You Can Tell a lot about a Person from the Way He or She...

This morning I am thinking of Marjorie.  A dear, retired women I knew years ago, she was a devoted Christian and shared with me in the ministry of preparing young people for confirmation.  More than ‘knowing her stuff’ about the church, she was ideally suited for this work because she was the kind of person we want our young people to emulate: gently, caring, kind, thoughtful, full of faith, always radiating joy.  It was not at all her way to speak badly about anyone, which is why I have never forgotten a comment she once made to me. 

We were talking in private about one of the teenagers in the group who in class had made some pretty uncharitable comments about poor people and people of color.  Where did these beliefs come from I wondered?  Marjorie told me about a lunch she once had with the teen’s mother.  In church the mother presented herself as holier than thou, but at a tiny café a different side had emerged.  Marjorie described how the mother interacted with the waitress; ignoring her at one point, barking orders at another, and generally being so rude that Marjorie was embarrassed to be in her company.  It was then that Marjorie made said what I have never forgotten – a comment that has guided every single interaction I have had since she spoke the words: “My mother used to say that you can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat the help.”

You can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat the help – or we might want to change it slightly to a term Jesus used, ‘the least of these.’  If this is true, and I think it is, then you can tell something about me from the way I treat a congressman, but more by the way I treat a Wal-Mart cashier.  You can tell something about me from the way I treat a lofty admiral, but more from the way I treat a lowly administrator.  You can tell something about me from the way I treat the bishop, but more by the way I treat the Barons barmaids. 

More than being a common curtsey or a sign of a good upbringing, this approach to ‘the least of these’ was a crucial reason (if not the crucial reason) why Christianity spread throughout the Roman Empire in such a relatively short period of time.  In today’s New Testament reading we heard James – the brother of Jesus – admonishing the early church to show no acts of favoritism to the wealthy over the poor.  We heard him proclaim the belief that showing partiality is a sin. 

This was radical stuff in that day and age.  Listen to how one historian describes that era:

The ancient Mediterranean world that Rome once ruled was a vast, culturally diverse set of societies, unrelated by language, economics, religions, and histories, all forced into political unity by a brutal military.  Vast numbers of people who inhabited the Roman Empire resented or hated Roman rule and experienced few, if any, benefits from its social and economic structures.  The empire was not in any modern way even vaguely democratic or inclusive; instead, it was a rigidly hierarchical and status-based world of haves and have-nots, of masters and slaves.  Unlike Hollywood sword-and-sandal film, the ancient world was not a pleasant place absent conveniences such as sewer systems and running water.  Greco-Roman cities were small, extremely crowded, filthy beyond imagining, disorderly, filled with strangers, and afflicted with frequent catastrophes – fires, plagues, conquests, and earthquakes.  Unlike Western urban life today, where even the poor have access to marginal services, life in antiquity abounded in anxiety and misery for nearly everyone.

In that environment, Christians embodied the virtue of hospitality to all: the sick, the poor, travelers, widows, orphans, slaves, prisoners, prostitutes, soldiers, and the dying.  Lucian, a 2^nd century pagan critic of Christianity, wrote of the lavish care believers offered to a local prisoner, saying “the efficiency the Christians show whenever matters of community interest like this happens is unbelievable; they literally spare nothing.”  Tertullian, a Christian from same era offers a similar insight: “It is our care of the helpless, our practice of loving kindness that brands us in the eyes of our many opponents.  ‘Only look,’ they say, ‘look how the love one another.’”  One more quote, this from John Chrysostom, writing in the 4^th century, describes what motivated the early church to behave this way: “Observe the hospitality here spoken of is not merely friendly reception, but one given with zeal and cheerfulness, with readiness, as going about it as if one were receiving Christ himself.”

Our Christian forefathers and mothers received every person they met as if they were greeting Christ himself.  The early church could not have manufactured a weapon of war more powerful against the culture in which they lived nor could it have produced an ad campaign more effective than the sacrificial manner in which they humanized every person they encountered.  It subverted an entire society and way of life across the greatest empire the world had known to date. 

Today’s gospel reading is particularly interesting because it tells a story where Jesus is the antagonist.  The hero has several strikes against her: she is a woman, a foreigner, and her daughter is tormented.  She approaches Jesus as her last, best hope, but he brushes her off with a putdown that makes us bristle: “I don’t feed dogs like you.”  Here is where might want to remind Jesus that you can tell a lot about a person from the way he treats the help.  To her credit, the woman perseveres and, in a clever little bit of give-and-take notes that even dogs get to eat crumbs that fall from the table. 

It is a revelatory moment in Jesus’ life because her faith helps him to discern that his mission encompasses all people, not just the children of Israel.  Jesus grants the woman’s request by healing her daughter and then, in the very next story (which we also heard read) he heals without hesitation a man with a speech impediment even though he too is a resident of a foreign land.   These acts become signs of how outsiders – unlovely, unwanted human beings – are to be welcomed into the heart of Christian community and fellowship.

We are the inheritors of this tradition.  We become its standard bearers at our baptism when we make covenantal promises with God to seek and serve Christ in all persons, to love our neighbor as ourselves, and to respect the dignity of every human being.  Living as we do in a world that seems to be more dehumanizing and less friendly every day, the church is finding anew how powerful and potent embodying these promises can be as we seek to draw all people into God’s life and love.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she cares for the least of these.  And you can tell a lot about a congregation by the way it does the same. 

As the election campaign cranks into full gear I find myself having a recurring thought: what would happen if word got out that a presidential candidate would be speaking at St. Paul’s next Sunday?  Well, we’d have the place spotlessly clean and the paint touched up.  Every burned out bulb would be replaced and every bit of brass polished.  The acolytes would be here early and they’d be wearing dress shoes with socks.  The choir would be at full strength and Al might even behave himself.  My sermon would be brief and possibly even coherent.  The Parish Hall would be decked out with the finest foods served on the fanciest flatware we can muster.  The pews would be packed long before the service started.  We would anticipate the event all week and talk about it with pride years later.  Whenever someone gets around to writing an updated history of the parish you can be sure that it would mention the visit from a presidential nominee. 

Now, let me ask you this: what would happen if an e-mail went out announcing that a former parishioner who moved out of the area several years ago was coming back for a visit?  Those who knew the person well might make a special effort to be here, evening changing plans to make it happen.  Someone might even arrange to go out to lunch with the person after the service.  There would be no special cleaning or music, Al would behave (or not behave) as we have come to expect, and my sermon would be long and rambling.

How about this scenario: what would happen if God whispered in your ear that next Sunday a homeless person was going to sit in the back pew during the service?  What would be different?  How would we approach that day and that event differently that the other scenarios?  I am not suggesting we have a silver and crystal reception after church (or maybe I am), but what does it look like to show no partiality?  What can you tell about us from the way we treat a presidential nominee, a returning friend, or a homeless person?

Our ancestors in the faith treated like royalty the most humble and lowly members of society.  They confronted the proud and pompous at every turn, even if it meant persecution, imprisonment, or death.  Their church grew and it thrived because they were selfless in the service of others.  They offer their witness to us and inspire us as we seek to serve Christ in our own day, striving always to discern what this looks like in our own time.

A Means or an End?

What are the adjectives we put in front of specific religious traditions to indicate a person’s dedication to it?  We speak of being a “practicing Jew”, or a “devout Roman Catholic.”  We describe a person as being a “good Baptist” or an “active Presbyterian.”  I have heard more than one person identified as being a “staunch Episcopalian.”  Some of these modifiers are interchangeable, others not so much.  We might describe someone as being a “good Episcopalian,” but probably not a “practicing Episcopalian.”
All of these terms hint at a high level of involvement; at being deeply engaged with the particular customs and dictates of a specific faith tradition.  Each speaks of a distinctive way to worship, to draw from the bible, to be in a community of believers, and to participate or not participate in a society and the culture as a whole.

The Christian writer Philip Yancey describes the do’s and don’ts – well, mostly the don’ts – associated with his upbringing in a fundamentalist church in the late 50’s and early 60’s:

“At the top [of the list of don’ts] were smoking and drinking… Movies ranked just below these vices, with many church members refusing even to attend The Sound of Music.  Rock music, then in its infancy, was likewise regarded as an abomination, quite possibly demonic in origin.  Other proscriptions – wearing makeup and jewelry, reading the Sunday paper, playing or watching sports on Sunday, mixed swimming (curiously termed ‘mixed bathing’), skirt length for girls, hair length for boys – were heeded or not heeded depending on a person’s level of spirituality.”


Does any of that mirror your own upbringing?

Every religious movement has a core tenant accompanied by surrounding practices aimed at helping a follower move toward that core.  For those of us in the Christian tradition, the core is to love God with all of our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love our neighbor as ourselves.  Practices like regular worship and turning the other cheek are just two of the ways we live into what is most central about our tradition.

The practices are a means to the end of loving God and loving our neighbor, but it does not take much for the means to become an end unto themselves.  Isn’t that what Philip Yancey was describing about his childhood?  Somewhere along the way, whatever it was about skirt length and hair length that directed a person toward loving God and loving your neighbor became obscured by the notions that good Christian boys keep their hair above the ears and girls keep their skirts below the knees.

In today’s Gospel reading Jesus is confronted by a group of religious leaders attacking him around this very same phenomena.  A particular practice of ritual hand washing meant to remind a person of the need for and value of inner holiness over time had become an end unto itself.  The religious leaders became fixated on the practice, but indifferent to its intended end.  It appears Jesus practiced the ritual, but his disciples did not.  The religious leaders chide him for not forcing his followers to observe this custom.

Jesus responds by quoting the sacred Hebrew Scriptures:

“This people honors me with their lips,   but their hearts are far from me.”

They had become what Mark Twain once described as “good in the worst sense of the word.”  It is not the practice that Jesus criticizes, but rather using the practice as an end unto itself.  He would not stand for an exterior manifestation of religion that did not emanate from an interior place in the soul.

We need specific practices, rituals, and customs in order to have an identity as a people of faith. Interestingly, mainline congregations that work hard at developing these things are beginning to flourish.  Joseph Stewart-Sicking is a member of a team of sociologists headquartered at Virginia Seminary who are studying churches all across the country.  Here is what he reports of their findings:


“In our research we saw intentional practice.  Churches worked hard at developing certain disciplines and making them the core of their life together.  We saw engagement with tradition, not as the tyranny of the dead but as a living body of wisdom.”
In other words, a hand washing ritual used as a means to move closer to loving God and loving your neighbor aids personal faith and adds to congregational vitality.  Of course, the meaning and purpose of the hand washing ritual is lost on us today.  There is no point to try to recreate it if it becomes an end to itself.  But we do have our own practices that are worth embracing.

Let me help you understand what I mean by telling you of one person’s experience with a church very similar to ours.  Nora Gallagher writes about walking into a parish as a visitor and then becoming a pilgrim as she walked through the seasons of the congregation’s life by celebrating its festivals, living through its ordinary times, and suffering in its dark moments.  It dawned on her she could never really understand Christianity unless she lived it by participating in the practices, customs, and rituals of a specific Christian community.

Stewart-Sicking’s fellow researcher Diana Butler Bass writes that “People are finding their lives transformed by joining a faith community – not by taking a membership class or signing a pledge card – but through participating in a congregation’s story, language, actions, and rhythms.”  The dynamic congregations they studied have created “a vision of Christian discipleship that fits their own cultural and historical locations.”

Pairing their research with today’s Gospel reading, we might want to ask ourselves this: what do I do to live out my faith that moves me closer to loving God and loving my neighbor and what do I do that has morphed into an end unto itself.  What do we do as a congregation that moves us closer to God and our neighbor?  And what in our common life invites visitors to become fellow pilgrims?

Here are a few of the practices I see at St. Paul’s that are doing this:

·  Like other Episcopal congregations, we observe the Christian calendar as a means to walk through the story of Jesus on a yearly basis.  Following the lectionary, living into the church seasons, and observing significant celebrations of Jesus’ life helps us to do this.

·  Our Sunday worship follows a pattern of gathering in God’s Name, praising God, listening attentively to Holy Scripture first as it is read and then as it is understood through preaching, aligning ourselves with Christians of all times and all places by confessing the faith through the words a historic creed, praying for our own needs and the needs or others, confessing our sins and receiving absolution, extending God’s peace to those who gather with us, remembering Christ’s great gift to the world through the words of the Great Thanksgiving, being nourished and strengthened through taking communion, and finally offering thanks for all that we have received in worship and expressing the belief that it has prepared us to reenter life as God’s servants.

·  Here at St. Paul’s we have various ways we practice service through self-giving.  It begins with our elected lay leaders – the Vestry – who commit to being here each Sunday to open and close the building, to greet us, and to ensure that coffee and treats - basic signs of hospitality – are available.  It begins before that though on Saturday morning when members of the Altar Guild give their time so that the church is prepared for worship.  It begins even before that when members of the choir gather for practice to ensure that music, beauty, and praise will be a part of our common worship.

·  Our service through self-giving is expressed on Monday evenings when people from the community come to our church to receive food items to help them make it through the week.  It is also expressed when we take a meal to a person recovering from illness.

·  It is expressed every Friday night when we open the doors of our church to AA meetings, on Thursdays when BARKs offers its services in our Parish Hall, and at various other times throughout the month and year when we make our facilities available to groups that make Suffolk a better place for everyone.

·  It is one of my greatest joys as your Rector to offer our practice of service through self-giving to whomever God brings to our doors.  That is why with confidence I told an Episcopalian from another part of the country that I would be the celebrant at a memorial Eucharist for our spouse and that we would provide a reception after the service for her family and friends.

These are just a few of our practices.  None is an end unto itself.  Each is a means to help us love God and love our neighbor.  Based on his observations of other congregations, Joseph Stewart-Sicking says this:

“There are no shortcuts.  It is something that develops over time, learning as you do, becoming a community dedicated to a way of life that can’t be purchased.”

Does that sound like us?  Or do the words of Jesus ring in our ears, “You honor me with your lips, but your heart is far from me”?  I know how I answer this question.  How do you answer it?

Answer Key..........page 95

A grade school aged boy figured out the whole Sunday School thing when he realized the answer to every question the teacher asked is “Jesus.”  “Who is the Good Shepherd?”  While his peers sat in ponderous silence, the boy shot his hand in the air and blurted out “Jesus.”  The next Sunday: “Who walked on the water?”  “Jesus.”  The Sunday after that: “Who was born in a manger?”  “Jesus.”  You can see how this little boy was starting to build some confidence, so imagine his confusion when the teacher said, “Who can tell me what is gray and furry, has a bushy tail, lives in a tree, and gathers nuts for the winter?”  The little boy raised his hand and said sheepishly, “Well, I know the answer has to be ‘Jesus,’ but that sure sounds like a squirrel to me.”

That old story came to me this week as I sat in the church’s resource room leafing through some old Sunday School curriculum.  I happened across a book titled Instant Bible Lessons, which are aimed at children ages 5-10.  Checking the table of contents, I noted lessons with such titles as “Don’t Pout–Pray!,” “The Path of the Proud,” “Cheerful Chores,” and (my favorite) “Pin the Hair on Samson.”  And then, at the bottom of the page, was this line that caught my eye: “Answer Key…….page 95.”

Why, I thought, does life not come with an answer key; a page to which you can turn and have everything you want to know laid out right there before you?  Why do good people suffer?  Or, I want to have faith that everything will be OK, but how do I let go and simply trust?  Or, what exactly am I supposed to do to be a good person and what does God think when I do not do it?  It sure would be nice to have a page 95 to give us the answers to these and other questions.

Over the last four Sundays we have been reading from the 6^th chapter of John’s Gospel.  It begins with the account of Jesus feeding the 5,000 with just a few fish and a couple of loaves of bread.  As the chapter unfolds it chronicles an on-going discussion between Jesus and those who at the meal, between Jesus and local religious authorities, and between Jesus and his own disciples.  Each conversation is a kind of search for an answer key: Why does the food have stop?  Where does Jesus get the power and authority to do these things?  What does this miraculous event mean?  And with each interaction, the conversation grows more tense until we find at the end of today’s reading most of the people who had been chasing Jesus around the lakeside decide following him is not worth the effort.  Getting a free meal was nice.  Not getting easy answers is frustrating as frustrating can be.  His audience wants everything wrapped up in a nice, tidy package with a little gold bow on top, but life doesn’t fit neatly into a box and the bows we tie always seem to come undone in the face of our experiences. 

More and more I am convinced that we begin our religious life on a quest for certainty but over time develop the spiritual capacity to live with ambiguity, nuance, and mystery.

There are two different ways people try to find certainty through religion.  One involves manipulating the bible.  This approach takes a verse from this Gospel, and phrase from that letter, and a bit of a psalm, and a dash of a proverb, and a healthy smattering of Paul, strings it all together, and holds that it then proclaims God’s truth through a sequential unfolding of a logical progression that is clean, clear, concise, and certain. 

I warm to this approach like I would warm to a person who takes a handful of shells, stings them on necklace, holds them up, and says, “Here is everything you need to know about the beach.”  Well, not really.  Where is the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt water, the feel of the sand, the warmth of the sun, etc.?  When confronted with the absurdity of certainty, this person will say, “How dare you attack my string of shells?  Can’t you see that every one of these shells came right from the beach itself?  How can you not see the entirety of the beach in what I have created?  You must not be a true beach person and you certainly will not get to spend eternity at the beach after you die.”  Have you ever met a person who uses the bible in a similar fashion?

There is another way a person might try to achieve certainty through religion.  It does not involve the bible, but rather what I call ‘soft, cheesy theology.’  This approach draws upon statements of belief that sound nice and offer comfort, but when thought through are fraught with problems.  Do you want some examples?  “God always answers pray, but sometimes we don’t like what God says.”  “God never gives you more than you can handle.”  “When God closes one door, God always opens another.”  I could go on, but you get the idea.  You may even use some of them yourself.  We like these sayings because they are sure and safe.  They give us confidence and certainty in uncertain times and situations.  But in their own way they reflect reality about as well as the string of shells reflects the beach. 

For many religion is a safe harbor of self-made certainty – a certainty that either has to be defended at all costs or kept out of the light of thorough examination.  But there comes a time when we let go of the need for certainty and begin to embrace the notion that we find God best as we let God be God – a Holy Being beyond explanation.

The lead character in Lucy Montgomery’s book Emily of New Moon understood well how to do this.  Montgomery writes this about her:

It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty.  Between it and herself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside – but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond – only a glimpse – and heard a note of unearthly music… And always when the flash came to her Emily felt her life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty.”

Whenever I think of this passage I think that I want what Emily had… a belief that beauty is everywhere and very near to us all the time, an ability to wait on mystery to reveal itself to us, and – most important of all – the absence of need to quantify and explain it all.  She was comfortable simply to let life be what it is and not to demand it be what it is not. 

St. Peter was a great deal like Emily, at least as far as he accounts in today’s reading.  After the masses pack their bags and leave, Jesus turns to his small band of committed followers and inquires if they too are going to walk away.  Peter speaks for all of them: “To whom would we go?  You have the words of eternal life and we have come to believe that you are the Holy One of God.”  Notice that Peter does not say, “Who else is going to give us free food?  Notice he does not say, “Why would we go someplace else when you hold the Answer Key from page 95?”  He says, “You have the words of eternal life.”  In what Jesus has done and through what Jesus has said, Peter has caught a glimpse of the ‘enchanting realm beyond.’  He does not need to have it explained to him.  He does not need to describe it to others.  He merely needs to abide in it and with it.

We begin our religious journey in life looking for certainty and over time develop the capacity to live with ambiguity, nuance, and mystery.  We learn that finding God is not so much about finding answers as it is discerning a persistent Presence who is always with us.  We learn to trust in this Presence and to depend on it.  This, I think is, what Jesus offers in the bread and the wine.

Challenging Christian Exclusivism

So Bill Gates – the founder of Microsoft – dies and stands before the pearly gates.  St. Peter asks him if he wants to spend eternity in heaven or in hell.  “I don’t know,” Gates answers, “can I take a look at each before I decide?”  “Sure can,” Peter replies.  So they go to see hell and it is a beautiful, tropical, sun-splashed beach with bikini-clad women, a steel-drum band, and a pig roast.  Then they look at heaven and it is a white cloud with people drifting about playing harps and singing hymns.  “If it’s all the same to you,” Gates says, “I think I’d like to go to hell.”  “Your choice,” Peter says and he obliges.  A month later the saint goes to check up on Mr. Gates to see how he is getting along.  He finds him chained to a stone wall surrounded by burning flames and being tormented by a hoard of demons.  “How is it going,” Peter asks him?  “Well, I’m not at all happy,” Gates replies, “This isn’t working like I thought it would?  What happened to the beach and the beautiful women and all that other great stuff?”  “Oh that, that…” Peter says, “that was the screen saver.”

Today I want us to focus in on Jesus’ words, “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.  Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life and I will raise them up on the last day.”  Taken positively, this saying assures us that the Eucharist is a sign of God’s grace and God’s enduring love.  But it is a verse that can be and has been used negatively – not to uplift the comfort we find in the sacrament, but to point out those who are excluded from God’s salvation.

In the Middle Ages the church took these words of Jesus literally and then used its exclusive control of the Eucharist as a means to keep the faithful in line.  In those days there was no greater fear than the fear of eternal damnation in the fires of hell.  The only safeguard against such a fate was to remain in the good graces of the church.  Thus, the church held no greater threat than the power of excommunication – being cut off from the life-giving communion of Christ’s Body and Blood.  How powerful was this weapon?  Well, in 1077 King Henry IV of Germany, on being excommunicated after a dust-up with Pope Gregory VII, walked barefoot across the Alps and waited three days in the snow outside the gates of the Pope’s fortress begging for forgiveness.

With the advent of the printing press, the Bible became available to more and more people in a greater variety of languages.  Reformers emerged to challenge the notion that receiving communion was the only means to new life and to eternal life.  Faith, they said, plays the critical role and as such the individual does not stand in judgment before the church, but before God and God alone.
While these two positions from the Middle Ages and the Reformation are at odds on many points, they share one notion in common: that only those who are ‘in Christ’ – either through sacrament or through faith – will be saved.  “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you” – what else can this possibly mean than those outside the Christian faith are doomed to an awful punishment on the other side of that screen saver?

There was a time not too long ago when a preacher could deliver a well-received sermon on this text proclaiming that all non-Christians are going to hell.   In some congregations that kind of message still plays.  When we were growing up most of us were told the reason to be a Christian was so you can get to heaven and not be sent to hell.  It was clear, simple, and compelling.  As a result, we assimilated the message that Christianity offers benefits to its adherents and catastrophic threats to those outside its walls.  But for many of us this now thuds with the clanking sound of a cracked bell.

We now live in a multi-cultural world of religious pluralism.  We have learned about other faiths through college courses and by reading books.  We see other traditions portrayed in movies and on television.  And most impactful of all, many of us have personal acquaintances with people who practice other religions.  Yes, there are fundamentalists bent of killing innocent people in the name of God, but we are learning that they are the exception, not the rule.  We are learning that in every religion there are many, many good people doing good deeds as they pursue God and what is true.  And we are learning that there are teachings in each religion that tie in closely with what our tradition teaches us.

The carrier who delivered mail to my townhouse in Richmond was Muslim.  There were many days in the winter when, as the sun was setting around five o’clock, I saw his truck pulled off to the side of the street and he was standing on a hillside, under a tree, facing east, and praying to Allah.  Let me ask you this: what do you think God wanted me to do in those situations?  Should I have walked up the hill, tapped on his shoulder, and explained to him that his religion was a construct of the devil meant to trick him away from the truth of Christianity or should I have passed by in respectful silence, offering a prayer from my own tradition thanking God for his faithful witness and asking God to receive him as he searches?

A recent survey found the following:

• When asked “Should Christians seek to convert people of other faiths or leave them alone?” 22% said convert while 71% said leave them alone.
• 78% agreed with the statement “All religions have elements of the truth.”
• Only 17% agreed with the statement “My religion is the only true religion.”

When describing various faith traditions a number of scholars are now using the language of “internal core” and “external form.”  The internal core, which is the heart of a religion, is the pursuit of God, the Holy, the Sacred.  The external form is the particular expression of the religion: the particularities of what is done in worship, the particular words it uses from its sacred texts and stories, the particular practices it teaches, and so forth.  All religions are similar in their internal core and different in the external forms.

Perhaps you have heard the old adage that religions are different paths headed to the same mountain top.  The closer the paths get to the summit, the closer they become to one another.  This region, near the peak, is the internal core.  At the base, where the mountain is broad and wide, the different paths are far apart.  This helps to explain the differences between the eternal forms.  The differences matter not because one is better than the other or right while the others are wrong, but because each path’s distinctive route to the peak matters.  Each path has an inherent integrity that needs to be recognized and respected.  A nonchalant attitude that all religions are basically the same is demeaning because the external form of each religion is its pathway to mediating the Sacred.  Problems arise when followers of an external form absolutize their path as being the only true way to God.  This is how fundamentalism arises and exclusivity inevitably follows.

All of this may make sense to you.  You may even acknowledge that it articulates how you see the world today.  But it does not help us to make sense of the words of Jesus: “Unless you eat my Body and drink my Blood you have no life in you.”  Is there any way to reconcile this statement with a more generous, more open approach to different faith traditions?  I think there is.

In the 10th chapter of Mark’s Gospel we read the story of a young merchant who approaches Jesus with a question: “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”  It is the same concern that we find in today’s reading from John.  Do you remember how Jesus answers the merchant?  He tells him he must not commit murder or adultery, not steal, give false testimony, or defraud anyone, and he must honor his father and mother.  The questioner responds, “I have obeyed these commandments since I was a boy.”  Do you remember what Jesus says next:  “One thing you lack.  You must sell all your possessions, give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.  Then come, follow me.”  When we study this lesson we recognize that there is something important for us to hear in Jesus’ words, but we also understand that ‘you’ refers specifically to this particular person: ‘you,’ young man, must sell all that you have…   We do not take it to mean that each and every one of us must sell everything we have and give away all the money to the poor.

Let me suggest that when Jesus says “Unless ‘you’ eat my Body and drink my Blood…” we can hear the ‘you’ in a very similar way.  When Jesus says ‘you’ he is speaking to a specific group of people who are already a Eucharistic community.  In this sense the ‘you’ can be us as well, because we also find life each and every time we come to the Lord’s Table.  It is an external form that holds great meaning for us.  It is a powerful and potent way for us to encounter the Sacred.  But it does not mean that ‘you’ refers to every person on the planet.  In fact, it doesn’t even refer to every person in the Christian faith.  There are many Christian communities for whom the Eucharist is not a central, life-giving practice and yet members of these congregations are faithful followers of Christ who are devout in their faith.

I do not think the ‘you’ refers to my Richmond mail carrier either.  I think there is another way for him to practice a faith whose external forms are very different from mine and yet still be received by God and nourished for this life and the life to come.  It wasn’t Jesus who gave this particular verse broad, sweeping implications for people outside the Christian faith, we, his followers, have done that.  Nowhere in the Gospels is Jesus specifically asked to comment on the fate of those who do not practice what we are calling the external form of Christianity.  If the question was posed to him, I doubt he would have responded with the words we hear today.  In fact, consistently throughout the Gospels, when Jesus encounters a person outside the Judeo-tradition he marvels at their faith and lifts them up as an example for those of us in the covenant tradition to follow.

I suspect that many of us are open to finding a way to hold our faith and to practice our traditions faithfully that allows us to be generous towards those who adhere to a different tradition.  I’ve said a lot about this.  There is much more that I could say, but won’t this morning.  Please feel free to talk with me about thoughts, questions, or concerns that arise based on what you have heard.

This is what I hear Jesus saying this morning: Those of us the Eucharistic tradition of the Episcopal Church find at the Lord’s Table a life and a nourishment that we find nowhere else.  We affirm this every time we miss a Sunday or two and realize that we have lost something by not being in Church.  I do not hear Jesus making a broad, sweeping condemnation either of Christian traditions that are not centered around the Eucharist or of other world religions.  In different ways, following different paths and practices, we are all searching for the same thing – relationship with God and a way of living in this life that is pleasing to God.

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.