Sermon at The Church of the Holy Apostles, New York City
August 19, 2007
The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost
The Reverend William A. Greenlaw, Ph.D., Rector
Jeremiah 23:23-29
Psalm 82
Hebrews 12:1-14
Luke 12:49-56
 

     A wonderful story is told of the sixteenth century mystic and saint, Theresa of Avila.  She came to a stream en route to one of her convents.  Something startled the donkey she was riding; the donkey bolted and Theresa was thrown into the cold water.  Breathless, shivering, and considerably dismayed, Theresa looked up toward heaven and yelled, “Do you always treat your friends like this?”  She waited a moment, heard no answer, and muttered to herself as she was dragging herself out of the water, “No wonder you have so few of them!”

     This story of Theresa is an apt introduction to the lessons we have just heard.  “Is not my word like fire, and like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces.”  Or, “My child, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, or lose heart when you are punished by him; for the Lord disciplines those whom he loves, and chastises every child whom he accepts.”  Or, “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! … Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth?  No, I tell you, but rather division!”  Would a politician get elected who talked like this?  Could anyone imagine this to be polite talk among family and friends?  ---and in the middle of August to boot?  (Maybe Theresa was right!)

     There is no getting around the fact that we have very substantial, meaty  lessons with which to contend today, and I would like to suggest there is great power and strength in them in spite of their surface difficulties.  I want to touch on each one briefly.

     Jeremiah found himself in a deteriorating situation in ancient Israel.  The northern kingdom had been lost, Judah was under siege, and Jerusalem was in danger of falling.  Political leaders were blindly pursuing their own narrow and personal agendas, believing even in the face of mounting evidence to the contrary that they were on the right track, that God was with them.

     In today’s lesson, Jeremiah is contending with the court and religious prophets who have sprung up, whose job seems to be telling those in power that all will be well, that they are good and virtuous, and that God will continue to bless them in their goodness and wisdom, and wealth and virtue.  It is against these privileged court prophets that Jeremiah speaks—who prophesy lies in God’s name, saying, “I have dreamed, I have dreamed.”  A true prophet is, rather, one who speaks the Word of the Lord faithfully, because he can do no other, no matter what the cost.

     To be grasped by God’s Word enables Jeremiah to withstand a great deal—even though at times he can mutter and sputter as well as Theresa, even accusing God of seducing him and then leading him down an impossible path of derision and scorn.

     But, God’s Word and God’s purposes and God’s call are ultimately the things that matter most.  That Word is not like straw.  It is, rather, like fire—a fire that can destroy, but also a fire that can purify, or call us to the presence of the holy one in our midst—if only we can discern.  That Word can be strong enough to be like a hammer, breaking a rock in pieces.

     However much we like to dream our dreams, however much we think we have it together, that we are on the right track in both our private and our public visions, in our personal lives, in the church, and in the world, it is finally and ultimately only that Word which holds it all together, which can save, which is ultimately sovereign.  Jeremiah knew that.  Many of us have experienced glimpses of that as well.  And that is Good News.  And it is the Truth beyond all things.  And being called and touched by the Holy One of Israel is the greatest gift imaginable, even in the face of all that Jeremiah had to contend with. It is our greatest gift as well, even in the face of all that might come our way.

     If we turn to the Letter to the Hebrews, we find those familiar and wonderful ringing words, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses,  let us … run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”   Sounds nice and poetic.  But the author goes on and the tone shifts rather dramatically, for this is all prelude to writing about discipline, the discipline those early Christians will need if they are to endure that which awaits them—and dare we say it—quite possibly the discipline we will need if we are to endure that which awaits us.

     The author of the Letter to the Hebrews goes on to suggest that God disciplines his children the way a good parent does.  It is difficult, and sometimes even seems more like punishment.  But it is for our good.  It may seem painful rather than pleasant, but it yields “the peaceful fruit of righteousness.”  On hearing these words, I am tempted to say, “thanks, but no thanks.”

     These words have been regularly misused, where people have imagined that whatever bad things happened to them, from disease and pestilence to all manner of disasters, that these were God’s will, God’s discipline or punishment for and to them.  However far fetched this might seem, think about it.  How many of us haven’t known folks, or even have found ourselves at times wondering, how could God do this or let this happen? …whatever it was—the unspoken implication being that it was intentional—or, at the very least, could have come out differently had God been truly present or cared.

     But there is another way of understanding these words.  If you engage in a sport, if you run, if you are a musician, if you have completed a course in school, if you have done well in whatever, you know work and study and discipline and practice are not only involved, they are essential.  You know that success is not just handed to us on a platter.  [looking toward organ:]  However much it may seem like David can toss off just about anything over there on “the mighty van den Heuvel,” however much our choir in season makes sublime music seem almost effortless, that’s not the way it really is.  We do know that when we think about it.

     Just so with our faith, with our relationship with God.  If we can accept that it takes work to maintain a healthy primary relationship with a beloved, then can we not believe the same about our relationship with God?  ---that our desert experiences are integral to our maturation and growth in the faith, that dealing with all manner of adversity can in fact strengthen us in ways we could scarcely have imagined?

     To paraphrase: It may be August, but don’t flag, rather, “lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet,” and [WITH GERMAN ACCENT!]  you will enjoy it!  But consider: on your second wind, you might find yourself dancing and delighting in being at one with the Lord—even as we face whatever lies before us.  For we are God’s beloved children come what may; and we therefore have the possibility of being at peace within ourselves.  And that is Good News.

     Finally, there is our gospel lesson.  “I have come to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!”  The Prince of Peace tells us that he has come not to bring peace, but rather division.  Families will be torn asunder and divided against themselves.  We may be able to forecast many things, but discerning the real signs of the times is altogether more intractable.  What is going on here?

     In spite of all our ecclesiastical preoccupations, Jesus is not much interested in the practice of religion as such, certainly not in popular religious sensibilities.  Religion can be twisted and warped as well and as surely as anything else.  Jesus is, rather, interested in proclaiming the inbreaking kingdom of God—and he is part and parcel of that reality.  No one can encounter that awesome reality of God in our midst and go on with life as usual.  It changes, it transforms, it turns upside down.  It galvanizes—and sometimes polarizes.

     Jesus did not come as a popular evangelist.  There may have at times been great crowds, but ultimately the powers that be found him to be a fundamental threat to the established order, their order, and those same crowds did not object.  A social conservative he most assuredly was not: he absolutely comforted the afflicted. But he also afflicted the comfortable in no uncertain terms.

     Are we comfortable?  Who among us does not want, does not pursue the finer things the world offers us?  After all, we are still Anglicans, however much the Anglican communion is evolving with a deeply uncertain future in terms of its structures.  All things in decency and in order—and in comfort, please—are still among the hallmarks of our tradition, and indeed our life even here at Holy Apostles.  Which ought to give us pause.

     Having said that, there is one other dimension to this passage which does speak to us here this morning very directly and very profoundly, I believe.  And that is that we know what it means to experience division in our family.  We have, of course, been consumed with the division of our larger church family, our ecclesiastical households, if you will.

     But this morning, I want to focus on the more literal aspect of what Jesus is addressing, and that is our families of origin, our communities of origin.  How many here have not experienced the breaking, the sundering or at least straining of relationships because of who we have become, of who we understand ourselves called to be in the deepest levels of our being?  Of discovering a life, a calling, a destiny that has involved both saying “yes,” but also at least implicitly also at times saying “no,” and experiencing and even suffering the consequences—even with and among those we have loved the most?

     In a way, our gospel this morning concerns “coming out,” recognizing that as scary, fraught with consequences, but enormously liberating as well.  We may “come out” in terms of sexual orientation, but maybe we can also “come out” as Christians who see in Jesus one who truly turns our lives and our world upside down as we seek to follow him.  Equally scary, full of consequences, but enormously and gloriously liberating as well.  And once chosen, it is not possible to look back, to turn back without turning into a pillar of salt.  For turning back would be to deny all that we have seen, all that we have become.

     In a similar vein, how many of us here have not chosen to live in New York City precisely because there are so many possibilities and choices about things that matter, that simply do not exist in the same way in so many other parts of the country?  This is where we must be, and where we establish the identity by which we are who and what we are, of who and what we must be.  We are not the same.  We are different.  As we struggle to find our way.

     And so once again we have here a problematic gospel on one level, yet one that truly becomes “Good News” on another.  It’s not what we’ve lost, it’s so much more what we have gained.

     In that familiar gospel story, when Jesus is beset by so many, to his disciples’ and family’s chagrin, for they want his attention, he asks rhetorically, “who are my mother and my brothers?”  And then he says, pointing to those gathered around him, “here are my mother and my brothers!  Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”  This community of Christ, my friends, gathered here today, truly becomes our family as we seek to follow our Lord.  And grace abounds.

     When we are thrown from our various donkeys, as we surely will be at least from time to time, and as we are tempted to mutter as did Theresa of Avila, let us remember that we too have been called into something truly glorious, that God does not abandon us come what may, and that the peace of Christ is our gift to cherish, now and always.

     Amen.