Monday Eucharist, Third Week of Easter

Acts 6:8-15, Psalm 27:10-18 (BCP), John 6:22-29

When are we hungry for the food of eternal life? And when is our hunger – while no less real or necessary – for temporary comfort?

Jesus’ words are demanding; his words require us to recognize the difference between the two, to discern, so that we will not mistake one for the other. He calls us to make a conscious choice of the food that is eternal.

Underneath all of this, underlying the discernment and choice that Jesus is calling us to – is our belief. This seems almost too simple. What does Jesus mean, that the work of God is belief in the One who is sent? I’ve got this idea of what work is – and it’s a lot more busy and complicated and multitasking than just believing. Work is a collection of tasks, aimed at certain goals. Work begins at 9 and ends at 5. (Or, if you’re in seminary, work requires all of your waking hours and some of the sleeping ones too.) The kind of work that I imagine for myself – and perhaps this is true for you also – is not the work that Jesus describes. And as painful as it might be to recognize, my accomplishments, my completed tasks, and even my goals are not, cannot and should not be the center. Jesus rightly calls us to remember that our central purpose is to believe. Not – despite all indications to the contrary and with apologies to the faculty and Commission on Ministry types out there – to excel at all theological enterprises, enter the competition for Most Valuable Priest, or even to please those around us. Our work is to believe.

It is a constant struggle to hold back the rushing and busy-ness that seem to infect modern life. For me, this becomes a distraction from the most essential work that Jesus calls each and every one of us to: belief in the One whom God has sent.

And when we gather, as we have now, to do the work of the people – liturgy – we affirm our belief not as individuals, but as a community. Before we break bread together, we affirm our faith in creeds and prayers. The two are bound together; indeed, the whole act of eucharist is a symbol, not because it is any less real, but because it points beyond itself, beyond this moment and this particular gathering to a reality that is deeper, greater … eternal.

This is why the eucharist – which has its root in chara, the greek word for joy – is so central in my own life: it gathers my community and links us together through listening to the Word, sharing our faith, and creating sacred space for our fellowship at the table of God.

But the story of our life together in Christ does not end with affirmations and fellowship. This is one movement of a greater symphony – in which each part contributes to the whole. If we were to celebrate the Eucharist alone, our faith would be diminished. Our life would be diminished. We would be diminished.

Our life in Christ requires of us risk-taking, pursuit, and perseverance. Even with misguided intentions, the crowd pursued Jesus across the sea. As John recounts it, finding neither Jesus not the disciples where they expected them to be, they themselves got into boats and pursued him. Passivity has no place in our life together in Christ. How might we be called to follow after Christ, to pursue a relationship and connection?

Likewise, Stephen, “full of grace and power,” spoke and argued, all the while proclaiming Christ with great vigor. And when this put him in peril, he did not retreat. He did not back down or relent. He did not become quiet and timid. He was steadfast in his faith, and it shone through his whole being, so that even the council could not avoid seeing it. Fear, too, has no place in our life together in Christ. How might we be called to act with courage, to persist in speaking the good news of justice, compassion and reconciliation?

For the grace and power that filled Stephen and gave him the strength to face hatred and anger and condemnation are not the stuff of two millennia past, but the gifts of God to the people of God – to us. We can see these at work in people that we know. Each of us has probably met one person whose faith in Christ Jesus vibrates through their whole being, someone who is so alive, vibrantly alive in Christ that we long to know their secret. We long to be so sure, so confident, so courageous – pick your adjective.

I’ll be the first to admit to this little bit of jealousy, although I’m not exactly proud of it. I want to be like that priestly person over there – the one who always seems to have a smile on and never seems fazed by the craziness of this church. Her faith in God seems so deep that nothing can undermine it. And she has a great sense of style too! It’s just not fair.

But the thing of it is, the gifts of grace and power that I see radiating from certain people are not given to them to the exclusion of everyone else. (Although perhaps the sense of style is not so widely available.) Even as I long to be just like that person over there, God longs for me – as for each one of us – to find my own unique gifts. And when I find my voice, my calling, my sense of self and of pastoral identity, I will find the gift of grace and power that have been there all along, waiting for me to live out my belief more fully and more truly, not according to some ideal, but according to God’s deepest desire for me.

It is not perishable food that will sustain this kind of life, but the eternal and spiritual food that comes from God. Sometimes I wonder if I mistake the comfort and support of Christian fellowship for that which comes from God. Both are good, and both are necessary for our life in Christ, but they are not the same. Fellowship waxes and wanes. Friends, spiritual ones included, come and go. Our graduating friends have laid plans for new lives, and we are beginning to say good-bye and to make plans to stay in touch. But as some remain and others disperse to new communities, jobs and relationships, the friendships we’ve made here will change. Our friends will leave soon, and in September we will welcome new colleagues, and perhaps soon to be friends.

But the love of God abides, and the comfort and support that come from God abide; and these remain present to us in the breaking of the bread. “The Lord will sustain,’ in the words of the Psalmist. You. Me. Each and every one of us, our whole community, near and far. Without ceasing.

In our lives and in the Eucharist we share, God is present, nourishing and sustaining. Waiting for us to come and be fed, not by perishable food, but by spiritual food, the bread and wine, the body and blood, which strengthen each one of us to go forth to proclaim the good news that we have come to believe in the days after Easter: Christ is our risen saviour! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen!

Sermon, Third Sunday of Lent

Texts: Exodus 3:1-15; Psalm 103:1-11; Luke 13:1-9

Our Gospel passage for today is a text that I am uneasy with. I have a definite preference for Jesus as warm, fuzzy friend, Jesus as comforter, Jesus as the nice guy. This is, admittedly, false. And yet, I am not quite ready to let this image go. So when passages like today’s Gospel force me to listen to stories and parables that I don’t like, I am confronting not only the text itself but also the images of Jesus and God that are my own creation.

The first part of the Gospel recounts the story of Galilean pilgrims to Jerusalem who are martyred by Pilate at the Temple, “whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.” Not a pretty image. Jesus goes on to mention the people “who were killed when the tower at Siloam fell on them.” Again, not a pretty image.

And his response to both of these events is to say: “unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.”

Perish as they did.

Make no mistake; this is a message to us, to me and to you, despite the historical, cultural and religious distance of the examples. This message is not about dying in the same circumstances, but about being taken from this life unpreparedly. Jesus reminds his listeners that these tragic deaths were not a consequence of greater sins and offenses, but that tragedies happen to those who are good and bad alike, and this is all the more reason to repent.

For, when Jesus tells us to repent, we are being called to be aware, to be ready for what may come without warning. In the Great Litany, most often used during Lent, we pray: “from dying suddenly and unprepared, Good Lord, deliver us.” Jesus is not saying that by repenting we will not perish, but that we will, one day, perish in a different way.

Although it seems like this story (and this sermon, for that matter) are focusing rather morbidly on death, that is not what all of this is about. By reminding us of our limitations as human beings, and particularly that we are finite beings, we are being called to live more fully in the present time. And that brings me to the second half of the reading from Luke.

Despite the initial, summary judgment of the fig-tree – rejected as a failure – the parable offers a message of hope, for the gardener proposes to do something unusual, to take the last possible measures. The fig-tree has been granted a reprieve.

The “sin” of the fig-tree is not that it did something bad, or even that it did nothing – it has been growing for six years. During the first three years, Levitical Law forbids eating the fruit of the tree, and three more years had passed, during which the owner had looked in vain for fruit. The tree had not born fruit in six years, since it had first been planted, but it had been doing plenty: growing taller, digging its roots deeper into the ground, sending out leaves and branches.

And yet, the tree was expected to produce fruit. The fault, then, of the tree is that it is not doing what it is called, meant and intended to do.

Likewise, the question that we must face in Lent is not, Can I make it to Easter without eating sweets? Or, how can I manage to stay awake without my regular fix of caffeine? But, Am I doing what I have been created and called by God to do?

A fig tree is good when it does what it is created by God in its nature to do: to bear fruit. By bearing fruit, it fulfills its particular and God-given purpose in the world. It would be awfully easy to transfer this directly to human beings and declare that each of us, individually and collectively, are expected to bear fruit (in a metaphorical way, hopefully).

I think that is too simplistic. God created each one of us with our own set of gifts, skills, weaknesses, and strange quirks. Before I can ask, Am I doing what I have been created and called by God to do? I must first ask what it is that God asks particularly of me. And the first step to asking what it is that God created and called me to do is to take stock of what I have to work with – and what I have to work on – (because believe me, we all have both).

God has expectations and demands of us. This is sometimes hard to hear in a society that prizes individualism, autonomy, and independence. The reality that we claim as Christians is that we are not autonomous individuals, but that we are dependent on God’s grace, love and mercy and ultimately that we are subject to God’s judgment.

God asks – demands – of all of us three seemingly simple things: to heed his call, to bless his name, and to be faithful to his purpose for our lives. This is what we are all to do in order to live more fully. But we are also uniquely called: to teach, to heal, to give time, to feed the hungry, and even to study and learn.

Making an honest assessment of ourselves continually is one small part of living, as Jesus asks of us, a repentant life, ready for whatever may come. Your calling now may not be how God calls you in five or ten years; being ready requires that we pay attention to how we grow and change and how our calling evolves with us. From this assessment, we can begin to discern what God is creating and calling us to do now, and from there, we can begin to do it.

Toyohiko Kagawa, a Christian and a lay leader in Japan during the early part of the twentieth century, wrote in a poem:

I read
In a book
That a man called
Christ
Went about doing good.
It is very disconcerting to me
That I am so easily
Satisfied
With just
Going about.

The story of the fig tree - and the story of this poem - invite us to consider what we would do with the gift of another year. What will we do with God’s gift of time to us? Will we be satisfied with just going about as usual? Or will we instead take the opportunity to discover how we can live into God’s call more fully, more faithfully, and – perhaps – more fruitfully?

Amen.

On the Way to Jerusalem,Take Risks

Texts: Psalm 27; Genesis 15:1-12,17-18; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35

The strangest thing about this story is who comes to Jesus to warn him of danger. Elsewhere, Luke presents the Pharisees as opponents of Jesus who seek to undermine his teaching and proclamation of the kingdom. Yet, it is the Pharisees who approach Jesus in the Gospel reading today, trying to dissuade him from continuing on the hazardous road to Jerusalem. They are unexpected advocates, even though – like the disciples – the do not fully understand what Jesus is about.

Perhaps we must re-imagine the Pharisees: not as adversaries, but as advocates. Although Jesus speaks of the Pharisees with caution, he also broke bread with them, at their invitation. The Pharisees so often appear to be in conflict with Jesus and his followers not because their teachings and practices were antithetical to those of Jesus, but because they had much more in common with one another than with the other movements in Judaism at the time.

Like Jesus and his followers, Pharisees of the first century interpreted prophetic works like Isaiah as scripture. They, unlike the Sadducees in particular, believed that scripture should in interpreted through reason and in light of changing circumstances. They welcomed Gentiles who wanted to follow their teaching. And, like Jesus, they placed the center of religious life not in the Temple, but in the daily practices of individuals, living in community with one another.

So: the Pharisees, seemingly the opponents of Jesus and his followers, are actually far more complicated, more human. They are not a homogenous group, anymore than any group can be lumped together. Some Pharisees, to be sure, were not in agreement with Jesus, but others became Christians, members of the body of Christ alongside Peter and the other apostles and along with us.

Jesus does not seem to welcome this advice, though, as well meaning as it is. Most of us have experienced the well-intentioned advice of others, and perhaps we’ve given some ourselves. It can sting, to have your advice rejected, especially if you’re doing your best to help the other person. Ask any parent of a teenager how it feels – it happens a lot at that time of parenting – and I can say this not as a parent, but as a former (and reformed) teenager.

In fact, Jesus’s response reminds me a lot of my own responses to well-intentioned counsel from very wise people. Although the message is nominally intended for Herod, in reality, Jesus is saying to the Pharisees: I know what I’m doing! I know where I’m going! He is saying, Thanks for the warning, but no thanks.

Now, I don’t know about you, but there is a part of me that just wants to scream. I wish I were there to give Jesus a piece of my mind. Doesn’t he know that he is putting himself at risk! Doesn’t he know that this is doomed! What on earth is he thinking?!?!

And of course, unlike most teenagers – and certainly unlike me, then and now – Jesus actually does know what he is doing. That is precisely what he tells the Pharisees and what he is saying to us. He is claiming his future for himself. It is not forced on him. It is a future that he accepts and welcomes as his work. He is willing to go towards a future that is at best uncertain and perilous, and at worst, fatal.

The question for us in Lent is not can we make it for forty days without our favorite sweets, but can we follow the Jesus to Jerusalem? Are we willing to accept a future that is risky, rather than comfortable?

At least for me, I like risk, sure, as long as I get to be comfortable too. I’m willing to take risks only insofar as I have security as well. I have to be wary of focusing so much on accumulating ‘stuff’, the good things of life. If things and accomplishments are my priority, I cannot enter fully into the journey that Jesus undertakes to Jerusalem. The things that I desire for myself aren’t the focus of the future that Jesus has embraced, and they cannot be the center of what it means to follow Jesus. These things are the physical stuff that we gather to us as a comfort, a sort of security blanket that leaves us more vulnerable because we can’t imagine life without it. We get addicted to the security of stuff, rather than embracing the liberty of letting go. And while we might reach the point of letting go of the physical things, we are less aware of the cultural “stuff” that we carry with us. It is the cultural mindset, this acquisitive impulse, that I will have more trouble shedding.

We set Lent apart in our tradition, for fasting from those things that are not necessary to our truest life as human beings. It is a time that reminds us of who we are in relationship to one another and to God. It is a time when we stand in opposition to our society and let go in many ways, small and large, of the things that bind us to this world. It is a time of preparation, a way of participating in Jesus’s walk to Jerusalem. We remember, in Lent, our priorities and our anxieties, just as Jesus did. And, just as Jesus claimed his future for himself, we too can claim our future: uncertain and perilous, to be sure, but also a journey we do not undertake alone.

Because, although Jesus walked to Jerusalem in the company of his disciples, his actions there – his death and resurrection – guarantee that he will be with us, as we practice the discipline of Lent, as we live into the way of the Cross, and as we struggle to set aside our love of earthly things.

Do not be deterred by the prospect of a difficult journey, because you are not alone. We do not walk as individuals but as members of the body of Christ. We walk with one another and with Jesus. The act of faith that Jesus modeled for us is fundamentally about accepting an ambiguous and challenging future and looking beyond it to the “means of grace and the hope of glory” that we have already in Jesus Christ. Amen.