Trinity Sunday: All Persons Are Equal

In 2009, the General Convention of the Episcopal Church will consider adding a prominent layperson to our calendar of saints. He died in 1993, and most, if not all of us, remember him. Today is just one day after his proposed feast, a day which marks an important milestone in his life, as well as the history of this country This morning, I’d like to share with you a bit of his story, which I have borrowed from the website of his home parish. I’m doing so because today’s Gospel speaks about making disciples, and I think the exemplary life of this Episcopalian shows us something about the discipleship to which Christ calls us all. See if you can guess who I’m talking about, before I finish the story.

On July 2, 1908, a child was born to an African-American family in Baltimore. He was the great grandson of slaves. His father worked at a variety of jobs, as a porter, butler, and yacht club steward. His mother taught elementary school. They sent their son to be educated in the public schools, and he graduated with academic honors, but with a record of disciplinary problems. His high school principal would send him to the furnace room with a copy of the U.S. Constitution. He was instructed to memorize one section for each infraction. In two years he had memorized the entire document. After graduating from college in 1930, he was denied admittance to the then all-white University of Maryland Law School. During his second year at Howard University Law School, he was arrested, along with his dean and twenty classmates, after a demonstration against lynching in Washington, DC.

In 1933, this graduated at the top of his law school class, passed the bar, and went into private practice in Baltimore. When he was only 26 years old, when he became legal counsel for the local branch of the NAACP. In 1936, he successfully argued a case to gain admission for an African-American student to the University of Maryland Law School, just six years after he himself had been denied admission.

That same year, he became the assistant to the national NAACP’s legal counsel. Two years later, in 1938, he became the organization’s chief legal officer. In 1939, he secured admission to practice before the Supreme Court. From 1940 to 1961, he was the counsel and director of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, where he was responsible for dozens of legal actions “to secure and protect full citizenship rights” for African Americans, especially voting privileges, justice in criminal proceedings, and “equalizing expenditures for public education throughout the United States.”

The man about whom I’ve been speaking is Thurgood Marshall, and his long and successful career as a trial attorney culminated with the 1954 Supreme Court decision in Brown v. Board. . This was his first case before the Supreme Court and the key victory in the legal battle to dismantle segregation in the United States. The Court heard the case twice before ruling unanimously on May 17, 1954 that separate schools were inherently unequal, thus paving the way for future decisions declaring all racial segregation unconstitutional.

In 1961, Marshall was appointed a federal judge on the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. Four years later President Johnson named him Solicitor General of the United States. As Solicitor General he successfully defended the 1965 Voting Rights Act when it was challenged in the Supreme Court. In 1967, he joined the court himself as its first African American justice.

During Justice Marshall’s years on the Supreme Court he worked to solidify the Brown decision and other celebrated civil rights cases. His legendary record of opinions and dissents demonstrated his unwavering commitment to protecting the constitutional rights of all Americans, including the poor, Native Americans, the elderly, women, the oppressed, and the accused. He consistently argued for the rights of laborers and prisoners and for freedom of speech for all Americans. He was adamantly opposed to capital punishment throughout his career.

As I said at the beginning of this sermon, I believe Thurgood Marshall is an exemplary Christian. I certainly hope that the General Convention will include him in Lesser, Feasts, and Fasts, when it meets in Anaheim in 2009. One of the interesting things to note about Marshall’s vocation is that so much of it was lived out in the world. He was a devoted lay member of St. Augustine’s parish in Southwest Washington. Before that, when he still lived in New York, he was a vestry member and senior warden at St. Philip’s parish and served as a deputy to the 1964 General Convention. But we remember Marshall as an advocate, judge, and jurist. When he became a Supreme Court Justice, Marshall took the oath of office with his Bible opened to 1Corinthians 13, Paul’s great him to Christian love. Although he believed passionately in the separation of Church and state, Marshall still saw many of his legal battles as a response to the Gospel. According to his wife Cissy, “it was his deep faith in God and the teachings of our church that gave him the strength and courage to seek equal justice for all, always doing the best he could with what he had.”

Today is Trinity Sunday, and I believe we can tie the fundamentally just and egalitarian vision of Thurgood Marshall to the Church’s teaching about the Triune God. In many parishes, it is customary on this day to recite the Athanasian Creed, an ancient document that proclaims the nature of God as Trinity. It says in part that “in this Trinity, none is afore, or after other; none is greater, or less than another; But the whole three persons are co-eternal together and co-equal.” Or to put it in the more familiar language of the Nicene Creed. The Son is “of one Being” or consubstantial with the Father. The Holy Spirit, the Lord and giver of life, is worshipped and glorified, along with God the Father and God the Son.

In other words, within the divine life, all persons are equal, and united with bonds of love. God the Father feels no jealousy or rivalry with the Son. There is no domination within the Trinity. And there is no power there either, except the power of love, which binds the three within a single common life, or communion. Recent analyses of the doctrine have stressed its roots in salvation history. To understand the Trinity, we look at how Christ and the Spirit are active in the world.

As we imagine the relationships among the persons, we look at the ministry of Jesus in the Gospels. We see him call upon God with loving trust, with openness and vulnerability. We see him proclaim his own unity with God, as he represents God in all he says and does. And we experience the power of Christ, present with us always, in the Lord’s Supper, in one another, and in the Holy Spirit.

God’s intentions for us, what Jesus called the Kingdom of God, is a community in which all participate with equal dignity and honor. This, brothers and sisters, is the Name into which we are baptized, that of the co-equal fellowship of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The doctrine of the Trinity is not just about God. It is about us and our participation in relationships of equality. It is about being children of God, one with Christ in the power of the Spirit.

May the witness of the saints of every age call us to brotherhood and sisterhood in the image and likeness of God.

Amen.

Pentecost: Drenched in Grace

I don’t want you to miss Luke’s joke. He IS joking, or at least using irony.

First, the set up. It’s the Day of Pentecost. And we have seen the Holy Spirit fall on the disciples with a mighty wind and tongues of fire. They have preached the Gospel to the assembled crowd, and each one has heard it in his or her own language. Yet some scoff at the spectacle and insinuate that the disciples are “filled with new wine.”

Now, the punch line. Readers of Luke’s Gospel, of which Acts is the sequel, remember that Jesus has compared the Kingdom of God to “new wine.” He said that wine would stretch and break old wineskins. That they wouldn’t be able to hold it. And so, the disciples are indeed filled with new wine. Only it is the new wine of the Gospel. They are filled with God’s grace—with the Holy Spirit, the living love of God. They have experienced God’s forgiving, cleansing, and healing work. And God’s Spirit, living in them, has changed their lives forever.

The fire has fallen, and the Spirit is pushing them into action. So Peter makes use of the occasion to preach. In his sermon, he appeals to the prophet Joel, who told of a coming time when God would break down the barriers that divide us and restore the gift of prophecy:

In the last days it will be, God declares,

that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,

and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.

Joel goes on to list different people who will be filled with God’s Spirit. Men and women. Slave and free. Old and young. In the last days, God will pour out the Spirit upon ALL flesh. And EVERYONE who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved. Throughout the Book of Acts, the apostles proclaim salvation in the Name of Jesus to all people.

This reminds me of a beloved verse from the fortieth chapter of Isaiah. Many of us know it from Handel’s Messiah. “The glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.” Each year, as we prepare for the birth of Christ, we hear this promise. Now, on the Day of Pentecost, we see it fulfilled, and Jesus sends chosen witnesses to share the Good News.

According to the Gospel, God’s mercy extends wider than we can imagine. The wind and fire of the Spirit are too wild and powerful to contain or control. At Pentecost, God throws us a curveball. The Spirit works among us to keep the Gospel FRESH and NEW. In ways we can scarcely anticipate or understand, the Spirit falls on us with the shocking boldness of Christ’s love.

Today, by water and the Spirit, we baptize Lizzie and Sarah Lamb. God has already been at work in the lives of these children, and those of their family and friends, long before they were brought to the baptismal font. God’s Spirit has been poured out on ALL flesh. And the Spirit has CERTAINLY been poured out on Lizzie and Sarah. Today, we gather to receive and celebrate this gift. We reenact and represent it to make it tangible in their lives. We also renew the promises of our own baptisms.

Like the Holy Spirit, every child is a surprising and uncontrollable gift from God. Children present us many challenges, many joys, many sorrows. Each one reminds us of God’s mystery and the sacredness of life. Today, we immerse Lizzie and Sarah in the dying and rising of Jesus. We seal them with the Holy Spirit. And we mark them as Christ’s own forever.

It’s not that God has parceled out just enough grace to wash these children clean…to eliminate the effects of so-called original sin. Rather, we believe that the whole world is awash with God’s love. Wild, prodigal love, which we stifle or deny at great cost. And so we are publicly claiming this love for Lizzie and Sarah. We hope that, whatever life brings either of them, she will come to remember her baptism as a sign of God’s love and promises.

The whole community is responsible for keeping this day’s memory alive for Lizzie and Sarah. Parents and godparents have a special responsibility. As they grow, please don’t forget to share with them the story of their baptism. As often as you can, tell them and show them that God loves them. Tell them and show them they are precious children of God, sealed with the Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever And remind them also of the promises that shape their walk with Jesus.

Remind them of their commitment to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship—to regular worship and prayer. Remind them of their lifelong vow to turn from sin and accept God’s forgiveness, whenever they stumble or fall. Hold them accountable to their promise to share the Gospel by what they say and what they do. Encourage them “to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving their neighbor as themselves” and “to strive for justice and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being.”

When we’ve lived for any length of time, we know the world is not always kind. As Lizzie and Sarah live their lives, they will each confront a world that does not always value love, justice, or human dignity. Our task as a community is to be for them a sign of God’s never failing love. It is also to invite them, as Gandhi did, to “become the change you want to see in the world.”

So many of us become jaded and scoff at the possibility of love. We are not prepared to accept the love of Jesus. We have a hard time accepting love when it is offered or sharing it with one another. Baptism reminds us of the earth-shaking gift of the Spirit, who even now makes another world possible, namely the world of brotherhood and sisterhood in the Kingdom of God.

In the Name of Christ and his Church, I charge Lizzie and Sarah, and everyone present today to live out the promises and challenges of Holy Baptism, a sacrament which renews the world—and each one of us—as God’s beloved creation, redeemed in Christ, and drenched in grace.

In the last days it will be, God declares,

that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,

and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy.

The Sixth Sunday of Easter: In God, we live, and move, and have our being.

In God, brothers and sisters, we live and move and have our being. GOD is the one who “holds our souls in life.” God is the ultimate context, the environment if you will, for all we are and do. Life, love, and being itself are gifts of the divine abundance that overflows to pervade the universe. Today, we are using Eucharistic Prayer D, which addresses God in this way: “Fountain of life and source of all goodness, you made all things and fill them with your blessing; you created them to rejoice in the splendor of your radiance.”

Today is the Sunday after Earth day. It’s also the Sunday closest to the Rogation days, traditional days when the fields were blessed prior to planting. Today, we remember that the living God has filled the earth with blessing, placing us in the midst of a great community of life, a web of interdependent creatures. Francis of Assisi, that great Christian saint and lover of earth, called these creatures our brothers and sisters, because they reflect the goodness of the Father of Jesus. Our opening hymn is based on Francis’s Canticle of the Creatures. In it, he recognizes sun and moon; water and fire; and even death itself as our friends and companions on our earthly pilgrimage. Throughout his ministry, Francis acknowledged our kinship with animals, pets and predators alike, as he sought to live in peace with all living things.

Like God, the environment surrounds us and gives us life. The English word, derived as it is from “environs,” suggests a neighborhood. The Germans have a beautiful word for our environment. They call it the “Umwelt,” literally the world which surrounds us. We depend on this world for all we are and do. Thus, the world is, in a very real sense, like God. The world is a sacrament of God, an effective sign of God’s never failing love for creatures. Or, to cite a common medieval metaphor, the world is a book, like Scripture, which points us back to God. If we listen for God, we discover that every creature sounds its own distinctive note in the harmonious love song of our Creator.

Today, after the sermon, youth and children will help lead us in singing Hymn 385, which was originally written in the Dakota Sioux language. This hymn is based on a portion of the tenth chapter of Jeremiah. It is a prayer of the Dakota people in the midst of violence and dislocation caused by white settlers. In the midst of that violence, the hymn affirms the goodness of creation. It leads us back to the Creator, who gives us life and communion with others.

It’s important to frame our work for environmental justice in terms of God’s abundant goodness in creation. For Christians, work for any kind of justice must never descend into a joyless moralism. As worshipers of the one God of all reality, we seek community with all people, not just those we deem righteous or holy. We live together under the cross, as those who’ve experienced the power of forgiveness to change lives. The gift of community is central to God’s purposes for the planet. This means community with ALL neighbors, human and non-human alike. Our work to restore creation is a grateful response to God’s goodness, traces of which are found throughout creation and in every human being.

That’s not to minimize the ecological crisis, which I believe is nearing apocalyptic dimensions. The desecration of earth, water, and air is made all the more sinful, because these gifts are meant to be instruments of God’s never failing care. But our sense of urgency should never morph into panic or despair. These are just as sinful as the apathy and lust which are devastating the planet.

We can respond to this crisis joyfully, because our hope is in God. In God, we have a covenant partner who forgives us and patiently labors with us to undo the damage we’ve done. We rely on the firm promise of Jesus: “I will not leave you orphaned.” Soon, on the Day of Pentecost, we will experience the Holy Spirit—God’s own love—being poured out on all flesh. This love is meant to bind the universe together in communion. It is meant to empower us to turn our lives around and to draw us ever deeper into the life of Christ.

As our final act of worship today, we will go outside and plant a Bladder-Nut, a tree native to this region. Tom Redfern, who gave us the tree, shared with me a chapter about it from a beautiful book about American trees. I’d like to quote from this book, which was written in the 1930’s:

Of all the little trees that never grow to be big ones, found bordering our mid-west streams and woodlands, the Bladder-Nut is perhaps the handsomest. It grows straight and slender and trim, and in its long-stemmed, compound leaves and drooping pinkish white flower-clusters there is a distinctive gracefulness which adds much charm to the dainty dignity of its slender growth.

The author concludes his account as follows: “If you, perchance, should plant a Bladder-Nut tree in your dooryard, and inquirer might ring your bell some day to ask the name of the strange little tree on your lawn. Such things are known to have occurred. Try planting one and see what happens.”

I’m quite aware that planting this tree is symbolic. It is not enough. But symbols matter. And I believe this action is a sign of a broader commitment to restoring God’s earth. In every liturgy, we pledge ourselves to a vision of a world not yet fully arrived—that of the Kingdom of God. Here are some other things we have done or plan to do, as signs of this pledge. This summer we are going to insulate the attic above the parish offices and in the Episcopal house. We have begun to look into the possibility of generating all our electricity ourselves with solar panels installed by a local company. Our creation justice ministry is raising awareness of the threat of global warming, and helping those who participate to take large and small steps toward reducing consumption of energy and the production of carbon dioxide. At our diocesan convention last year, we joined with other religious communities in supporting the creation of Ohio Interfaith Power and Light, which will eventually provide renewable energy for our households.

There’s another way in which caring for creation matters. Greening the Church is crucial to the credibility of our Christian witness today. You’ll recall from the first reading that Paul told the Athenians that they were religious in every way, because he saw an altar inscribed to “an unknown God.” I believe that, in this city of Athens, and around the world, people, especially youth and college students have a deep hunger for a more just, sustainable world. Without necessarily having an explicit faith in God, they are coming to a religious sensibility about the earth and our place within it. Caring for the earth is a religious act, done out of reverence for the divine goodness which pervades creation and fills all things with life. It is one of many ways God calls us to be reconciled with our neighbors. Implicitly or explicitly, it involves an act of trust in God, especially now, when the future is so uncertain.

Paul continued his sermon by proclaiming the God who made the world and everything in it, who gives life and breath to all things. And he went on to proclaim Jesus and the resurrection. In God, indeed, we live and move and have our being. May God’s love for the earth fill us with compassion for all God’s creatures. And may Christ’s victory over sin and death move us, always, to action.

Third Sunday of Easter: Host and Guest

On Friday, Laura Dukes and Max Carney, and I, along with three friends from the First Presbyterian Church, provided food for the Friday Night Life community meal at Good Works. We took with us five loaves of delicious bread that Ilona Carlson had baked. This was the last Friday Night Life of the season to be hosted at the Plains United Methodist Church, but it continues, like our Wednesday lunch, fifty-two weeks a year. Next Friday, it will be held at the Good Works property on Luhrig Road.

At the meal, I saw several people whom I’ve met before at Wednesday lunch at Good Shepherd. I also met others for the first time, who told me how they’ve eaten at our church and how much they appreciate it. It’s the best lunch of the week, said one woman at my table, repeating praise I’ve heard many times before.

When we arrived in the Plains to cook, as I think I told Laura, I was feeling frazzled. The Presbyterian youth leader and I had been doing some of the prep work in the kitchen at her church, and I didn’t feel like we’d gotten enough done to be able to serve dinner on time. Though he hid it well, I could see the same concern on the face of one of the Good Works staff. But we got to it, put the chicken in the oven, and were ready, more or less, right on time. There were maybe 120 people there.

The meal itself was unlike any soup kitchen or feeding ministry I’ve ever been a part of, and trust me I’ve been part of several. That’s mostly because it was served family style, with those of us who had cooked spread out among the different tables.

As the staff explained it to us, the meal was founded as a reunion for alumni of the Timothy House, our local homeless shelter. In its first incarnation, it was held at the House itself, and those who were living there cooked for those who wanted to return. It was a sort of “soup kitchen in reverse,” intended to empower the residents to extend the same kind of hospitality they’d received from others.

As it outgrew the house, Friday Night Life moved to the Central Avenue United Methodist Church and then out to the Plains. Eventually, outside groups were brought in to take on cooking and cleaning up. But Good Works has continued to be intentional about structuring the meal in such a way that people are empowered to take their part in doing the work of the community. In fact, it was stressed to us that the food is just the occasion for the community. In the meal, there are no rigid divisions between hosts and guests. Rather, everyone plays both roles. All serve others, and all are served in turn. And God is the ultimate host, as in the process, we all experience something of the messianic banquet, also known as the Kingdom of God.

After the last dish had been washed and dried and put away, we went into the worship space and sat down with a member of the Good Works staff who debriefed us about what we had just been part of. He asked us about our experiences and helped us connect them to the mission of Good Works: “to connect people from all walks of life with the poor so that the kingdom of God can be experienced.”

As I told the member of the staff who debriefed us, one of the things that I appreciated so much was the careful planning that went into the whole meal and our experience as the team providing that meal. There is a paradox here: like any good party, hospitality has to appear effortless, and a lot of work behind the scenes goes into making it look this way. Good works frames its own mission in terms of biblical hospitality, and there were several different levels of hospitality going on. Our role, cooking and cleaning, was one kind of hospitality. The hospitality of the community welcoming us into their midst and pitching in wherever they were asked was another. The hospitality of the Good Works staff, which made it possible for us to both serve and be served, was yet a third. And I’m sure that they themselves experience the dual roles of host and guest, week after week.

The whole night through I was conscious that it was April 4, the fortieth anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King. I had just written an essay about King for a monthly column I write for the Episcopal Café, an online ministry of the Diocese of Washington. In preparing to write it, I was struck, as I always am, by King’s insistence that “None are free until all are free.” It is a commonplace in discussions of Christian mission, to note that missionaries are themselves evangelized by those to whom they are sent. One of the things that impresses me so much about Good Works, is how creating community with the poor allows us all to experience God’s Kingdom. God sets EVERYONE free by creating what King called the “beloved community.”

Today’s Gospel should be central to any account of biblical hospitality. On the road to Emmaus, a stranger comes along as some of the disciples of Jesus are walking and talking about the terrible things that have happened in Jerusalem. Their friend and Lord has been crucified, and their hopes for the Kingdom have been taken away. When the stranger asks them what they’re talking about, they are amazed: “Are you the only one who does not know?” they ask, and they tell him about Jesus and how he died.

Then, the roles begin to reverse, as the stranger explains to them the things the Old Testament says about Jesus. Hope is rekindled. Their hearts begin to burn within them. But still they do not recognize who this stranger is.

The turning point in the story comes when the stranger goes on ahead, as if he’s going to leave. The disciples decide to extend hospitality: “Stay with us,” they say, “because it is almost evening, and the day is nearly over.” Accepting their offer, the stranger completes the reversal of roles at the table, when he takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them. This is the same fourfold action that we repeat at every Eucharist, taking, blessing, breaking, and sharing. At this moment, the guest becomes the host, and the stranger is revealed as friend, as the disciples’ eyes are opened to recognize the Lord Jesus in their midst.

By appearing in the form of a stranger, Jesus invites us to look for him in every stranger. Indeed, at several different points in the Gospel, he tells us that by welcoming and caring for strangers, we are in fact serving him. That is why the mission of this parish is to seek and serve Christ in all persons. It is in welcoming and caring for strangers, that we encounter the risen Lord himself, and the Kingdom of God.

But we are never purely servants. In the Kingdom Jesus brings, we are also served. He allows us to serve him, so that he might serve us, and so that we might serve each other. Ultimately, we are all guests at his table.

As we sing in one of our most moving Eucharistic hymns: “Come risen Lord, and deign to be our guest; nay, let us be thy guests; the feast is thine; thyself at thine own board make manifest in thine own sacrament of Bread and wine.”

May this meal, like every meal we share, point us to God’s abundant goodness and welcome.

Palm Sunday: His blood be on us, and on our children

Palm Sunday sermons don’t usually include a joke. The passion Gospel is serious—deadly serious. The great Reformed theologian Karl Barth may be right that the Gospel is a comedy. But that’s because of Easter, not Palm Sunday. Today, we begin in triumph and end with spilled blood. Given that, the joke I’m about to tell may seem out of place. But I promise it’s leading somewhere.

To understand the joke, you need to know something about the ritual for ordaining bishops. I won’t assume that all of us have seen this done. When the presiding bishop lays her hands on the head of the person being ordained, she is joined by at least two other bishops and often many more. When Bishop Breidenthal was ordained in Columbus, there were about 20 bishops, from all over the country. Something similar happens when one is ordained a priest, only it’s the other priests who join in. The result looks very strange, something like a football huddle or rugby scrum. And, let me tell you, it is overwhelming for the person at the bottom of the pile, especially if there are a lot of people. Anyway, now for the joke…

One day, a little boy went with his father to the Cathedral to witness a new bishop being ordained. He had trouble seeing what was going on and asked many questions. And the father, who loved his son, patiently and quietly answered them. Eventually, he lifted the boy up on his shoulders so that he could see better. Finally, at the point when the bishops gathered around to consecrate the new bishop, the boy, confused by what was going on, whispered: “Daddy, daddy, what are they doing now?” The father looking at the spectacle before them, thought about it a second, and began to chuckle. “Son,” he said, “they’re removing his spine.”

Now, this joke gets told, because that’s often our experience with bishops. Not Bishop Breidenthal, mind you, who is fair and open minded, but also principled and firm. The image of an Anglican bishop, however, like that of the stereotypical priest, is a nice person, perhaps a bit prudish and naive, who is so anxious to please others that he or she has no spine at all.

Surely, that’s not always true, but the description hits the mark often enough to make the joke funny. Like other leaders in our society, bishops too often either are or are perceived to be two-faced, spineless bureaucrats, who will avoid committing themselves or causing controversy at almost any cost.

So many in Church leadership seem far from the biblical prophets, who never backed down when it came to justice. Today we hear from Isaiah, who says “The Lord God opened my ear, and I was not rebellious. I did not turn backward. I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard; I did not hide my face from insult and spitting.” The Church has often seen this and other portions of Isaiah as prophesies about Christ. Often, our leaders fail to be like Jesus, whose first passion for God’s Kingdom led him straight to his second passion on the cross.

And yet I am so very proud of our bishops today. At the conclusion of their meeting last week, the House of Bishops of the Episcopal Church issued a strong statement on the anti-torture bill. Never again, let it be said that bishops are spineless. O.K., maybe they are sometimes. In a moment of weakness, any of us might lose our spine. But this week our bishops took a clear stand as apostles of Jesus Christ. Let me read what they said in full:

Resolved, that the House of Bishops expresses its dismay at President George W. Bush's veto of the bill banning torturous interrogation techniques such as "waterboarding." As followers of the One who said, "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you...do to others as you would have them do to you." (Luke 6:27-28, 31) we find this method of interrogation morally unacceptable and call upon members of Congress to override this veto.

As your priest, I want to join with our bishops in reiterating the Church’s strong opposition to torture and to every form of violence against persons. Furthermore, I call on all candidates for public office to renounce waterboarding and other forms of torture and to make opposition to torture central to their campaigns this year. As our bishops remind us, in light of the teaching and example of Jesus, torture is simply unacceptable.

As Christians, we come to the political process with different convictions and interests. We disagree with one another about many issues. We affiliate with different parties and organizations. And that’s appropriate. At its best, this confirms our commitment to democracy and our respect for conscience. At the same time, our goal, as followers of the King of Kings, should be to lay aside the temptations of partisanship, and hold those who would represent us, regardless of party, to high moral standards that reflect Gospel values and human decency.

Today, members of both major political parties actively and openly support a policy of torture. I believe that one of our chief goals as Christians living in the United States should be creating a consensus that rejects torture and other violations of universal human rights. That used to go without saying, and, despite the contrived excuses of government lawyers, it is both the treaty obligation of the United States and the solemn moral teaching of the Church. Some of these same treaties formed the legal basis for the prosecutions and convictions at Nuremberg of military personnel and civilian officials for crimes against humanity. In the past, we may have had evidence that our own government participated in such crimes covertly. But this was, until very recently, a shameful matter and cause for outrage when brought to light.

I’ve preached against torture before, several times here at Good Shepherd and in other places as well. In light of our bishops’ statement this week, I feel compelled to preach against it again today. Today on Palm Sunday when we witness Jesus tortured and crucified. Today, we know we have blood on our hands. In Matthew’s passion, in a verse that has been abused for centuries by Christian anti-Semites, the crowd shouts out “his blood be on us and on our children.” Indeed, in the passion play, we find these words on our own lips. As we play the part of the unruly crowd, we shout out “Let him be crucified!”

Today, we are drenched in the blood of Christ. May this blood remind us of all the other ways we have blood on our hands. May it open our ears to the screams of our victims. May it open our eyes to see their faces. Guilty and innocent alike. Wherever they may be. And may the blood of Jesus cause us to repent of the EVIL in which we are immersed. Though the blood of Jesus accuse us, there is still hope for us. This same blood flows like a river, covering the sins of nations and of people. But it will not wash away our sins, unless we learn mercy. According to the Gospel, we accept God’s mercy by showing mercy to others.

When God gave the Law to Israel, Moses poured animal blood on the People as a sign of their covenant with God. So too today, Jesus pours out his own blood upon us, as a sign of our covenant with him. The heart of this covenant is mercy, righteousness, and self-giving love.

Jesus is the saving victim who dies at our hands. May we pledge ourselves to him, so that our violence might stop with him. This week of all weeks, may we accept mercy and learn mercy from Christ Crucified.

Fourth Sunday in Lent: Lived, Breathed, Spat in the Mud

Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?

The rabbi in question is Jesus, and, at first glance, his answer is not entirely comforting. “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” Does Jesus really mean to suggest that God caused this man’s blindness as the occasion for a miracle?

But perhaps that’s taking the words of Jesus too literally. Maybe it’s not a question of cause and effect, as seems to be implied when Jesus says the man was born blind SO THAT God’s works might be revealed in him. Perhaps, rather, the significant move occurs when Jesus shatters the connection between sin and suffering that the question presupposes. Jesus breaks out of the false alternative, which insists that someone must have sinned, the only question being “who sinned, this man or his parents?” And he points us instead to the healing, restorative work of God.

Then, Jesus does something else. He spits in the ground, spreads mud on the man’s eyes, and sends him to wash and be healed. In other words, Jesus does the work of God, and invites the man to participate in that work himself.

As it’s commonly presented in philosophy textbooks, the problem of evil is an intellectual problem. God is all-knowing, all powerful, and absolutely good, yet horrible evil and unspeakable suffering exist. The usual solutions are to deny God’s existence, to somehow qualify what it means for God to be all powerful, or to maintain that suffering contributes to a greater good. On one level, that’s a fascinating exercise, and I’ve written a term paper or two about it myself. Yet none of these explanations seems to help when we’re actually suffering. More often than not, they sound like the glib explanations of Job’s comforters. Blasphemous words that only deepen his pain.

Maybe, suffering calls for another kind of response. Rather than going through intellectual gymnastics, we might show some solidarity and compassion. Instead of empty words, we might offer a strong, loving presence. If words were offered at all, we would speak in fear and trembling, offering only the most halting and tentative words of blessing. And we might look for resiliency and strength in the wounded one, and over time help him or her name that strength and act upon it, and to live in gratitude to God as the Source of that strength.

It is here, I think, that the act of Jesus spitting in the dirt needs to be highlighted (not that I’d recommend this method of healing!). John is pointing us to the physicality of the Incarnation. The Son of God has come in the flesh, and he is showing us who God is, and what God’s work is. Too often, when we look at John’s Gospel, we are overwhelmed by the otherworldly character of Jesus. How easily we forget John’s central affirmation: the Word became flesh and lived among us. Lived, breathed, spat in the mud. This is the ultimate act of solidarity—to be with us in flesh and blood. To share in the life and death of human beings, including the suffering of our mortal condition.

At the same time, Jesus doesn’t get caught in the same trap as so many of us. Confusing compassion with being nice, we often fall into co-dependent, enabling behavior. We are so overwhelmed by the suffering of others that we trip all over ourselves trying to help, and stabilize them in their dependency and weakness. We forget the many occasions in Scripture when Jesus challenges others, and focus on him as a miracle worker. Jesus heals the man, but he invites him to participate in his own healing, when he says “Go and wash in the pool of Siloam.” Only when the man does this, is he healed. Jesus does not lose himself in the man’s suffering. He comes alongside us in the flesh, while remaining what he is.

If we want to find where God is in human suffering, we should look for God as the source of strength and integrity. God is the one who invites us into wholeness, no matter where we’ve wandered. No matter how broken we are. There is suffering that overcomes and defeats us. Jesus shares that too, on the cross.

In the story, the only place we catch Jesus committing the sin of theology is in what he denies. This man is not blind because someone sinned. Jesus refuses to see suffering as punishment. He refuses to trap God in the human cycle of tit for tat. But for the most part, rather than thinking or talking about God, Jesus simply does the work of God. He embodies God’s word and wisdom in all he says and does. And he allows God’s glory to be revealed in his flesh.

When we suffer, we need companionship. We need someone who will stand beside us, without trying to fix it for us. We need someone who will befriend us and make us strong enough to stand. God did all these things when God sent Jesus to live and die as one of us, in the flesh.

Third Sunday in Lent: Living Water in Desert Places

Two weeks ago, I preached about the journey of Jesus into the desert to face Satan and the awful silence of God. Remember that the occasion of the sermon was a frightening verse from Psalm 30, which the vestry and I discussed at our retreat. The Psalmist says to God: “Then you hid your face, and I was filled with fear.” At the end of the sermon, I used a famous prayer of Thomas Merton, which a friend of mine found helpful as he struggled with the final stages of terminal cancer. I was trying to suggest that there are times in our lives when we must cling to God in faith and love, even when there seems to be little ground for either.

Today, we continue our Lenten journey into the desert, as we hear the story about Moses striking the Rock, to give the grumbling people water. In response to this story, I’d like to do three things. First, I want to remind us of Merton’s prayer, which is filled with hope for dry places. Second, I want to say a few words about the story itself and what it shows us about our own journey into freedom. And lastly, I want to talk with you about Christ and the living water he provides us for that journey.

Merton’s prayer is based on Psalm 23. It expresses confidence that God will lead us through the shadow of death, even when we have no sense of God’s presence or the direction God would have us go. The prayer concludes with the confidence that God will never leave us to face our perils alone. This is not far from the promise of the risen Christ, “I am with you always,” but it’s more subdued, and perhaps more appropriate for a desert season.

I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s something agnostic about the prayer. In fact, that might explain its appeal. Now, by agnostic, I don’t mean what’s commonly meant: having doubts about the existence of God without making a firm commitment to atheism. No, not at all. By agnostic, I mean expressing the doubts that inevitably occur to the believer, in response to the very nature of God. I mean what is suggested by the title of that classic work of medieval English mysticism: The Cloud of Unknowing. Agnosia, or unknowing, is part and parcel of the life of faith. This is why fundamentalism, in all its forms, is both heresy and blasphemy. Fundamentalism strives for certainty, where none is to be found. Fundamentalism is the mirror image of atheistic rationalism: both are children of modernity. There is certainty in faith, but this is the certainty of trust in a Person. Faith relates to the God of absolute and incomprehensible mystery, who is nonetheless revealed as Personal Love. Even in revelation, God’s mystery is not taken away.

The anonymous monk who wrote the Cloud of Unknowing put it this way: “This darkness and cloud is always between you and your God, no matter what you do, and it prevents you from seeing him clearly by the light of understanding in your reason, and from experiencing him in sweetness of love in your affection. So set yourself to rest in this darkness as long as you can, always crying after him whom you love. For if you are to experience him or see him at all, insofar as it is possible here, it must always be in this cloud and in this darkness.” I think it’s in this light we need to hear Merton’s prayer again:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

In the darkness of unknowing, Merton finds himself in love without qualification, and he is willing to place his whole trust in God.

In today’s story from Exodus, Moses criticizes the People of Israel for putting God to the test. Remember that this precisely is what Jesus refuses to do when the devil tempts him the second time. But the People are different. Ignoring the mighty works by which God has delivered them from slavery, they begin to doubt the presence of God. “Is the Lord among us, or not?” they ask. They accuse Moses of taking them to the desert to kill them, their children, and their livestock.

So what does God do? God commands Moses to strike the Rock with his staff. The very same staff he used to strike the Nile during the plague of blood. It’s as if God is reminding them about the mighty deeds already done to liberate them, of the past instances where God kept a promise. And, when Moses does as he is told, water flows from the Rock and the People drink.

I think this story shows us three things about our own journey into freedom. First, God is still among us, even when we begin to doubt. Second, in our time of doubt, we are to remember God’s mighty deeds. Third, even when we put our God to the test, God remains faithful. We break faith. God does not. God condemns the grumbling among the People, but gives them water nonetheless.

I am convinced that we, living in this country at this time, have lost our sense of risk and adventure. As a result, we who are Christians are not nearly bold enough in our faith. We are tempted by the idols of security, in much the way our ancestors were tempted to return to Egypt. We want quick fixes and easy answers, where there are none. We want some tangible sign that we can hold on to, rather than faith, which is confidence in things unseen. Above all we want safety, even if that safety comes at the price of freedom. We are not willing to follow God, wherever God might lead. Instead, we will only go down paths that are tried and true. Our imaginations are limited by our fears, and we become timid and rigid as a result. How easily we forget that perfect love casts out fear. How easily we forget that God risked ALL in sending us Jesus.

My friends, Jesus is the Rock of Ages, and out of his pierced side flows living water that springs up to eternal life. In the tradition of the Church, the water is taken to be either the teaching of Christ or the Holy Spirit. These two come together in Baptism, wherein by water and the Holy Spirit, we are engrafted into Christ, so that our whole life becomes part of his story. In his teaching, Jesus refreshes our thirst with the pure words of the Gospel. He assures us of God’s mercy and pardon. He invites us to take our place in the Kingdom of God. Our journey into the Kingdom is by no means an easy one. The path we are on is often a desert path, where we are tried and purified, as if by fire. As in our baptism, so in our daily life, the Holy Spirit draws us ever deeper into the mystery of Christ, crucified and risen again.

But, like the People of Israel in the desert, we never walk this path alone. The Holy Spirit burns within us, assuring us of God’s love, and filling us with God’s power, which is none other than the power of love. The living love of God floods our hearts, so that we might risk everything for Jesus.

And it is in this risking—in this dying—that we are born again into eternal life.