Flags, Fears and Forgiveness

Readings: 1 Timothy 4.12-end (advice to a young church leader) and Luke 7.36-end (a known sinful woman bathes Jesus' feet) 

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It’s hard to know what to say about the world this week.  A young man, Charlie Kirk, gunned down in cold blood.  A sea of patriots, so-called, marching under banners of fear.  NATO rattling sabres at Russia, and Russia rattling them right back.  And over here, the President of the United States has popped in to remind us that truth, in the mouths of politicians, is always (what shall we say?) a negotiable commodity.

In the middle of all that, we get these two readings.  One from Paul—or at least from someone writing in Paul’s name—encouraging young Timothy not to be cowed by the sneers of the powerful, but to set an example “in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity.”  And one from Luke’s Gospel, where a woman’s tears of repentance are turned into a banquet for Jesus’ feet.  Two different texts, but both with the same quiet insistence: don’t just copy the noise of the world; show another way.

Simon the Pharisee sees a woman whose reputation is mud.  He sees her sins, but not her sorrow.  He sees the scandal, but not the love.  Jesus, on the other hand, receives her gifts without condition.  He allows her to touch him, even though she’s unclean by the law.  He accepts the strange, uncomfortable truth she brings: that forgiveness is real, and love is the right response.

Now, what would happen if we practised that same discernment in the world around us?  Because if I’m honest, it’s all too easy to look at a march of 150,000 flag-waving men and women and see only the ugliness—anger, nationalism, slogans painted in blood-red letters.  And speaking of flags—have you noticed the new campaign to hang them from every lamp-post in the country?  Apparently, that’s how you prove you love your nation.  Trouble is, after a week of rain, traffic fumes, and seagull droppings, they end up looking less like proud symbols of heritage and more like dogs marking their patch.  A little territorial, a little tatty, and mostly ignored by passers-by.  If that’s patriotism, I don't recognise it. 

But Jesus insists that beneath the surface there is always a story.  Beneath the roar of the crowd there is a fear.  Beneath the anger there is often grief.  Beneath the lies there is still a human being, aching for dignity and belonging.

We don’t excuse hatred.  We don’t baptise lies.  But we try to see the person behind the posture.  Because if God’s grace could reach into the life of a woman everyone else despised, then God’s grace can reach even into a shouting mob, even into a blustering president, even into a dangerous tyrant.  And yes—even into us.

That’s where Timothy comes in.  “Let no one despise your youth,” Paul writes.  In other words: don’t let the world set the terms of the debate.  Don’t be cowed by those who are louder, older, angrier.  Your task is not to match their volume but to model a different way.  Speech, conduct, love, faith, purity.  Not power, slogans, sabres, lies.

I think that’s where our hope lies.  We can’t silence the marchers, or rewrite the manifestos of world leaders.  We can’t end war with a snap of our fingers.  But we can choose how we live, how we speak, how we listen.  We can choose whether to sneer at our enemies or to try to understand them.  And understanding, in the Kingdom of God, is often the first step to love.

Because here’s the truth: every so-called patriot who marched through the streets carries fears they can barely name.  Every politician who blusters on the world stage has wounds and insecurities that drive them.  Every general who rattles a sabre is afraid of losing control.  And every one of us, too, is a bundle of half-formed knowledge, fake truths, and borrowed fears.  Yet Christ meets us in that mess.  He lets us weep on his feet.  He receives our shabby gifts.  And he calls us to receive others the same way.

So yes, it is a dangerous world this week.  But it is also God’s world.  And the Kingdom still creeps in wherever forgiveness is offered, wherever understanding is attempted, wherever enemies are listened to instead of shouted down.  That is our vocation.  To be a people who look beneath the surface.  To be a community where the broken can bring their gifts.  To be disciples who model a better way.

That, at least, is something Charlie Kirk will never again have the chance to do.  But we who remain—we can.  We can set an example.  In speech.  In conduct.  In love.  In faith.  In purity.  Not because it’s easy.  But because that’s what Jesus did when a sinner knelt at his feet, and what Jesus still does when sinners—like us—kneel before him.  Amen.