Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

AND THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN

Wisdom 11:22-12:2; 2 Thessalonians 1:11-2:2; Luke 19:1-10 

Joshua fought the battle of Jericho,

Jericho, Jericho,

Joshua fought the battle of Jericho,

And the walls came tumbling down!

Do you remember that song? Many of you, like me, probably learned it as a child attending Sunday School or Vacation Bible Camp. It relates musically in simple fashion the story of Joshua, the one God chose, after the death of Moses, to be the leader of the Israelite people. Under Yahweh’s guidance, Joshua and the Israelites set out to conquer the land of Canaan. But the city of Jericho stood as an obstacle between the people of Israel and them claiming all that God had promised them. Before they could go deeper into the land of Canaan, Jericho had to first fall. The ancient city of Jericho was a great walled city. History tells us that it was surrounded by two massive stone walls. The outer wall was six feet thick and twenty feet high. The inner wall was twelve feet thick and thirty feet high. There was a fifteen foot guarded walkway between these two walls. From a military standpoint, it was virtually impenetrable. A messenger from God appeared to Joshua and gave him special (and very unusual) instructions on how to conquer Jericho. The priests were to carry the Ark of the Covenant with them as they marched around the city walls of Jericho. Soldiers marched in front of the priests and behind them. The priests blew trumpets and marched around the city once each day for six days. On the seventh day they marched around the city seven times. After the seventh time, when the priests blew the trumpets, the people shouted . . . 

And the walls came tumbling down.

About fourteen hundred years later, another man named Joshua (we know him better by the Greek translation of his name: Jesus) entered the city of Jericho and he too made “the walls come tumbling down.” Not walls of stone and mortar that surround a city named Jericho, but walls of injustice and greed that surrounded the heart of a man named Zacchaeus. 

Zacchaeus was a Roman tax collector in the region of Jericho. He had two distinguishing characteristics that are pointed out in Luke’s gospel. He was short . . . and he was rich! Since he was the “chief” tax collector, and since Jericho could have been the richest city in Judea, he was probably very rich. The other thing we also know was that he was hated.

The Romans had devised a clever system for collecting taxes from regions they had conquered and occupied. Instead of the Romans themselves acting as tax collectors, they sold franchises to “businessmen” from the conquered territory. These men then had the freedom to extort as much as they could from their fellow countrymen. As a result, many became rich, and all were viewed as traitors. 

So here comes Jesus through Jericho. And Zacchaeus wants desperately to see him. Maybe he just wanted to catch a glimpse of the one who people said made the blind see, the deaf hear, lepers clean and the lame walk. Or perhaps word had spread that this was a Rabbi who was a friend to “tax collectors and sinners.” Unable to see over the crowd, Zacchaeus climbed a tree to get a look. He could not have imagined that Jesus would stop under the tree, call him by name, and invite himself over for dinner . . . 

And the walls came tumbling down.

We’re not told what Jesus and Zacchaeus talked about over the meal, but we see a changed Zacchaeus. The walls that Zacchaeus had built around his heart, walls of ego, of arrogance, of affluence, of greed, of power, of status came tumbling down, not with the blare of trumpets and the shouts of an army, but simply by the warmth and gentleness of a single voice, “Today, salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham.” And amidst the ruins of those walls, Zacchaeus stands up and makes a monumental commitment: “Lord, here and now I give half my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anyone, I will repay them four times the amount.” It was the response of a man whose walls were smashed and whose heart was set free. A man whose life had been radically impacted by Jesus. 

Luke doesn’t tell us what happened to Zacchaeus after Jesus left, but second and third century sources say his name was changed to Matthias, and he was picked in the Upper Room to replace Judas. Another early source goes on to say he became the first leader of the church in the Roman capital of Judea, Caesarea by the Sea.

Walls. Walls that surround a city. Walls that surround the human heart. Our Gospel today challenges us to look at ourselves and recognize the walls in our own lives. But here’s the thing about walls: Some walls won’t let you in and some walls won’t let you out. When we build walls around us we deceive ourselves into thinking that we’re protected. But nothing could be further from the truth. When we surround ourselves with walls we not only block out everything outside of us, but we trap everything inside us too. What type of wall do you have? Do you have a wall like Jericho that makes you impregnable? A wall that leaves your heart untouched by the words and example of Jesus? Unpenetrated by the needs of others? Hardened to those who seek your forgiveness? Rigid to those who need your love? Or is your wall like that which surrounded Zacchaeus? A wall that lock you in schedules and time commitments that keep you from prayer and a deeper relationship with God? Is it a wall that holds you prisoner – a prisoner to the mores and attitudes of mainstream society rather than Gospel values? Is it a wall that holds you hostage by the all-consuming need for success, status, wealth and the material comforts of life? Or is it a wall that inhibits you emotionally and renders you incapable of expressing your feelings for fear it will make you vulnerable. There’s only one power strong enough to topple those walls. It’s the same power that created the universe, parted the Red Sea, and made the walls of Jericho come tumbling down. The power of God. 

Today, Jesus says to us as he did to Zacchaeus, “Today I must stay at your house.” Jesus wants to come home with you. He doesn’t want it to be just a once a week Sunday encounter. He wants to stay with you. He wants to be in on every conversation you have, every decision you make, every relationship you have. He desires to knock down any walls that need to be demolished in your life by the power of his love and mercy. But if you notice in today’s Gospel, Jesus didn’t break into Zacchaeus’ house. And he won’t break into yours as well. It’s always God standing at the doorway, seeking but never forcing entry. It’s God always wishing to come in, but never crossing a threshold uninvited. It’s always up to us to welcome God in as he waits patiently for us. So what do you say? Maybe it’s time for us to be like Zacchaeus and climb a tree, go out on a limb, and receive him with joy.

Jesus fought the battle for Zacchaeus’ heart

It was just the start, Zacchaeus’s heart.

Jesus fights the battle for your very heart.

Let the walls come tumbling down.

The Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle C)

A LITTLE CHURCH

Habakkuk 1:2-3, 2:2-4; 2 Timothy 1:6-8, 13-14; Luke 17: 5-10 

i am a little church (no great cathedral)

far from the splendour and squalor of hurrying cities

– i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest

i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;

my prayers are prayers of the earth’s own clumsily striving

(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children

whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around them surges a miracle of unceasing

birth and glory in death and resurrection:

over my sleeping self float flaming symbols

of hope, and I wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church (far from the frantic

world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature

– i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;

i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to

merciful Him Whose only now is forever:

standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence

(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

This past week, as I struggled to make sense of mustard seeds and mulberry trees, I thought of that poem by E.E. Cummings. It’s always been a favorite of mine. I’m not sure what exactly E.E. Cummings intended to convey through it, but I know the meaning it has for me. You see, for me, the poem speaks of how I view who I am and the faith I possess. 

I’m not a great Cathedral. I’m no Padre Pio, Mother Teresa or Pope Francis. I’m not a doer of great deeds, a performer of miracles. I don’t bear stigmata. I’ve never moved mountains or uprooted a mulberry tree on command. If Jesus was physically present in our midst this morning, I doubt very much that he would praise me as he did the Canaanite Woman (“Oh great is your faith!”), nor point to me as an example for others, as he did the Roman Centurion (“In no one in Israel have I seen such faith!”). But hopefully, he would say . . . “Bruce, you did that best that you could with what I gave you. Well done, my good and faithful servant!” I am not a great cathedral.

But I am a small church. Perhaps the light of faith doesn’t radiate from me like a magnificent stained glass window, but I hope that some light does shine through the small windows of my soul . . . windows that often could use a good cleaning with Windex. And whereas I haven’t lived out my faith in heroic ways and haven’t demonstrated my faith through miraculous acts, and haven’t experienced dramatic supernatural encounters with God . . . I do remind myself constantly throughout the day that I am in the holy presence of God. I speak to God regularly in prayer and struggle to hear his whispers back to me. I constantly seek to discern his will, to travel the twists and turns of the road along which he leads me. I try to let go and let God and to place my life in his hands. And I strive, as best as I can, to live in his way, the way of truth that has been revealed through his Word and in the teaching of the Church. I am a little church. I am not a great cathedral. And you know what? I don’t have to be. God doesn’t expect me to be. And he doesn’t have that expectation of you either. 

None of us is called to be a Pope Francis or a Mother Theresa. None of us! If we think that’s what God requires of us, we will throw up our hands in despair. You aren’t called to be Pope Francis or Mother Theresa – you are called to be you – to be the unique person God created when he made you. Nothing more. And nothing less. You are called to live in a unique relationship with God, composed of a string of moments of faithfulness – of his faithfulness to you, and yours in response. If you keep holding out for "great faith," you’ll never have it. Great faith is composed only of small moments of faithfulness, just as the greatest diamond is composed only of small atoms of carbon.

Many want "great faith," so that they can be spiritual giants. But that’s not what we need – it’s certainly not what I need. Do you know what I need? I need a faith that gets me up in the morning, believing that God has some promise in store for me today. I need a faith that enables me to believe that when I walk into my office or classroom, that his Spirit, working through this broken-down over-weight deacon, can make a positive difference in someone’s life. I need a faith that enables me to believe that when I minister to someone who is hurting, that God is present with his healing power. I need a faith that enables me to stand at this pulpit on Sunday mornings and say, "thus says the Lord." It's not a faith to brag about, it’s probably not the kind of faith that’s going to get me canonized, but it is what’s required of me.

That’s what you need too. A mother needs enough faith to place her child on the bus for school, trusting that greater hands hold her child for that day. That’s all the faith she needs, and nothing more - nothing worth bragging about, just enough for her to live out her responsibilities as a mom. A child needs enough faith to believe that God holds them in his loving hand – not their whole future, not for eternity (even though he does) – but just for today – that today is his. That’s enough. A person who is hurting or ill needs enough faith to believe that, in both health and illness, God is caring for them, ministering to them, holding them, loving them. That’s all the faith they need – just faith for one moment, one minute, one hour – faith to get through whatever may be happening in their life. That’s all that they need. It’s all any of us need. It’s not the kind of faith that will earn us a chapter in Butler’s Lives of the Saints. But it is enough to do what needs to be done. A life of faith is composed of small acts of faithfulness.

I think the Apostles in today’s Gospel got it wrong. I think they asked for the wrong thing. Rather than, “Increase our faith,” maybe instead their request should have been, “Lord, STRENGTHEN our faith.” And that should be our desire as well. But just the desire for a strengthen faith isn’t enough. Faith is both a gift and a response. The gift comes from God. The response must come from us. And so too must the strengthening. Just as all the good intentions in the world aren’t going to give us a fit body, bolstering our faith doesn’t come from mere passive religious sentiment. It takes work. And the same three principles that we use to develop and maintain a fit body, also apply to a fit faith: We need to take into ourselves that which is nutritious, take precaution from illness, and exercise. And so we need a steady diet of truth and goodness and love and mercy. We need to take into ourselves God’s Word to instruct and inspire us, and the Eucharist to nourish our souls. We need to take precaution from illness – spiritual illness – sin. We need to watch what we say, watch what we do, watch where our minds wander. We need to stay away from the unhealthy people, unhealthy moral lifestyles, and unhealthy places, both physical and virtual, that put us in harm’s way and lead us to the near occasion of sin. And we need to exercise, to practice the faith that we do have in word and in deed because practice does make perfect. 

I am a little church, no great cathedral. And just maybe, so are you. And although our faith may not rise toward heaven like a great steeple for others to take notice of and admire, it is great enough for us to see the invisible, to believe the incredible, and to receive the impossible.