does its best to shield us from the sterner parts of that instruction, as the omitted verses from 1 Corinthians 3 reveal. Verses 12–15 are vital and unique, speaking of the future judgement which will be passed, not on non-Christians, but on Christians themselves, indeed, on Christian workers. Paul uses imagery not just from house-building but from temple-building: he is, after all, building the new temple, the community in which God’s Spirit truly dwells. Sooner or later fire will test that building, and only the proper materials will last. Builders who have used wood, hay and stubble – jerry-builders who haven’t really taken the trouble to do properly the work to which they were called – will discover too late that it all goes up in smoke.
With warnings like this, a proper self-love cannot afford to be complacent. Self-respect, yes, as long as it doesn’t become an excuse for sloppy thinking or behaviour (‘this is just the way I am’); self-care, yes, as long as it is appropriate and not pampering or greedy. But above all, respect for one’s own outward-looking vocation: not, how can I feather my own nest, but how can I be true to what God has called me to be for his Church and world? And if that’s what self-love looks like, love of neighbour must be the same: neither an easygoing tolerance of everything a neighbour may do, nor a confrontational bossiness. Leviticus commands a string of practical measures which, culturally translated, give vivid clues to the true approach.
Matthew 5, in turn, suggests a cheerful, almost playful approach (granted that most neighbours today won’t strike us on the cheek or pressgang us into carrying military equipment for a mile). Jesus is not asking us to be doormats, but to find creative non-violent ways forward in difficult situations. Ultimately, both self-love and neighbour-love derive from love of God: the steadfast, devoted gaze at our creator and redeemer through which we discover the pattern for those made in his image. If we are called to be God’s holy temple, nothing less will do.
The Second Sunday Before Lent
Genesis 1.1—2.3
Romans 8.18–25
Matthew 6.25–34
The project was all set up and ready to go. Creation was more like a perfect studio than a finished painting; everything was there, paints, canvas, artist, and all. It had its own inbuilt rhythm and drama, its own sources and signs of life: notice the emphasis on the seed in vv. 11–12, and on the command to be fruitful in vv. 22, 28. Paradise it may have been, but it was just the start, the opening scene of the play.
Part of it seems play in a different sense. What sort of a skittish God makes giraffes and chilli peppers, sun and moon and sesame seeds? But the six-day sequence ends with solemn glory. Into the studio the creator places a working model of himself. These creatures are to carry forward the project, to paint the picture. They are to act out the creator’s intention, reflecting into the rest of the new-made world the play and the purpose, the very image and likeness, of their maker.
Has the lectionary turned over a new leaf? Do we really get the whole story? A glance at Lent indicates that this is no flash in the pan …
But you need more than a whole chapter to get the point of Romans 8. We come crashing in at the climax, like somebody turning on the radio just as Nimrod states its theme for the last time. Paul has spent eight chapters preparing for just this moment. Jesus the Messiah has been obedient to God’s Israel-shaped play and purpose. Israel’s mistake had been to suppose the play was all about herself. It wasn’t. Israel’s task was to redeem the rest of the world; Jesus has accomplished it. God forgive us, we have often supposed that the plan, the play, was all about us humans. It wasn’t. The human task was to reflect God’s image into the whole of creation, painting on God’s canvas the living signs of powerful, sovereign love. So when Jesus accomplished his great saving act, humans were delivered from death; and when humans then share God’s solemn glory, creation itself will be set free for its original purpose. It can’t wait.
Underneath all this is a principle that cuts deeply across some current assumptions. Creation was made to flourish when looked after by humans. Humans were made to reflect the image of the creator into the world. Freedom isn’t throwing off all constraint. It’s finding what you were made for, and being obedient to that and nothing else. It will always be costly; that’s part of the point, part of reflecting the image of God now seen in Christ (v. 29).
Inside this again, waiting to be rediscovered by our rushing, restless age, is the strange glory of the sabbath. Look at it this way: if even God took a day off, why do you need to worry? Look at the signs of God’s relaxed pleasure – the lilies, the birds – and learn to reflect that too.
The Sunday Next Before Lent
Exodus 24.12–18
2 Peter 1.16–21
Matthew 17.1–9
The mountain, the glory, the fear. The old story thunders around the crags of scripture, and we hear it echoing from every side, rolling on down the valleys. Moses on the mountain with God. Joshua (‘Jesus’ in Greek) there with him. Jesus on the mountain with Moses and Elijah. Peter on the mountain with Jesus and Moses and Elijah. We beheld his glory, as of God’s only son. The prophetic word made more sure. The cloud and the fire. The booths in the wilderness. No one has seen God; this one has revealed him.
Whatever else it means, it means we have to listen to the thunder and ponder what it says. Peter implies that the way to faith is to hold firm to the great old stories, and treat them with the respect they deserve. They are a candle to see you through the night; attention to them will be rewarded as day breaks (always slightly later than you thought, or wanted) and the morning star rises in your hearts. Eager for the day, we often spurn the candle, and wonder why we bump into things while waiting for light to dawn.
Today’s candle flickers to and fro. Themes glint and sparkle. God’s glory rests on the mountain for six days; on the seventh Moses is summoned. Is the giving of the law a new creation? Yes and no: forty days and nights on the mountain, alone with the glory, and meanwhile Aaron and Hur are left behind to keep charge – but did they? Maybe this is like a new Genesis 1 and Genesis 3? Jesus waits six days, and on the seventh takes Peter and James and John up the mountain. Who meets whom? What did it mean for Moses and Elijah? The candle sets light to time and space, the devouring fire blazes out like the sun, the cloud swallows them up, and the word echoes around the disciples’ hearts ever afterwards.
There are strange old stories, and some not so old, of those who watched the candle, and then the morning star, with such intensity that their own faces started to change. Sometimes it’s in the eyes. Sometimes, perhaps, the whole face. Our Western consciousness, and perhaps self-consciousness, denies us so much. Transfiguration was not meant to be a private experience for Jesus only. When he appears, we shall be like him; we shall see him as he is.
The Israelites saw the cloud and fire. Aaron saw it. And yet … Peter saw Jesus’ face shine like the sun. He heard the words. And yet … Memory is a great antidote to temptation. Whatever mountain you have to climb in the coming forty days, whatever words you have to hear, remember where you came from and where you are going. Remember how the thunder sounded. Remember what you saw in the candle’s flickering light. Joshua was with Moses. He saw, and remembered. ‘As I was with Moses, so I will be with you.’ And so …
