Monday, October 30, 2023

It's All About Love

 

October 29, 2023 – The 22nd Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 25A

© 2023 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video of the service can be seen here.

If you were to ask a Roman Catholic priest what is the most important thing about being a Christian, what do you think he would say? If you were to ask a Southern Baptist preacher or an elder in the Church of Christ the same question, what answer would you expect to get? If you asked a Unitarian Universalist minister which of the Seven Principles that unite the diverse members of their denomination is most important, do you think they could name just one? If you asked an atheist what is the key to living a good life, do you think you could accept their answer for yourself? What about you—what do you think is the most important thing for you to do to be faithful to God, to your family and friends, to the world, and to the life you have been given?

In today’s gospel lesson, a religious leader, one of the experts in the Jewish law, came to Jesus and asked him that same question: “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Matthew records this event as one of a series of challenges to Jesus’ authority—tests by the religious authorities who were trying to trap Jesus with his own words. Matthew presents this episode as if it were yet another attempt to catch Jesus in a mistake, but I think the gospel writer might be overplaying his hand. In Mark’s version of the same story, the man who asks this question does so genuinely, and, if you think about it, there’s no real way for Jesus to give an answer that would alienate his followers. 

Instead, I like to think that this lawyer really wanted to know what Jesus thought. I like to hear in his voice a tone of respect when he calls Jesus, “Teacher.” After all, don’t we learn more from other people—especially our opponents—when we give them the benefit of the doubt? Whatever his motive, this man asks a good question, and I want to hear the answer. I want to know what Jesus really thinks is most important—not because he might say something controversial but because, in a world in which so many people have different opinions about what really matters, I think Jesus’ opinion is worth listening to.

And what is Jesus’ response? “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” We’re familiar with that answer. If you’ve been to the 7:30 service, you’ve heard those words. We say them every Sunday near the beginning of the liturgy. That’s how central they are to our understanding of what matters most. But I wonder whether we hear those words the way that Jesus intended them.

All my life, I’ve heard Jesus’ reply as if it comes in two distinct packets—first the part about loving God and then the bit about loving our neighbor. And I’ve always heard a qualitative distinction between the two. That’s a product of the English words “greatest” and “first.” Those words imply a singular object. They anticipate an answer with unique and unrivaled priority. Because of that, I’ve always understood Jesus to say something like, “The absolute most important commandment is to love God with your whole heart, soul, and mind. And a close second—not quite as important as the first but almost—is to love your neighbor as yourself.” 

I think many Christians feel that way—that loving God comes first and then what’s left over goes to loving our neighbors. And I suspect that there are plenty of atheists (and Episcopalians) who would say that that’s what’s wrong with contemporary Christianity—that people who call themselves Christians spend too much time and energy getting people to believe what they believe and not enough helping those in need. But I don’t think that either of those perspectives is what Jesus had in mind.

As is often the case, some of the nuance gets lost in translation. Most English versions, including the one we use in worship, give weight to Semitic influences and use the superlative “greatest” in both the lawyer’s question and in Jesus’ response even though there is no superlative in the original text. That’s why we hear, “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?” But other versions prefer a simpler reading of the text and, instead, translate it without adding the superlative: “Which is the great commandment in the law?” Some scholars go a step further and note that, because the definite article is also missing, it might be better to hear the lawyer’s question as something like, “What sort of commandment in the law is really important?”

Now that’s a question I find helpful for my own faith—not an attempt to narrow it down to one or even two commandments but a question about the nature of the law itself. What really matters? And, if we allow ourselves to hear the lawyer’s question in that way, Jesus’ response becomes much more significant. Instead of a providing two separate answers—Commandments 1A and 1B—Jesus names a unifying principle that undergirds all that is important in the law. One part of what matters most is to love God with all your heart, soul, and mind, and the second part is just like the first—without any distinction—and that’s to love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments, which together function like a single peg, hang all the law and the teaching of the prophets. 

In one sense, that isn’t all that surprising. We know from reading the gospel that you can’t love God and forget about your neighbor. Earlier in Matthew, when the rich man came to Jesus and asked what he must do to inherit eternal life, Jesus told him to keep the commandments, including loving his neighbor as himself. When the man acknowledged that he had kept them all since his youth but still felt like something was missing, Jesus told him to sell all of his possessions and give the money to the poor. Why? Because Jesus knew that a rich man who ignores the needs of his neighbors isn’t really keeping the commandments at all. How can we claim to love God if we do not love the ones whom God has made?

But, if these two commandments are actually two sides of the same coin—two halves of the same principle—can we recognize that the opposite claim is also true? Just as we acknowledge that you can’t love God without loving your neighbor, can we also say that it is impossible to love our neighbor without also loving God? I think so.

To love our neighbor is to love God because our neighbor is made in the image of God. Whether we acknowledge it or not, when we love another human being, we are loving the one in whose image they have been made. And, when that becomes the motivation for our love, when we learn to love others simply because they, too, share in the divine image, we learn to love others as God loves them. And that, in turn, teaches us about the nature of God’s love.

The desert mystic Evagrius Ponticus wrote that the work of love is to recognize that all people are made in God’s image and to love them as nearly as we love God regardless of how much they may seem to be unlike God (Praktikos 89). We don’t love our neighbors as ourselves because we like them or agree with them but because they are as precious to God as we are. And who teaches us how to love others like that? Jesus. Remember who it is that Jesus identifies as our neighbor? Not the member of our own clan or tribe or family. Not the one who deserves our love or who loves us first. But the person with whom we have nothing in common except our human nature—the very nature that God has taken upon Godself in order to redeem us all.

This is a place where that kind of love is put into action. At St. Paul’s, we not only recognize that we can’t love God without loving our neighbors, but this is also a place where we believe that loving other people teaches us how to love God. That is why I am proud to be the Rector of this church. Everything we do inside these walls equips us for the work we do beyond these walls, and our commitment to loving others in the community inevitably teaches us about God and God’s love. One doesn’t come before the other because they always go hand in hand. 

When you make a financial commitment to this church, that is what you are giving yourself to—to a church that believes you don’t have to pick one or the other—loving God or loving your neighbor. At St. Paul’s, we believe that those two commandments are inseparable sides of the same truth. We love God by loving our neighbors, and we love our neighbors by loving God. When we make that love the first priority in our lives, we not only support a congregation that does a lot of good in the world, but we teach ourselves what it means to belong to a God who loves us and the whole world without limit. Nothing is more important than that.


Monday, October 23, 2023

Leaning Into the World

 

October 22, 2023 – The 21st Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 24A

© 2023 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video of the service can be seen here.


Should we pay taxes to the government or not? Should conscientious objectors be allowed to shield their tax payments from military spending? Should committed pro-life Christians be able to withhold some or all of their taxes as long as the Defense Department reimburses the travel expenses of servicemembers who go across state lines to get access to an abortion? Should the pro-choice residents of states that have restricted access to reproductive healthcare get a deduction on their taxes because of the lack of services being provided in their state? Should churches whose pastors receive a six- or seven-figure salary be exempt from corporate income taxes and property taxes just like the ones whose clergy have taken a vow of poverty? 

When the Pharisees come to Jesus and ask him about paying taxes, the answer isn’t as obvious as we might assume. Like most issues that lie at the collision of politics and religion, it’s complicated. And, like Jesus, how we sort it out requires some careful, faithful thinking.

At the beginning of this gospel lesson, Matthew makes it clear that the religious leaders were out to get Jesus. He tells us that they met together and hatched a plot designed to ensnare him. After heaping upon Jesus the sort of empty flattery that only sets him up to disappoint his audience, they spring their trap: “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor or not,” by which they mean, “Can a Torah-observant, sacred-law-abiding Jew pay taxes to the unholy Roman Empire, or should they refuse as a matter of conscience?”

It was a question that no rabbi wanted to answer, at least not on the record. If Jesus were to say, “Yes, faithful Jews are allowed to pay the tax,” he would alienate those who believed that no earthly kingdom could take the place of God’s reign. In fact, when the tax was first instituted in A.D. 6, another Galilean named Judas led a revolt, which, despite being put down quickly, remained a cause célèbre for Jewish patriots.[1]  How could anyone pay tribute to a deified Caesar and remain loyal to God? As Jesus himself had already declared, “No one can serve two masters.”

But, on the other hand, if Jesus were to say, “No, a faithful Jew should not support the empire,” he would give his opponents all the evidence they needed to turn him over to the Roman authorities, who would surely execute him as a yet another failed Jewish rebel. No matter what he said, Jesus couldn’t win—or so they thought.

“Why are you putting me to the test, you hypocrites?” he said to them. “Show me the coin used for the tax.” In an instant, Jesus set for them his own double-trap. For starters, the coin in question was an unholy symbol, which contained the graven image and blasphemous title of the emperor. To have such a coin in one’s pocket was itself an act of deep faithlessness, and to bring it into the sacred courts of the Jerusalem temple was an absolute no-no, kind of like trying to hide a cell phone in your pocket when the national emergency alert goes off. By getting the Pharisees to produce the coin, Jesus had already shown that these so-called religious leaders weren’t all that committed to their religion after all. 

But Jesus didn’t stop there. “Whose head is this, and whose title?” he asked, twisting the rhetorical knife a little deeper. And when they acknowledged, probably reluctantly, that they belonged to the emperor, Jesus replied, “Then give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s and to God the things that are God’s.” Game, set, match. When the religious leaders heard this, they were amazed. He had slipped through their trap and tripped them up in one of his own. It was a clever answer, which clearly bested his opponents, but I don’t know how satisfying it is, at least on the surface. When it comes to navigating the blurry border between belonging to God and belonging to the world, I think we yearn for more than clever.

After all, what kind of answer did Jesus give? In the end, is it lawful to pay the tax or not? If God is the source of all things and the ruler of heaven and earth, what actually belongs to Caesar and what belongs to God? And, if everything does belong to God, as I think we are supposed to believe, then why is the emperor’s graven image still stamped on the coin? Is God really in charge, or is the emperor? 

Ultimately, those who would separate the kingdoms of this world from the kingdom of God are trapped by their own desire to avoid the messiness of how God works and where God’s reign is to be found. God doesn’t always show up in neat and clean ways that give us simple answers to hard problems. Sometimes faithfulness isn’t as clear as an up or down vote, and those who say otherwise aren’t being faithful. If we want to belong more fully to God’s kingdom, we shouldn’t try to escape this world or the powers that rule it but lean into the places and channels through which God’s reign is breaking into this life. And, at its core, that is what Jesus’ clever response is inviting us to do.

Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s and to God the things that are God’s. That is not an invitation to live a bifurcated life, with allegiances split between heaven and earth, but an invitation to trust that God’s reign is not divorced from the politics of this world but somehow revealed through them. As such, it is possible to use a Roman coin to pay a Roman tax without forgetting that the entire empire is contained within the kingdom of God. Jesus isn’t asking us to confuse the emperor’s ungodly ways with the will of God but to trust that God’s authority cannot be thwarted by the affairs of the state, no matter how irreligious it is. And if that’s true—if we believe that God is still in charge even when our leaders show no sign of godliness—it means that how we participate in earthly affairs has heavenly implications.

The real question we must ask ourselves is what it means to be faithful to the will and ways of God while living in a world in which those ways are often hidden. Jesus shows us that it doesn’t mean burying our head in the sand or hiding our light under a basket but pursuing God’s reign through our public lives. We know that God is at work in this world. We believe that God’s salvation is accomplished not by abandoning this world but by becoming enmeshed in it, through the Word-become-Flesh. God did not take our human nature upon Godself in order to forsake the earth but to transform it. And, if God is at work in this world, saving and redeeming that which God has made, then we, too, are called to lean into that work of transformation.

We are a part of this world, but we belong to the reign that is above—a reign that is not of this world yet one that cannot be confined to the heavens. When we see those moments of God’s power and presence breaking through into this world, giving us a glimpse of what is to come, we must devote ourselves to them fully. Whether it’s paying our taxes or casting our votes or donating to worthwhile causes or marching in the streets, our participation in the kingdoms of this world is not a rejection of God’s reign but an opportunity for that reign to become manifest through our actions. 

Give to God the things that are God’s as you give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s. Don’t expect God to show up in that mythical place that is immune to the influences of this world. Ask God to help you influence the world in ways that allow God’s reign to show up more clearly. We are not faithful to God by withdrawing from the kingdoms of the earth but by allowing God to use us to bring God’s reign to the earth through them. “Thy kingdom come,” we say together. “Thy will be done,” we pray to God. And every time we say those words we offer ourselves into the service of God—not by pulling back but by leaning more deeply and faithfully into the world God has made.

________
1. W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison, Matthew 19-28: Volume 3; International Critical Commentary; T & T Clark; Edinburgh: 2004, 465.

Monday, October 9, 2023

How God Measures Success

 

October 8, 2023 – The 19th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 22A

© 2023 Evan D. Garner

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

In today’s gospel lesson, Jesus tells another parable about the kingdom of God. This time, God’s reign is depicted as a vineyard, painstakingly prepared by the landowner and then leased to some less than honorable tenants. Sometimes Jesus’ parables are hard to understand. This isn’t one of those parables.

Tenant farming was common back in Jesus’ day. Landowners would lease their property to resident farmers and then send someone to collect their share of the produce at harvest time. Occasionally, a dispute would arise over how much produce the landowner was due, but the law was pretty clear in those situations. And, in situations like the one that Jesus describes in his parable, there was no doubt how things would turn out.

When it was time for the harvest, the landowner sent his slaves to collect what was due, but the tenants refused to pay up. In a brazen sign of rebellion, they beat, killed, and stoned the landowner’s slaves. So the landowner tried again, sending more slaves, perhaps unaware why the first group had failed. The second group fared no better than the first, and they, too, were beaten, killed, and stoned to death. Something else had to be done, so the landowner sent his son—the heir, his legal agent—who, unlike a slave, would be in a position to contact the authorities and declare his father’s arrangement with the tenants in abeyance. He would have the authority to boot the tenants off the land and have them arrested and punished and then lease the land out to someone else.

But the tenants had another idea. When they saw the landowner’s son, they said to themselves, “This is the heir! Come, let us kill him, and then we can keep the vineyard for ourselves.” It doesn’t take a legal scholar to know what will happen next. Using a common rabbinical technique, Jesus asked his audience what the owner of the vineyard will do when he comes to town, and their answer invited judgment upon themselves: “He will put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the harvest time.” 

They know what the parable means, they know that Jesus is telling it about them. They know that God will not allow the kingdom to be hijacked by those who would keep it to themselves. It’s not hard to figure that part out, but what is hard is figuring out what this parable means for us. To understand that, we need to try to hear this parable not as one of Jesus’ disciples but as if we are the targets of his unveiled criticism. And I don’t think that’s as hard as it sounds.

This whole situation started when the chief priests and Pharisees came to Jesus to ask where he got the authority to challenge their leadership. But let’s back up a little further than that. When Jesus arrived in Jerusalem at the beginning of Matthew 21, he went straight to the temple, where he overturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons. Effectively, Jesus forced the religious apparatus at the center of Judaism to come to a halt. Then, Matthew tells us, with worship interrupted, the blind and the lame came into the temple to find Jesus, who healed them. The buzz about this controversial figure quickly grew to a fevered pitch. Even the children in the temple were spontaneously crying out, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” attributing to Jesus a title with clear messianic implications.

When they heard the children’s cries, the religious authorities became indignant. This was too much. Not only had Jesus asserted himself into the center of his people’s religious life, but he had done so in ways that left the people wondering whether he might be the Lord’s anointed—the messiah, the Christ—who had come to deliver them from the tyranny of the Roman Empire. Sure, he was popular among the crowds, but what had he done to earn the right to disrupt the careful balance of power between the Jewish and Roman authorities? What gave this carpenter’s son from Nazareth the right to displace the recognized religious leaders in favor of a new kingdom of God and install himself upon the throne?

I think we tend to discount the questions and objections of the religious leaders because we know how the story will end—because we know that Jesus will be vindicated in his resurrection on the third day—but, if we were in their place, wouldn’t we ask the same thing? Wouldn’t we insist on some sort of proof before we allowed a renegade stranger to throw away everything we know to be good and right about our church? Think of it this way. Whose criticism of our parish would we take to heart? What sort of outsider, with no connection to the history, tradition, and leadership of this church, would we invite to dress us down and tell us what we’re doing wrong? Whom would we allow to walk down that aisle and bring our Sunday worship to a halt? 

In this tradition, we know where to look for someone with that kind of authority. We are accustomed to listening to the clergy, who are ordained and, thus, set apart for the work of proclaiming God’s word to our congregation. Vestries are elected by the members of the parish and entrusted with the responsibility of setting a budget and taking care of the buildings, so, in a sense, we listen to them every time we put something in the offering plate. Bishops have surprisingly little authority when it comes to the affairs of an individual parish, but, when the woman or man with the pointy hat shows up, we tend to listen, even when they say something controversial.

Some people in our parish have considerable authority even though it comes from unofficial sources. Volunteers like Albert Gray, without whom the church could not operate, are understood by many to be the authority on countless details. Parishioners who have worshipped here for more than fifty years are the ones we ask to help us understand our history. And those who show up and help out every time that help is needed—like the members of St. Spat’s—are the authorities we look to when we need to know how to take care of this place and each other. If any of those authority figures stood up and called us out, we’d at least give them a listen. But what about someone we didn’t recognize—someone who hadn’t put in the time to get to know us and how we do things? 

When the religious leaders asked Jesus to explain where his authority came from, he didn’t waste any time or breath justifying his prophetic actions or tracing his messianic lineage. Instead, he told them some stories—stories about what it means to do the will of God and what happens when we forget that it is God whom we are called to serve: “The kingdom of God is like a landowner who planted a vineyard…[and] leased it to tenants and went to another country.” In this parable, Jesus teaches us that the authority of every religious institution and every religious leader is measured only by the extent to which they bear fruit for God.

In a church as old and beautiful as ours, in a denomination as tradition-rich and pretentious as ours, we must be careful that we do not confuse the fruit we have placed in our storehouses for the fruit we are called to give back to God. We have been tenants in this vineyard for a long, long time—so long that it is easy to forget that the vineyard does not belong to us. We are only leasing it from God. If we want to know whether we are being faithful tenants, we must listen not to the religious elites but to those whom Jesus came to serve. It is the poor, the oppressed, the incarcerated, and the marginalized who will tell us whether we are sharing our produce with God or trying to keep it all for ourselves. 

If a guest at Community Meals stood up to tell us that we have our priorities backwards, would we listen? If one of the people who sleeps at night beside the playground interrupted our worship to show us that we aren’t getting any closer to God’s reign, would we allow them to speak? If Jesus came to the door and asked us by what authority we claim to be the Body of Christ—his hands and feet in the world—what would we say?

I think our parish does a lot of good in this community, and am I proud to be the Rector of St. Paul’s. To the people of Fayetteville, I think we represent hope and love and welcome for all. I think we are known to be a church that doesn’t just talk about helping others but a place where that talk becomes action. Over the years, we have produced a lot of good fruit for the kingdom of God, and we can’t stop now. Going forward, we must remember that the only true measure of our success is whether we bear fruit for God, and we must be willing to let those who operate outside the power structures of this church and our society tell us when we’ve lost our way.