Month: November 2019

(Jeremiah 1:4-10; Ps. 71:1-6; Hebrews 12:18; Luke 13:10-17)

            I’m going to ask you a question.  What is prophecy (in the biblical sense of the word)? 

            It’s not fortune-telling.  In the Bible, prophecy has to do with speaking the truth: truth which, for whatever reason, we have forgotten, or are blind to, or intentionally ignore.  And since all truth originates in God, that’s the truth that prophets speak: the truth of the real world, which we’ve moved away from, constructing a fictional world of our own, which we find more comfortable; but which is fictional.

            So hearing prophecy – true prophecy – is almost always an uncomfortable experience.  And I think it’s appropriate that we’re outside today, because I think the biblical prophets were mostly outside when they spoke (like John the Baptist and Jesus), because most people don’t want to have somebody like that under their roof, it wasn’t safe.  I also think the prophets take up so much literal space in the Bible because the need for prophecy is so constant, it’s part of human nature to go off track this way, we do it all the time.

            I’m bringing this up today for two reasons. The first is that we heard this morning, and will be for the next couple of months, from the prophet Jeremiah. It’s a long book, and a lot of it’s a tirade: a furious, wailing, fist-shaking denunciation full of finger-pointing.  Jeremiah nails people for pride, hypocrisy, slothfulness, infidelity of many kinds, most especially infidelity to God.    As somebody once said, there was nothing in need of denunciation that Jeremiah didn’t denounce (at one point he even denounces God for giving him this job, this thankless task of prophecy.)

            But all of that’s just part of what Jeremiah has to say; and I’m glad that we’re going to be hearing from Jeremiah for a while now, because his message has a beginning, a middle, and an end; and the passages we’ll hear outline that story.

            Jeremiah certainly begins by talking about what’s gone wrong.  He tells the people of Israel, You’ve abandoned God, you’ve shut God out of your lives, you’ve gone to other gods  To turn away from the one God is to turn away from the one real source of life, and truth.  And he says, Because you’ve done this – because you’ve turned away from God – you’re going to be in trouble.  The biggest kind of trouble.  And this is, specifically, what it’s going to look like (and he uses various metaphors for this, one of which is to take a big clay pot and smash it to bits.)  So get ready, he says, and don’t complain. You’re responsible.  

And for the people of Israel – people of faith – such turning away is also breaking the covenant, which is the foundation of their identity as a people.  It’s betrayal, and comes at a deep personal cost, and not just for the Israelites. This is the second part of Jeremiah. He goes on to speak in God’s voice, saying, You should know how this tears at my heart.  This isn’t what I wanted for you.  This is the opposite of the highest hopes, the most wonderful dreams, that I had for you.  (If anyone has a family member who’s been the victim of addiction – some behavior that’s ruining their lives, that they can’t stop themselves from doing, and you’re sitting there having to watch it happen – that’s the kind of sorrow, the desolation, that Jeremiah says God feels.)

             And at the very end of our time with Jeremiah, we will hear him say, again on God’s behalf, But the story’s not over: here’s how to come back.  Here are the first, tiny steps on that road.  Because, even though you’re sitting in the middle of a mess, and all you can see around you are ruins, know that I have not abandoned you.  I will never abandon you.  You need to recognize the truth: that I am who I am: I am the Lord your God, and you are my people.  I will make a new covenant with you, and I will write this one on your hearts.

            This is the prophecy of Jeremiah, and there are gifts of the spirit for all of us in all of it.

            The other reason I’m talking about prophecy today is because this afternoon our church is participating in a particular prophetic witness.  At three o’clock this afternoon, the bells here at St. John’s will ring for one minute. We will be joining thousands of other churches around the country, from many denominations, to mark the four hundredth anniversary of the arrival of the first enslaved people in the colonies that became the United States of America.  We don’t know the exact date, but it was in late August of 1619 that something over twenty African men and women were debarked from a ship (ironically named the White Lion) at a place called (also ironically) Point Comfort, now the site of the Fort Monroe National Monument in Hampton, VA.   

             As you may remember, earlier this year the Episcopal Church in Connecticut  proclaimed this a season in which we focus on the sin of racism.  That word is often used in a very polarized and polarizing way, which unfortunately diverts us from the real work that’s there to be done, by all of us.  A good approach to the subject was recently made by a current public figure who put it this way (and I’m paraphrasing): The conversation about racism is really about a community that has been left behind, and worse, for many generations, left behind simply because of the color of its skin. When you’ve been denied job, after job, after job because you’re black or because you’re brown. Or when you go to the emergency room to have your baby. The fact is that w if you are a black woman you are four times more likely to die in childbirth there because that healthcare provider may not believe you, may not even hear you when you say I don’t feel right. Because that health care provider instinctively doesn’t value you the way he or she would value a white person.

            That public figure went on to talk about the same kind of racism in the system of justice in this country.  She could as easily have included the educational system, the financial system; there’s racism all through our society: it’s not confined to folks who put on white hoods and lynch black people .  And if you resist this idea, if you feel disbelief, the literature on racism in America is voluminous.  I’ve put the names of just three titles on a piece of paper, and I ask respectfully that you take a look at one or more of them.

            But the whole issue is framed well in a recent article by – please excuse me – my cousin Drew Gilpin Faust, recently retired president of Harvard and a historian of the antebellum and Civil War South.  She writes that, in the most recent national conversation on racism, “…we are…avoiding the most fundamental work.  The media frequently report accusations that this or that public figure is a racist, and usually the circumstances or actions described are deeply concerning and worthy of condemnation.  It is good that we are noticing.  But name-calling and shaming seem to me too often expressions of a certain smugness and self-righteousness on the part of the accuser, acts that too often simply seek to separate us into saved and damned, sheep and goats….This pattern is dangerous.  It situates the issue of race in individuals and their personal morality and choices, rather than focusing on the broader, structural, historical forces that perpetuate inequality and injustice in the United States – inequality and injustice for which we all, sheep and goats alike, bear responsibility.”

            This is prophecy.  Because it’s telling us truth that we’re ignoring, or denying. As people of faith, God calls us to do something about that.  Thanks be to God for Jeremiah, and all the prophets, throughout history, who remind us of who we are.

(Isaiah 5:1-7; Ps. 80:1-2, 8-18; Hebrews 11:29-12:2; Luke 12:49-56)
 
            Some time ago, somewhere or other, I read about a sermon which was titled, “Things I Wish Jesus Had Never Said.”  And I remember thinking, What a great idea! Some of you might feel the same, and could probably come up with some suggestions (I’ve got a few of my own.)  But it wasn’t until this past week that I actually did a Google search for that sermon, because I thought the gospel reading that we heard today might be on the list.

            But I was frustrated in my quest for an answer to that question; because what the search turned up was, not a single sermon, but dozens with that title (including more than one sermon series), by preachers from a wide variety of denominations, over a number of years.  So evidently it wasn’t just me who thought “Things I Wish Jesus Had Never Said” was a great idea; and, clergy being just as prone to thievery as anyone else, there’s a whole bunch who saw that title and thought, Oh boy!  I can go to town on this one.

            Today’s gospel is actually full of things I wish Jesus hadn’t said.  And, in all honesty, I also wish the lectionary hadn’t put this text in front of us on the occasion of my first sermon in a month, I’d rather come back talking about the lilies of the field.  But when the Bible presents us with words we don’t like, or don’t understand, that’s exactly where we need to put our best attention.

            Most of the things in today’s passage that I wish Jesus hadn’t said go in one particular direction: Jesus sowing division, making trouble.  I came to bring fire to the earth.  Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth?  And we can be forgiven for thinking, well, actually, yes; but Jesus says: No, I tell you, but rather division!  This is not the kind of thing we’re used to hearing from this man.  And Jesus tells us further that this  division will be of the most personal, painful kind: son against father, mother against daughter, daughter-in-law against mother-in-law. And there’s another layer to this in-your-face: in these specific examples Jesus is quoting the prophet Micah, which his hearers would have recognized; so this is Jesus’ way of saying, If you thought I’ve come here to just let you off the hook of what you wish someone had never said, you’re mistaken.

            So.  How are we to understand these words, which we wish Jesus had never said?  How does this square with the Jesus we know and love, whose way we want to follow?  What is our Lord Jesus Christ teaching us here?

            In this cycle of the lectionary, for the last eight weeks, we’ve been hearing from the gospel of Luke, from the long section that begins in chapter 9 with these words: “When the days drew near for [Jesus] to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.”  The phrase “s et his face to go”  literally translates as “hardened his face to go”.   Jesus knows he has to go to Jerusalem – he knows it is there and only there, the seat of worldly power for his people, that he can fulfill his mission – and he knows that it will end up costing him his life.  So it’s no wonder he has to “harden his face” to this task.   And the gravity of what he’s heading for, the bitter nature of the struggle, the life and death stakes – all of that’s in the air for the next nine chapters of the gospel (that’s how long in Luke’s telling that it takes Jesus to get to Jerusalem.) And every now and then in that stretch, some of the awareness of that reality filters out into language like we heard today.

            Jesus’ mission, his life-work, was to proclaim the presence of the kingdom of God: the presence, in this life here and now, of the infinitely powerful Creator of the universe who for some unfathomable reason loves every single one of us.  That’s the good news, that’s what we love to hear Jesus talk about, and to see him live it out.  We heard Jesus express this in a particular way in the gospel reading last week (in words we are very glad Jesus said): “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”  That’s Luke chapter 12 verse 32, which you could put on a refrigerator magnet and issue to every Christian at baptism, for one thing because it establishes the context in which we should put all the things we wish Jesus had never said.

            But Jesus does say those things; because for some equally unfathomable reason we live in a broken world.  We all know this: a world that’s gone wrong: a world in which it seems to be part of human nature that most of the time we ignore the kingdom that Jesus says it is God’s good pleasure to give us.  Out of the infinite number of examples that occur every day, I’ll pick one from the gospel reading we heard a couple of weeks ago. Jesus is speaking to a crowd, and one of them says to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.”  And Jesus answers, “Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?”  And immediately he turns to the crowd and says, “Take care!  Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”

            Now, the man has asked Jesus what seems to be a normal question. Inheritance – transferring property from one generation to the next – is something that everybody experiences some way or other, it’s codified in law or custom in every human society, and evidently there’s a problem that’s come up between this man and his brother.  But Jesus sees in his request the brokenness of this world, here in the form of greed, rearing its ugly little head.  Jesus sees it, and he calls it out, names that brokenness, to the people who are there to witness it (and to the man himself): Take care!  Be on your guard!  Greed is among us, and comes in many shapes and sizes.

            This is Jesus bringing fire to the earth. This is Jesus bringing division, rather than peace.  This is Jesus naming the places where there is division: where we are creating it.

Yes, there are things we wish Jesus had never said.  But what that really means is that there are things we wish he didn’t have to say.  But he did have to say them.  And we know he did.  Because they’re the truth.

And this is the teaching: it is our call as Christians to follow Jesus in this way: to recognize those places where the world is broken, where it’s gone wrong, to name them, and to go there: to bring the love of God there: God who alone can heal.  It’s precisely in this that we are the Body of Christ.  This is why throughout the gospels Jesus is constantly telling people: Take care!  Be on your guard!  Stay awake! Watch!  Be alert!  Be wise as serpents!  We are disciples of Christ so that we can be apostles: sent out into this broken world to do God’s work.  And thanks be to God for the things we wish Jesus had never said.

(Amos 7:7-17; Ps. 82; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37)

            There’s a woman I know who holds elective office in this area, whom I see every now and then; our politics are not the same, but I think she’s a terrific public servant, and I would vote for her every chance I got.   I ran into her once a while ago, and the subject of Loaves and Fishes came up (she’d always been a supporter, and was glad to hear of the construction which had begun.)  But at one point in the conversation, she used a figure of speech that brought me up a little short: she said, I always say, we need to take care of our own.

            The reason it gives me pause is this: if by “our own” is meant “all of our own”, that is, everybody around us, even those on the margins, then I agree (and I think in fact that’s what she meant.) But as I have heard the phrase in conversation, the actual intention is usually to distinguish “our own” from others who are considered to be not our own, for whatever reason.  And when we make this kind of distinction, when we start prioritizing whom we care for, we’re on a slippery slope.  

            For people of faith, this is fundamental. The very first chapter of Genesis tells us that all people are made in the image and likeness of God; and therefore are all of infinite value and dignity.  As Christians we especially need to be alert to this: in our baptismal covenant, we promise “to strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being”; and “to seek and serve Christ in all persons”.  If we’re not mindful of this, if we don’t keep it in front of us, we’re just as prone as anyone else to forget it, and to slip into unthinking marginalization of people who are not like us – not “our own”, whether that’s because of race, or religion, or social position, or political opinion, whatever.  We humans are very good at creating boundaries, and at identifying reasons for them – sometimes very convincing ones.  But for us, that cannot be the last word.

              This is on my mind for two reasons.  The first is today’s gospel story, the parable of the Good Samaritan, which I’ll have something to say about in a minute.

            The other is something I experienced on our pilgrimage to the Holy Land last month: the wall, built by the Israeli government, which separates Palestinian land in the West Bank from the rest of territory of Israel.

            This is an extremely complicated situation, but just very briefly: in the Six-Day War in 1967, Israel reclaimed a large area from the nation of Jordan: over 2000 square miles of land, which surrounds Jerusalem.  This land is all west of the Jordan river, so it’s called the West Bank.  It was populated entirely by Palestinians, who were given some limited authority by the Israelis, but they weren’t given citizenship. So they’ve never been able to vote, and they have very little voice in how they live.  They’re a subjugated people.

            Over the years, the tensions boiled over into two major Palestinian uprisings (the Arabic word is intifada).  The second, in the early 2000’s, was particularly awful: it seemed like every week, for a couple of years, there was a terrorist bombing of some public place, or a random shooting.  So that’s when the Israeli government decided to build a wall (it’s sometimes called the separation wall), to seal off the West Bank from the rest of Israel.

            I’m just going to say a couple of things about the wall.  The first is that the wall was effective: terrorist activity fell off to virtually nothing once it was up, the bombings and shootings basically stopped.  So the wall did the job it was built for.

            But the wall’s still up, 17 years later.  And when they built it, they didn’t always follow the border: in fact about 85% of the wall cuts into Palestinian territory, dividing communities, separating farmers from the fields they work, and neighborhoods from water sources.  There are many hillsides from which you can see land on both sides of the wall.  On the Israeli side there are modern apartment buildings, carefully tended neighborhoods, with plantings and swimming pools.  The Palestinian side is a slum: crumbling buildings, a lot of bare ground with junk and broken glass lying around, and barely enough water to drink, let alone use for plants.

            And standing next to the wall brings the whole problem into sharp focus.   Most of it’s 28 feet high, rusted steel, ugly, implacable.  It’s a monument to perpetual hostility, for both sides, you can feel it dividing the world into us and them – our own, and everybody else. For the Palestinians it’s an open wound in the body of their people.  And as long as it stands, there will never be peace.

            So here’s where we get to the story of the Good Samaritan.   Of course that term has long been in popular usage; for most people it means someone who goes out of their way to help someone in need.    Well, that does happen in the story, but doesn’t begin to do it justice.  A lawyer stands up and asks Jesus what he must do to inherit eternal life.  Luke tells us the lawyer does this to “test” Jesus, to try and catch him in a mistake. Which Jesus certainly recognizes but disregards – for Jesus every moment is a teaching moment – and asks the man, what is written in the law?  What do you read there?  So the man quotes the first two commandments: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and love your neighbor as yourself.  And Jesus tells him, You’re right; do this, and you will live.    

            But the lawyer – still testing Jesus – asks, And who is my neighbor?  And Jesus answers with the parable.   There’s a man who’s on his way from one place to another – we know nothing else about him – and he’s set upon by robbers who take everything he’s got and beat him up and leave him lying half dead on the side of the road.  And as he lies there, three separate people happen upon him, one at a time.  The first two are a priest and a Levite, and they each cross to the other side of the road and pass him by.   There’s a reason for this: it was against the law for religious officials – which included Levites – to touch a dead body (which it turned out wasn’t the case, but neither of them was going to take the chance.)

            The one who actually does something about the situation is a Samaritan.   As you may know, there was great enmity between Samaritans and Jews, they hated each other, for reasons that went back hundreds of years; and for Jesus to make the hero of this story a Samaritan turns the world upside down.  Think of someone  whom you detest – for what you think are good reasons – and make that person the good guy in this story: that’s what Jesus is doing.)  That’s how radical this story is.  And the Samaritan doesn’t just care for this man who is his traditional enemy, he goes several extra miles: puts him on his own animal to get him to an inn (which means he himself has to walk); he sees him through the night; the next day before he goes on his way he gives money to the innkeeper to take care of the man, and says if you have to spend more I’ll repay you when I come back . 

            And when Jesus finishes the story he asks the lawyer, Which of these three (the priest, the Levite, and the Samaritan), do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers? Remember, the lawyer had asked him Who is my neighbor?  Jesus is telling him, That’s the wrong question.  The answer to that question is simple: every human being.       Even someone who’s always treated you with contempt. Even someone whom all of your friends insist is not one of your own.  The commandment you quoted to me is, Love your neighbor as yourself.  So the question you should be asking is, How am I loving my neighbor?  What am I doing about that?   And if I am really loving my neighbor as myself, are there limits to the lengths to which I will go?  

Those are the questions.  Because this is the kingdom of God Jesus is talking about.  When we open ourselves to it, it changes us; and changes the life around us.  And if someone asks you, Why do you go to church, this is the kind of thing you can point to.  It’s not the way the world operates, and there are plenty of people who won’t sign on to it: the wall did the job, we’re taking care of our own.  But the problem didn’t go away; because this is not who God created us to be.  This is why we call Jesus our Redeemer: because he calls us to who we really are.

             In our Book of Common Prayer there’s a prayer that’s titled, “For the Human Family”, with which I’m going to close.  Let us pray. “O God, you made us in your own image and redeemed us through Jesus your Son: Look with compassion on the whole human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts; break down the walls that separate us; unite us in bonds of love; and work through our struggle and confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in your good time, all nations and races may serve you in harmony around your heavenly throne; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.”

(2 Kings 5:1-14; Ps. 30; Galatians 6L1-6)7-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20)

            I started coming back to church in the early 1980’s, and at first it was slowly, once or twice a month; but before too long I was showing up most every Sunday.  And one of the main reasons was that I had coming to see something: whatever I thought I’d learned about life, to that point, and about the way the world works, was being described most clearly, and truthfully, in the language of Christian faith: in what I was experiencing in church: in the scripture readings, in the sermons, in the prayers, in all the things we do together in the liturgy.  And an example of this – something that happens in the world that’s made clear in Christian faith – occurred to me as I was thinking about a verse in one of the readings for today.  Maybe because it was the Fourth of July last week, it’s an example from the world of baseball (our national pastime.)  And I apologize in advance to any Yankee fans here for the painful memories this will bring up.

            Even those of you who care nothing about baseball (or maybe just flat-out hate it) may remember that in 2004, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series for the first time in 86 years.  There was a popular superstition that this long drought was caused by what was called the Curse of the Bambino: in 1918, right after winning their last World Series, the Red Sox traded Babe Ruth (whose nickname was “the Bambino”) to the Yankees.  Gigantic mistake: Babe Ruth went on to become the greatest player in baseball history. And not only did the Curse of the Bambino mean that the Sox failed to win another World Series in all those years (sometimes coming heartbreakingly close), during that time the Yankees were their special tormentors, year after year turning up to beat them at the most crucial times, and in the most painful ways.

            And in 2004 it looked like it was going to happen again: the Sox and Yankees met in the playoffs (which were best-of-seven) to determine which American League team would go to the Series; and the Yankees won the first three games.  All they needed was one more, and the Red Sox now had to win four in a row.  No team in baseball history had ever come back from a 3-0 deficit to win four straight, but that’s what the Red Sox had to do. And had to do it against the Yankees, who had beaten them so consistently in so many crucial situations, for so many years.  The Curse of the Bambino hung heavily in the air.

            But these Red Sox had a particular mindset. That year, they had taken to calling themselves “the Idiots.”  One of them put it this way: “We’re just idiots this year.  We feel like we can win every game, and we feel like we have to have fun.  We want to keep the thinking process out of it.”  Idiots: too idiotic to be aware of the Curse of the Bambino; too idiotic to know they couldn’t do something no one had ever done before.

            And – because they were idiots – they did it. The Red Sox won those next four games, and went on to win the World Series in four straight.   Embracing their identity as “The Idiots” gave them a freedom that did away with the Curse of the Bambino.  People don’t talk about it much anymore, and the Red Sox have won two more World Series since then.

            Now.  This is all silly, yes?  It’s just baseball: trivial, meaningless (except to people who think it’s not.)  But to my mind, “The Idiots” meeting the curse of the Bambino is a tiny little vibration of a much larger and more profound movement of the Spirit, which Paul talks about in a verse from his letter to the Galatians, in the passage we heard today.  It’s at the very end of the letter, when he’s summing things up: “For neither circumcision nor uncircumcision is anything, but a new creation is everything.” 

            In this letter, Paul is writing to the church in Galatia which he had founded and then moved on from, keeping tabs on it through the mail (that’s what Paul did), He has recently been informed that there are now leaders of the Galatian church who are insisting that circumcision is a requirement for all baptized Galatian Christians, as specified in the book of Genesis for all children of Abraham.  

            This news drives Paul crazy, because it’s completely counter to what he taught them (and because all his hard work there seems to have gone down the drain.)  So he writes to them to say, You’re abandoning the gospel which I passed on to you, you’re throwing away the fundamental truth about what God has done: about the way the world works.  (Paul even opens the main body of the letter by saying, Even if I, or an angel from heaven, tell you something different than the gospel I communicated to you back then, don’t listen.)  Paul is saying, Circumcision – and uncircumcision – is completely irrelevant. There is nothing you need to do – there is nothing you possibly can do – for Christ to live in you, and for you to live in Christ:  Christ is alive: God has already done this, for you.  The world has changed.

            This is the new creation which Paul talks about: a new creation that does away with the dead hand of the Law, and its human requirements which choke the Spirit; a new creation that does away with the ways we divide ourselves (“There is no longer Jew nor Greek, there is no longer slave nor free, there is no longer male and female; there is no longer Red Sox fan nor Yankee fan (for some people that’s the most unthinkable of all); for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.

            And there’s one other little touch in the passage we heard today that’s subtle, but very important.  Paul dictated his letters: they were put to paper by a secretary, a professional scribe.  We know this because at the end of a number of his letters he announces that it is he himself who is writing those particular words (“I, Paul, write this greeting with my own hand”, or some variation of that.)

            But – uniquely – at the end of the letter to the Galatians he does it in a different way.  What we heard today was this: “See what large letters I make when I write in my own hand!”  What he’s saying is: See how totally stupid my handwriting is?  Aren’t you glad someone who’s actually good at it wrote the rest of this letter?  So what he’s really saying is: I’m an idiot – just like you: a flawed human being – just like you; in the language of faith, a sinner – just like you: someone who is completely dependent on God’s love, and mercy, and goodness.  And the seal of that love is God in Christ.  
That’s a fact of life.  And it doesn’t matter that we’re idiots.  We’re free: free from our ignorance, free from our fear, free from our sinfulness.  The only difference between us and everybody else is that we’ve been made aware of this; we try to stay aware of it; we try to live by it.   Let us then say with Paul, May we never boast of anything but the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which the world has been crucified to us, and we to the world.  And peace, and mercy be upon us all.  Thanks be to God. 

(2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14; Ps. 77:1-2, 11-20; Galatians 5:1, 13-25; Luke 9:51-62)

            This morning I’m going to share with you something I brought home with me from the ECCT pilgrimage to the Holy Land.  And it was a pilgrimage: that’s the way our bishops conceived it from the start, over a year ago.  It was not a sight-seeing tour, it was not a vacation.  We had fun, but it was overwhelmingly a time of focus, and concentrated attention; thanks to the leadership of Bishop Ian and Bishop Laura, who were both with us, and to our guide, a Palestinian Christian named Iyad. We began our days at 7 – except the three days we started at or before dawn – we joined for prayer after breakfast; from then until lunch we were on the go exploring something from the life of Jesus, then the same in the afternoon; a few days there’d be an hour or two of free time before dinner; there was almost always a speaker after dinner, by which time most of us were running on fumes; and we’d close the day with prayer.  It was a very full schedule, but I’m quite sure that, to a person, we wouldn’t have had it any other way: it was a gift, and we loved every minute of it.   

So here’s what I brought home, and I’m showing it to you this morning because it relates to something in the gospel reading we just heard. This is an icon.  Over the past year or so I’ve been learning a little bit about icons, and about the spirituality around them.  Icons are flat pictures, usually painted on wood, usually depicting Christ, or Mary, or one of the saints. They’re very common in the Eastern church, used in prayer and meditation.  During one of our free periods in Jerusalem I bought one, at a little store which was just up the street from where we were staying and had been recommended by our guide Iyad,.  It’s a painting of Christ as the Good Shepherd. I looked at a number of different icons; but as I was considering which to buy, and talking with the man who owned the store, a Palestinian Christian in his 70’s, at one point he said to me: Before you buy it, you have to love it.

            And I saw there was one I did love.  In this picture, I could see a relaxation to the way Jesus’ arms look as he holds on to the lamb; which reminded me strongly of how I always felt holding on to my kids’ ankles when they rode on my shoulders. You can see how naturally his arms hang; what effort he’s expending (which isn’t a lot) is in his hands, in the grip (I remember that too.)  And in some way, you get the impression that the lamb is grounding him, providing stability for him: because there’s a relationship here, of love and devoted service. I remember that feeling too, from carrying my kids that way.  (I miss it.)

            But of course what’s most immediately striking about the picture is Jesus’ gaze – you could call it a stare – directly at the viewer.  This is common to most icons that I’ve seen.  Jesus looks somber, even stern.   And the Western response – accustomed as we are to saintly depictions of Jesus, full of love and joy and fulfillment (which is not wrong) – is instinctively wary: is Jesus scolding me?  Right from the get-go?  Why?  What have I done?

            Now, I’m certainly no expert on icons. But having been around icons a little, and trusting the fact that for centuries the Eastern church has used them as a regular part of spiritual practice, I see something else.  I see Christ looking at me and saying, I’m talking to you here.  Yes, you.  What do you see in this picture?  What it does it say about yourlife?  And what are you going to do about it?  I’m offering you a step into larger life: a step into the kingdom of God.  Just be aware that following me is at some point going to mean leaving what’s familiar to you: at some point, taking you away from your happy place.  But you can be sure that whatever discomfort you might feel is nothing compared to what you will receive.

            And this is where it relates to today’s gospel story.  

            Today’s passage, from Luke’s gospel, begins with these words: “When the days drew near for Jesus to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem.”  The words “taken up” are a literal reference to Jesus’ ascension into heaven: that is, at the end of the life of Jesus Christ on earth, including his resurrected life.  So the phrase “the days…for Jesus to be taken up” refers to all the events which culminate in his ascension: his final conflict with the religious establishment, his arrest, trial, crucifixion, death, resurrection, and ascension.  Luke is talking here about that whole sequence of events.  And he tells us that when those days “drew near”, Jesus “set his face to go to Jerusalem.” (The Greek literally means “hardened his face to go”.)   So it’s clear Jesus knows that what he’s heading into is not going to be pleasant, and he knows it’s going to end in his death.  But he knows this is his mission: this is what God has given him to do; so he resolves to do it: he sets his face.  Sometimes, facing the truth, and acting on it, takes resolve.

            And right away Luke gives us examples of what this means.  Someone tells Jesus, I’ll follow you wherever you go; and Jesus famously answers, Foxes have holes and birds of the air have their nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.  Meaning: if I have nowhere to lay my head, and you’re going to follow me wherever I go – figure it out; and be clear about what’s involved in following me.  
Jesus says to someone else, Follow me (Jesus wants us to follow him; he just wants us to do it with our eyes open); and this man says, Lord, first let me bury my father (something any of us would want to do – it’s obeying a commandment.)  But Jesus answers him, Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.  Jesus refers to those who don’t recognize  the kingdom of God – who do not recognize real life, true life, among them – Jesus calls those people “the dead”.  This is hard core.  This is the Jesus of the icon.

And then finally a man tells Jesus, I’m going to follow you, but let me say goodbye to the folks at home first.  And Jesus tells him, No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.  In the act of plowing, once you’ve started you have to keep your eyes on the ground in front of you to make sure the furrow stays straight: you can’t look behind you.  Once you’ve started on this way – this work – this mission – you can’t look back.  The truth is the truth, all the time.

Now.  This passage we heard today is in chapter 9 of the gospel of Luke.  There are fifteen more chapters to go, the bulk of the gospel, we still have that in front of us, in Luke’s telling of the whole story: all the parables of the kingdom, the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son; healing stories; the resurrection: all the good news of Jesus Christ.  This is the truth which we  joyfully proclaim, and joyfully try to live by.  But we do that in the knowledge that it’s not always going to be a comfortable experience, in a world gone wrong – a world that is often indifferent or hostile to the message we bring – and a gone-wrongness that we’re certainly part of.

But – with Jesus – we set our faces toward Jerusalem.  We see the world the way it is.  We do not flinch at the parts we don’t like: especially at our own brokenness.  We are not sightseers here.  We are not tourists.   We are pilgrims, trying to live in the truth, always in the knowledge of God’s goodness, and that God is carrying us on God’s shoulders.  What more is there to say?  Thanks be to God. 

(Acts 2:1-21; Ps. 104:25-35, 37;Romans 8:14-17; John 14:8-17, 25-27)
 
            Good morning, Sam.  Obviously I know you can’t understand anything I’m saying right now, so you go right on looking around or sleeping or fussing (you almost certainly won’t be alone in any of that, here this morning); but someday maybe you’ll be able to read it, so I’m going to speak to you, as I speak to everybody else here, which is an appropriate thing to do: because today, you become the newest member of our church.  That is St. John’s, New Milford; that is the Episcopal Church; and – of course – most importantly of all, that is the body of Christ: all the faithful people all around the world – past, present, and future, in their infinite variety – we who follow Jesus Christ as our Lord and our Savior.  And I’m going to try to say a little something about what that means, because we keep growing into the understanding of that all our lives.

            I’m going to start with a little story.  Becoming a priest in the Episcopal Church involves a process of formation that takes about three years.  It happens in stages, and there are exit ramps along the way (you can bail, or you can get nixed.)   When I was about two years in there was a study session one day at Diocesan House in Hartford.   There were two ordained leaders, and eight or nine candidates, who were all at different stages of the process.  We were working on the baptismal covenant in the Prayer Book, line by line, talking about its meaning.  

            One of the candidates there was a guy I’d seen several times at group sessions like this one.  He was not quite as far along the pipeline as I was, and I have to confess something to you, Sam (one of the things we do here is confess our sins): even though I barely knew him, I didn’t like him.  I thought he was vain, arrogant, and frankly a bad advertisement for the church.   And that was mostly because of the sense of superiority he just seemed to exude, not simply his own, but what he saw as that of our church, in a badly misconceived way. And at one point that day he made a comment about some particular thing in the liturgy of baptism that was in that direction, and I spoke up: I said, I have to say that sounds kind of exclusive to me.   And he instantly answered – very emphatically – We are exclusive!  We say, This is what we believe!  And he stabbed the prayer book with his finger.

            Well.  I didn’t take it any further; it wasn’t the right time, and I wasn’t sure exactly how to articulate what I thought.  I never saw him again after that day; I don’t know what happened to him.  Probably he’s a great priest in another diocese somewhere, on his way to being a saint.  But I did think about it afterward, about exactly what our disagreement was, and this is what I came up with: as Christians, we do say what we believe (we Christians), but that doesn’t mean we’re exclusive.  It means we’re trying to be specific, as far as that’s possible.  And there’s a big difference between saying, This is what we believe – if you don’t agree, there’s the door; and saying, This is what we believe: it’s all about the love of God that is in us and among us, and we believe that that’s true for everybody; so come join us, as we try every day to see what that means about how we should live our lives.  And if there are things you don’t understand, welcome to the club: let’s work on it, and maybe we can help each other (I’m serious.)

            To show something about how this works, I’m going to take a little example from the beginning of the baptismal liturgy, which we’re going to do in a couple of minutes (I know you’re excited.)  It’s the part that’s called the “Examination of the Candidate[s]”.  There are six questions the priest asks of the candidate for baptism (or his or her representatives, don’t worry).  The first three ask the candidate to “renounce” specific things: “Satan, and all the spiritual forces of wickedness”; “the evil powers of this world”; and “all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God.”  Modern ears are very suspicious of that language: it sounds like bogeyman stuff, mythology that’s a throwback and that nobody believes any more.  It also sounds threatening and manipulative: the language of power, using fear.   (It’s actually not about fear, at all – I’ll get back to that in a minute.)

            But in fact what these questions actually ask us to do is to turn away from the illusions this world is constantly offering (and they can be vary attractive ones), illusions which divert us from seeing the truth, and therefore from the true fulfillment of who we really are: who God created us to be: one human family living in joyful communion with each other.

            Those three questions asking us about what we are to turn away from are followed by three about what we are to turn toward: “Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior?”  “Do you put your whole trust in his grace and love?”  “Do you promise to follow and obey him as your Lord?”  The answer that the Prayer Book gives to those questions is simple: “I do.”  
But the truth is that – if we have our wits about us – we keep finding out just what those questions – and that answer – mean, our whole lives long: the questions present themselves, new and fresh, every day. And I can tell you, Sam, from my personal experience, that when I stay turned in the direction these questions ask me to – even in my ignorance and confusion – by the grace of God, it works out; and life is better, and fuller, and more real: because these questions direct us to the truth.
And the basis of it all – and what we’re doing here with you today – is expressed in a verse we heard today in the passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans – to the church that he has recently founded there, so he’s talking to new Christians (maybe not quite as new as you, but still new); as we heard: “For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption.”  We are all children of God.  In Christ, we know this; in Christ, we have received this spirit of adoption: the knowledge that God embraces us all as God’s children.  Paul says this in the very next verse: “When we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’ it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God….”

So we are free: we are no longer slaves to the illusions this world is always offering about what’s really real.  So we need not fear; because we know the truth.
It’s not that we don’t lose sight of this sometimes: that we don’t backslide, that we don’t make mistakes.   We all do.  But we have this home to come back to: we have this Jesus Christ to remind us, and refresh us, and renew us.  This is why we call Christ our Lord, and our Savior.  Isn’t that great?  Welcome, Sam, and may the peace of Christ always be with you.  Thanks be to God.

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