Do not be deceived; God is not mocked; for you reap whatever you sow. 

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Last year, I was invited to be the preacher at the Thanksgiving Service at Chichester Cathedral in southern England. It is a service of Choral Evensong, marked with special readings, music, and prayers for the health of this country. It honors the long connections between that city and county and this nation, as well as the many expatriates living nearby. Among other songs in that service last November, we sang “O beautiful, for spacious skies.” I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had sung it. As many of you know, Melissa and I lived in England for 13 years. One gets used to other songs, other traditions.

I am somewhat sentimental, easily moved by music and art, and I consider myself a patriot. So I found myself tearing up at that service, as American and English voices blended to sing, 

O beautiful for spacious skies, 
for amber waves of grain,
for purple mountain majesties
above the fruited plain!

America! America! 
God shed his grace on thee, 
and crown thy good with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea. 

That night in Chichester, it wasn’t just the Americans who felt emotional. Person after person reminded me of the central place our country holds in the world and in history, as a beacon for freedom and justice. We have a unique heritage and responsibility: triumphs and failures, a “dark past” and an ever-present hope.

Several national hymns recognize these truths. They acknowledge our limitations, our imperfection, how our “big ideas” are sometimes “buried,” to quote Beyoncé (“American Requiem”). Our flag, with its stars and stripes, does not represent an unsullied people, but a people of struggle, a people who seek to march on, to march forward to a victory that remains ahead.

We have a unique calling as Americans. Our founding documents and so many of our pivotal turns in history have invoked a sense of divine providence around the birth and growth of this nation, a confidence that God is our guide. And while that can turn into distasteful jingoism – all pride and no substance, the political version of cotton candy – well, we retain, sometimes, a sense of accountability. 

We know we are responsible to God – as individuals and as a people. “Do not be deceived,” St Paul says. “God is not mocked, for you reap whatever you sow.” 

Recall the careful yet stinging words of President Abraham Lincoln’s many speeches. For example, the second Inaugural, when he called the Civil War a terrible conflict and the “mighty scourge” of God, dealing out recompense to North and South alike for their offenses, perhaps, he said “until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the word."

Providence, accountability: “Do not be deceived; God is not mocked, for you reap whatever you sow.”

We could cite this as a general principle of human life and religious conviction: that there is a God, who rewards and punishes (Heb 11:6). We may not always know when this is happening, when the hand of God is turning towards us in blessing or to chasten and restrain us, but it is hard to read the Scriptures of our faith and not see this truth. And it would be hard to cast our eye over recent centuries and fail to see it as well. 

We might wonder now how we are doing as a people, this Independence weekend: what seeds we are sowing, and when will they come to fruition – what seeds are sown to corruption,  and what seeds are sown for an abundant harvest of righteousness. 

Let me give a specific example that I hope is very pointed but not partisan or dismissed as merely “political.” 

8 in 10 Americans support the extension of humanitarian aid around the world – 8 in 10 support the provision of medicine, supplies, food, and clothing to those in need. 7 short months ago, our country spent around $20 billion a year on such work. It sounds like a lot, but it was a pittance, 0.3% of the federal budget, like most giving a dime a day to someone begging. But that money has been slashed. And we know people are already dying as a result. 

Now, one could imagine an argument that we should redirect this money toward our own population, for there are many in need in America. I heard this argument before the last election, and have heard it since. Let’s help our own people. And we could have. We could have increased medical assistance or boosted the SNAP program.

But, as many of you know, Congress passed a bill this week that, among other things, has cut medical and food assistance to our own people. So we’re no longer helping those overseas, and we’re cutting aid here too. What do we think the results will be? 

It will affect us locally.

Over 10% of Champaign county’s population depends on SNAP. 16.4% rely on Medicaid. Our farmers supply local food. Our health systems employ thousands of local workers, including people in this congregation. 

We will reap what has been sown, not just nationally but here. This is simple cause and effect. But, still, “God is not mocked.” We should expect unforeseen consequences, other judgments.

As Christians, as Episcopalians, we have a long heritage of civic response and engagement. We are not the kind of people who check out from society. We believe our baptism in Christ calls us to moral action. We have all committed ourselves many times, either at our baptism or at the renewal of those vows every Easter, at least. The questions come:

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ? 
I will, with God’s help.

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? 
[You could say it now:]
I will, with God’s help.
​
Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
I will, with God’s help.

God calls us to be instruments of his peace, bearers of his message, members of the Body of his Son. His Spirit dwells within us. Just as Christ sent out the 70 in our Gospel reading, so we are sent. We are called to embody the coming of God’s kingdom.

“The Lord appointed seventy others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go.”

The Lord’s intention, his good will, his coming is for every town, for every place – yes, for America, for Champaign county, for the street where you live. He is still summoning his followers to go out and work and labor, to prepare the way, to declare God’s peace, to say, “The kingdom of God has come near.” 

This is a kingdom that comes in power. This is a kingdom of “righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit.” This is a kingdom in which old enemies are reconciled and the sword is put away, a kingdom where “the wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them” (Isa 11:6). This is a kingdom, with goodness and prosperity running to it, “like an overflowing stream.” It is a kingdom of saving health, of comfort and sabbath rest.

God call us to proclaim this kingdom – with our words, and with our deeds, by the life we live.

The way we shape our nation, our cities, our neighborhoods is a testament to what we truly believe. 

Are they places of “righteousness, peace, and joy”, of plenty for all? Are they places of reconciliation? Do we strive to make them so? Or do we multiply division and fear, scarcity and wickedness? Do we forget the poor, whom God loves, and turn aside the naked, the suffering, the stranger, in whom we meet Christ himself?

 “Let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest-time, if we do not give up.” 

Come, labor on.  
Who dares stand idle on the harvest plain,
While all around us waves the golden grain?
And to each servant does the Master say,
“Go work today.”

Come, labor on. 
Claim the high calling angels cannot share--
To young and old the Gospel gladness bear;
Redeem the time, its hours too swiftly fly,
The night draws nigh.
Come, labor on.

Jesus said, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Today’s Gospel reading is urgent. Jesus is heading for Jerusalem. His intention is fixed, and his disciples are clearly carried away by the mood. When the Samaritans would not receive Jesus, James and John asked him, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” The brothers imagine themselves as the prophets of old: as Elijah and Elisha, who called down fire and violence to consume those who threatened them. Jesus rebukes his disciples, but the driving force of his motivations continues to ratchet up the tension as he encounters three potential followers. 

You heard their stories. One of them seems more than willing to do anything necessary to follow Jesus. Christ turns him away. The second makes a reasonable request: to be allowed to bury his father before becoming a disciple; Jesus won’t have it; and, then, the third just wants to say good-bye: “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” 

Christ’s response feels unduly harsh: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

I wonder what the apostles made of these moments. It’s true that James and John, Peter and Andrew, and all the rest seem to have had dramatic moments of conversion, where the call was issued, and they answered.

They even point to these moments themselves, and take pride in them. Peter says at one point in Matthew chapter 19: “Lord, we have left everything and followed you. What then is our reward?” 

Still, I can’t help feeling the apostles might have witnessed these episodes of rejection and thought, “Doesn’t Jesus want disciples? Isn’t he being a little rough?” 

I mean, Peter claimed to have left everything … but he did have a wife and mother-in-law. Did Jesus forbid him from going back to his house to say good-bye before setting out on the road as a disciple? No. In Mark 2:29-34 Jesus went with Peter to his home, healed Peter’s sick mother-in-law, and stayed overnight. In that story, the Son of Man had a place to lay his head – in the house of his disciple.

We might read all these passages superficially and view them as examples of double standards, unfair treatment: one for rule for Peter, another rule for everyone else. But there is something deeper going on here, isn’t there? 

There is something about this particular moment in Luke 9 that distinguishes it from others. The days had drawn “near for Jesus to be taken up,” and “he set his face to go to Jerusalem.” The time was short. He had in mind his final days. It was no longer the time for quiet work. It was not a time for patient teaching, for gathering disciples here and there. It was not a time for hospitality, for staying in the homes of his friends or followers. 

Everything was subordinated to his goal: to reach Jerusalem, to bring his life to its destined end, to accomplish his purposes, the Father’s will. 

The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.

The Lord gave up all the ordinary trappings of human life; he was bringing in the kingdom of God; and his followers had to mold their lives around this urgency, this historic climax, the coming drama of his Passion.

There are moments in every human life, where the old ways of doing things are no longer enough. A baby is coming, a war is on, a life is in jeopardy. We drop everything to attend to what is in front of us, to resolve the crisis: to deliver, to end, to save. There are choices to be made, things to be done.

We’re not thinking about ordinary things in such moments: every thought is focused, every muscle and sinew strained; every ounce of our will is directed to the one thing that is necessary in such times.

Now just imagine, if you could, how it felt for Jesus in those final days of reckoning. And ask yourself: am I in such a moment? Do I need some of this urgency in my spiritual life? 

It is a funny passage. The Gospel reading portrays one moment in Christ’s ministry. The demands Jesus makes here do not apply evenly or easily across other stories of calling in the Gospels. They do not match other encounters. Sometimes Christ is so gracious and welcoming to those who approach him. And yet (and yet!) he is also so demanding. 

Even in the same story, he can be gracious and demanding or challenging. Think of the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4.  She was just going out to get her daily measure of water, when she came upon this strange man who asked for things and knew things he should not have known. And he brought about her spiritual healing by his questions and requests. She came to know him; she recognized him as the Messiah. 

Jesus gets to the heart of things.

Jesus calls us o’er the tumult 
of our life’s wild, restless sea, 
day by day his clear voice soundeth, 
saying, “Christian, follow me.”

We must be open to this call, open to the questions and commands of Jesus. He may question our whole way of life. He has that right. He is God. He knows us. He has always known us.

His word gets right at our hearts. We need that.

Think of the challenges in our readings. The story of Elisha is the story of a man giving up his wealth and status. There’s a challenge. And then, the people Jesus turned away in the Gospel were perhaps too focused on their comforts, too focused on their family, too focused on their homes to see how God was calling them to something greater. Wealth, family, comfort, home: these challenges might be enough for most of us, but then, there was our lesson from Galatians. 

“What the flesh desires is opposed to the Spirit, and what the Spirit desires is opposed to the flesh.” 

I am sure that we all heard something in Paul’s list of vices that we need to renounce: whether it be envy, anger, impurity, drunkenness, or something else. 

Similarly, who can listen to his account of the fruit of the Spirit and not feel that life might be bettered by greater “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control”? Let the word you need sink in.

Jesus calls us! by thy mercies, 
Saviour, may we hear thy call. 
Give our hearts to thine obedience,
Serve and love thee best of all.