It's God's world

Exodus 33:12-23
Psalm 99
1 Thessalonians 1:1-10
Matthew 22:15-22

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I start to worry about things.  I worry about all the things that I have to do for my work.  I worry about all the things that need to be done on my house.  I worry about my family and my health and my finances.  I worry about you, about the problems you’re having, if I know about them, or problems I imagine you might be having.   I worry about the world and the nation and politics and the news.  Sometimes this can go on for hours, running and re-running the same worries over and over again in my mind.  And I’ve found over the years that the best antidote to this kind of worried mind is prayer. 

I’ll repeat the Lord’s Prayer silently in my mind, and when I find I’ve lost my way two or three lines into it and have started thinking about the cracks in the  brick walkway in front of our house, I’ll start again at the beginning.   Or I’ll use the “Jesus Prayer”, silently saying “Lord Jesus Christ,” with my inbreath, and “have mercy on me” with my outbreath.  And my breathing will get deeper, and I’ll let out a sigh or two, and I’ll start to relax, and pretty soon I’m asleep.  

Sometimes, though, these kinds of prayer are not effective.  The worry-wheel will just keep churning along, rolling over everything I try to put in its path.   And on these occasions I have to get a little firm with myself.  I remind myself of some words of wisdom that I came upon once but can’t remember where.   What they said was how arrogant we are to think we can’t take a little break, even in the middle of the night, from managing our lives.  The hours of night, and of sleep, are the time when we get to let go, and let God take care of everything. 

I’ll remember this and then as each worried thought comes up I’ll give that thing, that person, that problem or situation over to God, entrusting it to God for the night.   I’ll do this over and over,  acknowledging that every particular thing in my life, and my life itself, belong ultimately to God, who can take better care of them than I can, and I will give them back to their rightful owner.   And in this way I can gradually let go of the need to worry, and drift off to sleep.

There are lots of places in the Gospels where Jesus encourages us to trust God and not to be anxious about earthly things.   The story we heard today is not really about that theme, but it does contain a pointed teaching that all those earthly things belong to God.  When Jesus says, "Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's,” he is not setting up two separate spheres of influence.  He is not saying that there is one arena of life, the political and economic, where Caesar reigns supreme, and another, the “religious,” where God’s rights are paramount.  Any devout Israelite, including the Pharisees’ disciples, would know Psalm 24, which extols the sovereign power of God, and begins with the words “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it, the world and all who dwell therein.”

But the division into rival spheres is what is assumed by the question “is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?”, and the ones who ask it hope to trap Jesus in the contested boundary region where the two spheres meet.  If Jesus answers by saying “no, it is not,” his enemies will denounce him to the Romans as a teacher of rebellious sedition.    If he says that it is lawful, they will discredit him before the Judean masses, who rankle under the rule of the idolatrous pagans.    In short, while they flatter him as a sincere religious teacher, who cares more for God’s truth than pleasing people, they want to lure him into choosing which people to please.  They are pressing him to take sides on a political question, as if one side or the other encompasses the position of God.

Some commentators make a big deal about the fact that Jesus has to ask the Pharisee’s disciples for the coin for the tax, as if he is somehow better than them and us because he doesn’t carry money.  But I don’t think that’s the point.   When he holds up the coin, and asks “whose picture is this, and whose title?” he does point out absurdity of opposing the Emperor on religious principle when you’re passing his image from hand to hand all day long.   But he’s not saying the problem would be solved if we just didn’t use money.    He is saying that Caesar has his place and we owe him his due.   But he’s also reminding us that Caesar’s place is not eternal, and that Caesar also owes a debt, one he must someday repay.  Because everything Caesar has, no less than everything we have, belongs to God.  

It is to remember this that we have our stewardship season.  There’s a reason why we take some time every year to ponder what we’re doing when we make a commitment to give to the church.   Because it’s not about the hard sell, gradually wearing down every bit of resistance, until that final form is completed and returned.   But then why make such a big deal about it.   What about it is so important that we spend a month  thinking about it, talking about it, and praying about it?  I think the answer is that if we look carefully at our practice of giving to the church, it can teach us a profound truth, one that all the other contractual exchanges that we engage in every day try to conceal.

The other transactions that go on in the world all promise to give us something we don’t already have, to do something for us we can’t do for ourselves, or make us feel something we can’t feel any other way.  And all those same promises come into play here, too.  After all, this is not some separate sphere, as if when we come within the walls of this room we are now in “God’s world.”  It’s all God’s world.  

But there is something about our giving to the church that is unique.  Because the essential truth about the transaction that happens here is that the church does not promise us anything we don’t already have.   Or to put it another way, anything we receive from the church that is of the essence of what the church really is, comes to us purely by the gift of God.  Here is a giving and receiving that is completely free.  God does not need your giving, as if to supply some deficiency in him.   Everything you give, your money, your time, your talent, your mind and heart and your life itself, already belongs to God.   And every gift that God gives you, she gives in love, expecting nothing but love in return.                

And so this mundane exercise of St. John’s annual pledge drive, which can feel ever so slightly tawdry, actually connects us with the sacred mystery at the heart of the church.  The faith of Christ, who gave the whole world back to God on the cross, invites our giving.   God’s giving Christ back to the world, in his resurrection, is everything we hope to receive.  But for all the glory of that redeeming exchange, we don’t need to look askance at what we have to offer.  As much or as little as it is, as tainted as it may be by the world’s sharp practice, our giving participates in that free transaction of love that is the true life of the world.  Everything that is given for Christ’s sake belongs equally to God.  And so do we.

The United States of Heaven

Genesis 25:19-34
Psalm 119:105-112
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

A couple of months ago I decided to put a new welcome message on the home page of St. John’s website.  I wanted to try to communicate something to curious visitors, right off the bat, about what makes our congregation special.  So I decided to mention the recent schism that tried and tested, and at the same time renewed, this community.  I wanted to do this for two reasons; first, because it highlights our commitment to being an inclusive church, where people of all different kinds are welcome and affirmed.  This commitment, and the high cost that St. John’s paid for it, is nothing to be ashamed of, and indeed is attractive to some people. 

The second reason was that a lot of people in our surrounding community know that something happened here, something painful or scandalous or at least controversial, and I thought we should set the record straight at the outset, so visitors aren’t left wondering what we’re hiding.  So I wrote my new little welcome blurb that contained this sentence: We are proud of our commitment to inclusion, having recently reclaimed our parish from a breakaway sect opposed to equality for women and LGBT Christians within the church. 

Then, in early June, I got an email from a woman who described herself as a frequent visitor at St. John’s over the years, who keeps up with us via our website.  She copied that sentence in her email, with the words “breakaway sect” highlighted in red.  And then she wrote the following:

“Really?  

It is revealing that you find it necessary to attract new members by denigrating your fellow Christians. Were I to consider joining your congregation for one Sunday, or forever, I could not set foot in the place based on that statement alone.”

I wrote her a reply in which I thanked her for staying in touch with us, and assured her that I didn’t mean to give offence or to denigrate anyone.  I told her everything I just told you about the reasons why I’d put those words up there, and that I’d merely been trying to describe, as accurately as I could, what happened.  I explained that the American Heritage Dictionary defines “sect” as, "a religious body, especially one that has separated from a larger denomination", and that I’d used that word because it was the most precise one I could find.  But I also told her that I had a grave concern that she had interpreted that language as insulting, and, because others might read it the same way, I’d have to seriously re-consider using it.

I meant to communicate one thing, but what that woman heard was something very different.  Saying what we want to say, in a way that others can understand it, is one of the great challenges of being human.  This is true even with the people we trust the most and love the best.  But it is especially true with strangers, and when the subject matter is something people have passionate feelings and firm convictions about, such as politics or religion, it’s that much more difficult.  We might think that if we were more eloquent, or charismatic or persuasive, we’d be more successful in getting others to understand us, and that might be true up to a point.  But the fact is, people are going to hear what they want to hear, or are ready to hear, no matter what we say or how we say it.

Maybe we can take some comfort in knowing that Jesus had the same problem.   When Jesus spoke to groups of people, he had a very specific purpose.  He wasn’t trying to impress them, so that they would go away saying, “Wow—that was awesome.  I can’t wait to tell my friends what I heard.  Maybe they’ll want to come with me next time I go hear him speak.”  He also wasn’t trying to persuade them to agree with his opinions, so they’d say “You know, I’ve always been skeptical about ‘eternal life’, but Jesus really made a convincing argument.  I think I’m going to believe in that from now on.” 

No, I think what Jesus was trying to do with his teachings was to bring his listeners into a completely different perception of reality.  He was trying to use words that would break through into their hearts and awaken a profound response of recognition.  He was betting on the possibility that if they could see themselves the way he saw them, and know God’s loving, and empowering presence the way he did, that they would be changed forever. 

Just in case we might think that he was talking about something vague and subjective, some kind of private experience that only certain people can have but that isn’t actually relevant to your average person or everyday life, Jesus called this reality the “kingdom of heaven” or “the kingdom of God.”  No “Kingdom” is one translation of the Greek word basilea.  Basilea is a word that the people gathered on the beach at the Sea of Galilee would have known very well.   They would have already heard an earful about a certain Basilea that some people said was divinely ordained to bring peace, order, and prosperity to the world.  They would have heard that anyone who opposed this Basilea was a public enemy, a criminal who should be killed as an example to others.  Another translation of Basilea is “empire.”  The Basilea that Jesus’ listeners would have known best was the one centered in Rome.   

I think we have to assume that Jesus knew what he was doing when he used that word.  He knew what associations it would have in the minds of his audience.   He had to know that when he talked about the Empire of Heaven there would be some people who wouldn’t understand. Some who would think that he was setting himself up as a rival Caesar, that he was calling them to join him in a war of liberation.  Which he certainly he was not.  But he also understood that as long as they lived in fear of that other Basilea, so long as they believed in its claims to be the hope of humanity, and the supreme and eternal reality in an uncertain world, they would never know what he knew, or see what he saw.

So when he spoke to them about the Empire of Heaven, he used parables.  He used figures of speech drawn from the everyday experience of farmers and fishermen, so his audience might understand that this Empire was not governed from some great city far away, but was fully present in and around them.  He knew that some people would not understand, and that the spirit of violence and rivalry would snatch this vision away from them before it could sprout in their hearts.  There would be others who would embrace it for a time, but lose it when faced with the blazing hatred of the uncomprehending.   Others might be drawn to the message but find it only good for Sunday morning sermons, and not for the gritty realities of trying to feed your family and get ahead in the world. 

But there would be some people who did understand.  Not very many.  At the end of Jesus’ life it would be clear how very few there were.  Some of his closest disciples wouldn’t get it until he was raised from the dead.   But when that happened they remembered what he’d said.  They remembered the parables of the Empire of Heaven, and the seed that fell on the good earth and bore fruit.  And the new life in the spirit, the indwelling power of the God who raised Jesus from the dead, was suddenly not just some nice words, not just  a “religious idea”—it was a reality.  It was the reality, in comparison with which all their former lives were a living death.

They in their turn became sowers of the word, and we are their harvest.  And because a share of the harvest is the seed of the next year’s crop, we, also are sowers.  St. Francis of Assisi told his followers, “preach the Gospel at all times—even, when necessary, using words.”  We don’t have to be knowledgeable and articulate.  We just have to share, to the best of our understanding, what is in our own hearts about The United States of Heaven.  The birds will get some of it, some will land among the rocks, and the thorns.  But some of what you communicate will land in the good soil, and bear fruit, one hundred-, sixty-, thirty-fold.