PROPER 12, YEAR C

July 24, 2022

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

 

Genesis 18:20-33

Luke 11:1-13

In today’s Collect, we ask God to increase and multiply upon us his mercy … so that passing through things temporal we finally lose not the things eternal. And God’s mercy is indeed a key theme running through today’s Scripture readings.

 

The Old Testament reading from Genesis links the divine mercy to the theology of the faithful remnant. We heard last week how the Lord appeared in the guise of three men to Abraham and Sarah by the oaks of Mamre. Today, after receiving Abraham’s hospitality, the three start on their way towards the infamous cities of Sodom and Gomorrah to investigate the reports of their sin and immorality.

 

Fearing for the life of his nephew Lot who dwells in Sodom, Abraham pleads with the Lord: Suppose there are fifty righteous people in the city. Far be it from the Lord to destroy the righteous along with the wicked. Will the Lord not spare the city for the sake of the fifty righteous within it? When the Lord answers yes, Abraham keeps going, lowering the number down to 45, 40, 30, 20, and finally ten. Each time the Lord answers in the affirmative, concluding, “For the sake of the ten, I will not destroy it.”

 

This exchange is often described as evoking the image of two people haggling over an item’s price in a Middle Eastern bazaar. But it’s not at all clear whether Abraham succeeds in persuading the Lord to do anything he wouldn’t do anyway. It could well be that even if Abraham never intercedes on Sodom’s behalf, the Lord would still spare the city for the sake of ten righteous people found within it. 

 

Abraham seems to understand at some level that God is not a God who destroys the righteous on account of the wicked, but rather a God who spares the wicked on account of the righteous. Such is the depth of God’s mercy—that he accepts the righteousness of a faithful remnant on behalf of a larger community that is neither faithful nor righteous.

 

This theme recurs repeatedly throughout the Scriptures. Observant Jews are called to be the faithful remnant within Israel; Israel is called to be the faithful remnant among the nations. And it finds its ultimate fulfillment on the cross, where God the Father accepts the self-offering of Jesus, the one truly righteous man who’s ever lived, for the salvation of a sinful and fallen world.

 

This idea of the faithful remnant applies no less to the life of parish communities. Since my arrival here at the beginning of June, I’ve heard more than a few parishioners lament the good old days before the pandemic when the church could be so packed on Sunday mornings that it was difficult to find a seat. That all changed in March 2020. But it could be that the smaller congregations attending these days comprise those who’ve heard and responded to the call to be the faithful remnant of parishioners on whose account God will make Christ Church not merely survive but also thrive and flourish. So, whenever we’re tempted to despair because of diminished numbers, we can hold on to that thought: our calling is to be the faithful remnant that God is using to fulfill his purposes for this parish and for the wider Church, community, and world.

 

To return to the readings, however, even if God would spare the city on account of ten righteous people anyway, Abraham is still in no way wrong to make his prayer to the Lord. And so we see the Lord bearing with Abraham’s prayer, patiently answering all his questions—because, at bottom, God is delighted whenever we reach out to him with our hearts’ deepest desires.

 

This theme stands out in today’s Gospel reading. Our Lord exhorts both his original disciples and us: “Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” In other words, be bold in your prayers. Don’t hold anything back.

 

It’s important not to overlook the humor in many of our Lord’s sayings. For it’s a mistake to think of Jesus as always being serious and solemn. So, in today’s Gospel, he gives his disciples two tongue-in-cheek illustrations of the importance of perseverance in prayer.

 

When you go to your friend’s house at midnight asking for three loaves to entertain an unexpected guest, even if your friend won’t get up because he’s your friend, nonetheless, because of your importunity, he will get up and attend to your request to make you go away and stop disturbing his sleep. The dictionary definition of importunity, by the way, is “persistence to the point of annoyance.” And, our Lord is saying, we need to be that persistent in our prayers.

 

But then, to correct any impression that God is like someone we need to pester to the point of distraction to give us what we want, Jesus offers another example. God is like a loving father who delights in giving good gifts to his children. “What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?”

 

The kicker comes in the form of a classic a fortiori argument made at the listeners’ expense: “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” For many years I puzzled over why Jesus brings in the Holy Spirit at this point. But this year it finally occurred to me that herein lies the ultimate fulfillment of the disciples’ initial request: “Lord, teach us to pray, as John [the Baptist] taught his disciples.” For it’s the Holy Spirit alone who teaches us to pray for the right things in the right way. We can neither ask for nor receive any greater gift. And so, today, as we prepare for our congregational discernment conversation, we pray above all for the gift of God’s Holy Spirit to lead us and guide us through all our deliberations and decisions into the glorious future that God has in store for us and for all whom he loves.

PROPER 11, YEAR C

July 17, 2022

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

Genesis 18:1-4

Luke 10:38-42

 

Prominent in today’s readings is the theme of hospitality. In the Old Testament reading from Genesis, Abraham and Sarah prepare a meal for three mysterious visitors who appear outside their tent by the oaks of Mamre—near the town of Hebron in what is today the West Bank. And in the Gospel reading from Saint Luke, Martha and her sister Mary receive Jesus and his disciples into their house after they enter their village on their travels.

 

By the way, the exquisite icon on the cover of the service sheet depicts the three visitors in the Genesis reading. The great fifteenth-century Russian iconographer Andrei Rublev renders them as three angels, representing in visible form the three Persons of the Holy Trinity. Hence in Eastern Orthodox iconography this image is known both as “the Hospitality of Abraham” and the “Old Testament Trinity.”

 

A preliminary point, not to be overlooked, is that as the incarnate Son of God, the second Person of the Trinity, the same Jesus of Nazareth who visits Mary and Martha in the Gospel is identical with the second of the three mysterious visitors who appear to Abraham and Sarah so many centuries before. The deepest connection between the two stories is the self-same identity of the divine protagonist in both!  

 

Beyond that, the two stories exhibit some fascinating structural parallels. First is the initial welcome itself. The hosts in both stories go to considerable trouble to entertain their guests. Abraham and Sarah prepare for their three visitors a meal of cakes, curds, milk, and a calf. (One easy-to-overlook detail in the icon is the calf’s head in the bowl on the table.) Similarly, Saint Luke tells us that Martha is busy “with much serving” as she prepares dinner for not just three guests but at least thirteen—our Lord and his twelve disciples.

 

In both stories, moreover, the visitors are not just passive recipients of the hospitality. They actively deliver a word or message to their hosts. In the case of Abraham and Sarah, this word takes the form of a promise of the miraculous birth of a son to a previously childless couple well past childbearing years. In the case of Martha and Mary, Luke doesn’t tell us what Jesus is saying, only that Mary sits at the Lord’s feet and listens to his teaching. In doing so, incidentally, she’s fulfilling the second duty of Middle Eastern hospitality, which is not only to attend to the guests’ physical needs for food and drink, but also to pay personal attention to the guests themselves.

 

In both stories, there follows an objection from one of the two hosts. At the tent’s door, Sarah laughs to herself and scoffs at the ludicrous idea that in her old age she will yet conceive and bear a son. And Martha complains to the Lord that he doesn’t seem to care that her sister Mary has left her to serve dinner alone: “Tell her then to help me!” 

 

But in both cases the objection is overruled. The Lord asks Abraham: “Why did Sarah laugh? … Is anything too hard for the Lord? … I will return to you in the Spring, and Sarah shall have a son.” Similarly, Jesus gently rebukes Martha with the words: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things; one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her.”

 

In both cases, finally, the substance of the promise is an assurance of eternal life. Abraham and Sarah live at a time and in a culture that has no developed sense of a personal afterlife, so that their only hope for living on after death is in and through their progeny. The Lord’s promise of a son is thus, in effect, the promise of salvation and immortality.

 

Similarly, the Church has traditionally interpreted the Lord’s words, “Mary has chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her,” as pointing to the life of the world to come. In this understanding, Martha represents the active life of service and good works in the world, while Mary represents the contemplative life of prayer and adoration. However worthy our ministries of service in this life may be, in heaven it will no longer be necessary to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, or clothe the naked. So these activities will cease, and all that will remain will be the beatific vision of seeing God face-to-face. Sitting at the Lord’s feet and imbibing his teaching, Mary already experiences a foretaste of this heavenly bliss. And that is “the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her.” 

 

So, what do these two biblical stories have to teach us today? Well, one implication is that receiving guests and offering them hospitality is an entirely good and worthwhile endeavor. The author of the Letter to the Hebrews writes: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares”—clearly a direct reference to today’s Old Testament reading and a source of inspiration for Andrei Rublev’s icon.

 

But today’s readings also warn us not to get so caught up in our active ministries that we neglect to listen to the Lord’s voice, believe in his promises, and receive his blessings. In the life of a parish church like this one, we have multiple opportunities for service. Since my arrival here a month and a half ago, I’ve been amazed at the sheer energy of so many dedicated workers combining their efforts to advance the parish’s mission in so many different ways: from teaching Sunday School, to flipping hamburgers on the grill, to daubing black paint on the wrought iron fences outside. And that’s all good.

 

But the one activity that needs to stay at the center of it all is what we’re doing together here and now—gathering to worship the Lord, listen to his Word, and partake of his gifts. When we kneel to pray in worship and adoration, we are, like Mary, choosing the good portion, which shall not be taken away from us. For nothing is too hard for the Lord.

 

 PROPER 10, YEAR C

July 10, 2022

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

Deuteronomy 30:9-14

Psalm 25:3-9

Luke 10:25-37

 

The Collect of the Day, which we prayed at the beginning of this Mass, asks God that we “may both perceive and know what things [we] ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to fulfill the same.” And the appointed readings for this Sunday in the three-year lectionary cycle happen to focus this year on the first half of that prayer: exploring how we may best perceive and know what things we ought to do.

 

The Gospel reading from Saint Luke offers an example of Jesus teaching a lawyer how to perceive and know what things he ought to do. Moreover, our Lord employs the tried-and-true pedagogical method of answering the lawyer’s questions with questions of his own.

 

Putting Jesus to the test, the lawyer first asks: “What shall I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus responds by turning the question around: “What is written in the Law? How do you read?” In other words: You’re a lawyer; you must know what the Law says. The lawyer then gives a correct answer: “You shall love the Lord your God … You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” 

 

But, desiring to justify himself, the lawyer asks a further question: “And who is my neighbor?” In response, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan, concluding with the question back to the lawyer: “Which of these three, do you think, proved neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?” Again, the lawyer answers correctly: “The one who showed mercy on him.”

 

Notice what’s happened. Rather than just answering the lawyer’s questions, Jesus has got the lawyer to answer his own questions—by drawing on his own deep knowledge of the Law and the Prophets. So often that is how effective education works: not as much by imparting new information and new ideas as by drawing out of us what we already know and enabling us to apply that knowledge to new challenges in creative new ways.

 

Whatever bad motives Luke ascribes to this lawyer, putting Jesus to the test and trying to justify himself, he had at least this much going for him: he was willing to engage in the dialogue, and he was willing to entertain the Lord’s questions—an attitude of openness well expressed in today’s Psalm: “Show me your ways, O Lord, and teach me your paths.”

 

So often, that is the pattern in our own prayer lives. We begin by questioning God, only to find that God is questioning us. And it’s precisely our willingness to engage in that dialogue, to entertain those questions, that allows God to lead us deeper into the fulness of his truth. As the psalmist goes on to sing, “Lead me in your truth and teach me; for you are the God of my salvation; in you have I trusted all the day long.”

 

In the coming weeks and months, the Discernment Committee, to be commissioned today [at the 10am Mass], and subsequently the Vestry, will need to trust the God of our salvation to lead them in his truth and teach them. For their responsibility is not simply that of choosing the next rector as a hiring committee might choose the best qualified candidate for a job opening in a secular organization. 

 

No, as the word “discernment” implies, the primary task is one of prayer: seeking the Lord’s will for the parish, and discerning whom God has already chosen to be its next rector. It’s a tall order, and both the Discernment Committee and the Vestry will need the support of the whole congregation’s prayers for the duration of the process.

 

But today’s readings offer the comfort of reassurance that God is with us—with this parish, with the Discernment Committee, with the Vestry—as they undertake this awesome responsibility. In my discussions with parishioners over the past month, the one longing that’s been expressed most often is for a return to the flourishing community life that this parish enjoyed before the pandemic. But today’s Old Testament reading from Deuteronomy opens with the promise: “The Lord will again take delight in prospering you … if you obey the voice of the Lord your God.”

 

And then, in answer to the implicit question of how we may expect to hear the Lord’s voice, the reading continues: “This commandment is not too hard for you, neither is it far off … But the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can do it.”

 

This is really the same point as Jesus was making in the Gospel. The lawyer already knew the answers to his own questions—God’s word was already in his mouth and in his heart—and he just needed a little help from Jesus to understand how this knowledge applied to the questions at hand. In the same way, I’m confident that the members of the Discernment Committee and Vestry will help one another in their deliberations to draw on what they already know in understanding where the Lord is leading them.

 

Jesus concludes his interaction with the lawyer with the admonition, “Go and do likewise.” That is, go and show mercy to those in need just as the Good Samaritan showed mercy to the man fallen among robbers. And so, we come full circle to the Collect of the Day. For it’s one thing to perceive and know what things we ought to do, and another thing entirely to have the grace and power faithfully to fulfill the same.

 

Once the Discernment Committee and Vestry perceive and know whom God is calling to be the next rector, they’ll also need the grace and power to follow through and act on this knowledge—especially if it seems that other candidates are safer choices, or more qualified in a conventional sense. For God does not see as human beings see; and those whom he calls can well be those whom we might deem least likely according to worldly standards.

 

In today’s Gospel, Saint Luke doesn’t tell us what the lawyer went away and did, or whether his subsequent life was any different because of his encounter with Jesus. Some New Testament scholars suggest that these stories are deliberately left open-ended because we, the listeners, are meant to supply the endings ourselves, in the living of our own lives.

 

So, Jesus tells us the story of the Good Samaritan and then bids us go and do likewise. But once he’s shown us what we ought to do, our next move needs always to be that of asking God for grace and power faithfully to fulfill the same. And we do so in the trust that God never asks us to do anything in his name without giving us the means necessary to accomplish everything that he asks.

INDEPENDENCE DAY

Monday, July 4, 2022

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

On this Independence Day, when we thank God for the liberties we enjoy in this country, it seems appropriate to reflect on the virtue of patriotism. For indeed, patriotism is one of the classical Christian virtues. 

In the thirteenth century, Saint Thomas Aquinas classified patriotism as a subcategory of the virtue of justice, by which we render to each their due. In Thomas’s scheme, just as filial piety is the virtue by which we render to parents and family the respect that is their due, and religion is the virtue by which we render to God the worship that is his due, so patriotism is the virtue by which we render our earthly homeland or country the loyalty that is its due. 

 

We become who we are as individuals in and through the communities that establish the context for our human flourishing. Our personal stories are inescapably embedded in the larger community narratives that establish our shared identities with our neighbors, colleagues, and fellow citizens.

 

The motive of patriotism is gratitude for the blessings we’ve received as citizens of our country: for all the ways in which it’s made possible not only our “way of life” but the very formation of our individual identities. Even when we judge our nation and find it wanting, we do so according to principles that we’ve learned in the context of our national life, and the freedom of thought, expression, debate, and indeed religious practice that it makes possible.

 

From the beginning, however, Christians have understood that loyalty to the nation (or to the emperor, king, or government) has definite limits. Aquinas writes that when the claims of family or nation come into apparent conflict with the claims of God – then duty to God comes first. (Aquinas knew this conflict firsthand, having defied his family to enter the Dominican Order.) The early Christians prayed for the emperor and all in authority, but they went to the lions rather than deny their faith or yield to Caesar’s demand to be worshiped as a god.

 

Moreover, there’s nothing unpatriotic in principle about protest and dissent. On the contrary, love for our country is often the strongest motivation for working for reform and the remedying of injustice in our national life. 

 

C. S. Lewis writes of love of country in his classic work The Four Loves, published in 1960. He argues that some forms of patriotism are good. Christ himself exhibited love for his country when he voiced his lament over Jerusalem. Patriotism grows out of love for one’s home: “love of old acquaintances, familiar sights, sounds and smells.” But this type of patriotism recognizes that just as one loves one’s own home, so foreigners no less rightly love theirs. Writing as an Englishman, Lewis remarked: “Once you have realized that the [French] like café complet just as much as we like bacon and eggs why, good luck to them and let them have it. The last thing we want is to make everywhere else just like our own home. It would not be home unless it were different.”

 

But then Lewis issued a dire warning: like the other forms of love, patriotism becomes demonic when it divinizes its object, when it makes its object into a god. Then, what began as a virtue degenerates into idolatry, with catastrophic results. Lewis understood those results only too well, having fought in World War I and having lived through World War II.

 

What Lewis was getting at, I think, was a distinction that others have made between patriotism and nationalism. For unlike the classical Christian virtue of patriotism, the modern ideology of nationalism is a perversion of patriotism. 

 

To my knowledge, the first person to oppose the two terms in this way was Charles de Gaulle, who said in 1969, “Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first, nationalism is when hate for people other than your own comes first.”

 

According to both Aristotle and Aquinas, each of the virtues is opposed by vices of excess and defect. Defects exhibit too little of the virtue; excesses take the virtue’s underlying impulse to irrational extremes. The virtue itself strikes the “golden mean” between the two. So, for example, the virtue of fortitude or bravery strikes the mean between the defect of cowardice and the excess of recklessness or foolhardiness.

 

In this scheme, the vices springing from a deficiency of patriotism are ingratitude and disloyalty to one’s country. In their weakest form, these may take the form of a casual disrespect or irreverence for national symbols. In their strongest form they take the form of active subversion and treason.

 

On the other hand, the vices associated with an irrational excess of the patriotic impulse are nationalism, chauvinism, and xenophobia. So, the virtue of patriotism strikes the mean between the defect of disloyalty and the excess of xenophobic nationalism.

 

While I’m on the subject, I’d be remiss if I didn’t say something on the question of displaying the national flag in church. I know that’s been a point of controversy in this parish, with the flags having been removed about twenty-five years ago, and then returned in the past few months.

 

My own point of view—which has evolved over the years—is that there’s nothing inherently wrong with displaying the national flag in church. In worship we offer God our whole selves, everything that we have and everything that we are, including our identity as citizens (or residents) of our county, and the flag’s presence in church symbolizes that.

 

It’s important to recognize, however, that for some Christians, such displays risk mixing religious and national symbols in a way that elevates both the flag and the nation it represents into objects of worship – precisely what C. S. Lewis was warning us against.

 

Believing as we do in the separation of church and state, some Christians also argue that just as it would be inappropriate to have a crucifix mounted on the wall above the judge’s bench in the courthouse down the street, so it’s equally inappropriate to display the national flag among all the religious symbols also on display here in the church.

 

Whatever our own views on the matter, in the life of a Christian community it’s crucial to respect the convictions of those who take an opposite view. Without compromising our own principles, sometimes we need to forbear with one another out of love. 

 

For better or for worse, it will be up to the next rector to decide the matter. In the Episcopal Church, the office of Rector does carry that authority. For the time being, however, my decision is that the flags are staying.

 

But we need to remain on guard against any temptation that the flag’s presence may pose to divinize the nation, to make the nation itself into an object of worship. Instead, let it symbolize our shared aspiration to be “one nation, under God.” Let it stand as a symbol, in other words, not of an idolatrous nationalism but of a healthy patriotism.

 

And in the spirit of such patriotism, I wish us all a happy Independence Day! And may God bless America!

 

PROPER 9, YEAR C

Sunday, July 3, 2016

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

Isaiah 66:10-16

Psalm 66:1-8

Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

 

A theme running throughout our readings today is that of rejoicing. The Old Testament reading from Isaiah opens with the exhortation: “Rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her, all you who love her; rejoice with her in joy, all you who mourn for her …” Even though the holy city is lying in ruins, destroyed by its enemies, Isaiah prophesies future restoration, peace, and prosperity, promising his listeners: “You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice …”

 

Then Psalm 66 extends this call to rejoice beyond Jerusalem to all the world’s nations: “Be joyful in God, all you lands, sing the glory of his name; sing the glory of his praise.”

 

Finally, in the Gospel reading from Saint Luke, the seventy disciples return with joy from their mission to the towns and villages of Israel, reporting to Jesus, “Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name.” To which the Lord responds: “Nevertheless, do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you; but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

At bottom, authentic Christianity is not all stern commandments and grim duty, but a religion intended to bring us joy. The practice of the faith can entail hardship and sacrifice, to be sure. The seventy disciples likely set out on their mission with great trepidation; and who knows what privations they endured on the road? But in the end, it was all worth it, and they returned rejoicing with great joy.

 

In our pursuit of the Christian life, a question always worth asking ourselves is: Where is our joy? What is it about our practice of the faith, and our life together as a parish community, that gives us cause for rejoicing? 

 

When we’re feeling disheartened, moreover, it’s never a bad idea to try to reconnect with those tasks, activities, pastimes, and relationships that bring us joy, both emotionally and spiritually. When I find myself getting discouraged in my exercise of the priesthood, I try always to remember to ask myself: What is it about my ministry that gives me the deepest joy? And in those rare instances when I can’t think of any positive answer to that question, then I know that I’m in spiritual trouble and need to seek help. It’s a terrible thing to lose touch with the things that bring us joy—but they’re always still there, waiting to be rediscovered and reclaimed.

 

In a parish’s transition from one rector to another, this question is critical to the process of discernment. Not so much: What’s wrong here that needs fixing? – although that question may need attention, too – but above all: What’s right here? Where is our joy? What is it about this parish community’s identity, mission, and life together that gives us cause for rejoicing? The answer to that question is crucially important because it identifies those features of parish life that we most want to preserve and build upon for the future. So, let’s give it some thought and prayer in the coming weeks and months.

 

However we answer that question, we need also to be mindful of our Lord’s admonition in today’s Gospel: “rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” In other words, we need always to regard our earthly joys and sorrows in the perspective of eternity, and the infinitely greater joy that beckons us from the life of the world to come.

 

This phrase, “your names are written in heaven,” invokes an image that recurs throughout both the Old and New Testaments of a “Book of Life” in which God records the names of the just and the righteous. Of course, the image is not meant literally; the biblical writers aren’t suggesting that in heaven there’s an actual physical book in which God literally writes our names. Instead, it’s a metaphor for what God knows about each of us; and God knows each of us infinitely better than we even know ourselves. 

So, when our Lord declares to the seventy: “do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you; but rejoice that your names are written in heaven,” he’s effectively telling them that much as they might be tempted to take pride in their spiritual achievements, the ultimate question for them, and for us, is whether our names are written in the Book of Life.

 

How do we know, then, that our names really are written in heaven? The Church’s traditional answer is that God inscribed our names in the Book of Life when we were baptized. When I administer the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, I perform not only a public ceremony at the font but also a crucial bit of administrative paperwork at my desk afterwards. I record the baptism in the parish register, which, if you’ve never seen it, is an impressively large book. I’ve always found recording there the names of the newly baptized oddly moving.

 

And with good reason: the Early Church Fathers saw the ceremonial inscription of the baptismal candidates’ names in the Church’s book as an earthly reflection of their names being written in the Book of Life. In a fourth century sermon, Saint Gregory of Nyssa says to a group of catechumens, “Give me your names so that I may write them down in ink. But the Lord himself will engrave them on incorruptible tablets … the Bishop inscribes you in the Book of the Church that you may know that from now on you are inscribed in heaven.”

 

These words offer us all great encouragement. Now, to avoid any misunderstanding, I’m not saying that the unbaptized are automatically excluded from heaven or condemned to eternal punishment. That’s not the point. God is free to save whomever he chooses, baptized or not.

 

The point, instead, is that for Christians, Holy Baptism, along with the faith and repentance that it signifies, stands as the outward and visible sign of our names being written in God’s Book of Life. The Scriptures do suggest that while we can blot our names out of the book by serious sin—that is, by knowingly and willfully rebelling against God—we can also always repent and return to the Lord, in which case he’ll fully re-inscribe us in the Book. And there’s no greater cause for rejoicing than that.

 

Today, then, we avail ourselves of the opportunity to take stock of everything that brings joy to our lives—as members of our families, as citizens of our country, as parishioners of our church. But we also remember that the true foundation of all joy is our shared hope of eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. Above all earthly joys, then, we rejoice that our names are written in heaven.

PROPER 8, YEAR C

Sunday, June 26, 2022

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

1 Kings 19:15-16, 19-21

Luke 9:51-62

 

In the Gospel reading that we’ve just heard, a certain Greek verb meaning “to follow” occurs three times. This verb occurs first when a man says to Jesus, “I will follow you wherever you go.” It occurs second when Jesus says to someone else, “Follow me.” And third when still another person says, “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.”

 

In the ancient translation of the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek known as the Septuagint, this same verb is used in today’s Old Testament reading when Elisha says to Elijah, “Let me kiss my father and my mother, and then I will follow you.”

 

The verb’s literal meaning is something like “to take to the road” or “to undertake a journey” with someone. And in today’s readings, it has the sense not merely of following someone somewhere, but also of making the total commitment of becoming that person’s disciple. 

 

In the reading from First Kings, the prophet Elijah has received God’s command to anoint Elisha the son of Shaphat to be his successor. Elisha appears as a wealthy young farmer, plowing with twelve yoke of oxen. Elijah casts his mantle upon Elisha—a  clear sign of calling him to follow in his footsteps and take up the prophetic office.

 

Elisha’s response expresses his acceptance of the call and his total commitment to following Elijah. Destroying his livelihood, he slays the oxen and uses the wooden yokes to make the fire on which he roasts the oxen to make a great feast for the people. Then he departs to follow and serve Elijah.

 

Today’s Gospel clearly harks back to this Old Testament episode. Saint Luke tells us of Jesus setting his face to go to Jerusalem: making the decision to undertake the journey that will result in his crucifixion and death. And filled with this single-minded determination to complete his mission, Jesus begins instructing the disciples on the level of commitment required of them if they’re to follow him on the journey.

 

Three encounters with would-be followers on the road illustrate the point. One individual enthusiastically declares, “Lord, I will follow you wherever you go.” The Lord’s response is sobering: Birds have nests, foxes have holes, but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head. Those who follow him must be willing to give up even the basic security of having somewhere to call home.

 

A second person says yes to the invitation to follow Jesus, but with a condition: “Lord, let me first go and bury my father.” This person is seeking to fulfill two of the highest and most compelling moral and religious obligations imaginable: to honor his parents and to bury the dead. The Lord’s response, “Leave the dead to bury their own dead,” may seem callous and insensitive, but his point is that his call transcends all other claims of duty, no matter how worthy.

 

A third person spontaneously offers to follow Jesus, but again with a condition: “let me first say farewell to those at my home.” These words are almost the same what Elisha says to Elijah. But unlike Elijah, Jesus doesn’t give the man leave. “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” In other words, Jesus demands a level of allegiance that takes precedence even over ties of familial affection.

 

Taken together, these three responses make clear that following Jesus calls for total and unreserved commitment. The call to follow is absolute, even when it entails leaving behind all other loyalties and commitments.

 

Now what does this mean for us today? Few of us are called literally to drop everything and leave behind home, families, and workplaces to follow Jesus on the road. On the contrary, most of us follow Jesus precisely by staying put and fulfilling our familial, social, occupational, and religious obligations in those stations of life into which it has pleased God to call us. 

 

But the real issue in the second and third encounters—I will follow, but let me first do this or that—involves the attempt to set conditions and put limitations upon discipleship. Occasionally, I’ve encountered parishioners who’ve said things like, “I don’t mind coming to church on Sundays, so long as I don’t become too religious.” In a previous parish, one lady told me that the practice of Christianity is fine in small doses, provided that it doesn’t interfere with one’s ability to enjoy the rest of one’s life. 

 

My initial impression of Christ Church is that such attitudes are not a major problem here. On the contrary, since my arrival at the beginning of this month, I’ve encountered a level of commitment and enthusiasm that would be the envy of many of my priestly colleagues if only they knew about it! Most of you display a passion for the well being of this parish and its people that is entirely commendable.

 

Any parish’s transition from one rector to another does, however, raise in acute form the issue of what it means to leave behind past forms of life to follow Jesus on the road. We’re all embarked upon this journey together. There’s no turning back. And in the coming months, we may well be called to engage deeply with the question of what aspects of the past need to be let go of into order to embrace more fully that future into which God is now calling us.

 

Such letting go, incidentally, does not mean forgetting or dishonoring the past. We do well to remember and be grateful for the many gifts and blessings that have made us who we are. For example, it was wonderful, right, and fitting that so many parishioners went out to Illinois to participate in Fr. Burgess’s consecration as Bishop of Springfield, while others gathered in the parish hall to watch the livestream. It was, however, not only a wonderful moment of celebration but also a valuable opportunity for closure—like Elisha kissing his father and his mother before taking to the road to follow Elijah. 

 

Bishop Burgess will rightly hold a place in many hearts for years to come as a rector who brought great blessings on this parish and profoundly informed its sense of identity and mission. But I know that he would be the first to agree that it’s now time for Christ Church to be open to a future in which a new rector may well want to move in new directions and do some things differently. Such openness does no dishonor to Bishop Burgess’s legacy; it simply recognizes that for us, as for him, the journey continues—and “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.

 CORPUS CHRISTI:  

THE BODY AND BLOOD OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST

Sunday, June 19, 2022

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

 

Until the pandemic, it was perhaps easy to receive Holy Communion every Sunday without giving it too much thought. One unintended blessing of the lockdown, horrible as it was in so many ways, was that it cured us of any tendency we might have had to take this great privilege for granted. Still, at every church where I served before March 2020, the Holy Eucharist was the principal service on Sunday, with almost all the congregation coming to the altar rail and receiving Communion as a matter of course.

 

It was not always so. Within living memory, the principal Sunday service in many Episcopal churches was not the Holy Eucharist but Morning Prayer with hymns and sermon. To this day, by canon law, to be considered a communicant in the Episcopal Church one need only receive Communion three times a year: the traditional days being Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost, and in some places All Saints, for good measure. In Morning Prayer parishes, those who desired to receive Communion more often than that would go to the early service.

 

Meanwhile, in Anglo-Catholic parishes, the Solemn High Mass at 11 am was often a “non-communicating” Mass at which only the priest would receive. For example, growing up in the Church of England, my wife would receive Communion with her parents at the 8 am Low Mass. Then, after going home for breakfast, they would return to church to sing in the choir at the non-communicating High Mass at 11. But many more people attended the High Mass than the early service. In other words, in both high and low church parishes, the majority of the faithful might attend the principal service every Sunday and still receive Communion only monthly or even just three or four times a year. 

 

This pattern of infrequent Communion began to change as early as the 1930s, under the influence of what was known as the Parish Communion Movement. Its aim was to promote the people’s full participation in the Church’s worship. Above all, it sought to make the principal Sunday service a parish Eucharist at which all the people would have the opportunity to receive Holy Communion. 

 

One of the parish Communion Movement’s advocates in England, A. G. Hebert, wrote in 1937 that the ideal time for the Parish Eucharist was around 9 or 9:30 in the morning. 8 am was too early for many people; and 11 am was too late for most people to keep the traditional fast before Communion.

 

Four decades later, the Episcopal Church’s 1979 Prayer Book fulfilled the Parish Communion Movement’s key goals by designating the Holy Eucharist as “the principal act of worship on the Lord’s Day and other major Feasts” (that’s on page 13), and by directing that at every Eucharist the Sacrament must be delivered to the people (that’s on pages 338 and 365).

 

So, we’ve come a long way. And I certainly have no desire to go back to the days of monthly or quarterly Communion! The real question now, however, is whether we’ve perhaps come too far and grown too casual in our approach to the Blessed Sacrament. And here is where today’s Feast of Corpus Christi can assist us.

 

Through its history the Church has tended to see-saw between periods when Christians felt free to receive Communion weekly or even daily, as in the early Church, and periods when Christians were so afraid of receiving unworthily, and thus eating and drinking damnation upon themselves, that they tended to refrain from receiving at all.  In 1215, for example, the Fourth Lateran Council required lay people to receive at least once a year, usually at Easter, after making their Confession to a priest. The goal was to try to overcome people’s great fear of approaching the altar. 

 

Against this background, the Feast of Corpus Christi originated in the thirteenth century as part of a movement of devotion whose aims included a return to more frequent Communion. The feast’s message for us is twofold. On one hand, we should certainly avail ourselves of the opportunity to receive Holy Communion at least weekly. But, on the other hand, we still need to approach the Sacrament with the utmost care and preparation. 

 

In other words, we need to steer a middle course between a rigorism that would keep us from Communion out of fear, and a laxity that would lead us to become careless and irreverent. And I would submit that the latter rather than the former is the greater spiritual danger to us in today’s world.

 

Providentially, our Catholic Christian tradition offers us some practices that can help us increase the reverence and devotion with which we approach the Blessed Sacrament. Most important of all is spiritual preparation for Mass by saying our prayers and examining our consciences. For what sins and shortcomings do we want to seek God’s forgiveness and help? For what people and situations do we want to ask God’s grace and blessings?

At the very least, we can try to get to church on time so that we can settle down and get recollected in the few minutes before Mass begins. The traditional guideline is that we normally receive Communion at any Mass only if we’ve been present for the Gospel.

 

One useful form of preparation, to which I’ve already alluded, is the traditional Communion Fast. For some of us, health concerns make this impossible, and we certainly don’t want anyone passing out in the pews! But even if we can’t go without food from the night before, we can keep breakfast to a minimum, and if possible, observe the rule of eating nothing for an hour before Mass. It’s difficult to maintain the proper spiritual dispositions for receiving Communion when weighed down by a breakfast of pancakes, hash browns, eggs, and bacon.

 

The Church’s best wisdom, also, is that it’s difficult to prepare ourselves adequately for Communion any more often than once a day. If we find ourselves attending more than one Eucharist in the same day, it’s no longer forbidden to receive twice, but it’s also perfectly acceptable to attend Mass and not receive. (And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!) Sometimes, indeed, we best express our reverence for the Blessed Sacrament by refraining from receiving when we’re spiritually unprepared to do so.

 

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 closing hymn, we take a moment to say “thank you” to God for his gift of himself to us in the Sacrament of his Body and Blood, and to recommit ourselves to the tasks he’s given us to do in the world.

 

On this Feast of Corpus Christi, then, we render thanks for all those before us who worked so hard for so many years to establish the Communion of the Faithful as the norm for every Sunday and Holy Day. But we honor their memory best by receiving this great gift with all the reverence and devotion that it deserves.