God's Sacred Place In Us

January 30, 2019 - The Presentation (tr.)

Malachi 3:1-4; Hebrews 2:14-18; Luke 2:22-40

What are the places in your life that have that special, sacred timelessness, where childhood memories and lifelong dreams collapse into one moment, one spot? Maybe it is the home in which you grew up, the house by which you still drive your children and grandchildren whenever you are back in town, slowing down at the curb and taking in that long, deliberate breath as the gentle smile spreads on your face. Maybe it is that spot on the beach where thirty or forty or fifty years ago you played in the sand and jumped the waves with siblings and cousins. Maybe it is the restaurant where you went on your first date with your beloved or the hospital where your child was born or the summer camp where you grew into an adult one week at a time. For all of our lives, those places provide containers for some of our most treasured memories, and they hold them collected and concentrated long after we have left.

Sometimes these places say something to us, calling out from years ago, reminding us of who we were and who we still are. More often, they say something about us, providing a lens into our foundational characteristics, which may be why we veer off the highway for a thirty-minute detour just so we can show our children the place where we proposed to their mother. Sometimes those other people see the connection between place and person, glimpsing a deeper sense of who we are, but more often than not the detour is more of an inconvenience than a insight.

On Saturday, February 2, forty days after Christmas Day, we join Mary and Joseph and Simeon and Anna and baby Jesus in the Jerusalem temple, and, as the infant son is presented to the Lord, all of salvation history collapses into one moment. We see in that place and in that moment the love of God stretching throughout the millennia embodied in the one who joins heaven to earth presented to God and to us in the place where God's people knew that heaven and earth met. Even though it is Jesus' first time on the temple mount, it is a sort of homecoming because this is the place where Jewish tradition held that God's presence had dwelt for millennia. This is presumed to be the mountain on which Abraham almost sacrificed his son Isaac and on which Jacob dreamt of the ladder stretching from earth to heaven.

When the Incarnate One was brought into that holy place, those who looked for the redemption of God's people could see the truth unfolding even in that forty-day-old child. Others could not see what was happening. It must have been silly to them to see the old man grab the child out of his mother's arms and dance around the temple floor, singing and jumping as well as an old man could. "Master, you are now dismissing your servant in peace according to your promise because these eyes of mine have seen your salvation," he declared. Anna, too, could see what Simeon had seen, and she came forward, praising God and explaining to those who would listen what all the fuss was about. Jesus' parents were amazed at what was being said about their child, perhaps because, even though they had heard the truth from the angel and received the testimony of the shepherds, they were still trying to see fully what these two mighty prophets beheld in crystal-clear sight--God among us, God with us, God in us.

In Jesus Christ, God not only comes to us but makes God's home in us and makes our home in God. In the birth of God's Son, God's nature and human nature are united inseparably. We find in him our sacred place because in us God has made God's sacred place. In each of us--in you--the fullness of God is pleased to dwell so that you might dwell fully in God. Our home, therefore, is in God. Can you see it? Can you glimpse it? What does it take to come upon that sacred place that God has made in you in order to behold the truth of who you have been made to be?

Hiding When Vulnerable

I don't often focus on the appointed psalm. I read it every day but usually let the words wash over me. In our tradition, the psalm is more of a response to the first reading than a reading itself. Like a hymn, when it speaks to me, it is usually in the middle of the service--too late for it to take root in a sermon. This week, though, the words of Psalm 71:1-6 feel like more than a passing prayer. They are words in which I want to linger:

1 In you, O Lord, have I taken refuge; *
     let me never be ashamed.
2 In your righteousness, deliver me and set me free; *
     incline your ear to me and save me.
3 Be my strong rock, a castle to keep me safe; *
     you are my crag and my stronghold.
4 Deliver me, my God, from the hand of the wicked, *
     from the clutches of the evildoer and the oppressor.
5 For you are my hope, O Lord God, *
     my confidence since I was young.
6 I have been sustained by you ever since I was born;
     from my mother's womb you have been my strength; *
     my praise shall be always of you.

I like to go for walks and day hikes, losing touch with people and electronics for a few hours out in the woods. But I don't hike far enough or long enough to  have ever needed to scramble for shelter. I remember an informational hike with a naturalist who encouraged us, if ever stranded, to look for the rootball of an overturned tree as a possible place to take refuge. The hollowed out hole in the ground, the overhanging mass of roots and dirt, and the surrounding leaves can provide some shelter from the elements. Of course, one dreams of finding a cave or even a large crack in a rock face to crawl into during a bad storm or overnight. I think that's what the psalmist had in mind when he imagined God as the "crag" and "stronghold" in which the psalmist has taken refuge.

I don't often think of hiding in God. Maybe that's because I take my house, my car, and my overcoat for granted--sources of shelter that are always close by. Or maybe it's because I take God for granted--the never-failing one whose presence is true but unseen. But the psalmist knew what it meant to take cover in God, to hide from the enemies, to wall up from threats, to be defended by the Almighty. Still, I wonder what that looked like.

So often the protection that God offers is as transparent as the wind and as open as the night sky. God sends us out into the world as vulnerable as the prophets--as sheep in the midst of wolves. The crag in which we take refuge is rarely a crack in the rock, a turret in the castle, a shelter underground. As the psalmist prays, our shelter is God. We take refuge in God not by walling ourselves off from the threats around us but by encountering them clothed with power from on high. Sometimes, in the face of violence or abuse, we do run and hide, and we pray that God would keep us hidden. Often, though, we look around and find no where to take cover except in God. And still God is our refuge and strength, our crag and our stronghold.

Love, Love, Love

Although I have not done the data analysis, it feels like half or more of the couples whose wedding I have officiated have chosen 1 Corinthians 13 as one of the readings at the service. Before a rehearsal, if that's the case, I encourage the couple to choose their most talented reader to read Paul's treatise on love. (The romantic poem from Song of Solomon is another choice that deserves a gifted reader.) Perhaps I should tell all couples that they don't get to choose a reader--that it's my choice to make from among the readers in our parish who have been trained and set apart for that ministry--but I don't. Instead, at the rehearsal, I gently place my hand on the shoulder of the couple-chosen reader and say, "Your reading is the one couples choose the most often and the one that is hardest to do well. Read it slowly and deliberately. Proclaim it with the conviction of the apostle. And, before tomorrow's service, practice reading it out loud at least twenty times, and you'll do fine."

Once or twice, a reader has really astounded me with a gifted recitation of Paul's words. When they get it right, it's truly amazing. In that moment, it doesn't matter that Paul wasn't writing these words about romantic love or marital love but love within the Body of Christ. That larger-than-this-moment truth resonates in the words and fills the hearts and minds of the congregation. That's special. And, this Sunday, removed from any wedding, gathered as Christ's body, we hear these words as Paul may have written them--to a community of faith that is trying its best to stick together as a reflection of their true identity.

"Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude." I wonder what it is like to be a member of a translation committee that is responsible for rendering into English what the Holy Spirit is saying through Paul's words. I wonder what it was like to be a member of the Corinthian church who first heard one of its leaders read those words from Paul. I wonder if the community paid more careful attention to them than we do when we are at a wedding. I wonder if they pierced their hearts and filled them with joy.

In this chapter of Paul's letter, he moves from a description of his ministry and love's role in filling his words to the nature of love itself before returning to his own first-person description of love's transformative power. Love is essential to the life of the Christian, Paul writes, because love itself is permanent good. And those who are filled with its power become the full children of God that they have been created and called to be.

There are several ways a preacher and congregation can hear these words this Sunday. First, we can leave them aside, allowing them to be read and heard but no more. Or we can use a few drops of this reading's power in a sermon about the controversial proclamation Jesus offers in the synagogue, making the theological connection that the love Paul has in mind is what directs Jesus' words about the good news coming to the poor in his ministry. Or we can let last Sunday's sermon on Jesus' reading from the Isaiah scroll stay in our memories while the preacher delves into this text on love, trusting that the remembrance of Jesus' sermon and this week's gospel reading will make whatever connection is needed. It's a hard choice. These are good readings. I hope we are ready to hear them.

Blind Faithfulness

January 27, 2019 – The Conversion of St. Paul, Apostle (tr.)

Acts 26:9-21; Galatians 1:11-24; Matthew 10:16-22

© 2019 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video of the entire service is available here.

When we moved here six months ago, I had to switch my auto insurance policy to a local agent. I sent him the details of my old policy, but, when he ran the numbers, he let me know that my premium would almost double. “Why is that?” I asked him. “Is there something wrong with my driving record?” “No,” he explained, “but moving to Fayetteville makes you more prone to accidents because so many of the people around here drive like college kids.”

Speeding. Following too closely. Running red lights. For an average driver, these would be a recipe for disaster, but those of us who have supreme confidence in our own ability to remain hypervigilant and avoid an accident (e.g. most male drivers who are 16-25 years old) are immune to the effects of such bad habits. As humorist Dave Barry once wrote, “The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status, or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above average drivers.”

No one thinks that she is a bad driver. Every parent I’ve ever met thinks that his kids are special. Everyone thinks that he or she deserves a raise. And no one believes that she or he is going to hell. We might be afraid of it from time to time, but no one actually expects to end up there. And maybe that’s right. In the end, hell may be completely unpopulated. Perhaps all paths really do lead up the same mountain. But, even if that’s the case, would we say that everyone’s religion is right?

Today we celebrate the conversion of St. Paul, but we aren’t celebrating his conversion from one Abrahamic tradition to another. Instead, we celebrate his conversion from the path of his own choosing to the path that God had laid out in front of him. We celebrate his faithfulness to God—a faithfulness that allowed him to let go of his own will for his life and be conformed to the divine will.

There is no doubt that Paul had always been devoted to God. In Galatians, he wrote, “I advanced in Judaism beyond many among my people of the same age, for I was far more zealous for the traditions of my ancestors.” He was “a Hebrew of the Hebrews,” and his religious fervor is what convinced him that he was right. As he explained to King Agrippa, “Indeed, I myself was convinced that I ought to do many things against the name of Jesus of Nazareth. And that is what I did.” Isn’t that always the case—that those who act in the name of religion always act with the confidence of certitude? Yet in the middle of his quest—in the center of his unwavering conviction—God showed up and turned everything around.

How is that possible? How is possible that the one who had been so certain that he was right—certain enough to murder people in God’s name—received a message from God that he was mistaken? Rarely do those who wield God’s name as a weapon against their adversaries even acknowledge the existence of another, conflicting truth. But with Paul something was different. There was more to him than blind hatred drunk on religious extremism. He was faithful in a way that made it possible for God to show him something new and unexpected. Although he was sure that he was right, he was faithful to God in a way that held open the possibility that he might be wrong. In other words, mistaken though he had been, he was faithful to God above his own need to be right, so, when God hit him over the head with a blinding light, he was able to listen. Is that the kind of faithfulness that we pursue, or are we, in the name of religion, actually chasing our own sense of right?

This weekend, an ugly argument arose on a Facebook group for individuals who are part of the Episcopal Church’s triennial General Convention. I learned a while ago not to pay attention to most of what people post on social media about the church. As in any online exchange, the gap between real people and their virtual presence is the space in which misunderstanding and hatred breed, and I love the church too much to pay attention to what people write about it on Facebook. But a friend of mine had screenshot the unfolding controversy and shared it, which drew me in.

In typical fashion, someone had posted a politically charged article about how the Vice President’s brand of Christianity was offensive, and many like-minded people joined in, sharing their likes and their comments about the closemindedness of others. One bold Episcopalian took exception to these depictions of a man whose politics and religious identity she admired, and she pushed back. She must have known what kind of response she would get in a General Convention Facebook group, but she was firm and clear and pushed ahead anyway.

This woman used some religious language about rebuking evil and the sharp two-edged sword of God’s Word that I generally avoid, but her responses, though pointed and uncompromising, were within the bounds of faithfulness. Nevertheless, she touched a nerve that sent one individual into a spiraling tirade of nastiness. He identified as having been hurt personally and deeply by Michael Pence’s policies when he was Governor of Indiana, and he lashed out at her with a vengeance. He used foul language, insults, name-calling, and even threats that don’t belong anywhere, especially in a church community. Many were sympathetic to his woundedness. Almost no one agreed with the woman’s posts. But there was something about the man’s demeanor—his unchecked anger that blurred with hatred—that left even the most sympathetic observer unable or unwilling to stand with him.

Paul, too, knew what it meant to be motivated by rage: “Since I was so furiously enraged at [the Christians],” he testified, “I pursued them even to foreign cities.” But the anger that burned within him was not from God. In fact, it was the very thing that confirmed his misdirected fervor. As Jesus said to him in the heavenly vision, “Why are you persecuting me? It hurts you to kick against the goads.” Our God is not a God of rage but a God of love, and those whose pursuit of God leads to anger or hatred or violence are not on the path that leads to the top of the mountain but to the summit of the hill of their own making. Which path are we on?

Today is about more than celebrating the blinding conversion of Paul on the Damascus road two thousand years ago. It is about pursuing the conversion of St. Paul’s—the daily redemption of all of us from our own determination to the path that God has set before us. We pursue a faithfulness to God’s will even and especially when we are convinced that we know better. Like Paul, we follow Jesus Christ not because he leads us where we are convinced that we should go but because we see in him and in his unconditional and indiscriminate love God’s best life for us and for the world. That is our true hope. That is who we are. That is our God. May that love be the goal of all that we do.

Two-Part Story

This Sunday, churches that use the RCL will hear in Luke 4 what is recorded for us as Jesus' first sermon. Thankfully, it is short: "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing." At this point in Luke's gospel account, Jesus has been announced, been born, been presented in the temple, been left behind as a child, been baptized, and been tempted in the wilderness. In other words, a lot has happened to Jesus, but his return to his hometown synagogue, where he reads from what we know as Isaiah 61, represents his first act of public ministry as an adult. (As a child, he also did some teaching in the temple.) As Luke recalls Jesus' ministry, this is where it starts, and it's pretty impressive.

Jesus doesn't say much, but he says everything. With one sentence, Jesus defines his own expectations for his ministry. He will be the one "to bring good news to the poor...to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind,to let the oppressed go free, [and] to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." Those are messianic expectations and particular ones. Jesus does not quote Malachi's "refiner's fire and fuller's soap." Nor does he point to Jeremiah's "day of retribution...vindication from [God's] foes." His ministry is good news for poor people and freedom for the oppressed.

This week, our parish, which takes its name from St. Paul, will divert from the RCL to observe the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul. I don't like breaking from the RCL cycle, but the rubrics in the BCP allow it: "The feast of the Dedication of a Church, and the feast of its patron or title, may be observed on, or be transferred to, a Sunday, except in the seasons of Advent, Lent, and Easter" (p. 16). And it's our Annual Meeting Sunday, so it makes for a nice occasion. Unfortunately, instead of good news for the poor, we'll hear about getting dragged before councils and families betraying one another to death (see Matthew 10:16-22). Luke is the only gospel writer who tells us what Jesus said about Isaiah 61, and it's a shame to skip it. The good news, though, is that next week gives us another chance to hear about it.

This Sunday's gospel lesson is only half of the story. Jesus preaches a nice sermon, but then he explains what that means. Next week, we'll join the congregation in wrestling with the reality behind Jesus' words, and we may, like them, find ourselves chasing Jesus out of the synagogue and toward the edge of a cliff. But that needs to wait until next week. Still, because it's coming, that might change how we hear and preach the first half of the story.

Jesus' message of good news for the poor sounds great, but it was enough to anger the congregation. That sounds like they heard good news for the poor as it is yoked to bad news for the rich. Jesus had a particular economy in mind, but this wasn't a magic world in which money grows on trees. It's our world, the same world with the same limited resources that are largely controlled by the few. Jesus came to preach good news to the poor, which means redistributing that wealth. We can save the punch line for next Sunday, but don't lose sight of it this week. The truth is coming.

Sheep in Serpent's Clothing

Child's Riddle: How many legs does a sheep have if you call its tail a leg?
Answer: Four--calling a tail a leg doesn't make it one.

Preacher's Riddle: What do you call a wise sheep?
Answer: You don't. There's no such thing.

On Friday, the church celebrates the Conversion of St. Paul, the saint for whom our parish takes its name. The first two readings on this feast day (Acts 26:9-21 and Galatians 1:11-24) tell the story of Paul's dramatic moment on the road to Damascus, when the risen Jesus met him, blinded him, and redirected his fervor from the persecution of the church to the spreading of the gospel. The gospel lesson (Matthew 10:16-22), of course, does not feature the "untimely born...least of the apostles" by name, but it does show us what Jesus thought of Paul and those like him who handed his disciples over to councils and dragged them before governors and kings, and it gives a rather unsettling observation to those who eventually would be persecuted in Jesus' name: "The one who endures to the end will be saved."

Jesus predicts terrible hardship for his disciples: "They will hand you over to councils and flog you in their synagogues; and you will be dragged before governors and kings because of me...Brother will betray brother to death, and a father his child, and children will rise against parents and have them put to death; and you will be hated by all because of my name." Jesus knows that this will happen. He anticipates the hardship, suffering, and death that his followers will endure because of him, yet he sends them out anyway. Part of me wonders who was crazier: Jesus for sending them or the disciples for agreeing to be sent.

But notice how Jesus sends them: "See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves." That's a confusing mix of animal images about as unsettling as a Turducken. Jesus sends his followers out like sheep amidst wolves but exhorts them to be wise like serpents and innocent (or simple-minded) like doves. Instead of the wolves in sheep's clothing that the disciples would meet in the religious leaders of their day, Jesus sends them out as sheep who have the minds of snakes and the simplicity of pigeons. What does that even mean? 

Sheep are still sheep. Wise or not, they don't put up much of a fight, and they're a lot slower than wolves. Jesus isn't sending his followers out to defeat their persecutors or even to run away from them. He sends them out vulnerable yet discerning and with child-like focus. When (notice Jesus doesn't use the word "if") they are handed over to be beaten and killed, Jesus wants his followers to recognize what is really happening and not lose track of the truth. Jesus wants us to understand that the hardships we encounter because we follow Jesus are not a sign of our defeat--of God's abandonment of us--but a confirmation of our discipleship.

What has following Jesus cost you? Maybe it's nothing. Maybe you, like me, come from a place of great privilege, a culture and society in which your version of Christianity is widely accepted and celebrated. But maybe not. Maybe you've lost friends or family members because your conscience got the best of you and you just couldn't keep quiet any more. Maybe you missed a promotion or were not offered a job because you followed Jesus into places that make other people uncomfortable. Or maybe you've experienced the struggle of trying to believe in God and not being able to explain why the God you worship would let terrible things happen to so many good people--perhaps even you or people you love. And what does Jesus say about that? "See, I am sending you out as sheep surrounded by wolves, so be as discerning as snakes and as single-minded as pigeons."

Salvation isn't finding the answer to life's unanswerable questions or receiving vindication from those who treated you unfairly. Salvation is persevering to the end. "The one who endures to the end will be saved," Jesus says. That isn't a conditional statement; it's a declaration: those who endure will be saved. Be vulnerable to the world for Jesus' sake, and recognize that your struggles are not empty. Do not lost your focus. Stay committed, and see these signs for what they are--signs that you are following Jesus on the path that leads to salvation.

Glimpsing The Big Picture

On Friday, the church remembers and celebrates the Confession of St. Peter, the moment when the rock on which Jesus would build his church first became the foundation that Jesus saw within him. "Who do the people say that I am?" Jesus asked his disciples. "Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets," they replied. "But who do you say that I am? Jesus asked. And Peter's answer wasn't just a correct assessment of who Jesus was; it was a miracle, a God-inspired epiphany that we stop to remember. And it is the source of that recognition that makes Peter's confession something to celebrate.

Have you ever tried to convince someone of something they didn't want to believe? Maybe you pursued a romantic interest who didn't share your feelings. Maybe you tried to teach a child that, even though you needed to discipline him, you did so out of love and the best interests of your child. Sometimes we want someone to see what we see and know what we know but, no matter how hard we try, we cannot get that truth into their heart and mind and spirit. Hopefully, in time, that truth becomes clear--in part because of the foundation we have laid but also because of that spark that comes to that individual through experience and insight and, occasionally, divine inspiration.

When I was first ordained, I joined a team of parishioners from St. John's in Montgomery, Alabama, on a mission trip to post-Katrina New Orleans. At that point, no one was rebuilding, but many homes needed to be gutted--stripped to the studs. The City had declared that any unoccupied homes that were not gutted were presumed to be abandoned by the thousands of people who had fled the Crescent City with no plans to return. Many of the residents who intended to stay, however, did not have the physical ability or the family or economic support structures in place to help them rip out all of the moldy plaster, moldy carpets, ruined wiring, and broken appliances they needed to get rid of in order to keep their homes. So our team of eager volunteers went down to work with the Episcopal diocese to help out.

One evening, after a long, hard, hot day of work, we were closing up a job site before we quit. Tools needed to be picked up. Floors needed to be swept. And window openings, which had been uncovered to allow ventilation, needed to be boarded back up. I stretched my hands above my head to try to nail a sheet of plywood over an opening, but it was a little too far to reach. The women on either side, who were standing on ladders, holding the board in place, encouraged me to go inside and get a step stool so that I could reach. But I didn't want to do that. Someone else was probably using it. And it was time to go. And I could almost reach it. So I told them to hold it steady and I would stretch as far as I could and drive in the nail. I reached back with my 16oz claw hammer and swung it toward the nail and hit my thumb with all the force I could muster. "Son of bi***!" I yelled out instinctively, forgetting for a moment that I was a newly minted clergyperson surrounded by two parishioners. I blushed. They laughed. I apologized, but one of them said, "Please don't apologize. You've been so uptight that no one felt like they could have fun. It's nice to know you're not perfect."

It didn't matter how much I wanted people to relax around me. Actually, I'm a funny guy who enjoys inappropriate jokes and blurring the lines a little bit between priest and friend. But no matter how much I wanted the people around me to know it, it took a curse word to break the ice and get that point across in a way I couldn't on my own.

Jesus asked his disciples, "Who do the people say that I am?" By this point in Matthew's gospel account (Matthew 16:13-19), Jesus has done almost everything he can to show his followers who he truly is. Miracles, sermons, parables, and daily interactions all pointed to his identity as the Son of God, but no one could see it yet. After the disciples gave him a range of possible answers, Jesus narrowed the question and pointed it directly at them: "But who do you say that I am?" Peter answered, "You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God." And Peter got partial credit for that remarkable answer--for being the first person to make that connection--but Jesus let them know where that answer really came from: "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it."

Who do you say that I am? Peter had an answer, but it didn't come completely from him. God had revealed the truth to Peter, and Peter, as a vessel for that revelation, became the rock on which the church was built, the one to whom the keys of the kingdom were given. And where did that foundation come from?

God uses us not because of what we know or what we see but because of what God can show us. As vehicles through which God's reign becomes manifest on the earth, we are the ones who are charged with enacting the transformation of this world into the kingdom God intends it to be. But how in the world are we going to do that? We can barely dream it, much less make it a reality. The answer is by following Jesus. Like Peter, we follow him because we know that he is leading us into truth even before we can see the whole truth. In him, we see the powers of death and darkness overthrown. In him, we get a glimpse of what our lives and the lives of those around us could be. We don't have to see the whole picture because seeing the whole picture isn't up to us. That's God's vision. Our job, like Peter, is to pursue that vision through Jesus Christ until God reveals it to us.