A Different Kind of Shepherd (Ezek 34:11-16, 20-24)

A Shepherd or a Sheep?

In the ancient Near East, the shepherd was a metaphor for a king. The people believed that a good king was like a shepherd. A shepherd looked out for the weakest in the flock. A shepherd took care of the injured in the flock. A king would do likewise with his people.

Israel had a number of bad kings. Consequently, corruption and injustice had flourished, and society had become lopsided, divided between the very rich and the desperately poor. The fabric of society wore so thin that eventually the people were overtaken by the neighboring kingdom of Babylon. In today’s scripture, God promises a better future. God promises to be Israel’s king. “I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep” (Ezek 34:15). God explains how this will happen: “I will set up over them one shepherd, my servant David”—which is to say, a descendant of David—“and he shall feed them” (Ezek 34:23).

For us followers of Christ, the identity of this promised shepherd is obvious: Jesus! We believe that Jesus is the shepherd whom God had promised Israel.

And yet I’m perplexed this morning. Why is it that God’s shepherd is continually identified as a sheep? Not only is there John the baptizer’s familiar proclamation, “Behold, the lamb of God!” (John 1:29, 36) and Revelation’s repeated identification of Jesus as the lamb, but also Jesus himself identifies as a sheep. In today’s gospel lectionary text, Jesus tells a parable in which he identifies himself as the least among the people, the weakest of the sheep (Matt 25:31-46). I tried to capture this paradox in our call to worship.[1] In Ezekiel, God had promised to bring back the strayed and care for the injured and the strengthen the weak. In Jesus’ parable, he is the stranger; he is the injured; he is the weak.

What is the meaning of this reversal? Why does God’s promised shepherd look more like a sheep?

On the Side of the Wounded

Recently I was talking with a friend who has struggled for the last ten years with undiagnosed chronic pain. Doctors have explored many different angles, but so far there has been no diagnosis to explain all she has suffered. She shared with me that, although she doesn’t like to acknowledge it, she bears some serious resentment toward God.

In years past, my kneejerk reaction would have been to defend God. But who am I kidding? God doesn’t need me to defend him.

In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if what God needs is the opposite. Not for me to attack God, but rather for me to place myself on the side of the wounded rather than on the side of God. Because what I read in today’s scriptural paradox, is that God himself is on the side of the wounded. God looks more like a sheep than its shepherd.

If I could imagine another verse added to today’s gospel text, it would be Jesus saying this, “I was aggrieved and resentful, and you listened to me.”

A Parable

In response to the question, “Why does God’s promised king look more like a sheep than a shepherd?”—which could also be asked in this way, “How can a sheep be a shepherd?”—I’d like to conclude with a parable. I’m reminded that Jesus himself, when he was asked questions, would often respond with a story. It is almost as though Jesus refuses the final word. He wants us to keep asking, to keep thinking, to keep seeking.

…

There once lived a strange prince. He was the king’s only son, but people had grave doubts about his suitability for the throne because this prince seemed awfully forgetful of his own royalty. He commonly neglected the imperial customs. He forgot to wear his princely coat when he attended royal events. He used the wrong silverware at banquets. He would stand he was meant to sit and sit when he was meant to stand.

Some people said he was just a dreamer. His head was in the clouds. Others questioned his sanity. “Something seems off,” they said. A few commented that it was as though he were living with one foot in another world—as though his “kingdom not from this world” (John 18:36).

When the king finally died and the strange prince became king himself, he inherited a kingdom that was falling apart. There were numerous land disputes among the nobles. Crime was on the rise in the cities. And border skirmishes happened more and more frequently, as neighboring kingdoms sensed weakness and sought retaliation for past offenses. The people all looked to the king for solutions, but they had their doubts.

As it was, the king himself had doubts. He lamented to his trusted advisor that there was nothing he could do to solve the problems of the kingdom as long as people were looking for a strongman to swoop in and secure their desires. He said that even if he had enough swords in the kingdom to do just that, the people would never be happy. “In the end, force does not fix things,” he said. “It only fractures us. It is not control that will make us whole. Only care can do that.”

Then one day the king left his palace, never to return. At first, the people thought he had abdicated his throne and fled. But then there were reported sightings of him throughout the kingdom. One day a noble said he had seen a man wandering his orchard, eating an apple. He mistook him for a homeless man, but when he came near to reproach the drifter, he recognized him as the king. “What delicious apples!” the king said. “Would you like one? The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it. What a gift we have! God has been so rich toward us, hasn’t he?” This same noble had been involved in several land disputes. But that encounter planted a new seed in his mind. Was the land really his?

Another day the king was spotted in one of the poorer districts, eating and drinking with men and women who were known to be criminals. The passerby who spotted the king drew near and eavesdropped. The king was asking the others about their lives, and listening with interest and compassion as they shared stories of tragic upbringings, of poverty and abandonment and shame. The strange thing was, at the end of the gathering, their faces almost glowed with the acceptance they had found. As they departed, there was no whispered plotting of plans to steal or deceive. The only talk was of when they would meet next.

Yet another day the king was spotted near the border. He was surrounded by a small band of warriors from a neighboring kingdom. Their swords were drawn but had fallen down to the side. They stood with rapt attention as the king, who was unarmed, asked for forgiveness on behalf of his kingdom. “I know what your families have suffered. I know about your children who have been lost to war. Nothing can bring them back. Please, know that my heart is broken for you. I cannot speak for others, but on their behalf I beg your forgiveness. Our violence toward you has left an unspeakable wound.”

As you can probably imagine, it was not long before some of the more ambitious nobles in the kingdom had conspired together. They arrested the king on charges of treason and imprisoned him for the rest of his life. But even in prison, he went on living as he had before, sharing what little he had, receiving what others had to give, and seeking companionship with all he encountered. Some citizens visited him in prison, bringing him clothes, food, and drink.

To this day, some citizens in the kingdom still refer to him as “our true king, whose kingdom will never end.” The good news they proclaim baffles the leaders around them. The good news they proclaim is not that God is in control, but that God cares—and so do they.

Prayer

God-with-us,
Who comes not with a fix
But with friendship—
Grant us the courage
To accept what we cannot control
…
And to discover your reign
In care shown to others
And to ourselves.
In Christ, the lamb of God: Amen.

---

[1] God, the shepherd, says: “I will bring back the strayed.” / Christ, the lamb, says: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” / God, the shepherd, says: “I will strengthen the weak.” / Christ, the lamb, says: “I was hungry and you gave me food.” / God, the shepherd, says: “I will bind up the injured.” / Christ, the lamb, says: “I was sick and you took care of me.”

"They Cried Out for Help" (Judg 4:1-7)

Getting Honest at Rock Bottom

John Crist is a popular comedian who has developed a strong Christian fanbase. His jokes regularly poke fun at the church in the sort of way that a person might make fun of his own family. His humor is not meant to tear down the church but to illuminate its peculiarities and especially the ways we sometimes cover up or hide from the truth with pious-sounding sentiments.

Here are a few one-liners from his bit, “Christian ways to say no that will make you sound way more of a spiritual person than you are.”

“I don’t think it’s God’s will.”

“It’s just not his timing.”

“I’m feeling led in a different direction.”

“It’s a closed door.”

“I just don’t feel peace about it right now.”

And, of course, everyone’s favorite: “Let me pray about it.”[1]

The twist in John Crist’s story is that, four years ago, right around the height of the Me Too movement, several women made allegations that he had exploited his popularity and interacted with them in sexually inappropriate and emotionally manipulative ways. John Crist was swiftly canceled. He’d been working on a Netflix special, but that was binned. He retreated for a while. Apologized. Went to rehab.

Now he’s back performing. As you might imagine, his fanbase is split over the sincerity of his repentance. I’m not a fan, so I have no comment there. But what has captured my attention is his story. He describes his downfall as many addicts do. His “rock bottom” was not a day of decision. He didn’t wake up one day and get honest with himself and say, “I need some help.” His rock bottom was a day of intervention. It was an apocalypse (which literally means revealing), when others had to hold a mirror up to him and said, “This is what you are. Look!”

Since we’re not far off from the Christmas season, we might also compare this experience to what happens to Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Scrooge doesn’t simply wake up one day and decide to change his ways. His rock bottom involves an intervention: three ghosts, who each in their own way forces him to confront his own reality. Only after their visit does he become honest enough with himself to say, “No. This is not who I want to be.”

Israel Gets Honest: “Help!”

In our scripture today, the people of Israel hit their own rock bottom. Our storyteller summarizes, “The Israelites did what was evil in the sight of the Lord” (Judg 4:1). There are no further details. But we might imagine some. A recurring theme in Israel’s covenant with God is that the people will look after the needful: the widow, the orphan, the stranger. And according to the prophets, what is evil in the sight of the Lord is not bungling a sacrifice or getting the rituals wrong. No, what is evil in the sight of the Lord is the mistreatment of people who need care. What the Lord desires is not sacrifice but mercy. Hosea said this (Hos 6:6). Jesus as well (Matt 9:13). The problem in ancient Israel is that the rulers and business leaders often pay close attention to sacrifice and piety while at the very same time they not only neglect the needful but also exploit them (e.g., Amos 4:1-5).

In other words, the problem is that the people of Israel are living a lie. The people of God are living ungodly lives, and they are hiding from this truth under the cover of religion. As with John Crist, as with Scrooge, their rock bottom is not a simple day of decision. They do not come to their senses on their own. Notice when it is that the people of Israel finally cry out to God for help: only after twenty years of cruel oppression under King Jabin and his army’s nine hundred chariots of iron (Judg 4:2-3).

That is some intervention. Twenty years of cruel oppression. Perhaps without it, the people of Israel would have gone on living a lie, people exploiting the needful rather than caring for them, the gap ever increasing between rich and poor. But the consequences couldn’t be ignored forever. They had become a feeble, selfish people, lacking a commitment to the care of others and thus falling prey to an oppressive tyrant. So finally, after twenty years of living in the miserable state of foreign occupation and cruel oppression, they wake up to their reality and get honest with themselves. They need help!

A Woman Sitting Under a Tree

There is a pattern in the book of Judges. It’s simple, and it goes like this. First, the people do what is evil in the eyes of the Lord. Second, they cry out for help. And third, God raises up a judge to deliver them (cf. Judg 2:10-17). (This is before the time of kings. The leaders, who were called “judges,” were charismatic individuals who periodically unified the people and led them to care again about one another and about God.)

The fascinating thing in today’s scripture is that when God raises up a judge, we do not find ourselves looking at a warrior or a rousing speaker calling people to arms at the town gate. We find ourselves looking at a woman. Who is sitting down. Under a tree. It’s about as passive an image as you could imagine. Yet something about this woman draws the Israelites to her (Judg 4:4-5). They come streaming to her “for judgment,” we are told, which is perhaps a way of saying, that the people of Israel are hungry for honesty, desperate for truth. They know deep down that they are living a lie and are suffering the consequences—in the same way that Scrooge, deep down, was haunted by his greed, literally so; in the same way that John Crist felt like a fraud, calling the church to account even as he was selfishly exploiting others.

The people of Israel know that they need what Deborah has. They have been impulsive, living on autopilot, living for themselves, living a lie. This woman is patient, waiting, listening. Honest.

Listening to the Cry of the Heart

It’s not easy to be honest. It takes real courage. I read recently about a study conducted by a social psychologist at UVA, in which participants actually chose to receive a small electric shock rather than to have to sit alone quietly for fifteen minutes. I think it is telling that we would prefer an electric shock to being left alone with our own thoughts.[2] It is frightening what we might hear if we actually stop to listen to ourselves. Beneath all the surface chatter, we might actually hear the cry of our heart, saying something we’ve been trying to avoid. “I’m not actually happy here. Something feels off. I don’t feel right about the way I’ve treated my partner. I don’t feel right about the work I’m doing. I don’t feel right about the choices I’ve been making.” We might hear the cry of our heart, saying, “I’m feeling hurt and alone, disconnected from others. Disconnected from God.”

Our scripture today ends with Deborah summoning an Israelite commander, Barak. Our translation misses a small but significant piece of grammar in the original Hebrew. Where our translation has Deborah say to Barak, “The Lord, the God of Israel, commands you” (Judg 4:6), the original Hebrew includes an interrogative marker, which is sort of like a question mark. In other words, Deborah is really saying, “Has not the Lord, the God of Israel, commanded you…?” The implication here is stark. God has already been speaking to the commander, Barak, but he has not been listening. He needs a second prompting from Deborah. Barak means “lightning” in Hebrew, but he is not living up to his name. His sharpness has been blunted. Because he has not been listening. Because he has not been honest with himself about what God is calling him to do.

An Honest Heart

When I read today’s scripture, this short chapter in Israel’s history, I am inclined to see faith less as a set of beliefs and more as a cry from the heart.

What brings Israel back to God (and back to life) is its honesty. The people have been living in harmful and self-destructive ways for twenty years. Only when they become honest with themselves and acknowledge their need, do they cry out to God for help. It is the heart’s cry that brings God to their side—or rather, helps them to realize that God has been at their side all along.

What brings Barak back to God (and back to life) is honesty. He has been ignoring the still, small voice of God within himself. But then Deborah summons him and calls him to hear the cry in his heart that God wants to do so much more with him.

In the same way, what brought John Crist back to God (and back to life) was honesty. And not just the honesty of a confession or an apology. John has made clear that the real work of his recovery was becoming honest about what lay beneath his behavior: his own wounds and needs. He had misguidedly been trying to care for himself by winning the attention and admiration of others. The cliché here rings true. Hurt people hurt people.

But when hurt people become rigorously honest, God is near. Help is on the way. Healing is possible.

Today’s scripture reminds me of this good news: what brings me close to God is not a set of beliefs but an honest heart. (David said it more poignantly: “A broken and contrite heart, O Lord, you will not despise.”) An honest heart: it is so simple…but not necessarily easy. It may mean sitting for fifteen minutes alone with my thoughts. It may mean listening to someone else’s observations about how I am living. It may mean letting go of plans I have made or fantasies I have nurtured, which are the kinds of things that keep me from being honest; they keep me in autopilot.

God’s help may look different than I want, just as a woman sitting under a tree was probably not what Israel expected for its salvation. But I can trust that when I am honest, open, and willing, God is near. Help is on the way. I can be who God made me to be.

Prayer

Saving God,
Whose real strength is not in the sword
But in the heart:
Grant us the courage
To sit.
To listen.
To hear the cry of our heart.
…
May our honesty
Open us up to your saving love
And help us to grow into our true selves. 

In Christ, of gentle and humble heart: Amen.

---

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3oc735Ay2k, accessed November 13, 2023.

[2] https://www.science.org/content/article/people-would-rather-be-electrically-shocked-left-alone-their-thoughts, accessed November 13, 2023.

"Choose This Day" (Josh 24:1-3a, 14-25)

After Retirement

When as a child I first learned about the idea of “retirement,” I thought of it as a finish line. It meant you had “made it.” I thought of it as the bell on the last day of school. It meant work was over and the fun could begin.

Now, I’m nowhere near that bell. My race is not even halfway run. But many of you have crossed that fabled finish line. And from what I’ve heard, retirement is not at all what I as a child had thought it would be. You have discovered (or perhaps you already knew) the work is never over. Whether it’s caring for grandchildren, checking on your neighbors, building ramps for others, going on trips and learning something new—whatever it is that brought you life before retirement, is what still brings you life after retirement. When my dad retired, it was not long before he had found himself enlisted again in doing the same kind of work he had done, which was event planning. Secretly, I think, he was happy to be working again. What gave him life before, still gives him life now. (Of course, it is more enjoyable when you can work on your terms.)

We’ve all heard stories of people who worked their entire lives, and then shortly into a full-fledged retirement, in which they have absolutely nothing to do, they die. I wonder if part of the reason is because they have lost a reason for living. Our work—whether it’s our employment or other meaningful tasks that we take on in our adult lives—is fundamentally about being in community and sharing our gifts with others. Apparently this is a need for us as humans. It’s part of the fabric of life. It doesn’t change at retirement.

Choosing God When You’ve Made It

In today’s scripture, God addresses the people of Israel after they have come into the Promised Land and begun to settle there. Our lectionary selection only features the beginning of God’s address (in verses two and three), in which God reminds the people of their origin story. Their ancestor Abraham had once served other gods in a land beyond the Euphrates, but then God chose him to be the start of a new people and new way of life. The point of God’s speech is to remind the people of Israel that they have not made it into the Promised Land on their own. From the very beginning, God has been with them, guiding them, teaching them, doing for them what they could not do on their own. God has chosen the people of Israel. The question is, Will the people of Israel choose God?

When God finishes God’s speech, the leader Joshua turns to the people of Israel and invites them to respond in kind. “Choose this day whom you will serve” (Josh 24:15). I hear a special emphasis on the phrase “this day.” Because for Israel, “this day” is the day when they have finally settled in the Promised Land. “This day” is the finish line. “This day” is the bell on the last day of school. They have made it. Now they will live in houses instead of tents. Now they will have land and their herds and flocks will multiply. Gone is the wilderness. Now they are living in the land of milk and honey.

It is one thing to choose God when you are enslaved and desperate. When God first made God’s covenant with Israel, they had just been liberated from a lifetime of slavery in Egypt. Their covenant with God was arguably more of a foxhole prayer than a deliberated decision. Of course, they would take God as their God. Next to slavery, just about anything looked better.

It is one thing to choose God when you’ve got nothing else to lose. It is another thing entirely to choose God when you’ve made it. When you’re living securely in the land, happy and healthy. When you’ve got a roof over your head and a barn filled with plenty and your past suffering and desperation is a distant dream. In the wilderness, Moses warned the people about this day. He said, “When you have eaten your fill and have built fine houses and live in them, and when your herds and flocks have multiplied, and your silver and gold is multiplied, and all that you have is multiplied, then do not exalt yourself, forgetting the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery… Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gotten me this wealth’” (Deut 8:12-14, 17).

“Put Away the Foreign Gods”

According to Moses, the danger of having “made it” is the illusion of self-sufficiency. When things are going well, it is easy to think I’m in control. It is easy to think I have brought this about by my own hand, through my own power.

Twice in today’s scripture, Joshua tells the people, “Put away the foreign gods that are among you, and incline your hearts to the Lord, the God of Israel” (Josh 24:23; cf. 24:14). The implication is that, at least in their hearts, the people are still serving other gods. Serving other gods—which is elsewhere called idolatry—is in fact a self-serving behavior. It is a sort of deal or trade-off that we make for our own benefit. It gives us the illusion that we have a handle on things. These gods we serve are actually meant to serve us.

Think about the foreign gods we serve today. What are their temples? Where do people turn their eyes? Where do people flock? I think of Wall Street, Hollywood, Silicon Valley, the Capitol. Are they not temples to money, appearance, technology, and power? We serve these other gods thinking that they will secure the good life for us. (That they have secured the good life for us.) We serve them thinking they will help us get the things we want, the attention we want, the control we want.

Nothing Has Changed

I think back to the experience of retirement. Some of you are experts in this matter of life, so it really should be you talking and not me. But my observation is that in the later years of a person’s life, the road diverges in one of two directions. And I’m going to paint here with very broad strokes.

In one direction, the person looks back upon their life and sees with pride all that they have accomplished and built. “My kingdom,” they think. And then as their age slowly takes its toll, they begin to feel their kingdom crumbling around them. And they become bitter and resentful and grasping. It turns out that the foreign gods we serve will always disappoint us in the end. They do not secure us life. Rather, they disorient us, disconnecting us from God and others; and so when their short-lived treasures begin to slip through our fingers, we find ourselves as we really are, incredibly isolated and alone.

In the other direction, and perhaps this is the road less traveled, the person looks back upon their life and sees with gratitude all the gifts they have been given. They see the hard times not as obstacles that they had to mount, but as moments when God came to their side. They see the good times as God’s grace, doing for them what they could never have done for themselves. “This is my Father’s world,” they might think. God’s kingdom—right here, on earth as it is in heaven. And they realize that, post-retirement, after the finish line, after the bell has rung, after the River has been crossed, nothing has changed. God is still here, still our Help. Life is still a gift to be received in community with others and in meaningful work shared with them. And so they can do now what they did before. They can choose “this day” to serve God. When their life is going well, they can choose to serve God. When all that they had gained in life is lost, they can choose still to serve God.

Because in the end, nothing has changed. All of life is a gift. Not to be grasped and accumulated, but to be received, shared, and celebrated.

Prayer

Loving God,
Who is the same on both sides of the River,
In times of difficulty and times of ease—
This day we choose to serve you.
We look back on our lives
And we see your help,
Not magic or instant fixes
But steadfast presence and care
…
Make us servants of this love
That has brought us life.
In Christ, our companion and guide: Amen.

"All Students" (Josh 3:7-17)

Not a Knower but a Learner

Not long ago, I was on nephew duty at my brother’s house, when the toaster oven suddenly failed. My nephew Nathan looked up at me and said, “It’s alright Uncle Jonny. Daddy will know how to fix it.”

I think it is this kind of childlike trust to which Jesus refers when he says we must become like little children to enter the kingdom of God. Nathan has a reverential awe for all the things Daddy can do. He speaks about my brother almost as though he were God himself. Daddy knows how to mow the lawn. How to drive the car. How to do just about everything.

I smile, sometimes, when Nathan extols my brother’s abilities, because I can remember when my brother and I looked up to our dad in the same way. I remember when my brother learned how to mow the lawn from my dad, how to prime the carburetor and yank the pull cord and push the mower in even rectangles and triangles. I remember my brother’s first driving lessons in the family car, cautiously coasting down West Creek on a quiet Saturday morning.

In my nephews’ eyes, Daddy knows everything. They look up to Daddy as they look up to God.

In my eyes, my brother is not a knower but a learner. My brother knows what we learned from our dad, and what our dad learned from his, and so on.

God Does Now What God Did Then

Today’s scripture tells the story of Israel’s entrance into the Promised Land by the crossing of the River Jordan. As we know from last week’s scripture, Moses has died. Joshua is the new leader. God promises Joshua at the beginning of today’s scripture, “I will be with you as I was with Moses” (Josh 3:7). God wastes little time coming good on this promise.

For readers or listeners who are familiar with Israel’s story, the crossing of the Jordan sounds familiar. The waters being raised up into walls (Josh 3:13)? The people “crossing over on dry ground” (Josh 3:7)? Where have we heard this before?

There is a rich symmetry in this scene. A miraculous crossing of water is how the story of Israel began, remember? When God delivers the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, God divides the sea for them and provides safe passage into the wilderness. In today’s story, the Israelites’ wilderness wandering comes to an end as God again divides the water for them and provides safe passage into the Promised Land. In both instances, Israel’s leader guides the people, but it would be a mistake to look upon the leadership as the reason for the successful crossing. As God says to Joshua, “I will be with you as I was with Moses” (Josh 3:7).

The common thread here is not a mighty leader, but a faithful God. The good news is simple: God does now what God did then.

“You Have One Teacher”

That is the good news that we celebrate today on All Saints Sunday. God does now what God did then. So we remember our loved ones passed, not in a hopeless way, as though they are gone completely and forever, but instead in a hopeful way, trusting that the God who lived in them still lives; that the God who gave us them, still gives; and that they still live in Him who lives.

In today’s gospel lectionary text, Jesus warns his disciples against the hypocrisy of religious leaders whose actions are superficial and spring from the wrong motives, who do things to be seen by others and praised by them rather than to be faithful to God. Jesus’ warning, which begins sensibly enough with the desire that our deeds should match our words, escalates rather quickly into a radical claim that the church seems largely to have ignored: “You are not to be called rabbi”—that is, teacher—“for you have one teacher, and you are all students” (Matt 23:8).

The danger with titles, such as pastor or pope or saint, is that there is a tendency to elevate the person as a teacher and to forget that they are just as much students as we are, and that we all have one Teacher.

I think back to my nephews. They look upon my brother, Daddy, as an almost Godlike figure, but I know that in fact he is just as much a learner as they are. We are all learners. All students.

Our Saints Are Not Saviors:

They Are the Saved

The invitation, then, on this All Saints Sunday is not to glorify our loved ones as self-made individuals. It is to glorify God in them, to remember them as gifts from a good Giver, as learners of a good Teacher, as humans made of the exact same stuff as us, whose good example inspires us to trust in the Love that made them who they were. The invitation is to remember that God does now as God did then, that God does in us what God did in them, that in God we may live as they still live.

As a little exercise, I would invite you to think about a loved one passed who is on your heart this morning. What is it about them that you are most thankful for? What is it about them that made them a gift to you and others?

…

I can’t know for certain, of course, but I would guess that what you are thankful for has very little to do with the conventional pursuits of life, wealth, property, prestige. I doubt your deepest thanks is reserved for how much money they made or the professional recognition that they received, even if you are proud of these things. My guess is that what you are most thankful for has to do with their faith (whether or not they would have used that term). My guess is that what you are most grateful for is something spiritual. Maybe it was their compassionate attention, or their steadfast faithfulness, or their unconditional acceptance, or their exuberant joy that could not be quashed. Maybe it is as simple as a habit of theirs that you can still see in your mind’s eye, like a smile or laughter or a certain look in their eyes. What you are remembering, what you are thankful for—I think—is God in them. It is what they learned from God.

Our saints are not saviors. They are the saved. They are not the ones who parted the waters; they are the ones for whom, in whom, through whom, God parted the waters. They are not knowers. They are students, learners, just like us. We see in them not their own strength, but God’s salvation, which gives us hope for today. 

For God does now what God did then. Or as our psalmist today proclaims, “O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever.”

Prayer

Holy God,
Our one true Teacher,
Whose gifts and lessons we celebrate
In the lives of our saints
As well as in the life of Christ
…
Make us learners of your love,
Students of your Spirit, gentle and humble,
That we would trust in your steadfast care
And live with integrity,
Our deeds bearing witness to your good news.
In Christ, our brother: Amen.