. He preached and wrote and taught words like, “The first and overriding principle in Christian morals is not the making of clear rules and sharp dividing lines, the first principle is ‘No condemnation.’” And, “We are all in this together… a community of healing and growing together and love as unlimited as we can make it.” He taught it, he preached it, he wrote it, and he lived it.

By the time Simon was sick, they had already developed a parish motto, which said, “Unlimited, unconditional, unquestioning love, freely given with no expectation of return; with comradeship and equality for all.” And so, when Simon needed their support in order to remain as their vicar, it seemed like there was no hesitation. And when it was necessary for Simon to have someone stay at his house with him through the night, every night, there was a waiting list of people ready to take a shift.

His last Easter with them was in 1995. His sister Rosemary described this day in the book she wrote about his life. He stood in front of the congregation to celebrate the sacrament of Holy Communion. I envision his dying body shining so brightly with the light of God’s glory. 

He died in November of that year.

He left behind many poems,  including this one, called A Dream.

I’m dreaming about
a church of sensitivity and openness
a church of healing and welcome.

I’m dreaming about
a community of friends that celebrates differences and diversity and variety,
a community that is forgiving, cherishing, wide open.

I dream of
women and men who minister life and laughter and love;
of men and women who minister healing and harmony and hope;
of women and men who minister to each other and minister to the crying needs of a world that hurts.

I dream against the rough climb still to come,
against expectation
against pessimism and despair;

I dream, I dream of the clear panorama of the vision of light right at the top of the mountain.

If there is one thing we take away from Paul’s letters to the Corinthians, if there is one thing we take away from the Bible in its entirety, let it be this: Love is the all of it.

When the veil is removed, this is what we will see: Love is the all of it.

Photo: ChurchArt.Com

Letters of Love, Part 3: How to Build Up Love

Psalm 62:5-12

1 Corinthians 8:1-13

In 1864 as the Civil War was coming to an end, Jourdan Anderson and his wife Amanda, fled from the Tennessee plantation where they had been enslaved all their lives. They moved to Ohio. Jourdan found work, and their family grew and flourished.

A year later, their old master, Patrick Henry Anderson, wrote Jourdan a letter asking him to consider coming back to work for him. Jourdan could have ignored the letter. He could have sent a caustic and profane reply, but he didn’t. He sent a wonderful reply to the old master.

Sir, 

I got your letter and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdan, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin’s to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear about your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy – the folks call her Mrs. Anderson – and the children – Milly, Jane, and Grundy – go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. … Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 ... Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor’s visits for me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adam’s Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. …

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve – and die, if it come to that – than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant, Jourdan Anderson.

Sometimes you don’t even need both sides of the correspondence to get a pretty good idea of what was going on.

The Apostle Paul established the church in Corinth, and he seemed to have no end of trouble with it. When you read the two letters to the Corinthians you get a fair glimpse of just how troublesome they were, and how challenging it was for Paul to try to sort out their problems long-distance. This issue of meat that was sacrificed to idols is one of those problems.

Because when the apostles took the gospel to the gentile world – that is, the non-Jewish world – there was a whole heap of things that needed to be sorted out. Basically, they needed to figure out just how much of Judaism was included in Christianity. Was it necessary to become a Jew first, before one could become a follower of Jesus? 

For example, there was an important discussion about whether it was necessary for gentile men and boys to be circumcised when they joined the church. And there were issues about dietary laws for Jews that remained important. These things all had to be sorted out; the leaders had to come to agreement on the rules.

And on the flip side, everywhere they brought the gospel they encountered other religious and cultural practices that were at odds with Christianity. Again, it all had to be sorted out. What was essential? What could be tolerated?

And on the matter of eating meat that was sacrificed to idols, the decision seemed to be that it could be tolerated. 

Now, the gentiles ate this meat because they thought it would be helpful to them. In those days, some people believed that demons could enter a person through the food they ate. So if the meat was first sacrificed to a god, they believed this god might protect them. Others, however, knew that those gods – idols – did not really exist. They could do nothing to help or hurt them.

And because they knew this, some thought that whether or not the meat they were eating was offered to some pagan idols was totally irrelevant. They thought that none of this had anything to do with them. They had left that life behind; they were born anew.

Yet, for other new Christians it was a very uncomfortable practice. It was too closely tied to their former life; continuing to participate in it felt like a threat to their new life. It seemed to compromise their Christian faith, and might be the first step on a slippery slope back into paganism.

And you might expect Paul to see this as an opportunity to reinforce the idea that they can’t be hurt by these old idols. That this was no longer a part of their belief system and no longer had any power over them. As Christians, they are free of all that.

But Paul takes a different approach. He urges those whom he thinks of as the stronger believers to empathize with the ones he calls weak. He says that even though these idols have no literal power over any of us, a weak faith can lend them power they otherwise wouldn’t have. He says that if the more mature Christians are eating this idol meat in front of the newer Christians, they may throw these novices into a state of confusion and conflict. 

Paul says you are totally free to eat what you want to eat. But if you, in exercising your freedom, lead someone with a faltering faith astray, then it’s you who have harmed that weaker one.

Your freedom in Christ does not give you license to do that. 

And what we are seeing here is some of the complexity of mature Christian faith. These ones Paul calls weaker are afraid that eating the meat that was used in idol worship will give power to these old idols. Paul says this is not true.

But Paul also cautions those he calls stronger against making the mistakes they are prone to. Yes, in Christ you have been given freedom, but that does not give you carte blanche to do whatever you feel like doing. There is another thing you need to bear in mind, a thing that is at least as important as your freedom: that is how your actions affect other people.

He is teaching something that is called an ethic of care. Which means that the highest moral decision is the one that demonstrates care for others – particularly those who are vulnerable. So the right decision is not always the same one in any set of circumstances – because how your actions impact others carry some weight.

Paul had a real concern that the exercise of their newfound freedoms might create division in the church. And while it is true that there are times we cannot avoid divisiveness, Paul simply wants to remind the Christians of Corinth that they need to always hold the concern about relationships on a par with their concerns about their freedom. The most important thing to recognize about Christian freedom is that it exists in community. And, in a very real sense, it requires strong faith to bear that in mind. 

The fact is, idols come in all shapes. The idols in Corinth might have been carved wooden figures, but idols might be made out of other stuff as well. 

When you value your freedom more highly than you value the welfare of others, Paul is arguing, then you may have replaced those old wooden idols with a new one. Likewise, if you value the rules more highly than the welfare of others, you may have fallen into another trap. And if you value your cleverness more highly than the welfare of others, woe to us all. 

The Pharisees feared that Jesus was teaching his disciples that they were above the rules. But what he was really trying to teach us is that the highest rule is the rule of love. God is always on the side of love, for God is love. 

Knowledge puffs up, Paul says, and love builds up; and what it builds up is more love. 

Let us always be guided by God’s rule of love.