Majestically Simple Acts of Love

[Sermon given at St. John's Episcopal Church, Wausau, WI on 11/26/2017]

Today we mark the very last Sunday of the church year, known as Christ the King Sunday. Yeah if you didn’t know it, we begin anew with the season of Advent next week (i.e. Christmas is coming!). But before we begin a new year in anticipation of the coming of a lowly, vulnerable baby in a manger, we use this last Sunday of the church calendar to remember that this one who will come as a babe and live amongst us is also truly King of all.

And so we set the stage for the great tension that we live with as Christians, the mystery of the incarnation that is at the core of our faith. You see as we get set for Advent, we remember that God, the God of the universe, the one who called the sun and the stars into existence—the one whose hand is over all and in all and through all, the one who had the power and imagination to birth this universe with a bang and whose word or logos or master plan was then set to be fulfilled, that it is this one, this unimaginably great and majestic God whom we will come to speak of in utterly human terms when we tell the story of Jesus.

But before we speak of descending and submitting and being birthed by a woman named Mary, we remind ourselves of the majesty and ultimate standing of our King. That’s why we read scriptures like Paul’s letter to the Ephesians today in which he reminds that community how God has “seated him [Jesus] at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.” I mean, wow! Paul is really going for it-- that is some lofty language.

In fact, It is that sort of language that can make even Jesus seem inaccessible to us. Yet it is just here that we see the mystery and the gift of Christianity. For to know Jesus and to see God through him is to begin to know the great and mighty God of the universe in a personal way, to know both King of all and the teacher who would teach by kneeling down to wash his own disciples’ feet, the friend who would go to the cross if that is where love led him.

And so, it is in this way of understanding, in knowing Jesus both as exulted King and as servant of all that we celebrate Christ the King and try to make sense of this mystery of God—King yet submissive, ultimate authority and suffering servant…

Which brings us to our gospel reading for the day. Today in Mathew we hear Jesus as he speaks of his coming again in glory—“and all the angels with him!” it says. Try to picture that! No wonder we read this on the Sunday we celebrate Christ the King.

Certainly, if Christ is King, he will return in a great display as described here. But you know, I think that that part of the story gets over emphasized sometimes—the whole end of times or judgement day thing. I mean I know that the disciples (after Jesus ascension) expected Jesus to return rather soon, and Jesus himself in this section of Mathew isn’t shying away from talk of the end times. (In fact, at the prodding of the disciples, he has told several parables about what those times will be like).

But where the early church might have expected such a majestic return, sort of, you know--any day now!--we in our time have had a lot of those days go by—at least 736,705 days have come and gone and still no Jesus.

So my point is that I don’t want to get hung up on that part of the text. Rather, I want to note what it might have done for those early listeners to hear about and ask about such things. I mean, why did they talk about end times? And what did it mean when they did? Certainly, end times, seem to imply ultimate meaning. To ask about the end is to ask about where this is all going and to gain some insight into why.

And I’m sure it also worked as a bit of a wake-up call when Jesus spoke about it the world in this way. It’s like a jolt to the senses “Hey, listen up,” Jesus might be saying, “this is big.”

So what is so big in this story? It’s easy to read it on a surface level.

Let’s see here:

Jesus comes with angels,

separates good from bad (like sheep from goats),

good receive reward,

bad receive punishment…

It’s pretty straightforward, especially when we read it as some sort of picture of a judgement day that isn’t at all likely to come in our lifetimes.

But what if this passage is about today? What if Christ the King, is king right now? What if the disciples hadn’t asked about the “end of the age” but had asked about when and where they will see God at work in the world during their lives? Then how do we hear this story of the sheep and the goats?

When we look a little deeper, an interesting juxtaposition comes out. On the one hand Jesus says that the Son will sit on the throne of glory with all the nations before him and will separate the people as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. It struck me as I meditated on this passage, that the separating seems so simple and clear-cut. Now, I’m no farmer or shepherd, but I’m pretty sure I can distinguish between sheep and goats and separating them out seems fairly straightforward. It is at least a very clear image, right?

But it is not so with people. I mean it’s a lot harder to distinguish between people. Appearances don't tell you someone's story or who they are—did they do harm or were they of help, do they have good motives or bad? How does one know? But not only that, despite being so easily separated, neither group in the story seems to have any idea why they have been chosen for that group. If it was just a matter of being good or bad, believer or non-believer, I have a feeling people would at least think they know why they’ve landed in the group the group set apart for reward or the group that will be cast off.

But it is not so here. No, here, the people were easy to separate, but neither group could tell you why.

So Jesus tells them why. To those who’ve been separated out for reward, he tells them, “for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”

And to those who have been cast out to punishment, “for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.”

“But wait,” they say—and this is both groups. “But wait, Jesus, when did we see you and do or not do these things?” And what does he say? What does Christ the King say? (And I want to note that it is “the King” who is speaking in the story. That’s how Jesus goes on to refer to the Son of man who came and was sitting on his throne.) 

So, the King, the elevated and mighty one, whom we celebrate today says to them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”  And, to the other group, “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”

And just like that, the Majestic Son of Man who is pictured as coming with angels at the end of time tells us that as powerful and mighty as he might be, he has chosen to identify with us and indeed what this life is ultimately about is as simple as the acts of common compassion that we have a chance to show each day.

To paraphrase, Jesus says, “When you show love to each other, you show it to me, when you withhold love from each other, you withhold it from me.”

It is as simple as that. You can see it as plain as day. It’s as easy as separating sheep from goats.

Or is it, I wonder? Can we hear our King make such a simple claim? Can we allow it? Do we have the “ears to hear,” as they say? Or will we get lost trying to praise God up in the heights with pomp and circumstance, or by trying to earn our way with right belief or proper practice or proper prayers?

Will we try to put the Son of man back onto some throne that we may worship him there? Or can we hear our King when he tells us that life (even, “eternal life”) is about recognizing and honoring God here amongst us, which means serving, and loving the people around us—those who hunger or thirst, or those who are sick or in prison.

“As you did it unto these, so you have done it unto me.” Our King, Jesus, has said. Praise be to the one who would put all things under his feet! Amen.

Simple, God-Empowered Dust

(This post is an edited version of a sermon originally given at the Episcopal Church of St. John the Baptist in Wausau, WI on April 2, 2017)

Well, our journey through Lent is almost over. It was already 5 weeks ago that we gathered on the last Sunday after Epiphany and looked at the story of the Transfiguration. And we spoke of seeing Jesus, and maybe even one another, again with brand new eyes.

And then, just a few days later we made our way into the season of Lent—a season of deep introspection and reflection. On Ash Wednesday our priest, Father David, marked us with ashes and in rather stark, blunt words he reminded us that “we are dust, and to dust we will return.” Lent, among other things, is certainly a time of humility. It is not only this, but it is a time to reflect on our limitations and our sin. It is even a time to acknowledge, perhaps, the role that our shortcomings and limitations play in the passion and crucifixion. We are, after all, tied in with the whole fabric of humankind.

For as much as we celebrate the greatness of human accomplishments and in those accomplishments, see a connection—a bit of ourselves—so too, we must also admit that we share in the frailties and faults that lie at the worst of humanity as well. Though we like to play the mental comparison games that allow us to hold ourselves in a separate category from hard criminals or those we consider to be lost, the hard reflection and introspection of Lent will eventually force us to see our own brokenness and in that brokenness to also know how closely knit together we are with all of humanity. We are a mixed bag, or as Martin Luther famously put it, we are “sinner and saint”.

As this Lent draws to a close, I think of the events that took place right here in the Wausau area a week and a half ago. Our hearts ache for the innocent victims and their families, but so too does my heart ache for the one so twisted up and lost in his own brokenness that he couldn’t see a better way out… Even more, we know that such occurrences are far too common in our world. “Why?” we wonder, “Why do these things have to happen?” We might even shake a rightfully angry fist at God when we ask, “Why?”

And in this season of Lent we wonder, “Why does Christ have to go to the cross?” Was it because the religious authority had it out for him? Because the Romans felt threatened? Because the Father needed him to? That doesn’t really make sense to me. Because of the sins of the world? Because of your sin? Because of mine? Why” There is no ultimate or truly satisfying answer to that question. There is only the truth that this story is now a part of our story. And that story, too, is a mixed bag—so much good, and so much bad right there along with it.

And so we wrestle with it. And in the church we devote a whole season to this wrestling. The other day in our book study we noted how counter-cultural it is to engage with the season of Lent and to actually “celebrate” days like Good Friday. For it’s not a celebration at all is it? No, to enter into Lent and where it leads is to go right into the hard, mysterious places of life and to embrace the whole of it.

Lent leads us to the sorts of places in our readings for today—places like the valley of the dry bones in Ezekiel or places where Jesus too is overcome by the brokenness of it all and weeps right along with us—where even he seems to be asking, “why does it have to be like this?” 

We see in these scenes our own limitations once again. In Ezekiel, God tells the prophet that the dry bones are the whole house of Israel. The house of Israel—the symbol for all of humanity—cries out, “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” To go deep into Lent is to face these hard places. To go deep into Lent is to wind up where hope seems lost and we feel cut off. Of course, we know that Ezekiel also holds out a promise of the things that God will do, just as in Lent we see the promise of who Jesus is and what God can and will do.

But I notice something else in this Ezekiel text. What stands out to me in this humble season is the role that Ezekiel plays. See, this isn’t just a story of God doing something spectacular by giving life to the dry bones. No, this is a story of God giving life to the dry bones through Ezekiel—Ezekiel is in the valley and it is Ezekiel who speaks the words that bring bone to bone. And it is Ezekiel who speaks breath into those bones saying, “Thus says the Lord GOD: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.”

And it is only when Ezekiel has done it that the bones have life. See! Here in this vision we have the high and the low, the mixed-bag nature of humankind all wrapped up into one. We are both the dry bones of the house of Israel—the dry bones who can do nothing on our own, the dry bones who at times lose all hope—but we are also exemplified by Ezekiel! We humans are the ones empowered to partner with God in God’s movement in this world, to create, to give life.

We’ve been given dominion over the animals of the field, we build homes and buildings, bridges and cities. We create technology we make a giant web of computers and cables and satellites that connect us all.  We are dust, and to dust we will return, but we are some amazing, God-empowered dust while it lasts!

And not only that, but in all of our striving and struggle to make our way here in this world, we actually do give life as well. Not as Ezekiel did with the dry bones and not as Jesus did in raising Lazarus. But we give life in the smaller ways of our interactions with one another. We give life in our relationships. We give life when we help a friend through a hard time. We give life when we serve a meal to one another. We give life when we do all that we can to make sure that no one is given over to the hopelessness of the dry bones. Sometimes we give life, simply by being present and acknowledging one another.

It reminds me of a conversation from the podcast On Being. In that program, Krista Tippett interviewed a man named Bruce Kramer. Bruce was a professor of music in Minneapolis who was suffering from ALS and nearing the last stages of his life. At one point Bruce recalled how, as his body began to really fail him, he encountered what he referred to as “the look.”

“The look” was a certain way in which peoples’ eyes would gloss over when they encountered him. Eventually, he would see the look, even in the eyes of colleagues and friends who knew him well. He couldn’t completely describe it, but he explained how they seemed to be looking through him, or as he said, “choosing not to be present” with him. His body was failing him, but his mind was still sharp. What he saw in others was the fact that they no longer saw him. They saw only his body, only his disability… Can you imagine it? They were no longer engaging him, they were no longer in relationship with him, there was no longer any life present between them.

But the conversation wasn’t about feeling bad for Bruce, it was about what he had learned. He realized how easy it is not to see people and to thereby deny them their personhood. He learned—through his disease—that we do indeed have the power to give or withhold life.

Friends, as we continue our journey into the hard places at the end of this season, and as we see the fullness of our humanity—it’s fragility, it’s brokenness and sin, but also it’s god-empowered and life-giving capacity—let us be aware that we are a mixed-bag. We are sinner and saint. And let us recognize the responsibilities we have. Let us embrace the opportunities we have to work with God to give life. As Easter people we know that we are to look for and be about resurrection in this world. Let us remember that it might be through us, through you and me, that God works that resurrection. Let us seek to see and acknowledge one another and the people of our community and to see where we, simple dust that we are, can stand in with our presence and voice and give life to those around us.  –Amen.