Tag Archives: transformation

Re Wedding Attire (October 11, AD 2026; Proper 23)

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Readings (Track 2)

Not many sermons start with “Didn’t we just hear that?”, but this one does. Last week we heard Jesus’ parable about the vineyard, and, with a couple minor adjustments, it sounds awfully like the parable of the king’s wedding feast that we just heard. Is Matthew padding his text? Or, put more charitably, what’s different? Perhaps two things.

First, the image of the wedding feast. Last week’s vineyard parable concerned the fruit that the tenants were to give to the vineyard owner. Here the invitees don’t need to give anything, simply, apparently, to show up. A wedding feast catered by the king. Sounds like it takes a special kind of…something to pass up that invitation. Happily, the Lectionary has paired our Gospel reading with Isaiah’s vision of the end-time feast (“a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, / of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear”). Each of our Eucharists is also an anticipation of that feast, but with important commonalities: everyone is welcome; there’s room for everyone; there’s enough for everyone. And this, perhaps, is one thing Jesus/Matthew wants us to notice. The invitees’ refusal is a head-scratcher, rather like the decision of our original parents to eat from that tree. Why blow off that generosity?

Second (What’s different?), that last paragraph about the fellow without the wedding garment. Looks like Jesus/Matthew wants us to understand that both the original invitees and those finally gathered had important choices to make. Hearing last week’s vineyard parable, one might assume that if one were in “a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom” (21:42), one could go on auto-pilot. Not so, warns this parable. Having the wedding garment is important.

The wedding garment. Matthew assumed that its meaning was self-evident. Two thousand or so years later, not so much. Here’s what we do know.

In the epistles (mostly written prior to Matthew) we hear exhortations to take off and put on clothing:

“Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light” (Rom 13:12b[1])

“You were taught to put away your former way of life, your old self, corrupt and deluded by its lusts, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to clothe yourselves with the new self, created according to the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness” (Eph 4:22-24[2]).

“Do not lie to one another, seeing that you have stripped off the old self with its practices and have clothed yourselves with the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator.” (Col 3:9-10[3])

These texts are generally taken to refer to baptism, as is explicit in a text from Galatians: “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ” (Gal 3:27). A complete change of clothes: that would make the liturgy a bit more complicated. But these texts are not referring simply to baptism but to the ongoing choices the baptized are making after baptism.

So Matthew may be playing off this image. Not having a wedding garment: not having continued to put off the old and put on the new after one’s baptism.

Or, Matthew may be taking the wedding garment as a stand-in for the fruit he’s been highlighting throughout his Gospel:

“Bear fruit worthy of repentance” (3:8). (John to the Pharisees and Sadducees)

“You will know them by their fruits” (7:16). (Jesus on false prophets)

And, a few verses later:

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven” (7:21).

In other words, the wedding garment as the fruit corresponding to saying “Lord, Lord.” And clearly, whether Matthew is playing off the taking off and putting on of clothing in baptism or the fruit metaphor within his own Gospel, it comes to pretty much the same thing. Pre- or post-baptism, we continue to have choices to make, and those choices matter.

Now, as it happens, our Gospel readings have been accompanied by readings from Philippians, where Paul from the start of the letter has been pursuing a parallel agenda: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” (2:5). We heard him describe what that meant two Sundays ago: “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others” (Phi 2:3-4).

That’s hard, chiefly because having the same mind that was in Christ Jesus depends on experiencing God as generous. That was Jesus’ experience, and it’s pretty much the bottom line of the Sermon on the Mount. Not simply the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, but that “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you” (7:12a) is itself grounded on the previous verse: “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!”

And that, in turn, raises the other question that drives this sermon: why do most of us (the preacher included) have such difficulty experiencing God as generous? Such difficulty putting our weight on (today’s) Psalm 23 (“The Lord is my shepherd; / I shall not be in want.”)? And once asked, the question pretty much answers itself: while we sing “This is my Father’s world,” most of the time we don’t experience this world as generous. The seven deadly sins—greed comes particularly to mind—have so distorted God’s good creation that generosity is often in short supply and that—here’s the supremely evil part—we have trouble experiencing even God as generous.

So we’re stuck, with only fear as a motivation to patch together some sort of minimally acceptable wedding garment? No. Recall what we’ve been hearing in Philippians. “…work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (2:12b-13). That “to will and to work” suggests equal attention to the healing of our imaginations, of our perceptions. I suspect that Jesus’ healings of blindness are disproportionately prominent in the Gospels because sight is so powerful a metaphor for our experience, our construal, of the world. What we see (or don’t see) pretty much determines what we do.

Second, all Paul’s attention to the quality of parish life, even, in today’s reading, to particular relationships: “I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord.” In a world that takes not looking to one’s own interests as the fast track to ending up as road kill, Paul envisions the parish as being the place where God’s generosity can predictably be experienced in the way parishioners generously treat each other. That’s one reason why we’re called the Body of Christ.

God knows, visions of God’s generosity can get us wondering, but usually can’t do much more. The rewiring of our grey matter that we ask for every time we take the Body and Blood, that can do somewhat more. The generosity that we receive from and—hopefully—return to fellow parishioners, that can do somewhat more. And slowly—please God—God’s generosity becomes something we can put our weight on and so begin to mirror that mind of Christ.

[1] Cf. Dunn Romans 9-16 p.793.

[2] Cf MacDonald Colossians Ephesians p.304.

[3] Cf. MacDonald Colossians Ephesians p.136.

“I am the Way:” Jesus’ invitation to continual learning (5th Sunday of Easter 5/3/2026)

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Readings

In this morning’s collect we prayed “Grant us so perfectly to know your Son Jesus Christ to be the way, the truth, and the life, that we may steadfastly follow his steps in the way that leads to eternal life…” That’s also the collect nudging the preacher: there’s your focus.

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” This text often shows up in discussing other religions, and, at worst, gets reduced to a flag we wave at others. It, is, indisputably, narrow, and so aligned with the other Gospels. This year we’re reading Matthew, so it’s worth recalling the way these words restate what we hear towards the end of the Sermon on the Mount:

“Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it.” (7:13-14)

Or again,

“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell– and great was its fall!” (7:24-27)

Nevertheless, notice that Jesus here may be making a somewhat different point. Thomas had just asked “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” It sounds like a request for some sort of map. But now that Jesus is onstage, Jesus is the map. The Gospel of John put it this way in its prologue: “The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ” (1:17). Jesus, the living person, not some abstraction, whether Jesus’ teaching or Jesus’ action, is the map, the way, and the truth, and the life. So it’s a call, an invitation, to an ongoing relationship, to ongoing learning.

Why ongoing? Recall the observation “We see things not as they are but as we are.” So any significant learning is going to involve transforming who we are. This is why we hear Paul saying “I appeal to you…to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God– what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Rom 12:1-2).

Coming to the Father—back to Jesus’ statement—is a process of continual following, continual transformation. Paul gets it right: it’s not a head trip. “Present your bodies as a living sacrifice.” Growing pains: if we’re doing it right, they’re ongoing.

Thomas thought that Jesus could give us a map apart from Jesus himself. Philip’s request, “show us the Father,” exemplifies a different misunderstanding, as though there were distance between Jesus and the Father, Jesus the little mystery, the Father the big mystery, or, in one of its variants, Jesus as Good Cop, the Father as Bad Cop. No. Jesus and the Father: it’s the same mystery, the same luminous mystery in which we’re invited to enter.

Continued learning, continued transformation. For example? We understand that God is not more like a man than a woman. But our traditional language (“Father, Son, Holy Spirit”) can confuse that. How do we respond? Again, what does it mean to be Christian now in this place? Also the 250th anniversary of our nation’s founding pushes that question toward the front burner. Discernment is always a challenge: where is God inviting my/our focus?

But back to Thomas. The problem with any map, even God-given maps, is that we’re tempted to so focus on them that we stop listening to the Giver. Since in our first reading Stephen gets in trouble over what he says about the temple, let’s think about the temple. Exodus chapters 25-31 describe how the tabernacle—the mobile temple—is to be built; chapters 35-40 describe its building. And large portions of Leviticus and Numbers describe its staff, its sacrifices, etc. So the temple’s important.

But it doesn’t take long for Israel to start assuming that as long as the temple is operating, they can neglect, say, the “love your neighbor” or the “love the foreigner” part. This comes to a head in Jeremiah’s time:

“Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the LORD, the temple of the LORD, the temple of the LORD.’… Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, make offerings to Baal, and go after other gods that you have not known, and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, ‘We are safe!’– only to go on doing all these abominations? (Jer 7:4, 9-10)

The temple is a gift. But if we so focus on the gift that we stop learning from the Giver, it doesn’t end well. In the time of Jeremiah, “The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell– and great was its fall!” That would be the Babylonians destroying the temple, about 600 years before Jesus.

But back to Stephen. What if we hear today’s psalm (Psalm 31) on Stephen’s lips? Surrounded by a crowd right at the boiling point, he is not put to shame. “Look…I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!” On the one hand he isn’t rescued from the stoning. On the other, he is rescued from the greater danger: he doesn’t become like his enemies. “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

“Be my strong rock” the psalmist prayed. Jesus: “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock.” Stephen showed himself to be one of the wise. Jesus’ words as found in Matthew’s Gospel, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (5:43-44), Stephen had heard and acted on these, and received the vision for which so many have prayed: “Look…I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!”

A couple more observations and I’ll close.

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” An invitation to continual learning from Jesus.

“I appeal to you…to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God– what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Rom 12:1-2).

In our second reading Peter captures this with his “Like newborn infants, long for the pure, spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow into salvation.” And our temple theme from Stephen’s story moves centerstage: “Come to him [Jesus], a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight, and like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house.” God’s got a mobile temple again—in the form of every local parish. To do what? “…to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.” “Spiritual sacrifices”—we might translate “sacrifices inspired/powered by the Spirit”—that’s open ended. Since we’re reading Matthew this year we might recall:

“You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (Mat 5:14-16).

So much that we need to keep learning from Jesus. Keep that in mind also as you look for your new rector. Look for someone who’s learning. Look for someone with whom you can continue learning.

“We see things not as they are but as we are” (A. Nin) (4th Sunday in Lent, 3/15/2026)

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Readings

I wonder what our gracious Lord might have for us in today’s readings. Our Gospel tells of Jesus healing a blind man—and explores what it means to be blind or to see. Towards the end of the story:

Jesus said, “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.” Some of the Pharisees near him heard this and said to him, “Surely we are not blind, are we?” Jesus said to them, “If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.”

How do these Pharisees become blind? Not by God’s action or choice. Jesus heals the man. The Pharisees interrogate him repeatedly, but finally discount his testimony. That Jesus healed the man on the Sabbath was probably a factor. God had spoken to Moses: “Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy” (Ex 20:8). What the Pharisees tended to forget: their traditions were governing their understanding of what that commandment meant. So as they interrogate their position hardens and they finally drive out the one person in the room who can see.

Is that story only (safely!) about the Pharisees? Probably not. Consider our first lesson. The prophet Samuel has been around the block more than a few times. As a prophet his record is unblemished. Yet here he is, about to anoint Eliab. “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature… for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” So the Lord has to intervene, and Samuel, thankfully, listens.

The categories sighted and blind turn out to be less stable than we’d like. Using different images Paul develops that in our second reading: “Once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of light.” “You are light. Live as children of light.” That only needs to be said if it’s possible to live otherwise—and Paul’s letters are as lengthy as they are because we so often choose to live otherwise.

And then: “Try to find out what is pleasing to the Lord.” Don’t assume that you know. To pick up our Gospel’s language, don’t assume that you can see. It’s one of the more surprising admonitions in Ephesians. The letter’s recipients have the Law, the Prophets, the other Writings. Most of the books that make up our New Testament are in circulation. But “Try to find out what is pleasing to the Lord.” What’s going on?

Perhaps at least two things.

First, there’s this really interesting tension between the testimony in Hebrews (“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever” [13:8].) and the voice from the throne in Revelation (“See, I am making all things new” [21:5].) God works in time, and time can open new opportunities. “So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them” (Gen 1:27). We read that for centuries and restricted the priesthood to males—until God saw an opportunity to shove us onto a new path.

The second, and related thing: as one contemporary writer put it, “we see things not as they are, but as we are.” We see things not as they are, but as we are. Meanwhile, the New Testament understands that our discipleship is a lifelong process of transformation. Jesus in the Gospel according to John: “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth” (16:12-13). Paul to the Romans: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God– what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Rom 12:2).

Sometimes this transformation is welcome. I’d guess that the apostle Peter welcomed being able to channel Jesus’ power to restore mobility to the man crippled from birth at the gate of the Temple. Sometimes not. Peter in response to the vision preparing him to preach to Gentiles: “By no means, Lord; for I have never eaten anything that is profane or unclean” (Acts 10:14). There’s Peter at the precipice, with the Pharisees: “We see.” Fortunately, he lets himself be persuaded (the vision is repeated twice), so that later he can confess “I truly understand that God shows no partiality” (Acts 10:34).

Transformation: sometimes welcome, sometimes unwelcome. So there’s this completely natural tendency to assume at some point that enough’s enough. After all, we’re grownups. We’ve learned what we need. There’s nothing more that’s important that we need to learn. And that sets us up to be right there with Samuel, about to anoint Eliab, right there with the Pharisees, about to silence the one voice they really need to hear. It’s easy to see this playing out among Christians with whom we disagree; we’re confident it isn’t playing out among us.

“If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.” Is Jesus’ power to heal limited by our responses? Sometimes. Here’s Mark’s description of Jesus in his hometown: “And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief” (6:5-6a). So I’m encouraged by that line in today’s psalm: “Surely your goodness and mercy shall pursue me all the days of my life.”

Or, as another psalm testifies:

8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
9 If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
10 even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,”
12 even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you. (Ps 139:8-12)

How does God do this? In many ways. In today’s Gospel, through the man born blind to whom the Pharisees really don’t want to listen. “Are you trying to teach us?” To whom do we not want to listen? It might be God trying to get a word in edgewise.

Dear People of God—as the invitation to Lent puts it—our stance is too often “The Lord is my Shepherd, my vision is 20/20, I know who not to listen to.” Lent is a time to wonder about that.