Proper 6, Year C -- Sunday Sermon

Anonymous, David and Bathsheba, High Rhine, Mid-17th Century

II Samuel 11:26-12:10, 13-15
Luke 7:36-50

For many people today, a favorite saying of our Lord is found in the Sermon on the Mount, in Matthew, 7:1-2, where Jesus warns his listeners, and us: “Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged …”

It’s a recurrent theme in folktales: the king, judge, or official who decrees a punishment for someone else only to find himself condemned by his own decree when by some twist of fate the positions are reversed. In the Book of Esther, for example, the evil royal counselor Haman ends up being hanged on the very same gibbet he’s had constructed for the hanging of Mordecai the Jew.

“Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged.” Our readings for this morning vividly illustrate this dictum in different ways. In the Old Testament reading, from the second Book of Samuel, King David has committed a particularly heinous crime by arranging the death of Uriah the Hittite in battle so that he can take his wife Bathsheba, for whom he’s lusted.

Sent by God to confront the king, the Prophet Nathan tells David the story of a rich man with many flocks and herds, and a poor man whose only possession is one little lamb. But when called upon to provide hospitality to a stranger, the rich man, instead of taking a lamb from his own flocks, takes the poor man’s lamb. Thinking that the story is true and that Nathan is asking him to render judgment as king, David becomes exceedingly angry: “The man who has done this deserves to die; and he shall restore the lamb fourfold.”

At this point, Nathan springs the trap that he’s set: “You are the man … You have smitten Uriah the Hittite with the sword, and have taken his wife to be your wife, and have slain him with the sword of the Ammonites.” Truly, the judgment that David has pronounced is the judgment with which he is himself judged.

We encounter a similar boomeranging of judgment in today’s Gospel. The host of the dinner party, Simon the Pharisee, presumes to judge both a woman of the city and Jesus himself—the woman for being a sinner, and Jesus for apparently not recognizing this: “If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner.”

Yet Jesus demonstrates that he’s indeed a prophet, for he knows exactly what Simon is thinking. So he tells the story of two debtors forgiven by the same creditor: one for a small amount and the other for a large amount. Which one, he asks, will love him more? When Simon answers correctly, “The one to whom he forgave more,” then just as Nathan did with David, Jesus proceeds to spring his trap. He proceeds to hold the woman up as a model of the hospitality that Simon has failed to show him. So, having taken it upon himself to judge both Jesus and the woman, Simon finds himself the one judged and found wanting – and precisely in comparison with the woman he’s presumed to judge.

“Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged …” This saying is often misinterpreted to mean that we should refrain from all judgment. But that conclusion would be simplistic. Every day, we cannot avoid making numerous evaluations of other people’s statements, actions, motivations, and intentions. Can I trust this person? Does she really mean what she says? How do I assess what he’s just done so that I can respond appropriately and fairly?

In today’s readings, it is not only King David and Simon the Pharisee who exercise judgment, but also Nathan the Prophet, and our Lord himself. Moreover, both David and Simon the Pharisee give good judgments in response to the stories told them by Nathan and Jesus respectively. Jesus even says to Simon, “You have judged rightly.” The choice, then, is not between judgment and non-judgment, but rather between good judgment and bad judgment, between right judgment and wrong judgment.

In the Sermon on the Mount, when Jesus says “Judge not, that you be not judged,” he is really warning us against the hypocrisy of judging others when our own sins are as bad if not worse than theirs. Hence he follows this saying with the admonition that before we attend to the speck in our neighbor’s eye, we need to attend to the log in our eye.

The message is not that we should avoid judging others, as if that were possible, but rather that whenever we exercise even legitimate judgment we generally stand condemned by the very same standards. Whenever we call others to account—as indeed from time to time we must—we need to remember that we speak only as the greatest of sinners ourselves. We may not have committed exactly the same sins, but the ones we’ve committed are bad enough. We’ve no grounds for any posture of self-righteousness or moral superiority.

And that realization enables us not only to judge but also to forgive. In today’s readings, the final word is not judgment but forgiveness. When David confesses his sin to the Lord, the prophet Nathan proclaims: “The Lord has put away your sin; you shall not die.” And Jesus says to the woman of the city: “Your sins are forgiven … go in peace.”

Judgment, then, is an inescapable component of all human relations. We cannot interact with other people in any setting without constantly evaluating and judging them. But we gain the ability to judge rightly through the humility of recognizing our own sins and shortcomings first. When we know ourselves to be forgiven sinners, our judgment becomes more gentle, forbearing, and compassionate. And together with the knowledge by which we judge rightly, comes the capacity to forgive, as God in Christ has forgiven us.

Sermon for Corpus Christi [at the 10 am Mass]

It’s a temptation to take for granted the great privilege of receiving Holy Communion each week. Here at S. Stephen’s, we celebrate the Mass twice every Sunday, and most people come to the altar rail and receive Communion as a matter of course.

It was not ever thus. In most Episcopal parishes a hundred years ago, the principal service on Sunday was generally sung Morning Prayer, or choral Matins, with sermon. Those who wanted to receive Communion more than three or four times a year went to the early service at 8 am.

Even in Anglo-Catholic parishes such as ours, the Solemn High Mass at 11 am would generally be a “non-communicating” Mass: that is, only the priest would receive. Again, those who wanted Communion would go to the early service.

When my wife was growing up in an Anglo-Catholic parish in the Church of England, her family would go at 8 am to make their Communions at the early service. Then, they would go home for breakfast, after which they would return to church to sing in the choir at the non‑communicating Solemn High Mass at 11.

But of course many more people came to the Solemn High Mass than had been at the early service. In other words, even in Anglo-Catholic parishes, the majority of people might faithfully attend the principal service every Sunday and still receive Communion only, say, once a month or even just once a quarter. The canonical minimum to be considered a communicant of the Church is still only three times a year: typically at Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost.

This pattern began to change in the 1930s, under the influence of what was known as the Parish Communion Movement. The aim of this movement was to promote the full participation of the people in the Church’s worship. And since receiving Holy Communion is the fullest expression of this participation, the Parish Communion Movement sought above all to make the principal Sunday service a Eucharist at which all the people would have the opportunity to do just that.

In England, one of the principal spokesmen of the parish Communion movement, A.G. Hebert, wrote in 1937 that the ideal time was around 9 or 9:30 in the morning. The 8 am service was too early for many people; and 11 am was too late for most people to keep the fast before Communion. In 1949, by the way, Hebert visited this country and preached from this pulpit. Perhaps it was more than a coincidence that just a year later, in 1950, my predecessor Fr. Ward did away with the non-communicating High Mass here at S. Stephen’s.

Three decades after that, the 1979 Prayer Book fulfilled one of the key goals of the Parish Communion Movement by specifying the Holy Eucharist as “the principal act of worship on the Lord’s Day and other major Feasts,” and also by directing that at every Mass the Sacrament must be made available to the people.

So, we’ve come a long way. The question today, however, is whether we’ve come too far, and become too casual in our approach to the Blessed Sacrament. Here, perhaps, the Feast of Corpus Christi can help us.

Historically, in the Church we’ve tended to see-saw between periods when Christians felt free to receive Communion weekly or even daily, as in very first centuries of the early Church, and periods when people were so afraid of receiving unworthily that they tended to refrain from receiving at all. In 1215, for example, the Fourth Lateran Council had to require lay people to receive at least once a year, at Easter, after making their Confession to a priest.

The Feast of Corpus Christi originated in the thirteenth century as part of a movement of popular devotion to the Blessed Sacrament that had as one of its aims a return to more frequent Communion. The message of this feast is twofold. On one hand, we should by all means avail ourselves of the opportunity for weekly or even daily Communion. But on the other hand, we must approach the Sacrament with the utmost care, preparation, reverence, and devotion.

In other words, we need to steer a middle course between a rigorism that would keep us from Communion, and a laxity that would lead us to receive carelessly and thoughtlessly. Alas, the greater danger before the Church today is not rigorism but laxity.

Providentially, the Catholic spiritual tradition offers us practices that can help us increase the reverence and devotion with which we approach Holy Communion. Most important of all is spiritual preparation for Mass: saying our prayers and examining our consciences. For what sins and shortcomings are we seeking God’s forgiveness and help in this Mass? For what people and situations are we offering up our participation in this Mass?

At the very least, we need to make an effort to get to church on time so that we have an opportunity to get recollected in the few minutes before Mass begins. And if we arrive late, the Church’s traditional guideline is that we should only receive Communion if we’ve been present for the reading of the Gospel.

One key discipline of preparation is the traditional Fast before Communion. For some people health concerns make this impossible, and we certainly don’t want people passing out in the pews. But even if we can’t go completely without food from midnight the night before, it’s still a commendable practice to observe the minimal rule of eating nothing for at least an hour before Mass. It’s really difficult to be spiritually awake and alert for Holy Communion on a full stomach!

Also, the Church’s traditional wisdom is that we should not receive Holy Communion more than once a day, just as ideally priests should not celebrate Mass more than once a day. This is one reason among many, incidentally, why I’m really glad that Fr. Sawicky has arrived. If for some reason you have occasion to be at a second Mass on a day when you’ve already received Holy Communion, it’s perfectly okay and indeed highly commendable to go up for a blessing and not receive a second time. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise! This is not like a meal where it’s bad manners not to eat what’s set before you.

Finally, no less important than preparation before Communion is thanksgiving after Communion. When we return to the pew from the altar rail, or after the end of the closing hymn, we need to take a few moments to say “thank you” to God for his gift of himself to us in the Blessed Sacrament, and to recommit ourselves to whatever tasks he’s given us to do in the world.

So, on this Feast of Corpus Christi, we give thanks for all who worked so hard for so many years to re-establish the Communion of the Faithful as the norm every Sunday and Holy Day. But we also show our gratitude by receiving this great gift with all the care, reverence, preparation, and devotion that it deserves.

Sermon for Proper 4, Year C [at the 8 am Mass]

I Kings 8:22-23, 41-43
Luke 7:1-10

We hear a lot today about boundaries. The maintenance of appropriate professional and personal boundaries is a hot topic. And both our Old Testament and Gospel readings today touch on what might be called religious boundaries.

In the first reading, King Solomon is praying at the dedication of the newly constructed Temple in Jerusalem. He calls on God to listen to and answer the prayer of even the foreigner who comes to Jerusalem to pray towards this house.

At this stage of Israel’s history, a foreigner is by definition a Gentile. Such a foreigner is forbidden to enter the Temple on pain of death. So here we encounter a firm religious and national boundary. Entry into God’s house is restricted to members of God’s people Israel; everyone else must stay outside.

Yet Solomon acknowledges in his prayer that God himself is not bound by such boundaries. When the foreigner prays towards this house, Solomon implores, “hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place, and do according to all for which the foreigner calls unto thee; in order that all the peoples of the earth may know thy name and fear thee …”

In other words, the boundary restricting a foreigner from access to God’s house may be appropriate and necessary in that time and place; but it doesn’t restrict the foreigner’s access to God himself. God is perfectly well able to hear their prayers as well and reach out beyond the boundary to do all that the foreigner asks.

In the Gospel reading, however, we encounter almost exactly the reverse situation. A Roman centurion in the town of Capernaum has a servant who is ill and at the point of death. The centurion is a foreigner in the land of Israel. And as an observant Jew, Jesus is forbidden by the purity regulations of his religion from entering the house of a Gentile. If he does so, he will become ritually unclean, and will have to undergo a process of ritual purification before being allowed to participate again in the life and worship of the Jewish people.

So, where in the first reading we have a foreigner forbidden from entering God’s house, in the second reading we have God Incarnate forbidden from entering a foreigner’s house. The religious boundaries work in both directions!

Centurions were middle-ranking officers in the Roman army, which was divided into units called legions, cohorts, and centuries. Typically, in the first century, a legion consisted of about 4,800 soldiers, and was divided into ten cohorts each comprising 480 men. A cohort was divided in turn into six centuries, each consisting of 80 men and commanded by a centurion, assisted by junior officers.

So in or near Capernaum, the fishing village on the Sea of Galilee that was home to Saint Peter, there was stationed a century of soldiers commanded by this unnamed centurion. Unlike many Roman officers, however, he loved the Jewish nation, and had even built Capernaum’s synagogue. Incidentally, the basalt foundations and floor of the first-century synagogue at Capernaum can still be seen today, beneath the ruins of the fourth-century synagogue that replaced it.

It’s possible that our centurion may have been what was known in the Roman world as a “God-fearer,” that is, a Gentile who admired the Jewish religion, prayed to its God, and tried to follow its ethical teachings, without going the whole way converting, being circumcised, and becoming a Torah-observant Jew.

Be that as it may, a key responsibility of the centurion’s job was to pay close attention to everything that was going on in his immediate vicinity – so that he would be in a position to respond to the first signs of trouble. He would thus have been fully informed about Jesus. Prophets and teachers with a popular following were precisely the sorts of people the Roman authorities wanted to keep a close eye on. So, no doubt, the centurion would have heard about our Lord’s powers as a healer and miracle-worker as well.

No wonder, then, when his beloved servant is at the point of death, that he sends the local elders of the synagogue to seek Jesus’ assistance. In response to his plea, and with the elders’ good recommendation of this centurion, Jesus agrees and comes with them. But when he hears that our Lord is on the way, rather than let him complete the journey and cross the threshold of his house, the centurion sends friends with the message: “Lord … I am not worthy to have you come under my roof. But say the word, and let my servant be healed.”

In other words, in a display of enormous cultural sensitivity and consideration, the centurion is respecting the religious boundaries that Jesus must observe. His statement, “I am not worthy,” refers not to his moral character but rather to his ritually unclean status as a Gentile. He knows that if Jesus enters his house, it will cause him the great inconvenience of having to undergo ritual purification, and could very well cause others to accuse him of being a Roman collaborator.

But the centurion also knows that while as a human being Jesus is restricted by these religious boundaries, as the agent of God’s power he is not. So the centurion affirms his belief that Jesus can heal his servant simply by speaking a word from a distance – just as he himself obeys orders issued from a distance by his superiors, and just as he commands his subordinates to travel great distances to carry out his orders.

In short, while both the centurion and Jesus himself are restricted by the religious boundaries separating Jews and Gentiles, nonetheless, both the centurion’s faith, and our Lord’s power and authority, are able to cross over and transcend all such boundaries. Jesus marvels that not even in Israel has he encountered such faith. And, even from a distance, the centurion’s servant is healed.

Now the great temptation for the preacher at this point would be to conclude that, well, that was then and this is now, and of course we don’t observe such silly religious boundaries anymore. But that conclusion would be profoundly mistaken. The boundaries have changed, to be sure, but they’re still there.

For example, according to the canon law of the Episcopal Church, only those who’ve been baptized may receive Holy Communion. Only priests may celebrate the Eucharist. Only bishops may ordain. The rubrics of the Prayer Book set multiple boundaries on what may and may not be done in our liturgical services. And these religious boundaries are valid, necessary, and appropriate for ordering our life together in the Church.

Yet the message of our readings this morning also remains valid. We’re bound by these boundaries, but God is not. God hears the prayers of all who call upon him, whether Christian or not, whether religious believer or not. And God retains absolute freedom in deciding how he may choose to respond.