The lessons we hear each Sunday follow a calendar that was set up years ago. Sometimes I love the lectionary. Sometimes I hate it. And then there are weeks like this, when I’m not sure whether the lectionary is a blessing or a curse.

Because, you see, we’re starting our annual stewardship campaign next week, and here Jesus is talking about camels and eyes of needles.

Wow. Things sure were different in biblical times.

From what today’s Gospel tells us, it sounds like there was a group of people who claimed to follow Jesus, but they did things a bit differently than another group of people who also claimed to follow Jesus. And then one of the groups tried to interfere with the other group.

Crazy, right? That would never happen today. Today, we’re all just one big happy family. Isn’t it great that we’re past all that?

We don’t have to do anything to earn God’s love. God’s love is certain, even before we ask.

But a life of faith is how we live in response to God’s love. And a life of faith has two parts: believing and acting.

The believing part is finding the courage to answer Jesus’s question for ourselves: “who do you say that I am?”

The acting part is choosing to follow him, whatever that choice might cost us.

What does that look like?

Jesus says it looks like denying yourself. It looks like taking up a cross. Losing your life for his sake and for the sake of the gospel.

That sounds difficult—but it also sounds exciting and important.

But I think one of the hardest things about a life of faith is that most of the time it isn’t so dramatic. Most of the time, it’s lived out in small ways, tiny gestures. A kind word. A glass of water. A moment of rudeness forgiven. A quiet prayer.

Sometimes when you read the Bible, it’s like God’s speaking directly to you. The message is clear, simple, straightforward. But sometimes it’s not so easy. You wrestle with the text. Its meaning and message remains a stubborn mystery.

The Bible isn’t a single book. It’s more of a library—a collection of texts written in three original languages, over more than a thousand years, in locations spanning well over a thousand miles.

We need to pay attention to that history—to that context—not to change the Bible’s meaning, but to understand it more clearly.

We love our traditions. I love our traditions.

But at least at first glance, Jesus’s words in today’s Gospel aren’t very complimentary about the traditions we hold so dear.

Jesus says that the tradition isn’t what matters. What matters is what’s in your heart.

I recently asked my phone what I needed to do to make my life easy. It gave me a lot of advice. Some of it was even good advice. Get enough sleep. Create a budget. Go for a walk every day.

Some of the advice was oddly specific. Use an electric toothbrush. Drink celery juice every morning. Only buy one brand of socks.

I’m pretty sure I’ll never add celery juice to my daily routine, but the rest of the tips were at least worth considering.

The real problem was the question I asked: “How can I make my life easy?” The algorithm was apparently too polite to give me the real answer.

“How can I make my life easy?”
“You can’t.”

[Image: Image: https://www.flickr.com/photos/katieharbath/4249809778]

If you’ve been in church for the past several weeks, you’ve heard about the feeding of 5000 people with five loaves of barley bread. You’ve heard Jesus call himself the bread of life. The living bread that comes down from heaven. A new and better manna in the wilderness. And next week he’ll say it again.

We’re hearing about it a lot. Maybe this bread thing is important.

Elijah is the greatest prophet of the Hebrew Bible. So what is he doing hiding in the wilderness begging God to end his life? Shouldn’t a prophet be more resilient?

Growing in maturity looks like being ever more fully yourself. It looks like living ever more completely into God’s will. Maturity includes strength, but it’s a strength that has no need to prove itself.

I think that’s at least part of what it means to “no longer be children.”

And I suspect that it’s that kind of maturity that allows us become again like a child. To love simply and purely. To know without doubt that we are who and what God made us to be.

Peace has always been an aspiration of Christian life, but we haven’t always done a very good job of making it a reality. It sometimes feels like we get it wrong more often than we get it right.

I’d like to tell you one story in which I find hope. It’s grim at the beginning, but there’s light at the end of it.

“Don’t be afraid.” The words can be comforting. They’re words you might say to a child frightened by a thunderstorm. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t worry. Everything will be ok.”

But I’m not at all sure that that’s how Jesus meant those words. I think Jesus told us not to be afraid at least in part because fear itself is dangerous. Fear can make us abandon our principles. It can make us refuse to see the truth in front of us. Fear can make us do terrible things.

I’m beginning to understand “be not afraid” less as comfort and more as command. Don’t be afraid. Instead, have faith. Don’t be afraid. Instead, follow your conscience—no matter what doing so might cost you.

Here are a few practical lessons I take from today’s Gospel reading:

First is this: The assumptions that other people make might make it harder for you to be heard, but that shouldn’t stop you from acting. Your past doesn’t control your future.

Second, we need one another. It helps to go out two by two.

Finally, we don’t have to have all our ducks in a row in order to make a difference. Trust in God. Have the courage to set out—no bread, no bag, no credit card, no strategic plan, no safety net. It won’t always work out. If it doesn’t, shake the dust off your feet and move on. But sometimes it will work out. And enough “sometimes” might just change the world.

May we each find the courage to go where God sends us. And faith enough to travel light.

In a few minutes, we’ll baptize a baby, and we’ll remember our own baptisms. Baptism is a beginning. An entry onto a spiritual path. A first step into becoming more like Christ.

But how do we continue down that path? How do we live a Christian life?

“Do you not care that we are perishing?”

It was the cry of disciples in a storm-tossed boat on the sea of Galilee. It was the cry of people at the edge of despair, the cry of those trapped in darkness and chaos and afraid for their lives.

“Do you not care that we are perishing?”

Maybe there’s been a time when it’s been your cry as well.

“Don’t you care?”

“God, don’t you care that I’m frightened, overwhelmed, grieving, in pain? Why don’t you answer? Why don’t you do something?”

Why is this happening?

The kingdom of God, Jesus says, is like a mustard seed. A tiny seed that grows into …“the greatest of all shrubs.” Some preachers will go on and on about how amazing a mustard tree is, but as far as I can tell, that’s mostly wishful thinking

The greatest of all shrubs. It’s a bit like saying the most well-pedigreed of all mutts, or the swiftest of all donkeys, or the most gourmet bowl of oatmeal. There’s nothing wrong with mutts or donkeys or oatmeal, but “great” isn’t usually the first adjective that springs to mind to describe them.

The question of why evil persists has always been one of the hardest questions to answer. I can’t give you a better answer than the book of Genesis does.

Here’s the good news. I do know that the horror movies get it wrong and the adventure movies get it right. Life is hard, evil exists, but good wins out in the end.

When was the last time you spent twenty-four hours resting? Not turning on the television or the computer or picking up your phone. Not mowing the lawn. Not running errands or taking out the trash. Not cooking a meal. Just resting, talking to loved ones, maybe spending some time in prayer.