|
|
|
|
Many pages on this site
will use
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
Return to the top
|
Recent Sermons Preached
The Rev. Peter Sipple
PDF
printer-friendly version of 4-13-08 sermon
If you’re not familiar with our weekly Bible study called Meet the Propers, I hope you’ll join us some Wednesday morning at 11:00 in the Parish House. The name’s a bit funky, but it gets the point across: we read through the lessons assigned for the upcoming Sunday—not only the scripture but the collect for the day and the psalm—and react to them. What do we hear in the lessons? How do they speak to us? What do we find enlightening or confusing? What major themes do we hear running through them, and what do those themes tell us about our own Christian lives? Since the preacher for the upcoming Sunday gets to meet the propers with those who attend the Bible study, I was “on” for this past Wednesday. The meeting always turns out to be one of my favorite moments of the week. Don’t tell them, but sometimes I come away thinking I should pay the people who come to Meet the Propers, since they give me such a good head-start on Sunday’s sermon. This week, for example, we unpacked the complex extended metaphor of the shepherd used in both Psalm 23 and John 10. We explored why the shepherd metaphor played an important role in the Hebrew Scriptures, coming to represent what today we might call a “leadership style.” We recognized that the familiar imagery of the 23rd Psalm poignantly describes the abundant life promised us by our Shepherd, whose unfailing love and protection we can count on, especially in times of uncertainty and danger. And a reference to the Shepherd’s forgiveness of us silly sheep led us to reflect on how difficult it can be to forgive someone who has greatly offended. In this past Wednesday’s discussion, I was surprised by a revelation in the passage from the Acts of the Apostles—the first lesson read this morning. We discovered that it raises two questions of essential importance to a Christian community. One: what comes first, faith or works? And second: how do we incorporate new members? It’s intriguing to consider the relationship between these questions: do we attract new people to our parish through what we profess—our mission statement, for example—or by what we do, our programs and ministries? Just before Acts 2:42—that is, before this morning’s passage opens—we read: “So those who welcomed Jesus’ message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added.” Three thousand new members—now that’s an opportunity to leave for the next rector! Who’d like to chair the next strategic plan? Devise the next capital campaign? St. Luke, the writer of Acts, goes on to say that those who believed “had all things in common;” in fact it appears they lived in a kind of commune, experiencing what must have been new to them—full mutual support. “They spent time together in the temple,” and then note this: they “broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the good will of the people.” As a result of this Christian activity, “the Lord added to their number.” Which comes first, faith or the deeds that express that faith? Luke would maintain that that’s a false dichotomy. Because of and out of their belief, they held things in common, praised God and enjoyed the people’s good will. We know this to be the case here at The Redeemer: our love of Jesus Christ and our trust in his shepherding compassion for us means that we go forth into the world—serving as pastors to one another, shepherd-modeling; reaching out to children thousands of miles away who suffer from the AIDS virus; opening our parish house and our hearts to the temporarily homeless; visiting schools, social service agencies, and clinics, and helping to fund their programs through our outreach ministries. From time to time, because like sheep we are of the natural world, we tire and fade, we can become impatient with one another, and we get our faith shaken; occasionally we require soul-restoring, and that’s just because we are creatures of this world. But though our spirits may flag, it is through our Christian activity that we keep the faith; so faith can also be restored by works. And one certainty of that faith is that our Great Shepherd remains by our side as example and inspiration. So as I see it, faith and works go hand-in-hand. They exist in a mutually-empowering relationship—one that we come together to revitalize each Sunday. And that gets to my answer to the second question: how do we welcome and incorporate new members into our sheepfold? Some say “word of mouth,” others strong programs, and still others through outreach. But isn’t this the answer Jesus offers? Live God’s love and all else will follow. Let the love of God shine through our faith and our works, and others—ultimately many others—will join us. Because we human beings are God’s children—because we are of God—it follows that we want the love of God to inspire our lives and the lives of our loved ones. The writer of Acts didn’t portray those first Christians as PR specialists or long-range planners, but as people who lived everyday lives with glad and generous hearts, praising God and keeping the goodwill of the people. Peter Marty tells the story of a Catholic church in San Francisco, St. Anthony’s, that serves meals to people in need. He says that “over the doorway to its dining room, the church has posted a sign bearing the inscription: Caritate Dei. One day a young mechanic, just released from jail and new to St. Anthony’s, entered the door and sat down for a meal. A woman was busy cleaning the adjoining table. “When do we get on our knees and do the chores, lady?” he asked. “You don’t,” she replied. “Then when’s the sermon comin’?” he inquired. “Aren’t any,” she said. “How ‘bout the lecture on life, then?” “Not here,” she answered. The man was suspicious. “Then what’s the gimmick?” The woman pointed to the inscription over the door. He squinted at the sign. “What’s it mean, lady?” “Out of love for God,” she said with a smile, and moved on to another table.” Peter Marty closes his story by suggesting we check out the inscription over our door, and adds that “if it has to do with genuine love for God, you won’t go wrong.” We Christians are on trial as never before. Non-Christians around the world wonder about us, sometimes shaking their heads in dismay, since we often live very differently from the way that our Savior called us to live. I think that’s largely because we don’t recognize the amazing grace that God extends to us liberally and unconditionally—a grace which, if we accept, literally fuels our faith. We get so busy with this world’s business that we forget our mothers’ reminders to say thank you and be kind to one another. To be overly simple about it, that’s what people are seeking and want to join. David Miller puts it far more eloquently when he writes that “the living God liberates our desire and excites our imagination for an unsearchable More that we cannot define or grasp. The God of the living releases our minds from every crass materialism that tames our vision and ties our hopes to this age. We are [thus] freed to expect a boundary-breaking resurrection, and redemption beyond anything we now know or can understand. Such a hope-filled living comes as a gift from the One who is Life.” If the earliest Christians had not intuited that idea, and then lived it, we wouldn’t be here today. If they hadn’t found the way to make love an active verb, we’d be worshiping at some other altar. We can transform this world—starting with this little world of ours here in this place—by stoking the coals of our love in action. Yes, from time to time we must restore tired souls and rest by still waters; but we do so in order to return to the world with God’s intention burning in our hearts, reaching out in love to those who hunger for the love of Jesus. That yeasty mixture of faith and works made Christ’s followers into a Church in the first place, and it’s surely what distinguishes us as Christ’s own forever. AMEN
The Rev. Stephen Billings
PDF
printer-friendly version of 3-30-08 sermon
The Collect for the Second Sunday of Easter captures fundamental elements of what we need to be headed toward, as the followers of the Risen Christ. In the prayer at the opening of the liturgy today, we affirmed that God established with humankind, through Christ’s offering on the cross (a divine mystery) the new covenant of reconciliation; further, we prayed that the rebirth experienced by Christ’s fellowship would be evidenced not only by a profession of faith, but also by outward signs, through the action of our lives… by the grace of God, through Christ and the power of God’s spirit. That pretty much says it all; resurrection, new beginnings, faith, forgiveness, restoration, power, signs, witness, the reigning of God’s spirit, widespread, into eternity.
But it doesn’t usually seem to happen that simply, does it? Nor was it quite that simple for the disciples in the first hours and days following Jesus’ crucifixion. The Gospel according to John pictures them meeting in the familiar upper room with the doors locked, full of fear and uncertainty, drained and demoralized, having experienced the loss of the greatest hope they could ever have imagined.
Jesus appears and the first thing he says is “peace be with you.” Peace, shalom, wellness, assurance, empathy- all captured in those simple words. (It puts me in mind of the words the angel spoke to Mary: “Fear not.” When such words come from a heavenly messenger or the Son of Man, they have great authority, but as we know, sometimes people like you and me are slow to accept or understand them, so they have to be repeated… Peace be with you. A statement, an admonition, words of instruction, perhaps. Have peace, Be peaceful. Know peace. Practice peace. Something not static, a projection, something to be pursued, lived into…
The Gospel notes that Jesus showed them his I.D. badge, the marks on his hands and his side, so there would be no mistake…And Boys Howdy, were they excited to recognize him…And then he repeats the Peace and passes the mantel he has been given, by God, on to them. “The father has send me, now I send you.” “You are it!” And the divine breath is poured into them; these formerly breathless and empty human followers are literally pumped up by God’s spirit, rejuvenated, given new life and roles as those sent out- “apostles.”
And there is more, isn’t there. Jesus makes clear that forgiveness is fundamental to their work and their being his heirs, successors, partners. It would seem that Jesus and his disciples needed re-bonding and forgiveness from him and among themselves first, a kind of healing before they could move on to their work. The spirit is given in order to forgive, themselves and others, in turn. The implication, I believe, is that they are not going to receive and live in God’s peace without forgiveness. Which makes sense, doesn’t it, because probably we know from our own experience and observing others, that when forgiveness is not given and/or received, when there is enmity, hatred, bitterness, or withholding, there is a kind of bondage which doesn’t allow freedom and openness of relationship, reconciliation of people, groups, or nations. Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s work with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa is a great and positive example. Unfortunately, split and conflicted families and civil strife are common, negative examples. I expect you can think of many more, both positive and negative examples. ( A couple of examples are described)
Jesus understood this when he gave them their marching orders: Have Peace, Be Peace, give and receive forgiveness as you have given the power of forgiveness and the authority to forgive. Just by the way, it has always felt awesome to me to be ordained by God’s church and empowered by God’s spirit to pronounce such forgiveness, just as it has been humbling and life-changing to receive such forgiveness, again and again.
Jesus notes that sins that are not given up, not forgiven, persist in their oppression. Well do we take to heart this truth, not as an indictment, but as a caution that when we resist or withhold forgiveness, sin endures and often grows stronger. I truly believe that there would be a lot more mercy and forgiveness in this world, in human relationships, in community relations, in race relations, and in places where there is civil strife and violence, if we really understood and affirmed the Christian belief that such mercy and forgiveness come freely and first from God to each and everyone of us. Our job is to share it, pass it on, as God intended. True repentance and reconciliation, of course, are what we hope for too, but mercy and willingness to forgive often need to be experienced first.
The Gospel writer notes that Thomas missed the earlier appearance and commissioning by the Risen Christ, and at first when he heard the other disciples speaking about their experience of the Risen Lord, he wasn’t so sure about it, just as we might not accept “hear-say” evidence. But then Jesus appears and repeats the divine greeting “peace be with you,” and Thomas responds with faithful affirmation. Such is the power of God in the life of any of us, a gift really, whether we have been visited by an angel, a vision of Christ himself, or maybe just a dream, a nudge, or the humbling, life-changing acceptance and forgiveness of another faithful, loving human being.
The final part of today’s Gospel makes clear that God had a purpose in appearing to the disciples. The Gospel narrative records them in a particular way; the testimony and action of Jesus and his disciples are related so that generations of followers of Jesus, known through the ages as “Christians,” may come to believe in Jesus as Messiah, and through believing may have life in his name. I would note that my understanding is that faithfulness is not so much a rational, cognitive assent, so much as it is an embracing of Jesus as he lived, died, and was raised, and the living out of his ways, in turn, as his successors and co-creators in our current time frame, in our own world.
Studies in human behavior and change indicate that significant growth, recovery, and reform often begin not through a rational process, working through our brains, but by risking new behaviors and working through our hearts, and then rationality and thoughtful reflections follow such action or behavior. Prayer is a significant help too, of course.
Through faithful action, forgiveness, sacrifice, service, prayer, building communities have f peace, reaching out to the poor and homeless, the hungry, orphans and widows, prisoners and captives, we are witnesses of Jesus, and God’s servants responding to Jesus’ commission, using God-given resources and opportunities in order that we and others may celebrate this blessed state of Peace- with God, with ourselves, and with others.
Finally, we should note that the various ministries within and beyond this congregation which we support, such as the outreach projects featured in the Adult Forum this morning, are extensions of God’s peace and justice, very real and practical ways of living out the Gospel imperative. As the familiar words of dismissal put it: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
The Rev. Peter Sipple
PDF
printer-friendly version of 3-23-08 sermon
Occasionally my incoming email will include a story that sheds light on scripture and on the Christian life. This one, slightly adapted, arrived this past week; perhaps you saw it as well. It tells of a group of salesmen who traveled together to a regional conference in Chicago. They had assured their wives they would be home in time for Friday night dinner. In their rush, with hands full of tickets and briefcases, one of the men knocked over a table which had held a display of apples. Apples flew everywhere. Without stopping or looking back, the men managed to reach the plane in time for their nearly-missed boarding. All but one! He paused, took a deep breath, and experienced a twinge of compassion for the girl whose apple stand had been overturned. He told his colleagues to go on without him, waved good-bye, and asked one of them to call his wife when they arrived home to explain his taking a later flight. Then he returned to the terminal where apples lay scattered on part of its floor. He was glad he did. The teen-aged girl in charge of the display was blind! She was crying softly in frustration as she groped for her spilled produce with the crowd swirling about her; busy and distracted, no one was able to stop to help. The salesman knelt on the floor with her, gathered up the apples, put them back on the table and helped organize her display. As he did this, he noticed that some of the fruit had been bruised, and he set these aside in another basket. When he had finished, he pulled out his wallet and said to the girl, "Here, please take this money to cover the damage. Are you okay?" She nodded through her tears. He went on, "I’m sorry this was so upsetting for you." As the salesman started to walk away, the bewildered blind girl called to him, "Mister...." He paused and turned as she continued, "Are you Jesus?" He stood looking at her for a moment. Then slowly he made his way to catch the later flight with the memory of that question still playing in his mind: "Are you Jesus?" This contemporary parable, less nuanced but still reminiscent of the story of the Good Samaritan, raises for us the relationship between seeing and believing. Though the girl was physically blind—or possibly because she was blind—she believed that Jesus himself had engaged in this generous loving act. She “saw” Jesus in what had transpired. What she knew of Jesus—in other words her faith—caused her to find him in the action of setting her life back to right after such an upset. We, too, view the man’s behavior as Christ-like. In a world that can seem blind to Christ’s love and grace, here was an instance of revelation and of insight. The story relates to the Gospel reading a couple of Sundays back, when Jesus restored the sight of the man born blind who then recognized the Christ in the one who had healed him. The girl in the story believes without having seen, and she revealed an insight that a sighted person would likely not have arrived at. Meanwhile, the man could regard his action through the eyes of her faith. All four of our Gospels, and especially John’s, play with this interaction between seeing and believing. Over and again, it is the blind who “see” and the sighted who turn up blind to the love of Christ. Faith, we are told, is the evidence of things unseen. But what has all this to do with Easter? Just about everything! The tomb’s large stone that separated the living from the dead, or so it seemed, also separated light and dark, vision and blindness. As Isaiah tells us in the great prophesy heard during Advent: The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. God has opened and will continue to open our eyes to salvation history—that story that shows us over and over, in Scripture as well as in our daily routines, how our lives can be enlightened by God’s grace. But first, we must open our eyes to its possibilities and our hearts to its opportunities. The salesman in our story did that: he recognized a small and otherwise nondescript opportunity to be of help. In this parish, the initiators and supporters of the African Children’s Mission and the Interfaith Hospitality Network opened their eyes to the possibilities of bringing Christ into the lives of others; they opened their hearts to the opportunity of serving those whom Christ served: the sick and the outcast, and also anyone who would find in their compassionate behavior the love of Jesus. There are two moments of sublime recognition and clairvoyance in John’s account of the Easter moment. The first occurred as Peter and the other disciple, also referred to as the “beloved disciple,” reached the tomb. The two went in; Simon Peter saw the linen wrappings and head cloth rolled up, but as yet drew no conclusions about what he witnessed; the other disciple both saw and believed. He looked at the same scene but his eyes were informed by faith. Even though neither disciple yet understood God’s intention—that is, they were still blind to the greater meaning of what they witnessed—the one believed. He experienced an insight as yet unavailable to Peter—that the one who now must be free from death is the very Son of God, and this belief came before he saw the risen Jesus. The second moment of recognition, one of the most poignant scenes in all the Gospels, took place as Mary Magdalene entered the tomb, she who was allowed the greater vision. She saw Jesus whom she took for the gardener, and supposing that he might have removed the body, she offered to take responsibility for it. Jesus replied with one word: Mary. Then, as if scales fell from her eyes, Mary recognized the Lord and exclaimed Rabboni! The word means “teacher” but is a form of the word Rabbi used in addressing God. Thus Mary not only related the physical identity of Jesus with the risen Christ; she also expressed for the early Church a new vision of Jesus as the one to be worshipped as God. How do you and I view this rolling away of the stone that offers Easter’s new view on life and death? Must we see the risen Christ to believe? Must we, like Thomas, view the scared indentations on his hands, feet and side before our faith can be revealed in our behavior? Or will our faith permit us to find the risen Christ in ourselves and in one another, sight unseen? Writing from prison, St. Paul urges the people of Colossus to reveal the Christ in one another, in the way they mete out their daily existence. Then, raised with Christ, they can seek the things that are above, that are in the light, opening their hearts to the good things of the spirit rather than wallowing in the dark things of the flesh. This is how you and I also can emerge from the tomb—resuscitated, reborn, with the Christ in us arisen and revealed. And the astonishing thing is that we don’t have to wait for Easter Sunday to venture out of our tombs and leave our dead selves behind. God promises us that any and each day—any and each hour—we can be reborn, dying to our own selves and rising to the new self to which God calls us. My take on this is that we don’t just do this once, but over and again, as we ask God’s and one another’s forgiveness and then allow our better selves to prevail. As the hymnist John Keble wrote: New every morning is the love our wakening and uprising prove; through sleep and darkness safely brought, restored to life and power and thought. Like the salesman in our story, you and I may occasionally be mistaken for Jesus; but it’s more likely that the love of Jesus will be revealed through us, through our words and actions. May our lights so shine before other human beings that they will see our good works and glorify God who is in heaven. AMEN
The Rev. Judith Sullivan
PDF
printer-friendly version of 3-16-08 sermon
So many unanswered questions today. Where are the rest of his disciples? His friends? The ones called away from their boats, away from their businesses? Away from their families? The man with the unclean spirit. The paralytic lowered through the roof? The great cast of characters who appear before us Sunday after Sunday, year after year, whose stories fill our imaginations with great and good news. You remember the ones gathered at the wedding feast, the ones fed with loaves and fishes, the ones whose sight has been restored, whose health is recovered. The woman at the well. The tenth leper? Where have they gone? The ones who were called to lose their lives and to find their lives by following Jesus. Where are their voices in the midst of this crowd?
There is no sight of them. No sound of them. Perhaps, like Peter, they sit far off with averted eyes and their heads bowed. Waiting to see how it all ends. But there is no rescue in the nick of time, no great escape, no victory here. Do they hear the screams? The hammering? The splintering of wood and bone? The ragged gasping for breath? The silence?
What might Peter hiding far off ask himself? Perhaps he thinks, What kind of spiritual whiplash is this? The crowds first cry out, “Hosanah, save us, deliver us.” And then later, “Crucify him, crucify him.” Is there no chance for the reign of God that draws near? No chance for freedom and justice, for care of the orphan and the widow, for relief of the poor and the oppressed? Is there no end to the suffering of God’s people? What an irony that the one who has lived and proclaimed love of God and neighbor with such outrageous passion should suffer and die this way. A series of events that generations have named The Passion. And what of the denials, the broken promises and the betrayal. And what about me, Peter thinks? What about me?
And, what about us who also sit far off? Separated by the distances of time and space and our own cool reserve. Have we chosen, like Peter and so many of the others, to stay far away from the suffering and death that break our hearts? In our fear and vulnerability, do we also run away? Oh, we might look like we’re sitting here, listening attentively to the passion narrative, but have we also averted our eyes from the sight of the man dying in agony, nailed to the cross? Retreating to some distant and untouchable place inside ourselves.
If we are honest, we know that the suffering in Jesus’ life and in our own lives cannot be avoided. But like Jesus, we are called to live our lives passionately. Sitting on the sidelines. Never risking. Never moving forward will never protect us from the sorrow, grief, and loss that are an inevitable part of living. And we cannot pretend that advancing God’s kingdom at any time and in any place will occur without risk and cost. The death of Jesus on the cross is the embodiment of that risk and cost.
The cross reminds us, that as it did for Jesus, death also waits for us and for those whom we love. There is ultimately no great escape in the nick of time, no rescue. In our common humanity, we are all stumbling to this common destiny. Jesus’ cross reminds us of how small we are, how frail we are, and how temporal this life is.
But that is not all. Jesus who has taught us how to live also teaches us how to die. If we choose to draw close to his cross, we can see dignity in the face of humiliation and hope in the face of hopelessness, and we may trust that what seems to be finished now is far from over. We dare not look away from that face. In this week ahead, we dare not shift our gaze from that sacred head, sore wounded whose passionate presence is the light of our world. AMEN
The Rev. Peter Sipple
PDF
printer-friendly version of 3-9-08 sermon A Jewish friend once told me that he thought one important difference between Judaism and Christianity was that his faith focused on our earthly existence whereas Christians view this life mostly as a preparation for the next. He pointed out that Judaism’s religious laws stress the importance of remaining in a right relationship with God and fellow human beings in the here and now. He understood that Jesus, on the other hand, conceived of the Kingdom of Heaven as the place we go when we die and that Jesus intended his teaching to ready us for that Kingdom. Christians appeared more concerned about suffering than about living life to the fullest. My side of the debate went something like this: Jesus viewed himself as completing the law and fulfilling the prophetic texts of the Hebrew Scriptures. God became incarnate—embodied in human form—precisely because God cherishes human existence. The very God who created life on this hunk of gradually cooling rock became human in Jesus Christ in order to experience the fullness of life and to make the God-given connection between this life and life eternal. This lively discussion with my friend came back to mind as I thought about this morning’s passage from John’s Gospel, for in it we have this essential truth of our faith exemplified—we might say, lived out. The raising of Lazarus is viewed by many as the theological centerpiece of the Fourth Gospel; it occurs only in John, and is the point where Jesus’ teaching about life and death comes abundantly clear. The event prefigures Jesus’ own death and resurrection and prepares the readers of the Gospel, just as it prepared Jesus’ followers, for nothing less than a new understanding of human existence. One scholar calls Lazarus’ return from death the “culminating instance of Christ’s work as Life-giver.” The center of the center is the conversation between Martha, the sister of Lazarus, and Jesus. In her grief, Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Jesus replied, “Your brother will rise again.” Then Martha: “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” To which Jesus responds: “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live; and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” In Martha’s statement about resurrection she declared her faith—the traditional faith of the Church, that her brother would rise again on the last day, the final day of reckoning. But Jesus says something startlingly new: that the life he offers is independent of physical life and death. It is a life of the spirit not of the flesh. Those who believe in him have risen already; their death is only an appearance, and they carry with them into the world beyond the same life which they knew from their birth as children of God. In effect, Jesus is asserting that Lazarus never died. Through his faith in Jesus as the Christ, Lazarus had adopted the true life and still continued in it, despite his apparent death. The real miracle had already occurred, therefore—the miracle of his being born anew to eternal life through faith in Jesus Christ. Here John the Evangelist portrays Martha as speaking for the Church; some have even suggested that Martha’s words resemble an ancient creedal statement. Both Martha and her sister Mary believe their brother would not have died had Jesus been present during his final illness, but their faith does not yet conceive of Jesus making Lazarus alive again. As Anne Robinson puts it, “When confronted with God and asked what we believe, we recite our beliefs even though we seem often to derive no pleasure or benefit from them…Martha is expressing faith, but it reads more like a recitation of the mind than a conviction of the heart…Like most of us, Martha does not really expect God to do anything concrete. For her and many others, the promises of God exist in some unrealized future….But Jesus stuns the crowd with the news that the life he offers is not just for the future; it begins now. Jesus has come to make this life abundant and to give us eternal life. Martha is not wrong. The future promise holds, but there is also a real promise for the here and now. The raising of Lazarus does not just prefigure Easter; it is part of the Easter message itself. Resurrection life begins here in this life before it continues into the life to come.” In his letter to the Romans, St. Paul conveys this idea by distinguishing between flesh and spirit. Focusing energy and attention on the flesh—matters of this world, getting and spending, as Wordsworth called that preoccupation—is death (notice Paul does not say leads to death; it is death); setting the mind on the Spirit is life and peace. Resurrection life is a life of the spirit. Now what does this phrase mean to us Christians? That we need to spend full days in prayer, or on retreat, denying the reality around us? No. God sent the Son into the world not to condemn the world but to save it. True, as Paul says, the world lies “in bondage to decay” (Rom. 8:21). We are mortal, and so to dust we shall return, along with the whole of the natural order. How, then, do we reconcile a life of the Spirit with our natural mortality? It is at the foot of the cross that we learn of the purpose of God’s love, the gift of life in the midst of a dying world. If, as Paul says, the spirit of God dwells in us, the God who raised Jesus Christ from the dead will give life to our mortal bodies through the Spirit that dwells in us. So how do we achieve this Resurrection life of the Spirit? Actually, we don’t achieve it; we are given it. It’s a free gift from God, as we open ourselves to it, our hearts and minds, and accept it. If we’re consumed by matters of the flesh and the world, we’re very likely to miss it, like the child with so many Christmas presents under the tree she misses the most precious one, the gift of her parents’ love. Or like the man who wandered the world seeking wealth when he had an acre of diamonds buried in his own back yard. Matters of the flesh harden the heart, blind the eyes, shut the ears; activities of the spirit open them. Given this understanding of the Resurrection life of the Spirit, let’s return to Lazarus. It was of course miraculous that at Jesus’ command the dead man came forth, still bound, to the mouth of the cave. Those present would have recognized a dead man rising as the miracle. But consistent with the rest of his Gospel, John the Evangelist points to a more far-reaching miracle, one available as a gift to every human being, and that is the gift of life in Christ, the gift of living with and in the Spirit—in short, the gift of the resurrected woman and man. Recall that in last week’s Gospel, Jesus caused a man born blind to see—a miracle indeed! But as Judy Sullivan reminded us, the real miracle was that the Christ-given sight enabled the man, when he looked on Jesus, to see that he was the Son of God, worthy of worship. So here, the real miracle is not that Jesus restored Lazarus to physical existence; far more wonderful is that Lazarus hears God’s call and lives. This new life in the Spirit transcends our physical existence, for it is the gift of eternal life. The physical resurrection of Lazarus and our own spiritual resurrection connect in this way: Jesus bids those around Lazarus to unbind him, for literally, since the man now lives and walks, the cloth shackles that bound him can be removed. So too with us: those dead parts of ourselves wrapped and chained like Marley’s ghost to the things we drag behind us keep us bound. The voice of Jesus calls us out of the cave in which we hide our dead selves: release the cords that bind you to the world, he calls, and walk free in the Spirit of Christ. And so we respond, Amen! Amen!
The Rev. Judith Sullivan
PDF
printer-friendly version of 3-2-08 sermon Three or four years ago, in a movie called “What the Bleep Do We Know Anyway?” which is about quantum physics and human perception, a scientist related this story: The indigenous peoples who inhabited the Caribbean islands could not see Columbus’ armada advancing at the horizon line because the ships were not like anything that they had ever seen or known before. The tribal shaman noticed ripples in the water and looked every day to see what was causing them. Eventually, he was able to see the ships and told the others. The tribe believed the shaman and because they trusted him, they were finally able to see the ships, too. The scientist explained the phenomenon this way: We human beings only see what we already believe is possible and what conforms to existing patterns in our brains. Our eyes, which are like neutral lenses, may physically record billions of bits of information per second, but the visual cortex in our brains actually “sees” a tiny percentage of them. That relatively tiny percentage of information which will make sense to us according to our biases and will confirm our preconceived assumptions about how the world really works. It seems, according to the physicists in this film, that we are creatures who selectively interpret raw data as evidence to support our own reality. A reality shaped by the often unconscious paradigms, or models, by which we live. And we can’t seem to help it. Think, for example, of those who opposed Galileo and fiercely clung to the notion that the world was flat. After all, that was all that they could see. Or of those who have resisted antibiotics, preferring instead the old ways they knew to treat the microscopic disease that they did not understand and could not see. Or of those who have resisted time saving, technological innovations of all kinds based on wave technology that we can’t see—No, no, that probably includes everyone of us here over the age of eighteen--Think of those who simply cannot see and will not accept the merits of propositions and assumptions which are patently and painfully obvious to us. Think of these people and you have the recipe for colliding worldviews and clashing paradigms. And let’s be clear. From the outset of this Gospel story, Jesus goes out of his way to challenge the prevailing world views and assumptions of the day. He is setting the new paradigm, his vision of the Kingdom of God, on the horizon line for all to see. There can be no doubt that he is inviting confrontation and that opposition to him among the Temple authorities is growing. Just prior to this story in John’s Gospel, Jesus is stoned in the Temple, hides himself, and slips out unseen. It may seem a random event when he and his disciples encounter the man who is blind from birth. But it is one more occasion for him to “work the works of the one who sent [him].” “Rabbi,” the disciples ask, “who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus quickly disputes the widespread belief held in antiquity that infirmity occurred as the result of generational sin, that it was a deserved punishment from God. While this blind man may have been encountered randomly, Jesus could probably not have walked along very far without meeting many blind and infirmed persons who were shunned because of their alleged sinfulness, and who were then discarded to sit and beg at the side of roads or pools. In a precursor to his own crucifixion, Jesus explains that the man “was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” It is a shattering paradigm shift, and still is, to consider that God and God’s purposes are often revealed in and to those who are powerless and wounded, as they were revealed in Jesus and the blind man. And if it were not enough to heal this untouchable man using materials as base as mud and spittle when he didn’t even ask for healing, Jesus throws down the gauntlet with the Pharisees by performing it on the Sabbath. A fact which John seems to slip in incidentally a bit later. Like the Caribbean people who could not see Columbus’ ships as they advanced at the horizon line, for the Pharisees, this simply does not compute. Their worldview—their assumptions, their prejudices, as well as their ideals—will not permit their minds to grasp the significance of what has happened as a reality. This Jesus is not like anyone they have known or seen before and breaking the Sabbath is an unthinkable breach of a dearly held paradigm, the law and the Ten Commandments as they have interpreted them. How could anything good could come from it, even healing? Systematically, the Pharisees do their best to discredit the evidence and the testimony by asking a lot of questions. Surely, they reason, anyone who would do this on the Sabbath must be a sinner. But could a sinner perform such a sign? Better to deny the miracle altogether—maybe this man was not really born blind? Has the blind man who has been disfavored by God in his infirmity and born into sin misunderstood Jesus’ actions? When the blind man repeats his testimony, the Pharisees grow increasingly adamant in their own assertions. They claim to know that Jesus is a sinner; they know that God has spoken to Moses but they do not know where this man, Jesus, comes from. By contrast, the formerly blind man is more circumspect about what he claims to know: “I do not know whether he is a sinner,” he says. “One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” As this man retells his tale to his neighbors and then again to the Pharisees, his physical sight parallels an evolution of metaphorical sight into the spiritual truth. After a time, he can see who Jesus is. He first describes him as a prophet, then as a man from God, and ultimately, proclaims him to be the Messiah when he finally meets him face to face. The Pharisees, in all their arrogant certainty about what they see and know, are becoming more and more blind, moving further and further from the revelation of God. Speaking in defense of these Pharisees for a moment, it’s hard to be the keeper of the traditions. Hard to know when to give way to a new paradigm, a new way of seeing and believing and relating to God. Like the Pharisees, most of us hold on very hard to what we think we know, to the reality of our lives which has been shaped by our families and experiences, by education and important institutions, relationships, ideas, and ideals. Surely this is very human and it is often admirable and honorable. The difficulty arises when our certainty about what we think we know prevents us from encountering the living God. When rigidity and fear prevent us from accepting God doing something new in our lives. Each one of us has literal blind spots which parallel places of spiritual blindness. But if as the scientist claims, we see only what we already believe is possible, then we remember and trust that with God, all things are possible. We remember and trust that when we choose to follow Jesus that God will act in ways which surprise and challenge our worldview and our most basic assumptions. We remember and trust that sometimes we will have to let go of our certainty a bit and enter into the mystery of God who defies all human categories and definitions. In our lifetimes, we will never do this perfectly, but we might do it humbly. As Paul tells us in the first letter to the Corinthians, “for now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now [we] know only in part; then [we] will know fully, even as [we] have been fully known.” With our incomplete sight, let’s continue to look for the ripples that signal God’s activity in the world. Let’s point them out to one another until we can see the new revelation of God on our horizon line. Better yet, let’s get in the water and be a part of God’s new wave. Let’s make a few ripples ourselves. AMEN
The Rev. Stephen Billings
PDF
printer-friendly version of 2-17-08 sermon On this Second Sunday in Lent, we hear in the Gospel according to John about Jesus’ visit from a Pharisee named Nicodemus. It’s quite probable that this member of the Jewish elite was rich, well-respected, and scrupulously observant. The gospel account notes that he came at night, perhaps because it assured him of relative privacy for his interview, or maybe because the cover of darkness would protect his reputation as an upstanding model of orthodoxy in the community. Jesus, by contrast, is viewed in the community as un-orthodox, not following the laws and rules of the Jewish tradition as Nicodemus understands them. Nicodemus is drawn to this spirit-filled man whom he recognizes as divinely commissioned, someone whose healing works and other signs suggest he is from God. And they have this seemingly disjointed conversation. Nicodemus compliments Jesus, and suggests that Jesus must be from God. Jesus responds with a statement about “being born from above.” Nicodemus counters with a question using concrete and literal language, while Jesus asks questions and speaks in figurative language. Jesus frames the question that Nicodemus needs to ask but is unable to formulate: “How can I become engaged in a righteous relationship with God?” Jesus says there are signs of God’s work around him, and the spirit of God is in his midst, and he needs to trust that, but Nicodemus seems to balk at really understanding. Jesus says, in effect, “look around you at what is happening in the realm of the spirit and believe; trust and engage with such heavenly work which comes from heavenly power and spirit, and you can experience eternal life.” It seems Jesus is challenging Nicodemus’s trust in his good behavior and his fulfilling the Jewish law in order to achieve a righteous relationship with God. Nicodemus is firmly rooted in this world, and Jesus enjoins him to engage instead in the world of the spirit, of trust and faith in the Son of Man. Jesus is offering nothing less than a transformation from inside out, a reorientation of the self toward God, through trust in God, through an openness to engagement with God. But Nicodemus still balks. Jesus goes on to speak of the spirit as like the wind, which one cannot control or own; with wind, one has to sense it, feel it, listen for how is sounds, watch for it, trust in its being there, active and real, even when it’s not that apparent. (Parenthetically, let me say that this really resonates with me; I can remember as a young sailor discovering the variability of the wind over the water, particularly on calm days when I would try to out-distance other sailors to a race marker. In calm weather, I preferred my father as crew because he would keep his pipe lit so I could detect by his pipe smoke even the slightest whisp of movement of air, and adjust the tiller accordingly. Similarly, on land, we need often to remain very still, attentive, and focused, in order to experience the wind, ruach, the spirit of God) Using the wind imagery, Jesus references the subtleties of God’s spirit to Nicodemus and he still doesn’t seem to get it. We, too, can appreciate how difficult or elusive wind and the Holy Spirit of God can be to detect or follow. Nicodemus’ security blanket is reliance on the ritual, doctrines, and moral instructions of the synagogue. He is into behavior and adherence to the Law, concrete thinking and right behavior above all. Jesus seems to say, “Look, this not about you, giving birth to yourself. It is about your surrendering all that you trust in, venturing out, for God to claim you, unworthy as you are, to be made new, by God’s spirit, and to find yourself living life eternally in God’s presence.” In a way, I envy Nicodemus the opportunity he had to have this private conversation with Jesus, to be in his very presence, to experience his godly being. And yet, at the same time, I suspect that I might do even worse than Nicodemus in trying to carry on a conversation with this Son of God. Let me interject a personal note: Recently I received a survey document mailed to members of my college class in preparation for our 45th reunion in June. In preparation to complete the survey, I thought back to the second semester of my senior year and also of this gospel passage, and I had to laugh at myself. I had been accepted to graduate school to continue to study history with the idea that I would teach. Then I received notice of the offer of a one-year fellowship to seminary, offered to those who might not otherwise try it, on a trial basis, as it were. I had been thinking and praying about the possibility of ordained ministry, but ruled it out because I felt unworthy. I am afraid, like a good Pharisee, I thought it was about me and my worthiness. And then when I was offered the fellowship, I was earnestly praying and trying to decide between staying in familiar surroundings in New Haven, Connecticut or venturing out all the way to Cambridge, Massachusetts! My thinking and prayers were about as shallow and concrete as those of Nicodemus! Compare that to the story of Abram and his whole family being called from Haran to move to the land of Canaan, and what unfolded for them and all the generations of the people of God! God still keeps trying to adjust my thinking and nudge me in new and unfamiliar directions, figuratively and literally. Malawi is one good example of the latter. I am still working at embracing the process of surrendering to God’s mercy and being remade, and not relying merely on my manners, reputation, merits, accomplishments, and good works. But often I dig in my heels and resist his remaking of me and my life. Of course, I know in my head that blessings and ministry will follow, by God’s Grace, as I allow God’s spirit to marinade me and my life until I am wholly remade as God would have me, until I die and am welcomed into Jesus’ embrace. But meanwhile, there is this resemblance to Nicodemus… I believe all of us have opportunities to engage in conversations with God and godly people about the life of saving grace, about accepting God’s mercy, forgiveness, and being remade, from inside out, again and again. And like Nicodemus, we might not be able to grasp the depth and generosity of Jesus’ message, his incredible gift, because we can’t quite formulate our questions, or accept his answer, focused as we are on our own pre-conceived notions, trusting in our own righteousness, relating to God our very concrete, practical, and mundane concerns. I should emphasize that I know how important daily judgments and decisions can be for us and those around us, and for the work of the church community, whether they relate to retirement, finances, budgets, health, our work, our parenting, whether to move from home to a retirement community, what to pledge to the capital campaign, and so on. But at best, they follow and are informed by our understanding and living out the new life given to us through Christ as our Redeemer and Savior. So how does that happen? Perhaps more than anything, we need to shut up and listen attentively. Sit in awe, let God have God’s way with us. During Lent, in particular, fortunately, rather than trying to justify ourselves and advising God only about what we have in mind for our lives, our fortunes, our salvation, our dreams, we have the opportunity to spend time, energy, and spiritual capital discerning what God would have us to be and to do, in fulfillment of our baptism and celebrating God’s bountiful grace in our lives. In Lent, especially, we can try to discern what difference it makes that Jesus was crucified, was buried, and was resurrected so that the whole creation would be made new, and all of us may have an eternal connection with his blessedness. A number of resources and practices are available to us. The recent Adult Forum presentation about settling into the presence of God, given by our neighbor from Villanova, Martin Laird, reminds us of the importance of listening prayer. I heartily endorse his little book, Into the Silent Land, a Guide to the Christian Practice of Contemplation. In Lent, we need to lessen and let go of the chatter of our lives and our minds, and truly focus on listening to God’s spirit and on savoring closeness with the divine presence. Laird’s thoughts on pain and suffering were particularly helpful to me, I would note, as well as his assumption that the connection to God, to God’s presence, is a given. We need to be still and silent, and let God be with us, rather than trying to control and manage God and God’s presence. It’s very good Lenten reading. And when, like Nicodemus, we cannot seem to frame the questions clearly and honestly, we would do well to search for a godly person to discuss our spiritual journey, in a supportive, prayerful, and non-judgmental conversation. In addition, it is clear that we need to remain in the company of other believers, the community of the faithful, flawed and difficult as it might occasionally be. We do well to study and practice the traditions of the church and immerse ourselves in the Word, the scriptures. Individual daily devotions are a helpful practice, using the Forward Day by Day booklets, for example, or joining one of the Lenten Bible Study groups that meet weekly at various times. The temptation, however, might still be to treat such practices as simply ways of earning points in our quest for our own salvation, enriching our spiritual bank accounts, as it were, like good Pharisees. Instead, we do well to think of these as ways to draw closer to God and Jesus, as ways of keeping our baptismal promises and the promises of the scriptures. As the promises in the baptismal covenant state (which we will reaffirm during confirmations and receptions with the Bishop Borsch next Sunday) all we do we will be able to do only with the help of God. So Be It/Amen. |
