Good Friday, 2014

When we make our way to the foot of the cross, to that lonely hill outside of Jerusalem, our sense and reason often fail. This holy and sacred day always inspires deep questions among those of us who follow after Jesus. Foremost among them is “why?” Why did the worst elements of our humanity drive Jesus to the shameful death of a criminal? Why would a loving God have his Son die in order to save humanity? Good Friday is a day that seems to inspire many, many questions, but few answers. The cross is, it seems, truly scandal.

We face two dueling temptations every Good Friday, and we have faced them over and over again throughout the centuries. The first temptation is to lash out in anger and revenge, seeking out those who we believe to be responsible for Jesus’ death on the cross. But to do so is always to set up a straw man to receive our own guilt, rather than face the fickleness and brokenness that lies in the depths of our own humanity. And, as often happened throughout history and still continues to this day, such an inclination only creates more hatred and more violence. This is not where we are called to dwell on this day. And this inclination misses a larger truth: that the story of the cross is not simply about the process that led to Jesus’ death – but about the glory of God.

The second temptation is to impute all guilt to ourselves, and plumb the depth of our own souls in guilt. We recall our own sinfulness, our own brokenness, our own violence. To look inward is a far more noble response than to lash out in violence against our neighbors. And to be sure, as humans – imperfect, and sinful – we can always see outright signs – of the fear, hatred, and anger that we hear echoed in John’s passion today as Jesus moves toward the cross. But this, too, is not where we are called to dwell on this day, for the story of the cross, is not simply about the process that led to Jesus’ death – but the Glory of God.

The cross is the Glory of God, and Jesus’ ultimate glorification. “The message about the cross,” Paul writes, “is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” The cross is not Jesus’ shame, but his glory. The cross is not Jesus’ weakness, but his power. The cross is not Jesus’ defeat, but his victory. In John’s passion, Jesus is fully in control as he moves toward the cross. In the garden, Jesus tells Peter to put away his sword and orders Peter to allow him be taken away by soldiers. He stands in silence in front of Pilate knowing that death lay before him. And even from the cross itself, Jesus’ life does not end with a loud cry, but in three quiet words: “It is finished.”

With those last words, we hear a Jesus has truly seen all of our humanity. He has seen humanity its best: the love of an official for his sick son who begs for Jesus to heal him, his disciples who have tried to follow after him as best they could, of Mary and Martha weeping at the loss of their brother Lazarus. And he has seen humanity at its worst on his way to the cross: our rage, spite, jealousy, mistrust, and fear. And finally, at the cross, Jesus, the Word made Flesh, encounters that last defining element of our humanity – our mortality. And in the face of death, he radiates love. As he is lifted high on the cross, Jesus draws all people to himself.

This truly is the foolishness and the power of God, that Jesus, the word made flesh, should face what the theologian Frederick Buechner called the ‘magnificent defeat’ – where Jesus’ wounds are “the proud insignia of the defeat which is victory, the magnificent defeat of the human soul at the hands of God.”  It is the foolishness and the power of God that Jesus, the Word Incarnate, should meet us here as we are, even though were we are is already place of death and shame, a place where, if we would have our way, we would never allow God to come and meet us. Yet God comes there anyway. At the cross, the place where we think we are sure to keep God far away from us, God shows true glory, meets us, and raises us to a new life of grace.

And so as we look to the cross on this day, even as we see death, we receive the stuff life itself. Even as we see our own hatred and evil, we see the love of God expressed in its fullest measure. We look at the cross, and we see God incarnate, God fully with us, God fully for us. And our response can be simply to adore. Here we glory in the Cross, by which joy has come into the world.  We sit, we adore, in wonder and in awe of the embrace of Jesus’ arms of love, stretched out for our lives, and for the life of the world.

Maundy Thursday, 2014

And during supper Jesus got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

I have often wondered what it must have been like to be Simon Peter, in that Upper Room during dinner. More specifically, I wonder about one specific moment – that pregnant pause right after Jesus has begun to wash his disciples’ feet. I imagine the room as completely silent, save for the sound of the splashing of water, and the cold hard “click” of pottery against the floor. What would it have been like for Peter in that moment?

Peter had been with Jesus since his brother Andrew had told him that he had found the Messiah; when he first met Jesus, the Lord had said he was to be called Cephas – Rock – and that was pretty much that. He followed after Jesus. And then almost immediately, Peter saw so many things he never would have imagined. A paralyzed man was made to walk in Bethesda; and 5000 people were fed from from five barley loaves and two fish. Jesus had walked across the Sea of Galillee to them in the midst of a storm, he had restored the sight of man who was blind from birth, and not a week before, he had spoken to Lazarus and Lazarus rose from the dead.

Having seen all those things – having been with Jesus through all that time – what, then, would have been running through Simon Peter’s mind on this night, in that silence, with only the sound of the splashing of water, and the cold hard “click” of pottery against the floor of the room?

I can’t speak for Peter, but his words make it very clear he was uncomfortable. “You will never wash my feet,” he insists. It feels like the right answer, the holy answer. He has a sense of how great the one in front of him is. It is only in that moment when Jesus looks him and says that “unless I wash you, Peter, you have no share with me” that Peter gives in, overcompensates, even, asking Jesus not just to wash his feet but his head and hands also. When Jesus says to the disciples: “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand,” it must be true – they can’t know what he is doing in that moment. After all, I’m not sure that even here and now, some two thousand years later, we really can comprehend what Jesus was doing in that instant. Do we understand what he is doing? What Jesus is showing us? Even now?

To have one’s feet washed is a profoundly uncomfortable experience. For most of us, it is infinitely easier to wash another person’s feet, to take on the mantle of service and abasement, then it is to sit in the chair and let ourselves be served by another person. And in Peter’s case, this service came from not just any other person, but from Jesus Christ himself. And it begs the question – have we ever truly sat in Peter’s place? Have we allowed ourselves to be in that room, in that chair, in that silence, with Jesus washing our feet?

Jesus tells the disciples the meaning of his actions in the silence of that night in the upper room. He says – both to us and to the disciples – “You call me Teacher and Lord — and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” It is this charge and commandment that gives tonight its name – the word Maundy in Maundy Thursday comes from the Latin mandatum – commandment: “I give you a new commandment,” Jesus says, “that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” But dare I say it, hearing and receiving this new commandment is often the easy part of the good news on this night. Just as Peter was eager to spring to action and wash Jesus’ feet, as Christians, our first instinct is often to get up and do things – to start another program or another ministry, to pick up another volunteer opportunity, to keep doing more, and more, and more. And in our excitement and enthusiasm – even as we seek to follow after Jesus – we often fail to sit and listen, even as he commanded Peter to do.

First, the gospel says, we must sit. Sit in our disquietude and discomfort as Jesus moves about in that silent room, where the only noise to be heard is the sound of the splashing of water, and the cold hard “click” of pottery against the floor of the room. We must sit, and listen, and obey the Jesus who fed the five thousand, and cured the blind, and raised the dead as he takes on the role of servant – and then, only then – take up the servant’s mantle, wash the feet of others, and reach out our arms in love in the pattern of our Lord. For it is in that moment of discomfort – that moment that we want to shout, “You will never wash my feet!” – it is there, when we look at Jesus, that we see just how powerful a thing it is to be in the presence of the Word made flesh. Because when we look down at Jesus, the servant, we see one fully God and fully human. And it is only then, as we see God taking on an act of service that we will never, ever be able to repay, that we are truly able see in Jesus the faces of our neighbors. It is then, as Jesus washes our feet, that we see the love of God fully expressed for all of humanity. It is in that moment that we understand how love transforms service into something bigger and greater than we ever could imagine. And it is from that moment we are propelled and sent, called to truly be servants of all, as Jesus first was servant of all.

On this night, Jesus Christ calls us to wash one another’s feet, just as he has washed ours. Jesus compels us to reach out our arms in loving service, even as his arms of love were stretched on the hard wood of the cross. Jesus commands us to follow the example that he has set. But first we must simply be still and listen. We must be present and sit in the still and uncomfortable silence of the Upper Room, with only the sound of the splashing of water and the cold hard “click” of pottery against the floor, and come face to face with Jesus, our God who serves.

The Unspeakable Weight of Glory – Sermon for Last Epiphany A (RCL)

But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

Three of the four gospels tell of Jesus ascending the mountain with Peter, James, and John. For those who know the story, regardless of the particular gospel we draw it from, the plot is familiar: on the mountain, the disciples see Jesus’ clothes become a bright and dazzling white, and watch as he speaks with Moses and Elijah. Peter offers to build dwellings for Jesus, Moses and Elijah to remain there. A bright cloud overshadows everyone, paralyzing the disciples with fear. A voice from heaven proclaims Jesus as “my son, the Beloved.” The cloud dissipates, Jesus looks again like he has always looked, and they leave the mountain. And the disciples then tell no one of what they have seen.

Nobody ever talks about the Transfiguration. Jesus doesn’t concretely explain to the disciples what they have witnessed, but in today’s account he does tell them not to speak of it until after his resurrection.  He doesn’t impart meaning to the event itself, but largely leaves it sitting in the hands of those who were present on the mountain. And Peter, James, and John don’t say anything until after the resurrection, by all accounts. Yet even after his resurrection, there’s not much evidence that the disciples ever say much of anything about this incredible moment, high up on the mountain. The passages in the gospels themselves, and one stray passage in the 2nd Epistle of Peter, all written many years after Jesus’ death and resurrection, are the whole of the witness to what transpired on the mountaintop.

The gospel tells us that the disciples saw the glory of Jesus Christ on the mountain, when the voice roared out from the cloud, they were terrified, and fell down on their faces. And they weren’t simply terrified, but overcome – struck with that deep combination of fear and awe that lead them to collapse to the ground, not solely out of a choice to be reverent, but in a kind of instinctive, reflexive and primal response when in the presence of something – or someone – unimaginably pure, unimaginably powerful, unimaginably holy.

Would the disciples have simply remained there, transfixed in worship, awe, and fear forever? Matthew seems to think so. The disciples remain there, seemingly paralyzed, until Jesus who comes to them, reaches out and touches them, and tells them not to be afraid.  Then, and only then, they look up, and see the face of that same Jesus they had known since he called them away from their nets in Galilee. Only then do they stir from their places, rise, and go with Jesus, back down the mountain, back to the world they once knew and were yet to know again.

Somehow, I suspect that after that experience on the top of the mountain, where the disciples fell to the ground, struck with fear and awe, Jesus’ command to them not to tell anyone was somewhat of a redundancy.  The deep reverence, deep awe inspired by the frightfully close encounter of Peter, James, and John to the bright, shining, paralyzing revelation of Jesus’ glory would likely tend to make leave them speechless and keep them quiet, lest the luster of the event wear thin, and the vividness and crispness of their memory be worn down by the constant strains of analysis, like the pages of a well worn book of photographs which begins to fray at the edges after constant handling.

But the story, did, of course, get out. Peter, James, and John told someone after Jesus rose from the dead; we wouldn’t have this reading from Matthew to study otherwise. And yet, after two thousand years, the account of the Transfiguration is still vivid. It hasn’t frayed around the edges, or lost its air of ineffable mystery. Jesus and three of his disciples walk up the mountain, and Jesus and three of his disciples descend, yet what happens in the midst of the cloud – the piercing light of dazzling brightness, the voice of God proclaiming the belovedness of his only Son, remains as terrifying and transfixing as ever. As humans we tend to be able to rationalize away any event, or action, or behavior with enough discussion, enough thought, enough language – and it would seem that the same should have been true for the disciples on the mountain. So why not this story, too?

I suspect the Transfiguration remains so resonant, so precise, to clear today because when we follow after Jesus, we’ve been in the same place as Peter, James, and John.  We follow after our teacher, friend, and brother Jesus day by day, drawn from our own unique worlds, until one day, we are knocked over at once by the power and the clarity of our vision of Jesus’ glory. Those moments come like shots out of the dark, with little warning, often without preparation, and we become paralyzed with fear, with wonder, and with awe just as the disciples were.  The moment hits us when we know ourselves to truly be in Jesus’ presence – in the presence of God himself, and touched by the overwhelming weight of his glory. And just as with Peter, James, and John, we are paralyzed be the vision, caught up in one place, bent over in fear, in awe, and in adoration. And then, suddenly, Jesus reaches out, touches us, and tells us to get up, and appears to us as our friend and brother once again. So we then know ourselves to be disciples of Jesus who is as we are, and yet worshippers of the one who is so unspeakably and infinitely greater than all we can ever begin to imagine.

Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

Nobody ever talks about the Transfiguration. Instead, we react and respond to it, to the undeniable and overwhelming vision and weight of Jesus’ glory, shown to us on the mountain and in the world, and given to us as Christ’s body at the font, and at the table. In the face of God’s glory, manifest and visible, terrifying and awe-inspiring, Jesus comes, and touches us, and says: Get up. Do not be afraid.

The End of Safety – Sermon for Epiphany 3A (RCL)

“Come and see,” was the invitation Jesus gave to two of John the Baptist’s disciples in last week’s reading from John’s gospel. When they heard John the Baptist proclaim Jesus as the Lamb of God, they begin to follow him – just as they had been disciples of John the Baptist, they then turn and follow after Jesus, asking him where he was dwelling. John’s gospel says that one of those two disciples was Andrew, who then went and brought his brother, Simon Peter, to Jesus. Jesus’ invitation begins the process that causes the disciples to follow after him.

How different, then, is today’s account from Matthew’s gospel, where Jesus calls, and the disciples follow him.  In Matthew’s gospel, there’s very little in the way of invitation; no sign that Andrew, Peter, James or John were in any sense aware of what was about to happen to them or had already chosen to follow after John, Jesus or anyone else. Instead they were all going about their business when Jesus enters the scene, tells them to follow him, and changes everything:

As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea– for they were fishermen. And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” Immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John, in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets, and he called them. Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed him.[1]

Jesus calls the disciples – they respond and follow. That’s it – no questions, no promises, no guarantees – the text says they immediately respond, without any delay or reservation. They leave their nets, and in the case of James and John, their own father, and they follow the Lord. They leave the lives they knew to follow after Jesus.

Simon, Andrew, James and John were all fishermen in Galilee. Contrary to our common impression, there’s no reason to think that they were firmly stationed at the bottom of society. Fishing was a major industry around the Sea of Galilee, and our account suggests that the disciples owned boats, nets, and implements of their trade. [2] While they may not have been at the top of society, they certainly weren’t at its bottom, by all accounts, making for themselves a comfortable life.  They didn’t seek Jesus out, and, in all likelihood, they wouldn’t have. Instead, Jesus found them, called them, and they followed after him. That, too, is strange – Jesus called them to follow him – they didn’t seek him out. It would have been customary in Jesus’ time for disciples to seek out a teacher – much like in our gospel from last week, where disciples who were following John turn of their own accord to follow after Jesus. The opposite – a teacher seeking out his own disciples – was not at all a normal or expected behavior.[3]  Yet Jesus seeks them out to follow, chooses them to follow him, calls them to follow him.  And, somehow, they do.

I would love to be able to say that it was a moment of great faith that compelled Simon Peter, Andrew, James, and John to leave their comfortable lives by the sea to follow after Jesus, but somehow, I don’t think that’s true.  The Son of God called them and they had to answer; they didn’t choose Jesus; Jesus chose them, called them to follow him, and they didn’t pause, they didn’t think, and they didn’t argue – they simply left their nets.

When the Lord calls us beyond the safety of our nets, out beyond the safety of our familiar seashore, to a life of discipleship, a life of following after him, how do we respond? The gospel tells us what happens as soon as the disciples follow Jesus, he went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people.[4]

As soon as they leave the seashore behind, the disciples hear the good news of the kingdom; they see lives changed and transformed. They experience something infinitely more interesting, more trying, more exhilarating than they ever would have seen sitting by their nets on the sea.

Yet I would imagine when Jesus calls us to follow now, we can all to often equivocate. I know I do: I may give Jesus my loyalty and my devotion and the efforts that seem easiest and most conventional; absolute submission and surrender, however, is so much more difficult.  I know that following Jesus changes my life and the life of the world; yet I’m not so certain that I want it to change, even with the promise of something more.  The author James Baldwin once wrote:

“Any real change implies the breakup of the world as one has always known it, the loss of all that gave one an identity, the end of safety. And at such a moment, unable to see and not daring to imagine what the future will now bring forth, one clings to what one knew, or dreamed that one possessed. Yet, it is only when a man is able, without bitterness or self-pity, to surrender a dream he has long cherished or a privilege he has long possessed that he is set free… for higher dreams, for greater privileges.”[5]

It is only in surrendering ourselves to following after Jesus do we begin to see God’s great dream for the world, do we begin to see the kingdom of heaven.  “Follow me,” Jesus tells us, and “I will make you fish for people.”   Hearing Jesus’ call we are to follow; out beyond the edges of safety and comfort, losing ourself in God’s great goodness, trading all we know and all we hold dear to venture out into the unknown, for in the Lord’s service is perfect freedom. Amen.


[1] Matthew 4:18-22.

[2] Daniel Harrington, S.J. The Gospel of Matthew. (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2007.) p. 72.

[3] Harrington, p. 75.

[4] Matthew 4:23

[5] James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name: More Notes of a Native Son (New York: Vintage)

A Grand Invitation – Sermon for Epiphany 2A (RCL)

Epiphany 2, Year A, RCL: Isaiah 49:1-7, Psalm 40:1-12, 1 Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42

We are conditioned, at least in my mind, to pay attention to “first” things.  We keep track of a baby’s first steps and first words with fevered intensity.  Growing up, I remember each year’s “first day of school” as being a touchstone by which I knew a certain amount of time had passed.  First kiss, first car, first love, first job… generally the first time something happens, we take note, and remember. “Firsts” make memorable milestones in our own lives and our relationships with others.

Our reading from John today contains Jesus’ first words in the fourth gospel. Yet, all too often, they get buried – buried under the incredible poetry of John’s prologue, perhaps overlooked next to John the Baptist’s two successive proclamations, given in Jesus’ presence, for those around to “Behold the Lamb of God!” We may often miss them, but there they are, right in the middle of today’s reading:

The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?”[1]

When he sees his new followers, Jesus asks them: “What are you looking for?”  At first glance, this sounds like a rather ordinary, almost corrective question, like when a security guard asks an errant pedestrian “may I help you?” when they get a little bit off the prescribed path.  Jesus’ question, though, is no mere pleasantry, because the people who hear it – both those who first left John to follow after the Lord on that day, and people like us, who read the fourth gospel two thousand years later, are well informed as to who Jesus is. It is, in fact, an invitation, issued from the mouth of a loving God to a beloved world.

For those who first left John to follow Jesus, it was abundantly clear who they were walking after; John’s words are clear: “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him[2]… I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God.”[3]  When we read Jesus’ question from John’s text today, we’ve already encountered that big, bold statement in the prologue: “and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us… and to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God…”

When God asks you what you’re looking for, how do you answer?
What are you looking for?

The people follow after Jesus in today’s lesson seem to know who Jesus is, and they reply to Jesus’ question with another one: “Teacher, where are you staying?”  Their question, like Jesus’ previous one, at first glance seems relatively banal, a kind of pleasantry exchanged as a matter of a typical conversation with a person travelling from out of town. Yet the question can also be translated on a deeper level: “Teacher, where do you remain? Where do you abide? Where do you dwell?” Jesus’ response: “Come and see.”

When Jesus invites you to the place where God dwells, how do you answer?
What are you looking for?

“Come and see,” Jesus invites us.  In today’s reading from John’s gospel, the people do; they follow after him, and do go and see the place where Jesus was literally staying that night. But the text tells us, “they remained with him that day.” But one of the ones who followed after him, Andrew, went and got his brother Simon first, and told him, “We have found the Messiah.” And Simon, Jesus then says, will be called Peter, Cephas, Rock.

This is a different kind of discipleship story then we’re used to.  The three other gospels have brought another story of Jesus to front of our minds: the calling James and John by the Sea of Galilee – where the Lord says, “follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” Perhaps we think of the story of summoning of Matthew the tax collector to discipleship from his tax both with the single command, “follow me.” We certainly know that story of Jesus saying “if anyone would be my disciple, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.”

That call-response dynamic is certainly part of our life together with Jesus. Following after Jesus does mean hearing his call, and taking up his cross, and following. But today, John reminds us that it’s also a grand invitation to share in the life of God – an invitation to come and see that place where God dwells – where God abides.

Saint Augustine famously wrote in his Confessions, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”[4]  Jesus’ question to his new followers, “what are you looking for?” speaks to their hearts, and it speaks to ours, because that one question defines so much of our lives.  We’re all looking for something; and often, what we’re looking for is a better understanding of God; we’re looking for rest for our restless hearts. “No one has ever seen God,” John writes in the prologue, “It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.”

When Jesus gives those great words – “Come and see” – to those who would follow after him, he offers nothing less than an invitation to come and dwell in God’s fullness, for just as surely as God creates us, God gives us the grace – in Jesus Christ – to find our rest in him.  God gives us grace upon grace in Jesus to truly know God, and live in God.

This is a grand invitation – come and see where God abides. Come and see where God dwells. Come find your rest. No wonder, then, that Andrew goes to tell his brother Simon about what who he has seen and the invitation he has received – “we have found the Messiah,” he says.  Because the invitation to share in the life of God is one that cannot be hoarded, cannot be kept to ourselves. It’s an invitation that must be shared with others, because it is an invitation to life itself – the life of God who is the source of all life. It is truly good news. No wonder this was is the first message Jesus sends to those would be his disciples…

“Come and see,” Jesus says.

“Come and see,” Andrew repeats, “We have found the Messiah!”

 

 

 



[1] John 1:35-38a

[2] John 1:32

[3] John 1:34

[4] Augustine. Confessions I.1

“Are you the one who is to come?” – Sermon for Year A, Advent III

(This sermon was originally preached extemporaneously; what follows is a reconstruction from my notes.)

When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Jesus answered them, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” (Matthew 11:2-6)

One of the many riches we find in Christianity is the wealth of spiritual traditions by which we approach God in prayer and contemplation. One of the spiritualities that has a deep resonance with me is the Ignatian tradition – those practices of prayer and of the Christian life that arise from the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola.  Ignatius is probably best remembered for founding the Society of Jesus – the Jesuits – a Roman Catholic religious order that continues to follow a rule of life in the tradition of their founder.

Jesuit priest and author James Martin has described the core of Ignatian spirituality as “finding God in everyday life.” It’s a framework – a toolkit – that likes to rely on some of our fundamental traits as human beings as a way of deepening our relationship with Jesus Christ. One of those fundamental human traits that the Ignatian tradition pays attention to is our imagination. A spiritual director once reminded me that our imaginations are a powerful force. With our imaginations, we can look ahead to imagine a conversation or a “wildest dream,” or look back to recreate a memorable and meaningful moments in our lives. And, just as our imaginations may often give us insight into who we are, and what we need to do, we can also turn our imaginations toward the life of prayer.

My spiritual director once urged me to turn my imagination to the texts of the Gospel stories, and to imagine myself in them, and then to look and see what happens. And, often, I’ve done that, to great result – imagining myself coming to adore the infant Jesus with the shepherds, or walking alongside Mary and Joseph in the flight to Egypt. I’ve imagined standing in the crowds when five loaves and two fish fed five thousand people, or standing hearing Jesus speaking the beatitudes in the sermon on the mount (or on the plain, depending on the gospel!). During Advent, I’ve imagined going out to the Judean desert to see and hear John the Baptist – the wild man – as he preached and baptized.

I’ve let my imagination place me in the middle of the Gospels, in the middle of Jesus’ life and ministry. But I’ve always had one rule – spoken or unspoken. I allowed myself to imagine being at Jesus feet as he taught and healed. I allowed myself to imagine being present at the foot of the cross, or hunched in fear in the upper room. But it seems, as I rule, I never tend to allow my imagination to place me in Jesus’ place.

This is, by all accounts, a good thing. After all, clergy already have more than a bit of a Messiah complex – it takes a unique kind of chutzpah to be able to say that God has called you to a particular ministry in front of a large congregation at ordination – and, by in large, my ego doesn’t need any more nourishment. And the gospel we preach over and over is that we are not God – that we are participants in God’s world, partakers in God’s mission, and united to Jesus Christ in baptism – but that there is nothing we do to save ourselves – all of that comes from God.

But I need to make a confession. I must have let my imagination run really wild with this week’s scripture. It may have gotten out of hand. That’s because I could picture – clear as day – that question coming from John the Baptist back to Jesus. I could imagine someone calling and asking:

“Are you the one that is to come, or am I to wait for another?”

Now, let me restate what I just said moments ago – we are not Messiahs. We live, move, and have our being through God’s grace – unearned, and undeserved. That’s what I kept telling myself as my imagination seemingly took the express track to heresy-ville this week. But I could still hear that question echo… and could imagine being asked…

“Are you the one that is to come, or am I to wait for another?”

 That’s when I realized that here – back in the real world – this is a question that, in fact, we get asked all the time as the church. People are hungry for substance – for fulfillment – for the experience of grace; everyone is on some sort of spiritual journey. Some people jump from church to church to church looking for a sense of spiritual fulfillment and nourishment; others jump from the pursuit of wealth, to lives of service, to lives of seeking looking to plug those God-shaped voids in the heart that only Jesus Christ can fill. That question is asked over and over and over again.

Even John the Baptist – John the great prophet in fact, more than a prophet, as Jesus says in today’s reading, John the Baptist who scripture says drew all of Judaea to the countryside to listen to his preaching – if John the Baptist is asking this question, then we  are too. And the world definitely is.

“Are you the one that is to come, or am I to wait for another?”

We’re not individual Messiahs; we can’t earn salvation. But, as the church, we bear witness to something, someone special – we bear witness to Jesus Christ. We know of the great wonder of the incarnation – that, as Athanasius famously said – that God became human that we may become as God is. We believe that at our baptism, we are united with God incarnate – we are united with Jesus Christ – joined to Christ in his death, raised with him in his resurrection. When Paul speaks of membership in Christ’s body over and over again, he speaks beyond the realm of metaphor – he means it. Together – as the church – we are joined, knit together, made into the body of Christ. We are joined inseparably to our savior. And that joining, changes us. And it demands that we seek to listen to the world as Christ listens to the world; to see the world as Christ sees the world; to imagine the world as Christ imagines the world.

So if John’s question to Jesus stirs our imaginations – if we get a bit nervous when we hear that question – “Are you the one that is to come, or am I to wait for another?” - well, it should.

It should make us nervous because it’s still being asked today – only now, it’s Christ body, the church, that hears that question. And it should make us nervous because we know the answer:

No, I’m not the one that is to come. But I know the one who is. And I have been made a part of his body. And no, you shouldn’t wait for another.

Just as I can imagine hearing that question from John the Baptist in today’s Gospel text, I can also imagine hearing the words Jesus gives to John’s messengers to send back - go and tell.

Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.

Go and tell – go and tell of the everyday miracles that occur in our lives, baptized and knit into Jesus Christ’s body. Go and tell of how we were dead and raised; go and tell of how we thought ourselves beyond repair only to be made whole; go and tell of how Jesus Christ took the mess of our lives and made it clean.

And don’t just go and tell – expect to be surprised. Because, just as the faithful John the Baptist asked this question – we will keep asking John’s question ourselves. We’ll ask it of our church, of our friends and neighbors, of our lay people, bishops, priests, and deacons. Because as Advent reminds us, we live in liminal, in-between space – the time between what God has done in the incarnation, and what God will do at the second advent – and in-between times can be hazy and confusing. But in those times that we ask again – we’ll meet Jesus again. We’ll meet the one who is to come yet again. And we’ll be surprised where – or in who – we see the image of Christ shown. But Christ will be there.

We aren’t the one who is to come – but we know him. Because we know Jesus Christ. And we see him again and again.

There’s a hymn that I love – one that, unfortunately didn’t make it into our hymnal, that ends like this:

Tell the praise of him who called you
out of darkness into light,
broke the fetters that enthralled you,
gave you freedom, peace and sight:
tell the tale of sins forgiven,
strength renewed and hope restored,
till the earth, in tune with heaven,
praise and magnify the Lord.

That’s our charge, not just this Advent, but each and every day of our lives. We’re to be stirred by the questions of the world – the hunger of the world – the desire of the world – and answer with the stories we have to tell. We’re to witness to the one who is to come, to tell of miracles we’ve seen and heard, and never stop looking, never stop seeking, never stop serving until that great and glorious day when all the earth, in tune with heaven, shall praise and magnify Our Lord. Amen.

 

 

 

Sermon for Proper 23C/Track 1

As many of my friends can tell you, I tend not to be a heavy user of the telephone. While I give my telephone number to acquaintances and friends as a means of getting in touch with me, for the most part, I tend to communicate best either in person or via e-mail.

That being the case, when my phone rings and a friend’s name unexpectedly pops up on the screen, I have come to instinctively anticipate two potential outcomes that may occur by the time I hang up the phone.

There is, on the one hand, news of great joy: a new baby born, friends getting married, a new job or impending retirement.

The other outcome is, however, quite stark: a family member has died, a surgery has had complications, a relationship has ended, a job has been lost.

One phone call bearing unexpected news always seems to fall at one end or another of my emotional spectrum – either leaving me exhilarated with joy or saddened by loss – with little room in between for other emotions. I suspect this has been the experience for many of us at some point in our lives.

 

As we continue our journey through the book of the Prophet Jeremiah today, we find a message sent by the prophet to all of Israel in exile in Babylon that touches both ends of the spectrum of emotion that we so often experience when picking up an unexpected phone call.

The Old Testament readings over the past several weeks have left us well aware of the situation the exiled Israel faced as it arrived in Babylon.

We have heard how Israel had come to believe that the relationship God established with David and the kings that followed him would deliver it from all threats, leading Israel to ignore the cries of the prophets.

We have heard of the deep pain felt by Israel when the walls of Jerusalem fell as they moved to exile and Babylon and sought to sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land, and seen the deep anger felt by the Psalmist as Israel wept by the waters of exile.  Indeed, Israel was left wondering if God could even hear their cries of pain and suffering when they were so far from the temple of Jerusalem.

All these experiences are in Israel’s collective conscience when it receives the unexpected phone call from Jeremiah that is today’s lesson.

Just as soon as Israel arrived in its exile, even more false prophets had arisen, predicting the swift demise of Babylon and the return of Israel to Zion.

The same covenant theology that led many to believe that Jerusalem could never fall was now leading to the hope among many that exile would be as short and sweet as exile could be – both without consequence and without pain.

Today’s message from God, sent through the mouth of Jeremiah, would then would likely have fallen upon the ears of the exiled Israel as the unexpected phone call telling us of sad news:

“Thus says the Lord of Hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease.”

This message brings disappointing news to Israel: not only is Babylon to no see a swift downfall as predicted by Hananiah and other false prophets, but the children and grandchildren of those exiled from Jerusalem can likewise expect for their homes to be in Babylon.

Israel’s exile will not be akin to a two week Mesopotamian luxury boat tour of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, but a long, true and lasting exile – one that will span at least two generations.

The message from the prophet must have sounded to Israel like the unexpected phone call does to us – depressing and discouraging.  It sounds like what many of us (myself included) have come to hear over the last several weeks as “run of the mill Jeremiah” – a message that brings painful and yet needed truth – that Israel has fallen astray, and that for Israel’s disobedience and rebellion against God – for Israel’s sin – there are a real and lasting consequences.

 

However, today’s message from Jeremiah, despite its message of a long exile in Babylon, isn’t as bad as it seems. In fact proves to be more like that joyful unexpected phone call we so long to receive.

Today’s message requires Israel to change the way it thinks about God’s life and activity among them.

For centuries, Israel believed that the “glory of the Lord” was localized to the land of Zion, and seated in the temple. While we might use the term “glorious” today to describe the splendor and elegance of a worship space, or a beloved and beautiful landscape, for Israel, the “glory of the Lord” extended well beyond opulent magnificence. It was the very presence of God – the assurance that God sat with them, seated in the temple at Jerusalem. When the “glory of the Lord” was said to have departed the temple, it was to Israel as if God had deserted them completely and forever.

But today Jeremiah tells Israel that despite their expectations to the contrary, God is not localized to Jerusalem. God is active and present among them, Jeremiah cries, even in Babylon, miles away from home, and in a situation of deep pain.

Through Jeremiah, the Lord charges the captive Israel:

“Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.”

The command to pray, even for the powers that have forced Israel away from their beloved home, also carries the comfort and affirmation that these will be heard, even in exile. Jeremiah proclaims to Israel that God’s love and mercy for them is not limited by the physical structures or spiritual boundaries with which they have long associated them. There is no place so far away that God cannot hear and reach the beloved people of Israel. God’s all-encompassing compassion for Israel is such that, at the very furthest reaches of their imagination, even there God’s hand leads them,   and God’s right hand shall hold them fast.

Listen to the God’s message given through Jeremiah once again:  “seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.”

A word repeated again and again by the prophet is welfare – a word which to us has connotations of wealth and prosperity.

While I didn’t take any Hebrew classes in seminary, the world translated as welfare happens to be one of the very few Hebrew words I do recognize – shalom.

Shalom indeed implies health and wealth – but above that, shalom means peace.  Indeed, those famous words from the prophet Isaiah we hear every Christmas speak of the Prince of Shalom  - the Prince of Peace. The word given to the exiled Israel today is that in the peace of the place they find themselves in exile, they themselves will find their own peace.

As Israel settles into what will be a long exile in Babylon, it will find its own peace – one that was lacking before not only in Babylon, but even while Israel remained in Zion.   Indeed, just a few verses after today’s reading ends, the Lord promises the return to Jerusalem, and restoration to Israel, saying: “surely I know the plans I have for you, says the LORD, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.” But it will be a new return, a return of a people transformed, knowing that God ALWAYS hears, ALWAYS knows, ALWAYS loves and cares for them.

Here we return to the mystery with which we started today – the phone call that surprises us with unexpected news.

Today we hear, as Israel did, the simultaneous challenge and hope of the prophet Jeremiah: bad things will and do happen to us, and leave us in the deepest and darkest anguish and depression.  But our God is not confined to our good times, to our successes and finest moments – indeed, in our deepest distress, we are given the opportunity to seek our own shalom among the exile of our own lives.  Often, it becomes convenient to imagine that God is limited to a church building, or an institution, or the current realities that we hold most dear. But the message to us from Jeremiah is clear: God’s mercy knows no bounds.

In a story I was told, Nobel Laureate and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel was once asked what his favorite quotation was. He answered not with something from Shakespeare, or from Talmud, or from some other great source of wisdom. He gave only two words: “…and yet…”

We find ourselves plunged into deep depression and despair, separated from those we love and hold dear… and yet even there, God works out plans for our peace.

We wish to confine our world to the thoughts and ideals that have seemingly left things working out “well enough” for us for so long, building barriers between to keep us away from God… and yet God ever finds new ways to reveal the love and grace given to us in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

We live in a confusing and fallen world… and yet God is always in the business of making things new, and enfolding us all in the arms of love which once hung upon the cross.

 

The Strange Calculus of The Dishonest Manager

I can’t think of a more frustrating parable to preach on than The Parable of the Dishonest Manager. It takes lot of work to try and overcome our offense at what Jesus seems to be saying, and to try and reveal a little bit of truth about the Kingdom of God in this one. I easily could have preached for forty minutes, trying to unpack everything that’s going on here. But this is what I’ve got.

(More notes on the thought process behind the sermon, and my own critiques, at the end)

I grew up at a medium-sized church in small town South Carolina, where I would go to Sunday School before Eucharist almost every Sunday during the school year. I’m pretty sure it was there that I first learned about parables. It was there that I learned that parables are simple and sensible stories used to make moral and spiritual lessons clearer, more relatable, and more understandable in the context of everyday life. The Prodigal Son teaches us about God’s forgiveness; The Good Samaritan teaches us how to care for one another; the Mustard Seed tells us a little bit about how the Kingdom of Heaven. Parables: easy stories, clear lessons, easily relatable.

So I can only conclude that some bozo made a major mistake when they titled today’s Gospel lesson “The Parable of the Shrewd Manager.” Our gospel at first, second, and even two-thousandth glance is not a simple and sensible story, and it doesn’t communicate a clear moral and spiritual lesson, and it certainly doesn’t seem to easily relate to everyday life. Jesus tells his disciples in today’s gospel “make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.” What? Seriously? Are we hearing Jesus right? Let’s hear the story again.

A man of great wealth has hired a manager to look after his holdings. After getting an accusation that his property is being squandered by the manager, the wealthy man summons the manager and instantly fires him. The manager has one last task before he goes out the door: to give the books back. The manager knows that his goose is cooked. He doesn’t really have any marketable skills, he’s too out of shape to do manual labor, and he doesn’t want to be a panhandler. He has access to his boss’s books for a limited amount of time, so he decides that his only choice is to try and curry some favor with the people that owe debts to the rich man. He cooks the books – and reduces the recorded amount that each of the debtors owes his soon-to-be former boss. He doesn’t take any money for himself; just the favor that he’s curried with the folks who owed his boss.

While the boss has been an absentee – absentee enough that he’s willing to fire the manager on hearsay evidence – he evidently knows enough about his finances to know what the manager has done when he reviews the books in a final audit. His response: “Hey, man, that was really smart! Way to look out for yourself as you’re on the way out the door!” And then Jesus communicates the lesson of the parable: “make friends for yourself like the manager did; but also, if you’re dishonest in little, you’re dishonest in many things. And don’t forget: you can’t serve two masters, God and wealth. Only one.” I feel confident saying that a second reading isn’t shedding any more light on this.

In order to make a little bit of sense of where Jesus is going in this parable, we first need to drop what has become one of our key methods for interpreting parables: assuming that everything stands for something else. With today’s lesson, we can’t assume that God is the wealthy owner, or that Jesus is the manager, and we’re the lucky debtors. Unlike many of Jesus’ other parables, this one isn’t allegorical; things don’t stand in place of something else.  We have to meet the characters in this story as they’re presented, in their various roles and places.  To engage this text, we also have to dig in a bit with the original context of our lesson in the society of Jesus’ day, and also with the original text of the scripture – in Greek. Don’t worry – I’ll keep the language bit brief, and to the point.

The parable focuses on is the manager, who works for a wealthy man, managing his property and money. He is, the text says, an οἰκονόμος (oikonomos), the manager of a household or an estate. The οἰκος (oikos) – or household – formed the basic unit of Greco-Roman society in Palestine during Jesus’ time. It consisted numerous people – a patriarch, his extended family, slaves, and freedmen attached the household. But the household was more than just people, though – it also was the basic economic unit of the society of the day – it would have included not just the house itself, but the agricultural holdings (nearby or at a distance) that supported its operations. The “household” of today’s parable, then, was an engine of economic production in and of itself. Our word economy comes from this system – the οἰκονομία (oikonomia) of the household was, in fact, its management.

It was this vast estate of holdings for which the manager of today’s parable is responsible. On behalf of the wealthy head of the household, he would have overseen the planting and cultivation of crops; the management and procurement of goods for the house; and managed its financial affairs. In all likelihood, the manager had little to no status in society; that resided solely in the wealthy householder – who would have been enjoyed the “good life.” The manager, for all his responsibility, would have been entirely dependent on the rich man for his life – for his food, shelter, and for any small salary he may have earned.

So in today’s parable, when the manager is fired, his entire livelihood disappears – not just his salary, but his home, his means of eating – in an instant, everything is gone. With no power or station in society, and no wealth of his own, the manager must find a way to live, and the only means for him to survive would be to join another household. So the manager alters the books, and curries favor by reducing the debts owed to his former master, so that, as he says in our gospel today, “when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their oikos – into their household.”

The manager takes none of the house owner’s wealth for himself, even though he has the means to do so. He does, however, trade some of the debt owed to his former boss for the relationships that will assure his ability to live. The manager – once powerless over his life, suddenly has something he can fall back on. He has a path forward, a way to live. His station won’t change; he won’t acquire any new wealth or power. He will have the chance to join another oikos, and to stay alive.

Luke’s gospel, from its beginning, is skeptical of wealth, and imagines that time – in the kingdom of heaven – when roles will become reversed, when to use the words of the Magnificat, God will “cast down the mighty from their thrones, and exalt the humble and the meek,” when God will “fill the hungry with good things, and send the rich empty away.” This gospel is one that loves to turn the tables on our expectations and our instincts. Not long after today’s Gospel, Jesus recounts the story of Lazarus and the rich man – and tell how Lazarus, once a beggar for crumbs at the gate of the rich man’s household, enters paradise as the rich man looks on wantingly. Jesus tells the parable of a rich man who stores up all his wealth in silos, even as his very soul is demanded of him on the same night. Over and over again, we are reminded that wealth does not determine status or standing in the Reign of God; that stations will be changed, and the lowly will be lifted up.

But Jesus is also aware that, while his presence and ministry is the inauguration of the kingdom of God come near to us, and present among us, that we live with the realities of the world as it is, and in fact, we are shaped by it. Luke has as a central concern the right use of money; the right orientation toward it. We will interact with wealth, money, and power everyday – Jesus knows this – but all too often, our lives are relentless pursuits to acquire more of it.  And our attitudes to wealth, power, and influence are often inculcated within our psyche without us even being aware of it – drilled deep into our souls to the point that it takes a deep jolt to remind us that our true value is grounded in love – love of God and love of neighbor, and not in the wealth of money.

Our parable today is just that – a deep jolt to our core, a lesson taught by unexpectedly turning the tables, and grating against our socially conditioned norms. Jesus – ever the expert storyteller – weaves the parable so that we immediately are made to sympathize with the owner who is deprived of a portion of the debts owed to him. Jesus tells the story so that it rouses our anger towards the shrewd manager for his dishonesty in dealing with that master’s wealth.  And when we reach the end of the story, and the wealthy man comes to read the books – boy, are we ready to see the manager get his just desserts. We can’t wait for him to be punished, and then hear Jesus’ extracted lesson from the story.  But the tables are turned. The wealthy man executes no punishment on the manager; instead, he commends him for his actions.  And then, what’s more, Jesus tells us to go out and be like the shrewd manager, and in doing so, tells us something about the kingdom of heaven.  His point seems so ludicrous that, in the verse after today’s gospel, Luke tells us that the Pharisees were mocking him for it!

So what is Jesus saying? Jesus is clearly not commending dishonesty in this parable. In fact, he’s very clear about it: “Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much; if then you have not been faithful with the dishonest wealth, who will entrust to you the true riches [of the kingdom of heaven]? And if you have not been faithful with what belongs to another, who will give you what is your own?”  So at least that moral lesson is clear: honesty is, in fact essential. So what are we to make of the rest of today’s gospel? What is it about the manager’s action is Jesus commending to us?

What Jesus is teaching us is a lesson about economics. Not in our usual sense of profit and loss statements, gross wealth, and fiscal policy – but about the difference between the economics – the oikonomia – of God’s household and of God’s kingdom, as opposed to the economy of dishonest wealth, and of mammon. Wealth is not currency in the kingdom of God; it achieves no ends, it is not brought with us; it will always leave us unfulfilled. And in the household of God, wealth doesn’t have currency. But relationships do. And mercy does. The manager shrewdly – and from the debtor’s perspective, mercifully – dealt away something that was of no value in the kingdom of God – temporal wealth – for something of great value – relationship. And the relationships he forms – yes, even, by less than honest means according to the standards of the world’s economy – those relationships will be the way he has life.

He’s changing economies from the economy of wealth, to the economy of God. It’s this jolting turnabout in the parable, where Jesus confounds our mores and expectations, that tells us something about the kingdom of God: that relationship holds currency, and gives us root and security in God’s economy.

Jesus’ words push this home. In a turn of phrase, when he speaks of being welcomed into the “eternal homes,” when he speaks of the kingdom of heaven – he doesn’t call it an oikos, a household founded on wealth, and power, and privilege. God’s economy is found elsewhere – in what Jesus says is a σκηνάς (skēnas).  A mere place of shelter – a tent. In the language of the Old Testatment, this is the place that God dwells as Israel wanders through the desert, without wealth or power or privilege. Where Israel wanders in their vulnerability.  And so Jesus shows us that the kingdom of heaven is not like the household of the wealthy man – for it is not found anchored to the levers of power in the world around us. Instead, the home of the kingdom is found in souls of a wandering, pilgrim people, bound by their covenant into deeper relationship with the Living God. And we are bound by our baptismal covenant with Jesus Christ, and thereby to one another.

Relationship with God demands that we choose which economy we will invest in, even as reality demands we live in the midst of two visions of wealth: God’s and our own. It asks us to step up, day by day, and trade our stable houses of wealth for that place where God dwells – here, among those of us who gather in God’s name – in our relationship to one another, and in our relationship to Jesus Christ, who gives us the greatest possible wealth of all – the gift of life itself.

 

 

Postscript

Ok, so what do I like, and don’t like? A bit of self-critique… If you’ve ever been curious of how clergy are thinking as we put our sermons together, this is a decent example of my process. I run through a litany of thoughts like this every week – they become even more pronounced in this confusing morass of a parable… and they’re present even as I’m framing a final draft. At some point, Eucharist starts, and it’s just time to go with what I had…

  • I can’t help but wonder if I’m on the edge of eisegesis here. I really liked the idea that this is another of Luke’s “turned tables” patterns, and latched on to it pretty early as the framing device for my interpretation. That said, given Luke’s general use of “underdog” narratives, especially when it comes to money, makes me think it can hold.
  • I wish I had talked more about stewardship and our relationship to money, in the “already-not yet” kingdom of God. That said, the idea of the manager trading economies really stood out to me; most especially, speaking of the currency of God’s economy.
  • I decided early on that the commonly used explanation that the manager decided to hold back his cut of the debts didn’t sense to me, so I didn’t proffer that as an explanation. Yes, managers would have had leeway to take their own cuts in this time. So did tax collectors; but Luke finds a way to work that into his narrative about Zaccheus (19:8),  having Zaccheus himself admit that he’s taking a cut above his fair share. Why do it there, and not here, where that explanation would help clarify the parable infinitely more? (Remember, in 16:14, the pharisees ridicule him just as much – Luke says it’s because they were “lovers of money.”). I think the manager is genuinely cooking the books here. (After all, it wouldn’t be that dishonest of him to give up his ill-gotten cut!)
  • I wish I could suss out the literary mechanism that the parable employs – the abrupt turning of the tables and role reversal, and expounded upon it some more. I wish I had found a better way to express “yes, the dishonesty of the manager is real and wrong, but it’s not the main point of the parable.” It’s what draws our attention – especially because of our conditioning around money – but it’s not the key point made in the parable. That said, it’s hard to preach literary devices and composition: the idea that the manager’s dishonesty or deceit is used as a device to make the reversal of roles that much more stunning isn’t exactly soul-nourishing, or applicable to everyday life. Is it important to understanding the text? Sure. But it’s difficult sermon material.
  • Above all else, I wish I had more time to suss out the scholarship, especially around the likely role of the manager. For instance, the manager probably worked in a Roman domus rather than a Greek oikos, and even though they’re relatively analogous concepts, there are differences. I’d like to be able to be more sure of my assessment of the tools that were under the manager’s purview. Most of all, I’d really like to establish that the manager wasn’t a citizen, as I suspect. If he were a citizen, the argument falls apart.
  • I was only able to do a limited lemma search on the use of σκηνάς (16:9) in the New Testament, and mainly focused on Luke/Acts usage. I did suss it out, and I do think the contrast to οἰκος in verse 4 is intentional. In verse nine, Jesus could have used eternal οἰκος to describe the heavenly kingdom; he doesn’t. He chooses the σκηνάς. I think this is reinforcing the point on wealth, not appropriating the “heavenly tent” language of other parts of the new testament (most esp. Hebrews, and the Johannine literature). I want to do more research on this, but, alas, running a parish means I have to leave this to NT scholars.

That’s what I got. I’m certainly open to hearing about the merits and flaws of my exegesis on a scholarly level; this isn’t presented as high scholarship.

I’d also love to hear what other preachers did with this difficult text…

I Want to Be Called a Missionary.

I’ve read with interest a bunch of stories surrounding the “rebranding” of the staff and environs surrounding 815 2nd Avenue, and its various non-New York satellite offices, to “The Missionary Society.” The quest to find a suitable name for the offices and staff that compose our churchwide governance has always been something of an unreachable goal – I suspect the church won’t ever coin a term that works until Jesus returns in glory. I can think of at least four names I’ve either used or been told to use over the years: “the national church,” “815,” “the Episcopal Church Center,” “the staff of The Episcopal Church.” I should admit up front that I have plenty of problems with the new name, and the way it’s being adopted and promulgated. I’m going to term the organization “The Group Formerly Known as 815.”

But I was surprised to read on the Episcopal Cafe the other day an article written by Torey Lightcap that rooted some of the deepest concern about the change with its use of the word missionary.

Here’s why it surprised me: if, at my funeral, someone were asked to describe who I was, and s/he were to answer “He was a missionary,” I’d consider it the mark of a life, a ministry, and a baptism well lived.

So, I want to respectfully disagree with some of the concerns that have been made about the use of the word missionary. I want to do this by engaging in what I hope will be a wholistic manner with the article, rather than doing the old-fashioned “point-by-point” internet rebuttal. That doesn’t leave room for conversation – which, well, is exactly what missionaries often wouldn’t do in the past.

Let me be clear that my argument is not that the current rebranding is, in fact, conceived in perfection, suavely executed, and a work of sheer genius. It isn’t. But actually, I’m not that worried about the decision. It’s neither here nor there for me.

The essay (read it in full – it’s absolutely worth deep consideration) reminds us of the great historical baggage attached to the word missionary both within the United States and abroad – an assessment that I don’t dispute in the least. I grew up in South Carolina, in the midst of a strongly Conservative evangelical Southern Baptist culture – and can readily feel within myself the word missionary rousing a picture of undying and unyielding certitude and one-size-fits-all packaged faith solutions that are tone-deaf, insensitive to the needs of the world. Most of all, it reminds me of a picture of emotional manipulation. In other parts of the world, the baggage associated with colonialism is even stronger: forced conversions to Christianity under threat of death, genocide, slavery, heedless exploitation and mastery of other peoples and cultures for profit.The baggage of language is intense, painful, and deep. So the term missionary, it is argued, doesn’t play, and can’t possibly play; the weight is too deep, creates too many barriers, it is fundamentally exclusive.

The baggage of the word missionary – as it speaks to the modern mind – needs to be owned by the church for what it is: sin. It’s sinful to force people to convert to Christianity, because it doesn’t respect their dignity as a human being and it leaves no room for the beautiful stirrings of the grace of God that move within the soul in a free and unforced choice to follow Jesus. It’s sinful to view other people as a mark on a “conversion tally sheet,” because it fails to even begin to try and see a person, with wants, needs, joys, and fears – it fails to see the image of God within them. The sins that so many associate with missionaries need to be acknowledged and repented of by the church – full stop.

I’ve always been a strong believer that our call as a church is to present to the world a new and different narrative of what it means to be a follower of Jesus – yes, a missionary of Jesus – than the ones that have caused so much damage in the past. We need to recall words like evangelism and missionary out from wreckage that we attached to it through our own past sins.

For a long time, I ran from these words, having grown up in a culture where they represent so much that is damaging, and hurtful, and sinful. I wanted to be called anything but evangelical, anything but a missionary. I was happy to be called an Episcopalian. At least that term presented minimal baggage I had to wrestle with.

But to create new words, or find new terms for those that the Church has distorted over time through its own sin is, in many ways, to avoid the issue of that sin, and make a deft maneuver away from a difficult conversation we need to have with the world about our own faults and failings. It denies us the opportunity to be fallible, to be human, to be vulnerable to criticism.

And, above all, it surrenders to the idea that things have to remain this way – that the baggage of a history is so great it can never be overcome; that the wounds are so deep, that they cannot be healed. The gospel tells us this isn’t the case – that Jesus loves us with no exceptions. Period. They tell us that God’s grace is open to all, and is the way that we are pieced back together so that, step by step, we begin to see that great work of reconciliation that is God’s dream for the world.

To run from the word missionary because of history is to avoid a conversation that we so desperately need to have with the world:  it denies us the opportunity to show the movement of the grace of Jesus Christ in our lives that led us to realize the actions that created all this emotional baggage was sinful. It gets us out of the difficult task of telling our story, admitting our failings, and then telling how Jesus has changed us, shaped us, and pieced us back together.

So I firmly believe that for the church to run away from the word missionary is to run from the promises of our baptism, and the people the gospel calls us to be; witnesses to the grace of God, to the power of God’s reconciling love for all. The words missionary and the word mission - as I know is repeated ad infinitum in the church – come from the Latin word missio - which has at its core meaning, the act of sending and being sent. Missionaries, therefore, become people “people sent out” – people, who, following after the example of Jesus Christ, are given for the life of the world. People who bear the good news; people who work for justice and peace; people who seek nothing less than healing, wholeness and the reconciliation of the world to God. Missionaries are people fully given over to others. It’s the word – more than any other – that encapsulates what the Great Commandment and the Great Commission charge us to be. As Christians, it’s who we are. It’s who I want to be. 

The church can debate – and should debate – about the process by which “The Group Formerly Known as 815″ chooses to rebrand as “The Missionary Society.” We can ask whether it was an astute and well-executed choice, or one that is bound to invite snickers and disdain, and even whether it was canonically permissible. We can debate about the leadership choices and principles inherent in the process. There’s a lot to wrestle with there, that should be wrestled with.

But as to being called “Missionary” – well, that’s a title that I would love to be worthy of. By God’s grace, someday, I hope to achieve it.

 

Editorial Note: Several spelling mistakes and typos changed on a second read. Apologies for that!

Sermon for Trinity Sunday (Year C)

Year C – Trinity Sunday
Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31 / Psalm 8 / Romans 5:1-5 / John 16:12-15

Jesus said to the disciples, “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come…”

rublev-angels-at-mamre-trinity

In the name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

One of my favorite authors, Annie Dillard, writes in her novel Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:

 Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery,
like the idle curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf.

We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape,
really see it, and describe what’s going on here.

Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise. [1]

On this Trinity Sunday, the truth of Dillard’s words echo loud and clear to me. Because on this principal feast of our church year, instead of celebrating a significant event in the life of Jesus or the life of the Church, we celebrate God who is in Trinity: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

For me, there is no doctrine of the church that reminds me of the limits of my human reason as that of the Trinity.  When trying to describe the inner life of God whom we worship “in Trinity, and Trinity in Unity, neither confounding the Persons, nor dividing the Substance,” powers of analogy and language fail, and reason breaks down. We are left making those faint tracings on the surface of the mystery of the God in whom we live and move and have our being.

But the Scriptures tell us over and over again of a God who wishes to be known. Today’s reading from Proverbs gives voice to God’s wisdom; a voice that does not whisper, but rather shouts out, standing in the crossroads of the busiest streets: “To you, O people, I call, and my cry is to all that live… The Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of long ago; Ages ago I was set up, at the first, before the beginning of the earth.”[2] Wisdom’s call – God’s call – is to all that live.  God is not content to remain behind the veil of mystery.

God’s very nature is so effusive and so expressive, so relational that it demands the creation of the universe, of the earth, and of you and me: when the creation fell from that for which God dreamed, God’s very nature demanded its redemption. And as God continues to again make new the creation, God’s reaches out in the blessing and sanctification of the lives of the redeemed. God wants to be known – and indeed is known.  Our God in Trinity is not quiet, but rather, shouts out in the crossroads, wanting to be known.

“I still have many things to say to you,” Jesus tells his disciples, “but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you.”  Consider that final line again: “He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you.”[3]

God’s glory is in being made known, in being revealed to those who follow Jesus.  Our God is not content to remain behind the veil of mystery.  We may lack the right language to describe how God exists in Trinity; and we may see our analogies about the inner life of the Trinity break down as we try to describe the essence of God’s being.  But through the lens of faith, we see that we are in relationship with God in the fullness of God’s being.  Each time we make our Eucharist together, we meet God in Trinity.  When we are joined to the new creation through the waters of Baptism in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – we meet God in Trinity.  When we feel God at work in the world and in the church – and see things that have grown old being made new and things that were cast down being raised up – we meet God in Trinity.

Our feast today – this Trinity Sunday – is not a celebration of a mysterious theological dogma that defies our powers of description and analogy; it is a celebration of the Living God – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – who is constantly shown to us, constantly present to us, and constantly revealed within us.  It is a celebration of a God who is bold and generous in God’s self-revelation to us as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

“Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery,
like the idle curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf.

We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape,
really see it, and describe what’s going on here.

Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.” [4]

When we take that wider view, it turns out what appeared to be faint tracings on the surface of mystery of the Trinity are actually a journey into the life of God, a life in which we are a part.  And so we choir our proper praise, until we at last see God one in God’s eternal glory: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, poured out for the love of all creation.

Amen.



[1] Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

[2] Proverbs 8:4, 22-23.

[3] John 16:12-14

[4] Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek