Sunday of Saint Alban’s Day • 21 June 2020
A sermon preached ‘at’ Saint Alban’s Episcopal Church,
Albany, Oregon
Psalms 92 & 93 • Job 5:8-21 • Acts 4:5-13 • Luke 12:1-12
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Take my lips and speak through them;
take our minds and think through them;
take our hearts and set them on fire.
Greetings from Plymouth, Vermont, birthplace of the 30th President of the United States, Calvin Coolidge. Silent Cal, incredibly laconic, is said to have responded to someone who bet him he could not say something in just two words, ‘You lose.’ Knowing that I speak to you from the other side of the country, I wanted to say that at least we are roughly at the same latitude, just one degree off. On the other hand, Saint Albans, Vermont, is practically the same latitude as Albany OR.(1) By the way, the northernmost engagement of the Civil War, known as the Saint Albans Raid, occurred there on October 19, 1864.
And here we are, joined by Zoom.
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The gospel reading for this morning, appointed for the Feast of Saint Alban, whose feast day is tomorrow, teaches us about speaking out and speaking the truth. I am going to focus on the gospel because it not only applies to the story of Saint Alban, but it also speaks to our current situation of protests.
Jesus’ words from the gospel reading seem almost the counterpoint to the theme of arguing and listening, as seen in the Book of Job (who engages in a long debate with his so-called friends about suffering and only hears from God, who really does not answer his questions, when Job finally shuts up). Jesus has just denounced the scribes and Pharisees, and has returned to teaching his followers. He exhorts them to trust and fear God, who has authority over the soul, and confess Jesus before people, so that Jesus will confess them before the angels. If one trusts God, the Spirit will aid in speaking before authorities.
Jesus first tells them, ‘Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.’ He knows, and we know, ultimately the secrets of people’s hearts will come to light. God knows what one does, good or bad, done with or without hypocrisy. So, too, will speech be evaluated. What is said in private will become public; what is whispered will be shouted from the rooftops. So, disciples, speak from the heart with pure motives. These days, there is a lot of uncensored speaking, not from the heart, but from a place of hatred and fear. We have to do better than that.
Jesus then says, ‘Do not fear (the Greek is phobethete, as in phobia) those who kill the body, and after that, can do nothing more. But I will warn you whom to fear: fear him who, after he has killed, has authority to cast into hell.’ God can cast them down to Gehenna (here is the only place where Luke uses this word) should God choose to do so.
Oddly, for the third time a bit later, when speaking of the sparrow (the cheapest purchase in the market) Jesus tells the disciples not to fear God because God will care for them in the life to come. Perhaps this promise mitigates the words he has said about God’s judgement just prior.
Since the teaching here probably is a string of sayings, the seeming contradictions in the use of the verb, to ‘fear,’ which appears three times in short order, can be perhaps better understood.
Finally, Jesus calls the disciples to confess Jesus and trust that the Holy Spirit will help them in what they are to say. (2) These words reflect the prophets, who often complained about not wanting to speak because they did not feel up to the task. Think of Moses, Elijah, Isaiah and Jeremiah. God usually answered that God would give them the necessary words when needed.
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Saint Alban, whom we commemorate today and after whom your congregation is named, exemplifies the disciple who did not fear death and who found the right words to confess Jesus before the authorities. As a soldier, he gave shelter to a Christian priest who was fleeing from persecution and was converted by him. When officers came to Alban’s house, he put on the priest’s clothing and gave himself up. He was tortured and martyred in place of the priest. The Venerable Bede said of Alban’s trial: ‘When Alban was brought in, the judge happened to be standing before an altar, offering sacrifice to devils… “What is your family and race?” demanded the judge. “How does my family concern you?” replied Alban; “If you wish to know the truth about my religion, know that I am a Christian and am ready to do a Christian’s duty.” “I demand to know your name,” insisted the judge. “Tell me at once.” “My parents named me Alban,” he answered, “and I worship and adore the living and true God, who created all things.”’ (3)
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What about us in this day and age? When words carry so much weight, when we see on a daily basis the underbelly of the history of this country, when we receive the message from our culture to be afraid of the Other, when we see citizens not take the pandemic seriously (something of which we should be afraid), how do we speak from the heart without fear and speak the truth? How do we speak out from our faith, based in Jesus’ teachings that everyone is precious in God’s sight and we should love our neighbour as ourselves? How do we know when to speak out and when to shut up and listen?
Both Oregon and Vermont have their ugly histories of racism, histories which we are finally discussing, histories that have been there all along, but we chose not to acknowledge or teach. The KKK had a strong presence in Vermont back in the 1920s. The town of Northfield, 12 miles south of Montpelier, site of Norwich University, the oldest private military university in the nation, used to host KKK rallies.
Vermont is one of the least diverse states in the nation. As of July last year, whites made up 94.1% of the population; Black or African American alone, 1.4%; Hispanic or Latino, 2.00%; First Nations, 0.4%; and foreign-born persons, 4.6%. My state is not at all diverse. There still is racial profiling in Vermont. The Vermont House of Representatives Friday passed a bill to commemorate Juneteenth (Vermont recognised the day in 2008), in which it condemns a recent act of racism against a Black family in Vermont, as well as George Floyd’s death. We are trying here, but change is happening too slowly.
One of the lessons I am learning during this time of protests is the need to educate myself and not expect my sisters and brothers of colour to do that work for me. A Facebook friend constantly calls us whites to task and minces no words. Even last night, this person did. I squirm, but I need to hear their words of pain, anger and frustration. Along with many other Caucasian people, I am reading Robin Diangelo’s White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism. I’m also reading the award-winning book, The Hate U Give, by Angie Thomas. Its story-line could be that of George Floyd or any of the other young black men killed by police. Thomas says, ‘Names have power.’ Say their names. I must educate myself and expand my horizons even as I speak out. That work is internal and life-long.
At the same time, there is knowing when to listen. Bishop Mariann Budde, of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, recently provided a humbling example of realising that she needed to sit down and listen to the Black Lives Matter protestors and not try to take over their protest by objecting to the clearing out of the space in front of Saint John’s Episcopal Church, Lafayette Square.
For those of us who have benefited for four centuries by the colour of our skin, it is time for us to change the systemic racism that infects our daily lives. It doesn’t matter in which state you live, the majority of fatalities to COVID-19 are people of colour. So many of them are ‘essential’ workers, who have no choice but to take public transport and go to work every day. I am so blessed to be able to shelter in place in rural Vermont. So many of them don’t have that luxury. We need to raise these questions and then work to change the system.
Most of all, I think of our language. It is so easy to slip from labelling someone, which then objectifies them and makes it easier to call them the Other. This objectification runs counter to Jesus’ telling his followers that God knows how many hairs are on our heads and that each of us is precious in God’s sight. Each one of us is God’s beloved; each one of us has God-given dignity that no one should take away. Instead of labels, we should use, as James McBride says, ‘the language of healing.’ For those of us who have undeserved power through white privilege, we should use this language of healing when we speak.
Every congregation has its own theology. Church of Our Saviour, Killington, Vermont, from where I have just retired, has in its DNA a ministry of hospitality and welcome to the stranger. Brian Wren’s words to Hymn 603, one of COS’s favourites, express well a language of healing and an example of how we might speak in this fragile time. May they guide us as we think and, then, speak.
When Christ was lifted from the earth,
his arms stretched out far above
through every culture, every birth,
to draw an answering love.
Still east and west his love extends
and always, near or far,
he calls and claims us as his friends
and loves us as we are.
Where generation, class, or race
divide us to our shame,
he sees not labels but a face,
a person, and a name.
Thus freely loved, though fully known,
may I in Christ be free
to welcome and accept his own
as Christ accepted me.
Indeed, take our lips and speak through them; take our minds and think through them; take our hearts and set them on fire to change this world to be a place where all are equal, all are safe and all are free.
END NOTES
1 Plymouth, Vermont is at 43°31′54″N 72°43′18″W; Saint Alban’s, Vermont is at 44°48′35″N 73°5′14″W and Albany, Oregon is at 44°37′49″N 123°5′46″W.
2 Darrell L. Bock, Luke 9:51-24:53 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1996), 1129-46.
3 Holy Women, Holy Men: Celebrating the Saints (New York, NY: Church Publishing, 2010), 434.
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