For one reason or another, the economic crisis that has been whipped into frenzy of late, has brought to light the long-held though that recipients of welfare and other government assistance programs should pass a drug test in order to receive welfare and other governmental assistance. The underlying belief is that those who rely on government assistance programs use drugs at a higher rate than those who do not rely on such programs. Maybe you’ve heard Newt Gingrich, Rick Santorum, and Mitt Romney float this idea in one of the seemingly hourly Republican Presidential Debates?
From my perspective—after all, this is my blog, you you’re stuck with my perspective ☺—the notion of testing recipients of government assistance programs is a bad idea for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that the whole thing is based on a faulty premise. In fact, recipients of government assistance do not use drugs at a higher rate than the general population and, more to my point, even if some were found to be drug users, they should still be entitled to government assistance.
Let’s use Florida for an example. Rick Scott rode the Tea Party wave into the Governor’s office in the November 2010 election cycle. In an effort to fulfill a campaign promise, Scott instituted the policy of testing recipients of government assistance for drug use. The program worked like this: recipients of government assistance would first submit to a drug test in order to receive benefits. The recipients would be responsible for paying for the test (approximately $30). If they passed, they were reimbursed by the State of Florida. If they failed, they were not reimbursed and were not allowed to obtain government benefits.
The prevailing wisdom was that many of the prospective recipients would fail, saving the state tens of thousands of dollars. What happened, however, is that 96% of recipients passed the test, 2% failed, and 2% refused (mostly on 4th amendment grounds) to be tested. After this unexpected result, Florida was faced with a huge bill in order to refund all of the costs associated with the drug tests. The money spent on testing ended up costing more than the money that was saved by denying benefits to 4% of prospective recipients. Oh, and one more little fun fact: the company the State of Florida contracted out to do the testing was the very same company where Governor Rick Scott had been CEO before his election!
Some would argue that if recipients have nothing to hide, they should be happy to be tested. This ignores the issues of invasion of privacy, unlawful search and seizure, and the classist opinion that if I (the taxpayer) am paying for you to have these benefits, you (the recipient) should do what I say! The prevailing misunderstanding about recipients of government aid is that they are lazy, they’ve gotten themselves into their situation, and that they have no motivation to get a job because they can make as much or more from drawing government assistance. I am not naïve. I know that there are people who are recipients of government assistance who are abusing the system and I don’t know if there is an immediate solution to fix the situation. But let’s get serious. The prevailing thoughts on recipients of government assistance clearly amounts to several unhelpful and false stereotypes.
But even if you think all of that is a load of crap, we may be able to come at this controversial position from another angle: namely, the angle of a Christian response. Gustavo Gutierrez, James Cone, Jürgen Moltmann, Dorothy Sölle, and others have written extensively on Liberation Theology. A couple of years ago, Glenn Beck displayed his ignorance by misreading and misapplying James Cone’s understanding of Liberation Theology. Somewhat less famously, Union Theological Seminary (where Cone teaches) offered Beck a scholarship so that he could come and actually learn what Cone had in mind with regard to Liberation Theology… Beck didn’t accept. But I digress…
One of the things that almost all Liberation theologians hold in common is that Jesus Christ has a special relationship with the marginalized. For some, marginalization speaks to matters of gender and sexuality; to others, it speaks to matters of race and class; to others, it speaks to systemic racism and poverty; and to others, it speaks to addiction and substance abuse.
What all of this means is that the seminal mission of Jesus’ ministry on earth was (and is) to overturn earthly systems of injustice, oppression, and marginalization, welcoming into the beloved community those who are customarily excluded. Our likely first thought to that idea may be something to the effect of, “But they don’t deserve it!” But the Kingdom of God and the reign of Christ is not about deservedness, it is about love and relationships.
Of course, Christians have a duty to help those who are suffering from substance abuse to overcome their addictions. But we do not accomplish anything through marginalization and exclusion. We accomplish this through developing a supportive relationship. Laws such as the one on the books in Florida are not only based on false assumptions, they’re rooted in an incoherent and misguided theology.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
A Response To "Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus"
This video, entitled, "Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus" has risen to fame via Facebook and YouTube, almost overnight. Jefferson Bethke is the author of the poem and is also the man performing a dramatic reading of the poem in the video.
I think the beauty of Bethke's poem is that it challenges our most deeply held assumptions about God and the Church. Many of my friends, most of whom are either working for the Church or are in seminary, have wondered aloud about how to respond. Some have shouted, "Amen! Preach on!" Others have said, "not so fast." Others have not said anything at all.
Many of my friends may be able to predict this about me, but I wonder if there is not another, third, way to interpret Bethke's poem? Don't misunderstand: I think he's absolutely correct that the Church has misused its power and authority to do immense harm to God's people. The Church has the blood of scores of thousands on its hands, inciting the crusades of the Middle Ages, the Papal wars over land and property, as well as more localized atrocities, such as the Spanish Inquisitions or the Salem witch trials. The Church has also maintained a tight grip around the throats of many scientists, ethicists, and other social activists who articulated a vision that proposed something other than the Church’s worldview. From Galileo to Newton, from Darwin to Roe v. Wade, from Brown v. Board of Education to Martin Luther King, voices claiming to be aligned with the Church have spoken out in vociferous opposition to change, progress, and equality, doing enormous damage in the name of Christ and his church.
But despite all of that, I think there's still hope for the Church. The Roman Catholic Church is one of the globe's leaders in the fight to eradicate hunger. Many other churches are at work to bring about justice and peace in severely troubled regions. The United Methodist Church has partnered with The Roman Catholic Church and The Episcopal Church to sue for an injunction to stop the racially-charged and grossly dehumanizing Alabama Immigration Law. Things like this give me some glimmer of hope.
I think that Bethke's poem is also right in reminding us that we are undeserving of God's mercy. But what is troubling to me is that Bethke's poem claims that "Christianity is God searching for man," while religion is "man searching for God." After first hearing this, I wasn't quite sure what the difference was. Christianity is, after all, a religion. But then Bethke continues, linking Jesus' death on the cross to his claim about Christianity, that God is searching for humankind.
I've heard this rationale a lot. Jesus died in our place, sacrificing himself so that we do not have to die. It's classic theology. In fact, it was an Archbishop of Canterbury who devised the atonement theory--St. Anselm. But Anselm's reading of Jesus' salvific work on the cross begs other questions that I think Bethke and many others seem to miss. First, if God is all-powerful and all-loving, why did God sacrifice God's own son to save humankind? For utilitarians, this might make sense: do what is best for the greatest number of people. But is God so limited that God could conceive of no other way than to have God's own son tortured and murdered in such a public and humiliating way?
Brace yourself: this Anglican is about to quote some Karl Barth. Barth believed that Jesus could not have come as a response to the sinfulness of humankind. If that were the case, Jesus would have been God's afterthought. Moreover, Jesus could not have come solely to conquer sin and death, because once that was accomplished, Jesus would be useless. Barth contends that Jesus came to create a new way for humankind to be in fellowship with God.
To make myself feel better for resorting to Barth (for my Reformed friends, I hope you know I'm kidding...), let me suggest a second look at Peter Abelard, one of Anselm's contemporaries. Abelard believed that instead of Christ's sacrifice appeasing God, Christ saves humankind through love. Christ's life and ministry were inextricably bound up in love, reconciliation, and liberation. But then again, Abelard really doesn't do justice to the final act of Christ's life: the Passion, death, and resurrection.
So here's my working hypothesis: in order to include both the particular and the universal natures of Christ, Christ as both the human exemplar of liberation and the divine and exalted dispenser of grace and salvation, we must expand our definition of salvation. Our definition of salvation must be both universal and particular in order to be complete. Salvation cannot simply mean that we are saved by what Christ has done in history, nor can it be confined to what Christ is doing now. Salvation must also take on a future, eschatological component: salvation must also be what Christ will do. In short, we have been saved, we are being saved, and we will be saved.
Christ’s salvific actions were begun on the cross, which made way for our universal salvation. Christ is also at work presently, among the oppressed, saving them in a very real, physical sense by virtue of their liberation. But Christ will complete the salvation and redemption of the universe in a future, eschatological realm. At that time, all wrongs will be made right, all evil will be redeemed, and universal salvation for all creation will be accomplished.
Returning to Jefferson Bethke, I think he sells Jesus a little short. I think that the Church, in all of its humanness, its brokenness, and its fickleness, still has the eschatological hope of salvation that Christ promised. I think the Church still has hope of bringing the good news of God in Christ to those who are most in need.
I also think that Bethke misses an essential component of our salvation. Namely, how Christ is saving humankind right now. In feeding the hungry, loosing the bonds of economic, social, and racial injustices, and in sojourning for peace and justice, Christ is sewing salvation into the very fiber of our being, working through us to bring others to God's saving embrace.
Perhaps a more apt name for Bethke's poem would be, "Why I love Jesus, Regardless of the Church."
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Ordination to the Sacred Order of Deacons
Dear friends,
As many of you know, I will be ordained a deacon on January 22 at my home parish in the Diocese of Lexington. I am both thrilled and humbled by this important event in my life and ministry. I am thrilled to be sharing it with so many of my friends and family, but especially with you, the beloved people of The Episcopal Church of the Epiphany! I am looking forward to Sunday, January 29—my first Sunday serving as deacon here at Epiphany—as much, if not more than my ordination!
The ministry of a deacon is one of service—especially to the poor, the weak, the sick, and the lonely. Deacons are to assist bishops and priests in the administration of the sacraments and in the proclamation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. But perhaps most importantly, the deacon is an interpreter to the Church. She or he elucidates the needs, concerns, and hopes of the world. In a sense, it is the deacon’s responsibility to shed light on those places that the Church may have forgotten or overlooked. The deacon is to guide the Church to the places in need of healing, hope, salvation, comfort, and rest. The deacon is called, as we all are, to listen, to seek, and to find those places most in need of the good news of God in Christ.
I am deeply humbled by the trust that the Church has invested in me in ordaining me to this new ministry. But what I have found to be most humbling and life giving is the reality that my ordination is really not about me at all. It’s about you! It’s about all of God’s people! The essence of ordination is not found in vestments, statuses, or titles. Instead, the essence of what ordination really is can be found in something we all share in common: baptism.
Ordination is about empowering all of God’s people to live into the promises of their baptismal covenant in new and extraordinary ways! Baptism is the very fiber that holds our common life as Christians together. God is calling all of us—not just ordained folks—to seek out ways to strengthen our bonds with one another, to build new relationships, and to grow into what the Apostle Paul calls “the full stature of Christ.”
And so, as we continue on this journey together, I wonder where those places are in your life where God is challenging you to grow and to create something new? The season after Epiphany is one of marvelous signs and wonders. I challenge you to keep watch for those marvelous signs and wonders God is working in your own life and in our common life together, both here at Epiphany and in the world around us!
Every blessing,
Marshall
The Feast of Blessed Willibrord of Utrecht
November 9, 2011: Solemn Evensong & Holy Eucharist
Blessed Willibrord of Utrecht
Isaiah 55:1-5; Luke 10:1-9
Cannon Chapel, Candler School of Theology, Emory University
O God, be merciful to us and bless us. Show us the light of your countenance and come to us. Amen.
Tonight, we find Jesus preparing for his long journey to Jerusalem; to the city where he will be greeted with accolades and praises and shouts of hosanna and where the people meet him with palms, shouting triumphantly, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
Of course, in the back of our minds, we all know what comes just a few days later. The shouts of joy turn to shouts of terror and violence. Soon, the people will cry, “Crucify him, crucify him!”
But tonight, as Jesus is preparing to walk the road that will lead to his suffering, his pain, and his death, he takes a moment to address seventy of his friends and followers who are to accompany him along the way.
One might expect Jesus to appoint several people to carry provisions or supplies for the long and hot journey to Jerusalem. One might even expect Jesus to make arrangements for some of his friends to carry tents so that they may spend the night along the road.
But Jesus doesn’t do any of that. In fact, he sends out the faithful with the instruction that they travel with no purse, no bag, and no sandals. And Jesus tells the departing seventy that they are to depend only on the kindness and hospitality of others to sustain them along the way, eating and drinking only that which is put on the table in front of them.
“Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, “The kingdom of God has come near to you.””
Even in the midst of Jesus’ journey into suffering and death, and even in the midst of Luke’s narrative becoming more and more eschatological, Jesus makes a powerful statement urging humility, thankfulness, and graciousness amidst even the most miserable conditions. Even when the stakes are at their highest, even when it has become a matter of life and death, Jesus urges hospitality and openness to the strangers in our midst!
Hospitality, as most of us understand it today, is sharing from one’s abundance; or, the act of those who can afford it, giving to those who are in the greatest need. Such hospitality is vital for our society and vital for us to live out our lives as Christians in faithful obedience to God.
But Luke paints a different portrait of hospitality in this passage. Here, Jesus gives us a glimpse of a type of hospitality that is more mutual; a type of hospitality that is dependent upon the denial of self-indulgence, rather than on donations from our excess.
After all, the houses that the seventy visited were not imperial palaces or mansions of well-to-do first-century Palestinians. The houses where Jesus’ followers would have been welcomed are the houses that barely had enough food to put on the table for their own family, let alone additional hungry and thirsty guests.
Jesus urges the seventy to visit the homes of the men and women who could least afford it. He urges the seventy to be gracious in receiving what their hosts have to offer. And he urges a sense of hospitality that bends social customs and reaches towards mutual respect and love for God. For it is in this mutual relationship that we discover that the kingdom of God comes close to us.
Blessed Willibrord, the saint whose life and ministry we celebrate today, was sent from Northern England to convert the people of present-day Netherlands to Christianity in the seventh and eighth centuries. He never built for himself a palace that would have accompanied his office if he had he remained closer to Rome or England. He never ordered the construction of an enormous cathedral that is fitting of an archbishop’s see. Instead, he constructed numerous small churches and abbeys across the land for the people to gather in community to worship and pray.
Even today, his remains cannot be found in a grand cathedral, but in the quiet abbey that he often visited, seeking retreat and quietness.
Willibrord’s life and legacy is still honored among Christians today in both England and the Netherlands as a sign of their nearly 1500 year-old relationship of mutual hospitality with one another.
His life also serves as a reminder to us, that we are to be gracious guests and hospitable hosts in all that we do, no matter how much or how little we have to offer or how much or how little we receive.
As Willibrord knew well, God is calling each of us to a life of mutuality—a life of sharing graciously with one another. But God is also calling us deeper and deeper into a life of mutuality with Godself.
I often forget this. I suspect that at some time or another, all of us forget this.
But the reality is that we can never experience the fullness of a mutual relationship with one another unless we open our hearts and our minds to experience the fullness of a mutual relationship with God.
In a few moments, we will share in the church’s sacred act of mutual hospitality as we celebrate Christ’s gift and sacrifice of himself in the Holy Eucharist.
As we pray together for the Holy Spirit to bless and sanctify these gifts, we are united at once with each another and with God. It is in these liminal moments that we can glimpse what a life of mutuality really is.
Recall the words of the Prophet Isaiah: “Come, all who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price! Listen carefully and eat what is good! Incline your ear to me; listen, so that you may live!”
As we come to the table, we find ourselves confronted with the reality of our own ungratefulness, but we are nourished by the unsurpassed hospitality and love of Christ Jesus our Lord. And we are reoriented to God so that we may truly live, feasting on that which is very good, indeed.
In this meal, we are met with a host that gives us more than we could ever ask for or desire. And in this meal, we are given the opportunity to begin again—to go forth from this place, reminded of the Risen Lord’s desire to draw us deeper into God’s love for us; and for us to share that love with every person we meet—stranger or not.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine shared with me an ancient hymn written by St. Ephraem who lived in the 4th century in present-day Syria. It reads, “In your bread hides the Spirit that cannot be consumed; in your wine is the fire that cannot be drunk. The Spirit in your bread, the fire in your wine: here is a wonder welcomed by our lips. The seraph could not get his fingers close to the hot coal that could only approach Isaiah's mouth; neither did the fingers take it, nor the lips swallow it; but the Lord granted us the ability to do both things. The fire rained down with anger to destroy the sinners, but the fire of grace comes down on the bread and remains there. Instead of the fire destroying man, we ate the fire in the bread and we were revived.”
When we receive the crisp, dry bread and hear, “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven;” and when we grasp the chalice containing the wine and hear, “The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” we become partakers in the eternal mutuality that is the Risen Lord.
And it is in this banquet that we can hear the words of Christ Jesus, whispering to our hearts: “The Kingdom of God has come near!”
Amen.
Blessed Willibrord of Utrecht
Isaiah 55:1-5; Luke 10:1-9
Cannon Chapel, Candler School of Theology, Emory University
O God, be merciful to us and bless us. Show us the light of your countenance and come to us. Amen.
Tonight, we find Jesus preparing for his long journey to Jerusalem; to the city where he will be greeted with accolades and praises and shouts of hosanna and where the people meet him with palms, shouting triumphantly, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
Of course, in the back of our minds, we all know what comes just a few days later. The shouts of joy turn to shouts of terror and violence. Soon, the people will cry, “Crucify him, crucify him!”
But tonight, as Jesus is preparing to walk the road that will lead to his suffering, his pain, and his death, he takes a moment to address seventy of his friends and followers who are to accompany him along the way.
One might expect Jesus to appoint several people to carry provisions or supplies for the long and hot journey to Jerusalem. One might even expect Jesus to make arrangements for some of his friends to carry tents so that they may spend the night along the road.
But Jesus doesn’t do any of that. In fact, he sends out the faithful with the instruction that they travel with no purse, no bag, and no sandals. And Jesus tells the departing seventy that they are to depend only on the kindness and hospitality of others to sustain them along the way, eating and drinking only that which is put on the table in front of them.
“Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the laborer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, “The kingdom of God has come near to you.””
Even in the midst of Jesus’ journey into suffering and death, and even in the midst of Luke’s narrative becoming more and more eschatological, Jesus makes a powerful statement urging humility, thankfulness, and graciousness amidst even the most miserable conditions. Even when the stakes are at their highest, even when it has become a matter of life and death, Jesus urges hospitality and openness to the strangers in our midst!
Hospitality, as most of us understand it today, is sharing from one’s abundance; or, the act of those who can afford it, giving to those who are in the greatest need. Such hospitality is vital for our society and vital for us to live out our lives as Christians in faithful obedience to God.
But Luke paints a different portrait of hospitality in this passage. Here, Jesus gives us a glimpse of a type of hospitality that is more mutual; a type of hospitality that is dependent upon the denial of self-indulgence, rather than on donations from our excess.
After all, the houses that the seventy visited were not imperial palaces or mansions of well-to-do first-century Palestinians. The houses where Jesus’ followers would have been welcomed are the houses that barely had enough food to put on the table for their own family, let alone additional hungry and thirsty guests.
Jesus urges the seventy to visit the homes of the men and women who could least afford it. He urges the seventy to be gracious in receiving what their hosts have to offer. And he urges a sense of hospitality that bends social customs and reaches towards mutual respect and love for God. For it is in this mutual relationship that we discover that the kingdom of God comes close to us.
Blessed Willibrord, the saint whose life and ministry we celebrate today, was sent from Northern England to convert the people of present-day Netherlands to Christianity in the seventh and eighth centuries. He never built for himself a palace that would have accompanied his office if he had he remained closer to Rome or England. He never ordered the construction of an enormous cathedral that is fitting of an archbishop’s see. Instead, he constructed numerous small churches and abbeys across the land for the people to gather in community to worship and pray.
Even today, his remains cannot be found in a grand cathedral, but in the quiet abbey that he often visited, seeking retreat and quietness.
Willibrord’s life and legacy is still honored among Christians today in both England and the Netherlands as a sign of their nearly 1500 year-old relationship of mutual hospitality with one another.
His life also serves as a reminder to us, that we are to be gracious guests and hospitable hosts in all that we do, no matter how much or how little we have to offer or how much or how little we receive.
As Willibrord knew well, God is calling each of us to a life of mutuality—a life of sharing graciously with one another. But God is also calling us deeper and deeper into a life of mutuality with Godself.
I often forget this. I suspect that at some time or another, all of us forget this.
But the reality is that we can never experience the fullness of a mutual relationship with one another unless we open our hearts and our minds to experience the fullness of a mutual relationship with God.
In a few moments, we will share in the church’s sacred act of mutual hospitality as we celebrate Christ’s gift and sacrifice of himself in the Holy Eucharist.
As we pray together for the Holy Spirit to bless and sanctify these gifts, we are united at once with each another and with God. It is in these liminal moments that we can glimpse what a life of mutuality really is.
Recall the words of the Prophet Isaiah: “Come, all who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price! Listen carefully and eat what is good! Incline your ear to me; listen, so that you may live!”
As we come to the table, we find ourselves confronted with the reality of our own ungratefulness, but we are nourished by the unsurpassed hospitality and love of Christ Jesus our Lord. And we are reoriented to God so that we may truly live, feasting on that which is very good, indeed.
In this meal, we are met with a host that gives us more than we could ever ask for or desire. And in this meal, we are given the opportunity to begin again—to go forth from this place, reminded of the Risen Lord’s desire to draw us deeper into God’s love for us; and for us to share that love with every person we meet—stranger or not.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine shared with me an ancient hymn written by St. Ephraem who lived in the 4th century in present-day Syria. It reads, “In your bread hides the Spirit that cannot be consumed; in your wine is the fire that cannot be drunk. The Spirit in your bread, the fire in your wine: here is a wonder welcomed by our lips. The seraph could not get his fingers close to the hot coal that could only approach Isaiah's mouth; neither did the fingers take it, nor the lips swallow it; but the Lord granted us the ability to do both things. The fire rained down with anger to destroy the sinners, but the fire of grace comes down on the bread and remains there. Instead of the fire destroying man, we ate the fire in the bread and we were revived.”
When we receive the crisp, dry bread and hear, “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven;” and when we grasp the chalice containing the wine and hear, “The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” we become partakers in the eternal mutuality that is the Risen Lord.
And it is in this banquet that we can hear the words of Christ Jesus, whispering to our hearts: “The Kingdom of God has come near!”
Amen.
Sunday, Oct. 23, 2011: Proper 25, Year A
Sunday, 23 October 2011: Holy Eucharist
Proper 25, Year A
Leviticus 19:1-2; 15-18; 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8; Matthew 22:34-46
The Episcopal Church of the Epiphany
O God, be merciful to us and bless us. Show us the light of your countenance and come to us. Amen.
As many of you know, several of our fellow Epiphanites are in the mountains of North Carolina at Kanuga on a parish retreat. Benno and Cynthia are there with them and by most accounts a good time is had by all.
A couple of weeks ago during one of our weekly staff meetings, Benno chided me saying that since I have never been to Kanuga, I didn’t know what I was missing. I smiled and shook my head in agreement, thinking the whole time, “When the Rector’s away, the Seminarian will play…”
So in preparation for a Sunday without the Rector and Associate Rector, Barbara and I thought about choreographing a song and dance number or something to that effect. But once I read the lectionary passages for today and saw Leviticus among the appointed texts, I knew we would have a good time. After all, Leviticus is everybody’s favorite book of the Bible…
In reality, we read from Leviticus about three times in the three-year cycle of our lectionary. In fact, preachers for this Sunday had the option to do away with the reading from Leviticus altogether and substitute a text from Deuteronomy instead. I almost took that path.
Most of the time, I dread reading Leviticus as, I suspect, many of you do, as well. It is full of arcane laws and rules and “you shall not’s.” It is where many of the kosher dietary laws are found. It is where codes of dress and hygiene like the prohibition against men trimming their beards are found. And through the centuries, it has also been the book of choice for those who attempted to use Scripture to marginalize LGBT persons, to exclude women from full status in society, and even to condone the practice of slavery.
And so I groaned when I sat down to read the Scripture passages appointed for today. In fact, when I opened my Bible to read the texts, I started with the Gospel and worked my way backwards.
But when I flipped to Leviticus, I read, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God, am holy.” And I took a long pause… I thought about it… and I kept reading. And I arrived at this verse, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
Suddenly, the Gospel text from Matthew stood out to me in a different way. I could almost see the Pharisees, making one final attempt to get Jesus to commit heresy or treason; one last-ditch effort to be rid of this aggravating radical who was causing such a stir among the people.
They put forward the one among them who knew the law the best; who could fastidiously recite every last detail, to ask Jesus: which was the most important commandment?
Perhaps they expected him to select from the Ten Commandments or from the Holiness Codes. Perhaps they expected him to say something that wasn’t found in Torah at all: something completely new, which would certainly seal Jesus’ fate as a blasphemer and a heretic.
But Jesus didn’t pick from among the Ten Commandments; he didn’t offer something new and different. He quoted Judaism’s most fundamental, ancient, and widely recited Biblical passage, the Shema:
“Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”
“And the second,” Jesus said, “Is like it: you shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the laws and the prophets.”
Jesus quotes two verses that come from the very heart of Torah; one from Deuteronomy and one from our passage from Leviticus. And in doing so, Jesus reminds the Pharisees that all of the laws must be interpreted through the ultimate goal of loving God.
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”
And it is impossible to love God without loving one’s neighbor. “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
Jesus is reminding us of God’s will for us and for our lives. The Catechism found in the back of The Book of Common Prayer refers to Jesus’ two greatest commandments as the Summary of the Law. The Baptismal Covenant, which unites us all as the Body of Christ, requires those being baptized or confirmed to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself.” And on most occasions where The Holy Eucharist is celebrated, we confess to not having loved God or our neighbors, as we ought to have loved them.
This is, more than anything else, the central act of our faith. Loving God and loving neighbor!
But of course, the difficulty is in how we go about doing it…
Surely, we say, there must be some sort of hedge set around who is our neighbor and who is not our neighbor.
Surely, we say, what appears as “love” in English actually means “forbearance” or perhaps “tolerance.” What God is really saying is that we must tolerate those people with whom we struggle. That’s love, right?
Surely in order to maintain our holiness, God means for us to separate ourselves from those who do not live as we live or act as we act.
There is certainly a case for this in reading Leviticus! God commands Israel not to eat certain foods, not to engage in certain behaviors, and not to compromise their own holiness. Translated into a modern context, this is read as a justification for separation; a justification to take on God’s call to holiness by remaining separate from that which is not holy; or that which is other.
This is also what happens when we attempt to turn our fears into theology. If we associate with people who are unholy, we may become unholy. If we associate with people who are sinful, we may become sinful.
But the problem with this theology is that it puts limits on God’s commandments. It sets a boundary around who is a neighbor and who is not a neighbor. And it translates love as a passive and fickle means of toleration, rather than an active, barrier-shattering call to reconciliation, wholeness, and ultimately, holiness.
Neither Leviticus nor Jesus has any interest in passive love… The love that Jesus proclaims and that Leviticus commands is an active, personal, love that tears down boundaries and challenges our misgivings.
Active love is inextricably bound up in the work of reconciliation, which is always messy. And it necessitates that we engage with the ugliness, the brokenness, and the sinfulness of the world in order to create a kingdom built on justice and peace, rather than the preservation of the status quo.
“You shall be holy for I, the Lord your God am Holy” is about justicemaking, peacemaking, and restoring God’s kingdom.
Rather than a command to maintain a flawed notion of holiness according to human standards, this is an invitation to holiness in accordance with God’s standards!
Perhaps I have been misreading Leviticus. And perhaps the church has, too. If we read Leviticus as an invitation to holiness instead of a commandment of separateness and judgment, we can begin to understand that in order for our relationship with God to be holy, our relationships with one another must be holy. And that begins with love. Active, reconciling, ugly, messy, forgiving, hard, boundary-less…love.
Leviticus moves us towards an understanding of neighbor that includes the persons who live near us and are like us, as well as those who are far from us and unlike us.
Leviticus says the poor and the alien should be fed from the edges of the fields, the gleanings of the harvest, the fallen grapes of the vineyard [1].
Leviticus says the neighbor shall not be defrauded, and makes clear that it is wrong to keep a laborer’s wages until morning, to revile the deaf, or to put a stumbling block before the blind [2].
Leviticus says you shall not be partial to the poor or defer to the great; neighbors are to be treated with justice; they shall not be used for profit [3].
And Leviticus says you shall not oppress aliens, they shall be treated as citizens among you, and you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt [4].
It appears as though the neighborhood in Leviticus is a lot larger than the neighborhood where we live.
But our work must begin here, at The Episcopal Church of the Epiphany, with you and with me. After all, if we cannot love one another in our parish community, how can we have any hope of loving those in the neighborhood that are most unlike us?
We here at Epiphany take our work in the larger neighborhood very seriously. In my three years here, I have been deeply moved by the caring relationship we maintain with our larger neighborhood. The list of outreach ministries, clothing drives, food drives, and other valuable ministries goes on and on.
But there are always areas where we can do better; where we can treat each other better. Perhaps it comes in the form of introducing yourself to someone you haven’t met. Perhaps it comes in the form of getting involved in a new type of ministry. Or perhaps it comes in the form of letting go of past hurts and grievances so that healing and reconciliation can begin.
Sometimes, loving our neighbor begins with forgiving our neighbor. After all, forgiveness is the very incarnation of love. But let no one tell you that forgiveness is always easy or neat or tidy. More often than not, it is exactly the opposite: painful, messy, and ugly.
But without it, we have no hope. We have no hope of reconciliation, of love, of wholeness, and most of all, no hope of holiness.
When my wife Shayanna and I were preparing the final details of our wedding, the priest who blessed our marriage sat down with us and reminded us of a very important fact.
“You know, Episcopalians aren’t fond of the words, ‘I do.’ We don’t say it at weddings, we don’t say it at baptisms, and we don’t say it at ordinations. Instead, we say, ‘I will.’ The difference is that although the latter may take longer, it allows for grace. It allows for mistakes and fights and hurt feelings and shortcomings and forgiveness and apologies and reconciliation, with the constant understanding that we’ll get it right sooner or later; in this life or in the next.”
“You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy.”
Indeed, we shall.
Amen.
[1] Leviticus 19:9-10
[2] Leviticus 19:13-14
[3] Leviticus 19:15-16
[4] Leviticus 19:33-34
Proper 25, Year A
Leviticus 19:1-2; 15-18; 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8; Matthew 22:34-46
The Episcopal Church of the Epiphany
O God, be merciful to us and bless us. Show us the light of your countenance and come to us. Amen.
As many of you know, several of our fellow Epiphanites are in the mountains of North Carolina at Kanuga on a parish retreat. Benno and Cynthia are there with them and by most accounts a good time is had by all.
A couple of weeks ago during one of our weekly staff meetings, Benno chided me saying that since I have never been to Kanuga, I didn’t know what I was missing. I smiled and shook my head in agreement, thinking the whole time, “When the Rector’s away, the Seminarian will play…”
So in preparation for a Sunday without the Rector and Associate Rector, Barbara and I thought about choreographing a song and dance number or something to that effect. But once I read the lectionary passages for today and saw Leviticus among the appointed texts, I knew we would have a good time. After all, Leviticus is everybody’s favorite book of the Bible…
In reality, we read from Leviticus about three times in the three-year cycle of our lectionary. In fact, preachers for this Sunday had the option to do away with the reading from Leviticus altogether and substitute a text from Deuteronomy instead. I almost took that path.
Most of the time, I dread reading Leviticus as, I suspect, many of you do, as well. It is full of arcane laws and rules and “you shall not’s.” It is where many of the kosher dietary laws are found. It is where codes of dress and hygiene like the prohibition against men trimming their beards are found. And through the centuries, it has also been the book of choice for those who attempted to use Scripture to marginalize LGBT persons, to exclude women from full status in society, and even to condone the practice of slavery.
And so I groaned when I sat down to read the Scripture passages appointed for today. In fact, when I opened my Bible to read the texts, I started with the Gospel and worked my way backwards.
But when I flipped to Leviticus, I read, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God, am holy.” And I took a long pause… I thought about it… and I kept reading. And I arrived at this verse, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
Suddenly, the Gospel text from Matthew stood out to me in a different way. I could almost see the Pharisees, making one final attempt to get Jesus to commit heresy or treason; one last-ditch effort to be rid of this aggravating radical who was causing such a stir among the people.
They put forward the one among them who knew the law the best; who could fastidiously recite every last detail, to ask Jesus: which was the most important commandment?
Perhaps they expected him to select from the Ten Commandments or from the Holiness Codes. Perhaps they expected him to say something that wasn’t found in Torah at all: something completely new, which would certainly seal Jesus’ fate as a blasphemer and a heretic.
But Jesus didn’t pick from among the Ten Commandments; he didn’t offer something new and different. He quoted Judaism’s most fundamental, ancient, and widely recited Biblical passage, the Shema:
“Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”
“And the second,” Jesus said, “Is like it: you shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the laws and the prophets.”
Jesus quotes two verses that come from the very heart of Torah; one from Deuteronomy and one from our passage from Leviticus. And in doing so, Jesus reminds the Pharisees that all of the laws must be interpreted through the ultimate goal of loving God.
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”
And it is impossible to love God without loving one’s neighbor. “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
Jesus is reminding us of God’s will for us and for our lives. The Catechism found in the back of The Book of Common Prayer refers to Jesus’ two greatest commandments as the Summary of the Law. The Baptismal Covenant, which unites us all as the Body of Christ, requires those being baptized or confirmed to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself.” And on most occasions where The Holy Eucharist is celebrated, we confess to not having loved God or our neighbors, as we ought to have loved them.
This is, more than anything else, the central act of our faith. Loving God and loving neighbor!
But of course, the difficulty is in how we go about doing it…
Surely, we say, there must be some sort of hedge set around who is our neighbor and who is not our neighbor.
Surely, we say, what appears as “love” in English actually means “forbearance” or perhaps “tolerance.” What God is really saying is that we must tolerate those people with whom we struggle. That’s love, right?
Surely in order to maintain our holiness, God means for us to separate ourselves from those who do not live as we live or act as we act.
There is certainly a case for this in reading Leviticus! God commands Israel not to eat certain foods, not to engage in certain behaviors, and not to compromise their own holiness. Translated into a modern context, this is read as a justification for separation; a justification to take on God’s call to holiness by remaining separate from that which is not holy; or that which is other.
This is also what happens when we attempt to turn our fears into theology. If we associate with people who are unholy, we may become unholy. If we associate with people who are sinful, we may become sinful.
But the problem with this theology is that it puts limits on God’s commandments. It sets a boundary around who is a neighbor and who is not a neighbor. And it translates love as a passive and fickle means of toleration, rather than an active, barrier-shattering call to reconciliation, wholeness, and ultimately, holiness.
Neither Leviticus nor Jesus has any interest in passive love… The love that Jesus proclaims and that Leviticus commands is an active, personal, love that tears down boundaries and challenges our misgivings.
Active love is inextricably bound up in the work of reconciliation, which is always messy. And it necessitates that we engage with the ugliness, the brokenness, and the sinfulness of the world in order to create a kingdom built on justice and peace, rather than the preservation of the status quo.
“You shall be holy for I, the Lord your God am Holy” is about justicemaking, peacemaking, and restoring God’s kingdom.
Rather than a command to maintain a flawed notion of holiness according to human standards, this is an invitation to holiness in accordance with God’s standards!
Perhaps I have been misreading Leviticus. And perhaps the church has, too. If we read Leviticus as an invitation to holiness instead of a commandment of separateness and judgment, we can begin to understand that in order for our relationship with God to be holy, our relationships with one another must be holy. And that begins with love. Active, reconciling, ugly, messy, forgiving, hard, boundary-less…love.
Leviticus moves us towards an understanding of neighbor that includes the persons who live near us and are like us, as well as those who are far from us and unlike us.
Leviticus says the poor and the alien should be fed from the edges of the fields, the gleanings of the harvest, the fallen grapes of the vineyard [1].
Leviticus says the neighbor shall not be defrauded, and makes clear that it is wrong to keep a laborer’s wages until morning, to revile the deaf, or to put a stumbling block before the blind [2].
Leviticus says you shall not be partial to the poor or defer to the great; neighbors are to be treated with justice; they shall not be used for profit [3].
And Leviticus says you shall not oppress aliens, they shall be treated as citizens among you, and you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt [4].
It appears as though the neighborhood in Leviticus is a lot larger than the neighborhood where we live.
But our work must begin here, at The Episcopal Church of the Epiphany, with you and with me. After all, if we cannot love one another in our parish community, how can we have any hope of loving those in the neighborhood that are most unlike us?
We here at Epiphany take our work in the larger neighborhood very seriously. In my three years here, I have been deeply moved by the caring relationship we maintain with our larger neighborhood. The list of outreach ministries, clothing drives, food drives, and other valuable ministries goes on and on.
But there are always areas where we can do better; where we can treat each other better. Perhaps it comes in the form of introducing yourself to someone you haven’t met. Perhaps it comes in the form of getting involved in a new type of ministry. Or perhaps it comes in the form of letting go of past hurts and grievances so that healing and reconciliation can begin.
Sometimes, loving our neighbor begins with forgiving our neighbor. After all, forgiveness is the very incarnation of love. But let no one tell you that forgiveness is always easy or neat or tidy. More often than not, it is exactly the opposite: painful, messy, and ugly.
But without it, we have no hope. We have no hope of reconciliation, of love, of wholeness, and most of all, no hope of holiness.
When my wife Shayanna and I were preparing the final details of our wedding, the priest who blessed our marriage sat down with us and reminded us of a very important fact.
“You know, Episcopalians aren’t fond of the words, ‘I do.’ We don’t say it at weddings, we don’t say it at baptisms, and we don’t say it at ordinations. Instead, we say, ‘I will.’ The difference is that although the latter may take longer, it allows for grace. It allows for mistakes and fights and hurt feelings and shortcomings and forgiveness and apologies and reconciliation, with the constant understanding that we’ll get it right sooner or later; in this life or in the next.”
“You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy.”
Indeed, we shall.
Amen.
[1] Leviticus 19:9-10
[2] Leviticus 19:13-14
[3] Leviticus 19:15-16
[4] Leviticus 19:33-34
Thursday, July 14, 2011
A Reflection from Clinical Pastoral Education
It’s 3:00 AM. I’ve been here since 5:00 PM yesterday and I’ll go home at 12:00 PM this afternoon. The pager has gone off six times, I’ve prayed with four families, and have joined in celebrating the lives of two remarkable women whose lives ended tonight at the hospital. It has actually been a relatively quiet night. I’ve gotten more than four hours of sleep and I’m only writing now because I can’t go back to sleep just yet.
I think I mentioned when I started blogging that it was going to be an experiment. So far, it has been. I’ve not been the most faithful at writing on it, but I never am. I’ve tried journaling at least a half-dozen times and it comes and goes in waves. Sometimes I write, sometimes I don’t. But tonight, I felt like writing. I won’t feel like this every night, I don’t expect, but tonight, writing is in order.
There is a prayer that I’ve loved for many years that reads, “Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work or watch or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ, give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your Love’s sake. Amen.”
I’ve said that prayer countless times. For Episcopalians, it comes at the close of Evening Prayer, which should be a daily routine for me—but it isn’t, I’m afraid. Tonight, though, for the first time, I prayed that prayer. Sure, I’ve said it a bunch, I’ve even chanted it as a collect during Evensong, and I’ve written it more times than I care to remember. But tonight I prayed it.
Before tonight, I thought I was praying it. I thought I understood what those words really meant. And maybe I did. Maybe I had been praying it all this time and I’m now suddenly praying it a different way or with a different meaning in mind. But for tonight, those words pressed upon my heart when I uttered them. They held me closely; they gave me comfort. But they also frightened me because tonight, I am working and watching and weeping. Tonight, I am living into my baptism in a new way. And I’ve never been more afraid and more humbled and more aware of God’s presence than I am right now.
I think I mentioned when I started blogging that it was going to be an experiment. So far, it has been. I’ve not been the most faithful at writing on it, but I never am. I’ve tried journaling at least a half-dozen times and it comes and goes in waves. Sometimes I write, sometimes I don’t. But tonight, I felt like writing. I won’t feel like this every night, I don’t expect, but tonight, writing is in order.
There is a prayer that I’ve loved for many years that reads, “Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work or watch or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ, give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your Love’s sake. Amen.”
I’ve said that prayer countless times. For Episcopalians, it comes at the close of Evening Prayer, which should be a daily routine for me—but it isn’t, I’m afraid. Tonight, though, for the first time, I prayed that prayer. Sure, I’ve said it a bunch, I’ve even chanted it as a collect during Evensong, and I’ve written it more times than I care to remember. But tonight I prayed it.
Before tonight, I thought I was praying it. I thought I understood what those words really meant. And maybe I did. Maybe I had been praying it all this time and I’m now suddenly praying it a different way or with a different meaning in mind. But for tonight, those words pressed upon my heart when I uttered them. They held me closely; they gave me comfort. But they also frightened me because tonight, I am working and watching and weeping. Tonight, I am living into my baptism in a new way. And I’ve never been more afraid and more humbled and more aware of God’s presence than I am right now.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Sermon for the Last Sunday after Epiphany
O God, be merciful to us and bless us. Show us the light of your countenance and come to us. Amen.
About two weeks ago, I got a frantic call from my brother at 8:30 in the morning. It took me a little by surprise because he is a freshman at the University of Kentucky and I remember my freshman year, so I wasn’t quite sure why he was awake and calling me before noon.
“Hello?” I said.
“Marshall!” He yelled! “Is today Ash Wednesday?”
“No,” I said, “You’ve got two more weeks. It’s later than normal this year.”
He was relieved. He was supposed to serve at the morning Ash Wednesday service at his church and he was afraid he’d missed it.
I’m sure many of you have also noticed how late Ash Wednesday is this year, as well. The Church’s liturgical calendar makes the season after Epiphany a little flexible. It can have as many as nine Sundays, but we almost never get to the ninth one. Last year, we got through six Sundays, seven the year before that, and only four in 2008.
But this year is different. We get all nine Sundays. And so here we are: the ninth and last Sunday after Epiphany—and the last Sunday before Lent.
All of today’s Scripture readings point to a place of transition and transformation in the lives of God’s people: the mountaintop.
Moses goes to the mountaintop to be with God and to receive the Ten Commandments.
Second Peter retells the Gospel account of Christ’s transfiguration on the mountaintop.
And Matthew tells us of Jesus, Peter, James, and John journeying to the mountaintop, where Jesus is transfigured before their very eyes.
On this last Sunday before Lent, we gather at the mountaintop for a transformational experience with Jesus, before we begin our Lenten journeys to Jerusalem, and at last, the cross.
By next Sunday, our church will appear quite different, making a transformation of its own.
We’ll trade in our bright and festive green vestments for deep purple, red, and sackcloth. We’ll exchange the brass candleholders and missal stand for plain white candles and a plain white pillow. The altar cross will be shrouded with a heavy cloth. Our children will make Alleluia banners that will be buried in the garden outside, a symbolic gesture that marks our move from the festive “Alleluia” to Lent’s “Lord Have Mercy.”
And on Wednesday, we will gather to mark our foreheads with ashes, hearing the fateful words, “Remember that you are but dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Lent weighs heavily on us. We hear and see things during Lent that are hard for us. With each passing week of our Lenten journey, we get closer and closer to Jerusalem, where on Palm Sunday, we greet our Lord with palm branches, singing “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” and then seal his fate, shouting “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
For many of us, the violence of the cross is too horrific, too difficult, and we’d much prefer to ignore it and go straight to Easter Sunday, replete with the beautiful music, the lovely baptisms, and the fragrant flowers.
But as much as we might like to try, there is nothing we can do to change the fate of our Lord. Resurrection cannot come without death. Redemption cannot come without suffering and loss.
And so, Lent beckons us to recall the suffering and loss of our Lord Jesus. Lent beckons us to travel again to Jerusalem. And yes, Lent beckons us to come face to face with the horrifying reality of the cross.
And so we begin our preparation for the journey today: with the somewhat familiar story of Jesus’ glorious transfiguration on the mountaintop. The gospel tells us that his face shone like the sun and his clothes became dazzling white.
But that’s not really the whole story. Although it may be easy to imagine that Jesus and Peter, James, and John went happily to the mountaintop, the reality is that their journey to the mountaintop was shrouded with fear, anxiety, and even a bit of anger.
Matthew chapter 16 reveals that before Jesus leads Peter, James, and John to the mountaintop, he foretells his own death on the cross. Peter, stricken with fear, says, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you!”
But Jesus’ death is imminent and there is nothing that the disciples can do to stop it.
And so, the reality of the transfiguration story is that Jesus is leading Peter, James, and John to the top of the mountain, as they come to grips with the fact that their beloved Lord will soon die an excruciating death and that their lives as his disciples will never be the same.
When they reached the top of the mountain, the Gospel tells us that Jesus was transfigured before them and Moses and Elijah appeared. As the disciples beheld their Lord, they realized they were in the very presence of God.
But even in this incredible moment of divine revelation, Peter could not forget what Jesus had told them before they came to the mountain. “Lord, it is good for us to be here,” Peter said, “If you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
I wonder if the reason Peter offered to make three dwellings for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah lay in the fact that he wanted desperately to stay there on the mountain, where it was safe, protecting Jesus from what was to come?
Just then, the disciples heard a voice from a cloud, saying: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”
At this, the Gospel says, “They fell to the ground and were overcome by fear.”
But then, something happened. In the midst of their horror, their fear, and their sense of loss, Jesus reached out and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”
About a year ago, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She has always been a fiercely independent woman. She went back to school in her fifties, raised six children, and had a hand in raising five more grandchildren, including my brother and me. But my favorite thing about her has always been her infectious sense of humor.
After we learned of the diagnosis, I went to visit her. As I sat in her living room, I was struggling to talk about her prognosis without weeping. I was afraid for her. I was afraid for me.
But in that moment of immense fear and anxiety, she reached over and grabbed my hand and said, “Marshall, don’t worry about me. As long as I keep my sense of humor, I’ll be fine.”
While facing her own mortality, she reached out to comfort me in my moment of fear and loss. She, the one who had been diagnosed with this terrible disease, reached out her hand to comfort me.
In that moment of deep anxiety and fear, I found myself in the same place that the disciples found themselves: confronted with the life-giving reality of a God, who, even in the face of death itself, will not let us stand alone.
The Reverend Maryetta Anschutz is a priest of the Church who refers to this as the “paradox of the transfiguration.” On the one hand, the disciples can do nothing to shield themselves and to shield Jesus from the sorrow and suffering of the coming days.
But on the other hand, there is also no way that the disciples can shield themselves from the blinding love of God that sheds the light of hope on their very darkest moments.
On any given day, we may come to a place where we are utterly broken. Whether it is the loss of a loved one, the loss of a job, or the anxiety of mounting financial burdens, every single one of us will find ourselves, at some point or another, in desperate need of hope.
The miracle of the transfiguration is that our God does not remain on the mountaintop. The light of Christ dwells within each of us and, while we may from time to time feel as though we can go no further, that we are broken beyond repair, the words of God ring down from the mountain, falling upon each and every one of us: “You are my children! My beloved, with whom I am well pleased!” God reminds us that there is nothing in this world that is beyond God’s redemption.
Transfiguration occurs for each one of us when we realize that the love of God is beyond our wildest understanding and that there is nothing we can do to escape it.
God will find us in our homes and in our workplaces. God will find us when our hearts have been broken, and God will find us in our moments of greatest joy.
God will find us in the moments that we try the hardest to run away.
And God will find us when we are in the deepest depths of despair.
And God will reach out God’s hand and say, “Get up and do not be afraid!”
Amen.
About two weeks ago, I got a frantic call from my brother at 8:30 in the morning. It took me a little by surprise because he is a freshman at the University of Kentucky and I remember my freshman year, so I wasn’t quite sure why he was awake and calling me before noon.
“Hello?” I said.
“Marshall!” He yelled! “Is today Ash Wednesday?”
“No,” I said, “You’ve got two more weeks. It’s later than normal this year.”
He was relieved. He was supposed to serve at the morning Ash Wednesday service at his church and he was afraid he’d missed it.
I’m sure many of you have also noticed how late Ash Wednesday is this year, as well. The Church’s liturgical calendar makes the season after Epiphany a little flexible. It can have as many as nine Sundays, but we almost never get to the ninth one. Last year, we got through six Sundays, seven the year before that, and only four in 2008.
But this year is different. We get all nine Sundays. And so here we are: the ninth and last Sunday after Epiphany—and the last Sunday before Lent.
All of today’s Scripture readings point to a place of transition and transformation in the lives of God’s people: the mountaintop.
Moses goes to the mountaintop to be with God and to receive the Ten Commandments.
Second Peter retells the Gospel account of Christ’s transfiguration on the mountaintop.
And Matthew tells us of Jesus, Peter, James, and John journeying to the mountaintop, where Jesus is transfigured before their very eyes.
On this last Sunday before Lent, we gather at the mountaintop for a transformational experience with Jesus, before we begin our Lenten journeys to Jerusalem, and at last, the cross.
By next Sunday, our church will appear quite different, making a transformation of its own.
We’ll trade in our bright and festive green vestments for deep purple, red, and sackcloth. We’ll exchange the brass candleholders and missal stand for plain white candles and a plain white pillow. The altar cross will be shrouded with a heavy cloth. Our children will make Alleluia banners that will be buried in the garden outside, a symbolic gesture that marks our move from the festive “Alleluia” to Lent’s “Lord Have Mercy.”
And on Wednesday, we will gather to mark our foreheads with ashes, hearing the fateful words, “Remember that you are but dust, and to dust you shall return.”
Lent weighs heavily on us. We hear and see things during Lent that are hard for us. With each passing week of our Lenten journey, we get closer and closer to Jerusalem, where on Palm Sunday, we greet our Lord with palm branches, singing “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” and then seal his fate, shouting “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
For many of us, the violence of the cross is too horrific, too difficult, and we’d much prefer to ignore it and go straight to Easter Sunday, replete with the beautiful music, the lovely baptisms, and the fragrant flowers.
But as much as we might like to try, there is nothing we can do to change the fate of our Lord. Resurrection cannot come without death. Redemption cannot come without suffering and loss.
And so, Lent beckons us to recall the suffering and loss of our Lord Jesus. Lent beckons us to travel again to Jerusalem. And yes, Lent beckons us to come face to face with the horrifying reality of the cross.
And so we begin our preparation for the journey today: with the somewhat familiar story of Jesus’ glorious transfiguration on the mountaintop. The gospel tells us that his face shone like the sun and his clothes became dazzling white.
But that’s not really the whole story. Although it may be easy to imagine that Jesus and Peter, James, and John went happily to the mountaintop, the reality is that their journey to the mountaintop was shrouded with fear, anxiety, and even a bit of anger.
Matthew chapter 16 reveals that before Jesus leads Peter, James, and John to the mountaintop, he foretells his own death on the cross. Peter, stricken with fear, says, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you!”
But Jesus’ death is imminent and there is nothing that the disciples can do to stop it.
And so, the reality of the transfiguration story is that Jesus is leading Peter, James, and John to the top of the mountain, as they come to grips with the fact that their beloved Lord will soon die an excruciating death and that their lives as his disciples will never be the same.
When they reached the top of the mountain, the Gospel tells us that Jesus was transfigured before them and Moses and Elijah appeared. As the disciples beheld their Lord, they realized they were in the very presence of God.
But even in this incredible moment of divine revelation, Peter could not forget what Jesus had told them before they came to the mountain. “Lord, it is good for us to be here,” Peter said, “If you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
I wonder if the reason Peter offered to make three dwellings for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah lay in the fact that he wanted desperately to stay there on the mountain, where it was safe, protecting Jesus from what was to come?
Just then, the disciples heard a voice from a cloud, saying: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”
At this, the Gospel says, “They fell to the ground and were overcome by fear.”
But then, something happened. In the midst of their horror, their fear, and their sense of loss, Jesus reached out and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.”
About a year ago, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She has always been a fiercely independent woman. She went back to school in her fifties, raised six children, and had a hand in raising five more grandchildren, including my brother and me. But my favorite thing about her has always been her infectious sense of humor.
After we learned of the diagnosis, I went to visit her. As I sat in her living room, I was struggling to talk about her prognosis without weeping. I was afraid for her. I was afraid for me.
But in that moment of immense fear and anxiety, she reached over and grabbed my hand and said, “Marshall, don’t worry about me. As long as I keep my sense of humor, I’ll be fine.”
While facing her own mortality, she reached out to comfort me in my moment of fear and loss. She, the one who had been diagnosed with this terrible disease, reached out her hand to comfort me.
In that moment of deep anxiety and fear, I found myself in the same place that the disciples found themselves: confronted with the life-giving reality of a God, who, even in the face of death itself, will not let us stand alone.
The Reverend Maryetta Anschutz is a priest of the Church who refers to this as the “paradox of the transfiguration.” On the one hand, the disciples can do nothing to shield themselves and to shield Jesus from the sorrow and suffering of the coming days.
But on the other hand, there is also no way that the disciples can shield themselves from the blinding love of God that sheds the light of hope on their very darkest moments.
On any given day, we may come to a place where we are utterly broken. Whether it is the loss of a loved one, the loss of a job, or the anxiety of mounting financial burdens, every single one of us will find ourselves, at some point or another, in desperate need of hope.
The miracle of the transfiguration is that our God does not remain on the mountaintop. The light of Christ dwells within each of us and, while we may from time to time feel as though we can go no further, that we are broken beyond repair, the words of God ring down from the mountain, falling upon each and every one of us: “You are my children! My beloved, with whom I am well pleased!” God reminds us that there is nothing in this world that is beyond God’s redemption.
Transfiguration occurs for each one of us when we realize that the love of God is beyond our wildest understanding and that there is nothing we can do to escape it.
God will find us in our homes and in our workplaces. God will find us when our hearts have been broken, and God will find us in our moments of greatest joy.
God will find us in the moments that we try the hardest to run away.
And God will find us when we are in the deepest depths of despair.
And God will reach out God’s hand and say, “Get up and do not be afraid!”
Amen.
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