Resurrection as Defiance

 

John 11:1-45

Lent 5 / Year A

I doubt we at St. Paul’s could have hand-picked a more appropriate reading from John’s Gospel than we just heard as we prepare to honor and celebrate the life and witness of Bill Peachy and as we offer our care and consolation to Dixie and her family.  While the customs and burial preparations of Jesus’ day differ somewhat from ours, as we reflect on this story we recognize what share in common:

·    The immense grief at the loss of a loved one.

·   The necessity of some kind of faith to keep us buoyant on the sea of despair that is death.

·    The community’s role of supporting those who are hurting the most.

The community.  We see ourselves in those who surround Martha and Mary.  We understand the initial confusion when the disciples first learn of Lazarus’ illness, from the “Oh no, what horrible news” to the desire to do something helpful to the humbling realization there is nothing we can do to change the outcome.  And we identify with their willingness to be with the sisters as they weep and mourn.  In these folks we see the time-honored truth our love is best expressed in our willingness to be steadfast companions.  We see in them how God’s power works through us not because we can make all the hurt go away, but as we remain close even as we feel inadequate to make a difference. 

As your pastor, I know firsthand how the power of the clergy collar is not manifested through fancy words I say when a person is dying, but in its unfailing ability to demonstrate God is present, God cares, God knows how you feel, God is holding you tight, and yes, someday, somehow, God will wipe away every tear from every eye and make all things whole again.

If you were to look at today’s reading as being an act in a play, notice how Lazarus, the person around whom the entire scene is centered, has no actual speaking lines.  In fact, he only appears at the end as the curtain closes and even then, he is shrouded in burial linens.  As a story element, this shifts our attention from him (the person whose experience is the cause of the story) to the people around him who are affected by what happens to him. 

Enter the two supporting actresses, first Martha, then Mary.  We already know them from the time Jesus visited their home with his disciples.  Mary reclined at his Jesus’ feet, taking in all the master had to say.  Martha toiled in the kitchen, working feverously to provide hospitality for their unanticipated guests.  Now, in this setting, their roles are reversed.  Martha is pondering deeper questions while Mary is swept up in the moment at hand.  They greet Jesus separately by saying to him the same thing: “If you would have been here, my brother would not have died.” 

Martha adds to this a statement of faith: “But even now I know God will give you whatever you ask.”  Then, responding to Jesus, she says, “I know my brother will rise on the last day.”  It is then Jesus proclaims, “I am the resurrection and the life.”  Something about this particular loss, and what Jesus says to her, reshapes Martha’s faith and thinking in a profound way.

Has this ever happened to you?  I think about how my own pastoral theology was formed by reading Rabbi Herald Kushner’s book Why Bad Things Happen to Good People on a plane flight from Richmond to Iowa as I returned to the church I served there to bury an eight-year-old girl whose sudden and tragic death rocked everyone who knew her, including me.  That horrible moment forced me to grapple with questions I had never considered with any real depth, but could no longer avoid if I wanted to be able to offer anything of value (or at least do no harm) in a time of such inexpressible need.  That flight, reading that book, being with a family that lost the light of their lives, changed my life. 

Jesus asks Martha a question, “Do you believe?” and when she responds “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God,” it is evident the loss of her brother has become an ‘aha’ moment in her life.  Through this horrible event, her heart and mind conceive, perhaps for the first time, a truth deeper than the darkness of death.

Unlike her sister, when Mary says to Jesus, “If you had been here my brother would not have died,” she offers no confession of faith; not even “I know he will rise again” or “I know he is in a better place” or “I know we will meet again someday.”  All she adds to her comment is weeping; utter, panged grief.  Whereas Martha’s faith moves Jesus to add to her faith, Mary’s distress touches his heart.  Twice we are told he is “greatly disturbed.”  Her deep, unconsolable sadness moves Jesus to recognize his own sense of loss and he too weeps.   

The prayer book, writing about the theology of the Burial Office, notes why this is significant:

The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy.  It finds all of its meaning in the resurrection.  Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, will be.  The liturgy, therefore, is characterized by joy… This joy, however, does not make human grief unchristian…  Jesus himself wept at the grave of his friend.  So while we rejoice our loved one has entered into the nearer presence of our Lord, we sorrow in sympathy with those who mourn. ^{P. 507}

I am especially moved by funerals during the season of Lent when, among other things, the faithful refrain from saying the celebratory “A” word.  But come Saturday I will declare with boldness “Even at the grave we make our song Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.”  In the face of all that death is, this proclamation always feels to me like an act of defiance: “Death, you do not have the final word.”  And it feels like an act of rebellion: “Death, we refuse to live under your power.”  As I say these words, I always look up to our triptych and find comfort and strength and inspiration in its depiction our resurrected Savior surrounded by adoring angels.  It is Easter morning.  Death is banished.  Our Lord reigns.  This is our reality.  It is what we profess.  It is what we invite others embrace with us.

This week, as we celebrate Bill’s life, I invite you to bring your faith, your sorrow, your comforting presence, and your defiant allegiance to the One who proclaims, “I am the Resurrection and the Life.”

A Humanizing Request

 

John 4:5-52

Lent 3 / Year A

The Samaritan woman said to Jesus, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?”  Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.  ^{John 4:9}

When we say Jesus is the Word of God, we are saying we know what God is like through what Jesus says and through what he does.  The gospel reading we just heard contains some of Jesus’ most profound words and ideas – far too many for us to explore in a single Sunday sermon.  It also describes one action which says more than a thousand words ever could.  In the heat of the day, sitting by an ancient communal well steeped in tradition, Jesus asks a Samaritan woman for a drink of water.

Perhaps you are aware of the cultural boundaries and taboos Jesus ignores in this seemingly simple request.  First, as a man he speaks to a woman who is a stranger – certainly not the norm in that society at that time.  And she is not just any woman, she has a “reputation.”  She falls far short of the community’s moral and marital standards, hence the reason she comes to well at noon while others are home sheltered or in shade.  She is a sinner with whom no holy person would deign to associate.  And finally, she is a Samaritan and, as the text relates, Jews and Samaritans are like oil and water, a product of deep-seated bias and hatred.

Jesus reaches beyond all that divides them and connects with her not as a caricature, not as a demographic, not as someone who is “other”, but as a human being.  In so doing he shares with her what is good within himself, thereby bringing what is holy and divine into their relationship. 

The more you strip a person or group of their dignity and worth the easier it is to mistreat them; to see them as anything but a child of God.  There is a reason why the most segregated societies are also the most violent and cruel.  You cannot hate another person or group until you have dehumanized them in your own mind.  You cannot mistreat another person or group until you see them as being less than human; of not being of equal worth with yourself and those you love.  Only when you begin to think in terms of “us” and “them” does it become easier to be dismissive of their value, their dignity, their experience, their concerns, their hurts, the wrongs done to them…  their basic humanity.

I am not proud to say I struggle to appreciate the human consequences of our military conflict with Iran.  I am concerned less with their hundreds of deaths than I am with our half dozen.  I am more tuned into the anxiety of parents stateside whose children are serving in the gulf, than I am with those living under the very threat of missile attracts and drone strikes on their homes, their schools, their hospitals, and their holy places.  I am aware of this inside me and I am not proud of it.

Last week, our Presiding Bishop, Sean Rowe, and the Episcopal Bishop of Jerusalem, Hosam Noaum, wrote letters to the church and I commend them to you.  I learned something from them I did not know but should have: There is an Anglican Diocese in Iran.  I went to its website and found a copy of the liturgy they use for their Eucharistic Prayers.  While some of its elements appear in a different order from ours, functionally they use the same words and liturgy we are using here this morning. 

What does it say to you there are people in Iran today offering the very same prayers we are?  There are ordained priests there who do their best to minister to a faith community, just as I try to do.  There are congregations there comprised of people who are afraid about the state of the world, concerned about the future, and not sure how to reach out with Christ’s love to others, just as we are.  There are people in Iran gathered to worship who are not all that much different from those of us gathered here.  And no matter the ways we differ, they, like we, are human beings.

Perhaps you have seen on social media a quote from the philosopher Erich Fromm: “Love for one’s country which is not a part of one’s love for humanity is not love, but idolatrous worship.”  These words, spoken by a German Jew who was forced to flee Nazi oppression, ought to give us pause.  We have ample history to warn us patriotism can be coopted by those seeking power and perverted to something unrecognizable and unthinkable to generations before.  

I feel all of this tugging at me not only as I consider my diminished concern for people on the other side of the globe, but also when I stood in a grocery line as an elderly lady fumbled through her purse only to pull out a checkbook to pay for her purchase.  “Are you kidding me,” I thought, “this is going to take forever.”  Actually, it took about 90 seconds!  My gut reaction was to consider her only in terms of how she affected me, but then I began to ponder her life.  What had she contributed over all her years?  Who does she love?  Who has she lost?  With what does she struggle?  What are her fears?  Does she feel overwhelmed by the modern world and just wants to get home where she will feel safe?  My spirit shifted and I saw her not as an inconvenience to me, but as a human being.  And then I felt blessed just to be in her presence.

Yes, Jews in Jesus’ day did not share things in common with Samaritans and yet he enters into a conversation with a Samaritan woman.  He sees beyond all that divides because he recognizes she is a dearly beloved child of God.  What does his action say to you?

The Wind Blows Where It Will

 

John 3:1-17

Lent 2 / Year A

The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.  So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.  ^{John 3:8}

One of the real joys and privileges of being a priest is the call to live with the assigned Lectionary readings from Scripture.  Over the course of each week, I ponder them prayerfully as I pay attention to what is happening in our lives, yours and mine.  There is always an intersection.  Always.

And so it was this past week.  As I stood mostly silent in a hospital room with Dixie and her children keeping vigil with Bill during his final hours, monitors charting their squiggly lines and manifold, mysterious numbers, tubes and lines dripping and puffing to do their best to stave off the inevitable, I was taken by how life, as Jesus said, is like the wind.  Sometimes, as with the sail of a boat, we harness it to great effect and benefit.  Other times, as with kite, we ride on it, dancing to and fro in an elaborate, joyful dance.  And then there are times when the wind overwhelms our lives, like Dorothy being swept out of Kansas.   At these moments the stark reality we are at the mercy of something we only think we control becomes is humblingly clear.

The wind blows where it will and we do not know from where it comes and where it goes.  We spend most of our lives manipulating it to our advantage, with differing degrees and success and failure, but there are times all we can do is admit we can never master it.  In the end, the wind blows in and around and through our lives as it will and when we sense and see we are only along for the ride.  We don’t choose to begin life and the end will come about when it chooses, how it chooses, as it chooses. 

This is what I pondered as I waited with Bill, who, at that moment, was receiving each breath of life through the forced intervention of a human machine, a ventilator.  Life is strange, isn’t it.  We think we know so much, but then realize how much we don’t.  We think we can do so much, but then realize what we can’t.  We think we are in control, but then realize we are anything but.

More than ever before, in that silence, I identified with Nicodemus.  A student of the law, a teacher of Israel, a leader who is supposed to guide the faithful, he recognizes something has happened, he doesn’t even know what, but it has brought him up short and left him grasping for answers.  “How can these things be?” he asks. 

Have you ever had a moment where, in one form or another, you have asked this very question?  How can these things be?  It may have been an experience in which you realized everything you thought you about life doesn’t fit together as neatly as you thought; a time when what you thought you knew about life doesn’t make sense of the moment at hand; a time when you felt humbled by recognizing the wind is going to blow where it will and there is nothing you can do to change it.

When Nicodemus brought all of this to Jesus, he was told something which, at first, was even more perplexing than the question he was asking.  Jesus says to him, “If you want to understand these things you must be born again.”  He tells Nicodemus he must begin to understand and receive life from a new perspective so revolutionary it will reorient everything he holds to be true.  What Jesus offers to him arguably are two of the greatest insights in all of Scripture.

First, he says “Out of God’s deep and abiding love for the whole world, I have been sent so that all might know of eternal life.”  Pondering this in Room 1030 of the River Pavillion, I leaned on the promise the wind of Spirit continues to blow in and through our lives even after our earthly life comes to an end. 

And then Jesus tells Nicodemus, “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved.”  What the word saved has come to mean in our day is not exactly what it meant to Jesus and the people of his time.  For many today, in carries the connotation of not being condemned to hell as a consequence of your sins.  But the New Testament Greek word for salvation meant at the time health or wholeness.  “God sent the Son into the world that it might be whole” or “that it might be healthy.”  These two statements – John 3:16 and John 3:17 – for us people of faith are as sure and trustworthy as the law of gravity.

As I thought about this, I gave thanks for the thousands and thousands and thousands of ways and times Bill was caught up in the Spirit’s wind, bringing health and wholeness to so very many people and situations.  And as I looked at him lying there in a hospital bed, I held on to the sacred hope he was not encountering a wall which cannot be scaled, but a door which was beginning to open for him.

And then I experienced it anew… the wind blowing.  On my way home I stopped for groceries, my heart heavy.  I approached the Food Lion’s door at the same time as another man.  We each insisted the other go ahead and he prevailed.  “Thank you,” I said, then asked “How are you tonight?”  “I’m good,” he answered, “but I have to go back in because I forgot something.”  It was a little after six and the store was crowded.  I grabbed what I needed and went to check out.  The same man was in the end of one line, so I slid in behind him.  He had a bag of vegetables in his hand.  “What are the peppers for?” I asked.  “I’m making fajitas for my son,” he answered.  Then he told me his wife was at a hospital sitting with a loved one.  I could sense he was stressed.  Then I told him I was a priest and had just come from the hospital where a dear, beloved man was dying.  “How do you do it?” he asked.  “Pastors, police officers, firefighters, you have to deal with so much trauma.  How do you do it?”  “That is a good question,” I said.  “Well, it seems to me police and firefighters deal with it every day as a part of their jobs.  I don’t know how they do it, but in my role, it happens only every now and then.” “And,” I said, “I don’t face it alone.  As a part of a faith community, I have a deep sense of how we face it together, never alone, never just me.  I also remember it is not my job to fix people, just to help them remember God is present.”  I became aware others were now listening to us.  “And I’m grateful to have a deep, personal spiritual life to draw on.” We chatted a bit more and as he finished his purchase I said, “Enjoy your fajitas.”  And in that moment, I sensed the wind of the Spirit was blowing and I felt whole.

Coming home the next night after another visit, once again I was in a grocery store (this time Lidl’s).  As I checked out, I heard the most wonderful sound of a child’s laughter behind me.  I turned and saw a young father holding his son in his arms.  I couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little myself.  The father recognized I was entertained.  He was buying only two quarts of milk, so I said to the cashier, “I’d like to pay for his milk” and so I did.  The father thanked me and extended his hand to shake mine.  “I’m Anthony,” he said, “and this is Eric.”  Little Eric shook my hand as well and I said, “It’s nice to meet you.”  I saw he was wearing a t-shirt with a caricature of an animated Smore.  “Do you like Smores?” I asked, and he smiled broadly and nodded with enthusiasm.  “Me too,” I said and then wished them a good night.  And I felt it again.  The wind.  That wind once again was exactly what I needed and I still feel like a kite dancing on the breeze of God’s presence in that moment. 

So this is how I lived this past week with today’s Gospel reading.  Thank you for listening to me ramble on about it.  I only pray to you it feels like the wind of God blowing over you as it will.       

Temptations to Our Identity and Purpose

 

Matthew 4:1-11

Lent 1 / Year A

If it’s the first Sunday in Lent then we are reading one of the gospel accounts of Jesus going into the wilderness for forty days where, at some point, he is confronted by the tempter.  Notice how the temptation begins… “If you are the Son of God…”  In the biblical texts, this wilderness temptation occurs immediately after Jesus is baptized.  He rises from the Jordon waters and retreats to a place of solitude to reflect on what he has experienced.  He needs time to make sense of what he heard while in the river – the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” ^{Mt. 3:17} 

“You are my Son, the beloved, with you I am well pleased.”  “If you are the Son of God then turn these stones to bread.”  The temptations are at least a two-fold challenge.  The first is a question of identity: “Are you really the Son of God?  What makes you so sure you are up to the task?  I remember when you were just a little boy growing up in a nowhere town with nothing really all that special to your credit.  Why would you even think you now occupy such a lofty position?”  These are questions of identity. 

Perhaps they resonate with you and your own experience.  Maybe you have asked yourself questions from the same vein: “Am I really qualified to do this?”  “How can it possibly be I am now a parent when I don’t know the first thing about raising a child!”  “The preacher just said God has a plan for my life… at my age, right!  I am old and used up.”  Questions of identity.  Am I really the person God says I am?

This is one of the challenges the tempter lays before Jesus.  The other is this: “If you are the Son of God, if this really is your identity, what are you going to do with it?  What does it mean?  How are you supposed to live your life if this revelation about you is true?”  It is a question of purpose. 

Perhaps you understand this too.  If, for example, you are the biggest kid in your 6^th grade class, what do you do with your size and strength?  Do you use it to bully others, asserting your power to get your own way?  Or do you use your strength and stamina to help others achieve more than they are capable of doing on their own?  Given your identity, what are you supposed to do with it?

Perhaps the most basic, fundamental question each of us must answer for ourselves is “Who am I?”  Just for fun, Google this question and see what comes up… personality tests, psychological insights, philosophical explorations, debates over the role of nature and nurture (how is your identity shaped both by your heredity and the world we are raised in)? 

If you turn to the bible and ask “Who am I?” what will you learn?  The bible’s answer is this: You are who God says you are.  And God says, “You are my child, I love you deeply for who you are, just as you are.  Nothing can take away My love for you.  Nothing can make Me love you less.”  The bible describes God’s love as being steadfast – hesed in the Hebrew – and hesed is something in this life you can always count on.  In fact, God’s steadfast love for you may be the only thing in life you can count on… even more certain than death and taxes.

So, if you embrace the biblical proclamation you are a beloved child of God, what do you do with this knowledge?  The story of Jesus’ temptation tells us there are plenty of wrong paths you can go down. 

You can just go out a grab for yourself all that you want while ignoring all God wants to provide for you (like daily bread).  You can flaunt who you are in order to impress others (even climbing up to a pinnacle so all the attention is on you).  You can even go after what God wants for you, but in a way in which you are in control and calling the shots (like receiving dominion over all the kingdoms of the earth by bowing down to something other than God rather than gaining it by being lifted high upon the cross). 

Identity and purpose. 

There was a very specific moment in my teenage years when I decided to ground my identity fully in the belief I am a beloved child of God.  I decided this was going to be the bedrock on which I was going to build my life moving forward.  And I decided then and there I was going to embrace God’s plan and purpose for my life with all my heart and mind and soul and strength.  This was not a call to ordination, that came later.  To use the language of the times, I made the decision to give my life to Christ and to trust in him completely as my Lord, my Savior, and my Guide.  (Yes, I come from the Evangelical tradition!)  In our liturgical tradition the Baptismal Covenant and adult act of Confirmation carry the same weight if it is a dedication of your whole being, not just some words and rites you stumble through. 

No matter what led you to this point, unlike Jesus, who maintained God’s way not only in the wilderness, but throughout the entire course of his life, you, like me, have fallen short of living into the identity God gives to us and the purpose to which God calls us.  None of us is perfect.  None of us ever will be.  But we will always be loved by God.  These season of Lent gives us a time to engage in self-examination and reflection.  Aided by prayer, being attentive to God’s word, and acts of self-giving, we are afforded an opportunity to repent and amend our lives.  We are invited once again to follow Jesus Christ who is the true and living Way.

Please thank Macey and Kitty for the captivating display in our chancel area.  Spoiler… it is going to evolve as the season of Lent unfolds.  I love the little path of stone weaving its way to the foot of the Cross.  It feels to me like an invitation; an invitation come before Jesus with all we are and all we have in order to remember who God says we are and to reflect anew on what God calls us do.

Private Piety & Public Ashes

 

Matthew 6:1

Ash Wednesday

Jesus said, “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.”  ^{Mt 6:1}

Perhaps you are familiar with the story of the state trooper who observes a highway motorist rapidly changing lanes, tailgating, flashing his lights, and honking his horn.  The trooper acts, turning on his lights and directing the driver to pull over.  Walking up to the passenger window he says, “Do you know why I stopped you?”  “Well,” the driver answers, “I guess it is because of my aggressive driving.”  “No,” the trooper responds, “I pulled you over once I read your bumper sticker which says ‘Jesus is my Co-Pilot’ and, based on the way you were driving, I figured the car must be stolen.” 

Piety is defined as reverence for God and the devout fulfillment of religious obligations.  Samuel Johnson, the 18^th Century English writer, held “Piety practiced in solitude, like the flower that blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of heaven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of God and the actions of men; but it bestows no assistance upon earthly beings.”  Johnson is lockstep with Jesus’ instruction personal piety is not something to be put on display.  And yet, while we should not proclaim it on a bumper sticker, our private devotion ought to influence, if not completely direct, our outward words and actions. 

The word piety and its derivatives, such as pious, suffer from what one person calls “an image problem.”  They are used to describe a person who is very religious.  At the same time, they are used to highlight the hypocrisy of those who make a show of their religion to assert their superiority.  The first we admire and strive to be.  The second we hold in utter disdain.

There is something of a disconnect between what Jesus clearly teaches – “Don’t practice your piety before others – and what we do here this day – having our forehead smeared with ashes, thus putting our piety on full display.  It wasn’t always so.

The first English prayer books did not have a service for the imposition of ashes.  In fact, the 1552 book gives this endearing name to the service to be held on the first day of Lent: “A Commination Against Sinners”; commination being a popular word at the time meaning “threatening.”  If we were to use that liturgy for this service, you would experience what one liturgist called “a ritualized cursing.” 

It may surprise you to learn, as it did me, our current prayer book is the first to call for the actual use of ashes on this day.  And while it is new to our prayer book, it is not a modern innovation, but rather a return to an ancient practice running up through the Middle Ages.  And while we impose the ashes by making the sign of the Cross on the forehead as a reminder of our marking with chrism oil at baptism, this was not the custom in medieval times.  They imposed ashes by sprinkling them on the head, thus the “act of piety” disappeared into one’s hair, preserving Jesus’ teaching about keeping your devotion a secret.  It seems our forehead tradition evolved from an accommodation made for monks.  Because they had shaved heads the ashes were rubbed onto their skin to ensure it would adhere.  Over time this led to the public symbol of the ashen cross. 

In a recent article in The Living Church, Matthew Olver, a professor of liturgics at Nashotah House Seminary, suggests priests and congregations consider returning to the practice of sprinkling in order to reinforce Jesus’ teaching that our acts done in secret will be rewarded by our Father who sees in secret.  He also points out the prayer book rubric for this service (found on page 265) states “If ashes are to be imposed” then a prayer is to be said.  Then it directs “The ashes are imposed with the following words”.  The visible sign of the Cross is not directed… nor is it prohibited. 

I find it helpful to ponder ways in which my devotion may take on a more private character.  But, as with the aggressive driver, it ought to make a difference in my public persona.  Both are necessary.  I keep thinking about something Christopher Beha wrote in a recent article in The Atlantic:   

One of the reasons I love Ash Wednesday is that for one day these beliefs are conspicuous to others without my having to say a word.  I think I’m a better person on this day on account of that.  To push ahead of someone on the train, to refuse a dollar to the women selling candy with a baby on her back, to make a snarky remark at the register about my misunderstood coffee order, all while I have ashes on my head, would announce to someone who cared to notice the disjunction between my supposed beliefs and my life in the world. 

A key to understanding Jesus’ teaching about piety is found in these words, “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them.”  In order to… if you are performing your religion as a show in an attempt to impress others… well, then… that will be your reward.  Yes, most of our pious acts should and will occur with no one to notice.  They will be like the fragrance of the desert flower which only God and the angels will ever smell.  But we should always practice our piety is such a way that when others see the ashes on our forehead they will know the reason for our devotion and give praise to our Father who is in heaven.

 

A Long, Salty Walk

 

Matthew 5:13-20

Epiphany 5 / Year A

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?”

Something amazing is unfolding right before our eyes.  It began a little over three months ago as a small symbolic undertaking which attracted minor attention but has exploded on the national scene over time, altering people’s lives and perspectives.  Several of you asked me about it on those Sundays way back when we used to gather for public worship.  I told you then I was aware of it.   To be honest, I had not quite caught on to the impact it was having nor did I anticipate what it was becoming.  I am, of course, speaking about the 19 Buddhist monks and their loyal dog Aloka who now are near the completion of their 2,300 hundred mile, 120-day Peace Walk from their home center in Dallas, Texas to Washington, DC. 

The reception they received as they walked through Richmond left me speechless and nearly brought me to tears: thousands upon thousands of people lining the streets to see them, more thousands walking with them, if only for a few miles, so many the Interstate 95 bridge over the James River was completely shut down to accommodate them all.  It was the 100^th day of the Walk through 10 states and all manner of weather conditions.  But, as the monks posted, “We do not walk alone.  We walk together with every person whose heart has opened to peace, whose spirit has chosen kindness, whose daily life has become a garden where understanding grows.”     

As the monks walk, they rely of the kindness of others to support them.  People hand them flowers, wave and smile, sit in silent prayer, bring the sick and infirmed to be in their presence.  Local fire and police representatives greet them and offer them their department badges, and mayors and governors welcome them with official proclamations.  This is how one Richmond reporter described it:

Hundreds became thousands.  A river of peace flowed through the streets – people of all ages, all backgrounds, all walks of life, united in the spirit of compassion, mindfulness, and hope.

The monk’s Facebook page now has nearly 3 million followers as it grows in size daily.  It was a mere 400,000 just a few weeks ago when the group passed through South Carolina.  Alok’s page has nearly a million followers, making him just slightly less popular than our very own Tillie the Therapy Dog.  If you want to gauge what the Walk means to people, just read some of the comments on any of their posts.  Here is just one:

This is a most beautiful gesture in a time when our country is so full of hatred, anger, strife, desperation, and hopelessness!  We need more kindness, compassion, and love, as so many here seem to have forgotten those simple concepts of humanity.

My colleague Sam Sheridan, who is the Rector of St. Paul’s Church in Petersburg, posted this:

We drove all over Petersburg, Colonial Heights, and Chester so our children could see the… monks pass by.  They don’t know what it is, they don’t know what it means.  But that’s the same as anything in their lives right now.  Our parenting philosophy is a lot of let’s show them what we care about and as they’re able we’ll tell them why.

Here is how Sam describes what he found standing with others in the freezing cold outside a Target store in Chester:

I saw longing in literally thousands of faces…  People want peace.  They want someone willing to call for it without naming an enemy.  Because violence is the enemy.  Our neighbors are not our problem.  Our problems are our problem…  I think most of us ache and yearn and long for someone to do something that isn’t cruel or mean or hostile.  We want something other than what we see on TV.  We want to disagree without needing an enemy.  We’re willing to stand freezing with strangers for just a glimpse of someone walking by so that we can believe, even for a moment, that another way is possible…  Jesus walked like that.  No army.  No throne.  No clever rhetoric designed to destroy his opponents.  Just a man on foot, teaching about the Kingdom of God, healing the sick, eating with sinners, washing feet.  And people lined the roads to see him too.

From the first-hand accounts I have read and in listening to folks I know, the same word seems to come up again and again as people describe what they glean from the Walk for Peace: hope.  It is hopeful to see that just one person – or in this case, one small group – doing something seemingly so ordinary – walking in silence – can have such an extraordinary impact.  It is amazing (to use Jesus’ image) to see what being the salt of the earth can do. 

I can’t tell you how many people over the last few months have asked me what we can do in response to the ugliness we see in our country and throughout our world.  We feel so helpless.  We feel like salt that has lost its taste, that we no longer can make a difference, like we are in what the prophet Isaiah in today’s first reading called a “parched place.”

As the Walk for Peace nears its destination I am in awe of what it has accomplished, how it has touched so many lives, and drawn out something in us numbed, if not long dormant.  For me, at least, it suggests I too can be a little salty by setting myself at simple tasks which make the world a slightly better place, a place more like what I imagine to be God’s dream for the human family.  Neither you nor I can stem the tide of all that is amiss all by ourselves.  But we can take one step and then another and then another, trusting… hoping… believing… our little part… our little dash of salt… serves a purpose; that in the end it contributes to a better end.

Allow me to end with the words we heard from Isaiah which serve both as a pleading prayer and a source of hope:

The Lord will guide you continually,

and satisfy your needs in parched places,

and make your bones strong;

   and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters never fail. ^{Isa. 58:11}

Christian Counter-Culture

 

Matthew 5:1-12

Epiphany 4 / Year A

I know it isn’t until tomorrow but doesn’t today feel a little bit like Groundhog’s Day... another Sunday, another cancelled service.  If you looked at Friday’s E-News and read my brief write-up about today’s sermon, you know I employed a common writing technique known as a ‘tease.’  It is supposed to be intriguing, but vague, leaving you pining for what it leaves hanging.  My tease was a promise some people will not like this sermon.  Oh yes, I can hear you now in your home saying, “and this is different from other Sundays how?”

This guaranteed to offend some sermon has a proven track record.  Other ministers have preached on the gospel reading we just heard (known as the Beatitudes), adhered strictly to Jesus’ actual words, and been accosted by some of their church members for being “too woke.”  For some, not just what we read this morning, but all Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount (chapters 5-7 in Matthew’s gospel) falls under this criticism.  And there is no arguing the point.  They are right.  Based on what we today label as woke, this is it.

Intervarsity Press published a book in 1978 by the Anglican priest and theologian John R.W. Stott titled The Message of the Sermon on the Mount: Christian Counter-Culture.  Back then, the word ‘woke’ meant only no longer sleeping, but the phrase ‘counter-culture’ was in its heyday.  A new generation had come of age and it was dissolutioned and dissatisfied with the society it was inheriting.  Young people rejected the world that was being given to them and set out in search of something new, something different, something “real, man”.  They turned to eastern religions and socialist theories, created their own expressions of art and music, changed fashion and grooming standards, and experimented with drugs and casual sex.  This, in part, was what it meant back then to be counter-cultural. 

Stott argued Jesus calls his followers to be different from both “the nominal church and the secular world”, citing Leviticus 18:3-4:

You must not do as they do in Egypt, where you used to live, and you must not do as they do in the land of Canaan, where I am bringing you.  You must obey my laws and be careful to follow my decrees.  [Why?]  I am the Lord your God.

Stott summed up the core teaching of the Sermon on the Mount as being “You must not do as they do.”  He saw Jesus’ teaching as an invitation to be what he called “Christian counter-cultural.”  He saw this as what Jesus offers to people looking for something different than their world was offering to them in their time.

Stott devoted only three pages to the Beatitudes in his book.  In truth, he could have written three volumes and barely scratched the surface of the practical ways we might go about living into each specific teaching.  If for nothing other than shock-value, let me suggest just one of the many thousands of implications each beatitude holds for us who, in the name of Christ desire to follow his example, to live not as others do:

·      Blessed are the poor in spirit… not those with the newest iPhone because amassing possessions is not a sure-fire path to happiness.

·      Blessed are those who mourn… rather than those who live in gated communities seeking to live a sheltered life insulated from the troubles of the world.

·      Blessed are the meek… try telling this to an aggressive driver.

·      Blessed are those who deeply long for the world to be just and good for all… rather than wanting it to be a place you can bend to your own whim and will.

·      Blessed are the merciful… because vindictiveness never affords the peace it promises.

·      Blessed are the pure in heart… being devious, duplicitous, or downright dishonest does not bring one peace either.

·      Blessed are the peacemakers… it takes no talent to foster discord, no strength to perpetuate brokenness, no courage to sow the seeds of animosity.  Forgiving, understanding, healing, and uniting, require work, selflessness, and sacrifice.

·      Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness… because Lord knows those who have the advantage and upper hand will do everything in their power to resist and thwart change.

·      Blessed are you when people revile you… I suppose this even includes when you are called ‘snowflake’ or ‘woke’ when all you are doing is trying to take Jesus at his word and do your level best to follow what he teaches.

Do all of this, Jesus says, and your reward will be great in heaven.  But even more, you will begin to experience here and now what calls the Kingdom of Heaven – a counter-culture reality which is possible in our day and time.

One final word from Stott.  You may be tempted to think the lofty ideals Jesus sets forth are intended only for spiritual superstars, but far from what is possible for and expected of ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill C⁺ Christians like you and me.  Not so, Stott says.  These are qualities every follower of Jesus is supposed to embrace and characteristics each of us is supposed to embody.  We may not be perfect at it, but kind of like how saying the Lord’s Prayer every day with its phrase “as we have been forgiven”, the Beatitudes remind what the standard is.  While there are times we will fall short of it, we still acknowledge what is expected.  We still seek to live a life which truly is Christian counter-cultural.