Readings

The optimist thinks this is the best of all possible worlds. The pessimist agrees. So our Isaiah reading: neither optimism nor pessimism, but something else.

We’re familiar with the first part of that reading from Jesus’ reading it in the Nazareth synagogue. We think—rightly—that it’s about Jesus. But not only about Jesus. The Spirit has come upon Jesus to address a particular audience so that “They shall build up the ancient ruins, they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations” (emphasis mine). This is why in the Church Year Christmas is the first of the Principal Feasts. The last one: All Saints’. Unless there’s a rich harvest, not much to celebrate.

Are we getting that rich harvest? On the one hand, our cycle of feasts assumes an affirmative answer, as do the commemorations throughout the year in Lesser Feasts and Fasts. Smartphone apps like Day by Day include these, and descriptions of the folk involved can be found at satucket.com. And each of these commemorations is the tip of an iceberg.

Here are two harvest stories, one ancient, one modern. Erich Auerbach in his classic study Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature observes that Greco-Roman literature tended to sort that representation by social class: the nobility could have noble thoughts, act nobly—or tragically. The common folk: fit only for comic relief. Then come the Gospels, in which, for example, the challenge an ordinary fisherman-turned-disciple faces the night of Jesus’ arrest is treated not as a bit of comic relief (what else would you expect from someone still smelling of fish) but with all seriousness. And Western Literature’s never been the same ever since.

One of modernity’s favorite targets is the Christian missionary, e.g., Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible (1998). But if we look at the actual effects of the missionary work that was seeking to make disciples (recall the ending of Matthew’s Gospel), there’s Robert Woodbury’s study “The Missionary Roots of Liberal Democracy” (2012). Woodbury’s statistics establish not simply correlation, but causation. How might that have worked? Well, if I come to believe that Jesus died for all of us, that all of us are sinners, that all of us are called to holiness, then at some point I’m going to wonder why their voice matters and mine doesn’t. Or, to focus on a more prosaic dimension: if you’re translating local languages to produce Bibles in those languages (So my language is important too? So God speaks my language?), if you’re supporting publishers to print those Bibles locally (And what else might they publish?), if you’re promoting literacy among women and men alike, rich and poor alike to folk can read those Bibles (And what else might they read?), whether you intend it or not, you’re creating ground in which liberal democracy can take root and flourish.

Are we getting that rich harvest? On the other hand, down in the trenches we’re hardly in a position to give a reliable answer. So the important question: what do we/I want? “Your kingdom come; your will be done.” Is that what I want? (Advent: not a bad time to wonder what my actions say about what I want.)

If our first reading from Isaiah gives the big picture, our other two readings provide close-ups.

Our Gospel reading features John the Baptist, an Advent mainstay. What’s interesting about John in light of the Isaiah reading is that this healing the world project gives John considerable freedom in dealing with the current authorities. Are you the Messiah, Elijah, the prophet? None of the above. John doesn’t need to fit into one of their boxes—and neither do we. Isaiah’s healing the world project: too serious to assume that it aligns neatly with any of the boxes or political parties currently on offer.

Which brings us to Paul’s advice at the end of his letter to the Thessalonians: “but test everything; hold fast to what is good; abstain from every form of evil.” Paul would have liked that Robert Fulghum quote: “Don’t believe everything you think.”

But what of the beginning (“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances…”)? Because everything is just fine? No: because God is also engaged. As Joseph put it to his brothers: “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today” (Gen. 50:20). The news tempts us to write off various situations as godforsaken. Joseph’s story tells us to be careful about that: even in Pharaoh’s dungeon God is at work.

“Rejoice always.” “Rejoice always”? The same Paul who wrote that wrote (to the Romans): “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” Well, which is it, Paul? I think Paul would go with what he (later) wrote to the Romans, for he adds in the next verse “Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are” (Rom. 12:15-16). Suffering is frightening, and it’s often tempting to deal with our fear by trying to explain it, neutralize it, claim to be wiser than we are.

What then of Paul’s “Rejoice always”? The truth there, I think, is that our faith/trust tells us that weeping doesn’t get the last word. Plenty of weeping in the psalms of complaint—precisely to motivate God to act so that this situation turns out to be a comedy and not a tragedy. We don’t rush the transition from weeping to rejoicing. We do recognize that there’s an important difference between weeping without hope and weeping in hope.

Advent is about waiting. Today’s readings remind us that it’s an active waiting. We’re in the middle of a heal-the-world project. We don’t fit easily into the ready-made boxes. (New wine, fresh wineskins.) We don’t skimp on the daily work of testing everything, holding fast to what is good; abstaining from every form of evil. Sometimes we’re rejoicing together; sometimes we’re weeping together. Always we’re straining toward our promised future: “I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my whole being shall exult in my God; for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation, he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.”

Readings

Good morning, and welcome to the Season of Advent. Over the next weeks our readings revolve in different ways around God’s advent, God’s arrival. Predictably, we’ll resonate with some of those ways more than others. God knows we’re in different places, and Thursday may find us in a different place than Sunday. (This is why I’d encourage you to take advantage of our readings being on a separate sheet. Take them home, tape them to the bathroom mirror, see what resonates during the week.) There are multiple doors into the story; if some are currently closed others will be open.

Our first reading and the psalm speak from deep pain and profound uncertainty: is God going to arrive? Not difficult to think of situations around the world in which their words would come naturally to the lips. And most of us in the past or present have had occasion to echo that “How long?”

Both the first reading and the psalm speak of God’s anger, and that merits a digression. We shudder when some preacher declares that that hurricane/earthquake/disease is God’s punishment because there’s too much of X going on. It’s tempting to simply quarantine that language of divine anger. But that may be worse: that God isn’t angry about the evil that corrupts and destroys God’s creatures. The danger is weaponizing that language: God’s angry at them for doing that. The first reading gets it right: we’re the problem. As one of our confessions puts it “We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.”

The first reading treads where we fear to tread: “But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid ourself we transgressed.” Can we talk to God like that? No, not if it’s a grenade we hurl and then duck for cover. Yes, if we’re sticking around to hear how God might respond.

In other words, questions like “How long?” can seek to deepen a relationship or score points (“I’m right; you’re wrong.) The words are perhaps less important than the intention: what do I want? That’s often not an easy question, whether with God or with a family member. The words I choose or shun in prayer can clarify my intention. The situations that elicit “How long?” may clarify whether I’m finally praying “Your kingdom come” or “My kingdom come.” What do I want? As we hear in Lewis’ The Last Battle, “all find what they truly seek” (chapter 15). But back to the first reading…

If most of the first reading is about the past and present, the ending points towards—well, demands—a future. You’re the potter; you started this project; isn’t there some obligation to finish it properly? That was Moses’ argument after the Golden Calf debacle. It’s an argument to keep in the back pocket: if our future depends on how well we’ve kept our end of the bargain…

The reading starts with “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” That may sound familiar, because it’s the language Mark picks up to describe Jesus’ baptism: “And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart…” (1:10). That’s part of Mark’s good news (‘Gospel’), that there’s an answer to “how long?”

Our second reading, the beginning of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. If we read it apart from the rest of the letter, it sounds like everything is going fine: just switch on the cruise control/autopilot. And sometimes that’s where we are. If so, we’d better stop reading there, because beginning in the next verse Paul—without denying for a moment God’s grace and their many spiritual gifts—does want them to wonder about the “blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ” part. In Jesus’ language, to “keep awake.”

Today’s Gospel: more than enough material for multiple long sermons. For the moment, let’s just notice two things. First, as the NRSV recognizes, “the Son of Man coming in clouds” is a quote from Daniel’s vision of history as one ill-tempered beast/empire after another until God reestablishes a human future. For our day and age that’s perhaps one of the most appealing parts of the Good News to share: our future is not an extension of our present. We’re not stuck in the logic of “Do unto others as they do to you—only do it first.” Or “The one who dies with the most toys wins.” No reason to not start using the currency of the coming kingdom now.

Second, there’s that closing parable: “It is as if someone took a trip, left the household behind, and put the servants in charge, giving each one a job to do” (CEB). A couple weeks ago in reading a similar parable in Matthew I suggested that in the context of Matthew’s Gospel we might understand the work in terms of making disciples and acting mercifully. This year (church year) we’re in Mark: we’ll want to attend to what Mark might want us to hear. From Jesus’ repeated “keep awake,” we probably don’t want to be on autopilot.

How might we pull this together? The prayer “How long?” doesn’t disappear now that we have the New Testament. It shows up in the Book of Revelation. Sometimes that’s all we can pray. As someone put it, “Pray as you can, don’t pray as you can’t.” Jesus’ “keep awake” might encourage us to remember that even in those situations there may be unexpected opportunities to mirror God’s arrival. “Any dark corner that I can find…”

Readings

“Mercifully grant that the peoples of the earth, divided and enslaved by sin, may be freed and brought together under his most gracious rule…” If we pay the slightest attention to the evening news we recognize that this is a tall order: “may be freed…his most gracious rule.” How does one achieve a rule that preserves human freedom? So, of course, the Feast of Christ the King is something to celebrate. But our experience might suggest offering Jesus our heartfelt condolences. “You’re supposed to put this house in order.”

But rather than our sincere sympathy, I suspect that our Lord would rather have us attend to how Jesus is pursuing that most gracious rule that is the friend of human freedom. And part of that how: the royal gifts to us: time, space, and responsibility.

Time. We say “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” We are given the time between “Christ is risen” and “Christ will come again.” It is not open-ended; Christ will come again. But until then we have time.

Space. The same confession (“Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”) suggests the gift of space. Jesus withdraws to give us space. (On the one hand, we have his promise to be with us always. He sent the Spirit at Pentecost. We celebrate his presence in the Eucharist. We speak with him in our prayers. On the other hand, there’s real absence in that “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” One of the most ancient of the Christian prayers is “Maranatha” “Our Lord, come!” And this prayer is pretty much the refrain of all the hymns we sing during Advent.)

Responsibility. It would be easy to regard the time and space as empty; marking time until something important happened, something like the cartoons of the cavemen waiting around until someone figured out how to make fire. But together with the gifts of time and space we’re given responsibility.

Our last three week’s Gospel readings have been exploring how all that works:

The parable of the ten virgins. We recall this parable at baptisms as we say to the newly baptized “Receive the light of Christ, that when the bridegroom comes you may go forth with all the saints to meet him; and see that you keep the grace of your Baptism.” “And see that you keep the grace of your Baptism.” Our use today of the gifts we have received affects our possibilities in the future.

The parable of the talents. It’s not enough to simply fulfill the letter of the law (the Ten Commandments, for instance). The Lord desires that I use what I have received for his kingdom, proclaiming the good news of this kingdom by who I am, what I do, and, sometimes, by what I say, showing mercy whether or not it is “deserved.”

And, today, this vision of the sheep and the goats. “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.” These actions of mercy and compassion are actions of shepherds. Jesus is the Good Shepherd, but that doesn’t make us simply sheep. Each one of us may be called to be shepherd to our neighbor. And notice that Jesus does not describe heroic actions. Not “I was sick and you healed me; I was in prison and you broke me out” but “I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.”

Jesus is the Good Shepherd. And Jesus’ way of doing “Good Shepherd” is to call all of us into that work.

Our culture is often worried that belief in God will sap human initiatives. Here’s another case in which the opposite proves true. Acknowledge Jesus as the Good Shepherd—and that turns out to instruct us as to how to better play that role as needed with one another.

But there’s more in this speech of Jesus to the righteous: “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.” From Jesus’ mouth: to respond to the needy (or not) is to respond to Jesus (or not).

In our tradition many have the custom of reverencing the altar, the place where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved. The King of kings and Lord of lords—right here! In light of this text, it might not be a bad idea to reverence—at least mentally—the needy with whom we come in contact. As one leading 19^th Century English priest put it: How is it that you adore Jesus in the Sacred Host and not in the beggar?

We receive the gifts of time, space, responsibility. Some of how this plays out is explored in these parables of the virgins, talents, and sheep/goats. And we continue to explore how it plays out in our shared life here at St Peter’s.

Our King, desiring to bring the peoples of the earth into freedom under his most gracious rule has given us time, space, and responsibility. “Be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet,” for our King is marching on.

Readings

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, / for his mercy endures for ever” (Ps 136:1 BCP). That’s the point of this feast, starting from God’s generosity and our gratitude. Let’s notice together, briefly, four themes from the readings.

First, gratitude is a habit that, like all habits, needs nurturing. Luke’s story of the ten lepers: Jesus heals all ten; only one returns to “give praise to God.” And gratitude can be problematic. I like Miss Cattermole’s line in Dorothy Sayers’ novel Gaudy Night: “She’s awfully kind. But I’m always having to be grateful to her. It’s very depressing. It makes me want to bite.” Generosity can be—or be perceived as—a way of injuring, a form of manipulation. When it comes to God’s generosity, that’s a perception the Tempter is happy to encourage. But if “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good” means anything, it means that we can trust God to have our best interests at heart.

Second, this divine generosity is risky. That’s the problem Moses is trying to address in our first reading. “When you have eaten your fill and have built fine houses and live in them, and when your herds and flocks have multiplied, and your silver and gold is multiplied, and all that you have is multiplied, then do not exalt yourself, forgetting the Lord your God.” If the Lord were less generous that would be less of a problem. The Lord thinks it’s worth the risk, and that’s something about the Lord’s character worth noticing.

By the way, what of that line “You shall eat your fill and bless the Lord your God for the good land that he has given you”? Can today’s nations, e.g., ours, appropriate those words? Given our checkered histories, only very carefully.

Third, all the psalm’s celebration of God’s action in our world: as heirs of the Enlightenment, do we believe that? Up through the 19^th Century that was a hard question: it looked like we should describe the world as a complex machine. No room for God. But then came quantum mechanics and chaos theory: the world is a stranger place than we imagined. Coming at it from another angle, if we still can’t give an adequate account of the connection between the mental decision to raise the hand and the corresponding muscle movement, why do we think we must rule out—in principle—the psalm’s picture of God’s ongoing generous involvement in our world? Maybe the psalmist is on to something.

Fourth, God’s generosity and our gratitude: it starts there; it doesn’t stop there. That’s what’s driving Paul’s appeal in the letter to the Corinthians re the collection for the poor in Jerusalem. In the center of the part we heard there’s that bit from another of the psalms:

“He scatters abroad, he gives to the poor;
his righteousness endures forever.”

That’s not, as we might assume, a description of the Lord, but of the righteous person. It’s from that pair of psalms we looked at earlier in the year: Ps 111 a celebration of the Lord’s character, Ps 112 a celebration of the corresponding character of the righteous person. So now in Corinth—or now in North Lake—as recipients of the Lord’s generosity, let us be likewise generous.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, / for his mercy endures for ever” (Ps 136:1 BCP).

Happy Thanksgiving.

Readings (Track 1)

Two Sundays out from the beginning of a new church year, our readings are all over the map, threatening to turn any sermon into an exercise in herding cats.

Let’s start with the Psalm. The petitionary psalms often start with a description of the problem; this one leaves that for the last one and a half verses. This psalm focuses on that time period—whether short or long—between the petition and the Lord’s response. The Lord is merciful (Amen!); the Lord has not yet shown us his mercy.

That’s not a comfortable place to be, but not unfamiliar territory for the Lord’s people. Our first reading from Judges: in the repeated cycle of disobedience, oppression, and deliverance the Lord’s people spend a fair amount of time in that uncomfortable place. That’s one of the reasons we need to be gentle with the folk we encounter: that’s where some of them—like us—are. That’s why Scripture repeatedly talks about hope being important, like Paul in our second reading: “the hope of salvation” as our helmet.

But why begin the sermon focusing on this psalm? Our Gospel will get us thinking about mission (outreach). It’s easy to think about mission as something we do from strength; the psalm reminds us that we periodically do it from a position of weakness.

On to the Gospel reading. Our lectionary has made liberal use of the fast forward button, so a bit of context. Two weeks ago we heard the beginning of Jesus’ critique of the scribes and Pharisees: do as they say, not as they do. Leaving the temple, the disciples encourage Jesus to admire the architectural beauty, which prompts Jesus to talk about the future, both immediate (no two stones left in place) and ultimate (the coming of the Son of Man). One of the first things Jesus says about that future: “you will be hated by all nations because of my name” (24:9). That takes us back to today’s psalm (“the scorn of the indolent rich, / and of the derision of the proud.”). Hope, along with Faith and Love: the challenge is to nurture these also on the bad days.

Anyhow, Jesus ends the discourse with a warning: “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” The coming of the Son of Man: it’ll be as unexpected as Noah’s flood.

So how do we live with this uncertainty? Jesus tells three parables. In the first while the faithful slave keeps doing his work, the wicked slave takes advantage of the master’s absence. When the master returns, it doesn’t end well for that slave. So don’t assume “unknown date” means “never.”

We heard the second parable, the wise and foolish bridesmaids, last week. Wisdom and folly matter as we wait for the bridegroom to return. Picking up on the vocabulary common to the parable and the ending of the Sermon on the Mount, I suggested that the wisdom and folly in question have to do with recognizing the difference between saying “Lord, Lord” and doing what the Lord says. And undoubtedly there are other profitable ways of reading that parable.

We heard the third parable, the talents, today. The master has given his slaves the resources to do some work in his absence, and comes down hard on the slave who has simply buried the talent. If one of the disciples asked Jesus why he was telling the parable, I wish Matthew had included the answer! So making sense of the parable is largely guesswork. The third slave recognizes that doing anything with the talent involves risk, and decides that the important thing is not to lose the talent. That, in the master’s eyes, misses the point. And trading five talents to get ten, two talents to get four: that sounds like there’s some serious risk involved. So maybe if our decision making is governed by minimizing risk, we might want to reread the parable.

The master—I said a moment ago—has given his slaves the resources to do some work in his absence. What can we say about that work? If we pull back the camera to include all of Matthew’s Gospel we might notice two things. First, Jesus repeatedly sends his disciples out to proclaim the Kingdom / make disciples. This proclamation includes healings, exorcisms, as well as the lifestyle of the disciples. The Gospel culminates with what we call “The Great Commission.” “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations.” So there are disciples even in…Wisconsin. Second, there’s that “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy” (5:7). That’s at the heart of Jesus’ argument with some of the Pharisees: “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice’” (9:13). And in the judgment scene we’ll hear next week it’s the practice of mercy that separates the sheep and goats.

Making disciples, showing mercy. Nurturing the love of the Lord God and neighbor. That’s one way of thinking about the work in today’s parable; perhaps it will nudge you to come up with more adequate ways. In any case, it’s the obvious segue into Stewardship Sunday. In the language of today’s parable, we’ve all been entrusted with some talents, some combination of time, abilities, and financial resources. The parable encourages us to make wise—maybe including risky—use of all that, not simply the part directed toward St Peter’s. There are plenty of folk out there who need Jesus. There are plenty of folk out there who need more mercy than’s currently on offer. And, recalling today’s psalm, at any given moment some of us are right there with the psalmist: “our eyes look to the Lord our God, / until he show us his mercy.” On behalf of the Vestry, I encourage you with your giving estimate to position St Peter’s to respond to the opportunities our Lord has set before us.