The Bread of Life at Babette's Feast

Jesus said, “The bread that I will give you for the life of the world is my flesh.”

Karen Blixen, who wrote under the pseudonym Isak Dinesen, is best known for two works: Out of Africa and Babette’s Feast – both of which were turned into critically acclaimed motion pictures.  Babette’s Feast tells the story of small sect of Lutherans living in an isolated, impoverished Norwegian fishing village that is laced  with muddy streets and dotted with thatched-roof hovels.  Led by their white-bearded founding pastor, the puritan group, having renounced all worldly pleasures, wears only muted-colored clothing and adheres to a strict diet of boiled cod and gruel.  They fix their hope on another land, gathering every Sabbath in a plain, white-walled, unadorned church to sing old hymns like “Jerusalem, my happy home, name ever dear to me” and they believe the surest path to a future bliss is to deny oneself of earthly delights.

The old pastor, a widower, has two beautiful, devoted daughters, Martine and Philippa.  A young cavalry officer once spent a summer in the village with his aunt, and tried to court Martine, but she resisted his advances, choosing duty to her father and the community over her own personal happiness.  Another man came to the village for a time.  He was a famous Parisian opera singer.  Philippa had a stunning singing voice and when the man heard her on a Sunday morning he wanted her to return with him to France where, properly trained, all of Paris would fall at her feet.  She too resisted in order to remain with the sect.  Austere living was so deeply ingrained in both sisters that the world’s life, with its promise of possibility and pleasure, simply was too overwhelming.

Thirty-five years pass and the sisters are now middle-aged spinsters.  They have carried on their deceased father’s mission, but without his leadership much in the sect has changed.  It membership has grown older.  No one new has been added.  The parishioners have fallen out with one another over various matters.  Yes, they still meet on the Sabbath and, yes, they still sing the same old hymns, but only a handful attend and the music has lost its luster.  Through it all, the sisters remain faithful, organizing services and making meals for the elderly members of the village.

Then one rainy night there is a knock on their door.  It is a woman named Babette who has been sent to the village from Paris by the opera singer.  Her family has been killed in a civil war, her fortune has been taken, and she is fleeing for her life.  She carries a note from the singer begging the sisters to have mercy on her.  The note also indicates that Babette can cook.  Martine and Philippe take her in, exchanging room and board for household chores.  They show her how to split the cod and boil the gruel.  They introduce her to the townsfolk and she even begins to participate in Sabbath services.  Slowly, but surely, Babette brings new life to the stagnant community and to the bland meals they are used to receiving.

After twelve years of faithful service, a letter arrives for Babette from France.  It is from the opera singer.  He informs her she has won ten thousand francs in the lottery – more than enough for her to return to Paris and resume her life.  As it happens, the news coincides with plans the sisters are making to celebrate the 100th anniversary of their father’s birth.  Babette approaches them with a request: “In twelve years I have asked you for nothing.  Please let me cook for you a real French dinner for the celebration.”  The sisters believe that tongues are meant for singing praise, not for indulging in exotic tastes, but are aware that Babette has never asked for anything, so they agree reluctantly.

Babette throws herself into the project.  Boats begin to appear at the town dock with strange cargo – creates of small birds, the head of a cow, fresh vegetables, truffles, pheasants, ham, exotic creatures from the sea, a huge turtle, and even champagne!  All of it starts to pile up in the sisters’ kitchen. 

On the evening of the anniversary a snow has fallen, covering the dreary village in a beautiful blanket of white.  Twelve guests gather at a table Babette has laid out with china, silver, and crystal.  The room is decorated with evergreens and bathed in candlelight.  The members of the sect have agreed in secret to sit in silence during the meal, reserving judgment until the end.  One of the guests, a late addition to the party, is Martine’s long ago suitor – now a general – who has returned to the village to accompany his aunt to the dinner.  With each dish and drink that is served, the general cannot not withhold his lavish praise: “Incredible!” he says; “The finest I have ever tasted,” he remarks.  

As the meal unfolds, the food and drink begin to work their ways on the guests.  Slowly their tongues loosen and the conversation begins to flow.  There is laughter and joy and the letting go of long-held slights.  They recall with fondness the old pastor and the days his spirit gathered them together as one.  The group becomes so relaxed that at one point in the meal when a lady burps out loud the man next to her, without thinking, blurts out, “Hallelujah!”  

The general, on eating the main course of the meal, says, “There is only one place in all the world where I have tasted baby quail prepared en Sarcophage… the famous Café Anglais in Paris, a restaurant once renowned for its female chef.”  That chef is indeed Babette, who has labored in service all these years with the sisters.

After the final dish has been served, the general rises and makes a speech:

“We have all of us been told that grace is to be found in the universe.  But in our human foolishness and shortsightedness we imagine divine grace to be finite… But the moment comes when our eyes are opened, and we see and realize that grace is infinite.  Grace, my friends, demands nothing from us but that we shall await it with confidence and acknowledge it in gratitude.”

At the end of the meal, the old-timers go outside, circle the town well, join hands, and lustily sing an old hymn.  If the meal has been a communion scene, this becomes a baptismal moment as the disciples of the old pastor come to the Christian faith in a new way; the way of joy.  Inside, in the kitchen, is Babette.  She is exhausted as she sits among the unwashed dishes, greasy pots, grisly bones, broken crates, vegetable trimmings, and empty bottles.  “It was quite a nice dinner,” Martine says to her.  Philippa adds, “We will remember this night long after you have returned to Paris.”  

It is then that Babette informs them she will not be going home.  All of her family and friends have been killed.  There is no one there for her any more.  The sisters inquire, “But what about the money?  What at the ten thousand francs?”  “It is all gone,” she tells them.  She has spent every penny of it on the dinner they have just enjoyed.  It was equivalent to the cost of a typical dinner for twelve at her café. 

The meaning and the message of the novel, while layered and complex, boils down to this: grace is a gift that costs everything of the giver and nothing for the recipient.  When Jesus says “the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh,” he is saying that the life he offers costs him everything and us nothing.  As the general suggests, our role is to await it with confidence and acknowledge it in gratitude.

We do both every time we gather in this place.  We come before God naming the challenges of our lives and remembering the blessings we have received.  To be a person of faith involves entrusting ourselves to God in this process we call life.  To be a person of hope involves allowing ourselves continually to be transformed into something new; something like how the elderly members of that austere sect where transformed by Babette’s dinner into people more alive than ever before.  To be a person of Christ-like love involves being open to ways that we can be channels of God’s grace, individuals and a community who gives everything so that other people might know what it is like to receive God’s love at no cost to themselves.

This is the bread that Christ offers to us.  It is the bread we receive on this and every Sunday.  Through our lives it is the bread we distribute to one another.  And, as we are generous, it is the bread we offer to bring life to the world.

Chick-fil-A & The Faith of Two Tables

Back in a more innocent time a teacher invited the children in her second grade class to bring to school a symbol or object from their religious tradition.  A Jewish boy stood before the class and said, “This is the Star of David.”  A Roman Catholic girl said, “I am holding a Rosary.”  A Baptist child said, “I brought in a King James Bible.”  Finally, a little girl holding a large serving dish stood before the class and said, “I am an Episcopalian and this is called a casserole.” 

What is it about churches and food?  Here are some things shared in common by every parish I have served:

·  Each loves pot-luck dinners.

·  Each loves a good cookout.

·  Each loves having sweets and treats set out after church.

·  And, at one point or another, the women of each parish put together a cookbook of their favorite church dishes.

Two food memories stay with me from the parish I served in Richmond for ten years.  The first happened at a monthly meeting of a women’s group.  Each member brought a dish to share at lunch and each person brought the same food each and every meeting.  I think they did this to help set apart the plate brought by one particular elderly lady known for not keeping a clean house/kitchen.  At the first meeting I attended as the new rector a kind woman whispered in my ear while we were in the serving line, “Take some of Laura’s food, put it on your plate, but whatever you do, don’t eat any of it.”

The other memory involves the single bravest thing I have ever done in parish ministry.  In working with the Vestry to dream up a way to make the Annual Meeting a better attended event, I suggested we have a pot-luck brunch.  The idea met with general approval at that leadership level, which, in hindsight, was sorely lacking in representation of women who typically prepare dishes for church meals.  Call for a pot-luck dinner – no problem.  These ladies had their go to dishes honed to a fine art.  A cook-out where everyone brings something for lunch – they were on it.  But the notion of a pot-luck brunch pushed this dependable crew into uncharted territory.  Oh, the weeping and gnashing of teeth that ensued cannot be described.  Sure, Jesus calmed a storm or two, but I guarantee you he would have shivered in the face of this tempest.  The Vestry had to conduct actual internet research to suggest potential brunch dishes in order to quiet the quell.  Eventually my faith and determination bore fruit because the women of the parish came through with the single most unbelievable brunch spread I have ever seen.

The connection between faith communities and food goes way back.  In today’s readings we hear again about significant events from both Testaments where food plays an integral role.  In the Old Testament, God sends the less than satisfying provisions manna and quail to feed the people.  In the Gospel, Jesus blesses a few barley loaves and fish and then distributes them so that everyone has enough to eat their fill. 

As John the Gospeller tells the story, Jesus’ act is to be taken as a sign of a deeper spiritual feeding.  Jesus knows that God created us to be resourceful, independent, to spread out our wings and fly.  But like an adult child who never leaves home, the crowds follow Jesus because they want him to meet their most basic needs – needs they should tend to on their own.  Bread for your body you must get for yourself, Jesus tells them.  The bread that I give to you is for your soul; bread that will give you courage and hope and compassion and purpose and peace and all the things that get taxed as you labor to get bread for your body. 

Did any of you eat at Chick-fil-A this week?  As you most likely know, the act of standing in line to get a fast food meal of processed chicken has become an incredibly complicated, politically and theologically charged event.  In a recent interview, Chick-fil-A’s founder and president volunteered that he believed same-gender marriage goes against the teachings of the Bible.  I am not sure why he chose to comment on this, but I for one was not surprised by his position.  Chick-fil-A is known as a ‘Christian’ business; the most obvious manifestation of which is being closed on Sundays.  While not their official language, Chick-fil-A strives to live out the Episcopal baptismal vow to respect the dignity of every human being – be it employees, suppliers, or customers.

Still, the president’s position angered some… and I understand why.  Some encouraged an organized a boycott of franchises… and I understand why.  Others responded by encouraging like-minded people to go in mass to a Chick-fil-A this past Wednesday… and I understand why.  But since then, back and forth the barbs have gone… and I just cringe.

I pondered this all week as I have prayed about today’s readings.  I have wondered what, if anything, I could say in this setting to make some sense of this latest maelstrom in our public life.  After a week on mediating here is what I have to say: nothing.  I simply cannot make sense out of yet another facet of this on-going debate.  On one hand, if you are going to boycott a business because of the owner’s beliefs, shouldn’t you do your homework in order to figure out what other business owners hold beliefs contrary to yours?  On the other hand, do we really make a strong witness for Christ by standing in line for a value meal at a fast food establishment?  Are these really what the faith and faithfulness have come to mean?

Here is one more common characteristic of every parish I have served: each has been a faith community gathered around two tables.  One table sits in the holy space we call the Sanctuary.  Each week from this table the faithful receive the Bread of Life – the Bread of Heaven.  It is a meal that connects us with God and makes us aware of those who are gathered with us.  Typically the other table resides in the Parish Hall.  This table, stocked with coffee and lemonade and baked goods, serves to create a space where the faithful meet one another in a setting that reminds us that God is in our midst. 

In some shape or form, all meals ought to do both.  They ought to connect us with one another and they ought to connect us with God.  Ultimately, what makes me sad about the Chick-fil-A bru-ha-ha is that serves to further diminish the spiritual nature and possibility of every meal we eat. 

We live in a very complicated world.  If we could investigate every business and every friendship and every institution we would detect things we find laudable and inspiring and things we find troublesome and objectionable.  There is, I believe, no safe enclave to be had where everything I value and believe is perfectly mirrored.  And thank God for that, because if we take seriously the nature of sin we must recognize that no one – starting with me – has it exactly right.  If I shelter myself from the evil influences of the world I do two things: first, I might protect myself from that which can corrupt me, but I also cut myself off from the fire that might refine what is not of Christ in me.

What we in the church offer to the world is this: two tables… one where we encounter God in the presence of others and another where we encounter others in the presence of God.  I invite you to both of these tables.  You will meet here people who affirm you, people who challenge you, and people who do both.  All will enrich your life.

Jesus said food is food, but through the food I give to you I offer something more.  In a week when one type of food served at one establishment has de-evolved into a debate between who  stands on one side of a social issue and who stands on the other, today’s Gospel reminds us that Jesus presides over meals at every table in order to make us one in his love.

Fragments

Fragments.  Gather up the fragments so that nothing is lost.  These little bits of bread filling twelve baskets represent several different things, don’t they. 

At the most basic level they are food; food that can be used or reused to feed the hungry.  Jesus’ world was a time and a place where the prayer “give us this day our daily bread” really mattered to the masses.  It was not at all certain to many that there would be food to eat on any given day.

At another level caring about these leftovers is a tangible critic of wastefulness.  More and more our society is embracing the values behind recycling and sustainability.  We cannot continue to live well on this planet if we continue needlessly to dispose of our resources at an alarming pace.  Can you hear in Jesus’ direction a new command not to let a single resource be squandered? 

Beyond this, the scrapes filling these baskets are miracles – tangible signs of God’s abundant grace.  They are holy relics and reminders that God takes care of us; a sacramental lesson in why it is right, good, and a joyful thing always and everywhere to give thanks.  They point past the quantitative change that allowed many to be feed by little to a qualitative change that nourished the deepest hunger in each person’s soul.

Given the rich, complex nature of this event, it is easy to see why the framers of the lectionary will have us pondering passages from John’s Gospel for the next four weeks in order to deepen our understanding of the One who said, “I am the Bread of Life.”

This morning we learn that the One who is the Bread of Life is determined not to lose a single fragment.  And while all four Gospels tell of this event and describe collecting what remains after all have eaten, only John records Jesus’ command to his disciples to do the gathering.  Twelve baskets, twelve disciples, lots of picking up to do.  Perhaps they saw it as a mundane task, but Jesus would teach them otherwise: “Everything that the Father gives to me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away… this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me” (John 6:37, 39).

For Jesus, the fragments represent more than food, more than recycling, and more than a miracle.  They represent you and me. They represent the people who are staying home today and the people on vacation.  They represent the people who have left our church and the people yet to come. They represented our new-born babies and all those we love but see no longer.  They represent the people who will serve in our food pantry tomorrow and the clients who will come to receive food.  They represent the people driving past our church this morning on the way to another church and the people driving past who have never been to a church.  The deep desire of Jesus is to lose nothing that has been given to him – not one single person. 

If you want an image of the value of each fragment you need look no further than the Cathedral in Winchester, England, which has one of the most beautiful stained glass windows in the world.  It tells no Biblical story, but rather radiates a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors. 

The Winchester window was not always as it is now.  One day in the 17th century, soldiers of Cromwell’s army, bearing sticks and iron bars, destroyed the cathedral’s ancient windows along with all the medieval statuary.  On that dark day, the outside lawn was strewn with tiny fragments of glass, irrevocably shattered.  When the soldiers left, the people came out to look at the ruins.  One man stepped forward and began to collect the smashed debris.  Soon the whole community joined him until many bushels were gathered and hidden away until a time when the state stopped desecrating the great centers of faith. 

When that day came, it was evident that a reconstruction of the original work would be impossible.  Still, an artisan asked to have the fragments and promised to do the best he could with what had been recovered.  Step by step, inch by inch, high on a scaffold above the cathedral nave, the craftsman arranged the little pieces into an intricate abstraction.  Nothing like it had ever been seen before in Europe and some of the laity and clergy shook their heads and grumbled at the novelty of it all. 

When the great window was finally completed, all the fragmented little pieces had been fit together in an array of jewels.  Those who enter the cathedral today stand in a light that radiates through that broken glass.  Worshipers are bathed in a message more powerful than any sermon: Every fragment, just like every person, is loved by God who sent Jesus to fashion each and every one of us into a beautiful, wondrous people of faith.

At least one church has figured this out.  Listen to this message that appears in each and every Sunday bulletin at Our Lady of Lourdes Church:

We extend a special welcome to those who are single, married, divorced, gay, filthy rich, dirt poor, yo no habla Ingles.  We extend a special welcome to those who are crying new-borns, skinny as a rail, or could afford to lose a few pounds.

We welcome you if you can sing like Andrea Bocelli or like our pastor who can’t carry a note in a bucket.  You’re welcome here if you’re “just browsing,” just woke up, or just got out of jail.  We don’t care if you’re more Catholic than the Pope, or haven’t been in church since little Joey’s Baptism.

We extend a special welcome to those who are over 60 but not grown up yet, and to teenagers who are growing up too fast.  We welcome soccer moms, NASCAR dads, starving artists, tree-huggers, latte-sippers, vegetarians, junk-food eaters.  We welcome those who are in recovery or still addicted.  We welcome you if you’re having problems or you’re down in the dumps, or if you don’t like “organized religion,” we’ve been there too.

If you blew all your offering money at the dog track, you’re welcome here.  We offer a special welcome to those who think the earth is flat, work too hard, don’t work, can’t spell, or because grandma is in town and wanted to go to church.

We welcome those who are inked, pierced, or both.  We offer a special welcome to those who could use a prayer right now, had religion shoved down your throat as a kid, or got lost in traffic and wound up here by mistake.  We welcome tourists, seekers and doubters, bleeding hearts … and you!

It is our calling here at St. Paul’s to be a church of fragments that is not fragmented; to be a church where each individual person is welcomed and has a place in the grand mosaic through which the light of Christ’s love shines for all to see.  You and I, we are a part of something special here because Jesus himself draws us together and makes us special through his presence.  

Getting Out of Town

Let’s begin with a show of hands.  How many of you have been on vacation already this summer?  Keep your hand up if you did not come back refreshed.  Keep your hand up.  How many of you who have not been on vacation this summer do not have a vacation scheduled?  Perfect.  Today’s Gospel reading is aimed directly at you folks with a hand in the air – the folks who are not going away or came back from being away no more rested and reinvigorated than when you left.

You may recall that the reading two weeks ago described how Jesus paired up his followers and sent them off to do ministry throughout the surrounding region.  They preached.  They taught.  They prayed with the sick and healed.  In today’s reading we learn of their return and how they share with Jesus all that they have done.

Jesus’ responses by inviting, no, by insisting that they go away to a deserted place in order to rest and recover.  Jesus knew first-hand how exhausting ministry and daily work can be.  He knew the toll it takes on us physically and emotionally and spiritually.  He knew how long periods of uninterrupted work leads to decreased productivity, stifles creative thinking, and increases the likelihood of mistakes and conflict.  “Let’s go away for a while,” he said to his disciples.  “Let’s go to a place where we can kick back, prop up our feet, and relax.  You need it and so do I.”

It is wisdom rooted deeply in the Judeo/Christian tradition set of the foundation of the Ten Commandments.  “Six days you shall work,” we read in Exodus 20, “but on the seventh day you shall rest from all your labors.”  And what is the rationale for this command?  God brought forth the creation in six days, then on the seventh day God rested.  We rest because our theology of humanity holds that we have are created in the image of God.  If God rests, then so should we.

It is interesting that when Moses shares the commandments with all of Israel in Deuteronomy 5, he adds another thought as to why we should observe the Sabbath day commandment.  “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt,” he tells the people.  “Remember how we were forced to work seven days a week.  Remember the toll it took on us.  Remember how God delivered us from bondage.”  Slaves work non-stop, but now we are free to reclaim the image of God in us.  One way we do this is by resting.

Two days into my week-long bike ride I began to feel the weight of enslaving routine lift.  Sleeping in a tent, waking at sunrise, rising and packing up all my belongings, being served a breakfast, and getting on my bike by 7:30 became a welcome new pattern after months and months and months of doing the same thing day after day after day.  I remember a one-panel cartoon I saw years ago where a driver on a prairie is approaching an old dirt road marked with a sign that reads, “Choose your rut carefully because you’ll be in it for the next 120 miles.”   We made-in-the-image-of-God human beings are not meant to be in a single rut or routine for that length of time.  The rhythm of week is to be broken by a single day of rest.

More than this, our tradition suggests that even this pattern is not enough.  Work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep, Sabbath, sleep repeat can become its own kind of rut, can’t it.  Interspersed throughout the Jewish calendar are periods of longer, annual festivals that involve leaving home and gathering in Jerusalem.  Moses introduced three such events to the people of Israel: the Feast of Unleavened Bread, the Feast of First Fruits, and the Feast of the Harvest at the end of the growing season.  While each had a specific religious connation, each also produced the added benefit of breaking the cycle of routine; freeing, if you will, the pilgrim from the tyranny of non-stop work; releasing a person enslaved by life’s obligations to reconnect with the deeper identity of God’s image in which he or she was created.

Jesus knew to be true what a comedian once remarked: a vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you’ve been taking.  It was time to get away, check out, recharge, and get refreshed.  The demands of life and ministry necessitate periodic breaks.  On average we Americans struggle with this.  We average fewer vacation days than most other developed nations.  Even worse, we are more likely than citizens of other countries to let vacation days go unused.  This means that our work suffers, our families suffer, and we suffer. 

Coming back from my bike ride I was energized to integrate some new patterns into my day.  Stepping away for the rut of my routine gave me not only a perspective on what I was doing with my life but also a sense of power that I could change it.  I have initiated some changes that are helping me create a better spiritual balance in my life – changes which will bear fruit for the work I do for you as a priest.  It took getting away for me to get out of the old rut.  Somewhere down the path this new pattern will become its own kind of rut, but not to worry, another vacation will help me to see that more clearly.

So, if you had your hand up, if this sermon is for you, find some time to leave town, to change the view, to experience life in a different way.  You will find yourself freed from what enslaves you and better able to do all the work God has given you to do.

Herod Antipas

Yes, you have the notorious figure of Judas Iscariot, whose name is synonymous with the word betrayal, and you have Pontius Pilate, whose dirty deeds landed his name in the Creeds of the Christian faith, but for my money in the New Testament there is no greater rogue, villain, or pathetic buffoon than Herod Antipas who ordered the execution of John the Baptist.

One of multiple sons of Herod the Great, Antipas was not held in high regard even by his father.  Daddy ruled over much of what we call the Holy Land, but when his two oldest sons were executed and the third in line tried to poison him, Herod the Great had to choose a successor from what was left of the litter, which apparently was not much.  Dividing up his kingdom, he gave Archelaus rule over the choice land of Judea and Jerusalem while Antipas and Philip received control and lesser titles over more backwater regions to the north.

With what political shrewdness he possessed, Antipas arranged to marry the daughter of a king who ruled a region on the eastern border of his territory, thus giving him some measure of assurance he would not be exposed to a direct attack from that direction.  That was one of his two crowning achievements.  The other related to lavish building projects; first a royal city called Sepphoris and then a seaside capital called Tiberius, which Antipas named after the emperor.  Both projects were funded through extreme taxation and built by local laborers paid peasant wages.  It is likely that Jesus, being a carpenter by trade, did work at one or both sites.

But Antipas found ways to mess up even these few high points on his résumé.  He littered his building projects with statues and imagery that inflamed the religious passions of the local Jewish population.  That combined with exorbitant tax rates created a highly volatile situation.  But this offense was to a people with limited ability to strike back. 

What Antipas did to his brother and his father-in-law did not carry such impunity.  Antipas fell in love with his brother’s wife, Herodias.  He divorced his first wife in order to marry her, even though in addition to being his sister-in-law Herodias was also his niece.  When political stupidity, moral weakness, and personal passion meet in action nothing good can follow.  Antipas’ ex father-in-law sent an army after him and you will not be surprised to learn that Philip, the ex-husband, joins in the effort against his brother.  Antipas’ forces were soundly routed to the degree that the Emperor had to send troops to maintain order and peace. 

All of this want and waste did not sit well with Jews being occupied by the Roman governing apparatus.  Antipas’ antics were morally indefensible, spiritually infuriating, and detrimental to every person’s health and well being in the region.  While the general populace viewed Antipas’ military defeat as a sign of God’s judgment on the marriage, it took the fire-brand figure of John the Baptist to say it openly and often.  His approach of tell-it-like-it-is-as-the-prophets-of-old-did won him great popularity with the masses and incurred the deep ire of Antipas’ new wife. 

You heard the reading this morning.  She encouraged her husband to have John arrested, which he did.  But for reasons unknown, he came to like talking with John.  Did they converse about politics, morals, the ancient Hebrew texts which so greatly informed the ministries of both John and Jesus?  Or was John more like a modern day therapist who skillfully guided Antipas through all of his hang-ups and helped him move toward maturity?  Well, this is doubtful.  The narrative does not give us a single clue as to the gist of their conversations, but this we do know… Herodias hated that they talked and she hated John. 

You know about the party.  You know about how a drunken Antipas and his cronies were charmed by the erotic dancing of Herodias’ daughter.  You know about his vow and her consult with her mother.  You know about Herodias’ gruesome request.  And you know about one of the more senseless, meaningless executions in the annuls of human history.  What kind of man runs his personal and professional affairs in such a manner?  Only a truly clueless, pitiful figure who was born into a position far exceeding his capabilities. 

The shockingly brutal, senseless death of John had an extraordinary affect on Jesus.  Luke’s gospel tells us that he immediately withdrew to Bethsedia, a city on the northern end of the Sea of Galilee just over the border from Antipas’ territory.  From our vantage point in history we might view Jesus as invincible, but at this moment he was anything but that.  Trying to keep a low profile proved to be impossible because people by the thousands kept flocking to his location.  A group of Pharisees, perhaps from the local area, came to Jesus and told him that Antipas planned to kill him.  Jesus famously replier, “Go and tell that fox that that I am casting out demons and healing people and on the third day I will accomplish my purpose.”

But it was not yet the ‘third day’, so Jesus, knowing his life was in danger this close to Antipas’ reach, journeyed due north thirty miles to the head waters of the Jordon River, a rugged mountainous region dotted with small villages known as Caesarea Philippi.  He would emerge from this place of seclusion with his ‘face set toward Jerusalem.’  There, once arrested, he would stand before Anitpas in silence, not speaking a single word as he stared into the contemptible eyes of the wretched man who ordered the execution of John, his friend, comrade, and cousin.  Surely it was a gaze that could have blistered varnish off a table; the kind of look none of us wants to experience at the final judgment.  Antipas, for his part, has his prisoner dressed in purple robes and adorned with a plated crown of thorns.  He allows his soldiers to prance around Jesus sarcastically hailing him as king while they spit on him and beat him. 

What can you say about such a person?  How do you evaluate such a human being?  As I said at the outset, he is the most pathetic person in the entire New Testament.

My own philosophy of preaching is that every sermon should answer a question I call “so what?”  So what does all this mean?  So what should I think or do or change because I have listened to a reading from Holy Scripture and heard a sermon on it?  In my estimation, it is not enough to learn something from a sermon, good preaching always encourages us or challenges us or heals us or enlightens us or redeems us.  I have to tell you I have spent a considerable amount of time pondering and praying over this reading to discern a single worthy ‘so what’ in it and I have to confess that the answer has eluded me.  Perhaps this is a reflection on the complete senselessness of Antipas’ act and the nature of this heartrending story.

Here are a few of the so whats I considered.  Each is valid, but none revolutionary.  If you have another, please feel free to share it with me after the service.

#1.  We are blessed to live in a democracy where figures like Antipas do not automatically inherit power to abuse.  It is our responsibility – civic and religious – to be informed about candidates running for any and every level of office, to support actively those whom we deem worthy, and to cast informed votes.  I am often guilty of doing none of these.

#2.  Moral outrage can be and often is a godly thing.  Recognize that it may – perhaps always will – come at a cost to those who proclaim it.

#3  Bad decisions and bad choices have a way of multiplying and building on themselves.  When Antipas (to use a current phrase) hooked up with his sister-in-law he did not intend to order John’s beheading, but, as we say, one thing led to another.  Each of us faces no greater moral and spiritual challenge than how and when to pull the plug on a process that begins with a single failing before it ends in a total collapse.  As a confessor/priest, I offer to you God’s grace in the form of the seal of the confessional.  If you sense, or if you know, you are heading down the wrong track and need some one to help you turn it around, as a priest in God’s church I stand ready to meet with you, to speak the truth you most likely already know, to pray with you, and to encourage you as seek to live a life worthy of God and all that is good.

Well, that is it.  That is all I have to say about a story so sad that I suggest we spend an extra moment or two in silent reflection before we say the Creed.  

What Lies Within

While doing my devotionals on July 4th I encountered a quote attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson: “What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” I liked that sentiment so much that I posted it on facebook, only to have my brother-in-law respond, “hence the need for Pepto-Bismol.”

Later in the morning I decided to take myself and my mountain bike and drive to Williamsburg for a nice little ride in the woods of Freedom Park in the 100 degree heat. Things started out fine, but when I got to the place in the park farthest from my car, to the most remote place on the trial, my rear derailleur snapped. My bike ride was instantly transformed into a bike walk.

Fortunately I had a trail map and a compass on my iPhone, so I figured I could get off the winding path and head due west through the woods to the main trail leading back to the parking lot. This plan, if properly executed, would have cut out a mile or so of a six-mile trek back to the car. Well, after 45 minutes I managed to accomplish three things:

1. I saw parts of the forest that no human being had seen in a long time.

2. I had ticks on my legs.

3. I was a mile and a half farther away than when I started on my shortcut.

At that point, drenched in sweat, I decided to stick to the trail as the safest, surest way out. Walking along in the heat, up and down hills, working hard just to catch my breath, I thought about what lied behind me and what lied ahead and told myself that what was inside mattered more. I guess it worked, because I lived to tell the tale.

“What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” This is a pretty fitting summation of today’s Gospel reading. Behind Jesus lies the sound rejection of the people of his hometown. Ahead is the road to Jerusalem and the Crucifixion. But these were no match for what was within him.

I enjoy driving back roads through small, rural towns. More often than not, when you drive into a small town there is a sign proclaiming the community’s love for its favorite son or daughter. It might be a major league ball player or an astronaut or an author. Small towns celebrate when one of their own makes good.

But not Nazareth. They were having none of Jesus’ newfound notoriety and fame. They we not buying into his healings. And they certainly were not going to stomach his teachings. How would you feel if the people who raised you – the people who know you better than anyone else in the world – rejected you the way the people of Nazareth rejected Jesus? I would feel humiliated, defeated, small, insignificant, betrayed.

That is what lied behind Jesus. But it was a tiny matter compared to what was within him. Within Jesus was a love of God and a love of God’s people – especially those who were hurting, despised, or deemed worthless. This love was not merely a sentimental feeling nor was it just a wishing of the best for everyone, rather it was birthed daily through grit, determination, and unwavering resolve. What came before and what was still to come were in fact tiny matters compared to what was within Jesus.

A lesser person might have quit after what happened in his home town, but not Jesus. He decides to double down. He decides that his ministry will now be the ministry of his followers too. He gathers them together, gives them the leanest of instructions, tells them they already have everything they need to carry with them, and sends them out in groups of two. The only concrete advice he gives is to stay where you are welcome and where you are not, shake the dust off your feet as you leave. Do good work where you can and move on when you can’t.

These teams of disciples spread throughout the region and in every home and every small town they are able to do exactly what the people in Nazareth would not let Jesus do there – teach, heal, and bless. It was all made possible because Jesus had something inside him that was more than a match for the challenges he encountered.

His spirit of determination lies within each one of us. Some of us express it boldly, while others may be more on the timid side. But what was true of Jesus is true of each one of us. I don’t care what is in your past (and for some people the past weighs very heavily) and I don’t care what your future holds (although you can be sure that some pretty serious stuff is coming down the pike), none of it can get the better of what you have inside you. You have the ability to deal with whatever lies behind and ahead and to direct your life through it to a better place.

This is a lesson that it took a while for St. Paul to learn. In today’s New Testament reading he writes about a “torn in the flesh.” No one knows exactly to what he is referring, but scholars speculate it might have been a health problem like epilepsy or very poor eyesight. No matter what the source, on three separate occasions Paul prayed that it would go away. He believed that what was within him was not able to stand up to what challenged him. But then came a wonderful understanding, a word from the Lord that said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” He goes on to write that he has found contentment in the midst of insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamites because when he is weak Christ in him is strong. He realized he did not need these things removed from his life because he had something within that was more than able to overcome it.

I read an article this week by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross where she described the experience of having her home burn to the ground, destroying all of her possessions in life. To make matters worse, there was evidence that foul play was involved (perhaps by someone who didn’t like that she cared for dying patients with HIV). Kubler-Ross said that at moments like this we face two options. The common response, she says, is this:

“We collapse, we give up, feeling hopeless and defeated. We focus on the negatives, losing ourselves in the ‘problem.’ We point to our unhappy circumstances to rationalize our negative feelings. This is the easy way out. It takes, after all, very little effort to feel victimized.”

The less common response, she says, is to “view the unhappy experience as an opportunity for a new beginning… to look for the growth opportunities, and find an inner reserve of strength.” That is a wonderful description of how Jesus responded to the humiliating treatment he received in his home town. For Kubler-Ross, she decided to make a new beginning in a new place near where her children and grandchildren lived. It was a decision she would not have made without the fire and she writes that it has initiated a new, wonderful era in her life. She was able to do so because she firmly believed that every disaster in life can be a gift in disguise.

For Jesus, the disaster of Nazareth became the gift of empowering others to share in his work and ministry. For Kubler-Ross, the gift was a new way of living she otherwise would not have embraced. For Paul, the gift was learning that he was strong enough to deal with all that made him weak. For me, my little walk in woods reminded me that I have the physical and mental strength to overcome minor adversity – a lesson I can draw on the next time a face something much greater than a little nuisance. Through the grace and strength of Christ, what lies behind you and what lies ahead of you are tiny matters compared to what lies within you.

Women under the Weight of the World

Recently I came across a book called “The Christwire Handbook.”  Christwire is a satirical website that publishes what appear to be authentic articles aimed at making fun of the excesses of American Christian conservatives.  Its targets are manifold; pointing out (with tongue in cheek) how Satan can be found lurking behind everything from modern music to the new logo of the Miami Marlins baseball team. 

Here is how the handbook describes what the role of women should be if our society is ever going to get back on the ‘right track’:

·  Women have no opinion greater than their husbands’… Remember, a quiet wife is a married wife.

·  A child’s room can get messy.  Make sure that their rooms are constantly kept up.  A mother’s love for her children can be measured by the crispness of the folds in their sheets.

·  Keep female emotions to yourself.  A man already has so much going on in his mind, the last thing he needs… is to hear about your unimportant feelings.

·  Stop asking “Do I look fat in this dress?”  The answer is yes.  A man is not there to give you fashion tips.

·  Taking up a career means you’re putting your family in second place… Keep yourself busy with learning new recipes.

·  Fitness is a must.  Your goal is to make your husband look good to his friends.

Groan is you will, but I share this absurd description of the woman’s role in society because it sheds light on today’s Gospel reading.  In it, Jesus encounters two women who are suffering tremendously under the burden of their society’s expectations. 

Let’s look first at the younger of the two.  She is the daughter of Jairus, who is the leader of the local synagogue: a very important and prominent position in the community.  Everyone would have known Jairus and everyone would have known his daughter.  She is perhaps the first “PK” in the bible – a preacher’s kid.  PK’s are an interesting breed.  Some hyper-conform to the moral/ethical agenda of their pastor/parent, while others notoriously rebel.  They all grow up being scrutinized by the congregation in a way that other children are not. 

Several things in the text interest me.  First, Jairus is identified by name.  This suggests that Jesus already knew him before this encounter.  They may have been friends, or perhaps when younger Jesus studied under him.  And he most likely knew Jairus’ family and knew all the family dynamics.  This preexisting relationship explains why Jesus was willing to see the girl. 

It also interests me that Jairus says, “My little daughter is at the point of death.”  Later in the story we learn that the girl is twelve years old and while it may strike us that she is but a child, in that society it was the age when women were given in marriage.  Something is going on here.  Either the girl is ‘not acting her age’ or her father is holding here back.  Donald Capps, a pastoral psychologist, theorizes that the girl is suffering from a several psychological trauma either because she is not ready to be given in marriage, or because she does not want to be married to the person arranged by her father, or because she was not accepted in marriage by a family suitable to her father’s stature in the community. 

Any one of these scenarios would account for the girl being under intense pressure.  The way this pressure might be manifested includes not eating, child-like behavior inappropriate for the age, and lapsing into a comatose state mirroring death.  Notice that it is Jairus and the people around him who believe the girl is dying.  Jesus holds that she is merely sleeping.  If they laugh openly at him for thinking this, imagine the kind of social pressure they must have brought to bear on the girl over her twelve years as a PK.

In the midst of all this, a second woman inserts herself into the story.  We do not know her name, but Mark supplies us with interesting details.  She has been hemorrhaging for the entire length of time Jairus’ daughter has been alive.  She has gone to every physician in the region and no one has been able to help her.  The text says that she suffered much under their ‘care.’  We can only begin to imagine the barbaric and misguided procedures they might have employed.  I suspect that doctors then like doctors now do not do well with failure.  Surely they blamed this woman, not themselves, for her condition.  Seeking treatment had forced her into poverty.  In addition, her bleeding would have made her ritually impure and thus unable to participate in worship activities.  It would have led to social ostracism.  And, the chronic bleeding would have rendered her unable to perform the single most important task for women in her society – bearing children.

Again, we don’t know all the details of her story, but it is fair to assume that she was between the ages of 24-30; that is young by our standards, but not in her day.  It is reasonable to assume that her bleeding began with a legitimate physical cause – perhaps she had a miscarriage – but that it perpetuated over the years for reasons more psychological. 

As an aside, years ago I threw out my lower back playing with my four-year old in a pool.  That pain persisted for a year and a half, but the morning after I accepted a call to a new church I woke up and it was gone.  What began as an injury became the place where my stress metastasized.  I think something similar is going on with this woman.  Whatever caused the original bleeding was not what perpetuated it to continue for twelve years.  She lived under a stigma and we have already noted that the people of the community were tough and over-bearing people.  She needed to be released from the inner turmoil that perpetuated her condition.

Two women: one old, one young, both in need of a miracle.  The dictionary offers three basic definitions for the word miracle.  One is an event or action that contradicts known scientific laws through supernatural intervention.   The second definition is a remarkable event or thing: a marvel.  The third is a wonderful example.  I contend that the miracles Jesus performs here do not contradict known scientific laws, but rather are marvels and wonderful events.  This does not make them any less significant or powerful because the healing each effects is real.

The older woman reaches out to touch Jesus.  She has heard about him.  She perceives that he is not like all the critical physicians she has suffered under for so long.  She senses that he is a person of compassion; a person in whom she can safely place her trust.  And through the act of reaching out all that has bound her to the brokenness of her past vanishes.  She is made well. 

There was something different about the way she touched Jesus and he senses that power has left his body and transferred into hers.  Every caregiver knows how their own energy is conveyed to those under their care.  Health is given from one to another.  It is an experience Jesus knew well.  He highlights her faith as being the critical element in the healing process and then imparts of her the blessing of peace. 

In the mean time news arrives that Jairus’ daughter has died.  We have already seen that this is a report which Jesus rejects.  It is no small thing that he puts aside the laughing on-lookers before going into the house to visit the girl.  We can only guess at how much the girl’s condition could be attributed to their negativity and critical nature, but apparently it was a significant factor because Jesus wanted them nowhere near the girl’s house and he did not want any of them to know what happened after the fact. 

Whereas the older woman reached out her hand to touch Jesus, this time Jesus reaches out his hand to the girl and calls on her to get up.  The touch and the voice of Jesus break through all the trauma that had reduced her to a comatose state and she awakens.  It is a marvel and a wonderful example of how to reach out to a person in pain.

These connected stories speak powerfully to women of all ages in our own day.  They speak to the weight of society’s expectations and the burden that women bear carrying them.  Neurologists have discovered the part of the brain that is assigned the task of negative thinking.  From here the thoughts that I am too old or I am too fat originate.  It turns out that this part of the brain is larger in women than in men, perhaps because through evolution women are better wired to respond to the needs of a non-verbal infant.  And while it has some advantages, the disadvantages revolve around being overly sensitive to perceived negative feedback.   

A study was done where a group of teenage girls was placed in a room with an attractive woman who complained about how fat she was.  The underlying implication was that anyone who weighed more than she did was excessively overweight.  Even though the attractive woman was a total stranger and said nothing directly about any of the girls in the group, her own negative self-assessment had the effect of undermining the self-image of each of the girls in the room.

Another study found that especially for women, bad feedback is stronger than good feedback.  Ten good meals served at a dinner party will not outweigh the one disaster.  Five complements on a new haircut are no match for one person’s lukewarm response.  And when it comes to self-esteem, affirmation at work goes out the window if you are not able to fit into your favorite jeans. 

Today’s Gospel reading raises many important questions.  How do society’s expectations for women affect women?  Isn’t that what was going on with the crowds and the mourners and the onlookers in this town and with Jairus’ own expectations of his daughter?  What does it mean to ground your identity in how Jesus sees you?  Isn’t that the question the older woman engaged?  And what does it look like to have Jesus reach out to you to begin to put your life back together in a new, healthier way?  Isn’t this the question of the girl?  And finally, if your sense of self is negative and your experience of the world is cruel, can you find a community of faith that begins to help you turn this around?  Can I find a community committed to being the body of Christ – living as he lived and loving unconditionally as he did?  Jesus heals two women through the simple act of touch; a touch that conveys love, worth, and acceptance; a touch that affirms human dignity and imparts the blessing of peace.