The Banality of Evil, Part III

So, how do we conspire against evil? How do we actively resist? In this three-part series (Part I can be found here and Part II can be found here) I have tried to "set the table" for this post by reviewing the notion of the banality of evil. I'm more a preacher than a theologian and most of my posts here are sermons. But these thoughts have been nagging at me - and trying to write it out is helpful to me; maybe a few readers too. 

Along the way I mentioned a previous series of posts on The Book of Revelation and on Walter Wink. In one of those posts, I quoted Wink as writing these words: 

The Church has many functions, not all related to the Powers. With reference to the Powers, however, its task as we have seen is to unmask their idolatrous pretensions, to identify their dehumanizing values, to strip from them the mantle of respectability, and to disenthrall their victims. It is uniquely equipped to help people unmask and die to the Powers. (emphasis mine, page 164)

He goes on to talk about homelessness and how we tackle this problem. 

No social struggle can hope to be effective if it only changes structured arrangements without altering their spirituality. All our letter writing, petitioning, political and community organizing, demonstrating, civil disobedience, prayers and fasting move to this end: to recall the Powers to the humanizing purposes of God revealed in Jesus. We are not commissioned to create a new society; indeed we are scarcely competent to do so. What the Church can do best, though it does so all too seldom, is to delegitimate an unjust system and to create a spiritual counterclimate. We may lack the wisdom to determine how homelessness can be solved; and our attempts as churches to feed, clothe, and house the homeless may only obscure the true causes of homelessness and fill us with false self-righteousness. But what we can do is create an insistent demand that homelessness be eradicated. We are not "building the Kingdom" as an earlier generation liked to put it. We simply lack the power to force the Powers to change. We faithfully do what we can with no illusions about our prospects for direct impact. We merely prepare the ground and sow, the seed grows itself, night and day, until the harvest. (Mark 4:26-29) And God will - this is our most profound conviction - bring the harvest. (page 165)

We humbly plant seeds. We don't "fix" the problem of evil like it's a widget. No technical fix will work on this ultimate adaptive challenge, the human condition. But we can name, unmask, and engage the powers. This is what Jesus did all the time in his ministry and we are called to follow him on this path. 

Perhaps the best example I know of from human history of resisting the power of evil came from the people of Le Chambon, France during the Second World War.  I want to focus here on the pastor of that congregation, Pastor Andre Tocme. I wrote about him in this post from 2017. For anyone who doesn't click on that hyperlink, read this much at least: 

When people insisted, after the war, that the people of Chambon had done something "good" they refused to accept praise. They insisted that they were simply doing what had to be done. "Who else could help them? Things had to be done and we were there to help, that is all!"

If you read any connections from this three-part series with the times we are living in right now, then thank you for being an astute and careful reader. But in truth the current context simply clarifies some things I've been thinking about in a lifetime of pastoral ministry. I was raising these same questions in a series of blog posts here during my sabbatical in 2017. But as often happens, I got back to work - back to the daily routine. One nice thing about blogging is that there is a record though and I realize that some of the biggest questions are ones that I circle back to over the course of my ordained life. As Eliot put it, we shall not cease from exploration... [and] we do sometimes find ourselves where we began and recognizing it for the first time. 

I'm now back in a parish, in time when our nation and world are facing incredible challenges. I don't think it's helpful to call a person evil, no matter how badly they behave. It's simplistic and unhelpful. It often leaves us paralyzed. I've tried to uncover some truths here and likely I haven't gotten it all right because these are difficult questions. But I've come back to the notion that the Church matters, and right now the Church has to figure out how to resist evil or what Walter Wink called, "the domination system." We have to figure out how to name, unmask and resist those powers that destroy the creatures of God and steal human dignity. 

Perhaps the counter to the banality of evil is the banality of good, or something like that. It's not flashy. The people of Chambon refused to accept praise because they "were just doing what had to be done." So it is with us. I like that Wink quote as well - the Church is not equipped to even begin to solve the problem of homelessness. But we can and must move beyond charity. We insist on human dignity, no matter what. 

We are called to be faithful, not necessarily successful. We are called to trust God but in the meantime to act in good faith, trusting that our small deeds can ripple out and ultimately change this world. The arc of the moral universe is indeed long (long long) but it does bend toward justice. We are called to live like we actually believe that to be true. 

The Banality of Evil, Part II

 This is the second post of a three-part series. Part I can be found here.

Celebrant: Will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?
People: I will, with God's help. (The Baptismal Covenant, The Book of Common Prayer, page 304)

What do we mean when we speak of evil? What does it look like to persevere in resisting it? There is a film that I still find compelling, and a scene about the devil that I find helpful. It's from Broadcast News:  

I think this clip has everything to do with the banality of evil. It's not about the cartoon devil in a red suit, but about the ways that we miss the mark and lose our bearings and compromise our core values, bit by bit. Bruce Springsteen sings in the title track of Nebraska about a guy who offers this explanation for a killing spree that he and his girlfriend go on: "sir, I guess there's just a meanness in this world." (Critics have noted that Springsteen was reading a lot of Flannery O'Connor before writing Nebraska and that these words echo "A Good Man is Hard to Find," if you prefer a more literary reference than the poet from the swamps of Jersey.)

A book that I read many years ago was written by a Jewish scholar, Jon Levenson, entitled Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence. It's a compelling read but for this post it's that issue of the persistence of evil that I want to focus on. I think Levenson would agree to summarize by saying, "sir, I guess there's just a meanness in this world." His argument is the drama is still unfolding and that God is still fighting against evil. God's people are called to share in that work. 

I'm currently serving in a congregation that takes it's name from the Archangel Michael who is said, in the Revelation of John, to have kicked the devil out of heaven but not yet off of the earth. 

We need, I think, mythological and not literal language to speak about evil. But we do need to reclaim this language in our time, starting with John's Revelation. I wrote a series of posts, chapter by chapter, seven years ago, beginning here. One superb guide is the late William Stringfellow. So, too, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter Series or the Narnia Chronicles by C.S. Lewis. We need to reclaim the language of the faith that it is not enough to just go out and do good and think the world will be better overnight. We do battle not against flesh and blood but the powers and the principalities. See this post for more on this topic.

I'll try to figure out how to bring some of these strands together in Part III of this series, so stay tuned. 

The Banality of Evil: Part I

A few years ago, I travelled with my spouse and some friends to Nuremberg, Germany where we stood in the courtroom where former Nazis were tried after the war. Two thoughts kept running through my brain that day and they have lingered: 

The first was a memory of my New Testament professor in seminary, The Rev. Dr. Kalyan Dey. Kalyan loved to shock us and I loved his pedagogical style. More than once he told us (I believe in the context of studying Paul’s Letter to the Romans) that “Adolf Hitler didn’t kill six million Jews. Good church-going beer-drinking Christians did that.”

I knew that he was right, both theologically and historically. But it went against the simplest definition of evil I’d been working with. If you asked people in my small town growing up to define evil they would very likely say, “Adolf Hitler.” But this left us ill-equipped to deal with the real nature of evil. Don’t misunderstand me or my professor here: I’m not defending (in any way) Adolf Hitler. But when you project a theological category onto one (dead) person it leads to a pretty anemic understanding of the nature of evil. 

Kalyan knew this. He wanted to remind us at every opportunity of another Old Testament text, from the prophet Isaiah, that “all our righteousness is as filthy rags.” Although ordained in the United Methodist Church, his theology of sin was pretty Lutheran and his reading of Romans was through that lens. He challenged us, or at least me, to think more deeply about the web of sin and evil rather than locating it exclusively in one individual.

The second memory I had in that courtroom in Nuremburg was a memory of the phrase coined by Hannah Arendt, in her book, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. Eichmann had escaped to Argentina and was tried much later, in Jerusalem. But that phrase about the “banality of evil” kept coming back to me in Nuremberg. In those trials, Kalyan Dey was proven right: Hitler didn’t do this by himself. The trials focused on the charge of conspiracy. How and why did these atrocities happen? 

What did Arendt mean by this subtitle? She observed of Eichmann that he did not display either guilt for what he’d done nor hatred for those trying him. He claimed he bore no responsibility (as others had at Nuremberg) because he was “just doing his job.” He didn’t break any laws. (This can lead down a completely different rabbit hole, but I'll resist that for now. When is it “just” to break an “unjust law?" Or to put it slightly differently, can something be “legal” and still morally wrong? Yes!)

Arendt observed about Eichmann that he wasn’t able to think for himself. He had a “crippling lack of communication skills” because he relied on cliches and propaganda and euphemisms that made him seem like a normal guy just doing his job. I also find her observation interesting that Eichmann was a “joiner” throughout his entire life. He joined organizations that had a higher “purpose” and he had belonged to groups that he allowed to define him growing up. She also noted that while he clearly had anti-Semitic leanings, he didn’t hate Jews. Joining the SS was part of a pattern. He needed to belong. 

If you Google the word "banal" you find this definition: "so lacking in originality as to be obvious and boring." Elsewhere, synonyms like "bland" and "hackneyed" and "vapid" are offered. 

In other words, as I understand Arendt, this isn't like The Exorcist with chairs flying and pea-soup coming out of one's mouth. It's not dramatic. It's boring, but not less real. A lot of bad can be done but never by one person, not even Adolf Hitler. The bad that is done in this world, the evil that hurts and destroys the creatures of God, is done by "normal" boring people who don't know how to think for themselves. 

I've labelled this as Part I with an intent to write two more parts to this series but I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the next two posts so those may not come immediately...

After an Election

I had a perfectly good sermon written, or almost written, earlier this week. (You would have liked it!) But it no longer seemed like the right sermon after this past Tuesday night.

Before I go any further I want to say that if I’ve learned anything at all in my sixty-one years it is that we are not all in the same place today. And whichever candidate we voted for, we are not even in just two camps today. If, though, you were happy about the presidential election, that is your right, and I love you. Perhaps my words will help to bring some understanding and empathy for your neighbors who are in pain right now, and that may (by God’s grace) help you to love your neighbor a little better. But many of us here this morning have experienced dismay and confusion and disorientation since waking up on Wednesday morning. This sermon is primarily for those who are feeling incredible sorrow for our nation right now.

And let me add that this grief is not about one candidate losing and another winning. It’s more about trying to figure out who we are as a nation – what we stand for. And then, what does it mean to be the Church in a time like this?

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross identified five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The process, as most of us know from experience, is not linear. And it takes time. Trauma is not unlike grief but it’s far more likely that we can get stuck especially if/when we feel re-traumatized. And I know that there is trauma here too. Among others, LGBTQ friends are feeling especially vulnerable right now with all the rhetoric that is quite frankly frightening. In any case I will confess that I’ve been experiencing all those emotions that Kubler-Ross mentions this week except acceptance. I’m just not there yet. But I have been feeling well acquainted with grief and the accompanying emotional roller coaster of denial, anger, bargaining and depression.

As your pastor, at least for a season, I invite you to be gentle with yourself and with your neighbor. Breathe in and breathe out. Keep doing that. Just breathe – in and out. Find your coping mechanisms. For me cooking is one of those and comfort food especially. On Wednesday (a night I usually stay in Bristol) I drove home to make lasagna and a Caesar salad so that Hathy and I could eat together. It helped. A little. A nice bottle of red wine helped as well.

Facebook is at best a very mixed blessing, I know. But I discovered and then shared these words there earlier this week from a woman named Venice Williams, about whom I know very little. As far as I can tell she’s not famous or anything. Yet her words helped to orient me in the midst of so much disorientation. I share them with you today in the hope that you may find them helpful as well.

You are awakening to the
same country you fell asleep to.
The very same country.

Pull yourself together.
And, when you see me,
do not ask me
"What do we do now?
How do we get through the next four years?"

Some of my Ancestors dealt with
at least 400 years of this
under worse conditions.

Continue to do the good work.

Continue to build bridges not walls.

Continue to lead with compassion.

Continue the demanding work of liberation for all.

Continue to dismantle broken systems, large and small.

Continue to set the best example for the children.

Continue to be a vessel of nourishing joy.

 Continue right where you are.
Right where you live into your days.
Do so in the name of
The Creator who expects
nothing less from each of us.

And if you are not "continuing"
ALL of the above, in community, partnership, collaboration?

What is it you have been doing?

What is it you are waiting for?

You may not yet appreciate these words, and that’s ok too. But I offer them as a beacon, perhaps for next week or next month or next year. We don’t always allow time in our culture to grieve. And we need to allow for that space. Grief is disorienting and the Bible has lots of ways to express disorientation, especially in the psalms. My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me? A few weeks ago we spoke here about Job, who could not find God when he looked to his left and right and ahead and behind.

But at some point we will need to get re-oriented – we cannot stay in a fetal position forever. The words I shared are there for me and I hope for you to help us to get our bearings and at least know where we might be headed. Yes, there will be many challenges. And yes, it may be worse even than our worst nightmares. Still we are called to be the Church. Still, we are called to continue in the work God has given us to do. That matters. And still we are at a season in the life of this congregation when we are seeking clarity around mission and purpose as we look to identify the next rector of this great parish. Don’t lose heart.

I want to invite you to come, today, any who so desire, to be anointed with oil that was previously blessed by our bishop. Healing is not magic. The oil won’t make it all better instantly. But it might remind you of the claim God has on you. We will skip over the creed today and the prayers of the people and confession. It’s ok – this is not a stealth move to remove them from the liturgy. Only today.  I invite you to pray silently, for yourself and others.

I’ll be up here with oil. Come if you so desire. If you remember back to last Sunday when we celebrated Holy Baptism on All Saints Sunday, we anointed that child, Colton, after the water, to remind him and his parents and godparents and ourselves that nothing can separate him from the love of God in Jesus. Nothing. That he has been sealed and marked and claimed, forever. No matter what.

And that’s true for every person here today. Whether you come forward or not for anointing, I invite you to spend this time in prayer for yourself, for those dear to you, for your neighbors including those who drive you crazy. Pray for family who will gather on Thanksgiving, knowing that this year might be a tense one. Pray for healing in this nation. Pray for this parish, that we will continue to grow together and toward a greater awareness of what we are called to be about in this time and place.

And if you would like, come forward to be anointed with this holy oil – an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace that reminds us all, through it all, that we are beloved.

For All The Saints

I grew up with a Baptist Grandmother. She was one of the many saints of my life. Both of my grandmothers, in different ways, were big influences on my spiritual life from an early age. But Esther Warner Simpson, my dad’s mother, was big on the Bible. One of the ways she showed love for her United Methodist grandchildren was to have us memorize Bible verses.

Jesus wept. That one was pretty easy! Just two words in the Revised Standard Version or, as she preferred, the King James Version. I like the New Revised translation that we used today better on most days, but it bums me out that they require four words when Jesus arrives at the grave of Lazarus, his friend: Jesus began to weep. I like the older version better. Jesus wept.

In any case, there is a lot going on in this liturgy today, one of the great days in the church year. Over the weekend, many of you have put pictures of loved ones and candles on the tables in the back and offering prayers for those who shaped our faith and now are among that great cloud of witnesses. I want to invite you to take a moment, whether or not their pictures are on one of those tables, to give thanks for their lives. Take a moment to celebrate what was good about their life and if there is any unfinished business, any lingering need for forgiveness and healing, offer that up to God as well on this day. We trust that in death, life is changed, not ended – so the relationships are still real and the bonds of love are stronger than death. I’ll give you ten seconds.

Just as we wept at the grave of our loved ones, so Jesus wept at the grave of his friend. Grief comes in waves and although time does help, it’s not exactly true that time heals all wounds. Jesus wept for the same reason we do: because death is hard.  Jesus called his friend out and they unbound him and let him go because love is stronger than death. We put our trust in that same truth that nothing in all of creation can separate us from the love of God in Jesus and in the love of God we share with those who have gone before us.

At the other end of the spectrum, today is one of those days when the Church celebrates Holy Baptism and we will do that here today. Baptism is about belonging, something we spoke about all last month in our stewardship journey. Today we say that Colton belongs to God – that he will be claimed and marked and sealed as God’s own. Forever. Nothing can change that. Nothing can separate him from the love of God. He will always have a home here and even when the Church doesn’t get it right, we dare to proclaim that Jesus loves us, this we know, for the Bible tells us so.

We promise to be a community of faith that shares that love with all the world. Today we will renew our own baptismal promises to be the Body of Christ, to be the People of God. So similarly, take a few moments to reflect on what you hope for today for this child and his generation in this town and around the planet – maybe for your own children and grandchildren. (Ten seconds)

But that’s not all, folks. That’s enough and that’s always what this holy day is about: birth and death and the love that binds us together into one great fellowship divine. It’s enough and honestly, although I love preaching, the liturgy holds all that today: those candles and photos of our loved ones, the water and the oil and not just one beloved child of God but a whole congregation full of them. What more needs to be said?

Well, I’m not going to belabor this, but in case you have forgotten, there will be a national election on Tuesday. The stakes are very high. I have strong opinions about this election, but those opinions are my own. I have thoughts I’m happy to share with anyone who asks me over a cup of coffee or a beer. But it is NOT my job to tell anyone of you how to use that precious right on Tuesday. I know some Christian leaders do that. I’m not personally afraid to do that, or worried about losing tax-exempt status: I just take very seriously that I am ordained to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ, not to be a political operative.

And yet…

And yet, we do well to remember that Jesus lived and moved and had his being in the Roman Empire. He will be executed by the state. Jesus was “spiritual and religious.” The root word for religion is religio. It literally means to bind together. We can be spiritual on our own but we cannot be religious without others, to whom we are bound. For Jesus as a practicing Jew that was about a way of life, set apart. For us, bound together in Holy Baptism, it is also about a way of life. This way of life is about core values – those values found in The Baptismal Covenant. When we remember those, a vote becomes an expression of our identity, and a kind of prayer for the world that looks more and more like God’s will on earth as in heaven.

I want to say three things about this and then I will sit down. First, as this week unfolds, remember who you are and whose you are. Remember that we have promised and still promise to strive for justice and peace among all people, and to respect the dignity of every human being, no exceptions. We are a people who are called to seek and serve Christ in all persons, no exceptions.  

This is what our ancestors in the faith taught us, some of whose pictures are back on those tables and all of whom continue to cheer us on whenever we are in danger of losing hope. Always the two great commandments remain: love God and love neighbor. This is what we promise to teach Colton not only with our lips but in the way we live our lives. These promises are not for inside this building only, although that’s a pretty good start. We practice at vestry and committee meetings so that we can do it at home and work and yes, when we vote.

The second thing I want to say is that the opposite of faith is not doubt. Good old Thomas, the patron saint of Episcopalians everywhere, reminds us that doubts and questions can lead to deeper faith. Rather, the opposite of faith is fear. Fear divides us from one another. Fear appeals to our worst angels; faith appeals to our braver angels. We should vote based on our faith, not fear. Faith binds us together – religio; fear divides us.

Third: we may gather here next Sunday and still not yet know the results of the presidential election. It’s going to be very close and there are a lot of ballots (my own included) that went in early but will be counted late. We need to be patient at a time when the stakes are very high. But whatever happens and whenever we know of it, God will still be God and we will still be called to follow Jesus. The work God has given us to do is the work of reconciliation.

When I was an undergraduate in Washington DC in the 1980s, I used to go hang out on the Mall and in particular I’d hang with honest Abe Lincoln there and read the Gettysburg Address and the Second Inaugural. I said earlier I liked the verse “Jesus wept” because it was short, but I’ll tell you that there was a point in my life when I could recite both of those speeches by heart.

You will remember that the second inaugural was on March 4, 1865, when the Civil War had bitterly divided this nation and almost rent it asunder. Lincoln appealed to the nation’s braver angels when he spoke these words, words I feel speak to us across the years to this time and place:

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and orphan – to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

My brothers and sisters, the work we are called to share in the name of the risen Christ means choosing wisely on Tuesday, choosing in a way that will lead us toward peace on earth and good will for all. Your faith and your life experience will inform how you see fit to vote. But that is your sacred right and it is not my job to tell you which bubbles to fill in.

But on Wednesday and Thursday and Friday and next Sunday morning and beyond,  we have work to do together, as followers of Jesus. And it is my job, for a season, to proclaim the good news. It is my job, for a season, to be your pastor and to build up the Body of Christ here, always with God’s help.

With malice toward none and charity for all; firm in our convictions but knowing we don’t ever see fully, we are called to the work of healing and reconciliation, of binding up this nation’s wounds, of seeking and serving Christ in all persons, of respecting the dignity of everyone. No exceptions.

 

Sermon for the 23rd Sunday after Pentecost

Six weeks ago, the gospel reading for the day was Peter’s confession at Caesarea Philippi. Every New Testament scholar on the planet will tell you what an important turning point that is in the gospel, that moment where Peter says to his friend, Jesus, “You are the Christ.”

Since then, we have been on the road with Jesus and his followers from Galilee. The total distance between Galilee and Jerusalem is about 120 miles, basically from here to Kittery, Maine. It would have taken Jesus and the disciples around six days or so to make that journey. The stuff we’ve been hearing about over these past six weeks is what Mark remembers about as the highlights, on the road. The early Christians were known as people of “the Way” – that speaks to me in the times we are living in, a people who are walking in the footsteps of Jesus.

Today we have reached the suburbs of Jericho, about fifteen miles from the city limits of Jerusalem. It’s the last stop on the pilgrims’ journey. In liturgical time it’s almost Palm Sunday, just hours before Jesus will enter the city on a donkey as the crowds shout Hosanna and lay down their branches of palm before him.

Jesus and his disciples were not the first Galileans to travel to Jerusalem. In fact, this religious pilgrimage was undertaken by faithful Jews as many as three times a year and especially to celebrate high holy days like Passover, which is what Jesus and the disciples are doing. Jerusalem’s whole economy was built on religious tourism and the temple. The route the disciples have been taking is the recommended one by AAA and along the way are places to stay in a time long before interstate highways.

So, of course, along the way there are also beggars because beggars are smart. Beggars don’t hang out where there aren’t any people. They like public places and well-travelled roads. Everyone coming from the north had to go through Jericho to get to Jerusalem. So we shouldn’t be surprised that there is a blind beggar in Jericho; there are no doubt lots of blind beggars in Jericho. But this particular  story is about Timaeus’ son whose life intersects on that day with Jesus, on the road to Jerusalem.

Now this story may well be familiar to many of us, even if we don’t remember the details of this particular healing. We’ve heard plenty from Mark about how Jesus healed people in and around Galilee before this journey to Jerusalem began. We’ve heard about how he made the blind to see and the deaf to hear, about how he healed the woman with the hemorrhage and raised Jairus’ daughter. So it comes as no big surprise and really is no big deal that Jesus makes blind Bartimaeus see. We who have been on the journey already know this is who Jesus is, at least since Caesarea Philippi. He is the Christ – the son of the living God. This is what he does.

There are some details, however, in this story that I want us to notice together. First of all, when Bartimaeus cries out: “Jesus, Son of David…have mercy on me!” he is the first person in Mark’s Gospel to use that title for Jesus. We’ve come all this way since the Jordan River, where God said Jesus was his “beloved Son.” We’ve heard Jesus speak of himself as the “Son of Man.” We’ve heard Peter recognize Jesus as “the Christ/the Messiah.” But now, as we near the city gates of Jerusalem, Jesus is identified—by a blind man no less!—as Son of King David. Timaeus’ kid “sees” what no one else has yet been able to see, that the dawn of a new day is on the horizon. “Son of David” is a political claim. Implicit is that Jesus is Lord; Caesar is not.

The man makes a scene. He cries out and is silenced by the crowd but he cries out all the more until he gets Jesus’ attention. And Jesus then invites him to come to him. I find it interesting that Jesus doesn’t go to Bartimaeus; but rather calls Bartimaeus to come to him. I mean, the guy is blind, remember!? Wouldn’t Jesus be “compassionate” enough, given that he can see where he is going just fine, to walk toward Bartimaeus rather than making Bartimaeus grope in the darkness?

I find that detail interesting because of what it literally says and because of what it metaphorically suggests. Jesus is no enabler. I don’t want in any way to minimize the hardship of being blind or lame or deaf. But sometimes our disabilities can become occasions by which others treat us as less than human. And sometimes we do that to ourselves. Sometimes in our weakness others make us feel even weaker than we are, and then they do for us what we can and need to do for ourselves. Have you ever been around a couple where a “caregiver” feels the need to answer all questions addressed to the “patient?”  It’s not uncommon.

If we aren’t careful, we create dependency rather than truly serving our neighbor. We may not mean to. But there is a difference between “helping people” because it makes us feel good or because we need to be needed and serving people because we see the image of God in them. The difference has to do with allowing people to keep their dignity.

So Jesus treats Bartimaeus with dignity and respect: as a person, as a human being, as a beloved child of God. In so doing I think he is already working toward making him whole, which is about more than simply giving him back his sight. Bartimaeus “leaps up and tosses off his cloak” (notice that this is before he regains his sight) and comes to Jesus. The tossing of his cloak is a bridge-burning act. That coat is the means by which a blind beggar would gather in the coins tossed to him by others and shake them in. What Mark is telling us is that this man completely trusts that Jesus is about to transform his life, and that is about more than healing his blindness. He’s not going to have to beg anymore. So he doesn’t need that cloak anymore.

Yet again, I find it interesting that Jesus asks Bartimaeus a question: “what do you want me to do for you?” It’s tempting to want to spoof a response—as if Bartimaeus might say: “hello…son of David, I’m BLIND…what do you think I want, cookies and milk?!” But I think this falls under that same heading as before: Jesus treats him as a person. Bartimaeus is asked to articulate what he wants, what he needs, what he desires. That’s empowering, in my experience rather than belittling.

I have no problem believing this happened this way. But I also think that the story is laden with metaphorical meaning and implications as well. Above all, we are meant to chuckle at how the blind guy sees better than the disciples who Jesus is and what he is about. He regains his sight and becomes a follower on “The Way.” He apparently has no illusions about what is coming but he has been touched by the amazing grace of Jesus, for he was once blind but now he sees and that is such amazing grace that he cannot but help to respond with his life.

I also think that we are meant to wonder about our own blindness or at least our blind spots? We tend to think we see it all. But that is a great illusion. Each of us sees what we want to see, or what we are able to see, from a fairly narrow perspective. None of us have eyes in the back of our heads. None of us have 20/20 vision, at least not in a spiritual sense. Much is hidden from our understanding. Always we are looking through a dark glass. Part of spiritual maturity is beginning to see things in new ways, to see from new angles. But part of it is also becoming more profoundly aware that we don’t see it all, that we don’t have all the answers, that what we see isn’t all there is to see. In and through Christian community, Jesus helps us to see in new ways, especially by way of other people, whose experiences may be very different from ours. 

We may be tempted to sit back and wait for Jesus to come to us. But I think the journey begins in fact when we find ourselves groping in the dark and crying out, “Son of David, Jesus, have mercy on me” and we stumble along trying to find our way to God. This kind of faith is not passive but active. Somewhere along the line I think some of us have been mistaught a kind of religious passivity, to just sit back and have God do it all. So if we lose our faith or experience doubt or blindness we think God has failed us. But perhaps we have failed God in those moments.

Perhaps it is incumbent upon us to cry out in the darkness, to ask for what we need, and to do our best to get up and move. In that moment, I think Christ encourages us and calls out to us and asks us what we need, what we want, what we desire. And as we begin to articulate that, we are already on the path toward health and insight. It’s not magic; it requires our participation. It requires our desire to see, our willingness to risk throwing off the coats that keep us dependent, and the risk of following Jesus even to Jerusalem – even to the foot of the cross. Prayer is, at least in part, about learning to articulate what we need. There is spiritual growth that comes simply by learning to articulate what we are asking for, not because Jesus needs for us to do that but because we need to do that.

It seems clear to me that what Jesus gives to Bartimaeus and to all of us is vision and what he asks in return is that we begin to live into that vision by following him. He helps us to see our neighbor and to see the stranger and to see the pain of the world and the injustice but also to see the beauty and truth and love and when we see all that we are asked to join him and to do the work he has given us to do. We may well feel that it’s easier to be a blind beggar on the side of the road than it is to be a follower of Jesus. Because it is! But that is the insight that Jesus has been trying to get through the disciples thick skulls for six days, or six weeks, or six years, or six decades, or six centuries: take up your cross! Follow me!

God Shows Up!

Last weekend we heard some tough words from Job. Do you remember our first reading?

 Job had it all: a beautiful wife, well-adjusted kids, great job, good health, and plenty of friends. And then the bottom fell out. He lost it all practically overnight. It sounds a bit like a fairy tale gone wrong, and maybe it is just that. But sadly, we don’t need to go on a quest for the historical Job to find truth in this story.  Because I think what is so scary about the Book of Job is that it can (and does) happen just this way in real life. Bad things do, unfortunately, happen to good people far too often.

 In pastoral ministry and in my everyday life I meet people who have had way more than their share of troubles, usually because of circumstances way beyond their control. And once things begin to spiral downward it is difficult to turn all of that around. What is amazing to me, and scary to me, is just how quickly an ordered life can unravel. I don’t mean people who just kind of like to complain and really have had a pretty good hand dealt to them. I mean those people for whom it is one thing after another and it’s not fair.

 So last week we heard Job crying out to the God whom it is no longer clear is even there. It’s just too dark for Job to tell. He looks to his right and left, in front and behind, but he can’t find God. And he needs to find God because he wants his day in court. He wants to make his argument, to make his case before the Almighty: what has happened to him is not fair. Job is no whiner and his complaint is justified, I think. His questions are fair ones that go to the heart of faith: if God is just and if God is powerful then why is there so much pain and suffering in this world?

So today we continue with the narrative and God shows up like a whirlwind in the midst of thunder and lightning! Imagine that! Imagine yourself praying for a sign, praying for God to show up and it happens just like that. Only God doesn’t show up sheepishly to be cross-examined by Job. Nor does God show up with answers as to why the just suffer or to be more specific why this bad stuff has happened to this good man. God shows up loaded for bear. God shows up with God’s own set of questions. 

In fact that is the first thing I want you to notice because I think it is of profound importance theologically. Job had one question for God: “why me?” God literally comes at Job with a whole litany of questions: “gird up your loins like a man, Job and I will question you…”

• Who is this…?
• Where were you…
• Who determined…?
• Who stretched…?
• Who has put…?
• Who has given…?
• Can you lift…? 
• Can you provide? … 
• Can you send…?
• Can you hunt…?

We’ll have to wait until next week to hear how Job responds. But for today it is our task to reflect on God’s whirlwind speech. What might it mean?

One interpretative trajectory focuses on the sovereignty and inscrutability of God. God gets to be God, not us. God’s questions remind Job (and more importantly the reader of the Book of Job) that we aren’t as smart as we think we are. God’s ways are not our ways. That isn’t an answer to the question of human suffering. But it is a clear reminder that the universe doesn’t work like a clock, and God isn’t a giant engineer in the sky. I think of the film, Bruce Almighty, which I love in part because underneath all the laughs I think there is a pretty serious theological point directly related to the topic at hand.

You may recall that Morgan Freeman plays God in that film, but he’s tired and actually burnt out, so more than ready for a sabbatical.  God leaves Jim Carrey in charge for a while. One of my favorite parts is when the Jim Carrey character just grants every prayer request as if prayer was like throwing a coin into a wishing well. Everyone wins the lottery! I mean everyone who wished they would win does win. So the “jackpot” is split so far that the winnings total about 49 cents each! Granting every prayer request leads to chaos, because most people don’t really know what is best for them but only what they think is best for them. The only prayer that truly never fails is “thy will be done…”

So one might imagine Morgan Freeman speaking these words out of the whirlwind to Jim Carrey and essentially the message goes something like this: “Do you want to switch jobs for a while, Job? I’ll take a little vacation and leave you in charge of the universe for a week or so and we’ll see how that goes, alright? You up for that?” Gird up your loins like a man, son!

Another interpretive trajectory starts at the opposite end, with Job. One thing about suffering (and this is an observation, not a judgment) - suffering can make us very self-centered. It’s isolating. Our world becomes smaller and smaller. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, in her work on the stages of grief, spoke about isolation and depression as stages one who is going through loss has to navigate. That is very real, I think, and part of what has happened to Job. Granted, his friends are real schmucks. But nevertheless, Job’s very real pain has meant the loss of family and a rift with his friends. He’s all alone in the world and worst of all it feels as if even God has abandoned him.

So the mere presence of God is a kind of grace because at least he knows that he is not alone. But God’s speech also points Job outward to the natural world, that is back to the world beyond himself. I once took a Continuing Ed class at Princeton Seminary on Job that was team-taught by a Biblical Scholar and a Professor of Pastoral Care. The latter insisted that we misunderstand and confuse pastoral care with being nice. So we think a good pastor (and by extension, God) ought to focus with Job on his loss and ask him how he is feeling about that. But in truth that kind of approach can contribute to keeping a person stuck. He argued that God is like a tough but wise therapist in this speech; a truth-teller who helps Job make a break-through to a new place. So one might hear God’s whirlwind speech as something like this: 

Job: you need to go on a whale watch and consider Leviathan that I made for the sport of it. Or take a walk along the ridge of the Grand Canyon, or hike the Rockies or camp underneath Pleides and Orion in Acadia National Park. Or consider the glorious array of maples on a clear autumn day in New England. Sit on your porch during a lightning storm and consider. Consider the ravens and the mountain lions.   Consider the lilies of the field, Job. 

Now this trajectory isn’t mutually exclusive from the first one. In fact, I think they are really just two sides to one coin. The first focuses on God’s sovereignty and the second on human limitations. But on both sides of that coin we are reminded that the job of being the Almighty is not open. Job need not apply and we need not apply either! In both cases we are reminded that we aren’t in control.

 I think God is saying it’s a big world out there and it’s not all about us. That doesn’t mean that God doesn’t care about us. It simply means that our measure of the universe can’t always be about what is or is not working for us at any given moment. That’s a form of narcissism. That in no way is to suggest that our pain is not real when we suffer. But sometimes when we can transform that pain into something like service, we find healing, even if not explanations. A child is killed by a drunk driver and there is no answer to that question of why God has “allowed this to happen.” But there are other drunk drivers and there other children and when mothers get M.A.D.D. together and step beyond their own circle of pain to embrace the needs of others, both they and the world are in some real and tangible way set on the path toward healing. Or a man sits and waits for his chemotherapy and notices this incredibly brave nine-year old girl who has lost all of her hair and it dawns on him that he is not the only one fighting for his life and the bond between them is strong enough to inspire him to keep fighting not only for himself but as part of something bigger than self. We are not alone, even when it may feel like that.

Maybe part of the healing process is to be able to step back and laugh. Did we really think that the question of human suffering has an answer we could possibly comprehend? Are we so arrogant as to believe that a question that the greatest minds throughout the centuries have wrestled with can be answered like a simple math problem? That God can show up and say: “Well, Job, your questions are very fair so let me sit down and explain to you how this universe thing works…There will be time at the end for further questions!”

Suffering is real, and no light matter, especially when it finds us. But the question “why me?” may not be the best or only question for us to ask. As someone has written, “why not me?” As it turns out, the Book of Job doesn’t answer the question about why the just suffer. What it does do is reframe things and point us toward new and bigger questions that have the potential to lead us to hope and healing.

What, you may ask, does any of this have to do with faithful discipleship, and in particular faithful stewardship? (OK, maybe no one is asking that question except for me and the members of the stewardship committee!) But we’ve been reflecting on what it means to belong and not generically but to belong here, at St. Michael’s, for the past four weeks. The big ask of all of you is to support the work of this parish inside these walls and beyond them.

What I love the most about my vocation as a priest is hearing people’s stories. And let me tell you that even in the most seemingly charmed of lives, there has been some pain and loss and grief. And also healing, and grace, and new life. We belong here to be there for each other on the hard days and we belong here in order to remind each other that death never gets the last word. Even at the grave we make our song: alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. We belong to God who is always bringing life out of death. 

We gather here on the Day of Resurrection to remember the Paschal mystery, which is just another way of saying that Good Friday never gets the last word. Never.

Three Essential Prayers

Anne Lamott has written a little, but very powerful book on prayer that is entitled: Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Survival Prayers. If you don’t know Lamott, I commend her writing to you and in particular I commend that book of essential prayers. Help. Thanks. Wow.Pretty much every prayer falls into one of those three categories.

Help is a big one, especially when we feel like the world is closing in or we are drowning or in a pit. The psalms are a good way into this, which runs so counter to our American values of being self-reliant. We sometimes need help. Twelve-step spiritualities have this as a core value. All of us need help in small ways every day and that becomes more and more true the older we get. We know that our help is in the name of the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. God is always there to help and by God’s grace, so are God’s people.

And every new day gives us a chance to say thanks, even the hardest of days. Thanks for waking up, for the sunrise, for loved ones, for friendships, for food on the table, for health, even for challenges and even disappointments. Meister Eckhardt once said that if the only prayer you ever said was “thankyou” it would be enough.

That last one is about being amazed, about being in awe, about being awake to the majesty and mystery and wonder of the world around us. Wow! You’ll discover that a close second to quotes from Bruce Springsteen in my sermons is the late Mary Oliver. I think a lot of her poems are prayers of awe, but for today, how about this one?         

          When it’s over, I want to say all my life
          I was a bride married to amazement.
          I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

         When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
         If I have made of my life something particular, and real.
        I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
        Or full of argument.

        I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

Help! Thanks! Wow! I think that people who are learning to pray these three prayers one day at a time are learning to love God and neighbor in the process. They are learning that none of us is an island unto ourselves. We belong to God, and to each other. When we pray those prayers we make authentic community possible.

Last weekend we considered Francis of Assisi. One story I didn’t tell is captured on a fresco that hangs in the church at Assist to this day – an embarrassing private moment between a father and son that played out on the public square. Francis decided that to follow Jesus he needed to give up all his stuff, stuff that in truth his father had worked hard to earn. One day, Francis took off all his clothes in the public square and left them at his father’s feet. The bishop was there and was so embarrassed he took his cope off to cover Francis up.

Francis was the rich young man who stayed with Jesus, who gave it all up to love God more dearly and walk more nearly. He is the counter to the rich young man in today’s gospel reading: Francis felt that to follow Jesus he needed to give it all up and start again, with nothing, not even a shirt on his back.

You don’t meet too many people like Francis as a rule, at least I have not. Far more common is the rich young man who comes to Jesus in today’s gospel reading. Let’s be clear, he seems to be a really good guy. So far as we can tell he really is doing what he says he is doing: following the commandments. But there is one thing that stands between him and God, and Jesus picks up on it pretty quickly. He’s attached to his stuff. His stuff defines him, and keeps him from really engaging and ultimately loving his neighbor. We might say today that he is a person of privilege and that’s ok, but with privilege comes responsibility.

Jesus’ invitation to leave it all and become a Franciscan friar is always out there – and to this day people do that. At it’s heart is the insight that when you have nothing you have nothing to lose. Choosing to embrace poverty, by the way, is very different than having it chosen for you; I don’t know of any Franciscans who would claim otherwise. So we must not glamorize or romanticize the poor who are poor not by choice but by circumstance. But learning to let go and let God and learning to put our whole trust in God’s provision: there is grace in that.

On the other end, many go away dejected because they are always in danger of allowing what they have to own them. We need reminders that it’s just not true that whoever has the most toys when she dies wins. I’ve done a lot of funerals in my day and trust me, across the socio-economic spectrum what people want to notice when someone they love joins the company of the saints are core values like generosity and kindness and creativity and love. Even failures and disappointments can be embraced as graces especially where there is forgiveness.

But I’ve never heard a single person remembered as having some amount of money in the bank. Everyone at a funeral knows that you can’t take it with you.

Help. Thanks. Wow. I want to invite you to consider this thought – that the reason the rich young man cannot loosen his grip on his stuff is that he very likely is not able to pray these prayers. None of them. These three essential prayers teach us that we need God and we need our neighbor. They point us toward authentic community. They open the door to vulnerability which is the doorway to the way of love.

When we fall into the trap of feeling we are self-made or self-sufficient – that we are independent rather than interdependent – we think we need no one. We start to believe that adage of Ben Franklin’s that is not, in fact, in the Bible: that God helps those who help themselves.

All of the generous people I have known in my life have, at some point, faced a crisis where they had to get help. Where they couldn’t do it on their own and needed God and friends to be there. Whether that’s through the twelve-step path to recovery, or whether it’s an illness or terrible loss, they found help, sometimes in surprising ways. You remember the psalmist: from where will my help come? My help comes from the maker of heaven and earth. When we remember that to the core of our being it also leads us to pray: all things come of thee, O Lord – and of thine own have we given thee.

Help! Thanks! Wow!

I submit to you that the rich young man didn’t spend a lot of time counting his blessings, because that’s hard to do when you are clinging to your stuff. Gratitude opens us up and is one of the most powerful spiritual practices we can cultivate. Thank you, God, that I woke up to live another day. Thank you for this good earth, for a home to live in, for friends, for family, for signs of hope, for the transformational power of love. Thank you God. Thank you, my partner, my grandchild, my neighbor, my employee, my friend. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

And wow. This world truly is amazing. It inspires awe – surely when you look up at the Rockies or the Grand Canyon or that image of the earth taken from space – this fragile earth our island home. Last Saturday, Hathy and I walked along the water on a day that was a perfect ten, to the town beach and back. The birth of a child and even death, are great mysteries. But every single day for those who have eyes to see there are opportunities to pray, “wow.”

This morning, I invite you, in the quiet of this space, in the quiet of your hearts, to take a few moments to take an inventory of your lives and to silently pray these three essential prayers, and offer them up to the living God.

Help. Where do you need some help right now in your life, from God, from a friend or family member, maybe from a good therapist or even a priest? How will you seek the help you need this week and this month? Who do you need to reach out to for that help – and is there anyone who needs your help?

Thanks. Count your blessings. What are you thankful for today? Take a few moments to consider your gratitude. Make a list, if not in this instant then later today, or early next week.

Wow. What takes your breath away? Where do you need to be to put yourself in the presence of God’s tremendous mystery? Often it’s outdoors somewhere – but it might also be at table with really good friends where you feel safe and loved and well-fed. Or live music. Take a moment to think about when you’ve had those awesome experiences, and if there is a way to build more of those into your life?

Let us pray:

O God our help in ages past, be our help now, today, here. Help us to know, to remember, to live. Grant us the courage to ask for help when it’s needed and the wisdom to offer help to others who may be too timid to ask us. We ask for grateful hearts and the grace to count our blessings and not to covet what we do not have. And open our hearts and minds and eyes and ears to the wonder and beauty of your creation. Help. Thanks. Wow.

Amen.

 

Lord, Make Us Instruments of Your Peace

This morning we remember St. Francis of Assisi, a thirteenth-century Umbrian whose ministry continues to inspire us.

This afternoon we’ll bless animals, because good old Francis saw the dogs and cats and birds of the air and turtles and horses as his family members, as sisters and brothers. And Francis was “green” before it was cool, recognizing the interconnections of not only all of life but the cosmos itself: “brother sun” and “sister moon.” He recognized that human beings have a place in that circle of life as stewards, not abusers. Some of you even have him in your garden, looking very peaceful, preaching the good news to the birds. This is, I assume, the Francis you already know.

 For fifteen years I served a parish that took their name from this saint. Today I want to introduce you to the St. Francis you may not know. The mystical experience he had in San Damiano, when trying to figure out his calling, may be helpful for us to consider as we begin that exploration. Francis was praying in front of a crucifix when he heard Christ’s call to him: “rebuild my church, Francesco.” At first, Francis thought this was about a building campaign. The church in San Damiano had a lot of deferred maintenance and Francis thought he was being called to be the junior warden there. But over time he came to understand that this rebuilding was about much more than the building. He came to understand that for the Church to be real we are always re-forming, re-building, re-making community. We are always re-discovering our purpose. It is easy to get discouraged about the Church and much harder to find ways to be part of the solution of rebuilding the Church in order to meet the needs of a changing world. I take great comfort in knowing that Francis didn’t do that alone or immediately, but inspired others to share that work with him. In community.

 Two stories for today that may be less familiar to you all. The first is about the wolf of Gubbio, an allegory about a wolf that was terrorizing the people of Gubbio. As the story is told, Francis went out to talk some sense into the wolf, to ask him to stop being a big bad wolf. The wolf agreed to change his ways but Francis also came back to tell the townspeople that they bore some responsibility here: that they had forgotten that the wolf was their brother and that if they fed him he would not be so ravenous. So that’s an allegory – a story meant to make a larger point. You can ponder what it might mean in your own lives, and in our polarized world, and what it means for us who are called to be “instruments of God’s peace.”

But one of my favorite stories about Francis is of his encounter in 1219 with a Muslim sultan at the height of the Crusades. Francis sailed across the Mediterranean to Egypt, where he was given a pass through enemy lines. There he stood before the Sultan to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The Sultan politely replied that he had his own beliefs and that as a Muslim he was as firmly convinced of the truth of Islam as Francis was of the truth of Christianity. Neither of them changed their beliefs but the encounter lasted a while longer, and each was impressed by the religious devotion and compassion of the other.

 Lord, make us instruments of your peace. It’s not certain that Francis actually wrote that prayer – The Book of Common Prayer hedges its bets and says it’s a prayer attributed to him. But every fiber of Francis’ being was committed to living that prayer, even if he didn’t write the words. It is his revolutionary commitment to peacemaking that I want to highlight today, a month away from a national election in a deeply divided nation.

 It is way too easy for us to pray that prayer and let it hover in midair. But Francis allowed that prayer to truly work through him and form him as a follower of Jesus Christ. He lived as an instrument of peace. If you’ve ever traveled to Assisi then you know that this global work of reconciliation continues as a witness to that “revolutionary commitment to peacemaking” and it’s how he’s known even more than as a reason to offer blessings to our pets.

The Catechism says that “the mission of the Church is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ” and that this mission is carried out “through the ministry of all of its members.” (BCP 855) I don’t know how we could possibly live into that mission without a deep awareness of who we are and a willingness to commit ourselves to the revolutionary idea of peacemaking, to allow ourselves to be used by God as “instruments of peace.” That begins with a willingness to encounter the other, not in fear, but with mutual respect.

Part of what I love about Francis’ encounter with the Sultan is that he didn’t sacrifice who he was as a Christian. We tend to have two very different approaches to the work of encountering the other in our culture and I find myself less patient with both approaches as I grow older. For lack of a better term, I’ll call the first approach the “liberal” approach, although I truly wish I had a better name for it. I think the instincts are right, but sometimes we act as if the primary goal is to never insult anyone. So we reduce our beliefs to the least common denominator: Christians and Jews and Muslims are all children of Abraham, we say, and we leave it at that. We all worship the same God, after all. Now I don’t want to mock this too much because I think the motivation is right and it also happens to be true. It takes seriously that part of the Baptismal Covenant about “respecting the dignity of every human being.” The problem is that only very rarely in such interfaith conversations (and even ecumenical conversations) do we dare to step beyond that common ground and out of our comfort zones to discuss our very real differences. Yet it is in exploring those differences that I think we discover real transformation and energy. Right? That requires a high level of trust which requires a relationship. It requires some level of vulnerability and a willingness to go deeper.

Conversely, the alternative approach (for lack of a better term I’ll call it the more “conservative” approach) can tend to think that Christians are right and the other is wrong. Sharing the “good news” means we have it and they don’t. So we do all of the talking and none of the listening. Since we have the truth, it is imperative that we make it clear to the other in order to “save” them. This approach tends to take seriously that part of the Baptismal Covenant about evangelism: our call to proclaim not only with our lips but in our lives the good news of God in Jesus Christ. But I think it forgets the claim of those early chapters of Genesis that all humankind (and not only Christians or Jews) are created in the image of God. And if everyone has the imao dei – that “image of God” – then everyone also has access to the divine.

Everything I can find out about that encounter that Francis had with the Sultan in the Middle East in the thirteenth century, a time at least as polarized as our own day, leads me to conclude that Francis offers a third way, a way that I think has much to teach us. It holds both of those two Baptismal claims together: respect and dignity for the other while also remaining clear about who we are, and our own identity in Christ and the good news it brings not just to us but to the world. For Francis, the way to God was clear: it is through Jesus Christ. And he certainly goes to the Middle East with a glad and generous heart to share that good news, even if it means he could lose his head, quite literally. But Francis remains open enough and humble enough and patient enough and kind enough and loving enough to be changed by that encounter with the Sultan. Even though neither one converts, each of them are enriched. In fact I want to propose that both men were even firmer in their own commitments after that exchange than they were before. But no longer could they caricature, or worse still, demonize, the other. They didn’t discover they were the same, because they were not the same! But they came to see their differences through a lens of mutual respect. 

You and I don’t have to travel half-way around the world, as Francis did, to encounter “the other.” We live in a pluralistic society surrounded by Jews and Christians and Muslims and Buddhists and Hindus and Wiccans and doubters and done-with-religion and spiritual-but-not-religious and all the rest. Francis invites us to to be instruments of God’s peace in our own day, by allowing Christ’s light to shine through us with whomever we meet along the way. This Way of Love is the Way of the Cross. To paraphrase St. Paul, there is nothing Christ-like about arrogance or rudeness or boastfulness or insisting on our own way. “Never boast of anything,” Paul wrote to the Church in Galatia, “except for the Cross.” That Way of the Cross calls us to a deep sense of humility about the faith we do possess; it calls us to love both God and neighbor, even the neighbor with whom we may disagree.

Francis was on his own faith journey, just as all of us are. His journey and the lives of the saints can inspire us and challenge us. But we are not the same and we don’t live in medieval Italy. Francis had to sort through a lot before he had the courage for that encounter with the Sultan. You and I are called to continue that work not only to honor Francis, but as fellow disciples of Jesus Christ. We are thinking this month together about belonging as we prayerfully consider our financial pledges to this parish for 2025. I want to suggest that stewardship is always about more than money, but never about less. Ask Geoff or Betty about the bills that need to be paid to keep our doors open. Some of that money for our budget comes from the generosity of saints who have gone before us. But it also needs to come from us, the living, who take inspiration from the generosity of those who have gone before us. Even if the endowment was twice what it is, and we didn’t need to come up with any money at all, it would still be good for our souls to practice generosity and to be givers.

If we just make this time about “meeting the budget” we will have failed, even if we have enough money. So I invite you to a time of deeper reflection this month, and to recommit yourself to the work of re-forming and re-building and re-making St. Michael’s. God isn’t done with us yet. And so we enter into a period of discernment and healing and transformation, offering ourselves to be instruments of peace and fearless agents of reconciliation in a world that needs for us to be the Church. Francis is way more than your garden variety saint. He was courageous and generous and hopeful in a dangerous world. May he inspire us do the same, in this time and in this place. Let us pray:

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is
hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where
there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where
there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where
there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to
be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is
in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we
are born to eternal life. Amen.