Tag: Lent

Glory and mercy in Victory in Heaven window photo

Glory and mercy at the heart of Mark’s Gospel

Kyle 1 Comment

A Sermon for the Second Sunday of Lent:

Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16; Psalm 22:22-30; Romans 4:13-25; Mark 8:31-38

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“O God, whose glory it is always to have mercy …” That’s how our Collect of the Day for this second Sunday of Lent begins.

It’s probably characteristic of our … indirect church communication style that such a profound insight into the Christian faith is shoved into a dependent clause—a clause from a prayer that I, at least, frequently fail to pay any attention to.

But perhaps that’s the charm and power of sticking our best theology in as asides in the sacred syntax: it allows us to be surprised in the Spirit when we do stumble across those insights.

That’s what happened to me when I read those words: “O God, whose glory it is always to have mercy.” I was surprised because glory and mercy are two words we use often in church, but seldom together.

Let’s spend a few minutes thinking about what that might mean.

When I hear the word “glory,” I think immediately of something like “fame and glory,” the glory of renown, of possessing admirable and perhaps enviable fortunes. Plenty of God’s servants possess this kind of glory in our religious tradition, especially the great kings David and Solomon.

Of course, the Bible also speaks to the spiritual danger of such glory: the temptation to forget that we can possess it only partially, and that it doesn’t make us above the law. We learn, sometimes the hard way, that whatever glory we may come into should ultimately be ascribed to God, the source of all good gifts.

The kings of Israel lost touch with that important truth, to their own detriment and, we are told, that of their nation as well.

So there’s a second, related sense of glory for us to consider: God’s own glory, to which the treasures of Solomon and our modern-day cathedrals and basilicas are meant merely to point.

Indeed, the image of God being worshiped for all eternity in the heavenly temple by choirs of angels and the communion of saints—that’s the ultimate expression of this idea. We need “sounding trumpets’ melodies” to wrap our hearts around this idea of glory, plus the best poetry we can muster.

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Or, perhaps you prefer a visual aid. If so, have a look at our “Victory in Heaven” window [in the nave / behind me], which depicts a similarly glorious scene after St. Michael and his forces have defeated the great enemy.

A few details always jump out at me. There are the requisite trumpets over on the right, of course. Gotta have trumpets to signal glory.

Simultaneously funny and quite poignant are what I take to be the cherubim in the upper portions of the central panels. Sure, the close ones look like little baby heads with wings. And that’s a little distracting.

But as our gaze moves from the nearby ones to the distant, I think we get the artists’ full effect. They seem to be a literal “throng” of angels—wings on wings on wings all the way up to the blazing cross of glory which I take to be symbolic of God’s very Being.

Indeed, it’s as if the ranks of God’s attendants are both countless and unwilling to settle for anything but the closest-packed position near their Creator. To be in God’s glorious presence is to be caught up in a truly irresistible grace.

That’s my interpretation of this scene anyway.

What’s pretty inarguable is that the image is a feast for the senses. And that’s the rub. Remember, it’s Lent, so it feels a little strange to be feasting.

While I do not think Lent is meant to be dour or joyless, I’ll admit that, at first blush, glory in the sense we’ve been exploring seems like a strange theme to focus on right now.

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Mercy, on the other hand, is never far from our thoughts this time of year. We heard of it in Genesis and Romans this morning.

Though Sarah’s womb was barren and Abraham’s body “already good as dead,” these two great ancestors nevertheless “hop[ed] against hope” for the mercy of God’s deliverance. And God, in turn, promises them bounty beyond their wildest dreams.

Part of Paul’s point in our reading from Romans is that Abraham and Sarah’s story is our story too. By God’s mercy, we Christians can claim an inheritance in the promises of covenant loyalty. Of each of us, then, can it be said, “Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.

Of course, the mercy we receive from our Lord is wider by far than just this sense of deliverance from need and despair. Probably the aspect of God’s mercy that is most with us in this season is mercy as regards our guilt from “dust and sin.”

And more often than not, we reflect on our sinful state in a minor key. The emotional tone of our reflection is the humility of a “troubled spirit” and a “broken and contrite heart.” Perhaps the more subdued palate of the “I was thirsty …” window is more seasonally suitable: deep greens and blues, purples and reds. No vibrant pastels here.

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That tone certainly puts us in a more appropriate headspace for processing this morning’s story from Mark’s gospel. Just before our passage from today, we hear Peter’s confession that Jesus is the Messiah. And so the curtain falls on Mark’s Act I, because finally even the thick-skulled disciples get it. Jesus is the Christ, the promised savior. Glorious indeed.

When the curtain comes up today, though, we first hear this: “Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.”

It’s simply not in Jesus’s vocation to hang around reveling in the glory of messiahship. Once the disciples understand that he is the Christ, immediately he strikes out toward Jerusalem on his final journey, his great errand of mercy.

In case we don’t get the point, the gospel writer says practically the same thing again in the next chapter in the story of the transfiguration, again through Peter. Beholding the dazzling spectacle, he says, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings.”

No, Jesus says, it is not yet time for me to reign in glory. Or, if you prefer, from today’s lesson: “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Here’s the point: We can’t understand glory until we understand mercy. That’s what Jesus says to us again and again and again.

That’s a message we need to cling to as Christians, as New Yorkers, as Americans. It’s one I need to cling to as a straight white man with a passport, and a collar, and a retirement account, and a couple of graduate degrees. We can’t understand glory until we understand mercy.

I love trumpets and temples and the transfiguration, but I am also convinced that the glory of the Almighty and Everliving God cannot exist apart from the humility of the ever-merciful one who became obedient to the point of helplessness and death.

There’s a cross at the center of that glorious depiction of our Triune God. And so at the heart of Mark’s gospel lies the paradoxical truth that is at the heart of our faith: blessed are the merciful, exalted are the humble, worthy is the lamb.

Note: This is the first time I’ve based a Sunday sermon text on a previous version. It was fascinating to learn what feels “outdated” about how I wrote the last one and what doesn’t.

Screenshot: Monty Python's God

Ash Wednesday: Don’t grovel!

Kyle

As on so many of our most significant holy days, on Ash Wednesday we are challenged to try to integrate a couple of at least seemingly unrelated ideas and rituals.

The first is the “Invitation to a Holy Lent,” which offers the context that this season began as a time of preparation for baptism, and a time when those who had been “separated from the body of the faithful” by “notorious sins” were “reconciled by penitence and forgiveness, and restored to the fellowship of the Church.”

But rather than sitting in some kind of “I told you so” judgment, the early church saw this as an opportunity for the entire community to reconnect with Christ’s “message of pardon and absolution,” and “the need which all Christians continually have to renew their repentance and faith.”

There are a lot of ands in those words Mother Kate will read in a few minutes. Baptism and reconciliation, penitence and forgiveness, pardon and absolution, repentance and faith. Why this insistence on pairing ideas, on balancing out our liturgy. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could think about one thing at a time?

I’m not so sure. Let’s consider another unusual element of this service. After we’ve received our ashes, we will work our way through Psalm 51 and pray together the Litany of Repentance. It can be an overwhelming experience, as some quick excerpts might help illustrate.

There’s verse 6 of the psalm: “Indeed, I have been wicked from my birth / a sinner from my mother’s womb.” Whoa, lot to unpack there, even if we don’t take the psalmist literally. Or how about this item from the litany: “We have been deaf to your call to serve.” One glance at my calendar certainly makes that point to me. And here’s a confession that’s bound to have a banner year all across the political spectrum: “[F]or uncharitable thoughts toward our neighbors, and for our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us.”

I don’t know about you, but the longer I sit with all that is wrapped up in the middle section of this liturgy, the more tempted I am to despair. To wallow, even.

The reason we need the balance of all those ands is clear from all our readings: no wallowing. That is not the point of this season. Not even a little bit.

Just take it from St. Paul: “We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” So that we might become the righteousness of God. I don’t know exactly what that means, but clearly God has more important work for us in this season of examination and preparation than to wallow in what holds us back. If we find ourselves amid some uncomfortable truth, our task is to remember that this knowledge will be a key to our growth in love.

Seen through this lens, even Jesus’s admonition about practicing our piety before others becomes a call to skip the moroseness and move on to the thanksgiving and amendment of life: “And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward.” Yes, wallowing can feel like an end in itself, but it binds us rather than freeing us.

Penitence and forgiveness, baptism and reconciliation, pardon and absolution, repentance and faith. Let’s go ahead and add crucifixion and resurrection, death and life. The ands are what keep the difficult aspects of this season in perspective and give it its proper meaning. The ands keep pulling us toward God, helping us resist the urge to stay in orbit around ourselves. The ands say to us clearly and persistently: the point isn’t your sins, it’s that God wants you to be free from the weight of them.

Maybe you’ll need a reminder of that balance, and of that pull of hope, throughout these forty days. Maybe you’ll just need a chuckle. Either way, in those moments I suggest a YouTube search for “Monty Python – God,” wherein you will hear the following:

 GOD: Arthur!  Arthur, King of the Britons! [God calls down. The king’s company drops to their knees.] Oh, don’t grovel!  If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people groveling.

ARTHUR:  Sorry—

GOD:  And don’t apologize.  Every time I try to talk to someone it’s

“sorry this” and “forgive me that” and “I’m not worthy.”  What are you

doing now!?

ARTHUR:  I’m averting my eyes, oh Lord.

GOD:  Well, don’t.  It’s like those miserable Psalms—they’re so depressing. Now knock it off!

ARTHUR:  Yes, Lord.

Yes, the Pythons are a bit hard on the psalms, and yes, this and sounds more like an or.  Still, I’m not really kidding about this strategy, if you think you’re someone who needs it. For some of us the temptation to grovel is almost overwhelming when we are confronted by a full and honest view of the challenges in our lives: the ways we need to grow, the ways we cling to old habits, the ways we shut out God and others, and yes the incontrovertible fact that we are dust and shall return to same.

So “to make a right beginning of repentance,” I invite you, when you receive your ashes, to look for the and in the midst of that experience.

Perhaps you need the reminder that your creator who made you from dust is in every moment sustaining you as well. Perhaps you’re ready for the liberating experience of lowering your defenses for a time, of letting go of the control we all crave and cling to.

Perhaps those ashes are meant to teach you that the dirty mess of our lives is holy precisely because it is messy. It’s so easy to forget we’re all struggling to do our best amid circumstances that pull us in many directions.

If you have trouble remembering the and these forty days, and even if the Monty Python trick helps, think about this happy coincidence: The mark on our foreheads today will be a cross, of course, but maybe it’s also a plus sign. In this equation, that doesn’t have to mean adding one more thing to our busy lives. It does mean adding an awareness of the hope and peace and joy and wholeness that are Christ’s great gift to us.

So remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return AND and to dust you shall return. AND Remember that you are precious in God’s sight.  Remember that you are precious in God’s sight.

Photo by Stephanie Watson CC BY 2.0 via Flickr

A parable of preparation

Kyle

Lent 5, Year C (John 12:1–8)

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Image source: Stephanie Watson CC BY 2.0 via Flickr

I was speaking recently with a teacher at a religious high school. She had been studying this passage from John’s gospel with her students and was both charmed and surprised by their reaction. The conversation had apparently become totally unglued by the class’s collective dismay at Jesus’s final words: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

“How can he say that?” they asked. I think they sensed in his words either an indifference to a tragic fact or a hopelessness in the face of a challenge that Jesus could have solved. After all, he has just raised poor Lazarus from the dead; surely with a strategic loaves and fishes campaign he could have raised the poor’s standard of living. And that 300 denarii for the perfume could have been important seed money.

But I don’t want to pick on my friend’s students, because in many ways I agree with them. Like so many of my fellow Midwesterners, I have a pronounced cultural discomfort with luxury and ostentatious displays of wealth. Insert Garrison Keillor joke here. I’m very much the son of two parents who went out shopping for what they called “a midlife crisis car” but who came back not with the Mustang or Charger they’d imaged but with a Volkswagon Cabrio. It’s the world’s most sensible convertible.

And there’s nothing sensible about Mary’s action in this story, at least not at first glance. To even possess a jar of perfume worth a year’s wages is very strange for a woman we assume was poor, so strange that one commentator speculates that it must have been a “family treasure” (209).  Of course, Judas’s disingenuous suggestion still stands in that case: why not give this wealth away to those in need? And why squander it so wantonly on a sentimental act, especially toward someone who has carefully avoided the trappings of wealth and power?

The answer Jesus gives is all about preparation. “Jesus said, ‘Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.’” We’ve all just had an encounter with the stench of death, he seems to say, and another death is coming. Let this fragrance fill the room and remind us that the next death will make possible the royal victory for which I have been anointed.

So my answer to my friend’s students is that Jesus is neither indifferent to nor hopeless against the plight of people who are poor—then or now. However, in this luxurious scene, he is being prepared for a task he must accomplish for the whole world’s sake. Mary’s prophetic action draws our attention to the nature and the gravity of that work. Perhaps it’s even necessary, in a way, that Jesus be anointed now rather than in the tomb, for in John’s gospel, Jesus reigns not just from beyond the grave but from the cross, not with an anguished cry but with a dignified declaration: “It is finished.” However you look at it, though, the perfume incident only makes sense in light of what is to come.

So I wonder if we might, with apologies to Blessed John, read this story as a sort of parable of the season of Lent, a parable of our own preparation for what lies ahead. Though many in the church are fasting, Lent is in other ways a season of indulgence. The act of examination and repentance is an inward journey, requiring an almost lavish self-focus, for a time. I’ve noticed that the brief homilies I give at daily masses have followed that pattern, dwelling on our inner lives and our life as a congregation. And I know my own Lenten practice has been less about giving alms than about resting in God’s arms.

They warn us at the seminary that inward focus is a recipe for stagnation, because disciples, to be disciples, must ultimately look outward. Indeed, that idea will probably sound familiar to those of you who attended Canon Joey Rick’s presentation on evangelism and congregational vitality on Wednesday. The point is, if we’ve been dwelling on ourselves a bit more than usual of late, then it had better be to prepare for something bigger.

What are we preparing for? If the answer is just our experience of the Triduum and the Easter celebration that follows, then we’re not hearing the fullness of Jesus’s call for us to live lives of service to those in need.

What are we preparing for? If the answer is just that outpouring of peace and thanksgiving that comes with the sure knowledge of our forgiveness, then we’re living large on God’s gift of grace, a gift that imparts its full meaning not just when we receive it, but when we give it away.

What are we preparing for? Not just to be redeemed and sanctified, although we surely will be. We are preparing as well to be renewed and sent out, to be vessels of grace in a world that needs it now as ever.

The more I’ve thought about it this week, the more I’ve believed that we’re preparing to be like that little jar of perfume. Could that be true?

What if we are God’s precious investment, bought for a costly price indeed, but ultimately worth it because of our sacred purpose? If that’s true, it reminds us of the importance of this period of discernment in the life of St. Paul’s and our need to answer anew our questions of God’s purposes for us.

What if we are the oil of anointing for the sick and the suffering, marking those we serve with a sign of their true dignity and stature in the kingdom of God? If that’s true, then visiting parishioners who are ill and feeding neighbors who are hungry will become, more and more, not just our duty but our joy. Jesus, and my friend’s high school religion class, would approve.

What if we are the fragrance that fills this house of worship and then spills into the streets, making it possible for our neighbors to encounter in us the beauty of holiness? If that’s true, then our amazing Ash Wednesday experience might mark the beginning of a new chapter in the story of our life as friends and neighbors in Foggy Bottom.

What if we are holy vessels, chosen and sanctified for carrying to others the grace of God in Christ?
My sisters and brothers I pray that Lent continue to be, for us, forty luxurious days of preparation, so that when the time comes, we may follow the Risen Christ from “What if?”s to what’s next.