Month: July 2012

A Sermon for the 8^th Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 11 – Year B – 22 July 2012

Eleanor Lee Wellford,  Associate Rector

_______

The apostles gathered around Jesus, and told him all that they had done and taught. He said to them, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.” For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat. And they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves. Now many saw them going and recognized them, and they hurried there on foot from all the towns and arrived ahead of them. As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.

When they had crossed over, they came to land at Gennesaret and moored the boat. When they got out of the boat, people at once recognized him, and rushed about that whole region and began to bring the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was. And wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.

-Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

_________

 Jesus was at the height of his popularity – and it must have been both exhilarating and exhausting for him.  But his popularity was only fleeting.   All the wonder and curiosity about who Jesus was soon gave way to animosity and misunderstanding.          But for the moments that Mark captures for us in this morning’s reading, large crowds were in wonder and awe of Jesus and following him and his disciples around, so that there was literally no rest for the weary.

“Come away to a deserted place…and rest for awhile,” Jesus said to his disciples…And they went away by themselves.”   But they were rarely by themselves because Mark tells us that crowds of people would run ahead of them so that when Jesus and his disciples arrived in any one town, there would already be a great crowd gathered there (Mark 6:30-33) expecting Jesus to teach or heal or care for their needs.

How many times have we come home exhausted from a busy day only to hear words such as: “What’s for dinner?” or “Do you mind taking the kids for while?”  And how many times do we go into the kitchen and fix something presentable and nourishing to put on the table, or change our clothes and take the kids to the playground when we’d much rather just sit down and rest for awhile? 

 We somehow just keep going – keep doing, keep listening, keep encouraging – and why?  Well, maybe because we’re crazy, but I think it’s for the same reason Jesus kept going.   And that is purely out of compassion.

Mark wrote that as Jesus “went ashore he saw a great crowd and (as tired as he was) he had compassion for them because they were like sheep without a shepherd” (Mark 6:34).  Sheep are needy creatures and one of the most important reasons they need a shepherd is to lead them to green pastures where they can feed because they don’t have sense enough to go there on their own. 

It’s interesting in today’s gospel reading, then, that one of the most well-known and beloved stories about Jesus was left out – and that is the feeding of the 5000.  Today’s reading consists of two passages that actually bracket that story.  So maybe for today’s gospel, the emphasis shouldn’t be so much on the importance of a shepherd for feeding as it is for something else.

    Perhaps that something else is knowing what the sheep need before they do – anticipating their need.  And what Jesus anticipated for his disciples was their need for rest.  But, what did Jesus anticipate for the needs of those other sheep – the people who were following him around like paparazzi following around a celebrity? 

It’s not until we hear about the arrival of Jesus and the disciples at Gennesaret  that we understand what that need was.  It was a need for healing.  Gennesaret was a town located on the Sea of Galilee and was known for its fertile soil for growing fig, olive and palm trees.  It was also known for its healing springs which had been attracting the sick and injured for centuries. (Feasting on the Word, Year B, volume 3, Louisville, Westminster John Knox Press, 2009, pg 264).   So, if Jesus anticipated or sensed some kind of need for healing, there is little wonder that he and his disciples would end up in that seaport town.

As one commentary put it: the people there recognized Jesus as one whose healing power was so great that someone merely touching a thread of his garment would be healed (pg. 265 Exegetical Perspective).  Jesus witnessed an endless stream of physical illness and injury and because of his compassion, not only endured it all, but healed it all. 

Do you remember several months ago when 19-month-old conjoined twin girls from the Dominican Republic were surgically separated here in Richmond at VCU’s MCV hospital?  It was an amazing procedure that took nearly 20 hours for each toddler.  The surgeons divided the liver, pancreas and other shared organs and reconstructed the girls’ abdominal walls.  The surgical procedures were grueling and the surgeons must have been totally exhausted after just a few hours into the surgery.  What kept them going?  Was it ego, or the promise of fame or maybe even money?  Hardly.

Those surgeons were in it for one reason, and one reason only – and that was compassion, the compassion that they felt for those toddlers.  Through the World Pediatric Project those surgeons, along with countless other volunteers, donated all of their time, talent, energy and expertise to the welfare of those toddlers because they wanted them to be able to live a normal life – no more than what they would have wanted for their own children.

It’s amazing what the human spirit can do when it’s fueled by adrenaline and inspired by the Holy Spirit.  At the very least, compassion means putting the needs of others before our own needs.  It’s intimate and it’s personal and some believe that it’s revelatory of God.  

Some of us may think that compassion is a synonym for pity; but it’s not.  We can feel pity for someone yet remain detached.  Compassion is actual suffering with someone.   “The precondition for compassion” writes one commentator, “is unconditional solidarity with the ones for whom (we) feel it.  …Jesus (felt this solidarity with us) not only in birth and life, but most of all in death.”(Feasting on the Word Year B, Volume 3, Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press Year, 2009, pg 262).

As we know, compassion can be emotionally and physically draining.  Jesus knew that all too well which is why he suggested that he and his disciples all retreat to a deserted place.  Yet the crowds with all of their needs just kept assaulting them, draining Jesus’ energy – but never his compassion.   His heart remained open at all times to the needs of others; yet the more Jesus’ heart remained open, the more the hearts of many in that crowd unfortunately began to close as they became critical and suspicious of who he was and what he was saying and doing. 

I do believe that each of us has compassion, yet acting on it may be more difficult for some than others and I’m not sure why that is.  Being too compassionate can drain us and too little of it can make us seem uncaring.  Compassion with boundaries is probably the healthiest way to have it.

I have to believe that Jesus knew about the connection between compassion and healing, and in anticipation of our constant need for healing whether that’s physical, mental or spiritual, equipped us through the Holy Spirit with the compassion we need to be with each other and help each other begin that process.

About 30 years ago, a friend of mine lost her 2-week old baby to an undetected heart condition.  I remember talking to her and trying to help her make sense of it all.  I know I was doing more talking than listening which must have been aggravating because in pain and bitterness, she turned to me and said: “I don’t want to talk to you about this any more.  You have no idea what I’m going through.  Only someone who has lost a baby as I have will be able to help me.”  She said that with such conviction that I thought she was probably right.  As I look back on that encounter, I have come to believe that perhaps there was some truth to what she said, but not to all of it.

I believe that a person who is truly compassionate will take on the pain and suffering of another person without having to identify with the details of the experience that caused it in the first place.   The mistake I made was in trying to take away her pain by somehow thinking I could talk it away.   What I have learned since then is that it’s not the nature of compassion to do that, nor is trying to take away someone else’s pain.  

 Jesus showed us how to be compassionate and he also showed us that it’s not always easy nor do we always possess the strength and energy to meet each other’s needs all the time.   Most of the time we do the best we can which may be sufficient enough to begin the healing process, but it takes Jesus to complete it.  

A Sermon for the 4th Sunday after Pentecost

Year B – Proper 10 – 15 July 2012

John Edward Miller, Rector

This is what the Lord God showed me: the LORD was standing beside a wall built with a plumb line, with a plumb line in his hand. And the LORD said to me, “Amos, what do you see?” And I said, “A plumb line.” Then the LORD said, “See, I am setting a plumb line in the midst of my people Israel; I will never again pass them by; the high places of Isaac shall be made desolate, and the sanctuaries of Israel shall be laid waste, and I will rise against the house of Jeroboam with the sword.”

Then Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, sent to King Jeroboam of Israel, saying, “Amos has conspired against you in the very center of the house of Israel; the land is not able to bear all his words. For thus Amos has said, ‘Jeroboam shall die by the sword, and Israel must go into exile away from his land.’”

And Amaziah said to Amos, “O seer, go, flee away to the land of Judah, earn your bread there, and prophesy there; but never again prophesy at Bethel, for it is the king’s sanctuary, and it is a temple of the kingdom.”

Then Amos answered Amaziah, “I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees, and the LORD took me from following the flock, and the LORD said to me, ‘Go, prophesy to my people Israel.’”

– Amos 7:7-15

The Collect

O Lord, mercifully receive the prayers of your people who call upon you, and grant that they may know and understand what things they ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to accomplish them; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls/ and tenement halls/ and whispered in the sound of silence.” Paul Simon wrote those haunting words in 1964. He sang them with his friend Art Garfunkel on a record album[1] released two years later. The thoughts the duo expressed became a folk rock mantra for the 60s social revolution. Graffiti artists have covered vast expanses of urban space in our time. There is hardly a wall, or a poster, or a subway, or railroad boxcar that has been left untouched. It is clear that the artists have something to say, and they risk life and limb (and arrest) to leave behind their spray-painted icons and slogans. But is this prophecy, social protest, or pop art?

We are awash in sloganeering – e.g., Nike’s famous swoosh and “just do it” logo. We are bombarded by propaganda – including everything from current political icons to Che Guevara’s bearded likeness on t-shirts. There are whole university departments dedicated to branding, which takes an old art into the digital age. I have a friend who visited England for the first time as a teenage idealist. He told me that he kept seeing buses, murals, and signs all over London inscribed with the motto, “Take courage.” At the time, he was duly impressed with the civility and graciousness of the British people. “What a wonderful thing to say!” he thought. “I’m encouraged, and I suppose everyone else feels better too.” But when he mentioned something about this to a resident Englishman, he found to his disappointment that the motto was a branding campaign for a product – John Courage Ale. And yes, take enough of that courage and you’ll feel no pain. The words had been written on a building wall. But were they prophecy, or simply good advertising?

I’m sure Paul Simon’s lyric had something more in mind than product promotion. His prophets’ words may have been expressions of protest, or counter-cultural outrage, or existential Angst. Who knows? They may also have been the media of God – words of reckoning, words calling the world into account.

But this begs the question: “What is a prophet?” Are we talking about someone who functions as a soothsayer, a seer, an oracle, a fortuneteller, or a predictor of the future, such as Nostradamus? Or are we referring more to an interpreter of our experience, a commentator on current events, critic of culture, or perhaps an op-ed writer rendering an opinion about the mores of our time?

Among the classical Greeks and Romans, and in modern parlance, the idea of prophet is linked to the idea of prediction. Leaders of state made pilgrimages to the Oracle at Delphi before committing to a military campaign, or a plan to change the social order. Likewise, modern day Wall Street pays attention when Warren Buffett speaks. Many regard his market forecasts as prophetic. However, in biblical literature, prophecy was less specific about future events and more focused on the impact of popular morality on contemporary life. In ancient Israel, the prophet was one who looked carefully at current events, measured them for good or ill against the benchmark of covenant law, and then rendered a judgment on them. He was God’s spokesman, delivering a word of God’s truth for the people to read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.    

In our liturgy of Holy Communion, we hear this definition of prophecy in the Great Thanksgiving of Rite II’s Prayer B. It celebrates the key role that the biblical prophets have had, and it links their work to the final revelation of God in Christ Jesus. Here is what the celebrant says:

 We give thanks to you, O God, for the goodness and love which you have made known to us in creation; in the calling of Israel to be your people; in your Word spoken through the prophets; and above all in the Word made flesh, Jesus, your Son. For in these last days you sent him to be incarnate from the Virgin Mary, to be the Savior and Redeemer of the world. In him, you have delivered us from evil, and made us worthy to stand before you. In him, you have brought us out of error into truth, out of sin into righteousness, out of death into life.[2]

 “In your Word spoken through the prophets” is a phrase describing how God delivers a prophetic message to the people. The biblical prophet has a formal ministry, a vocation to a specific role. It is powerful, literally, because once delivered, the divine Word works its message of judgment to completion. So, the prophetic ministry is not something to take lightly, or dabble in, or pretend to do without an authentic call from God.

During the recent search process leading to the election of our fine new Bishop Suffragan, there were gatherings in strategic locations wherein delegates to council and other interested persons could hear the candidates speak in an evening format. The opening question to all candidates in the Richmond venue had them address an issue of versatility. They were asked: “How do you balance the pastoral and the prophetic role in your current ministry, and how would see that balance translated into the ministry of a bishop in this diocese?” It was an interesting question that challenged the candidates to dig deeply into their vision of ministry. All six priests handled it well, and therein lay the more challenging question for me: Why is it that all of them were comfortable with the idea of prophecy as a function of their various ministries? They were obviously accustomed to the terminology, and considered it a part of their role.

And that leads me to say, “Thus sayeth the Church: ‘O ordained ones, thy ministries includeth the role of the prophet.’” It’s now expected to be a significant part of our job description. And that’s a fact. But is it in accord with the biblical witness?    

“When I said that, I was being prophetic.” I’ve heard that line from many a minister. It’s a trend nowadays. Whenever a priest decides to speak out, or act out, against a particular policy, administration, or political party, he uses the p-word to explain his actions. “Prophecy-lite” is what I call it. Or maybe “progressive speak,” because it’s all in the name of a progressive ethos, which says, “We know the truth, we know the mind of Christ, and we know what he would do.” The prophetic is simply a facet of a clergyman’s preaching, or social ministry.

Funny thing, though. I don’t recall any biblical prophet – from Amos to John the Baptist – who ever said such a thing. No prophet would introduce his prophecy by announcing, “Listen up, I’m being prophetic here.” They just spoke up in the name of the LORD, and paid an awful price for exercising their ministry. Many were slain by angry mobs, while others were beaten, run out of town, thrown into a cistern, or simply shunned by the people who heard the messages they delivered. Biblical prophets were marked men. Their work was risky business.

Listen again to what Amos said to Amaziah the priest. In reply to Amaziah’s fair warning that Amos needed to skedaddle, or else be killed by the king’s goons, Amos stated for the record: “I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees, and the LORD took me from following the flock, and the LORD said to me, ‘Go, prophesy to my people Israel.’”  

In other words, Amos disavowed any linkage to the professional “prophets” who hung out in the royal court, telling the king what he wanted to hear, and enjoying the king’s largesse. Amos was clearly not one of those people. He asserted his amateur status, insisting that he was a herdsman, a dresser of sycamore trees – and nothing else. He had no prophet’s i.d. card, nor did his ministry imply any type of entitlement. For him it was as simple as this: God called him to be his spokesman. He said, “The LORD took me from following the flock, and the LORD said to me, ‘Go, prophesy to my people Israel.’” That divine imperative was his only credential. He had received a directive from God. He was not spurred to action by his own bright idea.

Being a prophet always involves a cost to the one who delivers the message. It is a high-stakes ministry, often costing the prophet his livelihood, or even his life. That is the biblical model. And we get a clear look at both the messenger and the risk taken in the lessons assigned for this Sunday. When Amos received the vision of the LORD’s plumb line, he knew what he must say to the people of Israel. The plumb line is the Torah, the standard of justice and righteousness against which the people’s behavior (and misbehavior) would be gauged. When the prophet spoke, he would proclaim God’s judgment on Israel’s crimes against the grace of God. And there would be consequences for him as well as for the people. In Mark’s Gospel, we see the terrible consequence for John the Baptist’s announcement of judgment on Herod’s corrupt household. The prophet’s head on a platter speaks volumes about the cost of faithfulness.  

 In other words, no prophet ever had a retirement plan; none of them would draw an income from the Church Pension Fund. In fact, “retired prophet” is an oxymoron. Virtually all of them were martyred. 

In our time, prophets have been few and far between. I mean prophets in the biblical sense, rather than in the parlance of today’s church. Search as I will for contemporary spokesmen for God, I come up with a handful that bear the biblical marks of the prophet. Two that come to mind are Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Martin Luther King, Jr. Both men understood the cost of being prophetic, and both men answered the call to serve. Neither of them lived to write their memoirs.

Bonhoeffer was a German theologian who spoke out against Hitler, and was executed at age 39 by the Nazis shortly before the war’s end for his involvement in the plot to assassinate the evil Fuhrer wreaking havoc in Europe. Bonhoeffer’s book, The Cost of Discipleship, is a study of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. There the young theologian focused on the grace of God, and Jesus’ call to respond in the moral life. Bonhoeffer heard that call, and his response was to lead the Church in a direction that was costly, but righteous.

Martin King, as well, had the marks of the biblical prophet. He was a pastor who left his regular pulpit to become the leader of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference during the Civil Rights Movement. His “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” is based on the principles of justice and love, and it has been compared favorably to a Pauline epistle. For King, the prophetic plumb line was the Word spoken by the ancient prophets and the Word made flesh, Jesus of Nazareth. Measured against that standard, the injustices of segregation became all the more egregious. King spoke out, and organized a campaign of non-violent resistance to witness to what God would have us do. The campaign was costly, but it eventually overcame the structures of racism. King’s death by assassination at age 39 came in 1968. The Word of love and justice continues to live, and to seek redemption among God’s people. 

Neither Bonhoeffer nor King ever claimed to be a prophet. And yet, each man left behind his original profession to answer a call to become a spokesman for the Word of God in his time. In this respect, their ministries resemble those of Amos and Hosea, Isaiah and Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Nathan, and, for that matter, John the Baptist and Jesus the Messiah. How do we know that their ministries were prophetic? There is a short run, and a long run, answer to that crucial question.

The short run response is that these men heard a call and walked away from safety and security and entitlement to follow a lonely, unpopular path toward personal sacrifice for the sake of truth, and for the love of God. The general public reviled them for what they said. But they spoke, and they paid the price. Longevity, said Dr. King, is a desirable thing. But once you’ve seen the Promised Land, you can’t give it up for the sake of a long, comfortable life. When God calls, a prophet leaves behind the trappings of the good life, and goes to the people, and delivers God’s message, come what may.    

In the long run, we shall know them by their fruits, as biblical wisdom advises. The Word of God will not be deterred. It will achieve fruition, and that is the evidence of a prophet’s authenticity. Nazism was defeated, and Europe was made safe again for Jews and other decimated minorities. In our country, segregation was dismantled, opening possibilities for full citizenship for all Americans. From our 21^st-century perspective we can see the fruit of faithful prophecy mature.

That is good news for us. Prophecy is serious work. It is not for the faint of heart, or the ne’er-do-well, because the kind of change that God has in mind for this world that he loves so dearly is expensive. And yet, thank God, there are men and women who step forward when called, and say, “Here am I. Send me.”[3] Through them God speaks to us, and urges us to join in the effort to advance the peaceable kingdom. Our job is to pay attention, and remain open, to hearing what his spokesmen say. That is no easy task; our need to preserve the status quo is strong. But then there is the grace of God that helps the Word break through our defenses. It is a costly grace; it comes to us in the form of a cross. But it is truth and it is life – for us and for all of God’s people. Through that precious grace, the message speaks. It says: “Christian, follow me.” Shall we?

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.      

A Sermon for the Fifth  Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 8 – Year B – 01 July 2012

Eleanor Lee Wellford, Associate Rector

__________

As you excel in everything– in faith, in speech, in knowledge, in utmost eagerness, and in our love for you– so we want you to excel also in this generous undertaking.

I do not say this as a command, but I am testing the genuineness of your love against the earnestness of others. For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich. And in this matter I am giving my advice: it is appropriate for you who began last year not only to do something but even to desire to do something– now finish doing it, so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it according to your means. For if the eagerness is there, the gift is acceptable according to what one has– not according to what one does not have. I do not mean that there should be relief for others and pressure on you, but it is a question of a fair balance between your present abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance. As it is written,

“The one who had much did not have too much,
and the one who had little did not have too little.”

 -2 Corinthians 8:7-15

Being the youngest of 4 children certainly had its advantages when I was growing up.  But one of the biggest disadvantages of being the youngest was that I was also the “littlest.”  I had to have help reaching things, climbing up on things, lifting things and I felt like I was running hard to keep up with everyone else in my family even if we were just walking. 

 I was also among the littlest in my class in elementary school which really took its toll on me on the playground, particularly when it came to the something I rarely see anymore – the see saw.   I used to love the seesaw, though, but to be really fun, the weight had to be somewhat balanced so that the each person sitting on one of the ends could spend just as much time up in the air as back down again.  And as little as I was, no one wanted to be on the other end with me because I didn’t have enough weight to keep them up in the air for long!   

 Balance can be hard to attain and when I think of balance, I can’t help but think of scales – perhaps even the scales of justice.  And in that sense, balance becomes a measure of fairness.

 In his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul had something to say about balance.  “It is a question of fair balance” he wrote, “between your present abundance and (the needs of others), so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance.” (2Corinthians 8:13-14). 

 So, what is Paul saying here and why is he saying it?  Actually, I think he’s giving a specific message – a stewardship message; and he’s giving it to the early Christian church in Corinth.  He’s trying to raise money for the church inJerusalemwhich he called his “Jerusalem Project”.  He’s asking those who are affluent to give to those who aren’t.  It’s really a timeless message but as Paul found out even then, and as we know today, it wasn’t a message people want to hear very often.  

 In Paul’s day, Corinth was a prosperous port city.  Its strategic location brought thousands of settlers from all over the Mediterranean and many of them became wealthy.  The city was also known for its immorality since traders not only brought their trades with them but also the various gods and beliefs of their cults.  (EfM, Year 2, New Testament pg. 317).

 One of the earliest Christian churches that Paul founded was in Corinth and most of its members were Gentiles of various social backgrounds and beliefs – although some were well-established Jews.  We can only imagine what that church must have gone through to find its place in such a complex community and how hard it must have been for Paul to stay in touch with it when he wasn’t living there.   

 If nothing else, Paul wanted the members of his early churches to know that a follower of Christ was one who “loves God…one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist” (1 Cor 8:3, 6; cf. 1:3).  It’s the belief on which Paul based his entire ministry.   

 The collection for the church in Jerusalem was a major project of Paul’s ministry.  For him, it represented a genuine need of the church and he believed it was the responsibility of those followers of Christ to help serve that need.  He also saw it as a way to build fellowship among various churches and among their Jewish and Gentile Christian members.  Paul asked each of his churches to pledge money to what he called “the poor among the saints in Jerusalem” (Romans 15:26).

 We get the sense, though, that this project was not going very well in Corinth– that there were people who were resisting making good on pledges they had made over a year ago.  Paul was walking a fine line between asking for what was needed and possibly alienating his church in Corinth by his asking.  It was definitely a balancing act.

 Earlier in Paul’s letter we find out about another balancing act, and that was that Paul had used the Corinthians’ eagerness in pledging to get another church – the church in Macedonia- to do the same thing.  As it turned out, the Macedonians not only pledged enthusiastically based on what they heard their Corinthian brothers and sisters were doing, but had actually made good on their pledges.  It was the Corinthians who were dragging their feet.

As is usually the case with events that happened a long time ago, they can be eerily similar and relevant to circumstances in our lives today.  We can just imagine the reasons that the Corinthians were coming up with for not supporting Paul in his project.  Reasons such as: I only give to local causes because I want to see how my money is spent; or I don’t have enough money as it is to support the lifestyle I want, why would I want to give any of it to someone else; or I’m already helping others by all the taxes I have to pay.  Or finally, what difference would my little bit of money make to such a big need?

I heard some of these reasons in my own family when I was growing up.  My parents were small givers relative to their means.  They gave the same amount year after year and they gave out of a sense of responsibility more than gratefulness.  And what they did give, they wanted to control by targeting it to the buildings and grounds.  For a time in their lives, what they gave to church was proportional to what they got from church – which wasn’t much.  It took until late in their lives before their involvement there became meaningful enough for them to want to give back in a meaningful way.  It was a balance that they were finally able and thankful to achieve – but it wasn’t easy.

When I returned to church after college, I patterned my giving after what I had seen my parents do.  But instead of giving the same amount year after year, I did something different.  I gave to the church what was left over after I had paid all of the expenses associated with my lifestyle.  It wasn’t until I became involved in the community life, initially through the music program which led to involvement elsewhere in the church that I changed the way and the reason for giving.  It was a deliberate response to the way the community of church had immeasurably enriched my life.  It was in gratitude for what I had received and still is.

The Macedonians suffered from poverty yet they were eager and thankful for what they referred to as a “privilege” – the privilege of sharing in the Jerusalem collection for the poor.  According to Paul, this group of believers had received an abundance of grace from God and were so aware of it that they responded in thankfulness for what they believed God was doing in the world.  By contrast, the Corinthians, who were quite well off for the most part, were pledging out of a sense of duty which, I think, might have made it easier for them to renege on their pledge than if they had viewed pledging as a privilege.  (Smyth and Helwys Publishing: Macon, Georgia, 2009: Smyth and Helwys Bible Commentary 2 Corinthians, pp. 156-158).

Paul called them out on it, though.  “And in this matter” he said, “I am giving my advice; it is appropriate for you who began last year… to desire to do something – (to) now finish doing it so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it according to your means” (2 Corinthians 8:10).  In other words, it’s time to pay up!

 Using the rival Macedonians as an example, Paul may well have been trying to teach the Corinthians what happens when we become aware of God working among us.  The result is grateful generosity and I think that might be the concept of fair balance to which Paul was referring.    

 Paul was trying to be persuasive in balancing the abundance of the members of his churches such as in Macedonia and Corinthwith the needs of the poor in Jerusalem.  I actually think that’s a harder balance to attain than trying to balance the difference the community of church has made in our lives to what we give back in gratefulness for that gift.

 When it comes to abundance in our lives, which can certainly take many forms, maybe we should try visualizing those scales of justice – or maybe even the seesaw that seems to have become extinct.  Heap up on one side all the many ways we have been touched by grace in this community we call St. Mary’s.  Then visualize on the other side what we have given back in terms of time, talent and treasure.  And finally, ask the question Paul was asking his congregations: how balanced is it?

A Sermon for the 4th Sunday after Pentecost

Year B – Proper 7 – 24 June 2012

John Edward Miller, Rector

Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind:

“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me. Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements– surely you know! Or who stretched the line upon it? On what were its bases sunk, or who laid its cornerstone when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy? Or who shut in the sea with doors when it burst out from the womb? – when I made the clouds its garment, and thick darkness its swaddling band, and prescribed bounds for it, and set bars and doors, and said, “Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped’?”

                                                                                                                          – Job 38:1-11

When evening had come, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

                                                                                                                       – Mark 4:35-41

The Collect

O Lord, make us have perpetual love and reverence for your holy Name, for you never fail to help and govern those whom you have set upon the sure foundation of your loving­kindness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

“Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

 That’s what Jesus’ very own disciples yelled at him over the roar of wind and pounding waves. Their outcry reflected their fear and frustration. The boat was sinking despite their efforts to ride out the gale. And so, the disciples were desperate. In these dire conditions, they weren’t curbing their tongue. Faith wasn’t hanging in the balance; it was being blown away. Jesus’ teachings suddenly lost their appeal. The twelve now had one thing only on their mind: they wanted to survive, to be safe and sound, to be standing on terra firma again. As their wooden craft pitched and rolled with the swells, they were clinging to anything they could grab. They just wanted to avoid drowning.

Moreover, the disciples had turned to Jesus for help, and to their horror, they found him asleep. They couldn’t believe their eyes. All hell was breaking loose. The sea was about to swallow them whole. But their teacher was out like a light! All they could see was that Jesus had checked-out; it was as if he were no use to them in the crunch. Hopelessness covered them like a shroud. They were convinced that they were on their own to deal with their fate. And they were angry and afraid. That’s the context of the disciples’ outburst at the sleeping Jesus.

Their words strike us as harsh even 2000 years after they were shouted. But I suggest that we hold our judgment in abeyance, and consider that we’re in the same boat with the disciples. We’re human, and for us “to be or not to be” is always the question. Some degree of anxiety always accompanies us on life’s voyage. For we know that sudden storms arise, boats overturn, precious cargo spills out, and people are lost. These things happen, we are vulnerable, and life is fragile. This awareness strikes home from time to time. Rough conditions bring out basic emotions, and it is natural to express them. This is true for everyone; but the believer – the one who counts on God – feels even sharper pangs of confusion and loss than those who have nothing to believe in. We who rely on goodness and mercy may find the need to shake our fist at life’s unfairness, or at God, whom we expect to have a steady hand on the helm.   

Have you ever felt that kind of fear, or been that frantic? I certainly have. I remember writing a sermon based on today’s lesson during the summer of 1997. I entitled it, “Don’t You Care?” For me it wasn’t a rhetorical question expecting a positive answer. It was an existential one – a deeply personal question that I was directing to God. And I was expecting an answer from God, just as the disciples did, and just as Job did long before us all. But the answer I was longing for was some clarity, an explanation of what was going on.

You see, life and death were on the line that summer. My wife was being treated for an aggressive cancerous tumor. Her situation struck me as so grossly unfair that I became paralyzed by thoughts and fears that I tried not to entertain. It wasn’t that I questioned God’s goodness, or God’s intentions; and it wasn’t that I doubted the power of compassion – God’s suffering with us. Those things were rock solid. My beliefs were not shaken. Rather, it was the feeling of profound disappointment that rolled over me like a tidal wave. I was disappointed that life couldn’t have been better designed, and better managed, so that the innocent would not suffer such pain.

Silence replaced words; I couldn’t find my voice – the voice I’ve counted on in my professional life. My intuition told me I was not alone, but the facts of my existence told me otherwise. I needed to relocate the love that I feared I’d lost.

That’s when the crucifix took on a whole new meaning for me. Throughout my life, I have been more attracted to Bethlehem than to Golgatha. The manger of the Christ child connects easily and directly to me. Of course, the cross of Christ affects me deeply too. But I find a steady diet of Good Friday is hard to digest. Babies are God’s language; they are fresh starts for the human race, brand new incarnations of hope. Christ crucified is about suffering and death – God’s, and ours. The crucifix makes that statement starkly. It is the icon of a brutal execution – a roughly cut wooden cross bearing the body of Christ, which hangs lifeless after enduring excruciating pain. Our Lord’s head, flopped forward onto his chest, is crowned with the thorns of mockery, his hands and feet are pierced by handmade nails, and his torso shows the insult of a Roman soldier’s spear. This is a powerful image. To gaze upon it is to have his suffering seared on one’s consciousness. So most of us take it in measured doses.

And yet the manger and the cross of Christ belong together. They proclaim the same message: God is with us. But when our vision is obscured, when our understanding is stunned by shock and fear, it is hard to take in that message of comfort.

Nevertheless, God with us is the way; God is the truth; and God is and the life. Jesus reveals that to us, and calls us to pay attention. From the beginning to end, his presence among us was meant to save us.

To order chaos in human life, God has to transform it. And to do that, God becomes one of us, and shares our lot. He endures what we endure, and suffers as we suffer, dying our death, — offering us his steady presence in the midst of what we can hardly understand. The thing about God’s love is that it reshapes what is flying apart into something whole, something good. In Christ there is a new creation. The old passes away; and look, the new has come.

So how does that happen, we might ask. Does the Lord ride to the rescue like the cavalry arriving in the nick of time to save fort Apache? Does Jesus don a cape and mask, is he faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and is he able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Is God the super-hero always there to catch us when we fall?

In ancient Greek drama, there was a literary (and mechanical) device called the deus ex machina. By means of it the playwright lowers a god by boom and crane onto the stage, saving the drama from collapse. When all seems lost, this is the way to safety and resolution. Many a modern Christian prays that God has just such a plan in mind. You might call it a theological “on demand” feature. If we have the right plastic, and the right pass code, we can treat God like an ATM and draw out just the right amount of saving grace when and where we need it.      

We believe that “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”[1] The question is what form does his help take? Here is what the Psalmist said about God’s help:

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,

     though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;

though its waters roar and foam,

     though the mountains tremble with its tumult.

                                                                         – Psalm 46:2-3

But what did the poet mean? Did he assume that God would come charging in with “Rescue 911” heroics? That is the desired popular expectation. Apparently, that is exactly what the disciples thought, despite what Jesus had been teaching them about God’s ways.

 From this episode in Mark’s Gospel, it is obvious that the disciples regarded their relationship with Jesus as a kind of insurance. Our brothers in the boat were turning to Jesus for protection. They thought that being close to him was a guarantee of security. And that’s how many of us regard the purpose of being “sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked as Christ’s own forever.” The great temptation of religion is to think that faith should be doing something practical for us – like insulating us from hurt and pain, and providing life preservers on demand.

“Don’t you care that we are perishing?” is a question that dominates the Book of Job. Its very presence in biblical literature tells us that people of faith have been trying to figure out the relationship of God to the issue of suffering and loss for millennia. Job doesn’t doubt God’s lordship over creation. What he does question, however, is God’s fairness. Religious dogma taught that tragedy is the just consequence for sin. But Job protests that he has led a decent and reputable life. So, he demands an explanation for the suffering he has endured.

In 1978, a prominent Boston rabbi named Harold Kushner picked up where Job left off. He wrote about his own struggle with unfairness in a little book entitled, When Bad Things Happen to Good People. It struck a responsive chord among people of faith, and I still recommend it when people ask for help with their own pain. Rabbi Kushner’s book is about how he coped with the suffering of his son, Aaron, who died of progeria (rapid aging disease) at age 14. It remained on all the best-seller lists for months. Readers bought the book because they wanted to know where God is when we need him the most. In anguish and pain, people want to know the whereabouts of their protector.     

 The disciples found Jesus asleep, and not at the helm. They voiced their disappointment, and he responded. Jesus awoke and stilled the storm, helping his companions likewise to “remain calm and carry on.” He asked them the key questions – the ones that we need to consider in any crisis. He said, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

If these questions perplex us, it’s because they run counter to our deep desires. It may be that are still banking on the notion that God is the divine magician, the one who can interrupt the natural order and force it to do anything he pleases. We presuppose that God’s power can coerce nature to do our bidding, to quell our storms, to calm our rough seas. Wistfully, we still ask God to bridge the gaps of life, to deflect its hazards, and to make us immune to its perils. When we are in desperate straits, we look for protection. If it is not forthcoming, we are tempted to complain, “Don’t you care?”           

 The question is basic; it comes from deep inside us. And it is good that we ask it out loud, because it’s a prayer, something that our heart longs to say to God. We are God’s children; we are precious in his sight; and we know that God will come to us, and be with us, even and especially when we are in trouble. Jesus reminds us of that. He is our Immanuel, our God with us. His response to our question is, “Don’t be afraid; trust in the goodness of God.” He takes our hand, puts it back on the helm, and guides us back to the right course. Serenity fills our sails, and all matter of things will be well.

Episcopalians have a basic resource in matters affecting our life. It is The Book of Common Prayer, the repository of our tradition’s grasp of God’s Word and our experience of God’s presence. The prayer book contains liturgies for a variety of times and seasons. Every liturgy is a guide. My parson Holt Souder taught me that. He said that our liturgies are like an old horse that knows the path. Holt said, “We may be close to falling out of the saddle, but the old horse keeps on trotting until we get home safely.”

This morning, our guide is the liturgy of Holy Baptism. Moments ago, the celebrant asked the candidate a number of crucial questions. They are reminders that, in Christ, God is with us. He is with us in the manger; he is with us at Golgatha; and he is with us at the empty tomb. His Spirit enables us to give voice to all our questions, and to hear God’s reply.

The celebrant’s three initial questions call for the renunciation of evil. These are clear enough. Before we pledge allegiance to Christ, we must renounce our ties to anything that rivals or challenges God’s realm of love. It is essential that we do this, because we need to have this storm stilled in order to continue our journey homeward.

 Next there are three questions that describe the goal of our liturgy:

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?[2] 

 These queries offer us an indispensable view of God’s role in everyday life. They tell us what God expects of us and what we should expect of God. This is especially true of the second question. It does not ask: “Do you put your whole trust in his protective power?” Rather, it asks to trust totally God’s grace and love. Baptism is our immersion in life, not protection from it.     

The Gospel tells us that if we trust his grace and love, we put our final confidence in God’s ability to create order out of our chaos. God’s power is the power to transform evil into good. He does not do so from afar, pulling strings like Giappetto. On the contrary, the Good News is that we are never left to face the rigors of life alone. God is with us; he rides with us in the same boat.

  In Christ, God renders himself vulnerable to every fear, every loss, every pain that we experience. He goes the distance with us, even to the point of death. But commiseration is not his final word. It is his power to redeem even the worst, to transform our pain and fear, to bring life out of death. Our Lord asks us not to fear him, but to trust him. We are not alone; God’s love will never let us go. That is the truth, and that is enough to cling to and rely upon in the fiercest of storms. Amen.