What Does It Mean? Reflections on Exodus and Matthew

 

Art by David Brook

https://www.chabad.org/blogs/blog_cdo/aid/2172694/jewish/Nachshon-Ben-Aminadav.htm

RCL Proper 24A [i]

13 September 2026

 

Holy Trinity Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

 

Teasing out the meaning

         In January 2012 I was part of a group of Jewish and Christian clergy who travelled to Israel and the West Bank.  Our journey was something more than a shared journey to sites that had meaning for both our traditions.  We were also learning how our traditions read and interpreted our Scriptures.

 

         One of our stops was to a yeshiva, a Jewish theological school, located northwest of Jerusalem.  As we approached the main classroom, I noticed that there was a kind of buzzing sound.  When the doors opened, the source of the sound became clear.  It was the sound of more than a hundred students who were studying the Torah, the first five books of the Bible.

 

         The students were seated in pairs at small tables, each table stacked with a number of books.  At the centre of the table was an open Bible and each pair was engaged in a vigorous discussion of an assigned text.  Once and a while, one or the other would open one of the other books, commentaries on the Scriptures, to illustrate a point or to dig more deeply into the text.  The professors would roam the room, pausing at a table to listen to the discussion and occasionally to intervene with a word of wisdom or direction.

 

         I learned that in the Jewish tradition it is essential that each text is seen as a mother lode of meaning.  No matter how obvious a text may seem, no matter how obscure or irrelevant a text may seem, it is the job of the faithful reader to dig into that mother lode to explore the possible meanings.  And, just as it is essential to dig, it is essential in the Jewish tradition to have a partner or two with whom to work.  That partner might push us to consider an alternative or challenge our interpretation.

 

When did the waters part?

         One of the ways that Jewish teachers have dug into the meaning of the scriptures is by telling stories that expand upon the text.  These stories are called midrash, a word that comes from the Hebrew meaning ‘to search out’ or ‘to inquire’.  Midrash is a way of interpreting a text to explore its deeper ethical, legal or spiritual meanings beyond the literal text itself.  Midrash is not meant to replace the text, but to be used as a means of waking our spiritual imaginations to consider the possible meanings a text may have for how we live our lives.

 

         One of my favourite midrash is connected with the story of the parting of the Red Sea, our first reading this morning, and asks, ‘When did the waters of the sea part?’  The hero of the story is Nachshon, an ancestor of David.  Imagine for a moment the people of Israel on the shores of the sea.  They can see the dust cloud of the pursuing Egyptians and they can hear Moses tell them that God will part the waters – but nothing is happening.  Moses is encouraging them and the Egyptians are drawing closer each minute, but the waters remain an obstacle.

 

         From out of the crowd steps Nachson, a leader of the tribe of Judah.  He steps into the waters, but they do not part.  He walks further out into the waters, but they still do not part.  He continues to walk until the waters rise above his nose, and then – the waters part and Nachshon leads the people across the dry seabed and to safety.

 

         This midrash reminds us that trusting in God does not release us from the responsibility to act.  If we pray for God to relieve the needs of the poor and hungry, then we act, trusting that God will supply our needs as we reach out.  If we pray for justice and reconciliation, then we act, trusting that God will guide us as we go out as blessed peacemakers and ambassadors of reconciliation.  We may find ourselves ‘up to our noses’ in challenges, but it is such moments that God’s grace breaks into our lives.

 

How many times?

         In today’s parable Jesus gives us an example of midrash.  Peter asks a simple question, how many times should I forgive someone.  We know from other sources that Jewish tradition at the time suggested three times. [ii]  Peter goes even further in suggesting seven times.  Jesus does Peter ten times more – seventy-seven times!  To illustrate his interpretation of the tradition, Jesus tells Peter and the others the parable we heard.

 

         We are reminded of that petition in the Lord’s Prayer that I consider one of the most difficult prayers we ever offer:  “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”  Have you ever noticed that we are asking God to measure out forgiveness of our sins in the same balance as we forgive the sins of others?  I know my own shortcomings as a person of forgiveness, so each time I pray the Lord’s Prayer I am reminded of all those times that I have failed to forgive. 

 

         The forgiven but unforgiving servant was unwilling to walk into those waters.  Having managed to save his own neck, he shows that he has learned nothing, that he is unwilling to live into a new future where forgiveness rather than pay back is the guiding light.

 

         Today’s parable builds upon last week’s reading about seeking reconciliation in the midst of conflict.  I want to be clear about something.  Forgiveness is not forgetting.  Forgiveness is not about pretending that nothing ever happened and that nothing has changed in our relationships.  Forgiveness is taking the risk to walk into the waters of conflict in order to seek a new path towards God’s future for us and for those with whom we are in conflict.  We decide to trust God to lead us into a shared but different future than we might have had.

 

Up to our noses

         These days I sometimes feel that being a person of faith is like being up to my nose in troubled waters.  Perhaps you feel that way sometimes as well.  But the story of Nachshon reminds us that God is at work even when the waters seem close to overwhelming us.  The parable of the unforgiving servant reminds us that forgiveness can be the beginning of a path towards God’s future even if that path is not entirely clear.

 

         Some time ago I became acquainted with a prayer from the Lutheran tradition.  I return to it time and time again in times such as ours.  I close with it today.

 

O God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the endings, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown.  Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.[iii]

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[i] Exodus 14.19-31; Psalm 114 or Exodus 15.1b-11, 20-21 (BAS Canticle 1); Romans 14.1-12; Matthew 18.21-35.

 

[ii] Comment on Matthew 18.21 in The Jewish Annotated New Testament (2011).

 

[iii] ELW 2006, 317.

 

What's in a Name? Reflections on Exodus 3.1-15

 

RCL Proper 22A [i]

30 August 2026

 

Saint Helen’s Anglican Church

Surrey BC

 

A name not chosen

            When I was born in 1953 in a US Air Force hospital in South Ruislip, it was the practice for the British registrar for births to travel the maternity wards to register the births of infants.  I imagine them carrying the traditional long-form birth register and their fountain pens.  They also brought with them the unbending formality and authority of the British civil service:  What is written is written.  Change almost always requires a private member’s bill in the House of Commons.

 

            It turns out that my parents had agreed on the name of a girl but not a boy.  So, when the registrar arrived at my mother’s bedside and asked what was name of the child, she quickly said, “Richard Geoffrey”, a combination of my father’s and my mother’s brother’s first names.  Thus it was recorded for all time:  this child, the son of Richard Donald Leggett and Thelma Jane Leggett née Broom, shall be known as Richard Geoffrey Leggett.

 

            The only problem was that no one had told my father.  He arrived sometime later and asked my mother, “How is Mark Andrew?”  She replied, “Well, I don’t know about Mark Andrew, but Richard Geoffrey is doing well.”  Fortunately for me – and for my mother – my father was not unhappy with the choice and the local member of Parliament was not required to rise in the House on matter of private privilege.

 

            If your years growing up were anything like mine, the only time you heard your middle name was when your parents wanted your attention or you were in trouble.  But about thirty years or so ago, I realized that I liked my middle name – my uncle is quite a character and will turn 100 this year – and I started using it in almost all official and public media.  I am Richard Geoffrey, a name that identifies me with my family but as importantly distinguishes me within that network of relationships.

 

Names are two-edged swords.

            I find that names are two-edged swords.  On the one side, a name can be restrictive.  Our names carry a story with them and also, as I mentioned above, distinguish us within a network of relationships.  When my younger son was a teenager, now some twenty years or so ago, he came back from a trip to Kerrisdale with some of his friends from Magee High School.  He looked so glum that I imagined something really terrible had happened.  When I asked him about this, Owen looked at me and asked, “Do you and Mum know everybody?”  It turns out that, in Owen’s version of the story, there was not a single place he went that day that someone didn’t say, “Owen Porter Leggett, how are your Mum and Dad?”  Poor Owen was trying to spread his wings a little, but his flight range was limited by his name.

 

            But at the same time, a name can be liberating.  We can celebrate how a name proclaims our individuality within our relationships, a name can become a talisman for our particular gifts and talents.  Right now I can tell you this:  if you want someone to help you with historical research, call Richard Geoffrey Leggett or David Michael Porter Leggett.  We’re the historians in our circle.  But if you want someone to help you write a young adult fantasy novel, then call Owen Thomas Porter Leggett or Paula Lee Porter Leggett.  Within our family, it’s Owen and Paula who have the greater imaginative forces.

 

            So it is, with great respect for William Shakespeare, that I disagree that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  Names shape who we are and we shape what our names mean to those around us.

 

The God who likes their name.

            When Moses encounters the living God in the flaming bush on Sinai, his desire to know the name of this God is not an innocent question.  Divine names in the ancient world were more restrictive than liberating.  Knowing a god’s name gave the petitioner some control over what that divine being might or might not do.  This summer’s blockbuster film, The Odyssey, for example, is about human beings and divinities trying to control one another – with tragic results for those who are caught in the middle or who fail to invoke the right god for the right purpose at the right time.

 

            Moses is aware of how dangerous it can be to work with a deity.  This One has appropriately appeared in the midst of a burning bush and asked that Moses who has escaped the frying pan of Egyptian justice to jump into the fire of emancipating an enslaved people.  Is it any wonder that Moses wants to know a bit more about the One who making such an ask?

 

            But the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob will not be confined by giving a name that might give Moses some control.  When asked to give a name, what is grammatically called a noun, God answers with a verb, ‘I am who I am’ or ‘I will be who I will be’.  It is of the very essence of God to be free from any limitations that a name impose upon God’s freedom of action.  J. B. Phillips, an English New Testament scholar, once wrote a book with the title, Your God Is Too Small, a reminder that we often wish to put God in a box rather than acknowledge that our God is a desert God, not a tame God.

 

            Believing in such a God means recognizing that faith requires taking risks.  As much as we would like security, believing in the God of Moses, the God of Jesus, sets us out on a journey towards a destination along a path with many unexpected twists and turns.  What we can rely on is that we do not travel alone – we travel as a community, we travel in the company of all those who have gone before us, we travel in the company of the God who created all that is, seen and unseen, the God who in Jesus shares our flesh and blood, the God who in the Spirit leads us into truth and wisdom.

 

The God of the infinitely more

            When Paula and I came to Canada in 1987, we were not only changing countries, we also changed churches.  Despite our common heritage, Episcopalians in the US and Anglicans in Canada have differing forms of governance, differing cultures and differing worship.  One of the texts that quickly caught my heart is one we frequently say at the end of the eucharist:

 

Glory to God,

whose power, working in us

can do infinitely more

than we can ask or imagine.

Glory to God from generation to generation,

in the church and in Christ Jesus,

for ever and ever.  Amen. [ii]

 

Each time I say I find myself pondering the mystery of God who is unbound by human expectations, but who seeks us out to be co-workers in achieving God’s purposes – renewal, restoration, reconciliation, revelation.  Right now, in this place and in this time, ‘I am’ is at work, doing infinitely more than we expect – because that is God’s very essence, that is God’s ‘name’.  This God who chooses verbs rather than nouns to tell us about God’s very self invites us to live Christ’s risen life, to bring life to others, to give light to the world, to remain firm in the hope set before us, so that we and all God’s children shall be free. [iii]  Blessed be the name of the Lord, from this time forth and forevermore.

 

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[i] Exodus 3.1-5; Psalm 105.1-6, 23-26, 45c; Romans 12.9-21; Matthew 16.21-28.

 

[ii] The Book of Alternative Services (1985), 214.

 

[iii] The Book of Alternative Services (1985), 214-215 paraphrased.

 

Public Work for the Common Good: Reflections for the 13th Sunday after Pentecost

 

 RCL Proper 21A [i]

23 August 2026

 

Saint Helen’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

 

Do well what you do best.

            When my older son, David, was a teenager, he began to take on roles in worship.  He was, and still is, a wonderful reader of the Scriptures, and so he happily took on his share in the reading of the Scriptures on Sundays.  In addition to his being a fine reader, the folks in the congregation were pleased to have a young person as part of the worship leadership.

            One Sunday it fell to David to read Romans 12.1-8, our second reading for today.  This would have been in 1999 or 2002.  In the translation we were then using, verse 8 reads as follows:  “ . . . the exhorter, in exhortation . . . “ rather than “ . . . the encourager, in encouragement . . . “ as we heard this morning. [ii]  David was reading with strength and clarity that morning and he confidently read this verse and said, “ . . . the extorter, in extortion . . . “.  To the credit of the congregation, no one laughed or gasped; they were not going to discourage one of their own young people by reacting to his misreading of the text.

            During coffee hour I was chatting with one of the older members of the congregation who had taken our children under her loving wings.  I mentioned how grateful I was that David’s mistake hadn’t generated any audible or visible response.  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘wasn’t Paul saying that we should do well what we do best?  If you’re going to extort, at least do it well.’

 

Public work for the common good

            In the early days of prayer book revision, a Greek word began to circulate more widely among English-speaking Anglicans – ‘liturgy’.  This word was often translated by the phrase ‘the work of the people’.  Understood in this way, people often thought it meant involving more lay people in the worship leadership of our congregations.  Indeed, the ‘Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy’ of the Second Vatican Council of 1963, which influenced the liturgical renewal of Anglican and Lutheran communities as well as Roman Catholic ones, states, “Mother Church earnestly desires that all the faithful should be led to that fully conscious, and active participation in liturgical celebrations which is demanded by the very nature of the liturgy.” [iii]

            It is a good thing that the leadership of worship has embraced the active participation of all the faithful.  But it is also important to look more closely at what the word ‘liturgy’ meant to the early Christian communities who spoke Greek not English.  For those communities, leitourgia, the original Greek word, meant much, much more.  Leitourgia means ‘a public work voluntarily undertaken by the few for the common good of all’ – ‘a public work undertaken by the few for the common good of all’.

            In ancient Greek literature, a world in which what we call sacred and secular were thoroughly integrated, leitourgia was used to describe a tax used for the well-being of the entire community or even a bridge built by wealthy citizens to connect their community to a major road into a larger market town.  Leitourgia embraced the idea that we are members of a community with obligations to one another and that we were to use our gifts, our charisms, to build up koinonia, the ‘communion’ of our fellow human beings.

 

Midwifing the promise

            When there arose a pharaoh who did not remember Joseph, there was still a community that did remember him and the promises that God had made to the descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  When that pharaoh sought to control and even to diminish the Israelites, he had not counted on two midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, devising a plan to do well what they did best – bringing new life into the world.  And so, these two women undertook to do leitourgia, using their gifts to ensure the common good of their people.

            When Jesus reached a critical point in his mission and had turned his face towards Jerusalem, he asked his followers to declare their understanding of who he was and what he was to accomplish.  When he did this, Peter stepped in and did what he does so frequently in the Gospels – speaking the truth even if he’s not sure what that might lead to in the future.  And so, Peter using his gift of speaking the truth declares that Jesus is the Messiah, the one in whom our world finds its meaning and its future.

            When Paul chose to write to the Christian community in Rome, a community he had never visited but hoped to do so, we confronted their struggles to understand what it meant to be a mixed community of Jewish and non-Jewish believers.  When they voiced their belief in their distinctive superiorities, Paul employed his wit and wisdom to remind them of their mutual interdependence, each one upon the other.  And so, Paul reminds them that only the whole body of Christ – not one group or faction or individual – has the gifts necessary to undertake its role in working with God to achieve the divine purposes for the world.

 

Words and actions

            It is common these days to hear politicians and other public figures respond to the tragedies with assurances of ‘thoughts and prayers’.  To be sure there are times when there is very little one can do in the face of a catastrophe, but ‘thoughts and prayers’ can be symptomatic of an inclination to inaction.  

            Among the different Christian traditions there has always been a debate about the relationship between what we confess as our faith – orthodoxy – and what we do as Christians – orthopraxis.  The writer of the Letter of James sums up this tension succinctly: 

 

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but does not have works?  Surely that faith cannot save, can it?  If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food and one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,” and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that?  So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.  But someone will say, “You have faith, and I have works.”  Show me your faith apart from works, and I by my works will show you faith. [iv]

 

            It would have been a good thing for the midwives to have prayed for salvation, but quite something more to devise their plot to deceive the pharaoh.  It would have been a good thing for Peter and the disciples to confess their faith in Jesus, but quite something more to join him on the road to Jerusalem and to the cross.  It would have been a good thing for the Christians in Rome to rejoice in the gifts that God through the Spirit had distributed in their midst, but quite something more to use those gifts to transform the urban centre of the Roman Empire.

            In the months ahead as Saint Helen’s gathers for worship and service, embrace the opportunity to engage in a public work for the common good, a work that springs forth from our confession that Jesus is Lord.  Discover how the gifts that God has given to this community are enriching and can enrich further the life of the Parish and the life of this neighbourhood.  Some who live here are hungry physically, but you and I know well that there are also others who hunger spiritually, who yearn to find meaning and hope during times of material uncertainty and social transformation.

            Over the past eight months I have seen and can confess that this Parish knows how to use its gifts.  There is a yearning to do and to be more.  The good news is that the gifts the Parish needs are already here.  

            I’ll give Paul the last word.  Just after the words we heard this morning, Paul then writes these:  “Let love be genuine; hate what is evil; hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honour.  Do not lag in zeal; be ardent in spirit; serve the Lord.  Rejoice in hope; be patient in affliction; persevere in prayer.  Contribute to the needs of the saints; pursue hospitality to strangers.” [v]  May it be so.

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[i] Exodus 1.8-2.10; Psalm 124; Romans 12.1-8; Matthew 16.13-20.

 

[ii] Romans 12.8 (NRSV) compared with Romans 12.8 (NRSVue).

 

[iii] Paragraph 14 of Sacrosanctum Concilium as accessed at https://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_const_19631204_sacrosanctum-concilium_en.html on 10 August 2026.

 

[iv] James 2.14-18 (NRSVue).

 

[v] Romans 12.9-13 (NRSVue).

 

Facing Fear: Flight, Fight or Faith -- Reflections on Matthew 14.22-33

 

 

RCL Proper 19A [i]

9 August 2026

 

Saint Helen’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

 

Flight is not an option.

         I’m not sure when it began, but at some point in my life I adopted penguins as my favourite animal.  I think penguins are like the clergy:  we dress up in snappy black and white, sometimes with a little extra colour; we waddle around slippery terrain and fall down – but get back up.  Penguin is one of the few Welsh words adopted into the English language and means ‘white head’, a name given to the birds by the Welsh sailors of Sir Francis Drake when they rounded the Cape of Magellan.

         Penguins are not solitary creatures; they live in large colonies and often form life-long relationships, both heterosexual and homosexual ones.  While they are ungainly on land and, as you may know, flightless, penguins are remarkably agile in the water and will travel great distances to forage for food.

         Now I think that the algorithms that shape our social media feeds have caught on to my love of penguins.  Recently on Facebook an ad popped up for t-shirts, hoodies and mugs that featured penguins.  My favourite one was a hoodie with a penguin holding a drawn sword.  Underneath was the caption:  ‘Flight was never an option!’

 

Flight or fight

         At some point in our evolutionary history, our brains developed what is known as the ‘fight or flight’ response to an external, and I think, internal threats.  It is a response that we make with little or no thoughtful reflection.  We size up the situation in the blink of an eye and decide what we’re going to do.  This ‘fight or flight’ response is not only present in individuals but also in communities.

         In some ways this ‘fight or flight’ plays a role in today’s familiar story of Jesus walking on the water to join his disciples who are struggling in troubled waters.  Faced with something that they have never seen before, a human being walking on the surface of the waves, the disciples hunker down – with the exception of Peter.  In one of his finer moments, Peter chooses to ‘fight’ the moment, to take the risk to cross over to Jesus.  But, as we all know, that choice to ‘fight’ soon gives way to ‘flight’ as the reality of the situation grips Peter.  I know what Matthew puts into the mouth of Peter, but I am tempted to think that Peter said something more like this:  ‘Jesus, what was I thinking?  Get me out of this!’

         Most of the time we don’t pay close attention to what Jesus says once he and Peter are in the boat.  Jesus does not say that Peter and the others have no faith; Jesus says, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” [ii]  In those few words I see Jesus doing two things – (i) he acknowledges the power of fear and (ii) he proclaims the greater power of faith.  Faith, I think, is the choice to dare to take the risk to assess the moment rather than simply react.  Faith takes a longer view of a situation, whereas our ‘fight or flight’ response is only concerned with the immediate moment.

 

Faith and the choice of fight or flight

         Some of you may have read Frank Herbert’s now classic Dune series of novels; perhaps you have seen both of the recent screen adaptations.  One of the themes that threads throughout the novels is the importance of taking a longer-term perspective on human history.  Some characters in the novels look backwards and then seek to ‘do the math’ regarding the probabilities of a strategy achieving their purposes.  One character looks forwards and sees all the possible paths, some that overwhelms him and ultimately leads to his doom.  But what links all of these characters is their willingness to face their fears with wide open eyes.

         If you are familiar with the novels, then you will know that one of the ways the characters face their fear is by reciting what is known as the ‘Litany Against Fear’.

 

I must not fear.  Fear is the mind-killer.  Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.  I will face my fear.  I will permit it to pass over me and through me.  And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.  Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.  Only I will remain. [iii]

 

While Frank Herbert was not a fan of organized religion of any sort, his words do remind us of a simple truth in a life of faith:  Faith is the choice to face our fears.

 

“Ventures of which we cannot see the ending” [iv]

         When Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery, they had no idea what they were setting into motion.  What they intended as a convenient way to rid themselves of an annoying sibling who enjoyed their father’s favour ends up being the salvation of the entire family.  But there’s one thing about Joseph.  Throughout his entire ordeal, he believes that God is at work to bring about the divine purposes for Joseph, for his family, for Egypt.

         When Paul witnessed the stoning of Stephen, he had no idea what was being set into motion.  The martyrdom of Stephen and Paul’s own efforts to suppress the early Christian movement came to no avail, and even Paul found himself caught in the web of the love of God made known in the person of Jesus of Nazareth.  Paul the persecutor on behalf of a rigorous fidelity to what he understands to be God’s Law becomes Paul the apostle to those who by that Law are deemed outsiders.

         In the more than four decades since I was ordained, I have witnessed communities such as ours react in a communal ‘fight or flight’ response.  Some communities have fought against the ending of our privileged place in Canadian society and refused to look courageously at what we might learn from this and how our faith might lead us into a more life-giving response.  Other communities have fled and turned inward and then, one day, simply turned out the lights and turned in the keys.

         But this has not been the story of this Parish.  This Parish has, on more than one occasion, faced its fears and, instead of becoming combative or enclosed, has chosen to learn, to grow and to respond.  This is not a Parish that responds instinctually to fear; it is a Parish that prays, reflects and then acts to share the good news of God in Christ in a neighbourhood where that good news is truly needed.

         Next Sunday this Parish will enter into a new chapter of its story.  No doubt the waters in which we sail are choppy; no doubt there will be moments of uncertainty.  But there is more than a little faith here.  There is a belief that God is here in our midst, leading us, healing us, challenging us, so that we and all God’s children shall be saved, made whole, in witness to what God can do.

         On this Sunday, as I preside and preach for the last time as your priest in charge, I close with a prayer from the Lutheran tradition that I believe in a prayer for such a time as ours, a time in which our boats are shaken but not swamped, a time when our fears are real but need not be paralyzing, a time in which our hopes are greater than our doubts:

 

O God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the endings, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown.  Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.[v]

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[i] Genesis 37.1-4, 12-28; Psalm 105.1-6, 16-22, 45c; Romans 10.5-15; Matthew 14.22-33.

 

[ii] Matthew 14.31b (NRSVue).

 

[iii] https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/58.Frank_Herbert accessed 8 August 2026.

 

[iv] Evangelical Lutheran Worship (2006), 317.

 

[v] ELW 2006, 317.

 

Unintended Consequences: Reflections on Genesis 29.15-28

 

 

RCL Proper 17A [i]

26 July 2026

 

Saint Helen’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

 

Not hiding the flaws

         I may have shared with you in a sermon sometime over the past seven months the Japanese art form known as kintsugi.  Kintsugi is the art of repairing broken porcelain objects by using metal, often silver or gold, to attach the broken pieces back together.  When finished, the object does not hide the flaws, the fractures, but reveals the beauty of an object that has been broken yet now repaired and functional once more.

 

         Unlike our desire to have things put back together so that they are ‘as good as new’, kintsugi is not afraid to show the cracks.  I wonder if kintsugi is the source of the chorus in Leonard Cohen’s sung, ‘Anthem’:

 

 

Ring the bells that still can ring.

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.

 

Even an imperfect situation, a flawed individual or community or family, can become a vehicle of God’s grace.

         Over the past several weeks and in the weeks to come, we have heard and will continue to hear the stories of a flawed family, a family that gave rise to three great religious communities – Judaism, Christianity and Islam – the family of Abraham and Sarah and their descendants.  I imagine that there have been a few Sundays when we’ve all wondered what to say and to think after the reader finishes and says, ‘Hear what the Spirit is saying to the Church.’

 

         John Holbert, the emeritus professor of preaching at Perkins School of Theology in Nashville, writes:  “What are we to make of this story of trickery, deception, and clever dealing?  No character here is to be emulated:  the Bible does not say ever ‘be like Jacob’ or ‘take Laban as your model for living.’  What the Bible instead implies is:  just how is the great God going to make anything out of these rascals?” [ii]

 

         Well, let’s take Leah for just one moment.  She ends up being the wife of a man who does not want her and who is treated so badly that even God notices and decides to give the gift of many sons to ease her pain. [iii]  Two of those sons, Levi and Judah, will become important for those of us who see ourselves as Abraham’s descendants through our faith that Jesus is the Messiah.  Why?  Levi is the ancestor of John the Baptist.  Why?  Judah is the ancestor of Jesus of Nazareth.

 

         Jacob, Laban, Leah, “ . . . these are the characters through whom God is advancing his covenant to save all the nations of the earth . . . . We need the earthy, gritty, and yes at times the unsavory reality of it all to sink in.  Sunday school gives us plastic saints.  The Bible gives us real people with foibles and flaws and faults.” [iv]  And yet, these are precisely the people through whom God’s grace flows into the whole messy project we call human history.

 

Hear what the Spirit is saying to the Church.

         Friends, you and I are real people with foibles and flaws and faults.  That is the ‘bad news’.  But the ‘good news’ of God in Jesus is this:  we are precisely the people who need God’s grace in our lives and who also become conduits of God’s grace in this world of ours.  God does not wait “ . . . for us to clean up our own acts perfectly before or until God will work in us and through us.” [v]

 

         Of all the writers in the New Testament, Paul was keenly aware of his own foibles and flaws and faults.  He speaks of them often.  But he is also able to affirm that “(we) know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” [vi]  He knows, and I hope that we know, that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” [vii] -- even our foibles, our flaws, our faults.  

 

         Unlike those who want to pretend that ‘everything is as good as new’, we are unafraid to show our cracks and flaws, because like the silver and gold of kintsugi vessels, God fills those cracks and flaws with the light of love and compassion, the silver and gold of hope and perseverance.

 

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[i] Genesis 29.15-28; Psalm 105.1-11, 45c (BAS); Romans 8.26-39; Matthew 13.31-33, 44-52.

 

[ii] John Holbert on Genesis 29.15-28 at https://pcpe.smu.edu/blog/what-goes-arounda-reflections-on-genesis-29-15-28 accessed on 24 July 2026.

 

[iii] Genesis 29.31-35:  “When the Lord saw that Leah was unloved, he opened her womb, but Rachel was barren. Leah conceived and bore a son, and she named him Reuben, for she said, “Because the Lord has looked on my affliction, surely now my husband will love me.”  She conceived again and bore a son and said, “Because the Lord has heard that I am hated, he has given me this son also,” and she named him Simeon.  Again she conceived and bore a son and said, “Now this time my husband will be joined to me, because I have borne him three sons”; therefore he was named Levi.  She conceived again and bore a son and said, “This time I will praise the Lord,” therefore she named him Judah; then she ceased bearing.

 

[iv] Scott Hoezee on Genesis 29.15-28 at https://cepreaching.org/commentary/2023-07-24/genesis-2915-28-3 accessed on 24 July 2026.

 

[v] Hoezee 24 July 2026.

 

[vi] Romans 8.28 (NRSVue).

 

[vii] Romans 8.38-39 (NRSVue).

 

Heavenly Minded and Earthly Good: A Reflection on Matthew 13.24-30, 36-43

RCL Proper 16A

19 July 2026

 

Saint Helen’s Anglican Church

Vancouver BC

 

Tending the garden given to us

         I have a confession to make.  Although I admire and sometimes even envy those folks whose homes are surrounded with gorgeous gardens and well-manicured lawns, I am not one of those people.  I try my best to keep things under some control, but no one would ever put my home on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens except as a cautionary tale. 

 

         For many years I have borne a light burden of guilt, but recently I have been given a reason to lay that burden aside – at least for some of the time.  You may know that we are facing a crisis – there is a serious decline in bee populations with a potentially disastrous effect on our food production and those very gardens I envy.  The causes are manifold and some are linked to global climate change as well as environmental pollution.  But there is one small thing we can do:  let your dandelions blossom.

 

         I have often seen dandelions as a metaphor for the kingdom of God.  They are resilient and they spread their seeds far and wide.  They will spring up in places that no other plant will.  Despite all the best efforts of gardeners throughout the world, dandelions continue to blossom.  But there is something else about them.  Dandelions are among the first plants to flower in the spring.  As the bees awake from hibernation, dandelions often provide them with their first meal.  By allowing our dandelions to blossom in the early spring, we are doing our bees great service.  

 

You have heard said, but I say to you.

         One of the things that we frequently hear Jesus say in the Gospels is this:  ‘You have heard said, but I say to you . . . .’  Well, today I am going to offer a reflection that may seem to diverge somewhat from what Jesus says about the parable of the wheat and the weeds.

 

         You have heard Jesus say that the good seed are the children of God and the bad seed the children of the evil one.  And so we have believed and taught for many generations. But the dandelions have taught me that there might be another way of looking at this parable, one that does not have such an either/or interpretation.

 

         Discerning what is the good seed is not difficult.  Whenever we see someone who is practicing a Christ-like life, whose love of God reveals itself in self-giving love of neighbour, who builds bridges rather than walls, who respects the dignity of every human being, then we know that we are witnessing the good seed of the kingdom.

 

         I dare say that discerning what is the bad seed is also not so difficult.  When leaders care more about self-interest and less about the common good, when the powerful use any means to secure their power at the expense of others, when communities embrace division rather than unity, then we know we are witnessing the bad seed that only denies God’s sovereignty and human dignity.

 

         But there are moments when we are less certain.  Rather than rush into judgement about what is the good seed and what is the bad seed, might the parable also be counselling us to practice patient discernment.  There is wisdom in the householder’s words:  ‘Let both of them grow together until the harvest, and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first . . . ‘  When the time is right, we might discover that some of what might have, at first glance, been thought weeds, when they might actually be dandelions, providing an unexpected source of grace.

 

         I love Paul’s words in the 8^th chapter of Romans:  “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us.  For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God . . . . But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” (Romans 8.18-19, 25)  We wait eagerly and yet patiently for what will emerge from the soil of our lives.

 

         Soon Sebastian will arrive and take up his role as a member of the leadership of this Parish.  Just like the householder, the lay and ordained leaders of this Parish will wait to see what emerges from the variety of seeds that have been sown in our midst.  In some cases, we will be able to discern quickly what is life-giving and what is not.  In others, we will have to wait patiently to discern what fruit they will bear.  But led by the Spirit, we can wait and trust that God is working the divine purpose in us, through us and for us.

  

O God of unchangeable power and eternal light,

look favourably on your whole Church,

that wonderful and sacred mystery.

By the effectual working of your providence,

carry out in tranquillity the plan of salvation.

Let the whole world see and know

that things which were cast down are being raised up,

and things which had grown old are being made new,

and that all things are being brought to their perfection

by him through whom all things were made,

your Son Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

 

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[i] Genesis 28.10-19a; Psalm 139.1-11, 22-23 (BAS); Romans 8.12-25 ; Matthew 13.24-30, 36-43.