Some of you may be familiar with the book Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures, a collection of integrated short stories that won the 2006 Giller Prize. The author is Vincent Lam, someone I’ve known for many years, going back to when we were both parishioners at St. Stephen-in-the-Fields. Vincent always wanted to be a writer from a young age, but he wasn’t sure how to make a career out of writing really good novels. He’s one of those rare people who said to himself: I’ll go study medicine and become a doctor, and then in my free time I’ll figure out how to become a writer. When he finished med school, he worked on a cruise ship as the onboard doctor. One day Margaret Atwood embarked on the ship for a vacation. Vincent sheepishly approached her and introduced himself. Then he summoned up all his courage. “Ms. Atwood,” he said, “I’ve been working on a novel. Might I impose on you to read the first chapter and let me know what you think?” Much to his surprise and delight, Margaret Atwood was very affirming and said it would be an honor to read his work.  

Vincent happily gave Margaret Atwood the chapter. A couple of days later he approached her again: “Ms. Atwood, what did you think of my chapter?” She responded warmly but directly, “Do you want me to tell you what you’d like to hear, or do you want me to tell you the truth?” “Well, I guess I want to know the truth,” said Vincent. “The truth is that your writing is terrible, and your story isn’t compelling at all.”  Vincent wasn’t quite prepared for the bluntness of that response, and he felt totally flattened. But he also wasn’t ready for what Margaret Atwood would tell him next: “Look, I can see you want to be a good writer, but you’re far from that point. So I’m willing to meet with you regularly when you get back to Toronto. We can go over your writing, and I can show you where and how you can improve. I believe in you and I want you to succeed.” Vincent Lam took up Margaret Atwood on her offer. She became a literary mentor to him, and he ended up winning the Giller Prize in large measure because of her influence.  

That’s a true story, and it came to mind this past week as I thought about today’s readings. A couple of Sundays ago we encountered the wonderful Beatitudes: “Blessed are the poor,” “blessed are those who mourn,” “blessed are the meek,” “blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness and justice,” etc. If the Beatitudes are the gentle words of Jesus, then today things take a bit of a turn in a different direction—kind of like when Margaret Atwood told Vincent Lam the raw truth. Today we find Jesus speaking challenging words about anger, about adultery and divorce, and about truth-telling and taking oaths. Time and again, Jesus says, “You have heard it was said… but I say to you…” He ups the ante. For Jesus, anger and insults are just as consequential as murder; looking lustfully is just as wrong as the act of adultery itself; and taking oaths is rooted in evil. “Let your word be ‘yes, yes’ or ‘no, no,’ ” says Jesus; don’t try to back up your word with anything else.  And to top it off, Jesus suggests that the threat of hell looms for those who don’t live up to the life he describes.  

We should remember that Matthew’s Gospel was first addressed to Jewish Christians who retained a very high view of the Torah, the Jewish Law. In fact, they valued the Law so highly, so much so that they believed the Pharisees—those popular religious leaders who upheld the standard interpretation of the Law—were sell-outs. And so the Christian community that first received Matthew’s Gospel was an extremely tight group of Christians with close bonds and rigorous moral expectations. They needed to maintain tight relations for reasons of survival: they were under persecution from Roman authorities, mainly because they were seen as dissidents who didn’t fit into the mold of the typical Roman citizen or subject.  

So Jesus’ hard sayings in Matthew reveal a great deal about the community that first received them. These sayings would’ve been heard not as troubling but inspiring—because the way of life that Jesus describes in our Gospel today was precisely the way of life that the first Christians were striving to embody. They understood themselves as different from the world around them, as “called-out” by God—and they took that call very seriously. This community had high expectations for itself; they loved each other unto death; and if you weren’t willing to commit to that, you would be, as Jesus says, “liable to the hell of fire.” Now, keep in mind that the reference to hell was actually a real place in Jesus’ day. The word for hell here is “Gehenna,” which literally means the Valley of Hinnom, located south of Jerusalem. Originally it was where rogue Israelite kings engaged in idol worship that included child sacrifice. It was a horrible place, and in Jesus’ day it had become a massive trash dump that smoldered and stank continuously. To end up there would be to find yourself in the worst possible living situation.  

It seems to me that many Christians today, at least in the West, have lost the urgency of the way of life that Jesus calls us to. We often struggle to make sense of these sayings of Jesus, or we’re even offended by them; they grate against so much of our own experiences of life. They’re hard because we don’t measure up. We’re writing the stories of our own lives, our own novels, and perhaps we think we’re not doing too badly—until our Margaret Atwood moment when Jesus awakens us to the hard truth.  

But the fact of the matter is we shouldn’t be defeated. Yes, Jesus calls us to a higher, harder way. He says to us, like he did to his first disciples, “follow me.” Each day, if we’re attentive, his call resounds, and we have the opportunity to take up the call afresh. Following someone means that they are present in our lives, guiding us, just like Margaret Atwood guided Vincent Lam. In calling us, Jesus promises to be with us. He’s present when we read and ponder the Gospel accounts of his life. He’s present in saints and saintly figures who inspire. He’s among us as we gather, especially as we meet to reenact the last meal he ate with his inner circle. Breaking bread and sharing is one way that we are accountable to each other. It’s how we open ourselves to learn from each other and support each other, which is exactly how the Spirit of the resurrected Jesus leads us forward on the journey.  

Following Jesus isn’t an option we pick up on Sunday morning; it’s a commitment of our entire lives. But we don’t undertake it alone. We have each other, and we have the comfort and reassurance of Jesus himself, who is present with us in a myriad of mysterious ways. Yes, he calls us to a higher, harder way. But he doesn’t leave us to figure it out on our own. We can almost hear Jesus speaking audibly through the pages of The Message paraphrase of the Bible: “Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely.” Your homework over the next several weeks is to find time to read through the Gospels of Mathew, Mark and Luke. “Get away” with Jesus and deepen your commitment to the higher, harder way.