"Don't you know?"

"Don't you know?"

Sermon for 6 June, 1999

Trinity Church, Princeton

Readings: Matthew 9:9-13; Hosea 5:15-6:6

"Don't you know?"
The words echoed across the room, above the clink of glasses
and the murmur of conversation.

"Don't you know?".
You could hear the exasperation in his voice,
as he stood in the doorway, arguing with the men outside.

"Don't you know?"

It was just another day in that small town by the lake.
A group of friends
had gathered together for a meal.
It had been a long time
since they'd gathered here, weeks and months of traveling,
never quite sure what they would eat or where they would sleep.
The taste of dust never seemed to leave their mouths.
But now
some of them, at least
were home,
and it was time to relax
and enjoy a good meal
at the end of a long day.

They'd been a little surprised at the other people
who turned up for dinner
that night,
but they knew enough of their friend
to know
that he had his reasons.
And enough to know
that no matter how many times they asked
he probably wouldn't give them
a straight answer.

And so they sat back
and enjoyed the company,
enjoyed being with people who
if nothing else
knew how to have a good party.

Until the interruption. A noisy knock at the door,
a loud voice cutting through the mellow warmth inside.
And outside, a small group of men, righteous indignation
swirling around them like steam.

"Don't you know?"

"Don't we know what?"

"Don't you know
who
is in there with you?"

* * * * *

We live in a town
where the business
is knowledge.
For many of us
knowing
is what really matters.

Some of us
spend most of our days
searching for new understandings
about tiny micro-organisms,
or long buried languages,
or the way people develop opinions.

Others
read voraciously,
homes scattered with magazines,
the New York Times,
and more books
than we want to count.

Others of us
collect facts as if they were stamps,
coming up with the most obscure pieces of information
just for the fun of it.

Our children go to school
and tutoring
and camp,
so that at age 18, they will be able to fly into the adult world
with all the knowledge they need.
And some of my friends have just downloaded a screen saver onto their
computers
which analyses noise from space - a vast network of home computers
all working together -
so that if there is some intelligible communication
we will know.

Don't you know?

* * * * *

Standing at the door that night
I imagine Jesus did know
the answer to the Pharisees' question.

After all
he knew his disciples -
they'd been traveling together for long enough -
and even if he didn't know everyone in that room by name,
he certainly knew who Matthew was.

Matthew, the tax collector.
Scum of the earth.
It was not for nothing that tax collectors were universally despised,
suspected, it seems, with just cause,
of creaming a bit extra off the top,
adding a few miscellaneous taxes
of their own -
but who knew for sure ?
After all,
you couldn't trust the government,
not on taxes, anyway.
And it was Jesus' home town, after all.
Of course he knew Matthew,
maybe even as far back as childhood,
making mud pies together in the dirt,
perhaps standing
at the back of the crowd
that memorable Saturday morning
when Jesus stood in the synagogue
and declared that the day of the Lord had come.
And it was in his tax booth that Matthew had been sitting
as they came into town,
feet aching from the journey on the hard dusty roads.

Yes, Jesus knew Matthew,
knew the one who
without so much as a backwards glance
left everything he knew
and followed Jesus.

Don't you know?

* * * * *

I wonder what Jesus would answer
if that same knock
came on the door
of Trinity Church this morning.

I'm not sure how many tax collectors
we have here in our congregation.
And I'm not sure how many of us
would fill in the census forms with
employment: "sinner",
or even, "disciple".

We have teachers
and students,
doctors
and lawyers, an architects and clergy,
mothers and fathers and grandparents,
people who work in retail,
and people who work in their gardens.
Volunteers
and business people.
And the list could go on. . .

And Jesus knows us too,
and Jesus knows
that we have more in common
with the tax collectors
and the sinners -
and the disciples too -
than we might sometimes think.

For we are all human.
Beautifully and wonderfully made,
in the image of our creator,
holy people
following a holy God.

But being human,
we are also vulnerable.
Vulnerable to hurt
and pain,

and to the misshapenness
which comes of living
in an imperfect
world.

Most of us wear scars,
sometimes hidden deep down
under protective layers,
sometimes close to the surface
and raw to the touch.

And we come to Jesus, the physician of souls
for our healing,
hoping, dreaming
that we might be made whole.

* * * * *

But Jesus is not done yet.
He stands at the door
this time
with a question for them.
"Don't you know?"
he says,
"Don't you know
what God meant
when he said
"I desire mercy, not sacrifice"
Don't you know?"

The Pharisees
knew all too well
the rules and regulations
about how to please God.
"Do this", they said,
"and God will bless you."
"Do that", they said,
and God will curse you."
And we know which side of the balance
they thought they were on.

But as Jesus reminds them, from back in their own tradition
"Mercy, love, is what God requires, not sacrifice."

Memorising the rules
is of no use,
if you've forgotten the aim
of the game.

You can't buy off God.
It doesn't work like that.
For in God
the rules
are turned upside down,
as the writer of this gospel
keeps reminding us.

Remember the Beatitudes?
Those peculiar sayings
which try to tell us
that mourning and poverty and hunger
go hand in hand
with blessing.
And it is here in Matthew
alone of all the gospels
that we read the story
of three kings
who travel the world
to see a baby
born in a cattle barn.
It is this gospel
which paints for us most vividly
the picture
of a King
who looks to me
like no King at all
with his crown of thorns,
and scepter of grass,
dying forsaken
on a cross.

Don't you know?

* * * * *

Jesus knew who was having dinner in the house
that night
- tax collectors and sinners and disciples alike.
They were his people. He knew them,
and he loved them
- whether they knew
or not.

Today we come together
at another table
to dine with Christ.
Christ knows us, knows our beauty
and our vulnerability
and our need for healing and wholeness.
We are his people. He knows us,
and loves us,
- whether we know,
or not.

What God desires of us
is not that we know everything,
not that we "get it right".
Because the reality is
we can never
do that.
Some things
are beyond
our knowing.

God loves us, with a passion
beyond our comprehension.
What God desires
is our love,
that we might love God
in all that we think
and say
and do.
That we take that love

and share it,
loving others
as wildly and fiercely
as God loves us.

And all the while remembering
Christ the physician,
the God, who in the language of Hosea,
will heal and revive and raise us.

Remembering, that as sure as we know
that tomorrow morning
a pale golden disk
will rise on the eastern horizon
and bring light to our world,
as sure as that
God is with us.

Don't you know?

Raewynne J. Whiteley
6 June 1999