Have you ever wondered about the people in the town that doesn’t welcome Jesus’ friends? Why would they not welcome these people who were bringing a message of good news, good news that the reign of God was close to them? Was there something about Jesus’ friends, or the way they proclaimed Jesus’ message, that would turn off the people in such a town? Would they expect that a message about God could only be delivered by one of the religious leaders? Or perhaps they would think, “How could a rag-tag bunch of people, including even women, have anything to say to us about God’s reign?” Would these naysayers think that God could show up only in certain people, places, or ways?
We might ask the same questions after hearing the story of the healing of the Aramean general Naaman. As most of you know, the Episcopal Church follows a three-year cycle of readings for the Sunday Eucharist. We are currently in the third year of the cycle, Year C. In year A, the gospel readings are mostly from Matthew, in year B from Mark, and this year from Luke. During the summers of all three years, we read some of Paul’s letters more or less straight through. For example, for the last several weeks we’ve been hearing from Paul’s letter to the Galatian Christians. Today we heard the very end of that letter. Next week, we’ll begin Paul’s letter to the Christians at Colossae. With the readings from the Hebrew Bible, the lectionary gives us two choices, either to read some of the books sequentially, track 1, or to read lessons that complement the gospel, track 2. As you can see from your bulletin insert, we are reading track 1, the semi-continuous readings. Today we come to the end of a cycle of readings from first and second Kings, which describe the ministries of the great prophet Elijah and his successor Elisha. Starting next week, you’ll be hearing from the book of Amos.
In this last reading about Elisha, we hear an ancient story about the healing of Naaman. Ancient though it may be, this story makes me ask the same questions as the gospel reading does. Did the characters in this story think that God could show up only in certain people, places, or ways? Our general, Naaman, was so highly regarded by his king, because the Arameans, had bested the Israelites in battle, and, indeed, had killed Ahab, who, as we heard a few weeks ago, had acceded to Jezebel’s stealing of Naboth’s vineyard. Yet this great general is clueless about how to cure his skin disease – which probably was not Hansen’s disease, i.e., true leprosy, but something more like psoriasis. Instead, he had to learn from a captured servant girl, the lowest possible person in his household, that an Israelite prophet might cure him.
Of course, instead of following the servant girl’s suggestion, Naaman heads to the Aramaen king, who is also clueless. He sends Naaman off with a delegation to the king of Israel. The king of Israel, rightly fearing another Aramean raid, is also clueless and seemingly unaware of the great prophet in his own city. Naaman is so full of self-importance, that when Elisha finally steps in and, through his servant, asks Naaman to perform a simple ritual, Naaman cannot do it. It takes Naaman’s own servants to save the day, by urging their arrogant master to do what he must do to be cured. Is it possible that Naaman misses the saving action of God, because he has preconceived ideas about through whom, where, and how God will show up? To his credit, Naaman, as we learn in the verses following the ones we just heard, acknowledges the action of the God of Israel and thereafter continues to worship God, even after returning to Aram.
Let’s stay with the ancient story a little longer. Yes, this story suggests that we can miss God’s appearance because we expect God to show up in certain ways. The story of Naaman reminds us that God often makes Godself known in unexpected ways. Often the powerless perceive God’s presence, here, for example the servant girl and Naaman’s own servants, while the powerful miss God’s appearance. Low social or economic status does not mean that one is spiritually poor. Indeed, both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament suggest that often the opposite is the case. Amos was a dresser of sycamore trees before God called him. David was the youngest of Jesse’s sons and was out tending the sheep when Samuel came to anoint a king over Israel to follow Saul. Jesus was born in a no-account village in the conquered part of the Roman Empire to the young wife of a carpenter. Many of Jesus’ earliest followers were low on the social scale, fisherman, tax collectors, and prostitutes. Yet it was they who were able to sense God’s presence. It was they who were able to hear Jesus’ message and act on it, not the rich people or the political and religious leaders who were wedded to their wealth and positions.
What is more important, the story of Naaman reminds us that when God shows up God can work through anyone. God was able to work through a servant girl, the servant of a prophet, even a general’s servants, to bring about the healing of Naaman. The same is true of the seventy who were sent out by Jesus. The people to whom they were sent no doubt expected that you had to be learned in the ancient texts like the rabbis, in order to heal, preach, or drive out demons. Jesus’ friends were largely unlettered, certainly lay people without any special training. God was able to work through them. Sent by Jesus, bearing his authority so to speak, the seventy could also be instruments of God, in healing, driving out demonic spirits, and proclaiming God’s realm.
So do the stories of Naaman’s healing or of Jesus’ sending out seventy followers have anything to say to us? Do we believe that God only works through certain people, or in certain ways or places? How many times have we said, for example, “We’ve always done it that way?” Episcopalians are very good at saying that! Or “We tried that once, and it didn’t work?” Do we longtime Episcopalians think that the only prayers that God will hear are those contained within the Book of Common Prayer? The Book of Common Prayer is a liturgical treasure house, to be sure, and we trust that God will be present to us in the sacraments. But doesn’t God also respond to the prayers of Baptists, or Catholics, or Jews, or Muslims? Don’t Buddhists or Hindus also have something to teach us about how and where God shows up?
Are we among the powerful and well-off? Do we think we have nothing to learn from those of a lower social or economic status than ourselves? For example, don’t the folks who come to Loaves and Fishes also have something to teach us about faith? I am always struck by the people who give me the slips of paper on which they have requested prayers. They remind me again and again that, somehow, they have faith that our prayers will help their relatives or friends.
Now here’s a risky thought: is it possible that we could be instruments of God’s action? Might you stand in the place of Naaman’s wife’s servant girl, of Elisha’s servant, or of Naaman’s servants? Might you be sent, like one of the seventy, to heal and to preach the nearness of God’s realm? Oh, perish the thought! For so many of us, the good news of God, the nearness of God’s realm, especially as we experience God’s nearness in this church, is a well-kept secret. Or at least, we think that you have to be wearing a collar in order to be God’s instrument for others.
So here’s another story, a true story. A woman lay in a hospital bed. She had a cancerous tumor in her brain. She had been given two different kinds of treatments, the best that her doctors had in their arsenal, and both had failed. The tumor was not shrinking. Plus, she had had a mild stroke. As she lay in her hospital bed, now exhausted by the physical and occupational therapy that had followed the stroke, she began to wonder if it was time to abandon aggressive treatment and consider hospice. The attending nurse asked her if she had a pastor. The woman hesitated. The pastor of the church she had attended was leaving that church. However, she had a devoted husband, who had taken a leave of absence from his job to care for her. She had a network of friends who visited her almost daily. Other friends wrote encouraging letters and notes and commented on her Facebook posts. Yet other friends let her know that they were praying for her. Did she have a pastor? Finally, the woman said, “I have many pastors. God is caring for me.”
So here’s the real point, the good news, of the stories of Naaman and of the sending of the seventy. We are all sent. We can all be God’s instruments. You don’t have to be powerful, rich, learned, pious, good-looking, well-educated, or anything else. You don’t have to have studied the ancient texts. You don’t have to wear a collar. God shows up, unexpectedly perhaps, through us, whoever we are, whenever we care for each other – whoever that other is. God can and will work through us, perhaps when we least expect it, to heal and comfort others.
God’s energy is here now, ready to work through you. Dust off your sandals, speak your piece, visit those in need, work for peace and justice, and partner with God in bringing God’s reign nearer.
Showing posts with label Pentecost 7. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pentecost 7. Show all posts
Monday, July 4, 2016
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Lord of the Dance
It was at an Easter Vigil in an old Episcopal church. The liturgy began in the darkness of Saturday evening with the lighting of the new fire. The Paschal candle was then lit, from which the worshippers lighted their own candles. The deacon processed into the church singing, “The Light of Christ.” Then the deacon sang the joyful Exsultet, “Rejoice now heavenly host and choirs of angels….” With only candlelight to see by, the lectors read the traditional nine lessons from the Hebrew Bible. The priest said a short prayer and then joyfully shouted, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” The people joyfully responded, “The Lord is risen, indeed, alleluia!” As the lights blazed on, organ and people broke into a joyful “Gloria,” the people accompanying the organ with bells and tambourines. There followed the reading of the Epistle and Gospel for the Eucharist, the Prayers of the People, and the Peace. The offertory hymn was a kind of dancy number, with a strong rhythm. The choir began to sway as they sang. The rhythm was contagious. The priest began to sway and move his hands to the music. By the last verse, the rest of the altar party members were dancing in place, while the congregation had begun to clap.
Could this really have happened in an Episcopal church? We have such a strong tradition of dignified – almost staid – worship. “All things decently and in order,” we like to say. Part of the reason why we insist on order is that our liturgy follows the Latin mass. This is a form of worship, in medieval times at least, in which most folks were mere spectators. Another reason is that our liturgy came of age in the 16th and 17th centuries, a time that emphasized a penitential spirituality, somber sorrow for one’s sins rather than joyful praise of God. Add to that the emphasis on propriety in the Victorian era, and in most places we have a very sober style of worship indeed.
Of course, we do now have a robust musical tradition. If you look through our current hymnal, you’ll see that some of the hymns are translations of Latin hymns. Lutherans were ahead of us in adopting congregational singing, but we quickly caught up and translated the best of the German hymns. Eighteenth-century hymnodists such as Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts, Victorian hymn writers, and twentieth century writers and composers added to our store of English hymns, and collections such as LEVAS have given us back African American hymnody. So, some of us are perfectly comfortable with music in worship. But dance?
And yet, why not? Dancing was a regular part of religious life in ancient Israel. In fact, Scripture gives us many different examples of people dancing in praise of God. The book of Exodus tells us that, after the Israelites walked through the Sea of Reeds, Miriam, Aaron’s sister, “took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women went out with her with tambourines and with dancing” (15:20). After Judith assured the victory of the Israelites over the Assyrians by killing Holofernes, “All the women of Israel gathered to see her, and blessed her, and some of them performed a dance in her honor” (Judith 15:12). And, of course, we hear the explicit command in Psalm 150 to praise God with “trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him with strings and pipe! Praise him with clanging cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals!”
Today’s reading from 2 Samuel shows David doing just that. The shepherd boy, the youngest of all of Jesse’s sons, was unexpectedly chosen by God to be Israel’s next king. Now grown up, he has defeated his enemies, the Philistines, and Israel’s first king, Saul, whom God had rejected. Two weeks ago, we heard David’s lament over the deaths of his beloved friend Jonathan and of Saul. Now he is going up to Jerusalem in triumph. Showing that Jerusalem is both the political and religious capital of Israel, David leads those bearing the Ark, the sacred chest that is a sign of God’s presence with Israel. David is wearing a priestly garment, the ephod, as he exuberantly praises God in dance. The Tanakh, the Jewish translation of the Hebrew Bible, tells us that David was leaping and “whirling.” Can you picture it? Certainly, you can almost hear the shouting and the sounds of harps, tambourines, castanets, and cymbals that accompanied David’s leaping and whirling. Talk about “making a joyful noise to the Lord,” as six of the psalms tell us to do!
The text does allude to Michal’s reaction to David’s dancing. Here, we might infer that Michal thought David’s dancing was unseemly for a king. Yet there’s much more to the story than that. Michal was Saul’s daughter, and she was married off to David without her consent. We might imagine that her reaction to David’s dancing reflects not only her grief at her father’s death but also her resentment at having been a political pawn between Saul and David and having been mistreated by both of them. Clearly, everyone else in the story views David’s exuberant worship positively, not only because the Ark is installed in its rightful place, but also because, after the worship is concluded, David blesses the people and generously feeds them.
So, what can we learn from this story? Do we ever get as excited about worship as David? I’m not suggested that we dance with only an ephod on, but shouldn’t we dance in some way? Does worship ever fill us with joy and amazement, when we realize that God is with us and in us? Or are we just bored and disengaged from worship? Or worse, does the very thought of God depress and frighten us, as we wait for God to condemn us for our sins and brokenness? Perhaps we’re afraid of the Michals among us, of those who would frown at any sign of joyful celebration in our worship.
Yet, why shouldn’t be exuberantly joyful in worship? Why shouldn’t we dance and shout? We just heard, in the opening verses of the letter to the Christians at Ephesus, that, through Christ, God has adopted us as God’s children, and that we have been blessed “with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” Do we forget that we are truly and irrevocably God’s children, and do we listen instead to the voices that harp on our sinfulness and brokenness?
My friends, am I being sacrilegious in suggesting that we should praise God in joyful song and dance? Theologians remind us that the Trinity is a relationship among the three persons of God, a relationship of never-ending, ever-circling praise, joy, and love. There is even a name for this relationship: perichoresis, which can be translated as “rotation” or “dance.” In fact, our Lutheran brothers and sisters even have a hymn that expresses this relationship: “Come, Join the Dance of Trinity.” They even set it to an English folk tune! Here’s just the first verse: “Come, join the dance of Trinity, before all worlds begun – the interweaving of the Three, the Father, Spirit, Son. The universe of space and time did not arise by chance, but as the Three, in love and hope, made room within their dance.”
And consider this: when Katherine Jefferts Schori was invested as Presiding Bishop at the Washington National Cathedral in November, 2006, the liturgy included lovely, expressive liturgical dance. I have no idea what Bp. Michael Curry is planning for his investiture, but I have no doubt that it will include loud, exuberant, joyful praise of God in music and dance.
And what of us? We no longer localize God in an Ark, but can we acknowledge that it is important to experience delight and passion in worship? Can we find a way of dancing our praise of God?
In 1963 English song writer Sidney Carter wrote a hymn entitled “Lord of the Dance.” It was sung to a Shaker tune, “Simple gifts,” and tells the gospel story in Jesus’ own voice. Carter was inspired to write it by a statue of Shiva Nataraj, Lord of the Dance in Hinduism, and by the Shakers, who incorporated dance into their worship. Carter later said of the hymn, "I did not think the churches would like it at all. I thought many people would find it pretty far flown, probably heretical and anyway dubiously Christian. But in fact people did sing it and, unknown to me, it touched a chord.... I see Christ as the incarnation of the piper who is calling us. He dances that shape and pattern which is at the heart of our reality. I sing of the dancing pattern in the life and words of Jesus.”
I invite you to share the dance. Listen as “The Lord of the Dance” is sung by the Resurrection Singers, a group of former orphan boys now a part of the St. Joseph’s Family in Port au Prince, Haiti. Stand if you can or want to and join the dance. If the Spirit can catch a congregation at an Easter Vigil, why can’t the Spirit catch us?
Could this really have happened in an Episcopal church? We have such a strong tradition of dignified – almost staid – worship. “All things decently and in order,” we like to say. Part of the reason why we insist on order is that our liturgy follows the Latin mass. This is a form of worship, in medieval times at least, in which most folks were mere spectators. Another reason is that our liturgy came of age in the 16th and 17th centuries, a time that emphasized a penitential spirituality, somber sorrow for one’s sins rather than joyful praise of God. Add to that the emphasis on propriety in the Victorian era, and in most places we have a very sober style of worship indeed.
Of course, we do now have a robust musical tradition. If you look through our current hymnal, you’ll see that some of the hymns are translations of Latin hymns. Lutherans were ahead of us in adopting congregational singing, but we quickly caught up and translated the best of the German hymns. Eighteenth-century hymnodists such as Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts, Victorian hymn writers, and twentieth century writers and composers added to our store of English hymns, and collections such as LEVAS have given us back African American hymnody. So, some of us are perfectly comfortable with music in worship. But dance?
And yet, why not? Dancing was a regular part of religious life in ancient Israel. In fact, Scripture gives us many different examples of people dancing in praise of God. The book of Exodus tells us that, after the Israelites walked through the Sea of Reeds, Miriam, Aaron’s sister, “took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women went out with her with tambourines and with dancing” (15:20). After Judith assured the victory of the Israelites over the Assyrians by killing Holofernes, “All the women of Israel gathered to see her, and blessed her, and some of them performed a dance in her honor” (Judith 15:12). And, of course, we hear the explicit command in Psalm 150 to praise God with “trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him with strings and pipe! Praise him with clanging cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals!”
Today’s reading from 2 Samuel shows David doing just that. The shepherd boy, the youngest of all of Jesse’s sons, was unexpectedly chosen by God to be Israel’s next king. Now grown up, he has defeated his enemies, the Philistines, and Israel’s first king, Saul, whom God had rejected. Two weeks ago, we heard David’s lament over the deaths of his beloved friend Jonathan and of Saul. Now he is going up to Jerusalem in triumph. Showing that Jerusalem is both the political and religious capital of Israel, David leads those bearing the Ark, the sacred chest that is a sign of God’s presence with Israel. David is wearing a priestly garment, the ephod, as he exuberantly praises God in dance. The Tanakh, the Jewish translation of the Hebrew Bible, tells us that David was leaping and “whirling.” Can you picture it? Certainly, you can almost hear the shouting and the sounds of harps, tambourines, castanets, and cymbals that accompanied David’s leaping and whirling. Talk about “making a joyful noise to the Lord,” as six of the psalms tell us to do!
The text does allude to Michal’s reaction to David’s dancing. Here, we might infer that Michal thought David’s dancing was unseemly for a king. Yet there’s much more to the story than that. Michal was Saul’s daughter, and she was married off to David without her consent. We might imagine that her reaction to David’s dancing reflects not only her grief at her father’s death but also her resentment at having been a political pawn between Saul and David and having been mistreated by both of them. Clearly, everyone else in the story views David’s exuberant worship positively, not only because the Ark is installed in its rightful place, but also because, after the worship is concluded, David blesses the people and generously feeds them.
So, what can we learn from this story? Do we ever get as excited about worship as David? I’m not suggested that we dance with only an ephod on, but shouldn’t we dance in some way? Does worship ever fill us with joy and amazement, when we realize that God is with us and in us? Or are we just bored and disengaged from worship? Or worse, does the very thought of God depress and frighten us, as we wait for God to condemn us for our sins and brokenness? Perhaps we’re afraid of the Michals among us, of those who would frown at any sign of joyful celebration in our worship.
Yet, why shouldn’t be exuberantly joyful in worship? Why shouldn’t we dance and shout? We just heard, in the opening verses of the letter to the Christians at Ephesus, that, through Christ, God has adopted us as God’s children, and that we have been blessed “with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” Do we forget that we are truly and irrevocably God’s children, and do we listen instead to the voices that harp on our sinfulness and brokenness?
My friends, am I being sacrilegious in suggesting that we should praise God in joyful song and dance? Theologians remind us that the Trinity is a relationship among the three persons of God, a relationship of never-ending, ever-circling praise, joy, and love. There is even a name for this relationship: perichoresis, which can be translated as “rotation” or “dance.” In fact, our Lutheran brothers and sisters even have a hymn that expresses this relationship: “Come, Join the Dance of Trinity.” They even set it to an English folk tune! Here’s just the first verse: “Come, join the dance of Trinity, before all worlds begun – the interweaving of the Three, the Father, Spirit, Son. The universe of space and time did not arise by chance, but as the Three, in love and hope, made room within their dance.”
And consider this: when Katherine Jefferts Schori was invested as Presiding Bishop at the Washington National Cathedral in November, 2006, the liturgy included lovely, expressive liturgical dance. I have no idea what Bp. Michael Curry is planning for his investiture, but I have no doubt that it will include loud, exuberant, joyful praise of God in music and dance.
And what of us? We no longer localize God in an Ark, but can we acknowledge that it is important to experience delight and passion in worship? Can we find a way of dancing our praise of God?
In 1963 English song writer Sidney Carter wrote a hymn entitled “Lord of the Dance.” It was sung to a Shaker tune, “Simple gifts,” and tells the gospel story in Jesus’ own voice. Carter was inspired to write it by a statue of Shiva Nataraj, Lord of the Dance in Hinduism, and by the Shakers, who incorporated dance into their worship. Carter later said of the hymn, "I did not think the churches would like it at all. I thought many people would find it pretty far flown, probably heretical and anyway dubiously Christian. But in fact people did sing it and, unknown to me, it touched a chord.... I see Christ as the incarnation of the piper who is calling us. He dances that shape and pattern which is at the heart of our reality. I sing of the dancing pattern in the life and words of Jesus.”
I invite you to share the dance. Listen as “The Lord of the Dance” is sung by the Resurrection Singers, a group of former orphan boys now a part of the St. Joseph’s Family in Port au Prince, Haiti. Stand if you can or want to and join the dance. If the Spirit can catch a congregation at an Easter Vigil, why can’t the Spirit catch us?
Monday, July 8, 2013
One of the Seventy
It was a mud hut in the poorest section of a village I’d never visited before. About halfway through my year as a Fulbright teacher at Baring Christian College in northwest India I had gone to this village with several Indian Christian teachers from the college to visit the Christians there and distribute clothing and books. As in most north Indian villages, the Christians were formerly Untouchables, i.e., people at the bottom of the caste system who traditionally did the dirtiest jobs. My roommate, another American woman, and I were taken to the tiny mud hut. Heaven only knows where the chairs on which we were invited to sit had come from. Of course, the honored American guests could not sit on the rope-strung bed, the only other seating, with everyone else! Then a wizened woman, who looked sixty but was probably at most thirty-five, gingerly placed a hard-boiled egg and a mug of tea in front of each of us. I looked quizzically at one of the teachers who had brought us. How could I eat and drink what had probably cost this family several days’ wages? And was the egg safe? The teacher nodded imperceptibly, “yes.” I ate the egg and drank the tea.
The seventy disciples whom Jesus had sent out to prepare for his coming, as he walked to Jerusalem, may not have had to face eating eggs or drinking tea. However, as observant Jews travelling through Samaritan country, they may well have had to eat things they would never otherwise have considered eating. Who were these seventy? While Matthew, Mark, and Luke all mention Jesus’ sending of the twelve, only Luke mentions this second sending of the seventy (or seventy-two, as some manuscripts have it). An underlying motif in the gospel of Luke is the proclamation of the good news to all people, regardless of class or ethnicity. So the number of these disciples is no doubt symbolic, referring to the Table of the Nations in Genesis 10, i.e., to the entire world. What were their names, and where did they come from? Were they some of those people who had heard Jesus’ call and gladly fell in behind him? Were some of them the wealthy women who were bankrolling Jesus’ ministry? Luke tells us nothing about them. The Western Church has largely ignored them. However, the Eastern Church continues to venerate them. Today there are several different lists of their names. Orthodox churches regularly commemorate their ministry on January 4th, the feast of the Seventy Apostles.
Whoever they were, the seventy were clearly commissioned and sent by Jesus – and with some urgency. The seventy were to serve as an advance party in the countryside between Samaria and Jerusalem, preparing people for Jesus’ coming and proclaiming the peace and salvation that come with reign of God. Bearing Jesus’ authority, they were to do everything that he had done: they were to preach, teach, heal, and proclaim that God’s reign had begun. In commissioning them, Jesus had clearly warned them of the risks and rewards of signing on to his program. They were to travel in pairs. They were to travel light and not stop to socialize along the way. They were to be prepared for hostility and rejection. They were to accept whatever hospitality was offered them. Once settled, they were not to cast around looking for better digs. They were to stay focused on proclaiming the good news. Knowing that the work was more than even they could manage, they were to stay connected with God and continue to ask God to add to their number.
My friends, you and I are here because the seventy disciples did their job very well. As we learn from reading the book of Acts, Luke’s companion volume to the gospel, the seventy, the twelve, and others went out from Jerusalem to Asia Minor and Europe. They created new communities of disciples, and the Way, the Christian faith, went “viral.” In later centuries, they went to China, Japan, India, and the Americas. They proclaimed the good news and, with the authority of Jesus, they preached, taught, and healed. They invited those whom they met, those whose eggs they ate and whose tea they drank, to join Jesus’ fellowship of love. They created communities united not by ties of family, ethnicity, class, color, or even place of birth, but by shared allegiance to Jesus and his mission.
And now we are part of their number. We are part of that number not because we are “members” of the Episcopal Church. Despite what the canons of the Episcopal Church and the Diocese of Southern Ohio say, despite all our concern, in parochial reports, with “members in good standing,” we are not “members” of the church. Your presence in this community is not like your membership in the Rotary Club or the country club, or the book club, or even the AARP. You do not pay dues to this community, and we do not assess you when it’s time to put in a new air conditioning unit or roof. Nor are you here because you have all the right beliefs, or because you understand perfectly all the tenets of the Nicene Creed – not that the Creeds are unimportant. You are not here because you have read enough books about the church, or prayer, or theology. You are here because you have been transformed by God and continue to seek transformation of your life.
We are all here because, through our baptisms, we have committed ourselves to being disciples of Jesus and have accepted his commission to proclaim the good news. We have promised to walk the talk in a world that doesn’t want to hear about Jesus, let alone encourage us to put his teachings into action. We are here because we trust that God has empowered us to bring the good news of God’s love to unexpected places. We are here because we understand that ultimately the work of proclaiming the good news is God’s work, and we are willing to be God’s instruments in that work. Indeed, we are open to letting God be incarnate in us. And we are willing to persist in calling others into the beloved community of Jesus’ disciples.
Do you remember one of the promises we all made in the baptismal covenant: “to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?” As those commissioned and sent by Jesus in our own day, we trust and hope that we will live our lives with such integrity and devotion that others will see Christ in us and will be drawn into fellowship with Christ. We trust and hope that we may be agents of reconciliation and friendship among those with whom we work and live. We trust and hope that our political actions, our votes and our communication with our elected representatives, and our support of social agencies, will enable us to partner with God in bringing in a reign of peace and justice. In addition, as a parish we have a significant ministry of hospitality, not only in Loaves and Fishes but in our support of the groups who use this building. How else might we proclaim the nearness of God’s kingdom? Are there other ways for us to serve the Gallipolis area? For example, can this building serve as a shelter in time of disaster?
Yet we know that there are times when we must also speak our faith, when we must actually say in equivalent twenty-first century language, “The Kingdom of God has come near to you.” Certainly, we must use modern electronic forms of communication. That is why St. Peter’s has a web site and Facebook page. We need to develop other forms of electronic communication, and I hope those of you more knowledgeable in this area than I will suggest new ways for us to proclaim the good news. What sites are you using where St. Peter’s should have a presence? Are there ways to offer Christian formation via electronic media? What forms or times of worship we should be exploring?
Important as electronic media are, in the end we are charged with speaking our faith to real, live people, face to face. Sometimes charismatic preachers can fill the hall for a year or two. Sometimes a glitzy, packaged program will enable a parish briefly to grow. But, believe it or not, a simple word-of-mouth invitation to a relative, neighbor, or friend is the most successful way to encourage people to “come and see.” Is this a community in which people are nurtured spiritually? If so, can you invite someone to join you here? How about inviting someone to join you at the picnic Eucharist in August? How about inviting someone to help with Loaves and Fishes this month? How about inviting someone to refresh their soul in a quiet morning? Can we dare to voice our faith in God’s love and tell others of its reality?
Even when we are asked to drink tea and eat a hard-boiled egg, we are commissioned and sent to proclaim the good news. “Come, labor on. Who dares stand idle on the harvest plain, while all around us waves the golden grain? And to each servant, to each of us, does the Master say, ‘Go work today.’”
The seventy disciples whom Jesus had sent out to prepare for his coming, as he walked to Jerusalem, may not have had to face eating eggs or drinking tea. However, as observant Jews travelling through Samaritan country, they may well have had to eat things they would never otherwise have considered eating. Who were these seventy? While Matthew, Mark, and Luke all mention Jesus’ sending of the twelve, only Luke mentions this second sending of the seventy (or seventy-two, as some manuscripts have it). An underlying motif in the gospel of Luke is the proclamation of the good news to all people, regardless of class or ethnicity. So the number of these disciples is no doubt symbolic, referring to the Table of the Nations in Genesis 10, i.e., to the entire world. What were their names, and where did they come from? Were they some of those people who had heard Jesus’ call and gladly fell in behind him? Were some of them the wealthy women who were bankrolling Jesus’ ministry? Luke tells us nothing about them. The Western Church has largely ignored them. However, the Eastern Church continues to venerate them. Today there are several different lists of their names. Orthodox churches regularly commemorate their ministry on January 4th, the feast of the Seventy Apostles.
Whoever they were, the seventy were clearly commissioned and sent by Jesus – and with some urgency. The seventy were to serve as an advance party in the countryside between Samaria and Jerusalem, preparing people for Jesus’ coming and proclaiming the peace and salvation that come with reign of God. Bearing Jesus’ authority, they were to do everything that he had done: they were to preach, teach, heal, and proclaim that God’s reign had begun. In commissioning them, Jesus had clearly warned them of the risks and rewards of signing on to his program. They were to travel in pairs. They were to travel light and not stop to socialize along the way. They were to be prepared for hostility and rejection. They were to accept whatever hospitality was offered them. Once settled, they were not to cast around looking for better digs. They were to stay focused on proclaiming the good news. Knowing that the work was more than even they could manage, they were to stay connected with God and continue to ask God to add to their number.
My friends, you and I are here because the seventy disciples did their job very well. As we learn from reading the book of Acts, Luke’s companion volume to the gospel, the seventy, the twelve, and others went out from Jerusalem to Asia Minor and Europe. They created new communities of disciples, and the Way, the Christian faith, went “viral.” In later centuries, they went to China, Japan, India, and the Americas. They proclaimed the good news and, with the authority of Jesus, they preached, taught, and healed. They invited those whom they met, those whose eggs they ate and whose tea they drank, to join Jesus’ fellowship of love. They created communities united not by ties of family, ethnicity, class, color, or even place of birth, but by shared allegiance to Jesus and his mission.
And now we are part of their number. We are part of that number not because we are “members” of the Episcopal Church. Despite what the canons of the Episcopal Church and the Diocese of Southern Ohio say, despite all our concern, in parochial reports, with “members in good standing,” we are not “members” of the church. Your presence in this community is not like your membership in the Rotary Club or the country club, or the book club, or even the AARP. You do not pay dues to this community, and we do not assess you when it’s time to put in a new air conditioning unit or roof. Nor are you here because you have all the right beliefs, or because you understand perfectly all the tenets of the Nicene Creed – not that the Creeds are unimportant. You are not here because you have read enough books about the church, or prayer, or theology. You are here because you have been transformed by God and continue to seek transformation of your life.
We are all here because, through our baptisms, we have committed ourselves to being disciples of Jesus and have accepted his commission to proclaim the good news. We have promised to walk the talk in a world that doesn’t want to hear about Jesus, let alone encourage us to put his teachings into action. We are here because we trust that God has empowered us to bring the good news of God’s love to unexpected places. We are here because we understand that ultimately the work of proclaiming the good news is God’s work, and we are willing to be God’s instruments in that work. Indeed, we are open to letting God be incarnate in us. And we are willing to persist in calling others into the beloved community of Jesus’ disciples.
Do you remember one of the promises we all made in the baptismal covenant: “to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?” As those commissioned and sent by Jesus in our own day, we trust and hope that we will live our lives with such integrity and devotion that others will see Christ in us and will be drawn into fellowship with Christ. We trust and hope that we may be agents of reconciliation and friendship among those with whom we work and live. We trust and hope that our political actions, our votes and our communication with our elected representatives, and our support of social agencies, will enable us to partner with God in bringing in a reign of peace and justice. In addition, as a parish we have a significant ministry of hospitality, not only in Loaves and Fishes but in our support of the groups who use this building. How else might we proclaim the nearness of God’s kingdom? Are there other ways for us to serve the Gallipolis area? For example, can this building serve as a shelter in time of disaster?
Yet we know that there are times when we must also speak our faith, when we must actually say in equivalent twenty-first century language, “The Kingdom of God has come near to you.” Certainly, we must use modern electronic forms of communication. That is why St. Peter’s has a web site and Facebook page. We need to develop other forms of electronic communication, and I hope those of you more knowledgeable in this area than I will suggest new ways for us to proclaim the good news. What sites are you using where St. Peter’s should have a presence? Are there ways to offer Christian formation via electronic media? What forms or times of worship we should be exploring?
Important as electronic media are, in the end we are charged with speaking our faith to real, live people, face to face. Sometimes charismatic preachers can fill the hall for a year or two. Sometimes a glitzy, packaged program will enable a parish briefly to grow. But, believe it or not, a simple word-of-mouth invitation to a relative, neighbor, or friend is the most successful way to encourage people to “come and see.” Is this a community in which people are nurtured spiritually? If so, can you invite someone to join you here? How about inviting someone to join you at the picnic Eucharist in August? How about inviting someone to help with Loaves and Fishes this month? How about inviting someone to refresh their soul in a quiet morning? Can we dare to voice our faith in God’s love and tell others of its reality?
Even when we are asked to drink tea and eat a hard-boiled egg, we are commissioned and sent to proclaim the good news. “Come, labor on. Who dares stand idle on the harvest plain, while all around us waves the golden grain? And to each servant, to each of us, does the Master say, ‘Go work today.’”
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Speaking Truth
Are you sure you want to continue being a disciple of Jesus? Do you really feel safe sitting in these pews? In the ancient world, deciding to become a Christian was a risky undertaking. You just didn’t walk up to the presbyter and present yourself. The earliest Christians wanted to make sure that people really knew what they were getting into when they asked for baptism, so they instituted a lengthy period of instruction and preparation for those intending to be baptized. Even today, adults ideally have some form of instruction before they are baptized, and the Book of Occasional Services even provides a liturgy for admission as a catechumen, i.e., someone preparing for baptism. Even with instruction, after hearing today’s Scripture readings, you still might wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. I wouldn’t blame you if, right now, you got up out of your pew, fled through the red doors, and went out to become a Zen Buddhist!
You’re still sure you want to follow Jesus? You’re not alarmed by what happened to Amos? It was the eighth century B.C. Amos was a shepherd and a specialist in the care of fig trees. Although he lived in the southern kingdom of Judah, God sent him to the northern kingdom of Israel. God’s message was tough to deliver: God told Amos to warn Israel about the deep disparities in the nation between rich and poor. He further instructed Amos to use the image of a plumb line to make his point. Do you know what a plumb line is? In the ancient world, it was a weighted string or rope against which it could be seen whether a wall was straight or not. God thus commanded Amos to tell the leadership of Israel that Israel’s religious and political institutions did not meet God’s standards, and that consequently the temple, the king, and all the leaders of the kingdom would be destroyed. Of course, the king refused to hear such warnings. Do those in power ever really want to hear the truth? So the king sent his lackey, the priest Amaziah, to warn Amos that his life was in danger, and to command him to quit prophesying, at least in Israel.
Worse yet is the story of John the Baptist. Here we hear eerie echoes of Amos’s fate. We tend to remember John as Jesus’ cousin, whose mother Elizabeth was in the sixth month with him when the angel Gabriel announced the birth of Jesus to Mary. Or we remember that John called himself Jesus’ forerunner and baptized Jesus just before the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness. But we tend to forget that John was also a fiery prophet in his own right who suffered for telling those in power things they did not want to hear. The ruler in question here was Herod Antipas, the grandson of Herod the Great, who figures in the story of the Magi. In truth, Herod Antipas was a lackey of Rome, but he had delusions of grandeur. John had publicly denounced him for unlawfully marrying Herodias, the wife of his brother Philip. More important, John’s popularity with ordinary people posed a potential threat to Herod’s ability to control Galilee. Not surprising, through the clever scheming of Herodias, as we have heard, John ended up paying with his life for his proclamation of God’s word and his outspoken condemnation of Antipas and Herodias.
Why are we hearing about the death of John the Baptist now? Why does Mark place his story here in his Gospel, since presumably this is a flashback to an earlier event? Last week’s reading, which immediately preceded this section, depicted Jesus’ sending out of his first missionaries, the first people called by Jesus to extend his message to others. In next week’s reading, which immediately follows this section, we will hear of the return of those first missionaries. Why would Mark sandwich the story of the death of the John the Baptist between these two events?
To answer that question we have to remember that Mark’s Gospel was the first Gospel, and that it was written in about the late ‘60s for a community that was being persecuted by the religious and political leaders. The Gospel writer sandwiched the story of John’s death between the sending and return of the first messengers, first of all, to remind his hearers of Jesus’ death. Indeed, the parallels between the two deaths are striking. Both John and Jesus were killed by those exercising political power. In both cases, the rulers seemed reluctant to carry out the death sentence, but both succumbed to the pressure of the people around them, Herod to his courtiers, and Pilate to the crowd. After their deaths, both John’s and Jesus’ followers were able to give them respectful burials. However, what is far more important is the Gospel writer’s implied reminder to his hearers that the fates of John the Baptist and Jesus might well be their own. In electing to follow Jesus, in choosing to flout social custom and political authority, these new disciples too might pay with their lives.
So where is the good news in this grim reminder? Maybe the good news is that we no longer face persecution and discrimination for allowing the Holy Spirit to draw us into Christ’s Body. Is that because we play it safe and carry out only the easy and obvious ministries, the ones that don’t upset anyone? Are we safe because we refuse to name injustice when we see it, or we sit back and let others speak out for peace, sound immigration policies, gay rights, and equitable access to health care? Do we let others blow the whistle on corruption, sexual predators, and insider trading? Do we let others minister to those in prison?
Actually, there is good news hidden in this story of John’s murder. The good news is tucked into Herod’s question about John. Just as they later identified Jesus, people had said that John was Elijah, and that he was “like one of the prophets of old.” But Herod, knowing that he had had John killed, declared, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.” And in Herod’s fearful confession there is a glimmer of hope for Mark’s hearers, for all the oppressed, and for us. For in that confession, Mark reminds us that indeed Jesus was raised, and that because of Jesus’ resurrection all the prophets who have been killed throughout the ages are alive in Jesus. Indeed, in that confession is the gospel writer’s promise that whenever we speak truth to power, whenever we follow Jesus’ call to proclaim the good news to others, whatever our fate, we too can expect to be raised with Jesus. Are we not then called to witness to justice, to “speak truth to power,” in the company of all those who have done so in God’s name?
In March, 1955, members of the board of the American Friends Service Committee published a pamphlet entitled Speak Truth to Power. This nation was deep into the Cold War, and nuclear weaponry was developing in earnest. The writers of the pamphlet were following in the footsteps of their eighteenth century counterparts, who accepted the charge of speaking from the deepest insights of their faith. These twentieth-century Friends felt compelled to speak to those in positions of power against nuclear proliferation and for peace. Without denying the reality of evil and our obligation to confront it, they outlined a non-violent approach to political conflict. More important, they grounded their desire for peace in a “politics of eternity,” knowing full well how risky and contrary to all that is reasonable it is to speak from such a perspective. Clearly, today’s politicians have yet to embrace the position of the AFSC writers. However, the pamphlet quickly became a major statement of Christian pacifism and inspired such figures as Martin Luther King and Mennonite John Howard Yoder. The AFSC continues to work for peace and justice around the world, united by "the unfaltering belief in the essential worth of every human being, non-violence as the way to resolve conflict, and the power of love to overcome oppression, discrimination, and violence."1
Last week, we were reminded that we are sent out by Jesus to be evangelists, to tell others of our relationship with Jesus. This week the writer of the Gospel of Mark has upped the ante: like Amos and the other ancient prophets, like John the Baptist, like Jesus, and like Jesus’ earliest followers, we too are called to “speak truth to power.” We too are called to confront evil, injustice, violence, and hatred. We too are called to work for justice, peace, and love. And we have God’s promise: whatever the risks we are called upon to take, ultimately we are in good company, for we will be in the blessed company of all those who have dared to be heralds of God’s realm. With them, we give thanks for the life and witness of John the Baptist. We pray for all who have been imprisoned for their faith, for all who face persecution or danger, and for all who stand firmly for freedom and justice. Lord, make us to be numbered among them.
1. http://afsc.org/our-work
2. Based on David Adam, Traces of Glory (Harrisburg, PA: 1999), 99.
You’re still sure you want to follow Jesus? You’re not alarmed by what happened to Amos? It was the eighth century B.C. Amos was a shepherd and a specialist in the care of fig trees. Although he lived in the southern kingdom of Judah, God sent him to the northern kingdom of Israel. God’s message was tough to deliver: God told Amos to warn Israel about the deep disparities in the nation between rich and poor. He further instructed Amos to use the image of a plumb line to make his point. Do you know what a plumb line is? In the ancient world, it was a weighted string or rope against which it could be seen whether a wall was straight or not. God thus commanded Amos to tell the leadership of Israel that Israel’s religious and political institutions did not meet God’s standards, and that consequently the temple, the king, and all the leaders of the kingdom would be destroyed. Of course, the king refused to hear such warnings. Do those in power ever really want to hear the truth? So the king sent his lackey, the priest Amaziah, to warn Amos that his life was in danger, and to command him to quit prophesying, at least in Israel.
Worse yet is the story of John the Baptist. Here we hear eerie echoes of Amos’s fate. We tend to remember John as Jesus’ cousin, whose mother Elizabeth was in the sixth month with him when the angel Gabriel announced the birth of Jesus to Mary. Or we remember that John called himself Jesus’ forerunner and baptized Jesus just before the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness. But we tend to forget that John was also a fiery prophet in his own right who suffered for telling those in power things they did not want to hear. The ruler in question here was Herod Antipas, the grandson of Herod the Great, who figures in the story of the Magi. In truth, Herod Antipas was a lackey of Rome, but he had delusions of grandeur. John had publicly denounced him for unlawfully marrying Herodias, the wife of his brother Philip. More important, John’s popularity with ordinary people posed a potential threat to Herod’s ability to control Galilee. Not surprising, through the clever scheming of Herodias, as we have heard, John ended up paying with his life for his proclamation of God’s word and his outspoken condemnation of Antipas and Herodias.
Why are we hearing about the death of John the Baptist now? Why does Mark place his story here in his Gospel, since presumably this is a flashback to an earlier event? Last week’s reading, which immediately preceded this section, depicted Jesus’ sending out of his first missionaries, the first people called by Jesus to extend his message to others. In next week’s reading, which immediately follows this section, we will hear of the return of those first missionaries. Why would Mark sandwich the story of the death of the John the Baptist between these two events?
To answer that question we have to remember that Mark’s Gospel was the first Gospel, and that it was written in about the late ‘60s for a community that was being persecuted by the religious and political leaders. The Gospel writer sandwiched the story of John’s death between the sending and return of the first messengers, first of all, to remind his hearers of Jesus’ death. Indeed, the parallels between the two deaths are striking. Both John and Jesus were killed by those exercising political power. In both cases, the rulers seemed reluctant to carry out the death sentence, but both succumbed to the pressure of the people around them, Herod to his courtiers, and Pilate to the crowd. After their deaths, both John’s and Jesus’ followers were able to give them respectful burials. However, what is far more important is the Gospel writer’s implied reminder to his hearers that the fates of John the Baptist and Jesus might well be their own. In electing to follow Jesus, in choosing to flout social custom and political authority, these new disciples too might pay with their lives.
So where is the good news in this grim reminder? Maybe the good news is that we no longer face persecution and discrimination for allowing the Holy Spirit to draw us into Christ’s Body. Is that because we play it safe and carry out only the easy and obvious ministries, the ones that don’t upset anyone? Are we safe because we refuse to name injustice when we see it, or we sit back and let others speak out for peace, sound immigration policies, gay rights, and equitable access to health care? Do we let others blow the whistle on corruption, sexual predators, and insider trading? Do we let others minister to those in prison?
Actually, there is good news hidden in this story of John’s murder. The good news is tucked into Herod’s question about John. Just as they later identified Jesus, people had said that John was Elijah, and that he was “like one of the prophets of old.” But Herod, knowing that he had had John killed, declared, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.” And in Herod’s fearful confession there is a glimmer of hope for Mark’s hearers, for all the oppressed, and for us. For in that confession, Mark reminds us that indeed Jesus was raised, and that because of Jesus’ resurrection all the prophets who have been killed throughout the ages are alive in Jesus. Indeed, in that confession is the gospel writer’s promise that whenever we speak truth to power, whenever we follow Jesus’ call to proclaim the good news to others, whatever our fate, we too can expect to be raised with Jesus. Are we not then called to witness to justice, to “speak truth to power,” in the company of all those who have done so in God’s name?
In March, 1955, members of the board of the American Friends Service Committee published a pamphlet entitled Speak Truth to Power. This nation was deep into the Cold War, and nuclear weaponry was developing in earnest. The writers of the pamphlet were following in the footsteps of their eighteenth century counterparts, who accepted the charge of speaking from the deepest insights of their faith. These twentieth-century Friends felt compelled to speak to those in positions of power against nuclear proliferation and for peace. Without denying the reality of evil and our obligation to confront it, they outlined a non-violent approach to political conflict. More important, they grounded their desire for peace in a “politics of eternity,” knowing full well how risky and contrary to all that is reasonable it is to speak from such a perspective. Clearly, today’s politicians have yet to embrace the position of the AFSC writers. However, the pamphlet quickly became a major statement of Christian pacifism and inspired such figures as Martin Luther King and Mennonite John Howard Yoder. The AFSC continues to work for peace and justice around the world, united by "the unfaltering belief in the essential worth of every human being, non-violence as the way to resolve conflict, and the power of love to overcome oppression, discrimination, and violence."1
Last week, we were reminded that we are sent out by Jesus to be evangelists, to tell others of our relationship with Jesus. This week the writer of the Gospel of Mark has upped the ante: like Amos and the other ancient prophets, like John the Baptist, like Jesus, and like Jesus’ earliest followers, we too are called to “speak truth to power.” We too are called to confront evil, injustice, violence, and hatred. We too are called to work for justice, peace, and love. And we have God’s promise: whatever the risks we are called upon to take, ultimately we are in good company, for we will be in the blessed company of all those who have dared to be heralds of God’s realm. With them, we give thanks for the life and witness of John the Baptist. We pray for all who have been imprisoned for their faith, for all who face persecution or danger, and for all who stand firmly for freedom and justice. Lord, make us to be numbered among them.
1. http://afsc.org/our-work
2. Based on David Adam, Traces of Glory (Harrisburg, PA: 1999), 99.
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