9 July 2023 Pentecost 6

Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67; Psalm 45:10-17; Romans 7:14-25; Matthew 11:15-19, 25-30

‘I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants’   Does that sound like some kind of backhanded compliment?  Who are the wise and intelligent, who are the infants?  But I will return to that later.

In his letter to the Romans, Paul speaks a lot about sin.  But these days, we don’t like to talk about sin much.  At least we don’t ‘name’ it, we speak about ‘making mistakes’, or ‘having poor choices’, but we don’t say we ‘sinned’.  Maybe it is because as we were growing us, sin was associated with shame, punishment, guilt, and even ‘hellfire’.  And the language that was used, or the way it was spoken about, made us see ourselves and the way we live as ‘unforgivable’, or it makes us feel that it doesn’t matter how much we try, we will never be good enough for God.  But the thing is, sin is the deadly, destructive force against which I am powerless and helpless – apart from the death and resurrection of Jesus.  Christianity gives me the language I need to confess what Paul speaks about – I do what I do not want to do, and what I want to do I do not do.  And that just about sums up my sin.

And often we hope that, although we know our sinfulness, we hope it is not ‘visible’ to others.  We would like to think that everyone else sees us as living perfectly good and calm lives, while in reality we are peddling furiously uphill against the wind trying to stay upright.  Theologian Barbara Brown Taylor says that ‘abandoning the language of sin will not make it go away.’  We will still face alienation, damnation, and death regardless of what we call it.  If we stop talking about it, we are simply left speechless in the face of it, and we find our denial of the presence of sin in our lives, increases.  And, ironically, we end up weakening our language of grace, because the fullness of forgiveness cannot be felt without the recognition of what has been forgiven.  Only grace can save us; we find ourselves free to claim our imperfections, our sin, as vehicles of God’s grace through the surprising and transforming love of God.

When we accept Paul’s vulnerable stance on sin, we find a freeing, viable place to stand.  We are able to tell the truth about ourselves – that we are both beautiful and broken; that we are made in God’s image and that we are caught up in something that fights against our best efforts to be good and to do good.  When we use the word ‘sin’ we find ourselves insisting on something more profound than simply ‘I made a mistake’.  When we use the word ‘sin’ we are confirming that we need Jesus to be something more than just a ‘good mentor’ or ‘role mode’; we need Jesus to save us and break this ancient and malevolent power that we are incapable of breaking ourselves.  When we use the word sin, we are finally able to stop peddling so furiously and admit that we need someone to subdue the wind that is trying to blow me over.  And, we find ourselves able to admit, as Paul does, that we are ‘wretched’ in the face of the power of sin and we are lost without the cross.

In our Gospel, Jesus speaks about children sitting in the marketplace calling out with songs no one understands.  If they sing happy songs, no one dances.  If they play dirges, no one mourns.  When John the Baptist came and preached a ‘bare-bones’ message of repentance – those who heard him said he was possessed by demons.  When Jesus came and ate and drank at the common table, - he was called a drunkard and glutton.   In other words, when we are left alone to sort out our lives, we usually miss the mark and fail to see the obvious around us.  We don’t know when to dance, we don’t know when to mourn, or when to repent or celebrate.  We think ourselves discerning and wise, but we cannot see the divine among us.  We find God to be at the extremes – too much or too little; too severe or too generous; too demanding or too provocative.  When left to ourselves, we have little capacity to see the good, the right, the holy or the true.

And, in case you are wondering, so what hope is there?  In case you wonder who it is that can rescue us from these bodies of death.  Well, Jesus completes this parable of the children with some of the most comforting words found in our Scriptures.  “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.   Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  Notice the offer of a lighter burden is not offered to the rich and powerful, or to those who are self-sufficient.  It is offered to the weary and those who have heavy burdens.  It is offered to those who know or recognise that they cannot do it alone, no matter how hard they try.  It is there for those who, like Paul, yearn to be delivered from forces too terrible to manage: “Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

Our readings this morning reflect the reality of our everyday lives and our experiences as fallible, broken people.  While we may wish to focus on action and responsibility, we need to remember that the spiritual journey is a constant process of ‘two steps forward, and one step back’, of ‘I fall down and then I get up again’ in the context of grace that is always there to embrace us.  When we recognise our need for grace, we can not only accept it for ourselves but also find ourselves ready to accept the brokenness of others and do what is in our power to be grace-givers and healers in companionship with our Graceful God.