Calling Down Fire [Proper 8C]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 9:51-62

Calling Down Fire

Well, that escalated quickly: straight to the fire. Once again (and this seems to be a recurring theme in his life) Jesus cannot find any lodging. He's been having this problem since the day he was born; no room ready that day either. And unlike his parents, Mary and Joseph, who settled for some rather unusual accommodations for the newborn baby Jesus, James and John are less understanding, less flexible. “Burn it to the ground.”

So, this feels like an extreme reaction, right? An extreme reaction for really any rational adult. Especially, one does not expect this from Jesus' disciples. Specifically one does not expect this from the disciples in his inner circle, two of the disciples who, along with Peter, just prior to this incident witnessed the Transfiguration, two disciples whom we commemorate as saints – we name churches after these guys – and they are ready to call down a divine nuclear strike on an entire village because some of the people were inhospitable. It seems like an extreme reaction.

Now it is true: there is some history here – some historical tension. James and John were Jews. Jews and Samaritans had a checkered history; there were disagreements between the two factions – theological arguments, differing interpretations of Scripture, competing visions of salvation – you know, the kind of things that cause denominational splits still today.

Occasionally however, the verbal spats turned physical, turned violent. In fact we know that in the later first century a group of Jewish pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem were murdered in Samaria. This was not the norm but it does give us a sense of the simmering tension between the groups. And so, while it is surprising that Jesus would choose to journey through this Samaritan village on his way to Jerusalem, as opposed to circumvent the region as many 1^st century Jews would have, it is really not a surprise that the Samaritans would refuse to receive him and his message.

Now, despite the tense history, it is still pretty shocking to us that James and John want to incinerate every man, woman, and child in this village, but then again maybe that is not such a surprise either. Because while they are saints, they are also human. I suspect Jesus' rejection was less the cause of their rage than it was justification for the hatred that was already in their hearts. I suspect they hated those Samaritans long before they arrived in that village.

As disgusting as their idea is, they actually find themselves grounded firmly in the religious tradition, alongside some fine company in fact. The great prophet Elijah called down fire from heaven in 2 Kings; the fire consumed more than 100 people. If one were so inclined, one might be tempted to call that mass murder. But it is also in the Bible – our Bible, the Bible that James and John knew and read. And if we want to push this even further, the book of Genesis contains the story of another fiery devastation: Sodom and Gomorrah. That one is all on God. It is a rough story; a lot of people die in that story. And, though the story is often misinterpreted to push political agendas, the people in those towns faced divine wrath because of their lack of hospitality – not unlike the Samaritans in today's Gospel. This story is also in the Bible – our Bible, the Bible that James and John knew and read. James and John, it seems, were simply appealing to tradition – a pretty strong tradition. Fire from heaven is just how it's always been done. So I think we can admit that sometimes change is good – and, yes, I do realize I'm saying that in an Episcopal Church.

Now, I think it is important to recognize and acknowledge that the Samaritans did nothing to personally harm James or John. The Gospel only mentions that the Samaritans did not receive Jesus. But even so, the brothers took it personally. They had a visceral reaction. They were rash and emotional. The Samaritans insulted, disrespected their Master – and James and John took that personally.

And they wanted revenge. I mean, serious revenge. They wanted to see fire come down from the sky and consume all of the people in the village – the people who hurt them. That is intense; it is extreme. They want to see these people die for what they did. It's as simple as that.

I remember, I'm sure you do to, watching the celebrations on television. It was just over five years ago. All around the country people filled the streets to celebrate, to rejoice, to sing and dance. Osama bin-Laden had been killed. Millions of people finally realized their murderous revenge fantasies after ten long years. A decade of grief, and anger, and hateful rhetoric, and guilt, and fear, and pain exploded in a single national celebration – a celebration of a death.

It's in all of us. Maybe it was Osama. Maybe it was the Japanese after Pearl Harbor. Maybe it was the Germans or the Koreans or the Viet Cong. Maybe it is ISIS. Maybe it is the shooter in Orlando. Maybe is the bully you encounter daily at your work or school. It can be hard for us to understand why James and John want to rain down fire because we don't hate Samaritans; we don't really know anything about Samaritans. The closest we come is the Good Samaritan – and he's good. But like those two disciples, we all have our own Samaritans.

At my last parish we had a neighbor, her yard backed up to our parking lot. And less than a year after I started at St. Andrew's, she started sending me letters – hateful, angry letters. I had never met her, but to say she didn't like our snowplowing would be putting it mildly. And so she sent me a steady stream of mail, saying hateful things, calling me terrible names. And while it started with just me, before long she started sending letters to my Bishop as well – telling him how I was a terrible person, an idiot, a bad priest. Every time it would snow, and this was in Northern Ohio, I knew the letter was coming. And this went on, week after week, for years.

And it made me sick to my stomach. And it made me feel helpless because there was nothing I could do to stop it...and trust me I tried. And while I never called down fire from the heavens, some of my thoughts and prayers came close. I might have prayed something along the lines of, “Dear God, please make this stop. Do whatever you gotta do. I'm not judging.” Not one of my proudest moments; priests are people too.

When we hurt, we want to hurt others. And the history of the human race proves that often we do. We make war. We use the death penalty. We punish and humiliate. We seek revenge. We call down fire from heaven. Or we sometimes we just crush each other with our words. Hatred, anger, and fear can take many forms.

What James and John said was not shocking; it was normal – even socially acceptable. Jews didn't like Samaritans – and they had reasons. The pair could use the Bible to justify their dark fantasy. And they were human. And they were hurt. And they were angry. And maybe they thought the world would be a better place without Samaritans.

And so they turned to the rejected Lord they loved and they said, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” Because they were hurt and they wanted to hurt someone. But Jesus turned to them and rebuked them.

Because Jesus expects better – of them, of us. They thought Jesus came to judge and punish and win and reign. But Jesus came to love and save and lose and die.

Jesus had every reason to call down the fire. He was hated. He was rejected. He suffered violence and even death at the hands of people he loved, the people he came to save.

When we hurt, we want to hurt others. And Jesus hurt. And when he hurt, he chose to love others. Every time. And we are the witnesses; that is our story to tell; that is our story to live. Because of Jesus we know the power of love. That love is stronger than hatred and violence. That it is more powerful than revenge. We know that love is the only way to break the cycle of violence, of hatred, of pain. We know that love is our only hope.

Love is the choice Jesus calls us to make. Now let's be honest, we're still going to be angry sometimes. We're still going to hurt sometimes. We're still going to have a healthy thirst for vengeance sometimes. We're still going to be tempted by that heavenly fire sometimes. We are still human. God knows that. In fact, I say let God have 'em – all of those hurts and pain and anger and hatreds. Give them to God, trust God with all of your most precious hatreds so that you can be about the business of love, so that you can err on the side of love every time, so that you can worry less about that fire from heaven and more about the love of Jesus burning in your heart.

Before Jesus ascended to heaven, after he was killed, after he was raised from the dead, the last thing Jesus said to James and John and the other disciples was this: “You will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, throughout Judea, and in Samaria.”

Wherever your Samaria may be.