We’re still on the road with Jesus. For the last month or so, ever since Jesus “set his face for Jerusalem,” we‘ve been walking the dusty roads between Galilee and Judea with him. All the while, Jesus has been flinging hard words at us. If you become one of my followers, be prepared for conflict with your friends and family, he told us last month. Just last week he told us not to assume that we are the high-status people, and to invite the riffraff to our parties rather than our families and friends. It’s hot, we’re tired, and we’ve had enough of Jesus’ hard teachings. “That’s it, Master, no more. Leave us alone.”
Maybe Jesus can already see Jerusalem and the events that will happen there – if not with his naked eye, then perhaps in his mind’s eye. So he flings his hardest teaching yet at us. He tells us to be prepared for the cost, the full cost of truly following him. “You have to hate your family members,” he says. “You have to follow me all the way to unjust execution, if necessary.” “You have to give away everything you have.” “Wait, wait, you can’t mean all that Jesus, can you?” He can, and he does.
OK, the rabbis of Jesus’ day were given to hyperbole. Maybe Jesus overstated his expectations for their shock value, so that he could get our attention. So what, as Luke tells it, did Jesus want his followers – and by extension us – to hear? In a nutshell, it’s not a piece of cake to follow him. We don’t follow him because it feels good. We don’t follow him when life calms down and we have time to get around to it. Being Jesus’ disciple is not a spectator sport, as if you can watch the clergy try to do it, but sit in the bleachers yourself.
When we decide to follow Jesus in a serious way, we are making a deep commitment. We are committing ourselves to putting God before all the other commitments in our lives, before family, social class, nationality, before all those pieces of our lives that are not God. We are committing ourselves to a way of life that puts the needs and desires of others ahead of our own needs and desires. We are committing ourselves to working for the good of all creation. We are committing ourselves to travelling lightly with our achievements and our “stuff,” while acknowledging our responsibility to share what we have. We are making a commitment to letting ourselves be transformed by God. As we travel behind Jesus, we promise to be ready to respond to God’s call to grow in ways that may seem difficult, risky, and strange. And we know, that, at some point along that road, Jesus will turn to us and say, “Are you all in?”
In effect, Paul posed that same question to Philemon and the others to whom the brief letter bearing Philemon’s name is addressed. Oddly, this letter is the only truly personal letter of Paul’s that has been preserved. And sadly, we don’t know much about it. You can easily figure out the broad outlines of the story. The slave Onesimus ran away from his master, Philemon, possibly also taking money or property. He met up with Paul in prison, where Paul converted him. Now Paul writes to Philemon asking him to take Onesimus back as a fellow follower of Jesus and promising to reimburse Philemon for any expenses. What we don’t know are where Paul was imprisoned, how he and Onesimus got together, and, most important, what Paul means when he asks Philemon to receive Onesimus “no longer as a slave but more than a slave, a beloved brother.”
We do know this: whatever we now think about slavery – and some would criticize Paul for not taking a strong stand against slavery – Paul was following Roman law in returning Onesimus to Philemon. Upon Onesimus’s return, Philemon could have severely punished him, hobbled him, as was done to African slaves in the American South and in South Africa, or sold him away. Instead, Paul asks Philemon to treat Onesimus very differently, to treat him as a fellow member of a Christian community, and even, if possible, to send Onesimus back to Paul. In effect, Paul has forsaken the expectations of his culture, and is subtly undermining the system of slavery by reminding Philemon of his common humanity with Onesimus as a fellow follower of Christ. He is further asking Philemon to treat Onesimus differently than what law and custom would permit. And he does this, not by trying to coerce Philemon, but by gently requesting that Philemon follow his own example and treat Onesimus with love.
I wonder what we would do in Philemon’s place. I couldn’t help thinking of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn and another letter, the letter that Huck Finn planned to write to turn in the runaway slave Jim. The laws and the customs of the day tell Huck that Jim should be returned to his owner. Huck even drafts a letter. But then when he realizes all that Jim has done for him, how Jim has been a friend and father to him, Huck tears the letter up. Huck is definitely all in. I wonder if I would have had the courage to do what Huck did.
Even the reading from the prophet Jeremiah indirectly poses a question of commitment to us. Here Jeremiah uses the image of the potter shaping and reshaping the pot to suggest the way God works God’s transformations within us. However, Jeremiah is not addressing individuals but rather the covenanted community, the Israelites who have promised to follow God’s law. As we hear throughout this long book, the Israelites get entangled in untrustworthy political alliances, amass wealth, exploit the poor, and visit all kinds of injustices on each other. Jeremiah warns them here of the dire consequences of forsaking the promises they made to God. He assures them that God will force then to undergo a period of transformation, which indeed, as it turns out, happens when they are sent into exile.
And so: are you all in? Are you committed to Jesus and willing to pay the cost of following him? What examples might we choose to illustrate what full commitment looks like? Actually, we have some wonderful examples of what such total commitment to the beliefs of one’s heart actually looks like – even when those beliefs challenge the status quo of the culture around them. Think about those who enter vowed religious life, convents and monasteries. They truly give up all their possessions, traditionally even their clothes and their name, and they commit to a life in common with others, traditionally a life of poverty, chastity, obedience, and stability. How about those who took part in the civil rights struggles of the 1960s? The Freedom Riders challenged the status quo of segregated buses by riding interstate buses in the South in mixed racial groups and by defying local laws or customs that mandated segregated seating. Those who took part in the Montgomery bus boycott to protest segregated municipal buses walked to work for 381 days until the city finally caved in and allowed people of all races to sit where they pleased. Those of you who are athletes know the single-minded commitment that is necessary to excel in any sport. We were all charmed last month as we watched Simone Biles, Gabby Douglas, Alys Raisman, Laurie Hernandez, and Madison Kocian defend the USA’s gold medal title in the team all-around gymnastics event in the Olympics. Those young women had practiced for years to get to that place. They were definitely all in!
And are we? What does being all in look like for us? John Calvin suggests that there are four different ways in which we can show our commitment to Christ. The first is through self-denial, i.e., not seeing ourselves as the center of the universe, but rather recognizing that of God in everyone else and affirming our kinship with all people. Second, we can bear our cross, i.e., face whatever suffering comes our way in life without complaint, knowing that Christ bears it with us, trusting in God for the outcome of what we bear, and sharing the suffering of others. Third, we can meditate on eternal life, i.e., we can seek to understand ever more deeply who we are and whose we are, that we are all beloved children of God. And fourth, we can use God’s gifts properly, i.e., we can live a simple life, knowing that we are on a spiritual pilgrimage. We are called to live neither ascetically nor overindulgently as we remember that we will ultimately be accountable to God for how we have used God gifts. To which I would add one more: we are called to recognize that salvation, spiritual wholeness and health, are not do-it-yourself projects. We are all in this together. Just as Paul wrote to Philemon and the others in his Christian community, so we are also called to build up each other and to call each other to greater and greater love.
Are you all in?
Showing posts with label Pentecost 16. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pentecost 16. Show all posts
Monday, September 5, 2016
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Speech has Power
What is your greatest regret? Is it, “I wish I hadn’t said that?” And your second greatest regret? Is it, “I wish I had said that?” Speech has power! As hearers of Scripture, we know that. The very first sentences of Genesis portray a God who literally speaks creation into being. God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God said, “Let there be lights in the dome of the sky …, and let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures …, and let the earth bring forth living creatures ….” Like the ancient Hebrews, ancient Hindus also knew that creation came forth from speech. In the oldest Hindu scriptures, the Vedas, the goddess of speech, Vac, speaks creation into being.
Speech has power. Sound, speech, and language, are inherent in all creation. In the psalm for today, we hear that, “The heavens declare the glory of God,” and “one day tells its tale to another.” For all we know, plants and insects may have language. Unquestionably animals have speech. Any birdwatcher knows all the distinctive tweets, burrs, whistles, and knocks of the many varieties of birds. Acoustic biologist Katy Payne has decoded the language of elephants and the songs of whales. Lions, bears, hyenas, all animals, except possibly giraffes, which are said to be voiceless, have distinctive vocalizations in different circumstances. If you live with cats or dogs, you know that there’s a difference between the meow of hunger and that of “Pet me,” or between the bark of “Who are you?” and that of “I’m ready for a walk.”
Even in this age of electronic communication, speech is still the primary form of human communication. Writing is a relatively recent invention, only within the last 5,000 years. Scripture, whether Hindu, Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, was written to be heard, not read silently. Try it yourself: the next time you read Scripture at home, read it aloud. You will experience its power in a fresh way. It wasn’t until the middle of the nineteenth century that a majority of the people in the first world could read and write. Even today, there are many places in the world that are still predominantly oral cultures. And if we’re being honest, though we may appreciate the advantages of electronic communication, most of us still prefer oral communication. We still would prefer to hear the voices of those we love rather than receive an e-mail or Facebook post from them. Speech has power.
Speech has destructive power. Today’s reading from the Letter of James acutely reminds us of the destructive power of speech. This reminder is especially poignant for those in positions of authority, as we confess our tendency to say the wrong thing. What frightening metaphors James uses: that the tongue can set ablaze an entire forest, that it can produce brackish water! Of course, none of this news to us: James could have been writing yesterday! Don’t we tell our children “Watch your mouth. Hold your tongue. Pipe down.” Don’t we know that the old comeback, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” is patently false? Don’t we wince when our child comes home from school crying because some thoughtless tyke has told him or her, “Boys don’t …, girls don’t ….” We know that words can hurt. Isn’t that why we so deeply regret the unkind words we’ve said in ignorance, pride, haste, or anger? Isn’t that why we instinctively know that hate speech and racist, sexist, ageist, homophobic, and other similar slogans are wrong? Isn’t that why we fear someone who can, through the sheer power of their rhetoric, incite a mob to violence? Speech has power, and words can hurt.
Speech has power, and words can also heal and bless. In the second half of last week’s gospel reading, we saw Jesus restore a man to speech. In today’s reading from Proverbs we hear that God’s wisdom comes to us in the interactions of our daily lives. The psalmist reminds us that God speaks to us through both natural phenomena and the written words of the Torah. And can’t you just picture Peter in today’s Gospel reading? Jesus has put the disciples on the spot. He wants them to not just parrot back to him what others have said about him. He wants to hear them declare for themselves how they understand who he is. “But who do you say that I am? Don’t just have some vague thoughts, put it in words! Who am I for you?” And there’s Peter looking into Jesus’ face, making eye contact with him. He doesn’t hang back, he doesn’t waffle, he doesn’t say, “Uh, let me think about that. Let me consult my theological dictionary.” In his sudden realization of who Jesus is, Peter blurts out, “You are the Messiah.”
Now, clearly Peter didn’t understand what he was saying. He really had no clue as to what kind of a messiah Jesus might be. Peter expected that Jesus would be a super-powerful king who would toss out the Romans and re-establish David’s kingdom. When Peter tried to deflect Jesus from the path that led to Jerusalem, Jesus firmly rebuked him (“Watch your mouth, Peter. Shut up!”) Then Jesus began leading Peter and all the disciples into a fuller understanding of what lay ahead. Even though Peter’s understanding was vague, Peter at least had had the courage to say something, to put into words what he was beginning to discern about Jesus. Speech has power, and the words that Peter spoke that day began a transformation in him that eventually enabled him to lead the newly-fledged Christian community.
Speech has power. Isn’t that why we appreciate compliments, why we treasure words of gratitude, encouragement, apology, consolation, welcome, and good counsel? Isn’t that why we regret so deeply the words we didn’t say when we should have and give ourselves a tiny pat on the back when, by the grace of God, we do say the right thing? Isn’t that why we distrust politicians whose speeches are long on self-congratulation and short on solid policy proposals? Isn’t that why we admire those who can inspire us through the sheer power of their words? Who can forget the moving simplicity of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address or John Kennedy’s charge to “ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country?” Wouldn’t you too want to respond if you had heard Pope Francis call Catholic parishes and religious communities in Europe to take in refugees? And isn’t that why in the end we need to talk to God? God may “know our needs before we ask,” but we still need to say directly to God, as Peter did to Jesus, those words of praise, contrition, intercession, and gratitude that begin the transformation of our own souls.
Tom Gordon tells the story of Fraser, on old fisherman on the North Sea coast.1 Even though he’d already celebrated his seventy-second birthday, “fishing was in his blood.” When the herring of his youth gave out, he turned to shellfish, then to lobsters, for which the local restaurants paid well. He took his boat, the Mary Anne, out three times a week, always with another “retired” fisherman aboard – since his daughters had expressly forbidden him to go out alone. But when his grandson Stuart was home from college, the retirees stayed home, and Stuart was all the crew Fraser needed. They’d become best mates, those two. As they worked Fraser told Stuart stories about his mother or grandmother. Stuart, in turn, confided his problems and questions to Fraser. One day, on their return to shore, Stuart persuaded Fraser to come have a pint with him at the local pub. As they sat at a corner table, Stuart told his grandfather about his struggles in college. He was thinking about dropping out and coming back home, perhaps spending more time fishing. Fraser listened intently. At the end of his confession, Stuart said, “Haven’t you felt like that sometimes? When you’d worked really hard, or when the fishing grounds were empty, weren’t there times when you wanted to pack it in?” Smiling, Fraser said, “Well, laddie, you may be right enough, but then, fishing’s in my blood, so there’s nothing I can do about that.” Pausing for a minute or two, and then looking Stuart in the eye, the old man told the story of William Greenough Thayer Shedd, a nineteenth-century Presbyterian theologian. “Whether this man was a sailor,” he said, “or had fishing in his blood, I don’t know, but I heard that he did say this. ‘A ship is safe in harbor. But that’s not what ships are for.’ Whether it’s a great ship or the Mary Anne, we could tie her up and keep her safe, or we could take her out and go fishing with her. Eh?” Stuart understood and returned Fraser’s smile. Speech has power.
Christianity proclaims incarnation. We are called to do, not just think. Yes, hands are important. But we are made in the image of a God who spoke, who spoke creation into being, who spoke to the Israelites while delivering them from Egyptian slavery, who spoke through the prophets, through the Word made flesh, through the Desert Fathers and Mothers, through missionaries and mystics. We believe in a God who continues to speak.
We are called to speak in return. Speak to God. Tell God what is on your heart and mind, what you fear, and what you hope for. Then while you still can, speak to each other. Speak the word of loving counsel, as Fraser did to Stuart. Thank a parent, spouse, teacher, or friend for their gifts to you. Say, “I’m sorry.” Say “I love you.” Speak out in favor of a cause close to your heart. Speak out especially for peace. Partner with God and help speak a renewed creation into being.
1. With an Open Eye (Glasgow: Wild Goose Publications, 2011), 272-4
Speech has power. Sound, speech, and language, are inherent in all creation. In the psalm for today, we hear that, “The heavens declare the glory of God,” and “one day tells its tale to another.” For all we know, plants and insects may have language. Unquestionably animals have speech. Any birdwatcher knows all the distinctive tweets, burrs, whistles, and knocks of the many varieties of birds. Acoustic biologist Katy Payne has decoded the language of elephants and the songs of whales. Lions, bears, hyenas, all animals, except possibly giraffes, which are said to be voiceless, have distinctive vocalizations in different circumstances. If you live with cats or dogs, you know that there’s a difference between the meow of hunger and that of “Pet me,” or between the bark of “Who are you?” and that of “I’m ready for a walk.”
Even in this age of electronic communication, speech is still the primary form of human communication. Writing is a relatively recent invention, only within the last 5,000 years. Scripture, whether Hindu, Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, was written to be heard, not read silently. Try it yourself: the next time you read Scripture at home, read it aloud. You will experience its power in a fresh way. It wasn’t until the middle of the nineteenth century that a majority of the people in the first world could read and write. Even today, there are many places in the world that are still predominantly oral cultures. And if we’re being honest, though we may appreciate the advantages of electronic communication, most of us still prefer oral communication. We still would prefer to hear the voices of those we love rather than receive an e-mail or Facebook post from them. Speech has power.
Speech has destructive power. Today’s reading from the Letter of James acutely reminds us of the destructive power of speech. This reminder is especially poignant for those in positions of authority, as we confess our tendency to say the wrong thing. What frightening metaphors James uses: that the tongue can set ablaze an entire forest, that it can produce brackish water! Of course, none of this news to us: James could have been writing yesterday! Don’t we tell our children “Watch your mouth. Hold your tongue. Pipe down.” Don’t we know that the old comeback, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” is patently false? Don’t we wince when our child comes home from school crying because some thoughtless tyke has told him or her, “Boys don’t …, girls don’t ….” We know that words can hurt. Isn’t that why we so deeply regret the unkind words we’ve said in ignorance, pride, haste, or anger? Isn’t that why we instinctively know that hate speech and racist, sexist, ageist, homophobic, and other similar slogans are wrong? Isn’t that why we fear someone who can, through the sheer power of their rhetoric, incite a mob to violence? Speech has power, and words can hurt.
Speech has power, and words can also heal and bless. In the second half of last week’s gospel reading, we saw Jesus restore a man to speech. In today’s reading from Proverbs we hear that God’s wisdom comes to us in the interactions of our daily lives. The psalmist reminds us that God speaks to us through both natural phenomena and the written words of the Torah. And can’t you just picture Peter in today’s Gospel reading? Jesus has put the disciples on the spot. He wants them to not just parrot back to him what others have said about him. He wants to hear them declare for themselves how they understand who he is. “But who do you say that I am? Don’t just have some vague thoughts, put it in words! Who am I for you?” And there’s Peter looking into Jesus’ face, making eye contact with him. He doesn’t hang back, he doesn’t waffle, he doesn’t say, “Uh, let me think about that. Let me consult my theological dictionary.” In his sudden realization of who Jesus is, Peter blurts out, “You are the Messiah.”
Now, clearly Peter didn’t understand what he was saying. He really had no clue as to what kind of a messiah Jesus might be. Peter expected that Jesus would be a super-powerful king who would toss out the Romans and re-establish David’s kingdom. When Peter tried to deflect Jesus from the path that led to Jerusalem, Jesus firmly rebuked him (“Watch your mouth, Peter. Shut up!”) Then Jesus began leading Peter and all the disciples into a fuller understanding of what lay ahead. Even though Peter’s understanding was vague, Peter at least had had the courage to say something, to put into words what he was beginning to discern about Jesus. Speech has power, and the words that Peter spoke that day began a transformation in him that eventually enabled him to lead the newly-fledged Christian community.
Speech has power. Isn’t that why we appreciate compliments, why we treasure words of gratitude, encouragement, apology, consolation, welcome, and good counsel? Isn’t that why we regret so deeply the words we didn’t say when we should have and give ourselves a tiny pat on the back when, by the grace of God, we do say the right thing? Isn’t that why we distrust politicians whose speeches are long on self-congratulation and short on solid policy proposals? Isn’t that why we admire those who can inspire us through the sheer power of their words? Who can forget the moving simplicity of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address or John Kennedy’s charge to “ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country?” Wouldn’t you too want to respond if you had heard Pope Francis call Catholic parishes and religious communities in Europe to take in refugees? And isn’t that why in the end we need to talk to God? God may “know our needs before we ask,” but we still need to say directly to God, as Peter did to Jesus, those words of praise, contrition, intercession, and gratitude that begin the transformation of our own souls.
Tom Gordon tells the story of Fraser, on old fisherman on the North Sea coast.1 Even though he’d already celebrated his seventy-second birthday, “fishing was in his blood.” When the herring of his youth gave out, he turned to shellfish, then to lobsters, for which the local restaurants paid well. He took his boat, the Mary Anne, out three times a week, always with another “retired” fisherman aboard – since his daughters had expressly forbidden him to go out alone. But when his grandson Stuart was home from college, the retirees stayed home, and Stuart was all the crew Fraser needed. They’d become best mates, those two. As they worked Fraser told Stuart stories about his mother or grandmother. Stuart, in turn, confided his problems and questions to Fraser. One day, on their return to shore, Stuart persuaded Fraser to come have a pint with him at the local pub. As they sat at a corner table, Stuart told his grandfather about his struggles in college. He was thinking about dropping out and coming back home, perhaps spending more time fishing. Fraser listened intently. At the end of his confession, Stuart said, “Haven’t you felt like that sometimes? When you’d worked really hard, or when the fishing grounds were empty, weren’t there times when you wanted to pack it in?” Smiling, Fraser said, “Well, laddie, you may be right enough, but then, fishing’s in my blood, so there’s nothing I can do about that.” Pausing for a minute or two, and then looking Stuart in the eye, the old man told the story of William Greenough Thayer Shedd, a nineteenth-century Presbyterian theologian. “Whether this man was a sailor,” he said, “or had fishing in his blood, I don’t know, but I heard that he did say this. ‘A ship is safe in harbor. But that’s not what ships are for.’ Whether it’s a great ship or the Mary Anne, we could tie her up and keep her safe, or we could take her out and go fishing with her. Eh?” Stuart understood and returned Fraser’s smile. Speech has power.
Christianity proclaims incarnation. We are called to do, not just think. Yes, hands are important. But we are made in the image of a God who spoke, who spoke creation into being, who spoke to the Israelites while delivering them from Egyptian slavery, who spoke through the prophets, through the Word made flesh, through the Desert Fathers and Mothers, through missionaries and mystics. We believe in a God who continues to speak.
We are called to speak in return. Speak to God. Tell God what is on your heart and mind, what you fear, and what you hope for. Then while you still can, speak to each other. Speak the word of loving counsel, as Fraser did to Stuart. Thank a parent, spouse, teacher, or friend for their gifts to you. Say, “I’m sorry.” Say “I love you.” Speak out in favor of a cause close to your heart. Speak out especially for peace. Partner with God and help speak a renewed creation into being.
1. With an Open Eye (Glasgow: Wild Goose Publications, 2011), 272-4
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
God is at Work in You
“Work out your salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure.”
For some people, the word “enabling” gets a bad rap. Those who treat alcoholics or substance abusers often speak of “enablers.” “Enablers” are family members and friends who, thinking they are helping, actually make it easier for alcoholics and abusers to continue their abuse. Enabling behavior often involves rescuing an alcoholic or abuser from the consequences of addiction, thus allowing the person to comfortably continue in unacceptable or destructive behavior. In order to help, well-meaning family and friends must give up their enabling behaviors in order for the alcoholic or abuser to start down the road to recovery. Sometimes people who have had bad experiences with the church think of the church in this way, i.e., as an institution that has enabled negative and destructive behavior, from which they must dissociate themselves in order to be healthy. You’ve probably even met people who call themselves “recovering” ex-Christians. In fact, googling the phrase “recovering Christian” will turn up over 15 million pages!
More recently, the word “enabling” has begun to regain some of its positive connotations. For example, a company named Enabling Technologies provides Braille embossers for the blind. The Enabling Devices Company develops “assistive technology for people with disabilities” and provides such products as a jumbo remote control and a harness to help lift a heavy service dog. Many business networking companies include the word “enabling” in their name.
In his letter to the Christian community at Philippi, St Paul assures his hearers that God is enabling the church in this second, positive way. God, he assures them, is at work among them to create a true community grounded in Christ. Today we have had the second lesson from this letter, and we will hear it twice more, next week and the following week. Most likely Paul wrote to the Philippian Christians from prison in Rome, probably in the early’60s, i.e., towards the end of his life. He had probably founded this Christian community in the largely Roman city of Philippi about ten years before, and scholars think that the Philippians may have been his favorite community. Part of his reason for writing them is to reassure them about his own situation and to thank them for their gifts to him through one of their members who had visited him. The letter has a particularly joyful theme. We will hear that joyful note especially in the familiar words of our lection for two weeks from now: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.”
Yet Paul has another concern: the ability of the community to reflect Christ through their bonds with each other. At the end of the letter he will allude to two of its leading women, who were apparently at odds with each other. So Paul, as he often does, grounds the specific instructions he will give in a deeper understanding of the work of Christ. Here, Paul urges his hearers to participate in the life of Christ, the life they have begun with their baptisms, by living together in unity and humility.
In the stirring words of a poem or hymn that the Philippians might already have known, Paul offers them Jesus as the supreme model of humility. He who was God’s own Son was content to be born as a human being and to endure an agonizing death on the Cross. Paul also assures his hearers that Christ’s saving action, his death on the Cross, has initiated the salvation of the entire world and the restoration of order and wholeness under Christ’s lordship.
It is hard to overestimate the astonishing claim that Paul makes here. First, he reminds the Philippians of Christ’s divine status by using the same word, which we translate as “Lord,” that the Greek version of the Old Testament uses for God. Second, and even more important, Paul is writing as a Roman citizen to other Roman citizens, i.e., to people whose culture venerated Caesar as Lord. In contrast to everything that their culture tells them, Paul triumphantly proclaims that “at the name of Jesus – not Caesar – every knee should bend,” and that “every tongue should confess” that Jesus Christ – not Caesar – is Lord. Most astonishing of all, Paul assures these Roman citizens that, as baptized members of Christ’s body, they can trust that God is at work in them, and that God has empowered them to cooperate with God in the working out of God’s will for the world.
My friends, Paul is also writing to us! We too been enabled by God “both to will and work for [God’s] good pleasure.” We too have been baptized into Christ’s body. God is at much at work in us as God was in the church at Philippi – even in our small parish on the Ohio River! Let me underscore that: the good news we hear here is not primarily for us as individuals. It is for us as a community: the “you” here is plural. The Christian life is not a solo pursuit – even for anchorites. It is a life lived in community. So Paul assures us that God is enabling the work of our parish, and that it is as a parish that we are called to work for the salvation of the world. How do we do that? Even if we trust that God is at work here, how do we cooperate with God in this work?
I’d like to offer a way of looking at our life together in terms of our behaviors as a parish, our practices, the ways in which we open ourselves to God’s leading. Vital living parishes are more than just a collection of individuals who happen to like Episcopal liturgy. Rather, like monastic communities, they are intentional about communal life, and they have ideals towards which they strive, not only on Sunday but every day.
As some of you know, we are completing an application for a grant from the diocesan Commission on Congregational Life. This group supports parishes that are truly pursuing vital missions. We have had such grants for two years and hope for yet another. As part of the application process, the Commission points to the seven Hallmarks of Healthy Congregations developed by the diocese. I’d like to share them with you. The first hallmark is a clear sense of identity. For myself, I believe St. Peter’s has a strong sense of identity. As I said in our application, “We are a small community of people committed to living out our baptismal ministry by growing in our relationship with God, worshiping and organizing ourselves according to the Anglican tradition, and sharing our love of God with the community around us. We are open and inclusive, genuinely and consistently welcoming all into our space.”
The second and sixth hallmarks are radical hospitality and extravagant generosity. For me, our welcome of anyone who comes inside our sanctuary and our support of Loaves and Fishes and Dry Bottoms exemplify our commitment to this hallmark. The third hallmark is inspiring worship. Worship is almost a given, for it is through worship that Christ is especially present to us, enabling us to grow spiritually and binding us together. We have a lovingly cared for sacred space and dignified worship in the Anglican tradition. And we also have a “growing edge.” We are deeply grateful to Nancy for all that she does for us musically. Yet, we too need to join the “faithful” and begin making our songs “exalt his reign?”. Can we figure out how to do that?
For the fourth hallmark, intentional faith development and formation for discipleship, Deacon Carolyn and I have committed ourselves to two new opportunities for spiritual growth: four sessions on the practice of prayer and ongoing Wednesday evening study of Scripture. Will anyone come with us? And the fifth hallmark, adventuresome, risk-taking mission and service? What might such adventurous mission and service look like for us? For example, does anyone want to help plan a mission trip? Finally, I do believe that we reflect the seventh hallmark, accountability and collaboration, in our partnering with other churches and in our many connections to the diocese.
The Hallmarks of Healthy Congregations do not exhaust all that we are called to be as a parish. As we worship together, we are called to be a community of prayer. As we learn together, we are called to be a community that is enriched by sacred Scripture. As we serve others, we are also called to do so with humility, grace, and unity. We are called to put aside animosities and conflicts that fracture our community and make it difficult for us to witness to God’s love. We are called to “have the same mind” in us that was in Christ. Most important, we are called to trust that we are not alone, that God is at work in us, both as individuals and as a parish, and that God is transforming us all more and more into Christ’s likeness.
O God, we give you thanks for the invitation that you make to us every day and every hour. We know that you are at work in us. Guide us as a community that we may be joined in heart and mind with you and all your faithful people, so that together we may truly show forth your praise. Amen.
For some people, the word “enabling” gets a bad rap. Those who treat alcoholics or substance abusers often speak of “enablers.” “Enablers” are family members and friends who, thinking they are helping, actually make it easier for alcoholics and abusers to continue their abuse. Enabling behavior often involves rescuing an alcoholic or abuser from the consequences of addiction, thus allowing the person to comfortably continue in unacceptable or destructive behavior. In order to help, well-meaning family and friends must give up their enabling behaviors in order for the alcoholic or abuser to start down the road to recovery. Sometimes people who have had bad experiences with the church think of the church in this way, i.e., as an institution that has enabled negative and destructive behavior, from which they must dissociate themselves in order to be healthy. You’ve probably even met people who call themselves “recovering” ex-Christians. In fact, googling the phrase “recovering Christian” will turn up over 15 million pages!
More recently, the word “enabling” has begun to regain some of its positive connotations. For example, a company named Enabling Technologies provides Braille embossers for the blind. The Enabling Devices Company develops “assistive technology for people with disabilities” and provides such products as a jumbo remote control and a harness to help lift a heavy service dog. Many business networking companies include the word “enabling” in their name.
In his letter to the Christian community at Philippi, St Paul assures his hearers that God is enabling the church in this second, positive way. God, he assures them, is at work among them to create a true community grounded in Christ. Today we have had the second lesson from this letter, and we will hear it twice more, next week and the following week. Most likely Paul wrote to the Philippian Christians from prison in Rome, probably in the early’60s, i.e., towards the end of his life. He had probably founded this Christian community in the largely Roman city of Philippi about ten years before, and scholars think that the Philippians may have been his favorite community. Part of his reason for writing them is to reassure them about his own situation and to thank them for their gifts to him through one of their members who had visited him. The letter has a particularly joyful theme. We will hear that joyful note especially in the familiar words of our lection for two weeks from now: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.”
Yet Paul has another concern: the ability of the community to reflect Christ through their bonds with each other. At the end of the letter he will allude to two of its leading women, who were apparently at odds with each other. So Paul, as he often does, grounds the specific instructions he will give in a deeper understanding of the work of Christ. Here, Paul urges his hearers to participate in the life of Christ, the life they have begun with their baptisms, by living together in unity and humility.
In the stirring words of a poem or hymn that the Philippians might already have known, Paul offers them Jesus as the supreme model of humility. He who was God’s own Son was content to be born as a human being and to endure an agonizing death on the Cross. Paul also assures his hearers that Christ’s saving action, his death on the Cross, has initiated the salvation of the entire world and the restoration of order and wholeness under Christ’s lordship.
It is hard to overestimate the astonishing claim that Paul makes here. First, he reminds the Philippians of Christ’s divine status by using the same word, which we translate as “Lord,” that the Greek version of the Old Testament uses for God. Second, and even more important, Paul is writing as a Roman citizen to other Roman citizens, i.e., to people whose culture venerated Caesar as Lord. In contrast to everything that their culture tells them, Paul triumphantly proclaims that “at the name of Jesus – not Caesar – every knee should bend,” and that “every tongue should confess” that Jesus Christ – not Caesar – is Lord. Most astonishing of all, Paul assures these Roman citizens that, as baptized members of Christ’s body, they can trust that God is at work in them, and that God has empowered them to cooperate with God in the working out of God’s will for the world.
My friends, Paul is also writing to us! We too been enabled by God “both to will and work for [God’s] good pleasure.” We too have been baptized into Christ’s body. God is at much at work in us as God was in the church at Philippi – even in our small parish on the Ohio River! Let me underscore that: the good news we hear here is not primarily for us as individuals. It is for us as a community: the “you” here is plural. The Christian life is not a solo pursuit – even for anchorites. It is a life lived in community. So Paul assures us that God is enabling the work of our parish, and that it is as a parish that we are called to work for the salvation of the world. How do we do that? Even if we trust that God is at work here, how do we cooperate with God in this work?
I’d like to offer a way of looking at our life together in terms of our behaviors as a parish, our practices, the ways in which we open ourselves to God’s leading. Vital living parishes are more than just a collection of individuals who happen to like Episcopal liturgy. Rather, like monastic communities, they are intentional about communal life, and they have ideals towards which they strive, not only on Sunday but every day.
As some of you know, we are completing an application for a grant from the diocesan Commission on Congregational Life. This group supports parishes that are truly pursuing vital missions. We have had such grants for two years and hope for yet another. As part of the application process, the Commission points to the seven Hallmarks of Healthy Congregations developed by the diocese. I’d like to share them with you. The first hallmark is a clear sense of identity. For myself, I believe St. Peter’s has a strong sense of identity. As I said in our application, “We are a small community of people committed to living out our baptismal ministry by growing in our relationship with God, worshiping and organizing ourselves according to the Anglican tradition, and sharing our love of God with the community around us. We are open and inclusive, genuinely and consistently welcoming all into our space.”
The second and sixth hallmarks are radical hospitality and extravagant generosity. For me, our welcome of anyone who comes inside our sanctuary and our support of Loaves and Fishes and Dry Bottoms exemplify our commitment to this hallmark. The third hallmark is inspiring worship. Worship is almost a given, for it is through worship that Christ is especially present to us, enabling us to grow spiritually and binding us together. We have a lovingly cared for sacred space and dignified worship in the Anglican tradition. And we also have a “growing edge.” We are deeply grateful to Nancy for all that she does for us musically. Yet, we too need to join the “faithful” and begin making our songs “exalt his reign?”. Can we figure out how to do that?
For the fourth hallmark, intentional faith development and formation for discipleship, Deacon Carolyn and I have committed ourselves to two new opportunities for spiritual growth: four sessions on the practice of prayer and ongoing Wednesday evening study of Scripture. Will anyone come with us? And the fifth hallmark, adventuresome, risk-taking mission and service? What might such adventurous mission and service look like for us? For example, does anyone want to help plan a mission trip? Finally, I do believe that we reflect the seventh hallmark, accountability and collaboration, in our partnering with other churches and in our many connections to the diocese.
The Hallmarks of Healthy Congregations do not exhaust all that we are called to be as a parish. As we worship together, we are called to be a community of prayer. As we learn together, we are called to be a community that is enriched by sacred Scripture. As we serve others, we are also called to do so with humility, grace, and unity. We are called to put aside animosities and conflicts that fracture our community and make it difficult for us to witness to God’s love. We are called to “have the same mind” in us that was in Christ. Most important, we are called to trust that we are not alone, that God is at work in us, both as individuals and as a parish, and that God is transforming us all more and more into Christ’s likeness.
O God, we give you thanks for the invitation that you make to us every day and every hour. We know that you are at work in us. Guide us as a community that we may be joined in heart and mind with you and all your faithful people, so that together we may truly show forth your praise. Amen.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
What Do You Seek?
“What do you seek?” This is often the first question put to those thinking to enter the monastic life. The answer is often a generic one: life with Christ, God’s grace, or, perhaps, a life of service with and to others. Benedictine communities want a more considered answer to that question. In its chapter on “The Procedure for Receiving Members,” the Rule of Benedict advises, “Do not grant newcomers to the monastic life easy entry.” If newcomers persist in knocking at the door, says the rule, after four or five days they may be allowed to stay in the guest quarters for a few days. After that, they may stay in the novice house with other newcomers where they are patiently mentored by a senior member of the community. The novices are to be “clearly told all the hardships and difficulties that will lead to God.” Over the next several months, they are to thoroughly study the rule of Benedict. When they are ready to be received into the community they must promise in writing to abide by the rule, so that they are “well aware that … from this day they are no longer free to leave the monastery, nor to shake from their neck the yoke of the rule which, in the course of so prolonged a period of reflection, they were free either to reject or to accept.”
What do you seek? In today’s reading, we’re part of a large crowd travelling with Jesus as he makes his way to Jerusalem. What are we there for? Are we just traipsing after Jesus, cheering him on, or do we seek something deeper? Do we really want to hear what Jesus has to tell us?
Jesus has upped the ante! Last week at that Sabbath dinner party we heard Jesus remind us that we are to walk humbly with God, show kindness to those around us, and work for justice, especially for economic justice. Not unlike his sixth-century descendants, Jesus now flings a deeper challenge at us. “The patriarchal family is not the primary focus of your loyalty,” Jesus tells his would-be followers. “If you are one of my followers, you are part of a new family, made up of all those who have committed themselves to my way. And my way inevitably leads to the Cross, to that way of state execution that you know only too well. Consider well, count the cost, and make your plans carefully. If you want to follow me, be prepared to throw everything you’ve got into the pot.”
The message is clear: discipleship costs. In fact, it will cost us everything. Let’s unpack these words a little. This is the only time that the word “cost” appears in the entire New Testament. “Cost” is what we give up to get, preserve, make, or accomplish something. Cost may involve some sacrifice. Cost certainly involves effort and resources.
And discipleship? Discipleship is a process. Teihard de Chardin talks about the “slow work of God.” Discipleship is a transformative process in which we slowly, painfully, patiently, and painstakingly, become holier, become more and more like Jesus, become more and more the servants God expects us to be. Discipleship takes time. We will make false starts, and we will make mistakes, but we will, by the grace of God, grow, inch by inch. Discipleship involves letting go of all those attachments – attachments to luxury, toys, comforts, possessions, habits, activities, opinions, even overwork – whatever gets in the way of our focus on Jesus. At the heart of discipleship is transformation into people fully, intentionally, and whole-heartedly committed to Jesus’ way of life. In this transformation, God willing, we enter into a more intimate relationship with God, so that we cease being shallow and lackadaisical and become mature people of faith. Jesus fully warns us that growth in discipleship is a difficult process and that following him should change our entire lives. “If you cannot hear this call,” a pastor of a tall-steeple church told his affluent congregation, “then you ought to renounce your baptism.”
What do you seek? Do you really want to follow Jesus? Can you allow yourselves to be transformed by him? Many before us have sought that transformation and have ended up paying for it with their lives. When Luke wrote his gospel, the Romans were already persecuting followers of Jesus. Christians, including several prominent bishops, were martyred in the first three centuries of the church. Fifteenth-century Czech reformer Jan Hus and, in our own church, sixteenth-century Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer were among many Reformers whose steadfast commitment to what they believed was Jesus’ call cost them their lives. Other names from our own times come to mind. Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote about “the cost of discipleship” from a Nazi prison shortly before being hanged. Archbishop Oscar Romero, who sought economic justice for the poor in El Salvador, was gunned down in 1980 while saying Mass. Sr. Dorothy Stang was shot to death while ministering to the poor in a Brazilian rainforest. Martin Luther King lost his life pursuing his Biblically-grounded dream of a just, color-blind society. Others have borne the cost of loss of blood family. Pandita Ramabai, a nineteenth-century Hindu Brahmin, lost all ties to her caste when she became a Christian, even as she found an entirely new family working among the poor and disenfranchised in western India. And others, like Mother Teresa, have struggled with loneliness and desolation, even as they strove to follow Jesus into the poorest corners of the world. All understood the cost of faithfully following Jesus, and all willingly accepted that cost in return for the transformation wrought in them by God.
What do you seek? God willing, none of us is called to witness to our faith with our lives. But do we really want to follow Jesus, or do we just want to traipse behind, enjoying the ceremonial and occasionally cheering him on? Be assured, the Christian life is not for the faint-hearted! If we truly want to be numbered among Jesus’ disciples, there is a cost. At the very least, Jesus calls us to look at our lifestyle, to do some honest soul searching, to ask ourselves whether our lifestyle truly reflects our commitment to Christ. As the old quip says, “If you were on trial for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?”
What is primary in our lives? Is it our commitment to Christ? Or do we let the demands of our secular lives overwhelm any time or energy we might give to God? How are we using our resources? We are not expected to become beggars, or to so impoverish ourselves that we are dependent on others’ charity. But are returning to God a portion of our treasure? I invite you to ponder your support of the church. Historically, 10% of one’s income was deemed an appropriate return to God. Where are you? If you are currently giving 1% of your income, can you give 2%? Can you give more? What about your time and talents? What return to God are you making of them? Are you growing in your relationship with God? If not, why not? What do you need to help you grow? What in your life should change so that you can spend more time with God? Is your sensitivity to the needs of others, especially to the needs of the poor, increasing? If not, what are some ways of immersing yourselves in the realities of their lives?
What do you seek? In her insightful commentary on the procedure for receiving members in the Rule of Benedict, Joan Chittister, herself a Benedictine, reminds us that, “The spiritual life is not a set of exercises appended to our ordinary routine. It is a complete reordering of our values and our priorities and our lives. Spirituality is not just a matter of joining the closest religious community or parish committee or faith-sharing group. Spirituality is that depth of soul that changes our lives and focuses our efforts and leads us to see the world differently than we ever did before.” The transformation that God offers us is “the process of a lifetime…. [I]t is not a spiritual quick fix…. It is the work of a lifetime that takes a lifetime to leaven us until, imperceptibly, we find ourselves changed into what we sought.”
What do you seek? Do you seek to be a faithful follower of Jesus? Know the cost of declaring yourself his disciple: ultimately it will be your whole life.
“In a little while, we will sing,
I can hear my Savior calling,
I can hear my Savior calling,
I can hear my Savior calling,
“Take thy cross and follow, follow Me.”
Where He leads me I will follow,
Where He leads me I will follow,
Where He leads me I will follow;
I’ll go with Him, with Him, all the way.”
I’ll go with him all the way. God grant that it may be so.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Words of Curse, Words of Blessing
What is your greatest regret? For many of us, it is, “I wish I hadn’t said that!” And what’s your second greatest regret? For many of us, it is, “I wish I had said that!” Speech has power! As Christians, as hearers of Scripture, we know that. In the very first sentences of Genesis, the first book of the Bible, God literally speaks the creation into being. God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God said, “Let there be a dome in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters.” And God said, “Let there lights in the dome of the sky …, and let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures …, and let the earth bring forth living creatures ….” Like the ancient Hebrews, ancient Hindus also recognized the creative power of speech. In the most ancient Hindu scriptures, the Vedas, the goddess of speech, Vac, speaks creation into being. Speech has power.
Speech has power. Sound, speech, and language, are inherent in all creation. Paul reminds the Christians in Rome – perhaps metaphorically – that in Christ, creation will be set free from bondage to decay. “We know,” he tells them, “that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now.” For all we know, plants and insects may have language. Unquestionably animals do. Any birdwatcher has memorized all the distinctive tweets, burrs, whistles, and knocks of the many varieties of birds. Elephants, lions, bears, hyenas, just about all animals, except possibly giraffes, which are said to be voiceless, have distinctive vocalizations in different circumstances. If you live with cats or dogs, you know that there’s a difference between the meow of hunger and that of “Pet me,” or between the bark of “Who are you?” and that of “I’m ready for a walk.”
Even in this age of electronic communication, speech is still the primary form of human communication. Writing is a relatively recent invention, only within the last 5,000 years. Scripture, whether Hindu, Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, was written to be heard, not read silently. In fact, try it yourself: the next time you read Scripture at home, read it aloud. See if that gives you a different experience of it. It wasn’t until the middle of the nineteenth century that a majority of the people in the first world could read and write. Even today, there are many places in the world that are still predominantly oral cultures. And truth be told, though we may appreciate the advantages of electronic communication, most of still prefer oral communication. We still would prefer to hear the voices of those we love than receive an e-mail from them. Speech has power.
Speech has destructive power. Today’s portion of the Letter of James provides us with a strong reminder of the destructive power of speech. The reminder is especially poignant for those in positions of authority, as we face yet again our tendency to say the wrong thing. What frightening metaphors James uses: that the tongue can set ablaze an entire forest, that it can produce brackish water! Of course, none of this news to us: James could have been writing yesterday! Don’t we tell our children “Watch your mouth. Hold your tongue. Pipe down.” Don’t we know that the old comeback, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” is patently false? Don’t we wince when our child comes home from school crying because some thoughtless tyke has told him or her, “Boys don’t …, girls don’t ….” We know that words can hurt. Isn’t that why we so deeply regret the unkind words we’ve said in ignorance, pride, haste, or anger? Isn’t that why we instinctively know that hate speech and racist, sexist, ageist, and other similar slogans are wrong? Isn’t that why we fear someone who can, through the sheer power of their rhetoric, incite a mob to violence? Speech has power, and words can hurt.
Speech has power, and words can also heal and bless. Today’s Scripture also gives us powerful examples of how words can “pour forth” fresh water. The suffering servant in today’s reading from the prophet Isaiah thanks God for having given him “the tongue of a teacher,” so that he “may know how to sustain the weary with a word.” The psalmist pours out his heart to God, knowing that God “has heard the voice of my supplication.” Can’t you just picture Peter in today’s Gospel reading? Jesus has put the disciples on the spot. He wants them to not just parrot back to him what others have said about him. He wants to hear them declare for themselves how they understand the person to whom they have committed themselves. “But who do you say that I am? Don’t just have some vague thoughts, put it in words! Who am I for you?” And there’s Peter looking into Jesus’ face, making eye contact with him. He doesn’t hang back, he doesn’t waffle, he doesn’t say, “Uh, let me think about that. Let me consult my theological dictionary.” In his sudden realization of who Jesus is, Peter blurts out, “You are the Messiah.”
Now, we might think that Peter didn’t understand what he was saying. He really had no clue as to what kind of a messiah Jesus might actually be. When he tried to deflect Jesus from the path that Jesus was clearly stepping onto, Jesus firmly rebuked him (“Watch your mouth, Peter. Shut up!”) Then Jesus began leading Peter and all the disciples into a fuller understanding of where he was going. Even though Peter’s understanding was vague, Peter clearly had the courage to say something, to put into actual words what he was beginning to discern about Jesus. Speech has power, and the words that Peter spoke that day began a transformation in him that eventually enabled him to lead the newly-fledged Christian community.
Speech has power. Isn’t that why we appreciate compliments, why we treasure words of gratitude, encouragement, apology, consolation, welcome, and good counsel? Isn’t that why we regret so deeply the words we didn’t say when we should have and give ourselves a tiny pat on the back when, by the grace of God, we do say the right thing? Isn’t that why we admire those who can move others through the sheer power of their words? Who can forget the moving simplicity of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address, or the glorious vision of Martin Luther King’s “I have a Dream” speech? Isn’t that why we know that we need to talk to God? God may “know our needs before we ask,” but we still need to say directly to God, as Peter did to Jesus, those words of praise, contrition, intercession, and gratitude that begin the transformation of our own souls.
Tom Gordon tells the story of Fraser, on old fisherman on the North Sea coast.1 Even though he’d already celebrated his seventy-second birthday, “fishing was in his blood.” The herring of his youth gave out, and so he turned to shellfish, and then to lobsters, for which the local restaurants paid well. He took his boat, the Mary Anne, out about three times a week, always with another “retired” fisherman aboard – since his daughters had expressly forbidden him to go out alone. But when his grandson Stuart was home from college, the retirees stayed home, and Stuart was all the crew Fraser needed. They’d become best mates, those two. As they worked Fraser told Stuart wonderful stories about his mother or grandmother. Stuart, in turn, confided some of his problems and questions to Fraser. One day, on their return to shore, Stuart persuaded Fraser to come have a pint with him at the local pub. As they sat at a corner table, Stuart told his grandfather about his struggles in college. He was thinking about dropping out and coming back home, perhaps spending more time fishing. Fraser listened intently. At the end of his confession, Stuart said, “Haven’t you felt like that sometimes? When you’d worked really hard, or when the fishing grounds were empty, weren’t there times when you wanted to pack it in?” Smiling, Fraser said, “Well, laddie, you may be right enough, but then, fishing’s in my blood, so there’s nothing I can do about that.” Pausing for a minute or two, and then looking Stuart in the eye, the old man told the story of William Greenough Thayer Shedd, a nineteenth-century Presbyterian theologian. “Whether this man was a sailor,” he said, “or had fishing in his blood, I don’t know, but I heard that he did say this. ‘A ship is safe in harbor. But that’s not what ships are for.’ Whether it’s a great ship or the Mary Anne, we could tie her up and keep her safe, or we could take her out and go fishing with her. Eh?” Stuart understood and returned Fraser’s smile. Speech has power.
Christianity is an incarnational religion. We are called to do, not just think. Yes, hands are important. But we are made in the image of a God who spoke, who spoke creation into being, who spoke to the Israelites in their deliverance from Egyptian slavery, who spoke through the prophets, who spoke through the Word made flesh, and continues to speak to us today. We are called to speak in return. Speak to God. Tell God what is on your heart and mind, what you fear, and what you hope for. Then speak to each other. Speak the word of loving counsel, as Fraser did to Stuart. Say, “I’m sorry.” Say “I love you,” while you still can. Speak out against injustice and for peace. Partner with God and help speak a renewed creation into being.
1. With an Open Eye (Glasgow: Wild Good Publications, 2011), 272-4.
Speech has power. Sound, speech, and language, are inherent in all creation. Paul reminds the Christians in Rome – perhaps metaphorically – that in Christ, creation will be set free from bondage to decay. “We know,” he tells them, “that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now.” For all we know, plants and insects may have language. Unquestionably animals do. Any birdwatcher has memorized all the distinctive tweets, burrs, whistles, and knocks of the many varieties of birds. Elephants, lions, bears, hyenas, just about all animals, except possibly giraffes, which are said to be voiceless, have distinctive vocalizations in different circumstances. If you live with cats or dogs, you know that there’s a difference between the meow of hunger and that of “Pet me,” or between the bark of “Who are you?” and that of “I’m ready for a walk.”
Even in this age of electronic communication, speech is still the primary form of human communication. Writing is a relatively recent invention, only within the last 5,000 years. Scripture, whether Hindu, Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, was written to be heard, not read silently. In fact, try it yourself: the next time you read Scripture at home, read it aloud. See if that gives you a different experience of it. It wasn’t until the middle of the nineteenth century that a majority of the people in the first world could read and write. Even today, there are many places in the world that are still predominantly oral cultures. And truth be told, though we may appreciate the advantages of electronic communication, most of still prefer oral communication. We still would prefer to hear the voices of those we love than receive an e-mail from them. Speech has power.
Speech has destructive power. Today’s portion of the Letter of James provides us with a strong reminder of the destructive power of speech. The reminder is especially poignant for those in positions of authority, as we face yet again our tendency to say the wrong thing. What frightening metaphors James uses: that the tongue can set ablaze an entire forest, that it can produce brackish water! Of course, none of this news to us: James could have been writing yesterday! Don’t we tell our children “Watch your mouth. Hold your tongue. Pipe down.” Don’t we know that the old comeback, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me,” is patently false? Don’t we wince when our child comes home from school crying because some thoughtless tyke has told him or her, “Boys don’t …, girls don’t ….” We know that words can hurt. Isn’t that why we so deeply regret the unkind words we’ve said in ignorance, pride, haste, or anger? Isn’t that why we instinctively know that hate speech and racist, sexist, ageist, and other similar slogans are wrong? Isn’t that why we fear someone who can, through the sheer power of their rhetoric, incite a mob to violence? Speech has power, and words can hurt.
Speech has power, and words can also heal and bless. Today’s Scripture also gives us powerful examples of how words can “pour forth” fresh water. The suffering servant in today’s reading from the prophet Isaiah thanks God for having given him “the tongue of a teacher,” so that he “may know how to sustain the weary with a word.” The psalmist pours out his heart to God, knowing that God “has heard the voice of my supplication.” Can’t you just picture Peter in today’s Gospel reading? Jesus has put the disciples on the spot. He wants them to not just parrot back to him what others have said about him. He wants to hear them declare for themselves how they understand the person to whom they have committed themselves. “But who do you say that I am? Don’t just have some vague thoughts, put it in words! Who am I for you?” And there’s Peter looking into Jesus’ face, making eye contact with him. He doesn’t hang back, he doesn’t waffle, he doesn’t say, “Uh, let me think about that. Let me consult my theological dictionary.” In his sudden realization of who Jesus is, Peter blurts out, “You are the Messiah.”
Now, we might think that Peter didn’t understand what he was saying. He really had no clue as to what kind of a messiah Jesus might actually be. When he tried to deflect Jesus from the path that Jesus was clearly stepping onto, Jesus firmly rebuked him (“Watch your mouth, Peter. Shut up!”) Then Jesus began leading Peter and all the disciples into a fuller understanding of where he was going. Even though Peter’s understanding was vague, Peter clearly had the courage to say something, to put into actual words what he was beginning to discern about Jesus. Speech has power, and the words that Peter spoke that day began a transformation in him that eventually enabled him to lead the newly-fledged Christian community.
Speech has power. Isn’t that why we appreciate compliments, why we treasure words of gratitude, encouragement, apology, consolation, welcome, and good counsel? Isn’t that why we regret so deeply the words we didn’t say when we should have and give ourselves a tiny pat on the back when, by the grace of God, we do say the right thing? Isn’t that why we admire those who can move others through the sheer power of their words? Who can forget the moving simplicity of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address, or the glorious vision of Martin Luther King’s “I have a Dream” speech? Isn’t that why we know that we need to talk to God? God may “know our needs before we ask,” but we still need to say directly to God, as Peter did to Jesus, those words of praise, contrition, intercession, and gratitude that begin the transformation of our own souls.
Tom Gordon tells the story of Fraser, on old fisherman on the North Sea coast.1 Even though he’d already celebrated his seventy-second birthday, “fishing was in his blood.” The herring of his youth gave out, and so he turned to shellfish, and then to lobsters, for which the local restaurants paid well. He took his boat, the Mary Anne, out about three times a week, always with another “retired” fisherman aboard – since his daughters had expressly forbidden him to go out alone. But when his grandson Stuart was home from college, the retirees stayed home, and Stuart was all the crew Fraser needed. They’d become best mates, those two. As they worked Fraser told Stuart wonderful stories about his mother or grandmother. Stuart, in turn, confided some of his problems and questions to Fraser. One day, on their return to shore, Stuart persuaded Fraser to come have a pint with him at the local pub. As they sat at a corner table, Stuart told his grandfather about his struggles in college. He was thinking about dropping out and coming back home, perhaps spending more time fishing. Fraser listened intently. At the end of his confession, Stuart said, “Haven’t you felt like that sometimes? When you’d worked really hard, or when the fishing grounds were empty, weren’t there times when you wanted to pack it in?” Smiling, Fraser said, “Well, laddie, you may be right enough, but then, fishing’s in my blood, so there’s nothing I can do about that.” Pausing for a minute or two, and then looking Stuart in the eye, the old man told the story of William Greenough Thayer Shedd, a nineteenth-century Presbyterian theologian. “Whether this man was a sailor,” he said, “or had fishing in his blood, I don’t know, but I heard that he did say this. ‘A ship is safe in harbor. But that’s not what ships are for.’ Whether it’s a great ship or the Mary Anne, we could tie her up and keep her safe, or we could take her out and go fishing with her. Eh?” Stuart understood and returned Fraser’s smile. Speech has power.
Christianity is an incarnational religion. We are called to do, not just think. Yes, hands are important. But we are made in the image of a God who spoke, who spoke creation into being, who spoke to the Israelites in their deliverance from Egyptian slavery, who spoke through the prophets, who spoke through the Word made flesh, and continues to speak to us today. We are called to speak in return. Speak to God. Tell God what is on your heart and mind, what you fear, and what you hope for. Then speak to each other. Speak the word of loving counsel, as Fraser did to Stuart. Say, “I’m sorry.” Say “I love you,” while you still can. Speak out against injustice and for peace. Partner with God and help speak a renewed creation into being.
1. With an Open Eye (Glasgow: Wild Good Publications, 2011), 272-4.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Let Me Sing for My Beloved
When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.
When evening shadows and the stars appear
And there is no one to dry your tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.1
How do you understand God? Is God an abstraction for you, an intellectual puzzle, or an intriguing idea? Is God some impersonal force for you? “The Force be with you,” they said in the Star Wars films. Is that how you experience God? Perhaps you think of God as transcendent, totally beyond this world, above all human experience, except perhaps for the Word made flesh. Or maybe you think of the Deists’ “watchmaker.” God set the world in motion, and it has run by itself ever since? Perhaps you think of God as unchanging. After all, doesn’t one of the prayers in our Compline service ask that we may rest in God’s “eternal changelessness?” In some respects, all of these ways of talking about God have some truth in them, since at some point we humans acknowledge that God is unknowable and indescribable. “Neti, neti,” say Hindus, “not this, not this.” “Utter mystery,” say many practitioners of contemplative prayer. To say anything more about God surely risks anthropomorphizing God, reducing God to purely human terms. And yet today’s Scriptures beg us to ask a poignant and utterly necessary question. Does God feel? Does God have emotions, as we do? If we are created in God’s image, and emotions are intrinsic to our nature, must they not also be intrinsic to God’s nature? Doesn’t God also feel?
The Hebrew Scriptures – and remember that they were Jesus’ Scriptures, and they are our Scriptures too – contain many, many examples of God having feelings. Think of God in the Garden of Eden, lonely, wandering around looking for Adam and Eve. How about all the many times God gets angry at the Israelites, especially during the long trek in Sinai? How about the psalms? For the psalmist, God can be impatient, jealous, sympathetic, compassionate, merciful, and loving. The prophets show God providing both warnings and reassurance. Through the prophecy of Hosea God grieves for unfaithful Israel. And, of course, the Song of Songs portrays God as a young man in springtime, passionately in love with his fair beloved.
Does God have feelings? Judging by our reading this morning from the prophecy of Isaiah, God has very deep feelings. The prophet has just castigated Israel for the corruption of its priests. Seemingly changing tone, the prophet then begins a love song in God’s name. God has created a vineyard, which God has lovingly tended: planted it with the best vines, put up a guardhouse, built a wine press. But did the vineyard produce the sweet wine that God expected from such loving care? Contrary to God’s expectations and hopes, the vineyard produced wild grapes, i.e., inedible grapes that only scavenger birds would deign to eat. Then the prophet lets God give voice to God’s despair and disappointment: “What more could I have done for my vineyard that I didn’t do? Why did it yield wild grapes?” Despite God’s best efforts, despite all of God’s love and care, God’s project has failed: the vineyard is unproductive. Giving in, God will let the vineyard be, let it produce wild grapes, let its protective hedges fall down, and send no more rain on it.
Can we relate to this story? Surely all of us have had parallel experiences, experiences where we have poured our best efforts into a project, only to see it fail. I can think of numerous examples from my time as dean at Ohio University: grant proposals that we thoroughly researched, lovingly and carefully wrote up, and submitted well before the due date, only to be bypassed by the powers that were or given only a small fraction of what we’d requested. I think of a few young faculty members – fortunately only a few – to whom we gave reduced teaching assignments, summer support, travel to workshops, coaching and mentoring, and still they couldn’t sufficiently improve their teaching or write the needed articles to be eligible for tenure. Although we pray to be spared this feeling of disappointment and despair, many parents of adult children know it well: for all our care, attention, love, and support, our adult child just can’t seem to take hold, can’t make a go of life, can’t shake free from addiction, or, worst of all, commits a horrible crime. Did you ever wonder, for example, what the parents of Jared Loughner must have felt, when they heard the news of what he’d done? With God, we too can wring our hands and cry out, “What more could I have done that I haven’t done?”
My sisters and brothers, fortunately for Israel and for us, God’s despair and disappointment are not the end of the story. Yes, the vineyard becomes “a waste,” and falls into ruin. And yet, for all that, God still cares deeply for God’s people. The vineyard of Israel and Judah are God’s planting, God’s creation. The rest of Isaiah’s prophecy goes on to remind us of what the Gospels also tell us: that God is not a remote, uncaring God. Rather, God is deeply caring, deeply involved with God’s people. And not only with Israel and Judah, but, ultimately with all nations, all humanity, all of creation. Despite Israel’s faithlessness, despite the unsuccessful alliances with Assyria and the exile into Babylon, ultimately God cares so much for God’s people, that, Isaiah assures them, God will deliver all of them from war, oppression, and death. “O Lord, you are my God,” Isaiah will sing to God, “for you have done wonderful things, plans formed of old, faithful and sure.” And ultimately all people and all creation will be included in the saving work of God.
But – there’s always a “but,” isn’t there – God’s love for Israel and Judah carries expectations. God tended the vineyard of Israel and Judah expecting justice and righteousness, but the vineyard produced only bloodshed and cries of pain. God expected the vineyard to bear good fruit, not the wild fruits of injustice and suffering, nor the fruits of greed, gluttony, dishonesty, and arrogance, as the later verses of this chapter detail. No wonder God was disappointed! As Christians, we can certainly relate to the image of bearing good fruit. Jesus himself used this image. We remember especially what he told his friends in the Gospel of John: “I am the vine; you are the branches; those who live in me and I in them will bear abundant fruit…. It was not you who chose me; it was I who chose you to go forth and bear fruit,” to love one another as Jesus had loved them.
And so ultimately we are faced with a challenge. We who have been grafted on to Israel – as St. Paul reminds us in his letter to the Roman Christians – what good fruit have we produced in our lives? God loves us as deeply as God loved Israel and Judah, but God’s love for us is not for our own self-aggrandizement. We do not hear in this Scripture – nor anywhere in the Bible – a prosperity Gospel. What we do hear is the question that is at the heart of God’s love song. How have we returned God’s passionate love for all people and for the world that God created? Have we produced the inedible grapes of greed, over-consumption, dishonesty, and war? Have we turned away from those in need? Have we trashed this beautiful earth that God has given us? Or do our lives reflect God’s passionate love? Do we try to love God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind? Do we strive actively for justice and peace, equity and well-being? Do we aim to be good stewards of all the abundant resources that God has given us? Do we try with all our being to love others as God loves us?
As we grapple with these questions, as we engage in the self-examination to which the prophets of Israel call us, to say nothing of the part of Matthew’s Gospel that we have been hearing these last several weeks, we do so with the assurance of God’s deep, continuing, and abiding love. God does feel – deeply. And God’s deepest feeling is passionate love for God’s people. When we truly commit ourselves to God and strive in our lives to return God’s love, we can be assured that, as one writer put it, “we are characters in a divine love song.”2 And so, we are bold to pray,
Lord, you have called us to know you,
you have called us to love you,
you have called us to serve you.
Make us worthy of our calling.
May we proclaim your power and your peace.
May we rejoice in your light and your love;
through Christ the living Lord. Amen.3
1. Garth Brooks, “To Make You Feel My Love,” quoted in Celebration Preaching Resources, for October 2, 2011.
2. James Burns, Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 127.
3. David Adam, Clouds and Glory (Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse, 2001), 126.
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.
When evening shadows and the stars appear
And there is no one to dry your tears
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.1
How do you understand God? Is God an abstraction for you, an intellectual puzzle, or an intriguing idea? Is God some impersonal force for you? “The Force be with you,” they said in the Star Wars films. Is that how you experience God? Perhaps you think of God as transcendent, totally beyond this world, above all human experience, except perhaps for the Word made flesh. Or maybe you think of the Deists’ “watchmaker.” God set the world in motion, and it has run by itself ever since? Perhaps you think of God as unchanging. After all, doesn’t one of the prayers in our Compline service ask that we may rest in God’s “eternal changelessness?” In some respects, all of these ways of talking about God have some truth in them, since at some point we humans acknowledge that God is unknowable and indescribable. “Neti, neti,” say Hindus, “not this, not this.” “Utter mystery,” say many practitioners of contemplative prayer. To say anything more about God surely risks anthropomorphizing God, reducing God to purely human terms. And yet today’s Scriptures beg us to ask a poignant and utterly necessary question. Does God feel? Does God have emotions, as we do? If we are created in God’s image, and emotions are intrinsic to our nature, must they not also be intrinsic to God’s nature? Doesn’t God also feel?
The Hebrew Scriptures – and remember that they were Jesus’ Scriptures, and they are our Scriptures too – contain many, many examples of God having feelings. Think of God in the Garden of Eden, lonely, wandering around looking for Adam and Eve. How about all the many times God gets angry at the Israelites, especially during the long trek in Sinai? How about the psalms? For the psalmist, God can be impatient, jealous, sympathetic, compassionate, merciful, and loving. The prophets show God providing both warnings and reassurance. Through the prophecy of Hosea God grieves for unfaithful Israel. And, of course, the Song of Songs portrays God as a young man in springtime, passionately in love with his fair beloved.
Does God have feelings? Judging by our reading this morning from the prophecy of Isaiah, God has very deep feelings. The prophet has just castigated Israel for the corruption of its priests. Seemingly changing tone, the prophet then begins a love song in God’s name. God has created a vineyard, which God has lovingly tended: planted it with the best vines, put up a guardhouse, built a wine press. But did the vineyard produce the sweet wine that God expected from such loving care? Contrary to God’s expectations and hopes, the vineyard produced wild grapes, i.e., inedible grapes that only scavenger birds would deign to eat. Then the prophet lets God give voice to God’s despair and disappointment: “What more could I have done for my vineyard that I didn’t do? Why did it yield wild grapes?” Despite God’s best efforts, despite all of God’s love and care, God’s project has failed: the vineyard is unproductive. Giving in, God will let the vineyard be, let it produce wild grapes, let its protective hedges fall down, and send no more rain on it.
Can we relate to this story? Surely all of us have had parallel experiences, experiences where we have poured our best efforts into a project, only to see it fail. I can think of numerous examples from my time as dean at Ohio University: grant proposals that we thoroughly researched, lovingly and carefully wrote up, and submitted well before the due date, only to be bypassed by the powers that were or given only a small fraction of what we’d requested. I think of a few young faculty members – fortunately only a few – to whom we gave reduced teaching assignments, summer support, travel to workshops, coaching and mentoring, and still they couldn’t sufficiently improve their teaching or write the needed articles to be eligible for tenure. Although we pray to be spared this feeling of disappointment and despair, many parents of adult children know it well: for all our care, attention, love, and support, our adult child just can’t seem to take hold, can’t make a go of life, can’t shake free from addiction, or, worst of all, commits a horrible crime. Did you ever wonder, for example, what the parents of Jared Loughner must have felt, when they heard the news of what he’d done? With God, we too can wring our hands and cry out, “What more could I have done that I haven’t done?”
My sisters and brothers, fortunately for Israel and for us, God’s despair and disappointment are not the end of the story. Yes, the vineyard becomes “a waste,” and falls into ruin. And yet, for all that, God still cares deeply for God’s people. The vineyard of Israel and Judah are God’s planting, God’s creation. The rest of Isaiah’s prophecy goes on to remind us of what the Gospels also tell us: that God is not a remote, uncaring God. Rather, God is deeply caring, deeply involved with God’s people. And not only with Israel and Judah, but, ultimately with all nations, all humanity, all of creation. Despite Israel’s faithlessness, despite the unsuccessful alliances with Assyria and the exile into Babylon, ultimately God cares so much for God’s people, that, Isaiah assures them, God will deliver all of them from war, oppression, and death. “O Lord, you are my God,” Isaiah will sing to God, “for you have done wonderful things, plans formed of old, faithful and sure.” And ultimately all people and all creation will be included in the saving work of God.
But – there’s always a “but,” isn’t there – God’s love for Israel and Judah carries expectations. God tended the vineyard of Israel and Judah expecting justice and righteousness, but the vineyard produced only bloodshed and cries of pain. God expected the vineyard to bear good fruit, not the wild fruits of injustice and suffering, nor the fruits of greed, gluttony, dishonesty, and arrogance, as the later verses of this chapter detail. No wonder God was disappointed! As Christians, we can certainly relate to the image of bearing good fruit. Jesus himself used this image. We remember especially what he told his friends in the Gospel of John: “I am the vine; you are the branches; those who live in me and I in them will bear abundant fruit…. It was not you who chose me; it was I who chose you to go forth and bear fruit,” to love one another as Jesus had loved them.
And so ultimately we are faced with a challenge. We who have been grafted on to Israel – as St. Paul reminds us in his letter to the Roman Christians – what good fruit have we produced in our lives? God loves us as deeply as God loved Israel and Judah, but God’s love for us is not for our own self-aggrandizement. We do not hear in this Scripture – nor anywhere in the Bible – a prosperity Gospel. What we do hear is the question that is at the heart of God’s love song. How have we returned God’s passionate love for all people and for the world that God created? Have we produced the inedible grapes of greed, over-consumption, dishonesty, and war? Have we turned away from those in need? Have we trashed this beautiful earth that God has given us? Or do our lives reflect God’s passionate love? Do we try to love God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind? Do we strive actively for justice and peace, equity and well-being? Do we aim to be good stewards of all the abundant resources that God has given us? Do we try with all our being to love others as God loves us?
As we grapple with these questions, as we engage in the self-examination to which the prophets of Israel call us, to say nothing of the part of Matthew’s Gospel that we have been hearing these last several weeks, we do so with the assurance of God’s deep, continuing, and abiding love. God does feel – deeply. And God’s deepest feeling is passionate love for God’s people. When we truly commit ourselves to God and strive in our lives to return God’s love, we can be assured that, as one writer put it, “we are characters in a divine love song.”2 And so, we are bold to pray,
Lord, you have called us to know you,
you have called us to love you,
you have called us to serve you.
Make us worthy of our calling.
May we proclaim your power and your peace.
May we rejoice in your light and your love;
through Christ the living Lord. Amen.3
1. Garth Brooks, “To Make You Feel My Love,” quoted in Celebration Preaching Resources, for October 2, 2011.
2. James Burns, Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 127.
3. David Adam, Clouds and Glory (Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse, 2001), 126.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Making Me an Example
How do we show forth our commitment to Jesus? How do our lives witness to the life, death, and resurrection of our Lord? How do we “proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ?” Christians have struggled with these questions since the very beginning of the church. Even though we made valiant promises at our baptisms, we too struggle with these questions in our own time and place.
The writer of the first letter to Timothy also struggled with these questions, most likely at the very beginning of the second century. Many scholars believe that this letter, the second letter to Timothy, and the letter to Titus, which we collectively call the Pastoral Epistles, were not written by Paul himself. Lots of internal evidence suggests that these letters were more likely written by a disciple of Paul’s who was writing in Paul’s name, which was not uncommon in the ancient world. Whoever wrote these letters, they were accepted by those who put together the “canon,” i.e., the collection of gospels, letters, and essays that we call the New Testament. Those who put together the canon understood that these letters give us important insights into questions about Christian witness, and they reflect some of the thinking about faith and order of the earliest Christian communities. As we hear parts of First and Second Timothy this month and next month, we’ll see some of the questions that engaged a church in transition – a church not unlike our own church today. Actually, try reading them of a piece yourself – you may discover some insights for our continuing life together at St. Peter’s!
In First Timothy therefore we have a letter based on Paul’s own life and written as if to Paul’s younger companion in evangelizing the various churches in which Paul worked. Casting the letter in Paul’s name, the writer uses Paul’s voice to rehearse Paul’s history, his conversion, and the meaning of his work. In the segment we heard this morning, we get our first clue as to what witnessing to our faith might mean. For “Paul” witnessing means, first of all, acknowledging to ourselves and others that we have been rescued from a life that draws us away from God and brought by God’s grace into a life and a community that allows us live in and for God. What is more important, witnessing means acknowledging that we have been rescued for a purpose. We have been rescued by Christ to serve as an example to others, a “template” which is one of the meanings of the Greek word the writer uses, or a model for what life lived in Christ might look like. Witnessing to our faith means enabling others to see in us, in the quality of life that we live, a glimpse of salvation, so that they too might be drawn into that deeper, more blessed life in Christ. Although in the mixed-ethnic world of the early 2nd century, drawing others into Christian community was not an easy job – just as it is not in our world – the writer is also confident that Christ has strengthened him for this work – just as God strengthens us for witness!
At the same time that the writer of the Pastoral Epistles was struggling with the issue of witness, others in the early second century were called by God to proclaim their faith in Christ in a deeper way. It was the year 107. During the reign of the Roman Emperor Trajan, Ignatius, the bishop of Antioch, was arrested by imperial authorities, condemned to death, and taken to Rome in order to die in the arena. On the way from Antioch to Rome, Ignatius spoke to groups of Christians in every town through which he passed, encouraging people to remain faithful. When Ignatius and his prison escort reached the west coast of Asia minor, where they would board a ship for Rome, delegations from several churches visited with Ignatius. They gave him provisions for the journey and commended him to God’s care. In return Ignatius wrote seven letters, five to the congregations of those who had greeted him, one to the church in Rome, and one to Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna, who would himself face martyrdom. In his letters, Ignatius stressed the importance of maintaining Christian unity in love and sound doctrine, he held up the clergy as the symbol of Christian unity, and he embraced Christian martyrdom as a privilege and gift from God. He is remembered most especially for reminding the Christians in Rome that, “I am writing to all the Churches and I enjoin all, that I am dying willingly for God's sake, if only you do not prevent it. I beg you, do not do me an untimely kindness. Allow me to be eaten by the beasts, which are my way of reaching to God. I am God's wheat, and I am to be ground by the teeth of wild beasts, so that I may become the pure bread of Christ.” In his letters and in his courageous death, Ignatius was surely a strong witness for Christ. In Greek the word for what Ignatius was is martyr. It was a generic word for witness, and could also mean “witness” in the legal sense. In English, of course, it has come to mean someone who tells what he believes, even though it results in his being killed for it, and more specifically, someone who dies while witnessing to faith in Christ, just as indeed Ignatius did. Is that what Christ expects of us? Are we too, like Ignatius, like some Christians in our own world, called to witness to Christ with our very lives?
Are there other ways to proclaim the good news of God in Christ? Yesterday, we remembered all those, Jews, Christians, Muslims, those of other faiths, and those of no faith, who died on September 11, 2001. Is burning a Qur’an the way to witness to our faith in Christ and to proclaim the good news? Our Jewish sisters and brothers, for whom this is the holiest week of the religious year, remember only too well the book burnings of the Inquisition and Nazi Germany. No, my friends, all of my clergy colleagues and I agree that burning the Qur’an is not the way to witness to the good news of God in Christ. Many clergy were ready to stand with members of the Muslim community in solidarity and recognition that this country at least grants freedom of religious expression to all its citizens. Here’s another way to witness to Christ. On my way home from Columbus on Friday morning, I heard this week’s Story Corps segment on NPR’s Morning Edition. The segment profiled two men who had been at Ground Zero, Jack Murray and John Romanowich. Perhaps you heard the segment too. Jack Murray was on the roof of his apartment building watching the disaster. “I can certainly say,” he tells us, “that if you were going to find somebody that day to go down there who was pragmatic and clearheaded, I was not that guy. I honestly thought the world was going to come to an end.” Murray went down to his neighborhood bar to see what other people were doing. He was a welder by trade and knew how to cut steel beams. So when a friend suggested he go down to the site he agreed. Sometime during that first night, as he cut through the twisted beams, he had an epiphany of sorts. He realized that he was standing on a gigantic funeral pyre and possibly breathing in the ashen remains of some of the dead. “It was kind of like a communion for me,” he said. For the next two weeks Murray stayed at the site cutting steel beams so that rescue workers could search for survivors.
John Romanowich came to Ground Zero as an employee of the Department of Design and Construction, the city agency charged with cleaning up Ground Zero. When he stepped off the bus, he said, he felt “like we crossed into a different reality.” He worked the 3 to 11 shift, which made it hard to see his wife and daughter. One day he couldn’t find his ID badge. His daughter had taken it to school so she could show everyone what a hero her Dad was. Romanowich spent four months at Ground Zero, from mid-September to mid-January. He found it hard to return to his former life. “We never felt right when we had to leave,” he remembered, “when we had to go home. So that was like you were getting cut from the team.” I don’t know what faith communities Jack Murray and John Romanowich belong to. But I do know that through their work and dedication they proclaimed in their bodies, by their example, God’s consoling love for humanity of all faith communities, ethnicities, and colors. They proclaimed God’s desire to rescue us all from destruction, hatred, and evil.
So how are we examples of Christ? How do our lives witness to Christ’s death and resurrection? How do we proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ? Who might see a glimpse of Christ in us? We all struggle with these questions, and there are no easy answers to them. I invite you, in your own prayer time, your own time alone with God, to reflect on your life through the lens of these questions. Is there a Ground Zero here where we might be called to serve? Or is our witness, our example, our proclamation less dramatic, less visible? Rest assured, God has called you too to be God’s witness, and in God’s good time, God will make clear to you how you are to respond to God’s claim on you. And when God calls you God will also strengthen you for God’s service.
The writer of the first letter to Timothy also struggled with these questions, most likely at the very beginning of the second century. Many scholars believe that this letter, the second letter to Timothy, and the letter to Titus, which we collectively call the Pastoral Epistles, were not written by Paul himself. Lots of internal evidence suggests that these letters were more likely written by a disciple of Paul’s who was writing in Paul’s name, which was not uncommon in the ancient world. Whoever wrote these letters, they were accepted by those who put together the “canon,” i.e., the collection of gospels, letters, and essays that we call the New Testament. Those who put together the canon understood that these letters give us important insights into questions about Christian witness, and they reflect some of the thinking about faith and order of the earliest Christian communities. As we hear parts of First and Second Timothy this month and next month, we’ll see some of the questions that engaged a church in transition – a church not unlike our own church today. Actually, try reading them of a piece yourself – you may discover some insights for our continuing life together at St. Peter’s!
In First Timothy therefore we have a letter based on Paul’s own life and written as if to Paul’s younger companion in evangelizing the various churches in which Paul worked. Casting the letter in Paul’s name, the writer uses Paul’s voice to rehearse Paul’s history, his conversion, and the meaning of his work. In the segment we heard this morning, we get our first clue as to what witnessing to our faith might mean. For “Paul” witnessing means, first of all, acknowledging to ourselves and others that we have been rescued from a life that draws us away from God and brought by God’s grace into a life and a community that allows us live in and for God. What is more important, witnessing means acknowledging that we have been rescued for a purpose. We have been rescued by Christ to serve as an example to others, a “template” which is one of the meanings of the Greek word the writer uses, or a model for what life lived in Christ might look like. Witnessing to our faith means enabling others to see in us, in the quality of life that we live, a glimpse of salvation, so that they too might be drawn into that deeper, more blessed life in Christ. Although in the mixed-ethnic world of the early 2nd century, drawing others into Christian community was not an easy job – just as it is not in our world – the writer is also confident that Christ has strengthened him for this work – just as God strengthens us for witness!
At the same time that the writer of the Pastoral Epistles was struggling with the issue of witness, others in the early second century were called by God to proclaim their faith in Christ in a deeper way. It was the year 107. During the reign of the Roman Emperor Trajan, Ignatius, the bishop of Antioch, was arrested by imperial authorities, condemned to death, and taken to Rome in order to die in the arena. On the way from Antioch to Rome, Ignatius spoke to groups of Christians in every town through which he passed, encouraging people to remain faithful. When Ignatius and his prison escort reached the west coast of Asia minor, where they would board a ship for Rome, delegations from several churches visited with Ignatius. They gave him provisions for the journey and commended him to God’s care. In return Ignatius wrote seven letters, five to the congregations of those who had greeted him, one to the church in Rome, and one to Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna, who would himself face martyrdom. In his letters, Ignatius stressed the importance of maintaining Christian unity in love and sound doctrine, he held up the clergy as the symbol of Christian unity, and he embraced Christian martyrdom as a privilege and gift from God. He is remembered most especially for reminding the Christians in Rome that, “I am writing to all the Churches and I enjoin all, that I am dying willingly for God's sake, if only you do not prevent it. I beg you, do not do me an untimely kindness. Allow me to be eaten by the beasts, which are my way of reaching to God. I am God's wheat, and I am to be ground by the teeth of wild beasts, so that I may become the pure bread of Christ.” In his letters and in his courageous death, Ignatius was surely a strong witness for Christ. In Greek the word for what Ignatius was is martyr. It was a generic word for witness, and could also mean “witness” in the legal sense. In English, of course, it has come to mean someone who tells what he believes, even though it results in his being killed for it, and more specifically, someone who dies while witnessing to faith in Christ, just as indeed Ignatius did. Is that what Christ expects of us? Are we too, like Ignatius, like some Christians in our own world, called to witness to Christ with our very lives?
Are there other ways to proclaim the good news of God in Christ? Yesterday, we remembered all those, Jews, Christians, Muslims, those of other faiths, and those of no faith, who died on September 11, 2001. Is burning a Qur’an the way to witness to our faith in Christ and to proclaim the good news? Our Jewish sisters and brothers, for whom this is the holiest week of the religious year, remember only too well the book burnings of the Inquisition and Nazi Germany. No, my friends, all of my clergy colleagues and I agree that burning the Qur’an is not the way to witness to the good news of God in Christ. Many clergy were ready to stand with members of the Muslim community in solidarity and recognition that this country at least grants freedom of religious expression to all its citizens. Here’s another way to witness to Christ. On my way home from Columbus on Friday morning, I heard this week’s Story Corps segment on NPR’s Morning Edition. The segment profiled two men who had been at Ground Zero, Jack Murray and John Romanowich. Perhaps you heard the segment too. Jack Murray was on the roof of his apartment building watching the disaster. “I can certainly say,” he tells us, “that if you were going to find somebody that day to go down there who was pragmatic and clearheaded, I was not that guy. I honestly thought the world was going to come to an end.” Murray went down to his neighborhood bar to see what other people were doing. He was a welder by trade and knew how to cut steel beams. So when a friend suggested he go down to the site he agreed. Sometime during that first night, as he cut through the twisted beams, he had an epiphany of sorts. He realized that he was standing on a gigantic funeral pyre and possibly breathing in the ashen remains of some of the dead. “It was kind of like a communion for me,” he said. For the next two weeks Murray stayed at the site cutting steel beams so that rescue workers could search for survivors.
John Romanowich came to Ground Zero as an employee of the Department of Design and Construction, the city agency charged with cleaning up Ground Zero. When he stepped off the bus, he said, he felt “like we crossed into a different reality.” He worked the 3 to 11 shift, which made it hard to see his wife and daughter. One day he couldn’t find his ID badge. His daughter had taken it to school so she could show everyone what a hero her Dad was. Romanowich spent four months at Ground Zero, from mid-September to mid-January. He found it hard to return to his former life. “We never felt right when we had to leave,” he remembered, “when we had to go home. So that was like you were getting cut from the team.” I don’t know what faith communities Jack Murray and John Romanowich belong to. But I do know that through their work and dedication they proclaimed in their bodies, by their example, God’s consoling love for humanity of all faith communities, ethnicities, and colors. They proclaimed God’s desire to rescue us all from destruction, hatred, and evil.
So how are we examples of Christ? How do our lives witness to Christ’s death and resurrection? How do we proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ? Who might see a glimpse of Christ in us? We all struggle with these questions, and there are no easy answers to them. I invite you, in your own prayer time, your own time alone with God, to reflect on your life through the lens of these questions. Is there a Ground Zero here where we might be called to serve? Or is our witness, our example, our proclamation less dramatic, less visible? Rest assured, God has called you too to be God’s witness, and in God’s good time, God will make clear to you how you are to respond to God’s claim on you. And when God calls you God will also strengthen you for God’s service.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)