+ + +
You cannot step into the same river twice. Time, like an ever-flowing stream really does bear all our years away. It has been nearly three years since I left this congregation as your fifth rector. After a pretty average-length interim period, Pat has settled in as your sixth rector. You are finding a new normal; and so am I.
Because a congregation is a living organism, and because
this one is more alive than most, it means there are people here I’ve never
even met before. That’s a good thing. And there are others who were here and
are now among the saints triumphant, singing their songs of alleluia on the
other side of the veil. While we feebly struggle, they in glory shine.
Whenever I run into people from St. Francis (and since
I live just 6.5 miles down Salisbury Street in Worcester it does happen from
time to time) almost always they want to tell me two things. First, “we love Pat.
Pat’s great.” And second, “we miss you.”
My spiritual director likes to remind me that it is
possible to have more than one emotion at the same time. So let me say to all
of you: I love Pat, too. I could not have chosen better if I’d had the chance and
this diocese and this parish are truly blessed to have Pat and Carol here in
Holden. And Hathy and I and our boys – well not really boys so much anymore – but
we are all well. I love my new job and I’m grateful to this parish for leaving
such a mark on me that has prepared me to do this work. And we miss you all
too.
Time,
like an ever-flowing stream, most definitely bears all our years away.
You have changed, and I have changed and that is a good thing. But here we are
on this Fourth Sunday of Easter – Good Shepherd Sunday. As I step into this
pulpit, my hope is that this is not a trip down memory lane but a way for me to
reconnect in my capacity as a member of Bishop Fisher’s staff, as Canon to the
Ordinary in this diocese.
For those of you who do remember my time here, you
will no doubt recall I have retained some Methodist tendencies as a preacher. I
hope someone gave Pat a heads up, because that is one thing that has not changed.
(Sometimes I’ve been clocked doing twenty in a fifteen-minute zone.) But if you
are willing to not hold these introductions against me and wait to start the
clock now we should be just fine and I think within the acceptable Episcopal
range for sermons. Ready?
Imagine a world where there is incredible uncertainty
about the future. And yet even in the midst of all that uncertainty, there is
tremendous denial. Not just personal denial, but deep-seated corporate, social,
political and economic denial. It feels as if even the so-called experts will
not see what is before their very eyes, or heed the voices of common sense.
Imagine a once-mighty nation where democratic ideals
once took hold. But now that nation seems adrift, lacking in visionaries and
prophets and dreamers. What remains is a sometimes desperate attempt to hold onto
power and control.
But the problems go deeper than politics or the
economy. The moral fabric of this society is coming apart at the seams. It
feels like there is no longer any sense of “right” and “wrong.” Injustice seems
to be the norm, and violence is taken for granted as part of daily life. The
dignity of every human being is not the cultural norm.
Now in this social context, imagine a Church comprised
mostly of well-intentioned people who are without a clear sense of purpose or
mission. They aren’t sure what to do. While they are to be commended for their
“patient endurance” and for acts of charity, they have seemingly abandoned
their commitment to love boldly in the name of Jesus.; to follow him the way of
the cross. Truth be told they have a hard time loving even each other, not to
mention their neighbors and their enemies. They have become complacent, asleep,
and lukewarm; unsure about what, if anything, they can do to make a difference
even locally. They feel powerless.
While there are a few exceptions, most Christians in
this context are not being persecuted for their faith. In fact the problem is
that their conformity to the world around them is so complete that there is
very little to distinguish them from their neighbors, and therefore little for
the authorities to vilify and persecute. If charged with being Christians, there
is little evidence to convict them! On those occasions when someone does take a
stand for what they believe that’s counter to the conventional wisdom, they are
more apt to be harassed or ridiculed for failing to conform to social norms and
expectations than they are to be persecuted.
The society I’m describing, of course, is the Roman
Empire at the turn of the first century. You knew that right? It was a time of
tremendous social upheaval. Under Emperor Domitian, the Roman Empire was a mere
shadow of the glory days of the Republic, the glory days of the Roman Senate
and the engineering genius that built that incredible infrastructure that
connected the ancient world. Thinkers like Cicero and Virgil were distant
memories.
The Church that I’ve been describing is located in one
of the provinces of the empire, in Asia Minor—what we would call Turkey today.
We know something of their struggles by reading one of the most difficult books
in all the Bible to interpret, the Greek name of which is the Apocalypse or in English, “Revelation.” (Singular,
not plural; NOT Revelations!) The congregations to whom this vision is
addressed are in Ephesus and Smyrna and Pergamum and Thyatira and Sardis and
Philadelphia and Laodicea; they are described collectively as I’ve already
mentioned—as well-intentioned and patiently enduring tough times, but lacking a
sense of passion and a commitment to making disciples. This Revelation of John
is in a wake-up call that paints a picture of what genuine fidelity might look
like in the context of a dying empire.
Partly because of that social and political context and
partly because of the genre of literature it is a part of, the Revelation of
John is heavily laden with metaphorical language and symbols, a kind of “code
language.” Cracking the code, though, isn’t like translating from Morse code. The
challenge isn’t about finding what the number “666” means, or the word
“Babylon” means as if those had one-to-one correlations in some distant future.
Seeing and hearing this message has more to do with where we stand. It’s about
getting ourselves into the right place. There is much talk in this book about
“seeing” and “hearing” and at least in this way it very much echoes the teaching
ministry of Jesus. Those who wish to understand it need “eyes to see” and “ears
to hear.” I think of that unforgettable scene in “The Dead Poet’s Society” when
the teacher played by Robin Williams has his students standing on desks,
challenging their perspective and inviting and cajoling them to take notice of
the world from another angle.
None other than the great Dietrich Bonhoeffer exhorted
the Church in his day to “be communities able to hear the Apocalypse.” He
suggested that the way to do that is to stand with those who suffer violence
and injustice. The problem is that in spite of Jesus’ ministry to the poor and
outcast, the Church throughout its history has been prone to forget that part
of the gospel. I’m not talking about acts of charity, but rather of trying to
see the world from the downside up. To see what it looks like from an
overcrowded prison or homeless shelter or refugee camp or a farm for
ex-prisoners in Oakham or a village in El Salvador.
So the seer who wrote the Apocalypse stands in such a
place—at the periphery of the Roman Empire, on a tiny little island in the
Aegean Sea off the coast of Asia Minor called Patmos. He writes as a Christian
who dreams of a Church where Easter faith is practiced on a daily basis. He
imagines a Church where people dream again and hope again and work for justice
and peace—a Church that knows what it means to take up their crosses and follow
Jesus. He shares what he sees with strange images, images made even stranger in
the intervening 2000 years since they were first written down. Yet what he sees
and then describes for his readers in the seventh chapter of this Apocalypse
remains fresh even to this day, and I believe it still has power to heal and to
transform and to invigorate the Church of the 21st century for
mission. If we dare to look and to listen, then we too might be prodded and
jarred from complacency to become a more focused and more missional Church, to take
up our crosses to follow Jesus.
When John looks he sees a great multitude, a multitude
which no one could count. That in itself is a word of hope to beleaguered
congregations in every age, congregations which may feel burned out and worn
out and perhaps isolated, or feel that they must do it all. In that “great
multitude” of disciples, that no one could count!—there is so much to
ponder. But at the very least it is a reminder that we are not alone. We are a
part of something much bigger than we usually realize. This is probably the
single most important thing I’ve been learning since I last stood here among
you as your rector. This is a wonderful parish but it is just a small part of a
small diocese that is part of a small denomination that is part of a global
communion that is part of a global, ecumenical Church that is part of this
great cloud of witnesses, this fellowship divine, across time and space. And I
love Holden and I love living in central Massachusetts but notice, this great
cloud of witnesses is so much more diverse: they come from every nation,
from all tribes and peoples and they speak many languages.
It is the Lamb at the center that defines who we are. Always.
As parishes, as dioceses, as denominations. Not nation states or flags, not
creeds, not socio-economic class or skin-color or sexual orientation. It is the
Lamb who unites this pluralistic community into One Body that still continues
to sing the song: “Salvation belongs to our God and to the Lamb!” It is this
Lamb whom these saints worship day and night. It is this Lamb – also known as
the Good Shepherd – whom we come here to worship as we gather to break and
share the bread. Not Gordon, nor Rich, not Pat – not even the amazing Karen.
But Jesus Christ, the Lamb who was slain.
The promise remembered is the promise foretold. And it
still has the power to enliven the Church for mission. Juxtaposed with this
image where there is no more hunger, no more thirst, no more scorching heat and
no more tears are the images of our world: images of starving children who need
to be fed and of communities like Flint Michigan where clean water is not a
given; a world of famine and terrorist attacks and war. The juxtaposition of
these images is a call to you and me to join God’s mission of wiping away
tears.
No matter how tired or weak or confused we may feel in
a world that seems as if it’s gone stark raving mad some days, we must never
lose hope. We are part of a much larger multitude. We are part of a great cloud
of witnesses. By keeping our eyes open and by listening for his voice and by
standing with the most vulnerable on the fringes of society, we have a chance
to be the kind of community that is able to stand with people like Bonhoeffer in
order to “hear the Apocalypse.” And in our hearing, there is always the chance that we
may also become doers of that Word as well, until we proclaim with our lives
what we profess with our lips.
No comments:
Post a Comment