Buried by God: A sermon for Proper 25A, 2026

Proper 26A
October 25. 2026

Maybe it’s because I spent this week at the Society of St. John the Evangelist, in silence, praying and chanting the daily office with the monks. Maybe it’s because of the books I was reading as well—about mysticism, prayer, doubt, and despair. Maybe it’s because of where I am in my life, or because it’s fall and the beautiful weather, the riotous color of the trees, the luminous sunlight  and with it all the encroaching darkness of winter.

Whatever the case, when I turned today’s readings a few days ago and read again the familiar story of Moses’ death and burial, and the author’s description of him as one “whom the Lord knew face to face,” that brief comment prompted reflection on Moses’ biography and the contours of his relationship with God.

Over the past weeks, we’ve heard readings from Exodus that begin with his birth and rescue by Pharaoh’s daughter; his murder of an Egyptian slave master and flight into the wilderness. We have learned of his call by God to lead the Hebrews out of bondage and to the Promised Land, the dramatic deliverance of the Hebrews at the Red Sea. We were told of his struggles with the Israelites in the wilderness, and the giving of the Ten Commandments.

Through it all, and not always foregrounded, has been Moses’ complex and changing relationship with God. There was his dramatic, paradigmatic encounter with God at Mt. Horeb: the burning bush; Moses’ call, and God’s self-revelation: I will be who I will be.

There was the later encounter with God when the whole of the Israelite people came to the foot of Mt. Sinai, also known as Mt. Horeb. When God spoke out of the earthquake, wind, and fire, the people recoiled in fear and asked that God speak only to Moses as their mediator. He went up the mountain and was enclosed by a cloud from which God spoke to him and dictated the 10 Commandments and other laws. When he came down the mountain, we’re told his face shone, and he veiled it so that the people were not frightened by it.

But what prompted all of this reflection on my part was something that hit me while I was reading this verse from today’s Deuteronomy reading: “Never since has there arisen a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom  Lord knew face to face.”

Remember last week’s reading from Exodus? Moses asked to see God’s glory, and; God responded: “no one can see my face and live.” Instead, God showed Moses God’s backside. That’s quite a contradiction, isn’t it, and I’m curious if it has puzzled commentator over the centuries as much as the reference to God’s “backside” has. But I think, and this may be only because of what I’ve been doing, and reading, over the past few days, that it’s one of those contradictions in scripture that points us to something much deeper, something that deserves our closer attention.

You may well wonder why I’m going on about all this, especially because of the language that’s being used and the imagery it invokes. We’re meant to imagine a God very like us, with a face and a backside at least. It conjures up pictures of the old white man with a beard in the sky, and we’re all quite beyond that. Our theologies are much more sophisticated. We know better.

But beneath the homey, earthy imagery lies deeper truth. It points to the intimacy and depth of the relationship between Moses and God. Perhaps there’s no better example of the power of that imagery than in another detail that fascinates me in the Deuteronomy passage. We’re told that when Moses died, God buried him.

Here, we have an allusion to one of the most intimate, heart-breaking, universal actions that humans experience. Indeed, burial may be one of those things that sets us apart as humans from other animals, that we take care of our dead. It is attested in the archaeology of the earliest human cultures. At the same time, it is an experience from which we moderns are insulated—by the funeral industry and the depth of our own emotions. I’ve had the experience many times of being in a room where someone has recently passed, and their loved ones, or even professional caregivers have been reluctant, or even refused to touch the body of the deceased. And at cemeteries where the space in which the coffin, or the urn will be placed is carefully concealed by a carpet of fake grass. It’s even the case, that the funeral director will hand me a vial of (presumably antiseptic) sand to cast on the coffin when I say “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” rather than offend sensibilities with clumps of earth in the pile concealed under the blanket of fake grass.

To image God, the Creator of the universe, deigning to pick up a shovel, dig a hole and bury the body of his beloved servant and prophet Moses, is at it once cringe-worthy and deeply moving. What does that intimate gesture tell us about their relationship?

If you find that image troubling or offensive, that’s ok. You’re not the first to do so; we’re not the first Christians to struggle with that image. It’s been a problem since the beginning of our faith. Theologians and ordinary Christians have found ways to reinterpret and reimagine such imagery to make it meaningful for their lives and s faith. WiWhat sort of imagery from your personal experience might you draw on that could help you enter into as intimate a relationship with God as that of God burying his beloved servant Moses?

But such language can offer us comfort and strengthen our faith. To imagine a God so intimately involved in the lives of those God loves, a God whose concern and care extends to the clothes on our back or the disposition of our final remains, a God who knows us face to face, can be a source of strength when we struggle or stumble.

And it also, I think, helps us reflect in a new way on the story from the gospel, in which a lawyer asks Jesus to prioritize the commandments. Jesus’ response is hardly revolutionary.  His words are quotations from Deuteronomy and Leviticus, straight out of Moses’ law,Moreover a contemporary of his, Rabbi Hillel, is remembered to have said in response to a similar question, “What is hateful to you do not do to your neighbor; that is the whole Torah, the rest is commentary; go and learn it.”

We have compartmentalized so much of ourselves, so much of our lives. We place our faith in God in one small sphere of our lives, for Sunday mornings, for example, or for those quiet moments of prayer  and meditation. We think of love as an emotion, we talk of falling in or out of love, or we say, we love this or that food, or activity. We are commanded, in Deuteronomy, here in Jesus’ words, to love the Lord our God with all of our heart, soul, and mind—we might say “with all of our selves, with our whole being.” I’m not sure I can even fathom what that might look like for me, what that would be like to love God with all of myself. And then, on top of that, we are commanded to love our neighbor as ourself. Is that even possible?

Here’s where I think the earthy, intimate image of God burying Moses might be of help. For in that very human, incredibly intimate action—I bet most of us are turned off by it, by the idea of the transcendent, immortal, invisible, omniscient, omnipotent, being though of performing that very intimate even offensive act, who of us could imagine, in this day and age, actually burying a loved one with our own hands—in that incredibly intimate action, we see a parable of God’s love for us. Imagine God lowering Godself to care for us so intimately. Imagine that love. If God can love us so powerfully and intimately, how can we not love God with the same intensity, with our whole selves, hearts, minds, and souls. And if God can love us, how can we not love our selves? And how can we not love our neighbors, and the stranger with our whole being, loved, as it is, by God?

Gotcha Questions and the Image of God: A Sermon for Proper 24A, 2026

October 18, 2026

Picture the scene. It’s the week before Passover in Jerusalem. Tensions are running high, as they always do in this season. It’s Roman practice to bring additional troops down to Jerusalem to help with crowd control and to be close at hand in case the usual disturbances break into open revolt.

On Sunday, a small group of ragtag peasants and fisherfolk from Galilee, led by their rabbi, had entered the city. They staged some sort of public display. It’s not clear how many of them there were, but there was a donkey and palm fronds. It was clearly drawing on imagery from Jewish scripture and history—this was imagery associated with the Davidic monarchy, and it’s likely that the leader was making some sort of messianic claims, interpreted by his followers and hangers-on as a call to rebellion against Rome.

The first thing they did after entering Jerusalem was to go to the temple. Most tourists did that, for Jews, the temple was likely the reason they had come to Jerusalem. It was spectacular—rebuilt by Herod the Great, still under construction. It gleamed with marble and gold in the distance. But this group didn’t go to the temple to worship or offer sacrifice. Their leader entered the temple courtyard, headed straight for the tables of the moneychangers, and again, caused some sort of disturbance, overturning the tables, crying out against their presence in this sacred space.

They left the city, it was evening, and went to the nearby town of Bethany, where they spent the night (either with friends, or because the accommodations were cheaper there than in the city during a high tourist season).

The next day, they came back in and headed straight for the temple again. And over the course of that day, their leader, Jesus taught and engaged in conversation and debate with various religious figures and groups. Over the course of this day, things get more pointed, as Jesus directs his attention at the religious elite, criticizing them for their actions and telling parables that are clearly directed at them. At one point, Matthew reports that the chief priests and Pharisees wanted to take action against him, arrest him, but they held back because of the crowds that were listening to him. It may also have been that they weren’t sure what charges they could bring against, whether those charges would stick, and whether they could convince the Romans that Jesus was enough of a threat to go after him.

So, some Pharisees and Herodians got together. That in itself is quite interesting. They were two groups that had little in common and were political opponents. The Herodians, as the name suggests, were supporters of Herod’s family, who had come to power through their connections with Rome. While they had done things to ingratiate themselves with the Jewish populace, like rebuiliding and expanding the temple, they were despised because of their support for Rome. The Pharisees were generally opposed to the Roman occupation, though they were unlikely to support armed revolt.

So when these two groups come together to ask Jesus this question, “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the Emperor,” they think they’ve got Jesus trapped. The Herodians would say yes, the Pharisees likely would say no (but pay anyway). And if Jesus agrees with either of them, he’s in trouble. If he says “yes” he would likely lose whatever popular support he had. If he says “no,” they can have him arrested for sedition.

A classic “Gotcha” question. We see them all the time; especially now, in the midst of the campaign for midterm elections, with so much at stake. Journalists, influencers, and the like, try to get candidates to say embarrassing things, confront them with past statements, seek to create soundbites that will go viral.

But, as is usually the case in these dialogues between Jesus and his opponents or questioners, Jesus turns the question back on them. First he asked them for a coin. Then he asked them a question, Whose image and title is on the coin? Caesar’s was their reply.

Already, there’s a great deal of interesting stuff in this story. Jesus asks for a coin, and out comes from someone’s pockets, a denarius. In the Roman Empire, coins were minted with the image of the emperor. Because of the commandment against images, however, most Jews considered Roman coinage, with the emperor’s image and an inscription alluding to his divinity idolatrous. In fact, special coinage without an image of the empire was minted and used in the Jewish temple precincts, where this conversation took place. It would have been embarrassing, to say the least, for one of Jesus’ interrogators to come out with such a coin.

Jesus asks them a question when the coin is offered: “Whose likeness does it bear?” The Greek word Matthew uses here is “ikon” It’s the same word used in the Greek translation of Genesis 1:26, when God says, ““Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness.” And I suspect that Matthew had that connection in mind. He wanted his readers to reflect on the significance of what it means to bear the “image and likeness” of God.

Jesus may have avoided the trap that the Pharisees and Herodians laid for him. But he has left us with important questions. What does it mean to be created in the image and likeness of God? It’s not just that as we humans we all share that same nature, being created in the image and likeness of God—that we need to remember that all of us, whatever our ethnic background or nationality, whatever our sexual orientation, gender identification, whatever our political views, our economic status, we are all created in God’s image and likeness. It’s also that remembering whose image we bear ought to make a difference in the way we live our lives, in our actions, in our goals and aspirations. What difference would it make, if, as we think about decisions we have to make, the choices we’re faced with, we paused for a moment and asked ourselves, Will what I do, what I choose show to myself and others that I bear God’s image and likeness?

Think for a moment, about how you might make sense of Jesus’ next sentence, “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, give to God what is God’s,” if you approach it from the perspective of being created in God’s image and likeness.

This little sentence has become one of the proof texts for a certain understanding of the relationship of church and state, the relationship between the competing demands of the government and our Christian faith. Most of us view it somewhat simplistically. As citizens of the US, we are obligated to obey the government, pay taxes, and the like, and our faith is a largely personal, private thing. But if we are created in God’s image and likeness, if we bear that image and likeness, and if we are called to shape our lives, remake our image and likeness according to the model of that image and likeness revealed to us in Jesus Christ, then limiting our faith to a private, individual corner of our full and busy lives, seems like quite an inadequate response to the God who created us.

And so it may be that as we live out our lives, seeking to be faithful followers of Jesus Christ, bearers of God’s image and likeness, these two questions—what does it mean for our daily lives that we bear God’s image and likeness, and that second question, how do we embody, live out, that command, “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, Give to God what is God’s,” are the most important questions we face.

Don’t forget your tux! A Sermon for National Coming Out Day, 2027

October 11, 2026

Today we are observing “Coming Out Day” which is observed every year on this day, October 11. To recognize it in our worship is to acknowledge the importance of members of the LGBTQ+ community in our midst and in the wider world, and to offer a special welcome to those members of that community who have been ostracized or traumatized by religious communities in the past and also on behalf of our fellow Christians, past and present, to lament the harm that has been and is done in the name of Christianity, and to repent of our own actions and those of our denomination and wider Anglican Communion.

Such an observance is especially important now as we have seen new attacks on the LBTQ+ community and especially on those who are trans. While it is heartening that in our diocese, a Trans priest has been called as Dean of the Cathedral of All Saints in Milwaukee, in the wider culture trans individuals are increasingly marginalized and vilified. 

At first glance, or on a superficial reading, today’s parable might seem perfectly suited for an occasion like today. It’s the familiar Parable of the Wedding Banquet. In Matthew’s version, a king throws a wedding banquet for his son and invites all of the usual guests. When they send their regrets, he sends his servants out into the city to invite everyone in to fill the banquet hall. It seems to be a parable of welcome and inclusion, appropriate for a Sunday such as this.

But not so fast. When you pay attention to the details, the parable becomes quite problematic, even, dare I say it, offensive. Let’s recall the context. Remember, Jesus is teaching in the temple during the last week of his life. The week began with what is called the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, which we commemorate on Palm Sunday. That event is immediately followed by Jesus’ entering the Temple and overturning the tables of the moneychangers. The next day, Jesus enters into debate with the chief priests and Pharisees, who question his authority and, we’re told, want to have him arrested but fear the crowds because of his popularity. It’s then that he tells the parable we heard last year, of the wicked tenants who killed the landlord’s servants and sons. 

As I was preaching this at the 8:00 service, it occurred to me that in Luke’s version of this parable a verse appears that has had powerful impact in the Christian tradition. In Luke’s version, the master tells the slave “Compel them to come in.” St. Augustine of Hippo used that proof text to argue for the Roman Empire’s forcing heretics and schismatics to join the Catholic Church, and to punish them if they didn’t. That’s hardly a message of inclusion, is it!

Today’s parable follows that one and it shares some of the same details. Again, it begins with Jesus saying “The kingdom of heaven is like this…” Remember as I have said repeatedly, when trying to make sense of Jesus’ parables, look for surprising, even inexplicable, behavior. And there’s plenty of that here. First of all, a king throws a wedding banquet for his son and sends out invitations. Now, if you’re invited to a royal wedding banquet, in what universe would you send your regrets? I mean, it’s the party of the year, the party of the decade. We probably can all still call to mind the royal weddings of Harry and William, right? Who was there, what the guests were wearing, Bishop Curry’s sermon at Harry and Meghan’s weddin.

But the bizarre behavior doesn’t end there. When the king extends the second invitation to the same A-list, instead of politely saying no, the invited guests kill the servants who have brought the invitations—Huh? What’s that about? In response, the king lays waste to the city. 

So now he sends his servants out again, (into a destroyed city, I suppose) and invites everyone else, “both good and bad,” to the feast. So far, so good, perhaps.

But then comes the incident with the man who is attending without a wedding garment. Again, consider the situation. The slaves invited everyone whom they encountered to the wedding banquet. Presumably, the banquet was about to begin. Where was the guy going to rent a tux at the last minute? In its original context, Matthew may have intended this bit of the parable to be directed precisely at those who weren’t prepared for what was to come, or as a reminder that the community gathered in the name of Christ may have been inclusive, but it also required certain ethical behaviors. We’ve seen such insistence earlier around the instructions concerning confessing sins and community conflict.

It’s not a reassuring message—we love to say “Come as you are” and “All are welcome here.” We want to be inclusive, welcoming, all those positive things. But let’s face it. Following Jesus has consequences, requires commitment, demands of us that we grow into his image and likeness; that we follow his teachings. And some of that, much of it, is hard. It was hard for Jesus’ first followers; it was hard for the community to which Matthew was addressing his gospel. It has been hard for Christians down through the centuries.

It is hard now. Bearing witness to inclusion and welcome when our government is detaining, killing, and transporting immigrants and refugees can be dangerous. Bearing witness to inclusion and welcome when LGBTQ+ individuals are again marginalized and trans people are scapegoated by politicians and the wider culture is unpopular. Advocating for a nation and community where all—people of color, immigrants, LGBTQ+, are able to flourish, to express themselves, to participate in our democracy and our cultural institutions can have consequences. The fact that the pride flag that flew from our tower sign was torn down repeatedly until we hung it out of reach of passers-by was a nuisance, but also a reminder of the environment in which we live. 

A few months ago, as I was standing outside the church greeting people, I was confronted by a man who decided to share with me what he thought the bible had to say about homosexuality. I listened to him patiently before entering the church to begin worship. As he harangued me, I thought about asking him if he was going to be going to church that day, or if he thought it unnecessary. Rather ironic, don’t you think, that he felt comfortable quoting scripture to me but didn’t seem to think it important to participate in Christian community.

From time to time, I’m reminded of the struggles the Episcopal Church endured in the years after 2003 and the election of Gene Robinson as our first openly-gay bishop. It was a long, painful road to full inclusion of LGBT+ people in the life of the church and the authorization of same-sex marriage. There are those in the the wider society who would even now welcome the reversal of those gains. And there may be some among us today who wish we wouldn’t talk about such matters, that it is unseemly to do so.

But as followers of Jesus, as the body of Christ, we are called to extend God’s love and mercy to all human beings, to embrace them in their diversity and difference, to offer them space to flourish and grow. As Paul writes in 1 Corinthians, all are members of the body of Christ, and the body needs all of its members. The presence of LGBT+ Christians in our community creates a stronger, more resilient, more creative body that bears witness to God’s grace and love. Thanks be to God!

Vineyards of Generosity: A Sermon for Proper 20A, September 20, 2026

I want you to picture in your mind a vineyard. Do you evoke memories of visits to vineyards in France or Italy, or maybe Napa Valley? Can you see the rolling hills, the vines, the ripe grapes, perhaps even workers harvesting. Perhaps it’s a memory of one of those movies that have been popular in recent years, appealing to nostalgia, or authenticity—the scene of an extended family sitting at a table groaning with food; and bottles of wine. Corrie and I recently watched Eva Longoria’s series on French cuisine that featured many such scenes in Burgundy, Alsace, and elsewhere.

In the biblical tradition, the vineyard is a symbol of God’s bounty and goodness. The bounty of the vineyard becomes wine that gladdens the heart. And God is the one who tends the vines and presides over the bountiful feast.

But such images of joyous celebration and bucolic relaxation belie the backbreaking labor that is required to tend the vines and harvest the grapes and the narrow margins with which most vineyards operate. Earlier this summer, I read a story in the New York Times about Napa Valley vineyard owners who are burning their vines because of the glut on the market, caused in some part by our current trade wars.

In the Palestine of Jesus’ day, there was also an economic transformation taking place, as small landholders were losing their land to the consolidation of agricultural production of vineyards, wheat, and olive groves. It’s likely that among the day laborers mentioned in today’s parable were just such people who had lost their land and livelihood and were forced to seek work everyday.

The parable we just heard is often interpreted allegorically—with the landowner standing in for God. On this view, the laborers who were hired at the beginning of the day are usually understood to be Jews, and those who come into the vineyard in the course of the day are the Gentiles who receive the gift of God’s grace. That the earliest workers grumble when they find out they are paid the same amount as those who worked only an hour, feeds into traditional anti-semitic tropes. 

As I’ve often said, parables are meant to unsettle us, to challenge us to see the world in a new way, from a new perspective. This one is no different. In these little stories, we should look for strange behavior, for actions that don’t make sense and explore how those actions and behaviors might challenge our assumptions about the world and God.

There’s plenty of strange behavior in this story. The landowner, for example. He begins the day just the way that landowners and farmers have begun the day for thousands of years, contracting with workers to see that the harvest is brought in. We might assume that he hired all the help he needed the first time he went into the market square. And when he hired them, he and the workers bargained on the pay they would receive. Presumably all were satisfied.

It’s now the landowner begins to act strangely. He comes back into the marketplace throughout the day (One might think that he would want to stay back and oversee the harvest). And throughout the day, he continues to hire workers. What’s his motive for this? Does he really need the additional help or is this his way of helping men who lost out on the opportunity for a full day’s wage? But as the story progresses, something else rather interesting happens. While he clearly stated to the first groups that he would pay them a day’s wage, when it came to the last ones, the ones who worked for just an hour, there was no mention of the pay they would receive. It’s almost as if he ordered them to go, and that they had no idea, no reason to know what pay they might expect. In this situation they lacked power and rights.

The odd behavior continues at the end of the day when the landowner passes out the laborers’ pay. Instead of settling up with those who had been working all day, he starts with the ones who came last. And he pays them a full day’s wage! We can all imagine the surprise and joy we would feel if we were treated that way. We can also imagine the anger and frustration we would feel if we were the ones who worked all day and received the agreed-upon wage, rather than much more. If they received a day’s wage for one hour’s work, it’s only fair that we receive nine times that amount for our nine hours of work.

There’s another way the landowner’s behavior is strange and inexplicable. This is no rational way for an employer to operate. He had better hope they finished the harvest that day, because if he goes out the next morning to hire workers to finish up, do you think anyone would agree to work for him? No, they would all wait, hang out all day, then show up in the market place at the last minute, in hopes of getting a day’s wage for an hour’s work. And all of the other landowners would be angry as well, because they could expect similar behavior from the pool of day laborers.

So, lots of questions… But the fundamental one is this: how does this parable explain or shed light on the reign of God? Matthew introduces this story with Jesus saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like …” That intro prompts us to allegorize it as a story about God offering grace and salvation. But how might have Jesus’ listeners heard this story? We can assume that many of them knew all too well the rigors and challenges of life as a day laborer? How would they have judged the landowner’s behavior? Would they have commiserated with those who were jealous at the latecomers? Would they remember days they had spent in the hot sun, working themselves to the bone, all for a meager sum that was enough for one person to live on, but not enough to provide for a whole family? 

In negotiating with and paying the first set of laborers a denarius, the landowner was acting justly—he paid the agreed-upon wage. In paying those who came later the same amount, he was acting with generosity. 

I find the different settings of the parable instructive. On the one hand, there’s the marketplace where the landowner conducts his business, hires his workers. On the other hand there is the vineyard, where the abundance of God’s grace is on display. The grapes that are being harvested will be turned into wine, a symbol of God’s love and extravagance. 

In the parable, we see the values of the market place being subverted by the values of God’s vineyard. As the day progresses, best practices in business give way to something else, as the landowner orders the laborers into the vineyard without first establishing their pay. When he does pay, everyone is treated equally, it’s not equal pay for equal work; it’s equal pay for each person.

It’s a bit like the story from the Hebrew Bible we heard—God’s gift of manna in the wilderness. God provided food for the Israelites, just enough for each person per day. There was abundance, but no hoarding because the manna would spoil.

We hear a great deal about economic anxiety today, about people worrying about whether they will have a secure future or whether their children will live as comfortably as they do. Along with that, there is a sense that some people receive benefits they don’t deserve, that they haven’t earned. We’re locked in competition with others, and so often our own status, our own sense of self is tied up in how much we make, what we own. It’s a dog eat dog world, and we want to come out on top. 

This parable points to a very different reality. In the vineyard, it doesn’t matter how hard you worked, when you started, where you came from. There’s enough to go around. It’s a world of abundance and generosity, not a world of scarcity and competition. Can we imagine such a world where greed and competition, and ambition are replaced by generosity? Can we imagine a world where the losers and the outcast, those discarded by society, are of great value to God, worthy to live each day with dignity? Can we imagine a world, can we help to bring into being a world where God’s generosity is greeted with gratitude and not jealousy? 

A Sermon for Proper 19A, September 13, 2026

The irony struck me as I began work on my sermon for today. As I’ve mentioned before, one of the things I do each week as I began thinking about my sermon is to go back through my files and read other sermons I have preached on these propers. Looming over each of the five sermons I’ve preached on these texts over the years is the memory of September 11, 2001, the twenty-fifth anniversary of which we commemorated two days ago. 

The events of that day and the days, weeks, and months that followed brought out the best and the worst in human nature and American culture. There was solidarity and compassion but there was also anger, hatred, and violent retribution. The war on terror brought with it an erosion of civil liberties, islamophobia, torture, and countless lives lost. Like so many other eras in American history, we have not had an honest reckoning with the past nor are we able, apparently, to learn from those errors. 

To hear Jesus speaking about forgiveness on this occasion is challenging indeed. But before we get to the gospel, the story from Exodus offers another perspective on the response to trauma and violence.

Our reading from Exodus has brought us to the Red Sea. The Israelites are fleeing Egypt and are caught between the army chasing them and the sea in front of them. A miracle brings them across the sea and destroys their enemy. In verses not included in today’s reading, we’re told that as they watch the destruction, the Israelites sing praises to their God:

“Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously, horse and rider has he thrown in to the sea.”

                                                                                                           Sentiment like this may be difficult to express, to rejoice in the destruction of one’s enemies; it is also a natural, human response to such an event. Yet, we sense that responses like this, no matter how natural, do not seem appropriate for Christians. An old rabbinic story, going back nearly two thousand years, offers another perspective on the Israelites’ celebration at the destruction of the Egyptian army. It goes like this:

“Having reached safety on the other side, and seeing the Egyptians perishing in the sea, the Israelites began to sing and dance.

“In heaven, the angels saw the Israelites singing and dancing, and they too began to sing and dance. But God rebuked them: ‘Those Egyptians perishing in the sea are my people also, and you want to sing and dance?'”

To celebrate a victory is one thing, whether that victory is on the battlefield or the playing field; to ask for, or offer forgiveness to someone who has harmed us, or whom we have harmed is quite another.

The parable we read in today’s gospel challenges us to think about forgiveness. It is set in the context of Peter’s question to Jesus, How often should I forgive someone who has wronged me? Jesus’ answer to Peter is over-the-top. Jesus says, “As many as 7  times 70—490 times. 

In its own way, this saying has also caused harm and trauma. It is one thing to ask forgiveness of someone I’ve wronged; it’s quite another to demand that an injured party forgive the perpetrator when there has been no repentance. I wonder how many times victims of sexual abuse or violence have been expected to forgive their abuser based on these verses. 

And then there’s what used to be the public ritual of the public figure caught in some wrongdoing who makes a grand show of confessing their sin and expecting to be reinstated to the public’s good graces. Today, in our coarsened society, such empty rituals are no longer common. It seems like public figures, be they celebrities, politicians, or athletes, can do what they want with impunity.

Still, we expect or desire offers of forgiveness in our personal relationships, when we have hurt a loved one with our words or actions, or when we have been hurt by someone. So Jesus’ words stand as a challenge to us: how often should we forgive one who’s behavior has harmed us once, or repeatedly? What might Jesus mean by these words?

Perhaps the parable is meant to make Jesus’ meaning clear, I don’t think it does. We are given the story of a rich man who takes pity on someone who owes him 1000 talents. The slave goes off and demands the repayment of 100 talent debt from someone else; when the debt isn’t repaid, he has him thrown in prison. Learning of that action, the king, denounces and imprisons the first slave.

The math: a talent was roughly 130 lb a measure used of gold and silver; one estimate is that it equaled about 15 yrs of wages for the typical worker; so the king, being owed 10000 talents, is owed 150,000 years of wages. A denarius was a coin worth about a day’s wages; the slave is owed 100 denarii, so that’s quite a bit of money as well.

The parable leaves us with questions, even though its meaning is quite clear. We should forgive those who owe us, just as God forgives us. But the questions—why does the king not forgive the slave a second time? After all, Jesus has told Peter to forgive not seven but seventy seven times. The parable invites us to think of forgiveness as a calculus—there exists, somewhere a finite number of times, beyond which it is not necessary to forgive. But that’s precisely the wrong way of thinking about things.

To think about forgiveness as a debt suggests that we understand it in terms we comprehend—mathematics or economics, and given all the talk of debt in our culture, we are sorely tempted to go down that route. That’s overlooking something that is crucial in understanding Peter’s question: “How often should I forgive my brother? For that question implies there is relationship between the one forgiving and the one owed. Including that in the equation changes everything. 

We ask God to forgive us and we experience God’s forgiveness, rich, unbounded, unmerited. It is that relationship and that experience that should shape our own forgiveness. That is the point both of Jesus’ answer to Peter and the parable itself.

I have lived long enough and served as a pastor long enough to know that pain and anger from hurt can last a very long time. We process things quite differently; in different ways and at different speeds. Even the same hurt inflicted on two different people can linger in very different ways in those who have been affected. Forgiving others may be difficult, even, at times, impossible. Yet our God, who has forgiven us so deeply and so completely, invites us, not only to be forgiven, but to forgive in the same way, richly, unboundedly, and totally. Thanks be to God!