The Second Sunday in Lent

John 3:16
John 3:1-17

The Episcopal Café is an online resource offered by the Episcopal Diocese of Washington containing all sorts of information and reflections pertaining to the Episcopal Church. An interesting post appeared there this week. It was entitled, “Is Japan asking for your financial assistance?” Is Japan asking for your financial assistance?

The post began:

We see the images from Japan of the three-fold catastrophe and wonder how we can help. The Japanese government has not called for foreign relief aid except in specific cases. Japan is a wealthy country and largely able to respond to natural disasters itself….

The whole issue of “asking” for assistance in times of disaster isn’t one I had thought about before. America, too, is a “wealthy country.” I didn’t have time to really research our own nation’s practice. The fact that I don’t know if we have ever asked for outside assistance suggests that, if we have, we certainly haven’t made a fuss about it. I did discover that the U.S. evidently quietly asked the European Union for some very specific sorts of aid at the time of Katrina. I imagine that, like Japan, we are not in the general habit of publicizing a need or desire for foreign aid.

I have tried to think of reasons why an individual or a country would not ask for aid in times of need. I can’t think of any good reason. There’s pride. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need anyone else’s help.” Then there’s what, for lack of a better term, I’ll call bigotry. “I’d rather die than accept help from the likes of you.”

I also saw a headline sometime this week. The gist of it was… “Reasons why the nation of Japan will recover.” And, of course, the nation will recover. Thousands upon thousands of individuals will not.
The bottom line for us as Christians is simple. Whenever we are aware of a need, we must help. It is the mandate of our baptismal covenant. It is about who we are. Whether we are asked or not is irrelevant. We must offer what help we can.

The post at Episcopal Café continued:

Beyond [these considerations of whether the government has asked], there we are in the position of having ties within Japan. Through the Anglican Communion and companion dioceses relationships, there are bonds between the Episcopal Church and Anglican Episcopal Church in Japan. The church in Japan has asked for help. We asked Brian Sellers-Petersen of Episcopal Relief and Development for background on how giving to ER-D will make a difference in Japan.

"As you know, our primary partner in a disaster of this kind is always the local church, and here we are working in solidarity with the Anglican Episcopal Church in Japan - the Nippon Sei Ko Kai (NSKK). While they are still in the throes of reviewing how clergy and congregations are impacted by the disaster, and struggling with communications in the coastal areas closest to the quake and tsunami, they have indicated they are conducting needs assessments involving survivors in communities that surround their churches.

Our program team is in contact with NSKK. We know that survivors will turn to the Church for both short-term and long-term assistance (particularly in the coming days and weeks as resources are exhausted through other avenues).

As representatives of sister churches, we work in a different manner than [many other charitable organizations]. Just as we were grateful during Hurricane Katrina, when the NSKK supported recovery efforts in the impacted dioceses of the Gulf Coast, through Episcopal Relief & Development, we know that they are deeply grateful for all of our help during this time. The resources of the Japanese people are extensive, but still the people to people contacts that we embody will help the local Anglican Church as it reaches out to the vulnerable in its communities."

ER-D is one way to help. It is not the only way. But we must help.

This morning’s Gospel is relevant. As I was reading the Gospel I thought at I might see fireworks set off, or bright lights begin to flash or spirited “Amen’s” arise from the congregation… when I got to John 3:16. But, no.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”
 
We see John 3:16 held up on placards at football games and other public events. I suppose it is meant to be a form of evangelism, although I don’t really see how a citation of chapter and verse on a poster held up by a stranger would bring someone who is unchurched and unfamiliar with the Bible any closer to Jesus.

Considering the importance this verse has for many people I looked it up in Raymond Brown’s two volume commentary on the Gospel of John. Again, I was a little disappointed not to find any particularly enthusiastic emphasis placed on this one verse. In fact, there seems to be some discussion among Biblical scholars whether or not Jesus even said these words or whether they are part of a homily by the Evangelist (our St. John) placed on the lips of Jesus.

In his commentary, Brown focuses on one word, “loved.” “God so loved the world…” Brown writes: “The aorist implies a supreme act of love…” The aorist is a verb tense we don’t have in English. It is a past tense always implying an event or action, something that happened. God’s love wasn’t a feeling, it was an action. Brown continues, “The verb here is agapan; and if Spicq is right, we have a perfect example of agapan expressing itself in action. Agapan. We know the word “agape.” God’s love, expressed in action. God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.”

God didn’t wait to be asked. God saw the need throughout the world that all human kind had for God to share, redeem and restore our human nature. So God sent his Son. God responded to our need. No one in Jesus’ day was asking for a Savior. The Jews anticipated the coming of the Messiah, but they were not asking for what they got in Jesus. As for the pagan Gentiles of the day, if anyone had asked them if they needed the Hebrew God to send Immanuel to them, they would have said, “Good God, NO! We certainly don’t need anything from that God.”

But God saw the world’s need, our need, and loved Jesus into the world.

It seems to me the best way to live into the spirit of John 3:16 is not so much to hold up placards in public places. We should act in ways that meet the needs of others. We should bring God’s agape into the world by our actions.

As Christians only two things are important. Need and agape. Need is around us. We can supply agape.

The questions that should persistently be on the lips of all Christians is “How can I help?” How can I help? Not, can I afford the time or resources to help. Not, have they asked for my help or do they want my help. Just simply, how can I help. How can I meet another’s need? How can I make God’s love real in the lives of others?

We should ask ourselves this question not just with respect to Japan, although the need there is profound right now. Wherever there are human beings, there is need: spiritual need, physical need, emotional need. Harkening back to John 3:16, there may be people in our lives who do not know the love of Christ, whose lives are desperate and faithless. We must act in response to that need with evangelism, by somehow sharing the Good News.

There is need within the parish. Think about your immediate neighborhood or local community. Even within our mighty, self-sufficient nation, there is need. And, sadly, Japan is not the only area world-wide where human beings are in grave physical need. We must act. As Christians, we must act, as best we are able, to help. No individual, of course, can meet the needs of the world. And for some of the need that surrounds us, it is not always clear how best to help. Prayer is always an appropriate response. And when we, in worship, pray for the needs and concerns of the world, we are acting to help. But we must always remember that indifference or inaction are never options for Christians. No matter what the need, indifference or inaction are never options. Whether or not we have been asked to help. Whether or not we know those in need or have any kind of ties with them. Whether or not our help is even welcome. Indifference or inaction are never options.

Wherever there are human beings there is always need. And, to God’s glory, there is always agape. And it is always our job to put agape into action.

The First Sunday in Lent

The Wilderness
Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7
Matthew 4:1-11

One of the predominant themes of this First Sunday in Lent is wilderness. The Old Testament reading from Genesis tells at least most of the story of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from paradise into the wilderness. And the Gospel reading is about Jesus’ time in the wilderness.

You know the story from Genesis. From my perspective it is not meant to be about who is to blame, nor is the primary focus on exactly what he or she did wrong. Rather, the story illustrates a fact of human existence. Its meaning is to illuminate something that is uniformly true about human beings, especially with respect to our relationship with God. Note that in this story no human being lived and died in paradise. No human being, male or female, lived his or her entire life in paradise. Throughout the Biblical witness we do not have any examples of people who avoided life outside of paradise—life in the wilderness. We all live in the wilderness. We all live our whole lives in the wilderness.

I’ve mentioned before what a rich teaching resource the seasons of the church year are. Each in its turn enables us to explore and experience a different facet of our life of faith. But it’s also important to remember that, although we experience the seasons in sequence, one after another, they are, in fact, cumulative. They are all true simultaneously. The season of Lent brings the wilderness. But we actually dwell in the wilderness of Lent all of the time—every day of our lives.

It’s very important to specify what this particular wilderness is and what it is not. The story from Genesis helps us. The wilderness of Lent is a place where we have the knowledge of good and evil. We know that there is good and there is evil and we affirm that they are profoundly different. And yet, we are not consistently able to choose the good. We know that good and evil are monumentally different and yet we cannot, or do not, or will not do what is good. That is the wilderness of our daily existence.

The Litany of Penitence which we said on Ash Wednesday reminds us of our failure to choose the good. In the litany we confess “the pride, hypocrisy, and impatience of our lives… our self-indulgent appetites and ways, and our exploitation of other people… our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts, and our dishonesty in daily life and work.” Simple, everyday dishonesty. Then there is “our negligence in prayer and worship, and our failure to commend the faith that is in us… our indifference to injustice and cruelty… uncharitable thoughts toward our neighbors… our waste and pollution of [God’s] creation, and lack of concern for those who come after us.” These failures are a part of every human life. They vary in magnitude, and perhaps you would be reluctant to call them “evil.” But they are. They are all failures to choose the good. They are all evil in God’s sight.

The wilderness of Lent is a place where we understand and acknowledge a profound difference between good and evil, between what is godly and what is not, and yet we are unable to consistently choose the good.

The wilderness is a place of intense moral and spiritual tension and struggle. This particular wilderness is not a place where the physical aspects of life are hard. Nor is it a place of natural disaster and calamity. The wilderness of Lent is a place of moral and spiritual struggle. It is not a place of earthquakes and tsunamis. I’ve said before: God doesn’t cause earthquakes; human sin doesn’t cause earthquakes. Plate tectonics causes earthquakes. Plate tectonics are not a part of the wilderness of Lent. But it is a part of the wilderness when we understand plate tectonics, but human greed or ambition or indifference continues to build cities in areas of high risk with only minimal standards. And I’m think more now of the US than Japan. And the voracious demand for energy of all of the developed countries is a part of the wilderness. Our ungodly refusal to temper that voracious demand places many at grave risk.

Nor is the wilderness of Lent the true wilderness of the American frontier, for example, or other areas in the world today where the physical aspects of life are hard. Where disease or economic conditions make life trying. Not to diminish those struggles at all…. But the wilderness of Lent is a place of moral and spiritual struggle. A place where good and evil lie before us and we struggle and fail to choose the good.

We have a tendency to try to escape or deny the wilderness of our lives. We seek to escape by falsely persuading ourselves that we really can make the right decisions. We delude ourselves with the belief that if we really try we can consistently choose the good.   Just a few weeks ago in the epistle reading none other than St. Paul came pretty close to claiming moral perfection. He maintained that he wasn’t really aware of anything that could be held against him. But even he backed down and acknowledged that God might know better (The Eighth Sunday after the Epiphany; 1 Corinthians 4:1-5). It is either delusion or pride to maintain that we can escape the wilderness of Lent by our own strength or will. That we can make always right decision and thereby escape the tension and struggle of the wilderness.

The only other way out of the wilderness would be to renounce our baptisms. To deny that there is any difference between good and evil. Neither good nor evil really exists and we don’t care if there is a difference between them. It doesn’t matter what choices we make. This is to deny the reality of moral struggle and therefore deny the reality of the wilderness. The only way to make that claim is to renounce our identity as Christians.

For Christians, the difference between good and evil is real and profoundly important. And, yet, we are unable on our own to consistently choose the good. Today and the season of Lent are meant to remind us that escape and denial are not options for us. There is no escape from the wilderness for us. We live our lives in a place where the decisions and choices we make are overwhelmingly important, yet we cannot always get it right.

Which leaves us with only God’s mercy and grace.

The church’s invitation to us all to the observance of a Holy Lent culminates with the reminder of “the need which all Christians continually have to renew their repentance and faith.” No exceptions. All Christians. All the time. Need to renew our repentance and faith. Living in the wilderness, our repentance and faith need renewing all of the time.

And Jesus is in the wilderness with us offering renewal and reconciliation. Remember Jesus was in the wilderness, too. It is not a Godless place. God’s own being, God’s own grace and beauty and creative power can be found in the wilderness. Jesus is here. Seek him here in the wilderness. He offers the renewal that we need.

We live in the wilderness of Lent. A place where we know good, but often do evil. As Lent proceeds we will be reminded that it was in the wilderness that Jesus was crucified. But it was also in the wilderness that he rose again from the dead.

Ash Wednesday

Start from Scratch

Ash Wednesday derives its name, of course, from the important liturgical action we perform as we gather in worship today—the imposition of ashes. It’s interesting, isn’t it, that ashes are an “imposition,” something that is “imposed” upon us rather than eagerly received. Whether we are eager or not, each of us has chosen today to have a cross of ashes imposed upon our forehead.

Why do we do this liturgical action? What do the ashes actually mean to us? For millennia, ashes have been signs of public penance. And in the words of the liturgy for Ash Wednesday we refer to the ashes as “signs of our mortality and penitence.” They are imposed with the words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” At least to me, dust implies insignificance. Remember your insignificance.

But it’s ash, not dust, that is used. Ash. Literally, ash is what is left over when something is burned. Ash is the residue of burning. It is what is left over when something has been consumed by fire.

You may be aware, that as people of faith we burn physical or material things that have had a sacred purpose when that purpose is done. Material things which have been used for holy purposes are burned when their usefulness is done. At least when practical, we burn material things that have served a sacred or holy purpose when their usefulness is done. This is true for the vessels and vestments of the church, things that have been blessed and set apart for sacred use. When their use is done, they are burned. The analogy with cremation is direct. The human body is a material thing set apart for a wondrously sacred and holy use, the sustenance of an individual human life. When the body’s sacred use is done, one reverent action we may take is burning.

One way to think about what we are doing when we burn things whose sacred use is done is to imagine that we are liberating the sacred or the holy from the material vessel that bore it. In burning, we are symbolically freeing everything that is holy, offering it back to God. And ash is left over.

Once you’ve liberated all that is holy, ash is what is left over. When everything that is sacred has been burned away and has ascended like incense to fill the vault of heaven, ash is what is left over. Ash. Devoid of form, beauty, function, holiness. With holiness removed, we are but ash. Without the image of God within us, we are no more than ash.

Even when we’re alive, ash is all we are without God.

We remember this, not just at the end of life, but at the beginning of Lent. Think of Ash Wednesday as a day to start life from scratch. In a few moments I will invite you, in the name of the church, to the observance of a holy Lent. Maybe we could all think of Lent as a time when we invite God to renew holiness within us. The disciplines of Lent are invitations to God to work within us. In Lent we invite God to do what we cannot do for ourselves, to recreate God’s image within us, to rebuild the sacred within us. Starting from scratch. Evidently to start from scratch was originally an athletic metaphor. It meant to start from the very beginning, the starting line scratched in the earth, without any sort of head start or advantage. To start from the very beginning with no advantage. We are ash. And to restore beauty, form and grace we cannot rely upon any of the advantages we cling to in life—our money, our cleverness, our strength, our skill, our intellect. None of those will help us. Only God can recreate us from scratch.

But to start from scratch often also means starting over again after a previous failure. All of our past failures and infirmities, all of our old baggage have also been burned away. We are freed from past burdens as we invite God to work anew in us this Lent. 

Today we are reminded that without the holy image of God within us, we are no more than ash. Through the disciplines of Lent invite God to recreate a clean and beautiful heart within you. This Lent enable God to renew in you a right and righteous spirit. Call upon God to do what only God can do… to start from scratch, from ash, to recreate God’s own image of grace and hope in our lives.

The Last Sunday after the Epiphany

God's Rudeness
Matthew 17:1-9

This Sunday, finally, is the Last Sunday after the Epiphany. When Easter is late, as it is this year, we have more Sundays between the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6 and Ash Wednesday. But no matter how many Sundays after the Epiphany show up on the calendar, we always celebrate the Last Sunday after the Epiphany. There are propers—a collect and Scripture readings—designated for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, the last Sunday before Lent begins.

The Gospel reading for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany is always one of the tellings of the story of Jesus’ transfiguration. I hope the story is familiar to you. Jesus takes Peter, James and John with him up a high mountain. And there on the mountain top Jesus’ appearance is transfigured. Whether or not his appearance actually changed is less important than the fact that Peter, James and John saw Jesus in a way they had never seen him before. They truly saw the glory of God shining indescribably from and in and through the person of Jesus.

As familiar as this story is, I heard something new in it this year. As Matthew tells it Peter, well-meaning but misguided as usual, offers to build some sort of booths for Jesus and Moses and Elijah, who have appeared with Jesus. While Peter was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, listen to him.” While Peter was still speaking, basically, God interrupted. I was certainly taught that it is bad manners to interrupt someone else. Evidently, God is not always mannerly.

Most of us probably do think it is rude to interrupt someone else; we undoubtedly think it is rude when someone else interrupts us. We don’t like to have our conversations, our plans, or much of anything else interrupted.

Especially as Episcopalians, we don’t like to have our worship interrupted by cell phones or noisy conversations. We don’t like to have the familiar words or structure of worship interrupted by anything new or different. These are all examples of how we dislike interruptions from one another. Sometimes I think we don’t even want our worship interrupted by God.

We prefer control and steady familiarity. Many people have speculated that Peter, at Jesus’ transfiguration, was motivated by a desire to enshrine the experience. To contain it in something controlled and familiar, so that he could revisit the wonder again and again at times and occasions of his choosing.

I enjoy going to the Art Institute. Some of the traveling or temporary exhibitions are spectacular. But I also have a few favorite paintings, a few favorite spots I return to again and again. They are familiar and I know that they will always bring enjoyment. I’m so glad the Chagall windows and the armory are both back! Although neither are as well situated as they used to be. We often approach God the same way. Returning again and again to familiar places. This is OK. Institutional religion is built around the power of these common and familiar experiences. And part of what religion assures us of is that God will be found again and again in the places where we have found God before. Part of the promise of our life together as a faith community is that we will always find God, for example, in the Sacraments.

But the familiar should never be the limit of our expectations of God.

The voice that says, “This is my Son… right here, right now in front of you… THIS IS MY SON... Listen to him…” That voice will always be an interruption.

God is rude. If you remember nothing else, remember that. God is rude. God interrupts our lives, our plans, our conversations. God rudely interrupts. How ready and willing are you to be interrupted?

I think this is one of the messages of the transfiguration. Maybe not the most important message, but a message. God is rude. And if you want to hear the voice that says, “This is my Son,” then you’d better expect to be interrupted. In whatever you are doing, whether you’re at home, or work, or even in church. The voice that says, “This is my Son” always comes as an interruption. The living God always interrupts our lives. But in that interruption we will see things we’ve never seen before, hear things we’ve never heard before, know and understand God in ways more deeply and fully than we ever have before.

Lent, at its best, primes us to be interrupted. We deliberately choose to interrupt what is normal with some sort of special discipline. We open little chinks in our daily lives, where perhaps we will be more tolerant of God’s interruptions. In today’s collect, we pray that, by God’s grace, we may be changed more and more into Jesus’ own likeness, that we may take on more and more of God’s glory in our own lives. It is a remarkable hope and prayer for our own transfiguration. Which can only take place with some pretty significant interruptions from God.

The Eighth Sunday after the Epiphany

To See the Mountains Skip
Isaiah 49:8-16a

What would you say if a young child came up to you excitedly and said, “Guess what I just heard! Guess! I bet you can't guess.  I just heard the mountains sing.” Or what would you do if an earnest and breathless child said, “I just saw the mountains skipping.” Most of us would probably be kind, but dismissive. “That’s nice, dear, run along now.” Or we might praise the child for a vivid imagination.

This morning’s reading from Isaiah speaks of the mountains breaking forth into singing. And of the earth itself rising up in exultation. There’s a passage in the psalms that describes the mountains skipping like rams. Skipping! At another place in Isaiah, the prophet proclaims that the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

I would like to see and hear these things. I would like to know these experiences. I do believe that these wonderful images are more than metaphors… and more than the product of a childlike imagination. I believe that, somehow, they speak of something that we can truly experience. I believe they describe the world’s joyful response to the presence of God. And I believe that we can see and hear that response. It is possible to really hear the trees clap their hands. It is possible to see the mountains playfully skipping like rams.

So why is it so rare or unimaginable for us to hear the mountains sing or to see the earth itself exult? What keeps us from these experiences? What blocks our senses?

Today’s collect is about our ability to perceive. It speaks to what blocks our vision of God’s wonders. “Most loving Father, whose will it is for us to give thanks for all things, to fear nothing but the loss of you, and to cast all our care on you who care for us: Preserve us from faithless fears and worldly anxieties, that no clouds of this mortal life may hide from us the light of that love which is immortal, and which you have manifested to us in your Son Jesus Christ our Lord…” Preserve us from faithless fears and worldly anxieties, that no clouds of this mortal life may hide from us the light of your love. It is the faithless fears and worldly anxieties—which are a part of every human life—that cloud our vision, that stop our ears. Faithless fears and worldly anxieties impede our ability to sense the love and presence of God. Faithless fears and worldly anxieties are the clouds that keep us from seeing the mountains skip, from hearing the earth sing, from feeling God’s own love poured out on us.

I spent some time trying to come up with examples of faithless fears and worldly anxieties to help illustrate my point. What sort of fears are faithless fears? What are some examples of worldly anxieties, as distinct from other every-day anxieties? I’ve come to the conclusion that all of our fears are faithless and all of our anxieties are worldly. All of our fears are faithless and all of our anxieties are worldly. And it is all of these fears and anxieties that cloud our perception of God’s presence and love.

So how do we clear our hearing and sight? How do we avoid being blinded and deafened by the fears and anxieties that are a part of all of our lives? Today’s collect helps again. “Most loving Father, whose will it is for us to give thanks for all things, to fear nothing but the loss of you, and to cast all our care on you who care for us…” We are to cast our cares on God. Most of us yearn to know God’s will for us. This collect tells us one piece of it, at least. God wills us to cast our cares on him. God, whom we address in this collect as “Most Loving Father,” wants us to give our fears and anxieties to him. We had a funeral here yesterday. I’m reminded of a passage from the burial service where we are praying for those who mourn, people troubled by distress, cares and anxieties. We pray that those who mourn may “cast all their cares on God and know the consolation of God’s love.” And this is the really important part. It is in casting our cares on God that we come to know the consolation of God’s love. It is casting our cares on God that disperses the clouds that block our seeing and hearing God’s presence and love. When we cast our cares on God, the clouds part, and God’s love shines into our lives. We are able to sense and feel that love.

The place to start is by naming the specific fears and anxieties that trouble your life. Face and name, directly and specifically, the particular fears and anxieties that cloud your life. Today. Small fears, large fears, persistent anxieties or a single anxious event. Name them. That’s where you have to start. And then prayerfully give them to God. Place them in God’s care, in God’s hands. My own experience is intermittent, at best, but I know this works. As we cast our cares on God, the clouds of this mortal life disperse and the glorious light of God’s love shines in. And, as those clouds of faithless fears and worldly anxieties break up and dissolve away, I do believe that we will also be able to see—to really see—the mountains skipping joyfully like rams and to hear the earth itself singing in exultation. All in joy and praise of the presence of God.

The Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany

The Love of God, Lived
Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18
Matthew 5:38-48

Today is the Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany. Many years we don’t even have a Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany, but as you probably know, Easter is very late this year. Most years, therefore, we would not hear the Scripture lessons appointed for this day (at least not at this point in the calendar). When we do, though, I’m thinking we should subtitle this Sunday “Commandment Sunday.” Both the Old Testament Reading and the Gospel are all about God’s commandments or ethical teachings.

The passage from Leviticus is a variation on the theme of the Ten Commandments. This is not the clear articulation of the Ten Commandments that we find in Exodus and Deuteronomy, but it should have sounded very familiar. “You shall not steal; you shall not deal falsely or lie to one another. You shall not swear falsely, profaning the name of your God. You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” This is how God’s people live in relationship to one another and to God.

Then in this morning’s Gospel reading from Matthew, Jesus gives very clear ethical instructions to his followers. This passage is part of the Sermon on the Mount. With the Ten Commandments brought to mind by the Old Testament lesson, as I read the Gospel I found myself wondering why Christians are not clamoring to have these commandments of Jesus posted in courthouses and public places. These are Jesus’ own words to us. This is Jesus’ teaching on how we are to live as Christians, what code of behavior should govern our lives as followers of Christ. Why are we not fighting to have these posted in our halls of justice and public squares?

“If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well.” I think that one should be posted in our halls of justice. “If anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you…. Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

Why is there no movement to display these commandments of Jesus in our public places? Probably because most of us really don’t want to follow them. It would be difficult, certainly, to actually live our daily lives according to these precepts.

But this is how Jesus lived. These statements are not so much guidelines or commandments or a set of ethical precepts. They are not instructions or abstract ideals set down to govern our daily lives. These words are descriptive. This is how Jesus lived. These words are not prescriptive, they are descriptive. This is what the love of God looks like when it is lived by a human being. This is the love of God, lived.

We are the Body of Christ today. We are the human shape of God in the world today. In John’s Gospel, over and over Jesus says to his followers: “Abide in my love.” He invites his disciples then and now to share and live in the love of God in the same way that he does. So maybe these words from the sermon on the mount describe how we are to live. We are the Body of Christ; we are called to abide in and live God’s love. We are to be the love of God, lived.

When we think about the love of God, I wonder if most of us would very much like to receive God’s love, but we are a lot less enthusiastic about sharing it or giving it to others. We like to be the recipients of God’s love and to know its peace and comfort. We yearn to be loved by God. But it feels like work, and often unpleasant work, to be the donors of God’s love to others.

We think of receiving God’s love and giving God’s love to others as two different things. And we probably say to ourselves, “Well, if I just received a lot more of God’s love, then maybe I’d be better at sharing it.” Or, on our better days, or if we happen to be deeply steeped in the Protestant work ethic, we may say to ourselves, “Maybe if I work really hard at showing God’s love for others, then I’ll receive more of it for myself from God.”

But as I consider this morning’s Gospel, I have come to think that we go seriously astray when we try to separate receiving God’s love from giving God’s love. I’m not sure they are two different things. I don’t think they can be separated. I don’t think you can have one without the other. I don’t think we can even think about receiving God’s love or giving God’s love. There is only living God’s love. There is only God’s love, lived. The receiving and giving are completely woven together in the living.

So how do we become people who are the love of God, lived? Prayer. Listen again to this morning’s collect. “O Lord, you have taught us that without love whatever we do is worth nothing….” We can be the love of God, lived, or the alternative is being nothing more than a bunch of worthless actions. “Send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts your greatest gift, which is love, the true bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whoever lives is accounted dead before you….” There it is again, without God’s love we are virtually dead. So let us pray this collect over and over again. “Send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts your greatest gift, which is love.” So that our human lives may be the love of God, lived.

The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany

Identity
Matthew 5:21-37

I have preached in the past on the difficult Gospel passage we just heard. And sometime in the future I will preach on it again, but not today. Like many of you, I expect, I have found the events in Egypt and the Middle East grabbing a good bit of my attention these last few weeks. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a news junky, so I’ve just seen bits and pieces of coverage, and probably not the same bits and pieces that you’ve seen.

As I’ve watched and followed the stories, I’ve been very much aware of how all the news we get in this country is interpreted. Everything comes to us interpreted, from decisions on how headlines are written to which clips to show on TV, never mind the actual commentary. Everything is interpreted. And, as with many other stories, interpreting the events in Egypt has become fodder for journalistic extremism. In the midst of all this, I urge you to pray a prayer I think everyone can share for the people of Egypt. Pray that this time may be for the people of Egypt a new beginning, not just an end. Pray that in these events they will find a new beginning that offers new life, new creativity, new liberty.

I actually want to talk about us, not Egypt, this morning. The revolution in Egypt is ultimately about identity. (For this insight, I’m indebted to an editorial I read in the on-line Christian Science Monitor.) It is about the people of Egypt determining who they want to be, what their identity will be. This broad search for identity is relevant for us, too. As individual human beings, as Christians, as Episcopalians, even as members of this parish. With respect to the people of Egypt, many commentators have noted that, at least up to now, the people of Egypt have been much clearer about who they did not want to be, and not at all clear about who they do want to be. They have clearly rejected their past identity, but have yet to form a vision of who they do want to be in the future.

And that aspect of the issue of identity has meaning for us as well. Figuring out who you are not, who you don’t want to be is very important, and it is often the beginning of a wondrous process of transformation. But it is only the beginning. To grow into, to claim the identity God has in mind for us, we need to move beyond a self-identity that is based on who we are not, to one that lives and celebrates who we are.

I may be particularly aware of this because of my experiences at my last parish. As some of you remember, I was Rector of St. Patrick’s in Brewer, Maine, before I came here. St. Pat’s is a small parish; Brewer is a small town. Brewer is right across the river from Bangor, a considerably larger small town. And in Bangor there is a lofty Gothic stone Episcopal church, called, coincidentally, St. John’s. The people of St. Pat’s were faithful, had a rich character and good ministries. But much of their sense of their own identity revolved around not being St. John’s. They were not a Bangor church; they wanted to not be St. John’s, which was perceived, I think, by the folk of St. Pat’s to be a hoity-toity place and rather rigid.

Knowing who you are not, knowing who you do not want to be, is important, and often the beginning of growth and transformation. But to really be who God calls us to be we need to perceive and claim an identity that celebrates and lives into who we are.

As individual human beings, I think psychologists call this the process of self-actualization. It begins with the clear affirmation, “I am not my mother,” and grows into a sense of who I am. This process is an important aspect of maturity and mental health.

As individual Christians, the journey into identity begins at baptism, when we say, “I am not subject to the powers and principalities of this world.” Then through prayer and study we grow into the particular vocation that God desires for us. “This is the character of the life I am called to live as part of the Body of Christ.”

What about our identity as Episcopalians? If I were to ask you to describe our Episcopal identity, what would you say? You might look to our history. You might feel like you should be able to talk about our particular theology, if only you were clearer on what it actually is.

It seems, as Episcopalians, we are often more clear on who we are not. For example, we are not mindless fundamentalists. At least we perceive fundamentalists to be mindless and we know we do not want to be that. A while back there was an advertising poster for the Episcopal Church that said. “You don’t have to check your mind at the door.” Or, we are not like those emotional, flash-in-the-pan, weepy personal-relationship-with-Christ evangelicals. We do not think of Jesus as our best bud. Or, in more modern lingo, Jesus is not my BFF. We’re not Roman Catholics, whom we certainly perceive to be faithful, but enslaved by the institutional church.

So who are we, in positive terms, as Episcopalians? I offer you two very important qualities of our identity that you might not have on the tip of your tongue. This is far from a comprehensive description of Episcopal identity, but it is something to hang onto.

First, we are people who pray together. The most important activity that unites us, that we do in common, is prayer. Some of you might have said, as individuals, that the Book of Common Prayer is something you cherish about the Episcopal identity. But the Book of Common Prayer is much more than something you or I may like; it is what we do. This has been true since the time of the English Reformation when differences of politics and even theology were seen as subordinate to the activity of common prayer. The activity of kneeling side-by-side, sharing the same words in prayer, is more important than anything that might seem to divide us. The most important thing we do together as a community is pray. Any liturgical church could say this about its identity, but we are people who pray in common.

Second, as Episcopalians, our life of faith is pragmatic. At a diocesan meeting yesterday, Bishop Lee reminded us that Episcopal scholar John Booty identifies us as pragmatic. And by this, he doesn’t mean “pragmatic” in the sense of “practical,” he means rooted in “practice.” Look at our baptismal covenant, the most powerful and focused articulation of how Episcopalians see ourselves living as Christians. It begins with an affirmation of faith in the Trinitarian God. Then comes what Bishop Lee calls the “so-what” questions. So you believe in the Trinitarian God… so what? What follows are five clear practices. It is not a theological confession that identifies us, not an emotional experience of God; it is what we do. We continue in the apostles teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread and in the prayers. That is, we go to church and participate in the life of the parish. We persevere in resisting evil and practice reconciliation (as today’s Gospel commands us to do.) We practice evangelism. We practice service and compassion towards others. We strive for justice and peace. Our identity is wrapped up in what we do, our practice of faith. We are pragmatic.

What is our identity as a parish? I’ll admit I hear parishioners, from time to time, talk about our identity in terms of who we are not. We are not IJP. I think people mean by that primarily that we are not Roman Catholic, rather than focusing on any particular feature of IJP as a parish. We are not Community Church. Sometimes that is said with relief; sometimes with a twinge of envy. Perceiving the size of their budget or the abundance of their programs to be enviable. And I expect there are one or two parishioners who can only see us as “not what we used to be.”

All of these are really OK. Even these “nots” are a part of our identity. And they can be a starting point for transformation and discovery of the identity that God calls us into now. In seeing who we are not, we begin to get a vision of who we are.

Who are we? Remember that the qualities of our Episcopal identity that I described earlier are ours as a parish as well. We pray together. A diverse and disparate group of people; we share common prayer. We value our shared life of prayer as a very important part of who we are. And we practice our faith. We are a pragmatic parish. If you haven’t read my annual report, do (earlier post). You’ll see faith identified through practice.

I would add one more quality of our identity. As a parish, we are a place defined less by our programs (although we have good ones) and more by our relationships. Individual relationships, nurtured over the years through caring and Christian companionship. We have lots of what congregational development gurus call relational groups. Formal and informal groups in which connection and communion flourish. And we do fellowship well. Fellowship doesn’t just happen. It is a particular charism of this parish; it is part of our identity. Maybe you have other thoughts on our identity as Episcopalians or as a parish. I’d be interested to hear them. We are richly blessed, both in who we are and in who God calls us to become.