Christ the King Episcopal Church, Stone Ridge, NY
The Rev. Alison Quin
RCL - Lent 5 C - Sunday 21 March 2010
The Rev. Alison Quin often ministers to the Monastery community by celebrating the Eucharist for us on Friday mornings. She is the Rector of Christ the King parish in nearby Stone Ridge, NY. This sermon was written as a prose poem.
Isaiah 43:16-21
Philippians 3:4b-14
John 12: 1-8
Lazarus’ ragged breathing was the only sound in the room.
His sisters kept an agonized vigil at his side,
rising only to send for Jesus.
“Quick, run, bring him here.
Tell him Lazarus is dying!”
But Jesus didn’t come.
Lazarus drew his last breath.
An air of unreality descending,
the sisters began doing last things.
Washing and anointing their brother’s body,
trying to memorize the beloved face,
before covering it for all time with a cloth,
before they laid him in the tomb.
Friends and neighbors gathered,
bringing food, trying to console.
The wailing of the mourners was punctuated by silence
and then voices talking in hushed whispers
as if to avoid waking the dead man.
“Jesus is on his way!” cried one voice.
Martha rushed to meet him.
“Lord, if you had been here,
my brother would not have died.”
If you had been here…
Why weren’t you here?
Why?
Jesus answers with an enigma:
“I am resurrection and I am life.
Whoever believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?”
Martha believed—a miracle of faith
in a cloud of uncomprehending grief.
Mary came out next, weeping.
“Lord, if you had been here,
my brother would not have died.”
This time, the words pierced his heart
and Jesus wept as they led him
to the tomb where Lazarus lay.
“Take away the stone.”
“But he has been dead for four days!
The stench will be terrible.”
“Take away the stone.”
So they did.
“Lazarus, come out!”
Lazarus came out, weak, stumbling,
fingers fumbling at the cloth over his face.
Lazarus, impossibly alive again,
his mortal self reconstituted
by the Son of God, the Giver of Life.
The sisters, who went out weeping,
helped carry him home with shouts of joy.
Word got around: he even raises the dead!
Some were afraid—if we let him go on, everyone will believe in him.
And then the Romans will destroy all of us.
So from that day on, they planned to put him to death.
Jesus went away for a while with his disciples,
until it was time.
(We know what time that was—the shadow of the cross
still falls across our paths.)
Now he is at Bethany,
At dinner with Lazarus and the twelve,
with Mary and Martha,
celebrating the dying and rising.
Did they remember what Jesus had told them,
that he would die and rise again?
Did they sense that time past
and time future
and time present
were gathered into this one moment?
Or did their hearts fail them
when they looked into the abyss
and strained to take in the mystery
of joy and suffering held together
in the mind and heart of God?
Did they will themselves not to think about
what Jesus said
about his death?
At the house in Bethany, Lazarus and his sisters
already knew about
waiting for God
when all hope was extinguished.
Death and resurrection
was already written on their hearts,
and they believed.
Mary rushed to the shelf
where she kept her ointment;
the expensive stuff she was saving for her wedding.
She did what she could for Jesus.
She reached for him during his hour
and anointed him for his burial.
Her love was extravagant:
a whole pound of ointment!
Kneeling at his feet like a slave,
she wiped his feet with her hair,
A gesture of absurd intimacy.
The others averted their eyes, embarrassed,
except for Judas, who was angry
and scolded her.
The early church thought it was greed
that motivated him.
They accused him of stealing.
But maybe he was shocked and afraid
That Jesus would choose the path of suffering,
without even trying to resist the oppressors.
Maybe he could not bear
the awful mystery of death
(and such a death!)
leading to life.
Don’t our hearts quail before that mystery too?
Don’t we long for Easter without Good Friday?
And what about the poor?
“The poor will be with you always.”
Did Jesus really mean to condone poverty
and authorize the church to
spend money on luxuries?
Or was he simply reminding us,
in our abstract struggle for justice,
not to overlook the one standing
in front of us,
the one who needs our love?
Do we dare take that person’s hand,
and look with her into the abyss?
Can we kneel at her feet
and humbly serve, like Mary
and like Jesus?
Do we dare to love that one with abandon,
doing what we can,
spending what we have?
Could Judas and Mary be reconciled after all these years?
Can righteousness and mercy kiss each other?
And there is another question too:
can we let ourselves be loved with abandon,
as we face the various deaths in our lives?
Can we bear the intimacy and extravagance of God’s love,
revealed in the person kneeling at our feet?
Do we dare to believe, like Mary,
that dying with Christ,
we will be raised with him to new life?
Blessed, blessed is she who believed.
wherever the gospel is proclaimed
In the whole world,
What she has done will be told in remembrance of her.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
RCL - Lent 5 C - 21 Mar 2010
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Adam McCoy, OHC
RCL - Lent 5 C - Sunday 21 March 2010
Isaiah 43:16-21
Philippians 3:4b-14
John 12: 1-8
I want to begin with an apology to the scripture scholars. Today’s Gospel reading is deeply complex when read alongside the other three Gospels. It occurs at structurally the same place - at the beginning of the Passion narrative, immediately after the authorities determine to have Jesus killed - in Mark, Matthew and John, but, strangely, it does not occur in Luke. In all three it is in Bethany, but in Mark and Matthew this event happens at the house of Simon the leper, while in John it seems to be at the house of Mary and Martha.
In Mark and Matthew the woman pours the ointment on Jesus’ head and is unnamed, while in John it is Mary, and she anoints his feet with her hair. Not only that, but this story in John is explicitly and a little awkwardly, linked to the story of the raising of Lazarus, which itself references this story. And to top it off, here are Martha and Mary acting precisely as Luke tells the story of their characters in another visit of Jesus to their house, one which does not occur in John. Many articles, even books, have doubtless emerged from these interconnections.
In the golden age of Anglican preaching, in the sixteenth and in the seventeenth and in the eighteenth and in the nineteenth and in the early twentieth centuries, we would have had time to explore these mysteries in depth, because the congregation would have been disappointed if the sermon ran less than an hour, and would have been back at Sunday afternoon service for a second, possibly longer, dose.
We could have strolled hand in hand together down the pleasant lanes of biblical textual investigation for hours. But I learned in seminary that eyes would begin to glaze at ten minutes and rustling and coughing at twelve, with outright rebellion at fifteen. I am sure those times have not lengthened since then. So let us confine our attentions to the story in John as it meets us, without further complications.
As we hear John’s version of the dinner at Bethany, we are probably trained by past experience to notice the extravagant woman, and to wonder if this is Mary Magdalene, traditionally associated with the other two versions of the story. But it is Mary of Bethany, at Jesus’ feet while her sister Martha serves dinner. For two millenia the Contemplative and the Active, an argument about the fruits of the gospel, are prefigured in these two women. And we will also notice the little dialogue about the use of money: Could it not have been used for the poor? Is not this a waste?
Visions of contrast rise up before us, of St. Francis of Assisi on the one hand and Medici popes on the other, or perhaps Dorothy Day and the gold-plated faucet handles in the televangelist’s dog house. Jesus seems to give the go-ahead to expensive church projects of all kinds here, warning the do-gooder community to examine its motives, to remember self-interest buried in the rhetoric of helpfulness. Or so the art and music and vestment and stained glass window and beautiful building people might think, as they eye the poor box when it starts to fill up a little.
There is actually a lot boiling under the surface of this little story. I want to suggest that there is even more than there might at first seem to be. And the key is in the setting of this dinner.
Remember whose dinner it is. Mary, Martha and Lazarus have invited Jesus to a big dinner party. Right after Lazarus has been brought back to life. By Jesus. Think about this for a moment. This is not your usual first century cozy family seder, opened up a little to include our dear friend, the young unmarried rabbi. This is a Resurrection banquet. John’s Gospel is framed by eight signs or miracles, the eighth being the Resurrection of Jesus.
The raising of Lazarus is the seventh, the final and greatest miracle performed by Jesus himself. It is the sign and seal of Jesus’ earthly ministry and of his identity as the Son of God, the Logos incarnate. John tells us that Jesus was sent into a world which he as the Logos, the Word of God, had made, but his own world does not recognize him. But here, in this little village outside Jerusalem, he is known for who he is.
Death has been put to flight, new life has been given to Lazarus, and through him, to his sisters and to the whole community around them. Jesus now is celebrated by this little trinity, this family of three apparently also unmarried siblings. Of all those he has touched and healed, they are the ones who not only turned back to thank him, but have invited him into their home.
Doubtless all of Bethany is there as well. Martha has probably spared no expense, but instead of getting help, she serves the meal herself. Lazarus, the first of redeemed humanity to be raised to life, is seated alongside Jesus, who brought him back from the dead, who is in the place of honor. His sister Martha is the manager of this great moment. In the way of practical women everywhere she is giving thanks in the best way she can, and it is the best way any of us can imagine: A perfect family meal, grander than usual, all the best dishes in use, a time of comfort and joy, to which, if it were our meal, we would pray that the Lord would come and be with us.
This is the foretaste of the heavenly banquet. This is the Resurrection Eucharist. This is the reason why Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem. This is the reason he will endure the week to come. Someone finally got the message. Humanity is ready for redemption.
But of course, this is not just any meal, even a very special meal. Mary kneels down at Jesus’ feet, and anoints them with a pound of pure ointment. God knows what it cost. It disappears onto his feet, filling the whole house with its scent. And she does it with her hair.
Is there anywhere a more extravagant symbol of pure gratitude, pure love? Mary and Martha have received their brother Lazarus back to life. How can anyone possibly pay God back for giving back life? It is not possible. But this meal, this extravagance, tries to do so.
The greatness of Martha and Mary is that even if they cannot possibly repay the gift they have been given, they try. They do what they can do, and they do it the best way they know how. Nothing is stinted. No corners are cut. Not even dignity is left unoffered, as one sister does the serving and the other anoints the feet with her hair. There is not a shred of self-regard. All is given, all is shared.
But there is another, even stranger, aspect to this story. There is Lazarus, back from the dead, seated and eating and talking with Jesus, letting his sisters embody what for their culture is the epitome of feminine virtue. The raising of Lazarus in John’s Gospel is the occasion for the famous remark of Caiaphas, that it is fitting that one man should die for the people, which is spoken in the paragraph immediately preceding this story. The authorities are looking for Jesus, because they want to kill him.
So this event is, as anthropologists would say, liminal. It is on the threshold of the living and the dead. This dinner is dangerous. It is a risky business, this Resurrection banquet. Lazarus was dead and is alive. Jesus is alive and will soon die. They all know both of these things. News of the authorities’ determination has surely spread. The ointment is for funerals, and Jesus tells them so.
This time at table is for all of them a time in-between, a time when life can become death and death can become life. It is the symbol of the new life of Lazarus in this world, already begun, with his escape from death, a symbol of the new life of believers whose lives will be given new, undreamed possibilities in the resurrection of Christ. And it is the symbol of the impending death of Jesus, shortly and violently to happen, but with his death to this world the beginning of new, undreamed possibilities in his Resurrection. “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”, says the Lord through the prophet Isaiah.
And this dinner in Bethany is also a symbol of a community which is already gathering around Lazarus, the first of us to find the new life in this life, and around Jesus, the one who brings that life, and through the loss of his own life, gives life to all. This community is born of the gracious generosity of Martha and the selfless sacrifice of Mary, of their recognition in the face of danger that something new is being born and must be celebrated. There is risk in this resurrection community. The world, which Christ came to redeem does not recognize him and wants to kill him. Peter will deny Christ three times. But Martha, Mary and Lazarus at some risk to themselves, host a public feast with the most extravagant honor for Jesus.
And so here we are today at another resurrection banquet. Is Lazarus with us this morning? Has anyone here found new life? Are we willing to set a table in the face of our enemies and feast publicly? Are we ready to be that small part of the world the Word has made that does recognize him when he comes? Are we willing to give the most precious gift we can think of? Are we ready get down on our knees, let down our hair, and wash the feet of Jesus?
Br. Adam McCoy, OHC
RCL - Lent 5 C - Sunday 21 March 2010
Isaiah 43:16-21
Philippians 3:4b-14
John 12: 1-8
I want to begin with an apology to the scripture scholars. Today’s Gospel reading is deeply complex when read alongside the other three Gospels. It occurs at structurally the same place - at the beginning of the Passion narrative, immediately after the authorities determine to have Jesus killed - in Mark, Matthew and John, but, strangely, it does not occur in Luke. In all three it is in Bethany, but in Mark and Matthew this event happens at the house of Simon the leper, while in John it seems to be at the house of Mary and Martha.
In Mark and Matthew the woman pours the ointment on Jesus’ head and is unnamed, while in John it is Mary, and she anoints his feet with her hair. Not only that, but this story in John is explicitly and a little awkwardly, linked to the story of the raising of Lazarus, which itself references this story. And to top it off, here are Martha and Mary acting precisely as Luke tells the story of their characters in another visit of Jesus to their house, one which does not occur in John. Many articles, even books, have doubtless emerged from these interconnections.
In the golden age of Anglican preaching, in the sixteenth and in the seventeenth and in the eighteenth and in the nineteenth and in the early twentieth centuries, we would have had time to explore these mysteries in depth, because the congregation would have been disappointed if the sermon ran less than an hour, and would have been back at Sunday afternoon service for a second, possibly longer, dose.
We could have strolled hand in hand together down the pleasant lanes of biblical textual investigation for hours. But I learned in seminary that eyes would begin to glaze at ten minutes and rustling and coughing at twelve, with outright rebellion at fifteen. I am sure those times have not lengthened since then. So let us confine our attentions to the story in John as it meets us, without further complications.
As we hear John’s version of the dinner at Bethany, we are probably trained by past experience to notice the extravagant woman, and to wonder if this is Mary Magdalene, traditionally associated with the other two versions of the story. But it is Mary of Bethany, at Jesus’ feet while her sister Martha serves dinner. For two millenia the Contemplative and the Active, an argument about the fruits of the gospel, are prefigured in these two women. And we will also notice the little dialogue about the use of money: Could it not have been used for the poor? Is not this a waste?
Visions of contrast rise up before us, of St. Francis of Assisi on the one hand and Medici popes on the other, or perhaps Dorothy Day and the gold-plated faucet handles in the televangelist’s dog house. Jesus seems to give the go-ahead to expensive church projects of all kinds here, warning the do-gooder community to examine its motives, to remember self-interest buried in the rhetoric of helpfulness. Or so the art and music and vestment and stained glass window and beautiful building people might think, as they eye the poor box when it starts to fill up a little.
There is actually a lot boiling under the surface of this little story. I want to suggest that there is even more than there might at first seem to be. And the key is in the setting of this dinner.
Remember whose dinner it is. Mary, Martha and Lazarus have invited Jesus to a big dinner party. Right after Lazarus has been brought back to life. By Jesus. Think about this for a moment. This is not your usual first century cozy family seder, opened up a little to include our dear friend, the young unmarried rabbi. This is a Resurrection banquet. John’s Gospel is framed by eight signs or miracles, the eighth being the Resurrection of Jesus.
The raising of Lazarus is the seventh, the final and greatest miracle performed by Jesus himself. It is the sign and seal of Jesus’ earthly ministry and of his identity as the Son of God, the Logos incarnate. John tells us that Jesus was sent into a world which he as the Logos, the Word of God, had made, but his own world does not recognize him. But here, in this little village outside Jerusalem, he is known for who he is.
Death has been put to flight, new life has been given to Lazarus, and through him, to his sisters and to the whole community around them. Jesus now is celebrated by this little trinity, this family of three apparently also unmarried siblings. Of all those he has touched and healed, they are the ones who not only turned back to thank him, but have invited him into their home.
Doubtless all of Bethany is there as well. Martha has probably spared no expense, but instead of getting help, she serves the meal herself. Lazarus, the first of redeemed humanity to be raised to life, is seated alongside Jesus, who brought him back from the dead, who is in the place of honor. His sister Martha is the manager of this great moment. In the way of practical women everywhere she is giving thanks in the best way she can, and it is the best way any of us can imagine: A perfect family meal, grander than usual, all the best dishes in use, a time of comfort and joy, to which, if it were our meal, we would pray that the Lord would come and be with us.
This is the foretaste of the heavenly banquet. This is the Resurrection Eucharist. This is the reason why Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem. This is the reason he will endure the week to come. Someone finally got the message. Humanity is ready for redemption.
But of course, this is not just any meal, even a very special meal. Mary kneels down at Jesus’ feet, and anoints them with a pound of pure ointment. God knows what it cost. It disappears onto his feet, filling the whole house with its scent. And she does it with her hair.
Is there anywhere a more extravagant symbol of pure gratitude, pure love? Mary and Martha have received their brother Lazarus back to life. How can anyone possibly pay God back for giving back life? It is not possible. But this meal, this extravagance, tries to do so.
The greatness of Martha and Mary is that even if they cannot possibly repay the gift they have been given, they try. They do what they can do, and they do it the best way they know how. Nothing is stinted. No corners are cut. Not even dignity is left unoffered, as one sister does the serving and the other anoints the feet with her hair. There is not a shred of self-regard. All is given, all is shared.
But there is another, even stranger, aspect to this story. There is Lazarus, back from the dead, seated and eating and talking with Jesus, letting his sisters embody what for their culture is the epitome of feminine virtue. The raising of Lazarus in John’s Gospel is the occasion for the famous remark of Caiaphas, that it is fitting that one man should die for the people, which is spoken in the paragraph immediately preceding this story. The authorities are looking for Jesus, because they want to kill him.
So this event is, as anthropologists would say, liminal. It is on the threshold of the living and the dead. This dinner is dangerous. It is a risky business, this Resurrection banquet. Lazarus was dead and is alive. Jesus is alive and will soon die. They all know both of these things. News of the authorities’ determination has surely spread. The ointment is for funerals, and Jesus tells them so.
This time at table is for all of them a time in-between, a time when life can become death and death can become life. It is the symbol of the new life of Lazarus in this world, already begun, with his escape from death, a symbol of the new life of believers whose lives will be given new, undreamed possibilities in the resurrection of Christ. And it is the symbol of the impending death of Jesus, shortly and violently to happen, but with his death to this world the beginning of new, undreamed possibilities in his Resurrection. “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”, says the Lord through the prophet Isaiah.
And this dinner in Bethany is also a symbol of a community which is already gathering around Lazarus, the first of us to find the new life in this life, and around Jesus, the one who brings that life, and through the loss of his own life, gives life to all. This community is born of the gracious generosity of Martha and the selfless sacrifice of Mary, of their recognition in the face of danger that something new is being born and must be celebrated. There is risk in this resurrection community. The world, which Christ came to redeem does not recognize him and wants to kill him. Peter will deny Christ three times. But Martha, Mary and Lazarus at some risk to themselves, host a public feast with the most extravagant honor for Jesus.
And so here we are today at another resurrection banquet. Is Lazarus with us this morning? Has anyone here found new life? Are we willing to set a table in the face of our enemies and feast publicly? Are we ready to be that small part of the world the Word has made that does recognize him when he comes? Are we willing to give the most precious gift we can think of? Are we ready get down on our knees, let down our hair, and wash the feet of Jesus?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
RCL - Lent 3 C - 07 Mar 2010 - Br. Scott
Parish of March - St Mary's North March - and - St Paul's Dunrobin, Ontario, Canada
Br. Scott Borden, OHC
RCL - Lent 3 C - Sunday 07 March 2010
Exodus 3:1-15
1 Corinthians 10:1-13
Luke 13:1-9
When I was making arrangements for the Diocesan prayer program, I was asked if I would preach on Sunday - and I said sure. I was even asked a second time; and a second time I said sure. Then I read the lessons for today... If I had realized how prominent a place manure has in this Gospel reading I might have thought differently...
Manure adds an interesting earthiness in this Gospel passage. For many of us, our only encounter with manure, at least the literal kind, will be in the form of the sanitized, composted fertilizer sold in garden stores. It doesn’t smell at all. Roses love it. In some ways, this is the way we want our Christianity - sanitized... nothing objectionable... nothing smelly...
That’s not the way of Jesus. Its not the real world. George MacLeod, founder of the Iona Community, observed some years ago that the church was too ethereal while its people were too material. Somewhere in the background of this Gospel passage I hear a reminder to be on this earth - this rich and fertile earth that is God’s creation. That is what humility is all about - being earth.
The Gospel is not rarified. It is not denatured. Its not sanitized. When it becomes too ethereal than we are free to be too material.
But that is just a passing implication of this morning’s reading. There are really two big things we need to look at.
First, Pilate has killed a group of Galileans in a particularly disturbing way. And this raises the age-old question: Why did this happen? Or more explicitly: Why did God allow this to happen?
We hear echos and variations of this question whenever something terrible happens. Why did God allow (or even cause) an earthquake in Haiti? Why did God allow airplanes to fly into the World Trade Center in New York.
Jesus asks the crowd if they think the Galileans suffered this terrible fate because they were worse sinners than everyone else. Just as we might ask ourselves if the people of the US or Haiti, are worse sinners. Are these Godly punishment for particular wickedness?
Some people dare to answer this question yes, concluding that God causes, or at least permits terrible disasters. These people are usually then able supply all the details about why God does this.
The next time you are tempted to take one of these people seriously, keep in mind how Jesus answers his own question. The answer is no. Disasters are not punishment from God meted out to the guilty. We have it from the mouth of Jesus... from the mouth of God.
Jesus goes a bit further... a second disaster... People have been killed by a building collapse at Siloam. We go from manmade atrocity (Pilate slaughtering people at worship) to more or less natural disaster (a tower collapses). Are those who died worse offenders than everyone else? Again, there are those voices that want to answer yes, but Jesus is clear. The answer is no.
It would be really nice if Jesus went one step further. It would be nice to know why these tragedies do happen. But Jesus leaves that question alone. We can really only conclude that there is no reason. Sometimes things just happen. This is an unsatisfying answer so the question keeps coming up.
God’s world is a world of rich and exciting creativity. It has unending cycles of birth and rebirth. But those cycles of birth and rebirth also include death. Disaster strikes. Destruction follows. From the ashes new life takes shape. God’s creation is both constructive and destructive. God doesn’t tell us why.
The Gospel story doesn’t end there. I said there were two things to look at... And here is the second thing: Jesus shares a very brief parable. A man has a non-productive fig tree so he tells his gardener to replace it. No, says the gardener, let me nurture it a bit longer... we’ll give it another chance.
These days we make lots of room for plants that don’t do much... We simply enjoy their beauty. But this fig tree had a purpose - to produce food. It was not an ornamental shrub. Its failure to yield food means that somebody has less to eat. The fig tree’s failure has consequences. The decision to give it one more year and to give it manure also has consequences. The fertilizer could be used on more productive fig trees. The fig tree takes up space and it wastes resources.
So they give the fig tree one more year, but I doubt they’ll give it two...
Why, in the face of Pilot’s atrocity with the Galileans and in the face of this collapsing tower of Siloam, is this story of the fig-less fig tree on Jesus’ mind?
Jesus seems to be telling us that the things we want to see as God’s judgment are not examples of God’s judgment. Atrocities and disaster are not signs of God’s judgment. But, at the same time, we need to know that God’s judgment is coming.
When disaster, natural or man-made, happens we want to look at what they, the victims, did wrong. We want to suppose that they are worse sinners... which would make us better sinners... In some ways we’re looking for assurance that it won’t happen to us. We just need to get right and stay right with God.
No says Jesus. We’re all the same sort of sinners - or in the rich language of our prayer book tradition, “miserable offenders.” We’ll all perish as they did... unless we repent.
Jesus asks something of us. God will nurture us and tend us, but we’re going to have to produce some figs. We’re going to have to repent. What might this look like?
As we approach Easter, we’ll hear Jesus telling us that we will be known as followers by our love. Just as a fig tree must bear figs, so followers of the God of love must show forth love.
The church is too ethereal and we are too material... Those words of George MacLeod echo in my mind.
Its very nice in our Anglican tradition to get together on Sunday and pray good prayers and enjoy beautiful liturgy. If that’s all we do, its too ethereal.
Just as the fig tree gets its roots covered in manure, we’re going to have to be prepared to get our feet dirty. As a church we’re going to have to be more earthy and as individuals we’re going to have to be less material. We’ll have to share our stuff.
We’re going to have to comfort the sorrowful, not just by praying for them, but by praying with them. We’re going to have to feed the hungry not just by sending off money and food, but by breaking bread with God’s children who are hungry.
Breaking bread with the poor doesn’t earn us salvation. It teaches us about God. Defending those who are defenseless won’t get us into heaven. It will help us to know God.
Scripture tells us the kingdom of heaven is very near us - in fact its all around us. When we sit with someone who is dying, we can glimpse the Kingdom. When we spend time with a prisoner, they can tell us about the Kingdom. In the eyes of children we can see God’s Kingdom reflected.
Jesus’ parting words to us by way of Peter are “Feed my sheep.”
If we think this feeding can be accomplished at a safe distance - that’s too ethereal. If we think this feeding is a good way for those of us who are whole to help those who are suffering, that’s too material.
Bearing figs will fundamentally change the fig tree. Feeding God’s sheep will fundamentally change us.
In Jesus name, Amen.
Br. Scott Borden, OHC
RCL - Lent 3 C - Sunday 07 March 2010
Exodus 3:1-15
1 Corinthians 10:1-13
Luke 13:1-9
When I was making arrangements for the Diocesan prayer program, I was asked if I would preach on Sunday - and I said sure. I was even asked a second time; and a second time I said sure. Then I read the lessons for today... If I had realized how prominent a place manure has in this Gospel reading I might have thought differently...
Manure adds an interesting earthiness in this Gospel passage. For many of us, our only encounter with manure, at least the literal kind, will be in the form of the sanitized, composted fertilizer sold in garden stores. It doesn’t smell at all. Roses love it. In some ways, this is the way we want our Christianity - sanitized... nothing objectionable... nothing smelly...
That’s not the way of Jesus. Its not the real world. George MacLeod, founder of the Iona Community, observed some years ago that the church was too ethereal while its people were too material. Somewhere in the background of this Gospel passage I hear a reminder to be on this earth - this rich and fertile earth that is God’s creation. That is what humility is all about - being earth.
The Gospel is not rarified. It is not denatured. Its not sanitized. When it becomes too ethereal than we are free to be too material.
But that is just a passing implication of this morning’s reading. There are really two big things we need to look at.
First, Pilate has killed a group of Galileans in a particularly disturbing way. And this raises the age-old question: Why did this happen? Or more explicitly: Why did God allow this to happen?
We hear echos and variations of this question whenever something terrible happens. Why did God allow (or even cause) an earthquake in Haiti? Why did God allow airplanes to fly into the World Trade Center in New York.
Jesus asks the crowd if they think the Galileans suffered this terrible fate because they were worse sinners than everyone else. Just as we might ask ourselves if the people of the US or Haiti, are worse sinners. Are these Godly punishment for particular wickedness?
Some people dare to answer this question yes, concluding that God causes, or at least permits terrible disasters. These people are usually then able supply all the details about why God does this.
The next time you are tempted to take one of these people seriously, keep in mind how Jesus answers his own question. The answer is no. Disasters are not punishment from God meted out to the guilty. We have it from the mouth of Jesus... from the mouth of God.
Jesus goes a bit further... a second disaster... People have been killed by a building collapse at Siloam. We go from manmade atrocity (Pilate slaughtering people at worship) to more or less natural disaster (a tower collapses). Are those who died worse offenders than everyone else? Again, there are those voices that want to answer yes, but Jesus is clear. The answer is no.
It would be really nice if Jesus went one step further. It would be nice to know why these tragedies do happen. But Jesus leaves that question alone. We can really only conclude that there is no reason. Sometimes things just happen. This is an unsatisfying answer so the question keeps coming up.
God’s world is a world of rich and exciting creativity. It has unending cycles of birth and rebirth. But those cycles of birth and rebirth also include death. Disaster strikes. Destruction follows. From the ashes new life takes shape. God’s creation is both constructive and destructive. God doesn’t tell us why.
The Gospel story doesn’t end there. I said there were two things to look at... And here is the second thing: Jesus shares a very brief parable. A man has a non-productive fig tree so he tells his gardener to replace it. No, says the gardener, let me nurture it a bit longer... we’ll give it another chance.
These days we make lots of room for plants that don’t do much... We simply enjoy their beauty. But this fig tree had a purpose - to produce food. It was not an ornamental shrub. Its failure to yield food means that somebody has less to eat. The fig tree’s failure has consequences. The decision to give it one more year and to give it manure also has consequences. The fertilizer could be used on more productive fig trees. The fig tree takes up space and it wastes resources.
So they give the fig tree one more year, but I doubt they’ll give it two...
Why, in the face of Pilot’s atrocity with the Galileans and in the face of this collapsing tower of Siloam, is this story of the fig-less fig tree on Jesus’ mind?
Jesus seems to be telling us that the things we want to see as God’s judgment are not examples of God’s judgment. Atrocities and disaster are not signs of God’s judgment. But, at the same time, we need to know that God’s judgment is coming.
When disaster, natural or man-made, happens we want to look at what they, the victims, did wrong. We want to suppose that they are worse sinners... which would make us better sinners... In some ways we’re looking for assurance that it won’t happen to us. We just need to get right and stay right with God.
No says Jesus. We’re all the same sort of sinners - or in the rich language of our prayer book tradition, “miserable offenders.” We’ll all perish as they did... unless we repent.
Jesus asks something of us. God will nurture us and tend us, but we’re going to have to produce some figs. We’re going to have to repent. What might this look like?
As we approach Easter, we’ll hear Jesus telling us that we will be known as followers by our love. Just as a fig tree must bear figs, so followers of the God of love must show forth love.
The church is too ethereal and we are too material... Those words of George MacLeod echo in my mind.
Its very nice in our Anglican tradition to get together on Sunday and pray good prayers and enjoy beautiful liturgy. If that’s all we do, its too ethereal.
Just as the fig tree gets its roots covered in manure, we’re going to have to be prepared to get our feet dirty. As a church we’re going to have to be more earthy and as individuals we’re going to have to be less material. We’ll have to share our stuff.
We’re going to have to comfort the sorrowful, not just by praying for them, but by praying with them. We’re going to have to feed the hungry not just by sending off money and food, but by breaking bread with God’s children who are hungry.
Breaking bread with the poor doesn’t earn us salvation. It teaches us about God. Defending those who are defenseless won’t get us into heaven. It will help us to know God.
Scripture tells us the kingdom of heaven is very near us - in fact its all around us. When we sit with someone who is dying, we can glimpse the Kingdom. When we spend time with a prisoner, they can tell us about the Kingdom. In the eyes of children we can see God’s Kingdom reflected.
Jesus’ parting words to us by way of Peter are “Feed my sheep.”
If we think this feeding can be accomplished at a safe distance - that’s too ethereal. If we think this feeding is a good way for those of us who are whole to help those who are suffering, that’s too material.
Bearing figs will fundamentally change the fig tree. Feeding God’s sheep will fundamentally change us.
In Jesus name, Amen.
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