A Psalm for the Dissatisfied

Restore us, O God of hosts; *
show the light of your countenance,
and we shall be saved.

Perhaps when historians look back on 2011 they will tag this as the year people got fed up with the way things are. From the Arab Spring to the Occupy Movement, there is a cry rising around the world that something in this world has got to change. It is not a new complaint to be sure. The Tea Party Movement got a jumpstart on it a couple years ago and while its solution may be very different from the Occupiers’, both groups – and most of us – agree that something is wrong. If you could choose only one word to describe the mood of our community, our commonwealth, our nation, and our planet, a strong contender would be “dissatisfied.”

There is a psalm for those of us who feel this way. Biblical scholars cannot identify the author of the 80th Psalm, which we read moments ago, nor can they pinpoint the particular context in which it was written. The strongest possibility places its origin in the period of the Exile. If it is not from this era then it harkens back to it in the face of a similar situation. You can imagine how dissatisfied a people living in exile would be. Torn from their homeland, having the fabric of their culture ripped apart, staring at the reality of losing what it means to be a people, their cry goes out, “Restore us” – make us what we used to be.

The reformer John Calvin called this “a sorrowful prayer.” We might want to note that it is also a shepherd psalm. While not nearly as well known or comforting as “The Lord is my shepherd,” none-the-less it is a prayer directed to the “Shepherd of Israel.” Readers recite its refrain three times:

Restore us, O God of hosts; *
show the light of your countenance,
and we shall be saved.

Its first imperative is translated in our prayer book with the word “restore,” but is more accurately understood as “cause us to return.” Addressed to a shepherd, it pleas for a regathering of the flock and presumes this can happen only if the shepherd gets to work. “Show us the light of your countenance” is a prayer that God will be present to God’s people.

The idea of God’s presence is central to this psalm because its author complains that God is in fact absent; a notion reinforced by the image of bread. God was said to dwell in the Holy of holies - the central place in the Temple. It was here that God sat on the image of cherubim, which were crafted upon the top of the ark that contained the tablets of the Ten Commandments. A wooden table was placed in front of this throne and on its top there was always bread; bread known as “the bread of the Presence” – God’s presence. From the author’s perspective, rather than being fed with this bread, the Shepherd of Israel had given the people only the “bread of tears” by the bowlful. It is a powerful and evocative image of God’s perceived failure as the Shepherd of Israel.

The power of the 80th Psalm lies in its proclamation that while God is at the root of the problem God is also at the heart of the solution. The psalmist contends that if God will only arise and shine forth then all will be well.

But what might God’s shining forth look like? The psalmist envisioned it as the restoration of statehood and the Davidic monarchy:

Let your hand be upon the man
of your right hand, *
the son of man
you have made so strong for yourself.

Even before the advent of Christ, this verse was always understood as a plea for a messiah, one who would be anointed by God to make things right. The psalmist hopes for a warrior king, but for Christians who for centuries have been reading this scripture in Advent, the Man of God’s right hand is anything but. As the church year unfolds we will trace again our Messiah’s steps toward the Cross, where in death and defeat Jesus reigns in glory.

If the 80th Psalm is a Psalm for the Dissatisfied, what does it say to us in 2011… we who are so unhappy with the political, economic, social, moral, and spiritual circumstances of our time?

The second thing it tells us is to beware of false messiahs, of putting our hope in the wrong things. A few years ago I was driving on I95 into Richmond. As I crossed over the James River I encountered three objects lighting up in the night sky. The first was a giant billboard announcing the lottery had topped $300 million dollars. The second was a search light from under the bridge designed to attract travelers to a “gentlemen’s club.” And the third, rising up larger than any cathedral in the world, was the sprawling complex of the Medical College of Virginia Hospital. There, in a stretch of a quarter mile, were the most important things in our society – money, entertainment, and health.

Notice how all of these are aimed at the individual… How can I have all the money I need? How can I never be bored? How can I live forever? Its like we have abandoned any thought of the common good and converted the plea of “restore us” to “restore me.” We who are so dissatisfied have given up on a messiah for the world and sold out for personal trinkets. How else can you explain the public fascination with the newest technology, miracle sex pills, and Black Friday shopping?

Restore me, O iPhone; *
Give me the speed of 4G,
and I will be happy.

Well, if turning from false messiahs is the second thing we can take away from this psalm, the first is this: God is God and no other is God. God may or may not be the cause of our dissatisfaction, but God is certainly the answer. The only question is are we ready for God’s answer? Are we ready to move from “restore me” to “restore us?” Are we ready to pursue justice more than self-satisfaction, compassion more than self-interest, self-sacrifice more than self-promotion?

I am not looking forward to the 2012 election season because more and more these events de-evolve into messianic campaigns where candidates proclaim themselves to be the answer to all of society’s woes and their opponents to be hell spawns bent on our destruction. The truth is this: it does not matter whose hand God is upon if we of the flock don’t want to be restored by anything beyond what I consider to be my own good.
God’s ultimate act of restoration is seen in the giving of God’s self through the Incarnation. It is seen through Jesus’ acts of service – teaching, healing, feeding, forgiving, blessing – acts aimed at benefiting others, not himself. It is seen through Jesus’ prophetic critiques of corrupt social structures – the state and the church being his most consistent targets. And it is seen most clearly on the Cross, where Jesus completely rejected any and every sense of “restore me” in order that “restore us” might be possible.

So here is ultimate question… if this Messiah is our Shepherd then what kind of sheep are we to be? If the flock is dissatisfied and if this is who our Shepherd is, how will we ever be restored if being restored means for us little more than give me what I want for me?

Restore us, O God of hosts; *
show the light of your countenance,
and we shall be saved.

A Kingdom of Doers

Decades ago, the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr drew a distinction between all of the world’s great religions. Some, mostly in the eastern tradition, believe that time is cyclical; that we keep repeating events over and over again. Others, especially religions that trace their lineage back to Abraham, believe that time is linear; that is has a beginning and is moving toward an end. Within the movement of time certainly there are events that seem to reoccur, as pointed out by the saying, “those who don’t know history are bound to repeat it.” But we Christians believe in a beginning - “And God said, ‘Let there be light’” - and we believe in an end when Christ “fills all in all” (as St. Paul put it in today’s second reading).

On this last Sunday of the Church year we celebrate the end of time by recognizing the eventual reign of Christ the King; a reign which we now know in part, but one day will experience in complete fullness. That day is not without its troubles. Our Old Testament and Gospel readings connect Christ’s Kingship with judgment; a judgment which Ezekiel proclaims will be between the fat sheep who used their power to dominate and the lean sheep who have been beaten down, broken, and scattered. If there is going to be a weighing of the haves and the have-nots, I am pretty confident my weight will tip the scales decisively toward have. The reality is this: if you have a roof over your head, a bed to sleep on at night, and one meal a day, then you are better off than 75% of the world’s population. You are a have.

But don’t worry, affluent Christians long ago took the faith down a path to help us put this out of mind. Rather than focusing on a judgment based on what one does with what one has, a second option emerged. This is a judgment based not on what one does, but on what one believes. At this kind of judgment you and I will be OK because we profess Jesus as Lord (whether we act like it or not), but those of other faiths will be in trouble because they don’t subscribe to the right ideas about God.
At a very early age I picked up in Sunday School that God used to love the Jews but, because they rejected Jesus, God rejected them. I was taught that now God loves Christians because Christians believe in Jesus. The fancy word for this kind of thinking is “Supersessionism” or “Displacement Theology.” It is the notion that Christianity has taken the place of Judaism as God’s chosen, covenant people.

It is a theology not limited to Sunday School classrooms being led by poorly trained volunteers. The historian Grover Zinn points out that several of Europe’s great cathedrals have stone carvings portraying the church and the synagogue as two paired female figures. One – the church – stands erect, often holding a chalice, with a crown firmly placed on her head. The synagogue figure is slumped over, blindfolded, with a fallen crown lying at her feet. It is a notion replayed over and over and over again in art and in literature, as well as in the teachings of the church at the highest levels. And it is a teaching limited not just to Judaism. The official teaching of the Roman Catholic Church continues to maintain that other faith traditions are inferior to Christianity, and that the Christian traditions not in communion with Rome are heretical.

We have come a long way from the simple truth put forward by James:

My friends, what use is it for a person to say he has faith when he does nothing to show it? Can that faith save him? Suppose a brother or sister is in rags with not enough food for the day, and one of you says, “Good luck to you, keep yourselves warm, and have plenty to eat,” but does nothing to supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So with faith; if it does not lead to action, it is in itself a lifeless thing.

But one may object: “Here is one who claims to have faith and another who points to his deeds.” To which I reply, “Prove to me that this faith you speak of is real though not accompanied by deeds, and by my deeds I will prove to you my faith.” (James 2:14-19)

So time marches on toward a time when Christ will be all in all. Jesus’ own parable tells us that of those drawn to Him there will be some who never recognized Him, yet never-the-less served Him by serving others. This suggests that our response to a world of many faiths is not to force orthodox conformity on others, but to encourage signs of love and compassion for all, especially toward the lean, the lost, the lonely, and the unloved.

As Christians, we acknowledge the Kingship of Christ in several ways; first, as witnesses. We can speak of the truth as we have received it, but more important, by living into the truth as we know it. Isn’t this what James encouraged us to do. In a dark world we are called to be the light of Christ in our own generation.

The second way we acknowledge the Kingship of Christ flows directly from this. We are called to be servants – feeding the hungry, giving water to the thirsty, clothing the naked, extending hospitality to strangers, caring for the sick, visiting the imprisoned. There are as many ways to serve as need, pain, and brokenness are manifested in this world.
Another way we live into the Kingship of Christ is by partnering with people of other faith traditions as they seek to be servants also. In a global world so closely interconnected it is more important than ever that the Ecumenical Faith Community find tangible ways to bind us together in one human family working to meet the needs and challenges of the entire human family. Jesus did not say in today’s parable that when the Son of Man comes He will reward those people of faith who zealously protected their creedal turf. He will reward those who showed compassion to others.

Here is one final way we honor the Kingship of Christ: by seeking Christ in the traditions of faiths outside of Christianity. Does that sound odd to you? It shouldn’t. Episcopalians hold that the bible “contains all things necessary for salvation.” What does this mean? It means just what it says. If you want to be saved then everything you need to know about that can be found in the scriptures. Here is what it does not say… that EVERYTHING there is to know about God and God’s will is found in the bible and no where else. We can learn something of God’s reign of love from the thoughts and actions of non-Christian groups and faiths.

Here, at the end of the Church year, we prepare again to start anew next Sunday as we enter into Advent. We stand a year wiser and a year closer to God’s dream for the world and God’s desire for St. Paul’s Church. We launch into this new beginning as witnesses, as servants, as partners, and as seekers – as people who desire to be faithful so that one day Christ may fill all in all of us.

The "And Still, and Still" Campaign

We are closing in on the conclusion of another Church Year – just one more Sunday to go. On Friday, I sat at my desk looking out the window as gusty winds created a cascading blizzard of red and gold leaves. It evoked in me a feeling we sang about in this morning’s Processional Hymn:

Signs of endings all around us –
Darkness, death, and winter days –
Shroud our lives in fear and sadness,
Numbing mouths that long to praise.

For several weeks now I have felt it in my bones: a need to finish up things, especially outdoor projects. It is, I suspect, that ancient stirring to hunker down for a long, cold, dark, winter. I find myself thinking about what I still need to get done while there is still time to do it.

Today’s Gospel reading encourages us to explore this very question. As the Church year draws to a close, the reading invites us to take stock of all God has given to us and to make a reckoning of what we have done with it. It is a question you might ponder at length as you rake leaves or take a walk around the neighborhood. Think back to last Advent and recount all that has come your way. What has God given to you in the past year? What has life done to you? Where did the road take a surprising turn? Where did it take an unwanted detour? And through it all, how did you handle it, what have you done, and what have you accomplished?

The Parable of the Talents is one we know. Three people receive varying amounts of wealth to steward while the owner is away. Each is asked to give an accounting upon the owner’s return. Two have doubled what was entrusted to them. One did nothing and is subject to harsh judgment.

Jorge Luis Borges was one of the literary giants of the past century. One of his more ambitious works was to come up with a translation of the Gospel dealing not so much with the actual text, but more with its meaning. Let me read for you a part of what he crafted from today’s parable. He begins by saying an Infinite Voice spoke to him these words:

Stars, bread, libraries of East and West,
Playing cards, chessboards, galleries, skylights, cellars,
A human body to walk with on the earth,
Fingernails, growing at nighttime and in death,
Shadows forgetting, mirrors busily multiplying,
Cascades in music, gentlest of all shapes,
Borders of Brazil, Uruguay, horses and mornings,
A broze weight, a copy of Grettir Saga,
Algebra and fire, the charge of Junín in your blood,
Days more crowded than Balzac, scent of honeysuckle,
Love and the imminence of love and intolerable remembering,
Dreams like buried treasure, generous luck,
And memory itself, where a glance can make men dizzy –
All this was given to you and with it
The ancient nourishment of heroes –
Treachery, defeat, humiliation.
In Vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain
The sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes.
You have used up the years and they have used up you,
And still, and still, you have not written the poem.

You don’t have to be a poet to appreciate what Borges is getting at. I used to think that there were some people who were super talented and others who where very talented and then there were folk like me with one talent, but that is not how I see it anymore. Now I realize that each of us has some super talents – the things for which we are exceptional. Each of us has some good talents – the things in life we do pretty well. And each of us has buried talents – the things we can do, but don’t… for what ever reason. It is these buried talents that connect us to Borges’ “and still, and still, you have not written the poem.”

From where I stand in this pulpit I can see a very talented group of people; people who have put their talents to use. St. Paul’s membership has a lot of educators. Since last Advent, our teachers have graduated one group of students and taken on another. Our lawyers have adjudicated legal matters. Our administrators have handled diverse tasks. Our retirees have volunteered their time. At home we have made our meals, washed our clothes, and cared for the yard. Children have been wakened and driven and tucked into bed. Here at church we have sung and read and served in countless ways. From where I stand I can see your talents on full display. There is not a person here who has not earned a “well done, good and faithful servant.”

But I know life and I know myself and I know that I am pretty much like every one of you. And this is what I know about myself and thus suspect about you: I have buried some of my talents. Beyond the movement that is required for me to go from one day to the next, week in and week out, over the course of months, there are things that I could do – should do – might do – that I don’t. I’m not talking about mundane things, like dropping some change in the Salvation Army bucket (although that is important) nor am I talking about not losing as much weight over the summer as I had hoped (and that is important too). I am talking about buried talent; those gifts given to me, those opportunities at hand, those things that can change my life or enrich the lives of others “and still, and still” I do not do them.

Why do we bury our talents? It has always puzzled me that the servant in Jesus’ parable buried his out of fear. He was afraid of the master and did not want to lose what had been entrusted to him. Now, I suppose there are a few of us who might be so afraid of God that we would forgo using the gifts God has given to us rather than mess up things, but in my experience that is not what inhibits most of us.

The master calls the servant “wicked and lazy.” I bury some of my talents because I am too selfish to share them and others because I am too lazy to use them. Some talents stay buried because I am too busy to bring them out. But more than anything, I think my talents stay buried because of a failure of imagination. I just don’t see them as gifts nor do I recognize how they might bring life to me and to others. The routine of the daily round becomes all I know and anything beyond it remains buried in the ground.

As we come to the end of the Church Year, we are invited to consider what we sang:

Can it be that from our endings,
New beginnings you create?
Life from death, and from our rendings,
Realms of wholeness generate?
Take our fears, then, Lord,
And turn them into hopes for life anew.

Who here this morning doesn’t hope, doesn’t thirst, for life anew? The startling message of today’s Gospel reading is that the life for which you long has already been given to you, but you buried it in the ground.

St. Paul’s is wrapping up its yearly Pledge Drive (and I am very thankful for your generosity). A lot of work goes into making sure each one of you responds to our request. Now I am wondering if we shouldn’t have a “Buried Talent” Campaign where each member of the parish has to write on a slip of paper one thing that you have always wanted to try or to do, but have never launched out. Or maybe it would be something you used to do all the time, but some how lost or let go. Perhaps it would be just an inkling, a stirring in you, that suggests life would be very different if you just… just what?

Let’s call it “The ‘And still, and still…’ Campaign.” Spend some time in thought and prayer. Maybe something comes to you right away. Maybe it is something you need to ponder for a while. When your buried treasure comes to you, send me a note telling me what it is and pledging to get it out of the ground and get it going.

Thin Places

Celtic Christianity flourished in Ireland, Scotland, and certain parts of England from the fifth through the twelfth centuries. Much of our Western focus in Christian thinking has centered around the theological and administrative heritage we have received through the church in Rome, but over the course of the last several decades interest in Celtic history and spirituality has increased greatly.

Of particular interest to us on All Saints’ Sunday is the Celtic understanding of time. They believed that time was sacred and precious and they disregarded our sense of time as having a chronological order where one historical event follows another. For Celts, the preset contains within itself past events, which continue to live on, as well as the seeds of future events waiting to be born.

Without clear demarcations between past, present, and future, Celtic Christians interpreted history differently than we do. For instance, they made contemporaries of those who, historically speaking, never could have been together at the same place and time. In one early legend, the Celtic saints Brigit and Ita are portrayed as midwives to Mary, the mother of Jesus. Another legend describes Brigit and Patrick as being intimate friends, when in fact they never met. These details did not matter to the Celts because they believed that Brigit and Ita would have helped Mary had they been there and that Brigit and Patrick would have been friends had they been together at any particular chronological moment in time.

The early Celts also believed in what they called “thin places” – geographical locations scattered throughout the British Isles where a person can experience only a thin divide between past, present, and future times. In one legend, Maedoc climbs a golden ladder which reached from earth to heaven. Upon his return Maedoc tells a student who witnessed all of this that a friend had died and he went to meet him heaven to pay his respects.

While the Celtic legends may not be “historical,” they certainly give voice to a longing and a hope and an intuitive sense that we all have: namely, that which divides the living and the dead is very thin indeed. Many of us sense that we remain connected with our loved ones who have gone on before us. That connection, though mysterious and unexplainable, is unmistakable none the less. Celtic thought, which is woven into the tradition we have received from the Church, gives us permission to explore this relationship with a kind of freedom and imagination that articulates what we believe and what we sense.

I believe that heaven is a glorious place. It is a place where there is no pain, neither sighing, but life everlasting. It is a place of perfect freedom and perfect relationships where no one misuses their freedom in a way that dishonors God, demeans the image of God in us, or hurts another person. All of this is part of the biblical witness for the life to come.

But I believe more than this, specifically that those who are in heaven can choose to be with those of us who still walk this earth. Now, I do not believe that they are with us every minute of the day, just as no two people in life exist together without ever being apart. I believe that they join us at certain times for their own enjoyment and at other times at our request.

Who amongst us has not felt the presence of a long-lost loved one at a family baptism, wedding, or thanksgiving dinner table? A heaven where that is not possible would be no heaven at all! The living and the dead are not divided by distance, but by existence and that divide is a thin one indeed.

We might want to say that All Saints’ Day is a “thin day” – a day when the past and future do not seem to be quite as removed from the present. By remembering our loved ones we look backward to what has been. Through the act of baptism we look forward to what might be. Both past and future are with us in this present moment in a way that is powerful and clear.

And as we gather to worship and to celebrate the Great Thanksgiving, we come to a “thin moment;” the Lord’s Table being the thinnest place of all. This is the moment when the living and dead join their voices in glorious chorus:

Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might,
heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.

Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.

The Sanctus is for me a thin moment. I close my eyes and feel myself lifted to that place beyond time and space where all persons, those before my day, those of my day, and those after my day, are present with Christ and are united in His one true sacrifice.

One professor of mine called it “Liturgical Time.” In liturgical time we can say that God brought us through the waters of the Red Sea. In liturgical time we can answer, “Yes, I was there when they crucified my Lord.” In liturgical time, the bread and the wine that we offer to God are united with the Body and Blood of Jesus and they become one in the same. And in liturgical time, the divide between the living and the dead is no divide at all. Liturgical time is not chronological time, but I know by faith that it exists and that it is real.

As I stand at the Altar and say or sing the Sanctus with my eyes closed, I visualize in my mind the angels and the archangels and all the hosts of heaven who are gathered with us. And I intentionally invite those people I have loved but see no longer to be with me, to be with us. Today my prayer is that you will sense the presence of those you love and miss. They are not far from us. I invite you to search for thin places and thin moments when you can be with them.

In closing, I ask you to turn to the Catechism on page 862 of the Book of Common Prayer. I would like to rehearse with you in its final three questions and answers:

Q. What is the communion of saints?
A. The communion of saints is the whole family of God, the living and the dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt, bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.

Q. What do we mean by everlasting life?
A. By everlasting life, we mean a new existence, in which we are united with all the people of God, in the joy of fully knowing and loving God and each other.

Q. What, then, is our assurance as Christians?
A. Our assurance as Christians is that nothing, not even death shall separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

Situational Forces & Inner Voices

After weeks of gospel readings where authorities ask questions of Jesus to trap or trick him, today Jesus finally has had enough. Speaking to his followers, Jesus says of the scribes and the Pharisees that they do not practice what they teach; they do not live the standards to which they expect others to adhere. It is a rant reminiscent of our own dissatisfaction with today’s political and economic leaders, who also seem to have a knack for making life more and more difficult for us while making their own lives more and more cushy.

Only two Pharisees are named in the Gospels - Nicodemus (the person who approached Jesus under cover of night and landed in a conversation about being born again) and Joseph of Arimathea (who buried Jesus’ body in his own tomb). No scribe is named. Jesus places into his stories characters from both backgrounds and always in a poor light. From all of this we might take that these two orders and occupations were inhabited with anonymous men who, while perhaps being good and godly individuals, fell under the influence of a corrupt and (at times) evil system. To use today’s language, they were influenced by the culture of the organization; a culture that took even the good and influenced them for ill.

We have always known that this kind of thing happens, but it wasn’t until 1963 a study demonstrated how profoundly human behavior is influenced by environmental factors. That is when researcher Stanley Milgram devised a series of experiments to test how ordinary people can be influenced by authority figures.

His best known experiment asked a volunteer to administer electrical shocks as a penalty that another person – the victim - received for giving wrong answers. The volunteer believed the study was about memory and learning, but all the others involved were there to test the volunteer. When “wrong answers” were given, a clinician in a white coat instructed the volunteer to deliver an electrical shock to the victim. While the victim was not really shocked, never-the-less he acted as if he was in increasing pain. Milgram discovered that, at the direction of an authority figure, two-thirds of the volunteers were willing to dole out painful shocks even when the victim screamed out and begged for the experiment to stop. It was stunning to see how ordinary people could be transformed into sadistic tortures simply by placing them in a situation where they felt such behavior was demanded of them by the person in charge.

When I hear today’s Gospel reading it is so tempting simply to condemn the Pharisees and the scribes; to think if it weren’t for those guys or the politicians or the bankers or the bishops or any of the other bogymen running things so poorly, then life would be rosy for all of us. No doubt there are some really bad people walking in the halls of power, but lets take a step back and acknowledge that the halls themselves are part of the problem. Just as Lord Acton famously observed about absolute power corrupting absolutely, we need to admit that all human behavior – including our own - is much more influenced by situational forces than most of us recognize or want to acknowledge. Yes, who we want to be is an important factor in determining how we will act, but so too is the kind of situation in which we find ourselves. We all know this is true. We know that there are jokes we will tell over beers with a buddy that we won’t tell in the Parish Hall after the service.

And if you think the outside world, with its conflicting demands and opportunities plays havoc on us, think about the chaos that is our inner world. A psychologist named Roberto Assagioli summed it up pretty well this way:

As persons, “we are not unified. We often feel we are because we do not have many bodies and many limbs, and because one hand doesn’t usually hit the other. But, metaphorically, that is exactly what does happen within us. Several sub-personalities are continually scuffling: impulses, desires, principles, aspirations are engaged in an unceasing struggle.”

Rita Carter, in her book Multiplicity, adds this:

“Personalities, or selves, do not come one to a person, but are created by that person in as many forms and as great and small a number as is required. Multiplicity of mind is not some stranger aberration but the natural state of a human being.”

So, within each of us there may be a stern parent, a playful child, a fearful worrier, an adventurer, a bad-boy or girl, a thoughtful saint, a willful sinner, and host of other personalities that all weigh in from time to time. A few dominate our interior conversation, while others play a minor role, only occasionally having a moment in the sun. Somehow we order all these different personalities to engage a wide variety of situations in a way that is coherent, producing a characteristic way of seeing, thinking, feeling, and behaving know as ‘me’ and known as ‘you.’

So this is what I hear Jesus saying in today’s reading: the culture and climate around the occupations of scribe and Pharisee brought out the worst aspects of the personalities of the people in those positions. And I might add, it would do the same to me or to you if that were our station in life.

I said earlier that only two Pharisees were named in the gospels. The Book of Acts gives us two more names. One is Gamaliel who was a highly respected leader. The other is Paul, who initially hunted down Christians for imprisonment, torture, and execution. His life was famously changed on the road to Damascus when the Risen Christ spoke to him from a blinding, heavenly light. You know how Paul went from there to become the great missionary Apostle of the Early Church, founding faith communities around the northeastern Mediterranean region.

Listen again to the reading we heard this morning from a letter Paul wrote to one of those churches and as you listen, hold in mind how Paul the Christian Pharisee differs from the description Jesus offers of typical scribes and Pharisees:

“You remember our labor and toil, brothers and sisters; we worked night and day, so that we might not burden any of you while we proclaimed to you the gospel of God. You are witnesses, and God also, how pure, upright, and blameless our conduct was towards you believers. As you know, we dealt with each one of you like a father with his children, urging and encouraging you and pleading that you should lead a life worthy of God, who calls you into his own kingdom and glory.”

The pre-Christian Paul would have slide easily into the way Jesus characterized the Pharisees, but not the Christian Paul. He still found himself in positions of power and authority but he operated in a manner different from the Pharisees. He still had the same competing personalities seeking to dominate his behavior, but the old ways were gone. It might sound corny or cliché to say that he got Jesus in his life, but that is exactly what happened. His inner dialogue, with its competing voices and ideas, received a new Voice to direct the discussion. And that Voice carried Paul into all those previously corrupting situations and enabled him to stand up to a culture that before held claim on him.

Through baptism we are asked if we will turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as our Lord. I find it very helpful to think of this vow using the image of Jesus as the Voice that directs the inner conversation of my various selves and each self, while having a place is the discussion, ultimately yields to the will of Christ, who is Lord of all. Well, it doesn’t always happen like that, but it should. And it is the Voice of Christ that guides my inner world as I make my way through the various changes and chances of the outer world. It is this Voice that helps me to act in situations and cultural climates in a way that is consistent with the teachings of Christ. And, guess what, it doesn’t always happen that way, but it can more and more.

Jesus said that his followers have him as a teacher and as instructor. At some level Christianity is about the simple decision of giving Jesus control of your life. It is about allowing his voice to be the Voice which directs the discussion of our inner life in such a way that our actions in the outer life are consistent with the covenant we make with God beginning at Baptism.

Spiritual Weightlifting or the Quiet Inner Light

I am a channel surfer, and what guy isn’t! Commercials signal me that it is time to check the score of the other game, catch a glimpse of the modern marvel that is the world’s biggest bubble gum manufacturer, or take in a two minute scene from The Godfather. There are only a few commercials that can hold my attention. I used to love “Does a former drill sergeant make a terrible therapist,” but it is no longer being aired. My current favorite is “Apparently, riding the dog like it is a horse is frowned upon in this establishment.”

Another commercial that always takes me into its world is the one where a bystander observes someone do something thoughtful for another person; something like holding the door for a blind person. That bystander, moved and motivated by what she has witnessed, is somehow changed and becomes more attuned to the people around her. She then does something small, but thoughtful for a stranger. This act is observed by another bystander who is affected by seeing it, and the process repeats itself again and again and again.

I like that commercial because it builds on the belief that beneath all that is dark and dreary and damaged in this world a fundamental goodness holds sway. Listen to this insight in John O’Donohue’s book, To Bless the Space between Us:

There is a kindness that dwells deep down in the structure of things; it presides everywhere, often in places we least expect. The world can be harsh and negative, but if we remain generous and patient, kindness inevitably reveals itself. Something deep in the human soul seems to depend on the presence of kindness; something instinctive in us expects it, and once we sense it we are able to trust and open ourselves.

I hear O’Donohue’s words as being a faint echo of Jesus’ thundering proclamation that the greatest commandment is to love God and to love your neighbor as yourself; one implication, one manifestation of how we live into God’s highest intention for all God’s human creation.

As I meditated on today’s Gospel reading began to see how I have always imagined the idea of loving God with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my mind, and (as Luke records it) with all my strength as being something akin to spiritual weightlifting; in other words, if I can bench press 200 spiritual pounds today, then tomorrow I should try to press 205. The day after that I need to go for 210. The process is never ending because the ultimate goal of perfect love toward God and neighbor can never be achieved. All - as in all your heart, all your mind, all your soul, and all your strength - all is a very daunting word, isn’t it. It suggests that observing this command involves effort and rigor and determination and dedication and... failure.

I began to wonder what if fulfilling the command to love involves not trying harder and harder, but rather letting go and listening and allowing yourself to be carried away in God’s goodness that undergirds all things?

O’Donohue begins his book by writing this:

There is a quiet light that shines in every heart. It draws no attention to itself, though it is always secretly there. It is what illuminates our minds to see beauty, our desire to seek possibility, and our hearts to love life. Without this subtle quickening our days would be empty and wearisome, and no horizon would ever awaken longing. Our passion for life is quietly sustained from somewhere in us that is wedded to the energy and excitement of life. This shy inner light is what enables us to recognize our very presence here as blessing.

Something in his words resonates with me and it hints that loving God heart, soul, mind, and strength has more to do with the shy, inner light than it does with spiritual weightlifting. If the creation is God’s work, and if God called it good, and if God is omnipresent (found in all times, all places, and all things), then being attentive to our quiet, inner light - that part of our heart which allows us to connect with the richness of life - is at the heart of what it means to love God. It suggests that reveling in the beauty of a gorgeous fall day is an act of loving God more significant than something like, say, memorizing the books of the bible in order.

And it suggests that loving our neighbor as ourselves is not so much an act of effort on our part, but something more akin to becoming open to the possibilities for kindness that exist all around us. In a passage reminiscent of how Paul describes the gift of love, O’Donohue writes about the nature of kindness:

[It] has gracious eyes; it is not small-minded or competitive; it wants nothing back for itself. Kindness strikes a resonance with the depths of your own heart; it also suggests that your vulnerability, though somehow exposed, is not taken advantage of; rather, it has become an occasion for dignity and empathy. Kindness casts a different light, an evening light that has the depth of color and patience to illuminate what is complex and rich in difference.

As that commercial suggests, kindness begets kindness and the blessing we offer to another has a way of returning back to us as blessing.

We use the word ‘kind’ to signify two different things. It can mean “doing good rather than harm” or it can mean “a class, sort, or variety,” as in “my kind of people.” It is closely related to the word “kin” and “kindness” itself is derived from the word “kinship.” To be kind is to see another as kin and to show kindness is to treat a person like family. When Jesus commands us to love our neighbor he is asking us to do more than to be kind to our kind. He is, as O’Donohue puts it, directing us to “illuminate what is complex and rich in difference.”

Those of us who have been able to stop by St. Paul’s on Monday evenings in October have been deeply affected by the ministry of our Food Pantry and the various distributions of shoes, sweaters, and coats of the past few weeks. It is the clients themselves who have touched us with their joy, their gratitude, and their words of kindness. “Bless you” is perhaps the most common phrase uttered in the Parish Hall from 5:00 to 6:30 on Monday nights.

It would be a mistake to think of these give always as being simple acts of charity. They are far more complex than doing a good deed or ‘helping our fellow man.’ There is something richer and deeper at work; something that taps into God’s intention for life. The kindness goes both ways. Blessings offered become blessings extended. No one is lifting 205 spiritual pounds, rather we are tapping into something that exists beyond us and yet is all around us. We are discovering anew, if even in a small and limited way, God’s love which permeates all things.

During the week clergy friends will often post on facebook thoughts and questions about the upcoming readings. “Is anyone else having trouble figuring out how to preach these lessons” is not uncommon. This week a priest responded to such an inquiry by saying he was going to preach how the gospel directs us to love our enemies. I believe this is a legitimate implication of the greatest commandment, but it struck me as awfully daunting weight to press. Let’s start somewhere else. Let’s start with the belief that there is something inside us, something O’Donohue describes as a quiet inner light, that always responds to something God is doing in this world. It responds to beauty, to desire, and to possibility. It offers kindness and blessing. Nurture that light and you will be well on your way to living into love for God and love for your neighbor.

Offerings

“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s.” Even those of us with a nominal working knowledge of the Bible recognize this saying of Jesus. But while the expression is widely known the context is not. Jesus was not approached by a group of local pastors and asked to give a quote or two for Stewardship Sunday. His enemies were plotting to bring Him down. Their efforts began with a rumor campaign, extended to trick questions, broadened to legal entrapment, and found their culmination in the lies that led to the Crucifixion.

In today’s lesson two groups come together to trap Jesus. The Pharisees were religious leaders who set out rule after rule for those who desired to live a holy life. The Herodians, a less familiar group to us, supported the kingship of Herod as the best means for Israel to maintain security and wellbeing. Both groups were highly invested in the status quo, either of the church or of the government, and each felt Jesus was a threat to its best interests.

So together they come up with a question: is it lawful for a good Jew to pay taxes to the emperor? This is no theological exercise for them. They are not interested in resolving a spiritual dilemma that keeps them awake at night. Plain and simple they frame a question that gives Jesus no easy way out. If he says that it is permissible to pay taxes then the devout Jews, led by the Pharisees, will be up in arms. If he says that the faithful should refuse to pay taxes then the Herodians will have all the ammunition they need to arrest Him for insurrection. It is important that we think about Jesus’ response in light of this context.

That Jesus has to ask for someone to produce a coin hints at how poor he was… that he did not have any money on his person. “Whose face is on the coin?” he asks. “The emperor’s,” they respond. “Well, give to the emperor what belongs to the emperor and to God the things that belong to God.” It is an answer that does two things. First, it gets Jesus off the hot seat and, second, it places the burden of interpretation squarely in the laps of the listeners.

And more than being a clever answer that extricates him from the trap, Jesus speaks to the heart of all Christian stewardship. He offers no detailed, strict set of rules and regulations to follow, as the Pharisees so often did. He simply says that each one of us will have to find our own way to resolve the inherent tension between being residents of this world and citizens of the next. Each of us will have to make our own way in the challenge that is meeting our tax burden, paying bills, putting food on the table, saving for the future, and contributing to God’s work in the world. No one can or should make this decision for us. It is ours and ours alone to make.

At its heart, Christian stewardship is about the desire to be in relationship with God. When a small child draws a picture and then gives it to a grandparent that child is expressing a desire to be in relationship with the recipient of the gift. In a very real sense the gift is an offering… given out of a sense of joy, love, and thanksgiving for all that the grandparent means to the child. Often the meaning of that relationship is beyond words, so the offering becomes a tangible expression of what the relationship means to the child. What we offer to God holds the same meaning. It is a tangible expression of our desire to be in relationship with God… an offering that often says more than we are able to put into words.

We might also acknowledge that the child’s drawing for the grandparent expresses a desire to be a part of the family; to be in relationship with all who are a part of the valued social unit. In the same way what we offer to God often connects us to those who make an offering similar to ours. Our common act of giving is a part of what binds us together as a community of faith.

The first recorded act of offering is found in the fourth chapter of Genesis. Cain, a farmer, brings an offering of grain to God while his brother Able, a herdsman, brings an offering from his flock. The narrative describes Cain’s offering as being “some of the grain” from his field while Able’s is described as being “the fattest portions of the firstborn of the flock.” Perhaps you remember how the narrative goes. God looks with favor on what Able offers, but not on what Cain gives. Cain offers some of what he has (and possibly this portion comes after all his other needs and obligations have been met) while Able offers from the first and the best.

Imagine two children, one who puts a great deal of time, effort, and creativity into making a card for grandma, and the other who at the last minute scratches out a note so as not to be empty-handed. Grandma will receive both cards with joy, but will know in her heart whose offering means more. She will know that both children want to be in relationship with her, but for one it is a high priority while for the other it is an obligation. One child makes an offering that is truly representative of all she is because it is the best she has to offer. The other child has not offered much of herself and, frankly, will expect grandma to make more of the card than it is really worth.

There are many ways that we can make an offering to God. Money is one of them. It is not the amount of money that you give that matters, it is the meaning behind it. Remember how Jesus pointed out the widow who gave a small coin, saying that she had put more into the offering than everyone else had. Here at St. Paul’s stewardship means much more than giving money to support an operating budget, although in practical terms that is one of the things our collective stewardship does. But stewardship is also about serving in the Food Pantry, teaching a class, singing in the choir, bringing a dish to a common meal, tending to the property and buildings, participating in the liturgy with vigor, and on and on and on.

Each of us must figure out for ourselves how we want to be in relationship with God. Each of us must determine what we will offer to God to signify our desire. We will have to ponder how we want our offering to connect us with others. And, perhaps most important, we will have to decide the degree to which our offerings will reflect our best efforts.