In a few days’ time…

once again, we’ll celebrate “Australia Day”.

And, no doubt, our newspapers will be filled with opinion pieces on what it means.

Depending on which paper you read…

the focus may be on how much we have to be thankful for…

with scarcely any acknowledgment of the impact that white colonisation has had…

and continues to have…

on our indigenous population;

or, the focus may be the polar opposite.

There will be comments from some on the need to change the date;

and from others that that’s unnecessary.

And while there may be some acknowledgment of the absurdity of celebrating our national day…

to commemorate ships full of convicts arriving in Sydney;

what you probably won’t find is any history of the event itself.

The celebration of something called “Australia Day”…

was actually ‘invented’ during World War One––

as a fundraising event for wounded soldiers––

and it was held in July.

It was not until nineteen thirty-five…

that “Australia Day” was combined with New South Wales’ “Foundation Day”––

on January the twenty-sixth––

and became a national holiday.

 

Despite what some in the media might like us to believe…

history is never a simple statement of undisputed facts.

Such ‘facts’, on their own, are quite meaningless.

What an historian does is take that raw data…

and constructs a plausible narrative to make sense of them.

It’s similar to what a police detective, a lawyer, or…

a journalist would do.

And, in order to construct a plausible narrative…

the historian has to make use of a lot of other material.

They need to draw on what is known of other contemporary events and social forces;

and they bring to that insights from disciplines such as anthropology, sociology, and psychology.

Without such things, it’s not possible to make sense of it all. 

 

In a way, that’s what has happened with the stories in the Bible.

Taking, perhaps, a fact or two––

or, sometimes, just a legend––

the writers have constructed a plausible narrative…

one that reflects their particular socio-religious outlook…

and their particular theology.

They weren’t recording stories for posterity––

they were trying to make a point:

to persuade people to believe something and to do something.

 

In our story last week from John’s Gospel…

Jesus didn’t go out looking for followers.

He didn’t call them.

He didn’t ask them to leave behind their boats and nets…

or their homes and families.

He didn’t ask them to give up their way of life.

Rather, while Jesus was walking along, minding his own business…

John the Baptist pointed Jesus out to his followers…

and made some cryptic comments about him…

whereupon some of them left and started following Jesus…

and then they invited some of their family and friends as well.

For the author of John’s Gospel, following Jesus is not a divinely-ordained call or vocation…

it’s part of a spiritual quest or journey… 

one that we initiate ourselves.

In the other Gospels, however, Jesus does call people to follow him.

And yet, there are significant differences in their stories.

In Luke’s Gospel, we have the story of Jesus preaching in the synagogue at Nazareth…

and upsetting the locals.

He then goes and preaches, specifically, in Capernaum—

where this call to discipleship takes place––

and he audaciously heals a man on the Sabbath.

Following that, he goes to Simon Peter’s house where he heals his mother-in-law––

as well as others––

and then leaves to preach elsewhere.

When he returns to Capernaum…

Jesus preaches to the crowds from Simon Peter’s boat…

before instructing him to put out to the deep and cast his nets––

despite having toiled all night for no catch.

The call to discipleship comes after they have hauled in a huge net-full of fish.

In other words, in Luke’s Gospel, the call comes within a particular context.

It’s the result of a significant history of interaction…

which primes Simon Peter and the others…

to ponder, and to reflect on who Jesus was.

In light of that, then, the commitment that they make in response to Jesus’ call seems quite reasonable…

even if it is demanding.

 

But not so in Matthew’s version.

Here–– 

even truncating Mark’s minimalist story––

the call to follow comes completely out of nowhere.

Although there’s a brief mention of Jesus preaching––

probably in Capernaum––

it’s pretty vague.

There’s nothing specifically implying that Peter, Andrew, James, and John had heard it.

Instead, Jesus simply appears at the Sea of Galilee…

calls…

and they up and leave.

Theologically, of course, the author is trying to highlight Jesus’ divine authority;

or, perhaps, imply that he wielded enormous charismatic power.

But, taken from the other side––

from the perspective of the would-be followers––

it’s all a bit unrealistic…

and a bit scary.

It’s unrealistic to expect anyone just to drop everything––

their home and family…

their means of support…

all that gives them identity and purpose––

with no clear sense of what it means or where it will end up.

It’s even more unrealistic within a first-century context…

where commitment to family was absolutely sacrosanct;

where the average person struggled to make ends meet;

and where their parents were completely dependent upon them for support as they aged.

And, more than any of the others…

the author of Matthew’s Gospel specifically emphasises—

indeed, labours the point–– 

that they left behind their families.

To leave everything like that suggests a degree of commitment with which none of us…

rightly…

would, or should, feel comfortable.

Of course, the author constructed his narrative to make a specific point.

Writing some fifty or more years after Jesus lived…

in suggesting that these men up and left everything to follow Jesus…

with little to go on…

he’s having a none-too-subtle dig at his own audience:

how much more should they be prepared to change their lives…

and give their allegiance to Jesus…

given everything that they know?

 

But, in reality, I’m not sure if that makes it any more palatable.

Perhaps, in fact, even worse.

The story, as it’s crafted and narrated…

seems to encourage a level of blind faith…

unquestioning allegiance…

and total commitment…

that is, potentially, quite dangerous.

It’s the sort of attitude that we associate with cults.

It’s also the sort of attitude that is expected from…

or indeed shown by…

those who belong those rigid, conservative, and fundamentalist churches.

It’s the very attitude that we––

of the more liberal-progressive religious persuasion––

rail against.

We urge caution.

We expect people to use their brains…

to think through, critically, any and all claims to truth…

and any and all claims to allegiance and discipleship.

This sort of blindly spontaneous…

almost emotive…

religious response is the antithesis of what we value and encourage.

 

And yet, on our personal spiritual journeys…

as we explore the God who is mystery––

above, beyond, and beneath all that we comprehend––

and as we carefully weigh all competing truth claims…

is there not a sense that…

perhaps…

we go to the opposite extreme?

Do we not…

in many respects……

specifically exclude any sense of the spontaneous?

 

And, in so doing, do we actually close ourselves off… 

to the God…

who might just call to us out of nowhere?