St. John's Episcopal Church

Sermon for Sunday, March 29, 2009 (Year B, Lent 5)

Now among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks.  They came to Philip… and said to him, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.”  Philip went and told Andrew; then Andrew and Philip went and told Jesus.  (John 12:20-22)

Both Christians and Jews understand Holy Scripture as the account of humankind’s experience of, and relationship with, God.  But for centuries scholars and many good and faithful Jews and Christians have wondered how reliable this account really is.  Certain issues raise doubts.

For example, the first five books of the Bible, known as the Torah, or Teaching, are said to have been written by Moses himself.  Yet early in the Common Era both Christian scholars and Jewish rabbis, noting that Deuteronomy describes Moses’ death, wondered how the great prophet could have written an account of his own demise.

For us, as Christians, the gospels are our primary source of information about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.  Yet here, too, we are beset by problems.  To begin with, these books are said to have been written by four of our Lord’s disciples — Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  However, attempts to date these writings make us wonder.  Mark, the earliest, is believed to have been written around the year 70, some 35 years after the resurrection, while John, the last written, is generally dated to somewhere between the years 90 and 100, up to 65 years after our Lord’s time.  

Again, tradition holds that Matthew was martyred in Ethiopia, Mark was martyred in Alexandria in Egypt, Luke was martyred in Greece, and John is said to have died of natural causes at Ephesus.  Given all this, students of scripture question if any of these men could have survived long enough to write the gospels attributed to them.  In fact, many scholars believe these books were attributed to the four Evangelists by their actual authors.  

In turn, that raises an obvious question: If these books were not written by eye witnesses, of what value are they?  For example, in today’s reading from St. John we have an incident in which Andrew, the first-called of the disciples, and his friend Philip take some “Greeks” — probably Greek-speaking Jews — to meet Jesus. (John 12:20)  This becomes the occasion for Jesus to again predict his approaching death, his glorification. (John 12:23)  If the gospels are not eye witness accounts, is it possible that this incident never happened?  Is this story of Andrew and Philip and the Greeks just a figment of some unknown editor’s imagination?

There are no easy answers to such questions — and certainly none that fit conveniently into a short sermon.  But let me address this problem from two directions.  The first has to do with history, factuality, and truth.  The second has to do with authority.

First, I believe that the witness we have in the gospels to the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ is trustworthy.  In other words, these narratives accurately convey the truth of what Jesus said and did, and who Jesus was and is — even if the details of some of the events may not be historically factual, as we use the term historical today.  The problem here is that you and I have a clear and widely accepted idea of what constitutes history.  If I pick up a biography of Thomas Jefferson, I expect that the author, as an historian, will have diligently mined the available resources, examining original documents, weighing the value of secondary sources, discounting hearsay, and so forth.  That is history — the reconstruction and analysis of historical events, by recognized methods, in order to achieve the greatest degree of factual accuracy.

But please note: the four gospels are not history in the modern sense.  They are neither biographies of Jesus nor histories of his ministry.  Rather, these books are statements of faith assembled from memories of Jesus.  Much of this material was carried for decades as stories comprising an oral tradition before it was incorporated into the gospels.  The gospels were written so that the truth of what Jesus said and did, and the truth of who he was and is, could be successfully communicated to others and across time.  In other words, the gospels witness to the truth of Jesus.  That truth is carried in and transmitted by means of narrative.  That truth is trustworthy because it rests on the collected memories of Jesus handed on by those who knew the Lord personally, as well as by those who later experienced the power of Jesus Christ as a living reality in their lives. 

Perhaps I’ve mentioned this before, but I like to think of this as the “walnut theory” of the gospels.  We humans are storytelling animals.  When we want to pass along something significant to another person, we almost always do so by means of story — by narrative.  Thus the function of narrative is to convey some truth from one person to another, and across time.  As I see it, narrative encapsulates and protects truth just as a walnut’s shell encapsulates and protects the walnut meat.  The walnut’s shell is important, but only insofar as it preserves the nut meat inside.  In much the same way, the details of the stories we find in the gospels are important because they function as a kind of shell to protect and convey the truth inside these stories.  The shell matters much less than the truth inside.

Now, someone might object to my little theory, saying, “Well, St. John reports that Andrew and Philip took this particular group of Greeks to see Jesus.  However, if we were to somehow discover that it was not Andrew and Philip who did this, but rather James and John, then the integrity of this story, and therefore the integrity of the whole of St. John’s gospel, would be compromised.  If this story is not accurate, then the factual accuracy of everything John reports, including the words of Jesus about his approaching death, and even John’s account of Jesus’ death and resurrection itself, must be written off as a fabrication out of whole cloth.”  In short, some assert that when it comes to the factual accuracy of the gospels, it’s all or nothing.

The problem with this approach to the scriptures is that it imposes our modern ideas about history on a group of ancient authors who were not writing histories!  As Marcus Borg, one of the more perceptive theologians working today, has said, “Truth cannot be reduced to mere factuality.”  What Borg is saying is that the truth of the gospels is not dependent upon the factual accuracy of every detail of every narrative — which in any case is unprovable — but upon the authority of the witnesses.  

This brings me to my second point, which has to do with authority.  These four books (whenever and by whom they were written) have been offered to the Church as authoritative witness to the truth of Jesus Christ — what he said and did, and most importantly who he was and is.  From the first century forward the Church has accepted them as authoritative witness to this truth.  For me, that’s more than adequate.  My faith rests on that truth, received by this Church from the earliest witnesses, a truth which is confirmed by my experience of the risen Christ as a living spiritual reality in my own life.  I do not require more than this.  Even if someone produced photographs of Jesus feeding the five thousand, or a credit card receipt for the Last Supper, my faith would not be enhanced one iota!  The authority of the gospels is sufficient.

I belabor this point because, next Sunday, Palm Sunday, we begin our annual rehearsal of Jesus’ last week in Jerusalem.  In our liturgy we will once again enter Jerusalem with our Lord as the crowd hails him “king of the Jews.”  Once again we will gather with Jesus and his friends in the upper room as our Lord institutes the sacrament of bread and wine, gives his final commandments, and commends his disciples to the Father’s care.  Once again we will be with Jesus in the Garden as he is arrested, in the fortress as he is scourged, before Pilate’s chair as he is condemned, and on the hill outside the wall as he is crucified.  Once again we will wait through the shadowy hours until finally, on Easter Day, we will see the tomb empty and the Lord risen.

Some say they cannot believe that these events happened because all this rests on questionable authority.  C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity responds by noting that most of what we know, we know not by direct experience, but on authority.  Is the earth round?  We know that because we believe the physicists and those who have seen the earth from a distance — and produced photographs as evidence.  Do pathogens cause disease?  We believe that on medical authority.  How long does it take to drive from Grand Haven to San Francisco?  A computer program will map the trip in seconds and time it to the minute.  In short, for most of the information that we believe and use to lead our daily lives, of necessity we rely on the authoritative witness of others.  As Lewis notes, if a person relied only on personal experience in order to know something, he or she would know little or nothing at all.

And so it is that during our Lord’s final week in Jerusalem, certain Greek-speaking Jews approach Philip.  What do these Greeks want?  They say, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.”  Philip takes them to Andrew, and together Andrew and Philip take them to the Lord.  What is most important in this story is not Andrew’s and Philip’s role, but what these Greeks want.  The truth in this vignette is the desire the Greeks express: “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” (John 12:21)  We wish, they say, to see the Lord — to see him for what he is.  Jesus grants their request.  “Very truly, I tell you,” our Lord says, “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

If you and I would see Jesus, then we must see him during this final week in the Holy City, when the Lord, the grain of wheat, dies, is buried, and then rises again to bear much fruit.  If we are content with anything less — say, if we want to see only the infant at Christmas, or the moral teacher, or the miracle-worker, but to avoid seeing Jesus in the upper room, or before Pilate, or nailed to the cross — then we will not see the truth of Jesus at all.  For Holy Week, these eight days of the Passion and resurrection of the Christ, is the narrow point of history.  Everything before, from the very beginning, flows inexorably toward this moment, and everything that comes afterward will be transformed by Christ’s sacrifice and by the abundant fruitfulness of God’s life and love.  

So it is for those who see with the eyes of faith.  That is the truth we have received, and that is the truth to which you and I are now witnesses.  Amen.

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Year B, Lent 5:  Old Testament — Jeremiah 31:31-34  |  Gradual — Psalm 51:1-13  |  Hebrews 5:5-10  |  Gospel — 12:20-33

Collect for Lent 5:

Almighty God, you alone can bring into order the unruly wills and affections of sinners: Grant your people grace to love what you command and desire what you promise; that, among the swift and varied changes of the world, our hearts may surely there be fixed where true joys are to be found; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, March 22, 2009 (Year B, Lent 4)

Jesus said to Nicodemus, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” (John 3:14)

We find many things in scripture that are odd, but the story in the Book of Numbers about Moses and the snake-on-a-stick is surely among the more odd.  Why a snake?  Why on a stick?  And why does Jesus find this tale useful in his conversation with Nicodemus?  

This story requires a bit of unpacking.  In the Book of Exodus God brings his people up out of Egypt, and leads them off into the wilderness.  Apparently God leads them in circles, for they wander here some forty years, tested by God to see what is in their hearts.  

In the Book of Numbers it become clear that whatever else may be in their hearts, gratitude isn’t.  These folks are chronically unhappy.  Once they had eluded Pharaoh’s army, perhaps they assumed that their journey to the promised land would short, requiring only a couple nights in a Holiday Inn, complete with swimming pool, HBO, and complementary breakfast.  That is to say, the chosen people seem to have expected no great hardship along the way.  When it turned out otherwise, they became surly and ungrateful even as God provided for their need.

For example, when food supplies run short, the people complain against God and Moses.  But God does not abandon them.  As we read in Psalm 105, “They asked, and quails appeared, and he satisfied them with bread from heaven.” (v. 40)  By saying “asked” the Psalmist puts a delicate face on the matter.  In fact, the Israelites grumble insufferably, but God gives them meat and that bread-like food called manna.  Not long afterward they find water in short supply — hardly surprising, since they are in a wilderness — so again they turn on Moses.  “Why have you brought the assembly of the Lord into this wilderness for us and our livestock to die here?  Why have you brought us up out of Egypt, to bring us to this wretched place?… there is no water to drink.” (Numb. 20:4-5)  God is again faithful, and causes water to gush from a rock.  As the author of Numbers notes, “These are the waters of Meribah, where the people of Israel quarreled with the Lord, and by which he showed his holiness.” (Num. 20:13)

But the Israelites remain unimpressed.  Soon they grow tired of quail and manna, and again they rail at Moses for bringing them into the wilderness.  To cap it off they declare, “…we detest this miserable food.”  At that point the Lord has had about as much as he cares to take, and he sends poisonous serpents to harass his grouchy chosen.  People start dying of snakebite.  Chastened, they go running back to Moses, crying, “We have sinned by speaking against the Lord and against you.”  And once again, the Lord relents — but this time in a very strange way.  God tells Moses to fashion the image of a serpent out of bronze and place it atop a pole.  Then, when a person is struck by a snake, they are to look at this bronze snake lifted high on its pole, and they will be saved.

As I said, this episode is quite odd.  Why the image of a serpent?  Why put it on a pole?  What makes this a mechanism for healing?

First, as for snakes, I am told there are eighteen species of snake in Palestine today, of which only three are poisonous.  We may assume that these same snakes were known to our ancient foremothers and forefathers, who, like many of us, regarded all snakes with fear and loathing.  In general, the Bible takes a dim view of snakes.  The serpent is a figure representing evil men (Ps. 58:4), Israel’s enemies in general (Deut. 32:33), the Assyrians and Babylonians in particular (Isa. 14:29, Jer. 8:17), as well as the scribes and Pharisees who opposed Jesus’ ministry and teaching (Matt. 23:33).  As in the garden story in Genesis, the serpent is seen as working against God’s will.

But not all biblical references to serpents are negative.  Snakes are also considered intelligent and crafty.  Thus Jesus sends his disciples on their missionary journey, saying, “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” (Matt. 10:16)

Second, why put this image on a pole?  The practical reason may simply be visibility — so people can see the brazen serpent at a distance.  However, a pole, or staff, is also a symbol of authority and leadership, which is why a bishop carry his or her shepherd’s crook.  In the story in Numbers, the pole probably represents God’s authority and leadership, to which the people must look if they are to live.  

And third, why make a serpent a mechanism for healing?  It’s a guess, but we know that other Near Eastern cultures considered certain snakes beneficial.  In Egypt, for example, the beneficent serpent-goddess known as Buto or Wazit was considered the king’s protectress.  In the form of a cobra, she became part of the royal crown.  In other places the snake was a symbol of fertility, creativity, and healing.  The notion of the serpent’s healing properties is preserved for us in the caduceus, the symbol of the medical profession, which has two serpents wrapped around the wand of Hermes, the messenger of the gods in Greek mythology.  Perhaps the ancient Hebrews, while they feared snakes, were familiar with the serpent as a symbol of divine protection and healing.

With this as background, we may then begin to understand why Jesus reaches for this story from the Book of Numbers in his conversation with Nicodemus.  A Pharisee, Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night, that is, in secret. (John 3:1)  He apparently represents a faction in the Jewish leadership which suspects that Jesus is not just another firebrand rabbi from the backcountry, intent on provoking the Romans, as the high priest’s faction believes, but instead suspects that Jesus is sent from God.  Yet if Jesus is “the real deal,” as we might say, then Nicodemus and his friends are troubled by Jesus’ teaching, because it flies in the face of conventional wisdom.  The Jews expect a Messiah who will come as a warrior prince to drive out Israel’s enemies and to restore the kingdom to the greatness it enjoyed under David and Solomon.  Jesus, on the other hand, proclaims a vision for Israel which is profoundly at odds with this accepted truth.  Jesus speaks of a different kind of kingdom, one into which only the Spirit of God can lead people if they are “born from above,” or transformed. (John 3:3)  

Alas, wise as he is, Nicodemus is baffled.  Jesus speaks of spiritual regeneration, but Nicodemus gets hung up on childbirth; Jesus talks of eternal life, but the Pharisee thinks in terms of human life.  There is a confusion of categories.  So Jesus then says, “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.  For God so loved the world that he gave his only  Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:14-16)  In other words, as the children of Israel looked to the brazen serpent to receive healing of snakebite, so those who believe that Jesus is the Son of God must look to the Savior lifted high upon the cross to receive the healing called eternal life.

It’s worth noting that John doesn’t describe the conclusion of Jesus’ interview with Nicodemus.  We don’t know whether or not this Pharisee left with his questions answered.  Clearly, if he was convinced that Jesus was “the real deal,” his faith did not prevent the religious leaders from having Jesus killed.  It’s entirely possible that Nicodemus left just as confused as when he arrived.

Perhaps that is what John intended.  I suspect that John offers us Nicodemus as a reflection of our own difficulty in understanding exactly who Jesus was and what he was about.  Nicodemus has certain expectations about the way this world is, and so do you and I.  Nicodemus understands the way this world works — its values, its priorities, its system of rewards and punishments — and so do we.  Nicodemus has a clear but conventional expectation about what God intends, an expectation backed up by the teaching of learned clergy and other smart, sophisticated, worldly wise teachers — and so do we.  But then along comes Jesus, who upsets the apple cart of accepted truth as easily as he overturns the money changers’ tables.  His behavior is confusing, and threatening, and offensive.

Here, I think, is where the stories in Numbers and John take us.  Like the Hebrew people wandering around in the wilderness, ungrateful and self-obsessed, we too are surrounded by snakes.  The values, priorities, and expectations of this world are poisonous.  Who can save us from “spiritual snakebite?”  Another snake, of course!  However, this is a snake of God’s own choosing — an intelligent, crafty, even chatty Son of God who, by his obedience to the Father’s will, becomes God’s instrument for healing us into eternal life.

Now something in us may draw back, saying, “Jesus is no snake!  How disrespectful, how impious to think of our Lord as a serpent!  My Jesus is the gentle savior I met in Sunday school, the one who wanders around the countryside talking of peace and harmony, healing the blind and lame, and never offending anyone — especially me.”  To such an objection I would say three things:

First, it was Jesus himself, as he spoke with Nicodemus, who seized upon the story of the brazen serpent held aloft on a pole so that God’s people could see it and live.  If Jesus found this image fitting, who are we to object?

Second, we seriously misread the gospels if we picture Jesus as “meek and mild,” as inoffensively warm and fuzzy.  If that were true, then all the events of Holy Week — which is where this season of Lent is driving us — would make no sense whatsoever.  Jesus was a compelling, even abrasive personality who offered a vision for his nation which so offended the conventional wisdom that the religious leaders were determined to see him dead.  Humble and compassionate he was; a doormat he was not.

Finally, the snake-on-a-stick may help us see what is really going on during Holy Week.  As one commentator puts it, “The simple equation endures: the cure for snakes is a snake; the cure for human life is one man’s life; the cure for death is death.” (Patrick J. Wilson)  His point, I think, is that, left to our own devices, we will complain endlessly about the circumstances of our lives, while at the same time believing that we have it in ourselves to help ourselves.  We are compulsively determined to be master of our own fate, captain of our own ship, even as that ship takes on water and begins to sink.  We don’t put on a life vest or get into a lifeboat, and we wave away the Coast Guard helicopter.  Instead, we complain that things are a fine mess, and yet we believe that we can and must solve all our problems alone, unaided.

In reality, what we must do is raise our eyes above the confusion of the moment and look to the Lord whose desire for us is that we be his people — grateful, not complaining; healed, not sickened by the snakes of this world; alive forever in the bond of his love.  The snake-on-a-stick tells us to look up, and more especially to look into and through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ to see what present challenges and eventual happiness await those who choose to go about this world wise as serpents and innocent as doves.  If we look to and trust this Lord, then “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” (Dame Julian of Norwich, 14th c. mystic)  Amen.  

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Year B, Lent 4: Old Testament — Numbers 21:4-9  |  Gradual — Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22  |  Epistle — Ephesians 2:1-10  |  Gospel — John 3:14-21

Collect for Lent 4:

Gracious Father, whose blessed Son Jesus Christ came down from heaven to be the true bread which gives life to the world: Evermore give us this bread, that he may live in us, and we in him; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, March 15, 2009 (Year B, Lent 3)

Then God spoke all these words: I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery… (Exodus 20:1)

Years ago, at my little church on the east side of Detroit, I was approached one Sunday during coffee hour by a woman parishioner who was (to put it mildly) a most accomplished curmudgeon.  This lady — I’ll call her Muriel — was never happy, always complaining, and unstinting in her criticism of others.  My generally sunny disposition, and my conscious effort to oppose Muriel’s unremitting gloom and doom with something positive — indeed, with anything positive! — seemed only to egg her on.

Anyway, on this particular Sunday morning, Muriel announced that I, as the priest and celebrant, had failed of my sacred duty because I did not read the Decalogue — also known as The Ten Commandments, found on p. 317 of your Book of Common Prayer — at every celebration of Holy Eucharist.  Somewhat taken aback, I inquired of Muriel why the Decalogue should be read every week.  With considerable heat she responded, “Because they need to hear it!”

Muriel is an extreme example of something I’ve noted over the years.  I’ve observed that many Episcopalian have strong opinions about our corporate worship — about what to include, what not to include, how long the service should last, what prayers should be said, what hymns and mass settings and other music should be used, whether incense and bells and fancy vestments are appropriate, and much more.  These opinions, especially the more extreme ones, have often been voiced as the unanimous preference of They.  That’s They in the sense of “They say…” or “They are unhappy…” or “They may leave the parish, taking their pledge with them, if you don’t do as you are told.”  When I inquire who and how many They are, I am almost always informed that They, while obviously comprising a nearly absolute majority of the congregation, are unwilling to have their true identities revealed to the Rector, possibly because They have been enrolled in the Episcopal Church’s Witness Protection Program.

However, if you leave aside the politics and personality that make these discussions about worship often amusing and occasionally memorable — as with Muriel’s comment about who needs to hear the Ten Commandments — what remains is a realization of how deeply attached we are to this business of getting together on Sundays and at other times to offer our prayers and praise to God.  

We Episcopalians certainly have no corner on the worship-is-important market.  Worship is the universal obligation of Christians, and I’m sure many in every denomination and congregation care about it.  Yet we Episcopalians have our distinctive approach to this task which, across the centuries, has been called the opus dei, from the Latin meaning “work of God.”  The Church’s work — the opus dei — is our offering of liturgical worship which is humankind’s primary duty to God.  

Among Episcopalians this work of God has a characteristic shape which is clearly evident in our Book of Common Prayer.  On Sundays we are gathered, instructed, nourished, and sent.  We are gathered as a denominational clan and in our congregational family groups.  We are instructed by reading God’s Word in scripture, by hearing the Word interpreted in preaching, by rehearsing our common faith as set forth in the Creeds, and by our prayers of adoration, gratitude, intercession, and confession.  We are then nourished by the sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ, which assures us that the Lord is present with us, and unites us with all the faithful, past, present, and future.  Finally, we are sent out into the world to do the work God gives us to do.  That’s basically what our Sunday worship is about: being gathered, instructed, nourished, and sent.  

As Episcopalians, our worship is not separate from, but deeply embedded in, our whole lives.  By our baptism you and I are ministers of the gospel 24/7.  You may have heard the saying, “Preach the gospel at all times.  Use words if necessary.”  This is frequently but inaccurately attributed to St. Francis of Assisi.  However, many Franciscans believe this saying captures the essence of Francis’ spirituality, which made service with the poor in body and spirit both a priority and a form of worship.  And so it must be for us.  Sunday’s “work of God” equips and feeds and motivates us for another week of the “work of God” in the world — at home, at our schools and jobs, in our community, anyplace life takes us.  Sunday morning and the rest of the week are all of a piece.

We know, of course, that Christians in one denominational clan sometimes snipe at those in other clans, accusing “those Catholics… or those Baptists… or those Methodists” of offering inadequate worship.  That’s a bit mean spirited.  Not everyone finds one type of worship satisfying, and an individual’s needs and taste may change over time.  I have long felt that the account of the first Pentecost in the Book of Acts — when all the disciples rush outside and begin speaking in various languages — says something important about worship.  Specifically, the gospel message must be presented in an idiom this person or that group can comprehend.  Remember that one of the basic assumptions of the English Reformation was that public prayer and celebration of the sacraments must be conducted in a tongue “understanded of the people,” quoting the Articles of Religion.  In this case, the tongue was English.  But language is only one dimension.  Liturgy, whether it’s Anglican or Reformed or non-denominational, must make sense — must communicate — to those who participate, or the effort is wasted.

We Episcopalians are inclined to criticize even our own.  Sometimes our differences are over “churchmanship” — or liturgical style.  Some like the fussy high-church Anglo-Catholic style, while others prefer the happy-clappy evangelical mode of worship.  My own preference is for what I call “high church in tennis shoes,” a kind of laid back, unfussy Anglo-Catholic approach.  But many Episcopalians prize the more emotional, less catholic style.  I count it a strength, not a defect, that our one Church offers both, and much else that’s in between.  

Likewise, most, but not all, Episcopalians love our traditional hymnody.  “Rock of Ages” and “Nearer my God to thee” give many of us warm feelings all over, while anything even slightly syncopated is regarded as suspect.  But we pay a price for our love affair with the grand old hymns.  Many young people find Episcopal music boring.  By “young” I mean those whose musical tastes were formed by Three Dog Night in the 1970s, Elton John in the 1980s, and M.C. Hammer in the 1990s.  Against such trendy competition “Onward, Christian soldiers” sounds a bit antique.  

I’ve even been told — in all seriousness, I assure you — by church professionals who study worship for a living that the real “soul music” of the United States today is country western, and that if we seriously want to connect with Middle America, our church music ought to have that “down home” twang.  That’s a bit more than I could handle, I assure you.  But the point is well taken: if we are not communicating the gospel in an idiom that people outside our in-group can understand — whether it’s music or liturgical style or whatever — we should not be surprised if those outsiders, who may include our own children, are worshiping elsewhere, or not at all.

In my experience, one of the most common points of disagreement among Episcopalians is over the use of traditional or contemporary language — Rite One or Rite Two.  When I first started attending the Episcopal Church, a number of people who were influential at the time strongly favored the then-new contemporary language liturgy, and regarded the traditional language services as needlessly penitential and boring.  I picked up that bias and held on to it for a number of years.  Only gradually have I made my peace with the Rite One liturgy and come to see its virtues.

I should explain that when I attended my first services at All Saints, East Lansing, it was the early, 8:00 service, celebrated according to the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.  However much I now prefer liturgy in contemporary English, I have to remember that it was in a service overflowing with “thees” and “thous” that this prodigal son first experienced that sensation of finally coming home.  

I must also note that however much people complain about the use of Elizabethan English, few grouse about the traditional version of the Lord’s Prayer.  The modern translation in the Prayer Book, which is actually closer to the original Greek, is not often used on Sunday morning, even in the happy-clappy evangelical environment.  The old version satisfies.

And I think it’s important sometimes — during Lent, for instance — for us to move out of our comfort zone, where the words and cadences are so familiar that they may float by hardly noticed, and instead use somewhat less familiar language to offer our prayers and praise to God.  That’s one reason why we are using Rite One at both services on alternate Sundays in Lent.  What I did not see back in the 1970s, but over the years have come to understand, is that there is much here which is spiritually nourishing, and indeed has enriched the lives of Anglicans for over 450 years.  The formulations of the Prayer Book are one of the crown jewels of English literature and spirituality.  Look at Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations sometime; the section on the Prayer Book is extensive.

It is from the traditional language service that we learn that our celebration of the Holy Eucharist is a “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving,” for both are essential ingredients in Christian worship.  It is here that we understand that we, too, are a sacrifice — of “our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy, and living sacrifice unto” God.  It is here, in Elizabethan English, that we ask God to allow us “so to eat the flesh of thy dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us.”  That Prayer of Humble Access echoes Psalm 34:8, where we are invited to “Taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are they who trust in him.”  And it is here that we express our gratitude that the Lord has welcomed us into “the mystical body of thy Son, the blessed company of all faithful people,” and will assist us in doing “all such good works as thou hast prepared for us to walk in” — walk meaning to live in a specified manner, as in “walk humbly.”  All this and much more can be found between the pages of our Prayer Book.

So, then, as we move through these days of Lent toward our celebration of the Paschal mystery on Easter Day, I hope that we will seek to hear anew the gospel of our Lord, which keeps us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls.  And as we are gathered, instructed, nourished, and sent — all in a tongue “understanded of the people” — perhaps we might also pray the prayer attributed to St. Richard of Chichester, which is perhaps more familiar to some of us from the 1970s Broadway musical Godspell:

Day by day, day by day,

Oh, dear Lord, three things I pray:

to see thee more clearly,

love thee more dearly,

follow thee more nearly,

day by day.  Amen.

—The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Year B, Lent 3:  Old Testament — Exodus 20:1-17  |  Gradual — Psalm 19  |  Epistle — 1 Corinthians 1:18-25  |  Gospel — John 2:13-22

Collect for Lent 3:

Almighty God, you know that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves: Keep us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls, that we may be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, March 8, 2008 (Year B, Lent 2)

Jesus said, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.  For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” (Mark 8:34-35)

If you listen to TV ads for investments, you’ll hear some boiler plate language about risk.  The government requires it.  For example, here’s a quote from the prospectus for the Ivy Capital Appreciation Fund: 

“A variety of factors can affect the investment performance of Ivy Capital Appreciation Fund.  These include:

• securities selected for the Fund may not perform as well as the securities held by other mutual funds… [OK.]

• the market value of equity securities can fluctuate… [Imagine that.]

• adverse stock and bond market conditions, sometimes in response to general economic and industry news, may cause the prices of the Fund’s holdings to fall [Well, duh.]

• As with any mutual fund… you could lose money on your investment.”

In other words, Ivy Capital Appreciation Fund could, in the twinkling of an eye, become Ivy Capital De-preciation Fund, and investors might well lose their shirts.  

That’s pretty much what has happened the past few months.  We are all too familiar now with the problem of risk in financial investments, real estate investments, and lots of other investments.  

I wish that over the past few years, those highly-compensated Wall Street bankers and number-crunching whiz kids had shown a modicum of respect for the role of risk in investments.  Despite the handsome bonuses (which we now euphemistically call “retention payments”) that have been paid in recent weeks to top executives of famous (and now famously bankrupt) firms, the truth is that many people have acted imprudently, putting your money and future, and mine, at needless risk.  

Perhaps the required boiler plate language ought to include one additional comment: “Beware — the folks running this show may turn out to be a lot less smart than they think they are.”

Risk, of course, is part of life.  Our English word risk comes from the Latin riscare, meaning to run into danger.  Risk is the chance of danger, loss, injury, or other adverse consequences that may attend almost any action we take, even getting out of bed in the morning.  

Most of us devote considerable effort to reducing or eliminating risk in our lives, because we well understand our vulnerability.  We have the brakes on the car checked every few thousand miles; we change the batteries in our smoke and CO2 detectors twice a year; we see the family doctor for our annual physical; and most of us graciously decline any invitation to jump out of an airplane at 3,000 feet with little more than a large silk handkerchief strapped to our back.  Being prudent, we count the risk — we “run the numbers” so to speak — and make our decisions accordingly.  And we teach our children to do the same, as a wise parent should.  Most of the time, prudence serves us well.

For that reason, when we read Jesus on risk, which is a major burden of today’s gospel in Mark, chapter 8, a warning alarm goes off in our heads, an alarm as annoying as a smoke detector’s beep.  It says, “Oh, wait a second… something’s wrong here.  Is Jesus really telling his disciples, ‘For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it’”?  Our prudence nags us, saying, “Well, suffering and dying and rising again are all well and good for Jesus, but that’s my life he’s talking about there!  What he’s proposing sounds pretty risky.  Maybe I’d better stop a moment and run the numbers….”

I’m told that Albert Einstein kept a sign in his office at the Institute for Advance Study at Princeton.  It read: “Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.”  That’s an interesting statement coming, as it does, from the most accomplished theoretical physicist since Sir Isaac Newton, and a man whose discoveries are usually expressed in numbers.  Numbers tell us much, but not everything.  Prudence is helpful, but not always.  There are times when risk-aversion is by far the riskiest alternative.

Today’s gospel reading finds Jesus and his disciples walking toward Caesarea Phillippi.  Along the road Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” (Mk. 8:27)  Peter boldly declares that Jesus is the Messiah.  Then Jesus teaches his disciples that the Son of Man must undergo suffering, be rejected by the leaders of Judaism, and killed, and after three days rise again.  Suddenly Peter the Bold becomes Peter the Prudent.  He rebukes his Master for such wild talk.  Jesus responds with that famous line, “Get behind me, Satan!”  Clearly, he isn’t saying that Peter is in league with the devil.  Rather, he’s declaring that Peter — by running the numbers, by being risk-averse — is placing our Lord’s whole project in danger.  When he says, “Get behind me, Satan,” Jesus rejects Peter’s invitation to take a safer, less personally risky course.

You and I face many choices in which prudence makes good sense.  Our muddled economy notwithstanding, we still have to provide ourselves with food, clothing, and shelter.  In addition, we are told that economic recovery requires that we spend on more than just the bare necessities.  But in recent years we American consumers have been spending well beyond our means.  The question is:  will we adopt a more prudent spending pattern than in the past?  Can less now be more?

Again, we still have to save in order to educate our children and provide for our retirement.  In doing so, however, we would do well to be more prudent than we have been in recent years.  As TV newscaster Tom Brokaw recently observed, the new watchword is, “Get rich slowly.”

In these and many other areas, reducing risk is important.  But prudence will not always serve us well.

At a national level we are debating the wisdom of President Obama’s proposed initiatives in energy, health care, and other areas.  The cost of his proposals is frankly intimidating.  But, if I may use energy as an example, we’ve spent thirty years talking about the need for a rational energy policy, yet we’ve made little progress.  Meanwhile, the cost of imported energy has been steadily increasing by hundreds of billions of dollars.  Despite the easy slogans, we can never be fully independent of imported oil, nor frankly should we wish to be.  Most of our oil imports come from Canada, and Canada likes to buy American goods and services.  Instead, it seems to me only reasonable that we should begin shifting to alternative energy sources while, at the same time, retrofitting private homes and commercial buildings (including churches) for energy efficiency, so that in the years ahead our use of imported oil will decline.  

Is the President’s energy proposal risky?  It most certainly is.  But it seems to me that not doing this, and spending another thirty years wallowing in inaction — in other words, being risk-averse — is riskier by far.  

At an international level, there are clearly risks involved in talking with people who wish us ill, such as Iran and North Korea.  But it seems to me that the risks involved in not talking with our opponents are much greater.  As the old saying goes, “Talk is cheap.”  It costs us very little to engage our opponents in diplomatic dialogue which allows us to search for some common ground on which to build a better, more peaceful relationship.  As I recall, in his farewell address George Washington observed that nations (ours included) do not have friends; they have only interests.  We may find, much to our surprise, that it is not in the interest of these countries to remain hostile and uncooperative.  In other words, not talking with these regimes — being risk-averse — may be unwise.

When Jesus urges us to take up our cross and follow him, even at considerable risk, I take it that Jesus is not counseling rash action.  He is not preaching foolishness.  He is not telling his disciples, or us, to throw caution to the wind, to rush in where angels won’t, or to be bulls in the china shop.  Our Lord is not asking us to be care-less.  Rather, he is asking us to be care-full and of good courage.  He is encouraging us, when the situation requires it, to be willing to risk — even life and limb — for the sake of his mission.  

Ask yourself:  if Jesus had taken Peter’s advice, and avoided the confrontation that awaited him in Jerusalem, would you and I be here this morning?  If Peter and Paul and their colleagues had been risk-averse, and had refrained from spreading the Good News far and wide, would you and I be here this morning?  If St. John’s Episcopal Church boldly proclaimed that we will follow Jesus wherever he leads, provided we have nothing to lose, will anyone take us seriously?

Jesus invites us to take a risk for the sake of the gospel.  More often than not, what is required of us is that we make good on the commandment to love God and to love our neighbors as ourselves — to make that little formula a living reality in this world.  In my book, that’s truly risky business.  But the rewards are more than we can ask or imagine.  Amen.

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Year B, Lent 2:  Old Testament — Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16  |  Gradual — Psalm 22:22-30  |  Epistle — Romans 4:13-25  |  Gospel — Mark 8:31-38

Collect for Lent 2:

O God, whose glory it is always to have mercy: Be gracious to all who have gone astray from your ways, and bring them again with penitent hears and steadfast faith to embrace and hold fast the unchangeable truth of your Word, Jesus Christ your Son; who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

Homily for Sunday, March 1, 2009 (Year B, Lent 1)

And the Spirit immediately drove [Jesus] out into the wilderness.  He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan….  (Mark 1:12-13)

Today, the First Sunday of Lent, offers us a kind of instant replay of a part of Mark’s gospel we had just a few weeks ago.  On January 11 — the First Sunday after the Epiphany, and the Feast of the Baptism of Christ — we had the story of Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan.  Today we get it again, but more to provide context for the story of our Lord’s Temptation in the wilderness.  That’s the primary focus this Sunday, as it has been since the 5th century, when an account of the Temptation became well nigh mandatory on the First Sunday of Lent.  

At the Jordan Jesus sees the heavens torn apart and the Holy Spirit descending.  Then he alone hears the voice of God saying, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  After this the Spirit drives Jesus out into the wilderness where he fasts for forty days and then is tempted by Satan.  This is a very odd baptismal present, to be sure!  But it serves as a prelude to the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry.

Mark’s account of the temptation is far more laconic than those of Matthew and Luke.  Mark is ever an evangelist of few words, but in this case he is almost telegraphic:  “Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan,” Mark says, “and he was with the wild beasts, and the angels waited on him.”  What’s missing here are the familiar enticements — to abuse Jesus’ power by turning stones into bread, to test God by casting himself down from the roof of the temple, and to submit to Satan in return for earthly power.  

Why does Mark say so little?  There are lots of theories floating around, mostly having to do with the process by which the gospels were assembled, and all of them quite fascinating.  For my part, however, I suspect that the details matter less to Mark than the simple fact that Jesus was tempted.  Mark wants his readers to know that Jesus was tempted, and so are you… Jesus remained true to his mission, and so must you… as Jesus was comforted and supported by the angels, so too will you be comforted and supported.

We know what it means to be tempted in the sense of enticement.  Have you ever watched shoppers at the mall?  Their eyes tell the story.  One pauses at the jewelry store window and her eyes say, “You know, I’d look pretty good in that diamond bracelet.”  Another slows down as he walks by the clothing store and his eyes say, “I’d look really good in that Armani suit.”  If clothing and jewelry don’t float your boat, there are lots of other temptations out there — fast cars, impressive houses, vacations at Caribbean resorts, the fastest computer, the smartest phone, the hottest stock tip.  There’s a temptation tailor made for every taste and weakness.

That’s temptation as we usually understand it — seduction into a particular imprudent choice.  But there’s something else here that’s worth noting.  Our English word temptation is from the Latin temptare, which means to handle, test, or try.  This trial or test is not like a pop quiz in geometry.  Rather, temptation puts a person to the test, taxes a person in order to assess his or her endurance or commitment under stress.  In this sense temptation is akin to the test an engineer might make of the tensile strength, elasticity, or corrosion resistance of materials used in building a structure or constructing some kind of mechanical device.  How much stress can this cement block take before it shatters?  Under what conditions and how quickly will this steel bolt corrode?  Temptation, understood as a test, asks: What is this person made of?

However, that raises a pretty obvious question: Why should Jesus be subject to such testing?  Didn’t God trust his beloved Son?  Jesus’ resistance to the allurement of sin should be beyond question!  And God should have known the results before the test even started!  This is one of the more vexing riddles of Holy Scripture.

Let me share my solution to this riddle.  Years ago, in a book I cannot now identify, the author commented that “For the first Christians the biggest challenge was realizing that this man Jesus was, in fact, God.  For Christians in our day, the biggest challenge is realizing that this God was, in fact, once a man.”  The author’s point is that incarnation — God taking human flesh, dwelling among us, sharing our human nature, living and dying as one of us (BCP p. 362) — makes many Christians extremely uncomfortable.  God is much easier to deal with when God is kept at a distance, a very considerable distance.  God down here, “in human vesture” as the hymn says, opens the door to possibilities that we would rather not consider.

This discomfort was well illustrated in an article on Jesus I once read in a Bible dictionary written from a conservative point of view.  In his humanity, the article’s author said, Jesus was like us in every respect, “save for our baser desires.”  That’s a close, if not exact, quote.  What he was saying was that Jesus was just like us, except for the nasty bits.  No doubt this author believed that he was honoring the holiness of the Savior by inoculating him against the world, the flesh, and the devil.  In reality, he simply shoved the incarnation overboard.

If I read scripture aright, the incarnation means that Jesus perfectly melded both the human and the divine.  That necessarily means that Jesus came equipped with all the possibilities inherent in this group of bipedal primates we call H. sapiens.  He had every capacity and potentiality, every asset and liability, that you and I possess. His will was every bit as free as yours or mine.  Therefore Jesus had the ability to make moral choices, to do good or to do evil.  Even as the Son of God, Jesus was free to embrace the mission God had given him, or to reject it entire.

This, in fact, is the central tension in the novel The Last Temptation of Christ, published in 1960 by Greek writer Nikos Kazantzakis.  If you’re as long in the tooth as I am, you may better remember the 1988 movie adaptation, directed by Martin Scorsese, which featured a love scene between Jesus and his apparent wife.  Conservative Christians were deeply offended and picketed a number of movie houses where the film was being shown.  These folks were outraged that anyone might suggest that Jesus was capable of sexual expression, or that Jesus even knew what sex was about.  How these good people imagined that Jesus could maintain such blissful ignorance of the birds and the bees with herds of sheep milling around is beyond the scope of this sermon.  Suffice it to say that Scorsese exercised artistic license with that brief scene, which I’m sure was mainly intended to generate a big enough box office to pay back the film’s $7 million budget.  If memory serves, the novel is more circumspect.  It depicts Jesus on the cross, near death, yet even at that last moment tempted by the image of himself as an old man, seated at sunset in the doorway of his house, surrounded by his wife and children — an elderly 1st century Jew deeply contented with all the familial and material blessings that a man could wish for.  That, as Kazantzakis quite reasonably suggests, may well have been our Lord’s greatest temptation — to take an easier, softer way, to be just an average person, to be no better or worse than anyone else.

In short, the doctrine of the incarnation requires that Jesus be just like us, as free to make the wrong choice as we are.  Thus the temptation in the wilderness may be understood as not just a series of specific enticements to sin, but more especially a test of Jesus’ fidelity to the unique vocation God gave him.  Mark concentrates on the big question: how much stress can Jesus take before he breaks?  Mark makes it clear that Jesus remained obedient to the Father and therefore faithful to his mission.  

In much the same way, you and I face our own temptations — not only specific enticements to choose badly, but that testing which asks, “What is this person made of?  How much stress can he take before he breaks?  Will she remain obedient to God and faithful to her unique mission?”

The good news is in Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, where he says, “God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength, but with the temptation will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.” (1 Cor. 10:13)  That’s quite a remarkable statement, when you think about it.  Every enticement this world has to offer is, in the end, less powerful than our capacity — with God’s help — to resist.  I believe that.  I’ve watched people come off crack cocaine, which may be the most powerfully addicting substance on the street.  An addict can get clean and go on to find happiness in this life if he or she prepared to turn their will and their life over to God.  It happens every day.

Thank God most of us will never have to deal with such problems.  Our temptations generally come in other, less obvious forms.  For example, when we see something in the newspaper or on TV about people in some far away country dying of some disease, we may shake our heads in sadness, and wonder at the cruelty and injustice of life, and give thanks that we have been spared, and wish just briefly that we could do something about that — and then we turn to the sports section or surf off to some other channel.  That fleeting urge to do something slips by.

Today is also Episcopal Relief and Development Sunday.  ERD is the branch of our national Episcopal Church which allows us to respond to natural disasters at home and abroad, and to support social, medical and other development programs around the world.  Here’s an item from their web site:

Malita, a pregnant young mother of two children, had just returned home to Angola with her family from neighboring northern Namibia after fleeing a 27-year-long civil war that ended in 2002.  Preparations were being made to cultivate the family’s farm, as they heard vegetables were selling well in the local market.  Soon after her return home “the fever” struck her oldest child.  Malita knew “the fever” came, yet she had no idea what caused it; her mother-in-law said it was “bad sugar cane.”  Malita’s child died in her arms less than one day from the start of “the fever” — [which was in fact] malaria.

Each day, malaria takes the lives of nearly 3,000 children in sub-Saharan Africa.  To protect Malita and other families in the region from malaria, Episcopal Relief & Development is implementing NetsforLife^® a malaria prevention program partnership.

Together with her mother-in-law, Malita journeyed from her village of Namakunde to the town of Ondjiva to receive a bed net treated with long-lasting insecticide distributed by the Anglican Diocese of Angola, Episcopal Relief & Development’s local NetsforLife^® partner.  Malita left with a net and knowledge about the symptoms of malaria and how to quickly seek treatment.

Malita became a volunteer community malaria agent. Today, she makes sure those most vulnerable to malaria are protected — children under 5, pregnant women, the elderly and sick. She teaches women how to use the nets, how to detect the symptoms of malaria, and where to seek treatment.

Malita’s knowledge and experience saves lives in her village.  Her willingness to help others prevents needless deaths from malaria, and builds the health, well-being, agricultural production, and economic vitality of her small community.

We may be tempted to believe that one person can’t make a difference — but that’s not true.  We may be tempted to believe that the recession makes it impossible for us to be as generous as we might otherwise be — yet the spare change that accumulates on top of the dresser at home is enough to support ERD’s NetsforLife program.  It doesn’t cost a lot to save a child’s life in Angola and many other far off places.  It just takes a little time and attention to God’s work.

On this First Sunday of Lent let us pray that the Lord will be always with us, coming quickly to help when we are assaulted by many temptations, saving us in the midst of our weakness, and making each of us instruments of God’s loving-kindness.  Amen.

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Year B, Lent 1:  Old Testament — Genesis 9:8-17  |  Gradual — Psalm 25:1-9  |  Epistle — 1 Peter 3:18-22  |  Gospel — Mark 1:9-15

Collect for Lent 1:

Almighty God, whose blessed Son was led by the Spirit to be tempted by Satan: Come quickly to help us who are assaulted by many temptations; and, as you know the weaknesses of each of us, let each one find you mighty to save; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Ash Wednesday, February 25, 2009 (Year B) 

Satan “inflicted loathsome sores on Job from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head.  Job took a potsherd with which to scrape himself, and sat among the ashes.  (Job 2:7-8)

Jeremiah the prophet says, “See, a people is coming from the land of the north… they are cruel and have no mercy… O my poor people, put on sackcloth, and roll in ashes; make mourning as for an only child, most bitter lamentation, for suddenly the destroyer will come upon us.  (Jer. 6:22, 23, 26)

Anyone who has cleaned out a fireplace knows what ashes are — the residue of combustion.  At home my father usually did that chore.  I don’t think he trusted his children to get the ashes outside without a disaster in the middle of the living room.  He was probably right!

Our ancient foremothers and forefathers knew about ashes, too.  They cooked over wood fires.  They saw what was left after an animal had been sacrificed at the temple, or after a town had been burned by an invading army.  Ashes were what was left — a residue, the remains.  Job sitting among the ashes, scraping his sores with a piece of broken pottery, symbolizes his ruin as a man.  Jeremiah telling Jerusalem that an invading army is about to bring terror and ruin upon the land, and that the people should go into mourning — in sackcloth and ashes — symbolizes the magnitude of the approaching disaster.  Elsewhere in the Old Testament ashes were sprinkled on the head as an outward sign of fasting or penitence, a custom mentioned in the New Testament and continued in the life of the Church.  And, of course, for centuries the imposition of ashes on the foreheads of the faithful has been the approved way to begin the Lenten fast.

How curious, then, that our gospel for Ash Wednesday records Jesus’ comments on outward displays of religious fervor.  Our Lord dumps on those who call attention to their alms-giving, prayer, and fasting.  In particular Jesus tells the faithful, “But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father….” (Matt. 6:17-18)  Then, just a few minutes after reading that piece of Matthew’s gospel, the Prayer Book directs me to invite you forward so that I can smear ashes on your forehead!  

Over the years a couple indignant parishioners have challenged me on this.  “Look here, sonny,” they said, “you’re telling us to do exactly what Jesus said we shouldn’t do!  Aren’t you putting us at risk of everlasting damnation?”

Let me assure you, here and now, that ashes on your forehead is not a capital offense in the kingdom of God.  It’s not even a misdemeanor.

Jesus is not objecting to ashes.  Our Lord knew his scripture.  He knew what ashes were about.  When his father Joseph died, it’s likely that both Jesus and his mother scattered ashes on their heads as a sign of mourning, in keeping with the custom of their people.  

No, Jesus’ objection is not to the use of ashes, but to public displays of piety which serve to call attention a person.  This is a problem common to all times and religions.  For example, several years ago I saw an interview with Robert Schuller, pastor of the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove, California, in which he talked about a person who had become a Christian at his church.  “I converted him,” the Rev. Mr. Schuller said, with undisguised pride.  “I converted him.”  I’m sure he felt good about this man’s conversion — but I think he felt much, much better about his role in the affair.  He felt good enough to mention it on national TV.  Evidently the Rev. Mr. Schuller forgot the words of St. Paul to the Corinthians when factions disturbed the congregation’s life.  “What then is Apollos?” Paul asks.  “What is Paul?  Servants through whom you came to believe… I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” (1 Cor. 3:5-6)  However much Robert Schuller may trumpet his ability to convert people, it is still God who gives the growth.

The key to this gospel passage is the word hypocrite.  Jesus says that when you give alms, pray, or fast, do not do “as the hypocrites do.”  A hypocrite, of course, is one who pretends to a moral standard to which his or her behavior does not conform.  The word itself is from the Greek hupokrisis, which means acting a part, as in a play.  In this context, a hypocrite is someone who deceives by play-acting.

Our Lord’s choice of words is interesting.  It suggests that Jesus was familiar with the customs of the Greek theater — something we might not expect from one we often think of as “a simple Galilean carpenter.”  But the idea that Jesus was just a simple carpenter is a bit like saying that Abraham Lincoln was just a simple backwoods log-splitter.  Consider that our Lord almost certainly spoke three languages — Aramaic (or the dialect of Aramaic spoken in Galilee); koine Greek, the language of commerce in the eastern Mediterranean; and biblical Hebrew, as witness his irritating habit of asking a person if he has not read this-or-that passage in the scriptures.  He may have known some Latin, too.  

Again, Luke has that charming story of the adolescent Jesus sitting in the temple, chatting up the teachers.  (Lk. 2:46)  Scholars quibble over the authenticity of that story.  However, I think it is beyond question that from boyhood forward, Jesus immersed himself in the scriptures, reading, studying, and meditating on God’s Word.  His debates with the scribes and Pharisees during his public ministry suggest careful training in his early years under gifted teachers whose understanding of Judaism was not tainted by Jerusalem politics.

Again, although Jesus lived in Nazareth, it’s likely he traveled widely in the Galilee in order to support himself and his family.  In this regard, it’s interesting to note that the town generally called Sepphoris, just a six kilometer walk from Nazareth, boasted a Roman theater.  Is it at least possible that Jesus himself might have seen Greek plays performed there? We can’t know for sure.  In any case, he would have been familiar with the customs of the Greek theater, including the use of masks which allowed an actor to play more than one part.  In other words, in the context of 1st century Galilee, our Lord’s warning not to turn religion into religious theater make sense.  

If Jesus saw himself standing in line with the classical prophets of Judaism — as I believe he did — then he would have shared the prophets’ aversion to pretense and deception in one’s relationship with the Father.  God is not deceived in any case.  The Psalmist tells us that God cares for us as a father cares for his children, “For he himself knows whereof we are made; he remembers that we are but dust.” (Ps. 103:13-14)  You and I proclaim our moral nakedness before the Lord at almost every celebration of Holy Eucharist when we acknowledge Almighty God as the One “unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid….” (BCP p. 323)  God knows us through and through, the ugly bits as well as the pretty bits.  Play-acting wastes our time.  Rather, we should approach God with as much honesty as we can muster, confident that “the merciful goodness of the Lord endures for ever on those who fear him.” (Ps. 103:17)  

Today, as we begin our slow progress through Lent, Jesus challenges us to stand before God without the actor’s mask, without pretending to be someone or some place we are not.  Lent is a time for us to be perfectly candid with God about what we have done well or badly, about how well or badly we have treated ourselves and others, about our successes and failures in living up to God’s high standards.  

To do this we have to be honest, first of all, with ourselves.  That’s often a major challenge, for when we put on our actor’s mask and walk out on the stage, more often than not we’re playing to an audience of one — ourselves!  You know the old line, “Denial is not a river in Egypt.”  If we look in the mirror and don’t like what we see, too often our urge is to turn on the hot water and fog the mirror.  A better response is to be honest with ourselves and to share that honesty with the Father, who, as Jesus tell us, sees in secret, and already knows all the secrets of our hearts.

Just so, we must seek honesty in our corporate life.  The disease of sin infects institutions as readily as individuals.  You and I live in a context — social, economic, political, as well as religious.  The Blessed John Donne, the 17th century English poet, put it this way: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.” (Meditation XVII)  These organizations and institutions you and I belong to greatly facilitate and magnify our ability to do good.  But they also enhance our ability to screw up in ways God would rather we not.  We may ignore those connections or deny responsibility, but that too is self-deception.  

For example, we Episcopalians are proud that women have been ordained in our Church since 1974 and now serve as both priests and bishops.  Less often do we recall that the first woman priest in the Anglican Communion was Florence Li Tim-Oi, who was ordained by the Bishop of Hong Kong in January 1944 because, as a woman, she could move more easily through Japanese-occupied territory in order to celebrate the sacraments with the faithful.  That was 30 years before we in the U.S. Church got our act together.  

More to the point, after the war the Rev. Li was told to go home and not exercise her priestly faculties for fear of offending “the boys.”  In much the same way, we in the U.S. Church still regard women clergy as not quite ready for prime time, and often refuse to call women to lead our churches because some of us might find a woman at the altar, week after week, upsetting.  By entertaining such an attitude we visit injustice not just on women, but on men also, because we encourage men to see women as somehow spiritually defective.  It’s time, then, that we wipe the fog off the mirror and take a long, hard look. 

It is, in fact, the season for looking in the mirror.   Lent may begin with ashes on the forehead, but remember that the ashes you receive today are in the shape of a cross.  We may wash off those ashes before going to bed this evening, but the cross will remain, reminding us that our 40-day journey will carry us to the cross, and beyond.  Let us, then, lay aside our masks and clothe ourselves in hope, as we prepare for the joy that awaits us on Easter Day.  Amen.

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

Readings for Ash Wednesday:  Old Testament — Joel 2:1-2, 12-17  |  Gradual — Psalm 103  |  Epistle — 2 Corintthians 5:20b-6:10  |  Gospel — Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Collect for Ash Wednesday:

Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.