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Faith as Defiance (19th after Pentecost, 10/19/2025)

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Readings (Track 2)

Just before today’s Gospel reading Jesus tells his disciples “The days are coming when you will long to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and you will not see it” (Lk. 17:22). Discipleship, praying “your kingdom come,” it’s a marathon, not a sprint. Losing heart is a real danger, and Jesus has a parable about that.

If the unjust judge gives the widow justice, how much more will God grant justice to those “who cry to him day and night”! And Jesus continues: “I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them.”

“Quickly”? Rather than resolve the tension present throughout the history of God’s people, Jesus leans into it. God and humans do time differently; God’s “quickly” rarely feels like quickly to us. That can be a deal-breaker (“lose heart”); Jesus doesn’t want it to be a deal-breaker. God will grant justice. The real question: “when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

In today’s collect we prayed that we “may persevere with steadfast faith in the confession of your Name.” The widow in Jesus’ parable shows us what that looks like: continuing to cry out for justice as long as necessary.

OK, we could say “Amen” at this point and go on to the Creed. But that could leave us assuming that we had a reliable idea of the justice we needed, and had only to keep praying until God gave us that justice. Our other two readings might want us to wonder about that.

Paul to Timothy: “All scripture is inspired by God and is useful for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, so that everyone who belongs to God may be proficient, equipped for every good work.” Paul is speaking diplomatically. Put less diplomatically: “All of us are works in progress. All of us need teaching, reproof, correction, training. “Proficient, equipped for every good work”? That’s the goal, not the present reality. God uses many tools for our salvation; Scripture is one of these tools, an essential tool.

Paul’s words guided the reformation of the Church of England in the 16th Century. The first task: get the Bible into English in the parishes. Then: when and how would it be heard? The monasteries had frequent daily offices for hearing Scripture and praying, but not the parishes. So Archbishop Cranmer reduced the multiple offices to two (Morning and Evening Prayer) and created a lectionary so that every parish could hear most of Scripture over the course of the year.

So our Book of Common Prayer opens with various orders for Morning and Evening Prayer, and at the very end there’s the schedule of Scripture readings. The challenge, of course, is how this works in the 21st century. So Good Shepherd, like many parishes, orders copies of Day by Day, and various smartphone apps put the offices at our fingertips. This is part of our Episcopal identity that could use more attention, so that Coffee Hour is predictably the time when the clergy are besieged by questions (“Why’s Jesus talking about bringing a sword, rather than peace?”).

Why bother? My favorite example comes from the beginning of Matthew’s Gospel. We’re introduced to Joseph, Mary’s fiancé, whom Matthew describes as “righteous.” That sounds promising, but on learning of Mary’s pregnancy, Joseph’s best idea is to dismiss her quietly. So God sends a dream “for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness,” and Joseph’s righteousness gets an upgrade. That’s not a bad picture of the people of God. We’re righteous, but our notion of righteousness means that we’re about to dismiss Mary—if we haven’t done so already. We need the teaching, reproof, correction, and training that regular encounters with Scripture can provide.

Then there’s that strange story in our first reading. Jacob—from whom you should never buy a used car—had cheated his brother Esau, and now Esau was coming to meet him—with 400 of his armed retainers. So Jacob prays for deliverance and (in answer to the prayer?) a “man” wrestles with him all night. Jacob remembers it as having “seen God face to face.” In any event, that’s the crisis; the subsequent encounter with Esau goes smoothly.

I wonder about that story. Esau is a problem, but perhaps God’s the bigger problem. Perhaps Jacob got it right and it was God with whom he wrestled all night. Maybe prayer is like that. I pray for justice; perhaps I shouldn’t expect to emerge from prayer unchanged.

In today’s Gospel we heard Jesus encouraging his disciples to “pray always and not to lose heart.” Yet it’s his questions that I often find most haunting. Last week: “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” (Lk. 17:17-18) Today: “And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” What answer will we give in the coming week?

What is God up to today? (18th Sunday after Pentecost, 10/12/2025)

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Readings (Track 1)

What is God up to today? My friend Qoheleth (the book of Ecclesiastes) repeatedly argues that we can’t know. At the same time, Qoheleth does a lot of wondering. So, coming off today’s texts, we might wonder: today is God up to something like that?

Our Gospel provides a useful anchor. Ten lepers ask Jesus for mercy; Jesus heals them. One of many healings in the Gospels, one of many acts of power and mercy in the Bible. God desires our health, our shalom. So today’s psalm recalls that archetypical act: the Exodus (“He turned the sea into dry land, / so that they went through the water on foot, / and there we rejoiced in him.”). Where things get puzzling is the human response (“Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”). So the question here isn’t what God’s up to, but what we humans are up to.

What God’s up to in the situation assumed by our first reading is far from clear. The triumphant Babylonian army has taken some of the Jews into exile in Babylon. What’s God doing? Is God capable of doing anything? Some prophets are announcing that God’s about to bring the exiles back home. So Jeremiah writes a letter, part of which we just heard. Perhaps the main point: “Thus says the LORD of hosts…to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon…” The exiles are there by the Lord’s decision; the Lord’s still in control. The prophets announcing an immediate return have it wrong; you’ll be there for a while. So “multiply there, and do not decrease.” And then, another surprise: “But 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.” Seek the welfare (the shalom) of Babylon, pray for Babylon. If the exiles thought Jeremiah was going to encourage their faith, this is probably not the faith they were thinking about. By faith Abraham left, now by faith they’re supposed to settle in, where it’s hard to walk a few blocks without encountering a temple to another Babylonian god or goddess? This is a faith Qoheleth would have recognized: keeping the faith, remaining faithful despite not having a clue what the Lord is up to.

Then there’s today’s psalm. I noticed the allusion to the Exodus. But then there are these lines:
For you, O God, have proved us;
you have tried us just as silver is tried.
You brought us into the snare;
you laid heavy burdens upon our backs.
You let enemies ride over our heads;
we went through fire and water;
but you brought us out into a place of refreshment.

As the last line shows, these troubles are now in the rearview mirror. But prior to that last line, these troubles would have generated multiple psalms of complaint. “Lord, are you paying attention to what’s happening to us?” So, retrospectively, these lines: “For you, O God, have proved us; / you have tried us [or refined us] just as silver is tried.” Testing, refining, formation: it’s part of the package. From the letter to the Hebrews: “Although he [Jesus] was a Son, he learned obedience through what he suffered; and having been made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him…” (Heb. 5:8-9).

Recall this morning’s collect. That “we may continually be given to good works” isn’t a given—that’s why we have the Confession and Absolution. So we ask that God’s grace “may always precede and follow us.” We probably don’t want to pray that God’s grace “whip us into shape,” but there may not be much of a difference. (Having Vince Lombardi as one of our state’s patron saints may help us with this!)

So God is always testing, refining? That, Qoheleth would argue, claims too much knowledge. Is God going to pass on a good opportunity to test, to refine? Probably not.

Paul’s letter adds another dimension. He writes “even to the point of being chained like a criminal. But the word of God is not chained.” God’s passion for human freedom (recall the Exodus) generates opposition. Our options may be limited; God’s are not. Paul doesn’t understand why in God’s providence he’s chained like a criminal, but he does understand that God’s options are not thereby limited. And Paul’s decisions even within his limited options matter: “Therefore I endure everything for the sake of the elect, so that they may also obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory.” In passing, most of us probably underestimate the effect our decisions have on those around us. In the midst of all that he doesn’t know, Paul knows that his decisions—and Timothy’s—matter.

I opened this sermon with “What is God up to today?” The story that we tell at every Eucharist, whether in the Creed or the Eucharistic Prayer, gives us the broad outline, placing us somewhere between “Christ is risen” and “Christ will come again.” We met that broad outline in today’s readings, whether in the joyful memory of the Exodus, Jesus’ “Go and show yourselves to the priests,” or Paul’s forward look to “the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory.” But within that broad outline, today? Qoheleth: “All this I have tested by wisdom; I said, ‘I will be wise,’ but it was far from me. That which is, is far off, and deep, very deep; who can find it out?” (Eccl. 7:23-24). Perhaps we’re with the exiles, in Babylon by the Lord’s decision. Perhaps we’re in the middle of that proving and refining described by the psalm, wondering about the wisdom of having prayed “that your grace may always precede and follow us.” Perhaps we’re with Paul, in a situation where it’s good news that while our options are painfully limited, God’s are not.

The point, of course, is not to celebrate our ignorance, but to recognize that it’s not unfamiliar territory for God’s people. And in the midst of this ignorance our decisions still matter. So we might start with this: when grace does meet us, whether in small ways or great, are we there with the Samaritan at Jesus’ feet, giving thanks, or with the other nine, leaving Jesus scratching his head?

But rather than invite an “Amen,” perhaps a postscript is necessary. To confess ignorance is not to underwrite passivity, as two of my favorite Old Testament protagonists show us.

Nehemiah is a layperson in the Persian civil service. He makes no claim that God has asked him to do anything. But he sees an opportunity, wrangles a royal charter, and rebuilds Jerusalem’s walls.

Esther and her cousin Mordecai are Jews living in the Persian capital. Through a strange series of events she becomes queen, and then learns of a planned genocidal attack on her people. The Lord’s name does not even appear in the book, but rather than go to ground she uses her position to thwart the attack, as celebrated even today in the annual feast of Purim.

Qoheleth got it right: we often haven’t a clue what God’s currently up to. But Qoheleth also gets this right: “Whatever your hand finds to do, do with your might” (Eccl. 9:10a).

Jesus or the pigs? (2nd Sunday after Pentecost, 6/22/2025)

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Readings

We’re at a major milestone in the Church Year: green, not white, and we’ll be in green for about half a year. Think about it: half a year to celebrate the divine acts that underwrite the new covenant: Christmas, Epiphany, Holy Week, Pentecost. Half a year to…? Our Godly Play curriculum calls it “the Great Green Growing Season,” time for these divine acts to do their work in our bodies and souls.

It turns out that today’s readings aren’t bad ushers into this season.

The Gospel. When we meet the man who meets Jesus, he’s possessed by a legion of demons, naked, maybe remnants of chains hanging from his arms and legs, totally bedraggled. Soon he’s “clothed and in his right mind.” Hallelujah. But, if that were all that salvation involved we’d hardly need six months for the Great Green Growing Season! So it’s worth noticing that this isn’t the end of that man’s story. He wants to go with Jesus, but Jesus: “Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.” Home: that would include the folk who had held him down while others put on the chains and shackles and who were not obviously celebrating his recovery. Yes, we might say that his story has just gotten more interesting. But that’s for the future. In the moment, Jesus’ heart is glad.

Staying in the country of the Gerasenes for the moment, notice that Luke is equally interested in its other inhabitants. At the beginning of the story the demons are in the man; at the end of the story—well, they disappeared with the herd of swine that went over the cliff. And, Luke tells us, “all the people of the surrounding country of the Gerasenes asked Jesus to”…stay? No: leave. Their preference was clear: better the demons in the man than in an eminently marketable herd of pigs.

Now, notice that in our Gospel the story’s already politically charged: the demons are collectively called “Legion.” And it would have been quite impossible for the disciples not to have relished this story—for a time at least—as a sort of down payment on what Jesus would do about the Roman legions.

But let’s come at its politics in a different way. The demons in the man or in the pigs? In our world that’s the sort of choice we regularly meet. No matter what the economic system, power typically gets used so that the powerful receive the benefits and the costs are paid by others. Often this works because we’re happy to see low prices and don’t ask too many questions about why the prices are low. Or again, our group is virtuous; they are vicious. The demons stay safely among them and our pigs continue fattening up nicely. And then Jesus comes and upsets everything. Jesus did that through his Body the Church in South Africa to overturn apartheid and in Poland and the rest of Eastern Europe to overturn the Communist regimes. Welcoming Jesus can mean losing the pigs.

So one of the things that may happen in the Great Growing Season is Jesus attempting to direct our attention to our pigs. And if we pay attention we’re a little freer, there’s a bit more green, and Jesus’ heart is glad.

Let’s head north to the churches in Galatia, a Roman province in the center of what is now Turkey, the recipients of Paul’s letter. Teachers had come into the congregations telling Gentiles that they needed to keep all the Law of Moses, including the ritual parts. Bacon & scallops: out! Sharing meals with Christians who don’t observe these standards: out! Paul: the ritual part was provisional until Christ. In Christ there is a new humanity: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female.”

Hallelujah. But wait a minute. So much of our identity is wrapped up in our ethnicity, in our social status, in our sexuality. And Paul’s warning us that none of that can be automatically carried over. None of that can be the foundation of what “I” means; of what “we” means. When Nicodemus asked “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” (Jn 3:4 [NRSV]), while he misunderstood Jesus’ words, he did understand the magnitude of the challenge.

Jesus’ image shows up in our liturgy for Holy Baptism: through the water of Baptism “we are reborn by the Holy Spirit” (p.306). Glorious. But it should leave us wondering: is there anything we don’t need to relearn? Pretty much the whole of the New Testament is an invitation to echo Dorothy’s famous line: “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Not surprisingly, it’s easier to see in others what happens when we neglect Paul’s words. When in Rwanda Christian Hutus were killing Christian Tutsis and vice versa, we knew that something was wrong. I’m an American Christian. Christians in other parts of the world may wonder: is “Christian” determining what my being American means, or vice versa?

So one of the things that may happen in the Great Growing Season is Jesus attempting to further shape how we negotiate our identities. And when we cooperate we gain a bit more freedom, there’s more green, and Jesus’ heart is glad.

Our reading from Isaiah is downright frightening. It’s from the words directed to those who returned from exile in Babylon. It’s frightening because some in Israel are still following the same practices that brought on the exile in the first place: sacrificing to other gods, ignoring the Mosaic Law, exploiting the poor. It’s sort of a limit case of what Paul’s worried about in our second reading: this crowd has no interest in the Lord shaping their identity. They’ve just added the Lord to their collection of deities, and continued with business as usual. They’re not asking, they’re not seeking; they’re stuck.

Mercifully, one of the things that may happen in the Great Growing Season is that Jesus attempts to get us unstuck. Last Sunday’s reading gave us a lovely series of images of that, God’s Wisdom continually calling out to us, “rejoicing in his inhabited world, / and delighting in the human race” (Prov. 8:31). God’s Wisdom—we could equally say God’s Holy Spirit—is constantly at that, through the words of a lover, a friend, a passer-by, an enemy, through the natural world, through the words of Holy Scripture—and that’s just the beginning of the list. And when we cooperate we’re a little freer, there’s a bit more green, and Jesus’ heart is glad.

So, welcome to the Great Green Growing Season. Who knows where our Elder Brother Jesus will meddle, whether noticing this or that particular herd of pigs, wondering how our baptism might further transform our identities, employing various versions of WD-40 to get us unstuck. Such meddling is usually not initially welcome, but as we cooperate we gain some freedom, there’s more green for our neighbors and us, and Jesus’ heart is very glad.

“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” (Last Sunday after the Epiphany, 3/2/2025)

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Readings

The eyes and the ears: what happens if we attend to these while reading today’s lessons?

The eyes are the easy part: Moses’ face shining, Jesus’ face and clothing really shining, Paul’s promise that his hearers, having turned to Jesus, will themselves shine. Not hard to get a decent sermon out of that. And attention to the eyes can speak powerfully to us in two ways.

First within the text and—for that matter—the Church calendar. Three days from now is Ash Wednesday, when we’ll begin to walk with Jesus to his death. That’s an important walk. But as we do it, it’s easy to start thinking that Jesus went to his death because he didn’t have any choice: too many enemies, no place to hide. And that’s when we need to remember today’s reading. The Jesus whom we’ll join as he walks to his death is the same Jesus we saw dazzling white on the mountain. If he dies, it’s not because he’s run out of choices.

Second, so the light show’s over? No; here’s where we come in. St. Paul tells us that as we look to Jesus some of that light, some of that glory, starts to rub off: “all of us…are being transformed…from one degree of glory to another.” No. The light show’s not over. “The God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness’” will shine in and through us as we consent to it.

And Paul’s writing this to the Christians in Corinth. Corinth was a boisterous, rowdy seaport, and from Paul’s letters it looks like the Christians there fit right in. Paul repeatedly struggles to make himself understood. There are factions. It’s one body, but the eye is saying to the hand “I don’t need you” and the head to the foot “I don’t need you.” And precisely in that unpromising context Paul hopes for light, transformation, glory. And if Paul can hope for light, transformation and glory there, how much more can we hope for it even in our parishes in Wisconsin.

What about the ears? Let’s look at the Gospel again.

Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. 31 They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.

Jesus goes up the mountain to pray. Prayer: Luke emphasizes this practice, making it explicit where the other gospels don’t. So preparing this sermon I wondered what my devoting more time and energy to prayer might mean. (It’s a real nuisance when the text turns around and bites the preacher!)

Then there’s Luke’s summary of the conversation between Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, speaking of his departure (Greek ἔξοδος) “which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.” ‘Exodus’: while the Greek word is common enough, Luke’s using it here to point toward Jesus’ decision to time his passion with the Passover celebration, perhaps Jesus’ most important interpretation of his own death: an exodus, a liberation more radical than the one in Moses’ time.

How do you free Israel—or any nation, for that matter—from the various forms of interlocking economic, ideological, and political oppression? Flee to the wilderness like the Essenes? Continue to assassinate Romans and Roman stooges like the Zealots? Encourage meticulous observance of selected portions of the law and shun the non-observers like the Pharisees? Journey to Jerusalem for a new exodus like Jesus? Notice that the Essenes, the Zealots, the Pharisees, and Jesus are responding to the same question. It’s not a specifically religious question. It’s one of the most basic human questions: how do we maintain/create/regain (choose your verb) a way of living together that doesn’t self-destruct?

And here’s where the ears again become important. A few verses later, partly in response to Peter’s suggestion, the divine voice says “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” Listen to him. What might that mean?

Well, let’s recall what we’ve heard Jesus say. Back in the Nazareth synagogue: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.…” The Gospel writers thematize this as announcing the kingdom of God, the kingdom that this morning’s psalm celebrated (Ps 99). “O mighty King, lover of justice, / you have established equity; */ you have executed justice and righteousness in Jacob.” Magnificent. And then Jesus spoils it all with his examples: the widow at Zarephath in Sidon, Naaman the Syrian, warning us that God’s generosity extends to our enemies. Worse, Jesus’ conduct matches his words: sharing a table with tax collectors and sinners, healing the servant of a Roman centurion. That, Jesus would have us understand, is what God’s justice and righteousness look like: the Good Shepherd abandoning the ninety nine to seek out the one who’s strayed.

Perhaps you’ve seen the cartoon based on this story. Jesus shows up with the lost sheep on his shoulders and the rest of the sheep respond, “No, Lord. You don’t know how much effort it took to get rid of her!”

Turns out that while listening to Jesus is sometimes easy, it’s sometimes not so easy. How do we build a world that’s sustainable, that doesn’t self-destruct? That’s what Jesus is talking about. And we really need to hear Him, in the midst of so many voices that urge some form of identity politics. And anyone can play this game. We’re for inclusivity? Then we need to stand against those who don’t share our vision of inclusivity! (Thank goodness Lent is coming!) So, it’s not simply that Jesus came proclaiming the kingdom of God, but proclaiming that kingdom and a particular way in which He and His followers were to live on the threshold of that kingdom: forgiving, mirroring God’s generosity even to their enemies, abstaining from violence in word and deed. “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

Repentance (2nd Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2024)

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Readings

In our second reading from Paul’s letter to the Philippians we heard: “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians is known as Paul’s joyful epistle: God is powerfully at work in Philippi; Paul and the Philippians get to be part of it. But Paul’s words caution: there’s been a good beginning; there’s still a good way to go for the completion. And in between the beginning and completion he calls even the Philippians to repentance.

Paul, we might say, is happy to channel Malachi and John the Baptist—also when addressing the baptized!

Last Sunday we entered Advent praying “Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness…” Casting away the works of darkness is, of course, not simply what we do the first week of Advent, but what we do continually as Christians. We learn—and it is a lifelong task—how to recognize ourselves as sinners. It is like peeling an onion: layer after layer, and sometimes involving tears. As Luther put it in the first of his 95 theses: “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, “Repent” (Mt 4:17), he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.”

Repentance, of course, is not a stand-alone project. The “entire life of believers” revolves around loving God and neighbor. Repentance is about what gets in the way of that love.

Repentance, the core of our work in Advent. The classic treatment of repentance is in one of the homilies Queen Elizabeth sent to us clergy in 1562. This sermon is simply a summary and contextualization of that homily. Repentance: a process involving four steps: contrition, confession, faith, and amendment of life.

Contrition Contrition is expressed chiefly in the confession itself: “We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, / which we from time to time most grievously have committed, / by thought, word, and deed… / We do earnestly repent, / and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; / the remembrance of them is grievous unto us, / the burden of them is intolerable.” A great deal of Scripture’s testimony is condensed in these words. God loves us—yes. We’re created in God’s image—yes. But we’ve responded to that love rather badly and marred that image. And so we return again and again to these words. They may or may not match my current self-image. If there’s a disconnect between the words and my self-image, the problem isn’t with the words.

Contrition involves both awareness of sin and sorrow for sin. Sometimes this comes easily. We screw up royally, we know it, we do what’s necessary so that it doesn’t happen again. There are some mistakes we only have to make once. That’s how contrition is supposed to work.

Often awareness of sin and sorrow for sin don’t come quite so easily. The minority party within us is aware; the majority is all for blurring the issue, changing the subject. We lack the imagination to see the effects of our sin on us and those around us.

Here’s one test. I should be able to talk about everything I do with someone. If I’m doing things that I can’t talk to anyone about, that isn’t simply a red flag. That’s all the klaxons going off and all the red lights flashing.

Sometimes the contrition we need has to do with sins we’re completely unaware of, but which those around us are quite aware of. So here’s the question: am I listening for what they might be telling me? Most of us do not like criticism, and our neighbors know that. So they’d be crazy to give a direct answer to “Tell me what you really think.” But if we’re trying to listen to both what is said and to the silences—with minimal filtering from our own fears and agendas we might pick up what we need to hear.

But whether it takes a short time or a long time to get to awareness of and sorrow for sin, in all cases it’s a matter of keeping the eye on the goal, love of God and neighbor. What’s making that harder? What’s eroding my desire to even achieve that goal?

And when for a particular sin we get to awareness and sorrow, it’s time to move on to the next step. There’s no value in wallowing in contrition (“Oh, what a terrible person I am!”), and it can quickly become counterproductive.

Confession Confession,expressed chiefly in the confession itself, is a matter of taking responsibility for these manifold sins and wickedness. Of course, none of these happened in a vacuum, but however much nature or nurture made these easier, they are still our acts, and we remain trapped by them until we acknowledge them as ours, until we confess.

Faith Here we’re not talking about faith in general, but the faith or trust that God will in fact forgive my sins, be merciful to me. There’s an important circle here that can spiral either upwards or downwards. If I feel little need for God’s mercy, I don’t need much faith in God’s mercy. I may not dare open myself to knowledge of that need without some of that faith. As I learn how much I need that mercy, the faith needs to keep up with the knowledge, or I end up in denial, spiral downwards. To assist that faith, in Rite I itself, after the absolution there is the option of reading one or more sentences that emphasize God’s mercy (page 332). To the degree that I’ve let myself acknowledge my need, I may really need to hear those! And, hearing those, I can continue to grow in self knowledge, and in faith in God’s mercy, and the spiral can continue upward.

By the way, sometimes believing that God will forgive my sins, be merciful to me, is difficult enough that it’s worth scheduling private confession with a priest. Sometimes hearing “The Lord has put away all your sins” face to face is exactly what I need to hear.

Amendment of life The invitation to confession already points us toward amendment of life: “and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God, and walking from henceforth in his holy ways” Toward the end of the confession we pray “and grant that we may ever hereafter / serve and please thee in newness of life, / to the honor and glory of thy Name.” In the Absolution: “confirm and strengthen you in all goodness”: this is not going to be easy. Were it easy, “strengthen you” would be an unnecessary petition.

Amendment of life isn’t easy. It involves change. It can be painful. The good news is that we don’t have to do it alone. It helps to have a friend with whom you can share your journey and get some accountability. You have a deacon and will soon have a regular priest: make use of them!

In our tradition we don’t expect to reach perfection in this life—but that’s no reason not to work towards it. We might work towards it for the sake of better loving God and neighbor, but few of us are far enough along spiritually for that to be a reliably sustainable motive. So here’s a more sustainable motive: the alternatives to amendment of life are even more painful. Recall M Scott Peck’s opening argument in his book The Road Less Traveled: “Life is difficult.… What makes life difficult is that the process of confronting and solving problems is a painful one.… Fearing the pain involved, almost all of us, to a greater or lesser degree, attempt to avoid problems” And, finally, this attempt “becomes more painful than the legitimate suffering it was designed to avoid.” So, amendment of life, the less painful option.

“And I am sure that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” We live between the beginning and the completion, and repentance is an ongoing part of our commitment to love God and neighbor. Repentance: Contrition, confession, faith, amendment of life. Sustained and empowered by Almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, let us renew our dedication to this work as we continue in Advent.

“Then the eyes of the blind [disciples] shall be opened” (24th Sunday after Pentecost, 11/3/2024)

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Readings (Track 1)

Centuries before Jesus, when Solomon’s temple was still standing, the prophet Isaiah, surrounded by the folly that passed for wisdom, spoke of God’s coming salvation. One of his images: “Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped” (35:5). What might that look like? Today’s Gospel provides one answer, Jesus working at opening the eyes of the disciples.

“As he taught, he said, ‘Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.’”

What do the disciples see when they see a scribe? All the outward signs proclaim honor, but open eyes don’t stop with appearances. Where does Jesus get this? Maybe through recalling stories like the one about the prophet Samuel, sent to anoint Israel’s next king. The Lord to Samuel: “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7). So, not Eliab, but David. Or maybe through the multiple texts in Proverbs we noticed a few weeks back. A rich man: rich through diligence or theft? A poor man: poor through sloth or oppression? Based on appearances we don’t know. Or maybe from having grown up in the North, where scribes who copy and interpret the legal documents can be seen rather differently than in the capital.

Is Jesus talking about every scribe? Of course not. He is talking about what we see, what assumptions inform what we see.

And, of course, Jesus’ words continue to be passed down also because they speak to new situations. Soon the new churches have bishops, priests, deacons—and the temptations of long robes, preferred seating, etc. are as relevant as ever. But that would be another sermon.

“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened.” Jesus keeps working the problem.

“He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.’”

What do the disciples see? Which gifts look impressive? Jesus’ mother had sung “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, / and has lifted up the lowly.” Perhaps Jesus is remembering that too. In any case, what they see, what we see, is important also because it determines what we do. We heard Jesus’ brother James a few weeks back: “For if a person with gold rings and in fine clothes comes into your assembly, and if a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in…” (2:2).

Salvation: Jesus working on our vision—on our hearing, for that matter—so that we treat each other well. A surprising number of our acts of seeing and hearing reflect who we are, who we are becoming.

And sometimes the rich get it right, as our first reading reminds us. It would have been easy for Boaz to write Ruth and Naomi off. He doesn’t. He listens. And as the parts of the text we didn’t hear in the assigned readings make clear, he makes decisions that are financially costly to do right by the women. One result, as the text reminds us in a delightfully understated postscript, King David.

We can close by noticing an additional layer to the contributions to the temple treasury story. Mark puts the story right at the entrance to Passover/Holy Week. At Passover the High Priest, richly attired, accompanied by all the pomp and ceremony Jerusalem can muster, will offer the prescribed sacrifices. At that same Passover, a prisoner stripped of everything, will stretch “out his arms upon the cross.” As we heard in our second reading, the author of Hebrews has no doubt which sacrifice was the more efficacious, the more worthy of honor. If our eyes are open enough to see the value of the widow’s two small copper coins, we just might be able to see the value of that prisoner’s self-offering.

“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped.” So in the coming week who knows when the Lord might nudge us: “What do you see? What do you see?”

Armor for the struggle (14th Sunday after Pentecost, 8/25/2024)

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Readings (Track 1)

Last week’s sermon was on the long side; this week’s on the short side, focusing on the Epistle and Gospel.

Paul writes “For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” In our generation perhaps no one has unpacked this better than Martin Luther King Jr. The following is from something he wrote in 1957 for the Christian Century, talking about non-violence.

“A third characteristic of this method is that the attack is directed against forces of evil rather than against persons who are caught in those forces. It is evil we are seeking to defeat, not the persons victimized by evil. Those of us who struggle against racial injustice must come to see that the basic tension is not between races. As I like to say to the people in Montgomery, Alabama: ‘The tension in this city is not between white people and Negro people. The tension is at bottom between justice and injustice, between the forces of light and the forces of darkness. And if there is a victory it will be a victory not merely for fifty thousand Negroes, but a victory for justice and the forces of light. We are out to defeat injustice and not white persons who may happen to be unjust.’”

Good words to remember during an election year. Good words to remember any year, a clear example of what Paul’s list (“the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places”) is about. In King’s case, the cultural assumption that the blacks were less than the whites, an assumption reflected in customs and laws. But oppression takes many forms, and the spiritual forces of evil are happy to help us understand why it’s best left unchallenged.

But when Paul describes the armor for that struggle, it can begin to sound dicey. Weaponize truth, righteousness, the Word of God? We have the scars to remind us of how that often ends up. Recall Lincoln’s response to someone’s confident affirmation of God being on the Union’s side: “Sir, my concern is not whether God is on my side; my greatest concern is to be on God’s side.”

And if we wonder what being on God’s side looks like, we have today’s Gospel. In response to Jesus’ teaching regarding his flesh and blood, the narrator records the reaction of many of the disciples: “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” So Jesus asks the Twelve: “Do you also wish to go away?” Simon Peter: “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.” It’s not that the Twelve find the teaching any less difficult, but they understand that they need to keep listening to Jesus.

This gives us, I think, a useful way of talking about belief and unbelief. Neither the believers nor the unbelievers understand Jesus; the believers are still trying to learn from him, still trying to follow him.

And this stance, this spirituality if you will, is what keeps the armor in our Epistle from becoming destructive. The truth, righteousness, faith, word of God: that’s what we need for our continuing learning, what—if we let it—gets us, as the text puts it, “ready to proclaim the gospel of peace.” Put another way, as Paul says, this armor isn’t for enemies of flesh and blood. If we find ourselves assuming that these enemies of flesh and blood are  the ones who really need the truth, righteousness, etc. we should be prepared to discover that the spiritual forces of evil are happy to welcome us as fellow travelers, useful idiots. And that we do want to avoid.

Waiting (6th Sunday after Pentecost, 6/30/2024)

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Readings (Track 1)

So, what might the Spirit be saying to God’s people in these readings? This time around that repeated exhortation “wait” in our psalm got my attention. The Gospel stories illustrate the obvious payoff, whether for the woman suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years, or the parents with their gravely-ill twelve-year-old. Both are stories of waiting longer than we might think reasonable (“Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?”). In both Jesus talks about faith, a faith that’s expressed by waiting.

This morning we’ll take this theme of waiting in three directions. First, acknowledge that waiting is unwelcome, unwelcome enough that we have various strategies for avoiding it. Second, noticing that waiting is not disengaging, and not only the Gospel stories, but also the Joseph stories, help us see that. Third, wondering: we certainly wait; does God ever have to wait?

Wait! Outside of “love your enemies,” hard to think of a more unwelcome exhortation. Recall the “Please wait” on an otherwise blank computer screen or the automated voice on the phone assuring us that the wait time is only x minutes. When waiting on someone currently or always more powerful, most of the possible reasons why we’re waiting are not encouraging. We like to be in control; waiting’s the antithesis of that.

So it can be a bit unnerving to notice how often waiting shows up in the Bible’s stories: Abraham and Sarah waiting for that promised son, the Judean captives in Babylon waiting for something—anything—to happen, the multiple psalms exhorting us to wait.

So, waiting is unpleasant enough that we come up with various strategies for avoidance. The complaint of the Judean exiles in Babylon as recorded in Isaiah is typical: “My way is hidden from the LORD, and my right is disregarded by my God” (I40:27). Why wait? So it’s easy to question God’s power, knowledge, goodness. “If I’m waiting this long, I obviously don’t matter to God.”

Another strategy that I catch myself using: shrink the circle of concern so there’s less that requires waiting. I can’t even begin to imagine how God might sort out Ukraine, the Holy Land, Haiti, Puerto Rico, the Southern Border, etc. Oh so tempting to shrink the circle!

So, first point, waiting on the Lord is one of the harder things our tradition asks of us, and it’s absolutely necessary. So let’s not beat ourselves up if we find it hard, even as we check our attempts to throw in the towel.

Second, waiting on the Lord: the antithesis of disengaging. The woman with the hemorrhages, the synagogue leader: they seek Jesus out. They risk being disappointed.

Pulling back the camera, I’m struck by the Joseph stories. Early in the story Egypt is not where Joseph wants to be, and there’s no chance of getting to passport control. So he’s waiting. At the same time he’s repeatedly engaging, and making choices about that engagement. One of those choices: the refusal of the advances from Potiphar’s wife, whose advances would have offered one solution to a bad situation. Another of those choices: how to respond to two oily high-level bureaucrats who’d gotten on the wrong side of Pharaoh and who had dreams that needed interpretation. It would have been so satisfying to keep them waiting. But Joseph keeps engaging, even while having no control over the results of his choices. Joseph in Egypt, Tobit in Nineveh, Esther in the Persian capital, Paul’s collection mentioned in our second reading, for that matter: all folk from whom we can learn about waiting and staying productively engaged.

Third, with all this talk of our waiting on the Lord, it sounds like we’re doing the heavy lifting. Does the Lord ever have to wait? It turns out that there’s this intriguing verse in Isaiah: “Therefore the LORD waits to be gracious to you; therefore he will rise up to show mercy to you. For the LORD is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him” (30:18). “The Lord waits…blessed are all those who wait for the Lord.” There are a good number of texts in the prophets we could use to flesh that out, but since those would need some setup, we’ll move to the New Testament.

“And [Jesus] did not do many deeds of power [in his hometown], because of their unbelief” (Matt. 13:58).

More dramatically—also from Matthew: “For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me” (25:42-43). That’s some serious waiting.

So while as individuals or communities of faith we’re regularly waiting on God, we’re card-carrying members of nations that regularly keep God waiting, hence that line in one of our confessions: “We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.”

Let’s sum up. “O Israel, wait for the Lord.” That’s directed to us.

Rather than disengagement, waiting is a productive way of staying engaged.

And, yes, the good Lord also waits, and sometimes that’s something we can do something about.

Walking by faith, anticipating sight (4th Sunday after Pentecost, 6/16/2024)

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Lessons (Track 1)

“…for we walk by faith, not by sight.” You can get a decent sermon out of that line from Paul. But some care is needed, since it’s vulnerable to misunderstanding and abuse. Misunderstanding: thinking that the invisible per se is more valuable than the visible. Abuse: recall Orwell in 1984: “The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” Bluntly, when we talk about faith, what distinguishes us from the folk who wear aluminum foil hats to keep the aliens from controlling their minds?

It turns out that appeals to the senses show up at some key moments in Scripture. For example:

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. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” (Matt. 11:4-6)

[From the beginning of John’s first letter:] We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life– (1 Jn. 1:1)

Not to mention the very visible harvest and fully-grown plant in Jesus’ parables. In the middle of the last century the then Archbishop of Canterbury captured it well: “Christianity is the most avowedly materialistic of all the great religions.”

So when does sight or, more broadly, the senses, become problematic?

First, in our lesson from the Book of Samuel, the prophet Samuel anoints David. Working through the line of older brothers we hear:

“Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.”

Appearances can give incomplete information. This is a point the Book of Proverbs, solidly empirical in orientation, makes repeatedly. You see a wealthy person. Wealthy through hard work or through theft? Can’t judge by appearances. You see a poor person. Poor through sloth or oppression? Can’t judge by appearances.

(Paul uses the same outward appearance/heart contrast in v.12. I wonder if he is alluding to the David story, which might align Paul with David and “those who boast in outward appearance” with David’s older—and rejected—brothers.)

Second, we’re in a story, and where we are in the story can determine what’s visible or invisible. That appears to be what’s in play in that line from Paul with which we started. Here it is in context: “So we are always confident; even though we know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord–for we walk by faith, not by sight.” In this part of the story the Lord’s out of sight, so, faith.

In the previous chapter, “For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal” (2 Cor. 4:17-18). The glory is now invisible—but still worth attending to!

And story (time) is central to the logic of both of Jesus’ parables. Someone scatters seed, and for a good stretch nothing seems to be happening. But, oh, the harvest. Again, the proverbial mustard seed. Looking at the seed, we’d write it off. But just wait!

So, reliance on sight can be problematic because it gives incomplete information or because what’s visible depends on where we are in the story. The third reason is more profound—and more challenging. God coming in Jesus’ vulnerable flesh which climaxes in Jesus’ death and resurrection profoundly recasts what it means to see glory. So in the Gospel of John’s vocabulary Jesus being glorified and Jesus being crucified can be synonymous.

Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (Jn. 12:23-24).

And this in turn shapes Paul’s understanding of glory. Recall what we heard earlier:

…always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. (2 Cor. 4:10-11)

When I cited this earlier I focused on the “visible” part. Now notice what is visible: a cross-shaped combination of death and life. If the Corinthians aren’t paying attention they’ll conclude that Paul isn’t to be taken seriously because there’s little worldly glory in his ministry. But that’s to miss the point. If the crucified Jesus is the central revelation of God’s glory, then what we look for when we look for glory needs serious readjustment.

Where does this leave us? Briefly:

First, “the Lord looks on the heart.” We do well to remember the limits of our perceptions. And faced with decisions we pray for guidance.

Second, where we are in the story can determine what we can see or not. As often as not I find this very good news. With the problems we face “you can’t get there from here” can haunt me. Jesus’ parable reminds me that there are situations in which I not only don’t need to see—I don’t need to understand. “…and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.”

Third, Paul’s cross-shaped combination of death and life: the losses, the deaths we experience: united to Jesus’ story these can also make life visible. This isn’t a matter of technique; it can encourage our hope and patience.

Earlier in the letter to the Corinthians the issue of letters of recommendation comes up, and Paul doubles down on the visible: “You yourselves are our letter…to be known and read by all.” Paraphrasing slightly, “We don’t need no stinking letters.” That’s Paul’s hope for Corinth…and for North Lake. “You yourselves are our letter…to be known and read by all.”

Love complicates things (3rd Sunday after Pentecost)

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Readings (Track 1)

In the middle of Jesus’ argument with the scribes he tells this short parable: “But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.” Plunder: that’s an intriguing image for what Jesus is about. For what God’s about, for that matter. The Exodus: plunder on a national scale. The mob stirred up by Paul and Silas’ presence in Thessalonica didn’t get it entirely wrong: “These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also” (Acts 17:6). No wonder Paul’s regularly in trouble—as we heard in our second reading.

But it’s not plunder for the sake of plunder (“My pile of loot’s bigger than yours!”), but, whether at the Exodus or in Galilee, for human freedom, restoring it so that it can be used well. Pulling back the camera to take in all of Mark’s Gospel, whether in the exorcisms, the healings, the conversations or the proclamation, that plundering is about restoring human freedom and encouraging us humans to use it well. The first thing out of Jesus’ mouth in that Gospel: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news” (1:15).

The kingdom/reign of God, with two divine desires in play: that we be free, that we choose well. Either one of these would be easy to fulfill; both—that quickly gets complicated. Consider our first reading from Samuel’s time, a few centuries after the Exodus. The people have repeatedly used their freedom badly, and now they want a human king. A king: they’d celebrated the Lord as their king back at the Exodus (Exodus 15:18). But now, no, a human king “so that we also may be like other nations.” If God’s desire were simply that the people choose well, well, so much for freedom: no human king. But God desires both that they be free and that they choose well. So God tells Samuel to give the people what they want; we’ll do it the hard way.

That’s a pretty good illustration of God’s love. God loves us too much either to compromise our freedom or to stop caring about our choices. Love—as any parent knows—complicates things. God can bring good out of our bad choices (the king is the template for the Messiah), but the price is high (“King of the Jews” was the sign on Jesus’ cross).

Does God always get what God wants? Since what God wants is that we be free and that we choose well, the answer is pretty clearly no. (That’s one of the main reasons why the Bible is a lengthy book!) And one of the recurrent challenges in worshipping this God is to respect both of these divine desires. If we think the people are choosing badly is their freedom really all that important?

Bad choices bring death. Adam and Eve choose badly in Genesis chapter 3; only one of their sons (Cain and Abel) is alive by the end of chapter 4. Death ends the story; death ends all stories. In the psalms one of the most frequent arguments the psalmists make for deliverance: rescue me, because in Hades no one praises you; that’s the lose-lose option. Shakespeare nails it in MacBeth:

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

So if there were ever a game-changer, it’s Jesus’ resurrection (the motor for Paul’s reflections in our second reading). Death isn’t the end. Jesus’ transformed body grounds our hope for a similarly transformed body, “an eternal weight of glory,” as Paul put it.

How to tie this together? At least three ways come to mind. “God desires our freedom and that we use it well.” That, of course, is only one of many ways we might summarize what God’s up to. But play with it; wonder how it might serve to guide our outreach budget and activities.

Second. God desires our freedom and that we use it well. Because neither desire is negotiable God’s history with us is as messy as it is (recall, again, Holy Week) and Mick Jagger’s “You can’t always get what you want” turns out to apply to God as well. So we don’t know how all this will play out in the end. Will all be saved? We do know that it comes down to a fairly simple question: is my character such that I’d enjoy spending eternity with this God who keeps making hard choices and who loves my enemies as much as me?

In this respect heaven and hell reflect who we are. Recall that old analogy: a large banquet hall, the tables loaded. The complication is that our arms no longer bend at the elbows. At some tables, despair: despite increasingly acrobatic strategies no one can feed themselves. At other tables, delight: everyone feeding their neighbor.

A third way of tying this together: C. S. Lewis’ luminous sermon “The Weight of Glory” that draws on our second reading. After imagining what this weight of glory might mean, he pivots:

…it may be asked what practical use there is in the speculations which I have been indulging. I can think of at least one such use. It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour.… It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations.…There are no ordinary people.

God, in love, desires our freedom and that we use it well, for our choices really matter. That doesn’t make it easy for God or for us. Easy, apparently, is not the point.