Proper 8A • 29 June 2020
The lectionary almost begs by length of the morning’s readings that I tackle the sacrifice of Sarah (aka Abraham and the binding of Isaac, akedia yitzak; no one ever thinks about Sarah, who also is being asked to sacrifice her son), but instead, I am going with the gospel, which once again teaches the nascent-disciples how to engage with those whom they meet along the way as they speak to them about Jesus’ Way. It all boils down to hospitality. What we hear this morning is the last of Jesus’ teachings before he goes on his way to preach in other cities.
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Hospitality.
One of my mentors once said, at the end of a long day, when I was her last appointment on the book—and coming in forty-five minutes late because of other unscheduled people needing her counsel—that no matter how tired she was, she always looked for the next person, because she never knew if that person would be Christ.
The sisters at Saint Helena’s, along with so many monastic communities, see as their mission, beyond their life of prayer, as one of providing hospitality to whomever comes along. Over the thirty years I have known the order, and where I used to take retreats until they closed their Vails Gate, NY house, I have seen people with broken egos, like birds with injured wings, come to the convent to seek shelter, healing and refuge as they piece themselves back together. I have wondered how the sisters manage over the years. They have seen and heard everything. That I know; I have witnessed some pretty wrought people while on retreat. Yet the sisters understand that hospitality is a form of worship, as the Jewish proverb goes.
How far do we truly go in our hospitality? These days of pandemic it is a bit hard to think about hospitality at all. I confess to getting anxious now that the state is opening up more and more and I see more and more license plates from other states. I struggle with my lack of hospitality.
How far do we receive the unknown Christ amongst us? Extending true hospitality is lot tougher sometimes than we want to think, but at the same time, it can be life-giving. Hospitality is discipleship.
And how does extending hospitality fit into mission? Therein lies the larger question. And, if we extend hospitality, won’t we be surprised to find that the person to whom we opened our doors was Christ? We receive angels unawares. That is mission.
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Someone once asked me, what is so important about Matthew? (That’s a good coffee hour question!) She was wanting more to know why her sister had named her child Matthew than what is in the gospel, but I answered: ‘Well, I don’t think she named the baby after the tax collector.’ Then, as I went on, I said: Primarily, the gospel is known for its emphasis on mission—at the very end of the gospel, Jesus commissions the disciples to go and spread the good news, baptising in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. The gospel is also known for its rendition of the Beatitudes, the ‘blessed-be’s—Luke’s gospel has them but the more well-known version is in the gospel of Matthew (5.1-12). These two themes frame the entire content of the gospel—one that has tough demands and teachings.
It seems to me that Jesus’ discourse on mission along with the first mention of the cross from Chapter 10, which we have heard these past two weeks, flow from the Beatitudes. In this particular case, perhaps Matthew was thinking of the lines: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.’
Hospitality starts off as something utterly simple—no Martha Stewart lavish spreads here. Hospitality is as basic as giving a someone a glass of water. Water, that element that unites us all…not only because we need it to survive, but because we were drenched in it at the moment of our baptism. At our baptism we promised to find Christ in one another, loving our neighbour as ourselves, seeking and serving. That means extending water to even the most unlikely people we meet.
Jesus always welcomed the poor and abandoned of his day and made them feel important in the Reign of God. He welcomed all kinds of sinners, adulterers, crooked tax collectors, even a prostitute. He welcomed the Gentile ‘dogs’. He welcomed the forbidden Samaritan woman. He embraced the leper. He offered gentle care to the stranger. He welcomed, despite his harsh words of shaking the dust from one’s feet if one was not received.
Those who are blessed, therefore, are not only those who will receive the hospitality, but also those who extend it. Remember the Latin root of hospitality, hospes, meaning ‘host’, ‘guest’, or ‘stranger’. In both cases, they are hungry—hungry for God’s love and welcome. In both cases, they are pilgrims—searching for sense and meaning in their lives.
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What about the way we welcome or exclude? In 1963, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, ‘It is appalling that the most segregated hour of Christian America is 11 o’clock on Sunday morning’ and, according to experts, that assertion remains true today. 1
In Vermont, the demographics work against us because we are such a ‘white’ state. Even in states with great diversity, The Episcopal Church in the US still is a tough place for people of colour. Yes, we have a presiding bishop, Michael Curry, who is African-American. The Bishop of Vermont, Shannon MacVean-Brown is African-American. I am so grateful for their leadership.
Over the past 145 years there have been 44 Black bishops consecrated in The Episcopal Church and that is out of 1133 bishops. We have a long way to go. These bishops hail from the African Diaspora, as well as Africa. (The African Diaspora includes those people of African descent living throughout the world in the United States, the Caribbean, Central America and other countries.) Bishop James Theodore Holly was the first Black Episcopal Bishop consecrated November 8, 1874, first Bishop of Haiti. 2
Beyond bishops, though, we need to look at the people who populate the commissions, the boards and agencies of The Episcopal Church. Then look at the percentage of people of colour who are ordained and see how many are in charge of the largest congregations. They are few and far between. I was asked to ‘run’ for a position on a ‘national’ level, and have decided not to because the board does not need another middle-aged (am I still?), white woman.
Yes, I am talking about the weeds of the governance of TEC, but I have to start somewhere. We need to do a better job in welcoming; no, in celebrating the gifts and talents of our sisters and brothers of colour.
On the more local level (drawing upon the thought that each one of us can make a difference), as followers of the one who welcomed all, do we still make our selections, and decide who is welcome, who is not? It is hard to welcome when we live in a day and age that would rather close doors than open them. We, however, as followers of Jesus, must err on the side of trust and keep our doors open to the spiritual wayfarer.
The hard thing, the challenge of the Gospel this morning, is the call to offer holy hospitality to everyone, no matter what. That is what Jesus did, and his welcome gave new life even to the most difficult persons.
I think that instinctively we know that if we open the door, if we welcome the person or persons we most fear, or by whom are most troubled, that we won’t go away untouched. Hospitality involves solidarity, the bearing of one another’s burdens and joys. We will be touched, transformed, challenged. And, yes, sometimes we will get involved in ways we hadn’t predicted. Every welcome opens the door to new reconciliation, with self, with others, with God. There is no possibility of offering hospitality from a safe distance.
If we dare to get close, we may be surprised. The Celtic rune states:
We saw a stranger yesterday,
We put food in the eating place,
Drink in the drinking place,
Music in the listening place,
And, with the sacred name of the triune God,
He blessed us and our house,
Our cattle and our dear ones.
As the lark says in her song:
Often, often, often, goes Christ in the stranger’s guise.
Whom will you feed? Whom will you welcome today? You never know; you could be feeding angels unawares or even Christ.
END NOTES
1 c.f. New York Times article, 2 August 1964: 'As racial violence and the white backlash increase in the United States, one question arises sharply: Why doesn’t the church do something about the racial problem? The question is compounded by the Christian church's long involvement in and contribution to the problem, by the current struggle within the church between racists on the one hand and integrationists on the other, by a misunderstanding of the power of the clergy and by a confusing definition of the nature of the church.'
https://www.nytimes.com/1964/08/02/archives/11-a-m-sunday-is-our-most-segregated-hour-in-the-light-of-the.html
2 https://episcopalchurch.org/gallery/black-bishops-episcopal-church-1874-present
Sunday, June 28, 2020
Sunday, June 21, 2020
Feast of Saint Alban (transferred), 21 June 2020
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.
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.
+
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.
+
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)
+
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.
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Feast of Pentecost 31 May 2020
Fire… One of the four elements that unites us all.
Breath… all sentient creatures breathe. Even Hippocrates, of the 4th century BCE, said, ‘There is one common flow, one common breathing; all things are in sympathy.’
These two elements are fundamental to the story of Pentecost, as they are fundamental to where we find ourselves this morning in a nation wracked by a pandemic and protests.
In archetypes, fire is at the beginning of all transformation, purification, and manifestation. Nearly every spiritual lineage honours the flame. Fire, the dancing flames associated with Pentecost. Fire, cleansing. Fire… Moses and the burning bush. Fire… the symbol of the feast which we celebrate today.
Breath… the breath of God at the moment of creation. Breath… God breathes life into the bones of Israel, as recounted by Ezekiel. Breath… Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit onto the disciples when he returns to the Upper Room after his crucifixion and resurrection. Breath… we cannot exist without it. Eternity enters into that space between one’s last breath and death. The molecules of the universe jump.
Fire and breath are so much on our minds now.
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The positive flames of Pentecost stand in stark contrast to the flames of burning stores and cars and police stations in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, and across the nation. As Friday’s news conference with the mayors of both cities and governor of Minnesota revealed, those responsible for the fires, the looting, are not local people but anarchists from away. Almost all the people arrested on Friday night were not residents of either city or the state. And things escalated last night.
Forty years ago, Kate Bush released the mesmirising, but chilling, song ‘Breathing’ as the world careened to an escalation of nuclear weaponry. The in-out, in-out rhythm of the refrain mimics our breath, while the lyrics describe the moment of explosion as seen from the point-of-view of a fetus. As I learned of George Floyd’s murder, this song came to mind:
Out in, out in, out in, out in
Out in, out in, out in, out
(Out, out, out)
Ooh please!
(What are we going to do without)
Let me breathe!
(What are we going to do without)
Ooh, breathe in
(We are all going to die without)
Leave me something to breathe!
(What are we going to do without)
Oh, leave me something to breathe!
(We are all going to die without)
Oh, God, please leave us something to breathe!
(What are we going to do without)
Oh, life is 1
The mere fact that we take for granted the zillions of breaths we take over our lifetimes means that we cannot unhear or erase Eric Garner’s or George Floyd’s last words, ‘I can’t breathe,’ as their lives were snuffed out by police officers, murdering them for petty accusations (selling cigarettes on a sidewalk or perhaps passing a counterfeit $20 bill). They and so many other black people have died, have been murdered by excessive force and sought out because they were black.
A prayer that I posted on my computer monitor years ago and used to see all day long every day expresses the thanksgiving of daily breath:
The breath of my life will bless,
the cells of my being sing,
in gratitude, reawakening.
Breath. How do we move from these horrific images to a way forward?
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The reading from Acts, probably the one we know the most well, depicts the Holy Spirit as a violent wind that fills the house where the disciples are sitting. The outward visible sign of the Holy Spirit’s arrival is the appearance of flames, divided tongues. The outward aural sign of the Holy Spirit’s arrival is the capacity given to each disciple to speak the native language of all the devout Jews who were present in Jerusalem. Indeed, their surprise is understandable: Aren’t they all Galileans? How can it be that they speak my language? Where do we need to find new language to cross our barriers?
The reading from the Gospel of John depicts a much calmer, though just as miraculous, scene, one that we always hear the Second Sunday of Easter—then its focus is on Thomas and his doubts; now the gospel focuses on how Jesus bestows the Holy Spirit on the disciples. Jesus arrives the evening of the resurrection. He finds his disciples cowering, locked up in a room, afraid of the world outside their doors. Their world has been turned upside-down, much in the same way that the Book of Acts describes on the day of Pentecost. He breathes on them and says, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’
The Greek verb, to breathe, is the same form that is used in the Greek translation of the creation story in the book of Genesis when God breathes life into the human being. Jesus’ act of ‘blowing in’ spirit is directly evocative of God’s first breath of infusion: ‘And God… breathed in his face the breath of life, and the person became a living soul’ (Gen 2.7). Jesus’ act is linked with this initial creation of humanity. The fearful community, hiding in the dust of its shame, is infused with ‘holy spirit’ from the mouth of Jesus.
It is important to note that the text does not suggest that Jesus is giving them an entity, ‘the holy spirit,’ but rather a share in his relationship with God that flows and blows like the wind. Certainly the later Christian understanding of what Jesus has given the disciples here is identical with that given to the first human, the presence of God that allows life to come into being. Each of us, and each and every other part of the body as well, owes our existence, breath by breath as we inhale, to God. We ‘live and move and have our being’ in God (Acts 17.28). Indeed we do. That is, perhaps the most basic confession that can be made: I owe my existence at its most fundamental level—the gift of my next breath—to God. God is my creator and my recreator, the One who gives and renews my life, moment by moment, at its most basic, physical level. And so does everything else in creation also live, moment by moment, by the breath of God… 2
+
Meister Eckhart wrote that ‘Fire transforms all things it touches into its own nature…. In the same way we are transformed into God so that we may know God as God is.’
For those of us who benefit from white privilege, we need to get our act together, do the work of educating ourselves and not expect that our brothers and sisters of colour do that work for us. Just as one would do a self-examination before a confession, we need to look deeply into our lives to see how much we and societal structures have benefited, for the simple reason that we are white.
We need to examine and then work against the systemic racism that infects our nation’s current-day life and permeates its 400-year history.
We need to make the words of the Pledge of Allegiance, ‘with liberty and justice for all,’ a reality, not just a dream, part of our mythology.
Check out this link to ’75 Things White People Can Do For Racial Justice. 3 Choose one thing for starters.
If anyone says that these suggestions are ‘too political,’ remember the baptismal vow that, under normal circumstances, we would be saying shortly upon the conclusion of this sermon, ‘Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?’
Donna Hicks maintains that dignity is a God-given gift, and not something for which people need to work. We need, whites, however, to work to assure that everyone’s dignity is maintained.
On this Feast of Pentecost, read the Baptismal Covenant (304-305). Make your vows and pray to God that these words be more than words, and that God give you the Spirit of Jesus. Amen.
END NOTES
1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzlofSthVwc
2 Sallie McFague, The Body of God: An Ecological Theology (Minneopolis: Fortress Press, 1993) 141-49.
3 https://medium.com/equality-includes-you/what-white-people-can-do-for-racial-justice-f2d18b0e0234
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Proper 22B
Prop 22B • 7 October 2012
Preached at Saint Mark's, Springfield, VT
I always find it ironic (amusing?) that we hear Jesus’ harsh teaching on divorce during the octave that we celebrate the life and ministry of Francis of Assisi, a thirteenth century Christian who changed the world in his day.
The Francis we often remember is the sentimental Francis, the mendicant who loved animals, birds, flowers and children. We enforce that image by blessing animals, as I have done for many years, including blessing those animals awaiting adoption at the Rutland County Humane Society, last year some 90 cats!
And so, with the liberty afforded a preacher, I am going to combine the two into one sermon.
First, Francis. The real Francis was a radical follower of Jesus. Coming from a wealthy family in Assisi, earning praise for his military achievement against the neighboring city of Perugia, Francis had it all: wealth, friends and fame.
One day it all changed. The contradictions between his heart and the way he lived his life were too much. During a time of grave illness Francis gave his whole being over to God, vowing to live with simplicity and purity the life of Jesus, even in Jesus’ sufferings.
His manner of living scandalized his family, threatened the rich of his town, and even challenged the power and ostentation of the pope. But finally in 1210 Pope Innocent the Third confirmed the simple Rule of Order of Friars Minor, a name Francis chose to emphasise his desire to be numbered among the ‘least’ of God’s servants.
Francis, el poverello, the small poor man, wanted to follow Jesus completely, live the Gospel way with no compromises. He remembered the sad story in the Gospels of the rich young man who came to Jesus. “How can I follow you” the man asked Jesus. Sell all you have, give to the poor, and them come and follow me, replied Jesus. The young man went away sad that day, for he was very rich.
Francis vowed to follow Jesus with all his heart, to own nothing except for his love of God and of the human family, and of the world God had made. He gathered around him some friends and started to go throughout the countryside preaching about the love of God for all. Barefoot, penniless he sought to care for the poor, the vulnerable and the weak. That was his life, because he believed that this was the life that Jesus lived.
+
I share this story about radical discipleship because I think that the Gospel stories about Jesus and his followers always hold up love, reconciliation and faithfulness in a deep and life-transforming ways. If there are those who want to follow me let them take up their cross and follow. If any one what to save his or her life, they must be willing to die, to let go of everything. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies it remains only a dry seed. But if it dies in the ground it will bear much fruit.
+
And into this mixture, comes the unusual chasuble I wear this morning, given in loving memory of a priest who followed Jesus in surprising ways… a Texan who became a priest late in life, who ended up crossing racial divides. He was called to be rector of a small African-American congregation in North Carolina. When he died, his widow chose this chasuble because she felt it reflected who he was and a transforming moment in their lives. I wear it in his loving memory and also in thanksgiving of Archbishop Desmond Tutu whose birthday is today.
+
One of the difficulties in reading scripture is the temptation to pick out a sentence, a paragraph, a teaching and ask it to stand alone, all by itself. The passage today about marriage is an example of this problem. (You should read all the comments flying back and forth this week from people facing this gospel reading! Let’s say it is a collective groan.) It is a passage, with others, that is used by people who want to maintain male dominance in the family, by those who want to exclude other faithful relations between people and by those who want to argue that no Christian can ever remarry after divorce. In reality this passage is not about marriage, even less about a systematic message of Jesus about marriage and family life.
In Mark’s Gospel Jesus tries time after time to set people free from the laws and traditions of the Elders, the Scribes and Pharisees, laws that burdened and oppressed people of Jesus’ day. Jesus disobeyed the traditions when they oppressed people. For someone trying to follow Jesus’ interpretation of Torah, they will find that his application was quite uneven at times.
Jesus healed on the Sabbath day, choosing mercy over strict obedience to the religious laws. He showed mercy on the Syrophonecian woman, and the Samaritan woman at the well – both non-kosher persons, people outside the social and moral responsibilities of the Jewish laws. Jesus let his disciples comb the fields of grain for something to eat on the Sabbath, telling his critics that the Sabbath was made for the people of God, not the people for the Sabbath.
The scriptures even say that Jesus, though he was rich, being the Son of God, for our sake became poor, emptying himself totally, that we might become rich in the love of God.
This is the Jesus that Francis came to love, and to whom he surrendered every ounce of his being: Jesus who loved the poor, the outcast, the sinner, the weak, the littlest child, the hungry of body and spirit, and those whose lives were laced with tears.
+
In the Gospel for today Jesus was being challenged once again by the guardians of the religious law. Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife? asked the lawyers.
The religious laws governing family life in Jesus’ day were harsh. Women were seen by men — and supported by law — as chattel, as property. Children were often seen merely as economic resources. Orphans and widows were condemned to poverty. Men made the laws, enforced the laws and benefited from them.
Only men could obtain permission to divorce their wife. Wives could not divorce their husbands. Marriage was a family or clan arrangement, not for love but for the economic benefit of the male and for guarantying property rights for the oldest son, or for overcoming animosity between two families. In a patriarchal culture, women, most of the time, were victims rather than companions of their husbands.
Jesus challenged the leaders of his day by pointing out how the laws were shaped by them to benefit them, and not for the sake of justice. What Jesus was doing in the story today was not spelling out a theology of marriage — it is critical to recognise this distinction — but rather trying to hold up the value of mercy and justice in all human relationships.
When Jesus called women and men to follow him, to be the vanguard with him of the Reign of God, he called them as people being transformed by forgiveness and love, called into relationships with God and with each other of service, humility and justice.
Any human relationship, any human institution supporting relationships, family and social structures, needs to be measured by these signs of human life in all its fullness. The way people relate to each other, the way men and women relate, the way adults and children relate, the way the rich and poor live together, the powerful and the weak: all come under the law of the Reign of God, to love God with all our mind, heart and being, and to love each other as we love ourselves.
There are no exceptions to this mercy, love and justice. There is no one outside of our responsibility to love and care for in merciful and just ways.
Marriage and family life can be as brutal as they can be a sign of God’s dream for all people. Our loves and friendships can be a sign of human insecurity and arrogance, even as they can be radical signs of the love and surrender, one to each other, faithfully keeping on the road as followers of Jesus. Francis knew this. And we can too.
+
The religious leaders of Jesus’ day wanted cookie-cutter relationships, relationships they could control and judge. Jesus, on the other hand, invited women and men, young and old, rich and poor, to give of themselves to God, and through God to each other. He invites us to take the risks that are needed to discover more profoundly how deeply we are loved and how deeply, then, we can love each other.
Interestingly, the story that immediately follows is the one about the time women were bringing their children to Jesus for his touch and blessing. The disciples, discounting the value of children, sternly criticized the women, telling them, in effect, not to bother Jesus. But Jesus, turning to his disciples with indignation, just as he turned to the Scribes and Pharisees, said, ‘You still are not getting it, are you?’
And Jesus gathered the little ones around him, held them, blessed them and said to all who could hear, ‘These little ones you have just rejected are signs of what life in God’s reign should be like; they are models of simplicity and trust.’
+
Jesus loved, healed, forgave and celebrated people in his life. He related to them not from above or below, but alongside of them. He found honor and rich gifts in people that society had written off. He lived transparently and simply before all, was faithful even at high cost, shared the love of God even if this sharing cost him his life.
Francis in his own humble way caught this infectious love of God, and wanted to live it and share it completely, radically.
+
We are not Francis of Assisi, most of us. But we are children of God, of the God who, through Jesus, wants to lead us into life in all of its fullness. He wants to invite us to learn and live in ways that bring joy and hope to others. He wants us to experience the healing and forgiveness that sets us free, and by which we can help others find their freedom from fear and guilt.
Most of all Jesus wants us to learn to live as beloved sisters and brothers, humbly, simply, joyfully, giving and receiving the gifts God has sown in our lives, trusting in the care of each other as we continue to be pilgrims, sowing the seeds of life and of justice in our needy world.
+
Saint Francis left us a legacy of prayers. One simple one that can be used as a mantra is, My God and my all! The words to hymn 400 are from his Canticle to Brother Sun and Sister Moon. But the most famous prayer that is attributed to him is the prayer of peace, found on page 833 of the Prayer Book. I invite you to pray with with me, for this is the prayer that most closely mirrors to me not only his life but the one we are to lead as followers of Jesus.
Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light: where there is sadness, joy.
Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Preached at Saint Mark's, Springfield, VT
I always find it ironic (amusing?) that we hear Jesus’ harsh teaching on divorce during the octave that we celebrate the life and ministry of Francis of Assisi, a thirteenth century Christian who changed the world in his day.
The Francis we often remember is the sentimental Francis, the mendicant who loved animals, birds, flowers and children. We enforce that image by blessing animals, as I have done for many years, including blessing those animals awaiting adoption at the Rutland County Humane Society, last year some 90 cats!
And so, with the liberty afforded a preacher, I am going to combine the two into one sermon.
First, Francis. The real Francis was a radical follower of Jesus. Coming from a wealthy family in Assisi, earning praise for his military achievement against the neighboring city of Perugia, Francis had it all: wealth, friends and fame.
One day it all changed. The contradictions between his heart and the way he lived his life were too much. During a time of grave illness Francis gave his whole being over to God, vowing to live with simplicity and purity the life of Jesus, even in Jesus’ sufferings.
His manner of living scandalized his family, threatened the rich of his town, and even challenged the power and ostentation of the pope. But finally in 1210 Pope Innocent the Third confirmed the simple Rule of Order of Friars Minor, a name Francis chose to emphasise his desire to be numbered among the ‘least’ of God’s servants.
Francis, el poverello, the small poor man, wanted to follow Jesus completely, live the Gospel way with no compromises. He remembered the sad story in the Gospels of the rich young man who came to Jesus. “How can I follow you” the man asked Jesus. Sell all you have, give to the poor, and them come and follow me, replied Jesus. The young man went away sad that day, for he was very rich.
Francis vowed to follow Jesus with all his heart, to own nothing except for his love of God and of the human family, and of the world God had made. He gathered around him some friends and started to go throughout the countryside preaching about the love of God for all. Barefoot, penniless he sought to care for the poor, the vulnerable and the weak. That was his life, because he believed that this was the life that Jesus lived.
+
I share this story about radical discipleship because I think that the Gospel stories about Jesus and his followers always hold up love, reconciliation and faithfulness in a deep and life-transforming ways. If there are those who want to follow me let them take up their cross and follow. If any one what to save his or her life, they must be willing to die, to let go of everything. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies it remains only a dry seed. But if it dies in the ground it will bear much fruit.
+
And into this mixture, comes the unusual chasuble I wear this morning, given in loving memory of a priest who followed Jesus in surprising ways… a Texan who became a priest late in life, who ended up crossing racial divides. He was called to be rector of a small African-American congregation in North Carolina. When he died, his widow chose this chasuble because she felt it reflected who he was and a transforming moment in their lives. I wear it in his loving memory and also in thanksgiving of Archbishop Desmond Tutu whose birthday is today.
+
One of the difficulties in reading scripture is the temptation to pick out a sentence, a paragraph, a teaching and ask it to stand alone, all by itself. The passage today about marriage is an example of this problem. (You should read all the comments flying back and forth this week from people facing this gospel reading! Let’s say it is a collective groan.) It is a passage, with others, that is used by people who want to maintain male dominance in the family, by those who want to exclude other faithful relations between people and by those who want to argue that no Christian can ever remarry after divorce. In reality this passage is not about marriage, even less about a systematic message of Jesus about marriage and family life.
In Mark’s Gospel Jesus tries time after time to set people free from the laws and traditions of the Elders, the Scribes and Pharisees, laws that burdened and oppressed people of Jesus’ day. Jesus disobeyed the traditions when they oppressed people. For someone trying to follow Jesus’ interpretation of Torah, they will find that his application was quite uneven at times.
Jesus healed on the Sabbath day, choosing mercy over strict obedience to the religious laws. He showed mercy on the Syrophonecian woman, and the Samaritan woman at the well – both non-kosher persons, people outside the social and moral responsibilities of the Jewish laws. Jesus let his disciples comb the fields of grain for something to eat on the Sabbath, telling his critics that the Sabbath was made for the people of God, not the people for the Sabbath.
The scriptures even say that Jesus, though he was rich, being the Son of God, for our sake became poor, emptying himself totally, that we might become rich in the love of God.
This is the Jesus that Francis came to love, and to whom he surrendered every ounce of his being: Jesus who loved the poor, the outcast, the sinner, the weak, the littlest child, the hungry of body and spirit, and those whose lives were laced with tears.
+
In the Gospel for today Jesus was being challenged once again by the guardians of the religious law. Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife? asked the lawyers.
The religious laws governing family life in Jesus’ day were harsh. Women were seen by men — and supported by law — as chattel, as property. Children were often seen merely as economic resources. Orphans and widows were condemned to poverty. Men made the laws, enforced the laws and benefited from them.
Only men could obtain permission to divorce their wife. Wives could not divorce their husbands. Marriage was a family or clan arrangement, not for love but for the economic benefit of the male and for guarantying property rights for the oldest son, or for overcoming animosity between two families. In a patriarchal culture, women, most of the time, were victims rather than companions of their husbands.
Jesus challenged the leaders of his day by pointing out how the laws were shaped by them to benefit them, and not for the sake of justice. What Jesus was doing in the story today was not spelling out a theology of marriage — it is critical to recognise this distinction — but rather trying to hold up the value of mercy and justice in all human relationships.
When Jesus called women and men to follow him, to be the vanguard with him of the Reign of God, he called them as people being transformed by forgiveness and love, called into relationships with God and with each other of service, humility and justice.
Any human relationship, any human institution supporting relationships, family and social structures, needs to be measured by these signs of human life in all its fullness. The way people relate to each other, the way men and women relate, the way adults and children relate, the way the rich and poor live together, the powerful and the weak: all come under the law of the Reign of God, to love God with all our mind, heart and being, and to love each other as we love ourselves.
There are no exceptions to this mercy, love and justice. There is no one outside of our responsibility to love and care for in merciful and just ways.
Marriage and family life can be as brutal as they can be a sign of God’s dream for all people. Our loves and friendships can be a sign of human insecurity and arrogance, even as they can be radical signs of the love and surrender, one to each other, faithfully keeping on the road as followers of Jesus. Francis knew this. And we can too.
+
The religious leaders of Jesus’ day wanted cookie-cutter relationships, relationships they could control and judge. Jesus, on the other hand, invited women and men, young and old, rich and poor, to give of themselves to God, and through God to each other. He invites us to take the risks that are needed to discover more profoundly how deeply we are loved and how deeply, then, we can love each other.
Interestingly, the story that immediately follows is the one about the time women were bringing their children to Jesus for his touch and blessing. The disciples, discounting the value of children, sternly criticized the women, telling them, in effect, not to bother Jesus. But Jesus, turning to his disciples with indignation, just as he turned to the Scribes and Pharisees, said, ‘You still are not getting it, are you?’
And Jesus gathered the little ones around him, held them, blessed them and said to all who could hear, ‘These little ones you have just rejected are signs of what life in God’s reign should be like; they are models of simplicity and trust.’
+
Jesus loved, healed, forgave and celebrated people in his life. He related to them not from above or below, but alongside of them. He found honor and rich gifts in people that society had written off. He lived transparently and simply before all, was faithful even at high cost, shared the love of God even if this sharing cost him his life.
Francis in his own humble way caught this infectious love of God, and wanted to live it and share it completely, radically.
+
We are not Francis of Assisi, most of us. But we are children of God, of the God who, through Jesus, wants to lead us into life in all of its fullness. He wants to invite us to learn and live in ways that bring joy and hope to others. He wants us to experience the healing and forgiveness that sets us free, and by which we can help others find their freedom from fear and guilt.
Most of all Jesus wants us to learn to live as beloved sisters and brothers, humbly, simply, joyfully, giving and receiving the gifts God has sown in our lives, trusting in the care of each other as we continue to be pilgrims, sowing the seeds of life and of justice in our needy world.
+
Saint Francis left us a legacy of prayers. One simple one that can be used as a mantra is, My God and my all! The words to hymn 400 are from his Canticle to Brother Sun and Sister Moon. But the most famous prayer that is attributed to him is the prayer of peace, found on page 833 of the Prayer Book. I invite you to pray with with me, for this is the prayer that most closely mirrors to me not only his life but the one we are to lead as followers of Jesus.
Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light: where there is sadness, joy.
Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Proper 20B
Proper 20B 23 September 2012
preached at Saint Mark's, Springfield, VT
The lectionary this morning provides us with an interesting contrast of lessons — the first two speak about wisdom and the gospel narrates the second of three predictions about the passion, followed by instruction about discipleship. When the texts are placed together, one can find a thread that links wisdom with discipleship.
The Letter of James draws heavily from the writings of Ben Sirach (in the apocrypha) and Wisdom, both of which witness to the practical morality expected of Jews in their personal, family and business lives. James is a concrete writer, however: the metaphors used in James are taken from the world around us rather than from revelation — think of the image of the person looking into a mirror we heard a few weeks ago who does or does not remember what the reflection is.
The segment in front of us invites us to look at the following sequence of opposites: Wisdom that is earthly brings forth bad fruits of conflicts, discrimination, disorder, and wickedness. In one’s inner life, this earthly wisdom causes selfishness, envy and greed.
Wisdom that comes from above brings forth good fruits of gentleness, mercy, impartiality, and peace. One’s inner life is pure and close to God. This purity and closeness produce peacefulness in the world and in one’s heart. This shalom imbues one’s life and integrity.
Clearly, the writer of the letter expects that we will opt for the second set of values. But I think the writer also realises that in our creatureliness, we often fall for the former set of values. And so our life journey consists of letting go of earthly wisdom for that which comes from above.
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The gospel of Mark shows us by example a group of people who have not yet obtained that wisdom from above. We have entered into the second teaching cycle of Mark’s gospel, the longest of the three. In it, Jesus will talk about the greatest and the least, the outsiders and insiders, the aggressors and victims, men and women, children and adults, and the rich and the poor. In short, he will cover all segments of his population — opposites which parts of the letter of James also addresses. The teaching, ‘The first will be last,’ frames this entire section.
At the same time that Jesus teaches about the strong and weak of his society, he also predicts his passion — here, for the second time. For the second time, the disciples respond with a very earthly, concrete wisdom (if we can dare call it that) — one that really is blind and deaf to what Jesus has just said. For the second time, they don’t get it. This time, they argue about who will be the greatest amongst them. They misunderstand that the cross calls them to a life of servanthood. They don’t understand that they are not being called to be part of a powerbase, but to be part of a community that redistributes power to the excluded and marginalised. They do not understand that taking up the cross means they will be the last and servant of all. Lastly, they do not understand Jesus’ wisdom, which is based in conscience.
Jesus’ teachings speak to a wisdom that runs counter to that of the world: the greatest are the least. Outsiders are welcome. Women and children in his society have value and integrity. The rich are poor and the poor are rich. In Jesus’ words, wisdom consists of reversals.
Of course, the disciples cannot understand these words — they miss so much in the gospel according to Mark. It is those on the margins, such as demons and unclean spirits who can see Jesus for who he really is and the disciples don’t. They are so outcast that they have no pretensions — they can see and call things are they are because they have nothing to lose; they have already lost everything.
We, though, have the gift of time and tradition to understand better what the biblical sense of wisdom meant and how we should embrace it. It’s only a question of our pretensions and ‘sophistication’ of getting in the way. Sometimes we need to let go of all that to see truly.
+
The reclusive and prolific early 20th-century French author, Marcel Proust wrote, ‘We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no-one else can make for us, which no-one can spare us. For our wisdom is the point of view from which we come at last to regard the world.’
Discipleship to Christ invites us — demands us to make that journey through the wilderness. Whether as an individual or as a community, Christians have long known the value of spiritual, internal pilgrimage. Christians have also respected the work of a community.
+
It is hard gaining wisdom, so perhaps it helps to start small.
One of my favourite French authors, André Gide, another early 20th-century writer, said, ‘The wise are those who marvel at everything.’ A major piece of our life of faith is to see the miraculous in the common, the wonders of the ordinary.
Perhaps that is why Jesus points our attention to a child. André Breton said that ‘childhood is the nearest thing to life.’ Robert Ellwood added, ‘A childlike sense of wonder is the key to understanding the mysteries of the esoteric universe.’
Think about the unbridled wonder of children when let loose. My brother and I had more fun playing outside in the small brook that bisected our backyard from the lawn and the woods. In the rather swampy woods, we would spend hours, running on top what we called ‘heffalumps’ (those mushy grass mounds at tree trunks), trying not to fall in the water. We’d play hide-and-seek in the grape arbor near the brook. The outdoors contained endless possibilities for discovery and delight. Those hours spent outside cultivated a life-long enjoyment of God’s creation, which has led me as an adult to learn how better to care for it as we increasingly burden it with our excesses. Maybe it is that sense of wonder I seek as I return again and again to walk the mountains of Vermont and on the Long Trail.
I think that no matter how difficult and awful a child’s external life might be, a child still has incredibly resiliency. I remember pictures of children playing among the ruins of Sarajevo, or even today in Lebanon or Palestine. Children have the amazing capacity to find things in which to delight despite it all.
What things delighted you as a child? Where did you tap into the wonder that so characterises a child’s awe at something new? What made you giggle? Where, as a child, did you find God in the world around you?
I think one of Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s greatest strengths is that, despite his having seen the worst that humanity can do to itself, he still can giggle like an imp. He hasn’t lost the childlike wonder in God’s creation and world. Maybe it is because he was so sickly as an infant (with polio among other things) that his grandfather gave him the name, ‘Mpilo,’ or ‘life.’ Tutu has lived out that hopeful name and has translated his wonder of God’s creation into an amazing life-journey of being a ‘rabble-rouser for peace.’
By finding the ability to marvel at what the world might consider small might help us gain wisdom. For gaining wisdom is actually coming closer to God. If we remember that Wisdom in early Christian thought was the Holy Spirit, then by seeking God in the daily and small things of life will enable us to find God in the harder parts of life and as we come closer to God, we find Wisdom.
Ultimately we quest for Shalom, an integrated life of integrity. Wisdom becomes one of the paths on which we walk in that search for wholeness and completeness. As we receive Wisdom, then we are also better able to take on the hard work of being one of Jesus’ disciples, which involves participating in the great reversals that Jesus so often preached, wherein the poor become rich, the weak strong, the last first, and where we are able to take up our cross and follow Jesus.
preached at Saint Mark's, Springfield, VT
The lectionary this morning provides us with an interesting contrast of lessons — the first two speak about wisdom and the gospel narrates the second of three predictions about the passion, followed by instruction about discipleship. When the texts are placed together, one can find a thread that links wisdom with discipleship.
The Letter of James draws heavily from the writings of Ben Sirach (in the apocrypha) and Wisdom, both of which witness to the practical morality expected of Jews in their personal, family and business lives. James is a concrete writer, however: the metaphors used in James are taken from the world around us rather than from revelation — think of the image of the person looking into a mirror we heard a few weeks ago who does or does not remember what the reflection is.
The segment in front of us invites us to look at the following sequence of opposites: Wisdom that is earthly brings forth bad fruits of conflicts, discrimination, disorder, and wickedness. In one’s inner life, this earthly wisdom causes selfishness, envy and greed.
Wisdom that comes from above brings forth good fruits of gentleness, mercy, impartiality, and peace. One’s inner life is pure and close to God. This purity and closeness produce peacefulness in the world and in one’s heart. This shalom imbues one’s life and integrity.
Clearly, the writer of the letter expects that we will opt for the second set of values. But I think the writer also realises that in our creatureliness, we often fall for the former set of values. And so our life journey consists of letting go of earthly wisdom for that which comes from above.
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The gospel of Mark shows us by example a group of people who have not yet obtained that wisdom from above. We have entered into the second teaching cycle of Mark’s gospel, the longest of the three. In it, Jesus will talk about the greatest and the least, the outsiders and insiders, the aggressors and victims, men and women, children and adults, and the rich and the poor. In short, he will cover all segments of his population — opposites which parts of the letter of James also addresses. The teaching, ‘The first will be last,’ frames this entire section.
At the same time that Jesus teaches about the strong and weak of his society, he also predicts his passion — here, for the second time. For the second time, the disciples respond with a very earthly, concrete wisdom (if we can dare call it that) — one that really is blind and deaf to what Jesus has just said. For the second time, they don’t get it. This time, they argue about who will be the greatest amongst them. They misunderstand that the cross calls them to a life of servanthood. They don’t understand that they are not being called to be part of a powerbase, but to be part of a community that redistributes power to the excluded and marginalised. They do not understand that taking up the cross means they will be the last and servant of all. Lastly, they do not understand Jesus’ wisdom, which is based in conscience.
Jesus’ teachings speak to a wisdom that runs counter to that of the world: the greatest are the least. Outsiders are welcome. Women and children in his society have value and integrity. The rich are poor and the poor are rich. In Jesus’ words, wisdom consists of reversals.
Of course, the disciples cannot understand these words — they miss so much in the gospel according to Mark. It is those on the margins, such as demons and unclean spirits who can see Jesus for who he really is and the disciples don’t. They are so outcast that they have no pretensions — they can see and call things are they are because they have nothing to lose; they have already lost everything.
We, though, have the gift of time and tradition to understand better what the biblical sense of wisdom meant and how we should embrace it. It’s only a question of our pretensions and ‘sophistication’ of getting in the way. Sometimes we need to let go of all that to see truly.
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The reclusive and prolific early 20th-century French author, Marcel Proust wrote, ‘We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no-one else can make for us, which no-one can spare us. For our wisdom is the point of view from which we come at last to regard the world.’
Discipleship to Christ invites us — demands us to make that journey through the wilderness. Whether as an individual or as a community, Christians have long known the value of spiritual, internal pilgrimage. Christians have also respected the work of a community.
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It is hard gaining wisdom, so perhaps it helps to start small.
One of my favourite French authors, André Gide, another early 20th-century writer, said, ‘The wise are those who marvel at everything.’ A major piece of our life of faith is to see the miraculous in the common, the wonders of the ordinary.
Perhaps that is why Jesus points our attention to a child. André Breton said that ‘childhood is the nearest thing to life.’ Robert Ellwood added, ‘A childlike sense of wonder is the key to understanding the mysteries of the esoteric universe.’
Think about the unbridled wonder of children when let loose. My brother and I had more fun playing outside in the small brook that bisected our backyard from the lawn and the woods. In the rather swampy woods, we would spend hours, running on top what we called ‘heffalumps’ (those mushy grass mounds at tree trunks), trying not to fall in the water. We’d play hide-and-seek in the grape arbor near the brook. The outdoors contained endless possibilities for discovery and delight. Those hours spent outside cultivated a life-long enjoyment of God’s creation, which has led me as an adult to learn how better to care for it as we increasingly burden it with our excesses. Maybe it is that sense of wonder I seek as I return again and again to walk the mountains of Vermont and on the Long Trail.
I think that no matter how difficult and awful a child’s external life might be, a child still has incredibly resiliency. I remember pictures of children playing among the ruins of Sarajevo, or even today in Lebanon or Palestine. Children have the amazing capacity to find things in which to delight despite it all.
What things delighted you as a child? Where did you tap into the wonder that so characterises a child’s awe at something new? What made you giggle? Where, as a child, did you find God in the world around you?
I think one of Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s greatest strengths is that, despite his having seen the worst that humanity can do to itself, he still can giggle like an imp. He hasn’t lost the childlike wonder in God’s creation and world. Maybe it is because he was so sickly as an infant (with polio among other things) that his grandfather gave him the name, ‘Mpilo,’ or ‘life.’ Tutu has lived out that hopeful name and has translated his wonder of God’s creation into an amazing life-journey of being a ‘rabble-rouser for peace.’
By finding the ability to marvel at what the world might consider small might help us gain wisdom. For gaining wisdom is actually coming closer to God. If we remember that Wisdom in early Christian thought was the Holy Spirit, then by seeking God in the daily and small things of life will enable us to find God in the harder parts of life and as we come closer to God, we find Wisdom.
Ultimately we quest for Shalom, an integrated life of integrity. Wisdom becomes one of the paths on which we walk in that search for wholeness and completeness. As we receive Wisdom, then we are also better able to take on the hard work of being one of Jesus’ disciples, which involves participating in the great reversals that Jesus so often preached, wherein the poor become rich, the weak strong, the last first, and where we are able to take up our cross and follow Jesus.
Proper 19B
Proper 19B • 16 September 2012
preached at Saint Mark’s, Springfield VT
‘The tongue is a fire.’ How prescient these words seem. We have witnessed this week how our country’s concept of freedom of speech has managed literally to turn the Middle East aflame with tragic loss in the process. What one man’s tongue (and film) has managed to wreak simply reinforces what the letter of James states: ‘No one can tame the tongue — a restless evil, full of deadly poison.’
Not that this little sermon can tame the tongue, but may it not turn the tongue into fire, evil or poison. But the gift of speech certainly can become a cross we bear if we do not use it properly.
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We have arrived at the midpoint of Mark’s story. The first half began by heralding a ‘Way’ and closed with a question addressed to the disciples and the reader: ‘Do you not yet understand?’ (8.21). The second half opens ‘on the Way,’ with yet another query: ‘Who do you say that I am?’ In this second half of the gospel, the ‘way of the cross’ will be explained by object lessons, both positive and negative, framed by two stories in which the blind receive sight — first in Bethsaida (8.22-26) and in Jericho (10.45-52).
The first half of the gospel ends on the depressing note that the disciples’ eyes, ears and heart have failed them. They have not understood what Jesus has been trying to teach them on the Way. It is no accident, then, that the second half of the gospel opens with the story of a blind man receiving his sight, which counters the disciples’ inability to see who Jesus is.
In short order, Jesus restores hearing and speech to a deaf-mute man, he restores sight to a blind man, he casts out a deaf and dumb spirit and he heals another blind man who follows him. These final four healings suggest that if Jesus can ‘make the deaf hear and the dumb speak’ and help the blind ‘see clearly’ then there is hope for the disciples. As an aside, for the preacher and listener, who may have wondered why week after week the lectionary recounts different healing stories, now the gospel writer’s agenda becomes clearer.
So when Jesus asks the blind man at Bethsaida, ‘Do you see anything?’ his question actually has prophetic echoes for the conversation that takes place in the portion of today’s gospel reading. ‘Sight’ emerges as a central metaphor for faith in Mark.
Moving from a physical level to a spiritual level, Mark now has Jesus asks his disciples who do they say that he is. He wants to know for whom do they see him. They answer with the appropriate people, but Peter takes things a step deeper when he uses the politically loaded term, ‘messiah.’ It sounds like a good answer — this word, ‘messiah,’ speaks clearly of the presence of God with the people in justice and peace.
However, at the time of Jesus, there were conflicting ideas about the messiah and what it would mean not only for the Jews but also for the Romans and unbelievers. Thus, Peter’s use of this term fails to clarify matters and Jesus tells him to be quiet.
Jesus then tells the disciples what this messiah must undergo. He has read and reflected on the prophets, especially Isaiah. Jesus sees himself as the beloved son and servant of God, which means, in the tradition of the prophets, he must also suffer because of his obedience to God’s word and will. The truth is named and brought to light; Jesus will die.
It is too much for Peter. And Peter’s reaction is too much for Jesus. Their exchange escalates into a shouting match of rebukes, ending with Jesus naming Peter as ‘satan.’ Perhaps it is because Jesus senses that Peter has remained loyal to the secular and traditional understanding of messiah, the one who prevails over the enemy through righteous force, rather than this new messiah who will overcome through humility.
But, at what a price! For this messiah will overcome the powers-that-be through crucifixion, a vicious, sadistic and humiliating torture, meted out for those whom the Roman empire wished to silence, those who had no family or friends to support them, or those whose family and friends understood that pubic support of the punished would end up in similar punishment for themselves.
We return implicitly to Jesus’ question to the blind man at Bethsaida, ‘Do you see anything?’ We do. We see the suffering Christ, the saviour whom we follow and the cross, a cross that we must take up ourselves. On a normal day, the idea of doing likewise holds scant appeal because it seems so costly.
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Taking up one’s cross is costly unto itself but made worse by all the cultural overlays added to it. Taking up one’s cross has come to mean assuming all sorts of inhuman and human-created problems that I can’t imagine a loving and creating God wanting us to take on.
The widower is furious at God for having made his wife, dying of cancer, suffer. He wants to punish God for making him carry this cross and so he turns away, in his anger, never again to talk with God. He cannot see that his wife’s death was not a case of God ‘letting him down’ or making him carry a special burden; his wife’s death as awful as it was, nonetheless, is part of what it means to be a finite creature.
The woman, whose husband beats her at night in his alcoholic-induced rage, when her friends point out to her that she needn’t live this way, shrugs her shoulders and mutters something about it being her ‘special cross to bear.’ She cannot see that the God who created her would not willingly cause her to suffer as proof of her faithfulness.
The child who lives in the streets, doing tricks, inhaling glue, figures that somewhere along the line he must have done something wrong and God is punishing him, that this current bleak life is his cross, whatever that means.
I reject those interpretations of what ‘taking up one’s cross’ means. I do believe that ‘taking up one’s cross’ can mean sacrifice, particularly in terms of acting in the interest of the common good and not one’s self interest. I believe that taking up one’s cross means faithfully living out as best as one can the promises made at baptism.
Or consider Micah’s call to ‘Do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with your God.’ Or ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind and you shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ To live out any of these exhortations involves plenty of denying oneself and taking up a cross.
Taking up one’s cross means using the gift of speech not to harm but to heal, to build peace, to speak of God. That evil tongue of which James wrote can speak good and actually be used for the common good. Still, taking up one’s cross means challenging someone who makes a racist or sexist comment or joke, or speaking truths that others may not want to hear. Bringing about God’s kingdom, in terms of complete relationships, can often be a cross.
The action of taking up one’s cross then becomes paradoxical because, ‘the hard wood of the cross is best for feeding the fire of love,” in the words of one ancient writer. The cross reminds us that all love is sacrificial: that is (in the original meaning of the word), it is what makes things holy. Love makes holy everything it touches, even the cross.
As long as there are disciples of Jesus willing to take up the cross and follow, the evil of crucifixion will become the place of witness, of the reconciling love of God … where the tragedy, betrayal and foolishness represented by the cross become wisdom, and through God’s love become life and hope for us all.
Perhaps then we will see, truly see… and then speak of God’s love. (1)
END NOTE
(1) The exegetical portion of the sermon borrows heavily from Ched Myers et al, “Say to this Mountain”: Mark’s Story of Discipleship (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1996), 99-103.
preached at Saint Mark’s, Springfield VT
‘The tongue is a fire.’ How prescient these words seem. We have witnessed this week how our country’s concept of freedom of speech has managed literally to turn the Middle East aflame with tragic loss in the process. What one man’s tongue (and film) has managed to wreak simply reinforces what the letter of James states: ‘No one can tame the tongue — a restless evil, full of deadly poison.’
Not that this little sermon can tame the tongue, but may it not turn the tongue into fire, evil or poison. But the gift of speech certainly can become a cross we bear if we do not use it properly.
+
We have arrived at the midpoint of Mark’s story. The first half began by heralding a ‘Way’ and closed with a question addressed to the disciples and the reader: ‘Do you not yet understand?’ (8.21). The second half opens ‘on the Way,’ with yet another query: ‘Who do you say that I am?’ In this second half of the gospel, the ‘way of the cross’ will be explained by object lessons, both positive and negative, framed by two stories in which the blind receive sight — first in Bethsaida (8.22-26) and in Jericho (10.45-52).
The first half of the gospel ends on the depressing note that the disciples’ eyes, ears and heart have failed them. They have not understood what Jesus has been trying to teach them on the Way. It is no accident, then, that the second half of the gospel opens with the story of a blind man receiving his sight, which counters the disciples’ inability to see who Jesus is.
In short order, Jesus restores hearing and speech to a deaf-mute man, he restores sight to a blind man, he casts out a deaf and dumb spirit and he heals another blind man who follows him. These final four healings suggest that if Jesus can ‘make the deaf hear and the dumb speak’ and help the blind ‘see clearly’ then there is hope for the disciples. As an aside, for the preacher and listener, who may have wondered why week after week the lectionary recounts different healing stories, now the gospel writer’s agenda becomes clearer.
So when Jesus asks the blind man at Bethsaida, ‘Do you see anything?’ his question actually has prophetic echoes for the conversation that takes place in the portion of today’s gospel reading. ‘Sight’ emerges as a central metaphor for faith in Mark.
Moving from a physical level to a spiritual level, Mark now has Jesus asks his disciples who do they say that he is. He wants to know for whom do they see him. They answer with the appropriate people, but Peter takes things a step deeper when he uses the politically loaded term, ‘messiah.’ It sounds like a good answer — this word, ‘messiah,’ speaks clearly of the presence of God with the people in justice and peace.
However, at the time of Jesus, there were conflicting ideas about the messiah and what it would mean not only for the Jews but also for the Romans and unbelievers. Thus, Peter’s use of this term fails to clarify matters and Jesus tells him to be quiet.
Jesus then tells the disciples what this messiah must undergo. He has read and reflected on the prophets, especially Isaiah. Jesus sees himself as the beloved son and servant of God, which means, in the tradition of the prophets, he must also suffer because of his obedience to God’s word and will. The truth is named and brought to light; Jesus will die.
It is too much for Peter. And Peter’s reaction is too much for Jesus. Their exchange escalates into a shouting match of rebukes, ending with Jesus naming Peter as ‘satan.’ Perhaps it is because Jesus senses that Peter has remained loyal to the secular and traditional understanding of messiah, the one who prevails over the enemy through righteous force, rather than this new messiah who will overcome through humility.
But, at what a price! For this messiah will overcome the powers-that-be through crucifixion, a vicious, sadistic and humiliating torture, meted out for those whom the Roman empire wished to silence, those who had no family or friends to support them, or those whose family and friends understood that pubic support of the punished would end up in similar punishment for themselves.
We return implicitly to Jesus’ question to the blind man at Bethsaida, ‘Do you see anything?’ We do. We see the suffering Christ, the saviour whom we follow and the cross, a cross that we must take up ourselves. On a normal day, the idea of doing likewise holds scant appeal because it seems so costly.
+
Taking up one’s cross is costly unto itself but made worse by all the cultural overlays added to it. Taking up one’s cross has come to mean assuming all sorts of inhuman and human-created problems that I can’t imagine a loving and creating God wanting us to take on.
The widower is furious at God for having made his wife, dying of cancer, suffer. He wants to punish God for making him carry this cross and so he turns away, in his anger, never again to talk with God. He cannot see that his wife’s death was not a case of God ‘letting him down’ or making him carry a special burden; his wife’s death as awful as it was, nonetheless, is part of what it means to be a finite creature.
The woman, whose husband beats her at night in his alcoholic-induced rage, when her friends point out to her that she needn’t live this way, shrugs her shoulders and mutters something about it being her ‘special cross to bear.’ She cannot see that the God who created her would not willingly cause her to suffer as proof of her faithfulness.
The child who lives in the streets, doing tricks, inhaling glue, figures that somewhere along the line he must have done something wrong and God is punishing him, that this current bleak life is his cross, whatever that means.
I reject those interpretations of what ‘taking up one’s cross’ means. I do believe that ‘taking up one’s cross’ can mean sacrifice, particularly in terms of acting in the interest of the common good and not one’s self interest. I believe that taking up one’s cross means faithfully living out as best as one can the promises made at baptism.
Or consider Micah’s call to ‘Do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with your God.’ Or ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind and you shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ To live out any of these exhortations involves plenty of denying oneself and taking up a cross.
Taking up one’s cross means using the gift of speech not to harm but to heal, to build peace, to speak of God. That evil tongue of which James wrote can speak good and actually be used for the common good. Still, taking up one’s cross means challenging someone who makes a racist or sexist comment or joke, or speaking truths that others may not want to hear. Bringing about God’s kingdom, in terms of complete relationships, can often be a cross.
The action of taking up one’s cross then becomes paradoxical because, ‘the hard wood of the cross is best for feeding the fire of love,” in the words of one ancient writer. The cross reminds us that all love is sacrificial: that is (in the original meaning of the word), it is what makes things holy. Love makes holy everything it touches, even the cross.
As long as there are disciples of Jesus willing to take up the cross and follow, the evil of crucifixion will become the place of witness, of the reconciling love of God … where the tragedy, betrayal and foolishness represented by the cross become wisdom, and through God’s love become life and hope for us all.
Perhaps then we will see, truly see… and then speak of God’s love. (1)
END NOTE
(1) The exegetical portion of the sermon borrows heavily from Ched Myers et al, “Say to this Mountain”: Mark’s Story of Discipleship (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1996), 99-103.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Proper 17B
Proper 17B • 2 September 2012
Preached at Saint Mark’s, Springfield VT
After five weeks of tarrying in the gospel of John, the lectionary suddenly drops us back into the gospel of Mark in the middle of a debate between Jesus and the Pharisees. Thematically we move from a long meditation on the significance of the Bread of Life — Jesus — to an argument that revolves around purity and following the letter of the law to the point that it excludes people. Quite a shift, indeed!
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One of the primary questions that this morning’s gospel reading poses is: What happens to us when we get too caught up in minute, legalistic interpretations of scripture or the law? This question is not limited to people of Jesus’ time — hardly so. We see such debates going on in the Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion today, too, with those who tend toward a more literalistic approach to the bible lamenting the lack of discipline in the rest of the church.
While Jesus is not asking the Pharisees if they know what God hates, he is asking them where their hearts are: Are their hearts open to what God has to say and teach them, or are their hearts hardened? From what Jesus says, quoting directly from the prophet Isaiah, his answer is clear: ‘This people honours me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.’ Then he accuses the Pharisees of abandoning the commandment of God and holding to human tradition.
What is the commandment of God? Simply, to love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. This commandment comes straight out of the Book of Deuteronomy (its name comes from the Latin, The Second Law, but in Hebrew, its name is derived from the first word of the book, debarim, ‘Words’). Much later in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus will tell the community what the second commandment is: The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these. Love of God, love of neighbour. These are the foundations of one’s life in God.
Jesus faces a group of people who uses a myriad of laws to keep people away from God rather than find ways to include them in the richness of God’s promise of mercy for humankind. And that is why Jesus’ ire is up.
Since purity laws are not part of our reality, perhaps it would be useful to explain some of what is going on here. The Pharisaic custom of purity laws created a system in which those who could observe the laws were part of the in-group and those who could not were part of the out-group. The purity code was basically a form of maintaining group boundaries. In this particular system, that which is dirty or impure was out of place in the system and that which was clean or pure was in place. The purity code not only determined what was polluted but also when one should pray and with whom one could associate and where one could go. But most important was a hierarchy of things clean and unclean.
Keeping purity laws was a near impossibility for peasant farmers who may not have had the required water for ritual baths, or for fishers who came in constant contact with dead fish, animals and the like. Equally at a disadvantage were those like Jesus and his disciples who travelled about.
Jesus consistently got himself into trouble with the Pharisees because he disregarded their boundaries. He did not observe their rules of worship or their rules about places or people. Jesus touched (and in some cases was touched by) those considered impure: women, the dead, tax collectors and sinners. His disregard for the Pharisees’ total system was not out of contentiousness but rather out of his understanding that rules can sometimes mask what lies in the heart.
What lies in the heart? Good things and bad things. Jesus recites in the gospel passage what is commonly known as a ‘vice list.’ These lists were used frequently in Greek philosophical teachings of the times and referred to acts against the community as well as acts against the individual.
By reminding us that it is not that which we consume that defiles us but what comes out of our hearts, Jesus basically calls the Pharisees to examine the real motivations behind their lists of purity laws. Do they follow them out of a genuine desire to follow God, to love God and neighbour alike, or do they follow these laws as a way to construct a fence around themselves so they will not have to deal with people different from them?
The gospel asks us as well: What fences do we construct around us? How do we use purity laws, the bible, or other tests to determine who is in and who is out? How does the church today define who is in and who is out? Is that what the church should be about? Isn’t the church called to gather and leave the sorting to God? Shouldn’t the church be a place for all?
There are tensions between cultural relics and tradition, which often can become burdensome. Cultural habit can colour and change tradition. One must always bear in mind that tradition, in its Latin root, traditio, means ‘to hand over’, ‘to hand on.’ There’s nothing in its original meaning that says things have to be set in stone.
On a light-hearted level, I can come up with two examples that were part of the cultural habit at Saint Mary’s, now evolved into ‘tradition.’ The first is their unusual custom of standing up to say the psalm at the eucharist. I would hazard at 9/10 congregations that one might attend, the congregation sits down to read the psalm in the context of the eucharist. When I asked around, trying to find out how and when this custom (that folks call ‘tradition’) came into being, no one could remember. I then asked the congregation: Is it essential to our life as a community whether we stand or sit for the psalm? Not really. Should we try conforming to the rest of our neighbouring Episcopal congregations? Perhaps. They never did change that odd practise during my time.
Another light example I gave was what would happen the certain day when I was no longer rector of Saint Mary’s. I joked: Surely someone will say to the new priest, ‘But she always reached behind her head after she put on the chasuble and you must too!’ (It is my custom to flip my braid outside of the chasuble so it does not remain stuck inside it.) The current priest’s hair is as short as mine is long so it is a non-issue.
On a more serious level, as a community we must find a way of living in this tension between rules and making faithful, life-giving choices. How do we live in community, where the common good often needs to take precedence over our own good, not treating as rigid and wooden the laws and traditions that are meant to sustain community?
There is a raft of moral and ethical and pastoral questions that we deal with day by day that our traditions and laws do not give us room to respond in human and faithful ways. Laws and canons are made for people, not people for laws and canons. Even Scripture used literally and rigidly can be oppressive of God’s people.
Consider that our church changed its mind about remarriage of divorced persons in 1970. Up until then, a priest could not preside at the blessing/marriage of a couple if one of the partners had been divorced. Mercifully, the church opted for compassion, rather than exclusion. This is but one example. You surely can come up with others.
We are constantly challenged to see the world and the human family with the eyes of Jesus who made choices from his heart, choices for mercy, justice and with a special option for the vulnerable and poor.
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In this year where politically there stands so much that can divide us, I pray that we see God in one another, and remember that judging what lies in people’s hearts is up to God, not us. I pray that this community can be a witness to God’s love extended to all. And I pray we will find ways to extend that message to others, especially to those who have not yet known God’s gracious love.
With God’s help we can begin to open our hearts to one another, not being afraid to be who we really are. Let us tear down the walls that divide us, and strengthen the bonds of trust (Weston Priory). Let us return to the foundations of our life in God by loving God and our neighbour. If we can do that, we will no longer need all our fences and walls. And we can do that, trusting in God. So, let’s begin.
Preached at Saint Mark’s, Springfield VT
After five weeks of tarrying in the gospel of John, the lectionary suddenly drops us back into the gospel of Mark in the middle of a debate between Jesus and the Pharisees. Thematically we move from a long meditation on the significance of the Bread of Life — Jesus — to an argument that revolves around purity and following the letter of the law to the point that it excludes people. Quite a shift, indeed!
+
One of the primary questions that this morning’s gospel reading poses is: What happens to us when we get too caught up in minute, legalistic interpretations of scripture or the law? This question is not limited to people of Jesus’ time — hardly so. We see such debates going on in the Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion today, too, with those who tend toward a more literalistic approach to the bible lamenting the lack of discipline in the rest of the church.
While Jesus is not asking the Pharisees if they know what God hates, he is asking them where their hearts are: Are their hearts open to what God has to say and teach them, or are their hearts hardened? From what Jesus says, quoting directly from the prophet Isaiah, his answer is clear: ‘This people honours me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.’ Then he accuses the Pharisees of abandoning the commandment of God and holding to human tradition.
What is the commandment of God? Simply, to love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. This commandment comes straight out of the Book of Deuteronomy (its name comes from the Latin, The Second Law, but in Hebrew, its name is derived from the first word of the book, debarim, ‘Words’). Much later in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus will tell the community what the second commandment is: The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these. Love of God, love of neighbour. These are the foundations of one’s life in God.
Jesus faces a group of people who uses a myriad of laws to keep people away from God rather than find ways to include them in the richness of God’s promise of mercy for humankind. And that is why Jesus’ ire is up.
Since purity laws are not part of our reality, perhaps it would be useful to explain some of what is going on here. The Pharisaic custom of purity laws created a system in which those who could observe the laws were part of the in-group and those who could not were part of the out-group. The purity code was basically a form of maintaining group boundaries. In this particular system, that which is dirty or impure was out of place in the system and that which was clean or pure was in place. The purity code not only determined what was polluted but also when one should pray and with whom one could associate and where one could go. But most important was a hierarchy of things clean and unclean.
Keeping purity laws was a near impossibility for peasant farmers who may not have had the required water for ritual baths, or for fishers who came in constant contact with dead fish, animals and the like. Equally at a disadvantage were those like Jesus and his disciples who travelled about.
Jesus consistently got himself into trouble with the Pharisees because he disregarded their boundaries. He did not observe their rules of worship or their rules about places or people. Jesus touched (and in some cases was touched by) those considered impure: women, the dead, tax collectors and sinners. His disregard for the Pharisees’ total system was not out of contentiousness but rather out of his understanding that rules can sometimes mask what lies in the heart.
What lies in the heart? Good things and bad things. Jesus recites in the gospel passage what is commonly known as a ‘vice list.’ These lists were used frequently in Greek philosophical teachings of the times and referred to acts against the community as well as acts against the individual.
By reminding us that it is not that which we consume that defiles us but what comes out of our hearts, Jesus basically calls the Pharisees to examine the real motivations behind their lists of purity laws. Do they follow them out of a genuine desire to follow God, to love God and neighbour alike, or do they follow these laws as a way to construct a fence around themselves so they will not have to deal with people different from them?
The gospel asks us as well: What fences do we construct around us? How do we use purity laws, the bible, or other tests to determine who is in and who is out? How does the church today define who is in and who is out? Is that what the church should be about? Isn’t the church called to gather and leave the sorting to God? Shouldn’t the church be a place for all?
There are tensions between cultural relics and tradition, which often can become burdensome. Cultural habit can colour and change tradition. One must always bear in mind that tradition, in its Latin root, traditio, means ‘to hand over’, ‘to hand on.’ There’s nothing in its original meaning that says things have to be set in stone.
On a light-hearted level, I can come up with two examples that were part of the cultural habit at Saint Mary’s, now evolved into ‘tradition.’ The first is their unusual custom of standing up to say the psalm at the eucharist. I would hazard at 9/10 congregations that one might attend, the congregation sits down to read the psalm in the context of the eucharist. When I asked around, trying to find out how and when this custom (that folks call ‘tradition’) came into being, no one could remember. I then asked the congregation: Is it essential to our life as a community whether we stand or sit for the psalm? Not really. Should we try conforming to the rest of our neighbouring Episcopal congregations? Perhaps. They never did change that odd practise during my time.
Another light example I gave was what would happen the certain day when I was no longer rector of Saint Mary’s. I joked: Surely someone will say to the new priest, ‘But she always reached behind her head after she put on the chasuble and you must too!’ (It is my custom to flip my braid outside of the chasuble so it does not remain stuck inside it.) The current priest’s hair is as short as mine is long so it is a non-issue.
On a more serious level, as a community we must find a way of living in this tension between rules and making faithful, life-giving choices. How do we live in community, where the common good often needs to take precedence over our own good, not treating as rigid and wooden the laws and traditions that are meant to sustain community?
There is a raft of moral and ethical and pastoral questions that we deal with day by day that our traditions and laws do not give us room to respond in human and faithful ways. Laws and canons are made for people, not people for laws and canons. Even Scripture used literally and rigidly can be oppressive of God’s people.
Consider that our church changed its mind about remarriage of divorced persons in 1970. Up until then, a priest could not preside at the blessing/marriage of a couple if one of the partners had been divorced. Mercifully, the church opted for compassion, rather than exclusion. This is but one example. You surely can come up with others.
We are constantly challenged to see the world and the human family with the eyes of Jesus who made choices from his heart, choices for mercy, justice and with a special option for the vulnerable and poor.
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In this year where politically there stands so much that can divide us, I pray that we see God in one another, and remember that judging what lies in people’s hearts is up to God, not us. I pray that this community can be a witness to God’s love extended to all. And I pray we will find ways to extend that message to others, especially to those who have not yet known God’s gracious love.
With God’s help we can begin to open our hearts to one another, not being afraid to be who we really are. Let us tear down the walls that divide us, and strengthen the bonds of trust (Weston Priory). Let us return to the foundations of our life in God by loving God and our neighbour. If we can do that, we will no longer need all our fences and walls. And we can do that, trusting in God. So, let’s begin.
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