October 18, 2015 Job 38: 1-7,
34-41; Hebrews 5: 1-10; Mark 10: 35-41 (Proper 24B)
Good morning. A rich set of readings from Scripture this morning with
some deeper thematic threads that seem to weave together. God’s
magnificent address to Job, out of the whirlwind. The great hymn about the eternal priesthood
of our Lord Jesus Christ in the Letter to the Hebrews. The conversation in Mark 10 between Jesus and
his disciples about which of them is going to get into the most important
stained glass windows as they turn toward Jerusalem and as the outline of the Cross
begins to be seen on the distant horizon.
If I were going to reduce the topic of the day to one word it would be,
I guess, “humility.”
A word that is central again and again to descriptions of Jesus and of
the desired character and behavior of the follows and friends of Jesus. The word “humility” always for me recalls
that pivotal moment in John’s gospel when John the Baptist, who is at the very
height of his popularity and influence, surrounded by vast crowds of dedicated
followers and admirers, sees that the expected one, Jesus, is now on the
scene. “I must decrease,” John says, “so
that he may increase.” Stepping back to make room for what God is
doing. To say, “It’s not about me.” Whether it’s Job before God in the midst of
his calamities and suffering. Whether
it’s the disciples of Jesus hearing yet again that the path to the spiritual
exaltation of the kingdom is one that goes in a downward direction rather than an
upward one. Whether it’s the author of
the Epistle to the Hebrews in this great insight into the mystery of Christ’s
suffering and death on the cross. In the
wide world the path to success is all about singing “look at me—see how great I
am!” But Jesus says to his friends, “not
so for you.” And since we live in the
world and are also friends of Jesus, the tension stretches across the
boundaries of our lives day by day.
Humility.
In that context I’d like to
begin and then to end this morning with two stories that are for me both associated
with my mother-in-law: Fran Johnson,
Susy’s mom. A woman of great Christian
character, intelligence, and spiritual insight and substance. A bright sense of humor. Real “wisdom” in exactly the way that word is
used in the Bible. Grace and also I
would say truly, humility. It’s been a
number of years now since her death, but so very frequently I’ll hear in my
memory an echo of a word she said—or sometimes just a smile, or a penetrating
look.
In any case, there was this time, many years ago, when I was as I
recall making some off-hand comment, somewhat critical of something that was
happening in my Field Education parish, St. Anselm’s in Lafayette,
California. I have actually no memory at
all of what the issue was. Something the
idiotic rector had done that I could have done a million times better, I’m
sure. But in any case what I do remember
was Fran kind of brightly saying, “You know what they say! If you ever find a perfect church, don’t go
there. You’ll only spoil it.” I’ve heard other people give different
versions of that saying over the years, but that was the first time I’d heard
it, and I’m sure it will always be in my thoughts with her voice and
intonation.
I would say, to begin, that I’m pretty sure—pretty sure (she was my mother-in-law, after all!)—that Fran wasn’t
thinking about me personally when she said this. The point wasn’t that “I” would spoil
things. At least I hope not! But it was to be a quick short-cut reminder
that perfection is an illusion. That things may “look” perfect, from a
certain distance, but that whenever you get close enough to be able to see them
with greater clarity, the illusion of perfection is quickly dispelled. Especially when people are involved. And churches turn out most of the time anyway
to have people in them. The thing about
people is that they are, that we are all of us, inevitably problematic. A friend of ours in Auburn, California, used
to have a little plaque on the desk in her study that said, “Be kind: Everyone
you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” Always a good reminder. We may
sometimes tend to think that we are God’s gift to humanity. But God has offered only the one gift, and we
aren’t him. Hard as that sometimes is to
believe.
Of course, a lot of people become pretty skilled in pulling themselves
together at least on the outside. Putting
up a “good front.” But no matter how
cool, calm, collected they may appear, just scratch the surface. We looked at Job last Sunday morning as he
sat on the ash heap picking at his sores and mourning the loss of the people
and the life that he had loved. Fifteen
minutes before that moment and he was at the top of the world! To be reminded that that’s all of us. It doesn’t always happen in one sudden
cataclysm, as it did for Job. But sooner
or later everything that happened to Job happens to every one of us. As the echo of the Funeral Sentences in the Burial
Office: We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry
nothing out. So with churches, Fran was
saying. If you see one that looks like
everything is all smooth sailing, don’t look too closely. If you do, storm clouds and rough seas will
reveal themselves before you know it. So
with any of our lives, of course. Our
families, our work, our relationships.
So what I think Fran was telling me—or at least what I’ve drawn from
the memory of her little joke over the past 30+ years—is that it’s with this
real broken and messed-up world, with these real broken and messed-up
people, that Jesus chooses to live. That it is this real broken and messed-up
church that he has come to redeem and bless and save. And if it’s good enough for him, it can be
good enough for us too. “Come unto me,
all ye that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.” A bunch of messed-up people. Which is to say, a bunch of people . . . .
So Mark 10, and even after all they’ve been through the disciples are
still struggling with this. Just a few
steps earlier in the journey Jesus took young children up in his arms to say,
“Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child
shall not enter it.” Kids with
strawberry jelly smeared over their t-shirts.
With dirty diapers. What
sometimes is called the “great reversal,” especially emphasized in St. Mark’s
gospel: “the last shall be first, and the first last.” So much of what the world values most, and a
set of priorities that gets turned upside-down.
Just a few steps earlier in the journey Jesus had told the rich young
man who wanted to know about his relationship to God, “you lack one
thing.” And the way to obtain that one
thing that he lacks turns out to be not to get something more, but to let
things go. “Sell what you have, give it
all away, and then come follow me.”
That the renewal of our relationship with God, our restoration –flowing
not from our strength, but from our weakness. Which is not the way it usually works in the
world we live in! That word from God to
Job out of the whirlwind, like the song from the Prophet Isaiah. My ways are not your ways, saith the Lord,
nor my thoughts your thoughts. As the
heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my
thoughts than your thoughts.” What St.
Paul talks about when he talks about what he calls the “thorn” in his flesh,
this debilitating condition—praying that God would heal him, so that he could
grow in his ministry in strength and power.
God says, Paul, “my strength is made perfect in your weakness.” Second Corinthians 12. One of the most important passages in all of
St. Paul—who then goes on to say to the Corinthians, “you go ahead and boast
about your strength, your success, your accomplishments. I will boast of my weakness. Because it is in that weakness, that
brokenness, that I am nearest to Jesus and his death on the Cross. And because being near him, being near Jesus,
is the only kind of success that I’m really interested in.
So the second story that I associate with my mother-in-law. Harald and Fran had come down from their home
in Scituate, Massachusetts, to visit us when I was Curate of St. Andrew’s in
State College—so this must have been maybe 1986 or 1987, I’m guessing. In any event, it was in the press of things
at the end, after the postlude, as the rector—my old friend and mentor the late
Jim Trost—and I were shaking hands with folks at the back of the center
aisle. Harald and Fran came down,
probably with Susy and maybe with the kids, I don’t really remember. I introduced them to him, and Fran said very
nicely, “it’s wonderful to meet you. You
have a beautiful church.” And Jim
smiled, looked up and around for a moment, laughed, and said “Yes, they
are.” Yes they are. Fran told that story numerous times over the
years. It really impressed her and
delighted her, I think. Jim had been rector of that parish for almost
25 years at that point, and he knew most all of the stories, the hard
battles. The stylish young couple whose
first child had died shortly after birth, and whose marriage at that point was hanging
by a thread. The composed, well-dressed
older woman in the back pew who was three weeks back from her second stay at
rehab. The businessman in the power suit
whose oldest son had just flunked out of college and come home suffering from
deep depression. He knew all the stories,
Jim did. “You have a beautiful church.” “Yes, they are.”
What we would say to each other. As we’re on our way to communion this
morning. We can send the message
telepathically. Just think it in a
concentrated way. Or maybe we can even say
it in a quiet voice over a cup of coffee.
An encouraging hand on a shoulder.
Welcome to the church. If you’re broken somewhere. Sometimes it’s on the surface and shows up
right away. Sometimes we seem to travel
in deep disguise. It’s exactly the
opposite of “I’m o.k., You’re O.K.,” the title of the best-selling book back in
the 1960’s. It’s, “I’m not o.k. You’re not O.K.” And the hard process that we all need to be
about together of getting to be o.k. with that.
The work of the Church.
In any event, in absolutely the most important ways it’s not about
stained glass windows and the majestic architecture of high-lifted ceilings and
vaulted arches, impressive programs, popular activities. We do know that for sure. His eyes aren’t on the architecture. A good
thing for us to remind ourselves of. “A beautiful church you have here, Jesus.” “Yes, they are.” That’s what he says this morning, looking at
us. “Yes, they are!” Because that’s what Jesus is all about, as we
hear the story in the tenth chapter of Mark—to take the beauty of his broken
church, which is this broken church, you and me, and to sweep it up into his
embrace as he was raised up in pain and sorrow and brokenness on the
cross. A church so beautiful that he
would die for it.
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