Questions without answers

• Genesis 12:1-4a
• Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
• John 3:1-17
• Psalm 121

 

Last Sunday, I had a member of our congregation confront me by the back door after church because we’d read the story of Adam and Eve, the serpent, and the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and she was damned if she was going to let women be blamed for all the evil in the world anymore.  Later that morning, we had our Lenten book study, and afterward, another of our members sent me an email questioning an overly simplistic statement I’d made about evil, as it confronts us in events like the Nazi genocide of the Jews.  And then, there was another incident this week in our ongoing internal struggle over whether and how to appropriately respond to the political crisis in our country; a certain mass email had gone out sounding the alarm about various laws being introduced in congress, and someone got in touch with me to raise concern, because she erroneously thought it had been sent using the church’s email list. 

Now, I’m not complaining about any of this.  I would rather be in a community where people feel free to say what’s bothering them than one where they do not.  And I’d rather be wrestling with difficult questions about misogyny in the Bible, and the power of evil in human affairs, and how to handle politics in the parish, than doing some of the other stuff I do every day.  So if there is more ferment going on right now at St. John’s, and folks are more inclined than usual to speak out, as also seems to be the case around town, and all over the country, I experience that, on the whole, as a good thing.  When that person went off last Sunday about the Book of Genesis I started laughing, not because I thought she was being ridiculous, but because it made me happy that someone trusted me enough to say what she really thinks and didn’t tone down her opinion or apologize for what she said.

No, the hard part, for me, is that I feel like I’m supposed to have the answer.  I take these objections seriously, because I know that they are coming from a genuine desire to understand.  People are speaking out because they want help to make sense of intractable issues that demand to be confronted, in church, and society, and the depths of the human soul.  These are exactly the kind of questions our religion ought to be able to help us address but it’s not always clear how it does.  In fact, there are times when the Bible and the history of Christian tradition seem to give ambiguous answers, to say the least, or even to come down on what feels like the wrong side.   So people turn to their pastor to help them understand.  And that would be me.     

My role in this community is to be more than the chief administrator of the parish organization.  It is also more than to be a sacramental priest, administering the rites of the church.  I am also supposed to be a religious teacher.  So when someone raises an impassioned question about a weighty matter of life and death, good and evil, spirituality and ethics, I really should be able to give something more than just another half-baked personal opinion.  I don’t know if it is just me, or if other people really expect this (probably, a little of both), but I feel like I should be able say something authoritative, something wise, something that has the deep ring of truth about it, something that, if it doesn’t settle the question, at least clarifies it to some degree so that people can find their own way forward. 

Now I don’t want to sell myself short.  I suppose I am able to do that from time to time.  But there are plenty of other times when I feel like my abilities as a religious teacher are pretty inadequate.  And one way I can explain that to myself is in terms of the gaps in my scriptural and theological education.  Sometimes I look back on my college days, or all the years I spent farming and gardening, or studying Mahayana Buddhism, and I wish I’d known then what I know now, and had used my time differently.  But, then again, I’m not really so sure that having mastery of biblical Hebrew, or a thorough first-hand knowledge of the Church Fathers, would necessarily make that much of a difference.  Because, as Jesus reminds us this morning in the Gospel of John, truly becoming his disciple is not about being persuaded by an argument, or about putting together a coherent system of religious ideas. It is about being born from above. 

At least that is what Jesus says to Nicodemus, whom the Gospel describes as a leader of the Jews.  That is to say, he is a scholar of the scriptures, and an authoritative religious teacher.   But Nicodemus is in the dark.  We don’t know why he comes to Jesus in the night.  Maybe he wants to avoid being seen, because he’s ashamed about going to consult the young upstart teacher from Nazareth.  Maybe he knows there is something about this Jesus that he can’t put his finger on, and this not-knowing won’t let him sleep, so he goes to try to learn something that will set his mind at ease.  Whatever the case, Nicodemus begins his conversation with Jesus, not by asking a question, but by making a statement.  “This much,” says Nicodemus, “we know: we know that you are a teacher sent from God, with whom God is present, for we have seen the signs that you are doing.” 

Which is saying a lot, really, especially since we are used to thinking of the leaders of the Jews as Jesus’ sworn enemies.  But there’s an implied question here, even if Nicodemus himself isn’t sure what it is.  Somehow he understands that this is not the whole story, and he leaves it to Jesus to tell him something more.  So Jesus begins by running Nicodemus aground on the rocks of his own literal way of thinking.  And then he shows him what he has to gain by knowing him, not from a distance, nor by the outward signs.  Because Nicodemus is right—there is more.  And the author of John, who likely wrote these words to read aloud to the catechumens in the night before their baptism at Easter dawn, is also giving us the chance to be more—more than people who have joined a religion.  He is giving us the mind of the beloved, the one who lies close to the heart of the one who abides in the heart of God.

First of all, says John’s Gospel, this is not about acquiring new religious knowledge; it is about being transformed, about seeing the world with the eyes of God and, finally, being in God.  And this way of new birth that begins at baptism is essentially a path of not-knowing.  To follow it is to dance on the breath of the Spirit, and who knows where that comes from or where it is going?  Still, there is one thing we can we rely on—the testimony of the Son of Man, the one person we know whose whole life flows out from and back into God.  His teaching is confirmed by the signs that he gives, especially the supreme sign of giving himself to be lifted up on the cross.  But again, this self-giving is not simply an atoning sacrifice that happened once, long ago, out there somewhere—it is also the enduring object of transforming contemplation.  If we keep our inner eye fixed on the crucified and ascended Son of Man, he will heal the wound of knowledge bound to death, that knows nothing beyond it.

Finally, this is the path of trust in God’s love above all.  Faith in Jesus leads to the heart of God, because it is from God’s overflowing heart of love for the world that he came.  This is the key to receiving the testimony of John’s gospel as something other than an argument.  These are not words written to demand conversion to a new religion, or to prop up a theological system, but are the gift of a heart that has known God’s grace and truth.  They are words given to people who have already made the decision to follow Jesus, to help us realize the fullness of this path we’ve undertaken; to show us its glory in the depths and the densities of earth, and to carry us all the way to heaven.   They were written to bring us to our one true religious teacher—who is God.

Giving a drink is enough

Esther 7:1-6, 9-10; 9:20-22
Psalm 124
James 5:13-20
Mark 9:38-50

In the 13^th century a religious movement arose in the towns of what is now Belgium and Holland, known as the Beguines.  The Beguines were women who started their own intentional Christian communities dedicated to prayer and service to the poor.  They did not take formal monastic vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.  They were celibate as long they remained beguines, but could leave the life at any time and get married, if they wished.   They were not part of a centralized religious order with an overall superior, but each of their houses was independent, with its own regulations.  And knowing what we do of church history we should not be surprised that a number of medieval popes accused the beguines of spreading heresy, and attempted to suppress them.  And in the 16^th century the Protestant Reformers took up where the popes left off. 

And in our country today, as well as in England, and Australia, and many other places, young Christians are carrying out innumerable experiments in new forms of religious practice, in alternative worship, and arts festivals, in café churches, dinner churches, and house churches and new monastic communities, in a diverse and decentralized phenomenon that is sometimes called the “Emergent Church.”  I would be lying if I claimed to represent this movement, but from what I’ve read and from those I’ve met who are part of it, I’m sympathetic with many of its aims and concerns.  I’m also not surprised that some Christian leaders have denounced the Emergent Church, or elements of it, as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a danger to the good order and doctrinal purity of the church.

After all, I’m an Episcopalian, so I’m not unfamiliar this sort of treatment, and maybe that’s why I’ve taken the liberty of referring to our congregation as an “emergent community” on the home page of our website.  This isn’t because I’m trying to cash in on a trendy brand; it’s because I feel there is a genuine open-endedness about what we’re trying to do here at St. John’s.  The schism that devastated this congregation almost nine years ago left us not only with the necessity of renewal, but with an opportunity to do more than try to recreate a church we remember from the past.  It’s given us the freedom to experiment with new forms of worship and new practices of leadership, to take risks, and make mistakes, and learn together how to live in authentic Christian community in the cultural context of today.

Of course, that cultural context is quite chaotic, rapidly changing, and some might say, dangerously ill.  So on our website homepage, where it says that we are an “emergent Christian community” it also says that we have been Petaluma’s congregation of The Episcopal Church since 1856.  And I like having those two seemingly contradictory ideas in the same sentence.   I think it gives a good snapshot of who we are, and where we hope we are going.  It says that we may not be bound by tradition, but neither are we rootless; we are grounded in a place and a history that we did not invent, but inherited from others.  It says we trust in the faithfulness of God’s promise to the church, because we’ve seen it in the continued existence of our community.  It says that when we try to discern who Christ is for us today and what he wants us to do, we aren’t starting from scratch; we are exercising an authority that has been handed down to us in an unbroken line of transmission from the first disciples of Jesus.

Now ordained clergy like me are fond of this last point, because we stand in a particular relation to that authority.  Sometimes we act as if it were our exclusive possession.  And bishops, priests, and deacons do have a special responsibility for maintaining the core tradition, but their role is borrowed, you might say, from the apostolic character of the whole people of God.  And all authority in the church is secondary to the authority of Christ himself, who is still shepherding his flock in the Holy Spirit, and teaching us in the scriptures.  Today, for instance, the Gospel of Mark reminds us that the biggest danger to the church is not that things will get out of control.  It’s not that people will make unauthorized use of the name of Jesus, or lead others astray with unconventional teachings or practices.  The greater danger is that the church’s leaders will abuse their authority.

Last week we heard how Jesus had observed his disciples arguing with each other on the road about which of them was greatest.  They were getting to be full of themselves, and to rival one another for honor and respect—maybe even for power.  So Jesus reminded them that leadership is really about responsibility.  It’s about putting your personal interest in the back seat to the interest of the group, and being in service to others.  It’s about being attentive to the real needs of the people who have entrusted themselves to your care, especially the ones who are most powerless.

In this passage Jesus uses strong language, to say the least, to warn his disciples of the consequences of betraying that trust—“it would be better for you,” he says, “if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea.” 

This is in response to John, who told Jesus about a stranger they met who was casting out demons in his name.  The disciples wanted to shut him down, because, as John put it, “he was not following us.”  It is kind of amazing to read in the gospels how early the characteristic problems of the church began to show up.  Because here we see already, in the apostolic community, anxiety about who has rightful ownership of Jesus. 

But could there be a more generous and inclusive view of how that ownership is shared than the one that Jesus gives next?—“Whoever,” he says, “is not against us is for us.”  It is incredible to hear this and then think about all the centuries of quarrels in the church about who is entitled to speak and act in the name of Christ, and about all the leaders who have appointed themselves as guardians of the gate, telling the faithful what they must do and believe to qualify for a share of heavenly reward.  All this, when Jesus’ own standard is that giving a cup of water to drink is enough. 

Jesus has an image for this kind of jealous and controlling behavior--picture a person innocently walking along, trusting that she has found a good path to follow.  Her eyes are looking far ahead; she is happy to be walking the path and hopeful about where it will take her.  And then someone slips a block of stone or wood in front of her feet, to make her stumble and fall. 

When I think about times in my life when I’ve tripped up someone else in my community, it has usually been when I’ve been insecure about my own belonging, and have tried to jockey for a better position by putting someone else in his place.  It’s been when I’ve pulled rank, and corrected someone or talked down to him, saying, without using so many words, that my discipleship is better than his. 

Being a priest makes me particularly susceptible to this kind of error, but from what I’ve seen, lay people are not immune.  It is an occupational hazard of aspiring to leadership in religious community.

But the irony is, of course, that in putting a stumbling block in front of someone else, it is we who stumble.  And here again Jesus draws on his most colorful vocabulary, to warn his disciples that when they become jealous of others’ free access to grace, they put their own at risk.  So whatever it is about us we think gives us the right to take down a brother or sister in the community, that superior quality is really a hindrance we’d be better off without.  If I think I have a magnificent vision of the future that’s way better than yours, I’d be better off tearing out my eye and throwing it away.  If I think I’m working harder and getting more done because I’m stronger than you are, it’s time to cut off an arm.  And if I think I’m running ahead in the race to win salvation, I’d better cut off a leg.  And if you imagine that you are going to escape the purifying fire of God’s judgment, or that someone else is going to be left out of the quickening flame of the Holy Spirit, well I’ve got Good News for you.