Sermon at The Church of
the Holy Apostles, New York City
October 7, 2007
The Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost
The
Reverend William A. Greenlaw, Ph.D., Rector
Habakkuk 1:1-13; 2:1-4
Psalm 37
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Luke 17:5-10
From the late
1980s to the very early 1990s, Mother Ann Holmes Redding was a
priest associate at Holy Apostles. I mention her because of the
vivid memories I have of her preaching on this liturgical day,
on this gospel text.
As she put it far more eloquently that I could ever
describe it, as an African American woman whose forebears were
slaves in this land, she found it a hard thing indeed to preach
on a text that includes a parable such as the one we have just
heard.
For although not exactly the ultimate point of the
parable, Luke has Jesus using a story based on what we might
expect of our slave, and how we would hardly stoop to thank a
slave for a job well done. By the same token, whatever we have
done in living out our faith, we are to say, “We are worthless
slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done.”
And in case we wanted to wiggle out of this and find
another word for “slave,” Ann, the New Testament scholar, made
it very clear that the Greek word Luke uses indeed means, quite
literally, “slave.”
Ann, of course, proceeded to unpack this story—trying
to get some distance from the discomfiting slave imagery in
suggesting this was only a vehicle using common everyday
experiences from the time and circumstances of the early church,
and not an implicit endorsement, God help us, of a social order
including slavery. On the other hand, through much of the
history of the church in parts of this land, up until the Civil
War, that was indeed how these verses were often viewed.
Which of course is a gross example to us of how sacred
scripture can be misused, but also how we might well wish at
Luke could have found a better way of making his point, and very
much begging the question of whether Jesus might actually have
used such an illustration. At the very least, we are made aware
of how scripture passages can so easily be misused to fit ends
for which they were never intended.
Now, having acknowledged all that, the underlying point
of this gospel lesson is, I think, quite profound and deep.
Who among us has not struggled from time to time, or
sometimes almost constantly, as we ask God to “increase our
faith?” I know I have. When the going gets rough, when I am
filled with uncertainty and doubt and despair, I want to cry out
to God, is this all there is? One impossibility after another?
If you are for real, how is it “those guys” seem to be
prospering, and we are and I am, to use a different biblical
image, catching nothing? And I cry out, “increase my faith,”
meaning of course, “God, fix it!” Then I’ll have faith plenty.
And we set up this kind of bargaining with God. Increase my
faith, yes, but on terms I can understand, that answers my quite
specific prayers.
If only it were this simple, the whole theodicy
problem, the problem of evil addressed so poignantly by
Habakkuk, could at least recede. Of course, it is never so
simple—and the problem of evil abounds everywhere we turn, faith
or no faith.
But maybe there is a different way to look at this.
Rather than sensing that an increase in our faith means
everything coming together in a way we can both understand and
affirm, let us ask, what the word “faith” actually suggests?
I want to say it as plainly as I can: faith is not the
same thing as belief, not even right belief—however we may
define that. We are not talking about our heads here, but
rather our whole being. The Hebrew word for faith can be
translated as “steadfast loyalty.” To be even more precise,
faith grows out of relationship, of being reached out to,
of being held, of knowing and feeling ourselves to be loved and
affirmed, deeply, awesomely—by the God who is both father and
mother, by Jesus Christ who is the very incarnation of God’s
love, by God the Holy Spirit who can and does enliven us even
when we think the jig is up—maybe especially when we think the
jig is up.
What I am saying here is that the very heart of God is
relational—and that is precisely what the doctrine of the
Trinity is seeking to express, however obscurely to our eyes.
And that is why and how God seeks us—at the very depths of our
personhood, of our beings, as personal and unique.
And so, an increased faith does not translate into
increased certainty, or finding things coming together for us
just so. Rather, it is being led through grace to knowing and
affirming in ever new ways that we are held by God, changed by
God, sent forth by God.
It does not mean we are going to be “successful” on
terms either we or the world will necessarily recognize—at least
not at first blush. It does mean that we are enabled to know
and feel that, come what may, we are God’s, the world is God’s,
and our hope is in God.
The second part of our gospel lesson, the “slave” part,
comes in right here. When we talk about what it means to live
out our faith, one possibility is that we can seek to follow
right belief with a gospel imperative of right action, of
following the rules and traditions handed down by one authority
or another—and thus measure how well we have done or have not
done. In this instance, we generally come out somewhere near
those worthless slaves, even as we have sought to do our duty.
But there is another way. What if instead of following
the rules, we seek to be who we are, to be who we are becoming,
as God’s beloved children? Instead of “following the rules,” we
live out as a gift that faith we have received as a gift—in part
because we can’t help ourselves, for that is who we are. This
grows out of our relationship with the God who gives every good
gift. There is a freedom and an openness here—and there is
always the possibility that God is doing a new thing—and calling
us to affirm that. There is joy and hope and possibility—and
grace abounds. We may on some level still be “worthless slaves”
doing only what we ought to have done—but it sure doesn’t feel
like slavery.
I want to mention two quick examples of faith the size
of a mustard seed that grew in ways that, in retrospect, could
only have been of God. It is like disciples fishing and
catching absolutely nothing—and being tired and worn out and
pretty dejected. And Jesus urges them to try one more time, and
they find their catch overflowing beyond measure.
Twenty six, twenty seven years ago, Holy Apostles was
near collapse. Nearly everyone thought so from the bishop on
down. But there were hungry folks knocking on the door here.
And Father Rand Frew, throwing caution to the wind, risking
failure, in total uncertainly, suggested we needed to start a
feeding program.
In just two weeks and one day from now, we will mark
the 25th anniversary of Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen,
where we served our 6 millionth meal this past summer and are
currently breaking all records, several times recently serving
in excess of 1,400 meals in this vey space to the homeless
children of God of our city. Who could have known? Who would
have believed? Who could have calculated? That we are here
today, being about who we are is quite simply because a quarter
century ago, a mustard seed took on a mulberry tree.
But along the way, and this is my second example, the
dream of all that Holy Apostles was becoming was all but
destroyed on April 9, 1990. The Monday of Holy Week produced
the fire that seemed like the final devastation. I will never
forget that night, standing across 28th Street,
watching firemen poke out our precious stained glass windows,
and seeing flames piercing our roof, and thinking to myself,
this has to be the end.
But that night, Bishop Walter Dennis led a whole bunch
of us standing outside, holding hands, and singing, “Praise God
from whom all blessings flow.” That was hard, and I struggled
to get the words out without simply losing it.
But the next day, we did here what we always do. Thank
goodness, the fire was contained in the church and did not
spread to the Mission House. On that Holy Tuesday, we served
943 guests by candlelight a cold but still hearty and nutritious
lunch. And word spread of just what this parish was, of what
this parish was made of—and countless people came together to
see that the place that fed more people than any other in this
city would be rebuilt and restored—and continue in its witness
and mission.
On Good Friday that year, death was palpably real.
Yet, by Easter Day, I knew we would live.
Out of that agony and the four years of restoration
came the decision to not replace the pews and to use the nave of
this church as the main dining room of Holy Apostles Soup
Kitchen. And that simple decision of living out the faith that
was in us has made possible so much of what makes this parish
all that it is today.
The grace of God does indeed abound.
One final word. In this stewardship season, I
would ask you not to fill out a pledge card out of cold
calculation or some felt obligation. Reflect, rather, on how
God has blessed you beyond measure, that God is the giver
of every good gift. And then give back because of who you are,
of who you are becoming through God’s mercy and love and peace.
And your faith might well be as a mustard seed.
Amen.
