Month: October 2012

A Sermon for the 20^th Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 23 – Year B – RCL – 14 October 2012

John Edward Miller, Rector

Then Job answered:
“Today also my complaint is bitter;
his hand is heavy despite my groaning.
Oh, that I knew where I might find him,
that I might come even to his dwelling!

I would lay my case before him,
and fill my mouth with arguments.
I would learn what he would answer me,
and understand what he would say to me.

Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power?
No; but he would give heed to me.

There an upright person could reason with him,
and I should be acquitted forever by my judge.  

“If I go forward, he is not there;
or backward, I cannot perceive him;
on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him;
I turn to the right, but I cannot see him.

God has made my heart faint;
the Almighty has terrified me;
If only I could vanish in darkness,
and thick darkness would cover my face!”

                                                                                                               –         Job 23:1-9, 16-17

 The Collect

Lord, we pray that your grace may always precede and follow us, that we may continually be given to good works; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

A recent Peanuts comic strip featured a classic response to the problem of pain. Linus has gotten a splinter while climbing over rail fencing with Charlie Brown. When Lucy approaches and notices Linus’ problem, she begins to pontificate. “Ah ha!” she cries, “That means you’re being punished for something!” Then she questions the suffering Linus, saying, “What have you done wrong lately?” Linus, who is surprised at her callous question, replies vigorously. “I haven’t done ANYTHING wrong!” he shouts. Not being one who likes having her opinions challenged, Lucy bears down on the evidence. She states, “You have a sliver, haven’t you? That’s a misfortune, isn’t it? You’re being punished with misfortune because you’ve been bad!”

Charlie Brown tries to come to Linus’ defense, but is quickly cut off at the knees. Lucy bellows at him, “What do you know about it, Charlie Brown? This is a sign! This is a direct sign of punishment! Linus has done something very wrong, and now he has to suffer misfortune!” Then she berates them both, shouting, “I know all about these things! I know that a . . .” Just then, Linus holds up his finger and proclaims, “It’s out! It just popped right out.” Annoyed, Lucy wheels around and begins to walk away from the scene. Linus smirks a little as he follows her with the words: “Thus endeth the theological lesson for today!”[1]

It may have ended for Linus and Charlie Brown, but the “lesson” Lucy sought to drive home has been difficult to remove from our thinking. For at least the last 3000 years, the idea of just deserts has been growing like kudzu in our collective consciousness. When pain and suffering strike, the knee jerk reflex is to ask, “What have I done to deserve this?” The assumption that we get what we deserve is ancient, and it is persistent. The reason is that we humans have always hoped that our experience is not  random or accidental, but that that there is a logical mind or just principle governing our existence. As Rabbi Kushner is fond of saying, “People like to think that someone’s driving the bus.”

In the biblical context, that someone is the LORD of hosts, the Maker of heaven and earth. Through the ministry of Moses, the God of Israel has revealed and given his people the Law as the guide to a righteous and holy life. The Law is set forth in commandments that are often introduced by the words, “thou shalt” and “thou shalt not.” These rules are not suggestions; they are imperatives. The God who creates us and calls us to community requires moral responsibility in return. The Book of Deuteronomy describes what happens when we heed, or ignore, the Law. It sets up a cause and effect principle of justice that is directly correlated with our behavior. The Deuteronomic principle states that obeying the Law brings blessing, and disobedience brings disaster – the curse of retribution. It’s that simple. Like the law of karma, it says, “you reap what you sow.”    

But what if you’ve tried hard to live a decent life, and you’ve obeyed all the rules, kept your permanent record clean, and find out that you’re fatally ill? Or lose the most precious person in your life? Or discover that something beyond your control causes the demise of everything that you’ve worked for? The Deuteronomic principle says that these things were not accidents – i.e., that they just “happened,” but that they were the just reward for something bad that you did.

 Job is the story of someone in that very situation. His was the biblical voice of everyone who suffers but refuses to accept that he has caused his own tragedy. Given the endurance of Deuteronomy’s view, which offers a simplistic formula that blames the victim, it is a miracle that the Book of Job – with its push back against insensitive legalism – is in the same Bible as the Book of Deuteronomy.  And yet, there they are, in the same Old Testament by the grace of God. Perhaps that it is a witness to divine inspiration of the Scriptures. Balance is a good thing; it enables us to take a more comprehensive look at complex issues, rather than to grasp the easier view, and hold fast, sacrificing people to support an unbending principle.

 Job knew himself; he was not blinded by denial. He had done no wrong, and deserved no punishment. He had suffered the loss of virtually everyone and everything important to him. Further, he had been afflicted with a loathsome skin ailment that made his misery visible for all to see and scoff at. In keeping with his core beliefs, Job attributed his suffering to God’s will. To his mind that would have been the only cause of pain to consider. God was the LORD of creation, and no other power could have done this. Still, Job refrained from blaming God, saying, “Though he slay me yet will I trust in him.”[2] His patience became a legendary virtue typifying longsuffering faith.

 However, a group of “friends” would not allow Job to cope silently with his pain. Their visits to the grieving Job had little to do with care and much to do with torture. Each friend was certain of himself, never doubting that the Deuteronomic principle was accurate and airtight. The point of coming to Job was to convince him that he had done something to deserve his afflictions, and then to persuade him to repent of the evil. In other words, the friends were like Lucy in the Peanuts comic. Only Job’s condition, unlike Linus’, did not improve. And the friends nearly destroyed him with their relentless battering. Nevertheless, Job never caved. He was innocent, and his protest courageously maintained that position.

Job was confused about God’s part in his suffering. He refused to reject God, despite the injustice of his fate. Instead, his reaction to his friends’ analysis was to seek an audience with God. In this morning’s text we hear Job’s insistence that he needs to go to God’s house to find him. The language is very down to earth. Job’s longing is to go up to God’s door and knock until God opens up and stands there face-to-face with his plaintive servant. It’s clear that Job expects God to be there, to hear him out, and to answer his questions. What is more, it’s obvious that Job expects God to be just and righteous, as well as attentive and receptive to his needs.

But the problem is that Job doesn’t know where God lives. And he is so worn out from having insult after insult piled onto his horrific injuries that he’s reached the breaking point. He says that his “complaint is bitter,” because search as he may, he could not locate God’s whereabouts and there argue his case. His frustration has tumbled into disappointment; his spirit has sunk into despair. Job can’t find God, the one with the answer to his perplexity. He feels mistreated, isolated, and angry. All he wants now is to disappear into the darkness that has descended upon his life. At that moment for him, all was lost.   

“Where is God?”

Elie Wiesel heard that question at an execution. He was a prisoner of the Nazis, interned at a concentration camp. And yet he had committed no crime; he was an innocent teenage boy. The only reason for his being in that death camp was that he is Jewish.

The scene where the question arose was awful. It took the rigors of concentration camp subsistence to a new depth of horror. Three men had been accused of stealing, and they were swiftly and coldly condemned to death by hanging. Two of the accused were fully grown; the other was a frail youth. The whole camp was ordered to watch the execution. It was supposed to teach everyone an object lesson about stealing.

When the platform dropped beneath the feet of the three hapless individuals, the two heavier men died quickly; their fall made their agony brief. However, the youth was not so lucky. His slim frame worked against him. When the rope tightened, he simply choked; his neck was not broken. Slow suffocation prolonged his suffering.

Meanwhile the other prisoners watched. It was a maddening spectacle, and the injustice of it, combined with the prisoners’ helplessness to stop the boy’s pain, made the experience excruciating to witness.

Elie Wiesel was haunted by the memory of that horrifying scene. It was etched on his memory with an iron pen. He recalled hearing the complaint of someone in the crowd on that awful day. The voice kept on asking, “Where is God? Where is God? Where is God now?” And he also remembers a voice rising up within him – a voice that took the complainer’s cry to the heart of darkness. His inner voice grimly shouted, “He is there on the gallows.”[3]

Elie Wiesel’s judgment told him that, based on the evidence available, God was dead. Or, it may have meant that there was no God at all. His pronouncement was made in the midst of fear, and loss, and death. During that time in Elie Wiesel’s youth, it was perpetually night. There was no light, only darkness; he could not see. And locating God’s whereabouts in that context seemed to be futile and absurd.

Elie Wiesel was Job when he considered that question. But he when he answered it, he and Job parted company, at least for a while. As bad as it got for Job, with all of the loss and torment, he never gave up on God. In fact, he implored God to come down, and explain what in the name of all that is holy was going on.

And, you know, the most amazing thing happened: God came, and spoke to Job. That part of the story is hugely significant. Beyond all of the hurt and disappointment that Job absorbed, there was a spiritual threat to his existence. Job’s faith was under attack. He was a victim of evil; his very being, which was characterized by patient trust in his LORD, had been subjected to withering fire. Not only was he barraged by the opinions of unhelpful interpreters, but he was also wounded by the contradiction between religious doctrine and his experience. Job believed that the innocent do not suffer; but he was innocent, and he was suffering. That fundamental disconnect compounded the tragedies that had shaken his foundations. The temptation to throw in the towel loomed. His vision was clouded, his outlook darkened, but Job did not give up. Even though he could not reach out and grab God as he reeled from the hits he was taking, Job lifted up his weary head and prayed. He shouted out his plea for God to come, and brighten his gloom.

And the LORD showed up. In response to Job’s prayer God appeared. His presence was light enough to pierce the darkness. It gave Job assurance that he was not alone in his suffering. It showed him that God was with him, rather than against him. It revealed that God is a pain-sharer, not an unfeeling dispenser of cruel punishment. Those indispensable disclosures from God shone through the gloom, and helped Job to heal. His losses were real; they hurt him mightily. But God’s radiant being, which was there all along, enabled Job to put his awful memories in a safe place where the pain would not destroy him. 

As they walked along a Judean road, Jesus and his disciples came upon a blind beggar. The poor man had never had sight, and that prompted the disciples to ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”[4] Jesus replied, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”

With that kind of teaching Jesus took the Job story to a very personal conclusion. Job pushed back against the prevailing doctrine that people get what they deserve in this life. Jesus demolished it. But he did so not simply with words, as a philosopher or theologian might have. Jesus was the answer that the disciples were looking for. In him the Word became flesh; his being was full of grace and truth. He was God’s full disclosure of light – a light that is sufficient to dispel the deepest darkness.

The disciples looked at the man born blind and saw only sin. Jesus looked at the man and saw a person, a precious child of God. And he regarded him as a sufferer rather than an outcast. That’s why he stopped when the man called out to him for help. That’s why he touched the man, and prayed for light to shine in his darkness. The Word that became flesh is God’s gift of himself. It is God’s “compassion,” his “suffering with” the experiences we encounter daily. That godly presence, that gracious act of “being there,” does not deny pain. It affirms it, comforts it, and helps to heal it.

Where is God when we need him? He is with us, feeling what we feel, thinking what we think, enduring what we endure. His compassion is not just a thought, or a quaint sentiment. It is personal. It is real. It is there on the cross.

That is something to ponder, and to savor, because it is the way, the truth, and the life. Amen.     

A Sermon for the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Year B – September 30, 2012

David H. Knight,  Priest Associate

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer. Amen.

There are so many things that clamor to be said when it comes to the matter of prayer which is at the heart of today’s reading from the letter of James who writes,

“Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven…” James 5:13-15

 Among the things that Jeannie acquired from her mother is a little framed piece of needlepoint beautifully done with the inscription, “Life is fragile, handle it with prayer.”  We hear again from James words that speak to the very core of our being. Today’s reading continues the promise of which John spoke in his sermon last week—that  God is always there, seeking to heal, forgive and redeem us and inviting us to remain close to God in the midst of all. Today’s reading invites us to draw near to God in prayer.

 There are, as we experience, many forms of prayer. There are the beautifully crafted prayers found in our Prayer Book both for use in our common worship as well as use in our private devotions. Some of the prayers are ones we remember from childhood.  They are prayers that remain a source of strength even to our last days.  Some of my fondest memories of the last years with my father when he was a resident in healthcare at Westminster Canterbury were Sunday nights when we would spend time together as he was retiring for the night. While my dad never lost his dignity or his grace, or his ability to relate to people in his gentle way, his memory loss progressed during his final days. There were those times when he thought I was his brother, Franklin. I considered that an honor as Uncle Franklin was a fine man. One Saturday afternoon, I took my father to a car show of Buicks here in town. As we drove there that day he was thinking I was his brother. When we got to the show I spotted a beautifully restored 1936 Buick that I thought was like the  ’36 Buick he once had. I pointed it out to him and we went over see it. He looked at it and said, “But mine didn’t have the side mounts this one has.” (For those of you who are unenlightened about side mounts, they were spare tires in the front fenders) You see, the important stuff was still there, etched in his memory. That I was his son was less clear that day, but that was OK. He enjoyed the car show and we had a good time, and most of all he knew his cars.  But on Sunday nights, I would sit at his bedside as he went off to sleep as was our ritual. As I would be getting ready to leave I would say, “Dad, would you like to have a prayer together before I go?” He would say yes and invariably he would ask, “Do you live here now?” I would tell him yes and simply take his hand and start that familiar prayer for the evening, “O Lord, support us all the day long until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes…”  Dad would immediately join in and recite with me every word as this prayer was etched in his memory from childhood. We would continue together, “and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in thy mercy, grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last. Amen.” And a sense of peace would come over him and he would rest. Such beautiful prayers these are, many of them learned on our mother’s knee or early in life, prayers that sustain us throughout our lives.

 There are many settings in which our prayers are voiced and heard by God such as the prayers we offer here this morning, or at home at our bedside or in any number of settings and places.  I recall what Bishop Alexander Stewart once said to a group of us newly ordained priests as he offered to us his wisdom on spiritual discipline. This was back in 1972 when I was a young, impressionable priest, eager to learn, and eager to emulate those who were my heroes.  (I hope I’m still eager to learn!) Bishop Stewart, of whom you have heard me speak was among those I deeply admired. He was a great pastor to his clergy, a great preacher, and, perhaps—just perhaps— one of the most creative drivers behind the wheel of a car in all ofWestern Massachusetts.  It was documented, for example, that he could leave the Cathedral inSpringfieldand arrive at any parish in the diocese of Western Massachusetts, a large geographical area, within 11 minutes. Driving in his 1971 Audi 100 LS 2-door coupe affectionately known throughout the diocese as “The Silver Bullet”,  he would simply adjust his ground speed accordingly. On occasion, if he had to travel the Massachusetts Turnpike, it might have taken him an additional seven minutes as he was, from time to time, invited to pull over and participate in a roadside interview with one of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts’ Finest. In any case, those of us who came under Bishop Stewart’s tutelage strived to emulate him in any way we could so that we too could become good priests, even if not bishops ourselves. I thought, therefore, that if I drove like Bishop Stewart, I too could become a fine priest. But back to his wisdom on spiritual discipline:  I remember him telling us one time that as clergy we would be spending a lot of time behind the wheel of our cars driving to hospitals and parish visitations and that this would be a good time to be in conversation with God.  It would provide us time to say our prayers. Some time thereafter, I shared that wisdom in a sermon I was preaching at St. Stephen’s in Westborough. My sermon was about prayer and after the service, at the door, a dear lady, a very thoughtful lady, a lady whose devotion and whose faith I admired, said to me, “David that was a magnificent sermon today.” Well, as you can imagine I could not have been more pleased. Coming from this lady, this was a compliment any preacher would covet. And then she added in a matter-of-fact tone, “And David, the way you drive, it’s a darn good thing you pray behind the wheel.” My elation was short lived as I began to pick up what she was putting down for me to hear. But having said that, the fact remains that the settings and circumstances for our prayers are as varied as they can be. Praying behind the wheel is a great place to have a conversation with God.

 Life indeed is fragile and we must handle it with Prayer.

 In these verses James offers examples the different occasions of prayer. Someone long ago suggested that prayers could be broken down to four categories, adoration, confession, thanksgiving, and supplication. We can see these in evidence both in our life in the church and within our personal lives.  These are the prayers that are spoken either by us or for us by others. There are those times when we give thanks, other times when our prayers of supplication call upon God for something we seek for ourselves or for others. But then, then, there is yet another kind of prayer that bears mentioning, a form which perhaps all too often we overlook or don’t recognize, yet it is a form of prayer that God hears. It is a form of prayer that happens during those times in our lives when we think we are unable to pray. It is those inarticulate groans we utter at times when we are in despair.  We do not think of our groaning as prayer yet it is, and it is amazing how scripture provides evidence that it is. The psalmist writes, “O Lord, you know all my desires, and my sighing is not hidden from you.”(Psalm 39:6)  Jesus groaned within himself because of the pain of seeing his friend Lazarus dead. In his letter to the church gathered inRome, Paul reminds us that the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.  The instances of God’s people groaning in the bible indicate that God does hear our groans of pain and suffering. It is a physiological dynamic, for example, that a person in grief over loss will be given to frequent sighs, often unable to articulate in words the depth of their despair.  Those sighs are, in fact, a form of prayer and God hears those inarticulate sighs every bit as much as God hears our prayers delivered in the beauty of Elizabethan language from our Prayer Book.  

 Life indeed is fragile, and God hears our prayers in whatever form they take.

 The church, as a praying community engages, in all forms of prayers. Those names we include in the Prayers of the People are people who so often tell us how much it means to them to know that their parish is praying for them. Our prayers for them help to sustain them in ways we sometimes may never know. There are times when we are unable to pray for ourselves. We find strength in the knowledge that we are remembered each Sunday by the community of he faithful around us.  I remember visiting the bedside of Bishop John Baden, my beloved predecessor as rector of Christ Church and later suffragan bishop of Virginia.  When he retired, he was looking forward to raising sheep on his farm in Bunker Hill, West Virginia, a natural for him as he was a true shepherd. His journey, however, would take a sudden turn as he was diagnosed with a virulent form of cancer.  I saw him shortly following his surgery at the Winchester Hospital. He said to me, “Boy, (he often called me “boy”) you’re all going to have to pray for me because I cannot pray for myself .” He was just devastated. Now this was coming from a servant of God with a vision for the church who had a deep faith. He was a shepherd to so many, but now, he could not pray for himself. I assured him of our prayers.  Some time later, I was visiting him one snowy afternoon in his home in Bunker Hill. There was a nice fire in the fireplace as the wind and snow howled outside. Bishop Baden was cheerful that day. He looked at me and said, “You know those prayers you all have been offering?” I said, “Yes, Bishop.” He said, “Those prayers are helping. I still have the cancer and it’s not going away, but those prayers are what are keeping me going, and I am most grateful.” God heard his inarticulate groans and God heard the prayers of the church. These prayers ultimately sustained this man throughout his journey.  I asked him if it was OK for me to share that with others and he said yes, and I share it with you again now these years later, for his story bears testimony that God hears our prayers in whatever form they are offered, even when cannot articulate them ourselves.

One final thought: Those prayer shawls that some of you so beautifully knit are a form of prayer that brings comfort to those who receive them. Knitting them can even be a form of prayer as you might be thinking of those who will receive them.  Prayer changes lives, our own, and the lives of others. Prayer empowers us to draw near to God and be sustained through all that life can bring.

 As life is fragile, let us have the grace to handle it with prayer.  Amen.