How good is your vision? If you’re like most middle-class Americans, you visit the optometrist once a year. You get your glaucoma test and your retinal scan. If you’re nearsighted or farsighted you get glasses or contact lenses. When you become a woman – or a man – of a certain age, you get reading glasses or bi- or even trifocals. When you start seeing haloes around stop lights, it’s off to the eye surgeon for cataract surgery. With any kind of luck, your vision is restored or even improved from what it was before the surgery.
And your inward vision? How good is your spiritual vision? How good are you at seeing the world as God might see it? “Not so good,” you say? If so, you’re in good company. In two of our Scripture lessons for today, people had a hard time seeing beyond the ordinary. We might say they couldn’t think out of the box. Take the story of Elisha and his servant. Do you identify with the servant? Elisha had already demonstrated his prophetic powers through a series of miraculous acts. Now in this time of famine a generous man came to Elisha offering his tithe of barley loaves and grain. When Elisha commanded the servant to distribute the token offering to all the starving people, what did the servant say? “This is way too little for a hundred people.” But Elisha had a different vision. He trusted in a compassionate God, a God who cares enough to reap an abundant harvest out of people’s meager offerings. Can’t you hear Elisha thundering, “Give it to the people and let them eat!” And they ate and even had leftovers.
Not surprisingly, the story repeated itself in the Gospel. We’ve now returned to the Gospel according to John, where we will remain from now until the end of August. All our Gospel lessons will come from the sixth chapter. As you may remember, most of the narrative in the first part of John consists of Jesus’ doing something, followed by Jesus’ attempt to explain the significance of his action to this friends, then disputes with the religious leadership over what he has done and said, and finally a resolution at the end of the chapter. See if you can hear that movement as we progress through the chapter. Now in this story of Jesus’ feeding of the crowd, the people around Jesus didn’t seem to have any better spiritual vision than Elisha’s servant. Philip and Andrew had already seen Jesus do many extraordinary things: heal people, turn water into wine at Cana, and face down the religious leaders. Why were they so clueless about what Jesus might do on the hills beside the Sea of Galilee? They might have wondered why Jesus felt so compelled to feed people – did you wonder the same thing – but how come they didn’t have any idea about what Jesus might do? Philip got out his calculator and assured Jesus there was no way they had enough to take care of everyone. Andrew scared up a tiny donation, but he could have been quoting Elisha’s servant when he said, “What are these barley loaves and fish among so many?” However, like Elisha, Jesus looked through a different lens. Although he didn’t thunder, he did create some order out of the chaos – can’t you imagine all those people milling around wondering what was coming next? He made the people sit down. Then, after blessing the little he had, Jesus himself began to give it out. And what did the clueless disciples do? Perhaps they gathered up the leftovers. Or perhaps they joined all those who misunderstood what Jesus had done for them and set about to proclaim Jesus as a political leader.
Is that how we humans are, unable to think out of the box, unable to see the world from God’s perspective, unable to imagine that a God of compassion and abundance might be eager to transform our meager offerings into something much greater? Shouldn’t we as Jesus’ friends be able to do better than Elisha’s servant, Philip, and Andrew? Shouldn’t we be able to recognize God at work – or willing to be at work – in our midst? Shouldn’t we who been baptized into the Body of Christ be able to “comprehend … what are the breadth and length and height and depth, …?”
Maybe it’s understandable that we find it so difficult to see with God, to think out of the box. Despite being Jesus’ friends, we are so rooted in this world. Most of us, in our daily lives, as individuals and as a parish, are really Elisha’s servant or Philip or Andrew. Haven’t we looked at the vast sea of human need, the people all crowding around us with their hands out, to say nothing of the requests that come in by post and e-mail. Haven’t we thought or said, “I can’t. I can’t help you. I can’t afford to help you; there are too many of you. I haven’t got time to help you.” And haven’t we said the same thing as a parish? “We can’t. We’re a small parish. What are our meager resources in the face of such deep world need? We have so little. There’s so much need: what do we have to offer as a cell in the Body of Christ? What do we have to offer as a church?” Why is it so difficult to see past our own vision of scarcity and contemplate the possibility of God’s abundance?
Perhaps the better questions are, “How do we learn to see more clearly? How do we align our vision of the possible with God’s vision? How do we recognize God at work among us and get some glimpse of what God might do if we gave God even some of our admittedly meager resources?” Let’s look again at Jesus our mentor and model. Jesus did something surprising in this story. No, not feeding all those people, not even walking on the sea. Go back to the crowd’s reaction to his feeding of them. They exclaimed “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.” However, they misunderstood just what sort of messiah Jesus was destined to be. His response? “He withdrew again to the mountain by himself.” After a period of extremely intense ministry to others, Jesus took off. He withdrew not only to escape the crowds who wanted to anoint him as king but, more importantly, to seek some rest for his soul, to renew his relationship with the Father, and to align his will with the will of the Father. In other words, he withdrew in order to strengthen his ability to see the world as God sees it.
Isn’t this the lesson for us? We too engage in periods of intense ministry in our personal lives, our work, and in the church. We will do so here today at our Loaves and Fishes dinner. After such intense ministry we too must withdraw for a bit, to seek rest and consolation, to seek nourishment for our souls, to renew our relationship with God, and ultimately, to align our wills with God’s will. We are surely called to minister to others, but without the time away from ministry, without the intentional commitment to deepening our relationship with God, we will have a hard time seeing our ministry through God’s eyes. We will have a harder time letting God take our meager resources and do more with them than we could ever ask or imagine. In the week ahead, take some time with God, even if it’s only five minutes of mid-day prayer. Ask God to nourish and refresh you. Ask God to help you think out of the box and show you how much good God might do with your meager resources and with the resources of this parish.
For this is also our call as a parish. Our participation in the Common Ministry program gives us some time away just to focus on ourselves as a parish and on what God might be calling us to do. Perhaps we also need some quiet time together as a parish. I propose a Quiet Morning here at St. Peter’s focused on our identity and mission as a parish. Will you join me in that?
It’s true that our resources are meager. They always are. In the face of the great human need around us, just in this county, to say nothing of the rest of the state, country, and world, any sane person would say, “What is that among so many?” But our compassionate, loving, inclusive God does not operate out of a politics of scarcity. The God in whom we trust is a God of abundance, if we could but see it. The God we profess is prepared to take whatever we have and use it for the life of the world. Do you need examples? Holy women and men surround us, both on earth and in heaven. Here’s only one. Mother Theresa confronted Calcutta, a city teeming with severely disabled people, with homeless people, and with people dying on the streets in broad daylight. What could one Albanian nun do in the face of such need? Mother Theresa picked up one dying person at a time. Today, the Missionaries of Charity Sisters, Brothers, Lay missionaries, and associates operate 600 missions, schools, and shelters in 120 countries. We too have walked with Jesus. We too have seen the signs. Now may God enable us to deepen our ability to see with God’s eyes. May God work within us and turn our limited and meager selves into the means of blessing for the world.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
He had Compassion for Them
“God hates the world!” So proclaimed a poster that Noah Phelps-Roper, 12, held up, as he and family members from Topeka’s Westboro Baptist Church picketed outside the U.S. Naval Academy. Brother Gabriel, 8, held up a poster declaring that “You’re going to Hell.”1 Do you remember these people? The Westboro Baptist Church was established in 1955 by lawyer Fred Phelps. It claims to be a Primitive Baptist Church, although it has been disowned by that denomination. The reason? Westboro boasts of having conducted over 47,000 demonstrations since 1991, most of them shouting out a gospel of hate. The church made international news when its pastor threatened to burn a Qur’an, and, to the sorrow of the families of soldiers, when the Supreme Court upheld its members’ right to picket military funerals. Holding to an extreme form of Calvinist theology, the members of Westboro believe that only a tiny percentage of people are saved, essentially themselves and others who agree with them, and that all others are damned to an eternity in Hell. Since they have no desire to evangelize or convert others, their principle work as a church is to support each other and witness to their beliefs by picketing and harassing others, especially lesbian and gay people.
Does our own view of God come anywhere close to that of the Westboro Baptist Church? Do any of us believe in an angry God, who damns us to eternal punishment if we don’t strictly toe the mark? If not, then we would do well to ask ourselves the two most important questions that any thinking person can ask. How do we see God? And, what do we think God expects us to do? The answer to the first question that orthodox Christians can – or ought to – give is embedded in our Gospel passage for today. Our answer stands in stark contrast to the view of God promulgated by the Westboro Baptist Church: “… he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd ….” Compassion, literally suffering with us. It’s a word used at least eight times in the Gospel, and it is implicit in Jesus’ entire life. We see Jesus’ compassion especially in all the healing stories in the Gospels. Indeed, one might say that the healing stories demonstrate not so much that Jesus was a medical magician, but that he cared deeply enough about people to attend even to their physical ills. We also see Jesus’ compassion in all the stories about people being fed. We see it in his willingness not only to heal and feed a person here or there but to minister to great crowds of people, seemingly never tiring. And of course we see Jesus’ compassion for humanity in his own Passion, his suffering on the Cross for our sake. Since we Christians believe that Jesus was God incarnate, God visible as a human being, it follows that the compassion for all that Jesus showed us is the essence of God, our creator and judge. As we watch Jesus relate to the people around him in the Gospels, we can be sure that not only does God not hate the world, but that God loved and continues to love the world that God has made.
Nor should we be surprised or shocked to be reminded that the God we trust is a God of compassion. All our Scripture bears witness to God’s compassion for humanity. Remember all those covenants with Israel that we talked about during Lent? All of them speak to God’s care and concern for Israel, God’s unfailing attempts to heal first Israel and then ultimately all humanity. The prophets witness to God’s compassion in even clearer tones. Almost all of the prophecy of Isaiah speaks to the return from Exile of the Jews and the re-establishment of Jerusalem. Ezekiel too speaks to God’s care for Israel, giving us that wonderful image of the dry bones of the House of Israel coming back to life through God’s breathing on them. God’s compassion shines through even in today’s reading from Jeremiah. Dismissing the bad shepherds, the stupid and venal religious and political leaders, who “destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture,” God promises restoration and return for his people. God promises to raise up new shepherds, so that the people will no longer be afraid and upset. Most important, God promises a new age of justice and righteousness, of safety and salvation.
And here’s the really good news. God’s compassion, especially as it is exemplified by Jesus, is extended to all, to people of all races, ethnicities, nationalities, and genders, to all of humanity. The prophetic tradition and Jesus’ own interaction with people bear witness to God’s ultimate desire to include all people in the salvation first extended to Israel. As Christians we believe that indeed in Jesus the inclusion of all in God’s promises has been accomplished. We hear that message clearly in the Letter to the Ephesians. Writing primarily to Gentiles, the writer reminds the new Christians at Ephesus that they “who were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.” Christ has broken down the wall separating Israel and other nations, “that he might create in himself one new humanity ….” If we were stand toe to toe with the Westboro Baptist folks, this would be our ringing claim, shouted and painted in letters a foot high: God’s compassion for the world is so deep that no one is excluded from God’s saving love.
Theologian Douglas John Hall asks us whether, as Christians, “We have grasped the full radicality of belief in a compassionate God. He reminds us of the warning in the first letter of Peter, “the time has come for the judgment to begin with the household of God (4:17), and asks us “whether as a church we are ready to live that compassion in our profoundly threatened world.”2 We who have committed ourselves to the Episcopal Church might particularly ask ourselves that question. In the wake of our just-completed General Convention, some national commentators took the Episcopal Church to task, either for dealing with what some deemed as trivial issues or for being too progressive and “liberal.” Some of you may have seen the most scurrilous of these articles, Jay Akasie’s op-ed in the Wall Street Journal, which was nothing more than an opinionated diatribe, and Ross Douthat’s piece last Sunday in the New York Times, which suggested that liberal Christianity, epitomized by the Episcopal Church, was on its deathbed. Many far better writers than I have refuted both these pieces. However, as I look at all that General Convention accomplished in eight days, I see, rather, a church that is striving to live out its vision of God’s compassionate, inclusive love. We commended and continued our eleven-year relationship of full communion with the ELCA. We approved a provisional liturgy for the blessing of same-sex unions. We created an “HIV Welcoming Parish Initiative.” We welcomed trans-gender people into the ordination process. We affirmed positive investment in the Palestinian Territories and in the peace process in the Middle East. We faced squarely the decline in membership in the Episcopal Church – a fact of life for all mainline denominations and the Roman Catholic Church – by agreeing to slim down our organization and restructure, so that we can more effectively live out our commission as evangelists, as those who are charged with proclaiming the good news.
Thank God for the Episcopal Church! Thank God we can offer a different view of God’s relationship with the world from that offered by the folks at Westboro. Yes, the church is changing. Yes, we are no longer the establishment church, whose membership represented the rich and powerful of most communities. But we are not done for! Pastor Robert LaRochelle reminds us that the mainline church “has the potential to be a voice for an inclusive, welcoming Christian vision in neighborhoods and towns.”3 Bishop Stacy Sauls gives us an even more empowering vision of the kind of church we strive to be. In his response to the Wall Street Journal article, Bishop Sauls says that,
"The Episcopal Church is on record as standing by those the culture marginalizes whether that be nonwhite people, female people or gay people. The author [of the Wall Street Journal article] calls that political correctness hostile to tradition.
I call it profoundly countercultural but hardly untraditional. In fact, it is deeply true to the tradition of Jesus, Jesus who offended the "traditionalists" of his own day, Jesus who was known to associate with the less than desirable, Jesus who told his followers to seek him among the poor. It is deeply true to the tradition of the Apostle Paul who decried human barriers of race, sex, or status (Galatians 3:28).
What ails the Episcopalians is that this once most-established class of American Christianity is taking the risk to be radically true to its tradition. There is a price to be paid for that. There is also a promise of abundant life in it."4
As we live out our lives here in this parish, may God enable us to welcome all and to live into that abundant life.
1. Joanie Eppinga, “The Face of Hate,” Sojourners (41,6, June 2012), 14ff.
2. Feasting on the Word (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009), 264.
3. Part-Time Pastor, Full Time Church (Cleveland: Pilgrim Press, 2010), 35.
4. The Wall Street Journal, Letters, July 19, 2012, accessed at http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10000872396390444464304577534993658282250.html?KEYWORDS=episcopal
Does our own view of God come anywhere close to that of the Westboro Baptist Church? Do any of us believe in an angry God, who damns us to eternal punishment if we don’t strictly toe the mark? If not, then we would do well to ask ourselves the two most important questions that any thinking person can ask. How do we see God? And, what do we think God expects us to do? The answer to the first question that orthodox Christians can – or ought to – give is embedded in our Gospel passage for today. Our answer stands in stark contrast to the view of God promulgated by the Westboro Baptist Church: “… he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd ….” Compassion, literally suffering with us. It’s a word used at least eight times in the Gospel, and it is implicit in Jesus’ entire life. We see Jesus’ compassion especially in all the healing stories in the Gospels. Indeed, one might say that the healing stories demonstrate not so much that Jesus was a medical magician, but that he cared deeply enough about people to attend even to their physical ills. We also see Jesus’ compassion in all the stories about people being fed. We see it in his willingness not only to heal and feed a person here or there but to minister to great crowds of people, seemingly never tiring. And of course we see Jesus’ compassion for humanity in his own Passion, his suffering on the Cross for our sake. Since we Christians believe that Jesus was God incarnate, God visible as a human being, it follows that the compassion for all that Jesus showed us is the essence of God, our creator and judge. As we watch Jesus relate to the people around him in the Gospels, we can be sure that not only does God not hate the world, but that God loved and continues to love the world that God has made.
Nor should we be surprised or shocked to be reminded that the God we trust is a God of compassion. All our Scripture bears witness to God’s compassion for humanity. Remember all those covenants with Israel that we talked about during Lent? All of them speak to God’s care and concern for Israel, God’s unfailing attempts to heal first Israel and then ultimately all humanity. The prophets witness to God’s compassion in even clearer tones. Almost all of the prophecy of Isaiah speaks to the return from Exile of the Jews and the re-establishment of Jerusalem. Ezekiel too speaks to God’s care for Israel, giving us that wonderful image of the dry bones of the House of Israel coming back to life through God’s breathing on them. God’s compassion shines through even in today’s reading from Jeremiah. Dismissing the bad shepherds, the stupid and venal religious and political leaders, who “destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture,” God promises restoration and return for his people. God promises to raise up new shepherds, so that the people will no longer be afraid and upset. Most important, God promises a new age of justice and righteousness, of safety and salvation.
And here’s the really good news. God’s compassion, especially as it is exemplified by Jesus, is extended to all, to people of all races, ethnicities, nationalities, and genders, to all of humanity. The prophetic tradition and Jesus’ own interaction with people bear witness to God’s ultimate desire to include all people in the salvation first extended to Israel. As Christians we believe that indeed in Jesus the inclusion of all in God’s promises has been accomplished. We hear that message clearly in the Letter to the Ephesians. Writing primarily to Gentiles, the writer reminds the new Christians at Ephesus that they “who were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.” Christ has broken down the wall separating Israel and other nations, “that he might create in himself one new humanity ….” If we were stand toe to toe with the Westboro Baptist folks, this would be our ringing claim, shouted and painted in letters a foot high: God’s compassion for the world is so deep that no one is excluded from God’s saving love.
Theologian Douglas John Hall asks us whether, as Christians, “We have grasped the full radicality of belief in a compassionate God. He reminds us of the warning in the first letter of Peter, “the time has come for the judgment to begin with the household of God (4:17), and asks us “whether as a church we are ready to live that compassion in our profoundly threatened world.”2 We who have committed ourselves to the Episcopal Church might particularly ask ourselves that question. In the wake of our just-completed General Convention, some national commentators took the Episcopal Church to task, either for dealing with what some deemed as trivial issues or for being too progressive and “liberal.” Some of you may have seen the most scurrilous of these articles, Jay Akasie’s op-ed in the Wall Street Journal, which was nothing more than an opinionated diatribe, and Ross Douthat’s piece last Sunday in the New York Times, which suggested that liberal Christianity, epitomized by the Episcopal Church, was on its deathbed. Many far better writers than I have refuted both these pieces. However, as I look at all that General Convention accomplished in eight days, I see, rather, a church that is striving to live out its vision of God’s compassionate, inclusive love. We commended and continued our eleven-year relationship of full communion with the ELCA. We approved a provisional liturgy for the blessing of same-sex unions. We created an “HIV Welcoming Parish Initiative.” We welcomed trans-gender people into the ordination process. We affirmed positive investment in the Palestinian Territories and in the peace process in the Middle East. We faced squarely the decline in membership in the Episcopal Church – a fact of life for all mainline denominations and the Roman Catholic Church – by agreeing to slim down our organization and restructure, so that we can more effectively live out our commission as evangelists, as those who are charged with proclaiming the good news.
Thank God for the Episcopal Church! Thank God we can offer a different view of God’s relationship with the world from that offered by the folks at Westboro. Yes, the church is changing. Yes, we are no longer the establishment church, whose membership represented the rich and powerful of most communities. But we are not done for! Pastor Robert LaRochelle reminds us that the mainline church “has the potential to be a voice for an inclusive, welcoming Christian vision in neighborhoods and towns.”3 Bishop Stacy Sauls gives us an even more empowering vision of the kind of church we strive to be. In his response to the Wall Street Journal article, Bishop Sauls says that,
"The Episcopal Church is on record as standing by those the culture marginalizes whether that be nonwhite people, female people or gay people. The author [of the Wall Street Journal article] calls that political correctness hostile to tradition.
I call it profoundly countercultural but hardly untraditional. In fact, it is deeply true to the tradition of Jesus, Jesus who offended the "traditionalists" of his own day, Jesus who was known to associate with the less than desirable, Jesus who told his followers to seek him among the poor. It is deeply true to the tradition of the Apostle Paul who decried human barriers of race, sex, or status (Galatians 3:28).
What ails the Episcopalians is that this once most-established class of American Christianity is taking the risk to be radically true to its tradition. There is a price to be paid for that. There is also a promise of abundant life in it."4
As we live out our lives here in this parish, may God enable us to welcome all and to live into that abundant life.
1. Joanie Eppinga, “The Face of Hate,” Sojourners (41,6, June 2012), 14ff.
2. Feasting on the Word (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009), 264.
3. Part-Time Pastor, Full Time Church (Cleveland: Pilgrim Press, 2010), 35.
4. The Wall Street Journal, Letters, July 19, 2012, accessed at http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10000872396390444464304577534993658282250.html?KEYWORDS=episcopal
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Speaking Truth
Are you sure you want to continue being a disciple of Jesus? Do you really feel safe sitting in these pews? In the ancient world, deciding to become a Christian was a risky undertaking. You just didn’t walk up to the presbyter and present yourself. The earliest Christians wanted to make sure that people really knew what they were getting into when they asked for baptism, so they instituted a lengthy period of instruction and preparation for those intending to be baptized. Even today, adults ideally have some form of instruction before they are baptized, and the Book of Occasional Services even provides a liturgy for admission as a catechumen, i.e., someone preparing for baptism. Even with instruction, after hearing today’s Scripture readings, you still might wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. I wouldn’t blame you if, right now, you got up out of your pew, fled through the red doors, and went out to become a Zen Buddhist!
You’re still sure you want to follow Jesus? You’re not alarmed by what happened to Amos? It was the eighth century B.C. Amos was a shepherd and a specialist in the care of fig trees. Although he lived in the southern kingdom of Judah, God sent him to the northern kingdom of Israel. God’s message was tough to deliver: God told Amos to warn Israel about the deep disparities in the nation between rich and poor. He further instructed Amos to use the image of a plumb line to make his point. Do you know what a plumb line is? In the ancient world, it was a weighted string or rope against which it could be seen whether a wall was straight or not. God thus commanded Amos to tell the leadership of Israel that Israel’s religious and political institutions did not meet God’s standards, and that consequently the temple, the king, and all the leaders of the kingdom would be destroyed. Of course, the king refused to hear such warnings. Do those in power ever really want to hear the truth? So the king sent his lackey, the priest Amaziah, to warn Amos that his life was in danger, and to command him to quit prophesying, at least in Israel.
Worse yet is the story of John the Baptist. Here we hear eerie echoes of Amos’s fate. We tend to remember John as Jesus’ cousin, whose mother Elizabeth was in the sixth month with him when the angel Gabriel announced the birth of Jesus to Mary. Or we remember that John called himself Jesus’ forerunner and baptized Jesus just before the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness. But we tend to forget that John was also a fiery prophet in his own right who suffered for telling those in power things they did not want to hear. The ruler in question here was Herod Antipas, the grandson of Herod the Great, who figures in the story of the Magi. In truth, Herod Antipas was a lackey of Rome, but he had delusions of grandeur. John had publicly denounced him for unlawfully marrying Herodias, the wife of his brother Philip. More important, John’s popularity with ordinary people posed a potential threat to Herod’s ability to control Galilee. Not surprising, through the clever scheming of Herodias, as we have heard, John ended up paying with his life for his proclamation of God’s word and his outspoken condemnation of Antipas and Herodias.
Why are we hearing about the death of John the Baptist now? Why does Mark place his story here in his Gospel, since presumably this is a flashback to an earlier event? Last week’s reading, which immediately preceded this section, depicted Jesus’ sending out of his first missionaries, the first people called by Jesus to extend his message to others. In next week’s reading, which immediately follows this section, we will hear of the return of those first missionaries. Why would Mark sandwich the story of the death of the John the Baptist between these two events?
To answer that question we have to remember that Mark’s Gospel was the first Gospel, and that it was written in about the late ‘60s for a community that was being persecuted by the religious and political leaders. The Gospel writer sandwiched the story of John’s death between the sending and return of the first messengers, first of all, to remind his hearers of Jesus’ death. Indeed, the parallels between the two deaths are striking. Both John and Jesus were killed by those exercising political power. In both cases, the rulers seemed reluctant to carry out the death sentence, but both succumbed to the pressure of the people around them, Herod to his courtiers, and Pilate to the crowd. After their deaths, both John’s and Jesus’ followers were able to give them respectful burials. However, what is far more important is the Gospel writer’s implied reminder to his hearers that the fates of John the Baptist and Jesus might well be their own. In electing to follow Jesus, in choosing to flout social custom and political authority, these new disciples too might pay with their lives.
So where is the good news in this grim reminder? Maybe the good news is that we no longer face persecution and discrimination for allowing the Holy Spirit to draw us into Christ’s Body. Is that because we play it safe and carry out only the easy and obvious ministries, the ones that don’t upset anyone? Are we safe because we refuse to name injustice when we see it, or we sit back and let others speak out for peace, sound immigration policies, gay rights, and equitable access to health care? Do we let others blow the whistle on corruption, sexual predators, and insider trading? Do we let others minister to those in prison?
Actually, there is good news hidden in this story of John’s murder. The good news is tucked into Herod’s question about John. Just as they later identified Jesus, people had said that John was Elijah, and that he was “like one of the prophets of old.” But Herod, knowing that he had had John killed, declared, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.” And in Herod’s fearful confession there is a glimmer of hope for Mark’s hearers, for all the oppressed, and for us. For in that confession, Mark reminds us that indeed Jesus was raised, and that because of Jesus’ resurrection all the prophets who have been killed throughout the ages are alive in Jesus. Indeed, in that confession is the gospel writer’s promise that whenever we speak truth to power, whenever we follow Jesus’ call to proclaim the good news to others, whatever our fate, we too can expect to be raised with Jesus. Are we not then called to witness to justice, to “speak truth to power,” in the company of all those who have done so in God’s name?
In March, 1955, members of the board of the American Friends Service Committee published a pamphlet entitled Speak Truth to Power. This nation was deep into the Cold War, and nuclear weaponry was developing in earnest. The writers of the pamphlet were following in the footsteps of their eighteenth century counterparts, who accepted the charge of speaking from the deepest insights of their faith. These twentieth-century Friends felt compelled to speak to those in positions of power against nuclear proliferation and for peace. Without denying the reality of evil and our obligation to confront it, they outlined a non-violent approach to political conflict. More important, they grounded their desire for peace in a “politics of eternity,” knowing full well how risky and contrary to all that is reasonable it is to speak from such a perspective. Clearly, today’s politicians have yet to embrace the position of the AFSC writers. However, the pamphlet quickly became a major statement of Christian pacifism and inspired such figures as Martin Luther King and Mennonite John Howard Yoder. The AFSC continues to work for peace and justice around the world, united by "the unfaltering belief in the essential worth of every human being, non-violence as the way to resolve conflict, and the power of love to overcome oppression, discrimination, and violence."1
Last week, we were reminded that we are sent out by Jesus to be evangelists, to tell others of our relationship with Jesus. This week the writer of the Gospel of Mark has upped the ante: like Amos and the other ancient prophets, like John the Baptist, like Jesus, and like Jesus’ earliest followers, we too are called to “speak truth to power.” We too are called to confront evil, injustice, violence, and hatred. We too are called to work for justice, peace, and love. And we have God’s promise: whatever the risks we are called upon to take, ultimately we are in good company, for we will be in the blessed company of all those who have dared to be heralds of God’s realm. With them, we give thanks for the life and witness of John the Baptist. We pray for all who have been imprisoned for their faith, for all who face persecution or danger, and for all who stand firmly for freedom and justice. Lord, make us to be numbered among them.
1. http://afsc.org/our-work
2. Based on David Adam, Traces of Glory (Harrisburg, PA: 1999), 99.
You’re still sure you want to follow Jesus? You’re not alarmed by what happened to Amos? It was the eighth century B.C. Amos was a shepherd and a specialist in the care of fig trees. Although he lived in the southern kingdom of Judah, God sent him to the northern kingdom of Israel. God’s message was tough to deliver: God told Amos to warn Israel about the deep disparities in the nation between rich and poor. He further instructed Amos to use the image of a plumb line to make his point. Do you know what a plumb line is? In the ancient world, it was a weighted string or rope against which it could be seen whether a wall was straight or not. God thus commanded Amos to tell the leadership of Israel that Israel’s religious and political institutions did not meet God’s standards, and that consequently the temple, the king, and all the leaders of the kingdom would be destroyed. Of course, the king refused to hear such warnings. Do those in power ever really want to hear the truth? So the king sent his lackey, the priest Amaziah, to warn Amos that his life was in danger, and to command him to quit prophesying, at least in Israel.
Worse yet is the story of John the Baptist. Here we hear eerie echoes of Amos’s fate. We tend to remember John as Jesus’ cousin, whose mother Elizabeth was in the sixth month with him when the angel Gabriel announced the birth of Jesus to Mary. Or we remember that John called himself Jesus’ forerunner and baptized Jesus just before the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness. But we tend to forget that John was also a fiery prophet in his own right who suffered for telling those in power things they did not want to hear. The ruler in question here was Herod Antipas, the grandson of Herod the Great, who figures in the story of the Magi. In truth, Herod Antipas was a lackey of Rome, but he had delusions of grandeur. John had publicly denounced him for unlawfully marrying Herodias, the wife of his brother Philip. More important, John’s popularity with ordinary people posed a potential threat to Herod’s ability to control Galilee. Not surprising, through the clever scheming of Herodias, as we have heard, John ended up paying with his life for his proclamation of God’s word and his outspoken condemnation of Antipas and Herodias.
Why are we hearing about the death of John the Baptist now? Why does Mark place his story here in his Gospel, since presumably this is a flashback to an earlier event? Last week’s reading, which immediately preceded this section, depicted Jesus’ sending out of his first missionaries, the first people called by Jesus to extend his message to others. In next week’s reading, which immediately follows this section, we will hear of the return of those first missionaries. Why would Mark sandwich the story of the death of the John the Baptist between these two events?
To answer that question we have to remember that Mark’s Gospel was the first Gospel, and that it was written in about the late ‘60s for a community that was being persecuted by the religious and political leaders. The Gospel writer sandwiched the story of John’s death between the sending and return of the first messengers, first of all, to remind his hearers of Jesus’ death. Indeed, the parallels between the two deaths are striking. Both John and Jesus were killed by those exercising political power. In both cases, the rulers seemed reluctant to carry out the death sentence, but both succumbed to the pressure of the people around them, Herod to his courtiers, and Pilate to the crowd. After their deaths, both John’s and Jesus’ followers were able to give them respectful burials. However, what is far more important is the Gospel writer’s implied reminder to his hearers that the fates of John the Baptist and Jesus might well be their own. In electing to follow Jesus, in choosing to flout social custom and political authority, these new disciples too might pay with their lives.
So where is the good news in this grim reminder? Maybe the good news is that we no longer face persecution and discrimination for allowing the Holy Spirit to draw us into Christ’s Body. Is that because we play it safe and carry out only the easy and obvious ministries, the ones that don’t upset anyone? Are we safe because we refuse to name injustice when we see it, or we sit back and let others speak out for peace, sound immigration policies, gay rights, and equitable access to health care? Do we let others blow the whistle on corruption, sexual predators, and insider trading? Do we let others minister to those in prison?
Actually, there is good news hidden in this story of John’s murder. The good news is tucked into Herod’s question about John. Just as they later identified Jesus, people had said that John was Elijah, and that he was “like one of the prophets of old.” But Herod, knowing that he had had John killed, declared, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.” And in Herod’s fearful confession there is a glimmer of hope for Mark’s hearers, for all the oppressed, and for us. For in that confession, Mark reminds us that indeed Jesus was raised, and that because of Jesus’ resurrection all the prophets who have been killed throughout the ages are alive in Jesus. Indeed, in that confession is the gospel writer’s promise that whenever we speak truth to power, whenever we follow Jesus’ call to proclaim the good news to others, whatever our fate, we too can expect to be raised with Jesus. Are we not then called to witness to justice, to “speak truth to power,” in the company of all those who have done so in God’s name?
In March, 1955, members of the board of the American Friends Service Committee published a pamphlet entitled Speak Truth to Power. This nation was deep into the Cold War, and nuclear weaponry was developing in earnest. The writers of the pamphlet were following in the footsteps of their eighteenth century counterparts, who accepted the charge of speaking from the deepest insights of their faith. These twentieth-century Friends felt compelled to speak to those in positions of power against nuclear proliferation and for peace. Without denying the reality of evil and our obligation to confront it, they outlined a non-violent approach to political conflict. More important, they grounded their desire for peace in a “politics of eternity,” knowing full well how risky and contrary to all that is reasonable it is to speak from such a perspective. Clearly, today’s politicians have yet to embrace the position of the AFSC writers. However, the pamphlet quickly became a major statement of Christian pacifism and inspired such figures as Martin Luther King and Mennonite John Howard Yoder. The AFSC continues to work for peace and justice around the world, united by "the unfaltering belief in the essential worth of every human being, non-violence as the way to resolve conflict, and the power of love to overcome oppression, discrimination, and violence."1
Last week, we were reminded that we are sent out by Jesus to be evangelists, to tell others of our relationship with Jesus. This week the writer of the Gospel of Mark has upped the ante: like Amos and the other ancient prophets, like John the Baptist, like Jesus, and like Jesus’ earliest followers, we too are called to “speak truth to power.” We too are called to confront evil, injustice, violence, and hatred. We too are called to work for justice, peace, and love. And we have God’s promise: whatever the risks we are called upon to take, ultimately we are in good company, for we will be in the blessed company of all those who have dared to be heralds of God’s realm. With them, we give thanks for the life and witness of John the Baptist. We pray for all who have been imprisoned for their faith, for all who face persecution or danger, and for all who stand firmly for freedom and justice. Lord, make us to be numbered among them.
1. http://afsc.org/our-work
2. Based on David Adam, Traces of Glory (Harrisburg, PA: 1999), 99.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Who's Afraid of Evangelism?
Are you afraid of evangelism? Does the idea of “proclaiming the good news” strike terror in your heart? Do you think that talking about Jesus was OK for St. Paul and a few other gifted souls but is definitely not for you?
If even thinking about the E-word makes you quake, you’re in good company! All our lections for today remind us that proclaiming the good news, speaking for God, and calling others to change their ways are difficult and mostly thankless tasks. Take Ezekiel. Although he was in exile, far away from the temple in Jerusalem, he had an overwhelming vision of God’s glory. Then God commissioned him to go and speak for God to the people of Israel. God also warned Ezekiel: he was likely to be rejected by the Israelites, his words unheard, “for they are a rebellious house.” Or take Jesus. He had begun his proclamation of the good news in Galilee. Like Ezekiel, he had called people to repentance. He had also commissioned followers, had calmed a storm, and had had a successful healing mission, including the healing of the daughter of Jairus the synagogue leader. Yet when Jesus returned home to Nazareth to preach in the local synagogue the home folks were scandalized. Flinging back at them an old proverb, Jesus turned his back on them. What of St. Paul? Both his letters to the Christians at Corinth rebuke them for their arrogance, their prizing of rhetorical skill, and their confidence in their spiritual superiority. In answer to their jibes, not only did Paul take refuge in Jesus, he also felt it necessary to remind them of his own spiritual credentials.
Are we afraid that, if we speak for God, if we talk about our relationship with Jesus, we too will be rejected? I still remember Brother Jed, who spewed out hell fire and brimstone on the College Green at Ohio University. Most people dismissed him as insane. Those of you who remember altar calls may fear that you will be seen as manipulative if you so much as breathe a word about Jesus. Or perhaps you fear being seen as pushy or offensive. Most of us members of mainline churches are just too nice and polite to let anyone else know that we are Jesus’ followers. Indeed, most of us would rather talk about anything else, sex, money, politics, anything but our relationship with God. Perhaps you see yourself in this story told by Michael Lindvall.1 A woman member of the Episcopal Church was a clerk in a bookstore. One morning she came to work and found a man who appeared to be a Hasidic Jew. When she asked how she could help him, he whispered, “I would like to know about Jesus.” She showed him where all the books about Jesus were. As she turned to go, he said, “No, don’t show me any more books, tell me what you believe.” “My Episcopal soul shivered,” the woman later recalled. Yet she bravely went ahead and told the man all that she could. Would you do the same, or would you stammer and turn away?
My friends, stammering and turning away are not options. Our lections also remind us that once God calls, we must respond. Ezekiel faced down opposition from religious leaders and continued cogently and persuasively to proclaim God’s word for the rest of his life. The initial twelve took up Jesus’ commission, swallowed their fears, and went out to extend Jesus’ ministry into the surrounding countryside. They followed Jesus’ instructions by going in pairs and travelling light. Knowing what had happened to Jesus at Nazareth, they were prepared for rejection. Together with their proclamation of the good news, they called people to repentance, healed the sick, and drove out the demons of resistance to Jesus’ authority. Despite the Corinthians’ arrogance, despite God’s unwillingness to heal Paul’s physical ailment – what it was we still don’t know – Paul and his companions continued to proclaim the good news to the Gentiles and found new Christian communities in Asia Minor.
Despite our fears of rejection, despite our potential embarrassment, despite our anxiety, we too are called to talk about our relationship with Jesus. Yes, we are an incarnational religion. Yes, we are called to perform concrete acts of mercy. But we are also called to talk about our faith: despite our fears and anxieties, despite our sense that “nice people” don’t talk about religion, Jesus also calls us to tell our faith story to others. And this is also true: evangelism is not about filling our pews or bringing in new members, much as we might welcome a fuller sanctuary. Evangelism is not about getting people to agree with everything that the Episcopal Church stands for, desirable, from our perspective, as that might be. Evangelism is about telling others about the God who means so much to us and about all that God had done for us. Evangelism is about love for others, love that impels us to share with others the abundant life we have received in Jesus. When we are truly sharing our own experiences of God’s love, we don’t need to worry about words. We don’t need high-flown rhetoric, sophisticated theology, or well-articulated dogma to speak about faith. All we are called to do is speak from the heart of what we ourselves have experienced of God’s love and the ways we have tried to reflect God’s love in our own lives.
Lindvall tells another story about someone who shared God’s love. Hugh Thompson2 had dropped out of college to join the army. Yet some years ago he was awarded an honorary degree by Emory University. Addressing the graduates, Thompson told them of the routine patrol he was flying in Vietnam on March 16, 1968. He just happened to fly over the village of My Lai at the time when American soldiers under the command of Lt. William Calley were massacring unarmed men, women, and children. Thompson set down his helicopter between the troops and the villagers, told the tail gunner to point the helicopter’s guns at the American soldiers, and ordered the soldiers to stop their slaughter of the villagers. Although his orders saved the lives of dozens of people, he was nearly court-martialed for his actions. It took the Army thirty years to award him the Soldier’s Medal. Standing at the microphone, Thompson began to speak of his faith. He spoke about how his parents had taught him to “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” His simple words of Christian testimony brought the previously bored and rowdy students to their feet.
Most of us will not be awarded honorary degrees, nor is it likely that a stranger will walk up to us and ask to hear about Jesus. Most of us will still be afraid of rejection or embarrassed to share our faith. Yet, didn’t we promise in baptism to “proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ?” How do we begin to tame our fears so as to fulfill our part of the Great Commission? One way, perhaps, to begin sharing our faith is to offer to pray for people. If you hear that someone is starting a new venture, moving, getting married, getting divorced, is sick, is having surgery, or has had a death in the family, for example, offer to pray for that person. If nothing else, you let that person know that you care about them, that you have faith in God, and that you are entrusting their wellbeing to a God who also cares about them. Here’s another way. Our Wednesday classes in Eastertide gave us an introduction to different forms of Christian spirituality. One of these was sharing your faith story. You might begin with someone you already know well and trust and begin talking with that person about your faith. The other person might do the same. You both might be surprised by how helpful such an exchange can be for both people. And here’s one more possibility. Every month, our parish hall is filled with our Loaves and Fishes diners. While we ask them to write down their prayer requests, might we share our faith with them in some other way? Might we hear their stories, or share our own? Might they hear that it is our love of Jesus that impels us to welcome them to St. Peter’s?
If all this sounds like a great burden, here’s the good news. Ezekiel was rejected by the Israelites. Jesus was rejected by the folks in his home town. The Corinthians thought Paul was a poor speaker, and that his message was “a stumbling-block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” Yet, as Ezekiel persisted in his proclamation, as Jesus persisted in his ministry of healing and teaching, as the twelve cast out demons and healed the sick, as Paul continued in his ministry, we too are commanded to persist in our work of making Christ known to others. The good news is that we are not held responsible for the response of others to our ministries in Christ’s name. All God asks of us is faithfulness. With that assurance, we may witness boldly and faithfully.
1. In Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009), 216.
2. Ibid., 214. The story was told by Tom Long in Pulpit Resources 32 (January-March, 2004), 39.
If even thinking about the E-word makes you quake, you’re in good company! All our lections for today remind us that proclaiming the good news, speaking for God, and calling others to change their ways are difficult and mostly thankless tasks. Take Ezekiel. Although he was in exile, far away from the temple in Jerusalem, he had an overwhelming vision of God’s glory. Then God commissioned him to go and speak for God to the people of Israel. God also warned Ezekiel: he was likely to be rejected by the Israelites, his words unheard, “for they are a rebellious house.” Or take Jesus. He had begun his proclamation of the good news in Galilee. Like Ezekiel, he had called people to repentance. He had also commissioned followers, had calmed a storm, and had had a successful healing mission, including the healing of the daughter of Jairus the synagogue leader. Yet when Jesus returned home to Nazareth to preach in the local synagogue the home folks were scandalized. Flinging back at them an old proverb, Jesus turned his back on them. What of St. Paul? Both his letters to the Christians at Corinth rebuke them for their arrogance, their prizing of rhetorical skill, and their confidence in their spiritual superiority. In answer to their jibes, not only did Paul take refuge in Jesus, he also felt it necessary to remind them of his own spiritual credentials.
Are we afraid that, if we speak for God, if we talk about our relationship with Jesus, we too will be rejected? I still remember Brother Jed, who spewed out hell fire and brimstone on the College Green at Ohio University. Most people dismissed him as insane. Those of you who remember altar calls may fear that you will be seen as manipulative if you so much as breathe a word about Jesus. Or perhaps you fear being seen as pushy or offensive. Most of us members of mainline churches are just too nice and polite to let anyone else know that we are Jesus’ followers. Indeed, most of us would rather talk about anything else, sex, money, politics, anything but our relationship with God. Perhaps you see yourself in this story told by Michael Lindvall.1 A woman member of the Episcopal Church was a clerk in a bookstore. One morning she came to work and found a man who appeared to be a Hasidic Jew. When she asked how she could help him, he whispered, “I would like to know about Jesus.” She showed him where all the books about Jesus were. As she turned to go, he said, “No, don’t show me any more books, tell me what you believe.” “My Episcopal soul shivered,” the woman later recalled. Yet she bravely went ahead and told the man all that she could. Would you do the same, or would you stammer and turn away?
My friends, stammering and turning away are not options. Our lections also remind us that once God calls, we must respond. Ezekiel faced down opposition from religious leaders and continued cogently and persuasively to proclaim God’s word for the rest of his life. The initial twelve took up Jesus’ commission, swallowed their fears, and went out to extend Jesus’ ministry into the surrounding countryside. They followed Jesus’ instructions by going in pairs and travelling light. Knowing what had happened to Jesus at Nazareth, they were prepared for rejection. Together with their proclamation of the good news, they called people to repentance, healed the sick, and drove out the demons of resistance to Jesus’ authority. Despite the Corinthians’ arrogance, despite God’s unwillingness to heal Paul’s physical ailment – what it was we still don’t know – Paul and his companions continued to proclaim the good news to the Gentiles and found new Christian communities in Asia Minor.
Despite our fears of rejection, despite our potential embarrassment, despite our anxiety, we too are called to talk about our relationship with Jesus. Yes, we are an incarnational religion. Yes, we are called to perform concrete acts of mercy. But we are also called to talk about our faith: despite our fears and anxieties, despite our sense that “nice people” don’t talk about religion, Jesus also calls us to tell our faith story to others. And this is also true: evangelism is not about filling our pews or bringing in new members, much as we might welcome a fuller sanctuary. Evangelism is not about getting people to agree with everything that the Episcopal Church stands for, desirable, from our perspective, as that might be. Evangelism is about telling others about the God who means so much to us and about all that God had done for us. Evangelism is about love for others, love that impels us to share with others the abundant life we have received in Jesus. When we are truly sharing our own experiences of God’s love, we don’t need to worry about words. We don’t need high-flown rhetoric, sophisticated theology, or well-articulated dogma to speak about faith. All we are called to do is speak from the heart of what we ourselves have experienced of God’s love and the ways we have tried to reflect God’s love in our own lives.
Lindvall tells another story about someone who shared God’s love. Hugh Thompson2 had dropped out of college to join the army. Yet some years ago he was awarded an honorary degree by Emory University. Addressing the graduates, Thompson told them of the routine patrol he was flying in Vietnam on March 16, 1968. He just happened to fly over the village of My Lai at the time when American soldiers under the command of Lt. William Calley were massacring unarmed men, women, and children. Thompson set down his helicopter between the troops and the villagers, told the tail gunner to point the helicopter’s guns at the American soldiers, and ordered the soldiers to stop their slaughter of the villagers. Although his orders saved the lives of dozens of people, he was nearly court-martialed for his actions. It took the Army thirty years to award him the Soldier’s Medal. Standing at the microphone, Thompson began to speak of his faith. He spoke about how his parents had taught him to “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” His simple words of Christian testimony brought the previously bored and rowdy students to their feet.
Most of us will not be awarded honorary degrees, nor is it likely that a stranger will walk up to us and ask to hear about Jesus. Most of us will still be afraid of rejection or embarrassed to share our faith. Yet, didn’t we promise in baptism to “proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ?” How do we begin to tame our fears so as to fulfill our part of the Great Commission? One way, perhaps, to begin sharing our faith is to offer to pray for people. If you hear that someone is starting a new venture, moving, getting married, getting divorced, is sick, is having surgery, or has had a death in the family, for example, offer to pray for that person. If nothing else, you let that person know that you care about them, that you have faith in God, and that you are entrusting their wellbeing to a God who also cares about them. Here’s another way. Our Wednesday classes in Eastertide gave us an introduction to different forms of Christian spirituality. One of these was sharing your faith story. You might begin with someone you already know well and trust and begin talking with that person about your faith. The other person might do the same. You both might be surprised by how helpful such an exchange can be for both people. And here’s one more possibility. Every month, our parish hall is filled with our Loaves and Fishes diners. While we ask them to write down their prayer requests, might we share our faith with them in some other way? Might we hear their stories, or share our own? Might they hear that it is our love of Jesus that impels us to welcome them to St. Peter’s?
If all this sounds like a great burden, here’s the good news. Ezekiel was rejected by the Israelites. Jesus was rejected by the folks in his home town. The Corinthians thought Paul was a poor speaker, and that his message was “a stumbling-block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” Yet, as Ezekiel persisted in his proclamation, as Jesus persisted in his ministry of healing and teaching, as the twelve cast out demons and healed the sick, as Paul continued in his ministry, we too are commanded to persist in our work of making Christ known to others. The good news is that we are not held responsible for the response of others to our ministries in Christ’s name. All God asks of us is faithfulness. With that assurance, we may witness boldly and faithfully.
1. In Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009), 216.
2. Ibid., 214. The story was told by Tom Long in Pulpit Resources 32 (January-March, 2004), 39.
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