Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX 79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The church is full of hypocrites. Ever heard that? I hear it all the time. It usually comes from folks who are anxious to justify their neglect of their own religious duties by dumping on Church folks. At first glance, it seems a well-aimed attack, too. After all, Jesus is very hard on hypocrites, in fact, he is harder on them than he is on anybody else. We just had a good example of that in the Gospel, where Jesus once more climbs all over the Pharisees and scribes, the official religious leaders of the day. So, if the church really is full of hypocrites, we have a problem—and we should probably fire a bunch of churchgoers, or go out of business, or something.
But before we do that, it’s a good idea to take a minute and look at what Jesus was talking about when he talked about hypocrites. It’s one of those words that might not be a real good translation; and that we need to spend a little extra time with. What we usually mean when we use the word is not what Jesus meant when he used it.
The dictionary says that hypocrites are people who are playing a part, people who deliberately pretend to have beliefs and virtues that they in fact do not have at all and which the hypocrites both know they don’t have and don’t particularly want to have. Hypocrites in this sense are people who are faking and who know it. The point is deception. (In fact, the word comes from acting a part in a play). Hypocrisy in this sense is really vicious. It is a misuse of religious faith and it mocks God and His Church. Doubtless it greatly grieves the Lord. But two other things need to be said about this sense of hypocrisy. First, the Church is not full of this kind of hypocrite and, second, this isn’t what Jesus was talking about, anyway.
About the first thing. It just isn’t true. Most church people, indeed virtually all the Church people I know, believe what they say they believe, or they want to believe it, or they are trying to believe it, or they wish they could believe it.
In the same way, most church people I know are living by their best take on the moral precepts of our faith, or they are trying to, or they want to, or they know the struggle that comes with contending with God and the weight of judgment that brings. Nobody gets it right all the time; everybody gets it wrong more often than necessary. Anybody and everybody can do better. But outright, deliberate faking the whole business to seem good while planning to be bad—this is rare, and I think we ought to realize that and say that and celebrate that. The church is not full of that sort of hypocrite. The church is full of sinners—but that’s another matter—and that’s as it should be.
Now, in the light of all that, I’m not sure whether or not its good news that when Jesus condemned hypocrites and hypocrisy, he was not talking about this, but about something else. You see, the notion of acting a part was a Greek notion, and there are really no Hebrew or Aramaic parallels to this idea of hypocrisy. What Jesus was talking about was different, and the best way I know to get at it is by way of an old Zen story—a story I think I’ve used before in another context.
Once upon a time, the great Zen master Sasha was standing with a friend at the top of a tall tower. His friend looked down the road and saw a line of saffron-robed monks walking toward them. “Look”, his friend said to Sasha, “Holy men.” |“Those aren’t holy men”, Sasha said, “and I can prove to you they are not holy men.” So they waited in silence until the monks were walking directly below the tower. Then Sasha leaned over the towers rail and called down, “Hey, holy men.” The monks all looked up—and Sasha turned to his friend and said, “see”. Those monks were exactly what Jesus meant when he talked about hypocrites. So were the Pharisees and Scribes. Jesus does not attack the Pharisees and scribes for pretending to be good when they were really evil. Instead, he castigates them because their self-righteous convictions about their own goodness had built a smug wall around them, and isolated them from the rest of the community, and made them deaf to any further word from God.
The Pharisees kept the law, and keeping the law—the moral law and the religious law—is a good thing. But to believe and act like your own righteousness in the sight of God comes to you because you keep the law is absolutely deadly, and is the heart of what Jesus means by hypocrisy. ||To cultivate within yourself moral virtues and behavior which not every one around you cultivates is a good thing. Indeed, it is a distinctive mark of the Christian life. But to believe and act like your own righteousness in the sight of God comes to you because you are more virtuous than most people you know, or than some other group, or than some specific other person, this is what Jesus insisted was far more evil than the particulars of any individual sinner.
There is only one place to look if we want to find out how good we are or how righteous we are or whether or not we have anything to boast about. Only one place. That place is God—God’s absolute goodness, God’s absolute justice, God’s absolute demands, and, finally, God’s absolute love and mercy.
If we look to ourselves for our righteousness, if we look to the things we have done, or the rules we have kept or the law we obey—or if we look to the failings of others (and say, “at least I’m not like them”) if we do that, if we try to find in ourselves or in others the answer to how good we are or how righteous we are, or to whether or not we have anything to boast about—if we do that then we are who Jesus is talking about when he talks about hypocrites. (Somebody yells down, we look up.) To be sure, it is a good and important thing to obey the law and to live the life we are called to live. None of the talk of hypocrisy excuses moral or religious failing nor does it mean that the way we behave doesn’t matter. The way we behave matters a lot, for a bunch of reasons. Deuteronomy today talks about how God’s people are to live in such a way that the world around them can look at them and be drawn to God. And Paul talks about how every speck of virtue we can nurture is absolutely essential if we are to live our calling.
At the same time, when Jesus condemns the hypocrites, he is not talking about evil people who pretend. He is talking about well-behaved people who trust in themselves, who consider themselves finished products, and so cannot see or hear either themselves or God very well.
Now, I don’t think the church is particularly full of this sort of hypocrite, either; but we’re far from immune. And Jesus thought it was dreadfully important, so we have to pay especially close attention and keep alert.
Remember Sasha in the tower and those monks. And remember that our trust, and our hope, and our confidence can be found in only one place—it is never in ourselves, it is always in the love and the mercy of God.
The Lessons for today: Deuteronomy 4.1-9; Psalm 15; Ephesians 6.10-20; Mark 7.1-8, 14-15, 21-23
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
This page last updated on September 3, 2000
Kathleen Norris tells the wonderful story of a monk of the fourth century, one of the desert fathers, who decided that he was making no spiritual progress in the monastery. He told off the other monks, saying that they were quarrelsome, holding him back, constantly doing things that made him angry, which of course interfered with his prayers. So, the monk left. But as he was in the process of moving into a cave all of his own, looking forward to perfect peace, he became frustrated over some trifle and threw his water bottle against the cave wall, breaking it in pieces. Realizing that his anger was within him, and that it would be with him wherever he went, he returned to the monastery, apologized, and was taken back.
He probably could have saved some time and effort, and a perfectly good water bottle, if he had paid a little more attention to the letter of James. We hear from James for the next few weeks, and he’s worth some attention. On the one hand, the letter, which is really a sermon, is an intellectual and literate exploration of lofty and complex theology. James has read the Gospels and he has read Plato; he has prayed over both of them and he has pretty much mastered both of them. So the book is a good example of the sanctified knowledge that can lead to wisdom, and to the truth.
But, like any good preacher, James is mainly concerned with the present,
and with his flock, and with how they are doing. That’s one of the things
that makes the letter special—James is very clear that what makes all of
this theology real and important is the very ordinary, very basic business
of living. Look at the specifics he talks about—nothing heroic or complicated,
nothing requiring great intellect or extraordinary courage: Guard your
tongue, control your anger, listen to one another, bridle your tongue (again),
and, (notice this), pay the most attention to the weakest, to those people
who are without status and without resources, because it is through them
that Christ is best known and best served.
That, James says, is what the Christian faith, for all it’s complexity and depth, actually looks like. Notice that you don’t need special circumstances or special equipment to do any of this. You don’t need dramatic moments and you don’t need big issues. What you do need is the place where you are right now, the people around you, and the present moment. That’s what you need to live the Christian life, that’s what it takes to grow the implanted word that has the power to save your soul.
This is what the monk in the story learned. To be precise, the monk learned two things. First, he learned that you can’t blame your own failures on them, on the folks around you, on the others—it’s not their fault if you’re doing poorly. That’s the first thing. The second thing he learned is that you can’t do it without them. If you run off to a cave by yourself, then two things happen: First, the problems are still there, (you take those with you wherever you go); second, the one thing necessary for a solution, the circumstance necessary for growth—other people in community—that’s gone, and you’re stuck with the worst of both worlds.
One of the odd but persistent truths of the Christian faith is that the occasion, the opportunity, for our sanctification, for our growth in holiness, is not something abstract or difficult; it is not something distant or exotic. The occasion of our sanctification is, quite literally, perched right in front of us. WE are God’s gift to one another for the growth and maturity of our souls, for becoming more that we wold be otherwise. If such growth doesn’t happen where we are, then the chances are pretty good that it won’t happen somewhere else.
To be sure, sometimes there are good reasons for leaving where you are and going somewhere else—but don’t ever expect that leaving to fix you, to make you happy, or to change who you are.
There is another piece of this focus on ordinary life as the arena for the spiritual life that is especially relevant today, as we shift back to two services, and begin again our Christian education programs for all ages. For years now, ever time I have settled into an airplane seat before take-off, re-arranged my over-abundant carry-on luggage, and mostly ignored that inane pre-flight safety lecture you always hear, I have intended to put something about that lecture into a sermon; I was on a plane a few days ago, and now’s my chance.
It’s the part about the oxygen. They always say something like, “things will never get bad enough to make the cabin pressure drop, but if does happen, then oxygen masks will fall down in front of your face and you will need them to breathe.” Then they say, “if you are traveling with small children, be sure to put your mask on first, then help the children with theirs.” That always sounds a little odd at first—shouldn’t you be a hero and help the kids first? But after a second it makes good sense. Having enough oxygen is so important, so fundamental, that you can’t help the kids with it unless you have already done it yourself. If you don’t have enough yourself, you’ll be goofy, and you won’t be able to help anyone else; instead, you’ll probably mess them up.
Get it? The Christian life is very much like that. Our culture, and our world, have experienced an unanticipated loss of air pressure. Life lines are dangling out right in front of us. That’s part of what we are about as St. Mary’s. We are one of those. But it won’t do us or our children any good at all if we point to the life-line and say “That’s a good thing”, or even if we grab hold of them and try to tie them on to our kids. We won’t be in good enough shape to be able to help. We need to take care of our selves first and during, then we will be able to be of some use to others.
I always try to remind us on the first day of Sunday School that the Christian religion is primarily directed toward adults; and that our responsibilities toward children are not to entertain or amuse them, but rather to help them grow to maturity, to an adult faith. And we cannot do that if we are not on that road ourselves. We cannot share what we do not have; and we cannot expect anyone to hold beliefs, values and virtues that we do not exemplify. Take the mask first, then you can help the children with theirs.
And remember, like St. James said, it is all very ordinary. It is all about the people we have around us, the places we are, and the times we live it. That’s where we will find God, and that’s where we will find growth, and wholeness.
The Lessons for today: Isaiah 35.4-7a; Psalm 146;James
1.17-27; Mark 7.31-37
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on September 10, 2000
I understand that a gosling–a baby goose—has an innate, a built-in frame of reference about how to shape its relationship with its mother. At birth, the gosling knows that it is supposed to follow its mother, imitate her actions, and rely on her for protection. That is the way the gosling learns how to grow up to be a goose. However, while it knows all of this, there is one (small) thing a gosling does not know at birth—it does no know what its mother looks like. That bit of information just isn’t there. So, a gosling takes the first big, moving thing it sees as its mother—and attaches to this thing all its little goose instincts. Usually, and fortunately, the first big, moving thing it sees is the momma goose, and all goes well. The baby gosling goes where it should go, learns to do what it should do, and grows up to be a healthy, normal goose.
But sometimes, it doesn’t work that way. Sometimes the very first big, moving thing the gosling sees is something very different—sometimes it is a person, or another animal, or even a thing—like a canoe. Never the less, the whole spectrum of this baby goose’s in-born attachments affix themselves to this substitute, and off it goes. That’s how you get those hilarious spectacles of this little thing all dressed up like a goose, honking like a goose, but waddling along after a racoon or a canoe or something else. This is very bad for the gosling. All the right instincts are there, all the needs for food, protection, and care that any goose has, these are right there–but when it follows the wrong thing, its life gets all twisted and fouled up; and it may never learn what it is like to be a real goose. {What does it profit a goose to follow a canoe? Very little.}
We human beings have at least two things in common with baby geese. First of all, part of being human is having a built-in frame of reference on how to shape our relationship with the one we worship and follow and call Lord. We have a sense of our own incompleteness and we know we need to look somewhere else for that wholeness we do not have. We have a built-in need for God. The second thing we have in common with that baby goose is that we do not know automatically or instantly what God looks like. We don’t know automatically know who or what we are created to follow. We know we gotta follow something; but we have to learn the particulars. And if we don’t get that right, we, like a misdirected gosling, can easily go wandering off after the first big, moving thing that lumbers by. The results can be just as funny, and just as tragic, as a goose following a canoe. Both the epistle of James and the section from Mark’s gospel give good examples of what this looks like.
James is writing to folks who look like geese and honk like geese. He is writing to the Christian Church of his day, to people who seem on the surface to have chosen to follow Jesus Christ. But look at you, James says: you treat the rich as more important, as more valuable. You prepare a special place for the upper classes, and seek out those with status; you ignore or patronize the poor. You see someone in need and you wish them well, but do nothing. You look like a goose, but that’s not who you are.
That’s because these folks are following something else. They are following the world, the world’s values, and the world’s standards. After all, the world does say that the poor are of less value than the rich; and that there is something wrong with folks who are different; and that it is more important not to get taken then it is to give. So, James’ Church is honking like a goose and waddling after a canoe. It is following the world as if the world were God.
Jesus makes the point even more clearly. He asks the disciples who they think he is. And Peter, bless his heart, honks like a goose; he gets it right. “You are the Messiah”, the Lord, the one they are to follow. So, Jesus takes Peter and the disciples at their word and begins to lead. He tells them that what lies ahead is suffering and rejection; pain and death—and only then something greater. This, Jesus said, is the way to life. That’s when Peter takes Jesus aside and begins to chew him out. Peter says ‘Never’. Now, imagine a baby goose jumping in front of its mother and saying, “No, you’re doing the wrong things, that’s not the way geese act.” It doesn’t make sense. In face, to say “No, Lord” is a contradiction. Think about it.
That’s when Jesus says essentially the same thing James says, “You are not on the side of God, but of men.” You are following the wrong thing.
Remember, the world does say that says that winners do not suffer, but have it easy. The world says that our lives are our own, and that we should gain as much as we can and keep our lives and never lose them. The world says that to say ‘No’ to ourselves is to waste our lives. The world says that if we get the right answer, things will go the way we want them to go. That’s what the world says. Everybody knows that, just like everybody in Peter’s day knew that the Messiah would come to make it easy for Himself and His followers. Peter, like a misdirected gosling, like the Church James wrote to, Peter was just waddling along after the world’s thinking, and the world’s values.
What Jesus offered then, and what Jesus continues to offer now, is to lead us in a different direction. When he says, take up your cross and follow me–learn from me and from my life what living is all about, Jesus is asking us to attach to him all those instinctive desires we have for security, direction, meaning and purpose. He is asking that we discover from him, and from no one else, what life is really all about. To grow into a full human being takes more than the right words—just like it takes more than honking to become a grown up goose. We have to follow the right leader and we have to go where he goes, and learn to live the way He shows us to live. And that is neither automatic nor is it easy. To follow Jesus is not to give lip service while really hooking up to the values of the world. It is not to elevate today’s common sense to the level of divine teaching. Instead, it has to do with getting behind Jesus–and not standing in front of Him. It has to do with saying ‘No’ to self as the highest goal, to picking up a cross, and to losing our lives in love, service and obedience. It has to do with giving Jesus authority over our lives and waiting to see what develops. And that often means we lose the world—after all, you just can’t follow two leaders at the same time.
But the promise is that we gain something greater. The promise is that, if we learn to follow as we were made to follow, if we put our instincts in the right place, then we will gain back our lives, as they were meant to be—full, and whole, and eternal. The promise is that we will grow wonderfully into ourselves and into God, and fly beyond our furthest visions—and so discover the power of His grace and love, and so help new generations grow, and discover this new life for themselves.
The Lessons for today: Isaiah 50.4-9; Psalm 116;
James 2.1-5, 8-10, 14-18; Mark 8.27-38
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on September 17, 2000
There is a special spin on this Gospel story that we often overlook; one that really makes a difference in how we look at it, and in how we understand all of those pretty pictures of Jesus hugging a child and placing him among the disciples.
What’s happening is familiar enough. The disciples are arguing about greatness—they do that rather a lot in the Gospels—and Jesus responds to that arguing, to all that talk of status and clout, by placing a child in the middle of the disciples. He then says that what greatness is all about in the Kingdom of God has to do, not with what the disciples are thinking about or talking about. Instead, greatness in the Kingdom of God is about this child instead. You guys want to know about greatness, Jesus asks, then start by looking here.
Now, most of the time, when we hear this story, we think that Jesus is presenting the child— in its innocence, dependence, and lack of pretension—as an alternative to the ambitious disciples; as an example of a better way to be. We think that Jesus is saying that the point is that the disciples, and we, should be more like the child; more child-like. (That is, in fact, what is going on in a parallel story in Matthew’s Gospel.)
But that’s not what is going on here. Notice what Jesus says, “whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me...” In Mark, the point lies not in the child’s attitude; but in the attitude of others toward the child.|| The disciples talk about greatness, and Jesus talks, instead about welcoming a child. (By the way, welcoming a child, or welcoming anybody, was not about being polite. It was a matter of formal hospitality; it was about accepting the person as a peer, about bringing someone into your community, into your inner circle.)
Still, what’s the big deal about being nice to children—only grumpy mean people like Mr. Wilson in Dennis the Menace don’t like children, (and even Mr. Wilson really has a heart of gold)? In order to see what is going on here, we need to remember that the near East in the first century was a very different world, and a very different culture, from ours; and people really did think and act differently. The whole business about children is powerful example of this.
Children in Jesus’ day were not Gerber babies, lovely, sweet, plump and cuddly. Not by a long shot. They were generally held in extremely low esteem; and were considered of far less value to society than adults. And their lives, the lives of children, were just awful. Children mostly died: Infant mortality was around thirty per cent. Another thirty percent of live births were dead by age six, and sixty percent were gone by age sixteen. In that world, most of your children, and most of the children you knew, did not survive anywhere close to adulthood.
That is doubtless connected to the fact that Children had very little status within the community or even within the family. A minor child was on a par with a slave, and, for example, could not inherit property or receive any real legal protection until he or she had reached maturity. Basically, children didn’t amount to much, they didn’t count for much, they generally didn’t last very long, and people tended not to become very attached to them. Children were weak and replaceable, powerless and worth little. That is what is behind this little story in Mark; and that is what gives it its meaning, and its power.
Listen to the story again. The disciples were arguing about greatness; so Jesus said that whoever wants to be first must be last of all, and servant of all. “Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them ‘whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me...’” This isn’t about being nice or sweet. It isn’t about how wonderful it would be if we would all be more like children or if we would only show a little more kindness toward others. It isn’t about any of that. It’s about renewal, about getting new eyes. To welcome a child, in that age and in that context, was to live in a different reality from everybody else. It was to see the world in a totally different way, and it was to see human beings in a totally different way. Jesus was suggesting something that was neither cute nor compelling, but instead seemed bizarre; something that called for a radical departure from the usual ways of thinking and acting. To give value and respect to a child was to turn the world upside down—not because of the way we think about children today, but because of the way they thought about children, then.
I suspect that all of this has something pretty direct to say to all of us. After all, how do we really evaluate and judge and make our assessments of other people—and of ourselves? What do we find admirable, enviable, and attractive—and what hopes do we have for ourselves and for our children? What do we want, and whom do we welcome? Really. From the perspective of the world Jesus lived in, how willing are we to welcome a child, to bring in the one with no value, and no significance? What would it be like to look at every person we meet, at every person we know, through the eyes of Jesus, and through his vision of greatness and of service?
There is, of course, judgement here. We need to be reminded, over and over, how far, how terribly distant, our habits, instincts, and impulses really are from the Kingdom of God. It is really difficult for us to take this story really seriously. To do that we will have to be very intentional, very deliberate. We will need to notice what our eyes see, and we will have to seek the eyes of Jesus.
And remember, there is the final surprise in what Jesus says, a truth that is as stunning as it is unexpected. But we have learned, throughout the long centuries of the Church’s life, that whenever the followers of Jesus have stopped wrangling among themselves about status and which one is the greatest long enough to follow the steps of their master, when they have struggled to pick up their own crosses and to show hospitality and kindness to the unlovely and powerless and outcasts of their world, they have discovered that they have not only welcomed a stranger, but that they have received, and served, and moved close to the heart and the mind of the Lord Jesus Christ himself, and they have tasted the kingdom, and they have seen the first light of the new creation.
The Lessons for today: Wisdom 1.16--2.1(6-11),
12-22; Psalm 54; James 3.16--4.6; Mark 9.30-37
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on September 24, 2000
Every now and then we get lessons that are just plain good for us, pretty much all the way around. The ones today are like that, and I want to reflect for a minute on just one of the things they talk about.
Both the reading from Numbers and the first part of our section from Mark’s Gospel tell virtually the same story. In Numbers, the people of Israel have become more of a problem then Moses can handle. (There is some really world-class whining in here, by everybody). So God tells Moses to get some help. These seventy helpers are told to gather at a particular place and receive a sign from God. So off they go to do exactly what they are told. They gather around the tent, and the sign happens.
Then we meet Eldad and Medad. For some reason (which we don’t know) they didn’t follow instructions. They stayed in the camp. But they, too prophesied. They, too, were given a sign of God’s selection. Now, this was too much for the people who had done it right. How dare some non-conformist types get the same spiritual goodies as people who had followed the rules? So, somebody tattled, and Joshua went to the boss and made it clear that this sort of thing simply could not be allowed.
I imagine Joshua felt pretty important and pretty smug. There is nothing that gives you a sense of having made it more than putting down someone who is different. “My Lord Moses, forbid them” he demanded, in his best whose-in-charge-here-anyway voice. You know that voice.
It was probably the same voice the disciples used to forbid the unknown exorcist in Mark. After all, here are the disciples, staying with Jesus, doing (or at least sometimes doing) what Jesus says; following (or at least sometimes following) the rules that Jesus gives, and sharing, from time to time, in the popularity of Jesus. Remember, much of that popularity was based on Jesus’ healings—which were not only theologically important, as signs of the new age of the Kingdom of God, they were also popular, they attracted attention, and they gave both Jesus and the disciples a special sort of prestige.
And here was this fellow they had never heard of doing the same thing. He didn’t have the credentials the disciples did, he didn’t follow the same path as the disciples did, and yet, he did the same things that Jesus and the disciples did. Naturally, John and the others disciples set out to put a stop to it. After all, like Eldad and Medad, this guy was operating outside of channels. He was doing something the good guys felt was reserved for them.
(I wouldn’t be surprised if the disciples also didn’t like this fellow’s style, either—he probably used different words or gestures—(Rite II or something) you know, he didn’t do the service properly.)
Be that as it may, the disciples stopped him; and they proudly reported this bit of activity to Jesus. Sounding, I’m sure, very much like Joshua.
But neither Joshua nor the disciples received the reply they expected. Moses was delighted at what happened to Eldad and Medad, and said that it was just fine with him. Jesus rebuked the disciples; “Do not forbid him, ...he that is not against us is for us.” Really disappointing responses, I’m sure.
Joshua and the disciples had drawn a circle around themselves and stamped what was inside as appropriate, proper, and certified. God was supposed to approve. Instead, God seemed downright unsympathetic. Now, be careful to notice what God did and what he did not do. God told the good guys to leave the other folks, the uncertified ones, alone—not to try to stop them. In fact, God seems determined, from time to time, to use strange voices to speak the truth—and so to insure that the truth not become identified with one particular taste, tone, interpretation or opinion.
That’s what God did. At the same time, notice that Jesus did not tell the disciples to go next door and become disciples of this other guy, and he did not offer the fellow a job. In the same way, Moses did not say it was a bad thing for the 68 to do what they were told to do. Both the disciples and Joshua were right where they were supposed to be. But they were also adding one thing more. They were also insisting that the way they were called to be was the only way there could be—they were presuming to judge.
That’s what the world does. The world teaches us to be very hard on any appearance of competition, to stop any activity that threatens our own categories or our own control. But the power of God moves where it chooses; and it sometimes moves in ways and in people, strange to us. So, we are called, not to go running off after every variation from the norm, but to listen, to wait, and to see what God is up to.
The movement against slavery, the rediscovery of St. Paul’s teachings
about salvation by grace through faith, the development of religious orders
of monks and nuns, indeed the Church of England itself, all of these and
so much more that we see as valuable and of God—these all began outside
channels, as non-conforming, even revolutionary. They were all challenges
to what was considered inside the circles men drew and said “here, and
here alone, is God to be found”. There is more to God than our categories,
and He alone decides what that is.
Now, this would be a pretty good place to stop, except that Jesus doesn’t
stop here—Jesus goes one step beyond. Jesus takes that energy the disciples
showed in trying to cut out the unknown exorcist and redirects it. Do not
forbid or judge those who are different, he says; instead, look to yourselves.
Is some part of you causing problems—change it. Is there something about
your life that stands between you and the kingdom—cut it off. Even if it
is as much a part of you as your hand or your eye—take whatever steps are
necessary.
Jesus does not say—if someone else’s eye offends you, go over and remove it for him. Instead, he says something quite different. The Lord insists that, if you must be harsh and judgmental about someone, be that way about yourself.
Again, both the world and our own instincts disagree. They teach us to ignore our own stuff and deal with somebody else’s. After all, nobody’s perfect, but old so and so could be a lot better. And while it is rather fun to judge and condemn; it is hard work to transform ourselves, or, better, to allow ourselves to be transformed by the power of God.
Still, Jesus gives a new focus to our desire to change, to judge, and to cut off. He turns things around and calls us to be generous and open to others, and hard and thorough to ourselves. Such a redirection of energy and effort is a challenge and a struggle; but that’s all right.
The disciples had better things to do than run around the countryside dumping on people they thought were off base; and Joshua had a richer ministry than giving Eldad and Medad failing grades. And there was not enough time or energy to do both.
So we are set free of distraction and directed toward new life. We are
told to leave to God how bad and wrong they are, and to pay attention to
our own growth, and our own service. That way, Jesus insists, is His way,
and the way to eternal life.
The Lessons for today: Numbers 11.4-6, 10-16,
24-29; Psalm 19.7-14; James 4.7--5.6; Mark 9.38-43, 45, 47-48
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
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This page last updated on October 1, 2000
Sometimes we are so familiar with something we don’t even notice it anymore. The little bit from the second chapter of Genesis that we just heard, and we just heard Jesus quote (and talk about), is like that. It’s so familiar as to be invisible. But it is dreadfully important, and has some absolutely basic stuff about our vison of the world and of human life. I want to look at that a little this morning; and at what Jesus has to say about it.
Notice again the central pronouncement of God in this part of the creation story. Throughout the first chapter of Genesis, God has said one thing about His creation; remember that—“God saw that it was good”, over and over. But now, God looks at all he has made, and says, “it is not good that the man should be alone”. Think about that, listen to that. Everything else is good, but this isn’t. And notice that Adam, the man, the human, was hardly alone in the garden. First of all, God was with Adam in the garden. That’s a lot all by itself. Then, when the animals were all done, all of nature, all of creation, was with Adam in the garden. The whole world was there. The man was not alone.
In fact, this sounds like the perfect situation for much of popular
American religion—one man alone, surrounded by nature, with God close at
hand. Wow. I don’t even want to think about how many times I’ve heard folks
say that this is really all the religion anyone needs—just me, God, and
the great outdoors. (Sometimes symbolized by a golf course or a trout stream.)
But when God saw it, when God saw the man, God, the great outdoors, God
didn’t say “it doesn’t get any better than this”. Instead, God said, about
this, and only about this, “it is not good”.
So creation wasn’t finished. As long as the man lived in isolation
from other people, the creation of a good, a complete, human being, had
not yet happened. By the way, “Not good” does not mean that the man is
either immoral or unhappy—he might have been tickled pink and he sure couldn’t
get into much trouble—the point is that he was not complete, not whole.
That’s what ‘not good’ means here.
It was in order to complete creation, to make a whole human being, that the other person, Eve, is created. There are a couple of things to notice here. First of all, this story is not so much about the roles of men and women as it is about what it means to be a human being. Also, it is not saying that everyone should be married or that only married people are whole people. That’s just not true. But it is saying that we can only begin to be who we are created to be with and through the other—through relationship and community. This happens in many ways, but it does not happen alone. (If you ask an honest monk where his biggest and most important struggles come from, he’ll tell you “other monks.”) We do not become whole or complete in isolation, but through community; through the other.
It is to this end that God has given us certain structures and situations where we can, maybe, begin to discover what it means not to be alone, and where we can have our humanity drawn, and sometimes dragged, out of us. God has given us schools of love—places to grow.
Marriage, and families, are first of all about this. They are schools of love. And while not everyone is called to the vocation of marriage, for those of us who are—this business of helping each other grow into who we are created to be is one of the primary reasons God created marriage. To be sure, there is more to it than this—but that is primary.
In much the same way, God has called us to be the Church, and into this church, because without something like this, we simply cannot be very Christian. In spite of—or, more likely, because of—both the difficulties and the joys it brings.
Being a part of a real, human, chunk of the body of Christ is essential to any serious Christian growth. Like marriage and the family, parish life, church life, is not really about success or happiness. Instead, it is a school of love. It is about growth into wholeness.
And such growth is simply not possible without commitment to a lifetime
of effort, and without intentionally seeking the grace and help of God.
God’s intention that marriage be lifelong is not an arbitrary and difficult
rule God gives us to make our lives even more difficult. Instead, it is
a gracious and necessary, (if minimal), requirement if a real marriage
is even to be possible.
In the same way, our Baptismal vows, which include a commitment to the life of the community were we find ourselves, are also for the long haul, they are also for better or for worse. So are life vows in monastic communities, and the commitments involved in the other schools of love we are given. These vows are lifelong in intention because God knows we need at least that long to begin doing what we promise to do.
And, sure, there are times when that does not happen. There are sometimes situations where separation is the only option that contains hope and the possibility of healing. We have all known that reality. The pain and tragedy of divorce—and the fact that it brings very real possibilities of both destruction and new hope, is, in one form or another, a part of the lives of every one of us. If it hasn’t happened to us, personally, we have been affected, often deeply affected, by it. (There are six kids in my family, and we’ve had at least twelve weddings.) There is a lot of hurt, and those who hurt need our love, our compassion, and our support.
At the same time, most Episcopalians overall, and the vast majority of Episcopalians at St. Mary’s, started out in another Church, and left that one to get here. Doubtless many of us have at one time or another considered (and in some cases even tried) leaving this one. And there is pain in these struggles. Our goal and our norm and the will of God are not always what we experience.
But there is also an important thing about these experiences, about the times we fall short. We always see them as tragic exceptions to the way we know life should be, and the way we want our lives to be. We know that we often miss the mark of our convictions and our beliefs. Yet even in the midst of our failure, we continue to stand firmly for the truth of God’s vision of life. Our vows, our marriage vows and our baptismal vows, are not for just now, they are not for just when it feels good, they are for life. That is our standard, and our goal. We may fall short, but we hold to that standard.
All of this is really to say that, at its heart, marriage is not a convenient human institution for protecting property, regulating sexuality and guarding children. And, at its heart, the Church is not a voluntary social convenience for like minded people to share an essentially private task.
As ordinary and as unglamourous as they usually are, both marriage and
the Church are vastly more than that. They are sacred mysteries, built
into creation and into human nature. They are schools of love, gifts of
a loving God. For it is not good to be alone; and the only way to goodness,
to wholenes, is through commitment, relationship, and community.
The Lessons for today: Genesis2.18-24; Psalm 8;
Hebrews 2.(1-8) 9-18; Mark 10.2-9
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
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This page last updated on October 8, 2000
That poor camel. Folks who are made uncomfortable by this bit of Scripture (and lots of people are made uncomfortable by this bit of Scripture) have tried all sorts of ways to do him in. It’s really very simple. Here is a camel. Here is the eye of a needle. Nope. No way. (This is a small camel and a big needle.) It not only doesn’t fit, it is silly to try and hilarious to watch. That’s the point. And we are rich. At least, if anyone in Jesus’ day (or any other day for that matter) were to describe what rich people have and what poor people do not have, what rich people worry about and what poor people worry about, then we are rich. Each of us. Camel—eye of a needle. Nope.
There have been some wonderful attempts to get around this. Very early on, someone (probably someone rich) discovered that there was, in Greek, only one letter’s difference between the word for camel and the word for rope. (kamhlos, and kamilos ). Rejoicing, it’s not really about a camel, it’s about a rope! Next thing you know, there are solemn reflections on how fine and pointed a rope has to be to get through the eye of a needle. Wrong. That’s not what Jesus said.
Then, about the year 800, some anonymous commentator who simply couldn’t stand it any more dreamed up a brand new gate in the city wall of Jerusalem. He named it, quite conveniently, “The needle’s eye.” and he said it was a little gate, just barely big enough for a camel to skrunch down and squeeze through. More rejoicing; and ever since this handy bit of fiction, there have been thousands of reflections on how appropriately humbling and edifying it must be to squeeze down into a small enough bunch to get you and your camel (or your rope) through that little gate. Wrong; no such gate. It’s really simple. Camel. Eye of a needle.
These frantic and dishonest attempt to avoid Jesus’ potent point about wealth show how important and how difficult this story, and this topic, really are.
As a rule, we don’t much like it when other people talk about our money, not even when Jesus talks about our money. We think it is really none of their business; and that they should leave us alone.
Like the rich young man in the story we just heard, we don’t mind when Jesus talks about the commandments—Jesus is supposed to talk about the commandments. That sort of morality is expected. But when Jesus goes the next step, well, that’s gone to meddling. So the rich young man walked. He turned his back and walked—felt bad about it, but not bad enough.
And Jesus watched. Notice that. |Jesus didn’t run after him saying, “hey, wait a minute, I was only kidding; we can work something out.” Jesus didn’t offer a no-risk trial period of being a disciple before he really had to sell his camels or his vineyards or his whatever. And Jesus didn’t guarantee “double your happiness back” if the fellow would only give it a try. Instead, he just stood there and watched.
Now, I don’t think there is exactly a moral to this story, at least
not mainly. Mainly there are these images for us to ponder. But if there
must be a moral to this story, it is simply that Jesus knows that our relationship
with money is one of the most important relationships in our life. The
way we handle money is very important. The way we get our money, and what
we do with it once we have it—these are moral issues that live at the very
center of the Christian life.
Jesus spent more time talking about issues around money than about
any other moral concern—much more time than he spent talking about sex
or gluttony or having correct beliefs or not being a hypocrite. ||Jesus
talked most about God and the kingdom of God. After that, he talked most
about money. Then, as now, it wasn’t always real popular.
Now, everybody who preaches on the subject of money in America has to stop about now and say that the point here is not that money and wealth are bad in themselves. We have to stop and say this largely because, as I said, from any perspective other than our own, we are all wealthy, and we all have a lot of money. So preachers know we have to say that money and wealth are not bad in themselves. And that is correct; they are not. But just in case we are tempted to embrace that reassuring bit of news and stop there, remember Amos’ words about how the economic injustices of a society can bring the wrath of God down upon that whole society. And remember the camel.
In addition, everybody who preaches on this passage in America also has to say about now that Jesus is not demanding that, in order to be a real Christian, each and every one of us has to go out and sell all we own and give the money to the poor. I guess we preachers have to say this to show that we’re not entirely stupid, and that we understand something of the real world. And, of course, that’s true, too. We don’t have to do that. On the other hand, from the beginnings of the Church, multitudes of people, including saints from Benedict to Francis to Mother Teresa, have in fact heard in these words of Jesus to the rich young man a direction and a command for their lives—and have lived that out, and have vastly enriched both their own souls and all the world. So, who knows, maybe Jesus is talking directly and literally to someone even today.
Be that as it may, there is laid upon all of us a burden and a judgment about money, and there is no getting around that. Jesus very much cares about how our souls are shaped, about what is central to our lives and what it looks like to be faithful to that center.
Another thing: this is not primarily a sermon about giving. The burden and the judgment we share about money is not for sale. There is much to be said for giving, especially for proportional giving, where we give a proportion of our income with the biblical tithe as the goal. I do it and I support it and I recommend it. It is a Christian discipline that is good for us in a number of ways; it can help mend our souls and open our lives. And giving is one of the most potent ways we can engage the power that money has over us.
But giving, even tithing, doesn’t buy us exemption from God’s concerns
about how we use what we have. Jesus did not tell the rich young man to
give away 10% of his wealth and the issue would be settled. After all,
the rich young man was already tithing when he came up to Jesus. Although
it is a heck of a good place to start, the tithe only addresses the first
10% of the issues around morality and money. The other 90% is still there.
So, we are left with a couple of images, and with a promise. The images
are clear enough—there is the rich young man waking away as Jesus stands
silently and watches. And there is that poor camel, trying to fit through
the eye of a needle. We need to pay attention to those images, and let
them work on us, quietly and deeply.
At the same time, out of the blue, Jesus also gives a promise—a promise
that is just as literal, and that is said with just as much conviction,
as the stuff about the camel. Jesus gives a promise that is simply there,
totally unexplained and unelaborated, but there. The Lord insists that,
for mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for with God, all things
are possible.
The Lessons for today: Amos
5.6-7, 10-15; Psalm 90; Hebrews 1.1-6; Mark 10.17-27
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on October 15, 2000
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Pentecost XIX, Proper 24, October 22, 2000
“But it is not so among you.” Those are hard words, really hard words. They tell us something scary, they tell us that we really do not know how to live, and that we cannot learn how to live by ourselves. Jesus really does offer a new way, a different way, and in order to know that way, we have to learn it from the Master. It will not come naturally.
That’s what was going on with James and John. Bless their hearts, they were doing the best they could. But they thought they knew how to live; and they assumed that Jesus agreed with them. (By the way, this request, to sit on the right and left, is all the more ironic because it comes immediately after Jesus’ third, and most complete, prediction of his suffering and death. Mark always pictures the disciples doing something incredibly stupid every time Jesus talks about his death. This is it for that time.) Be that as it may, James and John just wanted the most, the best, that Jesus had to offer.
They thought that they knew what that was. They thought they knew the most and the best. After all, both their religious tradition and their culture had taught them that the messiah’s job—any important person’s job—was to rule, to control things, and to be the center of power. Both the rabbis and the Romans knew this. Power was where it was at. That’s why the image the Zebedee boys used when talking to Jesus was that of an oriental potentate: Where he sat was where the authority was—and the closer anyone else got to where the king sat, the more important, and powerful, they were. To sit at the king’s immediate right and left was to share the kingdom, the power, and the glory of the ruler.
So, based on their idea of what it meant for Jesus to be the messiah, and on what they thought it would be like to be identified with Jesus, it made perfect sense to ask for these seats of power—they were, James and John firmly believed, the most, and the best that Jesus had to offer. These guys had the standard, commons sense understanding of what was valuable; and it is very difficult to get past that sort of pre-conception. It is very difficult to hear Jesus when he is saying things that go against common sense and common knowledge. So James and John blew it.
But did you notice that Jesus was surprisingly gentle with them? He could easily have bellowed “you idiots—haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said?” He could have fired them on the spot, or he could have encouraged the other 10 tear them to shreds. But he didn’t.
Instead, Jesus tried one more time to explain, he tried one more time to say, in effect, “Look, the world does it that way, the world cares about power, about getting to the top and keeping everyone else in line. But it is not so among you. You will be different. You will find fulfillment in the giving of yourselves, not in what others award to you. Your greatness will not look like greatness, not to the world, not even to you.”
Jesus realized how different, and how very difficult, his vision was. He probably hoped for more understanding from the disciples, but he didn’t seem to expect it. He knew that the first thing they would want from him was whatever the world valued. He knew they would learn very slowly. He knew that, ultimately, he could not tell them—ultimately, he would have to show them.
Indeed, after all of his predictions, after all of his parables, after all of his teachings—the disciples were still stunned and devastated by the cross.
They were still amazed by the baptism with which he was baptized, by the cup that he drank. They could not be told, they had to be shown.
So here we are, smiling smugly at James and John. We know better. But: what do we expect from Jesus? What do we want when we want the most and the best the Lord has to offer? Like James and John, do we already know what that means? Like them, do we follow our culture and our appetites? Or, do we ask for what Jesus offers—himself, his life, his baptism, his cup? ||Do we seek glory, or some sort of goodies, in return for our belief? Or do we ask not to be served, but to serve?
Do we ask for his grace to help us share what we have—or do we ask for more so we can decide when we have enough to share?
Do we ask for strength to do what he calls us to, or do we let Him know just exactly what we are willing to do—and then tell him to make that easy and rewarding for us? Do we ask for death so that we may live, or do we demand the sort of life that the world tells us we need. And so on.
In our own way, we can pretty easily relate to James and John. It is still very hard to realize that Jesus has rejected both Caesar’s court and David’s throne, and replaced them with his cross. It is still hard to realize that, while the world out there has its own way of doing things, none the less, it shall not be so with us. And it is still hard to realize that we have already been given the most and the best that Jesus has to give. We have been given his baptism, His Spirit, his cup, and a lifetime to live out and begin to discover what that means, and what that looks like. And it may just happen that a lifetime of serving, of reaching out to others for the sake of the Gospel, of being the slave of all, this may be its own reward. Maybe, just maybe, such a life has significance, and depth, and authenticity that a life of grasping, achieving, controlling, possessing, manipulating and notoriety can never achieve or even approach.
There just may be a fruitfulness and abundance in Jesus’ style of living and dying that leaves all the other styles sterile by contrast. Of course, such claims cannot be proved, and they certainly are not self evident.
They can be seen only through the eyes of faith and, even then, often with difficulty. But Jesus continues to be patient and gentle with us, and there are signs along the way. We are far from alone, and even James and John continue to be there, to remind us, and to call us back to Jesus and his strange way.
So, in faith, without seeing fully, we continue to struggle with what
it means to be identified with Jesus. And in faith, without seeing fully,
we proclaim first that his living and dying have ultimate significance
for us, and next that, in Him, our own living and our own dying also have
significance, and meaning, and purpose. And through it all, we continue
to be his own, and to share his life, and so we continue to receive the
most, and the best, that Jesus has to offer.
The Lessons for today: Isaiah
53.4-12; Psalm 91; Hebrews 4.12-16; Mark 10.35.45
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on October 22, 2000
Pentecost
XXI, Proper 26, November 5, 2000
I don’t usually preach from bad examples. It is a bit like shooting fish in a barrel or making fun of the government. It’s just too easy to be sporting. But the way Jesus handled to Scribe’s question in the Gospel today made it all but impossible for me to refrain from commenting on a sign I saw beside a church the other day. (I’ll get to the sign in a minute.)
The Scribe is asking what was a common question in Jesus’ day. We have records of the responses of several first-century Rabbis to the question, “Which commandment is first of all?” It is a good question, a question that goes to the heart of religion— it’s a question that asks, ‘what is first, what matters the most?’
Jesus gave a fairly standard answer. He quoted the S’hema–the ancient Creed of Israel “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” and He interpreted the S’hema with the verse from Deuteronomy about loving your neighbor as yourself. We know this answer of Jesus’ as the summary of the Law—it’s right out of the Prayer Book and it’s worth a lot of reflection and a lot of discussion.
Today, I want to look at just one word of this. Here’s a question: when Jesus says, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.” What is the first word here that describes God, that talks about what God is like and what God does? Nope, the word is ‘our’.
The first thing Israel is reminded of when it comes to God, is not that God is big or that God is Just, or that God is jealous, or that God is one, or that God is judge or that God is mean, or that God is powerful. None of those. The first thing Israel is reminded of—and the first thing we are reminded of—is that God is our God. Israel knew exactly what that meant. It meant that God was for them—that God created them, and choose them, and loved them, and brought them out of slavery into freedom, and gave them both the law and a mission in the world, and promised to be with them always. That’s where all good theology begins; that’s the very first thing and the very heart of God, and it’s the foundation of all the commandments.
The very first thing is about God–and it is that God is for us, and that God has promised to be with us always. No ‘and’s, ‘if’s, ‘but’s or fine print. That’s where it starts. At its heart, the faith is not about us—about how good or how bad or how correct we are. It’s not about ‘them’–whoever ‘them’ might be. It’s about God, and that God is for us.
God loves first. Then comes the stuff about what we are called to do. So, we are not called to love God—to hold Him as the center of our lives—and to love our neighbor as ourselves, we are not called to do these things in order to make God love us, or to keep God from getting us, or any such. Instead, we are called to love God back, because God loved us first, and because God loves us still, and because God will never desert us.
Now, it’s easy to forget this—it’s easy to forget the first word about God in what Jesus called the greatest commandment. But we forget at our peril. In fact, forgetting this is probably the main way the Christian faith has been distorted, truncated, or simply just missed.
Which bring me to the sign by a church I saw the other day. It was sort of cute, it said, “Get right or get left”. Get it? Also, do you see the problem? That sign suggested that the heart of this matter of religion is about us. It suggests that what God thinks or does or is like is up to us. So, we had better get it right, or we are in trouble. We are to love God and our neighbor because if we don’t, we’re toast. We are to love God and our neighbor in order to save our own hide.
That’s a little like the joke about the poster in the office that tells employees, “Beatings will continue until morale improves.” Right. We don’t even treat our children that way. God loves us first. Everything else is response. Certainly, our behavior matters. Certainly God cares deeply about such matters. But none of that is first. First, we are to hear, with Israel, that the Lord is our God. He is for us.
Now, the Episcopal Church certainly doesn’t get every thing right all of the time—or maybe even most of the time. But, by golly we get this right; we remember this. It is part of what gives us our special flavor, our distinctive character, out here on the great plains.
It is also why we’re not all that good at telling you exactly what to do. The place to begin with our behavior is with the overwhelming, constant, and totally gracious gift of God’s love. With that gift comes the invitation to respond, to be like God ourselves, to love back by putting God at our center, and by living that out by loving our neighbor as ourselves.
Now, this doesn’t automatically answer every question we have. For example, Jesus’ summary of the law doesn’t tell you who to vote for on Tuesday–but it probably does suggest pretty strongly that we do vote. And it does give us both a good place to start, and some good questions to ask as we move on from that starting point. And it reminds us that human history, ultimately, is in better hands than ours.
In the same way, this doesn’t tell us all we want to know about life and death and the here-after and those we love who are not with us—those whose names we will hear read from the altar in a moment–those whose we carry in our hearts.
But it does give us a place to start–and perhaps the place to finish. We begin with God who is for us, who has loved us, and all of them, both from the beginning and far better than we can love them. We can with confidence and with real peace commend them to that great love—as we can trust our nation and ourselves to that love—convinced that above all things and before all things, God’s love is first, and it is strongest, and this love will lead us, all of us, safely home. That is the first thing.
Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God; it all begins there.
The Lessons for today: Deuteronomy
6.1-9; Psalm 119. 1-6; Hebrews 7.23-28; Mark 12.28-34
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on November 5, 2000
On the one hand, the story of the widow’s mite is very much a story about widows and about mites—about money. Not just about this widow and her mite, but about widows generally, and economics generally, and about the responsibility of those who have, and who are in authority, to treat with compassion and justice those who do not have, those who are not in authority. That’s why this story comes right after Jesus’ condemnation of the scribes, who used the law to prey on the very weakest, and who covered it up with lofty speeches and pious pronouncements. They will receive the greater condemnation. This story is very much about that; and that is something we need very much to hear over and over again.
But that’s not what I’m going to talk about today. Today I want to talk about a different perspective on the same story, a perspective where the widow giving her money in the temple is not really about widows, except in an indirect and symbolic way, and where it is not about money, except in an indirect and symbolic way, and where it is not about the Temple except in an...., yeah—indirect and symbolic way. But it is a perspective that is important, and it is a perspective that, I promise, is about you.
To do that, we need to try to look with some curiosity at this widow,
and at the widow from Zarephath (who really has the same story), and assume
they are sane and responsible women, and ponder their choices a bit. After
all, the issues are truly life and death. The widow in the Temple would
not be poor or even broke after she heard the sound of “all she had to
live on” hit the offering plate. Unless something happened, unless God
took care of her somehow, she would most likely die. There wasn’t much
of a safety-net in those days, and lots of people who threw away their
last pennies just died. (So did people who gave their last chunk of bread
to wandering prophets; so did their children.) (But back to the Temple.)
Again, let’s assume this widow was sane and responsible, and not just
an emotion-laden sermon illustration. What an odd thing she did. I have
no idea when, or how, she first got the idea that this is what God would
have her do—that she was called somehow to this outrageous and befuddling
behavior. I don’t know if she had ever done this sort of thing before,
or if she was struck that day for the first time with the notion that she
was to give it away, that her whole world was to go into that offering
plate.
And I don’t know how hard it was for her to do it—to walk up those imposing stairs, and into that huge room in the Temple court and toss the coins into the place marked ‘free-will offering’. I don’t know if she had to drag herself up there, painful step by painful step, anxious and afraid, terrified but determined; or if by that day it was easy. I suspect it was very hard, that walk, and that toss. I’ll bit she was tempted to put the coins back in her pocket and walk away—or at least to keep one of them, some pathetic security, in the face of this incomprehensible demand by what must have seemed an arbitrary and capricious God.
Did the sound of those coins landing send chills down her spine? Did she feel elated or simply silly—did she hope to God that no one was watching her, that no one knew? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions; but I like to think about them, because I know these questions, and I know the sound those two copper coins make—if only in an indirect and symbolic way.
Leo Rosten in The Joys of Yiddish, quotes the anonymous saying, “Jewish people are just like everyone else . . . . only more so.” Well, I know that’s really true of alcoholics—we’re pretty much more so. And I remember very clearly that day almost twenty years ago when I had to decide whether or not to hold on to my last desperate attempts to control my drinking—or to toss them into something like an offering plate and walk toward a different life that I really did not believe was possible. And I remember hearing those the coins hit. So I know a little bit of what the widow might have been thinking as she walked up the stairs of the temple, and as she walked out. That’s one of the ways this story has been about me. That’s part of what it has looked like.
Now, I don’t know what this story looks like, or has looked like, or will look like, for you. That’s because I don’t know what God has asked of you, or what God will ask of you at those powerful moments when you are give the grace to listen. (That’s probably best). I don’t know what God calls you to do. That might involve giving up something, or taking something on or walking toward or away from something. It might have to do with letting go; or it might have to do with Jesus’ demands to the Scribes for justice to the poor. It might have to do with money or with pride or with something else. I don’t know. But at some time or another, (in an indirect and symbolic way) it probably has involved the sound of those two coins, the last ones, hitting the plate. Or it probably will. Because God is like that. God is really like that.
So there is no telling what God will have us do. But if we listen, and if we take seriously what we hear, then we will understand about this widow in the temple, and we will know how hard that might have been for her, and how easy it is to pocket the coins, and walk on.
Now, I’m not suggesting you do anything stupid or impulsive (I don’t think that widow was stupid or impulsive—I think she knew what she was called to do and struggled with it) and I’m not suggesting you use her as an excuse for irresponsible behavior. Not at all.
But sometimes we have to be brave; sometimes we have to take risks. Sometimes we have to listen to the best we can hear of what God is saying to us, and know that, if we do it, either God will take care of us, or some part of us, some very important part of us, will die. And sometimes we have to hear the sound of those coins. Sometimes that’s the only way. I strongly suspect that if the widow from Zarephath had not given that meal to Elijah, she and her son would have starved to death; and I strongly suspect that the widow in the Temple discovered that what she had left, after she had heard those coins hit, was, by the grace of God, enough.
That’s what I suspect. That’s what I have discovered when I have heard
that sound—it has been all right. But I can’t be sure. I really can’t
be sure about you, about what God will have you do now; and about what
it might look like for you to do that. That’s the point, of course. There
is, really, only one way to find out.
The Lessons for today: I
Kings 17.8-16; Psalm 146. 1-6; Hebrews 9.24-28; Mark 12.38-44
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on November 12, 2000
Well, those readings come as a bit of a shock; they are really different from what we have been hearing for the last several months. Still, there is a familiarity here, and it almost seems that these lessons are running just a couple of weeks behind everything else this year. The end is at hand, and woe to those who are in the wrong place when it hits—sounds like the evening news.
There always seems to be an apocalyptic undertone to every election year; a sense that great doom and destruction are waiting just under the surface. And this year has been a doozey. We have heard quite a bit about the end of one thing or another; about how the center cannot hold, and about how we are, or could be, headed in all sorts of catastrophic directions. In fact, after all we have been through, (and may yet have before us), Daniel and Mark sound almost mild in their promise of, “a time of tribulation as has not been since the beginning of creation.”
Add to all of that the way this kind of biblical material is treated by some of the churches, and it becomes very easy to miss the heart of what these unusual parts of the Bible are saying. And it is important to see what is really going on here. This ‘end of all things’ writing, whether in the Old Testament or the New, is a unique part of holy Scripture; it is a special kind of writing, with a special message. It is not about predictions. It is not about what is going to happen in the future in any way at all. It’s not about how God is going to get us and we need to be worried. That’s not about any of that sort of stuff. Don’t go there.
Instead, all of these strange images and outlandish descriptions are something very different, and really exactly the opposite of the fearful warnings of danger they are so often presented to be. Instead, these readings from the Bible are about hope, and about ownership. They are about who really owns us, and about who really owns time, and who really owns history.
First of all, it helps to remember that these lessons were all written during times of terror and extreme hardship. Daniel was written as the Empire of Alexander the Great was trying to destroy both the people and the religion of Israel, and was doing a pretty good job. The section of Mark we just heard was written as the Roman Empire was trying to do the same thing to the Church; with even more apparent success. Each book is from a small religious community struggling to survive against the power of the greatest empire the world had ever known. Each is from times when there seemed to be no earthly hope of things getting better. And each says exactly the same thing.
Each says that God is in control, and that God will be with His people. Each insists that, in spite of vast and overwhelming evidence to the contrary, the past belongs to God, the present belongs to God, and the future belongs to God. Again, these visions of God acting to save his people are not predictions about our future. Instead, they are ways of claiming the future in the name of God, (no matter how unrealistic that claim may appear at the moment.) They insist that, no matter how powerful the forces trying to destroy us may be, the power of God is greater. They do not offer schedule, or a timetable, or a video of the future; they offer hope. || (By the way, the Empire of Alexander the Great isn’t around any more, and the Roman Empire has long vanished. The world of Daniel, and the world of Mark’s Gospel have, in all reality, come to an end. And God and his people remain. So there. ) The Good News in the Gospel of Jesus Christ is not that nothing really bad will ever happen, either to our world or to us. We know better than that. The Good News, which separates the Christian stance toward life from that of everyone else, is not a string of glib platitudes; it is not a creed that insists that you ‘keep your chin up’ and ‘have a nice day.’ (God help us all if the best we can offer to ourselves and our world is a plastic smiling face stuck precariously to our pain and the pain of the world.)
The Good News is different from that, the Good News is tougher than that. The Good News is that this is God’s world, past, present, and future. The Good News is that God is alive and at work in the middle of all the messes in this messy world, reconciling all things to himself. The Good News is not only that Jesus Christ will redeem history; but also that in Jesus Christ every life—our life and every life—is precious and has meaning and value, and is held forever in the mind and heart of God. In the middle of, and in spite of, all the terrors and fears, there is meaning and hope for our world, and there is meaning and hope for our lives.
If we look for that meaning and that hope anywhere except in the Good News of Jesus Christ, we will not only be disappointed, we will be destroyed. But if we look there, we are assured that nothing, not the might of Alexander, not the might of Rome, not whatever you or any of us may face today, nothing will be able to destroy that hope. We do not promise smooth sailing, we know that the opposite will sometimes be true. Instead we offer a person—God in Jesus Christ—and that person’s claim of ownership over the totality of creation, and the totality of our lives. Whether we can see that right now or not.
This we believe.
Now, sometimes the world and our own lives seem clearly to support this
belief.
Sometimes life seems to be a shining proof of God’s goodness and God’s
control over creation. Other times, what is happening within us and around
us mocks our faith, and shouts that existence is all a cruel joke, without
meaning or purpose, hope or joy, a prelude to extinction.
Sometimes things are like that, and we don’t pretend otherwise. Things were like that when the book Daniel and the Gospel of Mark were written. Things were awful, then, worse than we can ever imagine.
But we do hold on to the promise, the promise Daniel and Mark give us,
even when we don’t feel it. Especially when we don’t feel it. We hold to
the promise that all of time, and all of life, belong to God, and that
in and through Him, love will be stronger than despair, hope will be overcome
fear, and that, in God’s way and in God’s time, life will be victorious
over death.
The Lessons for today: Daniel
12.1-4a(5-13); Psalm 16; Hebrews 10.31-39; Mark 13.1-24
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on November 19, 2000
Liturgically, this is a peculiar and interesting Sunday. It is the Last Sunday after Pentecost, which makes it the last Sunday of the Church’s year. We start over next week as Advent begins. This day has come to be known as the feast of Christ the King, and the idea is that the image of Christ the King summarizes the year just past, and points us toward the new year, toward our time of preparation for the coming of the Lord.
The lessons today give us a fascinating way into all of this, a fascinating
opportunity to look at what it means for Christ to be the King. To see
this we need to see the two very different pictures we are given this morning
of what that looks like. The first is from Daniel and the Psalm and the
Revelation. It is the picture of Christ triumphant and ruling. Daniel is
clearest. Here is a picture of the last days, a time when the Father gives
the Lord power to rule as king over all creation:
To him was given dominion and glory and kingship, that all peoples,
nations, and languages should serve him. His dominion is an everlasting
dominion that shall not pass away, and his kingship is one that shall never
be destroyed.
The same sort of thing is said in the Psalm and the reading from the Revelation. The Lord is here presented, in the last days, as the one who reigns supreme, the one who has power and authority. He stands in front of and above creation and rules and judges. He is the man. That’s what it looks like for the Lord to rule. It is clear and unmistakable and powerful and final. We and all creation stand quietly before him, and he judges, he decides, he disposes of things as he thinks best. There is no doubt about who is in charge. And our faith tells us that this image is a hidden truth of creation, that, deep down, things really are like Daniel and Revelations say they are, and that, in God’s time and in God’s way, that is how it will be for all the world to see. This picture of victory and of triumph is a part of the truth of what it means for Christ to be King. But that is not all there is to this truth, because those images of power are not what it looks like right now for Christ to be King. We may have the Greek letters for “Jesus Christ Reigns” inscribed on our Altar and on our Aumbry, but we don’t see anything like the stuff from Daniel going on around us. In fact, there are no unmistakable signs that Jesus is the King of anything.|| So, what does it look like, today, for Christ to be king. What does that Altar proclaim about our life and our world right now?
That’s where the Gospel reading comes in, that powerful account of Jesus before Pilate. This is our clue to where to look if want to see what the front of our Altar is always saying, if we want to know what it is like today for Christ to reign, to be King.
We all know the story. It is dawn on Good Friday. Jesus has been arrested and is now standing in front of Pilate. Remember, Pilate is Rome. In Pilate is all of the power of the world, all the authority of empire. Pilate rules, and he rules absolutely. Pilate has to decide what to do with Jesus. He has to decide what to believe about, and what to do with, the man who is standing quietly in front of him. Pilate had to decide what to do about the claim that Jesus was some sort of king—he had to choose.
Jesus was not a king who took things, or people, by storm. He was not a king who raised armies or demanded tribute. If He had done that, Pilate would have had no problem deciding what to do. Jesus would have forced the issue, and it would have been easy. But Jesus didn’t do that. He just stood there, and said that His kingdom was not from this world. Jesus stood in front of Pilate and spoke of the truth. Pilate was the one who had the power; and Pilate had to decide what to do with Jesus. Think about that scene.
Under normal circumstance, Pilate may well have let Jesus off; he might have let things be. All by himself, such an other-worldly king seemed to be no real threat. But these were not normal circumstances. The crowd out there was angry and wanted blood. The crowd demanded Pilate’s attention and his concern. So Pilate had to make a real choice between Jesus on the one hand, and the demands and complications of the world on the other. Pilate looked at Jesus, and he heard the demands of the crowd, and he choose. Perhaps the choice was difficult, perhaps not. Anyway, Pilate chose.
It looks very one-sided. There seems to be no question about who is in charge, about who is the man in this story. There seems no question about who does the judging, and who is judged.
This powerful scene is the second picture we have this morning of what it looks like for Jesus to be king—not the one from Revelation or Daniel, the one from today. You see, the kingdom Jesus spoke of, His kingdom, was not from the world, but it was in the world, indeed it was right in front of Pilate.
What it looks like right now for Christ to be king is very much what it looked like for Jesus to stand in front of Pilate. It looks like a choice we make.
What it means right now for Jesus to be King has to do with the decisions and choices we make today as we face the person of Jesus and his cross. The kingdom Jesus spoke of is not from the world, but it is in the world, indeed it is right in front of us. And, like Pilate, we must choose.
And, under normal circumstances, such a choice is not difficult. But we never seems to be there under normal circumstances. We never seem to have to choose under normal circumstances.
Instead, the world seems always to be just outside, making a lot of noise, shouting its demands, and telling us what to do. Which puts us, strangely enough, in Pilate’s situation; with Jesus standing quietly in front of us, and all those demands right in our faces, all that pressure to go a certain way.
And Jesus just stands there, and waits; like he did with Pilate. And it looks like we are in charge, and it looks like we have the power, and it looks like we make the judgments; because we do have to choose. And that is what is looks like, today and now, for Christ to be king.
In Advent that is even more pronounced. For in Advent we prepare to stand in front of a cradle, and to look at a child. As we look at that child, he will be as silent as Jesus was before Pilate. And the world outside will be very loud, and very demanding. And we will have to choose.
That is what it is like for Christ to be King.
The Lessons for today: Daniel
7.9-14; Psalm 93; Revelation1.1-8; John 18.33-37
A list of Sunday Scripture readings:
Archive of St. Mary's Sermons from September 3,
2000
Fr.
Jim Liggett
P.O. Box 2949; Big Spring, TX
79721
(432) 267-8201 (phone)
URL: http://www.xroadstx.com/~stmarys/sermon.htm
stmarys@xroadstx.com
The page background is courtesy of Windy's Page designs.
This page last updated on November 26, 2000
