Sermon for Proper 8, Year C
Click here for the biblical readings.
Sometimes I walk into a conversation ready for a fight.
Like, I’ve been rehearsing my speech all day, muttering in the car, working up just the right balance of righteous indignation and devastating logic. I am locked, loaded, and ready to fire…
And then the other person just says,
“Oh gosh! I’m really sorry. Thanks for telling me how you feel. I had no idea.”
And now I’m standing there like,
“Ugh… Now I’ve got to rearrange my tone, because you were supposed to argue with me. I was all set for a fight…
And now I have to figure out how to be a reasonable human being…”
That’s more or less what happens to James and John today.
They’re ready to go scorched earth on a Samaritan village—and Jesus… doesn’t let them.
No fire. No fight. Just a rebuke, and a long walk to Jerusalem.
And maybe the most uncomfortable part is:
He’s still walking that way.
And we’re still being invited to follow.
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I’ve been thinking this week about Inspector Javert, the relentless police officer from Victor Hugo’s novel Les Misérables. He’s a man of uncompromising principle, obsessed with justice. For him, the law is sacred—it orders the universe, separates good from evil, and gives people what they deserve. No exceptions. No second chances.
Then comes the moment that undoes him: Jean Valjean, the escaped convict Javert’s been been hunting, has an opportunity to kill him, but spares his life instead. And suddenly, Javert doesn’t know who he is anymore.
If I’m honest—there are times when I’ve recognized a bit of Javert in myself.
Moments when I felt sure I was standing up for what was right… only to realize later that what I really wanted was to feed my own ego.
I wanted fire.
Jesus offered fruit.
And that kind of grace isn’t cheap. It’s a costly grace. It doesn’t just change you—it undoes you, and makes you new.
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In today’s Goslel, Luke tells us that Jesus has “set his face toward Jerusalem.”
That’s more than a GPS update. It’s a theological turning point in the story—a shift from healing and teaching in Galilee to a deliberate, unflinching journey toward the cross.
And the disciples are not ready.
They still want results. They want clarity. They want to win.
When the Samaritans won’t welcome Jesus, the disciples don’t just shrug and move on.
They say, “Lord, do you want us to call down fire from heaven?”
That’s not just hyperbole. It’s a reference to Elijah, who once called down fire on the enemies of God. These disciples think they’re following in a great prophetic tradition.
And in one sense—they are.
But they’ve misunderstood the spirit of the prophet, and more importantly, the Spirit of the Christ.
So Jesus turns and rebukes them.
Luke doesn’t tell us exactly what he said, but the Church has long remembered his tone: not fury, but love.
Some Bible translations insert an extra verse here. Biblical scholars call it a “textual variant” (in case you want to sound impressive at your next dinner party). The extra verse recalls Jesus saying:
“You do not know what spirit you are of.
For the Son of Man came not to destroy lives, but to save them.”
Whether those were his exact words or not,
they sound like Jesus.
They feel like him.
And they land like truth.
Jesus turns and rebukes them.
Not because the Samaritans were right.
Not because the disciples’ feelings were invalid.
But because they didn’t know what Spirit they were of.
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That phrase lingers for me:
It’s as if Jesus is saying:
That’s not how we do things. That’s not what I’m about. That’s not who we are.
And Jesus is still saying the same thing to the Church today.
Fire is easy.
Fruit is harder.
Fire is fast.
Fruit takes time.
We reach for fire.
Jesus gives us fruit.
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St. Paul knew this struggle well. Writing to the Galatians, he’s speaking to a community splintered by judgment and suspicion.
They’re fighting about circumcision and law observance.
They’re drawing lines. Picking teams. Measuring holiness. Reaching for fire.
And Paul says: No.
“If you bite and devour one another, take care you don’t consume each other.”
Instead—live by the Spirit.
And what does that look like? Paul tells them that the Fruit of Spirit is:
Not rage. Not rivalry.
But:
Love that listens. Joy that lingers. Peace that roots.
Patience. Kindness. Generosity. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.
These aren’t achievements.
They’re not the result of trying harder.
They grow naturally from following the way of Jesus and desiring in our hearts to be the kind of person that he is.
Fruit doesn’t come by force.
It ripens slowly.
It grows from staying rooted.
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Let me tell you a story about a pastor I once knew. His name is Buck Roberts.
His two young kids had been arguing one day, when the older one lost his cool and smacked the other.
Buck saw it happen and took his son aside to give him a stern talking-to. But when he got down on the kid’s level and looked him in the eye, something in the back of Buck’s mind told him to take a different approach. Instead of scolding or punishing his son, he just reached out and hugged him. The little boy immediately burst into tears and said he was sorry. The father’s mercy was able to inspire transformation more effectively than punishment ever could.
It was a small gesture.
But that moment—choosing to meet fire with something softer—has stayed with me.
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I remember another time when I made a quick joke in the wrong tone and watched my friend’s face fall.
Words meant to be funny can land like fire.
I apologized later, and thankfully, my friend forgave me. But I carried it as a valuable learning experience.
Self-control isn’t just about big moral failings.
Sometimes, it’s about knowing when to speak.
Or when to stay silent.
Or when to say you’re sorry.
And that’s fruit too.
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We might not be chasing someone across France with arrest papers, like Javert.
We might not be calling down fire from heaven.
But we know what it feels like to want to.
And we know what it feels like to choose something else.
To take a breath.
To stay rooted.
To begin again.
This is discipleship.
Not spectacular. Not showy.
But slow and faithful.
We reach for fire.
Jesus gives us fruit.
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Let me be clear:
This isn’t about tone-policing.
It’s not about letting harm go unchallenged or injustice go unchecked.
Jesus got angry.
But even when he flipped tables, he didn’t burn down the temple.
His anger made space for healing.
Fire gets attention.
Fruit makes change.
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So, kindred in Christ, here’s my invitation to you this week:
Take a look at the Fruit of the Spirit in today’s Epistle and pick one. Just one.
Let it live on your fridge or your phone or your dashboard.
Let it shape your prayer life.
Let it grow.
Let it ripen.
We reach for fire.
Jesus gives us fruit.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s how the kingdom comes.
Not in a blaze of glory.
But in a harvest.
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Archbishop Desmond Tutu once said,
“Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”
That’s what fruit does.
It doesn’t go viral. It doesn’t make headlines.
But it transforms a landscape when enough trees bear it together.
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So picture this:
Jesus turning to look at the angry disciples—not with fury, but with love.
Imagine him shaking his head gently, then setting his face forward again:
His eyes on Jerusalem.
On the cross.
On self-giving love.
And then imagine yourself there—following along with the group.
Not because you’re ready.
But because you’re willing.
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In a few moments, we’ll come to this altar together. It’s a moment we’ve all been waiting for.
For the first time, we will come in a new way—as priest and parish.
And there—without fire or fury—Jesus will give himself to us again.
Not to punish us.
Not to prove a point.
But simply… to love.
Jesus doesn’t just model mercy—he gives it.
In the Eucharist, he places it in our hands, into our bodies.
He makes us part of himself.
And from that grace, the fruit begins to grow.
It takes root.
It bears witness.
It begins again.
This is the Spirit we are of.
This is the fruit we are becoming.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
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Hopping Hadrian's Wall 