October 5, 2025

Sermon Transcript

In today’s reading from 2nd Timothy, St. Paul invites us to rely on the power of God, who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace. (2 Timothy 1:8-9)

If you paid attention back in your High School literature class, you may remember the legend of the Gordian Knot. The story goes that a peasant farmer named Gordias was plowing his fields near Phrygia. Suddenly, a flock of birds descended on the oxen pulling the plow. Gordias took this to be an omen. He went to consult a local seer, who turned out to be a beautiful maiden. She told Gordias that the birds were a sign that he would be a king. “Furthermore,” she said, “since no king should be without a gorgeous queen, how about marrying me?” Clearly, Gordias was having one of those rare good days, and it was only going to get better. You see, the Phrygian king had recently died without an heir. An oracle instructed the leaders of the city that the first man to arrive in an oxcart should be their king. So along came Gordias with his cart and new wife, and they offered him the job. The times being what they were, he accepted. To remind himself always of his humble beginnings, Gordias fastened his oxcart to a post at the temple with a huge knot that was seemingly impossible to untie. Thus, the Gordian Knot.

Gordias was a good king. After his dynasty died out the legend arose that the true test of Asia’s next ruler would be the ability to unravel the Gordian Knot. Many people of great strength and wisdom came to try, but the knot was too tight for all of them. It had no apparent beginning or ending. It was unsolvable, unmovable. At length the Macedonian conqueror, Alexander the Great arrived. He stood before the Gordian Knot, transfixed by its complexity and strength. Knowing the symbolic value of undoing the knot, but also knowing that he too would fail by conventional means, Alexander unsheathed his sword and proceeded to slice through it. So much for the Gordian Knot. So much for the ties that bind humility with leadership. From there Alexander went on to rule all of the known world.

The first time I heard how Alexander the Great defeated the Gordian Knot, the story inspired me. It told me that no conundrum could forever elude a human solution. What is more, it told me that after the best thinking and conventional means of problem-solving fail to unravel whatever enigmas impede our way, even brute force and impatient strength have their usefulness in surmounting life’s challenges. The story of the Gordian Knot celebrates the human potential to overcome any obstacle, perhaps even a government shutdown. It’s a story that can bolster anyone’s self-esteem. It’s a story that we vastly prefer to the short, little-known parable that Jesus told in today’s Gospel reading from Luke (17:5-10).

Today’s parable has no popular title, as do many of the others that Jesus told: the Prodigal Son, the Good Samaritan, the Lost Sheep. What do you call this one? The Parable of the Returning Servant is the best that commentators can do. Jesus asked his audience to imagine themselves as the owner of a small farm typical of their day. The household staff would consist of one slave, or servant, whose duties included, among other things, tending the sheep and plowing the field. Let’s imagine that your servant works exceptionally hard, and what he hopes to earn at the end of the day is a place at your table. As many before him and after him have done, the servant stands at the Gordian Knot of class distinction, transfixed by its complexity and strength. Yet the servant believes he can overcome these artificial barriers, and eat with you. With such a goal in mind the servant exerts great effort in the fields to prove his worth. What he hopes to hear you say is, “Come here at once and take your place at the table.”

What do you think: will the servant be able to undo the Gordian Knot that holds him back from the master’s table? We like to think that he will. We like to think that by trying his hardest and doing his best, the servant’s reward will be a place at your table. Sorry to say, it’s wishful thinking. Why? Some years ago Stacie and I were hosting a reception at the rectory for the youth Confirmation class and their parents. I was at the door, greeting people as they arrived. Just as I let one family in, four people whom I did not recognize tried to follow behind them. I said, “Excuse me, are you with the Confirmation class?” One of them replied, “No, but we wanted to join the tour.” The young woman was undaunted when I explained that this was a church gathering, not a tour. She pressed on, “But it’s in all the tour books.” “Sorry,” I said, “you have to be a member of the church to come inside the rectory.” So she made one last pitch, as if a compliment would be the key. “But it’s beautiful. I’ve always wanted to see inside.” “Come to church tomorrow at 11 am,” said I. “It’s Confirmation. The Bishop is preaching. You’ll love it. You can become a member. You can make an annual pledge. Then we’ll invite you to the rectory.” They went away sorrowful, and I did not see them in the morning.

Likewise, the hard-working servant receives no invitation to sit at your table, but only the command to do more work: Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink. Even worse, Jesus comments that the proper response from the servant and from you and me under such circumstances is only this: “We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!” Thanks, a lot, Jesus. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I am struggling with my self-esteem.

What is Jesus really talking about in this parable? Make no mistake, he is talking about our sense of worth and self-esteem. He’s talking about the place at the table that Alexander the Great wanted, and that even the disciples argued about among themselves. He’s talking about the place at the table we all want: earthly status and respect. But the case could be made that all of us, even Alexander the Great, set our sights too low. What Jesus was alluding to was not a place at any earthly table, but at God’s table: heavenly status, eternal life, and a sense of worth that derives not from an overheated ego, but from hearing and receiving the gracious call of God.

Any time Jesus mentioned a table or a banquet or a meal, you can be sure he was referring to the kingdom of God. So this parable, hinging on the desired place at the table, invites us to imagine heaven just like this: a family gathered for a meal in their home. How can you join them? The tourists at the rectory were attractive, well-dressed, persistent people, but they could not charm their way through the door. None of their exceptional qualities granted them entrance. The servant is a hard worker, but he doesn’t earn a seat at the table. No amount of effort pulls out the chair. True, Alexander the Great and others like him slice and chop their way to the top, but no one enters the kingdom of God through violence and brute force. You can’t crash the party in heaven. What can we do? What can we do to inherit eternal life?

In today’s Epistle from 2nd Timothy (1:1-14), Paul writes that the answer is grace. Only the gracious invitation of God swings wide the door. It is a free gift. In fact, God has been waving us in all along: This grace was given to us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, but it has now been revealed through the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel. Imagine, we are free to sit down at the banquet and enjoy the presence of God. “Yes, yes,” you say, “I’ve heard that sort of thing before. But it all sounds very theoretical. I’m just not sure I believe it. I need more faith, I suppose.” Guess who else thought the same thing. The Apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

Most of us hear the familiar “faith the size of a mustard seed” verse, and we conclude that Jesus must think we have virtually no faith at all. What we need to do is work to increase it to the size of a mustard seed. If we were to achieve more faith, bigger faith, better faith, we could trust that God really is setting a place for us at the table. So let’s work on increasing our faith. But the parable, which Jesus offered as a corrective to the disciples’ desperate plea, suggests that more work is not the answer. Remember, no amount of effort – even if the effort is faith – seats the servant at the table. So I don’t think Jesus meant to give us yet another muscular method of storming the gates of heaven.

Consider this: perhaps Jesus meant that we should decrease our faith to the size of a mustard seed. It could be that he meant we have too much of the wrong faith: too much faith in ourselves to unravel life’s Gordian knots when perhaps we should rest content with them as reminders of our humility. Perhaps Gordias had the right idea all along: living with the Gordian Knot so as never to lose sight of his humble beginnings. So instead of increasing our faith, how about decreasing it to the size of a mustard seed, or the size of a child seated at the family table? Jesus said, Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall never enter it (Mark 10:15). If you want a picture of the small-enough type of faith Jesus is talking about, simply imagine little children at the family table. They never question that they have a place there. They simply have a sense of belonging. They have a childlike faith. In his letter to the Galatians (4:5-6), Paul writes that through Christ, we have become those children; we have received adoption as God’s children. And because you are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” So you are no longer a slave but a child, and if a child then also an heir through God.

At the beginning of the sermon I told you about Alexander the Great, whose oversized ego sliced through the Gordian Knot and ruled the world. Another larger than life world leader who rode through history was Charlemagne, King of the Franks and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. Charlemagne, or Charles the Magnificent, was born in the year 742, and by 800 he was the undisputed ruler of western civilization. By the time of his death in 814 he was easily the most powerful, most feared person on earth, and he knew it.

Legend has it that Charlemagne had left detailed instructions for his own funeral, including building and endowing Aachen Cathedral, where the service and burial were to be held. His vault was paved with gold coins, and large enough for his embalmed body to be seated upon his throne. When the funeral procession reached the cathedral, the local bishop barred the doors. “Who comes?” the bishop asked, as was his custom. “Charlemagne, Lord and King of the Holy Roman Empire,” proclaimed the herald. “Him I know not,” the bishop replied. “Who comes?” The herald wasn’t sure what to say. This wasn’t part of the plan, so he responded, “Charles the Great, a good and honest man of the earth.” “Him I know not,” the bishop replied again. “Who comes?” The herald, now totally confused, responded, “Charles, a lowly sinner who begs the gift of Christ.” At that the bishop opened the doors and said, “Enter! Receive Christ’s gift of life!”

Likewise, St. Paul invites us to rely on the power of God, who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace. Thus, having heard God’s gracious, holy calling, we too may enter and receive Christ’s gift of life: even at this very table, even on this very day.