PROPER 12, YEAR B

July 28, 2024

Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R. I.

 

John 6:1-21

 

Today’s Gospel reading recounts not one but two of Our Lord’s miracles: feeding the five thousand, and walking on the water. The multiplication of the loaves and fishes is one of the few miracles found in all four canonical Gospels.  And in three of them—Matthew, Mark, and John—it’s followed directly by Jesus’ walking over the Sea of Galilee to the disiples in the boat.

 

Both stories describe journeys that start out well enough. In the first instance, Jesus and his disciples cross the Sea of Galilee and ascend a mountain in the wilderness. In the second instance, that same evening, while Jesus remains on the mountain, the disciples begin the return journey, rowing their boat back across the Sea of Galilee.

 

In the first story, the complication arises when a large crowd follows Jesus into the wilderness—presumably by taking the land route around the shoreline. (Remember, the Sea of Galilee is not really a sea but a large lake.) The crowd’s arrival creates a serious problem: how to feed five thousand people. The sixth months’ wages needed to purchase enough for each to get even a little is an astronomical sum, far exceeding any cash the disciples have on hand. And the food on hand, five barley loaves and two fish, is an infinitesimal fraction of what’s needed.

 

The Gospel-writer John is careful to tell us that Passover is at hand, because the predicament harks back to the Israelites in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt, where Moses cries to the Lord, “Where am I to get meat to give to all these people?” Admittedly, the crowds following Jesus are unlikely to die of starvation, since they’re all probably within a day’s journey of home. But in a culture where hospitality is a paramount value, the failure to feed them will be highly embarrassing: an occasion of shame, disgrace, and dishonor.

 

In the second story, the complication arises when the disciples have rowed out about three or four miles. The Sea of Galilee is prone to violent squalls stirred up by fierce winds that funnel down through the gaps in the surrounding hills—the Golan Heights to the east, the hills of lower Galilee to the west. When the wind starts churning up the waves, the boat could be swamped, and the disciples could all drown.

 

In both cases, then, the disciples are feeling overwhelmed by circumstances beyond their control: how to feed five thousand people in the wilderness; how to make it to shore without perishing in the sea. And in both cases, Our Lord’s solution transcends all possible human responses: miraculously multiplying loaves and fishes to feed the multitudes; and even more miraculously walking over the sea to bring the boat safely to land.

 

Some contemporary commentators have attempted to offer completely naturalistic interpretations of both miracles. They explain the multiplication of the loaves and fishes as “a miracle of sharing.” That is, they suggest that many among the crowds have brought their own food, so that when our Lord blesses and distributes the boy’s five barley loaves and two fish, everyone else pulls out what they’ve brought and shares it with their neighbors, so that the real miracle is one of fellowship and community.

 

These same commentators also suggest that when Jesus comes walking over the sea towards the boat, the disciples don’t realize they’ve already made it to the other side and he’s just wading out in the shallows to meet them, having himself taken the land route around the lake.

 

The problem is that both interpretations contradict what’s written. The text clearly says that it was the five loaves and two fish that Jesus blessed and distributed, and from which twelve baskets were filled with fragments left over. Again, the text clearly says that Jesus came walking on the sea when the disciples were about three or four miles out; since the Sea of Galilee is eight miles wide and thirteen miles long, that puts them right in the middle of the lake.

 

Both interpretations reflect a reductionist mindset that methodically seeks to eliminate all elements of the supernatural from the Gospel stories. But such reductionism eviscerates the power of these stories, which lies precisely in their mystery and wonder. Far better to take the texts on their own terms and read them as the Gospel writers intended them to be read, however challenging they may be to our modern worldview.

 

More than that, if the multiplication of loaves and fishes was really no more than a miracle of sharing, then Jesus didn’t really feed the multitudes: instead, the multitudes fed themselves. And if Jesus walking on the sea was really no more than an optical illusion caused by his appearance on the beach where the boat had almost arrived, then he didn’t really rescue the disciples at all; instead, they made it across the sea by their own perseverance in not giving up even when all seemed lost. In both interpretations, Jesus is no longer the Savior but instead the Teacher and the Exemplar: the one who gives the encouragement by which people save themselves.

 

So, these stories are about not only who Jesus was for the disciples and multitudes two millennia ago, but also who he is for us today. Is he our Teacher or our Savior? The notion that Jesus merely inspires us by his teaching and example to take care of one another and persevere against all odds is not Christianity but Stoicism. For authentic Christian faith looks to the risen Jesus as the one who still feeds us in all our wildernesses; and who still rescues us from going under in all our worst moments of hopelessness and despair.

 

After feeding the five thousand, Jesus commands the disciples “Gather up the fragments left over, that nothing may be lost.” The symbolism here is that this miracle is just the beginning: the feeding of the multitudes does not end here but will continue for all generations. The twelve baskets of fragments signify both the twelve tribes of Israel and the twelve Apostles—who will in due course become the first bishops of the early Church—who will in turn ordain priests to continue feeding the multitudes with the Word and Sacraments. The message for us is that when we come here, to the Holy Eucharist, Jesus feeds us just as surely as he once fed the five thousand in the wilderness. Here we receive our viaticum, our food for the journey.

 

As for the walking on the water, in the biblical worldview, a stormy sea is an image of primordial chaos, representing darkness, destruction, and death. The image of Jesus walking over the surface of the waves proclaims his sovereignty over all creation and reassures us that no power in this world or in the world to come can keep Jesus from coming to our aid whenever we need him most. In whatever journeys we undertake in his Name, then, our first and greatest need is to put our trust in him, confident that no matter what befalls us, he will feed us in the wilderness and bring us safely to the other shore.

PROPER 11, YEAR B

Sunday, July 21, 2024

Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R. I.

 

Jeremiah 23:1-6

Psalm 23

Ephesians 2:11-22

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

 

“And [Jesus] had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd ...”  I find that one of the most poignant sentences in the Gospels. We can break it into two parts, which are worth a bit of exploration in depth: taking the second part first, “they were like sheep without a shepherd,” and then the first part, “he had compassion on them.”

 

The phrase “sheep without a shepherd” has deep scriptural resonances. In the Book of Numbers, as the aged Moses contemplates his approaching death, he asks God “to appoint a man over the congregation who shall go out before them and come in before them, who shall lead them out and bring them in; that the congregation of the Lord may not be as sheep which have no shepherd.” In response, God appoints Joshua to be Moses’ successor.

Centuries later, the prophet Micaiah foretells the death of King Ahab in battle with the words: “I saw all Israel scattered upon the mountains, as sheep that have no shepherd …” In the Old Testament, then, the phrase “sheep without a shepherd” describes a leadership vacuum leaving the people vulnerable and helpless: a totally undesirable situation.

 

At this point in Saint Mark’s narrative, this is precisely the situation facing God’s people. As we heard in last week’s Gospel, John the Baptist, a prophet raised up by God, has just been beheaded by King Herod, who’s himself the very opposite of the kind of shepherd that the kings of Israel were intended to be. He resembles more the false shepherds whom Jeremiah denounces in today’s Old Testament reading: “Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture!”

 

In this context, when Jesus comes ashore and sees a great crowd, who seem to him like sheep without a shepherd, he has compassion on them. The dictionary definition of compassion is “sympathetic concern or distress for the sufferings or misfortunes of others.” The English word comes from the Latin passio, suffering, with the prefix co or com, “with,” and so means “suffering together” or “suffering with.” Compassion in this sense means imagining what it’s like to stand in the shoes of those who are in sore need or distress, so that we experience an overwhelming desire to help them.

 

Even so, the English translation fails to capture the force of the Greek verb used here.” More literally, it says—Wait for this—that he was “moved in his bowels.” This phrase comes from the ancient idea of the heart and bowels together as the seat of the seat of the deepest human emotions. This verb thus describes a physical, visceral, gut-wrenching reaction. A more idiomatic if slightly sanitized translation into contemporary English might be “his heart went out to them,” or “they broke his heart.”

 

Jesus uses this same verb in three of his parables. In the parable of the Unforgiving Servant, a king discovers that one of his servants owes him the astronomical sum of ten thousand talents. When the servant cannot pay, the king orders him sold into slavery along with his wife and children. When the servant falls on his knees and begs for patience, the king “out of compassion” forgives him the whole debt.

 

The second parable is the Prodigal Son, who takes his share of his father’s inheritance, and goes off to a far country where he wastes everything. After hitting rock bottom, he decides to return to his father’s house and offer his services as a hired hand since he considers himself no longer worthy to be called a son. But when the old man sees him far off, he’s filled with compassion, runs to embrace him, and orders up a great feast to celebrate the Prodigal’s return.

 

The third parable is the Good Samaritan. On the lonely winding road from Jerusalem down to Jericho, a traveler is attacked by robbers who beat him, strip him, take all his possessions and leave him by the roadside to die. A priest and a Levite, respected religious leaders, deliberately pass by on the other side of the road to avoid him. But then a Samaritan, a hated enemy of the Jewish people, comes along and has compassion on him, binding up his wounds, setting him on his beast, and bringing him to an inn where he can recover.

 

In each of those three parables, Jesus uses this same word for compassion: that gut-wrenching, visceral movement of empathy, pity, and care.  And in all three parables, the one who has compassion—the king, the father, and the Samaritan—stands as a figure of God, or Christ. For compassion and mercy are among God’s chief attributes.

 

Indeed, one of the heresies condemned by the early Church is the mistaken idea—an idea that we still often hear expressed today—that the God of the Old Testament is a God of wrath and vengeance, while the God of the New Testament is a God of love and forgiveness. But, of the 43 times the Hebrew word for compassion appears in the Old Testament, in 29 instances it’s used as an attribute of God. The God of the Old Testament and the God of the New Testament are one and the same: a God of mercy, love, and compassion.

 

And nowhere does the divine compassion shine forth more brightly than in the life and ministry of Jesus Christ. And so, today’s Gospel concludes: “Wherever [Jesus] went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.”

 

As Christians, we’re called to follow Christ’s example. Compassionate care for the poor and needy, the sick and the dying, the homeless and prisoners, migrants and refugees, is one of the classical Christian virtues. But before we can effectively show compassion to those less fortunate than ourselves, we need to take on board how much God has compassion on us. That is, before we can assume the role of the forgiving king, the welcoming father, or the Good Samaritan, we need to recognize in ourselves the indebted servant, the prodigal son, the wounded man lying by the roadside.

 

The good news is that whenever we’re most tempted to feel abandoned, lost, and scattered, like sheep without a shepherd, Jesus sees us, and has compassion. As God promises his people in today’s reading from Jeremiah, “I will raise up shepherds over them who will shepherd them, and they shall not fear any longer, or be dismayed, nor shall any be missing, says the Lord.” And in that reassurance of God’s compassion for us, we find the strength and courage to reach out and share that same compassion with our neighbors.

PROPER 10, YEAR B

July 14, 2024

Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R. I.

 

Amos 7:7-15

Psalm 85:8-13

Ephesians 1:3-14

Mark 6:14-29

 

Today’s readings highlight the theme of prophecy. Throughout biblical history, God raised up prophets to speak his Word and reveal his will, calling his people to faith and repentance.

 

Our Old Testament reading is taken from Amos, who’s not the first prophet in the Bible—that distinction arguably goes to Eldad and Medad in the Book of Numbers—but biblical scholars do believe the Book of Amos, dating back to the eighth century BC, to be the oldest of the prophetic books of the Old Testament.

 

And our Gospel reading recounts the death of John the Baptist, whom Christian tradition sometimes reckons as the last of the Old Testament prophets (even though he’s not explicitly mentioned in the Old Testament itself). So, between Amos and John the Baptist, we span the career of Old Testament prophecy.

 

The Christian tradition also teaches, however, that the age of prophecy did not end with the closing of the biblical canon. Down through the centuries, God raises up prophetic voices in every generation to bear witness to the truth of his Word and to spell out the Gospel’s implications for the challenges of each new era.

 

Within the last century, four figures come to mind as authentic modern-day prophets:

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the Lutheran pastor who courageously opposed Hitler in Nazi Germany and was hanged in Sachsenhausen concentration camp as the war was ending.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who led the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s, and worked to end racial discrimination and segregation, all the while condemning violence and advocating nonviolent means of resistance.

Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador, who spoke out on behalf of human rights for the poor and oppressed, and was shot dead while saying Mass in March 1980.

And finally, Desmond Tutu, the Anglican Archbishop of Capetown, whose activism helped end the apartheid regime in South Africa and pave the way for majority rule in 1994.

So, we have an ecumenical assortment: a Lutheran, a Baptist, a Roman Catholic, and an Anglican! Three out of the four died for their witness. And even if we don’t agree with everything that they said or did, we can still acknowledge all four as prophetic voices raised up by God in our own time. And there are many others.

 

Now, at this point in the sermon, the great temptation for the preacher is to start exhorting us to discern how God is calling each of all to find our own prophetic voice to denounce injustice and call for change in our own time and place. But I’m going to resist that temptation—because I think it’s a mistake. On the contrary, we’re probably not all called to be prophets. The Church, the Body of Christ, has room for many different callings, both lay and ordained, and prophetic witness on behalf of social justice is a ministry to which some but not all are called.

 

As Christians, however, we are all called to be alert, open, and attentive to the prophetic voices in our midst. Even if we don’t speak up ourselves, we always need to be listening. By contrast, in today’s Old Testament reading, the priest Amaziah tries to silence Amos: “O seer, go, flee away to the land of Judah and eat bread there, and prophesy there, but never again prophesy at Bethel, for it is the king’s sanctuary, and it is a temple of the kingdom.” When a genuine prophet comes into our midst, Amaziah shows us how not to respond!

 

King Herod in today’s Gospel is a bit more ambiguous. When John the Baptist rebukes him for marrying his brother’s wife—a clear violation of the Jewish Law—Herod has John arrested and put in prison. But he intends John’s imprisonment as a kind of protective custody because his wife Herodias wants John dead. And so, Mark writes, “Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he protected him. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him.” 

For all Herod’s faults, there’s something praiseworthy there. When God sends a genuine prophet into our midst, we may find what that prophet says perplexing and even disturbing. But we do well to give the prophet a hearing, being quick to listen and slow to judge. (Unfortunately, of course, Herod ultimately allows himself to be manipulated into having John beheaded anyway.)

 

The further question is how to distinguish true from false prophets. For we can probably all call to mind false prophets in our own time, deceivers who’ve led their followers astray, often with catastrophic results. Think of Jim Jones, who orchestrated the Jonestown mass suicide in Guyana in 1978, with the loss of over 900 lives.

 

Well, it so happens that down through the centuries, the Church’s tradition has developed guidelines for discerning the truth or falsity of claimed revelations, visions, and prophecies.

 

One key test is whether the would-be prophet stands to gain anything personally from prophesying. When the priest Amaziah tells Amos to go back to Judah and earn his bread there, he’s accusing Amos of using prophecy as a means of making a living and getting bread to eat. But Amos is quick to disavow being a professional prophet: "I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees …" We get the sense that Amos would much rather be back home working in the fields. Nevertheless, he has no choice: "the Lord took me from following the flock, and the Lord said to me, 'Go, prophesy to my people Israel.'"

 

Another sign of an authentic prophet is not necessarily always telling people what they want to hear. Neither Amos nor John the Baptist seek popularity by flattering their audiences. On the contrary, they know that their witness will be costly. They’re willing to die fulfilling their calling, and indeed sometimes do.

 

The decisive test for us today, however, is that the prophet’s words and actions are consistent with God’s Word. This is certainly true of the authentic prophets in the Bible itself, from Amos to John the Baptist, and it continues to be true down to the present day.

 

Scripture, as interpreted by the Christian tradition, supplies the standard by which we assess and evaluate messages delivered by those claimed to be prophets in our time. As Saint Paul writes in today’s reading from the Letter to the Ephesians, “With all wisdom and insight he has made known to us the mystery of his will.”

 

So, we’re able to join with the Psalmist in declaring with joy: “I will listen to what the Lord God is saying, for he is speaking peace to his faithful people, and to those who turn their hearts to him.” In the coming week, let’s try to hold on to that verse and recall it at those moments when we need it most. “I will listen to what the Lord God is saying, for he is speaking peace to his faithful people, and to those who turn their hearts to him.”

 

PROPER 9, YEAR B

Sunday, July 7, 2024

St Mark’s Episcopal Church, Warwick, R. I.

 

Ezekiel 2:1-5

Mark 6:1-13

 

Today’s readings raise what might be called “the mystery of rejection.” In theological language, a mystery is something that we can accurately name and describe to some extent, but without ever fully exhausting its meaning. It’s simultaneously visible and invisible, revealed and hidden. Its deepest reality always eludes our fullest comprehension, at least in this life. Once we’ve said everything that can be said about it, we realize that there’s so much more that must be left unsaid.

 

“The mystery of rejection” is the question of why some people accept and embrace the truth of God’s word and the good news of God’s love, while others don’t. Thus defined, it’s part of the wider mystery of human freedom.

 

In every parish community with which I’ve been affiliated people have periodically wrestled with this question. A long-standing parishioner, a pillar of the church, suddenly leaves, and stops attending any church. The temptation is to ask ourselves: Why? What did we do wrong? What warning signals did we miss? What drove this person away? How did we fail to meet their needs?

 

But then, out of the blue, new individuals and new families arrive and become avid participants. At that point, the temptation is to congratulate ourselves and take credit for everything we’re doing right, and to ask what more we can do to build on our successes. These are not bad questions to ask, so long as we realize that any answers we come up with will always be partial and incomplete. Ultimately, we’re dealing with the mystery of the Spirit’s movements in the deepest recesses of the human heart.

 

This mystery of rejection dominates today’s Old Testament reading from the Prophet Ezekiel. God commissions the prophet to go to the people of Israel, “a nation of rebels, who have rebelled against me.” Without promising any success, the Lord demands the prophet’s obedience to his calling: “I am sending you to them, and you shall say to them, “Thus says the Lord God.” Whether they hear or refuse to hear … they shall know that there has been a prophet among them.” The crucial point is not how the people respond, but whether the prophet speaks God’s Word and issues the call to repentance and obedience. If Ezekiel does that, he’ll be found faithful, even if the people are not.

 

Today’s Gospel presents us with another instance of rejection. Jesus returns to his hometown of Nazareth for the first time since beginning his ministry in Galilee. Listening to him speak in the synagogue are his friends and neighbors, the people among whom he grew up. They take offense at him: “Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?” Their attitude is one of classic small-town pettiness and jealousy: “We know who you are, so don’t you go putting on airs and acting like you’re any better than the rest of us!” In response, Jesus utters the wonderful proverbial saying: “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.”

 

Mark then makes one of his more interesting and enigmatic statements: “And [Jesus] could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief.” It’s the precise reversal of the usual pattern of people marveling at the Lord’s mighty works. Even though Jesus is all-powerful as the Incarnate Son of God, nonetheless he requires from those seeking his help some measure of faith as a condition of performing the healing miracles that have already become the keynote of his ministry. And there’s a warning here for us. Let it never be said that God could do no mighty works at St. Mark’s, Warwick, on account of our unbelief. God can and will do great things among us, provided that we ask in faith.

 

Notice what Jesus does not do in response to his rejection at Nazareth. He doesn’t commission a survey to learn how he can become more responsive to the townspeople’s concerns and needs. He doesn’t send out an email with the subject heading “Let us know how we’re doing,” asking for feedback in the form of ratings on a scale of one to ten across twelve different categories of service. That’s not how the Kingdom of God works. Instead, he simply respects their freedom and moves on. As Mark tersely puts it: “Then he went about among the villages teaching.”

 

Then he summons the Twelve Apostles and sends them out two-by-two to preach and cast out demons in the surrounding region of Galilee. Since Nazareth has rejected him, it’s become all the more urgent to take the message on the road to the many other towns and villages that may be more receptive. This strategy bears fruit. The Twelve “went out and proclaimed that all should repent. They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.”  Rejection doesn’t always have the last word. Moreover, the Twelve effectively become the new community that replaces the hometown community that has rejected Jesus for the time being.

 

The common denominator between Ezekiel in the Old Testament and Jesus in the Gospel is the overriding imperative of fidelity to the mission. God says to Ezekiel: “Whether they hear or refuse to hear (for they are a rebellious house), they shall know that there has been a prophet among them.” And Jesus says to the Twelve: “If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.” In those days, Jews returning to Israel after traveling abroad would shake the dust of the Gentile world from their shoes when they re-entered the Holy Land. The Apostles are likewise to shake the dust off their feet as a testimony that they’re moving on through no fault of their own but because of the place’s rejection of their mission and message.

 

What does all this mean for us. The takeaway, I think, is the paradox that this parish, like any parish, is most likely to grow when we take our minds off growth as a goal and focus instead on the mission. The question we need to be asking is not, “What can we do to attract more members?” but instead, “How is God calling us to live into our identity, vocation, and ministry as St Mark’s Episcopal Church in Warwick, Rhode Island? What do we need to be doing to fulfill our mission as an Episcopal parish in our time and place?” As we try to be faithful to the mission, some will indeed reject us. Such is the mystery of human freedom. But others will find themselves drawn to join us as we move forward in that mission together.