Low Sunday: Are We Afraid Not to Be Doubting Thomases?

An old sermon for Low Sunday from seminary days asking fellow progressives whether they really doubt the resurrection or whether they actually fear the consequences of not doubting.  Many people certainly doubt, but I think there are also many educated folks who fear the social and intellectual consequences of believing.

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Now Thomas, one of the twelve, called the Twin, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe." Eight days later, his disciples were again in the house, . . . but Jesus came and stood among them, and said, "Peace be with you." Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side; do not be faithless, but believing." Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!"

            For many years it has been fashionable among some preachers to portray Thomas as the romantic doubting everyman.  In my tradition's lectionary, today's gospel is the same for all years on the second Sunday of Easter.  Each year I dread what sort of homey portrayal of Thomas to which I may find myself subjected.  Or how I might be told that Thomas's doubts are like my own grapplings.

              It seems all too rare that we reflect that Saint John uses the empirical Thomas's doubt as a foil for Thomas's subsequent confession, "My Lord and My God," which is the capstone of the fourth Gospel.  Thomas's confession finishes the declaration of John 1:1 that "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God."  The confession is the climax of the story, not the skepticism.

            While garden variety Thomas sermons annoy me, I recognize the reality to which they speak.  In my years at Harvard I have had discussion section with Thomas.  I have been Thomas.  Like the doubting apostle, our community is better known for what we can liberate, demythologize, and deconstruct than it is known for what we confess.  Too often, however, I question the honesty of some of our doubt.

 

            I do not question that many of us confess particular creeds, but I know that too often we have a reticence to speak of them.  We fear whom we might offend.  We fear who might ridicule us.  We fear that we may find ourselves on the community’s margins.

            Many of us spend evenings and weekends in convents and covens, but in our common life we seem to be afraid to transcend being clever.  We speak in the language of doubt and inquiry though many of us were brought here by faith.

 

            We are like Schopenhauer’s porcupines.  The philosopher tells the story of a group of porcupines caught in the open during a winter storm.  As the night progressed and the temperature dropped, the porcupines moved closer together for warmth.  As they moved closer, their quills began to prick one another.  The closer the porcupines drew together, the greater the pain.  Some, no longer able to bear the agony,  dropped our of the circle as the night progressed, but when morning came, only those who had drawn together despite of the discomfort had survived.

            We must become all too willing to risk discomfort and blood loss if we are to make our years in Andover Hall worthwhile.  We must risk confession.  Each week this chapel is the site of Zen meditation, Mass, and many other forms of prayer, but how often do we take that spirit beyond these doors and into our halls?  How often do we feign Thomistic objectivity, then confess in some upper room?  We like Thomas must engage our fellow porcupines.  Thomas did not believe the first reports of the resurrection, but he remained willing to return to the company of the disciples for a second time.

 

            For the most part, we have not come to Harvard Divinity School for ourselves only.  Many of us are preparing for lives as priests, preachers, advocates,  and educators.  How comfortable are we with letting our particular lights shine?  Have we hidden our lights under a basket of detached discourse or have we illuminated others?  In speaking of our beliefs, have we too often settled for being clever when we could have been clear?

            I recently reread Emerson’s "Divinity School Address."  Emerson warns the senior class of 1838 against the formalism which he feels has weakened the church.  He says:

To this holy office you propose to devote yourselves, I wish you may feel your call in throbs of desire and hope. . . For all our penny wisdom . . . it is not to be doubted that all men have sublime thoughts We mark with light the memories of the few interviews we have had with souls that made our souls wiser . . . that gave us leave to be what we inly were.

            Like poor maligned Thomas, Emmerson's contemporaries seized upon what he doubted, not the vision that he confessed.  What formalisms and etiquette do we hide behind that keep our colleagues and peers from seeing the confession behind the critiques?

            Emerson would, I think, share my impatience with the current Tommy-rot.  After Thomas's confession, Christ answers him:

Have you believed because you have seen me?  Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.  

            Blessed are we when honest inquiry leads us to risk speaking from faith.  Blessed are we when we transcend being clever.

            Christians now enjoy the season of Easter, the great 50 day feast of the resurrection.  As my Christian brothers and sisters and those of other faiths celebrate the possibilities of new life in this season , I ask that we search our souls for the boldness and vulnerability in each of us that could transform our community.  I encourage you to risk the quills.  I ask that we may all overcome our crutch of detachment and liberate Thomas from the homiletic hell of doubt.

            Amen.

His Blood Be Upon Us: A Sermon for Palm Sunday

I preached this Palm Sunday sermon more than a decade ago, but reading back through it, I think it still may have something to say to someone about the various places we find ourselves taking in the crowds who formed the chorus of Holy Week.

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When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in a turmoil asking, “Who is this?”

In the name of the FATHER and of the SON and of the HOLY SPIRIT. AMEN.

Today’s two gospels present a Sunday’s triumph and a Friday execution.

Some of those who on Sunday exclaimed “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord” were the same ones who stood in front of Pilate’s judgment seat on Friday shouting, “Let him be crucified.... His blood be on us and on our children.”

But Jesus knew this was the way that it would be. Before entering the city in triumph, he has three times predicted what will happen in Jerusalem. Even as he is teaching in the temple before his arrest, he pointedly rebukes the scribes and Pharisees to the crowd saying, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! ... you will not see me again until you say, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

In some places it is customary to feast the night before a fast begins. This is done not to tide the person over, but so that the pangs of hunger will be more intense. Jesus’ triumphal entry is like this -— to be gorged with adulation, knowing at the time that he will soon die as a criminal, almost entirely deserted even by those closest to him. 

Think of the bittersweet undercurrent of that last meal with his disciples who still believe that all is well. Think of the anguish as he prayed alone in the garden, the sounds of hosanna still fresh in his ears but waiting for the guards to come find him there.

In the same way, Palm Sunday or the Sunday of the Passion is a feast to heighten our fast.

Today, we stand at the gate of Holy Week. We have almost passed through our season of preparation and stand ready to recall the events we believe led to the salvation of the world. The readings of the crucifixion and triumphal entry forewarn us of the pain of Good Friday and the joy of Easter. 

In the Middle Ages, this designation was clearer. Palm Sunday was in various places known as “The Mass of Shaved Heads” because those who were being prepared for baptism at Easter had their heads shaved bare on this day. In some places it was called “The Mass of Traditional Symbols” because it was on this day that the baptismal candidates were taught the creed and thus learned the traditional formulation of faith in the value of Christ’s death and resurrection. Today warns us of the seriousness of what is to come.

There is also a longer arc in which we must participate, one that stretches beyond Holy Week and into the age to come. We must listen to today’s proceedings as if we were members of that fickle crowd. Even as we believe that we will be citizens of a new Jerusalem, we must see that we too can wave a palm branch then shout murder. In that same passage where Jesus is teaching in the temple he says of the scribes and Pharisees:

Woe to you ... for you build the tombs of the prophets and decorate the graves of the righteous, and you say ‘If we had lived in the days of our ancestors, we would not have taken part with them in shedding the blood of the prophets.’ Thus you testify against yourselves that you are descendants of those who murdered the prophets.

I am sure that the disciples who were listening didn’t include themselves in that group in any way, even though they would soon desert Jesus and flee, even though Peter would deny him three times.

Today’s liturgy reminds us that we are the crowd in the story in need of salvation, that we are mercurial creatures who cannot save ourselves. In today’s readings, the crowd, at first, seems to have a bit part, but the whole drama is for them.

Today when we purify or bless something, we use incense or sprinkle holy water. In ancient times, the priest who wanted to expiate sin or impurity sprinkled the blood of a sacrifice. 

This is the drama of the crowd’s part in the trial of Jesus before Pilate. In calling for Jesus’ execution, they urge Pilate on saying “His blood be on us and on our children.” In later centuries, this verse was used to justify atrocities against Jews, but in this scene in Matthew, the crowd in front of Pilate stands in for all of humanity. Only the night before Jesus has said, “this is my blood of the covenant which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” We are that crowd's metaphorical descendants who need the paschal lamb without blemish, and so in the liturgy we hear the words “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.”

As part of the celebration of Passover, the residents of Jerusalem had smeared their doorposts with lamb’s blood as a sign for death to pass by their houses. After the crowd’s exclamation, Jesus has to bear his cross past these same blood soaked doors as he went Golgotha to become the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.

The week to come is our Passover. We still refer to these days as the time of the paschal mystery and set the date of Easter by the first moon after the spring equinox. Many rites in ancient Judaism were reserved for the priests alone, but at the Passover, even the smallest child took part in the drama of salvation. 

Passover recalled deliverance from bondage and death in Egypt through the sacrifice of a perfect lamb, the retelling of the story of how the Jews had come to be delivered during a ritual meal where the lamb was eaten.

As then we recall a story, a meal, a sacrifice, and deliverance from death. As then, there is a place for all of us at the table. As then the story and the ritual recall both terror and triumph. On Thursday we enter the upper room and encounter that last meal that serves as the type for all that we do at the altar. On Friday we go with him to his sacrifice on Golgotha. On Sunday we celebrate his triumph over death and our deliverance.

The events of the week to come are not small things and through it all, we must remember our place in the story, the crowd that stood in for all generations to come and unknowingly called down salvation on the world. We must remember that these things were done not so much for the glory of God as they were so that we one day might be glorified. We remember that we are as in need of these events as we are hopeful that we will one day shout hosanna before the King who is to come.

His blood be upon us.

Lent I, Temptation, and the Desert

I ran across this old sermon from the First Sunday in Lent.  The readings are for Year B of the three-year lectionary, but I think the message holds up regardless of the year.

The Judean desert.

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            By the mystery of thy holy Incarnation; by thy holy Nativity and submission to the law; by thy baptism, fasting, and temptation, Good Lord deliver us.

                          

 -From The Book of Common Prayer's Great Litany

            This morning’s reading from Mark is one of the few quiet moments in all of the gospel.  In last week’s gospel, the season of Epiphany went out in glory with Jesus transfigured, elevated above Moses and Elijah, the greatest of the prophets.  The voice of God proclaimed to the apostles, “This is my beloved Son; Hear ye him.”

            This week, we begin Lent with the beginning of the story that reaches a climax on the Mountain of the Transfiguration.  Last week’s gospel showed us Jesus as at his height, made known to his friends shortly before his passion and resurrection at Jerusalem make him known to the world.  This week’s gospel shows us an obscure Galilean.

            Mark’s gospel has no account of a child who made a king fear for his throne, of a virgin giving birth, of angels filling the sky with gloria in excelsis deo.  Instead, Mark opens with a man from Nazareth waiting to be baptized by John the prophet who many thought was Elijah returned from heaven.  This Jesus does not seem to merit any notice from John or the crowd.  Mark suggests that it is only Jesus who sees heaven opened and hears the voice of God. 

You are my Son, the Beloved, in whom I am well pleased.

            In the Synoptic gospels, God speaks only at Jesus’ baptism and the Transfiguration.  The two utterances are similar, but the emphasis makes all the difference.  The Gospel story, from this vision at the Jordan to the Mountain of Transfiguration, is the tale of the transition from “You are my Son, the Beloved,” addressed to Jesus, to “This is my son; hear him” addressed to those who will be his witnesses.

A Sermon for Advent II

St. John the Baptist by Veneto (source).

Digging through some things yesterday, I found this old sermon for Advent II in lectionary Year C from 14 years ago.  I am not sure that it is quite what I would say today, but I think some of the ideas still hold up.

   Today’s collects and readings confront the reality of sin.  We prayed that we might heed the prophets warnings and forsake our sins.  I am not certain that as creatures of the age of psychology and self-esteem that we even know how to address the concept. 

    For John the Baptist, sin was very real.  He calls those who hear him a generation of vipers and trees who will be cast in the fire.  He tells them they should fear the one who will come after him.

    John stands in good company among the prophets whom the collect calls to our mind today.  As a group, the prophets were notoriously lacking in civility, scolds par excellance.  Worse, they seemed to enjoy their work.  Unfortunately, the lectionary gives us a skewed view of the prophetic role.  Today’s reading from Isaiah is typical of what we hear on a given Sunday—the lion lying down with the lamb and a little child shall lead them, a seemingly pleasant and benign vision of the Kingdom we seek shorn of the arduous nature of the journey it takes to get there.

    Typically, the prophets spent their time calling on the people and the state to repent from sin and to turn to God.  To sin was to risk bringing calamity on the individual and the nation.  But what was this thing that aroused prophetic ire and drove John’s ministry?

    The most common word for sin in the New Testament is the Greek word hamartia which means to miss the mark.  The word was used in archery to say that someone had missed the target and used to describe travelers who had missed their road.  To sin is to be misguided, to be off course, to get it wrong, but what is the criteria?  In both the Old and New Testaments, to sin is most often to commit and act that puts something in the place of God, usually one’s self.  To sin is to fail to recognize the majesty of God and the order of the universe.  Sin is failing to recognize our dependence on the creator.

    C. S. Lewis, born almost exactly 100 years ago, was perhaps the last great Anglican defender of the idea of sin.  For Lewis, sin was a loss of perspective that clouded all of life.  To be in sin was to forget one’s place in creation and consequently that of God.  Sin was to choose the self and to see things only in terms of the self.

    In the world of Lewis’ essays and fiction, heaven is the end of a deliberate journey toward God.  Heaven is where those who have longed for their creator find fulfillment and true joy.  Hell, on the other hand, is the end point of just as deliberate a journey.  In Lewis’ hell, there is no fire or demonic torment.  Instead, hell is the place of rest for those who can no longer see outside of themselves.  Hell is a solitary place of rest where there is nothing to distract the soul from its self-love, where at last there are no other people to challenge one’s status, no feelings of imperfection, no more nagging of conscience.  Hell is a self-imposed exile.

    Today’s gospel from Matthew gives us John the forerunner of Christ’s earthly ministry, but it serves equally well as a warning of the second advent for which we look in this season.  To prepare the way of the Lord we have to know the right road.  We have to know that the source of true joy and contentment lies outside of ourselves.  We have to long for a kingdom where we will neither rule nor burn with desire to at least stand on the dais. 

    As we anticipate Christ’s second advent, the importance of John’s proclamation is not so much that he called sinners to repent but that he could say “The one who is coming after me is greater than I; I am not worthy to carry his sandals.”  John calls us out of ourselves to see the glory of the one who is to come.  He calls us to see the folly of our self-aggrandizement and to see that our worth and honor come from being children of the creator, not from any transitory status that we can cobble together here.  John’s words in the wilderness of Judea call us out of our need for dominance and self-importance. 

    The seemingly pleasant vision in today’s reading from Isaiah is no comfort to those who have chosen otherwise, because to be happy in that peaceable kingdom is not just to be the babe that is safe from the asp and the calf that need not fear the lion. It is also to be the asp who has forgone the impulse to strike, the bear who is happy to graze, and the lion who no longer needs to be king because he is content to be subject to the shoot that has come up from the stump of Jesse. 

     In the name of the FATHER and of the SON and of the HOLY GHOST.  AMEN.

Photos and Sermon from Our First Mass

After Mass.

 Last night's first Mass went off quite well and we are very grateful to the folks at St. Martin's for their hospitality. 

There are more photos on our Facebook page. 

The audio of the sermon is below.  The tracking got a little off in the upload, so it starts about 12 seconds in.  Stay tuned for news of out next Mass.

Sunday Net Roundup

Bishop Timothy Cravens of the ICCC

Later in the week I will have a few photos from the Ozarks and a couple of devotional pieces on the Assumption, but today I have a few pieces from around the internet.

First, from Thoughts at Large from a Bishop at Large, an excellent sermon from last Sunday by Bishop Timothy on being a living tabernacle.  Here's a snippet:

Through the power of the Spirit, and by the indwelling of Christ, we are then “rooted and grounded in love”.  We cannot hope to have any lasting fruits of our faith if we are not deeply rooted and grounded.  Too many Christians go about, their actions goofy and ungrounded, because they have not taken the time to pray, the time to be still and know that God is God, the time to allow the love of God root them and ground them.  It is only as we experience this rooting and grounding in love that our actions can begin to blossom forth, and bear witness to the love of God for a sinful and suffering world.

Continue reading.

 At Rumney Marsh Ruminations, there are two pieces by Bishop David on polity and being a small church.

In Thinking Small, he writes: