We always hear the story of the temptations on the first Sunday in Lent. Every year. We always hear this story because the Church thinks it is something we need to hear if we are going to take Lent seriously, if we are going to grasp the meaning and the possibilities for us of these forty days.

It’s easy to be way too glib about how Lent and the temptations work together. We can end up imagining that Jesus gets baptized and runs into the desert to be tempted by the devil to do bad things; and Jesus doesn’t do these bad things, so he passes the test and off he goes to begin his ministry. In the same way, during Lent we create bad things to do (breaking whatever Lenten rule we have set for ourselves) and if we don’t do those bad things, or don’t do too many of them, then we have had a good Lent and Easter should be more rewarding. Of course, when we put it this way, it does seem a bit puzzling, and a bit silly.

So what is going on with this story, and with Lent? Let’s start with Jesus. At his Baptism, Jesus was told who he was, he was given his identity as the beloved son, with whom the father is well pleased. Now, an identity like this is not just a piece of paper like a driver’s license that you carry around with you in case you are asked for an ID. An identity like this implies a way of life, a path to walk, if you are really going to be who you are. Jesus knew that, he knew that accepting his identity as the beloved of the Father meant that he had chosen to walk the path of loving obedience to the Father. If he were the son of God, he would walk that path. Now, all the details of such a path are never clear until they are faced, but the direction and the focus of the path is clear.

So, hot from God’s kiln at the river Jordan, Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness—and he went there knowing who he was, and with a sense of the path such an identity set before him. Here we meet the central issue.

Think about this: the temptations of Jesus are best viewed, not as bad deeds the devil provoked Jesus to commit, but as alternative paths Jesus is invited to adopt as his life story. So the primary issue in the wilderness is not whether or not Jesus will do a bad thing or three. (In fact, not everything the devil asks Jesus to do in the wilderness is bad in and of itself—he did something very much like turning stones into bread during the feedings of the multitude.) The primary issue in the wilderness is whether Jesus will stay on the path the Father has given him, or choose a different path.

The life that Jesus’ identity gives him is a life where nothing ultimately defines him but God. It is a life that is ruled by the choice faithfully to follow the Father’s word, and the path He offers. It is not a life ruled by Jesus’ desires or by his ability to do tricks. Turning a stone into a loaf of bread because he was famished suggested a path of appetite and miracle, rather than the one truly set before him. If Jesus chose that path, he might get all the bread he wanted, but he would soon stray away from the Father, and the Father’s call.

In the same way, Jesus, the beloved of the Father, was given a path that demanded that only the Father be worshiped or obeyed—no matter how attractive, useful, or just plain fun the other offers might be. Again, the real issue in the temptations offered Jesus was not, "Will you jump?", or "will you worship?", but "Will you walk a path other than your true path as the beloved son of God."

So there is real irony in the way the devil begins his offers, "If you are the son of God..." then do this or do that. In fact, the real point was whether or not Jesus would act like the son of God in the midst of these alternatives. What Jesus did in the wilderness was not primarily to say "No" three times. What he mainly did was walk with steadfastness the one path that his identity opened for him.

That is what all real temptation is all about at its heart—it’s not about being good just this once—it’s about being faithful—no matter what.

Remember, at our baptism we are named beloved children of God. We are given exactly the same identity Jesus was give. And that means we are given his path to walk. It is the path of obedience to the Father; it is the path where, in the long run, nothing defines our life except God. It is, of course, not a path that involves doing all the same things that Jesus did. But it is, none the less, the very same path.

I suspect that the reason Lent always begins with the story of Jesus’ temptations is that Lent is about reminding us to look carefully, not only at our particular actions and inactions, but also and especially at the path we are in fact walking, that we are in fact living out day by day. What does our behavior reveal about the direction we have chosen.

I am convinced that this is the right question, rather than the question, "Am I doing the right thing." After all, we can be good, we can follow all of the rules, but (for example) if we do this in order to feel superior to other folks, or so we can be proud of ourselves, or so others will think us righteous, then, good behavior or not, we are deeply on the wrong path; we are not on the path of a child of God.

Lent can help us realize this; it can help us look at our temptations, and learn from them whether we need to change directions to be on the path that is right for a beloved child of God.

That’s what repentance is really about, it is about changing directions, turning around, walking another path. It’s not about being sorry. I’ve said this before and I’ll doubtless say it again, but listen: if you want to go to Lubbock and you get on Hwy 87 going South, then you are not going to get to Lubbock, no matter how many times you pull over to the side, stop the car, get out of the car, and apologize. That path will take somewhere else.

The question of Lent, and especially of Jesus’ temptations, is a simple one—what path are we on?

Being a Christian is seeking our true path to walk, and walking that path with integrity and with hope. And, when we are at our best, we know that if we stop, if we allow ourselves to be content with where we are now, or if we get off course, then we are in serious trouble. Growth, and moving deeper into the journey we are called to walk are basic to our lives as Christian people, and as a Christian community.

Luke’s Gospel take this particularly seriously, and it presents most of Jesus’ ministry as happening during his great journey from the mount of the Transfiguration to Jerusalem and the cross. In part, that is so we can see Jesus’ journey as our own and so learn from him what ours will be like. The Gospel today describes a couple of things that happened to Jesus and his disciples while they are on their journey to Jerusalem; things worth reflecting on.

The first thing that happens is that the Pharisees tell Jesus that Herod is out to kill him and that Jesus had better go someplace else fast, someplace where it is safer, someplace where there is no threat.

Right then, Jesus has to decide if the direction of his journey is going to change, if it will be determined by what is safe. He could take a different path; he could move to a more congenial neighborhood and do his work there. (In fact, most every other neighborhood in the world was safer than were Jesus was headed.) It was a real choice. What now?

And Jesus’ journey is our journey. Over and over, we have to make exactly that choice. What do you do when the road you are on begins to take you to dangerous places?

For us, the dangers are not going to be physical. For better or for worse, these days our faith almost never brings us physical danger. But we still need to ask what to do when we realize that the direction we are going, the prayers we are saying, the convictions and principles we have come to hold, when these begin to pinch, when they begin to suggest that something is amiss, that we may need to change. What if we are led to see things about ourselves that we do not like, and do not like to see? ||What happens when the path we are walking, the faith we claim, begins to make a difference, begins really to become a threat to the way our life is now. That was Jesus’ challenge on his journey; it is also our challenge—often coming more frequently than we like to notice.

It is always tempting to go where it is safe; to change directions; to compromise, to rationalize, to let it go this one time, to leave Herod’s jurisdiction. Every time we are afraid of the consequences of staying on the path that is ours as beloved children of God, the path we have chosen and believe to be right; every time we consider changing our direction, every time we have to make that kind of choice, we are standing where Jesus stood, when some Pharisees told him that Herod wanted to kill him.

The stakes are considerable, it is a very important moment.

The second thing that happens during that part of Jesus’ journey we heard today happens to the disciples, and it is easy to miss what that is. Jesus is on the road and somebody asks him if only a few will be saved. Notice who asked the question—it was a follower of Jesus, someone in whose streets Jesus had taught, someone who ate and drank with him, someone who knew Jesus and who no doubt expected to be among those saved—be they many or few.

So this was a "them" question—one that asks: "what about the other people, what about the different people, the really bad sinners—the people like him, or her; what about the people who are not like us? What about them?" Jesus never takes to this sort of inquiry kindly; and his response to this one was both a rebuke and a warning.

It is a rebuke in that, while Jesus does not directly answer the question, he draws a pretty detailed picture of the sort of person who needs to be especially careful, and who faces the greatest danger of being left out in the cold. And guess who that picture describes to a T?

None other than the very person who raised the issue in the first place. It was not the gentiles, not the bad guys, not even the especially evil leaders like Herod, who are likely to find the door closed and locked in their faces.

It was, instead precisely those people who felt they had the moral leisure to ask of Jesus questions like "Will those who are saved be few?"

And, just in case the thrust of his answer was not quite clear, Jesus finishes it up by hinting that, while the person who asked the question might be in considerable trouble; many who do enter the Kingdom, and enter it first, will be among them, the outcasts and the outsiders, the sort of people who don’t belong in the same room with Abraham and the prophets. They’ll be everywhere.

The warning is simply that, when it comes to such topics as God’s judgment and the nature and names of the citizens of the kingdom, we are well advised to pay attention to ourselves, and let God worry about everyone else. In fact, every time someone asks Jesus ‘what about them’, Jesus responds with ‘look to yourself’. We’ll see that again next Sunday.

Two little stories from Jesus’ journey—and from ours. They are a second set of temptations, really—they are invitations to get off the path we are given to walk. But they are also good news. First, because they can give us things to keep our eyes out for, and so serve as road signs on our journey. But even more, because they remind us that we do not walk our journey alone. He has been there. Jesus is the one who goes before us and shows us the way. He is also the one who walks beside us, and we are never alone; and he is finally and forever the goal of our journey, for he will lead us to himself.

The parable of the prodigal son is one of those stories that simply grabs us and will not let it go. It speaks to a level of depth and need that we often don’t even know we have. We have to keep coming back and coming back to it.

My perspective on this parable was substantially deepened when our Adult Class studied Henri Nouwen’s book on Rembrandt’s painting The Return of the Prodigal. A poster of that painting is in the Narthex, and I think there are still a few of the books around. It is a very good book, with wonderful insight into the parable.

Perhaps the central thing I learned though this study was a way see the Parable, for the first time, as a personal challenge and invitation into spiritual maturity—into being a Christian grown-up. Most of the time we study the parable we pay attention to the kids–the two brothers. We look at them and discover that, son of a gun, they’re both scumbags who each, in both different and similar ways, selfishly dishonor their father and impoverish themselves. Most of the time we notice how rebellious, self-centered, dishonest, self-righteous, smug, spiritually blind and deeply ungrateful one or the other of them is. So, we are often asked, in sermons, meditations, daily devotions, and Sunday School lessons, to ponder the question of which of these two scumbags we are most like. Then we are beseeched to stop acting like that.

Thus, if we can see ourselves in one or both of the brothers, (which is hardly a chore) and muster some energy for not being so much like that, then we have found our personal, spiritual message in the parable.

And that is all well and good. I’ve preached that sermon several times. All of this business about the two brothers and not being bad like they are is very much a part of the parable, and very much a part of what the parable teaches.

But notice again that, so far, this view of the story focuses on immaturity: it sees the parable as mainly about the childish, selfish, self-absorbed behavior of the brothers—behavior that shows how each of them is a spiritual three-year old: far from mature, far from their deepest identity as children of the father, far from the life their father lives, far from the inheritance that both have been granted. And we mustn’t forget that their inheritance will be all that the father has—including his role in the family.

Now, while it is not possible to be forever young, it is not only possible, but rather easy, to be forever immature. That was the choice both sons had made so far. Would they grow up and assume the mantle of their father? Would they live into their destiny?

These questions can lead us to think about this parable in a new way. On the one hand, it can tell us that we ought to stop acting like immature children, and instead to rejoice in being the children of the father–which is a truly fine thing to hear and to discover.

On the other hand, the parable of the Prodigal Son can also challenge us to grow up, actually to grow up, and so to leave childish things behind. For that to happen, we need to stop worrying about the children in the parable, and start paying attention to the father. After all, the father is our model, our challenge, our vision of the life God calls us to live, our destiny as we grow to maturity.

In other words, it is a relatively simple thing to be challenged to stop being the childish sons; and so to start being nice children. Instead, let the parable challenge you to aim at growing into the father, to strive to make his life your life, and so to claim your inheritance as a child of the father.

Think about that. Can you become the father in this story? Not today perhaps, but as vision for your life. What about that image of yourself?

To begin, look again at the father. He has lived for a long time; he has suffered much—he has suffered from his love for his children, he has suffered from the rejection of his sons, the loss of his dreams, and the decay of his body. He knows about all of that. He knows about life. Life its own self.

And from that, the father has not become resentful or bitter, he has not become whiney or angry or sorry for himself. ||We all know how easy it is to do that, we all know how natural it is to turn our pain into bitter self-righteous. In fact, I suspect that if we do not do something else on purpose, that is what will quietly, but almost automatically, happen to us.

Well, the father did something else on purpose. He chose, from the reality of his life, to grow compassion, and not vindictiveness. He chose to nurture within himself a love with roots so deep that they grew beyond conditions, beyond judgment, beyond decency or justice. He nurtured a love that was able to wait, and to welcome, and to receive with open arms both sons and all sons, no matter what foreign land they had fled to, or how lost they had become right at home. It didn’t matter. The father had grown a love of compassion.

Can we become the father? It is our calling. Can we accept the stuff of our lives, the pain and the joy, the fear and the hope, all of it, and from these allow ourselves to become people who can reach out hands of blessing and of welcome to those we are given to love, regardless of what they may think of us? Can we see this as our vision of Christian maturity and grace?

Can we seek to become not only the one who is forgiven, but also the one who forgives; not only the one who is being welcomed home after a shameful absence, but also the one who welcomes home; not only the one who is accepted in spite of his blindness and arrogance, but the one who accepts, in spite of blindness and arrogance? Can we strive to become not only the one who receives true and loving compassion in the midst of our struggles, but also as the one who fully offers that true and loving compassion in the midst of their struggle?

We are not challenged here to become nice children who stop doing the naughty things they have been doing. That is too light a thing. Instead, we are called to grow up, to stop being children at all, nice or otherwise, and to seek the maturity, the grace and the love that we see in the father.

That is the real vision of this parable. Whether we see ourselves as the older son or the younger son or both, remember, we are the child of the compassionate father who loves without measure. We are his heir. Can we reach for it? Can we grow to become the father? Think about it.

While the Pascal Candle burns, the word of God is to help us learn what it means for Easter to be real, what it means for us to be a part of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.

This morning we see what it means for the resurrection to be real for three people, for Saul, Ananias, and Simon Peter. While each has a different story, they all have much in common with each other, and with us.

Let’s start with Saul. Saul was a Pharisee—and a good one. He was a successful and ambitious man who was on a mission: he was trying to contain, if not destroy, what he saw as an heretical sect of his beloved Judaism, a cult called "The Way", made up of the followers of Jesus of Nazareth. And as Saul was going about this mission he had with him something very important—he had letters from the High Priest. Those letters were his legal authority to extradite Jews from anywhere to Jerusalem for trial. They were a sort of rabbinic gold card, a sign of Saul’s success, of his influence, and of his power. They were a big deal, and Saul knew it. It was with those letters in his pocket that Saul discovered that Easter was real.

He discovered that he had been completely wrong, and he been persecuting the very God he sought to serve. But Saul discovered something even more important than his own wrongness. He discovered the power of God’s grace. And by that grace everything changed, and what Saul had done, as totally wrong, as misguided, as destructive as it was, all of that was completely overwhelmed by the Grace of God; and he was told how to begin something new. Notice that we never hear about those letters again. They just drop out of sight.

We know what happened to Saul, we don’t know what became of the letters. (We can assume they were left somewhere.) He couldn’t have both the letters and the new life, there was just no way. He had to choose.

Ananias enters the picture here, and only here. Everything we know about him we just heard. We know that he was a follower of Jesus who had to make a choice between doing what God wanted him to do, and doing what made sense. He knew about Saul; he knew Saul was his enemy, and the enemy of the Church. So he also knew the dark comfort that comes from having someone to hate and fear and name ‘evil’—and so make it easier to name himself ‘good’. He knew that to reach out to the one he had named evil was dangerous, stupid and, well, uncomfortable.

Like us, he would prefer that grace and transformation happen to him or to his friends. The idea of an enemy being chosen upset his entire world. So he argued with God, and he had to choose. If he chose to obey, he had to do something with his preconceptions, with his hate and with his fear. He had to leave them somewhere, (the same place Saul left his letters) in order to be able to go to his enemy, call him ‘brother’, touch him, and bring God’s healing.

Ananias chose well; he gave up his old ideas and took a big risk. And that risk gave to the church and to the world the ministry of Paul.

Then there is Peter. While the Gospel story mentions seven disciples, it’s really about Peter. It’s about Peter who had, around a charcoal fire in the courtyard of the High Priest three times denied Jesus. It is about Peter who, in spite of everything that had happened after the crucifixion, had gone home to Galilee. It is about Peter, who decided to go fishing because that was who he was—he was a fisherman and he thought it was time to settle down and go back to what he was best at doing.

All this messiah-chasing was just too much. But it was over now, and there were fish to be caught, a living to be made. It was in the middle of this very secular activity that Peter found himself faced both with Jesus, and with a net full of fish. A lot of fish, (153 of ‘em, but that’s another sermon) dragged up on the shore. Fish that were worth a tidy bit of money. Fish that could be the start of a new business: maybe, "The Former Disciples Fresh Fish Emporium, Inc." All Peter had to do was get those fish to market—now. Before they started to rot. He had to choose.

Instead, Peter stayed for a meal, where around another charcoal fire Jesus broke bread with them, and in the breaking of the bread Peter and the rest knew Jesus, and things changed again—Easter became real. A choice had to be made; and the fish were left behind.

All those lovely fish were left at the same place Saul left his letters, and Ananias left his hate and his fear. They were left behind. Behind is a good place, and a big place. There is plenty more room there, where things get left. Most of us have a thing or two we need to add to that pile—the pile of Peter’s rotten fish and Paul’s letters of authority, and Ananias’ hate.

We often think about renewal, and change, and revival in terms of God, or the preacher, or the Church or somebody giving us something, so we will be more, or have more. But much of the time renewal is not about getting something; (we already have all we need), it is about giving something up. Often, what stands between us and renewal, between us and living out much more deeply what it to be a baptized Christian—is not something we lack, but something we have; something we refuse to let go.

Paul, Ananias, and Peter each had very different issues, but they also had the same story, the same choice. Each had to choose between something very important and very real to them, and the call of God—a call which, even at its clearest, is both ambiguous, and risky. None of their choices was easy.

Now, it would be right handy if there were a list of easy-to-spot, visible things that I could pass out or hold up and say "if you just gave up these—everything would be all right". (There have been several attempts to do just that.) But these lists always fail. They always fall short, they always miss the point. What’s more, they are, as a rule, unnecessary. Most of us know what our piles of fish, or our gold cards, are. We know our issues, or we know how to find out. We don’t need that sort of reminding. What we do need is to be reminded of, and the real point of it all, is that there is hope. The resurrection is real. Paul did quite well without his letters of authority, Ananias gained much from what he had to surrender, and Peter didn’t need his fishing business nearly as much as he thought.

There is a pile of rotten fish out there, with a few official letters, and some other stuff on it. We have our contributions to make to that pile. And that is just fine. For Christ is risen. That means that the choices Peter, Paul, and Ananias made, and that we are called to make, are possible, they can be done; and these choices lead to life—to fuller and better life.

We continue in the Great Fifty Days of Easter, and the lessons continue to tell us what it means to be baptized. As a part of that, the Gospel this Sunday, and for the next two Sundays, takes us back to John’s telling of Holy Week—but this time s a way to help the newly baptized to discover more of the meaning of the life they have chosen,. The scene is the last supper—the night he was betrayed. Judas Iscariot has just left the room to make his own deals, to go his own way. The meal was almost over and Jesus is poised on the edge of darkness, and he speaks to his disciples, and to us. ||He speaks of glory, he speaks of love, and he speaks of what it looks like to be known as His disciple. This is basic stuff, this is what we believe, and this is what it means to be a Christian person.

First, before anything else, Jesus speaks of glory; of the glorification of the son of man, and of the Father. One word especially needs to be heard. The word is "now". "Now", Jesus says, "now"—as Judas gathers the soldiers and counts his money; "now"—as Caiaphas and the rest prepare for the trial; "now"—as the final plans for the execution are made. "Now" Jesus says, is the son of man glorified.

His glory is not in the victory and triumph the disciples had dreamed about; but in the suffering and death of Golgotha. His glory is not in the military conquest the Romans feared; but in the very method Rome used to protect itself. Now, Jesus said as he waited for the end to begin—Now is the Son of Man glorified.

Glory, you see, is the manifestation—the showing forth—of the power and love of God. And at the heart of our faith is the wonderful and terrible realization that nowhere, ever, has that power and that love been show more clearly than upon the cross. If we are ever to approach the depths of our faith, we need to struggle with that fact. This is the glorification of God. The world has never been able to comprehend it; and never will.

The world sees power and glory in the ability to control and manipulate, to destroy, to coerce, to rule and to kill. The world sees no glory in the faithful obedience that results in the cross. Indeed, to the world the cross will always be folly, or a stumbling block to faith, or both; because it is failure. It is exactly to the extent that the world owns us that we will also see the cross as folly—or as a high admission cost to the resurrection. Yet it is exactly and precisely at this moment of darkest tragedy that the Glory of God is revealed—and the time of salvation is at hand. ||This is hard stuff. It is hard to grasp; it is hard to take seriously; it is hard to believe.

Even when we can see a little of the glory of the Cross; even when we can be captured and drawn by a love so bold and so reckless that it does not slow down even in the face of death—even then; we are not quite sure what to do with it. How do we respond to such glory; how do we make it our own; how do we show it a world dying for the lack of it?

That is what Jesus talks about next. He talks about how we are to respond to the glorification of the Son of Man. He talks about how we can make Easter real. The Lord says that if his glorification, if his sacrifice, is to make any sense; if it is to be understood, and cared about; shared and proclaimed, if that is to happen, Jesus says, it will happen if we, and as we, love one another.

We share his glory as we share his life: we share his life as we obey his new commandment. That is the way it works. That is the way we say ‘yes’ to him, to his sacrifice, and to the new life his sacrifice offers. By obedience.

On the night he was betrayed the Lord said: "Now the Son of Man is glorified", and, in order to tie that to our lives, he said, "A new commandment I give to you; that you love one another, even as I have loved you."

As much as we talk about love, as much as we hear about love, as much as we and everybody we know are firmly in favor of love—as central as love is to our vocabulary, our culture, and our lives—we still so easily forget that when Jesus talks of love, he doesn’t mean what we mean when we talk of love.

It is always a struggle to get it through our heads that Jesus does not call us to love one another the way Romeo loved Juliet, not the way Tommy loved Lassie or we love chocolate or even the way we love our mothers. We are commanded to love one another only and precisely in one way—the way Jesus loved us.

Listen again to the new commandment: "Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another". This means that the is only one way we can come fully or deeply to know what this love really is, and that is by learning it from Jesus: there is no other way to get there. That is why much of the Christian life, the life of prayer, sacraments, worship, study, fellowship and service—has to do with discovering the Lord and learning what it looks like for him to love us—so we can discover how we are to love one another.

Knowing that we must look to Jesus to begin to discover the meaning of Christian love is vital. It can protect us from some of the more grotesque mistakes made in the name of love, and it can keep us from confusing what our Lord commands us with what just about every TV commercial in the world promises us we’ll get if we buy what they’re selling.

But there is more. Jesus also talks about why we are to love one another, about one of the things this love is all about. Listen: "By this, everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." The call to love one another is given for mission, for our witness to the world. The Lord wills that this special love for one another be a visible sign to the world of his continuing presence in us.

Here Jesus is not talking primarily about the individual Christian. He is talking about the Christian Community. He is not saying that you, or you, or you individually might be the only Bible some people read. He is saying that we—that St. Mary’s—may be the only Bible many people read—and individually we are part of that witness. And the quality of our life together—the fact we have love for one another—is central to this witness.

We are not given the command to love so that we may feel warm and cozy, or so that we can be secure and comfortable. We are given the command to love for the sake of our mission—so that the Lord may be known by us and through us.

All of these things Jesus spoke of on the night he was betrayed: his glorification, his commandment to love, his will that our love reveal his presence. All of these show us what it looks like to be baptized. They are a call to base our lives, our lives as individuals and, just as importantly, our life as a parish, on him, and on his life.

Stewardship is about how we handle things that are entrusted to us. It’s about what we do with our stuff, our physical and our not–so–physical stuff. It has to do with lived-out gratitude, gratitude that doesn’t just sit there, but goes someplace.

Which brings us to the Gospel. Do you realize that the disciples were, in very important ways, the luckiest people in the world. They knew Jesus personally, they watched him, they lived with him, they listened to what he had to say—and in doing all of that, they learned about who he was, and what he did and what he thought was really important and what was not.

Now, to be sure, the disciples usually messed this up. They ignored what they didn’t want to hear, they pretended they knew more than Jesus did, and they did all of the things folks then and now do to dodge what Jesus is up to. Now, I don’t believe for a

second that it was one bit easier for the disciples to follow Jesus than it is for us to do the same thing; and I am certain that it is more fun for us now to think about how neat it was to be a disciple back then, than it actually was for them to be disciples.

None the less, they were there, they saw and they heard. They were given the great gift, the great blessing, of being with Jesus as he lived among them as a human being.

No one else in the history of the human race has ever had that gift. They didn’t particularly deserve it or plan for it or anything like that; they weren’t even sure they liked it a lot of the time, but there they were.

Now, many times in the Gospels Jesus either told the disciples, or strongly hinted to them, some of the expected consequences of being the luckiest people in all of history. (This is one of the reasons they sometimes didn’t like discipling very much.) The passage from Luke’s Gospel we just heard is one of those times.

Jesus sent 70 of the disciples out (which was probably pretty much all he had on hand.) He sent them out to do basically what he did, and in that they would learn a bit more of what it meant to be follow him. Let’s look at that.

First of all, why seventy? Just one chapter earlier, Jesus had sent out the twelve to do pretty much exactly the same thing. Also, both Matthew and Mark as well as Luke tell the story of sending out the 12; nobody but Luke even hints of the mission of the 70. Odd.

The key here is that virtually every number in the Bible means more than just a total from counting or ciphering. Numbers tell stories, they make a point. Here the point is pretty clear. There were twelve tribes of Israel—and that’s why there were twelve disciples. So, to send the twelve out to preach and heal points strongly to a ministry to Israel. The twelve are sent out to Israel, and no where.

On the other hand, There is in the book of Genesis a list of all the Gentile nations in the world—all of the nations outside of Israel.

And if you count them all up, guess what the total is. Right, 70. By sending out 70 disciples to proclaim the kingdom and to heal, Jesus is saying that who he is and what he does is not just for the disciples, and not just for Israel, but for the whole word—not just for his nation; but for every nation. Matthew and Mark didn’t record the sending out of the 70 because they didn’t really think the Gentiles were all that important—Luke did; so did Jesus.

So, Jesus sends these lucky people out as a sign that he is for the whole world. And he sends them out in a special way—he gives them very specific instructions. Jesus says they are to go to the world in a way that is totally at odds with the world. The world, their world and ours, values things like money, security, surplus, leisure, status, ease, and the power that comes of the treat of violence. That’s not news, it has been ever thus. But notice how Jesus deliberately deprives his disciples of each one of these. They are sent empty; as the world counts empty. (This was doubtless one of the times when being so lucky was not really all that much fun.)

And the fact is, the disciples wanted those things that Jesus took away from them. They wanted greatness, they wanted to rule, they wanted to be the great and the good of their age. And, if you remember the Gospel from last week, they were also just dying to command fire to come down from heaven to consume somebody, anybody. But there they were. It was doubtless difficult for them, and there were; just to show they could. Doubtless there were setbacks and failures.

Still, part of what it means to have the great gift of knowing Jesus is to be sent to anybody and everybody that we may be, in whatever ways it is ours to be, a witness to Jesus.

And we are to do this, not as the world does such things; but as Jesus commanded such things be done. We are to care about the world, but we are to have different values, concerns, and methods from the world. The disciples were not only to share what they had been given from Jesus, but to share it in a special way, in Jesus’ way. That’s how our Lord wants us to show our gratitude for any of our stuff, material or not.

Which segues rather well into the Fourth of July, and the fact that, from a human, material, and political perspective, we are indeed the luckiest people who have ever lived. We have been given great gifts—gifts given by God and our forbearers, gifts passed on to us by grace and through great sacrifice, gifts that show us, and our nation, to be as blessed in our way, as the disciples were in theirs.

I am convinced that absolutely the first response to such great gifts is a response of gratitude. We are greatly blessed; we have been given much, we are heirs of a great legacy, and we are called to carry that legacy forward.

I think that, in our privileged position as Christians here and now, we are a bit like those 70 disciples. We are called to share what we have been given, not just with ourselves, but with others near and distant. And we are called to do so in ways that reflect for us in our day what the Lord wanted of those disciples in theirs.

Now, that’s not a plan or an agenda or a program or a list of things to do. It is a vision; and a hope and a dream for us as we give thanks for the wonderful gifts we have been give, and as we seek to make our gratitude real by reaching beyond ourselves; and by reaching as Jesus would have us do.

A surprising amount of information about them can be discovered from these few verses of Luke. Let’s look at Martha first. She is the head of her household. For a Jewish woman of the first century, this is a sign of great tragedy. It means she is either a widow or has never married; which further means that she has virtually no social standing. Her situation was generally, seen as a sign of God’s displeasure. Such women were expected to be as invisible as possible, and to cling quietly to what little life their culture offered them.

Then, Jesus’ journey to the cross brought Him to Martha’s village, and Martha, either by rumor or by appearance, found Jesus compelling. So, Martha did an unthinkable thing: She invited this stranger, this rabbi, this man, into her home. (She probably invited a whole herd of disciples in as well, but that made no difference.) In receiving Jesus in this way, Martha is, in her own way, selling everything and buying the pearl of great price. It is a bold and reckless action that struck at convention, ignored propriety, and was totally scandalous. She saw an opportunity of great value, and she reached for that, ignoring all that stood in the way. Her actions are both courageous, and little bizarre. No doubt, people would talk.

So, Jesus enters Martha’s house and begins to teach. (The Greek makes it clear that he is not chatting about the weather; He is giving His word, the content of His message.)

Meanwhile, Mary—the other one—has been watching all of this, doubtless with great interest. Imagine Mary. Early in Jesus’ visit she sees Martha busy in the kitchen, and she hears a few captivating words from Jesus. Now it is Mary’s turn to make a decision. It is a big decision. The issue was not housework versus study club. The issue actually pulled at the very fabric of society. You see, there were only a few things a woman could do that were worse than inviting a strange rabbi into her house. Being taught by such a rabbi was one of them. Here are two contemporary Rabbinic sayings Mary surely knew: The rabbis said: "It is better to burn the Torah than to teach it to a woman," and "It is better to teach a daughter to be a prostitute than to teach her the Torah."

For a woman to listen to someone teach about the Torah was just wrong. But Mary had been watching her sister, and Mary had discovered in Jesus the same power, the same draw, that Martha had. So, Mary sat down and began to listen, to hear the word of Jesus. For Mary to do this was unthinkable. It is a bold and reckless action that struck at convention, ignored propriety, and was totally scandalous.

She saw an opportunity of great value, and she reached for that, ignoring all that stood in the way. Her actions were both courageous and a little bizarre. No doubt, people would talk.

You see, Martha and Mary are not just symbols, or types of people. They are real folks, interesting, gutsy women who were very much alike, and who were willing to risk much for an opportunity to be with Jesus. All of this puts a fresh light on the spat between them.

Jesus has been watching both Martha and Mary. He has seen each of them in turn make her radical choice; and He has supported them. He accepted Martha’s invitation and entered the house. He continued to teach as Mary sat at His feet and listened. (By the way, both of these were very improper actions for any respectable rabbi.) Jesus clearly admires them both.

Then, Martha comes to Him with her little complaint: there is work to be done, ordinary, regular work. It is appropriate and right for Mary to help with that. Mary has always helped with that, and Jesus should tell her to help now.

The Lord’s reply is surprisingly kind. His answer to Martha is the most gentle response Jesus ever gives to a hypocrite. One thing is needful, Jesus says to Martha. Martha knows that, Martha went to great lengths and took great risks for that one thing—the presence of Jesus. Now Mary is doing exactly what Martha did, and Martha is whining because it is inconvenient. You see, the real issue here is not who does the dishes. The real issue is the meaning of Jesus, the consequences of His presence.

The presence of the Lord changes things. Life will be different—some of the old rules and old patterns will not work once He has arrived. His presence will bring, among other things, inconvenience and the need to re-evaluate and restructure.

That was Martha’s mistake. She assumed that she could invite Jesus into her home, into her life, and then return to business as usual, with nothing else any different. Or at least she would be the one who decided what would be different and what wouldn’t.

Jesus was telling Martha, and us, that it doesn’t work that way. Once Jesus is invited in, once He begins to becomes a part of things, then sooner or later all of life will be different, all of life will be changed. To expect or to demand otherwise, as Martha did, is to misunderstand the Lord. Jesus does not fit neatly into a world and a life that is already pretty well constructed. Jesus is not a missing piece in an otherwise complete existence.

Jesus messes things up. He forces everything to be reconsidered and re-evaluated—and, alas, there is no telling what that re-evaluation is going to look like. In this story, the way the household works is going to be different now; and there were no doubt going to be other changes as well. Both Mary and Martha were different. Jesus had been there. Life changes when Jesus is invited in. That’s the real key to this story.

Don’t forget to think about Mary and Martha as people, not just as types. Listen to their story—to their courage and their audacity; to their strengths and their weaknesses—listen and try it on.

Remember, when Jesus is invited in, things change.