2 February 2014

St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church, Springfield, VA

Year A, The Presentation of the Lord, Luke 2:22-40

It is a moving and beautiful scene that the writer of Luke gives us in today’s gospel lesson. This text is of course the basis for today’s feast, the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord. And there are actually two Jewish rituals going on here that our gospel writer puts together. The first is the purification of Mary, who after childbirth would have been ritually unclean according to Jewish law. And so a mother was required to wait forty days after the birth of a boy (and longer after the birth of a girl) to re-enter the Temple.  And this ritual of purification called for the sacrifice of a lamb and a pigeon or dove. But if a family was poor, as Mary and Joseph were, they could sacrifice two pigeons or doves, as they do.

            And the second ritual is the dedication of the firstborn son to God, which took place when the child was a month old, and usually included the parents paying five shekels to a priest in the Temple to redeem the child from God. But for whatever reason, the gospel writer takes some liberties and conflates this second ritual with the story of Samuel and his mother Hannah in the Old Testament, and so we don’t get the five shekels. That’s okay, though.

            We can give Luke a little leeway, since what we do get is more important.  We get an illustration of Joseph and Mary’s faithfulness to God through the law of Moses, the law as Luke understands it, at least. Luke wants us to know not so much about the rituals themselves but that Mary and Joseph are faithful Jews, just as Jesus will be a faithful Jew. They actively participate in the rituals of the Temple, in rituals that keep them in relationship to God, and this is good.

            And so we have this image of this holy family, this young woman Mary, really still just a girl, and her poor carpenter husband, Joseph, traveling with their infant son the twenty-odd miles from Bethlehem to Jerusalem to abide by the teachings of their religion, to practice their faith.

            And they encounter two other people who have spent their long lives practicing their faith: Simeon and Anna, both in their eighties and both deeply committed to the God of Israel. Simeon and Anna have both spent their lives believing in the promises of God and putting into practice their love for God. Simeon, we are told, is “righteous and devout,” and Anna is forever fasting and praying. It’s a beautiful, beautiful picture of fidelity to God, with the infant Jesus and his dedicated parents encountering two people who have remained steadfast and sure to the promises of Israel, who have believed in God’s promise of a messiah, made some 800 years before.

             What must it have been like to see the Messiah in the flesh for these two? These two who day after day worshipped, worshipped and prayed and remained faithful to a God they loved. What must they have felt when they finally encountered this infant, the Messiah, the Christ, the savior of Israel and the world?

            We get some idea of what it must have been like of course in Simeon’s words that we often sing in morning prayer. He proclaims that he has peace, that he has seen God’s salvation, God’s light for all people, both Israelites and Gentiles. He can go in peace. He has seen the Messiah.

            We too, of course, can have the deep peace of Simeon and the excitement for God of Anna, who wants to tell everyone about the child. We can have a deep and abiding peace of God and this overwhelming zeal for God. We can have this, since we, too, can see the Messiah.

            But I would argue that in order to do that, it takes some practice. I’m not saying that God doesn’t love us if we don’t practice our faith—God loves us without condition, no matter what—but I’m saying only that we are truly able to see God working in the world and in our lives when we do. Luke tells us that the Holy Spirit was upon Simeon, and Simeon was able to recognize the Spirit and see the Messiah because he opened himself to it. He opened himself to it in worship and prayer and in participating in the life of the Temple.

            It is so much easier to see the Messiah when we have practiced our faith. When we have prayed and worshipped and participated in the life of the community of the church. When we have done that, it is of course so much easier to see the Messiah in each person that we encounter, from the person sitting beside you, to the cashier at Target, to a guest at our hypothermia shelter this week. Christ is present in each of them, in each of us, but that’s difficult to see when we haven’t practiced. We need time in worship and prayer, time with God who so desires relationship with us, to be able to recognize the movement of the Holy Spirit and to see Christ in others and to serve and love others as Christ served and loved us. We need the practices of faith to see. And there is of course great peace and joy in seeing in this way. In fact, this is the only way to true peace and joy on this side of the grave.

            Why, then do we not do the things we need to do to be able to see? And I of course count myself among those who often don’t. While I go to a worship service almost every day because it’s required of me as a seminarian, my heart is not always in it. And as far as my personal prayer life, it doesn’t come close to that of Simeon or Anna. And so I sometimes don’t see so well. And when I fail to see the Christ in my neighbor, especially when it’s in a seminary community where we sort of live on top of one another, that inevitably leads to unkindness and gossip and resentment and all that stuff that keeps us from experiencing the peace and joy Simeon and Anna feel.

            Simeon has something to teach us about this. After proclaiming he has seen the Messiah, he pulls Mary aside and tells her that her tiny baby boy will cause many to fall and that he will be opposed by many. Essentially, Simeon says, Jesus is divisive. Jesus is divisive and many in Palestine in the first century and many today come down on the side opposed to Jesus. Perhaps because truly following Jesus requires too much--too much time, too much effort, too much money, too much caring for the other and not focusing on me.

            A life of faith is quite a lot, actually. It requires a lot. It’s certainly not all unicorns and rainbows. It’s not all happy, clappy. Jesus is divisive, dividing people and dividing even our own hearts, because dying to self is painful. Dying to self is painful. And that is exactly what following Jesus requires. Dying to self again, and again, and again. And I’m not sure why, but somehow this dying to self seems to be the only way for us to see Christ in the other and experience true peace and joy, to experience salvation.

            Jesus is divisive because Jesus offers us a radical choice, but it’s certainly not an easy one: A life where we get to do exactly what we want to do or life that requires something from us. But this life that requires something from us leads to salvation. Not salvation from a fiery hell or condemnation, but salvation from a life that is self-focused and empty. This life that requires something from us, that challenges us to worship and pray and serve, allows us to really and truly see, so that we might have the most profound peace and joy in the here and now. A life of faith is not easy. But in the end, it’s the only life worth living. A life of faith is true life, since this life that requires something from us ensures that we can see the Messiah.

December 29, 2013
Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, Vicksburg, MS
Year A, First Sunday after Christmas, John 1:1-18

            A few years ago a quote attributed to Nelson Mandela’s presidential inauguration was floating around the Internet and was even attributed to the Nobel Peace Prize winner on posters and other printed materials. It was pithy and profound, and you may have heard it. Supposedly, Mandela said, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.”[1]

            This is terrific in many ways, and I’ll come back to the quote itself. But I have to say I was disappointed to find out this was not Mandela, not the man imprisoned on Robben Island for decades for demanding equality in his native South Africa, not the man I studied this semester in Christian ethics for his commitment to nonviolence and forgiveness, not the man who actually bore witness to the light of Christ in his own life, by actions such as inviting one of his white prison guards to be part of his presidential security detail.
          This quote came instead from celebrated spiritual guru Marianne Williamson, who used to appear pretty regularly on Oprah. And while admiring and even, in her own words, loving Jesus Christ, Williamson does not profess Christianity, at least not any orthodox Christianity. Instead Williamson says that Jesus was a human being who “while on earth completely self-actualized and fulfilled in all ways the potential glory that lies within us all.” In that way, Williamson says, Jesus is our “evolutionary elder brother.” She would actually make a pretty good Episcopalian, since we as a group can be kind of waffle-y on topics like the Incarnation, on whether Jesus was indeed God.

            But what we believe about this is important. Who Jesus is matters since our belief in—and perhaps it’s better to say our trust in—Jesus Christ—our trust in Jesus as the Christ—of course determines the shape of our lives. And while we say the creed each week, I’m not sure we spend a whole lot of time thinking about this, about the very nature of God. As my dean at Virginia Seminary likes to point out, we tend to spend a good bit more time fighting about things that are pretty secondary—things like sexuality—than taking the time to consider the big questions, questions like what does Jesus’s identity mean to me today, right now?[2]

            If Jesus is, like Williamson believes, like many believe, merely a fully actualized human being, then we have to consider what this says about God. Now, please be clear that I am not bashing Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, or any other religious tradition for that matter. But if Jesus is not God, I personally cannot get to a loving God. I simply do not have the wherewithal in and of myself to seek out God. Thankfully, though, I don’t have to, we don’t have to. God comes to us.

            As the evangelist of the fourth Gospel tells us, God comes to us, to the entire world, in the Incarnate Word and reveals Godself to us through Jesus Christ. This is a remarkable and incredible claim and if we confess this claim, that Jesus is God, then that claim necessarily transforms our lives. No longer is God distant, no longer is God hidden from us, but God in the Incarnation proves Godself to be with us, as near as you to me.

            God comes to dwell with us; literally, in John’s Greek, God pitches God’s tent with us. God makes a home with God’s own creation, which the evangelist tells us comes about only through the eternal Word. The claim that Jesus is God, that the Word was with God since the very beginning, that the Word is in fact God and that through the Word all things came to be, links God intimately with each of us (and actually very particularly with those I, in my selfishness, would rather not have to deal with, namely the poor, the lonely, the oppressed).

            Not only does the Word participate in creation, but the Word comes down and experiences all that you can throw at a human being, from the prosaic to the profound—the womb, puberty, persecution, denial and betrayal by those closest to him, a painful and shameful criminal’s death on a Roman cross.

            In claiming that Jesus is God, we claim that God knows what it is to be human, and not just what it is to be human, but to suffer physical and emotional torment. That God knows hurt and sorrow and disappointment. That God knows the full range of thoughts and feelings and emotions that you and I feel, that you and I would rather not even admit to.

            We hear in the Collect for Purity each week that to God all hearts are open, all desires known, and from God no secrets are hid. We believe in an all-knowing God, but through the Incarnation, we can affirm that God knows what it is to be human and so knows what it is to think and feel all that we do. Knows what it is even to doubt.

            That Jesus is God is an incredible claim that we all know and say every week. But it bears repeating again and again. And it bears consideration since it’s one that’s not easy, at least for me, to assent to. I do have doubts, and great sympathies for those who say that Jesus was merely a remarkable teacher, that he was not divine, since it is beyond belief that God became man amongst a persecuted and impoverished people in a tiny corner of the world some 2,000 years ago. It is beyond belief that God comes to us as a totally helpless infant, entrusting Godself to God’s own creation. To a carpenter and a girl. It is no doubt a remarkable claim.

            But to choose not to accept this is to choose a life in darkness. And I’m not saying it’s to choose condemnation, but in rejecting Jesus as God, we miss out on the light, on being able to fully see, to fully take in all that God entrusts to us. Without the light, we simply muddle through in darkness, continually bumbling and stumbling over obstacles we could just as easily avoid—fear, resentment, greed—all that stuff that blinds us to God and to our own true identities as God’s beloved children. 

            In affirming that Jesus is God, we affirm that God loves us immeasurably, that God cherishes us, enough to come to us as a human being, desiring concrete human relationship with each of us. And in affirming that Jesus is God, we affirm that nothing—not even death, not even death on a cross at the hands of God’s own beloved creation, hands that just as easily could have been yours or mine—nothing can sever this relationship. And in affirming that Jesus is God, that God loves us immeasurably, we are emboldened to live as Jesus lived, to love as Jesus loved—radically and without fear.

            We are, as Williamson writes, powerful beyond measure. But true power, the power to love God and to love our neighbors as ourselves, the power to welcome the stranger, to care for the least among us, the power to seek and serve Christ in all people, the power to forgive and understand our own forgiven-ness, true power, true, real life-worth-living power, can only come in knowing that God desires us relentlessly. So much so that God comes down to us, that God has been one of us, that God identifies with us intimately, that Jesus is indeed the eternal Word, the Christ.

[1] Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of a Course in Miracles (San Francisco: HarperOne, 1996), 165. A number of articles can be found on the misattribution by searching online for “our deepest fear,” “Williamson,” and “Mandela.”
[2] Ian Markham, “Nature of God: Classical Account” (lecture, Systematic Theology 501, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA, October 16, 2013). Markham said, “This [Classical Account versus Process Account of God] is about as fundamental a question you can get. And in class we’re all very relaxed about this. Compare our attitude on this to our attitudes about human sexuality. Nothing is more fundamental about what we agree on about God. We need to be as mellow about less fundamental things.”

December 22, 2013
St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Oxford, MS
Year A, 4th Sunday of Advent, Isaiah 7:10-16

            A great uncle of mine often tells me that the thing you’re most afraid of is never the thing that gets you in the end. As this man has seen an awful lot, I take his words to heart. And even though it’s not the happiest message, we cannot deny that in our lifetimes some amount of tragedy will touch each of us. Something likely will get us in the end, if not before. His point in reminding me of this—that the thing you’re most afraid of is never the thing that gets you—is that worrying about our deepest fear does us absolutely no good. That of course, doesn’t keep me from worrying.            

            This is kind of the spot that Ahaz, king of Judah, the Southern Kingdom of Israel, finds himself in in our Old Testament reading from today. We learn in the verses preceding the lectionary text that the hearts of Ahaz and his people have been shaken by the news of two other kingdoms out to get Ahaz. One is what we now know as Syria and the other was the northern kingdom of Israel. Together, they hoped to depose the Judean king and replace him with a ruler more sympathetic to their desires, but the actuality of a successful campaign was unlikely. Even so, Ahaz’s heart is shaken and so God sends Isaiah of Jerusalem to reassure him. So when we meet him, Ahaz is scared and worrying about something that’s probably not going to happen, and in fact does not, and we have Isaiah pleading with him to get it together and have a little faith in God.

            And in fact not only does Isaiah plead with Ahaz, but Isaiah has God Godself telling Ahaz that he can have a sign, any sign. “You need faith?” God seems to say. “Ask me for a sign.” Now, it’s maybe important to note a couple of things about this. Ahaz is not asking God for a sign, it’s the other way around, and so Ahaz is not in any way putting God to the test, as Ahaz will claim in a move of false piety.

            And second, and more important, it might seem that a sign from God would be a great good thing. And I myself have often thought neon above me or skywriting might be helpful. “I am here, Jennifer. Really.” It would be wonderful to know finally and for certain that God is with me, with all of us.

            But when I really consider it, that notion can also be terribly frightening. If God is with us, with me, after all, and I know that for sure, then I have zero excuse in not surrendering my own will to God’s. If we know that God is with us, then we have absolutely no excuse for going our own way and not God’s way. And letting go, acknowledging our inability to control much of anything is a hard and fearful thing. It is much, much easier, safer, at least it has been in my life, to ignore the signs of God around me, and go my own way, trusting in my own ability and wherewithal. I haven’t seen the words “I am here” in pink neon or airplane exhaust, and maybe there is some part of me that really would rather not.  

            Ahaz certainly would rather not. Ahaz, like most of us, would rather choose his own way, and so instead of looking to God, he looks to and solicits help from the king of Assyria, the superpower of his day, which no doubt makes good political sense. And while reaching out to Assyria is partly a reaction to the fear of attack by the two kingdoms to his north, I think perhaps Ahaz is mostly afraid of surrendering control to God.

            As Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel says, “It was more expedient to be ‘son and servant’ to the King of Assyria than son and servant to the invisible God.”[1] And as the great Bob Dylan says, “Everybody’s gotta serve somebody.” And if it’s not somebody it’s some thing. You know the list: money, influence, power. But we might add to that list the many less obvious but perhaps more insidious things that we serve in place of God every day. It is easy to de-center God in our lives when what we put at the center is good and respected. For me, these days, that’s usually schoolwork and the endless meetings associated with living as part of a seminary community. Like Ahaz pleading that he will not put God to the test, I often find myself in the same mindset, fooling myself into believing for days at a time that because I’m focusing on all there is to do at seminary, I’m actually focused on God. And I’m good at this. I can very easily fool myself into believing I’m actually focused on God when I’ve taken zero time to consult with God, to try to hear God, when I’ve taken absolutely no time to notice the many ways in which God is in fact with me. When, in short, I blindly assert my own control over God’s.

            Franciscan friar and priest Richard Rohr writes that “When Christianity aligns itself with power (and the mindset of power, which is the need to be right and always in control) there’s simply very little room for the darkness of faith; that spacious place where God is actually able to form us. . . .  Faith can only happen in this very special threshold space.” And he adds, “You don’t really do faith, it happens to you when you give up control and all the steering of your ship.”[2]

             And usually that control is not given up easily. We give up steering generally only when something bad has happened and we no longer have the strength within us to hold the wheel steady. Rohr goes on to say that “you fall into [faith] more than ever fully choosing it, and only then do you know how grace, love, and God can sustain you and strengthen you at very deep levels.”[3]

            But we can choose faith. We don’t have to wait for tragedy to strike, for our strength to be zapped, to give up control to God. We can choose today, right now, to be sons and daughters and servants of the invisible God, as Heschel says. And this is good and right since when we are not children and servants of God, we are necessarily children and servants of people and entities and ideas that are not God, and so can only lead us down paths of self-selected exile from God.

            When we meet Ahaz, Isaiah has warned him, “If you do not stand firm in faith, / you shall not stand at all” (Isaiah 7:9b), and that is exactly what happens. In his fear of giving over control to God, Ahaz loses all control to the king of Assyria. Giving himself and his people up to an expedient solution, Ahaz leads his people down the long but slippery slope that will eventually end in Babylonian exile. Much more sadly, though, Ahaz misses out on the perfect freedom and joy of serving God, of knowing the depth of God’s love for him. Ahaz shows us that not standing firm in faith, not recognizing God with us, is not standing at all. And I can attest from my own life, it is not living. Not really.

            But the very good news here that Isaiah proclaims is that despite our faithlessness, God is nevertheless with us, since God, unlike you or me, is always faithful. Despite our unwillingness to let God take control of our lives, God is nevertheless ready and willing to do so. We need only ask. “You don’t want a sign, Ahaz? Too bad. I am here,” God says. God is ready and waiting for us whenever we are ready to turn to God.

            “Look, the young woman is with child, and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel,” (meaning of course, God is with us). And not only that, but in two or three years, that kid’s gonna be eating milk and honey, the food of abundance. And what’s more, those kings you were so worried about, won’t even be around. But God will, Isaiah proclaims to the faithless Ahaz.

            Scholars have wasted a lot ink trying to figure out who this young woman was—this young woman whom Matthew and Luke will of course read as ultimately pointing to Mary—and while it’s interesting to speculate about the woman, her role is really not all that important here.

            What is important for Isaiah, and for the Gospel writers, was that God is in fact among us. Ahaz refuses God’s offer for a sign. But God in God’s goodness, in God’s never-ending faithfulness to us, provides one anyway. We refuse to be faithful, and God seems to love us anyway, forever calling us back to Godself, with the absolute assurance that there is new and abundant life in following God and not our own ways.  

            This new and abundant life of course does not shield us from tragedy, but this new life allows us to face whatever may happen to us in faith, in the knowledge that God is with us, sustaining us with God’s immeasurable grace and love. God desires us and so is ready and waiting for us to know how much each of us is loved. That is God’s promise to us. That is the story of Israel and that is our story. We have only to accept it. I pray that each of us may do so as we await the coming of the Christ child, God with us, Immanuel.

---

[1] Abraham J. Heschel, The Prophets (New York: Harper and Row, 1962),

[2] Richard Rohr, “Daily Meditation,” email from the Center for Contemplation and Action, 12/13/13.

[3] Ibid.

Another (longer) sermon . . .

December 8, 2013
St. Christopher's Episcopal Church, Springfield, VA
Year A, 2nd Sunday of Advent, Matthew 3:1-12

            Flannery O’Connor, the great 20^th century American fiction writer, who also happened to be a devout Roman Catholic, knew something about Pharisees, and also knew a little about the kingdom of God. In her short story “Revelation,” set mostly in a doctor’s waiting room in the Jim Crow South, Mrs. Turpin, a truly nasty and racist “good Christian” woman, gives thanks that she is not like the others in that room—not trashy or ugly, or black.

            And while I imagine O’Connor based this story on the Pharisee who thanks God that he is not like the tax collector in Luke’s gospel, there are good parallels here to today’s gospel lesson.

            Mrs. Turpin has her so-called “revelation,” which I’ll get to in a bit, after a particularly homely young woman attacks her in the waiting room. This girl, back home from school up North, in a crazed fit can no longer take Mrs. Turpin’s running commentary on everything that is wrong with those who are lesser in Mrs. Turpin’s eyes. Mrs. Turpin is not all bad, though, especially not in her own estimation. She does, after all, do a lot for her church and is an upstanding citizen, who, with her husband, owns her own home and small farm.

            But this young woman can’t take it anymore. And so she lunges at and throttles Mrs. Turpin and calls her a “wart hog from hell.” And much more than the physical attack, it is what this girl says that causes Mrs. Turpin to take a good long look at herself.

            I can’t help but hope that John the Baptist’s name-calling—“you brood of vipers”—caused the Pharisees and Sadducees in our gospel lesson also to take a good long look at themselves.

            In the gospel lesson we just heard, John the Baptist, is doing his crazy John the Baptist thing, with the camel’s hair and the locusts and all of that. And in Matthew’s gospel he bursts onto the scene, proclaiming that the kingdom of heaven has come near and that all should repent—that is, turn toward God.

            And throngs of people are coming out to be baptized by him. Scholars don’t know for sure where this tradition of baptism came from, but people nevertheless were going out to be baptized. And not only that, they were also confessing their sins.        

            That so many people were going out to John is understandable in light of the fact that the Israelites had been waiting for several centuries for Elijah to return to announce the Messiah. And as Matthew presents him, John is very much an Elijah figure.

            So John is doing his crazy John the Baptist thing and along come the Pharisees and Sadducees, John’s own Mrs. Turpins. And just as a reminder, the Pharisees of course were that sect that wanted to expand on and extend that expanded law into all areas of life for all Jewish people. They very much believed in living by the letter of the law. A lot of law. And the Sadducees, who were traditionally hostile to the Pharisees—but let’s give our gospel writer some poetic license here—didn’t go in for the expanded law of the Pharisees but certainly strictly maintained the Torah and were dedicated Temple worshipers.

            And it’s important that we remember that John, himself a Jew, is not bashing Jews. He was baptizing lots and lots of Jewish people. So John the Baptist’s condemnation of the Pharisees and Sadducees has nothing to do with their Jewishness but everything to do with their striving for status, and not living according to the law they professed. It has to do with their treatment of those they perceived to be of a lower status. And it has to do with their using the law, which he is also not bashing, as a tool against those they perceived as lesser.

            In short, they were not bearing good fruit.

            Theologian and ethicist Stanley Hauerwas writes that John’s somewhat puzzling and very harsh treatment of the Pharisees and Sadducees “anticipates Jesus’s biting critique of how these so-called authorities fail to lead lives congruent with their advocacy of God’s law.”[1]

            And so John is pretty hard on them, calling them, a “brood of vipers,” literally, “sons of snakes.” And he refuses to baptize them—and it’s not clear whether they were actually seeking baptism or just coming out to inspect what was going on. But he refuses to baptize them and then, he says a lot of things about fruit and fire.

            Fruit and fire—and this is important. This is a theme that Jesus himself will take up in Matthew’s gospel more than once. And, as you probably know, in Matthew’s gospel good fruit is ultimately tied, later in chapter 25, to feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, tending the sick, visiting the imprisoned. Good fruit is about caring for the least among us.

            The Pharisees and Sadducees are vipers—slithering, poisonous snakes—because they have lived in a way that has not borne good fruit, to mix metaphors. And now presumably these trees that have not borne good fruit are being cut down and thrown into the fire. And if two metaphors weren’t enough, our gospel writer has John say that one greater is coming and that one is gonna separate the wheat from the chaff. That one is gonna throw the chaff into the fire.

            Talk about a hot mess. It all seems like pretty terrible news for the Pharisees and Sadducees. And pretty bad news for me and you, who—let’s face it—probably bear just as much bad fruit as good on any given day. And let’s not forget Mrs. Turpin. This is terrible news for her, it would seem.

            In O’Connor’s story, Mrs. Turpin is mortified by the young woman’s attack on her. She cannot believe that she, an upstanding white middle-class Christian woman, is a “wart hog from hell.” But the crazed young woman no doubt speaks truth in some way.

            I am not advocating name-calling. But the kingdom of God has come near for Mrs. Turpin. And the kingdom of God is near for us; God is calling us through Matthew’s gospel to bear fruit worthy of repentance. In this season of Advent as we await the birth of the Christ child, we might, like Mrs. Turpin, take some time to reflect on the fruit that we have borne, that we bear in our day-to-day lives. We might take some time to repent, to turn back to God, and confess our sins, so that we might bear good fruit.

            Stanley Hauerwas says that all of this that John the Baptist is proclaiming causes Christians to “rightly read and hear” this “with apprehension and guilt. But guilt,” he says, “is seldom a useful position to assume for a faithful response to God’s word. Far more important is that we respond, as John demands, to the one who has come to baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire.”[2]

            Fire, again. In the middle of the trees that are being cut down and burned up and the chaff that will be burned, John tells us that Jesus baptizes with the Holy Spirit and fire.

            And that’s where Mrs. Turpin comes back in. As she ponders the words of the young woman after she is back home, Mrs. Turpin has a vision, and it is a clear and real vision of the kingdom of God. As she looks up into the red-streaked sunset, she sees herself marching along to heaven. But to her surprise she is in the very last group of those making their way to heaven. She is marching behind the hordes of people for whom she has had so much disdain, on account of whom she has borne so very much bad fruit. She is marching behind, as O’Connor tells it, “freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs.”[3] She is marching behind them and in her very real and clear vision of this heavenly procession, she can see her “shocked and altered” face as even her “virtues are being burned away.”[4] As even her “virtues are being burned away.”

            Mrs. Turpin is in the heavenly procession not because she is a good Christian, but because God loves her—or if she were real, because God would love her—just as he loves you and me. Immeasurably. Without bound. Without qualification. Enough to want us to produce good fruit. Enough to burn away those parts of us that produce bad fruit.

            We are all part Pharisee. We are all part Mrs. Turpin. And sometimes bearing good fruit is hard when those parts of ourselves take over, when we lose sight of just how much God loves us. But we can rest assured that God loves us anyway. That God loves us enough to burn away, in the end, all that is unfruitful within us.

            So in this season of Advent, let us repent, let us turn back to God, and confess our sins in the knowledge that the unquenchable fire of God’s love through Jesus Christ will in the end consume all the Pharisee and all the Mrs. Turpin within us. Let us repent, let us turn back to God, and confess our sins, so that in the meantime, in the here-and-now time, we might produce the fruit that God so desires of us and for us.

            Amen.

             

---

[1] Hauerwas, Stanly, Matthew (Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2006), 46.

[2] Ibid., 47

[3] O’Connor, Flannery, “Revelation” in The Complete Short Stories (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1971), 508.

[4] Ibid.

So, I've been idle in regards to the blog. Please accept my sincere apologies. This year has been even busier than last. The good news is that I preached today, so I have something to post. My first-ever sermon at my field ed site:

St. Christopher's Episcopal Church, Springfield, VA
Year C, Season after Pentecost, Proper 28, 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13

            So, I identify with the idle (and that’s the I-D-L-E of our epistle). And while we don’t know exactly what was going on that prompted this second letter to the church at Thessalonica, we do know that there were people there not doing what they were supposed to. Not carrying their weight. Not contributing to the community. Loafers. Slackers. Deadbeats.

            But why not, really? Why not loaf?

            I, for one, can understand that urge. Our reading from Isaiah this morning promises us a new heaven and a new earth. But when? In the Gospel lesson, we hear Jesus saying that in the end times there will be earthquakes and famines and plagues. But for how long? 2,000 years?

            I don’t know about you, but that seems excessive to me. And so in the midst of all the atrocious pain that we now witness day-to-day in the news—from shootings to typhoons—and not to mention the less-newsworthy suffering of our own lives—the urge for me at last is to sit back, to become idle, to pursue my own interests and ignore the world around me.

            While I worry about how long it might take for this new heaven and new earth to appear, this is sort of the opposite of what some scholars believe was going on in Thessalonica.

A little context may help. Paul had founded the church at Thessalonica a couple decades after Jesus. And being a busy guy and unable to return as quickly as the community there would’ve liked, Paul wrote the letter we now know as First Thessalonians. And in that letter (which was written around the year 50 and happens to be the earliest preserved Christian writing) Paul urges the Thessalonians to continue doing what they’re doing and to stay strong. Jesus would be right back, after all. They were living in the end times, Paul thought.

            And so fast forward (and, unfortunately, we don’t how much to fast forward, since scholars disagree on the date of Second Thessalonians). So fast forward maybe a year or maybe even some decades, but fast forward nonetheless, and what we have is perhaps Paul but maybe a follower of Paul writing in his name, sending another letter to the Thessalonians. And this time, we get this somewhat strange warning about idleness.

            But again, why not be idle? Perhaps Paul had been a little too convincing about the Second Coming in the first letter. If that event was in fact right around the corner, why not take a day off, or two, or twenty? Not to mention that the Christians at Thessalonica had seen their fair share of persecution because of their faith. That alone was enough to make any good Thessalonian Christian want to slack a little.

            And, for whatever reason, some did. And not only did some become idle, but they also became “busybodies,” meddlers, worried about others’ affairs while not tending to their own. And again, this is something I can relate to.

            I can assure you, that in living with a bunch of seminarians, it’s easy to meddle. I, for one, am really good at pointing out what everyone else ought to be doing. And it is generally not a good feeling when I discover that my only contribution to the betterment of the community has been sitting back and offering criticism.

            But back to the Thessalonians. Here, we get this passage in our lectionary that twice invokes the name of Jesus Christ and uses some pretty strong language.

            And I think maybe that’s because our writer understood just how much the Thessalonian Christians needed one another.  This message is really about community. We are, after all, called to do all sorts of really hard things when we accept the call to follow Christ. Things like seeking and serving Christ in all persons. And we can’t do those things alone—at least, I can’t. We need community. We need one another.

            German Lutheran theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonheoffer, writes in his book Life Together, his meditation on Christian community, that the Christian “needs his brother solely because of Jesus Christ. The Christ in his own heart is weaker than the Christ in the word of his brother; his own heart is uncertain, his brother’s is sure.”[1]

            So we need one another. And this morning’s epistle indicates further that we need to be able to hold one another accountable in love and mutual respect. That probably doesn’t mean that if you or I forget our potluck dish, we shouldn’t eat. But maybe it means that we do need to sit down at potlucks together occasionally, and of course to break bread together regularly, to worship together, to study together—to feed one another spiritually, and not just so that we may be fed, but much more so, so that we might be able to go outside these walls and feed a hurting world.

            And, just as a side note, let me be clear that this passage is not about people unable to work because of ability or the myriad systemic circumstances that prevent people from working today. Rather, it’s about unwillingness to take part in the life of the community. And for us here today, I think it speaks to our willingness to do the work that God has called on us to do. To do the work of ushering in the new heaven that we just heard about in Isaiah, to be the hands and feet of Christ in the here and now.  

            Are we living in the end times, as the Thessalonians believed they were? I don’t know. Will humans be waiting another 2,000 years or more for the Kingdom of God to finally and fully be realized? I don’t know. But I do know we are called to usher in that kingdom, to show forth the love of God through Christ as best we are able. This is true life, after all. This is the only life worth living, Scripture teaches us again and again. And it is a life we are able to achieve only through the help of God, whom I believe shows up most clearly in our relationships with one another in community.

            Nevertheless, I very much sympathize with the idle. And I can be a pretty good slacker. But I ask you to remind me, and I pray that we may all remind one another—through our words but more so through our actions—that as a community of brothers and sisters in Christ, we are to love another. And we are to celebrate and affirm God’s immeasurable love for us through Christ so that we might share that love in tangible ways outside the walls of this church.

            I can understand the idleness. But it’s the community that brings me back and allows me to hope in the love of God through Christ. It’s the community that holds on to hope when I can’t. And in so doing, it’s the community that helps me see—when I’m feeling particularly drawn to idleness—that God is in fact among us.

            The writer of Second Thessalonians urges that community two millenia removed from us  “not to be weary of doing what is right” (3:13). May we also not grow weary. 

Amen.         

                      

---

[1]Bonhoeffer, Dietrich, Life Together: The Classic Exploration of Christian Community (New York: Harper & Row Publishers, 1954), 23.