​26 September 2021
Pastor Joe Britton
St. Michael’s Church
Michaelmas
 
“They stood still, looking sad.” (Luke 24)
 
            This is a Michaelmas like no other. Some things are the same: images of Michael adorn the church, the hymns are about angels and archangels, and the anthem is based on Michael’s war in heaven.
            But much is different, too. Because of the on-going pandemic, only a portion of our community is gathered together. There is no parish-wide brunch. But most of all, what is different is that we come with unusually tired, anxious hearts, uncertain of what is to come.
            For that reason, we have substituted for the usual Michaelmas gospel the story we just heard, of the walk to Emmaus. It’s a gospel we need to hear right now, and because it’s a big and fulsome story, we have let it stand by itself with no other readings.
It is a text that should speak directly to us, in our current circumstances. It opens with two disciples walking rather aimlessly along the road to Emmaus, a village about 7 miles from Jerusalem. (Interestingly, although scripture gives no reason to assume this, depictions of this scene almost invariably show two men. One of them is named in the text, Cleopas, clearly a man–but the other remains nameless, and so one suspects that she was a woman, given the conventions of the time. Just saying.)
            In any case, they—like us—have gone through a collective trauma. In our case, it’s a pandemic and political crisis, perhaps with some family or professional stress thrown in. In their case, it’s the aftermath of the execution of Jesus, the one in whom they had put all their hopes. Their walk is, after all, on Easter afternoon, but before they’ve actually seen Jesus, and they are walking along “discussing” all that has happened, trying to make sense of how the fulfillment of God’s promise, which seemed so near at hand only a few days ago, now seems so defunct.
            And not only that, but they have heard reports that some women visited the tomb early that morning, and found it empty, except for a vision of angels who told them Jesus was alive. (You see, there are angels in the story after all!) But as of yet (at least in Luke’s telling), no one has laid eyes on Jesus.
            Until now. Suddenly, there he is with them, but they are so deep into their sadness and confusion that the do not, and perhaps cannot, recognize him.
            So he begins to quiz them, and they confess they had hoped that the one to redeem Israel had come. They had hoped. And that to me is the key phrase of the whole story. They had hoped, only to have their hopes dashed.
            And isn’t that a lot like where we are ourselves right now? We had hoped, that the advent of a vaccine would hold the virus at bay. We had hoped, that we as a people would pull together to overcome the pandemic. We had hoped, that some degree of political normalcy might be restored after an election. We had hoped, that the worst of racial violence and intolerance was behind us. We had hoped.
            But now we are on our own road to Emmaus, also walking along somewhat aimlessly, trying to make sense of it all.
            But the thing I notice in the disciples’ reaction to Jesus (or rather, in the lack of their response), is that what really holds them back is that their vision of what God has promised is too small. For them, it was only (as they say) “to redeem Israel,” when what God has in mind is to set the whole of humanity back in right relationship with one another and with God.
            And so, Jesus begins to teach them, to open their minds to see the true narrowness of what they expect of God, and conversely, to begin to see the expansiveness of what God offers to us.
            And isn’t that, too, a lot like our own circumstances right now? Our thoughts tend to go toward wishing for nothing more than that things would return to the way they “used to be,” when in fact the way they “used to be” was not all that good—not really. The pre-pandemic world for which we are now so nostalgic was riven by social conflict, by uncontrolled violence, by unsustainable gulfs between rich and poor, by an earth teetering on the brink of disaster—and, if I may say so, by a Christianity in steady decline through the weight of its own conventions. Surely we want something more than that!
            Jesus pushes the disciples to get over that for which they had hoped, and to hope instead for something more. What he is pushing them to see, finally dawns on them when they sit down to supper, and in the breaking of the bread they suddenly find themselves saying, “Wait! This is Jesus here now!” And in that moment, everything is turned on its head. But Jesus draws back out of their sight, and the two disciples rush off to Jerusalem to tell the others. That’s where we left off reading today.
            But if we had continued to read, we would have heard that just at the moment they meet the other disciples, Jesus appears again to all of them, and after addressing their fright, he makes clear what the story has been leading to all along: they are to be witnesses not just to Israel, but to all nations of the gospel of peaceableness that he came to inaugurate. In short, they are to do nothing less than change the world. And in Luke’s telling, that’s the end of the story. Having said that much, Jesus leaves them for good, sending them out to do the work they have been given to do. His commission becomes their hope, and their hope transcends the limited imagination of what they had formerly accepted.
            So what if, on our own walk toward Emmaus, we were to dream new dreams and imagine new possibilities of our life together? Today marks the beginning of the fall stewardship season, and the committee has proposed that we make this season an opportunity to spend time, like the disciples, both taking stock of the trauma we have been through, but also looking forward to the future that we might create in Jesus’ name—among ourselves, and in the world around us.        
            Under the title of “Emmaus Gatherings,” we are inviting you to trace in the weeks ahead the three essential elements of the Emmaus story: a shared meal to draw us together, discussion of what has happened to us, and then imagining a forward-looking vision for the future.
            Obviously, in the short amount of time we will have, we can’t do or say everything. But we can at least adopt a pattern of anticipating what might be, rather than longing for what was.
 
            Which come to think of it, reminds me of a question I raised last week somewhat rhetorically, and promised to address today. If Lucifer (or Satan) is, as the mythology of the book of Revelation has it, a fallen angel—and if we are St. Michael and All Angels Church, then is Lucifer among the angels whom we evoke in our name?
            Well, it you look toward the future with an unbridled hope, as I think the Emmaus story suggests we do, then I don’t see how you can avoid expecting that in the end, all of creation is to be reconciled to God, even those parts that have fallen furthest away. Some regard it a heresy, but I think it a necessary conclusion to believing in a merciful God, to say that (bottom line): none will be lost. Not one of us. All means all. That’s how radical I read God’s promised reign of peaceableness, to be. Amen.

​19 September 2021
Pastor Joe Britton
St. Michael’s Church
17 Pentecost
 
“Show by your good life that your works are done
with gentleness born of wisdom.” (James 3:13)
 
            If you were here or listening online a couple of weeks ago, you’ll remember that I said then that we’ll be reading from the epistle of James for several weeks, until we’ve read it all the way through. So here we are today in chapter 3 (out of 5 altogether), and I want to spend some more time, wrestling with this rather obscure book of the Bible.
            I talked last time about the likelihood that James is the earliest text in the entire New Testament, written by someone who had first-hand knowledge of Jesus and who is intent to interpret his teaching to the fledgling community of his followers. This is Christianity before Paul got ahold of it, Christianity before the gospels put their spin on the story, Christianity before creeds and councils, before liturgies and hierarchies. There’s a kind of purity and simplicity to James, which is why I at least have been so attracted to it these past several weeks.
             Today the topic James takes up is wisdom. Now, you probably know that the Bible is full of literature described as the “wisdom tradition.” The book of Proverbs, for example, with its pithy advice about how to live is a type of wisdom; or Ecclesiastes, with its warnings about vanity.
            James is clearly conversant with this tradition, and parts of today’s reading sound like they could have been lifted from it—think of where he writes, “For where there is envy and selfish ambition, there will also be disorder and wickedness of every kind.”
            But as I mentioned a moment ago, James is most intent on preserving and interpreting the teachings of Jesus—so the wisdom he is interested in, is the wisdom of Jesus. His text is littered with a variety of closely related words that point us in the direction of what he thinks that wisdom is: words like “gentle,” “peaceable,” “merciful,” “without a trace of partiality …”
            James seems to have caught on to the fact that what Jesus was trying to do, was to articulate a vision he had for humankind that was founded above all else on peaceableness: living without hatred, or anger, or vengefulness, but focused instead upon finding the common ground where human beings can live together in mutual respect, forbearance, and compassion. Jesus called that vision, the “kingdom of heaven.”
            The thing is, even Jesus himself seems to have known it was only a vision, not something that can be realized. Jesus was not, in the end, a social progressive. He was a social realist. He knew that we human beings simply aren’t capable of living fully into the vision he held up for us: we’re too self-interested, too selfish, too self-centered. (Notice the repetition of the word “self.”) That’s why Jesus was always talking with his disciples about how he must be given up to face death—the price he realized would have to be paid for his challenging the centrality of the self that lies at the heart of every one of us as individuals, and also at the heart of our social systems.
            Jesus nevertheless inhabited his vision of human peaceableness so that we might at least catch a glimpse of it, even if it tragically lies always just around the corner. And although he accepted its ultimate price, he nevertheless also knew that there really is no alternative to a vision of peaceableness—not if human beings are to have hope, not if we are to be able to live by faith, not if we are to avoid living purely cynical lives.
            Maybe this is part of the reason James hits home so forcefully right now: the events of the past few months, years—even the last two decades since 9/11—have made us realize that the confidence that twentieth century modernism had in social progress is dead. Our unreflective response to those horrific events 20 years ago revealed that when threatened, we can be no less bloodthirsty, no less inhumane, than our vilest enemy. We are left knowing that human beings are simply too self-interested, and therefore too violent, for there to be real security in any progressivist illusion.
But this, I think, is the wisdom of Jesus: to hold out the possibility of living in peace, even when there is no peace, as the lifeline that gives us reason to hope. Struggling to find a summary of this wisdom, what I came up with this week is this: Jesus’ teaching is that wisdom is the ability to see the possibility of peace in all circumstances (let me repeat that: wisdom is the ability to see the possibility of peace in all circumstances), and to go on striving for it, even when it is elusive, fleeting and tenuous. That is what is at stake in his admonition to love God, love our neighbor, and love our enemy—Jesus’ three-fold prescription for living peaceably.
            The search for such a wisdom was at the heart of the lives of the desert fathers and mothers of the early church. What is striking, is that they grasped that to find such wisdom was in the first instance not about how to live in the world, but how to live with one’s self. If one could learn how to live peaceably with the struggles and temptations that are within, then perhaps one could do so as well with other people. As a result, these desert dwellers were loath to find fault in others, when the true struggle was to come to terms with one’s own.
            So the story is told of a brother who had sinned, and was turned out of the church by the priest. Abba Bessarion got up and followed him out, for he said, “I too am a sinner.”
            Or again, there was a brother at Scetis who had committed a fault. So they called a meeting and invited Abba Moses. He refused to go. The priest sent someone to say to him, “We are all waiting for you.” So Moses got up and set off; and he took a leaky jug and filled it with water and took it with him. The others came out to meet him and said, “Father, what is this?” The old man said to them, “My sins run out behind me and I cannot see them, yet here I am coming to sit in judgment on the mistakes of somebody else.” When they heard this saying, they called off the meeting.[*]
            You see, Jesus teaches a path of peaceableness which in all things seeks to have compassion and mercy on the other, because of the weakness and fault of the self. That’s why James puts Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount front and center in what he writes, for it was there that Jesus so clearly taught, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they are the children of God.”
The possibility of living that way of life is opened to us in Jesus because he shows us that we no longer have to justify ourselves before God: in Jesus, God’s truth and mercy have already stepped into the breach, and we don’t have to create it. The wisdom that we acquire by faith is to trust, to lean into, to put our weight on that promise. 
            This is the “gentleness born of wisdom” that James encourages in us today. It is a vision of what life might be like, were we to exercise the restraint of judgment and generosity of spirit toward the other which characterizes the kingdom of heaven. But it is also the patience to dwell on this side of the kingdom with life as it is, still far short of the peaceableness which is our truest desire.
For yet again as it is written, some old men came to see Abba Poemen and said to him, “We see some of the brothers falling asleep during divine worship. Should we wake them up?” Abba Poemen replied, “As for me, when I see a brother who is falling asleep during the [prayers], I lay his head on my knees and let him rest.” Amen.


[*] Stories taken from Rowan Williams, Silence and Honey Cakes: The Wisdom of the Desert (2003).

5 September 2021
Pastor Joe Britton
St. Michael’s Church
15 Pentecost
 
You do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to the scripture,
“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (James 2)
 
            We’re not in a good place right now (and I don’t just mean Zozobra, the traditional man of doom and gloom). I mean each of us, and all of us — we’re not in a good place.
            Just in the past week or two, I’ve had conversations with any number of people who have talked about how worn out they are, maybe from caring for vulnerable aged parents, or from trying to keep the children in their classroom safe, or even their own children.
            Others speak of how exhausted they are, by having to make so many daily decisions about how to respond to the pandemic at school, at work, at the grocery store ….
            Still others confess how angry they are, that so many refuse to be part of the struggle.
            Some have spoken of how they’ve given up hope that we as a society will ever be able to respond to something as challenging as climate change, when we can’t even get our act together to face a threat as straightforward as a contagious virus. It is, as Maureen Dowd observed in this morning’s paper, as if nothing can be overcome.
            And all that’s not to mention the shootings in our streets and schools, the end of a futile war, devastating floods, fires, hurricanes … no we’re not in a good place. And my sense is that just below the surface of our consciousness, that fact is eating away at our spirit. I feel it in restless, troubled dreams at night, and in physical and mental weariness by day … maybe you do too.
 
            Cue the Epistle of James. It so happens, that beginning last Sunday, the lectionary has us reading from this rather unknown letter for five straight weeks, until we will have read the whole of it (it’s only five short chapters).
            James is one of those parts of the Bible that is usually overlooked, perhaps under the influence of Martin Luther who dismissed it as a “straw epistle” because its emphasis on good works seems to contradict his emphasis on faith alone.
            It is, of course, attributed to someone named “James,” but who that James is, is uncertain. Traditionally, it was ascribed to James, the brother of Jesus. (Can you imagine that poor fellow having to introduce his older sibling: “I’d like you to meet Jesus, my Lord, my God, and my brother.” Kind of puts some things in a different light, doesn’t it? But that’s an issue for another day.) The author of the epistle might also have been James, the son of Zebedee, or James the son of Alphaeus. Or maybe it was just someone using the name of James.
            But in any case, the thing that is most interesting to me is that it is at least possible, and perhaps even likely, that this epistle is the earliest Christian writing in the New Testament—written even before the gospels or the epistles of Paul. If that is the case, then it gives us a glimpse into a very primitive form of Christianity, when Jesus’ followers were still vividly aware of his personal ministry and teaching, more so than the later theologizing concepts of Paul and the next generations of the church that we have come to know as “Christianity.”
            Now, if James was in fact writing in the first few years after Jesus, then it was not a very settled time. In response to a Jewish rebellion, the weight of the Roman occupation was felt more heavily than ever, resulting in the destruction of the Temple. The Jewish synagogue community itself was divided over what to make of this new Jesus movement rising up in its midst, and repression of Jesus’ followers was becoming the norm. What the future might bring, no one could tell.
            It was, in short, a stressful time rather like our own.
            Now, if you were to sit down and read through the whole of the epistle of James (and I recommend that you do—it won’t take you very long), you might be struck by how often the author makes pretty direct allusion to Jesus’ own words, and especially to the Sermon on the Mount. In fact, that seems to argue for a pretty early date of composition. You can hear it for instance in the passage we read today, in James’ defense of the poor, or his identification of the “royal law” of “Love your neighbor as yourself” as a summation of the Torah.
 
            But what is most striking is that in the tumultuous times in which he was writing, James focuses on giving advice and encouragement to his readers about how to do good. It’s as if he is convinced that the way to connect with the longed-for good, is to do good — or as Rabbi Heschel said, “The way to God is a way of God.”
            So James admonishes us to do such things as to watch our tongue, and to be careful and thoughtful in what we say. He warns against partiality and favoritism—what we might call “privilege.” He urges us to reach out to the poor and the stranger (or again, what we might call “the refugee”). He encourages us to bear our tribulations with patience—not with a passive waiting, but an active anticipation of that good which is not only worth waiting for, but also worth working toward.
            In short, James would have us to “keep on keepin’ on.” Those aren’t his words exactly, but it is a phrase that evokes that persistence and fortitude which James would have us to have. “Keep on keepin’ on” has a rich tradition with strong biblical overtones in other periods of American history which seemed full of tribulation, going back to its first use around 1910 by the Salvation Army, its reiteration in songs by musicians like Len Chandler in the 1960s, and then Curtis Mayfield and Bob Dylan in the ‘70s.
            But perhaps the greatest use of “keep on keepin’ on” was made by Martin Luther King, Jr., in a speech he gave on March 22, 1956, during the Montgomery Bus boycott. In the midst of those dark days of the early Civil Rights Movement, King nevertheless had the strength and the vision to say this:
Freedom doesn’t come on a silver platter. With every great movement toward freedom there will inevitably be trials. Somebody will have to have the courage to sacrifice. You don’t get to the Promised Land without going through the Wilderness. You don’t get there without crossing over hills and mountains, but if you keep on keeping on, you can’t help but reach it. We won’t all see it, but it’s coming and it’s because God is for it.
We won’t all see the place for which we long either—a pandemic tamed, human rights defended, bridges built across social divides, the earth shielded from harm— but this too is coming, and it’s coming, because God is for it. And how do we know to hope for that? Well, because we read this morning in the epistle of James about just such a community of hope grounded in doing good. And based on their example, we too can keep on keepin’ on. Amen.