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Silence, Songs, Prophecy: A Sermon for Advent 2, 2024

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December 8, 2024

This past Sunday, on the First Sunday of Advent, we began a new liturgical year, and with that new beginning, we also began reading a new gospel—the Gospel of Luke, which will be our focus throughout the coming year. Because of the different gospels emphasized in each year, each liturgical year takes on a different aura and different themes predominate.

For Luke, one of those themes, and it’s consistent with what I emphasized last Sunday, is to place the story he is telling in a clear historical and geographical context. We get that emphasis very clearly in today’s gospel reading, which a newcomer to the gospel might assume is the beginning of the gospel as a whole. John the Baptizer is situated in the reigns of emperors, governors, and other rulers, and his ministry is firmly located in Judea, the region around the Jordan river.

But there’s another theme that emerges in this year’s gospel readings, and it’s one of my favorites. Each Advent Sunday moving forward, our readings will include canticles—songs, taken from scripture that have been used in Christian worship for centuries, and in the case of today’s canticle, and the Song of Mary, which we will hear in two weeks, likely derive from Christian worship that predated the writing of the gospel. But they have also been used in Christian worship over the centuries—especially the Song of Mary, the Magnificat, and today’s canticle, The Benedictus or Song of Zechariah.

The latter has been a fixture of Morning Prayer in the Anglican tradition for centuries; used almost daily for many years, and still used that way for those who pray Morning Prayer following Rite I. Over the years, I have come to know the Benedictus almost by heart, although without ever trying to memorize it: 

Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel

He has come to his people and set them free

He has raised up for us a mighty savior

Born of the house of his servant David…

One of the miracles to me each time I encounter this canticle in Advent is how a text with which I am intimately familiar becomes new and illuminating in a new liturgical context of Advent. In a season of waiting and watching, this canticle takes on new meaning as it proclaims what God has done in the past and continues to do, and promises that God’s saving work will continue.

More than the words themselves, it is the context in the story that helps to deepen the meaning and power of this canticle. You may recall the story. Zechariah was a priest, serving in the temple in Jerusalem when he is visited by the Angel Gabriel who tells him that he will have a son who will become a prophet like Elijah and call the people to repentance. 

Zechariah finds this hard to believe as he and his wife are elderly and responds to Gabriel’s words by saying: “How can this be so?” In response to his incredulity, Gabriel strikes him speechless for the duration of Elizabeth’s pregnancy. When their son is born, Zechariah writes on a piece of paper that his name should be John, and immediately his voice returns to him. He began to speak, praising God. Then Luke writes, Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and began to prophesy. This song, the Benedictus, was his prophecy.

It’s quite remarkable, if you think about it. We rarely think of prophecy and song as being connected in any way, even if, in our bibles, the prophetic books often appear in verse form. Songs are for entertainment, enjoyment, relaxation, and diversion. But they do so much more, as well. There are protest songs of course: the great legacy of Woody Guthrie, the songs of the civil rights movement and the anti-war movement, Bob Dylan. When we encounter a song like this one, however, we may be inclined to think of it rather differently.

One other thing I would like to point out. If you were voiceless for nine months, and your voice returned only upon the birth of your child, what would you say? Would you have spent those nine months thinking about what you might say if you got your voice back? Would you release all of your pent-up anger and frustration, blurt out all the things you had wanted to say but couldn’t? Well, whatever Zechariah was thinking and planning over those nine months, according to Luke, this is what came up out of his mouth when he had the chance: “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel…”

Think of the waiting, the silence. Think of the hope that Zechariah had. As a Jew, a priest, living under the Roman Empire, dreaming of the restoration of Israel, doubting it would ever happen, going about his routines; chosen out of all of the priests in the temple to perform the daily office of sacrifice, and in that moment an angel comes to him and offers him new hope—had he and Elizabeth given up hopes of children years ago, decades ago?

And now, because of his disbelief, doubt, ridicule, silenced. Unable to share with Elizabeth the miraculous joy; the hopes and planning for a child, lost in his own thoughts.

It’s a powerful story, a powerful evocation of the Advent experience. Waiting in silence and hope; hoping in the midst of doubt and fear; meditating on the coming events, preparing for joy. 

Perhaps, this Advent, instead of focusing on the man whom Zechariah’s son would become, John the Baptist, the voice crying out in the wilderness; instead of focusing our attention on the coming of Christ, we might focus our attention and meditation on Zechariah, the silent one, the voiceless one, waiting, wondering whether his voice would ever return, but in that silence, preparing himself for the miracle that might come, that could come, when his voice was restored and he was free to say what he wanted, to sing his song, to prophesy about God’s goodness and redemption.

Advent, the weeks leading up to Christmas can sometimes seem overwhelming—the bustle of activity, all the things to do, holiday concerts, and parties. It can be a time of eager expectation and bitter disappointment. It can be a time of tears as well as joy as we think of loved ones who are no longer present in our lives, broken relationships, a world full of tumult. Finding time to spend with God, deepening our relationships with Jesus, preparing our souls and hearts for the coming of Christ may seem like an unnecessary luxury or even a burden of guilt.

Zechariah’s example may inspire us. As he waited in silence, the voiceless one, perhaps he had room to listen for God.

Perhaps in his silence he came to a deeper knowledge and experience of God, that enabled him to sing his song. Perhaps he experienced the tender compassion of God. May this Advent be for us a time to listen for God, to look for God’s presence in our lives and in the world, and to cultivate God’s tender compassion.

My kingdom is not of this Cosmos: A Sermon for Proper29B, 2024

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What comes to mind when you think of the word “King?” Is it of King Charles III, the British monarchy, the ritual and splendor of his coronation? Or perhaps of the more sordid details of the royal family as depicted in the TV series “The Crown” or the tabloids? Maybe you think of the “Game of Thrones” and the bloody battles over succession and dominance. Or maybe even the King himself—Elvis, either at the height of his career and charisma, or his later years.

What about “Christ the King?” What images does your mind conjure up? Did you know that there’s an image of “Christ the King”—Christus Rex, displayed prominently in our worship space. Christ on the cross, depicted not in his humility and suffering, but reigning in majesty, from the cross.

Today is the last Sunday of the liturgical year. Since 1925 it has been designated as “Christ the King.” It was instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925 as an effort to resist the rise of secularism and the decline in the political power of the papacy. But it arose in the wake of the devastating First World War and in a time of growing nationalism and fascism. Mussolini had come to power in Italy in 1922, creating a crisis with the papacy.

Christ the King is problematic in several ways. Many people find the use of “king” language off-putting, because of its patriarchal and militaristic connotations. Those interested in fostering egalitarianism or undermining authoritarianism rename it as “The Reign of Christ.” But the name change doesn’t really help matters. As is clear in all of our readings, Jewish and Christian scripture is replete with imagery of kingship, especially in reference to God. In the Psalm, for example, God is depicted as a king seated upon a throne, and the language here suggests an analogy between the rule of God and the rule of Israel’s king, an analogy that has been adopted and extended by Christians down through the centuries. At the center of the Psalmist’s vision is an image of the king ruling in splendor and majesty, on a throne. 

Similar images dominate the readings from Daniel and Revelation. Both of them, as I mentioned last week, are apocalyptic texts, and in these excerpts we are treated to images of the world as the authors imagine it might become or will be, or even perhaps is, if we see the world as it really is, ruled and governed by a righteous and just God. Although we don’t see those themes in any of these three texts, the notion that God’s reign is a reign of peace and justice is self-evident. All of these images are meant to emphasize the fact that Christ’s kingship, though accompanied and understood with imagery from human experience of kingship, is of a totally different order. Christ’s kingship has no beginning or end; it will not fail or falter. 

 Whatever the imagery comes to mind: from human history, scripture, or even Hollywood spectacle, the reality of human kingship is rather different than its display. For that, the small portion of John’s gospel that was read serves us quite well. For that is how kingship has played out in human history, in oppression, injustice, and violence.

As Procurator or governor, Pilate was the most powerful person in this little corner of the world. He had come to Jerusalem, as he did every year during the Passover to be present during a time filled with tension. The Jewish community was remembering and celebrating God’s deliverance of the Hebrews from an evil and oppressive ruler, and given that they were living under an equally evil and oppressive tyranny, tensions always ran high. That explains, at least in part, the charge that was brought against Jesus—King of the Jews. It was not simply a mistake, or an effort by his Jewish opponents to get the Romans to do their work for them. It was, quite frankly, accurate. Jesus did pose a political threat to the Roman Empire. By preaching the coming of God’s reign, Jesus presented a direct challenge to Roman power, and to the local leadership who both benefited from, and helped to exert that power.

We see that confrontation front and center here. When Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews? Jesus, and we suspect that Pilate is not asking the question honestly. He does not know, or care who Jesus is. In fact, he seems most interested in finding some way to avoid responsibility for what is taking place. And Jesus seems willing to help Pilate avoid what is to come. As the gospel of John tells the story, Pilate will make every effort to avoid condemning Jesus to death. He moves back and forth between Jesus and the other players in the drama—the crowd that according to John seeks Jesus’ death. He offers to free Jesus, but the crowd will have none of it. Then he stages a mock ritual of coronation with the purple robe and the crown of thorns. 

Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Jesus puts the question back on him, asking him his motives for the charge. But Pilate will have none of it, and so Jesus responds, “My kingdom is not of this world—cosmos, to use the Greek word. And here, our western, 21st century conceptions get in the way of understanding what’s at stake. For when we hear Jesus saying, “My kingdom is not of this world,” we are inclined to think of the contrast between spiritual and material realms, or perhaps between political and religious, projecting our notions of completely separate spheres of human experience and human power back on to the first century.

But when Jesus says, “my kingdom is not of this cosmos” he is using a term that in the Gospel of John is introduced in the very first chapter, and recurs throughout. The world, the cosmos, is inveterately opposed to God: “He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him” (John 1:10). At every turn, the world rejected Jesus, yet throughout the gospel Jesus again and again expresses his desire and intent to save the world. 

For example, John 3:17: “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” And John 12:47: “I came not to judge the world but to save the world.”

But Jesus’ efforts came to naught. As we see in this passage, his apparent attempt to sway Pilate away from the predetermined course of events was a failure. Pilate was enmeshed in the world, he saw things only in terms of power and self-protection and in the end, condemned Jesus to death.

This gospel story presents us with a grave temptation. It is likely that we see the confrontation between Pilate and Jesus as a historical event, with a clear winner and loser, and with no implications for our own lives, except that it resulted in the crucifixion.

Christ the King Sunday is a problem because it allows us to elide the distinction between the reign of Christ and the kingdoms of this world. Our king may not wear purple or a carry a crown, or even sit on a throne, but imperial power still holds sway and may be more brutal today than at any time in recent history. 

When we think of the kingship of Christ, our attention and focus should be, not on images of Christ ruling in majesty. Instead, what should come to mind are images of Jesus in the dock, facing the oppressive power of an unjust and evil regime. When we think of the kingship of Christ, we should think of Christ, not elevated or seated on a throne in majesty, but hanging on a cross, dying at the hands of oppressive, imperial power. 

When we think of the kingdom of Christ, we should contrast it with the kingdoms and empires of this world, fighting unjust and meaningless wars that claim millions of innocent victims. We should think of the devastation in Gaza, a brutal campaign of retribution and destruction waged by, yes, an imperial power. 

Over against those forces of evil and domination, we should think of Christ’s reign. We should think instead of Christ the victim, suffering at the hands of an imperial power, suffering with and for, those innocent victims, for refugees and asylum seekers, for prisoners and captives. And if we want to live under Christ’s reign, live in Christ’s reign, we should take our place beside those innocent victims, and work for justice and peace. For that is the nature of Christ’s reign, a reign not of this world, not of hate, or violence, injustice or oppression, but a reign of love, justice, and peace. May Christ’s reign come soon!

Beauty in the Rubble: A sermon for Proper28B, 2024

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Proper 28B

                                          November 17, 2024

It’s more than a little ironic that every three years we hear this gospel reading on what is for us the day of our Annual Meeting. After this service, we will gather in Vilas Hall to elect lay leadership for the coming year, to discuss our operating budget, and this year to get updates on the roof project and to embark on a fundraising campaign.

It’s doubly ironic this year because Jesus’ prediction: “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down!” is heard against the backdrop of masonry repairs taking place on our exterior to ensure the continued presence of Grace Church for future generations. Grace Church has stood on this site for 185 years now and we hope that what we are doing now and planning to do next year will preserve it for another century.

To top it all off, as I wrote these words, I could hear the sounds of demolition taking place in advance of the construction of the new History Center. Talk about not leaving one block upon another…

It may be tempting, though, in light of today’s gospel reading, to discredit the work we are doing, the money we are spending. Jesus’ prediction of the destruction of the temple; his earlier actions in overturning the tables of the moneychangers; and the attack on those who were donating to the temple treasury may led us to include that buildings like temples are misguided. And there are certainly plenty of verses in scripture that might lead one to that conclusion: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice”—for example. Protestant Christianity has often disparaged beautiful buildings; worship that includes beautiful vestments; images; even the music of organs and choirs. 

The verses we heard, the first verses of Mark 13, are an introduction to what scholars call “the little apocalypse.” It’s a genre of literature that emerged in the Hellenistic period, combining biblical symbolism and imagery with elements from other cultures and religions. While modern readers tend to assume that apocalyptic provides a guide to future events—the end times—in fact it’s coded language to help its readers understand their current historical context. 

For the gospel of Mark, that context was the Jewish revolt of 66-73 and the destruction of the temple. While scholars debate whether Mark was written just before or soon after Roman legions under the General, later Emperor Titus destroyed it, the conflict and the destruction loom over the gospel and especially this chapter. Later in the chapter come predictions that the followers of Jesus will be persecuted; that the temple will be profaned; that there will be earthquakes and signs in the heavens, and finally the Son of Man will come.

Such language both terrifies and fascinates us—to be clear, apocalyptic imagery and thinking are the ancestors of contemporary horror and fantasy literature and film. And we see how that imagery plays out in other segments of our culture, even in our political life.

In spite of the fact that apocalyptic has tended to be a fixation of conservative Protestantism in the US, it may seem like it is especially apt for the rest of us. It does seem like we are in the end times, with wars and rumors of war, collapsing cultural norms and institutions, climate catastrophe, and profound divisions in society that are often depicted in starkly oppositional terms: light v. darkness; good v. evil. It may seem like false prophets have arisen, claiming to speak in Jesus’ name, claiming “I am he” and leading many astray.

And it may feel like the stones are already crumbling around us, as the institutions we hold dear are being attacked and destroyed from inside and out. As we contemplate that destruction, both real and metaphorical, it may seem like there’s nothing we can do, that hopelessness, helplessness, impotence, despair, and acquiescence are the only options available.

In my sermon last week, I referred to small acts of defiance and hope—like the widow putting her two pennies into the temple treasury while the billionaires threw in their millions. But there are other, less confrontational things as well. 

Several recent post-service comments from visitors got me thinking. They all mentioned the beauty of our worship, our building, our music. It has occurred to me over the last couple of weeks that perhaps the most faithful, the most counter-cultural thing we can do is to create and sustain beauty. Beauty connects us to God, who created this universe and us in all our beauty and diversity. 

We might consider the place of our church in its built environment; surrounded by uninteresting buildings, opposite a state capitol built in the neo-classical style. The spire, tower, and walls of our church stand apart from other buildings; our courtyard gardens offer natural beauty in the midst of a brick, concrete, asphalt, and stone landscape. The interior of our nave lifts our eyes and hearts toward the heavens; the stained glass transforms sunlight into something ethereal, magical. Our music, the choir, organ, and hymns make our hearts soar into heavenly spheres.

In the midst of the demolition that surrounds us; the chaos in our world. In the presence of all the pain and suffering—the ongoing wars in Gaza and Ukraine; the destruction caused by Hurricane Helene; the threats to our common life and to the social safety net on which so many of us rely, to appeal to beauty may seem like a frivolous, even futile thing. 

But beauty can restore us; sustain us, strengthen us. And beauty draws us to God. Perhaps no one said it better than St. Augustine of Hippo, who wrote in his Confessions: 

Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new; late have I loved Thee! For behold Thou were within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made. Thou were with me and I was not with Thee. Iwas kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all. Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness: and Thou didst send forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness: Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant forThee: I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee: Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.

As we plan for the coming year in the parish, and as we consider the future of our nation and the world, we may feel that Jesus’ words in Mark 13 speak directly to, and for us. The signs of apocalypse seem to be all around us. In that chaos, in the rubble, beauty still beckons to us, inspires us, draws us to God. May our desire and nurture of beauty in our building and our worship, draw others to God as well.

Small Acts of Defiance and Faith: A Sermon for Proper 27B, 2024

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Proper 27B

                                          November 10, 2024

I’ve got to confess something to you all. I was feeling a bit guilty earlier this week. A couple of months ago, I had asked Margaret to preach and preside at services today. Corrie and I were thinking of going away for the weekend. Our plans changed and we were going to be in town, but I would still take the day off. After the election, I was feeling guilty that I wouldn’t be with you all today, to share in your fears, anxiety, and hopes, to pray with you and to celebrate the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood.

But then Margaret called me on Thursday morning to tell me that she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t think she would be able to serve today, so here I am. 

How many times over the last fifteen years have we gathered together after some natural disaster, or national trauma, elections, gun violence, outbreaks of war, or terrorist attacks? How often have we come together, our hearts broken, our spirits crushed, not knowing how we’ll survive, whether we have the strength and courage to carry on? How often have we been in despair, beaten down, full of rage and sorrow? And how often have my words seemed wholly inadequate to speak to the moment, to connect us with the divine life that can sustain us in times like these?

Carry on we must, and carry on we will in the face of whatever comes and for however long we must. We must persevere for our God is one who perseveres. In Christ, we see one who responds to God’s call and follows that call to the bitter end, to the cross and to death. But that is not the end of the story. Even in Christ’s death, even in the tomb, God is working God’s purpose out, vindicating Christ, raising the dead, bringing new life and hope in the midst of death and despair.

There are ironies that we heard this particular gospel reading on this day. I know that if you’ve ever heard a sermon about this passage, it’s been a stewardship sermon—holding up the widow as one who gave her last penny, everything to God, and urging you to do likewise. Now, we’re in our stewardship campaign, we are asking you to consider how you might support Grace’s ministry and mission in the coming year, and hoping that you will contribute generously. We are also about to embark on a capital campaign to fund our new slate roof. You’ll be hearing more about that at our annual meeting next week. And I hope you will give generously to that as well.

But this story is not about financial stewardship. It’s about something quite different. Jesus is in the temple. Remember, it’s the last week of Jesus’ life on earth. The gospel of Mark for all of its brevity and urgency, suddenly slows down in these last chapters and goes into great detail about these days leading up to Good Friday. This is the third day that Jesus has come into the temple. The first day, the day of the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, Mark says he came to the temple, looked around, and left. The second day, he went to the temple and staged what is called the “cleansing of the temple” overturning the tables of the moneychangers.

The third day Jesus teaches in the temple. Keep in mind, it’s just a couple of days before his arrest—to put it in the chronology of Holy Week: this is Tuesday after Palm Sunday. Jesus will be arrested on Thursday, crucified on Friday. On this day, he is confronted by a series of opponents or questioners, and this comes at the very end of that day.

It’s hardly surprising that these last days of Jesus’ life are centered on the temple. It was the religious center of first-century Judaism. It was also a key element in the projection of Rome’s imperial power. Judaea, unlike Galilee, was under direct imperial control and Rome used the temple and its bureaucracy to control the populace. The temple leadership were deeply implicated in the Roman occupation, and they profited from it.

As a class, the scribes were entrusted with the interpretation and implementation of Jewish law. Jesus’ condemnation of them is consistent and pointed throughout the synoptic gospels: They: “like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the market-places, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honour at banquets! They devour widows’ houses …”

Among the responsibilities of scribes in that period was to act as trustees of widows’ estates, since women could not act on their own legally. As compensation, they would get a percentage of assets; a situation ripe for embezzlement. The Torah repeatedly demanded the protection of “widows and orphans.” In today’s Psalm (146:8), w heard: “The Lord cares for the stranger; he sustains the orphan and widow.” Iinstead these most vulnerable in society were exploited by the scribes. The ones entrusted with the interpretation and adherence to the law were the lawbreakers. 

One way of reading this story is to see the widow as a victim of both the scribes and of the temple system. Down to her last two pennies, she gives them to the Temple treasury, in meek obedience to the system that has exploited her to the bone. And the contrast couldn’t be greater. The treasury was something like a bank. According to the Jewish historian Josephus, the temple treasury “was the repository of all Jewish wealth.” 

A victim, but perhaps not powerless. As all the wealthy people, clad in their finery, ostentatiously deposited their vast sums of money into the treasury, for all to see; this destitute woman comes and gives her last two pennies. A demonstration? An act of defiance? Drawing attention to her plight, to the vast inequities in the system? And Jesus commending her even as he laments: “she did what she could.” Remember, Jesus had entered Jerusalem on a donkey, a staged demonstration of royal power in the face of overwhelming imperial force. Rather similar to the widow’s act, both impotent and demonstrative. 

There are dark days ahead, difficult times. We don’t know what’s coming. We do know that the election has laid bare the deep fissures in our society and the fragility of our democracy. The myths that have sustained many of us for decades have been shattered in an instant; the shining beacon we thought we were revealed as something quite different.

As I said in my sermon last Sunday, the Church has been in situations like this before—perhaps not in the US, but often in its history. And it has often succumbed to the seduction of power, influence, and wealth. At the same time, it has also nurtured resistance and hope.

 We may feel powerless; we may be in despair. It may feel like it’s Good  Friday as we  hope and love being crucified by the forces of evil. It may like there’s nothing we can do that will matter; that all of our efforts are futile. But in the midst of our fear and despair, God in Christ is present with us. Good Friday is not the end of the story. There is hope; there is resurrection. And in the meantime, there are small acts of defiance and faithfulness: building community; being the body of Christ across division; sowing love against hate; binding the wounds of the suffering; feeding the hungry; witnessing to the grace and mercy of God. It may all seem like nothing, like little more than two pennies in an offering plate but I pray Jesus will say of us, “They did what they could.”

Saints’ Stories, our stories, God’s story: A Sermon for All Saints’ Sunday, 2024

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November 3, 2024

         All Saints’ Sunday is one of my favorite Sundays of the year. We get to sing one of my favorite hymns: “For all the Saints” Sine Nomine.  In recent years, it’s also the Sunday that marks the end of Daylight Savings Time; not something to celebrate, even if we’re supposed to get an extra hour of sleep. We have cats, so that doesn’t happen. Suddenly, darkness descends earlier in the evening and it feels like late fall, even if the temps don’t. For me, All Saints’ Sunday marks the beginning of the end of the liturgical year; we’re moving away from reading the gospel stories of Jesus’ ministry and over the next few weeks hearing from his final sermons in the temple, full of apocalyptic imagery.

It’s a day when we remember those who have died, and hopefully, baptize people, bringing them into the body of Christ. It’s a day of reflection and celebration, of remembering and moving forward. It’s a Sunday when we connect the body of Christ as we experience it here at Grace Church, with all those who have gone before us in these pews over the last almost two centuries, and those who have gone before us across the globe and across two millennia.

It’s a commemoration that helps us to look beyond our own immediate lives and concerns and to put our lives and the lives of those we love in a much broader context, to see our connections across time and space. That may be especially necessary today with election day two days away—our fears and anxieties running rampant and keeping us awake at night.

However real our fears, whatever happens on Tuesday and the days that follow, today is an opportunity to remember that the Church and its members have survived through two millennia, sometimes in great suffering and against great odds. Indeed, the commemoration of All Saints’ is itself a witness to that untold, unremembered suffering, for it emerged as an occasion to acknowledge and honor those whose memory wasn’t preserved in story, legend, and saint’s cult, unnamed martyrs and eventually, in the commemoration of all souls, even ordinary, unremarkable Christians who lived and died faithfully and obscurely, remembered only by their family members, or perhaps, by no one at all.

On the surface, our scripture readings may not seem to have a great deal to do with the themes of the day. In fact, all three are among the suggestions for readings at the burial office—funerals; and the first, the reading from Isaiah 25, is among my favorites, if loved ones don’t have preferences, I always select it as the first reading.

In fact, something a bit strange happened just a couple of weeks ago. I was in Cleveland for my brother-in-law’s memorial service. My sister had selected readings and hymns, and I had put the service together. But as I listened to one of John’s friends share his memories of John, it occurred to me that I should have overruled my sister’s choices and used this reading. For John was a wine lover. He had cases of it in his cellar. But he was also a tinkerer and experimenter, and at some point he had begun to make wine; an elderberry sherry. 

Now, I love wine and although I’m no wine snob, I can tell a decent wine from a bad one, and I’m very suspicious of the products of amateur vintners. So when John first invited us to try it, Corrie and I were very leery. Boy, we were surprised. It was rich, subtle, complex, good enough to grace the wine list of a fine restaurant.

But the story doesn’t end there. After John’s death, there were about five cases remaining from vintages going back as far as 1980. My sister decided to bring all that wine to the memorial service and invited attendees to take a bottle or two home with them—and at the end of the day, there were none remaining. They will contribute to many feasts of well-aged wines in coming years.

Recently, I also entered into another story, one of Grace’s. I was asked to share a bit about the history of the men’s homeless shelter at Porchlight’s annual gala this coming week. So for the past few weeks, I’ve been digging through our archives, leafing through newspaper clippings, vestry minutes, and other sources on its history from the time it arrived in 1985 until its departure at the beginning of the pandemic. 

It’s a story of the vision and faithfulness of those who came before us: Fr. Wiedrich and the lay leadership who invited it here; to the volunteers who helped out over the decades, and those who defended it against its detractors. There are stories of the lives that were transformed as well as stories of unhoused people who died in extreme weather. And new stories are being written, with the presence of the Off the Square club now occupying the space where the shelter had been, and volunteers from Grace serving lunch at the Beacon regularly.

Today, we are writing the first chapter of another story—that of Leia Waldo who will be baptized in a few minutes. We don’t know what the arc of her story will be, even as we don’t know how any of the stories that we are inhabiting will develop. But even as her story is being written, with her baptism she is entering a much larger story that began with creation and is centered on the cross and resurrection of Jesus Christ. 

With her family, we will play roles in her story, at least for a short time. She will grow in faith, be nourished by the sacraments, experience the joys and heartbreak of life in community. Her story will be her own to live and to experience but through it all, she will be marked by Christ in baptism. There are many such stories here today, where our lives intersect with each other, and encounter Jesus, for a few weeks or months, or for many years. 

As we face the coming days, and all the uncertainties and anxieties that surround us, may we take heart that we are all carrying with us the sign of the cross, marked as Christ’s beloved forever, and that through his cross and resurrection, there is new life ahead, and that whatever comes Jesus will be with us.

Seeing Blindly: A Sermon for Proper 25B, 2024

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Blind Bartimaeus

                                            Proper 25, Year B

October 25, 2015

         Well, the election is a little over a week away, and I doubt any of us is able to focus on anything else. It seems like the future of our nation, the globe, indeed human life itself may hang in the balance and with an uncertain outcome, it may be days or weeks before we know the final results. It’s a tough place to be, as individuals, a community, a nation, when it seems like we’ve been through this so many times before, and each time, the stakes seem much higher, the consequences more dire.

So it may be hard for us to push all that out of our hearts and minds for an hour or so this morning and focus our attention on scripture, the worship of God, fellowship with each other. We are reaching a climax in the gospel of Mark as well, as we draw near to the end of the liturgical year, and draw near to the end of our reading of the Gospel. 

As apprehensive and worried we may be, it might be worth reflecting on what Jesus and the disciples were feeling in today’s gospel. They were nearing the end of their journey to Jerusalem. Jericho is only some fifteen miles away; it was the last leg of the journey for most pilgrims. As it was nearing the Passover, the roads, and the inns would have been filled with pilgrims and with excitement. For the disciples and the crowd following Jesus, that excitement must have been even more intense as they anticipated whatever would happen next. They were nervous, excited, apprehensive.

As we have seen, Jesus had made a series of predictions about what would happen when he arrived in Jerusalem: that he would be arrested, flogged, crucified, and that he would rise again on the third day. We have also seen that the disciples weren’t quite clued into what was going to happen. They probably thought that they were going to Jerusalem to confront the authorities and perhaps usher in God’s kingdom, in their thinking, throwing off the yoke of Rome and restoring the monarchy of Israel. So this was the culmination of all Jesus had been talking about all those weeks and months, and the culmination of all of the dreams and hopes of the disciples.

As they make their way, once again, Jesus and his disciples are distracted from their purpose by someone seeking their help. On the surface it might seem like a simple healing story.

Jesus encounters a blind man who asks him for help. He restores his sight and goes on his way. It’s like so many other healing stories, in Mark and in the other gospels.

But wait! Let’s pause a moment and look it at it a bit more closely because this is Mark, and nothing is quite ever what it seems. In a simple story like this, Mark has packed layers upon layers of meaning. Let’s start with its location, both textually and geographically. First of all textually. It comes at the very end of Jesus’ long journey to Jerusalem. Jericho is 16 miles from Jerusalem, and this is the last thing that Mark mentions before Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem.

Secondly, this healing story takes places at the end of a long section in which Jesus talks extensively about his imminent crucifixion and resurrection, and what it means to follow him. This long section begins with another healing story, also of a blind man. In that earlier story, the healing took place in two stages. First, Jesus smeared saliva on his hands and placed them on the man’s eyes. The man could see but only indistinctly. So Jesus put his hands on the man again, and this time he was healed completely. It’s worth pointing out that in our story, Jesus spoke and the man was healed.

There’s one more connection I would like to point out. When the blind man encounters Jesus, he cries out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Remember the last two stories we read, stories that immediately precede this one. The rich man approached Jesus and said, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Later, James and John had a of Jesus, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” The young man said; “What must I do; James and John, “Give us something; Bartimaeus cried out, “Help me.” 

The young man, though Jesus loved him, turned away, for he had many possessions. James and John, though they had followed Jesus from Galilee, didn’t understand who Jesus was or what it truly meant to be his disciple. Bartimaeus cried out for Jesus, but was silenced, until Jesus himself took notice and told them to call Bartimaeus to him. When he heard that Jesus called for him, he sprang up, leaving his cloak behind and went to him. Unlike the young rich man, Bartimaeus left his possessions behind to follow him. And unlike every other person who was healed in Mark’s gospel, Bartimaeus continued following him; he didn’t go back home to his loved ones.  

Like so many other stories in this section of Mark’s gospel, this is a story at least partly about discipleship, about following Jesus. We have seen failed disciples, who saw everything Jesus did, heard everything he said, and didn’t understand. We see would-be disciples who turn away, even though Jesus loved them, because the cost of following him was too high. We also see Bartimaeus, who, though he couldn’t see, recognized Jesus for who he was, “Son of David,” and asked only of Jesus, “Have mercy on me!” “Help me.” It was he who left everything behind and followed Jesus.

“Son of David”-it’s a title we haven’t seen before used of Jesus in the gospel of Mark. The use of Davidic and monarchic imagery will become much clearer in the next episode in the gospel—the so-called triumphal entry into Jerusalem when the crowds wave palm branches and shout “Hosanna.” It’s worth noting though, that we see something of the subversion of that royal imagery in Bartimaeus’ call: “Have on mercy on me!” appealing to Jesus’ compassion, not his political power.

I find so much power in this story, power that translates to our own lives and our own struggles. We cannot see; we are blind. Perhaps like the twelve or like the young man, we are blind to Jesus, blind to Jesus’ love. Perhaps we have no idea what to say or do; so caught up in our own struggles, our uncertainty, despair, or sin. But if we can cry out, “Jesus, have mercy on me; Jesus, help me” recognizing that our own efforts will come to nothing, that our hearts are empty until we receive Jesus’ love and mercy, perhaps if we ask him for help, we may find the joy that allows us to spring up and follow him; perhaps we will find the help and healing we need. 

As we go through the next week and a half, full of anxiety and fear, watching the hateful rhetoric that surrounds us, the calls to deport millions of our neighbors, and calls for retribution against one’s political opponents—and all of it couched in language and imagery of Christianity, we may feel impotent and hopeless, seeing the values we thought our nation and our faith stood for crumbling before our eyes. Our feeble efforts may seem of little use against the purveyors of hatred and the power of billionaires. But like blind Bartimaeus, in our blindness, we may see what others do not see. We may see Jesus, and cry out to him: “Have mercy on us!”

Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us!

Welcoming a child, welcoming Jesus: A sermon for Proper 20B, 2024I

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A couple of weeks ago, I saw a news report out of the state of New Hampshire. An Episcopal Church in a town had offered to pay the school lunch debt of students and was apparently turned down by school administrators. Instead, the school planned to take the families to small claims court. Of course the story incited outrage and eventually the school decided to accept the money from the church and to refrain from pursuing court action.

Earlier this week, we heard about the horrific exploding pagers and walkie-talkies that Israel unleashed in Lebanon killing innocent children alongside Hezbollah members. We are all too accustomed to school shootings by now, and the mantras from politicians in their wake: “Thoughts and Prayers” and “There’s nothing we can do.” We claim to honor children, to cherish them, but our actions, our culture puts the lie to those empty words.

Another news story this past week. The remains of three more Lakota children who died at the Carlisle Industrial School were returned to the Pine Ridge Reservation and interred in cemeteries there; 132 years after their deaths. Three of hundreds of children who died in Boarding Schools; of the thousands who were torn from their homes and families, stripped of their culture, language, and identity, over the decades.

In today’s gospel reading, we are introduced to the second of Jesus’ three predictions of his suffering and crucifixion, as well as the disciples’ response to it. There are some interesting differences between these two episodes, the one we heard last week and this week’s. First of all, where they took place. Last week, Jesus and his disciples were in the area of Caesarea Philippi, gentile territory. And it seems to have taken place in a public place—Mark says that Jesus called the crowd with his disciples to him before saying “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross…”  

This week, they’re back in Capernaum, which has served as something of a home base for Jesus, in Jewish territory. And they’re in a home, a private, rather than a public place. We’re told that he called the twelve to him, so this time, his teaching on discipleship is directed only to his closest friends. Intriguingly, there are others in the room, including children. Jesus brings one of them to him and says, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me.”

Children—scholars struggle to understand the changing attitudes towards children throughout human history. There are those who have argued that in the pre-modern world, parents didn’t love and care for their children as they do today. The argument being that high infant and childhood mortality rates led parents to be more detached from their children than they might be today. They may have been perceived as property, as non-entities, until they became old enough to contribute to the economic well being of the family. In the Roman world, children had no legal standing. But at the same time, it’s hard for us to imagine how parents might not have loved their children as deeply and intensely as most contemporary parents love their children, and there is ample historical evidence of such love—the grief expressed by parents at the deaths of their children, for example.

We see evidence of that love and concern in the Gospel of Mark itself. Remember the woman who pleaded with Jesus to heal her daughter two weeks ago; or earlier, the ruler of the synagogue who came to Jesus in hopes he would heal his daughter. In fact, the children in Mark’s gospel are doubly vulnerable—they are sick or possessed as well as being of minor age.

So what might Jesus mean when he says that, “whoever welcomes one child in my name welcomes me?” Perhaps it’s not the saccharine sentiment we thought it was but rather something deeper, more radical. Such a move might be anticipated by Jesus’ previous statement: “Whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all.”

One of the key notions in the reign of God as Jesus is portrayed proclaiming it in the gospels is that of reversal. We see it here: the first will be last and the last will be first. We saw it in last week’s gospel: “Whoever would save their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake and the sake of the gospel will save it.” 

Here, Jesus is advancing an understanding of God’s reign in which the world’s values, the values by which we operate, on which our culture is dependent and constructed, are upended for another set of values. The first will be last and the last first. Here, Jesus goes on to say,” Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” And then comes the bit about children. It might seem something of a non-sequitur to us, but in both Aramaic and Greek, the same word can be used for “servant” and “child” which underscores the overall attitude towards children in those cultures.

A couple of decades, we heard a great deal in the church about “servant leadership” which I always thought was little more than an attempt to obscure power and privilege behind the guise of humility. Fortunately, we don’t hear to much about that any more but it’s still easy to draw similar conclusions from this text. While Jesus is upbraiding his disciples for their concern about their standing in the community (and their standing in God’s realm), the real point of this saying is different—it’s not about the disciples, or about us. Once again, it’s about the community welcoming and embracing the weakest and most vulnerable. 

It’s a message that bears repeating because it is one that is difficult to accept, to embrace, and to enact, because it runs so counter to culture and to ordinary behavior. How many times have you been at a gathering of some sort, talking to someone, and constantly looking over their shoulder to see if there’s someone more important, more interesting with whom you might connect. We do it in business gatherings, at conferences, and certainly we clergy do it at clergy gatherings. Like the disciples, we’re always jockeying for position, trying to figure out how we might climb the ladder of power and prestige.

But Jesus is teaching us something different—not to look for ways of advancing ourselves but to look to those who are marginalized, powerless, to the child and the servant. 

And who are the most vulnerable in our society right now? With healthcare out of reach for so many, with the skyrocketing numbers of elderly people becoming homeless; with the vicious attacks on immigrants, asylum seekers—the list of the vulnerable grows ever longer while the attacks on them become ever more shrill and violent. We may decry such attacks and attitudes but is it enough to speak out? Is it time for us to match our actions with words, to lay aside our assertions of power and prestige, and welcome the child, the stranger with open arms and open hearts.

Is the cross too heavy for us to carry? A sermon for Proper 19B, 2024

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September 15, 2024

Jesus asks his disciples two questions in the first verses of today’s Gospel reading: “Who do people say that I am?” and “Who do you say that I am?” I thought about having you ask each other these two questions but then it occurred to me that answering either, or both, might make us too uncomfortable. Most of us are culturally averse to revealing too much about ourselves in public forums. Moreover, we may not know what to say, what we really think about who Jesus is with enough certainty to be ready with an answer.

Now, I’ll bet none of you would answer the first question the way the disciples did: “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” In fact, you might be puzzled by that answer. After all, John the Baptist had just been executed, why would anyone think Jesus was him? The other two answers point to the apocalyptic speculation that was common in Jesus’ day, that one of the great prophets like Elijah would return to earth.

Before we get to the second question, I want to talk again about geography. We’re told that Jesus is in the region of Caesarea Philippi. It’s an interest setting for Jesus to ask these questions. Once again, he’s outside of his homeland, Galilee, where most of his public ministry had taken place up to this point.

It too was gentile territory, but more importantly perhaps, its name proclaims its significance.

Caesarea Philippi was originally built by Herod the Great, and dedicated to Herod’s patron, Caesar Augustus. Philip, his son and successor in this territory, continued his father’s practice of building Caesarea as a symbol of his connection with Roman power. Both used their spending in this city as a way of currying favor with Rome, demonstrating their commitment to Roman power. Herod the Great had built Roman temples, for example.

So Caesarea stood as a symbol of the Roman Empire, of its power and wealth. That Jesus asked precisely the question of his disciples that we hear him asking seems not to have been coincidental. In the shadow of Roman imperial power, Jesus queried his disciples about his identity.

But there’s one more thing I want to bring up. One of the curious things about the Gospel of Mark is what scholars have called “the Messianic Secret” in the Gospel. Throughout the gospel, especially in the early chapters, after a healing, for example, the gospel writer will add, “and he sternly warned them not to tell anyone. In last week’s gospel, the verse reads: “Then Jesus ordered them to tell no one; but the more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it.”

This messianic secret is something of a puzzle. Why would Jesus tell people not to tell anyone, and why would they disobey him and tell anyways? To complicate things, Peter’s response is the first time a human being would proclaim Jesus to be the gospel, and it would be the only time, until the centurion did it at his crucifixion.

This should clue us in that that Mark has some very interesting things to say about what “Messiah” is and means. Most importantly, Jesus is not obviously the Messiah—he doesn’t fit into people’s expectations of what the Messiah is and does. In fact, in many ways, Jesus is just the opposite of people’s expectations: instead of the one who conquers and defeats Rome, his Messiah-ship becomes apparent as he dies on the cross. Mark writes that: “Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, ‘Truly this man was God’s Son’!”

Even as Messiah-ship in Mark challenges expectations, so too does the meaning of what it means to confess Jesus as the Messiah, to follow him. With this gospel reading we arrive at the heart of what Mark wants his readers to understand about the nature of the commitment they are called to: “f any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”

These are hard words. And we have sanitized them, spiritualized them over the centuries, so that taking up one’s cross has become little more than a personal struggle against some difficulty in life—whether it be a personal relationship, a health problem, some other challenge that affects us. But for Jesus and his followers, to take up one’s cross was not just personal or spiritual, it was real.

Remember that crucifixion was the form of capital punishment reserved by Rome for its most notorious criminals and especially for rebels and revolutionaries. It was a brutal form of execution, execution by torture, if you will. And the upright beams on which people were crucified were on permanent display outside of cities, Rome, and Jerusalem, the bodies of the crucified left to rot and to be eaten by scavenger birds, a stark reminder to passers-by of the consequences of resisting Rome.

“Taking up the cross” came to have another meaning, one I’m reminded of every time I drive up Monroe St. and see “Crusaders” emblazoned on Edgewood High School’s athletic field. The crusaders took up the cross, sewed crosses on their clothing as they proceeded through Europe in their effort to rid the Holy Land of its Muslim inhabitants. But the first victims of the crusades were not Muslims in far-off Palestine, but the Jewish communities of the Rhineland cities of Worms, Mainz, and Speyer. We can see echoes of that in events much closer to us in time and space, in Charlottesville a few years ago, in the rise of Christian Nationalism, in the fascism that is running rampant around us today, even in the attacks on Haitians that are taking place, drawing on ancient tropes that were used against Jews and other religious and ethnic minorities across the centuries.

 I wonder what our Jewish and Muslim neighbors think when they see that word emblazoned in the endzone. Do they even bother thinking about? So accustomed they are to micro-aggressions of this sort on a daily basis?

But we should be able to see how such imagery and symbolism is weaponized in our contemporary culture, drawing on deep rivers of hatred and history that have brought us to this point in our national and global life. It’s not just the US of course. Recent victories for the far-right party in the German states of Saxony and Thuringia are all too reminiscent of the events of less than a century ago: of hatred and holocaust.

Coincidentally, yesterday was the Feast of the Holy Crosss—the commemoration of the legend that St. Helena, the Emperor Constantine’s mother, discovered the true cross in Jerusalem. One of the Episcopal Bishops I follow on social media posted a link to his reflection for the day. He had titled it “In this sign, I will conquer”—an allusion to another legend, that of Constantine himself who had a vision before a battle, converted to Christianity, and subsequently won the victory, became emperor, and legalized Christianity. Among his early acts was to outlaw crucifixion as a form of capital punishment.

I wonder sometimes given the history, and its weaponization in contemporary discourse, I wonder whether the cross is salvageable as a symbol of Christianity. Can it be life-giving? Can it be a symbol of Christ’s love for the world when it has been used in so many evil and violent ways?

Can we embrace the cross as a symbol of our identity and self-giving love when others see it differently and have used it, or experienced it, as a symbol of division and hate? Can we take up the cross, now weighing ever more heavily because of that history and carry it to Calvary, with Jesus in love, humility, and service?

Pure and Undefiled Religion: A Sermon for Proper 18B, 2024

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September 1, 2024

I just realized I’m behind on posting sermons….

As you might imagine, I have conflicted feelings about events like the Taste of Madison that occur outside the steps of our church throughout the year. While they bring activity and excitement to the city, they also create challenges. Parking is impossible; the noise of loudspeakers and bands is distracting. At least, since we’ve installed air conditioning in the nave, the smells of food preparation are less intrusive. Still, our presence on the square serves as a reminder to passersby of the presence of God in the world and often we welcome visitors into our worship who might never otherwise have attended.

Later today many of us will gather in Maple Bluff for our parish picnic where different culinary delights will be on offer and opportunities for fellowship and fun as well. It’s appropriate to enjoy oneself on a day like today, with beautiful weather, Labor Day weekend, and the beginning of the NFL season all beckoning for our attention.

In our lectionary cycle, we are finally back in the Gospel of Mark and immediately we are confronted with a challenging reading in which conflict between Jesus and the Pharisees takes center stage. But before turning to the gospel, I would like to direct your attention to the reading from the letter of James, which offers an interesting perspective on the gospel text.

The letter of James was probably written late in the first century. It’s associated with James, the brother of Jesus, who was a leader of the early Christian community according to the book of Acts and an early martyr for the faith. It’s an interesting text because it is probably evidence of what we refer to as Jewish Christian communities—early communities made up largely of Jewish believers who continued to practice aspects of Jewish ritual life and purity laws.

In today’s excerpt, there are several intriguing themes that have fueled theological reflection over the centuries: the notion of the “implanted word,” the emphasis on giving; “being doers of the word, and not hearers only.” That latter notion is part of the reason that Martin Luther dubbed James “a gospel of straw.” 

But for me, one of the most fascinating ideas is this: “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.”

It’s a verse that might surprise you if you’ve never heard it before. And if you have, or even if you are hearing it for the first time, you might find it especially appealing. It seems to say that true religion, “pure and undefiled” if you will, is focused on what we in the twenty-first century would call “outreach:” caring for widows and orphans, the homeless, our food pantry, and that other forms of religion are less important, or even defiled and impure.

But let me complicate that a bit for you. The word translated here as “religion” is literally worship and seen in that light, how is caring for widows and orphans worship? For when we think of worship, we think of what we are doing right now, singing hymns, praying, celebrating the Eucharist, and those other things like caring for widows and orphans are done outside of Sunday morning worship. 

The terms pure and undefiled, even unstained strike us strangely in our contemporary world, even if in the case of their appearance in the Letter of James, we can easily interpret them in ways that make them less, indeed even support our own personal preferences and commitments. When we see the same English word in the verses from the gospel of Mark that we heard this morning, we may have a slightly different reaction. 

As I said, we’ve finally returned to the gospel of Mark, where we will remain for the rest of the liturgical year, until the end of November. To recap a bit, so far in Jesus’ public ministry, we have seen him heal a number of people of their diseases and infirmities, cast out demons, walk on water, calm storms, and feed five thousand people. We haven’t been introduced to much of his teaching or preaching, one or two parables and that’s about it. As fast-paced as Mark is, the gospel will pick up in speed and intensity as we move inexorably toward Jesus’ final confrontation with the Roman authorities and their Jewish sycophants in Jerusalem. And in today’s reading, we see another aspect of the conflict between Jesus and other Jewish communities and leaders.

What’s at stake here, as it almost always is when Jesus is in conflict with other Jews in the gospels, is the interpretation and authority of Torah, Jewish law. The Pharisees were a group within Judaism that sought to extend the role of Torah to the daily life of ordinary people. Their interpretation of Torah was intended to offer guidance in what to do so that the central precepts of Torah were maintained. They called this “building a wall around Torah.” Take the 10 commandments: “Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.” Well, that’s great, but what does it mean to keep the Sabbath Day holy? The Pharisees explained that by offering guidance on what constituted work, and how much work one could do on the Sabbath.

In fact, the traditions to which Mark refers here are more than that. The rabbis speak of written Torah—the five books of Moses, and oral Torah, what was handed down orally over the centuries: the interpretation of law for changing society. Eventually in the 3d century after Jesus, that oral Torah would also be compiled and written down, in what is called the Talmud and still used in contemporary Judaism.

In today’s gospel, the issue at hand is hand-washing. The Pharisees understood ritual hand-washing as keeping oneself ritually clean before eating; other Jewish groups saw things differently and Jesus’ disciples, apparently, couldn’t be bothered. It’s worth pointing out that the word translated as “defiled” here is a different word than the one used in James. Here, the word literally means “common” as distinguished from “sacred” or set apart.

Jesus’ answer, as it so often does, changes the terms of the debate. The issue is no longer whether or not to maintain ritual cleanliness, but the deeper meaning of defilement, or being “set apart.” Jesus points out that what matters is what is in the heart, not the particular ritual action, and here he lists all the ways in which we might defile ourselves by our thoughts. 

And that may be where we come back to the letter of James and to our own context. 

The world is watching. As we struggle to make sense of what’s happening in this nation and around the world, as we struggle to find our own way in these difficult times, James offers us some simple advice. He reminds us where our focus should be and what the pitfalls are. It’s easy to look in a mirror, he says, to focus on ourselves, instead of looking to God. We should avoid criticizing others. He says that unbridled speech is worthless religion: good advice in the face of the noise, hate, and anger all around us now, that too often escalates from rhetoric to hateful action. 

And he reminds us of our duty to care for the marginalized: widows and orphans, yes; but also all those who our society despises, rejects, and leaves behind. And finally, he admonishes us to keep ourselves unstained by the world. It may be unfamiliar, troubling language, but it’s worth exploring whether even this might provide us with guidance. Can we, by our actions, our words, our disposition, bear witness to the love, grace, and mercy of Christ, to a world that too often sees Christians and Christianity in very different terms? Can we, by our actions and words, change our homes, neighborhoods, and workplaces for the better? 

And finally, and perhaps this is the most difficult of all, what would are worship look like if we truly cared for widows and orphans in their distress? What would it look like if we welcomed the most vulnerable in our society and community, the ostracized and marginalized? How would our worship and common life change? To unite various aspects of our religious lives—worship and outreach, worship and evangelism, could truly transform who we are as a community and as followers of Christ.

Where do you come from? A sermon for Proper 16B, 2024

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Catching up on posting sermons…

August 25, 2024

Where do you come from?

Proper 16B

August 25, 2024

         Corrie and I lived in the upstate of South Carolina for ten years, five in Spartanburg, five in Greenville. Though it has its charms, it’s a very conservative area both politically and religiously. Greenville is the home of Bob Jones University, a fundamentalist Christian university, the center of a network of people and independent churches that is diffused across the nation and world. We bought our house in Greenville from Bob Jones alumni, and when we took possession of it, the first thing we did was paint over a ed stenciled bible verse prominently displayed in the dining area: “But as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.”

You may think nothing of this verse, you may even be inclined to appreciate it as an expression of pious sentiment, but it is suffused with patriarchy—individuals, wife, children, have no agency in this statement. Joshua is speaking for everyone in his household, declaring that they will serve the Lord, whether they want to or not. And although that was almost twenty years ago now, we can see clearly where such statements and sentiments have morphed into a religion that doubles down on sexism and misogyny, prioritizing procreation and denigrating “childless cat ladies” and the like, not to mention demonizing relationships and families that express themselves in ways other than heteronormativity.

The verse is part of a larger narrative, what is called a covenant ceremony that comes at the very end of the book of Joshua. These past few weeks, we’ve heard a few snippets from the book of Exodus: the story of the Passover, the gift of manna in the wilderness for example. Now, we’re catching up with the narrative after the Israelites have entered the land of Canaan. The book of Joshua consists of stories of the conquest: the defeat and destruction of the residents of the land. And now at the end of the book, as Joshua, who succeeded Moses as the leader of the Israelites, is near the end of his life and wants the Israelites to renew their covenant, their commitment to the God who brought them out of the land of Egypt.

Coincidentally, in the daily office, the book of Joshua was the appointed old testament text earlier this summer. I found it jarring to read alongside the daily reminders in the press of Israel’s military operations in Gaza, the killings of thousands and the destruction of homes, and hospitals. The book of Joshua with its brutal tales of violence and destruction has had a pernicious legacy through the centuries, as Christians have justified colonial conquests in North America, and radical Israelis have seen in it justification for the expulsion and murder of Palestinians.

In fact, I was a bit puzzled why the lectionary editors chose this particular passage to couple with today’s gospel reading. I noticed one troubling connection that I doubt the editors had in mind. At the beginning of the reading, Jesus refers to God as Father, something he does throughout the Gospel of John and in the synoptics as well. It underscores the intimacy of the relationship between Jesus and God and at times, even their identity. At the same time, to twenty-first century ears, it can be as jarring as the words spoken by Joshua. It, too, evokes images of patriarchy and male supremacy, and listeners who may have broken relationships with their fathers, or suffered abuse from them, it may resurface trauma. It’s important for us, even those of us who find thinking of God as Father to be life-giving, that others have different responses to such language.

Truth be told, my hunch is that the choice of the Joshua text has to do with them seeing a connection between the question Joshua asks the assembled Israelites, and the question Jesus asks the twelve after the crowds have dispersed: “Do you also wish to go away?”

The chapter begins with the feeding of the five thousand. Following that miracle, Jesus withdraws from the crowd because he realized they were going to proclaim him king. Then he and the disciples cross the lake. This is when Jesus is seen walking on water. Eventually they make their way to Capernaum, where Jesus engages in a lengthy dialogue and discourse, during which opposition to his words escalates. The discourse culminates with Jesus saying, “I am the bread of life.” He continues, verses we hear last week:

‘Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. 54Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; 55for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. 56Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.

This is the hard saying that the disciples have trouble hearing. To us, they sound fairly innocuous. Jesus wasn’t speaking literally. He was referring to the Eucharist and whatever he meant, he didn’t meant that we are literally eating his body and blood. 

But there’s more for us to think about here. Jesus is not speaking only of the Eucharist. He is also speaking of himself. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood, abide in me and I in them. Discipleship in the Gospel of John is about relationship with Jesus. Throughout the gospel, from the very first chapter, those who follow Jesus are invited to abide with him, to be with him. 

In today’s gospel, Jesus’ listeners are presented with a choice. They can turn away or reject him, or they can listen to him, hear his words, and follow him. After some of those who had followed him walk away, Jesus asks those who remain, “Do you also wish to go away?” 

Peter’s answer isn’t yes or no. Having walked with Jesus thus far, he can’t imagine life without him. “To whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Peter has already experienced relationship with Jesus, abiding with him, and the prospect of life without him is incomprehensible. Jesus’ words are eternal life; his words are spirit, all else seems empty in comparison.

Now the Gospel of John has the characteristic that simple ideas, words, concepts can suddenly seem to be remotely abstract, foreign to our experience and lives. Spending time in the gospel of John can be disorienting and alienating. The words wash over us. We have, after all, been spending five weeks hearing this chapter from John’s gospel. If you read it through in one sitting, it comes across as repetitive, to some, even nonsensical. Many of us, including your preacher, will be happy to return to Mark next week, whose language and message is much clearer, though perhaps equally difficult to make one’s own.

What matters above all in John, once we cut through the verbiage, is relationship. What matters is the life-giving relationship with Jesus Christ, offered by Christ. What matters is the experience of abiding with him as he abides with us. John is trying to help us understand, but more importantly to experience, the life that he experienced with Jesus Christ. All of the language, all of the discourses, all of Jesus’ miracles, are directed toward this.

Most of us struggle with our faith. Most of us wonder at times, if God exists, whether Jesus was the Son of God, or whether he truly was raised from the dead. We wonder about heaven and hell. We have lots of questions, doubts, uncertainties. Some of us probably aren’t even sure why we bother coming to church. Does any of it matter? Is any of it true?

But there is something that draws us here, something that speaks to our deepest yearnings and hopes. We might not even be able to articulate or name what it is. We come here and find something. For the Gospel of John, what we find here is relationship, life. We experience in the community gathered, in the bread and wine, in the word read and proclaimed, in all of that, we experience life. Jesus offers us that life. He invites us to stay, to abide with him, to live in him as he lives in us. When we say yes to him, we are not proving an argument or saying yes to a proposition. We are inviting and experiencing relationship. When say yes to him, we say yes to life.