Sermon by Pastoral Associate the Rev. Dean Byrom on Sunday, November 12 (Proper 27A2). The audio is posted to the St. Andrew's website, click here for sermon audio.
I Thessalonians 4: 13-18
“We Grieve, But with Hope”
“We do not grieve as those who have no hope,”
writes Paul to the Thessalonians. Yet we still grieve. Elsewhere, Paul calls death “the final enemy.” And when that enemy touches your life - snatching from your loving grasp those whom you love - you grieve. Grief is normal. Grief is natural.
Randy Jones, my Clinical Pastoral Education supervisor, used to teach us often about “Grief work”. And having myself engaged in over an hour of grief work with a member of another church just recently, I affirm that for griever and pastor, that is just how it feels. It is hard, tough work.
“The hour of lead” is how Emily Dickinson named grief.
PAUSE
And it isn’t just in the few days afterward. Grief goes on. The way I figure it, in our congregation, on any given Sunday, over 80% of us are in grief over someone. That’s why we weep at the funerals of near strangers. That’s why we avoid funeral homes. Grief keeps coming back at odd times, grabbing us from behind, and throwing us into deep sadness.
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Loss has so many tentacles that hold us in their grip. Personally, any time that I read in the paper, see a television show or movies that includes the suffering or death of a young child I am frequently moved to tears which harkens back to the death from cancer of my three year old daughter, Melanie.
PAUSE
Paul says that we grieve. Yet, we do not grieve “as those who have no hope.” Hope for what”
Here’s what Christians hope. We hope that the same God who raised Jesus from the dead, shall raise us as well. We hope that just as Christ ventured forth from the realm of death into life, so shall He take us along with Him.
Our hope is not unfounded, not wishful thinking. Our hope for the future is based upon what we know of Christ Jesus in the present. In “Romans” 8, Paul says that nothing will separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ. If our experience with Christ Jesus has taught us one thing, it is that our God longs to be with us, will do almost anything to be near us, will go to any lengths to have us.
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That is the story that we recite and celebrate every Sunday here at St. Andrew’s. In the ancient Hebrew Scriptures, the prophets, the Law, the Commandments, the psalms; in Jesus’ birth, life, teaching, death and resurrection, God sought us.
When Jesus was resurrected, what did He do, first thing after He was raised? He came back to us, to His disciples who had betrayed Him.
That is the basis of our hope. We are confident that the God who has gone to such extraordinary lengths to be close to us in life, shall not cease those efforts in death. Therefore, we do not grieve as those who have no hope.
We believe that the same God who so pursued us, and reached out to us, and sought us all the days of our lives shall not cease to pursue us, reach out to us and seek us even in death.
Our hope is not in some vague and wishful immortality of the soul, or the expectation of some eternal spark that just goes on and on, or in reincarnation, or any other assumption that we possess within ourselves immortality.
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Our hope is that the love of God is stronger than the devastation of death; that ultimately, nothing shall separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ. God, having gone to such great lengths to save us and have us in life, will continue to demand us even in death. That is why we do not grieve as those who have no hope.
This is the hope that we experience on Sunday here in worship at St. Andrew’s. Having experienced, on so many Sundays, Jesus’ coming to us, being really present to us in Word and Sacrament, we hope for and count on His presence with us forever.
Our hope is not that we are immortal, not that some eternal spark lives on in us, surviving death. Our hope is that we will, by the work and will of God, be with Jesus forever. Death, the final enemy has been defeated.
So think of Sundays as dress rehearsals for eternal life. Think of our experiences of Sunday worship as our way of loving Jesus now, so that we might love Him forever, and praise God for all eternity.
PAUSE
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“Because I live, you shall live,” Christ Jesus tells His followers in the Gospel according to John. That’s why we have hope. Encourage one another with these words.
PAUSE
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The unending hymn of that
multitude beyond number, from every nation, all tribes and people and tongues,
before the Throne and before the Lamb, and the hymn of our hearts and voices. Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and
thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen.
Good morning and always such a beautiful day and a meaningful day here
at St. Andrew’s. With special thanks to
our Choir and Orchestra, Pete Luley, Tom Octave—and Tom, so very nice to have
you with us this year to lead our Music Memorial. The music welling up in our hearts and
overflowing. And a word of thanks as
well to all who have contributed to our congregational offering of memorial flowers
this morning. Remembering the saints and
heroes of ages past, and in our memories and our hearts as well the names and
faces of those we have loved but see no longer in this life. On the calendar of the Episcopal Church this
“Sunday after All Saints Day” brings together the two traditional observances,
All Saints Day on November 1st, and All Faithful Departed, All
Souls, on November 2nd. A
high moment of worship. For remembrance
and reflection, for inspiration, and we might also say of motivation. To hear in the remembrance of all the saints
and holy people of God an invitation to a closer walk with Christ, lifting our
sights higher, encouraging us to renewed joyful commitment, the common life of
the whole company of faithful people.
We speak of the “two states” of the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic
Church. The Church Militant, and the
Church Triumphant. The two sides of the
stream, yet continuing one Body, a Cloud of Witness, All who in the gracious
mercy of God are redeemed by the sacrifice of Christ on the Cross, who are
justified and brought into relationship to God the Father through faith, who
are sanctified by the Holy Spirit, to walk in newness of life, ransomed,
healed, restored, forgiven. Apostles and
evangelists, martyrs, faithful witnesses in every generation. And remembering in our own day the
heartbreaking faithful witness of martyrs in places from Egypt to Iraq and
Syria, Kenya and Nigeria—it seems almost daily stories of oppression,
persecution, and execution for those who will identify themselves as
Christian. Figuring out how to live
faithful lives is a challenge in any context, for sure. But when I hear these stories it does just
lead me to a time of reflection and to wondering about how I, how we, live,
about witness, courage, all those big questions. Peter and Andrew, James and John, and their
line continues. Those who stood near
Jesus on the Mountain as a preached to the crowd, who heard him with their own
ears, and all of us since. “Blessed are you when men revile you and
persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my
account. Rejoice and be glad, for your
reward is great in heaven, for so men persecuted the prophets who were before
you.”
Saints and heroes. In the 1979
Prayer Book lectionary, before the Episcopal Church adopted the Revised Common Lectionary
a few years ago, we had for All Saints the reading from Ecclesiasticus, which perhaps
you’ll remember. “Let us now praise
famous men, and our fathers in their generations.” The introduction first of the celebrities of
the sanctoral calendar, those with calendar days and stained glass windows, bishops
and kings, martyrs and miracle workers--but then also this, that “there are
some who have no memorial, who have perished as though they had not lived; they
have become as though they had not been born, and so have their children after
them. But these were men of mercy, whose
righteous deeds have not been forgotten; their prosperity will remain with
their descendants, and their inheritance to their children’s children.” Moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas,
neighbors, friends, teachers, maybe even a preacher or two. A reflection in the memorials in our prayers
this morning. Whose faith and character
and love in Christ—tenderness, kindness, generosity, will shape our lives in so
many meaningful ways. The images in the
stained glass windows of our hearts. I
can’t help but think this morning of our dear friend Dorothy Graham, who died
last Sunday and was buried from St. Andrew’s Thursday morning. In her 91st year—she and her
husband Albert lived and raised their family in a little house down on the 700
block of North St. Clair, just a few blocks from here. Dorothy and Bert’s kids came to St. Andrew’s
Sunday School, went to Fulton School and
all the rest, Peabody High, off to college, grew up, married, moved away, had
families of their own. Six
great-grandchildren.
Dorothy for many decades a bright and delightful member of the Altar
Guild, best known probably as the one who would every year on the Saturday
before Palm Sunday show all the rest of the Guild how to fold the most
beautiful and elaborate Palm Crosses. She
always made a dozen or so especially fancy ones for me, asking me to carry them
to our shut-in or hospitalized parishioners. The best ones, really special, so that they
would know we were thinking of them. She was shut in herself pretty much for most
of the last 20 years, first in her little apartment over in Aspinwall, then
when even that was too difficult to manage, in a nursing home out in Wexford
near her daughter’s house. But always
with this great warmth and smile. No
matter what her health was at any particular moment, just a sense of being
delighted to be there with you. She
loved to brag on her kids and grandkids.
And there was a lot about them to brag about. She loved hearing the news of the church,
what special events were happening, what was going on in the neighborhood--
receiving communion, praying together, and she always prayed for St. Andrew’s
and especially for the children of the parish.
Such a pleasure and such a
privilege. Anyway, just one story. A bit of memory, reflection. I could go on all day. The Church Triumphant, and the Church
Militant too, as we would look around old St. Andrew’s this morning. Just look around. Who are these like stars appearing? For all thy saints. As the children’s hymn goes, “you can meet
them in school or in lanes or at sea, in church or in trains, or in shops, or
at tea, for the saints of God are just folk like me . . . and I mean to be one
too.” And so we sing on.
Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and
thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen
I'll be away from the parish Wednesday, October 25, through Monday, October 30, on my annual fall retreat at St. Gregory's Abbey, Three Rivers, Michigan. With thanks for your prayers.
It’s Monday of Holy Week—that’s the setting of our New Testament
reading, Matthew 21. The time left is very
short. The storm is gathering. Jesus at the Temple, the rabbi from backwater
Galilee on center stage at last. It
doesn’t get any more prime time than this.
His last extended public teaching, in debate with the preeminent
religious scholars and leaders of the nation and with a large crowd of Jewish
pilgrims in attendance, as they have come from every corner of the world to
observe the Passover in Jerusalem. Jesus
begins to speak with two parables, two short, symbolic, allegorical stories
that share in common a concern for, a focus on, a Vineyard: The parable
we had as our gospel reading last Sunday, the Parable of the Two Sons, who are
called by their Father to work with him in the Vineyard, and as we heard this morning the Parable of
the Unruly Tenants , who abuse the privilege of their stewardship of the
Vineyard. Jesus is being poetic, I guess
we could say, but not obscure. Everybody
listening understands, and our Old Testament reading of course reminds us, that
the vineyard is a deep and rich Biblical symbol. Israel as the Vineyard of the Lord. God’s Nation, God’s Kingdom.
So a father calls his two sons to come work along with him in the
Vineyard. The first son seems to react
impulsively in the negative: he says
“no, father, I’ve got better things to do,” but then comes to himself,
reconsiders, repents, rolls up his
sleeves, and goes out to join his father.
A pattern that might remind us of the other “Parable of the Two Sons,
that we usually call the Parable of the Prodigal Son. The Son who gets lost, but who finds his way
home. The second Son this morning on the
other hand gives a positive answer right off the bat, says all the right words,
very enthusiastic, everything you’d expect from a “good son.” Perhaps we remember the other Son in the
Prodigal Son parable as well. A similar
profile. But in any event, when the
appointed hour comes, the Second Son flakes out, goes back on his word, decides
he’d rather spend the day at the mall. He
never shows up as he promised, to work with his Father in the Vineyard.
Jesus asks, “Now, which of these did the will of the Father?” And the Priests and Pharisees there in the
Temple hear how Jesus words the question and concede the obvious point: “the First son, of course.” The Second Son was the one who gave the right
answer when the Father called, but that’s really beside the point. Certainly better to say the wrong thing but
then to change direction and do the right thing, than to go in the other
direction. What you do in fact matters more in the end than
what you say you’re going to do.” Lots of people know how to “talk a good
game.” But actions speak louder than
words. Kind of reminds me of that sad
quotation, that “everybody talks a lot about Christianity; somebody should give
it a try.” The allegory of the parable
isn’t hard for anybody in the crowd.
When you want to know who actually is working with the Father in the
Vineyard, who is tending God’s people, you don’t go by who was talking a good
game, or by superficial markers, like offices and titles and credentials. You
don’t listen to promises and formal declarations. We see
politicians all the time after all, even here lately in Western Pennsylvania,
who talk the talk and say they stand for something—but when the newspaper gets
hold of text messages and e-mails show themselves to be living in another world
altogether. It’s sad to see always, but
not really much of a surprise. You get
the feeling that people will say whatever they think they need to say to get
ahead, no matter what they really think or intend to do in their real lives. Which son does the will of the Father? You look at what actually happens, who
actually gets there, who rolls up his sleeves and comes alongside the Father in
the heat of the day. That’s what counts.
The second Vineyard parable follows, our reading this morning, and it pretty
much traces the same pattern, though it
gets drawn out a little farther. Not
just about being all talk and no action-- but here about outright, wild,
no-holds-barred, active, hostile rebellion.
This parable contrasts not two
sons but two groups of tenants. The
first Tenants sign the lease and agree to all the terms of their relationship with
the Owner of the Vineyard. They enter
into solemn covenant with him and move onto the property. But then (just like
that second Son in the first parable) they break their word and ignore the
terms of their agreement and promise—and they go even further here, way further, and
resist even in the most extreme and violent and murderous ways every urgent and
sincere effort by the Owner to restore the covenanted relationship. I love their traditional name, the “unruly”
tenants. Seems kind of an understated
term. Seizing the Landlord’s
property. Attacking and murdering the
landlord’s servants when they come to collect the rent. Even then killing his son. I
guess that’s “unruly.” They cross every
possible line of good relationship in absolute, resolute defiance. Jesus
asks, “What will the Owner of the Vineyard do?”
What are the inevitable consequences of this kind of willful disobedience
and rebellion? The priests and elders of
the Temple fill in the rest of the story here also with the obvious reply. “He
will put those wretches to a miserable death, and let out the vineyard to other
tenants who will give him the fruits in their season.” The Landlord will take the Vineyard from
those who have abused his trust, and present it to new Tenants, good and
faithful tenants, who will live in right relationship with him.
Jesus isn’t exactly being subtle here, obviously. What happens when those who are supposed to
be God’s chosen ones, his stewards, caring for his Vineyard Israel—when they turn
away from him, even become his enemies? Thinking
about this setting here in the Temple, really a breathtaking moment-- the
language of the Vineyard, the verbal sparring with the religious authorities,
the cheering of the crowds, who were probably pretty much the same folks who
had welcomed Jesus the day before with palm branches and cries of “Hosanna to
the Son of David.” Crisis and
confrontation. And so, verse 45: “When
the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they perceived that he
was talking about them.” Who are the sons who go through the motions
of obedience, who dress the part and mouth the words, but who in their heart
choose to walk their own way rather than in the way of the Father? Who are the Tenants, betraying their covenant of stewardship and
taking what was not theirs to serve their own desires? If such people imagine in their profound
denial of reality that they are going to be able to get away with this, if they
think the Father is asleep, if they think he won’t act to set things
right—well, they’d better think again.
“When the chief priests and the Pharisees head his parables, they
perceive that he was talking about them.”
The scene hangs there in Holy Week, as the clouds gather, tensions
rise.
To stand near Jesus is always and inevitably to enter a space where
things that have been hidden are made plain.
Our prayer every time we come near him in the Holy Communion: “to whom
all hearts are open, all desires known, from whom no secrets are hid.” It may be possible to skate along in denial
for a season. It may be possible to
pretend that God doesn’t see us, doesn’t know what’s in our hearts. But to stand in the presence of the Son, in
the face of his Cross, is to come to a place of inevitable clarity. The lights
come on. A place where costumes and scripts and outward
show are all stripped away, and where we are able to see for ourselves what is
true. About ourselves and about the
world around us. What is going to last,
what is passing away.
That was true on Monday in Holy Week, as it became pretty easy to tell
who the friends of Jesus really were. And who would stand with his enemies. We
know that story more or less by heart. People
were going to be showing their true colors.
A lot of the folks in the crowd here at the Temple are cheering Jesus,
the great hero whom they greeted with Palm Branches and cries of “Hosanna”
yesterday. But by the end of the week
they’re going to be shouting “Crucify him, crucify him.” And in reality it is I suppose always true, in
any time, in any generation, to figure out where we are in relationship to him.
Back in the 15th chapter of Matthew, before this last
journey had begun-- when some Scribes and Pharisees from Jerusalem had
journeyed out to the Galilee in an effort to discredit him—perhaps some of the
same people who are at the Temple with him in this scene--Jesus challenged them
by quoting Isaiah 29, “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts
are far from me.”
And it is our heart that he cares about, first, last, and always. First
Century, or Twenty-first Century. That
really is the point of these two Holy Week parables. And
it’s what’s on the line this morning.
That makes us uncomfortable, but pretty much we knew what we were
getting into when we came in through those doors on Hampton Street this
morning. In the 18th chapter
of Luke Jesus asks, “when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the
earth?” The question Jesus is asking in
these parables. It’s about the relationship—about seeing in, past the curated
surface, the right words—about where our hearts are, whose our hearts are. Where we are in our relationship to him.
O God our Father, open our eyes
and our ears, by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may hear you when
you call us each by name, that we may hear your call and invitation to come
beside you in your Vineyard, as your children, your sons and daughters, and that
we may answer with all our heart and
mind and strength, not only with our lips but in our lives--and that we may as worthy
tenants and good stewards of your bounty attend to your word and know and
welcome with joy and love the One you send to us, your own son our savior Jesus
Christ. Amen.
Walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself for us, an offering
and a sacrifice to God.
The Rev. Dr. Bruce Robison has served as Rector of St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, in the Highland Park neighborhood of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, since 1994. He is married to Susy, and they are the parents of two adult children, Daniel and Linnea.
