A Place to Meet (Nov 18 2012)

Homily:   Yr B Proper 33, Nov 18 2012, St. Albans

Readings:  1 Sam 1.4-20, 1 Sam 2:1-10; Hebrews 10:11-25; Mark 13:1-8

To those of you who are visiting with us here today as we celebrate the completion of our renovations, may I say thank you.

And to those of us who have been here throughout the construction of the last year, I think that most of us simply want to say, at last!  At last we’re done with the dust.  At last, we’re ready to open up our church building seven days a week.  At last, we’re ready to welcome Centre 454 as they move in downstairs this week.

Is it just me, or does anyone else find it ironic that on the day that we’re celebrating the renovation of this building of St. Albans, we get a gospel reading where Jesus predicts the destruction of the Temple.  That on a day when I’m encouraging you to appreciate the beauty and architecture of this building, we read about Jesus’ disciples marveling at the beauty and architecture of the Temple buildings in Jerusalem – and then Jesus responds that not one stone of those great buildings will be left standing.

People love big stones.  I did a quick search this week for the world’s top tourist sites, and the lists that Google came up with were dominated by big stone monuments.  The Pyramids in Egypt.  The Great Wall of China.  The Taj Mahal.  The Roman Colisseum.  The Acropolis. Machu Picchu.  There’s something about looking at these massive monuments, monuments to human ingenuity and achievement that appeals to us.  It fills us with awe, and perhaps with a sense of reflected glory. 

In today’s gospel, it appears that the disciples of Jesus are having just that sort of experience.  Remember that they are young folk, from the distant rural area of Galilee.  Here they are in Jerusalem, the capital city, for the first time, and they’re looking at the great Temple built by King Herod.  The stones used for the temple walls were massive, eleven metres by five metres by four metres, and they were precisely shaped to fit together.  And the disciples look at them in amazement and they turn to Jesus and say, “Look, what large stones and what large buildings!”  And Jesus responds, “Do you see these great buildings?  Not one stone will be left, all will be thrown down.”

Now, the disciples immediately ask when?  When will this happen?  And that makes sense.  For those present on that day, the timing mattered, in fact it was a matter of life and death.  But our question isn’t “when?”  We know the answer to that question.  The Temple was destroyed by the Roman army in 70AD, just as Jesus had predicted, the final destructive act of a Jewish – Roman war. 

No, our question this morning isn’t when, but rather why?  Why was it that Jesus told his disciples that the temple would be destroyed.  It’s a question that has many answers, or perhaps it would be better to say an answer with many different layers.

Perhaps it’s simply that Jesus was able to see the hatred with which his own people regarded the Roman enemy, and he could foresee the inevitable consequences for a people who would choose the way of violent rebellion rather than the way of peace.

Or maybe Jesus is intending to make a statement about human achievement, to put it in context.  Despite the Temple’s appearance of permanence and solidity that so impressed the disciples, it was indeed destroyed within a generation as Jesus predicted.  The Temple construction began in 20 BC.  It was completed in 63AD.  It was destroyed seven years later.  Perhaps there is a lesson here for us about the fragility of human accomplishment and about the monuments we build in our own lives.

But the Temple was not just any monument or great building.  In the Jewish understanding, it was much, much more.  It was the place of God’s presence.  It was the centre of the world, the place where heaven and earth meet.  It was  where God and his people came together, the place where forgiveness, atonement and reconciliation happen.  And, as we heard in last week’s readings from the prophet Micah, the Temple was to be the place where all the nations of the earth would stream to receive instruction from the Lord and to learn the ways of peace.

In our Old Testament reading from Samuel this morning we get a glimpse of how the Temple was intended to function.  We hear the story of Hannah, a young woman who is unable to bear children.  In her world that meant insecurity.  It meant vulnerability.  It meant shame.  Hannah is depressed, anxious.  She weeps, she goes to the Temple.  There, she encounters God and pours out her soul to God in prayer.  She is blessed and she leaves Temple at peace.  The Temple, as a place and as a means of facilitating that transformative encounter between Hannah and God, was a good thing.

But by the day of Jesus, the Temple was a good thing which had gone bad.  Instead of serving as a means of reconciliation and a symbol of the relationship between God and the people, it had become a symbol of political power, a symbol of a hierarchical class system of insiders and outsiders, and a means of enriching the elite at the expense of the poor.  It was no longer envisioned as the mountain of peace to which all the nations would stream, but rather had become a symbol of violent national resistance.  Those great stones which Herod had used to build the Temple were intended to be a sign of Herod’s power, not of a restored relationship between God and his people.  And so Jesus prophesies its destruction, not simply as a prediction of future events but as a pronouncement of God’s judgement.  The temple has gone bad, it no longer serves as a means of reconciling God and humanity and so it must be destroyed and replaced by something new.  Again, there is perhaps a lesson for us here about our religious practices and our structures, about how they are constantly in need of renewal to bring them back to their intended purpose of helping to bring us into relationship with God and with each other.

Jesus however wasn’t talking about a program of reform.  The Temple will not be rebuilt – to this day it still hasn’t.  With the destruction of the Temple, the old world was coming to an end and a new world was being born.  In this new world, God and humanity meet not at the place of the Temple, but in the person of Jesus.  Or we might say, as we read in the gospel of John, the word which was God became flesh and dwelt among us.

Our relationship with God, our encounters with the divine are not restricted to any particular places or buildings.

Does that mean we should be tearing down our buildings?

Well, sometimes, yes!  If our church buildings become places of exclusion and oppression, if they become symbols of political power or violence, well then yes, maybe it would be best if they were torn down!

But the Hannah’s of this world need a safe place where they can go.  A sanctuary where they can come in as they are, in anxiety and despair, to be welcomed, to encounter God, to pour out their souls, to be blessed and then to go in peace.  That’s the sort of thing that has been happening within these walls for 145 years.  Not just on Sundays, but throughout the week.  Upstairs and downstairs.

It’s true that we can meet God anywhere.  But we do need a place to meet each other.  The author of the epistle to the Hebrews, reflecting on the new and living way of encountering God that has been provided in Jesus, still has the following advice for us:  Don’t forget to meet together!  And when you meet together, encourage one another and provoke one another to love and good deeds.  Since 1867, people have not only come to this place to meet God, but also to meet together, to encourage one another and to provoke one another to love and good deeds.  Not just on Sundays, but throughout the week.  Upstairs and downstairs. 

So would you do something for me.

I’d like you to turn to the people beside you, perhaps to people you don’t know, and to meet them.  And as you meet, perhaps you can encourage one another and provoke, inspire, encourage, one another to love and good deeds. 

(a time to meet)

We’ll have time for more of this later on.  But for now, thank you for getting our newly renovated building off to a good start.

Amen.

Why Do We Worry? (Thanksgiving, Oct 7 2012)

Homily:  Thanksgiving Sunday, Oct 7 2012, St. Albans

Rdgs:  Joel 2:21-27;Ps 126;1 Tim 2:1-7;Mt 6:25-33

Why do we worry?

I have a confession to make.  Sometimes I find it a challenge to take our Sunday readings and figure out how they are relevant for us today.  Jesus was after all, speaking to people of a different era, living in a different culture some 2000 years ago. 

But not today.  In today’s gospel it is as if Jesus is speaking directly to us, to our time and place.  “Do not worry,” Jesus says.  And he’s speaking to us.  There’s a lot of worrying going on in our world, in our community, in our homes.  So much so that one in nine of us will be diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at some point in our lives.  It is the most common of all mental illnesses in Canada.  We worry a lot, to the point where our worrying can overcome us.  Not only, as our gospel reminds us, can worrying not add a single hour to our lives, but it actually has the opposite effect.  Excessive worrying is a risk factor for heart disease, suppression of the immune system, digestive problems and short term memory loss.

What’s going on here?  Why do we worry so much?  It’s not because we’re bad people.  In fact if anything it’s the opposite.  We want good things in our lives, we want good things for those that we love, for our families and friends.  Parents worry about their children not because they’re bad parents, but because they’re good parents.  But somehow, we’re afraid that we may not get all these good things that we want in our lives and the lives of those around us, and so we worry.  

Is there a solution?

What if some pharmaceutical company developed a medication that if taken daily would reduce your risk of anxiety disorders, enable you to sleep better and have more energy within three weeks?  What if that same drug would also reduce your risk of depression and eating disorders?  And what if it would help you to better manage stress, reduce your risk of substance abuse, boost your immune system and increase your overall health?  In addition, it would increase your usual level of happiness by 25% and increase your overall vitality and life-satisfaction?  And best of all, what if this little pill had absolutely no negative side effects and was available free of charge?

I think we would call that a wonder drug wouldn’t we?  And I’ll bet that there would be a big line-up to get it.

Well I have some good news for you.  It’s available for you right now, right here in this church this morning.  Only it’s not a pill, it’s something much better.  It is the practice of thanksgiving.  Major scientific studies conducted in the past five years at places like the Virginia Institute for Psychiatry and the University of California have empirically verified each one of the claims that I have just made for the practice of thanksgiving.  If you want to check it out for yourself, there is a book called Thanks! by Robert Emmons published a few years ago that summarizes the thankfulness research.  The conclusions are quite clear:  Giving thanks and practicing gratitude is one of the best things that you can do for your health and well-being.  If it were a pill, we would call it a miracle drug.

Now, those of us who are people of faith shouldn’t be so surprised, should we?  After all, medical scientists and researchers are really only playing catch-up with what our Christian tradition has been teaching us for thousands of years.  Our worship is filled with thanksgiving to God.  This morning our celebration is called the eucharist, which is in fact the Greek word for giving thanks.  The first words we sang together this morning were “Give thanks to the Lord, our God and King, his love endures forever.”   Our scriptures are constantly reminding us that it is good and right for us to give thanks to God, and not just to give thanks with our voices but also to show it in our lives.

True gratefulness is the recognition that all that we have, our lives, our wealth, our abilities, all of this is a gift from God which has been entrusted to us for a purpose.  The concrete expression of our thankfulness is to be generous and to share what we have with others.  Generosity is how we walk the talk of thanksgiving.  And not surprisingly, 21^st century scientific research has confirmed this as well:  people who practice thankfulness have been shown to provide more support to others.

So if giving thanks is so good for us, so good for those around us, and is something that our scriptures and Christian tradition urge us to do, then why don’t we do it more often?  And if worrying is so bad for us, and something that Jesus tells us not to do in today’s gospel, why do we spend so much time worrying?

There’s probably much that could be said here, but I’m going to boil it down to two things this morning:  Priorities and Trust.

What are your priorities in life?  What things do you put first, where do you spend your time and energy?  Where do your priorities come from?

There are many forces in our world that try to set our priorities for us.  You don’t have to watch television for very long to figure out that there are people out there trying to convince us that it’s important to have cleaner clothes, or fancy cars, or another credit card or to consume a whole range of products and services that people are trying to sell us.  All these ads are designed to create a desire in us for things that we don’t have.  And it works.  We buy stuff.  We borrow money to buy stuff.  We even buy lottery tickets.  Did you know that in Canada we spend over $7 billion a year on lottery tickets.  That’s roughly the same as the total amount of all charitable donations each year in Canada.  It works out to over $200 per person.  And why do we buy lottery tickets?  Well, you’ve seen the ads on TV.  It’s because if we get lucky and win, we can have all those good things that we want.

And when our priority in life becomes getting all those things that we want for ourselves that we don’t have, guess what happens?  We spend a lot more time worrying than we do giving thanks.

In today’s gospel, Jesus calls on us to change our priorities.  In fact the gospel that we read today is part of a much larger teaching that we usually call the Sermon on the Mount, and in it   Jesus is calling for a radical re-orientation of how we set priorities and live our lives.  And his teaching is summed up in one of the verses that we heard today.

“Strive first for the kingdom of God and God’s righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

We need to change our priorities.  Instead of being concerned with the things we want, or even the things we need, our priority must be what Jesus calls the kingdom of God:  living in relationship with God and practicing justice towards each other.

I am confident that if we were to make this our priority, we would spend a lot more time practicing thanksgiving and a lot less time worrying.  Because the practice of thanksgiving is at its foundation relational.  The most common way to express thanksgiving is to use two simple words:  “Thank you”.  And by living in relationship with God, we become aware of the “you” on whom our lives depend.  We start to give up any illusions we may have about self-sufficiency and instead become aware of our relationship with God and of all the good things that we have been given in our lives.  And we say thank you.

But we still need stuff, you say.  We still need to eat and we still need clothes, and we still worry about the future of our children and we’re still afraid of illness or losing our jobs.

All of that is true.  God knows that we have needs, food and clothing, health, relationships, a sense of security and so on.  And I think that’s why, in the very same sentence that Jesus uses to re-orient our priorities, he also makes us a promise.

“Seek ye first the kingdom of God and God’s justice, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

This is the promise that Jesus gives us in today’s gospel, an amazing promise, a promise that promises to put an end to all of our worrying.

There’s only one problem.  We don’t believe it.  We find it hard to put our trust in Jesus’ promise.

Make your priority the kingdom of God, put your trust in God, act justly and the rest will be taken care of.

Hard to believe?  Don’t think it’s realistic?

Then, here’s the challenge I’m giving you this week.  Give it a try.  For this one week, starting today, make the things of God your priority.  Put your trust in God, seek to know him, enter into relationship with him, in prayer and in action, striving to act justly in your daily life.  And see how it goes.  See whether you can learn to have faith in God and worry less.  See whether you get more or less of the good things of life by seeking God first.  See whether your understanding of what the good things are changes over the course of the week.  See whether you say thank you more often.

It is the greatest promise that we’ve ever been given.  Can we trust it?

You’ll never know until you give it a try.

Amen.

Hell (Sept 30, 2012)

Homily Yr B Proper 26 Sept 30 2012

Readings:  Esther 7:1-6,9-10;9:20-22; Psalm 124; James 5:13-20; Mark 9:38-50

Hell

The response to our psalm this morning, which we repeated several times together, was  “We have escaped like a bird from the snare of the fowler.”  Now, when that psalm was written, the way a fowler, or bird-hunter would catch a bird would be to set up a trap or snare, so that when the bird landed in a particular place, it would trigger the snare and a net would fall on the bird.  And as the bird would try to get away, flapping its wings and running with its feet, it would get all tangled up in the net.  And the more it would struggle and flap and kick, the more tangled it would get, caught up in the cords of the net and unable to get away. 

It is, I think, a good image of our human situation.  Often enough, we seem to get all tangled up in a net, and the harder we try to break free, the more we seem to get stuck.  Sometimes we end up dragging other people into the net, and they become tangled as well. 

In our scriptures, the net that tangles us and prevents us from being free is called sin, or sometimes evil.  Sometimes we are the ones who are responsible for the net, sometimes its others who throw the net on us, but often it’s just a tangle of cords that seem to be all around us and our communities, something in the system that is of our own making, but no one seems to be able to get rid of it.  And that is tragic.

Do you remember the incident of Korean Air Line 007 which was shot down over Soviet Airspace in 1983, amidst allegations that it was a spy plane?  269 people died in this tragic event, and the world was brought to the brink of nuclear war.  Now over twenty years later, now that the Cold War has ended and we have access to classified documents and the transcripts of the plane’s flight recorder we have a clearer idea of what happened.  It seems that a sleepy crew of the passenger plane with an imperfectly calibrated auto-pilot system made the mistake of leaving the plane on auto-pilot as they left Alaska heading towards Japan.  They drifted into Soviet airspace.  The Soviet air force scrambled two MIG fighters to intercept flight 007.  The pilot of one of those planes was a Colonel named Gennadi Osipovich.  He wasn’t even supposed to be on duty, but he had switched shifts with another pilot so that he could volunteer at his son’s school the next day. 

When Osipovich flew his MIG jet alongside the flight 007, he recognized it as a Boeing civilian plane.  His superiors insisted that it was a spy plane and ordered him to shoot it down.  Osipovich tried to make radio contact.  Nothing.  He flashed his lights.  He waggled his wings.  Still no response.  He fired warning shots.  He was told six times by his ground controller to fire on the plane.  And under the pressure of time, just as the Boeing was about to leave Soviet airspace to re-enter international airspace, he fired his missiles and brought down flight 007, sending 269 people to their deaths, an act that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

Gennadi Osipovich was caught in a net.  He was caught in a net of suspicion, of hostility between East and West, of Cold War military procedures, of a history of spying and airspace violations.  He was caught in a net of sin and evil that was so tangled that he found no way out.  Gennady Osipovich is a tragic figure.

God wants to free us from the net that has us all tangled up, the net that turns us into tragic figures like Gennady Osipovich.  God has promised to put the entire world right, showing up evil for what it is and judging it so that it no longer has the power to infect his good creation.

Which is why in our Gospel reading today, Jesus talks to his disciples about hell.

“If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire.”

What do you think of when you hear the word “hell”?

  

Hell is something we don’t talk about much in the church, at least in the Anglican church.  In part that is because our common notion of hell is grounded in the picture that arose in the middle ages, in the writings of Dante and others.  The most common idea about hell in our culture is that it has something to do with the after-life, that when people die, that God will sort them into two lots, and the good people will go to heaven and the bad people will go to hell, a place of damnation and eternal punishment.  And that sort of picture makes many of us really uncomfortable, uncomfortable with the notion that a loving God would let some people end up in that sort of hell.

So I think that it’s important to go back to our scriptures, to go back to the teaching of Jesus to try to understand what he meant when he used the word “gehenna”, the Greek word that we translate as hell.

It’s a word that Jesus doesn’t use very often, recorded just a dozen times in the New Testament, and three of those are in today’s gospel reading.  So let’s look at today’s reading.

Notice, first of all, that in Jesus teaching, the opposite of hell is not heaven, but life.  If you look at Jesus’ sayings, they say that it is better to enter life than to go to hell.  The emphasis is not on life after death, but on life, now and in the future.  Notice as well that in the third saying, Jesus switches from saying “enter life” to “enter the kingdom of God”, something that in other places, Jesus will say “has come near” or “is in your midst”.  Again, this isn’t just about an afterlife, he seems to be talking about something that is both present and future.

And the word that we translate as hell is also revealing.  Gehenna, the word Jesus uses, is actually a place name.  It is the Hebrew name for the Valley of Hinnom which is found on the south west side of Jerusalem.  It is the garbage dump of the city of Jerusalem, the place where garbage from the city is dumped and burned, with a fire that burns day and night.  Not only is garbage dumped there, but sewage from the city also ends up in the Valley of Hinnom.  To make matters worse, child sacrifice used to be practiced there, because of this the valley had been condemned as an evil place by prophets such as Jeremiah. 

This is the word that Jesus uses in today’s gospel.  Gehenna is the valley where evil, filth and garbage are sent to be destroyed in a fire that burns day and night.  Gehenna then, is a real place, a real garbage dump, which becomes the image of what God will do to destroy all that is evil and filthy, the eternal fire which burns all the garbage that has polluted God’s good creation.

This is the New Testament image of hell.  Hell is the place of fire which burns everything that opposes what God wants for the life of his people and his good creation.

Are people oppressed by war and violence?  To hell with war and violence.

Does a little child suffer from abuse?  To hell with child abuse.

Does someone you know suffer from addiction?  To hell with it.

To hell with all these things that oppress us and prevent us from living life as God intended us to live.  Let them burn and be destroyed.

And Jesus, using the exaggeration typical of his culture, tells his disciples, even if it’s your foot that’s the preventing you from living life as God intended, well to hell with it - but don’t you go with it.  Better for you to enter life, to enter the Kingdom of God with only one foot.

Of course, it’s not our foot that’s the problem.  But remember the net that we were talking about?  The net of sin and evil and garbage that we so often get all tangled up in?  It’s that net that God will judge and send to hell for destruction, so that we can be free to enter life, to enter the kingdom of God without being all tangled up in it, without being caught in it.

  

That is good news.  But that doesn’t mean that everything is easy.  Because it’s hard to get ourselves untangled from the net.  In fact, we may have gotten so used to being stuck in the net that it starts to feel comfortable, a bit like home in a perverse sort of way.  We can’t get untangled by ourselves.  We need to be saved, like the bird who is set free from the snare of the fowler and enabled to fly once more.

Jesus says to us, turn and follow me and I will set you free.

We all get tangled up in the net of sin and evil.  Some of it’s our own fault, much of it is out of our control.  But if we turn to God, God has promised to forgive our sins and to set us free.  The net will go to hell, to be destroyed in the fire, so that all God’s creatures can live as God intended them to live, now and for all eternity.

Amen.

With acknowledgement and thanks to Dr. Thomas Long, who told us the story of Gennadi Osipovich in Ottawa at a 2009 clergy conference.

The Journey of Faith (Sept 16 2012)

Homily:  Yr B Proper 24, Sept 16  2012, St. Albans

Readings:  Prov 1:20-33; Wisdom 7:26-8:1; James 3:1-12; Mk 8:27-38

The Journey of Faith

This morning we baptize Isaac.  It’s a time for celebration, and we will celebrate.  But baptism isn’t just a celebration.  It’s serious stuff.  As Jesus himself reminds us in today’s gospel, being a follower of Jesus isn’t trivial. It’s serious. 

The baptism we will celebrate is a rich sacrament , a symbol which incorporates many different images and meanings.  One of these meanings is the one that I talked about with the children earlier.  Baptism is a sign of the new life that we have in Christ, it is a symbol of new birth, of being born as a child of God and adopted into God’s family, into the family that we call the church.

But we are also baptized, and Isaac too will be baptized, into the death and resurrection of Jesus.   Baptism is a sign that we have become followers of Jesus, the one who said that “if any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

It’s not always easy to follow Jesus.  Have you ever noticed that in the gospel of Mark, Jesus is always on the move?  Always going somewhere, always on a journey.  Today’s gospel reading is a turning point in that journey, quite literally.  Jesus and his followers start out by heading north, and then they turn around 180 degrees and travel in the opposite direction towards the south.  Why did Jesus go to Caesarea Philippi?

Some of us here are old enough to remember the Cold War, the period of conflict and confrontation between the Soviet Union and the United States and its allies.  The height of the Cold War was in the early 60’s.  In 1962 there was the Cuban Missile Crisis.  In 1961 the Berlin Wall was built. In the early 60’s the atmosphere in West Berlin was tense, there was the constant threat of invasion.

In 1963, John F. Kennedy went to Berlin, to the farthest frontier of Western Europe.  And standing in the shadow of the Berlin Wall, with a million people gathered in the streets, he made his famous statement “Ich bin ein Berliner”.  I am a Berliner.  And with those words he pledged the full might of the American military to protect the people of West Berlin against the aggression of the Soviet Union.  And the crowds cheered, because Kennedy had said what they hoped he would say, what they expected him to say, what they had been longing to hear.

In the year 33 AD, Jesus went to Caesarea Philippi.  Caesarea Philippi was at the very northern frontier of the land of Israel.  It was a Roman city, built in honour of the Roman Emperor.  It had a gleaming white marble temple dedicated to Augustus Caesar, Son of God, Saviour of the World.  For a Jew in the year 33 AD, Caesarea Philippi was the symbol of everything that was wrong, everything that was evil in the world.  The Jewish people had been under Roman occupation since 63 BC. The last hundred years had been a time of festering resentment, violent protests, humiliation and shame.  Every Jew dreamed of the day that the Romans would be overthrown and defeated.

Jesus led his disciples and the crowds that followed him on a long journey from Galilee to Caesarea Philippi, with its blasphemous temple dedicated to Augustus Caesar, and its threatening military barracks housing the Roman Legion.  In the crowd that followed Jesus were people whose mothers and fathers had been killed by Roman soldiers in the Galilean rebellions of the year 6 AD.  The crowd must have been nervous; they must have wondered why he was leading them to Caesarea Philippi.

And as they come within sight of the city walls, Jesus pulls his closest followers aside and asks them, “Who do people say that I am?”

And they answered him, “some say John the Baptist, others Elijah, and still others, one of the prophets.”

And then Jesus asks them, “But you, who do you say I am?”

And I can imagine Peter, looking at Jesus, and then looking at the Roman city with its temple and soldiers.  I can imagine the events of the past few months running through Peter’s mind, the huge crowds that gathered wherever Jesus went, they way they follow him and hang on his every word, Jesus acts of power, the growing conflict with the authorities.

And all of a sudden he gets it.  Jesus is the one, the one sent by God, the one that all of Israel has been hoping for and dreaming of for hundreds of years, the one who will save his people. 

“You are the Messiah.”

The Messiah.  The one the prophets had promised that God would send.  The one who would purify Israel, re-establish its supremacy among the nations, defeat the Romans and usher in a new era of peace.

I’m sure Peter expected that at any moment Jesus would address the crowd in the fashion of JFK, or of a great military leader and announce his mission, declaring that anyone who wanted to join with him to overthrow Rome must be ready “to deny themselves, take up their sword, and follow me.”   And with that they would begin the long march to Jerusalem, gathering strength along the way.

But Jesus doesn’t do that.  Instead, Jesus begins to teach them that he must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the authorities, and be killed, and after three days rise again.

And when Jesus addresses the crowd, there is no talk of taking up the sword.  Instead they are told to take up their cross.  The instrument of Roman terror and torture.  The cross, that burden, which as a final act of humiliation, the Romans would make a convicted rebel carry to his own execution. 

There were no cheers from the crowd.

At first Peter tries to convince Jesus that he’s got it wrong.  He takes Jesus aside and rebukes him.  But Jesus in turn lets Peter have it, right in front of all the others.  There is to be no misunderstanding on this.  Jesus will not be the Messiah they are expecting. 

And with this, Peter’s hopes and dreams, his expectations are crushed.  He is angry, he is embarrassed, he doesn’t understand, but most of all he is profoundly disappointed.

Like Peter, sometimes we don’t get the God we want.  What do you do when God doesn’t meet your expectations?  When God disappoints us?

I was told a story of a small rural congregation in which one of the woman became very ill. 

This congregation rallied together.  They held prayer vigils for the woman who was ill, they visited and provided support, and they had a tremendous faith that God would heal the woman.  They expected God to restore her to health.

Sadly, after some time, after many prayer services, the woman died.  And the congregation was devastated.  They experienced doubt.  The God they had hoped for, that they had expected, didn’t show up.  And they were profoundly disappointed.

Somewhere along our journey, something of the same sort will happen to us.  There will be times in life when things are hard, when we are lonely, when there is sadness or illness or brokenness.  There will be times when the God we want and expect doesn’t show up. 

You know, when I read today’s Gospel earlier this week, I came at it with the assumption that Jesus is my role model.  That this Jesus who teaches that he will suffer and be put to death, that this Jesus who teaches us to deny ourselves and take up the cross like he did, that’s what I’m supposed to be like. 

But that’s hard.  I don’t know if I can be like that.  Honestly, I don’t think I can ever live up to that standard.  I don’t know if I even understand what it means for me in my culture to take up my cross and follow Jesus.  This gospel became more and more disconcerting to me.  I started to have doubts. 

It’s not that I don’t accept Jesus teaching.  I do.  When I read about people like Oscar Romero or Mahatma Ghandi or Mother Teresa, I am awestruck and full of admiration.  It’s just that I’m not sure that I’m up to that sort of thing, in fact I’m pretty sure I’m not.

And that’s when I discovered that there’s another role model for me in today’s gospel.    And that’s Peter.  Peter.  The one who gets it wrong.  The one who gets chewed out.  The one who doesn’t understand, the one who is profoundly disappointed.  Because you know what Peter does?  He continues to follow Jesus.  He doesn’t know why Jesus is doing what he’s doing.  He is full of doubts and fears.  He doesn’t understand.  But somehow, in spite of all that, he has faith. 

Somehow Peter realizes that even though Jesus may not be what he wants, and Jesus may not be what he expects, Jesus is the one in whom he can put his trust.  And so at a time when many in the crowd turn away from Jesus, Peter follows.  Peter walks the journey of faith, dogged by doubt and fear and misunderstanding and missteps along the way.  It won’t be until Easter morning, three days after Jesus prediction of his own death has come true, that Peter will finally get to look into an empty tomb, and start, just start, to understand.

Our journey is like that.  Isaac’s journey will be like that.  We don’t have to have it altogether.  We don’t need to understand everything.  We will be disappointed, we will have doubts along the way.  We will be tempted to turn back.  But all these things are part of the journey of faith, the journey that each one of us embarked on at our own baptism.  Just ask Peter.  

Amen.

Isn't It Ironic? (September 2, 2012)

Homily:  Yr B Proper 22, Sept 2 2012, St. Albans

Readings:  Prov 22:1-2, 8-9, 22-23; Ps 125; James 1:17-27; Mk 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

Isn’t it ironic?

I am struck by the irony of today’s readings.  Jesus in today’s gospel condemns the hypocrisy of the scribes and Pharisees.  Hypocrisy is one of the few things that Jesus condemns in such forceful terms in the gospels.  He refuses to condemn the woman caught in adultery.  He doesn’t condemn tax-collectors.  He won’t condemn the various people considered as impure and sinners by his society, the foreigners, those who don’t wash their hands, the lepers, and so on.  But he does in today’s gospel condemn the hypocrites, those who honour God with their lips, but whose hearts are far from him.

Flash forward a couple of thousand years.  A recent poll of young adults conducted by the Barna Group in the United States asked them what they thought of present day Christianity.  Of those who didn’t consider themselves Christians, 85% thought that present-day Christianity is hypocritical.  Among young adults who were Christians, 50% agreed. Are you surprised?  The one thing that Jesus was willing to condemn is the very characteristic that people, even our own people, use to describe us.  Isn’t it ironic?

Yeah but – I can hear the objections now.  Yeah but that poll was an American poll, not a Canadian poll.  (We don’t really have the same problem here in Canada.) Yeah but when they talk about Christians being hypocritical, they’re really talking about – and now fill in your own blank.  They’re talking about fundamentalists.  They’re talking about rich Christians.  They’re talking about Evangelicals, Catholics, Protestants, Anglicans, go ahead fill in the blank, let’s move that accusation of hypocrisy to where it really belongs.

We even do the same thing when we read the scriptures.  We become like cheerleaders, cheering Jesus on as he rips into the scribes and Pharisees.  You go, Jesus, you tell them.  We’re on your side, we hate hypocrites too.  Except that Jesus doesn’t see the scribes and Pharisees as the source of the problem.  Sure, they’re an example of the problem.  But the source of the problem, the root cause of hypocrisy and other sinfulness, the source of evil intentions according to Jesus, is the human heart.  And last time I checked, everyone here at church this morning had a human heart.  

Now, just to clarify a bit, the heart here doesn’t symbolize feelings and sentiment as it might on a Hallmark greeting card.  No, in Jesus’ culture, the heart was understood as the seat of rationality and willfulness in the human being.  There is a universal human problem, Jesus is telling us, and it is this:  that evil intentions arise out of the reasoned and willful choices and actions of human beings.  Isn’t it ironic that the more we try to shift the blame to others, the more we implicate ourselves as part of the problem. 

I find more irony in our reading from the letter of James this morning.  James would have thrived in the age of Twitter, because most of his best phrases come through in less than 140 characters.  And one of the best is the one that we heard this morning: 

“Be doers of the word and not merely hearers who deceive themselves.”  Now, did anyone catch the irony in this one?  We live in an age where the primary expression of what it means to be a practicing Christian is to go to church.  And what do we do at church?  Well for the most part, we sit.  And we listen.  And we hear the word.  Isn’t it ironic?

“Be doers of the word and not merely hearers who deceive themselves.”  What James is telling us is that going to church is one of the least important things we do as Christians.  Sunday is not the most important day of the Christian week.  In fact, if this one hour that we spend in church on Sundays doesn’t impact what we do the other 167 hours of the week, then we’re deceiving ourselves by being here.  Some might say, we’re hypocrites.

I think that there’s some resonance around this idea, I think we’re starting to get it.  Not too long ago, we put up a photo on our Facebook page that said “Don’t go to church; be the church”.  It quickly had the most hits of anything we put up as people shared it with each other.  I think that’s because we’re starting to get it.  There’s no point going to church one hour a week if that doesn’t help us to be the church 24/7, in our homes, in our families, in our schools and in our workplaces.  On our web site we say the following:

“Our community is made up of imperfect people seeking ways of being the church in a world that has every right to question the value of going to church.”

You see, our vocation, our work, our doing of the word, 99% of that is going to take place outside the doors of this building.  It’s not that coming here on a Sunday morning has no value, it does.  But the main value of what we do on a Sunday morning is that it shapes, serves and supports what we do as followers of Jesus during the rest of the week.  We want to move from being hearers who forget what we hear on Sundays to doers who act all week in accordance with what they hear on Sundays.  We want to move from being what Jesus describes as “people who honour God with their lips but their hearts are far from him” to being the sort of people that James describes, people who’s 'religion is this:  to care for those who are vulnerable and in need.'

And, by the way, don’t you think that this would be a good way to respond to both Jesus’ and our society’s concern about hypocrisy?

We have to re-think church. And as part of this re-thinking, church on a Sunday morning becomes more like a vocational counseling and training centre, getting us ready to go out and do our work.  We come here and we gather together, we support one another, we encounter God, we share our stories, we are forgiven, we are blessed, we are called, we are nourished and we are sent out to do our work.  That work doesn’t have to be heroic.  Maybe somebody here will save the world; most of us will do our jobs with integrity, treat people with dignity, serve those whom we encounter, give out smiles and hugs and kind words.  

That’s how we do our work; that’s also how God does God’s work.  Because as James says in another of his tweets, “every generous act of giving is from above”. Whenever we act in generosity, God is with us, acting through us to build God’s kingdom in the world. 

I’m going to stop talking.  You’ve heard enough.  Go and do something.

Amen.

Scandalized Yet? (August 26 2012)

Homily:  Yr B Proper 21, Aug 26 2012, St. Albans

Readings:  1 Kgs 8:22-30,41-43; Ps 84; Eph 6:10-20; Jn 6:56-69

For the past month we’ve been working our way through the sixth chapter of the gospel of John on Sunday mornings, beginning with the feeding of thousands, hearing Jesus surprising claim “I am the bread of life”, and concluding with the final verses which you just heard in today’s gospel.  I’d like to thank to Matt, Peter and Jonathan who have preached for us the past few weeks and shared their insights on this remarkable text. 

I say that this Chapter 6, this “bread of life” discourse, is a remarkable text because there’s a dramatic transition that takes place in this story.  Did you notice it?  At the beginning, there are crowds of thousands – by the end we’re left with the Twelve.  At the beginning, the people are so enthralled with Jesus that they want take him and make him king.  By the end, they complain, they are scandalized, they turn away and leave him.  What happened?  Did Jesus do something wrong?  Did he say the wrong thing? What did he say that turned them off like that?

Everything seemed to start so well.  Crowds flocked to see Jesus, thousands followed him, and when the crowd got hungry, Jesus accepted a small child’s offering of a few loaves and fish and somehow he fed the crowd until all were satisfied, not only meeting their physical needs, but as Matt pointed out, he gave them hope, by overturning their basic understanding of the world as a place of scarcity, and holding out the hope of abundance.  This must be a prophet, the crowd exclaims, the prophet that we’ve been waiting for.  Let’s make him king, and then we’ll always have bread to eat.

Now I get this.  When you’re hungry, there’s nothing more important than getting something to eat. Jesus gets this too.  Time after time in the gospels we’re told that Jesus has compassion for those with physical needs. But Jesus also wants to move us beyond our physical needs.  This feeding, John tells us, was a sign.  But sign of what?  A sign of something more than just the satisfaction of physical hunger. 

I remember when I was in high school we read the book Animal Farm by George Orwell, his satirical take on Communism.  Is it still on the reading list at high schools these days?  I don’t know.  But I remember after we’d read about the pigs Snowball and Napoleon and the horse Boxer and the rest of the animals, just in case we hadn’t figured it out, the teacher got up at the front of the classroom and said, “Look I just want you to know.  Animal Farm isn’t about farming”.

Well when Jesus stands up at the front of the synagogue the next day to address the crowds who are still hungry and are still looking for more bread, Jesus says, “Look I just want to know, it’s not about loaves of bread.”

And then, blow by blow, he proceeds to push the crowd out of its comfort zone.

“Don’t work for food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life which only I can give you.”

Questions begin, grumbling starts.  Obviously we’re not getting any free food today.  So what’s he talking about?

“You want the bread that only God can give, the bread that gives life to the world?  I am the bread of life.  I am the bread which comes down from heaven.”

Muttering and complaining.  Who does he think he is?  What sort of a claim is he making?

“The bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.  Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life; those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me and I in them.”

By this time even Jesus disciples, his closest friends, the ones who have been traveling with him for months, even they’re getting spooked.  “This teaching is difficult,” they complain to each other, “who can accept it?”  They’re offended, they’re scandalized.

And this is where I want us to pause for a moment.  Do you find this teaching difficult?  Do we understand why the crowd was offended?  Are you scandalized by what Jesus has said?

Because if we don’t get why everyone was scandalized by this, we might as well go back to eating bread.  Cause this stuff is meant to scandalize us, it’s meant to shake us out of our complacency.

(walk up to Mary)

“Mary, I want you to eat my flesh and drink my blood, so that you will live in me and I will live in you.”

How did that feel to all of you?  I tell you what, to me it felt totally creepy, and if I was to do say that in all seriousness instead of as an illustration, I expect that Mary and a whole bunch of you would probably leave and never come back.

But that’s what Jesus does say in all seriousness.  This is a difficult, scandalous, offensive teaching.

It’s scandalous, because as Jonathan reminded us last week, the literal sense of eating flesh is simply disgusting.  Jesus clearly doesn’t mean these words literally, but he is trying to shake us up.

It’s offensive to the crowds, again because as Jonathan reminded us last week, the whole notion of drinking blood goes against all the Jewish dietary laws.

It’s shocking because of the claim Jesus is making.  The crowd was happy enough to recognize Jesus as a prophet, even “the prophet”.  But Jesus is claiming more.  He’s claiming to be greater than Moses, the one who fed the people with manna in the wilderness.  He’s claiming to be the Son of Man, the one prophesied in the book of Daniel who would inaugurate God’s kingdom on earth.  He is claiming to be the one who has come down from heaven, the one through whom heaven and earth are linked.  He is taking on the divine name of “I am”.

This claim in itself is enough to get Jesus killed, in fact the charge brought against him at his crucifixion was blasphemy, the claim that he was indeed the son of God.

So by this point I think we can get why many in the crowd were shocked by what Jesus had to say, why even his own disciples found this to be a difficult teaching.

But what about us?  How do we react to all this? Is there anything difficult here for us?  So far, maybe not. We can get past the literal unpleasantness of crunching Jesus’ flesh, we’re not troubled by Jewish dietary laws and chances are if you’re here on a Sunday morning you’ve already come to terms with claims about the divinity of Jesus.

But let me keep pushing!

Jesus says, “those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me and I in them.”

Is it my imagination, or do I hear in these words a remarkable suggestion, even a demand of intimacy?  Eating, taking something into my own self, having it become who I am, taking the flesh of Jesus into me so that he can live in me and I can live in him?  This is a radical invitation to intimacy, so radical that I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.  I mean, I’ve gotten used to the notion of Jesus as a prophet, calling for justice.  I’m comfortable with the idea of Jesus as a teacher, providing guidance for my life.  I’ve come to see Jesus as the Son of God, the one sent by God, the one who reveals what God is like, the one who is God himself.  And it’s relatively easy to think of God as God up there or out there, the one that I can pray to when I feel like it, the God who is like a divine therapist in the sky when I’ve got a problem, the one I can ask for my daily bread.  But the idea that God is near, that God wants a relationship with me that is so close, so intimate that Jesus uses this language of eating and drinking and living in me, that does seem to be a difficult teaching.  Am I ready for this?  Are you?

And then, to make things even more difficult, I swear that in all this talk about eating flesh and drinking blood, I hear overtones of self-giving, of sacrifice, of suffering and even death.  Yes, there is the promise of life, of real life, abundant life, eternal life.  But to get there, certainly there is at least a hint here that it may not be easy.  And of course, as the story of Jesus plays out and heads towards the cross, we’ll know that we were right to hear these hints, and that the teaching about drawing into this close, intimate relationship with the one who endures such suffering, is indeed a difficult one.

At the very least I think it’s safe to say that Jesus has managed to shock us out of our preoccupation with loaves of bread and direct our gaze to what he would call the things of the spirit: what it means to live abundantly, what it means to be loving and self-giving, how we fulfill our needs for belonging and connection, what it means to live in the presence of the God revealed in Jesus, how we go about creating lives of meaning and purpose in response.

  

None of this teaching is easy; much of it is difficult, even scandalous.

Because of this, many of Jesus disciples turned back and no longer went about with him.  So Jesus asked the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?”

Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom can we go?  You have the words of eternal life.  We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.”

Amen.

Rest (Connecting What with Why). (July 22, 2012)

Homily:  Yr B Proper 17, July 22, 2012, St. Albans

Readings:  2 Sam 7:1-14a; Ps 89:20-37; Ephesians 2:11-22; Mk 6:30-34, 53-56

Rest (Connecting What with Why)

Sometimes when I’m looking over the Scripture readings for the coming Sunday there’s a verse that just kind of leaps out and grabs me.  This week was one of those weeks.  And the verse that did it was this one:

Jesus said to them:  “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”

If you recall, Jesus had sent the apostles out in pairs to travel through the countryside of Galilee, healing and teaching and proclaiming God’s kingdom wherever people would receive them.  They’d gone out with no cash, no food, and no change of clothes.  They’d traveled dusty roads, they’d slept in the streets, they’d missed meals.  They’d healed the sick, they’d taught crowds.  And now they were back, probably exhausted by what appears to have been a successful mission.

And the first thing that Jesus says to them when he sees them is this:  “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”

The Heart and Stroke foundation released a survey a few months ago that found that an overwhelming majority of Canadians are choosing to not eat a healthy diet and avoid regular exercise because they are too busy.

Another survey just this past week done by UCLA looked at American families and concluded that the typical American family is so consumed with working, buying stuff, self improvement and generally “getting ahead” that they actually spend very little time together enjoying the things that they’re supposedly working for.

I’ve found that when I ask people about their lives, the most frequent response I get is “I’ve been really busy.”   Sometimes it’s said almost as if it’s a badge of honour.  And I’m as guilty as anyone else.

Do you think that when Jesus spoke to his apostles, he might just as well have been talking to us?

“Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest awhile”

Many of us live busy lives, hectic lives, over-scheduled lives.  We need to rest.  We need to rest for the obvious reasons, because we become physically and mentally tired.  Sometimes we even burn-out.  But I think there’s more to it than that.

We need to rest because if we don’t, then all those things that keep us busy, all the work we do, all the events we schedule, all the things we worry about, all of what we do can become disconnected from why we’re doing it.  Without rest, the what becomes disconnected from the why.

I think Jesus knew this.  Jesus was after all a busy guy.   He was someone with a strong sense of vocation, with a keen awareness of his mission.  He was in demand, he was swarmed by crowds, sometimes he didn’t even have time to eat or drink.  But we’re told over and over again in the gospels that Jesus made a point of withdrawing from the crowds, and of going to a deserted place, to rest and to pray.  To spend time with God.

Because these moments of rest that we need, these “Sabbath” moments, are certainly meant to refresh and renew us, to restore our energy and our health.  But they are also meant to provide us with the opportunity to reconnect with God, to pray, to give thanks, to unload in God’s presence.  To recover our sense of purpose and priorities, of values and vocation.  To re-connect the what of our lives to the why.

We used to call this Sabbath, this idea that we need to have times of intentional rest.  The Sabbath was one of God’s gifts to humanity.  The teaching on the Sabbath was one of what we now call the ten commandments:  “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy.  Six days you shall labour, but the seventh day you shall not do any work”

But we’ve forgotten that the sabbath is much more of a gift than a commandment.  For the most part we simply ignore it, but if we do think about it at all, we think about it as an obligation, as another rule that we have to follow, another thing that we have to do like going to church.

But do you remember who Moses was talking to when he gave them this teaching?  He was talking to a bunch of slaves, slaves who had been forced to work harder and harder and longer and longer by the Egyptian Pharoahs.  This commandment to rest one day a week wouldn’t have been heard by those slaves as an obligation.  It would have been heard as something too good to be true, a gift beyond their wildest imaginations.  We get to rest?  There’s a day when no one is going to make us work?  Praise God! would have been their instant reaction.

We too need to hear this teaching as a gift.  For even though we were never forced into slavery by others, for many of us our slavery is the most insidious form of all, a slavery that is self-constructed and self-imposed.  We have become slaves to our illusions about what constitutes success.  We have become slaves to the expectations of others.  We have become slaves to a culture that tells us that we always need more to be happy.  We have become slaves to our own confusion about our self- worth and to our forgetfulness about where our identity comes from.

We have become slaves to the what of our lives because we have been disconnected from the why.

There is much more that we could talk about in the readings this morning other than this one little verse.  We talk about King David and the mixed motives that made him want to build God a house, and how God responds by saying that God is the one who will build a house.  Or we could continue the gospel story, and marvel at the way that when all these people race around the shore of the lake to get to the deserted spot before Jesus and the disciples, wrecking their plans for a little rest, Jesus responds not with anger and frustration, but with compassion.

We could talk about those things.  But I’d rather not.  Instead I’d rather offer you this gift.  Why don’t we take the next few minutes and simply rest a while.

(If you're reading this, please take a few minutes to rest)

Amen.

(with thanks to www.workingpreacher.org, a great weekly source for insights about the lectionary readings)