Proper 9, Yr A

July 3, 2011

There’s a guy who comes by the church to see me on a regular basis; well, there are several guys, but I’m thinking of one in particular. He’s clearly an operator. He’s not really homeless, at least, not all of the time. For a few months I’ll see him regularly in the lineup or at the monthly meal, then when his 90 days runs out, he makes himself scarce—except to come by and see me. He always wants a bus ticket to Milwaukee, but there’s always a story involved. It’s never the same story, though. After the second time, I told him that I could only help him once every six months—that was a rule we had back in South Carolina, and it worked pretty well to keep the most annoying people at bay. So the six months came up this past week, and sure enough, he came back by the church, looking for money for a bus ticket to go to Milwaukee. We missed each other, but next time he comes by, I’ll tell him, he’s been to Milwaukee more often in the last two years, than I have, and that’s only if you count the trips I’ve paid for.

Now, I don’t know his story. I know the part that he has chosen to tell me, and the embellishments he has added. I don’t know if he really needs the money, if he actually needs to stay in the shelter, or if he lives this way just because he wants to. I don’t know any of that. What I do know is that each of the men who stay downstairs have a story to tell. Sometimes they are there because of things outside of their control, lost jobs, medical problems that spiraled into homelessness. But often, whatever the outside circumstances that may have contributed to their situation, they are there because of a series of choices they made. And in that, in spite of all of their differences from us, they are like us.

The passage from Romans confronts us with the complexity of the choices we make, of our decisions, of the will that lies behind. Now, as many of you may recall, I am reluctant to preach on Romans. I’ve read the letter several times over the years—I’ve read many of the most famous commentaries on it, like the one written by Karl Barth, and I am nowhere near understanding what Paul is trying to get at. As I’ve reflected on it, I’m convinced no one really understands Paul’ argument, and there are times in the letter, when I don’t think Paul is even quite sure of what he is trying to say. Nonetheless, the Letter to the Romans is perhaps the most significant of Paul’s letters, certainly that’s true if you consider its impact on Christianity.

In Romans, Paul is making his most detailed attempt to resolve the dilemma that dominated his life as a follower of Christ. When we read the New Testament, we tend to read into it our experiences both as individuals and as Christians. One of the great problems with this approach is that we assume the New Testament texts are written in a context in which there are clear distinctions between Jews and Christians. In fact, that wasn’t the case. Paul makes clear throughout his writings that he always considered himself a good Jew. To come to believe in the risen Christ was for him not leaving Judaism, but rather to experience a new kind of Judaism.

What this means is that Paul is trying to keep together two groups of people, Jews and Gentiles, united only by their faith in Christ. Part of his project is to explain why the law given by God to Moses was good, and also why it was not necessary for Gentiles who joined this new community to keep the law. For Paul, the law was a good thing, but keeping the law reinforced distinctions between Jew and non-Jew, even as he asserted that in Christ we are all one.

In today’s reading, Paul is struggling on several levels to understand sin and human being. While there are several ways in which to interpret this passage, it seems to me that Paul is describing human experience with which we are all quite familiar. All of us can remember occasions when we have done the very thing we did not want to do. It might be a little lie to a loved one; it might be a shady business deal, or risky behavior of some sort. We know what we ought to do, we even want to do the right thing, but for whatever reason, we end up doing the wrong thing. My old friend St. Augustine, who is thoroughly imbued with Paul’s perspective, can even speak of a divided, or rather, two wills inside of us, competing against one another. We want to do the right thing, but we also deeply, desire to do the wrong thing.

In this context, Paul makes what might seem to be a surprising statement—twice he asserts that the law is good. He even goes so far as to say that we recognize that the law is good when we ourselves disobey it. Further, “I delight in the law of God in my inmost self.” To put it in our terms, we know what we ought to do. We know the distinction between right and wrong. More than that, it is often the case that we want to do the right thing, but for whatever reason, we fall back into old patterns of behavior that hurt ourselves and others. Paul uses the word sin to describe that experience. But for Paul, sin is not merely an act that we do; it is not even fair to say that Paul understands sin as inherent in human nature.

For Paul, rather, sin is a cosmic force or power, that has us and the world in its grasp. It is at war against God and as humans we are caught in the middle of that battle. In spite of some alien elements, Paul’s analysis of the human situation may strike a familiar chord with us. Some of us may find ourselves struggling daily within ourselves—struggling over addiction or persistent behavior that we just can’t seem to shake. It may be what brings us here, to this place, yearning for solace, or for the hope of wholeness. We bring our struggles and then we hear Jesus’ words in today’s gospel—the promise of rest and comfort.

“Come to me all you are weary and carry heavy burdens and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Some of you may be familiar with these words from the Rite I Eucharist. They are part of the “comfortable words” the celebrant may say after pronouncing the absolution for the confession of sin and before beginning the liturgy of the table. They are words that are meant to reassure us, to comfort us and remind us of the saving power of Jesus Christ. And in a way, they are an appropriate counterpoint to the struggles Paul is describing. They promise that whatever burdens or struggles we might have, our faith in Christ can free us from them.

In fact these words shouldn’t be taken by themselves; I don’t even think they are best used in the context of the liturgy, however comforting they may seem from time to time. Rather, these words of Jesus should be kept in tension with other words that Jesus spoke, especially those things we have been hearing in the last few weeks. “If you would be my disciple,” Jesus said, “take up your cross and follow me.” In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus has a great deal to say about what it means to be his disciples. Most of those things do emphasize the difficulties involved. But not simply difficulties or hardships, Jesus has a great deal to say about the cost of discipleship. He stressed again and again that he demanded everything from his followers.

Now, I’ve been around churches all of my life, and I’ve been around Grace for two years, long enough to have figured out some very basic patterns—a congregational culture if you will. In many ways, Grace is like every other church in America. A very small number of people, volunteers, do most of the work. That’s not surprising. What has been surprising to me is how little commitment there is from so many of the rest of us. Most of us are pretty content to come to church on Sunday, it’s not even necessary to come every Sunday, or even most Sundays. Now and then will suffice. We’ll put something in the offering plate, perhaps chat up a few people, and then go on our merry way, thinking we’ve done our religious duty. After all, Jesus says, come to me all you who are weary and have heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

We seem to feel we don’t need to get involved because church is a place where we receive, we don’t need to give of ourselves. We don’t even really thinking about our religious lives as discipleship, as following Jesus, we certainly don’t think it requires any deep commitment from us.

Paul’s words should break us out of our ruts and our complacency. Their emotion and power should challenge us to view the Christian life not as rest, relaxation, and comfort. Oh, there are times for that. But our life in Christ should also challenge us to go beyond ourselves, to seek to understand and learn more deeply what it means to follow him. There’s a line in the Eucharistic Prayer we’ve been using this summer that makes this point eloquently:

Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.”

Paul’s words should also challenge us to reach out to others, to do the hard work that is being the hands and heart of Jesus in the world.