The Still More Excellent Way: a sermon for Year C, Epiphany 4

Preached on Sunday, February 3, 2013 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Lectionary readings that this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. 

You can listen to this sermon by clicking here. 

I don’t have to guess what most of you will be doing this afternoon and evening. It’s a pretty important night for those of us who are true fans. I can expect that, like me, you’ll try to get home in time to get the TV set warmed up. Maybe you’ll have some friends over to join in the fun. Maybe you’ll have some special TV watching snacks at the ready. 

If you’re like me, you’ll make sure you’ve got good command of the remote in case any instant replays are needed. Because, as I don’t have to tell you, tonight all across the nation, millions of us will be tuning in to see who will be the winners and who will be the losers… on another episode of Downton Abbey.

What, was that not what you were expecting? 

Well, neither was the death in childbirth last week of Lady Sybil. But such is the nature of life at Downton Abbey. I mean, how many fortunes is Matthew Crowley going to inherit? He’s up to two now, and still counting… You never know what’s going to happen next at Downton, who’s going to be this week’s loser or next week’s winner. 

Well, the people at Downton Abbey aren’t alone. They have something in common with some very surprised Nazoreans from our gospel reading today. 

Our gospel today takes up immediately after last week’s gospel -- it even overlaps by a verse or two. As we know, Jesus is on the rota as a lector -- and he has read from the scroll of Isaiah in the synagogue at Nazareth, his hometown. The section of Isaiah that he reads is one in which the anointed messiah has come to give comfort to the poor and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. Instead of ending his reading with, “The Word of the Lord” as you just heard our lectors do, Jesus makes a bold declaration. Jesus says, “Today, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” He proclaims here in his hometown, among those who’ve known him all his life, that he is God’s anointed messiah.

In addition to Luke, Matthew and Mark also recount this incident. And in the other two synoptic gospels, the Nazoreans seem to take umbrage with Jesus’ proclamation because of their familiarity with him. Their reaction is sort of, “Who does this guy think he is?  He’s not messiah, he’s just a carpenter, not a scholar, and certainly not the messiah.” 

In Luke’s version, it seems that the Nazoreans’ umbrage is based more on the fact that they expect something from Jesus. If he’s going to make these miraculous claims, well, OK. But what’s in it for us? Jesus recognizes the Nazoreans’ self-centeredness right off and he calls them on it. “I’ll bet you’re thinking, ‘What’s in this for us?’ I’ll bet you’re thinking, “Let’s see if he can make a big splash here like we hear he has done in Capernaum.” 

Jesus points out to the Nazoreans that God’s healing and life-saving works have not always been directed toward and visited upon the people of Israel to the exclusion of all others. He cites two examples from Scripture that show how the prophets of old worked their wonders, not for Israelites, but for foreigners -- for a widow of Zarephath and a general of the Syrian army.

   

And remember, we’re in Ephiphanytide, when our readings emphasize the revelation of Jesus’ identity as the messiah, and not just a messiah for the people of Israel, but a messiah for all the world. In our gospel reading today, Jesus points out that throughout salvation history, God’s mercy and grace has been extended beyond the Hebrew people, to those who might be, to some, beyond God’s grace and love.

++++++++++++

This week’s gospel overlaps with last week’s, as we’ve noted. And this week’s epistle reading follows directly after last week’s. Last week, Paul urged the Corinthians to be members of the same body, to be one in Christ. Now comes Paul’s famous hymn to love, as beautiful a piece of Scripture as any in the New Testament. It’s one of the selections most often used at weddings. But that’s a bit of a misuse of this passage. Paul is not speaking about individual love, Paul is speaking about the love that is or should be part of community life. There is one part that we’ve skipped over in Paul’s letter to the Corinthians from last week. Not even a whole verse even but one-half of a verse that concludes chapter 12. Paul writes, “I will show you a still more excellent way.”

The verses that follow that we read today remind us that, really, it’s all about love. That no matter our talents, if we don’t use them out of love for God, in a reflection of the love God has for us, they are meaningless. We must be mature in the faith, to use our mature reason alongside a humble acceptance of the limits of our knowledge. This is the still more excellent way to live together as a community that in some wise, in some dimly shimmering image, reflects the great love that Christ bears for us -- and not only us, but for the whole world. 

This broad, accepting, loving community that Jesus and Paul seem so sure about… it’s quite a challenge to bring about. The very idea of it angered the Nazoreans to the point of violence, as it still does some today. It was clearly beyond the reach of the Corinthians, else Paul would not have had to write to them -- and so often -- to exhort them to live together with their several gifts, and several claims to authority, as one body in Christ. 

They struggle with it at Downton Abbey too. There are Irish rebels sitting at table with English aristocrats, reformed prostitutes brought into good homes as respectable cooks and maids. There are lowly law clerks set to become earls, no less. It’s a new world breaking into being that troubles many of the old guard in the early 20^th century. And herein lies the fascination for us, I think -- it’s not unlike the world we live in, that so often troubles us today. When lesbian and gay folk are allowed to marry and take positions of leadership in the church, when an African-American can be elected president of one of the last nations on earth to abolish race-based slavery, there is a new world coming into being. One that, we hope, in some darkly reflected way is a reflection the great and good community of the body of Christ that Paul urges on us, and that Jesus proclaimed at Nazareth.

Like the folks at Downton Abbey, and at Corinth and at Nazareth, we all struggle to live into, and to live with, such a sweepingly broad and accepting image of community. It’s not easy, it’s never going to be. But we do struggle forward towards it, I believe, in fits and starts. But by with the light of our faith, and with the enduring hope that we know, and compelled onwards by the compelling love of Christ that we know, and that we try to manifest in the world, for the world, we try, we try to see through the glass darkly, and to bring about the vision we see there.

The still more excellent way is still a ways off. But we’ll get there. Our faith will abide until we do, and our hope will hold out, and most of all, the love of God will not abandon us, will not leave us orphan. So we strive still to follow the still more excellent way, in faith, and in hope, and above all, in love. +Amen. 

  © The Rev. Mark R. Collins

The Benefits Package: a sermon for Year C, Epiphany 3

Preached on Sunday, January 27, 2013 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Lectionary texts this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. 

You can listen to this sermon by clicking here.  

It is Epiphanytide, and we are hearing gospel readings about revelations, new understandings, truths breaking into the world. We’ve heard the Magi proclaim that a new star was in fact a sign of a portentous birth. We saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and heard the voice of God booming out over a baptism in the river Jordan. We attended a wedding feast, and saw water become wine.

Today, we hear the subject of these epiphanies really speak up for the first time during this Epiphanytide. It’s important to notice where Jesus has been just before the events we read of in this morning’s gospel from Luke. Jesus has been in the desert, and he hasn’t been alone. The Devil has been with him, tempting him. In response to these temptations, Jesus has refused to turn stones into bread. He has refused to try to gain dominion over all the kingdoms of the earth. He has refused to throw himself from the highest pinnacle of the temple so that the angels might rescue him. 

Jesus has flatly refused to use his status, his authority, as the Son of God to his own personal advantage. So, what will he use his status and his authority as the Son of God for? 

After the tempting in the desert, Jesus comes to Galilee, to Nazareth, his hometown, to the synagogue there. And there, much as Ezra does in our Old Testament reading This morning, he proclaims the Scripture. In particular, he reads from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. He reads the ancient texts as a proclamation and a prophesy to the people.

And in the first verses he reads, he establishes his own authority. He proclaims, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me…” (Luke 4:18a) So, as God’s anointed, what will he say, what will he do? 

Does he appoint himself to the board of the synagogue, or make himself its leader? Does he call a new rabbi to lead the congregation, or make himself the rabbi, demanding a generous salary and an exorbitant benefits package? Does he go further, and proclaim himself the new Chief Priest of the Temple at Jerusalem, the religious leader of all the Hebrew people? Does he claim secular authority for himself, and ascend the throne of David as so, so many are waiting for, hoping for, the long-expected messiah to do? 

Jesus does none of these things. Once again, as he did in the desert, Jesus refuses to seek dominance or recognition for himself, he refuses to seek his own gain, or to establish himself at the head of, well, at the head of anything. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Jesus uses his status and his authority as the Son of God to help the lowly, the oppressed, the poor, the imprisoned, the very least of the people of Israel. Quoting from the scroll of Isaiah, he says he has come “to bring good news to the poor... to proclaim release to the captives… recovery of sight to the blind… to let the oppressed go free’ He says that he has come to proclaim the jubilee year, the year of the Lord’s favor, when debts are to be forgiven, and slaves set free. Then he rolls up the scroll, returns it and says very simply and straightforwardly, “‘Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’” 

William Temple was the archbishop of Canterbury during part of World War II. He was archbishop of York, bishop of Manchester, and the son of a previous archbishop of Canterbury. He was a noted theologian and author -- his most famous work is Christianity and the Social Order. In that work and others, and in sermons and speeches he urged the church to engage the problems of the world, and to work to ensure a just society for workers, children, the poor and oppressed. 

Archbishop Temple’s theology can be summed up in what is likely his most famous quote, “The Church is the only society that exists for the benefit of those who are not its members." 

Like the Virgin Mary of the Magnificat, and like Jesus, her son, Archbishop Temple was not afraid to proclaim the gospel truth that God’s concerns are for the poor and the oppressed, and that the work of the church was not its own benefit or its members’ just deserts, but the solace and succor of the least of those outside of it.

For who among us can say we have gotten what we deserve from God or from God’s church? One of the basic tenets of reformed theology is that we are the recipients of God’s unfathomable grace and unbounded mercy. Our own shortcomings and sins might well warrant condemnation and punishment, but such is not what we receive from God. We have been saved and redeemed by the mercy of God and the atoning sacrifice of no less a person than the very Incarnate God himself, Jesus, God’s son. 

By God’s bountiful gift of mercy, we are forgiven, through God’s extravagant grace, we are saved and redeemed, and given the exalted position of heirs, through Christ, of eternal life, a place little lower than the angels, far above the station we might rightly deserve. 

We don’t get what we deserve from God or God’s church, but much, much more than we can ever deserve. More than we can ask or imagine, more than we can ever repay. The only response to such unjust deserts is unbounded praise and worship, and joyful service to those whom God calls us to serve: the poor, the oppressed, the captive, the sick, the disabled.

This may seem a rather ironic message to deliver in the midst of our Annual Meeting, during which, after our worship, we will concentrate intensely on ourselves. We’ll elect a warden and vestry members, and hear about our financial health and our search for a new rector. All interior concerns, all interests that might be construed to be for the benefit of the members of this church, rather than its non-members. 

Well, it’s not about that, or it shouldn’t be. The efforts we undertake this morning must not be about us, but about our health and readiness to perform our mission as Christians. We seek to preserve and prosper this parish not for its own sake, but for the sake of those who might find their way here in search of the beauty of holiness and the salvation and hope of the Gospel. 

We select lay leaders whose leadership is grounded in and proceeds from their recognition of God’s grace and their desire to be as one who serves others, rather than themselves, so that the people of God in this place can respond in mission to the needs of our neighborhood, our city, our country and our world. 

All we do this day is, or ought to be, not to our own benefit; not to the benefit of our own egos, or our own aesthetics, our own political beliefs, our own desire for power or influence, or a desire to create our own legacy. We are not here to build a community for ourselves, but rather a community that serves those without a community. So that, in whatever small ways we can, we reflect the open arms with which our God embraces us, and offer to the world the grace and mercy that we have been offered in Christ. 

And, again ironically, when our focus is on our service to others rather than any benefit to ourselves we, in fact, do benefit. Not to put too fine a point on it, but when the homeless shelter volunteers rota is full and the Sunday School teachers jobs are more coveted than positions on the vestry we are a healthier and happier community because we are a community in service to the true Gospel of Jesus Christ.

The rich compensation and exorbitant benefits package that comes with being a member of this church are unique. The chief benefit is salvation unto eternal life. Quite a perk, when you think about it, quite the executive level of compensation. And the work done to earn such compensation and benefits has been done for us by Christ, our Lord.

All we need do, is to recognize it, and to make everything we do an act of thanksgiving, an act of worship to such a beneficent God all we need is to make all our service a song of grateful praise. +Amen.

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

Kings and Cowboys: a sermon for Year C, Christ the King

Preached on Sunday, November 25, 2012 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The lectionary readings this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. To listen to this sermon on our parish website, click here. 

In the neighborhood where I grew up, at the end of the street, right next to our house, there was a field. It was probably about an acre or two in size. It was rarely mown, it stood in tall green grass for most of the summer which turned wheaten in the winter months when it was often covered in white frost. In the middle of the field, a generation or two of children armed with spoons, sticks and the occasional shovel had dug a hole, that over time deepened to about a foot and a half.

As is always the case with children, the field was a big canvas onto which we painted our playtime fantasies. It was a time when Combat starring Vic Morrow and directed by Robert Altman was popular on TV; as was The Rifleman starring Chuck Conners. So the games of choice in our neighborhood were either Army – or Cowboys and Indians. Our field might then serve as the wide open West, and pitched battles between settlers and savage Sioux warriors would be waged on a Saturday afternoon -- in which case, the hole served as the all precious fort that must be defended at all costs, and which would inevitably be surrounded at some point in the battle, allowing some overdramatic kid to shout, ‘We’re completely surrounded by Indians!” with a blood-curdled terror that would only add to everyone’s enjoyment. At other times, the field would serve as the snowbound Russian Front, and the Allies would battle the Nazis from the cover of their front line foxhole, lobbing dirt clod hand grenades with a merciless accuracy. 

Most of the kids on our block were my little brother’s age, which is 19 months younger than me. Now 19 months is not a big age difference, but when you’re only 60 or 72 months old, it can seem like an eternity. Being so much older by the vast stretch of 19 months, and being therefore much more sophisticated, I eschewed both Army and Cowboys and Indians. 

Somewhere in our family set of World Book encyclopedias, I had seen an entry all about medieval castles. I wanted to play Kings and Castles, not Army or Cowboys and Indians. I would lobby fiercely on behalf of my fantasy, but I rarely won out. No one really knew the script of Kings and Castles. Vic Morrow and Chuck Conners didn’t supply us with our lines. On the rare occasion when everyone agreed to play Kings and Castles, we’d run out of plot lines and scenarios rather quickly and then someone would shout, ‘We’re surrounded by Indians!’ and the battle would morph into Cowboys and Indians – and I’d sulk off home to read more of the encyclopedia.

+++++++++

In the West, for much of history, our ideas about monarchy and our ideas of divinity have been closely linked. The Roman imperial leaders were proclaimed Gods. And the divine right of monarchs, the belief that the right to rule was granted to kings by God himself, was an idea that was very closely held throughout European history, perhaps by no one more staunchly than James the First of England, the same King James we have to thank for the “King James” Bible. In fact, the posture we use to pray to God is derived from the posture of supplicants and liegemen in obeisance before medieval kings. Often when we pray, we kneel, as did our medieval counterparts before their king, and we place our hands like so, as they did before the king to make a pledge of allegiance to their sovereign. 

So, there’s been a sort of cross-pollination between our secular ideas about royalty and kings, and our sacred ideas about God – and about Jesus in particular. Christ is king of heaven and earth, we say, and sometimes sing. And it is Christ’s kingship of earth that is behind the celebration of Christ the King Sunday. This commemoration of Christ’s kingship wasn’t added to the liturgical calendar until 1925. World War I was just over and it had been for most of Europe a devastating, soul-killing and faith-destroying event. Christian nation had waged war against Christian nation, with a ferocity and deadliness that only modern technology could have brought about. In the aftermath of the war, a few of the old monarchies gave way to either democracy -- which owed its sovereignty to the consent of the governed, not the divine right of the monarch -- or to Communism, which was officially an atheistic form of governance. The church sought to help restore order and peace (and maybe a bit of its own prestige) by reminding the war-ravaged nations of the world that Christ was indeed king of earth as well as heaven, and that we should govern ourselves, and live together, as if continually in his sight, and under his authority.  

It makes us wonder, what sort of king would Jesus be, if indeed he was to ascend an earthly throne in Westminster Abbey or in the Imperial Palace in Tokyo? It’s kind of hard to tell, really and we get some conflicting pictures from our Scripture readings today. 

In Daniel, we are given a vision of the Ancient One with flowing, snow-white hair seated upon a fiery throne. This is one ruling in majesty and might, and great power. Then comes the one like a human being, ‘one like the son of Man’ in the older translation, who is given power and dominion over us, over all nations and peoples and languages, one whose authority and kingship is to last forever. That idea is echoed in our reading from the Revelation to John. In John’s vision, Jesus is the ruler of the rulers of the earth, to whom belongs glory and dominion forever.

Then we see Jesus himself, from the gospel of John, standing before one of those rulers of the earth, or at least that corner of the earth that Jesus called home. And the contrast between the two rulers couldn’t be more stark. Pilate is very interested in this idea of kingship, and whether Jesus is claiming it for himself or whether the crowd is about to. Judea had a king, Herod, a Roman client king and puppet. If Jesus is a claimant to Herod’s throne, then he is a challenge to Roman authority and stability. If Pilate can get Jesus to admit that, then he can put him to death with all due haste, and we can all get back to the Passover celebrations. 

But Jesus refuses to play along. His kingship, he says, is not from the world. It’s not so much that he’s not claiming to be a king, but rather he’s pointing out that his authority is not like Pilate’s, it’s not based on power and might and conquest. Here is a king who is not a member of a dynasty or an aristocracy, he’s not a member of an occupying army or an empire. Christ’s kingship is not based on an earthly claim, but on sacred and timeless truth.

Christ hasn’t come into the world to take Herod’s throne away from him, and he’s not here to go head to head with Pilate. He doesn’t need an army or a nation of supplicants. He is here for one reason: to testify to the truth, and those who belong to the truth, hear him, hear his testimony and know that his word is truth. And that truth is the truth that sets us free; rather than binds us to a king or crown or any earthly power. 

+++++++++++

What a world it would be if Christ was indeed our king, or if we acting like he was. No more games of Army, with the all the destruction and death that those kind of games bring. No more games of Cowboys and Indians, with the death of peoples and cultures and nature that those kind of games bring. No more games of Kings and Castles, that always result in more power and riches for the already powerful and rich. A world in which the truth that Jesus came to give testimony to was the only sovereign over women and men. And that truth was let loose upon the earth to liberate all people from sin and death and oppression and want. A kingdom of Christ on this earth that might bear some slight resemblance to the heavenly kingdom he has gone to prepare for all who act with mercy, charity and justice. Would that Christ were truly our King and we his most loyal subjects; who hear the word of truth, and are set free to set others free. +Amen.

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

Fear, Plenty and God's Righteousness: homily for Thanksgiving Day

Preached on Thanksgiving Day, Thursday, November 22, 2012 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Scripture readings this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. 

In our reading from Joel, the prophet proclaims, “Do not fear, be glad and rejoice” (2:21) and we are quickly told what it is that should be the source of our joy. The pastures of the wilderness are green; the trees bear fruit, as does the vine. There is abundant rain, early and late. We can expect the threshing floors to be full of grain and the vats overflowing with wine and oil. 

We shall eat in plenty, and be satisfied, and we will know that our God has dealt wondrously with us. (Joel 2:26)

So we have been told, and so we are to see around us, and to believe.

But then, some 400 years later, Jesus is saying to us much the same thing that the prophet Joel tried to tell us. “Why do you worry, about what you shall eat or what you shall wear?” Then he gives us that wonderful admonition, “Consider the lilies…” (Matthew 6:25ff)

Consider the lilies… when we do, what do we see? Flowers of great beauty, as beautiful in their way as the fields of green and the vines and trees loaded with fruit from Joel.  And it’s true, they neither toil nor spin, but Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one simple, beautiful lily of the field. 

+++++++

Why do we worry? Perhaps it is because we have reasons to worry. Not so many weeks ago, a devastating storm took many lives, and took away the comforts of many more, deprivations that remain for some. The insidious storm seemed out of all proportion to storms of the past. 

But there is much else to fear. We fear for our safety from those so angry with us as to seek to kill and maim us through acts of terror. We fear for our economic security, as our financial system seems to be tossed about on unregulated swells of global uncertainty. And we see in our national life, that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, and it becomes harder and harder to move from poverty to stability to success.

When we consider the lilies, we see that they are not the only flowers of the field. There are others among us, weeds, invasive species, that seek to take over the field and forest and the fruits of the vine for themselves. Rather than give thanks for the bounty that God has provided in acts of charity and thanksgiving, they seek to monopolize all that can be brought under their control. They seek to exploit the bounty of creation, rather than enjoying it, and allowing others to do the same. 

Some of these weeds will dominate entire regions of the world to secure all the energy inherent in creation for themselves, in the process the people that call those regions home come to see us all as Godless exploiters of every advantage. Others exploit that same energy in such a wanton fashion that the earth itself gets warmer and warmer and the storms on the face of the earth get more ferocious, and more deadly. Though there is plenty enough in the world to feed all the world, some would use the basic necessities of life as a means to get gather more wealth to themselves, while others starve. 

Dom Helder Camara, an archbishop and a campaigner for the rights of the poor in Brazil, once wrote, “When I feed the poor, they call me a saint, when I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist.” 

Rabbi Hyman Schachtel added, “Happiness is not getting what you want, it’s wanting what you have.” 

Jesus put it yet another way, “But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well." (Matthew 6: 33)

So let us this be grateful for all that God has given us, and give thanks for it; and let us respect God’s creation, and share it equally and justly with all God’s children. Let us seek after God’s righteousness which we know is righteousness not for ourselves alone but for all the world, especially the oppressed and downtrodden. Then we can let go of fear, and shout for joy, because our Father in heaven sees what we need, and has provided it for us. 

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

The Butterfly Effect: sermon for Year B, Proper 28

Preached on Sunday, November 18th at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The Scripture readings this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. 

There were a couple of interesting articles in the New York Times this past week or so that caught my eye. One of them dealt with the presidential election and the techniques used by the Obama campaign to get out the vote. In 2008, the president’s campaign put together an awesome effort to increase voter turnout, and it worked. They planned to do the same this year, and did, in fact; increasing turnout among some of the groups of voters they targeted. Governor Romney’s team was sure that the turnout for the president would be less, much less, than in the previous election. And as you may have heard in the news, they were shocked to find that their opponent had won the election, in part by getting his supporters to go to the polls in great numbers. 

The article in the Times I read related how the Obama campaign made use of behavioral science. The use of behavioral science in public relations efforts and in political and advertising campaigns is nothing new. But the Obama campaign seems to have really capitalized on the insights of behavioral science in their get out the vote efforts. Campaign workers reached out to voters on an almost individual basis. Campaign volunteers informed supporters that others in their neighborhood that they had spoken too were committed to voting and planning to vote, and urged them to make a plan to vote too. The fact that others in their community had committed to voting, and made plans -- picked the time of day, for instance, and found out their polling place -- increased voter turn out. 

Another article in last Saturday’s Times related the devastating effect that Hurricane Sandy had on the Midland Beach neighborhood in Staten Island. After the mayor issued the mandatory evacuation order for Midland Beach and all Zone A neighborhoods in the city, John Prisinzano, who has lived in Midland Beach for 32 years, related to the Times reporter repeated conversations he had with his neighbors. “’Hey, how you doing? Are you going to stay?’ someone would say. ‘Yeah, we’re going to stay,’ came the reply.” 

67-year-old Eugene Contrubis died when his one story bungalow in Midland Beach was flooded by Sandy’s storm surge. Mr. Contrubis’s sister-in-law told the Times how she’d urged him to evacuate the Zone A neighborhood. But Mr. Contrubis told his concerned family, “Everybody’s staying; nobody’s leaving. I’m not going to leave.” 

In the end, citywide, only about half the residents of Zone A followed the mandatory evacuation order. Residents of Midland Beach told the Times that their number of non-evacuators was much higher than half. 

Midland Beach, Staten Island had the highest concentration of deaths from Hurricane Sandy. Eight people died within eight short blocks of each other; all of them were older, the youngest was 59 years old. 

++++++++++++++++

In mathematics, there is a field of study devoted to chaos theory. One of the tenets of chaos theory is called the butterfly effect. The butterfly effect holds that a small change at one place can result in large differences in another place later on. The name of the effect is derived from the theoretical example of a hurricane's formation being contingent on whether or not a distant butterfly had flapped its wings several weeks before.

There’s no such thing as an individual choice. What we do, what we choose to do has an effect on others. Every choice we make, every action we take, is subject to the butterfly effect. 

The writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews knew this. That’s why in our second lesson this morning we are given this admonition, “Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” (Hebrews 10:24-25)

This morning, in our liturgy, those who care to will come forward and place a pledge card on the altar. Those pledges will become the basis of all that we do here in this place to honor God and to care for God’s people in the coming year. Every ministry, every program, every prophetic word spoken, every beautiful anthem sung, every meal for the hungry and every resting place for the homeless will come in some fashion from what is contained on those cards.

But what’s contained on those cards is tomorrow’s revelation. We’ll total them up on Monday, and see where we stand, where we will stand for all of 2013. 

All that we’ll do today is come forward and place a card in a basket. It’s not much, really; a short walk up the aisle and back. But for those of us here today, and for all those, many as yet unknown to us, who we’ll encounter in our ministry this coming year, it will have a profound effect. An effect, I expect, much greater than the gentle beat of a butterfly’s wing. 

What we do, all that we do, matters. It matters in ways we can’t yet see or know. I hope you’ll choose to be among the number that make the walk up the aisle this morning; regardless of how large or small the number on your card might be. As I’ve said, that’s for tomorrow. 

Today, we place a card in the basket, and the coming kingdom of God comes a little bit closer to East 88^th Street. And God will be praised in this place again, and one more hungry belly filled, maybe even a life preserved, maybe even a soul saved. All from a card in a basket.  

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

But For The Grace of God: a sermon for Year B, All Saints

Preached on Sunday, November 4, 2013 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The Lectionary texts this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. To listen to this sermon on the parish website, click here.

 In this morning’s gospel from John, there is a lot. There is life and death drama. There is sharp dialogue, there is disappointment and despair and there is death in all its grittiness and its sadness. Sounds a bit like the week we’ve all just been through, doesn’t it? Things that we recognize and can identify with. But in the midst of it all, there is also grace, and in the end there is something we’ve not seen before, there is resurrection to new life.

Jesus is approaching Bethany, home of his friends, the siblings Lazarus, Mary and Martha. Jesus has been called to Lazarus’s side because he is so gravely ill. In the verses from the 11th chapter of John that comprise our gospel reading today, Lazarus has died. 

And people are upset about it, as we all are when we lose a loved one. And they look for someone to blame, as we often do. So often when I spend time with people who have lost a loved one, I’ve seen how they try to mitigate the grief they feel by mixing it up with a little anger and accusation. Often doctors and nurses receive the brunt of the anger. Or the insurance company. Or maybe it’s the chief caregiver in the family who is accused of making the ‘wrong’ choices near the end of a loved one’s life.   

We’ve seen quite a bit of that this past week. As so many have lost power, or their ability to travel, or their homes, and some have even lost precious loved ones -- anger and rage haven’t been slow to follow. We’re angry at the slow pace of relief, we’re angry with the Red Cross or the government officials who promise aid and succor. And we are really angry at the other people in line at the gas pump, or so it seems. 

Of course, the fear we felt during the storm, the vulnerability we feel in its wake, the frustration we feel when we can’t get back to normal right now -- and the sadness we feel when our fellow New Yorkers are left dead in the storm-wrecked rubble -- all of these are real and valid feelings, and they are uncomfortable feelings as well. And a quick antidote to these uncomfortable feelings is anger and rage at those who didn’t prevent us from encountering these feelings in the first place, and at those who can’t take these feelings away from us, now, right now.

In our gospel today, Lazarus is dead, and his sister Mary is upset about it, as she would be, and her friends and family are as well. And Mary and her friends do what we often do: they look for someone to blame, and in this case that someone is Jesus. 

Mary says to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” (11:32b) You can hear the frustration and disappointment in her voice. You know Mary is thinking, “You should have come when we called. You could have prevented this. The hurt I feel is your fault, Lord.” And the other mourners seem to agree with Mary when they mumble amongst themselves, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” (11:37) But even as they complain about Jesus, they notice too, how profoundly he is moved by his friend’s death. 

And this, my brothers and sisters, is what I most want you to notice in today’s gospel. Look at Jesus in our gospel passage today. Look at what he doesn’t do, before we consider what he eventually does. Jesus doesn’t prevent the suffering and pain and hurt. He doesn’t save Lazarus’s life, and he doesn’t save Mary and Martha from their loss. Our God is not a god who prevents pain, or who averts natural disasters or suffering or death. 

But our God made man, Jesus, joins us in the pain we feel, he weeps along side us, as he does with Mary and Martha and their friends. And not only does he join us in our pain, he joins us in our love. Even those who grumbled at Jesus, when they see his grief, must admit, “‘See how he loved him!’ For love and grief are inextricably linked. Aren’t they? A wise woman once said, “Grief is the price we pay for our love.” So it is for us; and so it is for Jesus.

But then, when Jesus gets to Lazarus’s tomb, he shocks the sisters by telling the assembled mourners to take away the stone that covers the mouth of cave where Lazarus lies. Martha says to Jesus, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.” (11:39b) Or as the King James version puts it, “Lord, by this time he stinketh.” 

And here we are confronted by the reality and the grittiness of death in a nearly tropical Mediterranean climate; just as we have been confronted this past week in the news, by the grittiness and horror of death in the path of a killer storm. But then, Jesus performs his most amazing miracle yet, greater even than the healing of the blind man. He calls Lazarus out of his tomb, out of death itself into new life. 

++++++++++++++

What Jesus offers in today’s gospel is not rescue, not relief from the pain, but rather resurrection and redemption. He doesn’t prevent the death of Lazarus nor the suffering of his sisters. And though he doesn’t prevent the family’s tragedy, he does not abandon them to their suffering, rather Jesus joins them in their suffering, and in the end he redeems their loss. He restores life to Lazarus and he engenders in them, and in us, faith and hope amidst the loss and despair.

++++++++++++++

For those of us who live uptown, this past week was not nearly so terrible as it has been for our fellow New Yorkers downtown, and those in Breezy Point and the Rockaways, and perhaps most especially for those in Staten Island; not to mention our brothers and sisters in New Jersey and Connecticut and beyond. We have largely been spared the ravages of Sandy. And we often use an expression at times such as these. We say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I…” 

The original utterance of that sage phrase is attributed to one John Bradford. Bradford was a priest of the Church of England, and a Protestant reformer. After the reign of Henry VIII and Edward VI, the Catholic Mary Tudor came to the throne, known to history as Bloody Mary. She quickly began the purge of Anglican reformers that earned her famous sobriquet. Bradford was imprisoned in the Tower of London along with other reformers, among them the author of the first Book of Common Prayer, Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer. While in the tower, Bradford watched as prisoners were led to the scaffold to die, and he remarked, “There but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.”

But alas, on July 1, 1555, Bradford succumbed to Bloody Mary’s purge, and was burned at the stake in Smithfield in London. As the flames rose around him, Bradford said to a condemned fellow chained to the stake with him, “"Be of good comfort brother; for we shall have a merry supper with the Lord this night!"

John Bradford knew something about the grace of God that we would do well to learn ourselves. We can pray to God that we and those we love are spared hardship and trouble. We can give thanks for God’s grace when we are spared the worst misfortunes. And we can know that the grace of God awaits us, even when we succumb to misfortunes, great or small. At times, we may experience rescue from the worst of life’s trials, at other times, we will not. But whatever our lot, we can always expect redemption, even redemption of death itself, redemption and resurrection unto eternal life.

Because that’s what our God does. He does not save us from the hurt and pain and sadness that we know is part of this life, rather he redeems it and offers us not always rescue, but rather resurrection and new life. So, be of good comfort, my brothers and sisters. Our God awaits us just beyond the suffering we endure, to restore us and redeem us unto the life eternal. +Amen.

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

But For The Grace of God: sermon for Year B, Sunday after All Saints

Preached on Sunday, November 4, 2012 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The Scripture readings this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. 

In this morning’s gospel from John, there is a lot. There is life and death drama. There is sharp dialogue, there is disappointment and despair and there is death in all its grittiness and its sadness. Sounds a bit like the week we’ve all just been through, doesn’t it? Things that we recognize and can identify with. But in the midst of it all, there is also grace, and in the end there is something we’ve not seen before, there is resurrection to new life.

Jesus is approaching Bethany, home of his friends, the siblings Lazarus, Mary and Martha. Jesus has been called to Lazarus’s side because he is so gravely ill. In the verses from the 11^th chapter of John that comprise our gospel reading today, Lazarus has died. 

And people are upset about it, as we all are when we lose a loved one. And they look for someone to blame, as we often do. So often when I spend time with people who have lost a loved one, I’ve seen how they try to mitigate the grief they feel by mixing it up with a little anger and accusation. Often doctors and nurses receive the brunt of the anger. Or the insurance company. Or maybe it’s the chief caregiver in the family who is accused of making the ‘wrong’ choices near the end of a loved one’s life.   

We’ve seen quite a bit of that this past week. As so many have lost power, or their ability to travel, or their homes, and some have even lost precious loved ones -- anger and rage haven’t been slow to follow. We’re angry at the slow pace of relief, we’re angry with the Red Cross or the government officials who promise aid and succor. And we are really angry at the other people in line at the gas pump, or so it seems.

Of course, the fear we felt during the storm, the vulnerability we feel in its wake, the frustration we feel when we can’t get back to normal right now -- and the sadness we feel when our fellow New Yorkers are left dead in the storm-wrecked rubble -- all of these are real and valid feelings, and they are uncomfortable feelings as well. And a quick antidote to these uncomfortable feelings is anger and rage at those who didn’t prevent us from encountering these feelings in the first place, and at those who can’t take these feelings away from us, now, right now.

In our gospel today, Lazarus is dead, and his sister Mary is upset about it, as she would be, and her friends and family are as well. And Mary and her friends do what we often do: they look for someone to blame, and in this case that someone is Jesus. 

Mary says to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” (11:32b) You can hear the frustration and disappointment in her voice. You know Mary is thinking, “You should have come when we called. You could have prevented this. The hurt I feel is your fault, Lord.” And the other mourners seem to agree with Mary when they mumble amongst themselves, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” (11:37) But even as they complain about Jesus, they notice too, how profoundly he is moved by his friend’s death. 

And this, my brothers and sisters, is what I most want you to notice in today’s gospel. Look at Jesus in our gospel passage today. Look at what he doesn’t do, before we consider what he eventually does. Jesus doesn’t prevent the suffering and pain and hurt. He doesn’t save Lazarus’s life, and he doesn’t save Mary and Martha from their loss. Our God is not a god who prevents pain, or who averts natural disasters or suffering or death. 

But our God made man, Jesus, joins us in the pain we feel, he weeps along side us, as he does with Mary and Martha and their friends. And not only does he join us in our pain, he joins us in our love. Even those who grumbled at Jesus, when they see his grief, must admit, “‘See how he loved him!’ For love and grief are inextricably linked. Aren’t they? A wise woman once said, “Grief is the price we pay for our love.” So it is for us; and so it is for Jesus.

But then, when Jesus gets to Lazarus’s tomb, he shocks the sisters by telling the assembled mourners to take away the stone that covers the mouth of cave where Lazarus lies. Martha says to Jesus, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.” (11:39b) Or as the King James version puts it, “Lord, by this time he stinketh.” 

And here we are confronted by the reality and the grittiness of death in a nearly tropical Mediterranean climate; just as we have been confronted this past week in the news, by the grittiness and horror of death in the path of a killer storm. But then, Jesus performs his most amazing miracle yet, greater even than the healing of the blind man. He calls Lazarus out of his tomb, out of death itself into new life. 

++++++++++++++

What Jesus offers in today’s gospel is not rescue, not relief from the pain, but rather resurrection and redemption. He doesn’t prevent the death of Lazarus nor the suffering of his sisters. And though he doesn’t prevent the family’s tragedy, he does not abandon them to their suffering, rather Jesus joins them in their suffering, and in the end he redeems their loss. He restores life to Lazarus and he engenders in them, and in us, faith and hope amidst the loss and despair.

++++++++++++++

For those of us who live uptown, this past week was not nearly so terrible as it has been for our fellow New Yorkers downtown, and those in Breezy Point and the Rockaways, and perhaps most especially for those in Staten Island; not to mention our brothers and sisters in New Jersey and Connecticut and beyond. We have largely been spared the ravages of Sandy. And we often use an expression at times such as these. We say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I…” 

The original utterance of that sage phrase is attributed to one John Bradford. Bradford was a priest of the Church of England, and a Protestant reformer. After the reign of Henry VIII and Edward VI, the Catholic Mary Tudor came to the throne, known to history as Bloody Mary. She quickly began the purge of Anglican reformers that earned her famous sobriquet. Bradford was imprisoned in the Tower of London along with other reformers, among them the author of the first Book of Common Prayer, Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer. While in the tower, Bradford watched as prisoners were led to the scaffold to die, and he remarked, “There but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.”

But alas, on July 1, 1555, Bradford succumbed to Bloody Mary’s purge, and was burned at the stake in Smithfield in London. As the flames rose around him, Bradford said to a condemned fellow chained to the stake with him, “"Be of good comfort brother; for we shall have a merry supper with the Lord this night!"

John Bradford knew something about the grace of God that we would do well to learn ourselves. We can pray to God that we and those we love are spared hardship and trouble. We can give thanks for God’s grace when we are spared the worst misfortunes. And we can know that the grace of God awaits us, even when we succumb to misfortunes, great or small. At times, we may experience rescue from the worst of life’s trials, at other times, we will not. But whatever our lot, we can always expect redemption, even redemption of death itself, redemption and resurrection unto eternal life.

Because that’s what our God does. He does not save us from the hurt and pain and sadness that we know is part of this life, rather he redeems it and offers us not always rescue, but rather resurrection and new life. So, be of good comfort, my brothers and sisters. Our God awaits us just beyond the suffering we endure, to restore us and redeem us unto the life eternal. +Amen. 

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

Linus, Bartimaeus And The Blanket: sermon for Year B, Proper 25

Preached on Sunday, October 28, 2012 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The Scripture readings that this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here.

In today’s gospel, we hear the story of the healing of a blind beggar. And not just any blind beggar. The beggar who is healed is given a name. It’s rare for the characters in parables, or for the people that Jesus interacts with on a one-off basis, to be named. But in this case, we know that the blind beggar’s name is Bartimaeus. The name itself tells us something about the blind beggar. Bartimaeus is, and his name implies, the son of Timaeus.

I’m going to mention another name to you and see if you recognize it. Linus Van Pelt. Those of you who are old enough to remember newspapers that were actually printed on paper, an increasingly rare phenomenon, that, on Sunday’s, had color comic strips, just might remember Linus Van Pelt. Linus is, of course, a character in Charles Schultz’s comic strip Peanuts. Linus is a friend to Charlie Brown, brother to Lucy Van Pelt, devoted love-slave of the little red haired girl, and owner of a very important blue blanket.

Linus’s blanket is the chief source of his sense of security. One of his most famous quotes is, “Happiness is a warm blanket.” He is often seen in Peanuts strips holding it over his shoulder while sucking his thumb. He is pathologically attached to his blue blanket and becomes ill -- dizzy and disoriented -- when it is taken away. On one occasion, his bratty older sister Lucy takes it away from him and buries it, to see what effect it will have on her little brother. Linus digs up the neighborhood in an effort to find it. Lucy carefully records Linus’s symptoms, and then wins first prize in the school science fair, when she enters Linus and his blanket as her chief exhibit, along with her findings.

In psychological terms, Linus’s security blanket is a transitional object. An object that comforts him during his transition from infancy to toddlerhood to childhood. The blanket helps Linus feel safe when he begins to change and the world around him begins to change. He literally clings to it for safety, sure that even if all else changes, as long as he has the same blue blanket safely in his possession, under his control, all will be well -- or at least well enough.

The transitional object stage is one of early childhood, but it’s funny how it can creep up again in other phases of life and in other situations. One situation that comes immediately to mind is the transition congregations go through when they lose clergy and then begin to engage in the process of calling new clergy. Very often these transitions can be very stressful, very anxiety-provoking. Our beloved or not so beloved priest has left us. Our initial response might be, “Finally!” or perhaps, “I’ll miss him,” or even, “How dare he?” or often some combination of all three! We can’t be sure if our next clergy leader will be better or worse. What will he be like? What will she want from us? 

She? Hey, wait a minute!

And almost anything can become a transitional object, a security blanket in such times. And if we cling to that security blanket, we believe, we’ll make it through. It might be the style of liturgy or the music program, it might be the service leaflet or the Christmas pageant. It can be the placement of the pews or the placemats in the parish hall. Any and all of these can be the thing we seek to cling to in times of transition.

Very often these times of transition call upon us to have more faith than we really believe we do. We seem to lose our faith in redemption, in resurrection, in new life, in the promise of salvation. We lose faith in that whatever lies ahead, our God will not leave us orphans, will not abandon us to peril and perdition.

+++++++++++++++++

Now consider Bartimaeus in this morning’s gospel. He’s sitting by the side of the road. Jesus and his entourage go by and Bartimaeus begins to call out. The son of Timeaus calls out, “Son of David, have mercy on me.” (10:47) This is the first time in Mark’s gospel that Jesus is so addressed. Son of David is a political term, a messianic name, that carries with it some powerful overtones. And in this first occurrence in Mark’s gospel it comes at Jericho, as Jesus is headed to Jerusalem, where he will have his final, deadly conflict with the religious and political authorities there ensconced. So, interesting, isn’t it, that it is the blind man who first sees Jesus this way. It is the son of Timaeus who first recognizes the Son of David when he walks by.

When Jesus sends through the crowd for Bartimaeus, Bartimaeus throws off his cloak and springs up. Think for a moment about that cloak. It was probably just a rough piece of fabric, probably in size and material not too much unlike Linus’s blue blanket. As a beggar, it was likely all that Bartimaeus owned. It was probably his sole outer garment, his shelter from the weather when he could find no other. He probably slept on it or under it, covered his head with it in the rain. He might have sat on it while he begged. Maybe even gathered it in front of him as he sat on the dusty road and begged passersby to drop a coin into it.

But when Jesus calls for him, he throws it off and springs up to heed Jesus’s call. All he owns in the world, he throws off and leaves in the dust when Jesus calls to him.

Recall if you will our gospel reading a few weeks ago from Mark (10:17-31). It precedes our reading this morning by just a few verses. In that reading, Jesus tells the rich man that he must leave behind all he has and follow him. Jesus doesn’t have to tell Bartimaeus to do that. Bartimaeus, who has so little, leaves it all behind in an instant, to come when Jesus calls. And of course it is Bartimaeus who is given what he asks of Jesus, and is healed. And of course it is Bartimaeus who is quick to follow Jesus in the way of new life.

Donald Winnicott is the pediatrician and psychoanalyst who developed the theories about object relations and transitional objects. He believed that transitional objects become important for children just as they are discovering that there are people and things in the world that are not under their control. As children discover the difference between ‘me’ and ‘not-me,’ they often adopt a transitional object, a security blanket. The transitional object is the first ‘not-me’ thing that the child owns and can control, which can be a comfort in a world where mommy don’t always come when you cry, and toys break, when a dreaded bedtime comes too early.

Not me. That’s what Bartimaeus gives up when he sheds his cloak -- not his transitional object, but his only object, his sole possession -- to be healed by Jesus, and to follow him. And as he gives up all his ‘not me,’ he becomes a more whole ‘me.’ His sight is restored, and he joins those following Jesus.

That is the message of today’s gospel. Discover what is really you, and what is really not you, no matter how much you love it. Remember, clinging to that security blanket may make you feel good, but it won’t heal you. It isn’t what you lack, not really, and it isn’t what you need. 

Answer God’s call; the call to go forward. Come to Jesus who calls the real you, without the trappings, into a new life wherein we are made whole, our sight is refreshed, and our lives take on the purpose for which they were intended: following Jesus, to Jerusalem and into glory everlasting.     Amen+

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins