St. John's Episcopal Church

Sermon for Sunday, July 26, 2009 (Year B, Proper 12)

 

Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted.  (John 6:11)

 

This morning’s gospel reading includes St. John’s versions of Jesus feeding the 5,000 and Jesus walking on the water.  These two stories are often treated as a single unit, because in three of the four gospels — Mark, Matthew, and John — they are paired.  Luke has the feeding story, but not Jesus walking on the water.

 

As I said a few weeks ago, for many Christians the miracles are problematic.  They appear to represent a violation of the natural order of things.  For some, and perhaps most people raised in a rational, scientific age, these stories challenge our ability to “suspend disbelief.”  It seems we must either come up with a rational explanation for what happened, or write off these stories as mere fairy tales. 

 

This eternal quest to unpack the “how?” of the miracles has led, in the case of the feeding story, to tortured explanations of how Jesus provided food for a crowd numbering some 5,000 men and, we assume, women and children in addition.  Some speculate that Jesus’ preaching about compassion persuaded those who had brought food for their own use to share with their less well provisioned neighbors.  Others say that the feeding was spiritual in nature, and did not involve real bread and fish.  And some just don’t know what to make of this “large shared lunch,” as one commentator refers to it.

 

The same kind of problem crops up around Jesus walking on the water.  I’m told that the Greek here allows various translations.  The traditional rendering is that Jesus came walking “on the sea.”  However, the Greek could be translated, “at the sea,” that is, along the shoreline; or “in the sea,” perhaps meaning in the surf.  As with the feeding of the multitude, Jesus’ stroll “on the sea” has resulted in much speculation, including tired jokes about knowing where the rocks are.  Thomas Jefferson famously resolved the question for himself with a pocket knife.  He didn’t solve the riddle.  He surgically removed it from his Bible.

 

Since we were not there, we have no basis for deciding how what happened, happened.  And in any case the “how?” of the miracles is the least interesting aspect of these stories.  As I have suggested before, the question we ought to ask is not “how?” but “why?”  Why did Jesus do what he did?  Why did the gospel writers include these stories?  Why are they important to us today?

 

One thing to bear in mind about John’s handling of the miracles is that they just don’t work.  By that I mean that they don’t produce the effect we typically assume they should have, which is to engender deep faith in Jesus as the Christ, the Son of God, the Messiah.  However persuasive you and I might find the miracles, it appears that most of those who witnessed these mighty acts of power did not continue to follow Jesus.  They received the benefits, such as food in the wilderness; and they had an immediate positive reaction; but in the end they packed up and went home.  They did not become disciples; they did not take up their cross and follow the Master.  Keep this in mind.  It’s a key to understanding the two stories we have this morning.

 

As for the stories themselves, let’s look first at the second story — Jesus walking on the water.  After the feeding of the multitude, Jesus realizes that the crowd wants to make him king.  In a time and place where most people eked out a living by subsistence farming, someone who can conjure food out of thin air would be most impressive — the ultimate labor-saving device.  So the crowd wants to institutionalize their good luck by replacing Herod with a kind of lunch cart with legs.  Jesus eludes them.  John reports that he “withdrew again to the mountain by himself.” (John 6:15)  The disciples, Jesus’ little band of friends, then set off in a boat for Capernaum, Jesus’ home base.  This seems a bit odd.  They are sailing home without Jesus.  Why they left without him isn’t explained.  In any case, a storm blows up, the disciples row against the wind for three or four miles, and after awhile we can imagine that they are getting tired and a bit desperate.  And then… along comes Jesus!  The disciples are terrified, but Jesus reassures them, “It is I; do not be afraid.”  They want to take him into the boat, but immediately they reach their destination. (John 6:19-21)

 

Now, in Christian iconography the boat is typically a symbol for the Church.  If you see a boat sailing along in a stained glass window, the artist wants you to think “Church.”  And again, in European church architecture, churches often look like upside down boats.  Look up!  Above your heads you’ll see the “keel” running down the center of this room, with the trusses serving as the “ribs” of the structure, and the roof and walls as the “hull.”  You are seated in the “crew’s quarters,” the central part of the room called the nave.  That word comes from the Latin navis, or ship, from which we also get our English words navy and naval.  This suggests that we are, indeed, the crew of this ecclesiastical vessel, having been mustered into the Lord’s service at baptism, and Jesus is our captain.

 

Returning to the story, I think it’s interesting to note the reaction of the “crew” to Jesus’ unconventional appearance.  John reports that the disciples are terrified, and their first impulse is to get Jesus into the boat.  Are they afraid Jesus might drown and want to save him?  More likely, they are afraid of what Jesus — who thinks nothing of being unconventional — might expect of them!  Perhaps he might even suggest that they, his friends, join their Master in his stroll on a stormy sea!

 

So, if the purpose of this miracle — walking on the water — is to produce faith in the people who witness it, it seems to be a dud.  What it does, in fact, is lay bare the disciples’ fear.  And if this is true, then perhaps we see why John, along with Matthew and Mark, included this story in his gospel.  It has something important to say about the Church and fear.

 

Last week a friend sent me an item from the On A Journey web site, written by Tom Ehrich, a former Wall Street Journal reporter who became an Episcopal priest.  After serving parishes in Indiana, Missouri, and North Carolina, he now leads workshops and retreats for lay persons and clergy.  In his online comment Fr. Ehrich observes how pervasive fear is in our society.  “Politicians of a certain stripe,” he says, “make an art of instilling fear and then offering to remove it, in exchange for diminished freedom.  Advertisers bombard us with messages designed to make us afraid of aging, illness, insufficient beauty, the opposite sex, thick ankles, and financial meltdown.”

 

Then he goes on to say, “In the church world where I have spent most of my adult life, fear is by far the dominant factor.”  Some in the Church, as in society, use fear to control their neighbors, because “[i]t is easier to make people afraid than to live into God’s future.  I have heard their fervent pleas, nicely clothed in theology, Bible verses and tradition, and I now know that it was nothing [more] than fear speaking.  Fear of change, fear of strangers, fear of financial failure, fear of offending someone, especially the leading families, fear of women, fear of men, fear of youth, fear of noise, fear of making mistakes, fear of losing tax exemption, fear of growth, fear of modernity, fear of clergy, fear of laity, fear of God — the list seems endless.” 

 

Fr. Ehrich concludes by noting that “Jesus gave us only three commandments.  None had to do with sexuality, doctrine, liturgy, buildings, institutions or orthodoxy.  One was, ‘Love God.’  The second was, ‘Love your neighbor.’  The third was, ‘Do not be afraid.’” (Ehrich, www.onajourney.org  7/24/09)

 

If it isn’t pushing the architectural image too far, I have to point out that this lovely, boat-shaped church of ours is upside down, with the crew huddled inside!  You don’t have to be much of a sailor to wonder how far you can sail in a capsized boat!  In any case, the crew in today’s story — our Lord’s friends — responds to Jesus’ stroll in the storm with fear, only to find themselves suddenly ashore on “the land toward which they were going.” (John 6:21)  This story, then, seems to be about our difficulty trusting Jesus when the Church is caught in a storm.  To often we set off without Jesus… we respond with fear when he shows up uninvited and does something (or asks us to do something) unconventional, something that might make the neighbors talk… and we mask our fear by trying to drag Jesus into the boat and make him behave.   

 

The Feeding of the Five Thousand provides another image of the Church.  As we’ve seen over the past weeks, Jesus and his disciples have been trailed by crowds wherever they go.  Now a huge mass of people, numbering some 5,000, is coming toward them.  Jesus decides that this mob must be fed.  However, the only food they have is “five barley loaves and two fish” which a young boy has brought.  Andrew asks, “[W]hat are they among so many people?” (John 6:9)  Then, in a scene with obviously eucharistic overtones, Jesus takes the loaves and fish, and gives thanks to God.  When the food is distributed and all have eaten, the leftovers fill twelve baskets — twelve being a holy number, signifying completeness.  

 

Here again, fear is evident.  Faced with the task of feeding a multitude, the disciples say, “We don’t have enough money… all we have is a snack brought by a mere child.”  They would be happy to send the people off to fend for themselves, or just let them go hungry.  Yet in the hands of Jesus, their scarcity becomes his abundance, their poverty becomes his bounty, and their fear is answered by the Son’s trust in the Father.

I wonder if anyone who witnessed this miracle noticed how Jesus dealt with this fear.  Certainly not the disciples — for a few hours later, on the stormy lake, they are terrified yet again by the unexpected.  And certainly not the people — for when Jesus makes it clear he won’t play their game of “I’ll make you king if you give me a free lunch,” the crowd loses interest and goes back to whatever they were doing before Jesus wandered by.  Again, if the purpose of this miracle is to create faith, then the miracle misfired.  The crowd didn’t believe, and left.  The disciples, although mired in their doubts and fears, stayed on.  We at least have to give them that. 

 

As I say, the feeding of the 5,000 is another image of the Church struggling with its fears.  Like Fr. Ehrich, I have seen fear at work in the Body.  Years ago, at my Detroit church, I was trying to introduce contemporary language worship at the main service, along with Rite Two service music and the then-new Hymnal 1982.  This did not make me popular with the older choir members, most of whom had been singing together since the 1950s and venerated the customs of their childhood church.  My Senior Warden’s father was titular head of the choir, and this man complained bitterly to his son about all these changes the Rector was making, changes he was certain would destroy the parish.  So my Warden came to me one day and said, “You have to remember that the church is a voluntary association.  Your job is to give people what they want.  If you don’t, they will leave.”

 

Do you hear the fear in what this young man said?  Fear of change… fear of offending someone, especially the leading families… fear of financial failure… fear of growth… fear that we may be asked to sing a song we don’t know, or celebrate communion using unfamiliar words… fear that the person at the other end of my pew, or in the pulpit, will be someone who is different, who is unlike us, who may say or do something which offends us.

 

Perhaps my warden forgot, or never even knew, that our Lord gave us only three commandments: love God, love your neighbor, do not be afraid.

 

St. John’s Church in Grand Haven is now embarked on a most important adventure: we are searching for a new Rector.  Already our Search Committee has invested an incredible amount of time and energy and creativity in this process, and that investment will grow over the coming weeks.  We hope that our Searchers will soon have, if not a large number, then at least a reasonable number of talented candidates, one of whom, by God’s grace, will be a good and faithful priest ready to lead St. John’s along the next leg of our spiritual journey.

 

As we look ahead to welcoming this new priest, let us not become mired in fear of what this change in clergy leadership will bring.  Rather, let us be confident that the Lord is with us in the midst of whatever stormy weather our little “ship of Church” may encounter.  Christ will guide us safely to the land toward which we are heading.  And if at times the task seems more than we can handle, more than our energy and resources can support, let us remember that when the 5,000 were fed, it was Jesus who provided the food, while the disciples distributed it to the crowd.  The burden does not rest on our shoulders alone.  We work with our Lord, ministering from the abundance of his grace.

 

Love God.  Love your neighbor.  Do not be afraid.  Amen.

 

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

 

Readings for Year B, Proper 12:  Lesson — 2 Kings 4:42-44  |  Gradual — Psalm 145:10-19  |  Epistle — Ephesians 3:14-21  |  John 6:1-21

 

Collect for Proper 12:

O God, the protector of all who trust in you, without whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy: Increase and multiply upon us your mercy; that, with you as our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we lose not the things eternal; 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, July 19, 2009 (Year B, Proper 11)

 

For many were coming and going, and [Jesus and his disciples] had no leisure even to eat. (Mark 6:31)

 

Today St. Mark gives us “a day in the life of Jesus.”  Our Lord has asked his friends to assist with his ministry.  His fame has spread, and now more and more people seek them out for healing or to listen as Jesus teaches.  This ministry of teaching and preaching and healing becomes a three ring circus.  As Mark notes, Jesus and his friends don’t even have time to eat.  So our Lord suggests that they take a break and seek out a “deserted place” where they can rest and recharge their batteries.  He and his disciples travel down the shore of the Sea of Galilee by boat, but the people see them going and follow on foot.  Even burdened by apparent “caregiver fatigue,” Jesus has compassion on the crowds and the sick, “because they were like sheep without a shepherd.” (Mark 6:30-34)

 

Later Jesus and his friends cross to the other side of the lake, to Gennesaret.  This town can no longer be identified, but it was probably at the western end of the Sea of Galilee.  Here the same thing happens.  As soon as people realize that Jesus has come among them, the sick begin arriving in droves.  People say that if they no more than touch the fringe of his cloak, they will be healed.  And, according to Mark, so they are. (Mark 6:53-56)

 

We can imagine how Jesus and his friends must have felt, confronted by so many sick and suffering people.  In this age before medicine, physiological and psychological diseases were common and greatly feared.  In many ancient cultures, especially in Mesopotamia, people understood that some injuries were rational in origin, such as a wound sustained in battle.  But other illnesses were ascribed to the demons said to inhabit the underworld.  In the Hebrew tradition, most Old Testament writers held that disease was sent by God as punishment for transgression or as an expression of his wrath.  Other Old Testament writers ascribed the origin of disease either to malevolent spiritual beings or the adversary (later known as Satan), or to self-indulgence and jealousy.

 

By spotting a link between emotional states and physical illness, the people of biblical times proved themselves acute observers of their natural world.  Self-indulgence and jealousy can make a person sick.  Yet while later Old Testament authors rejected it, the idea that God sends illness as punishment nevertheless persisted into New Testament times.  An illustration of this forensic, or penal, view of illness is found in Chapter 9 of John’s gospel.  Jesus’ disciples, seeing a man blind from birth, ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”  (John 9:1-2)  Because people tended to see disease as a divine curse, all too often they responded by isolating the sick from society — such as those suffering from a range of skin diseases lumped together as “leprosy.”  Thus the sick were both ill and marginalized.  

 

Jesus rejected this notion of disease and disability as God’s revenge on his hapless children.  He understood disease to be one of the ways in which evil manifests itself in the context of human experience.  In his eyes disease was a form of bondage, and in his ministry Jesus sought to free people from every form of evil, illness being among the most common.

 

But old ideas die hard.  That forensic understanding of illness persists in popular religious culture even today.  Against all evidence, some folks still believe that the death of a loved one, or an accident, or a congenital condition, or diseases of every sort are, in fact, evidence of God’s wrath visited upon them as punishment for their sins.

 

It happens that I’m reading Counselor: Life at the Edge of History, the 2008 memoir of Theodore C. (Ted) Sorensen, President John F. Kennedy’s speechwriter.  At this point, permit me a brief aside.  I don’t usually drop names; frankly, I have precious few to drop.  However, in October 1968 Ted Sorensen gave a speech at Denison University, and it fell to me and a couple other students to pick him up at the Columbus, Ohio, airport.  As we were driving to the University, word came over the radio that Jacqueline Kennedy had wed Aristotle Onassis earlier that day.  All eyes turned to Ted Sorensen — all except mine, since I was driving.  He was silent for a moment, and then said, “Whatever that woman wants, she should have.”  Many others were far less generous in their response Mrs. Kennedy’s marriage.

 

As I said, I’m reading Sorensen’s Counselor.  In his book Sorensen notes that both his parents rejected their childhood religions, Judaism on his mother’s side, Danish Lutheranism on his father’s.  Sorensen writes, “The decision to embrace Unitarianism was made easier for them by the fact that each had been disillusioned by their respective religious upbringings.”  Sorensen’s mother, a feminist, objected to Orthodox Judaism’s treatment of women.  “It happened to my father as a fifteen-year-old boy,” the author says, “when a country preacher hailed the death from disease of his beloved four-month-old sister, Esther, as a cause for rejoicing in heaven.” (Counselor, Sorensen, p. 27)  

 

Again, at some point during my first year or so at St. Columba, Detroit, a woman in the parish asked if she could put flowers on the altar in memory of her sister.  I said yes, of course.  She said, “But they’re for my sister.”  Somewhat confused, I acknowledged how terrible it is to lose a sibling, and that flowers on the altar were an appropriate way to honor her sister’s memory.  She responded, “But you don’t understand.  My sister committed suicide.”  She went on to explain that a former rector had told her that her sister’s “sin” — taking her own life — was so offensive to God and his Church that memorial flowers at the Holy Table were forbidden.

 

Where do clergy, Episcopal or otherwise, get such theological drivel?  Certainly not from the New Testament — at least not the version I read.  

 

I suppose one could argue that these two incidents reflect an antique view of Christianity that no one subscribes to these days.  But in fact, many still do!  And many clergy still teach their flocks that God rejoices in the death of a four-month-old infant and turns his back on the one who takes his or her own life.  A cold-hearted God makes sense to them.  But such a God doesn’t make sense to me. 

 

Now, I admit that there can be a connection between bad behavior and accident and illness.  For example, I rarely drive in the left hand lane of I-696 as it traverses the near north suburbs of Detroit.  In my experience, all too often this lane is used by people in cars or on motorcycles who want to see what it feels like to be going well over 100 mph.  Their disregard for their own health and safety, and for my life and the lives of other motorists, is remarkable.  I wish them only the best that law enforcement has to offer.

 

I should note, too, that three years ago a long-time friend of mine died of liver failure resulting from alcohol abuse.  It was not in any sense a “good” death — not for him, his friends, or his family.  Substance abuse is a terrible disease.  Unfortunately my friend could not bring himself to admit the severity of his problem and deal with it.  Choices have consequences.  

 

So, in fact, our bad choices can bring on accidents and disease, and even place our lives at risk.  But that is not God’s will for us.  Nor are the results of our bad choices to be laid at God’s doorstep.  We all bear responsibility for our own actions.

 

As St. Paul reminds the Christians at Ephesus, [Christ] “came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father.” (Ephesians 2:17-18)  God is no wrathful Father, and Jesus is not his avenging angel whose job is to afflict and destroy anyone who puts a toe out of line.  God does not use accident or illness as punishment for things done or left undone.

 

On the contrary, as Mark tells us, Jesus “had compassion for [the suffering], because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.” (Mark 6:34)  What Christ taught them, I believe, is that this is a very complicated and sometimes dangerous world; that God’s people must sometimes endure both manmade and natural evil; but that in every sorrow and every joy, our God stands with us — the Father who made us and loves us, the Son who saved us and loves us, and the Spirit who sanctifies us and loves us.  From this God we have nothing to fear, now or in the age to come.  For that, let us give thanks.  Amen. 

 

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor  

 

Readings for Year B, Proper 11: Old Testament — 2 Samuel 7:1-14a  |  Gradual — Psalm 89:20-37  |  Epistle — Ephesians 2:11-22  |  Gospel — Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

 

Collect for Proper 11:

Almighty God, the fountain of all wisdom, you know our necessities before we ask and our ignorance in asking: Have compassion on our weakness, and mercifully give us those things which for our unworthiness we dare not, and for our blindness we cannot ask; through the worthiness of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, July 12, 2009 (Year B, Proper 10)

 

The king said to the girl, “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it.”  (Mark 6:22)

 

There are times when I just scratch my head over the decisions of those who put together our lectionary — the list of readings we are given for the various Sundays of the year.  Today’s gospel reading — Mark’s account of the execution of John the Baptist — is a example.  There are lots of good stories in Mark.  Some of them have been left out, because there simply are not enough Sundays in the year.  But why did they include the story of the Baptist’s beheading?  Where is the good news in this?

 

It’s an interesting little story, I suppose.  Exotic characters, a large house, an extravagant party, sex, violence — it’s sort of a 1st century version of the 1980s-90s TV series Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous.  Here we find Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and a client king of Rome, disporting himself in his palace while John the Baptist languishes in prison.  John had made bold to criticize Herod’s marriage to his half-brother’s divorced wife, and the king responded by having John arrested.  

 

Mark tells us that Herodias, the king’s wife, has a “grudge” against the Baptist, although it’s not clear why. (Mark 6:19)  In any case, Herodias gets her chance for revenge when Herod throws himself a birthday party.  Herodias’ daughter, also called Herodias in Mark, but traditionally named Salome, dances for the king.  Enchanted by this beautiful girl, Herod offers her any gift she wishes, “even half of my kingdom,” he says.  At her mother’s urging the girl asks for the head of John the Baptist, on a platter.  Mark tells us that Herod was reluctant, because he knew that John was a righteous man, but rather than be seen by his guests as unfaithful to his oath, he has John executed. (Mark 6:21-28)

 

The story reminds us that politics in this day was a blood sport.  Herod the Great, father of Antipas and king at the time of Jesus’ birth, had a nasty habit of knocking off anyone who might be a political threat — which included most of his own family.  Antipas was lucky to have survived his childhood.  If he inherited a piece of his father’s kingdom, he probably also inherited his father’s fear of political competition.  It seems quite strange, then, that such a man would offer his step-daughter half his kingdom — and the power that went with it — for nothing more than a sultry turn on the dance floor.  Perhaps he knew the offer wouldn’t be accepted.  We also know that in order to keep on good terms with his Jewish subjects, Herod wanted to be known as a faithful Jew.  It’s strange, then, that he would so lightly put to death a man like John the Baptist, who was thought to be Elijah or one of the prophets of old come back to life. (John 1:19-21)

 

Perhaps Mark included this story in his gospel, at least in part, simply to explain what happened to John the Baptist.  As you may recall, Mark does not have a birth narrative for Jesus.  His gospel begins in the desert along the Jordan, when Jesus is in his early 30s.  “John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness,” Mark says, “proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” (Mark 1:4)  Jesus’ baptism by John and his temptation in the wilderness follow immediately. (Mark 1:9-11; 12-13).  Then Mark says, “Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God.” (Mark 1:14)  Many scholars feel that it was John’s arrest by Herod which convinced Jesus that, “[t]he time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near….” (Mark 1:15)  In other words, John’s arrest may have appeared to Jesus as divine affirmation that the time for his own public ministry had arrived.  Of course, Mark’s readers would wonder whatever became of the Baptist.  Today’s story fills in that blank.

 

This story also foreshadows key elements of Jesus’ ministry.  First, we noted just a moment ago that some followers of John the Baptist believed that he was Elijah or one of the classical prophets come back to life.  Jesus soon inherits that mantle.  When Jesus and his friends are passing through the villages of Caesarea Phillippi, Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?”  They respond, John the Baptist, or Elijah, or one of the prophets.  When he asks who they, his disciples, believe him to be, Peter affirms that Jesus is the Messiah. (Mark 8:27-30)

 

Second, and immediately after Peter’s declaration, Jesus begins to predict his death and resurrection.  He says that the Son of Man “must undergo great suffering and be rejected… and be killed.” (Mark 8:31)  The Baptist’s own suffering and death prefigure Jesus’ fate.

 

Third, Mark tells us that when the disciples of John the Baptist heard that he had been executed, “they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.” (Mark 6:29)  Later, Mark would report essentially the same thing about Jesus — that after his death Joseph of Arimathea took the body of Christ, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a tomb. (Mark 15:46)

 

In other words, the parallels Mark draws between the Baptist and Jesus are striking, and probably intentional.

 

But all this still leaves me wondering what to make of this story as a reading for Sunday morning!  What were the lectionary builders thinking when they assigned us this text?  Where is the good news in this story of ancient palace intrigue and murder?

 

A couple observations:

 

First, that TV program I mentioned, Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous, focused on the well-padded lifestyles of celebrities, athletes, and business people — their homes, clothing, parties, boats, planes, and all the other toys and trappings of wealth quickly made and conspicuously consumed.  At the end of each show, the host, Robin Leach, would make a comment about “champagne wishes and caviar dreams” — as if his viewers could hope for nothing more than to be just like the person featured in that week’s show.

 

Our fascination with the rich, the famous, and the powerful is a common human trait.  The wall-to-wall news coverage of the passing of Michael Jackson over the past few days — more attention, I suspect, than most deceased Presidents might get —  shows how we like to fawn over celebrities.  No doubt 1st century Galileans were just as curious about what life was like in Herod’s palace… aside from short.   

 

But there’s a hollowness in this celebration of wealth, fame, and power which is hard to deny.  Jesus underscores the problem when he tells his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” (Mark 10:23)  His disciples were perplexed, because Jews in his day — along with most people in most times — looked upon wealth as a blessing, as a sign of God’s favor.  But Jesus said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”  The problem our Lord identifies here is not wealth per se, but the tendency for those who have it to become spiritually complacent, unable to see the suffering of their neighbors, and therefore unwilling to be compassionate in their living.  While it’s been several years since I watched the show, I don’t recall that Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous spent much time talking about compassion.  Compassion is not a champagne and caviar thing.  But it was Jesus’ thing!  It was the lifestyle that he urged upon his disciples, and our Lord urges that same lifestyle upon us today.

 

My second comment is one I’ve made before, and will make again: that being a Christian is risky business.  In this morning’s gospel John the Baptist has spoken truth to power, just like Israel’s classical prophets, and John pays the price in blood that the prophets of old were so often forced to pay.  I think it’s fair to say that being a prophet in Jesus’ time or any time in history is risky business, because power hates the sanitizing effect of sunshine.  In the last century we saw this in Europe, where Christians who resisted the Nazi movement were shipped off to concentration camps and put to death.  We saw this here in the United States when our most eminent prophet of racial justice, Martin Luther King, was gunned down in cold blood.  We are seeing it today in Tehran as Iran’s theocracy protects its power by force.

 

Most American Christians don’t run such risks.  We are blessed to live in a nation under law.  We have lots of ways to resolve our differences without violence, if we choose to use them.  But power here is just as uncomfortable with sunshine as power in any time or place.  It’s just that we have found at least a few ways to prevent power from protecting itself from the normal and sanitizing inquiry of the governed.  Nevertheless, there is always risk in speaking truth to power, in defending the marginalized, in challenging the rich, famous, and powerful about their lack of compassion, in going against the conventional wisdom.  Perhaps no king will behead us in a palace dungeon.  But we can be made to suffer in other ways.

 

So there, I guess, is the good news in this story about Herod and John the Baptist.  What Jesus asks of us entails a measure of risk, especially when our faith brings us into conflict with the rich, famous, and powerful of our day.  And yet our Lord expects us to keep on with his work.  Amen.

 

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

 

Readings for Year B, Proper 10:  Lesson — Amos 7:7-15  |  Gradual — Psalm 85:8-13  |  Epistle — Ephesians 1:3-14  |  Gospel — Mark 6:14-29

 

Collect for Proper 10:

O Lord, mercifully receive the prayers of your people who call upon you, and grant that they may know and understand what things they ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to accomplish them; 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, July 5 (Year B, Proper 9)

 

Jesus left that place and came to his hometown… On the Sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astounded.  They said, “Where did this man get all this?”… And they took offense at him.  (Mark 6:1-3)

 

The Hollywood version of the gospel story often shows Jesus talking with crowds of people who follow after him as he walks along the dusty highways and byways of Galilee.  The people swirl around him like a flock of sheep.  The actor portraying Jesus delivers his line, and the sheep are appropriately moved.  People weep… people reach out just to touch Jesus… people are stunned by his charisma.  The violins soar.

 

I’m told there’s an old saying in Hollywood — that Cecil B. DeMille did what God would have done if God had had the money.

 

A none-too-careful reading of Mark suggests that Jesus’ ministry had little in common with the sword-and-sandal epics churned out by Tinsel Town.  By modern standards, Jesus’ road show was a woefully short on production values.  For example, in today’s gospel reading, Jesus plays his hometown to decidedly lukewarm reviews.  When he taught in the synagogue at Nazareth, those who heard him were astounded, but not in a positive sense.  “Where did this man get all this?” his listeners ask. (Mark 6:2)  Isn’t this the little kid who used to run around the village with his mates, getting underfoot?  Didn’t we hire him to build us a table a couple years ago?  Aren’t his brothers and sisters here with us every day?  Where does this Jesus get off proclaiming God’s will?

 

And again, soon after this, Jesus sends his friends off on a preaching and healing mission.  They are to travel light, in pairs, and to accept whatever hospitality is offered, not shop around for a softer bed or a tastier meal.  But Jesus also warns them, “If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.” (Mark 6:11)  Mark says the disciples went off as Jesus instructed, casting out demons and healing the sick.  One might assume that their tour was a roaring success.  But I suspect — judging by the simple absence of comment on the subject — that they also did a fair amount of foot-shaking along the way.  If Jesus couldn’t wow the hometown crowd, how likely is it that a few pair of fishermen and tax collectors and assorted riffraff could do better in the smaller, more rural venues?

 

The Hollywood version of Jesus’ ministry emphasizes success.  The gospel version tempers Jesus’ success with a healthy, probably even daily measure of skepticism and rejection.  No surging crowds… no soaring violins… no glowing reviews the morning after.

 

This being the Fourth of July weekend, we might do well to remember how much time and energy General Washington expended just to keep his Continental Army from falling apart.  Soldiers volunteered to serve for a specific period of time.  When their tour of duty was up, they often packed up and headed home, no matter what battle might be looming.  Funding from the Continental Congress was always inadequate, and political infighting was rife.  Moreover, quite a few Americans were less than enthusiastic about the Revolution.  Perhaps 15-20% of the population remained loyal to the Crown.  These included royal officials, people recently arrived from England and not yet fully “Americanized”, merchants with commercial ties to the Empire, and, alas, many of those who claimed loyalty to the Church of England.  (In fact, some historians believe that the Episcopal Church failed to gain a large membership during the 19th century because so many Americans continued to view our ties to the Mother Church in England with deep suspicion.)  All things considered, then, it’s quite amazing we actually won our independence!  Almost to the very end, the prospects looked grim.

 

The prospects for Jesus’ ministry were pretty grim, too.  This was always a shoestring operation.  Mark reports that Jesus tells his disciples to travel light: take “…no bread, no bag, no money…” just one pair of sandals and no second tunic. (Mark 6:8-9)  I must note, however, that this was not a well-fixed group of guys.  I have to wonder how many of them actually had bread, bags, money, and extra tunics to leave at home!  The fact that they had to beg for food and shelter along the way makes it clear that our Lord’s work was always hovering on the edge of disaster.  And if they did have to shake the dust off their feet in a few places, it means that sometimes Jesus’ colleagues went hungry and slept in the open.

 

Now consider how we do ministry in the 21st century.  If we want to start a new congregation, someone is bound to ask us for a business plan — just as if we were launching a small business — and demand that we have at least 50 families committed to the project before “corporate” will give its blessing.  If an existing congregation wants to start a new ministry of some type, ministry and finance committees have to butt heads, and the governing body must be reassured that this effort won’t bleed the church dry.  And then someone is sure to ask, how many new members and how many new pledge units will this ministry produce?  Isn’t it reasonable to expect that this new adventure will pay for itself?

 

That may be asking too much.  Consider the small Detroit congregation called Church of the Messiah.  It’s located on the East Side, on East Grand Boulevard at Lafayette, just a couple blocks from the entrance to Belle Isle.  This has long been one of Detroit’s most depressed neighborhoods, and indeed it remains heavily stressed today.  But several years ago the folks at Messiah decided they could make a difference.  Seeing their neighbors ill-housed, they formed Messiah Housing Corporation, got some grants, got some loans, bought an old apartment building, and rehabbed the structure from the ground up.  It took a lot of courage, and a lot of sweat equity, but before long they were renting newly refurbished apartments to their neighbors.  Then the did it again.  And again.  Over a period of years this small band of Episcopalians has rebuilt significant portions of their immediate neighborhood.

 

But Church of the Messiah — the congregation — was slowly graying and shrinking.  A couple years ago the folks at Messiah began seriously to question if they could continue to operate.  They noted in particular that all their work on behalf of the neighborhood had not translated into new members joining the parish.  Then one day someone at the Diocese asked, “Have you invited your neighbors to come to church?”  Well, duh!  So Messiah members fanned out across the neighborhood and invited people to join them on Sunday morning.  More often than not, people responded by saying, “You mean, that’s a church?”  

 

A few people came by on Sunday morning.  And then a few more.  And before too many months had passed, Church of the Messiah was welcoming nearly 100 people to worship on a Sunday.  People were arriving so quickly that the original members weren’t sure what to do with them!  Happily, they did not stop inviting people.  And now, in a city where many Episcopal churches have closed, and where those that remain are under great stress, Church of the Messiah is a going operation.  It’s not a financially stable congregation, to be sure.  Their new members are at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder.  But at least their congregation is growing and full of life.

 

By contrast, the church I served as Rector for ten years, St. Columba, located just a couple miles east of Messiah, closed down a few years ago.  For decades this was one of the largest congregations in Detroit.  But when the East Side collapsed — a process which actually began soon after World War II, as Detroiters started moving to the suburbs — St. Columba went into a long, slow decline.  When I arrived in 1986, it was just a shadow of its former self.  We offered several significant outreach ministries in that neighborhood, among them a crisis counseling service, a job training and placement service, a resale shop, and a summer program for up to 100 children.  But the congregation, most of whom had grown up at St. Columba, regarded the neighborhood with fear and its residents with suspicion.  For example, if some poor lady with a couple kids in tow came to church on Sunday morning, you could be sure that an usher would hover nearby, probably afraid that she would walk off with a Prayer Book.  If the children made noise, others would glance over their shoulders, and not in order to smile at the newcomers.  You could not have designed a more effective program for telling visitors to leave and never return.  Indeed, it was only in the last couple years of my ministry there that the “old guard” (what remained of them) began to open itself to our neighbors — and by then it was too late.  The parish struggled on long enough to celebrate its 80th anniversary and then closed its doors for good.

 

Now, it’s possible that St. Columba might have been forced to close down even if it had been as open and welcoming as possible to its neighborhood.  The church building was perhaps half again the size of this room, seating about 450, and there was a separate 3-story parish house with a full gymnasium.  The buildings were money pits.  My years at St. Columba convinced me that property is both the glory and the burden of our Church, as it is for many other mainline denominations.  It takes an enormous amount of money just to keep the doors open and the lights on.  In addition, having a seminary-trained priest, as well as other staff, is a high priority for many Episcopal congregations, and that entails a substantial investment in labor.  In many places the demands of building and staff leave only a little money for distribution among several programs, all of which are important.  And that includes outreach to those in need.

 

There are no simple solutions to these problems, especially in an age when people often have other things to do on Sunday morning than come to church.  The present economic downturn and its impact on support for charitable institutions is an added burden, to be sure.  Yet if we take anything from this morning’s reading in the gospel of Mark, perhaps it should be the image of Jesus and his friends going about the Galilee, working with limited resources, spreading the Good News even in the face of skepticism and rejection.  They got the job done.  In fact, I think it’s safe to say that if Jesus had put together a real business plan, and if he had recruited a proper board of directors, and if everyone had kept a close eye on the bottom line — well, then, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here today, because Jesus and his ministry would be long forgotten!

 

As one of my bishops said, “We are not called to be successful, but simply to be faithful.”  If we are faithful to the work our Lord gives us, we will get the job done, too.  Amen. 

 

— The Rev. John E. Laycock, Interim Pastor

 

Readings for Year B, Proper 9:  Lesson — 2 Samuel 5:1-5, 9-10  |  Gradual — Psalm 48  |  Epistle — 2 Corinthians 12:2-10  |  Mark 6:1-13

 

Collect for Proper 9:

O God, you have taught us to keep all your commandments by loving you and our neighbor: Grant us the grace of your Holy Spirit, that we may be devoted to you with our whole heart, and united to one another with pure affection; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.