Hope and Optimism

Proper 14 Year A RCL

Track 1

Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28

Psalm 105, 1-6, 16-22, 45b

Romans 10:5-15

Matthew 14:22-33

I want to begin by wrapping up a thought I introduced last week.

Last week, I mentioned in my sermon that the narrative we hear in the gospel lessons for last week and this week take place within a day of Jesus’ life.  Not only that, it is the day on which Jesus hears about the death of his cousin John the Baptist at the hands of a cruel man seeking to preserve his own reputation—Herod.

Last week we heard about the feeding of the five thousand men, besides women and children.  But recall how it began:  We are told that upon hearing the news of John’s death, Jesus withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw the crowd and went about the work of healing and feeding.

Jesus finds his time interrupted, and while he was gracious, this week, Jesus is more forceful:  Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds.

We all know that moment, or at least we have retrospectively recognized those moments, when we are dismissed by someone.  Sometimes it happens graciously; sometimes not. Still Jesus does so, and for the second time in 24 hours, Jesus is making it clear that he needs to be alone. 

He was trying to get time to himself.  I believe that, in his humanity, he was trying to come to terms with grief. 

The experience of grief, and its own way of overwhelming us, is universal to the human experience, even as it is expressed in a myriad of different ways.  One way in which we experience grief is to sometimes sense within ourselves a constriction of our empathy toward others.  It is almost a sense of pulling back from identifying with the plight of others, as though we do not have the emotional and relational reserves to handle the chances and changes of another’s life in addition to our own.  Another way we experience grief—which I think may be more common because of the way in which we order modern society—is to find ourselves having to act as though grief is not a large part our life, and we seem to go through the weeks and months following a loss as the walking wounded.  Sometimes it shows to others, sometimes it does not.  We go to work, we spend time with friends, we perform any number of tasks, as we also try to put our lives back together.  The work of grief takes a significant amount of labor on our part, even with God’s help, work that might be invisible to the rest of the world. 

And if I am honest, I relate with Jesus more in this story than in many others.  In a recent experience of grief, I found it necessary to take significant time to be alone.  I felt as though my mental capabilities were cut in half and clouded.  It took longer to do tasks.  I cut social engagements when I felt like I needed to.  It took time to discover what the new normal would look like.

Jesus still manages to do great things for people, but it seems to me that the fatigue he might be feeling propels him to be alone with God in prayer. 

It does not take long before our attention is brought again to the works of power that Jesus performs in his ministry, but I suggest it is equally important to note these pauses Jesus had to take.  In Jesus’ own times of need and solitude, we see what full divinity looks like when it is dwelling in full humanity.  And, at least to me, Jesus’ experience seems utterly familiar.  Perhaps it does to you, too.

Yesterday, actually, was personally a day of such pauses in grief.  This sermon came in fits and false starts even up to a few hours ago.

I have been watching the increasingly terrible situation in Iraq for the past few weeks, which this week truly took a turn for the worst as Islamic militants with the group known as ISIS began the systematic slaughter of Christians, other religious minorities, and Muslims who do not agree with them.  ISIS has posted videos of the executions to the web, as well as some pictures, which are truly horrifying.  You know which of the victims are Christian because, after their execution, the bodies were hung on makeshift crosses.  Families who fled the cities after being given the ultimatum to convert, pay a special tax, or be executed, are stranded in the wilderness and dying of thirst and hunger.  Some families are reported to have thrown their children off a mountain to their deaths to save them from either dying slowly of dehydration or from being beheaded.  The Anglican Vicar of Baghdad, Andrew White, reports that a child he baptized was cut in half by members of ISIS. 

[This article addresses the question of “what can we do?” The article contains links for donations to relief organizations, to which I’d add the Foundation for Relief and Reconciliation in the Middle East.]

Add to Iraq the long list of tragic or frightening world events that occupy our thoughts and news feeds.  Israel and Gaza.  Refugee children at our border—not to forget the children who did not escape the violence in their homeland.  Ukraine and Russia.  South Sudan.  There are others.  All of these take a toll, and are then added to our own list of private tragedies and hardships.

It is no wonder that so many of us experience a type of burnout on compassion.  It is no wonder that we sometimes find apathy a preferable option.

And when I speak to people it seems like I’m hearing that faith can be kept—at least in terms of believing—but where is hope?

It seems like it’s one thing to have enough faith to get out of the boat and walk on water—but what do we do when we do not know how long we have to walk before we meet Jesus’ hand in a way we will recognize?

And it’s one thing to want to talk about Peter walking on water, but what do we do when one’s view of the world seems more attuned to the plight of Joseph at the bottom of a pit.

It is somewhat difficult to tease apart hope and faith. 

And yet while hope seems to be talked about less often, Hope does something, the same way that faith and love do.

And over this week I have been thinking about the difference between hope in the Christian sense and optimism.  It seems paradoxical, but I find myself hopeful even though I will not call myself an optimist.

Optimism is defined as hopefulness and confidence about the future or the successful outcome of something.  So far that could match the Christian hope in a very broad sense.  But there is also the optimistic principle that we live in the best of all possible worlds. To my ears, optimism seems to remain focused on the conduct of this fallen world, which will often disappoint us. 

Christian hope is something different.

The catechism in the Book of Common Prayer notes that the Christian hope “is to live with confidence in newness and fullness of life, and to await the coming of Christ in glory, and the completion of God's purpose for the world.”

Hope in this sense takes a longer view, beyond this world, and fixes our hope in the consummation of God’s purpose and the reckoning that comes with it, instead of seating hope in the here and now, where both justice and love seem so easily thwarted.

It is a common criticism of Christianity that says that believers are led to care too much about the afterlife at the expense of the work Christ has given us to do in caring for others.  I agree with this critique.  As MLK said "Any religion that purports to care about the souls of men but doesn't care about the social conditions that damn him or the economic conditions that strangle him is a moribund religion awaiting burial."  In talking about hope in such a final sense—attuned to the notion that we are heading to a decisive End that we do not yet see—I do not mean that Christians should return to a state of simply waiting on God to fix things on our behalf.

Yet to undercut any conversation about the purpose to which we are moving does not serve us well.  We lose the long view God has given us as the hope for our world.  If we lose that, we lose one of the grandest proclamations we have that undergirds much of the optimism we find in this world.

There will be times when our optimism will line up with the Christian hope.  And there will be times when our optimism is dashed because it does not hold a view as expansive as the hope we have in Christ—and the world will thwart our best expectations.  I suggest that we would be well-served to learn how to discern the difference and hold fast to hope and faith in God instead of a lesser vision and short-term goal—still always acting in accordance to our hope in Christ and seeking the Good that God puts before us to enact. 

In that way, perhaps waves and strong winds of this world may appear less frightening, and our grief and frustration find expression through a God who understands our own need for comfort.  And so we too can walk these stormy waters, seeking the hand of Christ who beckons us forward.

Amen.

Telling Stories of Scarcity and Abundance

8/3/14

Sermon at St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church

Proper 13 Year A

Genesis 32:22-31
Psalm 17: 1-7, 16
Romans 9:1-5
Matthew 14:13-21

I have recently been reading a commentary on the Gospel of Matthew that explicitly looks at the Gospel from a storyteller and actor’s point of view.  The author’s project was to get a troupe of actors together to really bring the stories to life by staging and acting out the stories.  They read the Gospel as actors, seeking to understand how backstory matters as the text progresses. 

The project leader—a fellow named Richard Swanson—and the actors realized something quite interesting.   The way we sometimes think of Jesus as a placid teacher speaking warmly of comfort and fully in command of emotion does not make much sense when acted out and embodied by human beings.  Occasionally, we arrive at uncomfortable parts of Matthew in which trying to read the words of Jesus calmly exposes the lie of an unemotional, unflappable Jesus, unless one wants to deny Jesus his full humanity. 

Think of Jesus calling the Gentile mother a dog (Mt 15:26), casting Capernaum down to hell (Matthew 11:23), and denying his mother and brothers (Mt 12:48), the numerous people consigned to weeping and gnashing of teeth (Mt 8:11-12, et al).

Swanson says that, in essence, “performance puts words into bodies, and audiences can always tell when something is amiss on stage, an actor embodying the harsh lines that Jesus speaks in Matthew’s story must find a way to play those lines for true in front of an audience.  At the very least, the harsh lines must distort the face of Jesus.  If they do not, the actor creates the kind of disjunction that audiences and police interrogators read as lying.”[1] 

And when actors try to read those harsh lines calmly, “audiences either conclude he is lying or that he is quite insane.  Neither is a comforting conclusion.”[2]

Does this remind anyone of movies of Jesus? 

Swanson continues:  “Embodied performance confronts an interpreter with another reality in Matthew’s story.  …Jesus emerges out of the chaos and blood of Herod’s genocidal attempt to slaughter all of the children of Bethlehem.  Ask an actor. Such a backstory is going to shape the way the character can be played.  Ask a counselor.  Such a disastrous beginning will damage a human being.  Life leaves marks, and actors have to explore those marks in order to embody the characters they have to play.  Even when that character is Jesus.”[3]

It is easy to imagine almost anything when we are sitting alone reading the Bible; it is easy to imagine a perpetually dignified Jesus when our liturgical reading of the text calls for dignity and solemnity.  It is a different matter to see the story enacted in reality.  And this knowledge influences how I read the Bible in general and how I prepare to preach.  

Now, as I’ve read the passages for this week and next, I’ve noticed something missing.  Something that colors the actions of Jesus. Indeed the missing thing provided the motivation for Jesus to seek solitude.

If you’ll recall, last week’s Gospel lesson was a series of quick-fire parables.  Today, we have the lovely story of the feeding of the five thousand men—besides women and children.

But there is something missing between last week and this week.  The lectionary has skipped 13 verses to bring us here.

While one can preach on this text without those missing verses, I believe something precious and valuable in understanding Jesus comes to light when they are remembered.

The missing verses are the beheading of John the Baptist by Rome’s stooge Herod. 

In this week’s lesson, and next week, we will hear about a single day in Jesus’ life, both lessons are introduced in our worship by Jesus’ desire to be alone and to pray.

Unfortunately, the way we read texts in worship obscures the connections in the text from one week to the next.  And what might get lost between this week and the next is the shock of the loss of Jesus’ own kin, and the grief that follows. 

I would ask that you keep this death in mind as you hear the rest of the gospel of Matthew in worship for the next few months, especially when Herod’s flunkies ask Jesus about whether it is lawful to pay taxes to Caesar.  Imagine being asked a question about patriotism by people who support the regime that killed your cousin.

You see, John was Jesus’ cousin, and the one who baptized Jesus at the beginning of his ministry.  Jesus would have heard that the beheading of the righteous John came because Herod made a rash vow at a dinner party, and Herod killed John to save himself from embarrassment in front of his guests.

Is it any wonder that, upon hearing the news that Herod killed John, Jesus would retreat to the wilderness—

the wilderness into which Jesus had to go to meet John for his baptism? 

The wilderness to which John called the people? 

The wilderness that served as the counterweight to imperial Rome and collaborationist occupied Jerusalem?

In the English language, and particularly in an American context, we tend to think of wilderness as something untamed and unspoiled.  But the Greek word (eremia) has different connotations that resonate with the story of the Jews.  The word ‘wilderness’ implies desolation, devastation, and depopulation.

The word ‘wilderness ‘echoes in the silence of Jerusalem standing empty at the Babylonian exile.  The sense of exile resonated with the community who formed the Gospel of Matthew and witnessed the desolation of Jerusalem in 70AD at the hands of the Romans.  In so many instances, wilderness means coming to grips with loss and desolation. 

Perhaps you have used the word wilderness to speak of a sense of desolation you have known? 

And yet, the wilderness is also a place of God’s action, surprising when it happens. 

Jesus and the crowds meet in the wilderness to mourn a prophet.  And Jesus in his compassion continues the work of the kingdom, the very act of healing being a sign that the ways of this world shall not have the final say, and that God is present even in the midst of desolation.

As the day turns to evening, though the disciples watch all of these signs, scarcity is still all they see.   They ask Jesus to send the crowds away to find food.

Jesus says no, and challenges the disciples to feed the people.  And of what is provided, there is enough.   The feeding of the five thousand men—besides women and children—had the power to call forth depth in memory.  As the bread and fish were passed, there would have been joy and surprise.  Surely nearly all would recall God’s providing manna in a long-ago wilderness.  Some might recall God’s words through the prophet Isaiah, saying:

“Come, all you who are thirsty,
    come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
    come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
    without money and without cost (Is 55:1).”

In feeding the five thousand men—besides women and children—Jesus demonstrates God’s faithfulness, and how that faithfulness culminates in a vision that shows forth abundance as God’s will for all.  While the disciples were willing to send the people to villages to find food—something sensible to our ears—I can’t help but think about the people the disciples might have sent away to starve because they might not have had money. 

God and Christ hold a different vision—and by commanding the disciples, Christ commends that vision to us as an alternative to the ways of this world and the ways empires operate.

The way of empire is the way of violence.  Herod the Great responded to a threat to his reign by slaughtering the innocents of Bethlehem, setting the Gospel of Matthew into motion as a little refugee boy and his family fled to a distant land.  Herod Antipas killed the righteous John to avoid appearing weak in front of his dinner guests.  Christ himself would be crucified as a threat to the empire. 

The way of empire is the way of rationing.  We see this in how scarcity is treated as natural law, and not social arrangement.  We see it as individuals maneuver to greater influence.  We see it as power is hoarded and used to create more power.  We see that power used against others.

God calls us to a different way

—A vision of the wilderness that acknowledges pain and desolation

—and yet a faithful God accompanying us

—making that acknowledgment of pain—and its healing—possible.

—a vision of abundance that sees all fed beyond sufficiency.

—a vision that displays power in the call to serve others before self, as Christ serves the crowd.

—A vision that exposes the moral bankruptcy of ways of being that deny the humanity of others for the benefit of the powerful.

What can be done against the ways of empire, against the ways of this world?  Well, there is much to be done. 

But first things first.

The difficulty with looking past the ways of this world is that we see the pervasive nature of scarcity.  At the root of all of our systems that are lesser than that which God intends is the notion that there is simply not enough.

We all know the tendency to scarcity, don’t we?

I know I do. 

I hear it often.

I feel it often.

Sometimes it is all we see.

But I was reminded of something this week.  This week, young adult ministers and campus chaplains from across the country gathered to talk about our work.  In this conference, we made intentional efforts to find the good in our work and share that abundance with others.  We committed to the idea that the knowledge in the room was enough to spur greater things than what we could do individually or through simply listening to a handful of experts.

In many ways, the conference was a success.  I went with five loaves and two fish.  I came back with baskets full.

I want to commend that same practice to you—a spiritual practice of seeking the abundance that lies within those who are around you.  I wonder if you might be willing to give a bit of intentional time to seeking abundance this week.

All I am asking you to do is this: 

In the midst of a conversation you are having, ask the person what fills them with joy.  Ask them where they are feeling the most alive in their world.  My guess is that in so doing, you will find a place in which God is showing forth abundance worthy of rejoicing.

Here’s the catch:  Be willing to have someone ask you the same question.

Amen.

---

[1] Richard Swanson, Provoking the gospel of Matthew: a storyteller's commentary : year A (Cleveland, Ohio: Pilgrim Press, 2007) 9.

[2] Ibid, 9.

[3] Ibid, 9.